The Oldest Student at the Sorbonne

By Russell J Hodge

This is the story of Russell Hodge, a high-powered lawyer and family man and his struggle with mental illness, meaning and self. Having recovered from financial and emotional collapses, he retires with wealth, success and a loving family. But something is missing from his life.

At the age of 66, Russell leaves his 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell Hodge
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648448914

Book preview

Prologue

I had slept rough before. The streets were my choice when in distress. Human beings when faced with danger or conflict choose flight or fight. I do flight. When I lost connection with people and reality, all I knew was that I had to escape.

I had a rule that while I slept on the street, I didn’t look as if I slept on the street. I only took what was necessary; spare underpants, socks, shirts, razor blade and asthma medication in a small overnight bag. I emptied my pockets, and ensured that I had absolutely no identification. I didn’t carry my driver’s licence, jet-ski licence, seniors card, debit card, Medibank card, HCF card, library cards or RSL membership card.

I had slept on the streets of Sydney before but this time was different. I was going to Brisbane where no one knew me. Friends and family had become familiar with my sojourns and knew roughly where to look for me. I needed a change and as I was particularly distressed, I saw this move to Brisbane as being permanent.

I walked to the local station and waited for the train. I had no money so I didn’t purchase a ticket. At Sutherland, I changed trains and caught the South Coast country train to Central. As I approached the ticket barrier a ticket inspector demanded, in broken English, to see my ticket. It was an absolute prerequisite in the NSW rail system that any person dealing with the public, particularly those who made announcements over the public address system didn’t speak any version of English that was comprehensible. These attempts to communicate were very valuable. As passengers, strangers asked each other what was said and a sense of camaraderie was established. The good-natured bemusement created a bonhomie that raised the level of happiness of the commuters.

I looked the ticket collector straight in the eye and said, je n’ai pas de billet and walked straight past.

I scanned the departure board for my train to Brisbane. To my chagrin the next train to Brisbane was the following day. I had to apply my mind to the night’s sleeping arrange­ments. I’d slept in a number of places. The immediately obvious place was the subway on Central Station adjacent to Platform 25. It was safe and other people stayed there but I didn’t like it. It was a relatively narrow space and during the morning and afternoon peak hours it was packed with people. I sometimes sat on my mattress and watched the peak-hour crowds pass by. Each person in their own world rushing here, rushing there, some with music blasting in their ears, isolating them from their surrounds. I sat on the ground, a speck of flotsam and jetsam in a sea of humanity. Tossed from here to there, nudged, walked over, looked at with contempt and, very occasionally, smiled at.

I decided to sleep on Cathedral Street. The place of choice of many homeless, including me, was the square, adjacent to Cathedral Street opposite the Mathew Talbot hostel. The square was not really a square, but an irregularly shaped recreational area. It was bounded by Cathedral Street on one side and on the opposite side stood a dilapidated two-storey building at the end of which was the Woolloomooloo grocery store. A delicatessen, it also sold groceries and alcohol. To the left was the local chemist and police station. While the area was rundown it was still attractive. The buildings were angularly aligned, and there were tall trees and garden beds containing shrubs. The dominant feature, however, was the mammoth overhead structure that looked like the under­side of a Roman aqueduct, but was in fact the Cahill Expressway. The juxtaposition of the buildings and the Cahill Expressway against the trees and shrubs constituted an eclectic beauty.

The homeless community had their own set of rules and behaviours. Each person had his or her own place in the square. Once you slept in a particular place it effectively became your space. The homeless community accepted every person who lived on the street. No one cared where you came from, how much money you had, what your status was, or why you were there. Acceptance was immediate and unconditional. No matter if you were a drug addict, mentally ill, ex-criminal, rich, poor, educated or uneducated—no one asked and no one cared, and newcomers were given all the assistance they needed.

When I first slept rough I needed to know where to eat, how to get mattresses and blankets, how to get clothes washed, where to store my meagre belongings, even find out what the time was. The homeless were swept off the street in the early morning and discouraged from returning until late afternoon. Skip bins in an adjacent enclosure were unlocked in the morning, locked during the day and unlocked late in the afternoon. Homeless people stored their belongings, usually blankets and mattresses, in these bins that were secured by a chain and padlock. Members of the homeless community held the keys. It ensured that their belongings were safe and secure.

