Chapter 1. Our story begins with... Chapter 2. A letter for the ages Chapter 3. The first of us Chapter 4. The family of love Chapter 5. The '80s Chapter 6. The perfect father Chapter 7. The perfect little boy Chapter 8. A happy ending Epilogue Acknowledgements Copyright # Foreword We live in a time when more than one in every ten children is born into poverty, and more than one in every two is born into an affluent family. One in four children has experienced the loss of a parent. And a third of Australian children live in rented accommodation. The story of David and Margaret Martin is a compelling and moving illustration of all these realities of modern society. But more than anything, it's an extraordinary tale of the resilience of the human spirit, and the profound impact one person can have on the lives of so many. For those who would like to be in the know about something they might have read or heard in the media about the events surrounding this family, I urge you to take a few minutes to read this personal account. There are no real heroes or villains. There is no single or simple story to tell. The facts of the matter are that a young man called David Martin made a series of mistakes that led to an early and unhappy ending. A young woman married a man she hardly knew, and they soon fell victim to his dangerous and violent impulses. Soon after her first son was born, she became a prisoner in her own home, and then she was murdered. Like many women, the mother of this family had few options to save her own life or that of her unborn child, so she asked one of her sons to help her to make a new life for herself and her children. For the very first time, his childhood friend David Martin was confronted with a responsibility that even he had never imagined. David then had the courage and determination to face this challenge with all the strength he could muster. He overcame his own weaknesses and failures, and he did so with honour and dignity. And while his wife was still alive, she helped him too. What is striking about this family is their extraordinary capacity to bounce back. No one ever gave up hope. And one remarkable woman came to have a profound impact on the lives of many other mothers and children. For many, this has been a life-changing experience. We all know that there is a critical shortage of decent, affordable housing for low-income families, and that homelessness is an ever-growing concern. I also know that there is a critical shortage of affordable child care in many parts of Australia. This issue was raised by David and Margaret Martin with some urgency. And it's to their great credit that some of their family's story of triumph has become part of our shared history. I am told that the Martin family home at Oyster Bay has become a place of pilgrimage for those in the helping professions. There's one final thing I know. The mother of the woman who ended up living there never visited her daughter during her lifetime. As she says in her letter, she could not bear to enter this sad place. Yet she is the one who ultimately saved the family from homelessness, and who in many ways rescued them from the darkest place imaginable. All I can say is that I was glad to be of assistance. I am honoured to have met both of these courageous women, and I pray that the lessons from their story will resonate with the good people of the world, and that many others will be inspired by their courage. Bless you, David and Margaret. Your story is ours. Peter Costello # One ## The Story of Two Women It began in the autumn of 1990, when a large box was delivered to my house. It was addressed to the family home at Oyster Bay, which was more than a century old, and was the pride of the Martin family. It had a history of over ninety years' occupancy. I was a year into my career as a judge and the newly appointed chairman of the Australian Stock Exchange (ASX). I had previously lived in Sydney and Hobart, where I had led many enterprises. I had always been fond of the seaside suburb of Balmain, near Sydney, which was where my parents lived. So when I retired to live at Oyster Bay, on the south coast of New South Wales, I was very pleased to be back home. My house stood on a piece of land high above the Oyster Bay beach, and from the big verandah of my house, I looked out to the sea for miles. The house was built by the architect W.J. Wright. It was a comfortable building with four bedrooms, a formal dining room, a living room with a wood fire that I could light at will and two front rooms with high cedar ceilings. I had two bathrooms, one upstairs and one down, a sitting room and a bathroom. The house had a broad verandah facing west, which was large enough to accommodate six people, as a number of my guests had stayed with me while we renovated the house. Like most such homes, this one had a huge attic room, which I was to call my study. Like every other room in the house, my study had plenty of space. It was not an area where I generally found time to do any writing, but I did enjoy going there to read. The letter was addressed to the Martin family, which was that of David, who was married to my cousin, Margaret. There was no telephone in the house at that stage, so the letter had been left at a neighbour's place about a hundred yards from the house. Oyster Bay was a nice place to live in. I loved living in the country, as I did not like living in a city. The house had a country atmosphere, which I enjoyed. The house was on two levels, and the ground floor was all a study: a drawing room and a kitchen. My study was a large room behind the drawing room, and I found it easier to write there than anywhere else. I loved the study and had never been reluctant to work there. But most of the time I sat in my living room on the upper level and worked in my study. I liked that room very much. It was a spacious room that had a couch and large, comfortable chairs that my sister, Marie, and I found most comfortable. When my sister had come to live with me at Oyster Bay, she also stayed in my house at Oyster Bay. And even before I moved there, she spent a lot of time at my house, while I was working. Marie had her own car and lived alone at Caringbah. She would call me from Oyster Bay, and I would pick her up at the end of the day, as she didn't like to drive. She was very practical and I preferred the safety of her company, as I knew she would take care of me if I needed it. She worked in a school and often stayed late at night. But I loved my sister, and she was very much part of my life. My parents' marriage had been a difficult one, and it was a mystery to me why they had been so cruel to each other when they were married. My father died when I was about twenty, and my mother was very upset. I lived in a house at the end of my street in Balmain, where I went to a church with my father and mother as a child. We always had a family dinner on Sunday. My father was a good husband and father, but my mother was a difficult woman. She was always complaining and always wanted more. She would go to work, I think to keep busy. She would drive back home in the middle of the night, just to watch television. She would not do anything and watch the news all night, and she would go back to the shops. She could not drive a car and would walk everywhere to save money. My mother was very unhappy. She was always unhappy. I was fortunate to see more of my father than I would have liked, as he was very fond of me. He took me with him whenever he went out with the boat. He would go fishing and would catch something to eat. He would get some fish for the family and was a good, happy man. His house was large with two rooms on one level and four bedrooms. My mother had a bedroom next to his, but she preferred to sleep outside and not in the house. I never knew her to eat properly. The man who lived next door had a problem with the toilet of the house. When it was raining, his toilet overflowed, and he would ring my house to ask me to go and see him. When I went to my father's house, there was always a big crowd of men. They were his friends. I was a little girl when I went to live with him, but he took me everywhere, and I enjoyed the company of all his friends. When I was seven, my father was a bit older and had become sick. I used to go to the hospital with him in my pyjamas, but he never complained or asked for help. I sat with him and they put an oxygen mask on him. He was too weak to talk to me and would not take any interest in what I was doing. I went with him to hospital once a week