Back in the mid 1960s my parents separated with my father going off to live with his new girlfriend leaving my mother, my older brother and me to continue to live in the family home. The house was set way back from the road at the top of 67 stone steps that had been carved into the cliffs of the seaside suburb of Tamarama, in Sydney, and you would never find the house without the sign at the bottom of the steps to guide you.

Mum had to look for a job but in the meantime she applied for the lovingly named 'Deserted Wife's Pension'. Divorce required photographic evidence of adultery in those days and it took forever to be legally separated from your husband. Women were often left without an income and some had to flee their homes without a plan when things got violent.

A few months after Dad left I came home from kindergarten to discover that my mother had moved into my room and there was a family consisting of a woman and 5 children now occupying the main bedroom. Mum told us that this family had come for a visit for a couple of weeks and my brother and I should make the most of having other kids to play with for a change. We did have a great time but while they were there the sunroom got a few sets of bunk beds and another woman with a child moved into that room, making the house very boisterous.

The same day the big family moved out another woman with two daughters moved in. They stayed a couple of days before being replaced by yet another family. My grandmother would sometimes turn up in her car with a family that didn't have any suitcases or even pyjamas for the children.

I knew these women were hiding and that I wasn't to tell anyone about the visitors staying with us. Sometimes the women were bruised, and sometimes the kids were, too. My brother and I were taught how to escape through the back fence if we were ever told to, but we never felt scared there except for one terrible night.

Oh God, that night! There was only a lady called Rosemary and her toddler daughter staying with us. We were all in the kitchen eating dinner around the table when there was a knock at the door. We all stopped talking and listened while trying not to make a sound. I looked at Mum for the sign to run but she shook her head and gestured for me to wait. It was dark so no strangers should have been able to find the house because we had taken down the sign at the foot of the steps months ago. I didn't know what to do but my 7 year old brother decided that as he was the only man in the house that he should be the one to answer the door. He walked down the hall with Mum hissing at him to stay back but her ignored her. Mum, Rosemary, and I peeked out around the kitchen door and watched as my brother opened the front door. There was a man on the front porch and he asked, "Where's Rosemary?" When my brother didn't answer him he said, "Tell Rosemary this is for her." He then put a knife to his own neck and cut his throat, splashing my brother with blood and causing me to grab the baby and run out the back door to safety. I don't recall the rest of that night but I do remember my grandmother trying to scrub the dried blood off the wooden floor the next day. My brother asked me only recently, "Do you remember that night Rosemary's husband cut his throat at the front door?" He will certainly never forget.

Eventually the house was sold and my mother's refuge had to close. In 1974 the first official women's refuge in Sydney, called Elsie, opened in Glebe. I suppose there must have been dozens of private homes that were used as refuges in those days but you don't hear of them. They remain secret women's business to this day.