Frank Turney

It was easy to forget in the later years how much Frank loved having a lot of people around. He rattled around in that flat in Kirrawee and was too lazy to get out of his own way, complaining that he never saw anybody and nobody ever came to see him. I used to have the same argument with him every time – he used to have a standing invitation to David and Tracey's place every Sunday night for dinner, and his freezer was so full of meat tray wins from the Tradies he could have provided the dinner half the time. He was also still able to drive and could have got in the car and gone to see whoever he wanted. Like a lot of people when they reach a certain age, he never appreciated how important it was to still have mobility and independence. But some of my fondest memories of him are when he was surrounded by extended family. One that struck me through the week was a New Year's Eve at Miranda RSL in what must have been about 1994 or 1995. It was a big crowd and I don't remember

Anyone who knew Frank knows what a generally agreeable bloke he was. He always went with the flow, gave everyone the benefit of the doubt and his first instinct was to accept people who meant something to you. During my childhood and teens I never remember him taking against any of the friends I bought home or had for sleepovers, even if they acted entitled or ungrateful (and some did – you never really know some people's standards until they're guests in your house). Till the end of his days he loved Joanna, he loved Wendy and he loved Emily – I call her first born daughter princess sometimes partly I think because that's what he called Emily. Because when I look back on him there's something I remember about him (and I might have a slightly skewed perspective others might correct me on) but I remember him always being really good with kids. Whether it was one of the barbecues or new year's eve parties in the backyard in Gabo Place or school friends we sometimes ha

This short story about Frank isn't to mark an anniversary or anything – you all know his birthday was in November and he died in very early January. Something's just had me thinking about it a bit lately. Maybe because my own birthday's coming up I'm thinking about how time passes and how our relationships to those around us and those we've said goodbye to change as we age. But while it might seem like the story of how he died, it's actually the story of his last trip. He'd been in Canterbury hospital for most of the preceding November and celebrated his 79th birthday there. David had told me he was pretty sick and I should go over the Sydney in case the worst happened. I came for a week and a half or so but couldn't stay much longer, I had work and my own family to look after at home, and against all the odds the chest infection he'd been put in with had started to clear up. He hadn't come completely good though and never would again. Somehow am

With his birthday coming up (and thus nearly time for one of my two cans of XXXX every year), I'm thinking about Frank a bit lately. And although I hadn't thought about it in decades, I suddenly remembered how he used to play squash. I don't know if he ever enjoyed it as much as rugby league, I think he played that as a young man and it made him a devotee and watcher of the game, whereas squash was more to do with having fun and getting a bit of exercise, probably about getting out of the house and hanging around with other men. He played at a couple of different courts that I remember. One used to be at the top of a rise where President Avenue goes up and down over the bush-covered hills at the southern end of Caringbah, where it backs onto Lilli Pilli. Another was in Beverly Hills near the corner of King Georges Road and Stoney Creek Road, not far from where the M5 crosses King Georges Road nowadays. I only ever remember him playing with two people – Uncle Bob and a famil

A few weeks ago Wendy said that when I turned to look at her, her breath caught in her throat a bit because of how much I looked like Frank. For most of my life I've been bemused to think I resembled my father. One of the things you never consider very fully until you're deep into adulthood is how physically attractive your parents are (or were when they were younger). I've been telling my mother my entire life she looks 10 or 15 years younger than her age, and I've genuinely thought so – she's still full of more pep, colour and vitality than most women almost 30 years younger. But the idea that any man would look sideways at her and think 'phwoar' is a completely alien notion to me as one of her offspring. I've always joked with her that her and Dad must have had sex at least twice, beyond that I don't want to think about it. But my Dad was different again. We all remember what shape he was for most of his life (at least, for my whole life). His bee

When Lucas was much younger (he just turned 10) and he'd sleep at our place, he'd sometimes ask me to sing him a lullaby when I put him to bed. He didn't ask often and I think it was just a bit of a delaying tactic, but whenever he asked I'd tell myself I'd have to spend a bit of time the next day thinking of some more, because I could only ever remember one song at the time. I'd usually sing four lines from it and he'd be gone, which was good because I only knew two lines (and made one of them up) and repeated them twice. I don't know if I even had the tune right. But I'd sing it and he'd drift off in that way that makes you marvel at how quickly a human being can go to sleep and wonder why we lose that ability. For as long as I can remember, it's been very rare for me to get to sleep within 30 or 40 minutes of turning the light off and laying down unless I'm devastatingly tired. At some point I told Wendy I'd occasionally sing him t