First Lady Read online

  Perhaps it was her age, she was young, but bless her, common sense was not Lucille’s strong suit. I knocked a bottle of 880 ammonia over on the bench one day, and grabbed some towels to mop it up. Lucille came over to help, and I warned her, don’t smell the towels, the fumes are dangerous. She picked the towel straight off the floor, put it to her nose and gave a great big sniff. We had to rush her to hospital.

  I had Christmas drinks at the salon at the end of ’62, and a friend and I drove Lucille home at the end of the night. When we got to her house she told me, wait here a moment, I have something to tell you. Once inside, she walked to the window and screamed out at me, ‘I’m in love with you! Why won’t you notice me?’

  I told her to get over it.

  ‘I’ll throw myself out this window!’

  ‘Well, please wait till we’ve driven away.’

  And we did. And of course, she didn’t. But I’d had enough. I sold the business and found a job as far from salon work as I could possibly be — I went to Wellington and applied for a position as a steward on the interisland ferries.

  The job looked glamorous on the surface, but it wasn’t in the slightest. It was bloody hard work, although the pay was good, £58 a fortnight before overtime, which would often run into the hundreds each month. I worked on the gangway at night, greeting passengers and taking their luggage to the cabins, then in the bar or restaurant. In the morning there were the beds and the cleaning to do.

  There were around a hundred staff all up, and they were the truly interesting part of the job. Many of them were gay — the ‘queens’ — outrageous queens, there for the men. They all had nicknames, and when I look back I realise they were all girls’ names. The line-up sounded a bit like Santa’s reindeer; there was Donna, Rose, Beulah, Clara Cluck. The stewardesses were a strange breed, too. There was a Scottish one called Annie who looked like a hospital matron, and Cassie who was overly made up with her big beehive hairdos. And Ursula, who was a nice person, friendly, but somehow, not quite all there.

  We would all have a shift a couple of times a month at the ‘bureau’, a desk at the bottom of the stairs where you’d stand to direct the passengers after the ship had sailed. Not a good place to be on a bad crossing. I was manning the bureau one night when the ship was rocking in high seas, when the second steward came out and said, ‘Are you alright, Garry?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, you’d better look out.’

  A passenger had walked up behind me and, in the heaving seas, vomited all down my back. I was so horrified I lost my dinner, too, but at that moment the bell rang.

  ‘That’s one of your cabins, you’ll have to go down and see what they want. Come here first and I’ll show you what we do.’

  He took me to the bathroom, rolled up his sleeve and stuck his finger right down his throat. Then he turned the tap on and washed it down the basin. That made it worse as far as I was concerned and I threw up again, but it was par for the course for him. He’d been working the boats for years.

  In the restaurant, on nights when the seas were rough, it was absolutely hideous. People would order the fish paste sandwiches with a cup of coffee, and then you’d watch their faces go green, and you’d think, any moment now.

  You were well advised to stay away from the pea soup. If a passenger upset a steward, they’d often get a sprinkling of silver cleaning paste over their soup, and then you’d watch the passenger crawl on their hands and knees to the bathrooms as it went straight through their systems. It sounds gruesome, but in the black humour of the boats it was kind of a highlight of the crossing.

  There was some fun to be had among the dirty work. My early days as a florist must have reached the right ears, as just before Anzac Day the ship’s management asked me to make a wreath for the Anzac Day service. It was fun to have the opportunity to dabble in floral work again, just this once, and I put together a beautiful tribute. During the Anzac service they threw the wreath overboard and we watched it slowly disappear on the ferry’s wake, a tribute to all the sea-going New Zealand servicemen who’d died for their country. After the service there was a party of sorts, and rum coffee was served for all the passengers.

  I worked in the bar quite often. Rose — Pommy and crazy and camp as anything — worked the bar usually, and would often let us into the bar when the Army boys were taking the crossing. There was always a lot of hoo-ha and carrying on those nights. The campest of the stewards would mince about the bar singing ‘Are the soldiers fond of bum?’ to gales of laughter from everyone. When the shift finished we would often see one of the soldiers disappear down to the stewards’ accommodation with a new ‘friend’.

