"A LIFE ENJOYED."
        "O-EIGHT-TO-NINE-O"
        (Being a Grandfather's several letters to his Grandchildren)
        FOREWORD
While I was languishing in the Royal North Shore Hospital after open heart surgery in January, 1984, I received a letter from my daughter-in-law, Carol, in which she suggested that, to relieve the boredom I could write down "some of my acquired wisdom" for the benefit of my grand-children.
In my dictionary the definition of "wisdom" is :- "Knowledge practically applied to the best ends."
The little knowledge I have has been acquired from experiences; so, on the 2nd. of April, 1984, I started "writing down" all the "experiences" I could remember.
Little did I think that it would take nineteen long letters and over seven years. I suppose I should have known that you can't live eighty three years without something eventful happening; although, at the time, most "experiences" seemed to me to be very uneventful.
The "experiences" I have related and the "opinions" I have expressed will, no doubt, set good examples and bad examples for my grandchildren; I hope that they will be able to distinguish between the two.
When you come to think of it, life is just one decision after another. One of the first decisions I had to make after I learnt to talk was how to distinguish between my two adoring grand-mothers. Because I was influenced mainly by size, my father's mother became "Grand-ma," and my mothers's mother, "Little Nan." Our grand-children had to come to a similar decision, and that decision means that when you are introduced, in the following pages, to a person affectionately known as "Jean-ma," you will be reading about my loving wife and partner.
        J. R. S.
        31st. July, 1991.


        Chapter One
        1797-1922
        Lane Cove.
        2nd April, 1984.
To my dear grand-children, (all eleven of them.)

When you reach my age you will no doubt get the urge to find out where you came from - if you have convict blood in your veins - or if you have royal blood - or a bit of both. You may wonder who, over the centuries, has contributed to the family of genes your body is, at present, giving shelter to.
I got this urge a few years ago and, whilst my research since then has been most interesting, it has high-lighted one thing, how little I know about my grand-parents, despite the fact that they were still alive during my lifetime.
So that my grandchildren won't suffer the same disadvantage I propose putting to paper as much as I can remember of the happenings to me since I first laid eyes on this wonderful world.
To start my story I'm going back, further than my grand-parents to the year 1797, for 'twas in that year that William and Flora Shorter were blessed with a baby son; and on the 14th. May, in the Parish of Wokingham, in Berkshire, England, he was christened James.
Now James grew up to be a very strong and athletic young fellow. His forte, however, was not running or jumping, and tennis or volley-ball by then hadn't been invented. No; his forte was skating. Had there been Winter Olympics in those days he was destined to represent his country. But alas fate intervened.
One winters day while practicing his figure eights on a frozen pond on his grand-fathers farm near Newbury in Berkshire, he went too close to the thin ice, which crumbled under his weight and plunged him into the icy waters. He would have drowned were it not for a floating log nearby.
James was convinced that the log had been placed there by God to whom he thereupon dedicated his life. By 1821, at 24 years of age, James was married and ordained as a preacher in the Baptist Church. In 1827 he too had a son, also christened James, his three earlier children had been girls, Mary, Caroline and Naomi.
By 1843 he had his own church in London, the Wilderness Row Chapel, where he laboured as a "highly honoured servant of the Lord Jesus Christ," until his death on the 28th. July, 1861. Over 600 attended his funeral and a pamphlet was printed at the time the front cover of which read as follows :-
        "A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE
        LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH OF THE LATE
        JAMES SHORTER
        MINISTER OF THE GOSPEL AT WILDERNESS ROW LONDON
        TO WHICH IS ADDED EXTRACTS FROM HIS CORRESPONDENCE ETC.
        AND HIS FUNERAL SERMON PREACHED BY
        MR. BEARD OF MALMSBURY
        ON SUNDAY EVENING, AUGUST, 4TH, 1861.
        AND THE ADDRESS AT THE GRAVE.
        C. Hardy, Printer, 32 Castle Street, Holborn Hill.
        Price Two Shillings."
The two shillings was "to assist the family of the deceased."
My cousin, Mary Hellard, nee Shorter, of Bottom Pond Farm, Owslebury, Winchester, in Hampshire, has a copy of this pamphlet.
James' correspondence deals mostly with his "Blood of the Lord" sermons, but occasionly he refers to his family; references to "my daughters C---, N--- and Mary, poor frail afflicted one," and the "great disappointment in my life," which I have presumed to have referred to his only son, who left home at 25 years of age, sailing for Australia on the 7th. August 1852, on the sailing ship "Ballarat" and was described on the ships manifest as a "Wine and Spirit Merchant," hence the "great disappointment". James, the son, kept a diary during that voyage and it also is in Mary Hellard's possession. I have so far been unsuccessful in persuading Mary to have these documents photocopied for me, but I live in hope. They could be of great interest should one of you, one of these days, become interested in researching the Shorter family tree.
James arrived in Melbourne on the 4th. November, 1852, some three years later married Mary Annie Beckett, and in 1857 whilst living in Mickleford, near Castlemaine, in Victoria, their first child was born, a son and they named him (no prizes for guessing correctly) James, the third, - my grand-father.
My paternal grand-mother was Inez Maude Travers, who was born on 31st August, 1856 on Prince Edward Island in the Gulf of St.Lawrence, Canada. She must have come to Australia with some of her family because William Bruno Travers was one of the witnesses at her marriage to James Shorter at Emerald Hill in Victoria on the 9th November, 1881. My Aunt Gert once told me that Uncle Bruno was buried in Perth W.A.
My maternal grand-father was Edward James Witt, who was born at Islington, London on 22nd July, 1858. We have a family heirloom in the shape of a silver tray, on which is engraved the Witt crest - a left hand over a baton. Unfortunately another heirloom, a signet ring with the same crest, was lost during a burglary 2 years ago.
My maternal grand-mother was Florence Jane Gloster, born in London April, 1857. Edward and Jane were married in the Parish Church of Christ Church, at Southwark, Surrey, in England on 2nd June, 1877.
On 20th January, 1879, Edward sailed alone on the SS "John Elder" to Australia - port of destination, Melbourne. On 31st May, 1881, Mrs. F. J. Witt and 1 year old son Edward Henry sailed on the SS "Garonne" to Australia - port of destination, Sydney. Their second child, Florence Isabelle Witt (my mother) was born in Paddington, N.S.W. on 4th December, 1882. Sometime after this at the suggestion of his brother Henry, Edward Witt changed his name to "de Witt". In 1895 he became a Major and District Paymaster of the Australian Military Forces stationed at Victoria Barracks, Paddington.
James and Inez Shorter's first child, James Wallace (my father) was born at Emerald Hill in Victoria on 30th July, 1882.
I don't know how James Wallace and Florence Isabelle first met. In fact I cannot find anything about the Shorter's movements between 1882 and 1907 but I can remember my mother pointing out a 2 storey stone house in Hunters Hill and saying that the Shorter family once lived there, before she was married.
James Wallace Shorter and Florence Isabelle de Witt were married at All Saints Church Woollahra, N.S.W. on 2nd January, 1907. The bridesmaids were Miss Mabel de Witt and Miss Gertrude Shorter, - the best man was Mr. William Shorter (twin brother of the groom) and the groomsman was Mr. Wilfred Wenborn, (Gertrude's fiance).
On the 2nd July, 1908, I was born at home, a house in Glover Street, Mosman. Edward the Seventh was still on the throne of England. (I have a faded photograph of me on my mother's lap, taken in the backyard of the house in Glover Street.)
There I was, blinking in the bright sunlight, and thinking, "What on earth was that contraption my Father was holding in his hand.?" - "Watch the birdie," he said. - "Good God," I thought, "that box is much too small to hold a bird." - "Wipe the dribble from his mouth," my Father said.
An eau-de-cologne scented hankerchief passed across my mouth, there was a clicking sound from the box, and at last I was put back in my pram to continue kicking to my hearts content.
The business of having your photo taken in those days was a very complicated affair. There was no such thing as a "Pentax" camera with automatic focusing and light-metering; no built-in flash-lights or zoom lens, and none of those supersensitive films.
Before I saw the "little birdie" on that far off occasion, my Father would have labourously set up a tripod, on to which he would have fixed his camera; a black box fitted with a sliding leather "concertina" at the end of which was fixed the lens and a shutter operated by a rubber tube and bulb. After inserting a frosted glass screen at the back of the "box," my Father would have opened the shutter, and, with a black sheet over the camera and his head, peered at the screen, and moved the lens until a well-focused picture of me appeared. The glass screen would then be removed and a negative photographic plate inserted in its stead. As soon as I produced a satisfactory smile, he would squeeze the rubber bulb, and, Hi Presto!, my picture was made for posterity.
Had this photograph been taken in a poorly lit room, my poor Father would have had to manipulate a crude form of flashlight; comprising a piece of metal shaped like a "T" on the top of which was sprinkled a highly inflammable powder which was ignited at the same time the shutter was opened. As I said, there was no automatic built-in flash-lights in those days.
In a letter dated 10th. July, 1908, James Shorter, my great grand-father, from Glenferrie in Victoria, wrote ;- "My dear Wallace, yesterday I received a Sydney Herald which on perusing I found announced the birth of a son and heir to you and dear Florrie, upon which good news I desire to congratulate you both with my warmest love, and to assure you that the same comes from the very bottom of my heart. etc. etc."
Five weeks later, on the 18th. August, the old chap passed away at my Uncle Sid's home in Mosman. He was 81 years old and was buried in Gore Hill Cemetry.
My family soon moved to another house in Mosman, in Spencer Road, - I have a very well preserved photograph of this place. What has stuck in my memory about this house has been firstly, a colourful leadlight bow window in the front room, and secondly, it was from this house that I went to my first school, at three and a half years old, a Pre-kindergarten run by a Miss Hettie Yarnold and her sister in Raglan Street, Mosman. I have a school group photograph (including myself) taken at a 1914 Christmas Re-union Party after we had moved from Mosman to Bayswater Road, Roseville.
On the 19th March, 1913, at Roseville (to be precise Nurse Large's Private Hospital) I was presented with a baby sister, Isabelle (my mother didn't believe in second names for girls.)
Three months later at age five I started my education in earnest. Firstly, one week at Lindfield Public School; a school of rough older boys my mother strongly disapproved of. So I was enrolled at the brand new Roseville Public Kindergarten School (on Arterial Road, East Roseville) strictly ruled by Headmistress Miss Fanny Pickering assisted by kind, sweet Miss Macourt who was my first teacher heart-throb. I was left-handed in many things, including writing. I can remember my mother telling Miss Pickering about my left-handedness and Miss Pickering saying on no account would she try to change me for fear of turning me into "a psychologically mixed up kid", except that she didn't use those exact words. From our home at the bottom of a steep hill in Bayswater Road to the school in East Roseville was, as the crow flies, one and a quarter miles, but up hill and down dale it would have been closer to 2 miles and there were no school buses in those days. Granma de Witt (my Little Nan) now lived in Clermiston Ave., a block away from the school so I was able to have my lunch there, but there was always the 2 mile walk home later in the afternoon.
In 1982 the P. & C. Association held a special "Back to Roseville" Day to celebrate the 70th Anniversary of the (now fully Public) School. To my horror, out of the hundreds there I was the only 1913 to turn up (maybe still alive.)
As Roseville was still only a Kindergarten School my stay there terminated in December 1914. The following year, Lindfield Public School still being taboo, my mother managed to get me enrolled at Gordon Public School - Headmaster Mr. "Cocky" Fry. In those days "Gordon" was regarded as THE school on the North Shore. It was a lovely old stone building, built in 1871 as the original Lane Cove Public School; that part of the country was then part of the Borough of Lane Cove. Instead of 2 miles I now walked 3/4 mile to Roseville Railway Station and caught a steam train to Gordon each day.
For my first 2 years at Gordon I had for my teacher a Miss Fanny O'Dea, a 5 foot martinet who breathed fire and frightened us into being the best class on the North Shore at "reedin, ritin and rithmitic." I can still see her glaring at me through her steel rimmed glasses when I faltered during my 9 times table. This period was not one of my best. On 15th October, 1915, I lost my favourite grandmother when "Little Nan" de Witt died at Clermiston Avenue, Roseville.
In 1917 I went into 3rd Class under the guidance of dear Miss Laws. She most likely taught us the 3 Rs. too, but I only remember her for her talks on History, Nature Study, The War, Civic Duty, Geography - and her wonderful nature study excursions into the bush around Gordon and St.Ives. She started me off with a fine collection of dried native flowers and a love of things historical.
Unfortunately those good times and 1917 had to come to an end, but not before I was given a brand new baby brother, Ernest Travers, born 2nd November, 1917.
The years in Bayswater Road were full of events that, to this day, are still indelibly imprinted in my mind.
For instance there was the rail strike, - I remember my Father driving a bone-shaking T-model Ford up to Pymble each morning to pick up his boss, Mr. Stobo. Gordon Road (now Pacific Highway) was then a succession of blue metal potholes. I used to get a ride to school and shanks pony got me home.
Then there were visits to the city. - I remember shopping with my mother at Civil Service Stores (on the east side of Pitt Street between King and Market Streets) and afterwards those lovely ice cream sodas next door at Washington Souls soda bar. We used to make home made ice cream with runny custard in a churn bucket of ice and salt-petre, but Washington Souls ice cream was ever so much better.
In those days Department Stores used to have a unique method of handling the cash received for sales made. After we'd had our ice cream sodas at Washington Soul's my mother would decide that she'd like to buy some hankerchiefs, so we'd come out of the fragrant coolness of the soda bar, cross Pitt Street to the western side and contemplate giving our patronage to Hordern Brothers, or Ways, or McCathies and finally deciding on Joseph Farmer and Company on the corner of Market Street (now Grace Brothers). Mother would seat herself on a Austrian cane chair in front of the hankerchief counter and a sales-girl (always dressed in black with a white lace collar) would show her several boxes to select from. The sale completed, a docket for "two and thrippence" would be made out and Mother would hand over a halfcrown piece (two shillings and sixpence or twenty-five cents), whereupon the sales-girl would enclose the coin and docket in a container on a wire stretching from the hankerchief counter to a cashier in an elevated box in the centre of the floor. The container would then be catapulted, like a minature flying-fox to the cashier who would, by the same method, return the docket with the thrippence change. Instead of the "flying-fox", other stores had a system of tubes which sucked the money to one central unseen cashier. - Just a little different from the "Target" or "K-mart" check-outs of 1984.
There was a holiday at Barrenjoey; spent in an old stone cottage called Woodleys Cottage at the foot of a steep track leading up to Barrenjoey Lighthouse. - To get there we had to row from Gows Wharf at Palm Beach, Pittwater. In those days Palm Beach and Cronulla were regarded as far enough to go for a holiday; but on one occasion we let our hair down and rented a cottage at Wallarah Point, Tuggerah Lakes, reached by launch down the creek from Wyong. I can still taste the succulent prawns we used to catch there.
Incidently, the stone cottage under Barrenjoey was one of three customs cottages built in 1862 together with a substantial stone jetty.
The customs station had been established there prior to this, in fact in 1843, as a result of the increased smuggling in Broken Bay. As early as May 1846 the Commissioner of Customs in London reported that the Custom Station at Broken Bay had been "successful in checking smuggling."
Prior to the first World War transport to the Peninsular and Palm Beach in particular was, to say the least, difficult.
Proceeding from Circular Quay one took a ferry to Manly, then a horse-drawn streetcar to Narrabeen where a ferry crossing was made of the lake. A sulky continued the journey to Church Point and finally one took another row-boat ferry to Palm Beach.
At the time we were there, the Summer of 1919/20, transport had improved to the extent that we were able to travel by launch from Newport to Palm Beach where a small wharf had been built at Gow's boat-shed, immediately south of Observation Point. From there we proceeded by row-boat to the old Customs Jetty.
At that time Palm Beach Telephone Exchange had only 14 subscribers, and the Barrenjoey Lighthouse was still lit by a kerosene lamp consuming 4 gallons of kerosene each night.
I'm not sure how my parnets came to choose a Barrenjoey custom house for a holiday but I have a vague recollection that it was through their friends Ma and Pa Shimmels who was superintendant of Prison Farm Homes for Juvenilles at Mittagong. Many a time we returned from a visit to Mittagong loaded up with fruit and vegetables.
When I was about 8 or 9 I can remember proudly taking off on my own from Roseville Station, steam training to Milsons Point, then by "jumping-jack" tram to Lang Street, Mosman (cost one penny) where I visited my Aunty Gert, Aunt Eva (her lady help) and cousins Clem and Ivo. My mother also had a lady help. Her name was Madeline Cooper, an ex-nurse from the Childrens Hospital. We kids loved her very much and mutilated her name to "Kewpie."
I remember a certain historic day when we stopped boiling the bath water in the copper, at Bayswater Road, and installed in the bath-room a chip heater which enabled us to have a hot bath on Wednesday nights as well as Saturday. The novelty of listening to the "woof woof woof" of "old Faithfull" every Wednesday and Saturday never wore off.
There were Saturday afternoons at the pictures. - The "Arcadia" Theatre at Chatswood would be full of us screaming kids, drowning out the poor pianist, as we encouraged "Elmo the Mighty" (the current serial) or William S. Hart (the Western idol) or Douglas Fairbanks SENIOR. In between features, pimply kids, with boxes strapped around their necks would prowl the aisles, shouting "peanuts, lollies and chocolates." To-day's "pimply kids" work at McDonalds, and tell you to have a nice day. Alternatively I would be at Roseville or Chatswood Rifle Range scoring for my father, who was a real hot-shot. Many, many years later on the same rifle range I was to completely upset army regulations by insisting that I fire left-handed at a V.D.C. shoot. What made matters worse was the fact that I top scored.
Back to Roseville where my playmates (just for the record) were Clem Hall, (next door) and next door to him, Rosie and Katie Keogh (whose father was a policeman), Tom Woods, "Boy" Dean and the Dietrich boys. - We used to raid the chinamens gardens which backed on to our back fences. "Rabbitos" used to call, selling a pair of rabbits (known as "underground mutton") for sixpence (5 cents), skinning them on the spot. Other callers were the clothes-prop man, the butter and ice man and the Chinese greengrocer. Incidently Tom Woods had an adoring mum and maiden aunt (Miss Ryan) and they dressed the poor kid in velvet suits like Little Lord Fontleroy. My mum dressed me in knickerbockers (or poop-catchers, as the kids at school called them). In my day we changed into long pants much later in our career. The day we did this was almost as important as the day we turned twenty-one. Picnics in those days were confined to runs in the "Tmodel" to Frenchs Forest via St.Ives. - We never went up "Tumble Down Dick" hill without boiling. Thermos flasks were either unknown then or we couldn't afford one, because we always boiled the blackened billy when we wanted a "cuppa" tea.
My first experience of the live theatre was a visit to a pantomine with my Aunty May, - "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves." It was reported that I caused a furore in the stalls when I stood on my seat and loudly advised the hero that the villians were hiding in the big jars at the back of the stage. My second theatre experience was "Chu Chin Chou." Listening enraptured now to the "Cobblers Song" takes me back to those wonderful days - I've loved live theatre ever since. There was another rather unique theatre I sometimes was taken to. The "Dreadnought" open-air pictures on the corner of Victoria Avenue and Archer Street, Chatswood, long since pulled down.
My Uncle Sid (Dad's brother) worked for Thomas Edison Inc. in York Street, Sydney. Through him we became possessed of an "Edison" phonograph. This contraption played cylinder records and introduced me to the golden voices of Caruso, Melba, Peter Dawson (singing "My Old Shako") and Harry Lauder (rendering "I belong to Glascow") as well as "William Tell" Overture, "Ballet Egyptian", "In a Monastry Garden", etc. etc. But this wasn't the only music heard in our home at Roseville. My father was an accomplished pianist, although he mostly played by ear, my mother had a good contralto voice and she loved singing "I'll Sing Thee Songs of Araby", "A Perfect Day", and "Little Grey Home in the West", whilst Great Uncle Henry de Witt, who was amongst other things, a song writer, used to lift the roof with his baritone rendition of "The Holy City". My contribution was "Yip I Addy I Aye I Aye" and "Polly Wolly Doodle". Uncle Henry's wife, Aunt Fanny, used to intrigue us kids. She claimed to be a mystic, which might have been partly true because she was born in India of Indian Army parents and raised from birth by an Indian amah. They never missed having Xmas dinner with us and brought us lovely presents.
My Uncle Sid was a fanatical follower of the North Sydney Rugby League Football Club- "Norths" as it was known then, the "Bears" had not then been invented. I can remember being taken along with my father and Uncle Sid to North Sydney Oval to barrack for Herman Peters, Cec Blinkhorn and Harold Horder. You'd have thought that Uncle Sid had won Tattersal Sweep, when "Norths" won the 1921-22 Premiership.
And I must not forget my introduction to the world of surgery. It seems that I started to talk through my nose and Dr. Brierley (I think that was his name - he lived on the corner of Hill Street and Roseville Avenue) diagnosed that I had adernoids which he decided to take away from me. The breakfast room was turned into an operating theatre, the deal kitchen table scrubbed with carbolic soap and covered with a blanket and white sheet. I watched in trepidation all this preparation and when the time came to put me on the table I fought like a wild-cat and ruined one good pair of pyjamas. It seems that chloroform was not strong enought to put me down so a substantial whiff of ether was administered. I woke up minus my adernoids and two tonsils, and plus a very sore throat and a ghastly feeling of nausea. Thank goodness anaesthetics nowadays are less discomforting.
Whilst at Bayswater Road I must make some comment on the subject of sanitation.
It wasn't until we left Lindfield that I enjoyed the luxury of an "inside the House" toilet.
In the backyard at Roseville we had a 6 foot by 3 foot wooden structure "with a gable roof" which our parents called the "W.C.", but we kids called it "The Dunny." Around it was a trellis, for which a passion-fruit and choko vine fought for possession, and inside was a bench-seat with a large sandpapered hole in the centre. Under the hole was deposited a 1O gallon tar-painted metal can, the repository of the family night soil. Once a week, in the middle of the night, my slumbers were voilently disturbed by the noise of clashing metal as the nightman called to take away the full can and leave a freshly painted empty one.
What happened to us if we had a "nature call" during the night? you ask. Well, under every bed was a chamber-pot which was duly emptied into the slop-bucket each morning. These chamber-pots determined what class you belonged to. Under working class beds there were enamel pots, generally chipped, under middle class beds plain china pots and under upper class beds china pots with roses painted on them. We had plain china. When you think about it, the old dunny and nightcart system worked pretty smoothly. Although we rarely met our "pan man," once a year we communicated with one another. Just before Christmas we would find on our dunny seat a card bearing a cheerful Christmas greeting in verse; to which we would respond by placing on the same dunny seat, a Christmas gift, usually a bottle of wine enclosed in the traditional Christmas wrapping.
I can remember our "pan man" once calling at our neighbour's house during a back-yard New Year Eve's party. It was very late and the guests, brimming with seasonal bon-homie, insisted he have a drink. He smiled, plonked down the brimming can and accepted a beer. It could only happen in Australia.
For some reason unknown to me it became necessary for my family to move from Roseville to a flat at Bay Road, now known as Waverton. (1st. Rail Station after North Sydney). To ease the move I was sent off to live for 12 months with friends of the family in Newcastle, Mr. and Mrs. Louis Hill (Uncle Lu and Aunty Tot) and their daughter, Alice and son, Herbert, who was my age. Together we attended during 1918 Hamilton Superior Public School. The Hill home was in Dumaresq Street, Hamilton. From it we could see the horses running on the Newcastle Jockey Club's Racecourse. Hamilton Superior Public School considered me too bright for 4th class so I spent my time there as a 5th class student. It appeared that Gordon was holding back their students so they would more likely become eligible for entrance to the selective North Sydney Boys and North Sydney Girls High Schools. By a strange coincidence Jean-ma, when she was the same age, had a similar experience. With her mother and grandmother she lived for a short time with relatives in California and went to school at Berkley near San Francisco, which prompts me to quote from one of Jean-ma's rare nostalgic literary efforts when she wrote:-
"This brings to mind so many things - my school days at North Sydney Girls High - the strict head-mistress - those long black stockings - gloves at all times outside school gates - all the rules and regulations - never eating or chewing in the street and never never standing on corners talking to boys. Then I can remember the night travelling home on the McMahons Point ferry, watching the old vehicle ferry Benelong sinking after a coastal vessel had ploughed into it. Crew members cutting horses free and our ferry picking up survivors. This, of course was before the bridge was built.
And that brings to mind the terrible "Greycliffe" disaster on 3rd November, 1927 with so many lives lost. Children, returning home from school, trapped inside the ferry as it sunk. I think what makes this so vivid in my memory is because the ferry was run down by the R M S "Tahiti". I always identified with that ship and followed its history because that was the ship I travelled on when my grandmother took me to America when I was 10 years old. These days with planes flying all over the world children seem to travel everywhere and all are so familiar with foreign countries. But in 1923 not very many 10 year olds travelled overseas and my experiences at a Californian school are very clear to me now.
I stayed with my Aunt Kit and Uncle Frank Stibbens. He was a doctor and they lived in a comfortable shingle two storey home at 567 Forrest Street, Oakland - it was built that way because of the frequent earth tremors - my mothers sisters weathered the 1906 San Francisco earthquake when they first went to U.S.A. Uncle Frank and Aunt Kit had 2 daughters, Winnie (the younger) who I adored, and Marjorie - both a little older than me.
I look back with nostalgia to this memorable and impressive period. Our maiden Aunt Rene also lived there and Ivy came down from Canada with her adopted daughter, a rather spoilt brat who didn't get on with the rest of us kids. So you see it was a very full household with 10 of us - the four sisters Kit, Rene, Ivy and Olive (my mother, the youngest), the 2 Stibben girls, my grandmother, myself and someone whose name I can't think of. I often wonder how my dear Aunt Kit coped with us all for that six months.
We used to skate to school at Berkeley and come home for lunch daily. For breakfast we had waffles and I tasted cornflakes for the first time. At school I was amazed by the children of different nationalities - first time I had ever seen Japanese - I was intrigued with a Spanish girl, Mercedes - I thought that was a beautiful name - I guess Phillipa is lucky I grew out of that. The children at school found me an object of interest - puzzled that I was not black - wanted me to speak aboriginal. They were terribly ignorant of any geography - Australia was not included in their syllabus.
On returning to Australia my mother decided the local school wasn't good enough for her much travelled and darling daughter whose mind had been broadened so much by overseas experience, and I was sent to Chatswood Primary where actually I did rather well and was dux there at the end of sixth class. From there I went to North Sydney Girls High School which even then was selective. The going there was much tougher and I don't think I distinguished myself expecially except in the Art classes. However that is another story." So much for Jean-ma's American interlude.
Probing my memory cells on my Newcastle interlude these experiences come to mind:-
Being sent to church each Sunday morning and on one occasion, with the thermometer touching a hundred, having to sit through a full Litany service.
Saturday morning visits to Arnotts's biscuit factory at Cooks Hill to buy three penny worth of broken biscuits, which was more than enough to fill a large Kelloggs cornflake carton.
Visits to a one-teacher bush school at a village west of Fassifern, where Uncle Lu was relieving, and where we learnt "how the other half lives, - and learns."
Playing in deserted coal-mines - learning to ride a push-bike - and learning to swim in the rock baths near Nobbys, the southern headland of Newcastle harbour.
Learning about the facts of life. - One evening Uncle Lu and Aunty Tot (they were both school teachers) called Herb and I and Alice (she was 2 or 3 years older than us) into the parlour and gave us a very elementary talk on the "birds and the bees". This was the only sex education I ever received. At school the subject was absolutely taboo and my parents, like so many others at the time, avoided it like the plague; other than telling me that babies were found under cabbages.
Herbert Julius Hill later became one of the top executives of the Muswellbrook Coal Company. Now retired, he lives at 124 Hill Street, Muswellbrook.
Towards the end of 1918 I returned to the bosom of my family at Bay Road, just in time to wildly celebrate the end of the Great War to end all wars, by joining the crowds at Circular Quay, bashing kerosene tins, singing, cheering, shaking hands, kissing and hugging perfect strangers, and reading over and over again the peace news in bold type in the "Sydney Sun". We didn't have radio or television or satellites in those days. But the fun was soon over and once more the stark realities of growing up had to be faced.
The "kerosene" tins referred to above were actually benzine (petrol) tins obtained from an East Circular Quay garage that serviced the company car my father drove. "Petrol", in those days, didn't come from bowsers; it was supplied in square 4 gallon tins, 2 to a wooden case. Hence the term "kerosene case;" and these cases made wonderful billy carts.
It is Christmas 1918, I am ten and a half years old and a very important decision has to be made. A decision that will have an effect on my whole future.
In North Sydney there were two secondary schools. The newly established North Sydney Boys High School, which provided a five year academic course culminating with the Leaving Certificate or University of Sydney matriculation exam. The other school was first known as North Sydney Commercial High, then North Sydney Boys Intermediate High, then after my time, North Sydney Boys Technical High. It provided a three year commercial course finishing with the Intermediate Certificate exam.
If I had returned to Gordon Public School I was going to be made to repeat 5th class, sit for the Q.C. (Qualifying Certificate) Exam a year later and most certainly finish up at North Sydney Boys High School (the selective school) and matriculate at the age of seventeen and a half. I would have liked to have done this, and then follow up at Sydney University in the Faculty of Architecture, although I also had a "yen" for journalism. But all that would cost money. Only the very very brilliant students won the very very few bursaries available in those days.
My father was a regular "Mister Nice Guy" but as a business man he left much to be desired. My mother was a very intelligent and capable woman and was actually a working girl (R. H. Gordon & Co. Ltd.) before her marriage, but her capabilities could not be applied. The times decreed that a married woman's place was in the home. The family fortunes were never that healthy that they could afford to send a budding architect to university.
So the decision was made. My goal was to be the Intermediate Certificate examination which I should expect to pass by the time I was fourteen and a half, when I should be capable of earning my own living and helping to support the family. To this end I was enrolled, in January, 1919, in 6th class at Greenwoods School.
Greenwoods School later to become North Sydney Public School was situated between what is now Pacific Highway, Miller and Blue Streets, North Sydney. It was a picturesque stone building with a high pitched church-like roof and a bell tower; an old Gothic revival building now under preservation. It first housed the St.Leonards Public School and it was built in 1877 by Architect George Allan Marsfield; I presume the Epping Highway suburb was named after him. He was a leading architect of his day responsible for many of the school buildings erected in the 1870s and 188Os throughout Sydney. Greenwoods School was named after Nimrod Greenwood the most famous headmaster of the St.Leonards School. In my day, as well as the primary section Greenwoods School included three years of secondary education which became North Sydney Boys Intermediate High School under the headmastership of Mr. W. Carey Taylor, a fanatical exponent of English Grammar.
Sixth class was in the hands of a Mr. Denning who quietly injected into us enough knowledge to enable us to pass the Q.C. examination, and to write legibly. My one and only entitlement to fame at this time was the fact that I was top of the class at mapping. My coloured maps of Australia and many other lands decorated the walls of 6th class for at least twelve months and maybe much longer.
Early in 1919 Sydney had an influenza epidemic, when everyone had to be inoculated and wear white cloth masks. I was done at old Chatswood Town Hall and was very disappointed that I did not get big scars on my arm to boast about to my friends.
Whilst living at Bay Road (now called Waverton), the family had purchased a block of land in Marjorie Street, Roseville; part of the "Firs Estate." They were in the throes of negotiations with the old Government Savings Bank and a "spec" builder named John H. Park, when the local alderman, Croft by name, persuaded the Ku-ring-gai Council to resume the block, and a number of others, so that Roseville Park could be enlarged.
The family must have been generously reimbursed because late in 1919 they purchased from Mr. Park a three bed-room house at 22 Newark Crescent, Lindfield, where I was to become sensitive to the fact that we still lived "on the other side of the track." We didn't have journalists in those days who wrote articles analising the different stratas of society, nevertheless it was pretty obvious to all that, on the Upper North Shore, the wealthy families lived on the eastern side of the railway line, whilst on the western side lived the "battlers."