I saw BK when I arrived. As I sat beside him I smiled as I recognised him as a friend although I was wary of him. I had known BK for a year; he was the first person who showed me where to sleep. Most people who slept rough were transients in difficult or disastrous situations, but BK slept rough by choice. Very few people choose this kind of life; it’s a tough existence. People on the streets either have no other alternatives or suffer mental or addiction issues. BK had lived on the street for well over a decade and it showed. He was probably mid-fifties with straggly orange receding hair and an unkempt goatee beard. He was the archetypal homeless man insofar as sartorial elegance and personal hygiene were not high on his priorities. The average person would look askance at using these clothes to polish their car. He had filthy fingernails, grime around his neck, and teeth (what was left of them) that were yellow and discoloured. BK was an avid reader. He had a wide general knowledge, was keenly interested in politics, nationally and internationally, and was a student of the social issues of the day. He had a criminal record and had been severely bashed in the back of a police van in Darwin. He was great company and had an intimate knowledge of life on the street and how to survive.

But he could also be dangerous. On one occasion we were sitting, having a mild disagreement about the appropriateness of the chemist’s sandwich board being on the footpath. Suddenly, he stood up, and lifted the sandwich board high over his head. I saw his eyes wide open and wild, his jaw fixed and menacing. He smashed me twice over the head with the sandwich board before I could escape. I was taken to hospital with severe concussion and neck and shoulder injuries, and my family had to be contacted to come and collect me. This taught me how to survive and be safe on the streets. I lived on the street as a shadow. While a shadow was present and real, it engaged with no one, left no imprint or mark on its surroundings and created no conflict or offence. Nobody assaulted a shadow. Understanding body language and facial expressions was an essential part of my tool-kit for surviving on the street. The school of hard knocks taught me when and how far to engage and how and when to retreat from my homeless friends.

It was now dark, although streetlights made it easy to see who was coming and going. I put my overnight bag on my chosen place of accommodation and searched for my mattress. I walked up Cathedral Street and pulled strips of cardboard out of garbage bins. I soon had enough cardboard to make a comfortable mattress. Cardboard was an excellent insulator from the cold emanating from the brick pavement. I sat on the mattress and contemplated how I could access the information I needed to be able to sleep, eat and wash in Brisbane the next day. I was calm, relaxed and felt safe. I had no one hassling or pressuring me, I had no responsibilities and I was accountable to no one.

Having established my place of lodging for the night, underneath the awning at the back of the chemist’s shop, I settled in to watch people entering and leaving the grocery store across the square. Most people bought alcohol and cigarettes, a few bought groceries. They were a mix of old, young, male and female; a melting pot of the local community.

Two young women walked past me towards the store. They were very beautiful, although at my age any female younger than thirty looks beautiful.

I suddenly realised I was cold. I knew the Salvation Army provided blankets so I asked BK, who was dossing down with me that night, if the Salvos were coming.

No, you’ll have to give them a ring, he said. Not easy when you don’t have a mobile phone.

I spotted Miss Universe and Miss World leaving the store, deep in conversation, ambling towards me. I called out, Excuse me, girls.

Miss Universe looked across with disdain and quickened her pace. Miss World looked at me curiously.

I don’t want money, I told her.

Miss World grabbed her friend’s arm and they walked towards me. I told them that I had just arrived, I was sleeping on the footpath tonight, that I was cold, and I needed blankets. I told them that the Salvos would provide blankets, and would they mind giving the Salvos a ring, and ask them to come to help me?

The girls said they would make the call and sauntered away. The conversation was short and their attitude dismissive and offhand. I felt they agreed to my request to shut me up, rather than any willingness to actually intercede with the Salvos on my behalf. I told myself I would give it half an hour, and if the Salvos hadn’t come by then, I would try again.

About fifteen minutes later the girls returned. The disdain­ful girl asked me to move off my cardboard mattress so she could put a blanket on it. I dutifully obeyed and the other girl asked me to lie down so she could cover me with other blankets. I was taken aback by the request, but sensed a warmth and kindness that was hitherto absent. I instinctively obeyed; after all I am trained to obey young women. I had daughters about the same age and when they asked me to jump I always responded how high?

I saw that the blankets were woollen and brightly coloured. I was familiar with the Salvos blankets, which were thin, brown cotton, and, while welcome, not very warm.

Where do these come from? They’re not Salvos blankets.

We got them from our beds, one of the girls said.

I was stunned by this gratuitous kindness to a complete stranger. I thought for a minute and said, I am going to Brisbane tomorrow, where can I return them?

She replied, We don’t want them back, can you give them to someone else?

I told her about the bin where all our personal property was kept. I’ll put them in the bin tomorrow and someone who really needs them will welcome them, I said.

The girls put the blankets on me, tucked me in, and said goodnight. Their faces glowed with compassion and care. I went to sleep with a peaceful and calm heart. I slept soundly all night.

The next morning, I carefully folded the blankets and placed them in the homeless bin. I put all the cardboard back in the street bins. I left no trace of my existence.