  The ferries were a popular manner of travel in the 1960s and there was a sprinkling of the good and great, even the famous, who came aboard. At the height of her fame Googie Withers, the Australian performer, came up the gangway one night with her equally well-known actor husband John McCallum, and a huge wig box among her luggage. I showed her down to the first class cabin and she invited me to have supper with her. She seemed a very warm and relaxed sort of person, and I took a chance and asked to look at her wigs. She told me she couldn’t find anyone who could do them for her, so I offered, and we three sat and chatted while I groomed her wigs.

  Once again, I tried to keep to myself and not ever camp it up. There were plenty on board who set themselves no such personal limits, but that had just never been my way. Only on one night, after a couple of us had been drinking with some English sailors in a Lyttelton pub, did I ‘let my hair down’ just a touch. We were due to leave Lyttelton the next morning and I’d told the sailors I’d wave them goodbye when the ship left port. So there I was, on the deck right under the bridge, with a pair of long white gloves on, waving them off, when I heard the captain’s voice behind me:

  ‘Alright, Liz, they’ve gone now,’ he said dryly. Nothing more was ever mentioned. I think if it wasn’t for the queens on the crew, and all the drama they brought, the rest of the crew knew they’d never have any fun at all at sea.

  On one of the ships, the Maori, there was an annual tradition — the crew would organise a ball onshore, upstairs at the Victoria Ballroom in Wellington. Guests included all the seamen, their wives or girlfriends, anyone who wanted a fun night out. In ’63 a queen that I was friendly with, Donna, and I organised the ball, booked the caterers and a band, and went around selling tickets to all the crew. ‘Are the girls going to be there?’ they would ask. They knew that on the night, those that were that way inclined would dress in drag. It was a bit of a tradition for that one night, and no one batted an eyelid.

  The problem, however, was how to get back on the ferry. The police station was right at the wharf, and they would often stop the taxis and check that there were no women coming back on board with the crew members. The night of our ball the policemen were missing for a moment, so I took my chance and dashed for the gangway. At the top the nightwatchman stopped me.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, no women in here.’ We could see the police were now running after us, and I was tripping in my high heels and frantically trying to get my hair off. I pointed behind the poor man and said, ‘Who is that?’ and when he turned, whoosh, I’d disappeared. Back into my male persona after a narrow escape. Did I take it as a sign that I should stay in that persona?

  Indeed I did not.

  A year on the ferries had given me the mental space I’d needed, but did nothing for my finances. I’ll admit I’ve made quite a bit of money in my time, but I was always a very good tradesperson, never a businessperson. I was a spender, and pretty much everything that came through the tills went out again as quick as you like. I was carrying a large amount of debt from the Lyttelton salon — £600, a huge and scary amount at the time — and at just nineteen, I was facing bankruptcy. A kindly lawyer, Mr Mervyn Glue, worked out a plan where if I was able to get a job, part of my weekly wages would be sent to help c
lear the debt.

  To get this done I had to attend a creditors panel, which was a rough experience to say the least. The lawyer for one of the creditors decided that attack was the best approach, and accused me of being conniving and evil and threw in for good measure the allegation that I had been a ‘street worker’, dressing as a woman and standing on the corner touting for clients. I had indeed ‘stood on the corner’ every Saturday night — outside my salon on the corner of London Street, Lyttelton — waiting for a cab to take me into town. The lawyer went as far as suggesting I should be sent to an institution for shock treatment to relieve me of my female delusions. Nothing to do with the Debtors’ Court, but such were the attitudes of the time.

  After a time managing a salon in Gloucester Street, Christchurch, I got a job at The Hermitage Hotel in Mount Cook village, a beautiful building just four years old. It was considered by many as New Zealand’s best hotel, having been completely rebuilt after fire destroyed the previous structure. Always a popular place to visit, tourist numbers were booming and my hairdressing talents were in demand. Management agreed to split half the proceeds from each appointment with me.