When we moved to Lindfield I started my daily train rides to Milsons Point where the northern pilon of the Harbour now stands. Although I had a students pass which entitled me to free tram rides, just for the exercise, I occasionally walked to school from Milsons Point, up Alfred Street, passing, on the corner of Paul Street, Charlie Waterhouse's hotel, which had an intriguing name, - "Lily of St.Leonards." Further up, on the other side of the street, was Dind's Hotel, and at the top of the hill, the appropriately named, "The Rest Hotel."
My Mother had told me to always steer clear of all public houses because "nasty men" lurked there, but I just couldn't understand how an establishment with the charming name of "Lily of St.Leonards" could be as menacing as she made it out to be, and I often stood on the foot-path gazing at the swinging doors labelled with the mysterious gold letters "Public Bar," and wondered what went on behind them. It was some years before I found out.
Sadly, "Lily" was murdered by a man with a jackhammer to make way for a mass of concrete and glass; and the grass of Bradfield Park now grows where "Dinds" once stood. But cheer up!, a hotel still stands at the top of Alfred Street hill, and it is still called "The Rest."
I passed the Q.C. exam and commenced in January 1920 three very full and enjoyable years of my life. At high school I stepped into a new world, work became a hobby, everything seemed to be a fascinating challenge.
Mr. Waddington taught Maths One and Maths Two and he had the knack of making algebra and geometry entertaining. One actually got satisfaction from reaching the Q.E.D. of a theorem (quod erat demonstrandum - Euclid's words not mine - we called it Quite Easily Done). Algebra was a novelty to us and it's mysteries just had to be solved. He also turned the dry subject of geography into a "jet-set" tour.
Mr. Reid was the Science Master who taught Physics and Chemistry (stinks). As well as understanding Archimedes Principle, we learnt how to make gunpowder.
Mr. Wyborn taught Business Principles, Book-keeping and Shorthand. As I had ideas of one day becoming a newspaper reporter the shorthand lessons could not come quicker or often enough for me.
Last but most certainly not least, there was Mr. Greentree, our most un-orthodox English Master. He used to read us short stories by O. Henry and then make us write our own version with a local setting. We studied English as written in "The Fifth Form at St.Dominics", as written by Dickens in "Great Expectations" and by Shakespeare in "Twelfth Night", and we performed the plots on the classroom stage before our critical classmates. These performances were often interrupted by the Head barging in and giving an impromptu lesson on English Grammar (parsing and analysis etc.)
Mr. Greentree also taught History, also in a most unorthodox way. We learnt the reasons for wars, and revolutions, and changes of prime ministers (instead of the dates of English Kings and Queens) and we studied the life stories of men like James Cook, Arthur Phillip, William Bligh, Ned Kelly, John Macarthur, Peter Lawlor etc. as they related to Australian history. We dramatised his subjects to such an extent that his classes just couldn't help paying attention.
During my first year at High School I spent a short time in hospital (St.Lawrences's Chatswood) after a football accident when I broke two front teeth on my left knee. I think I would have been better off had the Doctor not operated. I still have a weakness in the left knee and I've never played football since.
I used to receive half a crown (two shillings and sixpence) a week pocket money to cover my lunch and replacement exercise books - text-books were supplied by the Education Dept. and school-children travelled free on trains and trams. To supplement this pocket money I used to contribute stories, poems, sketches and photos to the Childrens Page of the "Sunday News." I started doing this with the Hill children when I was in Newcastle. I wrote under the Nom-de plume "Sarsaparilla" (native flower names were popular at the time - two well known Herald correspondents wrote under the nom-de-plumes "Waratah" and "Redgum".) It was a bad week when I didn't receive a five shilling postal note from the cashier of the "Evening News" whose offices used to be where the State Theatre now stands.
When we came to live at Lindfield I started building my circle of life long friends, closest of which, at the time were, Colin Marr, next door, and Ron Rae, living a street away. In conjunction with these two and per medium of Sunday School Picnics, Tennis Parties, Dances, Birthday Parties etc. I became firm friends with the Dunnicliffs (Mark, Bill and Beryl) the Popes (Dick & Jean) the Sheads (Ann, Gordon and Newell) the Harris family (Charlie, Clive and their many elder sisters). In addition to these there was the Willoughbys (Eddie, Alf and Walter) who lived at Roseville. Mrs. Willoughby had been a friend of my mother before she was married.
The first girl I ever took to a dance was Colin's sister Beryl. Many, many years later at Col's funeral I met Beryl (Mrs. John Price) who introduced me to her forty odd year old daughters, as her first boy-friend, so I suppose Beryl was my first girl-friend.
After the Great War the Australian Government became very conscious of the need for defence and introduced compulsory military training for all males starting at fourteen years of age and finishing at twenty-one. C. J. Dennis the "ocker" poet supported this by a little ditty published in the "Bulletin" which went something like this:-
        Fellers of Australia, blokes and coves and coots,
        Shift your bloody carcasses, move you bloody boots.
        Get a bloody move on, get some bloody sense,
        Learn the bloody art of, self de bloody fence."
Dennis is of course, best known for his Australian classic "The Sentimental Bloke" featuring "The Bloke", "Gorstruth Doreen", "Ginger Mick, the Rabbito" and of course, "The Straw 'at Coot."
I lived in terror of turning fourteen and being sent to Liverpool Military Camp for training. I'd heard terrible stories of trainees in Liverpool being fed on maggot infested meat, so when a Naval Recruiting Chief Petty Officer called at the school seeking naval trainees in lieu of military, I was the first to sign up. On 2nd July, 1922, I became a member of the Royal Australian Naval Reserve and spent my Saturday afternoons for the next seven years learning to be a sailor.
1922 dawned and we started twelve months of intensive serious study for the Intermediate Examination - play acting was given away and even sport was curtailed. My school friends started discussing what we were all going to do when we left school - Keith Johnston, Reg Crispe, Barton Bridle, Jack Wills, Alf Lamacraft, Max Woods and Robin Macdougall, who was an American boy and my first personal contact with a "foreigner".
I finished my third year winning second place in the class (dux in English and 3rd. in History). I was beaten for Dux of the Year by my pal Reg Crispe.
At last the fatal day arrived and we traipsed off to the high school in Falcon Street, there to spend a week or so under the watchful eyes of the examination "bull-dogs". I was more than satisfied with my answers to the papers but several days later to my horror I realised that I had mis-read two questions in each of the English and History paper. I had read "or" in italics as an "and" and answered twice as much as I needed to.
I spent my 1922 Christmas holidays in Moree where Granpa de Witt who had retired from the Army had bought a bakery business. This was my first journey to the country. I left Sydney Central Station at 4.30 p.m. on the North-West Mail in a box carriage that depended on metal hot water bottles on the floor for its heating. I had a meat-pie tea at Gosford R.R.R. (Railway Refreshment Room) and another tea at Newcastle pressed on me by Aunty Tot Hill and family (the train stopped there for 20 minutes). There was another 20 minute stop at Werris Creek at 2.30 a.m. where everyone burnt their tongues on R.R.R. hot tea. A lot more rattles and then Narrabri. I can still see the sun rising that morning over Mount Kaputar while we ate our R.R.R. breakfast at Narrabri. I arrived at Moree at 8.30 a.m. covered in soot. Never have I enjoyed a swim so much as when I jumped into the warm Artesian Baths at Moree that afternoon.
It was while I was in Moree that I learnt that I had obtained my Intermediate Certificate, passing in Maths I, Maths 2, Science, Geography, Business Principles and Short-hand, but I had failed in my two best subjects, English and History - so much for external examinations.
In January 1923 I returned to Sydney and home and the problems of existing. I decided to try and obtain a cadetship with one of the Sydney newspapers, The "Daily Telegraph", the "Sydney Sun" and the "Sydney Morning Herald" were only interested in boys who had an "A" pass in English in the Leaving Certificate or University Matriculation Exam. However, the Editor of the "Evening News" gave me a very encouraging interview, but still told me to come back in two years time. It seems that my age (and size) were unsurmountable handicaps.
In the meantime I had to eat, so I started my career, most unromantically, as a message boy for Mr. Ray Vaughan, an insurance broker in Bulls Chambers, Martin Place; my salary was one pound per week. He was a rifleclub friend of my fathers and at that time there was some talk of them going into partnership. They actually did some years later but, for some reason unknown to me, they parted company after only a short time together.
My father's official occupation was "Insurance Inspector". During the period of his work in this capacity he had built up a large clientele of "Chinese" insurance business. During my last years at school I used to spend my Saturday mornings with him while he visited his Chinese merchant clients, mostly in the Haymarket district. They were a very friendly lot and thought the world of "Mista Chorta", and bestowed upon me many little gifts of preserved ginger, nuts, (my first contact with "lichees") fire-crackers etc.
A month later (on Mr. Vaughan's advice presumably so I could get more insurance experience) I obtained a position as junior clerk - at thirty shillings a week - with the Federal Mutual Insurance Company, 129 Pitt Street, Sydney, much to my mother's disgust. She contended that one member of the family in that awful insurance business was more than enough. Out of my thirty shillings I paid one pound per week board to my mother, and I was quite happy to continue paying board until the day I was married - when I changed land-ladies. Fortunately I was never out of a job. With my first pay I opened my present cheque account with the Commonwealth Bank of Australia. There were no building societies in those days paying twelve per cent on your savings. For the time being,
        Lots of love,
        Pa.
        Chapter Two
        1923-1929
3Oth September, 1984. My Dear Children,
During my job-seeking period I learnt a few very important things. If you wanted a really good job you needed a University Degree or Diploma or a G.P.S. schooling or very influential friends. As I possessed none of these I decided that the next best qualification must be a super enthusiasm for whatever job was available (preferably a secure one) and the ability of making oneself as near as possible indispensable.
In those days the common conception was that Australia "lived on the sheep's back." Therefore, I decided, a job in the wool industry must be a secure one. These were my thoughts as I answered an advertisement for a junior in the wool-brokering firm of Schute Bell and Company Limited. They must have judged me as meeting their requirements because they acceded to my demand that I be paid five shillings per week more than their normal starting salary. On the 23rd. October, 1923 I commenced work at 44 Bridge Street.
Schute Bell's office on the corner of Young and Bridge Streets was housed in a very old terrace house (nowadays if it hadn't been demolished it would have come under the protection of the National Trust or Jack Mundey). It had once been a doctors residence and surgery, and it comprised a caretaker's basement (once the stables ), ground floor (clients reception rooms), first floor (main office) and top floor (records and storage, and once upon a time the doctor's operating theatre). Only the very seniors sat at tables and on chairs; everyone else sat and worked at high desks on high stools in true Dickensian fashion. THE FIRM owned a wool store in Harris Street, Pyrmont and a skin store in Mountain Street, Ultimo, in which I was to become deeply interested, a few years later.
The directors were Frank Dillon Bell (Chairman), Eldred Moser (Client Relations and Senior Wool Auctioneer), Jim Mylecharane (Wool Valuer), Reg Ruwald (Accounts). - Arthur Schute had been killed in a road accident a few weeks before I joined the firm, - they were all ex-employees of Goldsbrough, Mort and Co. The staff comprised Bob Richardson (Accountant) and his clerk Cec Cornwell, Bert Ashe (Chief Clerk) and his assistants Geoff Hosking, George Lambie, Oscar Ledez, Eddie Arnold and an accounting machine operator, Miss Mimi Berquist. Besides myself there were two other juniors, George Matterson and Ken Gilkes; and two Skin Department clerks, Reg Moore and Ernie Cruikshanks. The switch-board operator cum receptionist at the front door was the vivacious Patricia Hayes. There were also two Assistant Auctioneers cum Wool and Skin Valuers, Horrie Davis and Herb Gibson, and Wool Travellers (business getters) Johnny Walker, Jack Ward, Prince Wood, Tom Sisson and Brooks Lloyd. Last but not least there was a mystery man called Jimmy Girdwood, who sat amongst the packing cases and filing cabinets on the top floor and bashed out on an antique type-writer all the firms outward correspondence.
        The wool selling season lasted from August to March.
Part of my job was to deliver wool catalogues to the offices of the wool-buyers before each sale every two weeks. On sale day "all hands and the cook" carried out the work of invoicing anything from 500 to a thousand lots to the buyers, and advising our country clients the results of their sales. No one left the office until the sale was "balanced". There was no such thing in those days as payment for overtime worked. We were each given (including the bosses) one shilling and sixpence tea-money. Fortunately near the office in the Circular Quay area there were a number of little cafes where we could buy a three course meal for one shilling and threepence - soup, roast beef and vegetables, and apple pie and custard, plus a cuppa tea and bread and butter - and after all that a profit of thrippence - enough to buy a beer. When we wanted to save another thrippence, we ate with "Fred", the genial host of the "Cafe de Fairfax", a horsedrawn pie-cart on the curb, outside the old Sydney Morning Herald building on the corner of Pitt, Hunter and O'Connell Streets. Dear old balding Fred in his fifties dispensed hospitality from behind two high shelves on each side of the caravan where one was served a pie with gravy on a plate plus knife and fork for one shilling (ten cents) with a cuppa tea poured from a huge tea-pot. Peas were tuppence extra. Fred extended instant credit to unemployed or "before pay-day" workers and drunks. He made no credit enquiries nor did he enter the transaction in a book.
"Sister Olive", named after a Melbourne Cup winner, was probably the best-loved horse in the city of Sydney, during the twenties, thirties and early forties. As she quietly stood in front of the cafe graciously accepting homage by way of piecrusts, apples and sweets from admiring fans. She made no distinction between white-tie-and-tails-garbed guests from viceregal functions, shift-workers, journalists, tram-guards, drunks or dead-beats, who saw the cafe as a Mecca between the hours of eight and dawn on Mondays to Saturdays.
During those winter nights there was a plethora of balls held at Farmer's Blaxland Galleries, David Jones, Mark Foys and Grace Bros ballrooms. No reveller's evening was complete without being rounded off with a visit to the "Cafe de Fairfax". Throngs of white or black-tied boys with girls in evening dress frolicked and sang under the benign eyes of "Fred" and "Sister Olive" during the early hours of most winter mornings.
Alas! This eating place was eventually banished by the City Council, and the nearest thing we have to it now is "Harry's Cafe de Wheels," a flourishing curb-side business in Wooloomooloo.
Another job that broke the monotony of recording and totalling and cataloguing ad infinitum bales and weights and qualities (no pocket calculators those days) was my weekly trip to the wharves to pay the freights and wharfages. The North Coast and Illawarra coastal vessels were then still carrying goods and we received many hides and skins and some wool from places like Bega, Ulladulla, Taree, Grafton and Coffs Harbour. Also then there was still a passenger service between Sydney and Newcastle every night. If your stomach was strong enough it was a much cheaper and cleaner trip than the train ride to Newcastle. The fleet comprised the S.S. Hunter and the S.S. Gwydir.
Some months after I joined the firm I met Frank Dillon Bell for the first time in, of all places, the office urinal. As he buttoned up his fly, (zippers hadn't been invented then) he looked at me quizzically and said, "You must be the new boy?" To which I answered in the affirmative, telling him my name. "Well Shorter," he said, "I suppose your ambition is to have my job." I was taken aback, but still answered "Y e s s s, sir" - doubtful like. "Well," continued F.D.B., "you can take it from me, Shorter, being the boss is not all beer and skittles." Actually my ambition by then had not gone beyond being the chief clerk. I had found out that Bert Ashe was the recipient of the princely sum of seven pounds per week.
Several months later Frank Dillon Bell committed suicide. He must have found the job of running the firm without the help of his old partner, Arthur Schute, too great a strain. I was to remember his words forty-four years later when I was appointed manager of Schute Bell Badgery Lumby Limited on the 1st. February, 1967.
As an employee of a wool-brokering firm I came in continuous contact with a class of people I had, up till then, (except for one short visit to Moree) no experience with, - the good old sunburnt slow-speaking country bloke and his down to earth wife and family. He worked hard on his property amongst his sheep and cattle and after a good season and a bouyant market when he had some spare cash, he generally invested it in some good horses. So it was inevitable that a wool-brokers office became a pool of hot information concerning the winning chances of it's clients racehorses. Schute Bell was no exception to this rule and I was soon initiated into the nailbiting experience of "backing the neddies." I had my doubts about the wisdom of this and kept a note-book record of all my wins and losses, eventually learning to distinguish between good and bad information. This supplementary income never reached a high level as I rarely bet more than two and six each way. However, my wins and losses at poker which always seemed to level off, were much greater. For half an hour each day the staff lunch room on the top floor was the scene of some exciting and memorable jack-pot games. Hence my love of a good game of cards, especially when it's contract bridge.
        When I was 9 or IO years old one of my Xmas or birthday
presents was a No. O Brownie box camera and photography became one of my pet hobbies. I used to develop my own films and print my own photos, very professionally in a dark room with red light etc. The "No. O" kept me interested until 1923 when my Grandpa Shorter died and left me his post-card size Kodak folding camera - it had a very superior lens. Although the films for this camera cost a bit more, with it I was able to build my own enlarging equipment. I have been able to resurrect most of the photos I took during my early years and they have helped remind me of some of the events I am recording; but unfortunately only a few photos bear dates, so from now on I'll have to resort to writing about periods rather than years, and the first period will be from 1923 (when I started work) to 1929 (when we began to feel the "great depression" - and when I turned 21) - the period we lived at 22 Newark Crescent, Lindfield.
When we moved into this house the grounds were in a very rough and virgin state, so for the first year my father and I laboured hard at laying out a garden, and levelling the back yard into a grass tennis court. We just had sufficient room - sideline and backline space was very sparse, but there was enough. We had many enjoyable week-ends on that old court. The staff of the British Traders Insurance Company, where Dad now worked, were always ready to organise a tennis party, generally led by Fred Grey, who had been a very close friend of my parents since they were married. "Uncle Fred" married Dorothy Bloore, who was a senior typist in the Federal Mutual when I was there. The last time I saw the Greys was when their son, Bruce, was born. (and he'd have to be nearly sixty now.)
The tennis court gave both Isabelle and I the opportunity of bringing our friends home. Isabelle's group included Barbara Dean, Leah Wilkinson and Audrey Birks, who, on one afternoon, brought along her "best friend" a girl called Jean Hill (reputedly a red-hot tennis player.) On this occasion Jean Olive Hill made very little impression on me. After all she was only a child; actually five years younger than me, and at the time I was much more interested in a Chevrolet tourer I had just bought for twenty-five pounds. It had a fierce cone-clutch which nearly jolted your innards out as it started. However, I did condescend to drive Audrey and her friend Jean up to the railway station, or it might have been all the way home. (I think petrol wasn't much more than a shilling a gallon in those days.)
At this stage of my life I wasn't taking girls too seriously - I couldn't afford to. When I got talked into going to one of the "in aid of a charity" dances at Killara Memorial Hall (now Marion Street Theatre) or Roseville Hall or Farmers Blaxland Galleries, I generally asked Beryl Dunnicliff, or Connie Ford, or Betty Gribben, but mostly Jean Pope, to go with me. I think it was Jean's barbed wit that attracted me, and of course, brother Dick was my pal and was always included in the party.
Our social life was, more often than not, confined to parties at our home, or the Dunnicliffs, or the Popes, or the Marrs, or the Andriesse's - Jimmy and Dietje Andriesse were Dutch - their parents owned plantations in Java (now Indonesia) - very intriguing.
One of the girls had a mother who was a leading light in the Royal North Shore Hospital Auxilliary and she talked three of us (me, Ron Rae and a friend of his, Les Matthews) into running a Charity Ball - in aid of the hospital - in Roseville Hall (now Roseville Cinema). I persuaded a wool-buyer friend of mine who ran the "Black and White Dance Orchestra" (Bruce Dunbar - Roslyn's father - played banjo in it) - to supply the music - the auxilliary did the catering - and we three the promotion. The ball was a terrific success both socially and financially; in fact the papers declared it the North Shore Social Event of the Year. It was the first and last time I featured in the social pages of the Sydney Morning Herald.
Another memorable dance was the Hawkesbury Agricultural College "End of Term Ball" at the college at Richmond. Col Marr was a student there and he commissioned me to bring up a car load of partners for himself and several other students. I think I had six girls in the car and for the life of me I can't remember the name of one of them (they say there's safety in numbers). I brought them all safely home by 3 o'clock the next morning much to the consternation of their parents.
As soon as I'd turned 17 my father had driven me up to Hornsby Police Station where I applied for a driver's license. The police-constable asked me to drive him up the street for a hundred yards, back into a side-street and then back to the station. He asked me one question - "Which side of a stationery tram should I pass?" Despite the fact that I answered "Right side," when I should have siad "Neither side," he gave me my license and I've held one ever since.
When I see how keen and interested my grand-children are in computers, it takes me back to the time when I was their age, and my age-group were madly keen to become involved in another new-fangled idea called "Wireless Telegraphy." At that time Sydney had one transmitting station at Pennant Hills, transmitting in morse code to ships at sea and interstate. There were also a number of amateur transmitters such as Otto Sandel's 2 U W and Charles Maclurcan, who owned the Wentworth Hotel. At Lindfield our neighbour next door was a Mr. Charles Marr, who had help build the Pennant Hills station after the first World War. His knowledge of wireless telegraphy has been acquired whilst serving as a Signals Officer in the Australian Imperial Forces in Mesopatamia during the War. Major Marr's son Colin and I were pals with a common interest in building wireless receiving sets. We used to haunt the wireless shops in Sydney, such as W. Harry Wiles in Pitt Street, opposite Anthony Horderns, buying bits and pieces which finally ended up as receiving sets. We were studying also so we could obtain a transmitting license, but we never passed the exam. At about this time audio transmission commenced and two broadcasting stations started, one by Farmer & Co. (2 F C) and one by Broadcasters Limited (2 B L) whose announcer was the popular "Uncle George" Saunders. The year is 1922. Our receiving sets comprise a couple of coils of enamelcoated copper wire, a galena crystal, with "Cats Whisker", and a set of ear-phones, which enabled us to hear the music and talks broadcast by these two stations and various amateur "hams". The higher and longer our aerials were the better the volume and clarity of our reception. My aerial stretched the whole length of the tennis court we had built in the back-yard. Shortly after this, when I had saved up enough to buy some more wireless parts, I built myself a one valve receiver using a Western Electric peanut valve and dry battery, and with this equipment actually listened to the programmes broadcast from 3 L O Melbourne. Later still with Dick Pope's help I built my first wireless set operating a loud-speaker, all contained in a homemade Jacobean cabinet.
Working together in Schute Bells, Kenneth Alexander Gilkes and I became close friends, because, I suppose, of a number of common interests, one of which was live theatre. Others were literature (we liked good books) and sport (we both had played cricket and tennis at school).
Live theatre in those days (and up to the fifties) was mostly presented by the J. C. Williamson group - the Tait family - in old theatres such as "Her Majestys", where the Centre-point Tower now stands, the "Theatre Royal" on the corner of King and Castlereagh Street, the "Criterion" on the corner of Pitt and Park Streets and the "Grand Opera House" facing Belmore Park at Central Railway Station. There was also in Castlereagh Street between King and Market Streets, two vaudeville (music hall type) theatres, the "Tivoli" (later the "Embassy") and the "National" (later the "Mayfair") where you could see "Stiffy and Mo," Sadie Gale, Fred Bluett etc. in lurid music hall acts. The "St.James Theatre" in Elizabeth Street opposite Hyde Park was built at about this time, and opened with Elsie Prince and Jimmy Godden in "No No Nanette". Who can forget those catchy tunes like "Tea for Two", "No No Nanette", or "Take A Little One-step", or "I Want To Be Happy." Later in this theatre we saw Gladys Moncrieff in "Rio Rita."
The lay-out of these theatres was all the same;stalls at stage level, with the dress circle above. If you went in the dress circle you paid up to seventeen and sixpence for your seat and were expected to wear evening dress. Above the dress circle was the balcony, steep rows of hard wooden benches from which you looked vertically down on the to the stage. This area was popularly known as "the gods" and you could book a seat there for one and sixpence to two and sixpence and you were not expected to wear evening dress. Ken and I always sat in "the gods."
The most popular shows were the musical comedies and they all followed a similar pattern; - a flimsy plot interspersed with catchy songs and choruses presented by a very pretty actress and a hero (generally known as a matinee idol) both with good voices, and supported by a comedy team, chorus and ballet, to which was sometimes added speciality dancers like Madge Elliot and Cyril Richards.
In those days the "top of the top twenty" was always the hit tune from the current Williamson musical, so that when "Floradora" was playing at Her Majestys, everyone was whistling "Tell me pretty maiden" (are there anymore at home like you?)
My first pin-up actress was Dorothy Brunton, and Alfred Frith my favourite comedian. He only had to walk on to the stage and I'd start laughing (so did the rest of the audience). Prior to this my experience of stage humour had been limited to the antics of the "dames" (always men dressed up) in Xmas pantomines such as "Cinderella," "Jack and the Bean-stalk," "Dick Whittington and his Cat" etc., when Miss Amy Rochelle nearly always was the principal boy.
From the hard seats of "the gods" of various theatres, I watched and "drooled" over shows like "The Belle of New York", "Going Up," (it's chorus went like this - "Going up, going up, like a rocket gone insane. Sailing in an aeroplane.") "Sally", "Rose Marie," (whose comic character was Hard-boiled Herman - "Herman the he-man, quick to dis-agree man, Herman the hell-cat of the hills.") "The Desert Song," with Lance Fairfax, and "The Merry Widow," with Gladys Moncrieff.
"Sally" was a waif working in a rich man's kitchen and the rich man's son falls madly in love with her. Before the happy ending becomes too obvious she sings this song which stayed top of the "top twenty" for nearly twelve months :-
        "Please don't be offended if I preach to you awhile.
        Tears are out of place in eyes that were meant to smile.
        There's a way to make your very biggest trouble small.
        Here's the happy secret of it all."
        Look for the silver lining,
        When ever a cloud appears in the blue.
        Remember somewhere the sun is shining
        And so the right thing to do,
        Is make it shine for you."
        "A heart full of joy and gladness
        Will always banish sorrow and strife.
        So always look for the silver lining
        And try to find the sunny side of life."
I can remember to this day little "Sally" (Josie Melville was the actress's name) in the centre of the stage singing that song, because, I suppose, it's philosophy just seemed to appeal to me. (I must have been down in the dumps at the time). I included it in one of our club shows two years ago - "The Good Old Days" - and it went over well.
Ken and I also became interested in straight plays and when Dion Boucicault and Irene Vanbrugh toured Australia in the twenties we sat through every one of their shows in the "Criterion's" balcony, but the Criterion presentation that intrigued us most was the first mystery play we saw - "The Ghost Train," with it's realistic sound effects. We were convinced that they had a real railway engine at the back of the stage. Following this show, mystery plays based on Edgar Wallace's "who dunnit" books became very popular and we missed very few of them. It was at the Criterion Theatre that I saw my first "naughty" play; it was called "White Cargo" and could have been the reason for the setting up of the Commonwealth Censorship Board. This scandalous (my Mother's description) play was set in the steamy hot African jungle and the plot rests on a tempestuous affair between the two main characters, a white hunter, played by Leon Gordon, and a sensuous, sultry half-naked dark lady named Tondaleo. By to-days standards, however, I suppose it could be acceptably played by fifth class students at Lane Cove Public School.
At about this time a well known Sydney bookmaker named Rufe Naylor decided to invest some of his ill-gotten gains in the entertainment industry, and he built the Empire Theatre near Sydney Central Railway Station. His first show was a muscial called "Sunny" which was voted A 1 by Ken and I when we viewed the opening night from the "upper circle." Not so long ago the old "Empire" was refurbished and became the new "Her Majestys" Theatre.
Ken Gilkes played first grade cricket for North Sydney with such famous cricketers as Bill O'Reilly and Austen Punch. Very humbly, I played Junior Cricket in the Northern Suburbs Association with a club called Ashley United conceived, spawned, captained and managed by Charlie Harris. But I sometimes acted as scorer (clerical only) for the North Sydney 1st. grade side. Ken and I also played competition tennis together, so it followed that for one of our annual holidays we planned a fortnight at the Hydro Majestic - it had two championship courts in the grounds overlooking the Megalong Valley. I remember my mother being very amused when she received a call from Ken's mother who was concerned that I might be leading Ken astray - it appeared that this was his first time away from home without his parents. As it turned out, we were both lead astray by a Miss Phyl Edwards who introduced us to the Hydro Majestic Super Cocktail "Morning Glory" at one and six a pop.
At the Hydro we teamed up with a wonderful group of people including Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Kellaway, 2 "A grade" tennis players. Charlie, of course, was the Australian allrounder who toured Great Britian with the same test side as Charlie Macartney. Another couple, Mr. and Mrs. O'Callaghan, were later to become neighbours and very close friends of our "in-laws", old Bill King and Judy.
On another occasion I acted as scorer for an Easter touring cricket team (including Ken) playing Mittagong, Bowral and Moss Vale, and finished up with a week at "The Knoll", Bundanoon, run by the then famous Ma Wilcox.
Ken and I once decided to sample all the reasonably priced luncheon restaurants between King Street and Circular Quay. I think we visited thirty without patronising the same one twice. Finally we settled on "Julie Rasborsaks" which was reached down a long passage-way in a Pitt Street building where Prouds now stands. From then on each mid-day we became two of a "world's problems solving" group presided over by Alan Kippax, another cricketer who represented Australia.
Later, in the mid 3Os, we occasionally patronised an eating spot in the basement of the Royal Exchange. It was called a "bistro", and was run by a delightful character named Johnnie Walker, (no relation of the famous whiskey purveyor) who was to become an identity in the city of Sydney.
In the mid 2Os, at the age of 21, "JK", as he was affectionately known, was running the Lord Roberts Hotel, on the corner of Stanley and Riley Streets in East Sydney, a very rough part of the town. There he connected the beer pipes to his wine casks and began serving 12 ounce beer glasses of red wine for fourpence a glass.
Ten years later we find him converting the old Royal Exchange wine cellars into his first bistro, buying one of the first expresso coffee machines and making up a small menu of spaghetti, salami and cheese, coffee and wine.
Lunching in those days, in the "posh" restaraunts like Romanos and Princes, was a very expensive and formal affair. There were white tablecloths, head waiters in tails, and you literally had to tip five pounds just to get a table - even though the restaurant might have been empty.
Johnnie Walker created a revolution. For a few shillings, a large bowl of superb spaghetti bolognaise, with crusty French bread and a glass of red wine, - and back at work in an hour; after a farewell smile from his hostess. the unforgetable Rita.
One of his problems in the early days had been the office girls. At sixpence per capuccino they'd sit for an hour over lunch taking the place of somebody who could have spent five to ten shillings. "JK" was forced to put the price of a cup of coffee up to ninepence. The secretaries disappeared and the businessmen became regulars.
I can remember well the first time I walked through the doors of his Royal Exchange Bistro. It opened up a new world for me. In the years that followed I was, on odd occasions, one of a legion of followers who savoured the delights of the bistro in Angel Place, and the Angus Steak Cave in Abercrombie Lane. Every meal was an experience to be relished and remembered.
Ken Gilkes, who has remained a good friend of mine all my life, later had a school-teacher son named Ian. It is a small world, they say, and I must agree for my grandchildren later became his pupils.
Pursuing my policy of having a go at everything and making myself indispensible, when any of the office staff were sick or on holidays, I volunteered to do their job. So it was that I became a temporary ledger-keeper, a temporary store wages clerk, a temporary catalogue clerk and a temporary produce clerk. I never got to becoming a temporary director or a temporary woolvaluer, but I tried hard for the latter by spending 3 years 2 nights a week at the East Sydney Technical College. Before I obtained my Wool Classers Certificate fate intervened in the shape of a "peter tickling" employee.