One

There was no doubt—my studies at the Sorbonne University directly contributed to me living as an old homeless man, albeit temporarily, on the streets of Sydney. The question was, what had led me to enrol in the university at 66 years of age, with no real ability to speak French? This kind of decision-making was nothing new. Many years earlier I left my career as a schoolteacher, returned to university and became a solicitor, then left private practice as a solicitor to work full time in an aviation company, then later retired as a director of a public company before enrolling at the Sorbonne.

It was the eighteen-year chapter working for an aviation company that built my pathway to becoming a member of Sydney’s most disadvantaged community. In 1994, after twenty years of practising as a solicitor, I became a director, and later a shareholder, of Pel-Air Aviation, a general aviation company that operated freight and medical evacuation flights. As the repository of legal knowledge within Pel-Air, I helped negotiate commercial deals and submit tenders.

For a while, the work was varied, interesting and pretty easy. Each day I had lunch with John Johnson, founder of Pel-Air, and other directors and shareholders. The aviation industry was difficult, but while most general aviation companies collapsed, Pel-Air survived and prospered.

However, by the late 1990s work at Pel-Air had become stressful and I worried that I wasn’t doing a good job. I developed a habit of running regularly—by running I mean a perfect imitation of Forrest Gump. Nonetheless I ran about twelve kilometres most days. Over a three-month period I started to sleep less and run more, which increased my anxiety, so I slept even less and ran even longer, sometimes at three in the morning.

In 1996, my close friend Greg and I started a game of tennis. I served first. I threw the ball into the air and missed it.

This is going to be easy, Greg called out.

Get ready for the ace, I replied.

I threw the ball into the air and missed it by an even wider margin.

You’ve got a head injury, I’m taking you home. As a former elite footballer, Greg was very familiar with head injuries, and he was concerned about my behaviour.

After extensive tests, I was diagnosed with severe depression, and was not able to work for more than three months. My recovery was slow. Initially I slept nearly eighteen hours a day, and I was so sick that I was unable to carry a cup of coffee without spilling it. I was only able to sit and watch the world go by.

Greg was the first person to understand my mental health difficulties, and certainly the first person outside my family to show empathy towards me in relation to my illness. No one else really understood what I was going through, with the exception of Josie, my wife. I ‘recovered’ and returned to normal without realising until too late that the words normal and Russell together made an oxymoron.

A few years after my collapse, Pel-Air won the Department of Defence contract to provide jets to train the Australian Navy and Air Force. For one month, I stayed in Baltimore in the United States, with John, where we lived while we purchased four Learjets that then had to be modified there, in order to carry out the tasks required under the contract.

On our return, I had overall responsibility for this part of the business. We employed fifteen alpha male former Australian Air Force fighter jet pilots, the Operations Manager reported to me, and each month I toddled into Maritime Headquarters on Garden Island to meet Jim, a squadron leader from the RAAF and the Contract Manager, to review our performance under the contract.

I liked the job, and got on very well with Jim, who would often ring Pel-Air and ask to speak to the ‘Oxygen Bandit’. No matter who answered the phone, the call was always put through to me. Jim hated lawyers and schoolteachers, and thought their only value was in being canaries in a mine to test for poisonous gases.

We had seven jet aircraft based at HMAS Albatross, near Nowra, on the New South Wales south coast, where the Australian armed forces trained. We trained the ships to defend themselves against an enemy air attack. We had dogfights with Royal Australian Air Force F/A18 Hornet fighter jets and towed targets for these jets to shoot at. The Learjets towed targets that naval ships shot at for gunnery practice. They also flew one hundred and fifty feet above the water towards ships, simulating missile attacks that required radar operators to identify and lock onto the incoming aircraft. Sometimes mass simulated attacks on ships were planned in which Pel-Air participated with the Air Force.

One morning the Operations Manager arrived unannounced at my office in Mascot. The Ops Manager was an ex-fighter jet pilot who also flew jets under the contract. Roger was in his sixties, very bald, tall, straight-backed, slightly deaf with a loud voice, and would never be mistaken for a shrinking violet.

I don’t want to be Ops Manager any more, I just want to fly aircraft, he said.

That’s fine, Roger, when do you want to stop being Ops Manager?

In two weeks. And we have decided that John Roberts will be my replacement.

I don’t have a problem with that, I’m sure John will do a good job.

Good, and his salary will be $200,000 a year, he said. This was a ninety percent increase in the current Ops Manager’s salary.

We’re not going to pay that, I snapped.

