Varda Paterson Burton

On the 18th of July 1966, a baby boy was born. Adopted at 6 weeks of age, he became Guy Lederman.

​Eighteen months later, at 22 days old, Lol and I joined the Lederman family. Not many people know, but we had a younger brother, Gideon, who was also adopted, but sadly, on the very day the family gathered for a welcome celebration, Gideon passed away from Cot Death.

​Then, we were a family of 5. When we were young, Lol couldn’t pronounce Varda and instead called me Dudda, and naturally, Dudda became Dud. This term of endearment stuck, so from then on, it was Lol and Dud, “the girls”, and Guy’s little sisters.

​We grew up with few relatives around us, but we were fortunate enough to spend much of our childhood with the Zoureff family. Annette or Nettie, as we fondly call her, Dario, Nikki, Jacquie and Danielle. We were the Leds, they were the Zeds, and for a number of years we lived in each other’s back pockets.

We spent a great amount of time socialising together in our respective houses. Holidays at Mount Eliza were always planned around 6 children, and as such, we became pseudo siblings to one another and remain so to this day. Lol has already alluded to the shenanigans the six of us got up to. I still affectionately remember the times we spent together; we all looked up to Guy, the ringleader and king of the kids, the only boy amongst all the girls – but that was the way he loved it.

From an early age, it was obvious that Guy was very bright and had a brilliant mind. So much so that at times, I couldn’t keep up. He was great at arguing and despite my efforts, I would always come out second best, his intellect always getting the better of me.

Growing up, the three of us were tight-knit; we were great mates spending all of our free time together. On weekends and holidays, we would be sent off to play for the day, knowing we had to be home by dark for dinner. We would ride our bikes, climb trees, play chasey, build mud pies, dream in the sun with Guy always as the leader, Lol and I following close behind. We very much looked up to him, and he played the big brother role well.

We began our early years living in Doncaster in the late 60’s early 70’s when back then, a horse-drawn cart would deliver fresh milk around the neighbourhood every morning. In the mid 70’s we moved to North Carlton, one street away from Princes Park which in those days was Carton’s home ground. Every Saturday, Guy would drag us along to the game, and we would wait patiently until half time when the attendants opened the big white gates to the public. This meant we watched the second half for free! It was here that Guy’s devotion for his beloved Navy Blues, and the Carlton Football Club began.

Looking back, a common theme emerged of feeling a need to look after Guy, something over time that never changed. I knew how he struggled with his identity, where he came from, his desperation to belong and the need to feel wanted and loved. He couldn’t have had two more devoted sisters to love and care for him, but in the end, our unconditional love wasn’t enough to save him from himself.

I’m sure at times my no nonsense attitude annoyed the hell out of Guy, but it came from a deep place of concern and love. No matter how hard I tried, no amount of willing him to live made a difference. I always had a sense of wanting to rescue him, whether that was from himself or from his demons I’m not sure. I hope he realised how much I loved him, how much we all loved him.

Around 2015 after Guy came back from rehab at Missiondale in Tasmania, Lol and I would regularly visit him in South Melbourne. My fondest memories are walking to his favourite park, strolling along, talking about life, work and what we had been doing. We would sit in the warmth of the sun, enjoying each other’s company and celebrating how well he was physically. We would talk about our kids - he was always keen to know what they were doing, keen to feel connected to them as much as he wanted to be with his own children.

He would talk with such pride about Lucinda and her riding, how Quincy was doing at football and how they were managing at school. Lucinda and Quincy, your father loved you both dearly despite his flaws and your unenviable distance. I want you to know you were never far from his mind. He craved to fulfil the role as your dad, just as he wanted when you were both born. I hope from the heartbreak of Guy’s passing that there is a silver lining.

Through the loss of your father and our brother - the connection that binds us, we can begin to spend time with each other and initiate a relationship that is long overdue, and one that your dad always dreamed of.

When Lily was in her early teens, she began playing AFL football before the girls’ competition really took off. She successfully tried out for the Northern Knights Metro squad. Guy came to watch her play, on a number of occasions, proudly standing on the sidelines cheering her on. He was impressed with the standard of the girls’ game and grateful he wasn’t on the receiving end of a ‘Lily tackle’. He was quietly chuffed it was his niece who was renowned for chasing down her opponent, and tackling them to the ground.

