Red Herrings for Breakfast by Annabet Ousback
‘Anders was one of the most influential restauranteurs and chefs of his time and his legacy lives on today.’ Neil Perry ‘Such an insightful and hard hitting book… Bravo [to Annabet] for writing such a powerful work. It took a lot of courage.’ Mary Moody He was a Swedish Maritime Naval Officer who wanted to marry her; she was not at all interested but thought his lovely uniform was rather nice. Both had been raised in difficult and challenging households, growing up with hard work as the maxim, inflexible attitudes and exacting parents. Annabet was the first-born child, unwanted, grudgingly accepted and cared for; Anders, born prematurely, sickly and difficult was the second born; Amanda the third born child, several years younger, was their fathers’ favourite. Annabet Ousback recounts her childhood growing up in what is now the iconic Balmoral Boatsheds, owned for many years by her parents, through whose hard work, took the business from a post-war run-down outfit, to a thriving undertaking.
‘Anders was one of the most influential restauranteurs and chefs of his time and his legacy lives on today.’ Neil Perry
‘Such an insightful and hard hitting book… Bravo [to Annabet] for writing such a powerful work. It took a lot of courage.’ Mary Moody
He was a Swedish Maritime Naval Officer who wanted to marry her; she was not at all interested but thought his lovely uniform was rather nice. Both had been raised in difficult and challenging households, growing up with hard work as the maxim, inflexible attitudes and exacting parents. Annabet was the first-born child, unwanted, grudgingly accepted and cared for; Anders, born prematurely, sickly and difficult was the second born; Amanda the third born child, several years younger, was their fathers’ favourite.
Annabet Ousback recounts her childhood growing up in what is now the iconic Balmoral Boatsheds, owned for many years by her parents, through whose hard work, took the business from a post-war run-down outfit, to a thriving undertaking.
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Red
Herrings
For Breakfast
Annabet Ousback
Preface
I began writing Red Herrings for Breakfast in 2002. It was planned as a
memoir about my childhood with my eccentric family at Scandia Boatshed
in Balmoral in the 1950s.
As my brother Anders had a high profile as a Sydney restaurateur and
potter, I wanted his blessing. We shared confidences from childhood and I
felt his insights on our experiences were vital.
Also, I wanted his confirmation of certain events that happened to us.
He had a different take on some of them. He was keen to contribute to the
book, which we would write together. Unfortunately, due to the busyness
of day-to-day living this didn’t come to pass.
Then Anders committed suicide in 2004. What began as stories only
about our childhood at the boatshed now encompasses those years leading
up to and including Anders’ death. Writing this memoir became a
heartbreaking but cathartic journey for me, as I searched for the roots of
my brother’s decision to end his life.
He kept journals of his daily thoughts. Reading them gave me a
powerful insight into his state of mind. I have scattered excerpts from his
journals throughout the book. We have, in effect, written the book together.
1
Saturday 29 May 2004
A flash of white caught my eye as I switched on the hall lamp. I bent
down and picked up a business card that had been flicked under my front
door. It looked official. I fumbled in my handbag for my reading glasses.
‘Oh God.’ A sense of doom pierced me.
‘What is it darling?’ said Ken, my partner, who had moved in just four
days before. We had returned from a dinner celebrating our new life
together.
‘A Constable Smith from Chatswood police station wants me to contact
him as soon as possible. Please, please,’ I cried, ‘don’t let it be one of the
children.’ Fear was painting a serious car accident.
I called the police station and spoke briefly to a young-sounding
policeman.
‘No-one knows anything about it.’ I told Ken. ‘The constable’s shift
finished hours ago. I have to phone back tomorrow.’
I rang the kids’ mobiles. Please answer pounded through my head as I
phoned my daughter Elin. Relief when she picked up. Elin was out
clubbing with girlfriends.
My son Tony responded within minutes. He was home in bed, safe. Thank
you, God. Even with both children in their late twenties, I was anxious for
their safety.
I checked on Anders. My brother’s home answering machine cut in. His
voice was clear, present. ‘I’m not home. Please leave a message after the beep.’
‘Hi Anders! It’s urgent,’ I said. ‘Please call me back. I need to clear
something up.’
A fresh wave of fear threatened. ‘The police wouldn’t leave a card for
nothing, would they?’
2 RED HERRINGS FOR BREAKFAST
‘If it was important, they wouldn’t go off duty without leaving a report.’
Ken’s voice of reason almost convinced me. ‘Come on.’ He put an arm
around me. ‘We’ll sort it out in the morning.’
The phone rang sharply. I went to answer it, assuming it was Anders.
‘It’s Graham, Annabet. He’s gone.’
I was confused, silent. My brain was trying to process. At first, I did not
recognise the caller. Then I realised it was Anders’ business manager,
Graham.
‘Are you there, Annabet? Anders is gone. He’s dead.’
My scream was guttural. I clutched at my chest and dropped the phone.
Ken rushed forward and picked it up. ‘Who is this?’ I heard him ask as
I staggered to the balcony and ran out into the cold May night. I needed
air. Couldn’t breathe. Needed to escape, to get as far away as I could from
that phone call.
I ran around the deck, sobbing hysterically. Pain gripped my chest,
caught in my throat. I howled like a tormented animal. I could see Ken on
the phone, listening, nodding slowly. He put down the receiver and came
to me, his arms outstretched. I pushed him away. ‘Just tell me … How?’
‘Later.’
‘No! Now! I need to know. Please, Ken. Please.’
‘He hung himself.’
He caught me as I collapsed into his arms, gently steered me inside to
the lounge. He offered words of solace but I was inconsolable.
Somewhere in the horror crashing in on me, I heard him say he’d let
the kids know.
I felt disconnected. Out of body. Half of me was slowly dying with
Anders. My mother’s words rang in my head. ‘Be a brave little girl. Be a
brave little girl …’
The following morning, with a heavy heart, I rang Constable Smith. He
asked me to call the police station in Wollongong, a seaside city close to
where Anders lived.
ANNABET OUSBACK
3
‘A journal and letters were removed from the scene,’ the policeman at
Wollongong told me. ‘You can collect the journal. The coroner can’t release
the letters yet.’
‘He must have left a letter for me. Please can I read it?’ There had to be
a letter for me.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ The policeman added, ‘We also have the clothing
he was wearing. Do you want that?’
His clothing? Do I want the clothing he died in? Christ!
‘No … no,’ I swallowed hard. ‘Please dispose of it.’ I gripped the phone
with both hands to stop myself shaking.
His voice softened. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just a formality. Also, he was wearing
a stone on nylon cord around his neck. Would you like that?’
‘Please leave it on his body,’ I answered. My eyes shut tight against his
memory. ‘It was important to him. I’ll collect the rest tomorrow morning.’
The last time I saw my brother, he was wearing the stone. We were in his
kitchen sharing a glass of Billecart champagne. We clinked glasses, cheered
one another. I had no inkling it was my final cheer to my brilliant
brother.
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