The Produce Department (it's full title was Station and Butchers Produce Dept.) was the "cinderella" of all woolbrokering firms and Schute Bell was no exception. It organised the disposal by auction of by-products such as sheepskins, hides, calfskins, tallow, horsehair, hooves, horns, as well as the skins of rabbits, kangaroo, wallaby, fox, water-rats, crocodiles and domestic cats, (feral).
One day (I was about 18 at the time) Mr. Moser, who was now the chairman, called me into his office and advised me that the senior clerk in the Produce Dept. had resigned (I discovered later that he had been found out dipping into the petty cash box). As his assistant was thinking of resigning also and as I'd had some temporary experience in the department, the directors had decided to give me two months trial in the job. Eldred Moser was an eccentric old batchelor who wore a panama straw hat and outlandish clothes and lived with a spinster sister named Mildred. They had a holiday cottage at 40 Sunrise Road, Palm Beach on Spinsters Hill, and often had groups of the office staff down there on week-ends, - I had been included in one such party in 1929.
Spinsters Hill, overlooking Palm Beach Golf Course, was the locals' name for Sunrise Hill; so called because, when the area was subdivided for sale, nearly all the blocks were bought by women. Eldred Moser bought his house from Dr. Lucy Gullett in 1917 and named it "Four Winds."
He was a foundation member of the Golf Club and President of the Surf Life Saving Club from 1933 to 1935; something I find hard to believe. Not by stretching my imagination to its limit could I picture Eldred Moser as a bronzed Aussie lifesaver. Mildred Moser kept a daily diary of events, written in a household note-book, which is a family treasure. In it there is a record of the roof blowing off in a storm in 1928, and the decision to re-name the house "Jeeda." It was inherited by Eldred's niece, Mrs. Bobbie McIlroy and since her death is still in the possession of the family.
When my 2 months trial was up I was permanently installed as "Manager"of the Station Produce Department and given a pound rise. I was now earning two pound twelve and sixpence per week and in effect in charge of the firm's unwanted child. (Herb Gibson was actually senior to me but he was only interested in the auctioneering.)
At this time there were ten wool and produce selling brokers operating at the Sydney Wool Exchange and we had the smallest station produce turnover of them all. I couldn't help regarding this as a challenge. One day while I was contemplating how to go about meeting this challenge, a fellow walked into my office and asked for a job. He was an out-o-work commercial traveller named Peter Howard; old enough to be my father but still fired with the enthusiasm of youth, which attracted me to him. Between us, during the next couple of weeks we concocted a plan to blitz the country butchers and skindealers. This plan I duly presented to the directors and much to my surprise my proposition, with a few modifications, was accepted. Peter Howard was engaged as a Produce Traveller ("traveller" meaning, one who solicits business) at three pounds a week plus a commission on the business he could influence. We bought him a twelve month all lines rail ticket and packed him off to the bush.
Two years later Schute Bell's skin sales in size compared very favourably with our strongest competitor, and the Produce Department's figures at certain times of the year made the Wool Department look like the "cinderella" department. Feeling a bit like Professor Higgins, for the first and only time in my life, I asked for a rise. As a result my salary was lifted to four pounds five, which was the current basic wage (I was just about to turn 21 anyhow).
The Produce Department projected me into a much wider field of commercial life. As well as the wool industry, I had to have some knowledge of such industries as tanning, hat manufacturing, furriers, soap manufacturing, exporting and industrial chemistry. It was just another case of being a "jack of all trades" and master of none, but nevertheless very stimulating; and at 21 I was only just starting. No one seemed to be envious of me when I got my new job. Nowadays the Mountain Street Produce Store would be condemned under the pollution laws - it's smell could be described as a cross between a tannery and a boiling down works - it was to prove to me the truth of the old Yorkshire saying "there's mooney in moock."
The success of Peter Howard prompted me to recommend the employment of another traveller to concentrate on the country butchers. Firstly we tried out a Mr. Rupert Milligen regrettably with less that moderate success. After Rupert resigned we engaged an ex-hide-merchant named Fred Somers and part of the deal was that he supplied his own car. Incidently, one of our wool travellers, Jack Ward, supplied his own horse and sulky, which were stabled at Bathurst.
I remember well a trip I did with Fred Somers when we called on, it seemed to me, all the butchers between Taree and the Queensland border. This was long before the time when large abattoirs despatched packaged meat by refrigerated transport to country super-markets. Then, every country town of any respectable size had at least one butcher who had a shop with a cool-room in town and a slaughter-house of sorts out in the bush where he "killed" his meat, salted his hides, dried his sheepskins, rendered down his tallow and stored his bones, hooves and horns. It was our job to see that these by-products were being prepared in a manner that would give him the highest return, and then convince him that Schute Bell and Company was the best selling-broker to do the job for him.
This was my first visit to the North Coast of New South Wales, and I still have a very clear picture in my mind of a day spent, amongst the flies at various slaughter-houses near Woolgoolga, Glenreagh, Dorrigo, Bellingen and Urunga, impressing on slaughter-men the advantages of punching off hides rather than cutting and then the careful application of the salt to preserve their good leather quality; the even stretching of sheepskins whilst drying, and the advantages of keeping impurities out of their tallow and the disadvantages of over cooking it.
That night we stayed at the Urunga Hotel, facing the sea, and before tea Fred and I walked out on the break-water into the evening "nor'-easter" just to get the smell of blood out of our lungs. The most vivid picture, of course, was next morning watching the sun rise out of the ocean.
Another early morning cameo that comes into focus is a picture of snow-capped Mount Kosciuski as seen from underneath an eiderdown on a verandah bed of a Corryong pub. With Pa Hill for company, I had made a P.R. trip visiting my Southern rabbitskin clients, which included Harry Duproy in Yass, John Mather in Tumbarumba and finally Alan Kerin in Corryong; in the beautiful Upper Murray Valley. The only accommodation available was a couple of beds on a wintery verandah facing a July sunrise. Hence our early morning sighting of Kosi.
At Schute Bells we got three weeks annual leave. When April-May came around each year I made a bee-line for "Wayholme", Moree, where my Aunty May and Uncle Charlie Spilsbury now lived. They had married in the early 1920's.
Charles Albert Spilsbury was one of natures gentlemen; a rough diamond (pure white) if ever there was one. At the age of 15 he became the family breadwinner when his father died or went walkabout (I was never sure which). To keep the wolf from his mother's door, which sheltered 3 (I think) younger sisters and brother Clyde, he worked as a station hand and drover. Henry Lawson could easily have had him in mind as he wrote "The Ballad of the Drover" which I use to recite at school :-
        "Across the stoney ridges, across the rolling plain,
        Young Harry Dale, the drover, comes riding home again.
        And well his stock-horse bears him, and light of heart is he,
        And stoutly his old pack-horse is trotting by his knee.
        Up Queensland way with cattle, he travelled regions vast;
        And many months have vanished, since home-folk saw him last.
        He hums a song of someone, he hopes to marry soon;
        And hobble-chains and camp-ware, keep jingling to the tune."
When I first met Charlie he was courting my Aunty May and he had just won a 5000 acre block in a land ballot. Five thousand acres of near virgin scrub country, subject to flooding, adjoining the Talmoi section of the New Zealand Land Company's "Midkin" Station - 30 miles north-west of Moree, it was watered by drains running from the Talmoi artesian bore. With the timber growing on the block, practically unaided, with his own bare hands, so to speak, he fenced it and built his wool-shed and home, which he called "Wayholme". I was to spend many enjoyable holidays at "Wayholme", some of them shared with Charlie Harris, Dick Pope and my young brother Trav (Short for Travers). I experienced about every seasonable condition possible - flush season, floods and drought; and I shared with the locals, the ecstasy of listening to rain on an iron roof at the end of a prolonged dry spell. During these holidays, as a city slicker, I got terrific enjoyment by helping with the fencing, the burning off, the mustering, the branding, the lamb-marking, the scrubcutting, the shearing, and best of all, the droving. On one holiday during a drought, those cattle still alive having been sold, Charlie took his sheep on the stock route into Queensland looking for feed, and I went with him - just the two of us with 2 dogs and 2 horses. At night we generally picked a water-hole (fed by a bore or government wind-mill) to keep the sheep together, hobbled the horses and made camp under a coolabah (or black-butt or wilga). It was during these nights by the campfire that I learnt Charlie's down to earth philosophy. Don't aim beyond your station - work hard for what you want - expect to get knocked down occasionally - but when you do get up, work a bit harder and remember what cannot be done to-day can just as easily be done to-morrow. I'm sure that on some nights I saw the ghost of Henry Lawson sitting in the shadows; for Charlie was surely a character from one of his poems.
Each day Charlie rode on ahead looking for grass and the next night's camp site and I was left with 3 to 4 thousand sheep and a dog to help me look after them - plenty of time for meditation in the saddle. Fortunately before my holiday was over it rained and we turned for home. I'd have felt very guilty leaving him on the road on his own; but no doubt he'd have managed.
In his typical country drawl, Charlie loved to chat about his experiences as a drover in his bachelor days, and many a yarn was spun around those camp-fires. Despite the fact that I suspected that there were occasions when he was pulling my "cityslickers" leg, I looked forward to that time each night when the last bit of salt meat was washed down by bore-drain tea and he was starting to roll the inevitable cigarette. One story comes to mind that I think bears repeating.
Charlie was bringing cattle out of the Territory into Queensland and one night he camped just outside a little "onepub" town many miles from anywhere; and for the moment I'm darned if I can remember its name.
On the day he rode into the town a funeral was in progress and Charlie was, to say the least, very amused at the form this funeral took. It appeared that the hard-drinking residents of this district had a unique way of carrying out the "ritual of the last rites."
When somebody died the locals from far and wide flocked into town and got to work. They'd dig a grave and fashion a coffin, generally from an old packing case. Next day they'd all congregate in the small church-cum-dance hall and someone would get up and say a few words and offer a few prayers. They'd then load the deceased into the back of a utility and, as the cemetry was only a hundred yards up the road, they'd all adjourn to the pub and the ute would do a lap of the town. Each time it passed the pub the mourners would leave the bar and stand, bare-headed and with hands on heart, on the pub verandah.
This would go on until nobody bothered to come out. Then the driver and his mate would take the dear departed to the cemetry, slide him in, fill the grave and quickly rejoin the other mourners at the pub.
Your standing in the community was measured by the number of laps you got. A real popular bloke could score ten laps; but if you'd been a "proper bastard" it was a case of - WHOOSH! - out of the church and straight into the cemetry.
Charlie got the impression that the fellow, whose funeral was taking place during his visit there, must have been a fairly popular bloke, because six times he, Charlie, had to carry his partially consumed beer out onto the pub verandah.
Charlie's brother, Clyde, was a butcher in the town of Moree. He had a little shop with fly-screen doors and windows, a cool room and saw-dust on the floor, He also had a small slaughter-house a mile outside the town where he killed his meat. As a city slicker, I'd heard the word "pole-axe" used and remembered it, I suppose, because it rolled easily off the tongue; but it wasn't until I helped Clyde one day at his "abattoir" that I learnt what it was and what it was used for. Clyde's "abattoir", like most country town abattoirs, had an enclosure into which the bullock was driven and locked. Above the enclosure was a plank on which the slaughterman stood armed with the "pole-axe," which he drove into the beasts head. Death was instantaneous. It was rather a shocking experience for me at the time. I suppose I was being educated. During my career I was to see many more cattle slaughtered but the methods were to become far more scientific and humane.
My amusements at "Wayholme" were confined to kangaroo shooting (I made a beautful rug for my verandah bed), wild pig hunting (I never came home without a sucker for the table), many games of cribbage with my Grand-pa de Witt and visits to their nearest neighbours, 2 miles away - the Arthur Coppocks. Ted Coppock was my age and we became great friends - once a year. Sad to say he was killed by a German bullet during the A. I. F. withdrawal from Greece in the 1940's.
Naturally Schute Bell and Company handled the CAS/WAYHOLME woolclip, but it was many years later before I personally did the selling of it.
Our first visitor to 22 Newark Crescent was the Reverend Leslie McDonald, Rector of St. Albans, Lindfield. He was one of the few parsons I took a liking to, and I think it was because he had a sense of humour. He had recently conducted a scripture exam at the public school and was very amused with an answer he received to a question on Christian marital conditions. "Christians," one little girl had said, "are only allowed one wife, they call it monotony."
I started attending St. Albans Sunday School, and being taught a lot of things that puzzled me very much. How could anyone, no matter how omnipotent He might be, construct the whole world in six days? - you only had to calculate the time it took for a seed to germinate and grow into a tree, to know that a six day world would be impossible, (the first clash of evolutionism verses creationism) - and again - how on earth could anyone feed a multitude with only a couple of loaves of bread and a fish? - or was it in reverse? If this fellow God, I thought, was allpowerful and watched over everyone, how come He allowed those poor little children in India and Abyssinia to starve to death? I decided to believe in God with reservations. To me it seemed that God's laws could only be effective if they were accepted in conjunction with the laws of Mother Nature who said the strong shall survive, and the weak, if unaided, will surely fall by the wayside, and whose displays of power such as earthquakes, typhoons and those American "twisters" and Darwin "tracys" just cannot be ignored. After all it takes all sorts to make a world, and sometimes "might" just could be "right."
Having been baptised into the Church of England, I went through the ritual of confirmation and in later years actually became a church-warden, but this didn't mean I had become a religious person. On the contrary I believed that the world would be a better place without any religion. Had this been the case there never would have been, a Spanish Inquisition, the slaughter of the Huguenots, burnings at the stake, horrifying religious wars and riots, Belfast murders or Belsen death ovens, etc. etc. If I have a religion at all, it has to be "do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Although I was never a Boy Scout, I have to agree with their founder, when he declared to his boys:- "That man should serve God, act in consideration of others and develop and use his abilities to the betterment of himself, his family and the community in which he lives."
When I succumbed to the solicitations of the Reverend McDonald and chose St. Albans as my Sunday School, I felt as though I'd backed a loser. All my friends went to the Methodist Sunday School and I soon found out that they had a much better social life than we did and their Sunday School picnics were ever so much more interesting than ours.
A popular spot for Sunday School picnics in those days was Fairyland Pleasure Grounds on the western bank of the Lane Cove River, about two miles up from Figtree Bridge.
I can remember, as a nine-year-old and a pupil of Roseville's St.Andrews Anglican Sunday School being taken to this delightful spot, a grassy flat with a fringe of she-oaks. It had once been one of the many orchard farms that flourished, during the 18OOs, on and near to the banks of the Lane Cove River.
At the time of that picnic "Fairyland" and the Upper Lane Cove River was still being serviced by two steam ferries, the "Native Rose" and the "Nellie," whose skippers used to nurse them as far up as Killara Wharf; better known as Fiddens Wharf. In the very early days of the colony the river was the "North Shore Line" of the "Land Across the Water."
The best known of the orchard families was the Jenkins, who farmed till 1938 and at one time boasted an orchard of 7OO trees. One of the industrial chemists I was to work with in later years, at Paint Industries Pty. Ltd., was Peter Jenkins, a grandson (or grand nephew) of the Lane Cove River family.
By the 192Os the ferry service had ceased to operate, so that the Lindfield St.Albans Sunday School picnicers had to travel by a decrepid old bus, with solid rubber tyres, over the new Fullers Bridge, built in 1918, to the top of the hill behind "Fairyland," and scramble down a rough zig-zag path. After a heavy afternoon of wheel-barrow races, sack races, etc., lamingtons, toffee apples and ginger beer, the climb back was, to say the least, exhausting.
In 1938 a weir was built across the river opposite Jenkins farm and a large area of bushland above the weir became the Lane Cove National Park. Now, on the upper eaches of the Lane Cove River, instead of the "S S Nellie," a paddle-boat carries tourists past delightful grassy picnic spots where row-boaters, canoeists, and ducks abound.
Behind our place at Lindfield lived another man of the cloth, the Reverend Ferguson, a Presbyterian clergyman who was also a wealthy man; something that puzzled me greatly. I imagined up till then that all parsons were poor and penniless and childless, like the monks. The Fergusons had a family (Ian, the eldest, was a bit younger than me) and they lived in a grand house set in the middle of about two acres of professionally landscaped gardens, a tennis court, a circular drive with a car to match, and a tradesmens entrance. The mystery was solved for me when I learnt that Mrs. Ferguson was the daughter of Robert Fowler whose pottery produced glazed stoneware jars, earthenware pipes, tiles, laundry tubs, bricks and crockery; but it became best known for the famous Fowler flushing lavatory cistern. As Sydney's sewerage system expanded in the late 19th. century, so did the profits of the Fowler pottery and the fortunes of Robert Fowler, - and the Reverend and Mrs. Ferguson.
Recently a permanent conservation order was placed on an Italianate villa, named "Cranbrook", built in 1879 in Australia Street, Camperdown, for Robert Fowler Esquire. This was the birthplace of our neighbour, Mrs. Ferguson, and it is now classified by the National Trust.
On 31st May, 1923 my Grandpa Shorter died. He looked like a larger edition of King George the Fifth, except that his eyes were forever sparkling, whereas the King always looked sad. When I was with my Grandpa things were always merry and bright. I remember seeing a photo of him (and I wish I had it now) taken just before he went off to a fancy-dress ball dressed as "Chidley." Chidley was an odd character who wandered about the city streets dressed in the clothes he advocated all Australian men should wear, - a safari jacket and shorts, made in "tussau" silk, plus sandals. He was a dress reformer living 50 years before his time.
Grandmother Shorter lived at Wentworhtville with my Uncle Sid and Aunty May and their tribe of eleven kids; the "pill" had not been invented then and the "birth control" works of Doctor Marie Stopes I'm afraid never graced the shelves of Uncle Sid's library. I didn't see much of my eleven cousins because my mother strongly disapproved of the way my father was periodically and alcoholically led astray by his younger brother; consequently she did not encourage family visitations. I don't think she admired Uncle Sid's breeding habits either. However, looking back now I have to admire him for the way he looked after Grandmother Shorter, firebrand that she reputedly was, during the declining years of her life.
Grandpa Shorter, on the other hand, lived half his time at the Commercial Travellers Club, and the other half, in an apartment in a terrace house in Elizabeth Street, Sydney, before Martin Place (then Moore Street) was pushed through to Macquarie Street. The house would have stood where Nicholas Whitlam's new State Bank building stands to-day. The apartment was owned, or rented, by a lovely lady called "Em", who showered us kids with presents of "Mary Pumpkin" confectionery whenever she saw us. She was the "Baby-wear buyer for David Jones. I think my mother turned a blind eye to the shame of having a father-in-law who took unto himself a mistress, because she (my mother) was very fond of Grandpa Shorter, and he, in turn, was very fond of her. In fact he was very fond of all pretty girls; and my mother was indeed a pretty girl. Grandpa Shorter was a typical old time commercial traveller, despite the fact that he had never read "The Psychology of Selling" etc. etc. He was James Watson and Company's number one metropolitan sales representative and each Saturday Morning held court with his favourite customers in the "sample room" of their city office, where, on a number of occasions I can remember being proudly displayed as "the eldest son of my eldest son". After which I was enthusiastically toasted in "No.10" scotch whiskey, the best scotch in Sydney town.
On the night that he died I sobbed myself to sleep in my bed on the verandah at 22 Newark Crescent.
        And Speaking of verandahs!
How many homes are built these days with verandahs? Sun-rooms, yes, but verandahs, no.
How many children breath, as they sleep, as I did, the pure night air that wafts around them on an open verandah.
        And its origin?
The first primitive wattle dwellings of the first fleeters were followed by sandstone masonry homes, built in the English style - two-storey square buildings with no protection to doors or windows. These did not suit the hot Australian summers so balconies and verandahs became part of the local architecture. However another unsung benefit not usually associated with the verandah lay in the proliferation of large families in our colonial days and the lack of bed-room accommodation for them all. The verandah became a dormitory and, on wet days a playground.
As the eldest of the family, I was relegated very early to a bed on the verandah from where, in feather-mattress comfort, I have memories of watching shooting stars, vivid lightning and sunrises, and hearing the predawn crowing of roosters and the warbling of mag-pies.
At one time, an early morning walk down a city suburban street would reveal dozens of verandah sleepers, many only a few yards from the foot-path. In these days of thuggery and rape, who now would take that chance! So for that reason, together with the tendency to much smaller families and to air-conditioning, plus building costs, the humble verandah has been largely eliminated from Australian architecture.
Sleeping on an open verandah had one drawback. They were about one centimetre long, had four wings and six legs and they buzzed. When they bit you, itchy lumps appeared on your skin.
Pressure-pack insect repellants hadn't been invented in those days, so, to avoid giving the hungry mosquitos a feast of your good blood while you slept, in season, mosquito nets were hung over all beds, and the atmosphere remained unpolluted and D.D.T. free. It is sixty years since I slept under a mosquito net!.
        Because my Father was an "outside" man he invariably
had a car as a "fringe benefit." One such car was a "Buick" tourer with a camping body. That meant the back of the front seat dropped down to form a double-size bed. We had as well an auto tent and sundry items of camping gear. On holiday weekends when the weather was good we would shoot off to the country and camp in spots like Upper Burragorang and the Megalong Valley. I well remember a visit to Aunty Tot Hill entailing a road trip to Newcastle long before the Hawkesbury Bridge was built at Kangaroo Point. We went via Wisemans Ferry and the Mangrove Mountain Road and camped near Catherine Hill Bay. If we'd wanted to we could have made the trip in one day, but only just. It was a rough dirt road all the way. We spent the second day in Newcastle and the third travelling home.
Another memorable camping trip during a Christmas - New Year break, was our first call on the Young family at Bamarang. We had camped in Kangaroo Valley the first night and noticed on our tourist map a third class road skirting the south bank of the Shoalhaven River, west of Nowra. Next day after visiting Cambewarra Lookout we made a bee-line for the Shoalhaven and found Bamarang; a dairy farm run by Laddie (Harold) Esther and Grace Young - all elderley un-marrieds - their mother was still living with them at this time. They lived in a wooden verticalslab farm-house that was papered with 1870 Sydney Morning Heralds. This hospitable family allowed us to camp on their property on a lovely grassy river bank under whispering she-oaks, and welcomed us back with our friends for many other Christmas and Easter holidays. The Pope family, Charlie Harris, Keith Hopkins, Jack Vallender and Newell Shead all shared this delightful spot with us on different occasions.
Across the river was the Mackenzie farm with its twostorey home "Bundanon," built by Doctor Kenneth Mackenzie in 1866. Just a few months prior to our first visit, Ken Mackenzie (the Doctors grandson) and his 12 year old daughter were accidently drowned in the river. "Bundanon" is now a National Trust building owned by Mr. Arthur Boyd, the celebrated painter, who has fully renovated the building and property.
This idyllic spot as a camping site had one drawback, the cows were too friendly and persisted in walking under our hammocks (while we were in them), whilst two Jersey bulls made life interesting snorting at one another most of the night. But I suppose one cannot have everything - after all there was a lovely sandy beach to swim from, cockney bream and perch to catch, rabbits to trap, picturesque walks to take and a very interesting country family to entertain us.
In addition to camping at Bamarang, I spent two of my annual holidays as a guest of the Young family. One of these holidays was shared with a friend of the Youngs, Robin Biddulph; a member of a family who had been their neighbours, but were now living in Bega, Several generations back the Biddulph family had pioneered the Shoalhaven Valley; their original home, "Eeree" like "Bundanon", is also under the protection of the National Trust.
Away back in 1857, Tregenna and Bella Biddulph were married in Taunton, in Somerset, and soon after they migrated to Australia, settling in the Shoalhaven district; an area opened up 3O years earlier by Alexander Berry and Edward Wollstonecraft, who, by the 185Os, held 64OOO acres and employed 15OO men.
Tregenna's cousin Rachel Henning who lived in Sydney, in 1862, visited the "Shoalhaven" Biddulphs. It was no comfortable car ride down the Princes Highway for Rachel; instead, a hairraising trip by sea from Sydney to the mouth of the Shoalhaven River, where, because of the sand-bank, she was transhipped to a river steamer, that chugged up to Nowra, where she faced a 25 mile journey on horse-back. Three days to get there and three days to get back to Sydney.
As a rower and a keen fisherman, Robin Biddulph made my Bamarang holiday doubly enjoyable. It needed two to catch the lovely fresh-water perch that lurked under the shady banks of the Shoalhaven River, one to guide the boat, the other to cast the spinners in-shore. This was one of my few successful fishing experiences. We never came home without a feed.
Strange to relate, prior to this particular holiday, I used to play Junior Cricket with a Reg Biddulph, a member of the legal branch of the family.
Not all camping trips were successful. I can remember one Good Friday night being literally flooded out by Easter cyclonic rains when we camped at Robertson. We were still drying out at home a week later.
In 1927, as a naval reservist, I did my first compulsory 17 days continuous training on board "H.M.A.S. Sydney". We messed with the regular crew and were fed like fighting cocks, but table manners were definitely not on the curriculum. We never left our mooring in Sydney Harbour and I spent most of my days swinging in a bosuns chair painting the side of the ship.
Next year I was assigned to the torpedo-boat destroyer "H.M.A.S. Swordsman" which also stayed put off Potts Point. By now I was A. B. Shorter, (Torpedoman 3rd. Class). On the "Swordsman" I learnt how to service and fire a torpedo, and how to eat, work, sleep and generally live inside a match-box.
In 1929 I spent my 17 days aboard the mine-sweepersloop "H.M.A.S. Marguerite", and this time we up'd anchor and set sail for Broken Bay. By the time we reached Sydney Heads eighty per cent of the crew had turned green, which meant that the remaining twenty per cent (including myself) did all the work and so were too busy to get sick. Incidently the ship was ninety per cent manned by reservists. We dropped anchor off Brooklyn in the Hawkesbury River and the locals immediately organised a civic reception for the crew, which included the cricket match I shall never forget. "Marguerite's" team was dressed in their bell bottom white ducks. Brooklyn did the right thing by donning their cream flannels and cricket caps. On the village green by Hawkesbury waters, they batted first and scored a little over a hundred. Our skipper was a chap named Jack Fingleton who opened the batting and, despite the handicap of bell bottomed ducks, was still at the crease when mullet started hopping as the sun went down. He was, of course, later to become one of Australia's opening batsmen.
Our next port of call was the Royal Australian Naval College at Jervis Bay. During the trip down the coast we had depth-charge practice. The cook couldn't bear seeing so many stunned fish going to waste in the sea, so a boat was lowered to pick up the evening meal - and, as usual, yours truly copped boat crew duty.
After this seventeen days tour of duty I weighed the heaviest I'd ever been, or was to be, eleven stone and seven pounds.
I had my 21st. birthday on 2nd July, 1929, but it wasn't a very joyful occasion. Things were starting to go very bad with the family fortunes. My father had left the British Traders Insurance Company to take on the managership of the Australian branch of a New Zealand insurance company, - Mercantile and General. It could not have been a worse time to change jobs, - with the great depression looming on the horizon. The Mercantile and General only lasted a couple of years and my father became one of the many unemployed.
My parents did not make a habit of taking me totally into their confidence, but I imagine what happened was that mortgage payments could not be met and we lost the house; because early in 1930 we were living in a flat at Hepburn Court, Lavender Bay, owned by John Park from whom we had bought the Lindfield house.
One of my father's ventures in an effort to keep the wolf from the door during the depression, was a gold mining syndicate which included a mining-surveyor friend, Norman Bennett. They had the lease of a mine at Nerrigundah, in the hills west of Bodalla on the South Coast, which actually produced gold (I held in my hands ingots which to-day would have been worth a fortune, but then could little more than cover expenses.) From a top floor flat overlooking Lavender Bay I started living out the Depression watching the two arms of the Sydney Harbour Bridge come together.
When I think about that time of my life - my 21st. birthday and the birth of the great depression - I am reminded of the horrifying shock I received when I first realised that my Mother had ceased to "love, honour and obey" - and to respect - my poor Father. During a fit of the "blues", she dropped her guard and voiced her dismay that her husband was content to allow his children to carry the burden of "bread-winning" for the family.
It was an incident that disturbed me greatly at the time, and it all sprang from a casual remark that my Father made at the breakfast table. He was the sort of person who always saw a silver lining in the darkest cloud, and his comment was that we were better off than some; at least one in our family had a job - me. He was right, you know, - we knew several families who were one hundred per cent unemployed.
I knew that he, poor fellow, was trying his hardest, but it was a year or so before he obtained a clerical job with the Manufactures Mutual Insurance Company and so regained some of his self-esteem. But the hopelessness and dispair of those months of idleness left its mark, not only on him, but also on my Mother - hence her outburst - and also on me. Our characters,our ambitions, our very natures were detrimentally changed by conditions over which we had no control.
For the rest of our lives we were to carry subconsciously that awful fear of insecurity. If I am ultraconservative now; if, in later years I showed a lack of initiative, a reluctance to "have a go," it can all be ascribed to the scars left by those dreadful years.
I often wonder now what sort of person I'd be to-day if my 21st. birthday had been celebrated on the 2nd. of July, 1949, instead of the 2nd. of July, 1929. To start with I'd be writing to a different lot of grand-children; - and I just wouldn't like that at all. Neither would you. - I hope.
        from your loving,
d Pa.
        Chapter Three
        1930-1934
        Lane Cove.
29th March, 1985. My dear children,
So now we're in the thirties. Before they claim my attention let's look back awhile at the previous decade.
During the "Roaring Twenties" I watched the "Charleston" and "Black-bottom" craze come and go, - had my first bet on "Phar Lap" (Siamese for lightning) and won, - watched "Boy" Charlton training in Manly Baths, just before he beat the Swedish champion, Arne Borg, - watched thousands of bales of wool go up in smoke one morning in 1921 (for some strange reason the P.F.A. had built a wharf and wool-store on the waterfront at Kirribilli; it made a great bonfire to watch as I dawdled to school). Little did I know then that 30 years later I would be selling wool-clips with the same brands as those burning before my eyes; - and that Mr. Andrew Charlton would become a wool client.
During the "Roaring Twenties" I watched, from Bradleys Head, H.M.S. Renown bring the Prince of Wales through Sydney Heads, - I quaffed ice-cream sodas at the "Golden Gate" after the Head of the River races, - I watched bodies from the ill-fated "Greycliffe" being landed at Circular Quay, - I watched Nellie Melba parade up Pitt Street on the first of many farewell tours, - I listened to Billy Hughes' fierce rhetoric before Stanley Melbourne Bruce pinched the Prime Ministership from him, - I watched Beryl Mills, the first Miss Australia, parade through the city, - I watched Don Bradman score one of his early centuries at the Sydney Cricket Ground, and I watched Charles Kingsford-Smith fly over Sydney in his beloved "Old Bus", the Southern Cross, after his first Pacific crossing. Of such events is history made.
As I push my trolley around a 1985 supermarket buying all our wants under the one roof, I cannot help thinking about how we went about our shopping in the 1920s. We bought our meat from Mr. J. Hammond, the butcher, on Gordon Road, Roseville - (he had an abattoir in the bush somewhere, but I never found it). However, there was one exception to this practice. When my mother cooked for a special dinner party, my father always bought the meat from "Grubbs," a high class butcher whose shop stood in George Street North close to where the Regent Hotel now stands. We kids used to joke about eating meat from a "grub". Bembrick and Parker of Lindfield were our grocers, where biscuits were kept in large tins labelled with a "cocky" pictured nibbling one of Arnotts Famous Biscuits. It was a "SAO," which stands for Salvation Army Officer. A very thin member of the Arnott family was a captain in the "Army" which accounts for one of their other soda biscuits being called "Thin Captain." Sugar was ladled out of a "C S R" hessian bag and weighed on scales on the counter, as was plain flour, after we'd bought a tin of baking powder to make it rise. Our fruit and vegetables were generally bought from the Chinamens garden in Clanville Road, Roseville. Butter, bacon and eggs came from the Ham and Beef Shop (now called a delicatessen). Gartrells, the baker and pastrycook, delivered daily, as did the milkman who had a herd of cows not far away. Mr. Sinclair was the Lindfield Chemist who dispensed paramedical advice, whilst Mr. J. W. Davies supplied our stationery and newspaper wants. If we needed some screws or a garden fork they were bought from Mr. J. W. Nunn whose ironmongers shop was situated on the corner of Bent Street. Whitchells, the drapers and haberdashers of Chatswood, was my mothers favourite shop for dress materials, cottons, knitting wools etc., whilst Gowings, in the city, made "to measure" the suits worn by the Shorter males. Footwear was never thrown away until it had been half-soled and heeled" at least three times.