  At first I did all the hairdressing in the guests’ rooms, but the manager quickly realised opening a salon on site was a good idea. All went very well until one morning at seven, the door to my room flew open and a policeman strode in. He was a local copper from one of the small Otago towns, and told me he was there to arrest me for non-payment of my debts.

  I told him of the arrangement Mr Glue had made, but he claimed I was making it up and packed me, handcuffed, into his little police car. As I watched The Hermitage disappear into the distance the officer told me casually he’d be paid thirty-five pounds for delivering a criminal to the Christchurch debtors prison at Addington — the oldest and most vile place imaginable. Dire news indeed.

  On arrival I was allowed the regulation one phone call, and managed to reach Mr Glue’s secretary, who promised to pass my message to him. In the meantime I was shoved into a cell with an elderly man who smoked incessantly and kept his teeth in his shirt pocket, ready for mealtimes. He was in luck; far too stressed to eat, I gave him my slops and wondered just how long I’d have to stay in that hell-hole.

  At six-thirty that evening there was the click of the heavy key in the cell door and I was led through to the office where — to my great relief and joy — Mervyn Glue was waiting.

  ‘Hello lad! How are you coping? We’ll have you out of here soon!’

  ‘How soon?’ There may have been a wee note of desperation in my voice.

  ‘Oh, no more than about twenty minutes I should think. Did you explain to the arresting officer that you have a payment arrangement in place?’

  ‘I told him everything, but he was being paid thirty-five pounds to bring me here.’

  ‘That, lad, will be the bloody day,’ Mr Glue said darkly. ‘That’s thirty-five pounds he’ll never see. I’ll make sure of it!’

  True to his word I was immediately released and sent home to Mum and Dad; to a lovely home-cooked meal from Mum and abuse from Dad for ending up unemployed again. He’d forgotten I was always earning money from dressmaking, but in any event I could not have stayed at home for long. I called The Hermitage Hotel to try to explain the mistake, only to be told it was company policy never to employ anyone who’d been under arrest. Luckily this policy did not apparently extend to all such properties, and my next job was quickly found at the recently built plush hotel on the shores of Lake Wanaka.

  6

  IMPORTUNING LEADS TO PRISON

  I’d made a close friend during my short time at Mount Cook. Peter was a dear man with a posh ‘English’ accent (although he was Kiwi through and through) and a right bitch of a wife. Their marriage crumbled when Margaret took up with two Americans — we called them Bill and Ben — who’d arrived to work at the hotel. Peter had had enough by the time I was arrested and sacked, so he left Margaret and Mount Cook, and followed me to Wanaka to get himself a job at the same hotel. Ours was strictly a platonic friendship; Peter would take me out to dances and parties and was always happy for me to dress in drag. Everyone thought we were a couple, but we never laid a finger on each other; we had the same wacky sense of humour and both enjoyed the company.

  One weekend, feeling we deserved a break and a bit of fun in the ‘big smoke’, we drove to Dunedin on the Thursday afternoon. Presenting ourselves at a B&B, both in men’s clothing, we took one room for the three days. Having freshened up and changed for our night out in Dunedin, we were stopped at the bottom of the stairs by the establishment’s lady owner.

  ‘No women in your rooms, that was the arrangement!’ she told Peter crossly, ‘And where’s the other guy?’

  ‘That’s me.’ I told her from under wig and make-up, and we sailed on past.

  While we were walking around the centre of town, taking in the sights, Peter slipped into a bank and opened a cheque account. I had no idea what he was up to, but the following day Peter was passing dud cheques all over town. At the end of an enjoyable weekend we went back to work in Wanaka, and sure enough the police caught up with us. The cops had a description of a male and a female, and were hassling Peter to tell them who the ‘bird’ with him had been. I put up my hand and admitted it was me; the arresting officer took me in as an accomplice and added a charge of ‘posing as a woman’.