He came with me to the inaugural Women’s game in February 2017. Thanks to Lily being a member of the Northern Knights squad, we had front row seats. I remember talking about the days of growing up in Wilson Street, reminiscing about the times we stood by, waiting for the gates to open at half time. We reflected on the carefree innocence of our childhood days and how much times have now changed.

Life was a struggle for Guy and outwardly, I have no doubt over the years he would have been on the receiving end of judgemental looks and sideways glances from people who passed him in the street, dismissing him because of his appearance. What they couldn’t have known was the sharp mind and the kind heart behind the man they were judging. Fortunately, not everyone was judgemental, and it is a testament to his approachable nature that he befriended people of all walks of life, the larrikin in him shining through ever so slightly, enough to intrigue those who were curious at what lay behind the exterior.

Tiny, the butcher from the South Melbourne Market, took a liking to Guy, and in the end, they became great mates. Every week Tiny would drop off a box of fresh produce, carefully ordered by Nif. Tiny kindly ensured Guy received the best cuts of meat and fresh fruit to keep him fed and plenty of supplies to stock his fridge and freezer. He loved those chats, Tiny, connecting with you and sharing part of himself every week. I can’t thank you enough for what you did for him in what were probably the darkest days of his life.

Will and Nif, what can I say? You were there, through thick and thin, never judging, always wanting to help and keeping in constant contact so Guy knew he wasn’t alone. Will, while we have lost a brother, we have gained another – a brother from another mother. You will forever be our bond to Guy, sharing the excruciating pain of losing him, the memories of doing everything we could to keep him alive and never, ever giving up on him. I can’t express how grateful I am to you for being there through everything, the good, the bad and the very ugly. He was our brother, but he was your best mate. Know Lol and I share the ache in your heart and the gaping hole he has left behind.

Nif, your constant contact, your weekly fresh food deliveries supplying Guy’s every need, your constant words of comfort and support, your daily photos of beauty and inspiration designed to keep Guy engaged. He loved you deeply as a friend; your connection and intellect were on par. Few people really understood him, but you did. Your friendship and love for him were immeasurable. We will forever be bound in sisterhood by love, friendship and memories. It would be hard to find a more devoted friend, but know you made a difference to Guy, every single day.

Sando, your friendship, numerous visits to Hospital and South Melbourne were welcomed and very much appreciated. You belong to a small circle who knew only too well that those visits were never easy. Thank you seems inadequate, but thank you.

Michael, it’s hard to know what to say. Over so many years there were some ups and many downs. You remained a friend to Guy, particularly in the early years and I know you tried.

Lol, when there are no words, you are there with comforting, encircling arms and loving hugs. Only you and I know the extent of each other’s heartache and I am thankful to be travelling this unsteady road with you by my side.

I recently stumbled across a short poem Guy wrote on the back of a card for our 17th birthday, when he was 19. I would like to read it to you. It is called “3.3.3”.

Three young’uns playing,

Two are together alone.

One is waiting watching them,

For the two to see the home.

As a place of wisdom,

And a place of pleasure,

Yet as a three they Can find pleasure treasure,

In the fact that they are so very, very alone.

I now wonder whether even back then, if Guy knew how poignant his poem would be in the years to come. We will never know.

Anyone who knows me well knows I love animals, particularly dogs. Last week I had a vivid dream. I like to think that it was Guy coming to me in the form of a large, black Shepherd – stunningly handsome, of course. I was taking the beautiful canine for a walk and momentarily left him out the front while I raced back inside to grab something. When I returned, I was distraught to discover he had taken off. I saw him loping down the street, almost in slow motion, and I began to run after him, desperately calling, “come back, come back”, but he kept going. As he ran, a small dog appeared, moving next to him.

I like to think the black beauty was Guy, and the smaller dog was Gideon - disappearing into the distance together. That night in my dream, Guy slipped away from me, just as he did a few weeks ago. Running free, into the distance, with Gideon by his side, who I like to feel, had been waiting for his big brother all these years.

I miss you Guy. I loved you so much, my beautiful big brother.

See you in my dreams. Dud xx