So you can see in those days we weren't troubled by "Storemen and Packers" strikes emptying the supermarket shelves. Instead of being an everyday way of life, strikes in those days were a historical event; a miner was actually shot by the police at Rothbury during a strike riot in 1927. Instead of the A.C.T.U. we had the I.W.W. - International Workers of the World, or more commonly known as the "I Wont Works."
Again as I watch my 1985 neighbours fill their shopping bags with frozen lasagnes, pizzas and quiches; Chinese take-away food, Kentucky fried chicken, and skewered lamb kebabs; Sara Lees apple or cherry Danish and frozen cheese cakes, I cannot help wondering whatever happened to those dishes of the 1920s. Good old Irish stew, corned beef and carrots, boiled mutton and caper sauce, pea soup and snippets, tripe and onions, Shepherds pie, suet dumplings, blancmange (out of a mould), lemon sago bread and butter custard with those juicy sultanas at the botton; and that lovely baked milk rice pudding with the rich creamy brown skin on top; but enough of gastronomical reminiscence.
Back in the days when I was an early twenty, it was the custom for the girls to organise parties to attend the many charity dances held on the North Shore. In June 1933 (I think), Audrey Birks, who was currently receiving some special attention from a chap named Norman Day, invited me to make up the number in a party she was taking to a dance at the "Shore Tea Rooms" at North Sydney. Had I declined this invitation you might have had a "Mary-ma", or an "Ann-ma" or even an "Elizabeth-ma", instead of a "Jean-ma." As it was I accepted and had my second meeting with Audrey's "best friend." This time she definitely made an impression. Apart from being 4 or 5 years older than when I last saw her, she was a "good looka", intelligent, and had a sense of humour; besides she played a good game of tennis and was a super dancer. In fact she was very attractive company. What more could a young man ask for? During the evening a fox-trot competition was held, not a "winner out of the hat" event, one properly judged by a panel of experts. One by one the pairs were eliminated, until only one couple remained. You've guessed it, - Miss Jean Hill and Mr. Rus Shorter. After that Audrey ceased playing her role as "Cupid" and I started pressing my own suit.
In those days, to be socially acceptable, one had to be reasonably proficient performing the fox-trot, the one-step, the waltz, the rhumba and so on, and you had plenty of opportunity to demonstrate your talents because there were many venues dispensing the dance music of George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Richard Rodgers, such as the "Palais Royal" with Jimmy Davidson's Band, David Jones Ballroom, "The Ambassadors" in the Strand, Farmers Blaxland Galleries, and later the famous "Trocadero," whose ten piece band was under the baton of Frank Coughlan, the man who "knew everybody's favourite tune," It was a sad day for Frank and his followers when the "Troc" was demolished to make way for the Hoyts Theatre complex. On the 3rd. April 1984, the 48th. anniversary of the "Troc's" opening in 1936, a new "Trocadero" opened in Military Road, Cremorne, catering for a new generation of fox-trotters and one-steppers.
Jeanma's mother had suffered a stroke early in her married life and, following a later relapse, was given a life expectancy of a few months. Jeanma's High School career, consequently, was cut short when she came home to nurse her mother, who miraculously rallied and turned a "few months" into eleven years.
Mrs. Hill loved company, and a game of Mah Jong; and she was an addict of penny poker. So it came to pass that each Wednesday night a poker game was organised in the back parlour at Gamma Road, Lane Cove, to which I got myself invited. There I matched my poker wits against those of Henry Hill, one of my rivals, George Durham, Doss Kersey, Nell Richarson and, of course Olive Hill. I'd been told that the shortest way to a girls heart was through her mum's. You must have seen that girl on the television screen, telling everyone that - "she can do without her motor car, she can do without her boy-friend; but she just cannot do without her Mum." ("Mum" being a popular de-oderant)
Having made "my marble good," I then proceeded to "blot my copy book" by leading their dear little Jean astray when I lent her a book written by John Galsworthy called "The Forsythe Saga," which had as one of it's main characters, a hussy named Irene. A woman who actually had an affair with a man who wasn't her husband. How thankful I was that Germain Greer hadn't started writing books by then. I might have ended up being thrown out of the Hill house lock, stock and barrel, and "The Female Enuch" thrown after me.
When you fly over Sydney's suburbs nowadays the most noticeable features of the scene below are the red rooves and blue swimming pools. In the twenties and thirties instead of blue swimming pools you would have seen yellow clay tennis courts; - that is, if you'd been a joyrider taking a Sunday afternoon flip in a Gypsy Moth, at a pound a flight. On hundreds of these back-yard courts, tennis clubs were run and they competed in the various district hard-court competitions each year. These were the halcyon days of tennis. No wonder the following decades produced so many Australian world champions. A contemporary named Jack Crawford played at Killara Tennis Club & in 1933 won the coveted "Wimbledon" singles.
I belonged to one of these back-yard clubs in Roseville, the Narara Tennis Club, - and one year, with Frank and Marie Cooper and Mimi Hicks, I actually reached the final of the Northern Suburbs "C" grade Mixed Competition. The Archbold boys, Gordon and Stan, Charlie Harris, Bonny Orton, Bill and Enid Lemon and Alf Holmes were also members at Narara. (Wilson's tennis court in Narara Avenue, Roseville.) The following year, with Jeanma, Ruth Burley and Ken Gilkes, I played in the "B" grade without achieving anything spectacular
It is interesting to note that these tennis matches were played on courts situated anywhere within an area bounded by Lindfield and Newport in the north, Sydney Harbour in the South, Manly in the East and Lane Cove River in the West; and no one in the team had a car; yet we always managed to get there on time by public transport and "shanks pony", and thought nothing of it.
Later Jeanma and I joined Chatswood Tennis Club, (four courts where the Bowling Club's No. 3 green and car-park are now situated) where we teamed up with Lorna and John Martin, brother of Bobby Martin with whom we were to become close friends after we were married. Chatswood Tennis Club was the centre of our social life for a number of years. As well as tennis we became involved in many club dances and card evenings, and other social functions with people like Thelma and "Oky" O'Connor, the Deluceys, and Secretary "Father" Green and his delightful French wife.
I suppose the highlight of my stay at Chatswood was when I was given two promising juniors (12 year olds) to play nurse-maid to - Mary Bevis (later Hawton) and Bruce Small. With them we won the 1938 "B Reserve" Mixed Fours (Northern Suburbs). Unfortunately I didn't have Jean-ma as my partner in this team, - she had been promoted with Dot Travis, Rawdon Miller and Fred Cook, to the "A" grade and had made a name for herself when a sports jourmalist wrote her up as "Biff" Hill. Mary Bevis later played in the State Junior side and was a junior contemporary of John Newcombe, whose parents later became our Square Dancing and Bowling Club friends.
My Grandpa de Witt was a very keen freemason, and my father although not quite so keen, had been initiated in Lodge Corinthian by his father. So it's not surprising that I found myself, on 28th. January 1930, being initiated into Lodge Corinthian No. 100 by my father with my grandfather proudly looking on. Grandpa de Witt took me under his wing and coached me in all the things a freemason is supposed to do, including standing up in front of a lot of people proposing toasts and responding etc. etc. I sadly recollect that he died 8 months before I was installed as Master of the Lodge in June 1939 when I'm sure he would have been quite satisfied with the results of his handiwork.
Edward James de Witt died on 22nd. October 1938, in Moree, at the age of 80, and the editor of the "North West Champion" really let his head go when he sat down to write Grandpa's obituary. I was a beneficiary under his will to the extent of the machine on which I am typing this letter, and two blocks of land in the "City of Port Stephens" Estate (just near the proposed Central Railway Station of Henry F. Halloran's dream city). Until just recently the Estate comprised acres of coastal ti-tree scrubland, - it now boasts a number of holiday cottages, - maybe sometime in the 21st. century the 2 blocks will become saleable, - no wonder we called them "Grandpa's Folly."
My life at Schute Bell, during this decade, was uneventful except that, to hold our jobs, we had to accept a ten percent cut in salary. This was common practice in private industry during the depression years. If it could be done now there would be less unemployed. In those days you had to work for the dole, generally on projects beneficial to the community such as establishment of parks, laying down of foot-paths etc. Outside Hill's house Gamma Road was re-levelled and surfaced by a gang including out-of-work professional men who were on the dole. There was no chance of anyone receiving the dole then, and spending their days on a surf-board at Noosa Heads or Moonee Beach.
One day I was summoned to the office of our Chairman of Directors, Mr. Eldred Moser. I was told to sit down, and I thought of all the things I'd done wrong. Eldred, looking over the top of his glasses, said, "Shorter, do you own a dinnersuit?" To which I proudly replied, "Yes, Sir," thinking, if he knew I was a Freemason he'd know I had a dinner-suit.
Eldred went on to tell me that he'd received a letter from a grazier client, Mr. Reg Shepherd, (Stuttering Reg) of Wheeo, Crookwell. It appeared that Mr. Shepherd's daughter, Una, was going to be presented to the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester at a Debutantes Ball at the Sydney Town Hall, but Una didn't have an escort. Eldred looked at me over his glasses again. "Shorter," he said, "would you like to be that escort, - all expenses paid?"
My first thought was:- "How was Miss Jean Olive Hill going to re-act to this?" Then my next thought was :- "Well after all it was my boss who was asking me and when all is said and done, business is business, - my very career might be at stake." So I said, "If it is your wish, sir, that I escort Miss Una Shepherd to this Ball, I will be pleased to do so."
So it was that I had my first and only contact with the Royal Family of England. (the Royal Family of Persia came later)
Col Marr's father, Sir Charles, escorted the Duke of Gloucester during the Duke's first tour of Australia, thus earning his knighthood. The two corresponded a lot after the tour ended. Charlie used to show us the Duke's letters, and I remember thinking what a poor grip of the King's English the Duke had and what a lousy speller he was, not to mention that his hand-writing looked like that of a ten year old.
While I was at High School our English Master, Mr. Greentree, made us carry a note-book in our pockets and when we came across a word we didn't know the meaning of, we had to write it down with the dictionary definition alongside it. Competition was keen within the class to produce the most exotic words for discussion. My "piece de resistance" was "tintinabulation" meaning "a tinkling sound, as of bells." I had to wait over ten years before I got the opportunity of airing my vocabularic masterpiece, when I used that word to describe the dulcet notes of the bell birds I encountered during a canoe trip through the gorges and gullies of the Upper Shoalhaven River, in December 1933.
This trip was the first of many travelling-camping holidays I undertook during the 1930's.
I joined forces with a chap I'd met on the Bamarang farm, Bill Allen, who was employed by the Young family. I had built a wooden and canvas-covered canoe, - 12 feet long - the "Naiad" - in the back-yard at Turramurra from a plan I's seen in a copy of the "Boys Own Paper," - my Wenborn cousins, Clem, Ivo, Bruce, Owen and Geoff, living opposite were building a launch at the same time.
After manhandling all our camping gear down the mountain at Tallong, Bill and I put the canoe in the river at Badgery's Crossing, and spent two glorious weeks rapid shooting and paddling back to Bamarang; not without some duckings but no broken bones or other physical damage. We lived mainly off the land; that is, on braised rabbit and wallaby, fried fish, stewed parrot and mutton; - yes, mutton. (A frightened long-tailed sheep with 2 or 3 years wool on it, fell off a precipice and we had to put it out of its misery). We had intended finishing the trip where th Shoalhaven meets the sea, but the river went into a high flood while we were at Bamarang, so I took the canoe back to Sydney by train.
I wrote a full page article on the trip which was accepted by the "Sunday News" magazine section and I received seven pounds ten shillings for it. I still have two copies of that full page. Before we left on the trip "Cinesound News" had agreed to accept any movies we made with our own equipment but movie cameras were just a bit beyond the reach of our pockets, so I failed in my first and only attempt to become a movie star.
I have been writing these letters in a rather rambling and un-orderly fashion, relying entirely on my memory, which, if I may say so, isn't too bad; except for events that happened yesterday. However, I would have liked to have had the time to spend on research, and thus substantiate some of my recollections. Take for example transport. There must be lots of books written on how early Sydnians moved from place to place. Nowadays we hop in the car, or a public bus which is never far away, or, if its Melbourne we want to go to, a plane that gets us there in an hour or two; not so in the roaring 20s.
Whilst I was living in Newcastle I remember one day going on a picnic with Herb and Allie Hill to Mount Sugarloaf, near West Wallsend. Surrounded by virgin bush, "Mount" Sugarloaf was actually a large hill with a cluster of very large cubeshaped rocks at the peak, hence the name. However, the significant part of this picnic (of cheese sandwiches, Arnotts broken bisciuts and Marchants lemonade) was that we travelled to West Wallsend in a steam tram. At that time the transport authorities were just starting to electrify the Newcastle trams.
Sydney also still had some steam trams. When the family holidayed at Cronulla we travelled by steam train to Milsons Point, then by steam ferry to Circular Quay, electric tram to Central Station, steam train to Sutherland, and finally by steam tram to Cronulla. It generally took up the best part of a whole day.
I have another faint recollection of my first visit to Parramatta by public transport. My Mother and I embarked at Circular Quay on the Parramatta River ferry, and disembarked at a wharf near Silverwater and from there travelled by steam tram to Parramatta town - the tram terminus was near the turreted gates leading to the old Government House.
Another interesting mode of public transport was the cable tram system in Melbourne. I can remember two visits to Melbourne as a child, both by sea; one by "S S Karoola, the other by "S S Cooma". The "Cooma" trip was a horrific experiance because I was violently sea-sick for most of the way. We always stayed with relatives, and names that come to mind are Uncle Tom and Aunt Rose Shorter and son Ralph, the Gordon Bilsburrows, and Aunty Annie Wells; she lived somewhere in Gippsland. What impressed me most at her farm was that I saw for the first time walnuts growing on a tree. (Up till then I'd thought that they were manufactured in China). One of these days I'll do some "family tree" hunting in Victoria.
Back to the 1930s and I'm still working for Schute Bell and Coy and walking to work across the Sydney Harbour Bridge. While we were living in the top floor flat at Hepburn Court in Lavender Street, North Sydney, the Sydney Harbour Bridge was opened, first by Captain de Groot of the New Guard, in the name of "decent and respectable citizens of N.S.W.," and then officially by Premier Jack Lang. The date was 19th. March 1932, my sister Isabelle's 19th. birthday. On that afternoon for the first time I walked across the bridge and, for the last time down the railway tunnel to Wynyard Station.
The "New Guard", to which I and most of my friends belonged, was a bit like the "anti-nuclear arms" protesters of to-day. It was an extreme right-wing political group violently opposed to Jack Lang's socialistic policies aimed at combating the depression. Colonel Eric Campbell, the leader of the New Guard, was later to become a client of the wool firm that employed me. My experience with him then has led me to believe that perhaps after all "Jack Lang was right."
A few hundred yards from Schute Bell's office, in a north-western angle formed by Loftus and Bridge Streets, was 'and still is) a city oasis called Macquarie Place. It was a historic spot displaying the "Sirius" anchor, and an obelisk from which Governor Lachlan Macquarie measured all roads in N.S.W., and a statue of Thomas Mort gazing at the Wool Exchange Building with its impressive Corinthian columns. On its lawns, on sunny days at lunch-time office workers would congregate and dispose of their Sargents pies and buttered rolls.
In Bridge Street, alongside the Macquarie Place park was a horse-trough,and adjacent to this horse-trough was a cabstand; not taxi cabs, - horse drawn "Hansom" cabs. When I first joined Schute Bell, Mr. Moser and Mr. Bell always used a hansom cab to travel to the wool-store (I think the fare was a shilling). Likewise each Friday the wool and produce stores payroll always went by hansom cab. I remember on several occasions, when I was acting store-pay-clerk, taking a ride by hansom cab to Pyrmont and Ultimo, clip-clopping up Pitt Street, then over Pyrmont Bridge with several stops on the way at horse troughs which had been installed to commemorate the election of various Lord Mayors of Sydney.

Hansom cabs formed ranks in various parts of the city, just as taxi cabs do to-day. The 'cabbies' would dismount from their high seats and yarn to one another while awaiting a fare. They wore shiny top hats and long black coats, with an extra cape attached to the shoulders for protction, for they were exposed to all weathers on their elevated box seats.
I remember the feel of them and most of all the smell of them (the cabs). There was a metal oval step on which we placed a foot to step high up into the interior of the cab. The seat and back was upholstered in shabby black leather and the floor was covered in faded red carpet. Its the musty smell of that carpet I remember most, for the floor was slightly recessed, and the corners always thick with accumulated dust (and dry horse manure).
Once seated the passengers were virtually shut off from the outside world. The folding doors were in front of the cab, very close to the horse. They faced directly on to his rear end. Not surprisingly, the passengers almost always kept the doors closed.
When I read of all the elaborate security measures taken these days with armoured vehicles and armed guards to protect the pay-rolls, I have to smile to myself when I think of me clip-clopping across Pyrmont Bridge in a hansom cab, between my legs a battered "Globite" case containing several hundred pounds cash; equal to thousands of dollars to-day, and I never lost a thrippence.
This same "Globite" case I used to take to the bank when I cashed the pay cheque, and openly walked back four or five blocks to the office and I didn't even have a toy pistol in my pocket.
The Company's cheques were very elaborately printed documents with sheep and bulls and sheaves of wheat water-marked into the paper. When you cashed them at the old Bank of New South Wales in George Street, you had to see the ledger-keeper first before the teller would hand over the cash, - no such thing as a computerised mechanical teller then. The "Globite" case was only used for pay-roll, - all other cash I collected was stuffed into my pockets, and, strange to relate, I always got back with the right amount.
The Company's wool and skin stores were manned by a large team of storemen, most of whom lived in the terrace houses that cluttered the narrow streets of Pyrmont, Ultimo and Glebe.
In the eyes of our Directors these men were "part of the Family" and when any of them became ill and were unable to come to work, it was often my job to deliver their pay-packets to their homes - "taking sickies" hadn't been heard of in those days; in fact they were always genuinely sick.
These slum homes all had one thing in common; they were all impregnated with the sickly odour of stale burnt fat, garlic and onions, to which in some cases, could have been added unwashed humanity.
After each visit I always got the feeling of wanting to "throw-up" and to this day my stomach still rebels to the smell of burnt fat, garlic and over-fried onions. I suppose this was understandable for I was brought up in a fresh air home where fried foods were banned.
Shortly after my "Shoalhaven" article appeared in the Sunday Sun I received a visit from a Mr. Fred Harvey; an enthusiastic member of the Sydney Bush Walkers Club and associate of Tom Herbert and Harold Chardon, 2 canoeists who inspired me to take on the Shoalhaven trip. Fred, who happened to be distantly related to Dick Pope's future wife, Heather Vautin, wanted me to know that he would be interested in signing on as crew if I ever contemplated another "Mountains to the Sea" canoe trip. So it came to pass that in the summer of 1934-35 he and I pushed the good ship "Naiad" off a Burragorang Valley grassy slope into the Wollondilly River; - planned destination Broken Bay.
Burragorang Valley in those days (before the Warragamba Dam was built) was a "Shangri La" type of spot and a very popular place for a farm-style holiday. There were a number of farm guest-houses there catering for city-slickers who spent their time riding horses, milking cows, drinking milk and cream, shooting rabbits and swimming in the river. Years earlier we had camped in Upper Burragorang near the Colong Caves and the old silver mine at Yerranderie; now a ghost town.
During our first day on the river we were entertained (?) by a violent electrical storm which frightened "six months growth out of us." The thunder seemed only a few feet above us due no doubt to it re-bounding off the cliffs that towered each side of the valley; but like Beethoven's "Pastoral Symphony" the noise finally subsided and we proceeded placidly down the Wollondilly to the junction of the Cox River which we explored during the next few days as far as its junction with the Kowmung River. This was the country that hid "Johnny Prentice" in Eleanor Dark's Australian history saga "The Timeless Years." Soon after we were back in the Wollondilly and about to enter the Warrangamba Gorge. At its beginning the gorge was very narrow, very rocky and the water very rough. All this, of course, is now submerged under Lake Burragorang formed by the building of the Warragamba Dam. The storm that met us on our first day must have been a bad omen, for late on our second day in the gorge disaster struck. During a portage, Fred slipped off a high rock, knocked his head in the fall and ended up in the water unconscious. I pulled him out while the canoe fortunately grounded.
I made camp on a nearby sandy beach and after a while Fred regained consciousness. It was an eerie experience for me when he wanted to know where he was, who I was and who he was, and simply couldn't understand me when I patiently explained everything to him.
Although he could walk I was afraid there just might be broken bones or some internal injuries, so next morning I made a bee- line for Monkey Creek. Our Bush Walkers map showed a track from there to Silverdale. We caused a bit of a sensation amongst the holiday-makers when we staggered into a Silverdale guesthouse. You'd have thought we were Burke and Wills, or Smithy and Ulm turning up after being lost at "Coffee Royal." A phone call home and the following morning my responsibilities were transferred to Fred's brother, Jack, who arrived by car and took the patient home where his memory was soon restored.
I returned to the gorge to cache the canoe and gear in a cave and several weeks later Jack and I returned on a long week-end which was spent gliding through the glassy pools of the lower Warragamba then into the Nepean where the "eights" race, and then by train (with canoe etc. etc.) from Penrith to home, and a hot shower, - so much for "destination Broken Bay."
A few years after the Warragamba debacle four canoes including the "Naiad" had a train ride back to Penrith with a party of eight, comprising Fred Harvey and Claudia, Ron Aston and Jessie Gilkes, myself and Jeanma all chaperoned by Keith and Jean Johnston. We spent several delightful days together paddling down the Nepean cum Hawkesbury River and camping on its banks in perfect weather. Time would only allow us to go as far as Windsor where we reluctantly pulled our craft out of the water and returned to the workaday world.
        I never ever got to finish that trip to Broken Bay.
        Until next time,
        Your loving
        Pa.
        Chapter Four
        1935-1939
        Lane Cove.
        29th October, 1985.
My dear children,
Despite his fall into the Warragamba River, Fred Harvey's enthusiasm for canoe travel was not dampened. Next year he came back with the suggestion that we might put the canoe into the upper reaches of the Manning River and paddle down to Taree or even the sea. Due to transport difficulties involving the canoe this proposal turned into a walking holiday; - just as interesting, if not more so.
Each with a 60 pound pack we hiked first from Dungog Railway Station to Chichester Dam, cross-country to Salisbury, camping near Barrington House, then up the Jungle Track (source of the Williams and Allyn Rivers) to Careys Peak, the highest point (5100 feet) and beginning of the Barrington Tops; part of the Mount Royal Range.
On the way up through a forest of tree-ferns, we swam in a crystal clear pool at the foot of a water-fall. It was the coldest bath I've ever had. I remember our first camp on the tops in the midst of ghostly snow gums; - they seemed to have a fluorescent glow in the moonlight. Whilst there we met a family who had ridden up from Stewarts Brook for a spot of trout fishing. Despite all their tuition we never became proficient enough to land one.
Hiking northwards we came to a spot on the map called Tomalla. It consisted of one building housing the post-mistress who allowed us to camp on the verandah. Next morning, in dense fog, we followed a track which straddled a mountain spur at the end of which was a wooden shed;- in actual fact it was a garage belonging to a cattle property that we could just see through the mist a thousand feet or more below us on the floor of the valley. This was a source of the Little Manning River.
The sight, as the mists rose, was awe-inspiring. A perfect setting for an American Western movie. We wouldn't have been at all surprised to see "The Magnificent Seven" gallop over the ranges in pursuit of a gang of Mexican bandits, except that "The Magnificent Seven" wasn't to be filmed until many years later.
We descended into the valley and followed the river to "Carters", where another delightful young family pressed us to dally awhile. However we learnt that the mailman was due to leave Curricabark station next morning for Gloucester and we badly needed a lift. Hiking through Curricabark we had the hairraising experience of having hungry cattle charging at us from all directions. We later found out that the station was handfeeding and the cattle were expecting us to throw them fodder. Another hair-raising experience was a ride next morning in a rickety "Whippet" utility from Curricabark to Gloucester over narrow tracks on steep mountain sides, crossing and re-crossing the bridge-less upper reaches of the Manning River. After a night on the mail-man's back verandah we spent a morning in the guards van of a goods train going to Taree. As I ponder now I think "If only I'd had a colour movie camera, - what a scenic documentary I could have made - entitled, say, "Tomalla to Taree."
In Taree, while lunching on a river park seat, we had the unique experience of being told by the local Police Sergeant, to be sure we were out of town by dark. I think he had a vagrancy charge in mind. We hadn't shaved for ten days so perhaps it was us who looked like Mexican bandits. On the punt (there was no Manning River bridge then) we hitched a lorry ride to Blackhead from whence we hiked to Tuncurry and a comfortable camp by the beach.
We loafed in Forster for a few days before embarking very early one morning on the milk launch which took us to the southernmost part of Wallis Lake, now known as Pacific Palms. From there shanks pony carried us past Smith Lake on a sandy track which is now called "The Great Lakes Scenic Drive". That night we listened to the waters of Top Myall Lake lapping a few yards away from our camp at Bungwahl.
Whilst here we spent a day trudging through a forest of angophoras to the doctor's holiday camp at Treachery Head, with a swim in the surf (in birthday suits) and a visit to Seal Rocks Lighthouse. The keeper was very interested in the swim we'd just had and a look through the telescope showed us why. Treachery Bay was harbouring at the time a very large school of sharks. When we made this trip there were still seals living on the rocks named after them.
Next day our holiday ended with a hitched ride on a fish lorry going to the Newcastle fish markets. We had to sit in the back with the fish, so you can guess why we had the rail carriage compartment to ourselves from Newcastle to Hornsby. The following day it was back to work, - after a hot bath, of course. Fred Harvey, who nearly spent a night in a Taree police cell, had a very interesting job with the Atlantic Union Oil Company (later to become Esso). He was an executive in the advertising department and, at that time, involved in a project presenting "Atlantic Ethel", a popular Sydney model, whose gorgeous face implored you, from every second roadside billboard, to feed your car with "Atlantic Ethyl Petrol" (or gasoline as it was then called).
Fred and I had another long week-end camping hike to the Blue Gum Forest in the Grose Valley, which also proved most enjoyable.
Soon after this Fred and Claudia were married, and at the wedding, Jean-ma was Claudia's chief bridesmaid.
By this time Jeanma and I had been "keeping company", as they called it, for about three years and I suppose everyone was thinking "when are they going to make up their minds." But making up my mind wasn't easy, because within me two voices were heatedly arguing. My heart said "Go on, you love one another, get down on your knees and propose." At the same time my head was saying "Are you really doing the right thing asking a girl to marry you? All you've got is a very average job with very average prospects, no expected legacies, and a family that needs your help." In those days it was customary for the girls father to ask "Are you able to keep my daughter in the manner she has been accustomed to?" Of course, Jeanma had her problems too. She was nursing an invalid mother, and had done so since leaving school - prematurely. It wasn't unusual in those days for a girl to devote her life to looking after her aged parents; in fact Jeanma had a cousin who did just that.
Finally my heart won and I decided to ignore George Bernard Shaw's, or perhaps I should say, Professor Higgings' warning when he said:-
        " - let a woman in your life
        And your serenity is through!
        She'll redecorate your home
        From the cellar to the dome;
        Then get on to the enthralling
        Fun of overhauling - You."
I asked Jeanma what she thought of the idea of us getting married bearing in mind the family problems we both had; not a very romantic proposal, I know, but it was 1938, during a Depression, with the future not looking very rosy. We must have taken "Our Glad's" advice and decided that "love would find a way," because shortly afterwards we visited a friend, Harold Evans, who worked in the Jewellery Department of Hoffnungs. He sold me a diamond ring for twenty-five pounds, which to-day could be valued from five to seven hundred dollars.
I hope when the time comes for you, my grandchildren, to make a similar decision, that you too will carefully listen to both your heart and your head before finally taking the plunge.
An engagement party was held at Greenwich (the family was then renting a house in Greenwich Road near Bay Street, with water frontage and baths) and the only person I can remember being there, apart from us and our families, was Ron Rae, an old friend from Lindfield days, now living in Surrey, England, and who happened to be making a short visit to Australia at the time. It looked as though our engagement was going to be a long one, because I had invested most of my savings in a partnership with my Mother and a Mrs. Jordan, who were going to run an eating establishment called "Potter Inn" in a basement under "Richards", the prestige mercers, in Rowe Street, Sydney. Had this happened ten years later it would have turned out to be a little gold mine, but as it was, it turned out to be money down the drain.
Jeanma had a cousin - by marriage - named Harold Macourt. One of Harold's work-mates in the Rural Bank, a chap named Hird, had a block of land in the bush at Tambourine Bay, and it was up for sale at the bargain price of eighty-seven pounds; - at a time when I had only forty pounds in my savings bank account. Firmly believing that dirt, bricks and mortar were the best investment a man could have, I approached the firm for a loan; unsuccessfully, for I had no sheep or cows as collateral. So I ended up borrowing fifty pounds from my friend Peter Howard and, on the 17th December, 1936, became the "Soames Forsythe" of Lane Cove, - a Man of Property.
Now that we were engaged Jeanma was allowed to accompany me on some of my camping trips provided, of course, that we were properly chaperoned. So she was duly initiated with the family into the thrills of camping on the banks of the Shoalhaven with the Bamarang bulls and cows. There can be nothing more exciting for a city slicker than to be sleeping in a hammock slung between two she-oaks and, during the night, have a Jersey bull rubbing his itchy back on the bottom of the just-high-enough hammock.
There was also the Penrith to Windsor canoe party - previously reported - chaperoned by Keith and Jean Johnson, who later organised another trip; this time on the Hawkesbury River. The party comprised the Johnsons, Jean's sister, Heather Brewster and her boy friend, Ron Blake and another two whose names I've forgotten, and Jeanma and I. We hired a sixteen foot open skiff, powered by a "Chapman Pup" engine, from Windybanks Boatshed in Cowan Creek, and set off for the Colo River, - camping that night at a deserted farmhouse cum pottery works. Someone must have prayed hard beforehand for the weather was perfect and the Colo River a delightful area for camping. I shudder to think what sort of trip it would have been had it rained. Many years later Jeanma and I made the same trip in wet weather with Nan and Dick Blackwell; this time in Dick's luxury launch. This time sleeping in comfortable dry bunks and eating, in a cosy cabin, food cooked on an electric stove. Such is progress.
Around about this time I was keeping my canoe at Halvorsen's boat-shed at Bobbin Head, which enabled Jeanma and I to spend many a happy sunny summer Sunday paddling down Cowan and up Smiths and Coal & Candle Creeks, - there was no coal mine there, - the name was a mutilation of "Colin Campbell" the man after whom the creek was named.
I was also working on a historical article on the Hawkesbury churches which entailed picnic trips by rail and foot to, firstly, Ebenezer where the Arndells, and many of the first settlers who arrived on the sailing ship "Coramandel," are buried. Then to Governor Macquarie's St.Matthews church at Windsor, followed by the Reverend Hassall's church at Cobbity, and finally St.Johns at Camden where the Rector proudly showed us the grave of Captain John Martin who fought alongside Horatio Nelson at Trafalgar.
Not long afterwards we were attending a social function at the home of John and Lorna Martin, our Chatswood Tennis Club team-mates, and I noticed hanging above their fire-place a deadly looking sword. In answer to my inquiry John said "Yes, it is a deadly weapon, alright. It is supposed to have sent a number of Spaniards and Frenchmen to a watery grave at Trafalger. It belonged to Great-grandfather Martin." Small world isn't it?