  They took us back to Dunedin and we spent a week in the remand centre, then were released on bail for two weeks (I went back to Christchurch, where my father made his distaste for my situation very clear). Then we were both in court, dressed in well-tailored suits, facing the Dunedin magistrate.

  His Honour peered across the bench at us.

  ‘Which one’s the girl? They both look like girls to me.’

  At that time, passing oneself off as a female was considered a very serious crime. The justice system was not well set up for the situation; often you’d be charged with ‘importuning’ instead. I was convicted of that along with the accessory charge, and sentenced to four and a half months’ jail.

  The gavel hit the bench to collective gasps from the packed courtroom. It felt like half of Dunedin had come out to view the Drag Queen. Worse was to come; we were taken to Addington Prison for two nights, then transported with ten other convicts to Christchurch and taken to the port. They handcuffed us together two by two, and marched us down the Lyttelton wharf to the ferry landing. This, of course, was the worst possible punishment for me, as I’d worked the ferries a few years before and knew most of the crew. The news had swept through the boat that the prisoners were on their way, and the gay stewards flocked to the railings to see the ‘thugs’ — there’s nothing more desirable to a queen than a bad boy! Once on board my former workmates convinced the prison escort to let me out of the handcuffs, and I was swamped with cups of tea and a great deal of sympathy.

  We were transported to Wi Tako Prison near Wellington (now Rimutaka Prison) while a decision was made on where we would serve our sentence. Within a few days I was returned to Rolleston Prison in Christchurch and set to work in the tailors shop, not really too bad a way to pass the days inside. I was not overwhelmed by the experience in prison. I used the coping device I’d always used in unpleasant times: tune out, hear and see only what you need to hear, keep to yourself, never break. To me it was akin to being sent off to boarding school. Make the most of it, whatever the experience held.

  Rolleston was a quiet place back then, only about fifty inmates, and a very interesting bunch of gents they were. There was a teacher who had seduced one of his female students; he shared a cell with an accountant who’d embezzled a million pounds. There was an odious man who’d lost an arm in an accident — the very arm he’d used to indecently assault his own daughter. There were also a few very dear elderly gay men there, and I never did ask what they were in for. That kind of question was neither encouraged nor tolerated.

 
Any medical treatment an inmate should need, other than for a cough or a scratch, had to be dealt with at Paparoa Prison. I was summonsed there to meet with a psychiatrist, who’d obviously been asked to study the wicked Drag Queen and suggest some sort of remedy. After several visits and many probing questions, he suggested I needed ‘spinal therapy’ to heal my proclivities.

  This prospect did not exactly fill me with excitement. I was not in jail for crimes of a sexual nature, so they were not able to compel me to have the injections; I told the doctor I would like to give the idea some thought. Feeling like I’d escaped the clutches of Dr Frankenstein, I fled to the van for the ride back to Rolleston.

  Back at Rolleston I asked for a meeting with the officer in charge. He was a Dutchman, very approachable and easy to talk to. He allowed me to phone home to Christchurch and ask my mother to send a solicitor to the prison to help me. Her reply, God love her, went something like this:

  ‘Oh, just do as you’re told to do and I’m sure things will turn out alright for you dear!’

  And then she hung up. Instant panic. I begged to be allowed one more phone call, and by some miracle managed to get the lawyer on the line. He listened as I told him about the pellets they wanted to insert into my spine ‘to make me normal’, and thankfully he took me seriously. He arranged a meeting between me, himself and the Superintendent of Christchurch Prisons.

  It was enough to call a halt to the process, and the ‘treatment’ was never mentioned again.

  Years later, after my surgery, I was a guest at a medical seminar in Christchurch, and who should be among the panel of inquisitive doctors keen to ask me all about it than the Paparoa Prison psychiatrist. As the group asked question after question, he held his tongue, until finally he asked:

  ‘Did you ever consider having treatment for your condition?’