We’ve all got together and unanimously agreed on these terms. If you don’t agree you won’t have an Ops Manager, Roger declared, as he further straightened his back, and unblinkingly stared into my eyes. By ‘we’ I knew Roger meant all the pilots. The pilots were militant, and had two designated representatives to air their grievances, although Roger wasn’t one of them. I understood now why Roger never contemplated a career as a diplomat.

The Ops Manager’s job involved receiving a monthly program from the RAAF and Navy, broken down into a weekly, then daily program. The programs were in a form and language impossible for a layman to understand. Roger had me over a barrel, and he knew it. Without an Ops Manager, the business couldn’t operate. Two weeks was not long enough to advertise and employ someone else. The mandatory requirement that the Ops Manager have a Secret Security Clearance made finding a replacement virtually impossible. I hated being bullied, stood over or dictated to. I was conflicted between the commercial imperative to maintain our contract, and my natural instinct to tell Roger to go fuck himself.

I had a couple of obvious choices: accede to the demand or negotiate. The directors agreed that these pilots were not about to compromise when they held all the cards. But there’s always a way. My fellow directors, and owners of Pel-Air, were prepared to take the risk.

The next day I met Roger. I sat in front of him, and couldn’t help but notice his self-satisfied smirk as he prepared to hear my capitulation.

I’ve appointed a new Ops Manager. He starts in two weeks, I said.

Who is it? Roger couldn’t hide his surprise and concern.

You’re looking at him. I start in two weeks, and you’re going to give me all the training I need to do the job. The look on Roger’s face was priceless.

You can’t do it, you don’t have a security clearance.

How do you think I get into MHQ each month, climb under the fence? Of course I’ve got a security clearance. We looked at each in silence, the air tense. I continued. You’re going to train me for the job, and we start right now. Show me how to read the program. I was not in the mood for discussion or argument.

After a week of confusing and inept instructions, Roger brought his resignation forward a week, and left me to it.

I approached Air Affairs, a company I knew, based next door, and asked them to show me how to read Pel-Air’s program. Luckily, they were happy to help me after Roger’s woefully inadequate training. With Air Affairs’ help, I was able to retrieve the program each morning, and at least appear to do something.

I had been doing the job for about a week, muddling along, when I was approached by one of the younger pilots.

You know you don’t know what you’re doing, Russell, Tim said.

Yes, I know.

You’re going to fuck up the job, and lose the contract.

That’s right Tim, so you and your mates had better start look­ing for a job, cause it ain’t gonna change.

We employed fifteen pilots, mostly self-funded retirees in their late fifties and sixties, and half a dozen young New Zealanders in their thirties with families to support. The difference between these two groups was encapsulated in a sign on the wall: I would rather be an old fart, than a young dickhead.

Within twenty-four hours I had young pilots, with families to provide for, sitting on my shoulder helping me do the job. I worked at HMAS Albatross where the aircraft were based four days a week. I stayed three nights a week in bed and breakfasts near Berry, about half an hour drive from the base. I carried the program on my laptop so I was able to do the job remotely for the other three days. I really enjoyed being Ops Manager even though it meant being on call seven days a week.

Each Thursday night I had dinner with friends at the Blue Parrot in Cronulla. Invariably the phone rang during dinner, with a call from a ship’s captain wanting to amend the program. Jo Gibson, the waitress, a very witty woman, would say in a loud voice, Hold the phone, everyone, it’s the Prime Minister calling—we have a national emergency. Jo never let me off the hook when I took a phone call during dinner.

Jo made a point. I determined that it was unacceptable that a ship’s captain be able to call without notice to change the program. I changed things. With Commonwealth approval, changes to the program required at least forty-eight hours’ notice, except where a critically important training exercise was involved. It made my life easier.

After nine months, the pilot body approached me again, and suggested I retire back to Sydney. At the same time my fellow directors wanted me back in Sydney. John Roberts, the pilots’ previously recommended Operations Manager, took over my job, at an increased but reasonable salary. The pilots were ecstatic, Jim and the Commonwealth were over the moon, and the Pel-Air directors were relieved we still had the contract. Everyone was happy—well, almost everyone.

It wasn’t long before a casual lunchtime conversation changed our lives.

I was with Bridgey yesterday and he told me some Singaporeans wanted to buy his airline. They wanted him to give it away, so he told them to get lost. This was Keith, our Managing Director. Bridgey was one of the owners of Air North, an airline based in Darwin.

Who are the Singaporeans? I asked.

The guys who bought Hazelton and Kendall when they went broke, Keith said.

Why don’t they buy us? I asked. Pel-Air was a very profitable, well-managed business which made it a very saleable company.

I was soon in touch with Kim Hai, the executive chairman of REX. We agreed on a price based on earnings supported by assets. Kim Hai needed to float REX on the Sydney