During the 1930s - the depression years - a cheap and healthy sport was bush-walking. A number of our friends were members of the Sydney Bush Walkers Club, which was energetically promoted by Paddy Pallin, a one-time work-mate of Audrey Birks' husband-to-be, Norm Day. Paddy was born "Frank Austin," in Durham County, in England, in 1900, where he developed a love of the out-doors during family picnics and on Scout outings in the Yorkshire "wilderness." This love was transferred to the Australian "bush" when he migrated in 1926. When he lost his job as a clerk with the Mercantile Mutual Insurance Company during the depression he started a back-room business manufacturing light-weight camping gear.
The Sydney Bush Walkers Club had many talented members and each year presented a Christmas Concert, comprising items that had been rehearsed during the year around camp-fires in the Blue Gum Forest, Kangaroo Valley and various National Parks in New South Wales. I still have in my mind a picture of Tom Herbert, with two billy lids or a bra, and a frying pan for a fan, singing, "The Queen, she was a Womanly Woman."
At this concert I think the part of the King was played by Myles Dunphy, who was an extremely energetic member and one the founders of the Sydney Bush Walkers Club. During a holiday at Katoomba in 1910 Myles began a life-long love affair with the Blue Mountains, which he and his bush-walking friends systematically mapped. In 1931 members of the Sydney Bushwalkers visiting the magnificent Blue Gum Forest on the Grose River were horrified to learn that a farmer was about to cut it down and plant walnut trees. The club eventually saved the forest by raising funds and buying the lease which it handed over to the Crown.
Myles was a fanatical fighter for the preservation of wild-life areas, and had much to do with the ultimate establishment of national parks such as Kosciusko, Warrumbungle, Colong and the Greater Blue Mountains National Park. He died in 1985, at the age of 93, and the person who carried on the fight was Paddy Pallin.
It was Paddy Pallin's little first floor shop in Pitt Street opposite the old "Ship Inn," that I haunted for weeks, whilst organising my Shoalhaven canoe trip in 1933, and it was in Paddy Pallin's home in Lindfield, in 1938, that he organised a "Shoalhaven Reunion," a happy get-together of all those who had experienced the thrill of a journey by water from Badgerys Crossing to Nowra.
At about this time hiking had become a craze, like mini-golf, and each week-end train-loads of city hikers were railed out into the near country, with their billys and grillers, to commune with Nature, exercise their leg muscles and give their lungs the novelty of inhaling unpolluted air.
The Sydney Bush Walkers Club Concerts were always held in the Adyar Hall in Bligh Street, where Doris Fitton produced her Independant Theatre plays, the only one of which I can remember was "Children in Uniform," played by a large all-girl cast - and it was excellent.
Adyar Hall was the Headquarters of the Theosophical Society in Sydney. Theosophy is defined generally as divine wisdom obtained by special insight or intuition. It is a system of philosophy which professes to investigate the unexplained laws of Nature and the powers of Man over Nature. The Theosophists had also built an ornate pavillion at the north end of Balmoral Beach facing the Sydney Heads through which they believed one day would come a "Great New Teacher." Both buildings have since been demolished - and the teacher? - he is still coming.
Meanwhile things were happening at 44 Bridge Street, New South Wales was in the grip of a rabbit plague, which gave many men, jobless due to the depression, the opportunity of earning a living trapping. Our rabbitskin turnover began to soar until at one winter weekly sale our catalogue totalled 15 tons. (I saw the next day's sunrise before that sale was balanced). At seven skins to the avoirdupois pound (generous estimate) you can calculate just how many skins this was - over 200,000, and each one had to be handled and classed separately. Only a comparativley small number of rabbitskins were used by furriers; the bulk were turned into fur felt hats, including the famous Italian "Borsalinos", and Texan 10 gallon hats. In Australia the Keir Family's Dunkerley Hat Mills produced their well-known "Akubra" brand. As you know I have a very odd shaped head; well, Ron Keir used to keep a special block at the factory - my shape, and when I needed a new chapeau it was always especially made by "Akubra."
After the war hat fashions changed, there was no need for thousands of "diggers" slouch hats, and myxomatosis wiped out ninety percent of the rabbit population, so that to-day Dunkerley Hat Mills in Sydney and several others are no more. However, I believe the Keir family refused to close down completely, so they tranported all their machinery to Kempsey where the Akubra Hat Company is still profitably producing limited numbers of felt hats by the same method as Grandfather Stephen Keir used when he started out in 1901. Each year now 3 million rabbitskins are used to make about 200,000 hats.
The Schute Bell directors were getting old so we were not surprised when it was announced, in the late 1930s, that a merger had been agreed to with Keith Badgery and Lumby Pty. Ltd., an agency firm specialising in the selling of fat-stock at Flemington. The Company's name was changed to Schute Bell Badgery Lumby Limited and we moved to modern offices in Chatsworth House, 1 Bent Street. Keith Badgery and Wal Lumby became our Managing Directors chiefly interested in the Stock and Property Department, whilst Geoff Hosking was appointed manager of the Wool and Produce Department with me as Assistant Manager. We also acquired an office at the Homebush abattoirs where "Sheepskin Private Sale" business was conducted under the guidance of Claude Pye.
The Hansom cabs had long since gone to those horse troughs in the sky and hire cars were becoming much too expensive, so an old Buick "Straight Eight", that had seen better days at one of the country branches, was brought in, patched up and put at the disposal of the Wool and Produce Department. This was my first "business" car (or half of it was) and I was to have the use of one until I retired.
A few years later Schute Bell Badgery Lumby Limited "took over" the Primary Producers Selling Company and Tom Cowlishaw was added to the Board. Tom was a dour Scot who sucked a pipe. On his first day, in order to get to know his new executives, he invited each one of us singly to his office for a short talk, - a dry one. I'll never forget his first words to me. "Shotter," he said, (I can't spell the brogue he used) "have you any sons?". When I said "Yes, one only, who is still wetting his nappy." (or words to that effect). He answered "Well, when he grows up make sure he joins a debating society. To be a success in this world you must be able to talk convincingly." I never took his advice otherwise I might have been addressing this letter to care of the Prime Minister's Lodge, Canberra, which may or may not be a good thing.
Not long after I purchased the Tambourine Bay land, the Water Board, the Lane Cove Council and the Department of Main Roads started to take an interest in the district. The cart track from the River Road West - Austin Street junction became a paved arterial road and was extended up the hill to Tambourine Bay Road. Council started paving streets and building kerbs and gutters, and the Water Board added sewerage to their list of services. All this had the effect of changing my block of land from a long term investment to a spot where I could build a home. My pal, Dick Pope, who had married Heather Vautin (I was best man at the wedding), was building his own home at Killara and, watching this operation, I was learning a lot about plans and specifications, builders contracts, council applications, and the financing of such a project. Later I was to be my own architect for the building of my first and only home. On the 26th October 1938 I bought shares in the Lane Cove and District Co-operative Terminating Building Society No. 2 Ltd., a government assisted body that was able to lend ninety percent to original home builders, - a tanner friend, Tim Ludowici, was one of its directors.
Jean-ma and I were married at St.Thomas' church, North Sydney on 25th March, 1939. We chose this church thinking that Canon Baker (who was known to Jean-ma) would be performing the ceremony. We subsequently had to negotiate with a new Rector who fell sick on the great day and Bishop Edward Wilton eventually tied the knot. He must have thought we were well known to the Rector and very disappointed at his absence, because he let himself go with a most impressive sermon on the building of a home. I remember my Aunty Gert and Uncle Wilf, who was a strict churchman, being very impressed. Aunt Isa was brides-maid and Charles Harris my best-man, and the reception was held at the Hill's home in Gamma Road, Lane Cove.
I feel now that Canon Baker wasn't the only reason for our choice of St.Thomas's. With a common interest in colonial history, I think that, subconsciously, we both liked the idea of being married in a church associated with the days of Sydney Town - a church with "atmosphere."
The original foundation stone of St.Thomas's was laid in 1843 at a time when this part of rural North Sydney was known as St.Leonards.
The "Sydney Morning Herald" reported at the time that on the 13th June in that year, the Governor's official barge crossed Sydney Harbour, laden with the Lord Bishop of Australia, the Right Reverend Grant Broughton, the Reverend Robert Allwood and Conrad Martens.
They were met at North Sydney by Deputy CommissionerGeneral William Miller (hence Miller Street), Alexander Berry (hence Berry Island and Berry Street) Charles Younger, and James Milson (hence Milsons Point), who took them to a cleared area not far from St.Leonards Town where they were greeted by 130 residents. And the "Sydney Morning Herald" goes on to report that "the 132nd. Psalm was repeated by the Reverend W. B. Clarke, who is to be the minister of the new church, and the people, in alternate verses, the third chapter of the First Epistle to the Corinthians was read."
In 1877 the church was extensively renovated at a cost of 17,000 pounds; the job taking three years.
The first wedding to take place in St.Thomas's was in 1846, when John Taylor married Eliza Kennedy. Just 7 years short of 100 years later your Jean-ma and Pa followed suit.
We had hired a drive-yourself single seater Nash for our honeymoon. As I nursed this old Nash down the Princes Highway with its precious cargo beside me, I'm afraid I was doing everything but concentrating on the driving. Instead my mind was in a turmoil, bursting with exciting thoughts. Bless my soul!. Here sitting beside me was my wife; - capital double you, eye, eff, ee. Yesterday I was wondering what "I" would do next. Now I was having grand ideas about what "we" would do next.
I was only vaguely seeing the yellow line disappearing under the car; but I was clearly seeing "us" together planning the future - building a home - solving the mysteries of producing a family - (your generatiom. I know, will find it hard to believe the fact that we were both virgins) _ facing the challenge of raising that family and basking in the reflected glories of their victories. Dreams! Dreams! Dreams!, I thought. But somewhere I'd read that all achievements started with dreams.
Then there was that one disturbing thought, as I reminded myself that my worldly goods, at that point of time, comprised a block of land and five pounds in the bank. Had I bitten off more than I could chew?. A bit late to worry about that now.
In due course the yellow line stopped disappearing under the car and I found myself at the reception desk of the Hotel Shellharbour writing those magical words:- "Mister and Missus J.R.Shorter." "Golly!," I thought, "I must be the luckiest chap alive. What have I done to deserve such good fortune - to love, and be loved by such a wonderful person.?"
As I watched her fidgeting with the luggage in the vestibule, and looking a little embarrassed, I remember getting a sort of a protective feeling and silently vowing that, come what may, I would never,never, never allow anything to hurt her; physically or in any other way.
We camped the first week at Kangaroo Valley and Lake Conjola, meeting the Martins on the way at Greenwell Point. Then we whiled away the rest of our holiday at Canberra and its environs.
Our first home was a bed-room and balcony in East Crescent Street, McMahons Point with a beautiful view down the harbour through the Sydney Harbour Bridge. We resigned from the Chatswood Tennis Club and pleasure trips were out. Any spare time we had was devoted to drawing plans, typing specifications, arranging finance, getting Council approval etc. etc. Finally we signed a contract with builder, John Hemelrick, for nine hundred and eighty pounds, and the fun began, - and it was fun, watching a dream materialise. Foundation trenches dug, loads of bricks arriving, walls growing up, roof going on, and floors being laid. To be closer to the action we left McMahons Point and lived with Jean-ma's parents, which enabled daily inspections.
At the time I purchased the land other blocks nearby, in what was to become a part of River Road, had notices nailed to trees announcing that they were for sale for twenty-five pounds ($50). While we were building the Council decided to have an auction sale of all land with outstanding rates. This included the block next-door to us. I had extravagant ideas of buying it and adding a tennis court to our establishment. At the auction I bid up to one hundred pounds (how I was raising the money I don't know), but it finished up going for a hundred and forty to a young couple who were to become close friends, Max and Norma Salier.
The block behind us was also being prepared for building by another young couple, Dick Blackwell and Nancy Harrington. Whilst blasting a hole in which to build an underground garage, Dick flung a considerable quantity of rock on to our newly fixed roof, frightening six months growth out of Jeanma and her Irish terrier, Peter. Thus commenced a close friendship which has lasted ever since.
Despite wet weather and other delays, which normally plague house builders, our house was finished. We made the final payment, received the keys and took possession on the 3rd September, 1939.
Our furniture comprised Jeanma's carved glory box (which I had made), a second-hand dining room suite (which had cost us fourteen pounds), a wing chair and coffee table (wedding presents), an ice chest, a loughboy and chest of drawers, and a "David Dawn" inner spring mattress, which had to be used on the floor (I was in in the process of building a bedroom suite).
The office staff had given us, as a wedding present, an "AWA" mantle radio, which we proudly installed above our fireplace. When we switched it on, during our first evening together in our new home, we listened to the Prime Minister of Great Britain, Neville Chamberlain, announcing the beginning of World War Two. That's something I hope will never happen to you.
        Lots of love from
        Pa.
        Chapter Five
        1940-1945
        Lane Cove
        7th May, 1986
My dear grandchildren,
A few months ago I think I got up to the declaration of World War Two.
I can't remember exactly what happened on New Years Eve 1939. Most likely Jeanma and I were at a party with old friends and relatives, and as the clock chimed twelve we would have formed a circle, joined hands and sung "Auld Lang Syne," after which everyone would have kissed and hugged one another and wished all a happy and prosperous New Year. What was happening at Dunkirk was so far away and it just couldn't affect us. Nevertheless after we embraced, Jeanma and I must have paused to contemplate just what did the future hold for us? Despite the war clouds, I couldn't help thinking how lucky we were. We owned a home worth about 1500 pounds ($3000) on which we owed only 900 pounds ($1800). Admittedly we only had 5 pounds in the bank, but I had a salary of 5 pounds and 5 shillings per week (less than one thirtieth of to-days average wage) and I was confident that ultimately when Bert Ashe retired or died, I would get his job and the princely sum of seven pounds, or $14.OO, per week.
Decimal currency was not used until February 1966. So that comparisons will be more clearly understood, the following figures represent the equivalent in decimal currency.
Out of my $10.50 per week, I made loan repayments of $2.75 to the building society. There was no superannuation in those days, so I spent about $1.00 per week in A.M.P. insurance premiums. I gave Jeanma $3.00 house-keeping and out of that she could afford 15 cents to go to town and have tea and toasted teacake at Griffiths Brothers tea-room; also spend 20 cents on industrial insurance for our children, and give 35 cents to a man to clean all our windows.
A leg of lamb cost 18 cents, a bunch of spinach 2 cents, a loaf of bread 3 cents, a very good shirt a dollar 25, a haircut 15 cents and a doctor's call one dollar and 5 cents. The ice-man, the butcher and the grocer called; and if we were out, they knew where the key was, & they put all the food away in its proper cupboards and the ice-chest, which, incidently, flooded when I so often forgot to empty the water-collecting-tray underneath.
Like wages, the cost of food, clothing and some services were about one-thirtieth of to-days rates. There were of course exceptions. No doubt, due to the building of hydro-electric schemes and modern communications technology, electricity charges have risen only five times, and telephone charges 15 times. On the other hand, no doubt due the wages explosion, Council and Water Board rates are now 40 times those charged in 1939, whilst hospital charges are 85 times higher. Jeanma's hospital bed, when David James was born, cost me $1.40 per day - my bed at Royal North Shore Hospital in January 1984 cost $120.00 per day. Medical Benefit Funds as they operate to-day were unknown in 1939, consequently, so much a week had to be put aside for the medical rainy day.
To complicate the problems of living, rationing of food, clothing and petrol was introduced soon after war was declared. Our standard of living was governed by how many ration coupons we were issued with and the many restrictions imposed such as electricity, water, transport etc. etc.
The spot, a few blocks away from us, where Hamilton Street, Lane Cove, joins Tambourine Bay Road, is known as "Yorks Corner." And who was York.? You may well ask.?
Well, when we first lived where we live now, Roy York had a grocer shop at this spot; and he was the father confessor, and, with all the husbands away at work, the guardian of all the house-wives within a mile radius of his shop. He spent his mornings visiting his customers, taking orders, and his afternoons delivering them, while Mrs. York collected all the gossip at the shop. They regarded all we Tambourine Bay families as their family, and treated us accordingly. Two events come to mind to demonstrate this.
One of our neighbours had a small son with a passion for climbing trees. The day came when he fell out of one and broke his arm. Roy York just happened to be in the street at the time. He turned his van into an ambulance and drove them to Royal North Shore Hospital. Before he left them there he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a fistful of coins. These he dropped in her lap, saying, "you might need some money." Only she knew how much he'd given her.
On another afternoon, Jean-ma, on returning from a visit to her mother found her grocery order neatly put away in the cupboard and this note on the sink, - "Emptied your over-flowing ice-chest water. Have only partly cleaned up the mess. R.Y."
When he died, at the suggestion of all his old customers, Mrs. York had a sign-writer dignify the building with the sign :- "YORKS CORNER."
By Christmas of 1939 my Aunty May Spilsbury was starting to get very worried. She was worried because she thought that she was never going to have a grand-nephew or grandneice, and when, after her many inquiries, she was told that "D.J." was on the way, she was as happy as any of us.
When "D.J." finally arrived on the 15th October, 1940, my innermost thoughts were in a turmoil. Although he was like any other new born babe, a tiny sqirming bundle of humanity that irritatingly kept its eyes closed, I couldn't help feeling that he was already a person, someone with a will of his own and an entitlement to have his rights recognised. I was appalled at the enormity of my new responsibility. Here I was now with two other people under my roof, wholly depending on me; my failures were their failures and my successes were their successes, and vice versa. It was an inspiring and frightening thought. I remember also having an uncanny feeling at the time wondering where "D.J." had been before he came to live with us.
Some years later we saw a film which reminded me of this wonderous period of my life. I can't remember the title of the film except that it included the word "Heaven", and the lead was played by Clifton Webb. It was the story of a childless couple and a spirit in heaven who was waiting to be born. I can remember the theme music was Tchaikovsky's "Romeo and Juliet", hauntingly played, with the object of bringing the leading characters together. It was a delightful comedy and has been repeated on television several times since.
Despite all my soul searching, and resolving to behave, I allowed myself, on that wonderful day, to be feted and congratulated in time honored fashion by work-mates and friends, so that, on arrival at Sutton Veny Hospital that night, I was extremely happy and smelling strongly of liquor, which earned the justified disapproval of Jeanma and my two in-laws, thus proving that after all I was only human.
During the Great War, that is World War One - 1914/18 the conscription referendum having been lost, railway stations and other public places were plastered with posters appealing to the young men of Australia to enlist in the A.I.F. One such poster had Lord Kitchener pointing at you and underneath the caption "Your country needs you." Another depicted a small boy, with chin cupped in hands, looking up at a man in civilian clothes, and the caption was "Daddy, what did you do in the Great War?" My Uncle Bill (Dad's twin brother) and my foster Uncle Fred (Grey) were in khaki, and I was just a little disappointed that I could not boast that my father was also in khaki. On the other hand, I can remember living in constant fear and dread that one night he would come home and announce that he'd enlisted and would be off to France next week.
Seventy years or so later, it is not inconceivable to expect that my grandchildren could say to me, one day, "Granddaddy what did you do in World War Two?"
Well, soon after World war Two broke out, I was summoned to appear before a recruiting committee at the Royal Australian Naval Reserve depot at Rushcutters Bay, (once in the R.A.N.R. always in the R.A.N.R., they said). There I learnt that the torpedoes I'd become so proficient at firing ten years previously were now out of date. In addition to this I was much too old for active service. So I was told to go back to work and they would "keep in touch." To avoid worrying my new wife, who was by now expecting David James, I decided to keep this news to myself. Before the Navy decided that they needed me, for some reason or other, (I think it was because I was involved in the Government's acquisition of wool and hides) I was declared to be in a "reserved occupation." My pal, Dick Pope, same age as me, on the other hand had no trouble getting a commission in the Navy, small boats section, simply because he described himself as a yachtsman.
After the Pearl Harbour bombing in December 1941, after Singapore fell and after the 58 air raids on Darwin in February 1942, I joined the local branch of the Volunteer Defence Corps - the V.D.C. This had been formed earlier by ex-servicemen from World War One - a sort of "Dad's Army" organisation which at first was not taken too seriously. However, when the Japs started knocking at the front door, the Austrlian Army took them over and allotted them responsible coastal defence tasks for which we trained most nights until hostilities ceased. I was attached to a mortar platoon which trained on live "ammo" at Holdsworthy Artillery Range. I still get goose pimples when I think of the live bomb we once had to de-fuse after it had misfired. Our field of training covered Narrabeen Lakes to West Head, and this of course was the area we were to help defend if the worst came to the worst; thank God it didn't.
The nearest I got to facing live bullets was, what the boys facetiously referred to as, The Battle of Elanora Heights.
It was rumoured, amongst the troops, that the top brass in military intelligence had knowledge of a Jap plan to invade Australia through some of the many estuaries on t he East coast; and Broken Bay was one of them. To test our defences a monster military exercise was organised with the Regular Army playing the Jap invaders, and the entire metropolitan V.D.C. playing the defenders.
As a member of a 3 inch mortar platoon, I spent 3 bitterly cold nights reconnoitring and firing blank mortar bombs at what we hoped were the invaders . We never found out who won the fight and could only hope that the "powers that be" gained some benefit from the exercise. Fortunately whatever knowledge was gained wasn't needed for shortly afterwards the Japs were "put to rout" in the Battle of the Coral Sea.
Another one of my war activities was "firespotting." The Chief Air Raid Warden of N.S.W. decreed that all Sydney buildings were to be manned 24 hours a day. Rosters were drawn up and each night a member of the staff spent the night in the wool store at Pyrmont or the produce store at Ultimo. We were supposed to notify the Fire Brigade as soon as an incendary bomb fell on the roof. The only casualty we had was when one staff member became sick from the smell of the untanned hides and sheepskins. We all thought this operation a big joke. We might not have been so amused had we known then as we know now per favour of a reporter of the Melbourne "Herald", that one night, while we were dozing on our camp stretchers, a Mr. Ito Susumo, with observer, piloted a reconnaissance seaplane over Sydney. He didn't drop any bombs, but during the following night, to be exact, Sunday, 31st May, 1942, three midget Jap submarines entered Sydney Harbour and torpedoed the Sydney Ferry "Kuttabul" but missed the USS "Chicago." I can remember hearing the explosions, and wondering what all the noise could be, as depth charges detonated and destroyed the subs. The mother sub surfaced off Bondi Beach a few nights later and dropped some shells on to Bellevue Hill. Property values plummeted but no one was hurt.
It is now known that during the war 13 ships, including the North-Coasters "Wollganbar" and "Nimbin," were sunk off the north coast of N.S.W. by Japanese submarines sheltering near the several "Solitary" islands close to Coffs Harbour.
The only other war activity I was involved in was wharf-labouring. Due to water-front strikes and various wharfies black-bans, a serious delay in turn-around of shipping developed during the latter years of the war. So shipping companies organised their white collar staff (and friends) into week-end and night-shift stevedoring gangs to help reduce the back-log. I had a friend, John Morrison, who was a shipping clerk in McIlwraith, McEacharn. I was invited to join his gang and spent many a Friday and Saturday night pushing a truck on a windy wharf, or stacking crates in a smelly ships hold; - and arriving home in time for breakfast. I can remember one week-end when the white-collar boys fully loaded, with Army supplies, a small freighter (which, for some pettifogging reason, had been declared black by the wharfies) and allowing it to set sail for Port Moresby (we presumed) early on the Monday morning. Our enthusiasm was our undoing. The wharfies grew tired of being shown-up as go-slow workers and threatened a national stike if we were not withdrawn. However, the war was close to being over then, so nothing was lost, except perhaps, our beer money.
For a short period I had joined the city's army of shift-workers; - those people who regularly see the crack of dawn. To me dawn seemed a fierce and private time when nature washes itself and humans have no business disturbing it.
Each morning as I worked I felt that intense chill that comes just before the sun rises.
Someone once wrote - "The silence towards the end of night has a cold and secret feel, as if it is wrong to trespass over the Ferryman's last journey across the Styx."
Most of our neighbours were air raid wardens. This was one war activity I did not get involved in, although I think I was expected to assist in an emergency because the local air raid wardens post was situated next door in Blackwell's below ground level garage. The boys patrolled the streets after work making sure everyone's windows were blacked out and shatterproofed, and I can recall some funny incidents between over zealous wardens and unbelieving residents.
My closest real contact with the war was through my brother, Trav. Ernest (my mother's dead brothers name) Travers (my paternal grand-mother's maiden name) Shorter was nine years younger than me and he had a head of fiery red hair.
Trav enlisted in the R.A.A.F. at about the time the Empire Air Training scheme was being formed. After spending some time at the Bradfield camp he was shipped off to Canada with hundreds of other young Austrlians to be trained as air crews. He failed to make the grade as a pilot and arrived in England as a Wireless operator/Air gunner, where he was attached to an R.A.F. Squadron of Wellington Bombers, or "Wimpies" as they were known, - named after a current comic stip character.
Whilst in England Trav was able to visit a number of our distant relatives. The most memorable visit would have been when he turned up at the church during the wedding of Philip Hellard and Mary Shorter, my father's half cousin. Many years later Mary described to me the joy she felt at seeing her redheaded cousin from Australia (she recognised the uniform) standing at the church door as Philip escorted her out.
Soon after this we learnt that Trav's damaged plane had crashed in England returning from a bombing mission, and that he was in hospital with minor injuries. After months of convalescence at a place called Hoylake he was invalided back to Australia. I still have a vivid picture in my mind of the meeting at Sydney Central Station with a red-headed stranger in Air Force blue who spoke quite unknowingly, with a very decided English accent. After this he spent months of frustration waiting for the powers-that-be to decide what to do with him, and whilst waiting, filling in time with a temporary job with Qantas. Finally he was posted as a wireless air gunner in one of three Liberator bombers which formed "Flight 200," a unit which carried out top secret missions. Trav once told his mother, if he ever talked in his sleep while on leave she was to forget everything he said.
During World War One and World War Two it was said that the most frightening sight a civilian could have was a telegram boy walking up the garden path. My parents would have had this dreadful experience one day in May 1945. In Borneo on 21st May, 1945 all three planes of Flight 200 crashed or were shot down killing all crews and the paratroopers they were carrying. I received the news by phone at the office and I remember well how I broke down unashamedly before everyone; the first time since my Grandpa Shorter died 22 years previously. Trav's grave is in the war cemetery at Labuan, in North Borneo.
There are two sequels to this story. Sadly on the day Japan capitulated in August 1945, my Chairman of Directors, Keith Badgery, received his telegram, to advise that his only son, Brian, had died in a prisoner of war camp in Borneo. Later we found out, in conjunction with parents of Flight 200 crew members, that the paratroopers they carried were to be dropped behing the Jap lines with the object of protecting and even rescuing Australian prisoners of war who had come under threat of massacre in the event of a Japanese surrender.
The second sequel occurred when I was in hospital in 1975 following hernia surgery. In the next bed was a Mr. Max Phillips having the same treatment. During the course of Hospital chit-chat I learnt that he had been an army intelligence officer during the war and his last posting was at Morotai. This was where Flight 200 had flown from on its last mission. Phillips ws amazed that I knew so much about the paratroop operation, but he wouldn't confirm or supplement. According to him, in 1975, thirty years later, this operation had never been taken off the hush-hush list, - so muuch for Air Force, or Army red-tape. It makes you wonder why.
In August, 1945, the atom bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Had they been dropped three months earlier my brother, your great uncle Ernest Travers Shorter, would have been alive to-day, just as tens of thousands of American, British and Australian troops who would have died during the invasion of Japan are alive to-day.
Those bombs literally stopped the Second World War, and thus aborted "Operation Olympic," the planned Allied invasion scheduled to commence in November, 1945 with 13 divisions backed up, in March, 1946, with 16 divisions - incidently, the invasion of Normandy involved only 6 divisions.
Understandably ever since August, 1945, there has been continuous arguement about the ethics of the bomb. It is significant that those critical of President Harry Truman's decision were, during the war, sitting behind a desk or being pushed around in a pram in a country untouched by war; whereas those supporting his decision were men who had experienced war. The experience I am talking about is having to come to grips, face to face, with an enemy who designs your death. The experience is common to those who fought World War Two, mindful always that their mission was, as they were repeatedly assured, "to close with the enemy and destroy him." Destroy, notice: not hurt, frighten, drive away or capture.
In arguing the acceptability of the bomb, one must not forget the power and fanaticism of Japan's War Minister, Anami, who insisted that Japan fight to the bitter end defendng the main islands with the same techniques and tenacity employed with such deadly effect at Iwo Jima and Okinawa. And further, in mid 1945, Japan's Field Marshal Terauchi issued a significant order: at the moment the Allies invaded the main islands, all prisoners of war were to be killed - something my brother and his buddies were trying to prevent.
I think this could be the right time to tell the tale of the orange shirt.
When I first went to work in the 1920's it was the fashion to wear a three-piece suit made up by a tailor; never "bought off the hook." My first, a blue serge, was made by Gowings - "no-one asked to buy." Under the suit I wore a white, always white, shirt with a neck bank holding two studs to which was attached a starched white collar; hence the expression "white collar worker." I possessed only two shirts (made by my mother) and numerous collars which were regularly sent to the Lindfield Laundry and returned gleaming white and stiff. You were considered to be common and vulgar if you wore a "loud" coloured shirt.
At about this time Col Marr, Ron Rae and I were invited to a fancy dress ball. After a lot of soul searching Ron decided to go as a "toreador," Col as an "eastern potentate," and I as a "pirate." My costume included a brilliant orange shirt, with collar attached (also made up by my mother) which I wore once only; to that fancy dress ball. However, being a frugal nature I packed it away just in case there happened to be another occasion when a brilliant orange shirt would be needed; and as it happened there was.
Two decades later, after Trav returned from England and after he was posted to Liberator Flight 200, he came to me and confessed that he had "pinched" my orange shirt. Forgiveness was automatic when I heard his reason. Trav had a premonition that he would be shot down over the sea and finish up in a rubber dingy. He calculated that he had a better chance of being rescued if he wore something the search planes could see. So on every mission he flew, under his flying gear, he wore my orange shirt. Sadly his premonition was well founded, but he wasn't over the sea when his plane came down. My orange shirt ended up in a pile of ashes in a Borneo jungle.
During the 1940s I was granted my General Auctioneers License after extensive inquiries by the Police Department firstly, concerning my character, and secondly, I suppose, to make sure that I had no connection with organised crime. Then one Friday afternoon, under the watchful eye of Geoff Hosking I conducted my first auction sale. The catalogue comprised about 400 calfskins in 30 odd lots. For years prior to this I had been "spotting" (that is looking for bids) and booking catalogues for other auctioneers, so I was familiar with procedures, but it was very different being the Auctioneer, the one who was totally in charge of and responsible for the conduct of the sale room. I must confess now that, to steady my nerves, I took two aspirins a half an hour before the sale. From calfskin sales I graduated to furs (fox, water-rat, feral cat, kangaroo skins etc.) then Hides, Tallow, Rabbitskins and finally Sheepskin Auctions. Skin buyers rarely used their voices to bid. They relied mostly on raised eye-brows, wiggled fingers, nods and winks, and they watched one another like hawks, - a bit like the art buyers at Christies in London. It was a long time before I was brave enough to accidently (?) take a bid from the flys on the wall; which incidently, was quite legal because the auctioneer is always allowed one bid. It was when the flys kept bidding that you got into trouble.
During my time as a selling agent for station and butchers produce, I was to handle many weird and wonderful commodities. Besides domestic catskins which were included in the furred skin catalogues, I sold privately snake-skins and crocodile hides to ladies footwear and handbag manufacturers; horsehair to brush manufacturers; hide trimmings and lugs to gelatine works; kangaroo sinews to the medical professions; wattle bark to tanners; and cow-hair to fibros plaster sheet manufacturers.
But, perhaps, the items exciting the greatest interest were, firstly, the shipments of buffalo hides we received from a Chinese firm. Wing Wah and Company, in Darwin. I was able to find an Egyptian buyer for these and I understood they ended up as camel harness leather.
With the second shipment came a letter from Wing Wah and Co. advising me that they paid good prices for gall-stones. Could I find a supplier? Well, every meatworks worker in the country was a potential supplier; so I made inquiries; with very beneficial results. I started receiving, by registered package mail, consignments of 1, 2, and sometimes 3 gall-stones nestling, like birds-eggs, in cotton wool in Bryant and May match-boxes. I sold these by the ounce, not only to Wing Wah and Co, but also to a number of Sydney Chinese firms where the competition was very keen. This "butchers produce", as you can guess, found its way to China where, so I was told, it contributed in no small way to that country's population explosion. Sadly, with the advent of World War Two my export trade in bovine spare parts came to an abrupt end.
There were no wool auctions held during the war. Catalogues were prepared and wool displayed on the show floor as usual, but instead of a sale taking place, Government appraisers put a price on each lot and this was what the wool-growers received, - the entire Australian wool-clip having been purchased by the British Government, similiar to the BAWRA scheme that operated during World War One.
During World War Two there was also another aquisition scheme controlling hides and leather, which was administered by the Australian Hide and Leather Industries Board, members of which were appointed by the Government. It comprised a full time Chairman and Secretary from The Department of Commerce, a grazier representative from each State, and representatives, one each, from the following industries, Tanners, Hide Merchants and Exporters, Meatworks, Shoe Manufacturers, Unions and Hide Brokers. The board functioned until December 1954 and for the last four years I was the Hide Brokers representative.
Before, and during, World War Two there were many small tanneries operating in the Sydney metropolitan area; nearly all of them since closed.
As well as the Botany group, there was Ludowicis in Burns Bay, Lane Cove; established in 1858 by Albert Radke and John Charles Ludowici, and in Willoughby alone there were sixteen, included James Forsyth, established 1869, H. C. Owen, 1873, M. Stephenson and Sons, 1881, William Cunnigham, 1882, G. F. Bailey, 1887, J. B. Rorsyth, 1892, W. (Waddie) Chaffer and Son, 1887, Scott Bros., 1896, George White, 1897, J. Horsley and Sons, 1898, G. W. Geering and Son, 1898, C. T. Saxton, 1899, J. B. Johnston, 1900, Wilson Bros., 1902, Broomham Bros.,1906, Forsyth, Pizzey and Gates, 1912, George Obern and Sons, 1924, and Sidney Bugden, 1935.
The tanneries created a great deal of employment for the area and as a rule were very good to their employees. The annual picnic day, the event of the year, was very popular as were the company sports teams.
All grades of leather were produced from sole to harness, bridle strap, powerbelting, portmanteau, chrome and dressed down to basils, the name for sheepskin leather.
It was the job of the Hide Board to see that these tanners, and their counterparts throughout Australia obtained, at a price fixed by the Government, the raw material to enable them to fulfil their contracts for the supply of leather to the defence forces and civilian population during the war years.
The allocation of hides in New South Wales was one of my particular responsibilities. Only after Australian tanners needs were met, were hides allowed to be exported.
A number of the young fellows in the firm were in the forces. Keith Evans, a junior wool-valuer, joined the Navy and by a coincidence later became Dick Pope's second in command on a "small boat" in the Mediterranean and North Sea. Hunter Smith became a Beaufighter pilot and was shot down and killed over Europe. Another million to one coincidence occurred when the son of one of our directors, Reg Ruwald, who joined the Empire Air Training Scheme from the office, and Phil May who had enlisted in the R.A.N., met by chance on a wharf in the Persian Gulf, - they had worked side by side in Schute Bell's office.
Early in the war years I engaged the first ever female clerk for the Produce Section. She was Miss Thelma Staas, an attractive young South African blonde, who was a wizard at figures. She had to be because sales of station and butchers produce involved many thousands of calculations each week, all of which were done by the use of ready-reckoner books, with all additions done in the head, - transistor calculators and computors hadn't been thought of then. Thelma had a favourite brother, Sid, who was a lieutenant in the Army. While awaiting his over-seas posting, Sid was stationed at the prisoner of war camp at Cowra. One morning a very distressed Thelma informed me, in confidence, that Sid had shot dead his first Jap, and he himself had narrowly escaped the same fate. She was, referring to the now famous break-out of Japanese prisoners of war at Cowra, news of which was then only leaked gradually to the public.
Thelma Staas was a very attractive young blonde so I had no trouble when I called for volunteers to work back on sale days. This had its disadvantages because it wasn't long before an office romance blossomed and she became Mrs. Donald Blatch. Many years later I was to give her daughter, Lynette, a job as a punch card operator, as part of my first attempt at computerisation of wool sale accounting.
Thelma's replacement was Miss Hazel Dawes, whose elder sister Linda worked for my father at the Southern Pacific Insurance Company. The Dawes girls were orphans so I was interviewed by their aunt before I was permitted to give Hazel the job. I can see Aunty Dot now, sitting before me, straight backed, in a black dress, with a funny hat sitting on top of her head, and a bone supported black lace collar around her neck. Hazel was to become my "Girl Friday" for the rest of my career as a wool and produce selling broker. She never married, she was too shy, but this didn't stop her having a well developed sense of humour, which she expressed by a chronic giggle.
Part of my work involved the supervision of sheepskin sales (on the backs) and green hide deliveries at Homebush abattoirs and once a week I drove to Homebush in the old "straight eight" Buick. One day while returning to the city I was held up by traffic lights at the corner of Parramatta and Concord Roads. Suddenly the passenger door opened and shut. First my nose then my eyes told me that I had for a co-driver the famous Bee Miles, one of Sydney's well-known eccentrics. So well known, particularly as a recitor of Shakespeare, that a poll taken during World War Two showed that Bee was better known to most Sydney-siders than the Prime Minister.
Many of Bee's so-called eccentricities would seem in the present climate, quite reasonable; she opposed sending criminals to jail, believing it made good people bad and bad people worse; she opposed the judicial system, arguing that it was based on two false premises, namely that judges and juries were clairvoyant and that police told the truth. Convinced that public transport should be free, she regularly refused to pay fares on buses or trams. This regularly brought her before magistrates with whom she would engage in debate - a favourite bet was the name of the King of Lilliput in "Gulliver's Travels"; the magistrate never got it right.
On this occasion she wanted to bet me that we would pass more coloured taxis than black ones, and heaped abuse on me when I pointed out that she was betting on a certainty. I reminded her that this was the second time we had ridden in the same car together. The first occasion had been 20 years previously when my father had been driving me down Gordon Road to school at North Sydney. Near Fullers Road, Chatswood we had been hailed by a most attractive seventeen year old girl who demanded a ride to the city, preferably to Sydney University. After ordering me out of the front seat, she proceeded to recite Shakespeare, which interested me very much, for, at the time, I was studying "Twelfth Night" for the Intermediate Examination. This beautiful girl told us her name was Beatrice Miles.
When I was stopped at the next red traffic light Bee Miles departed as suddenly as she had appeared. It was just coincidental that we were outside the Sydney University main gates. I never saw her again.
She died in 1973 at the Little Sisters of the Poor at Randwick where she had gone, she said at the time, only because there were no homes for aging atheists. When the Pope came to visit, the nuns moved her out, fearing, it was said, that Bee might engage His Holiness in rational debate.
In 1984 a play called "Better Known As Bee" was produced by one of Sydney's little theatres. It was based on the life of Beatrice Miles and received exceptionally good reviews.
Soon after Jeanma and I were married the family moved to Northwood, 99 Northwood Road, where the Nossisters had converted their two storey water-front home into two flats and my family occupied the bottom one. Riding at anchor just off-shore in Woodford Bay was the Nossisters maxi-yacht "Sirius," 40 odd feet long. Harold Nossister Snr., with a crew of 4, including his two elder sons Dick and Harold, had just returned from a sailing trip around the world.
Thanks to the fact that Dick Nossister was paying special attention to my sister, Isabelle, the whole family, including Jean-ma and I, had a day, cruising the harbour in the "Sirius"; it was an exhilarating experience.
I was hoping that Dick might become my brother-inlaw, thus enhancing the possibility of many more similar experiences, but alack and alas! my sister let me down, otherwise I might have sailed in the first Sydney to Hobart race.
It must have been around about 1939 that a dear little fair-haired angel started flying around Heaven waiting to be born; despite the nasty war clouds that were at that time polluting our dear old world. She missed out in October 1940 because she wasn't a boy angel. Finally, Jeanma and Pa decided to bring her down to earth, and on the 19th July, 1942, Phillipa Jean made a perfect landing at Sutton Veny Private Hospital, Mowbray Road, Chatswood, - the same spot David James had landed two years earlier.
On this occasion I resisted the alcoholic congratulations of my friends and workmates, and I arrived at the air-port with a heart full of a joy and gladness which was free from any artificial stimulation. Now we had a "pigeon pair." More responsibility for me. Certainly more work for Jeanma.
As I held this lovely squirming bundle in my arms, extraordinary thoughts were racing through my head. Where had she been before she came to us.? How long was she going to stay.? Here she was now with a little mind and will of her own - another real person totally dependent on me.
I imagined that she gave me a smile - no doubt a "windy one" - and with a shock I realised that, after all, I only had a short loan of her. Twenty years is a short time in a life-time, and by then she would be in another man's arms and I couldn't do a darn thing about it.
Each day now, after I left to carry out the comparatively easy job of finding enough money to pay the bills, Jean-ma would have to set to caring for two babies, plus the normal house-work, after which she pushed a pram, and dragged a two-year old over to an invalid mother whose nursing and housework filled the remainder of Jean-ma's day. This wasn't necessarily an extraordinary situation. In those days it was almost a tradition that daughters looked after ageing parents; the fact that the daughter had a house and family of her own made no difference. The day of sophisticated retirement and healthcare establishments had not yet dawned. Jean-ma, being an only child, bore the full brunt of this tradition. Emergency calls after her mother's heart attacks were the rule rather than the exception, and the burden doubled after her father developed tuberculosis.
As well as its burdens, our early married life had its many joys. With a very limited budget and no car, our activities and pleasures were confined closely to our home, our growing family, and our neighbours. We were very fortunate to have two neighbours, the Blackwells and the Saliers, who were completely compatible with ourselves. David James, being the first baby, was shared by all, and when next door's kids arrived they grew up with ours like brothers and sisters. I remember one of the favourite games of Wendy and Peter Blackwell and our David and Phillipa, was "Mothers and Fathers." There is no prize for guessing who was "father."
Rivalry in vegetable growing between neighbours was intense, and a lot of cheating went on with secret fertilising. We kept chooks much to the Blackwells disgust. Eggs were a luxury that could only be obtained by forfeiting so many precious food coupons.
Later on, David's first kindergarten teacher, a Mrs. Latin, used to get all her pupils, whose fathers kept fowls, to bring her an egg each week. Unfortunately for Mrs. Latin, her little racket was exposed when she fell sick one day and the head-mistress took the class.
"K-Mart" and "Target" with their many racks of baby clothes hadn't even been thought of then, so Jeanma made everything David and Phillipa wore; that is except for presents from doting Grand-mas. One luxury she enjoyed was a "Singer" sewing machine, and another her mothers original "Maytag" washing machine, which, I think, would be still going now if we hadn't later traded it in for a new-fangled automatic.
Our entertainment was home-made, generally a Saturday night game of "Fish" or "Oh Hell" in one of our homes, to which, later, another young couple, Frank and Shirley Bray were invited to join. I remember well the first time they came to one of our parties. Shirley's eyes nearly popped out of her head when Blackwell's friend, Betty Martin, a country girl who didn't hesitate to call a spade a bloody shovel, downed a rum and dry ginger ale, and called the host a lousy old bugger for some misdemeanour he had committed.
Phillipa as a toddler captured the hearts of all our friends. She had no fear of talking to strangers (a bit like one of her nieces years later) and she had a quaint way of expressing herself, such as, "I sought I would but I might be not," meaning (????). Unfortunately when she was three years old she was involved in a kitchen accident when her face was badly burnt with hot white sauce. Thanks to the patience and expert help rendered by one of Jean-ma's old family friends, Phyllis Meyer (nee Bishop), Phillipa was left with only the very faintest scar.
Aunty May Spilsbury died in November, 1941. In February 1942, with the Japs knocking at our doors, my mother took Isabelle and her baby, Suzanne, to Moree. Isabelle was married on 20th December, 1939, to Ted Wright just before he was sent to the Middle East with an Anti-Aircraft Artillary Unit. Charlie Spilsbury thought that, as he was too old to fight, it might help the war effort if he looked after some of the refugees from the cities.
Ted Wright was a member of the Austrlian Army Division that Prime Minister John Curtin brought home from the Middle East to defend Australia from the Japs; a move violently opposed by Winston Churchill. We had visions at the time, of defending our homes along a front which was called the "Brisbane Line." Fortunately for us, after the Battle of the Coral Sea, the "Brisbane Line" became redundant.
Poor old John Curtin had his hands full in those days, with Churchill working against him overseas, and his own Eddie Ward stabbing him in the back at home. Eddie Ward was the notorious radical Labour Member for East Sydney, who had been a tram conductor before being elected to the House of Representatives in Canberra; an excellent qualification for running a war, (?).
Before I leave the war years behind I must tell you the story of my last hiking/camping trip.
I had a V.D.C. friend living in Northwood, who was a mad keen bush walker. Dick Fitzell was his name and he would have given his right arm to have come on a canoe trip with me. But canoe trips were out for married men with family responsibilities so we compromised with a long week-end hike down the valley of the Nattai River. Before leaving Claude Pye (the sheepskin salesman at Schute Bells) advised me to be sure and call on his mate "Bill Smith" who had a farm in the Nattai Valley.
Dick and I duly set off by train to the Southern Highlands and disembarked near Picton Lakes. I can remember that the weather, at first, was kind, the scenery spectacular, the camping spots good, and there was plenty of water in the river, in fact the trip down the valley was delightful until we reached "Bill Smith's" farm where we were set upon by a pack of ferocious dogs and nearly eaten alive. Despite the fact that we had an introduction there was no welcome mat put out for us. As it had started to rain, we received reluctant permission to camp that night in an old barn up the river. Next day we tramped into Burragorang Valley, giving the farm a wide berth, then up the mountain by an old unused road, back to Oakdale, Picton and home. The only explanation Claude Pye could give of his friends hostile reception of us, was (and he said this with a twinkle in his eye) "he could have had an illicit still up there and thought you were 'coppers.' After all the Yanks are paying good prices for 'Scotch' at present." Who knows? had we made the trip later we would have most likely uncovered a marijuana crop, except, of course, that "Bill Smith's" farm would now be under the waters of Lake Burragorang, backed up by the Warragamba Dam.
Nearly six years (almost to the day) after we'd listened to Neville Chamberlain announcing the declaration of World War Two, we now listened to the Australian Prime Minister, Ben Chifley, announce "Peace in the Pacific."
People went mad in the streets of Sydney; it was a day of rejoicing - and no inhibitions; except perhaps in the office of Schute Bell Badgery Lumby where we had only just recently heard that Keith Badgery's only son, Brian, had died in a Borneo prisoner of war camp.
Soon we were all involved again in another Christmas and another New Years Eve party when the past became just a little dimmer and everyone looked to 1946 with faith, hope and - optimism.
Wars are remembered mainly for the massive death and misery they inflick on humanity. If we stop to think, they can also be remembered for originating many changes and benefits to our future way of life. Necessity they say is the mother of invention.
For a start take nuclear power. It was not long after the Hiroshima bomb was dropped, that the peaceful possibilities of nuclear energy were being explored. These days the developed world gets twenty per cent of its electricity from nuclesr energy. It is less well known that nuclear technology has also been responsible for enormous advances in medicine, industry, surveying, measuring and many other important activities. The main advantages are that the nuclear generation of electricity is a clean process, whereas coal and oil fired power stations produce thousands of tonnes of pollutants, not to mention the massive bulk of fuel they consume which itself makes great environmental demands in terms of mining, processing and transport.
Now take jet aircraft. 1942 saw the initial flight tests of the worlds first production jet craft; the shark-like German Messershmitt together with the British Meteor of similar concept. In less than a decade from the mid 5Os jet-engined aircraft extinguished the era of the ocean liners and ushered in the age of rapid mass transport. Never before in history were so many people able to travel so far so fast, and in such comfort, safety and economy. This sudden freedom of movement speeded mass migrations of people, enormously expedited business travel and also inaugurated the world-wide tourist explosion, which itself had profound effects on previously isolated and insulated cultures and environments.
Another wartime invention was the rocket, which, 27 years later, led to that momentous "one small step for man; one giant step for mankind," as Neil Armstrong stepped on to the surface of the moon. The rocket, originally in the form of the German V2 had its first test flight in 1942. Londoners who once listened to these grimly nicknamed "Doodle Bugs" or "BuzzBombs" falling on their city, now have to accept the fact that it was these deadly missiles that pioneered our exploration of not only deepspace but also opened up the satellite era which so facilitates global communication and the surveillance and study of our planet.
Another significant developement in 1942 was Konrad Zuse's Z2 Computer, a developement that was delayed somewhat when RAF bombers wiped out Zuse's factory. After fairly slow acceleration through the 5Os, the computer age burst upon us in the 6Os and 7Os. Already we are so reliant on computers and their influence is so pervasive, that it is difficult to imagine modern life without them. Progress is now so rapid that our computers promise amazing changes to our culture with things like Artificial Intelligence, Virtual Reality and even Artificial Life.
And all these things started while a war was waging. As I said, necessity in the mother of invention.
        Until next time,
        Pa.
        Chapter Six
        1946-1951
        Lane Cove.
        5th December,1986.
My dear children,
Not so long after World War Two ended wool sales resumed. Wal Lumby, our General Manager, who had been a Fatstock Auctioneer in his younger days, decided to take over the job of the company's No. 1 Wool Auctioneer, just as his predecessor, Eldred Moser, had done before the war. However, Wal was to discover, firstly, that wool-buyers were a bit different to cattle buyers, and, secondly, that Father Time was a ruthless "user up" of man's energy (and eyesight) so he retired gracefully, and I became third man in the wool-selling team with a commitment to sell a share of the fortnightly catalogues; generlly about four hundred "star" (less than 5 bale) lots.
I too found wool-buyers very different to rabbitskin and hide buyers. However, with the help and encouragement of Peter Cahill, a North Sydney cricketer friend and then Senior Auctioneer for Australian Land and Mercantile Finance Coy., I fought back the "stomach churning" of stage fright until eventually the job became a pleasure and I actually looked forward to each sale day and meeting my mates in the buyer galleries of the Sydney and Newcastle Wool Exchanges.
In time the Japanese re-entered the market and I had great difficulty getting my tongue around such names as Daiichi, Toyomenko, Kanematsu, Mitsubishi etc. etc. The sale-room, however, was not devoid of humour. There were times when I missed the "sotto voce" bid from a Bradford buyer named Bell and Company, and on such occasions the room invariably informed me it was "ding Dongs" bid.
Despite the "bon-homie" atmosphere of the saleroom, I never completely lost the feeling of apprehension, and I can clearly remember on the occasion of my last sale, having a stomach full of butterflies just before I entered the auctioneers box.
The Wool Sale Rooms were situated on the first, second and third floors of the Sydney Royal Exchange. A grand old sand-stone building whose two sides faced Pitt and Gresham Streets, and whose front doors, flanked by massive Corinthian pillars. faced across Bridge Street to the statue of Thomas Sutcliffe Mort, the founder of Australian wool marketing.
The Royal Exchange was founded in 1851 by an "association of Businessmen." It was once the commercial heart of Sydney.
It spawned the Sydney Stock Exchange and the Wool Exchange. It was the headquarters for the 19th. century shipping industry and the underwriting industry. At its official opening in 1857 by the Governor General, Sir William Denison, the first telegraphic message from New South Wales was sent to Liverpool.
Sydney's first telephone service was established by the Exchange in 1880, derided by the Superintendant of Telegraphs as "a Yankee toy," but providing an invaluable service for woolbrokers and other businessmen.
Two years later, the first demonstration of electric lighting was given in the Exchange dining room.
In pre-radio days, telegraphic reports of shipping movements were posted at the Royal Exchange. The captains of the clipper ships made it their Sydney headquarters and the longawaited news from Europe was posted in the Members Room. The Exchange also provided a temporary home to Joseph Conrad and Robert Louis Stevenson during their visits to Sydney in the 1890's. The old visitors book records that Stevenson was made an honorary member in three different years during the 1890s.
An old membership book lists hundreds of accountants, customs agents, stock and station agents, brokers of all descriptions, bankers, coal contractors, company directors, exporters, graziers, insurance agents, newspaper proprietors, woolselling brokers.......and J. R. Shorter.
Every second week at 2 p.m., in season, two large antiquated hydraulic lifts (operated by the old rope method) hoisted, with much shuddering, swarms of buyers and sellers to the sale-rooms above.
From 1890 to 1960 most passenger elevators in Sydney department stores, hotels and office buildings were powered by water - high pressure water. The same power that kept the wool presses, the wharf cranes and the goods lifts working.
Twenty miles of cast iron water mains were buried beneath Sydney streets from Broadway to Woolloomooloo and connected to wherever power was needed. These 4 inch and 6 inch pipes were packed with high pressure water generated at the pumping station in Pier Street, Darling Harbour.
Initially the pumping station was connected to the city water supply, but this proved too expensive, and in 1892 a new pumping station and reservoir were constructed at Waterloo, specifically for the Sydney and Suburban Hydraulic Power Company. Water was collected in a dam which provided up to a million gallons; it was then pumped as required via the Waterloo station into a cast iron tank on the roof of the Pier Street station.
This station was, for decades, a familiar land-mark. It had a three storey Italianate facade which housed the engine house and high pressure water accumulators.
Commissioned in 1889 and opened in August, 1891, the Works were regarded as one of the marvels of their age.
On the roof was a tank which held 150,000 gallons of water that was fed into three pairs of horizontal high pressure steam pumping engines of the Armstrong type, each of which had a capacity of 1200 gallons per minute at a minimum pressure of 750 pounds per square inch. Four boilers powered the engines. The high pressure water was stored in the accumulators which were housed in the towers. The accumulators were loaded to 130 tons for mains pressure to service the city. The high pressure hydraulic power supply was safeguarded by back-up engines, so that should a sudden demand for power reduce the supply, a second engine would automatically be started.
By 1922 the demand on the Pier Street Pumping Station was so great that further substations had been built at Woolloomooloo and Pyrmont. But 53 years later, that is in 1975, all supplies of hydraulic power were terminated.
To-day, the building survives, as do most of the miles of underdground pipes, an unseen testimony of an important, almost forgotten power source that served a city so well. The super lifts, that now whisk you, without any sensation of movement, to the top of sky-scrapers like Australia Square, the M.L.C. Building and Centre Point Tower, have no use for the water that the old Royal Exchange building depended on.
It's a mystery to me how the "Heritage" people missed blocking the demolition of a building that just reeked with the history of our country.
By the time I became Chief Wool Auctioneer for the New Zealand Loan Company the "Big Lot" sale-room had lost a lot of its dramatic international atmosphere. Back when I was an office boy, picking up completed catalogue sheets fromthe booking clerks, while Eldred Moser graced the auctioneer's rostrum, the buyers gallery was dominated by excitable Frenchmen the likes of Henri Wattinne, Pierre Flipo, Georges Brenac, Marcel Dekyvere, Paul Lamerand, Masurel Fils and Playoust Fils, inscrutable Japanese such as Okura, Kanematsu, Iida, Mitsui and Mitsubishi and stoical Yorkshiremen like Biggin and Ayrton, James McGregor, W. P. Martin, John Sanderson and S. H. Ervin, whose bids came in many varied accents.
There was, of course, others like Bersch and Co., Lohmann and Heinrich Beinssen from Germany, Italian buyers and local Aussies such as Feltex, Australian Woollen Mills, and Freddie Hughes; also from Belguim Kreglinger and Fernau; and, Camille Clovis Marcel Gheysens.
"Cammy" Gheysens was also a very colorful member of the Wollstonecraft Bowling Club - an art collector, a musician, a composer, and an ardent lover of the ladies, one of whom got away with part of his art collection.
We were once privileged guests at one of his Town Hall concerts where he conducted the Sydney Youth Orchestra playing one of his compositions. He died in September 1987.
After World War Two nearly all of these colorful wool sale-room characters were replaced by local Australian buying agents who seemed to enjoy maintaining the bidding idiocincracies of their foreign principals, so that we still had a roomful of shreiks, squeals and grunts while a wool sale was in progress. One of my treasured possessions is a cassette tape, recorded in the old Royal Exchange wool sale-rooms, which serves to remind me of the romantic clamour of those far off sale days.
When I think of that period of my life covered by the years 1946 to 195O, I think of the word "destiny;" the immutable power by which events are so ordered that they cannot possibly happen otherwise.
One evening in 1947 while I was putting out the garbage can, I happened to glance towards the city and noticed a much brighter glow than usual. "Just another timber yard or furniture factory going up in smoke." I thought. Little did I realise that that glow in the sky was to have a dramatic effect on my future. Next morning I discovered that the fire I had seen had completely gutted the New Zealand Loan's No. 2 Wool store.
It just happened that my employer, Schute Bell Badgery Lumby Ltd. the smallest wool firm and a public company, owned two wool stores; one of which was used as a skin store only. So it was just a matter of time before little Schute Bell became a hundredper-cent-owned subsidary of the New Zealand Loan and Mercantile Agency Co. Ltd.; a wealthy Londoon based company - my first takeover experience.
After the take-over, in view of the different class of clientele serviced by each company; Schute Bell was solely a selling agency, whilst New Zealand Loan was a pastoral finance company as well; (it had taken over the P.F.A. after its fire in 1921), the New Zealand Loan board decided to retain the identity of Schute Bell Badgery Lumby Ltd. with respect to the wool and fat-stock business. It also gave them two votes at trade association meetings. The two Produce Departments, however, were merged, and as I was the "Mr. Station Produce" of Schute Bell, I was transferred to the N.Z.L. staff as Assistant Produce Manager to Percy Ferguson, who had been my very friendly opposition for a number of years.
Another friend of mine in the New Zealand Loan was the Accountant, Harry Vaughan, who went out of his way to make my transition period very much easier to bear.
An amusing incident concerning Harry occurred some years later after I was appointed Wool and Produce Manager.
I was organising the re-siting of a records room at the wool store when we came across a strange looking parcel, which my store manager, "Bluey" Herbert, with a twinkle in his eye, informed me contained Harry Vaughan's father's ashes.
When I tackled a very embarrassed Harry Vaughan about this, he went to great lengths to explain that before his death some years previously, his father had expressed the wish that his ashes be scattered on the waters at Sydney Heads.
Now Harry lived at Strathfield, a long way from Sydney Heads, and he very rarely visited Manly, so his father's ashes were temporarily stored at Ultimo, awaiting the time when he had some reason for taking a trip on a Manly ferry. And that time had never come.
A few weeks later Harry reported to me that the previous night he had boarded the "Curl Curl" at Circular Quay and while she rolled past the Sydney Heads he had surreptitiously carried out his late father's wishes.
So that I could still supervise the abattoir sheepskin business I kept the dear old Buick Straight Eight, much to the disgust of Percy, who complained bitterly that with all his years of service with the New Zealand Loan he'd never enjoyed the luxury of a company car. Later the old Buick was replaced with a little red "Standard"tourer.
Percy Ferguson was the No. 1 wool auctioneer for the New Zealand loan. As his "2 I.C." I became his assistant in this field of operation also.
Nowadays, with so many of our friends threatened with the curse of cancer, I cannot help being reminded of the first time I was made aware of this malady. After Keith Badgery and Wal Lumby joined the firm they made an addition to the woolvaluing staff by the appointment of a friend named Jack Caffin. This move was strongly resented by the old hands, and I felt desparately sorry for Jack, who was literally "sent to Coventry." Consequently he lent on me a lot for the co-operation he needed just to do his job. Jack Caffin, as well as being a camellia fancier ("Red Waratah" growing outside our bedroom window was a gift from him), was one of those physical fitness cranks who had been a champion athlete at school, and was now simply blooming with good health; so you can imagine the shock I got when one day he told me in confidence that he had just come from an appointment with a specialist who had diagnosed his problem as an advanced stage of terminal cancer.
I doubt if "chemo-therapy" or "cat-scans" had been heard of in those days so Jack had to face the grisly fact that there was no hope for him. In response to his request the Doctor predicted, to the day, just how much longer he had to live, and he set about systematically putting his affairs in order. I had the weirdly horrible experience of receiving a phone call from him, just days before the dead-line, asking that I attend to some matter he'd overlooked. The following week he died.
On a more cheerful note, we found that by now our clients were starting to return to their pre-war habit of using their wool sale as an excuse for coming to the city and playing up. This habit placed a terrific strain on Schute Bell employees who were expected to keep clients happy so that we'd have the pleasure (and Commission) of selling their next season's wool clip. One occasion that comes to mind concerns two such clients, Bert Richardson and Tom Tink, who, after their sale which realised about fifty per cent more than they anticipated, decided to celebrate by booking a table at "Sammy Lees Night Club" for themselves and the Schute Bell wool auctioneers and valuers. We spent the night drinking steadily, watching near-nude show girls and listening to comics rendering bawdy songs. This was my first - and my last - visit to a Sydney night club; but, I have shamefacedly to admit, it wasn't the last time my dinner dried up in the oven at 2 Taleeban Road.
Back on the home front at this time (that is on the nights I made home for tea), we would have been entertained by our radio, spending the evening chuckling at the B.B.C.'s "Take It From Here" with Dick Bentley and Jimmy Edwards, or at Richard Murdock in "Much Binding In the Marsh," or Tommy Handley's "I.T.M.A." or a local product called "Dad and Dave;" - and we most likely would have been listening to the two-thousandth episode of a soap opera (like "Sons and Daughters") called "Blue Hills," which ran for a staggering 5795 episodes before it folded up; a world record for a radio serial.
Also at about this time another little angel up in Heaven put in his application for Life Membership in the "Two Taleeban Road" Club. So it came to pass that Richard Travers also made a perfect landing on the fifteenth of July, 1947. Phillipa was told that Mummy had gone away to get her a birthday present. I think the novelty of this birthday present wore off rather quickly.
However, before this happened I decided to initiate David James into the country way of life. I took him for a spell at "Wayholme", Moree. Strangely my memory, usually sharp on distant events, is very vague regarding this trip. Charlie Spilsbury had married again and, sadly, his new wife, Betty, was an alcoholic. Charlie had hopes of reforming her, but he wasn't helped a bit by the loneliness of the out-back life she had to live; so he soon gave up.
When Richard Travers was on the way my parents were living in Woodford Street, Longueville. I remember one morning calling on my Mother to tell her that we were thinking of naming the baby, if it was a boy, after my brother. How did she feel about it? I remember that her reaction was one of joy; so my paternal grandmother's maiden name lives on.
Soon after this, in May 1947, my parents moved to a flat (half a house) in Beecroft where Ted and Isabelle had been living prior to their move to Moree. Ted was about to take up his new appointment as North-western manager for Grazcos Cooperative. Their daughter Alison had arrived on 2nd November, 1946, her Uncle Trav's 29th birthday, had he lived.
Richard was fifteen months old when Olive Hill died, in hospital, on the 19th October, 1948, her fifty-ninth birthday. She was passionately fond of our three children and it was very sad to think that she could not live long enough to share in their later successes.
On one of the 366 days in 18O8, a certain English baby boy first saw the light of a murky Manchester day; his name was John White. Two years later, to be exact the 2nd April, 181O. a little baby girl entered this world via the quaint Cheshire village of Ringway; her name was Anne Coppock. Despite the onslaught of English winters these two souls reached adulthood, met, fell in love and were married in the year of Our Lord, one thousand eight hundred and thirty one.
Soon after the wedding, having read the glowing reports of Lachlan Macquarie, and John Macarthur, they decided to seek their fortune in the colony of New South Wales. Like their namesakes from Somerest and the Australian Agricultural Company, they elected to settle in the Upper Hunter district near what is now Muswellbrook. But alas! the damage the Manchester smog had done to poor John's lungs must have been too great for the pure Australian air to cure. He was to enjoy only ten years of married life. In 1841 at Muswellbrook, when only 33 years of age, John White departed this life; but not before he had sired a high spirited daughter by the name of Sophia Anne who, legend has it, "at a very young age, eloped with a scroundrel named James Leard (or Laird) from Ulster, and Sophia was promptly disinherited."
The Leards, again according to legend, settled on the Warrego River in South West Queensland; - one of the first families to do so. Sophia must have been a very busy lady, for she brought into this world 11 children - John, William, James, Alec, Margaret, Annie, Sophie, Susan, Edith, Ada and Emily. The Eldest daughter, Margaret, married a fellow named Gallagher, who could have been an artesian boring contractor, for his only son, George, followed such a calling, presumably inherited from his father. The Gallaghers also had two daughters, Lilla and Hilda. Again legend has it, "that Aunt Lilla, at the age of two, was lost in the Warrego scrub and found only with the assistance of the local tribe of blacks who Margaret had befriended with gifts of flour and baccy."
Gallagher Senior must have come to an early end, for Margaret Laird then married a character named Walker of whom very little is known. Her second family comprised Kit, Rene, Ivy, Tom, and last but not least, Olive, Jean-ma's mother and your other "G.G."
From what Jean-ma tells me, and her memories unfortunately are a bit vague, Margaret Walker must have been a typical brave, hard working, Australian pioneer character around whom, I feel sure, could be written a jolly good T V mini-series. Jean-ma was only a little girl when she listened to Grandma Walker's many stories; like the family feud of the Leards and the Bettingtons over disputed land in Scone; how a Leard horse-whipped a Bettington; how a Laird funeral was stopped from crossing Bettington land, or vice versa, and all the legends previously mentioned. Grandma Walker was herself a legend whom, when drought drove her off the land, came to Sydney, and in order to keep the wolf from her family's door, took a job as sewing teacher at "Redlands." Not content with raising her own second family of five, she later set to and brought up five motherless grand-children.
When the Prince of Wales (later Mrs. Simpson's consort) visited Sydney on H.M.S. Renown in 1920, Grandma Walker, with flag in hand, was in the crowd waiting for His Royal Highness to pass, when she had a heart attack. An Irish cabbie rescued her and drove down the procession route with the crowds cheering, much to the cabbie's delight and Olive Hill's and Jeanma's embarrassment. She was a loyalist, a bigoted anti-Catholic and a strict teetotaller so you can just imagine her mortification when, in the presence of her grand-daughter one Sunday morning, she dropped her hand-bag on the church steps. The unfortunate part was that the bag contained a small silvertopped bottle of medicinal brandy which smashed and distributed its aroma throughout the congregation.
When her family migrated to America the only thing that stopped Grandma Walker from following them was an earthquake; instead she built a house in Gamma Road, Lane Cove in which to spend her last days. In 1927, she died in the land in which she was born.
Another conjectural "fact" which bears recording is Jean-ma's vague recollection of once being taken to visit Great Grandma Laird who was living with her daughter Sophie (Great Aunt Sophie) in Summer Hill. Jean-ma has an ethereal mind-picture of an austere old lady sitting up in bed and being called "Granny Annie Laird." Her nephew was Jim Leard (the change in spelling is another family mystery) who owned property in the Scone district, but in my time was living in Willoughby. Jim and Rose Leard were not only distant relatives but also close friends of Olive and Henry Hill.
After Olive's death Henry Hill stayed on at his home in Centennial Avenue, Lane Cove, and we arranged for migrant friends of neighbours, Joe and Maggie Hurst, the Wilson family, to live with him rent free, and in return they were to provide all his meals. But the scheme didn't work. The Wilsons turned out to be typical filthy dirty working class "pommies." No wonder the early Chinese called the English unclean barbarians. They (the Wilsons) had been starved of animal fats during the war in England and they were now making up for it, much to Pa Hill's gastronomical disadvantage.
We got Pa Hill into a nursing home, specialising in T.B. cases, in Leura, in the Blue Mountains, where he stayed for the next twelve months or more.
In 1948 two events of note occurred. The Hon. Benjamin Chifley, the Prime Minister of Australia, watched the first Holden car come off the production line (the 29th November to be exact), and the Rev. Morris Fielding, the Rector of St.Aidans, Longueville, blessed our home.
Despite my critical attitude towards religion in general, I believed that any association my children might have with the Church and in particular, St.Aidans, Longueville, could only be of benefit to them. I also believed that if one derived a benefit from association with a group, one had a certain obligation to assist that group to the best of ones ability. So it happened that I eventually became a member of the St. Aidans Parish Council.
In the area in which we lived (Tambourine Bay - Riverview) many young families were growing up. Unfortunately those youngsters wishing to attend St.Aidans Sunday School had to walk a mile or so and negotiate the Tambourine Bay gully. So an enterprising and socially conscious young lady named Margaret Patterson started a branch Kindergarten Sunday School in the scout hut opposite our home. Conditions were rather primative in the hut, and soon afterwards a resident offered the Church a block of land in Taleeban Road at a nominal price. To consider this offer the Rector convened a meeting of local parishioners in the home of Parish Councillor Shorter; - and thats how our house came to be blessed.
Anglican parish councils are noted for the paucity of their funds, so a special fund raising drive had to be organised to, first, cover the cost of the land, and later, the building.
In October 1949 we produced the first Tambourine Bay Church Fete, in the shade of the angophoras on the Taleeban Road land. As the weather was menacing we had two huge tarpaulins stretched between the trees. The fete was a tremendous success, socially and financially. Our problem was that Morris Fielding had become too friendly. He invariably called on Jean-ma while she was cooking the tea or feeding the babies, and stayed until I got home, and it took very broad hints to get rid of him.
Whilst poor old Morris saw the seed he'd planted in Taleeban Road germinate, he retired before the plant bore fruit and for a short while Canon Homfray was our locum tenens. He must have been close to eighty years old but despite this the old canon visited on foot every parishioner, and even held an outdoors service under the trees on the block of land one Sunday afternoon. The building was still some three or four years away. Nowadays when one thinks of holidays one thinks of the Barrier Reef, Ayers Rock, New Zealand, Fiji, Bali and other exotic places. In the 1940's our holiday horizens were not nearly so distant. Jean-ma and I, when our little family needed a holiday, looked towards the Blue Mountains. More especially so, when it was discovered that the "little family" had inherited a "Shorter" Health hazard - sinus trouble.
In the winter of 1944 we rented a cottage at Hazelbrook. For several weeks we filled our lungs with pure mountain air and while Jean-ma pushed Phillipa in a stroller to sundry Hazelbrook picnic spots with swings and see-saws, I commuted to work in Sydney in "The Fish." In the days before railway electrification, two steam trains used to run in the morning from Mount Victoria to Sydney and back to Mount Victoria in the evening. The first was called "The Fish", which was through from Springwood, and the second "The Chips", stopping at all stations. To travel on the "Fish" was like joining an exclusive club. If you were lucky and acceptable you would be allowed to join one of the solo playing or discussion groups. How sad it is that steam trains, and in particular the "Fish" and the "Chips" are just no more with us.
Waterfalls and "The Three Sisters" left the children cold, for them the highlights of our mountain holidays were the trains, particularly the engines. It was an ecstatic experience to just stand on an overhead bridge while a snorting engine puffed smoke and steam all over you. They would gaze for hours in rapture at the shunting engines at Valley Heights or the engine turn-about at Katoomba, and when an engine driver waved or spoke to them you'd have thought that King George himself had shaken their sooty little hands.
The next Autumn, 1945, we rented a cottage at Wentworth Falls and became healthier still. These holidays were followed, after Richard was born, by breaks at Katoomba (twice), Blackheath (twice), where it snowed, and finally in May 1948 at Mount Wilson when we stayed a Sefton Hall, a lovely old home, one of the eight original houses, owned then by the Marcus Clarks who were relatives of the Days. Much to the kids delight Sefton Hall had a secret passage supposedly built as an escape route during the bushranger days.
Geologically Mount Wilson is a basalt island in a sea of sandstone, and the fact that basalt retains moisture so much better that the surrounding sand accounts for its verdancy. On the top you are in English woodland. Avenues of elm, lime, horse chestnut and beech line the road. On the other side of wire fences are park-like gardens with huge English trees set in lawns. Sometimes a house, usually weather-board, is visible. On sunny days Mount Wilson has a sense of well-being, peace and wealth. Nature is bountiful yet ordered. But when dripping and shrouded in the frequent thick mists on which the gardens and forests thrive, Mount Wilson is eerie and secretive.
The extensive grounds of Sefton Hall were covered in rhododendron bushes. Unfortunately they were not in flower when we were there.
In 1949 and 1950 we had two sea-side holidays in Turner's cottages at Lake Tabourie, while it was still unspoiled by development. We used to borrow Pa Hill's "Erskine" car to reach there and on the second trip broke down coming up Bulli Pass. Jean-ma, Phillipa and Richard on this occasion got a ride home in a P.M.G. van. The second holiday was also memorable because of Richard's hostile resistance to strange potty chairs. and a plague of sand fleas which drove him itchy mad.
On one of our visits to Lake Tabourie we had our last look at a block of land I had won in a Land Ballot some years earlier. It was situated on the southern shore of Lake Conjola, regretably without any access from the road. Unfortunately one of the conditions of continued ownership was that I build on it within two years. I had held on to it, with special dispensation, for about five years without complying with this condition, when I finally had to forfeit it back to the Lands Department. A win in the "Lot-ter-ree" at that time would have been very handy.
Back home we had built, during summer of 47/48, a verandah-cum-bedroom on the western side of the house, and two years later Pa Hill, on the advice of his doctor (Cotter Harvey) came down from Leura to live with us; very much against the advice of our doctor (Ray Robinson) who was concerned about the children's exposure to Pa's complaint. I can remember Jean-ma meticulously sterilising everything they touched, and if results are any indication, she must have done a thorough job.
By 1950 a number of changes had taken place in the New Zealand Loan Company. Percy Ferguson had retired; so had George Larritt, the chief wool valuer and "figure-head-only" wool manager. The Wool and the Produce Departments had been combined and I had been put in charge. I'd just turned forty which was the age they said "life begins at." Regrettably this move was never accepted by Dick King who was to become my Chief Wool Valuer, but I found that I was eventually able to cope with that situation.
Fortunately for me it wasn't necessary to have a University degree to become a successful wool-selling broker. In fact in the wool trade then academics were noticable by their absence. The qualifications of a successful Wool and Produce Selling Broker were many and varied, but I feel, on looking back, that there were three essential ones.
Firstly, you had to have the ability of gaining the confidence of the man on the land, who has always had some degree of mistrust of "city slickers." You had to know what made him (and his little Woman) tick; what he thought about; what were his wants, and what were his interests other than growing wool. I felt that I had gone a long way toward gaining this knowledge during my many holiday trips to Moree. What I had learnt riding the stock routes and by listening to Charlie Spilsbury and his cronies yarning over stock-yard gates and in country pubs was now of immeasurable value to me.
And as well as all this, you had to subtly acknowledge, without too much servility, that the upper class of Australia, traditionally, came from cattle and sheep and 'orses, and in its eyes everybody else was working class.
Twice a year this aristocracy "mingled;" in the Spring at Randwick Racecourse, and in the Autumn at the Royal Easter Show, where the men stood about in tweed jackets "with leather elbows", wide brimmed Akubras, moleskins, plaited kangaroo belts and R. M. Williams riding boots; whilst the women, with navy ribbons in their hair, dressed in Fletcher Jones pleated skirts and sensible shoes, or jeans and leather ankle boots with a rolled scarf at the neck.
They believed that the be all and end all of everything was breeding; and not only in four-legged mammals, but two-legged ones also. In both cases if the animal was pretentious it was very quickly culled.
I was reminded that this "squatter aristocracy" still existed when, one day, I was discussing with a client, ( a Kings School old boy and fourth generation of a squatter family), the benefits of having a bowling club in a country town. When asked if he was a member of the Trangie Bowling Club he exploded. "Good God, Shorter," he said, "do you think I'd be a member of a club where the local butcher calls you by your Christian name, Good God no."
I decided that it would have to be "company policy" to agree wholeheartedly with him; after all, I was most likely regarded as standing on only one rung higher than the local butcher. Only when I became Assistant Manager for New South Wales did he call me "Rus," then I in turn felt obliged to call him "Les." Nothing like keeping people in their proper place.
We employed a team of "Wool Travellers" who, in between shearings kept in touch with our clients in many novel ways. I remember one of them, Eddie Bown, trotting up to David Jones to buy "Millie Smith" some special sewing cotton because she couldn't buy it in Coonamble. (incidently "Bill Smith" had a 200 bale wool clip".
For me, "keeping in touch" meant making many trips to country shows and picnic race meetings, and sometimes I took Jean-ma with me.
Thelma McMaster was the "Queen" of Cassilis and once at Cassilis Show (or Exhibition, I think it was called) Thelma heard that my wife was with me. (Buster Playfair or Brian Hegarty with whom we stayed must have told her). In due course a direction was received that Jean-ma was to be presented to "Her Majesty" in her official marquee, where the champagne flowed freely, and credentials were formally exchanged.
On another occasion, at Louth Picnic Races, I made myself very popular by giving my party a winning hot tip. I had quite accidently overheard one jockey telling another jockey that in the next race it was his turn to win. There was a great party at "Shindy" Mitchell's pub that night.
On still another occasion, I gave Jean-ma a sample of true bush "HIGH SOCIETY" sociability when we attended, as guests of a grazier client, Jack Lobb and his ex-matron wife, Kath, firstly, the Grenfell Picnic Races, and afterwards, the Race Ball in the local Masonic Hall. This function followed the pattern of most country balls at the time, thirty percent of the guests gyrating to the non-stop music of the currently most popular dance band from the city, and seventy percent milling around the "free drinks" bar housed in a huge marquee alongside the hall. We finished up at 4 a.m. in the kitchen of "Arramagong West, " the Lobb property, some ten miles out of town, consuming many black coffees, and discussing all the local scandal, before falling into bed and snatching a couple of hours sleep.
Which reminds me of a night during one of my visits to a Cobar Show, followed by attendance at the Masonic Ball.
A number of our clients, who lived anything up to a hundred miles out of town, had taken rooms in the Great Western Hotel, not to sleep in, but rather to have a base from which they could dispense Bacchanalian hospitality. A live-wire named Bill Houghton was the ring-leader, and he was making sure we enjoyed our stay.
We were staying at the "Great Western," which was reputed to have the longest verandah of any pub in Australia. Jean-ma was especially intrigued with the "Great Western's" catering arrangements. The dining room, situated on the first floor, was connected to the kitchen by a "dumb waiter." Each meal, a waitress having told us that the menu comprised, say, "corned beef and carrots, and roast lamb, and corned beef was off; would thereupon go to the "dumb waiter" opening and bellow down to the kitchen, "roast lamb for two, etc. etc." It was no secret what all the guests were eating. At breakfast I was very tempted to order two poached eggs on toast just to see if she'd yell for "Adam and Eve on a raft."
The second qualification for a successful wool selling broker was, of course, some technical knowledge of wool. My nights spent at East Sydney Technical College fifteen years earlier started to pay dividends although I never officially became a wool valuer; we had a team of specialists to do that job. Incidently micro-measuring hadn't been thought of then.
Thirdly, you had to be accepted on the "Quay." The "Quay" was the centre of the wool trade in New South Wales. It comprised an area between Circular Quay and Hunter Street, and therein you would find all the wool-brokers offices, the shipping company offices, the wool buying houses and most of the insurance companies. This was no doubt due to the fact that the original wool-stores were close to or on the Circular Quay wharves. The New Zealand Loan and Goldsbrough Mort office buildings were actually old wool stores converted into office blocks. As recently as the 1950s Mort's old historic store, where the lower A.M.P. tower now stands, was used for holding wool.
On second thought, there was, of course, a fourth essential on which a successful wool selling broker was dependant, and that was the support and understanding of a loyal staff. On the NZL staff we had a gem, in the person of Miss Doreen Hubbard; a very special "personality plus" switch-board operator, who justifiably boasted that she recognised, on the phone, the voices of seventy-five percent of the company's country clients; as well as all the company wives. Doreen was on Christian name terms with dozens of people she never saw. She was the "voice of NZL", so to speak, that helped to divert many bales into our stores. The truth of this was demonstrated after I left the firm when she "locked horns" with a Dalgety junior executive. She resigned, accepted the offer of a job with an opposition wool-broker, and took with her a not inconsiderable number of clips, including the famous Matchett Estate, by then controlled by Lady Sonia of exposed leg fame.
The "Quay" also boasted a dozen or so old historic pubs, that operated something like "Lloyds" Coffee House in London. Many a deal was concluded in the back bars of the "Customs House" Hotel in Macquarie Place, or "Aarons" in Gresham Street, or "The Ship Inn," "Paragon," or "First and Last" in Albert Street, or the "North British" in Loftus Street, or the "Metropole" in Bent Street (where most of the country folk stayed), or "The Exchange" in Bridge Street, or "Phalherts" in Margaret Street, or the "Euston," or "Metropolitan," or "Newcastle," in George Street, Sadly, of these dozen pubs only two still stand; "The Ship Inn" and the "Metropolitan," both of which are now protected from demolition by the Dept. of Planning and Environment.
When the Clark family recently took out an old fireplace at their Castle Hill home they found an undated tariff card printed for the old Metropole Hotel at the corner of Phillip and Bent Streets, which opened in 1890, closed in 1970 and finally fell to the demolishers in 1972.
Present-day "cockies" will be interested to know that, when Grand-father came down to the Royal Show and stayed at the Metropole, he paid "six shillings and sixpence per day for a single room (back), seven shillings (front)." A room with hot and cold running water and a telephone cost ten shillings (back), twelve shillings and sixpence (front). Top of the range was "double room with twin beds, bath and toilet, fifteen shillings." You could have breakfast in the cafe for two shillings and sixpence, dinner in the dining room for six shillings, and a fire in your room for two and six.
There were, of course, other meeting places on the "Quay," such as the Reading Room in the old Royal Exchange building, (since demolished) in Bridge Street, or several basement Mochbell's Coffee Shops, where after a sheep-skin sale you could check your catalogue over a cup of "Mocca" and finish up (to see who paid) with a quick game of dominoes on the cold marble-top table. The "Quay" also had its quota of "Sargents" pastrycook shops where you could sit down to a lunch comprising, a meat pie, with sauce, a pot of tea and coffee cake, with butter, and/or a bread roll, all for a shilling or less.
In the shipping industry I had a friend named Phil Meagher, who was a "cargo chaser" for the P. & O. Company. Through Phil I was able to book passages, between Australian capital cities, on P. & O. liners sailing from Sydney to London. In March 1951 Jean-ma and I had a sea-trip to Adelaide on the R.M.S. "Strathaird." Tom Wilkie, manager for New South Wales and my boss, was quick to advise me that also on board, travelling to London, would be Keith Robertson and his family from "Jandra" station, Bourke. "Make sure I make myself known to them," he said. "Good for business, you know." We met the Robertsons and they turned out ot be very good company, and years later we visited them at their property on the banks of the Darling River. We spent a few days in Melbourne, including dinner with Dick and Heather Pope, the night we sailed. I shall not forget in a hurry a hair-raising car ride through Melbourne to the wharf that night; fighting our way through traffic, then through streamer-throwing crowds; finding the gangway pulled up and boarding by the crews hatchway, with only minutes to spare; much to the Robertson's consternation.
That night the "Strathaird" sailed into some very rough Bass Strait weather and we were witness to some very amusing scenes when large divans complete with occupants started careering back and forth across the floor of the First Class lounge. Before breakfast Jean-ma decided to take a plunge bath. She couldn't resist saying, "Yes," when the stewart said, "Shall I draw you a bath, madam?" After watching her bath-water slurp backwards and forwards as the ship rolled, Jean-ma soon succumbed to that age-old ailment and I had a sea-sick patient on my hands. (Dick's homemade pickled onions consumed with relish the previous night didn't help.)
In Adeliade we enjoyed several days with Sam and Helen Ford, who had been neighbours of Norm and Audrey Day in Lane Cove. This stay included a happy and interesting day in the Barossa Valley and Adelaide Hills, with Sam as a very efficient guide.
We finally found our way home with the help of a tourist bus to Melbourne (with overnight stops at Nhill and Stawell), two luxury seats in the lounge of the Victorian Railway's "Spirit of Progress," and then down to earth with an all-night sit-up in a filthy N.S.W. railway carriage, - there was a coal strike in N.S.W. at the time, and as usual the travelling public were the sufferers.
The 1950s were years of many happenings. On the 3Oth June, 1950, my father, James Wallace Shorter, died at home in Beecroft, exactly one month before his 68th Birthday. His certificate stated that the cause of death was arterio-sclerosis, but I know that this wasn't the only cause. He never really recovered from the shock of my brother "Bluey's" death 5 years earlier, (they were very close) and this contributed in no small way to his slide down-hill.
Late in 1951 my mother realised one of her life's ambitions when she boarded "S.S. Moreton Bay" to visit her English relations with whom she had corresponded all her life.
My mother's grandmother, Julia Elizabeth Witt was, before her marriage, Julia Chubb, a member of the family who made a fortune building bank safes. Julia Witt was reputed to be a very rich widow when she died in the 1920s and I suspected that my mother was hoping that some of this wealth might be still flowing through to the next two generations.
She stayed with Cousin Eileen Hunt (the daughter of Uncle Alfred Witt) and Cousin Christine Huthwaite (the daughter of Aunt Carrie Woodhouse) as well as my father's step-cousin Mary Hellard (the daughter of Dad's Uncle George Shorter).
My mother's grandfather, Alexander King Witt, a lawyer, was a sort of "Barrett of Wimpole Street," except that he loved daughters, of which he had two, and he hated sons, of which he had seven. His eldest, John, was sent off to sea at an early age and is reported to have been "lost at sea." Edward (my grandfather) and Henry were packed off to Australia, whilst Willie and Ernest ended up in Canada. Alfred and Fred in desperation turned to the Church and became parsons. Isabelle married a parson, the Rev. W. Boyer, and the youngest, Carrie, my mother's favourite, and constant correspondent, married a brewer named Frank Woodhouse. Mother had a wonderul time in England, but I'm afraid she didn't come home any richer.
It wasn't until I visited England in 1976 that I fully realised that my mother's family name was "Witt" not "de Witt." The "Witt" cousins were very amused at the "de" and were puzzled as to its origin. The explanation could easily have been, knowing my great uncle Henry, that when the boys, Edward and Henry, reached Australia they were so furious and angry at their father's treatment of them that they decided to change their name. I don't know if they did this legally, but all my mother's examination certificates, and I think her birth certificate also, were in the name of "Florence Isabel de Witt". On the other hand all Aunt Carrie's letters to her were always addressed to "Miss Florrie Witt."
Uncle Henry's sons Norbert, Rupert and Basil migrated to California so the new family name of "de Witt" will be carried on in America.
In 1951 David was transferred from Lane Cove Public School to Artarmon Opportunity School where he spent two very interesting years. The school was established to cater for those bright children supposedly being held back by the standard curriculum operating in the normal public schools. At the end of the two year course, despite the fact that he looked certain to go to the selective North Sydney Boys High School, David sat, in October, 1952, for a scholarship examination at the Kings School, which would have entitled him, had he won it, to four years free tuition with the option of another three years.
Schute Bell's biggest client was the Futter family, John, Frank and Violet; two aged batchelors and a child-less widow, Mrs. Duncan Macansh, who was affectionately known to the Schute Bell staff as "Aunty Vi." When the "Bouyeo" wool clip came up for sale it was the event of the year; top class wool grown on a top class property in the Murrumburrah-Harden district. The two brothers, old boys of the Kings School, died first and when Aunty Vi passed away the bulk of the estate was left to The Kings School; sadly nothing was left to her Schute Bell nieces and nephews.
David was endeavouring to win "The Violet Macansh Scholarship." Despite references from Sir Charles Marr, whose son-in-law, John Price, was The Kings School's Assistant Chaplain, and the Reverend Morris Fielding, an "old boy," and me drawing attention to my association with "Aunty Vi," David missed out; so much for pulling strings. However, he was awarded a bursary of thirty pounds per year, equivalent to 25% of the fees for a day boy. The winner was Julian Hancock, a classmate of David's, and a son of one of my old girl friends, Beryl Dunnicliff. His father was Frank Hancock, a maths master at The Kings School. David was invited to sit again the following year, but by then he was on his way to becoming a prefect of the North Sydney Boys High School.
By 1950 I had become Chairman of the Produce Committee of the Sydney Wool-selling Brokers Association. This committee organised the Sydney auction sales of all Station Produce other than wool and live-stock, and administered the rules and charges relative to these sales; the chairman's was an engrossing job. In 1952, Tom Cranitch, the Hide Broker's representative on the Australian Hide and Leather Industries Board, resigned due to ill health, and I was appointed in his place.
The Austrlian Hide and Leather Industries Board was established in 1939 by the Federal Government to acquire all bovine hides produced in Australia, and control the production and distribution of leather in the best interests of the war effort and the Australian economy in general. My work and involvement with this Board I found extremely interesting, and I treated my appointment very seriously. I was mostly involved with appraisement and allocation committees who determined how the raw material was fed to the tanning industry.
The Board comprised, a producer (grazier) representative from each State; Reg Mant represented Queensland, C. C. Johnson, Victoria, Percival V. Carter, New South Wales, Oscar Bruns, Western Australia, Don McLennan from South Australia and Claude Bennett, Tasmania, plus Sam Douglas representing the Hide Merchants, Bob Parry, the Unions, Harley Holland, the Meatworks, Ivo Trescowthick, the Footwear Manufacturers, Wilf Hooper, The Tanners, and me, the Hide Brokers; Roger Hartigan was also a member but I was never sure who he represented. The fulltime Chairman was Rowley Anderson, and Jack Cahill was seconded from the Department of Commerce and Agriculture to act as Secretary.
Every second month the Board met at its office in Melbourne, whilst for political reasons, the other monthly meetings were distributed among the other capital cities. The most memorable of these was the one and only visit to Perth where the Board was given a civic reception by the Lord Mayor; and taken sight-seeing everywhere; we hardly had time to hold the meeting. On this occasion I travelled to Perth with the Carters by R.M.S. Himalaya, and returned with the boys by rail; stopping at Kalgoorlie for a "look around" on the way.
Wilf Hooper was a director of the Adelaide Steamship Company and whenever trips coincided with Hide Board meetings he arranged for us the best accommodation and service on their ships between Sydney and Melbourne.
I can remember one sea trip back from Melbourne when Dick and Nan Blackwell and the Shorters occupied the only two staterooms on the S. S. Manunda. This was after she'd been hit with a few bombs as a hospital ship during World War Two. The "old girl" shivered violently every time she hit a big sea on that trip.
The 8th December, 1954 was a sad day, when Jimmy Moroney from the Department of Commerce, who had taken over the chairmanship, announced that the last function of the Board was to close that meeting. The common theme of the speeches that followed was, the agreement on the need for the de-control of the industry, the harmony with which members had always worked together and the regrets at having such a happy association broken up. I have a letter (and I suppose that each other member also received one) from the Deputy Prime Minister and Minister for Commerce, John McEwen, expressing his thanks for the work done during my time on the Board.
Before all this happened I had a very nerve-racking experience due to my association with the Hide and Leather Industry.
In my capacity as Chairman of the Hide Brokers and their representative on the Board, I was approached by a member of the committee organising the annual "Leather Industries Dinner" and told that it was the Broker's turn to chair the function. Without thinking I agreed and later to my horror found out that not only was I supposed to propose the Loyal Toast, I was also expected to deliver the Presidential Address; and it had to be "all my own work" too. To say I was in a state of panic would be putting it very mildly.
In desparation I sought the help and advice of my friend, Ken McCaw, who was the State Member for Lane Cove, and at the time, Attorney General for New South Wales.
At this point I must digress a little, to tell you about the time that Jean-ma and I were attending a dance with some of the locals, and during a "Jolly Miller" Jean-ma started dancing with a fellow who acted very "familiar like" asking her how she was, how Rus was, and many other personal questions. Jean-ma eventually had to say, - "I'm sorry, but I don't know your name, although your face is familiar; should I know you?" When Ken McCaw told her his name she was very understandably "covered in confusion." You see, there was an election on at the time and Ken's face was plastered on every telegraph pole in Lane Cove. No wonder it was familiar!
Back at Parliament House, Ken was very sympathetic and helpful. I can remember him advising me whatever subject I selected to speak on, to be sure it was something I believed in. I firmly believed then, as I do now, that if one derives benefit from being a member of a group, one has an obligation to support that group. A second visit to Parliament House and Ken kindly edited my draft address and I sallied forth into battle.
There I was at the official table, surrounded by very important people I didn't know, and in front of me, a microphone into which I had never spoken in my life. Spread over the old Anthony Horderns Auditorium, at tables were about six hundred faces representing shoe manufacturers, tanners, travel-ware makers, industrial chemists, car body upholsters, clothing manufacturers, hand-bag makers, wholesale butchers, hide merchants, etc. etc. I can still hear the first word I shouted into that wretched microphone as I rose to propose the Loyal Toast; it was "Gentlemen," and it bounced back at me from half a dozen very sensitive loud-speakers and nearly knocked me off my feet.
A couple of asprins later the big moment came. By this time I had been advised just to speak normally into the microphone.
I started off by telling them that as a wool-auctioneer I had recently sold wool for "a pound a pound," 240 pence for 16 ounces. Whilst I felt that the present extreme level of values could not be maintained, it was almost a certainty that it would never return to the levels of "the good old days." This increase in the cost of raw wool must just as certainly enhance the possibilities of competition from alternative raw material such as synthetic fibres. Currently the price of hides was controlled, I said, kept static by the Australian Hide and Leather Industries Board, but the time must come when this control cannot be justified and the raw material used to produce leather, will come under the auctioneers hammer on the open market. Whilst the price rise might not be quite as dramatic as that experienced in the wool trade, it was my calculated guess that it would be sufficent, added to the expected rise in labour costs, to substantially increase the price of leather, and thus encourage the certain competition from synthetics.
The point I was trying to make was that the Trades, represented there that night, had to expect, in the not too distant future, some far-reaching changes to their methods of production and marketing.
I don't think the book "Future Shock" had been written by Alwyn Toffler at the time, so I couldn't quote from it. In a much milder form I was trying to get across a similar message.
When the time came, I continued, to face up to these changes, I hoped that the Trade Associations would be strong, well administered and, above all, well supported by their members. Don't leave ALL the work, I said, to the honorary politicians in your industry.
I managed to stretch out this theme, assisted by a couple of stories, to the required half hour, and sat down suddenly. I then sighed the biggest sigh of relief I have ever sighed.
The address must have passed muster for it was featured in the next months trade journal and even attracted favourable comment in the editorial. Somewhere amongst the rubbish in my garage there is a copy of that journal; one day I'll find it.
During the first half of 1954 another commitment kept me very much occupied; - the building of the Tambourine Bay Sunday School Hall.
A group comprising Harry Grimster, Jack Kidd, Ron Hatchett, Les Holder and myself eventually obtained the Archbishop's permission to go ahead and we set to work organising guarantors and volunteer workers. In February a working bee of between 20 and 30 Tambourine Bay fathers and uncles set to and cleared the site. My report in the Easter edition of the Parish Paper best explains what happened.
"Since our last issue, 24-26 Taleeban Road has been a scene of intense activity. At the expense of some stiff legs and arms and sun-burnt backs, twenty odd volunteers have cleared the site and built the brick-work to floor level. By the time this issue reaches you the floor bearers and joists should be laid, and it is hoped that a start will be made on the walls.
The response from the Tambourine Bay parishioners has been most encouraging. At this stage space will not permit us to thank each helper individually, but at a later date we hope to publish a Builders Roll of Honour to acknowledge a job well done. There is yet a lot to do, and further offers of assistance on Saturday mornings or afternoons, or both, from nail hammerers, wood sawyers, trench diggers, pit makers, and ground levellers would be still very welcome. If you want to be "a starter" all you have to do is dial JB2581 and the Rector will put you on the right "track."
Incidently, don't try to phone the Rector on Saturday mornings. He spends his Saturday mornings now swinging a mattock, pushing a barrow, or weilding a trusty hammer at Tambourine Bay."
The "Rector" was the Reverend Alan Pattinson. He was one of those rare species of homo sapiens - a combination of a man of God and a man of the earth; if you know what I mean.
I remember once, while having one of our heart to heart talks, I asked if he'd like a cherry brandy - of course he would - he was no wowser; after which he was very enthusiastic in his praise of my choice of liqueurs. So much so that I offered hime a bottle which he readily accepted. However this offer was conditional on him publicly thanking me in the next issue of the parish paper.
This was very mean of me because I knew that many, if not most, of his parishioners were teetotallers. Nevertheless, true to his promise, in the next months "Church Messenger" the Rector's letter included the following paragraph:-
"I wish to thank Parish Councillor Shorter for his generous gift of cherries and the spirit in which they were given."
It was a sad day, indeed, for us, and many others, when the Reverend Pattinson decided that his work at St. Aidans, Longueville, was complete and that another parish was in greater need of his energy and drive. He was the last "shepherd" of St. Aidans; the last Rector who practiced the age-old custom of "tending his flock."
When we first came to live in Lane Cove, as newlyweds, we were welcomed at home by the then Rector of St. Aidans, the Reverend Morris Fielding. During his rectorship, despite the fact that we were only "Xmas Day and Easter" churchgoers, he regularly kept in touch, particularly in times of sickness and other adversity. His successors, Canon Homfray, notwithstanding his very advanced years, and Alan Pattinson, carried on this tradition, which, it seems is now a thing of the past. In recent years, poor Jean-ma, with a heart attack, knee replacements etc. unfortunately found herself at times the occupier of a sick-bed. On these occasions, I'm afraid the local Rector was conspicuous by his absence, I can only assume that, nowadays, this "work practice" has been banned by the Federated Clergymens Union.
The building was completed by July at a cost well within the estimate of 2744 pounds ($5488). To my surprise the Rector had the Archbishop dedicate the building as a branch church and named it Saint Marks; - I thought I'd been building a Sunday School Hall. This entailed some additional construction and we produced a very fine altar from a couple of doors and a santuary of polished ply.
My main interest was a Youth Fellowship, having 3 prospective members to it of my own. Whilst I was not able to make any ecclesiastical or religous contribution to the group, I did start a square dance club, using records, which attracted kids from far and wide. On one special night I had 80 of them allemanding and sashaying to "Sioux City Sue," much to the neighbours objection. I was very touched once, at Xmas, or it may have been my birthday, when the kids made a presentation to me of one of my favourite recordings, Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto, which, sad to say, was later lost to a burglar with my other records.
The local adults also had a well supported square dance club on Friday nights, with Harry Jackson calling, and Robyn, his daughter, at the piano.
Later the local boys invested in a mat and we played indoor bowls; - this was where I cut my teeth as a bowler.
The church hall has been added to since, and has, over the years, performed a very useful service for the local community.
Alas! Alas! I'm afraid the next generation of Church officers lacked the enthusiasm and "pioneer spirit" of our 1950s team; for, on Sunday, 24th November, 1986, the last service was held at 22 Taleeban Road. The "powers that be" had decided to accept the suggestion of the Rev. Stuart Abrahams, Director of the Archbishop's Vision for Growth Appeal, that the money to be raised from the sale of St.Mark's be used to help the development of an Anglican ministry at Menai; an alleged poor (?) parish, consisting, as one of my 1950 co-workers informed me, of homes with nothing less than two garages and one swimming pool.
        Yours ever,
        Pa.
        Chapter Seven
        1952-1958
        Lane Cove.
        4th February, 1987.
To my dear children,

On the 21st. October, 1952, Pa Hill lost his battle with that cruel enemy, tuberculosis. It was sad that he too didn't live long enough to share in the later successes of his grand-children of whom he was so proud and protective.
There was an occasion when David and his little mate, Billy Horder, were playing in the gully, doing what they were generally doing, chopping down trees or lighting fires; when Billy, his face as white as chalk, rushed breathlessly into our kitchen, exclaiming. "Mrs. Shorter, down in the gully, there's a man in a mask, and he's chasing David with an axe." Whereupon Pa Hill jumped out of his chair, grabbed a broom, and rushed out of the house, bent on the rescue of his grandson, who he found nonchalantly walking up the road, but nevertheless also rather breathless and somewhat white of face. Later the Police apprehended a fellow who alledgedly had been terrorising children in the Lane Cove area, and who fitted Billy Horder's description of the "monster" who chased our David.
We had our second brush with the "ultimate reaper" when, towards the end of 1953, our good friend and neighbour, Max Salier, died in his sleep, and we were roused at mid-night by a frantic phone call from Norma; - the first of our contemporaries had passed on. This was a profoundly shocking experience for us all, for it served to remind us very forcibly that death wasn't the prerogative of the aged.
Norma Salier was one of the sweetest and kindest persons I've ever known yet, paradoxically, her life, the part of it that we knew, was subject to one misfortune after another.
Firstly, her father, Richards the builder of Roseville, died tragically and suddenly after his usual morning walk. For some reson I think Max must have been away, she gave me a call for help. I have a vivid picture still in my mind, of seeing the old chap sitting up in his arm-chair where he had collapsed, and having the creepy feeling that he really wasn't dead after all.
Norma craved a family like we had. After a number of miscarriages she adopted a baby girl who was named Lesley. I think it was shortly after this that she, Norma, was diagnosed a diabetic; and then Max died.
Lesley was to become a real problem child. When she was twelve years old, after much requested counselling from Dick Blackwell and myself, Norma decided to take her to live for a while in Melboune, to get away from unsavoury local influences. While in Melbourne Norma met and, no doubt due to loneliness, married a fellow named Alan Barton, who turned out to be a "nohoper" alcoholic; Norma could never see any bad in anyone. He made her life a misery for the few years they were married. He died in a Melbourne Salvation Army home for alcoholics when it was burnt to the ground one night.
I like to think that Norma's last years were happy ones. She married a third time to an old "school days" friend, widowed like herself, and they lived in Lismore until she died at a comparatively early age.
        Now to a more cheerful subject.
On an evening soon after World War Two ended, a cowpuncher named Curly leaped over a fence on the stage of the old Theatre Royal in Castlereagh Street, and began to sing :-
        "Oh, what a beautiful mornin'.
        Oh what a beautiful day!
        I got a beautiful feelin'.
        Ev'rythin's goin' my way."
This was in effect the beginning of a new era in the musical theatre. Analysing my own reaction and listening to the post mortems on the Castlereagh Street foot-path after the show, I came to the conclusion that for Rodgers and Hammerstein everyting had started going their way.
Although I prefer live theatre to the silver screen, the later film versions of "R and R's" "Carousel," "The King and I," and "Flower Drum Song" were just as enjoyable to me as the "Oklahoma" I'd lived through at the old Theatre Royal. But the high-light of our Rodgers and Hammerstein experience came during one of my visits to Melbourne with Jeanma.
Melbourne's "His Majesty's" Theatre was having a season of "South Pacific" at the time so we marched up to the box-office only to be shown the "House Full" sign. After much pleading, as interstate visitors, we were given two managerial seats in the centre of the second row in the stalls. From this perfect position we first learnt that "There's Nothing Like A Dame."
Later in Sydney we saw the film version which, of course, had to be technically better, but it will be the night at "His Majesty's" that I'll remember the longest.
We returned to Sydney on this occasion on the S.S. Manunda, with Wilf Hooper and his wife who were sticklers for doing the right thing, and who naturally occupied one of the staterooms. I suppose you could have described the Hoopers as influential Melbourne people. As well as being a Director of Adelaide Steamship Coy., Wilf practically owned Preston Motors, a large Holden agency, and he was a member of a number of boards, the least of which would have been the Hide Board. He was very kind to us during our Melbourne visits, putting cars at our disposal, and arranging entertainment and shipping accommodation. In those days people still "dressed" for dinner. When we all turned out that night in our glad rags, dear old Mrs. Hooper had on one black shoe and one brown one, which proved she was human, like us, after all.
My free trips to Melbourne ceased after 1954, so we missed the Australian premiere of "My Fair Lady"; in those days all new imported shows opened in Melbourne. We Sydney-siders had to wait until May 1960 when, after playing 536 performances in Melbourne, "My Fair Lady" opened at "Her Majesty's" in Sydney; and I still have the programme.
Before this, in 1952 in fact, we had greatly enjoyed seeing Cole Porter's "Kiss Me Kate." J.C. Williamson had brought out an unknown American, Hayes Gordon, to play the lead. He never went home, but stayed to start the "Ensemble" Theatre in Kirribilli, and later star in "Fiddler on The Roof."
There is another theatre experience I must tell you about.
In 1954, a former governor of the Reserve Bank, "Nugget" Coombs, founded the "Elizabethan Trust." It's purpose was to encourage Australian creative effort in drama. They acquired the old "Australian" theatre in Newtown, re-furbished it, and named it "The Elizabethan." The Trust's second presentation was "The Summer Of The Seventeenth Doll." This was written by Ray Lawler, an Australian, and performed by an all Australian cast, so patriotically we went along to see it. I can remember coming away from that show feeling proud at being an Australian. It has been written that "The Doll" burst upon Australian audiences with almost embarrassing impact. Packed theatres around the country felt the shock of recognition, seeing the language and emotions of their own lives portrayed on stage." It was with a certain amount of trepidation that I learnt "The Doll" was being taken to London, complete with Australian cast. I need not have worried. In April 1957 it opened at the "New" Theatre in London, after a short season in the provinces, and received rave notices. I arranged for an English friend to send me the press cuttings which I still have to-day. I quote "The Daily Mail" as a typical comment from the London press:- "Sir Laurence Olivier did another great service to the English theatre last night by bringing over an Australian company who hit London like a tornado, and none of the seven players hit it more gustily than the author himself. -------- I found the early scenes rather trying, but once attuned to the accents and the slang I lost myself in the raw humanity of these people - a humanity that reduces our own anaemic drawing-room plays to still life."
The Americans made a film of "The Doll" in Australia with Ernest Borgine (query the spelling) playing the lead, but it was only a very poor copy of that wonderful first night at the "Elizabethan" in Newtown.
As well as enjoying what the dramatic arts was offering in the 1950s, I was enjoying also a variety of interests as a result of my new job. Although I was officially listed as Wool and Produce Manager, a truer title would been Public Relations Officer. In addition to the Company's wool clients, I found myself having to entertain quite a few of our over-seas visitors, which provided some very interesting experiences. In this capacity I think I can say that I cut my teeth on a couple of locals, the Matchett girls.
This story goes back some years before I joined the New Zealand Loan and Mercantile Agency Company, when the Manager for New South Wales was Tom Wilkie, a genial ex-Queenslander with a sense of humour. Tom had a very valued client named Bill Matchett, who owned a large property, "Borambil," in the Condobolin district, producing a wool clip in the vicinity of a thousand bales. Bill also owned a lot of city property and was reputed to be a millionaire. Bill also owned a terrific thirst which was quenched on his periodical visits to Sydney. On one of these visits he tottered into Tom's office, very much the worse for wear, and demanded a loan, obviously to enable him to purchase more fire-water. Tom very reluctantly refused explaining that he was doing so purely for Bill's own good. Whereupon Bill drew himslef up to his full height, told Tom what to do with his money and stalked out of the office declaring loudly that he was transferring all his business to Dalgety, which he proceeded to do forthwith.
Dalgety's office was only a block away, and it's front door at the head of a flight of marble steps, was guarded by a commissionaire, who looked like one of those fellows you see strutting outside the doors of shops in Burlington Arcade and Bond Street, London; a waxed moustache, a fancy top-hat and a frock-coat smothered in gold braid. When Bill finally staggered to the top of the marble steps he was met by this character, who demanded to know his business. Bill announced that he wanted to see the Manager in order to give him his wool business; whereupon the commissionaire took a second good look at him, smelt his breath, picked him up by the scruff of the neck and seat of his pants and threw him down the steps on to the Bent Street footpath.
When I joined New Zealand Loan they still sold the "Matchett" clip, but old Bill had died (in his bed, not from the fall in Bent Street) and the Estate was equally divided between his two daughters, Willa and May, who had the same regard for one another as the Reverend Ian Paisley has for Irish Catholics.
When I became Wool Manager, Tom Wilkie had retired, and I inherited the job of placating the two warring sisters and holding the business. On the day the "Borambil" wool was sold, Willa Sutherland arrived at 9.30 a.m. and I drove her to the wool store to inspect the clip. At 11.00 a.m. May Hopkins arrived and the action was repeated. In the afternoon during the auction they sat in the two best visitors seats in the sale-room; but one on the left hand side, the other on the right, and glared at one another.
Individually I got on very well with Mrs. Sutherland and Mrs. Hopkins. They were typical "down to earth" country women with whom I was able to achieve something no one else had done. On the day the 1963 "Borambil" wool sale took place I had Willa and May together, chatting amicably, on the back seat of my Humber Snipe as I drove them to and from the wool-store; and this was after we had merged with the firm who had so grossly insulted their father.
George and Willa Sutherland had sons who spent their time playing polo. Bill and May Hopkins had two daughters. Margaret the elder who was a sweetie, and Sonia the younger who was a precocious spoilt brat. Years later Sonia was to make a name for herself and her Prime Minister husband, when she hit the world head-lines by displaying her leg from hip to toe to the elite society of Washington, U.S.A.
I fear that if you went to America to-day you'd find that if Sir William McMahon is remembered at all it will be as the Australian Government man with the wife with the beautiful leg, and to think that famous leg once sat on a chair in my office.
Bill Matchett had a cousin, Bob, who at one time could have been just as wealthy. Bob had retired and was a member of Wollstonecraft Bowling Club when I joined in 1959. He had a very well developed sense of humour which was illustrated once when he dropped a one cent piece of his change on to the dirty bar floor. After he'd groped around for a while he eventually found it. Looking up he caught me watching him and no doubt read my thoughts. With a cunning old grin he said, "Someone might have tripped over it."
I would have left it for the cleaners. That's why I'm not a millionaire.
The appearance recently of an advertisement in the "Sydney Morning Herald" announcing the auction sale of a 3000 acre property in Sofala, prompts me to tell the story of a onetime unusual wool and rabbitskin client of mine.
Some time in the 1930s the position of Head-master of "The Kings School," at Parramatta, became vacant. After advertising on a world-wide basis, the school council finally selected an Oxford graduate (or was it Cambridge) by the name of Charles Tasman Parkinson.
Now Dr. Parkinson had some very modern (I might even say, Freudian) ideas about education, and he thought this appointment was a glorious opportunity to put some of his theories into practice. But he reckoned without the inevitable hostile reaction of old fashioned grazier parents strongly objecting to their sons being taught dramatic art and self expression instead of the three Rs and perhaps a course of Primary Industry Management and Accounting. So in due course Doctor Parkingson was advised that his services were no longer required and given the "golden hand-shake."
Instead of returning to the land of his birth, Charles Parkinson decided to stay in Australia and with his "golden handshake" become a country squire. With this object in view he purchased 3000 acres between Sofala and Hill End, in the Bathurst district, and called the property "Chesleigh." I suspect that could have been the name of the English village he came from.
He soon realised that his Oxford degrees did not include the art of producing wool and fat lambs, so he entered into a partnership with an experienced yokel named Leslie Dean, who could have been a character out of Steele Rudd's "On Our Selection." In due course the firm of Parkinson and Dean decided to appoint Schute Bell and Company as their selling agents; and this was how I became aquainted with Dr. Parkinson.
The competition between the sheep and the rabbits for the grass that grew on the hilly acres of "Chesleigh" was intense, so that Les Dean spent much of his time trapping rabbits whose skins I converted into money. During one of his business visits to the city, Charles Parkinson extended to me a pressing and very formal, invitation to spend a week-end at "Chesleigh." My Directors thought acceptance would be a good idea as the firm had assisted with loans for stock purchases and an inspection was considered advisable.
When the time came to pack my bag. Jeanma was in a flap. Being avid readers of the works of John Galsworthy and Evelyn Waugh, we had visions of English gentlemen dressing for dinner in black-tie etc. etc., so my tuxedo was packed, as well as a new pair of pyjamas and slippers and, of course, my best silk dressing gown. We certainly NEED NOT HAVE WORRIED. When I saw the "manor house" at "Chesleigh" I had a little chuckle to myself, for it was a partially constructed pise (mud) building, as yet unlined, with the exposed roof rafters offering a nightly roost for the local bird-life whose droppings decorated the internal walls. The good Doctor and Mrs. P. made appropriate excuses for the make-shift nature of the accommodation, and I was entertained that evening in Les Dean's typically Australian country cottage, being initiated into my first ever game of "Contract Bridge. - Charles' son Nicholas making the fourth.
During the drive back to Bathurst Railway Station the following afternoon, Charles Parkinson confessed to me that his real love was not the educating of precocious little boys; it was not the raising of dear little lambs; his real love was the theatre. His heros were people like Dion Boucicault, Sir Laurence Olivier, and even Stanley Holloway. So it didn't surprise me at all when, shortly after this, there appeared on the Sydney stage, and on Sydney radio, and later in Sydney television plays and commercials, a character actor by the name of "Charles Tasman," who generally played the part of the butler, the grandfather, the elder statesman, and, of course, the school master.
The "Herald" sale advertisement for "Chesleigh" stated that the reason for selling was "Vender going overseas." I wonder if "C.T." or his son, Nicholas, is at last back home.
After I became NZL wool manager I had another eccentric "ex-towny" grazier client named Ken McManamey. Ken was a chartered accountant who acquired, by fair or foul means, a large run-down fine-wool sheep property in the hills between Mudgee and Bathurst; it was called "Gundowda," - David and his pal John Kinghorn once spent a working holiday there. Ken, who was determined to rejuvinate "Gundowda," had a mania for attending army disposal sales. He once came into my office and announced, "I've just bought a thousand iron camp beds." "Good Lord," I said, "What on earth for"? "You'll see," he replied, and when next I saw him I learnt that he'd sold the legs to a scrap metal merchant and constructed sheep yards out of what remained.
At the risk of being accused of "name dropping", I must tell you about another wool client who left a lasting impression on my mind, and I refer to Sir William McKell.
Living in retirement with Lady McKell in a home unit in Edgecliff, Sir William spent his time playing an occasional game of bowls at Double Bay Bowqling Club, and visiting his 8OO hectare property at Goulburn. When his wool came up for sale he donned his old pants, like any other "cocky", and spent the sale morning browsing the wool-store show floor with our valuers, seeking their advice on how to improve his flock.
While we discussed the banalities of wool-growing, I found it hard to believe that this little man, once a boilermakers apprentice at Morts Dock,had become the Labour Premier of New South Wales, with achievements like the Housing Commission, the Government Insurance Office, the Sydney Turf Club and the University of New South Wales; and then had survived the savage opposition to his shocking political appointment as GovernorGeneral of Australia.
His efforts to cast aside every vestige of the political bias he was accused of, were particularly evident during Robert Menzies administration. His strictest test as an unbiased Governor General came in 1951, when Menzies asked for a double dissolution of Parliament because the Labour majority in the Senate was blocking Government legislation.
Ben Chifley could not believe that the Governor-General would agree. McKell granted the request, giving no public explanation, and the electorate certainly vindicated the decision.
Some Labour members, believing that he had leaned over too far backwards to show his lack of prejudice, never forgave him and became more hostile than ever when he infringed another Labour tradition by accepting a knight-hood in 1951.
During one of these wool-store visits he learnt of my love affair with "kitty," and I found myself one balmy afternoon pitting my bowling skills against his on the Double Bay Bowling Green.
        My "overseas" visitors were of course mostly New
Zealanders; influential clients who appreciated a bit of fuss being made of them. They generally wanted to visit an Australian sheep station - and expected it to be a couple of miles outside the city. One of them was a bit different and according to New Zealand head office, a bit special.
The Kellys, from Hamilton, N.Z., were travelling to London on the "R.M.S. Dominion Monarch," which was calling at Sydney on Easter Sunday to pick up Australian passengers. Could we arrange a visit to the Royal Easter Show for Mr. and Mrs. Kelly? Of course we could, despite the fact that in those days the Show was always closed on Easter Sunday.
I met Frank Kelly and family in the First Class Dining Saloon while they were having breakfast, and their first request floored me. On the way to the Show they had to go to Mass; where did I suggest. After explaining that I was an infidel, I thought perhaps St.Marys Cathedral might do. "We're in your hands," they said. As we left the wharf I had a brain-wave. I knew that some of our devout R.C. girls spent their lunch hour at St.Patricks in Grosvenor Street - not very far from Shaw Savill's wharf - so I stopped there and suggested that the Kellys might like to try it for size. While I waited outside, they could say a couple of "Hail Marys" for me inside. I must have hit the "jack-pot" for about half and hour later they emerged covered in smiles - they'd met a priest who was a Kiwi expatriate.
The rest of the day was spent in the sheep and cattle pens and horse stalls at the show-ground and we finished up with a private inspection of the District Exhibits and the Agriculture Hall. Of course I received a pressing invitation to visit them when they returned home, but alas, New Zealand seems to have evaded me.
Not all "visitor" assignments were as successful as the "Kelly" job. We were advised by our London office once that a very "V.I.P." let's call him Sir Roger, was about to make a tour of Australian cities. He was a director of the company that produced "Vat 69", the scotch whiskey, not the Pope's telephone number, for which the New Zealand Loan Company had the sole agency in Australia. "Sir Roger" wanted to see a bit of the country-side, so instead of flying him between cities could we take him by car, say, from Brisbane to Sydney. Of course we could - no trouble at all. So it was arranged that one of the Brisbane boys drove him to Armidale the first day and I took over from there. I'm afraid that I failed badly as a tour guide on this occasion. I simply couldn't interest him in cattle, sheep, kangaroos or koalas, pastures or shearing sheds. The country was monotonous, the "meadows" too large and he didn't like wire fences, so I started on sport. No, he didn't follow cricket, or rugby, or soccer, and tennis and golf was a bore. It wasn't until we reached Singleton when we passed a horse stud with its picturesque white fences, that he came to life. "'orses," he said, "look, 'orses." In a flash it hit me. He was a foxhunter. "Yes," he agreed, "he 'unted with the 'ounds. Were there any Hunt Clubs in Sydney; and where?" Shame on me, I couldn't answer, yes or no.
For the next hundred miles or so, I learnt all there was to know about "riding to the hounds." It was a relief when I sighted Sydney Harbour Bridge from the top of Pymble hill. It must have been a relief to him too, for he commented that our trip was much too far for one day. Just as well I hadn't picked him up at Cobar!
Early in 1958 London office, who, before the war had dealings with the South African government, advised that two members of the South African Meat Board were to visit Australia to study production methods in our meat industry; would we assist them as much as we could with their enquiries. Because "yours truly" had a flimsy connection with the local Metropolitan Meat Industry Board, through our abbatoir sheepskin business, I was given the job of playing nurse-maid to two Afrikaners, Mr. Jamneck and Mr. Maree.
I was able to arrange a most successfuul day for them at the Homebush Abbatoirs, including lunch with the Board members and a most informative exchange of ideas. It was very interesting for me just to be a listener to two authorities discussing the different methods operating in their two countries. Jan Maree had visited Australia once before, in fact he had been a day student at the East Sydney Technical College, Wool and Sheep Section, at the same time I'd been an evening student there; C. C. Cowley taught us both.
After Jan Maree had been with me for a few days, he asked me, rather coyly, if I would do a little private investigation job for him. He wanted to trace an old friend of his student days in Australia. He didn't know her married name, but he did know her father was a dentist, and she lived in Lindfield. He must have given me some other clues because I did eventually trace her and I explained over the phone the reason for my inquiry she declared that she'd be delighted if Mr. Maree would get in touch with her, which, of course, he did. A few weeks later, to prove what a small world it is we live in, Jeanma was telephone gossiping with her friend, Margaret Farleigh, who, during the conversation mentioned, "A funny thing happened to a friend of mine Eileen Beaumont, the other day. Out of the blue a fellow rang her up and arranged a meeting with an old South African boy-friend." Margaret went on to explain that the affair back in the late 1920s was a very serious one and that only family intervention stopped her friend from marrying Master Maree and going off to live the rest of her life in South Africa. Jan Maree did not tell me this side of his story.
Messrs Jamneck and Maree were most interesting guests, particularly when they talked about apartheid and the minor effect it seemed to have on their own personal lives. Of course this may have been because they lived in Pretoria, had it been Johannesburg it might have been a different story. Some years later James Michener wrote a novel called "The Covenant." It is based on the history of white South Africa and I recommend it ot anyone who wonders just why there is such a thing as apartheid in South Africa.
To show their appreciation of the way we had looked after them, our South African friends took us to dinner on their last evening in Australia. They had been staying at the Hotel Australia in Castlereagh Street, since demolished to make way for part of the M.L.C. Centre. Opposite the hotel and next to the old Prince Edward Theatre (also since demolished) was a very exclusive restaurant called Romanos. Over the years many famous personalities had dined at "Romanos," including Vivien Leigh, Maurice Chevalier, Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra and even Prince Phillip during his service with the Royal Navy. For those in the know "going down the mine" meant descending the wide thickly carpetted staircase for "A Night at Romanos."
Azzalin Romano was born in Italy and came to Australia in 1924 to work at a restaurant in the Strand Arcade called "The Ambassadors," where as teenagers, Heather Vautin, Dick and Jean Pope and myself once splurged our pay-packets attending a posh charity dance. Azzalin "the Dazzling" opened his restaurant in York Street in 1927 and moved to Castlereagh Street in 1938. He was more famous, however, as the owner of "Bernborough," the winner of fifteen successive races during 1946. Azzalin's great competitor was Jim Bendrodt who had arrived in Sydney from Canada, aged 17, in 1913, with five pounds in the pocket of his only suit. Over the next fifty years Bendrodt's colourful enterprises included the Palais Royal Dance Hall at the Show Ground, a string of racehorses, "Princes" in Martin Place, The Trocadero, and finally the "Caprice" Restaurant at Rose Bay. At the gala opening of "Princes" Restaurant in December, 1938, many of Sydney's high society attended, including a young debonair fellow named Gough Whitlam, described in a society column as Australia's version of Robert Taylor.
Our South African friends, acting on the advice of the Hotel Australia receptionist, booked a table for four at "Romanos" and Jeanma had an extremely busy night with three dancing partners. It was a very pleasant evening which ended in a very amusing way. Messrs Jamneck and Maree didn't have between them enough Australian currency to pay the bill. Mr. Romano Jnr., Azzalin's son, graciously accepted part payment in South African currency, and thus avoided an international incident; and us having to do the washing up.
On the 10th November, 1959, I made history when for the first time a wool sale was recorded on tape. This was before the advent of cassettes.
When a lot of wool was sold at auction, before I brought down the hammer, the price and buyers name was called, and this was manually recorded by at least four booking clerks. When these four agreed the sale was legally binding on both buyer and seller. When they didn't agree arguements started.
We had an old client named Jim Hamilton from the Junee district, who, for years, had not missed, once a year, coming to Sydney to see his wool sold. After shearing in 1959 old Jim became seriously ill and was brought down to Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. Much to his disappointment he was still convalescing there when the clip was due for sale, so we arranged with J. Walter Thompson, our P.R. firm, to have the sale taped and this was played back to him beside his hospital bed that night, much to his delight.
The tape was used as a test piece by those advocating a mechanical check for sales recording. However, it was finally considered that the margin or error with manual recording was so small, the expense and inconvenience of taping of all future sales was not warranted. I still have a copy of that tape on cassette.
Dick Blackwell's parents owned a holiday cottage at Palm Beach, Pittwater side, and when the children were very small we spent some holiday time there. Wendy Blackwell from the time she could walk was a notorious wanderer and I can remember once suddenly realising that the children were missing. A frantic search by four adults found three-year-old Wendy leading our two down the centre yellow line of Barrenjoey Road, back to Avalon. Fortunately traffic in those days wasn't as thick as it is today.
Dick, soon after this, bought a water-front block at Taylors Point, and proceeded to blast it level and build mighty retaining walls. The final result was a holiday home with a flat underneath for his friends. We spent many happy summer days in that flat. From there we would take the kids to the rock pool at Palm Beach where they were taught, by John Carter, to blow bubbles and swim. The bathing pool Dick and Bob Martin built across two blocks at Taylors Point was an ideal spot for them to practice.
Dick then bought a second-hand launch. It had been used by the police or army as a pursuit craft and consequently had a very powerful engine, which meant that when he joined the Royal Motor Yacht Club at Newport, he won every Saturday afternoon race, despite the hoards of passengers he carried; that is, until they handicapped him out of the event.
However, the Blackwell vessel, which was affectionately known as the "Quong Song," (the Chinese junk) was not bought for racing. It was soon pulled to bits and re-built as a gamefishing boat, and registered as "Carranya" with the Broken Bay Game Fishing Club.
Dick Blackwell always did things in a BIG way. If he dug a hole it was always a big one, generally assisted by explosives. Likewise if he went fishing, he was not interested in three-quarter pound bream that lived off West Head. He went to sea with his father and Bob Martin, seeking twenty pound yellow-fin tuna, striped marlin and great white sharks. I shall never forget one Sunday when I spent four hours bobbing up and down on the Pacific Ocean while Dick played a ten to twelve foot tiger shark, which we finally gaffed and triumphantly dragged back to the Palm Beach weighing station, after which he proceeded to tow it back to Taylors Point to show it to his Nanny, who distainfully lifted her nose in the air and said, "Take the smelly thing back to where you got it." - which we did.
On Taylors Point Dick Blackwell had very friendly neighbours by the name of Fox; Stan and Millie. Stan had bought two or three prime blocks on the Point and built a mansion; complete with outside swimming pool and inside heated pool; and at his private jetty was moored "Miss Eve," a floating mass of luxury.
Stan had started in Bankstown as a carpenter-joiner manufacturing doors; with his girl-friend, Millie, doing the books and answering the phone. He is reputed to have told her that he wouldn't marry her until he'd made a million, and if this is true, he certainly kept his promise. When we first met Stan he had made his first million, owned several coal mines and a fleet of trucks as well as the Taylors Point luxury complex. He was a genial good humoured host who generally entertained his guests in a Bonds athletic singlet, fishing shorts and bare feet. He had a saying, "I never spend a pound unless I can get twentyfive shillings back."
Stan wanted to prove that it was possible to make money on the land, so he bought a property in Coolah called Kurrajong Park. He believed sub-dividing big country properties only lessened the chances of profitability, so he proceeded to enlarge Kurrajong Park by buying up all the other properties adjoining. Kurrajong Park was then mechanised and run like a coal mine. He lent the Shire Council the cost of bringing electric power to the district, and even rented to them his thirty thousand pound (sterling) bulldozer for road making.
Jeanma and I once spent a few days at Kurrajong Park with Stan and Millie (I used to sell their wool). Although the new house had every modern labour saving device you could think of, Millie preferred to do her cooking on an old-fashioned fuel stove Stan had installed for her in a corner of the otherwise ultra-modern kitchen. By the time we visited Kurrajong Park, Stan had bought another property at Gulgong where he had already doubled production and a small place outside Mudgee where he had built an American-style feed lot for the fast fattening of beef cattle.
Millie was very fond of animals, particularly horses, and the Foxes had no family; so we were not very surprised when Stan one day turned up at one of Inglis' annual bloodstock sales and bought a string of thorough-bred yearlings, with which they had a better than average run of success during the years that followed. Stan died in June 1974, but to-day I still watch the race results, and occasionally I see alongside the winning horse's name, owner :- "S. and M. Fox Investments Pty. Ltd."
In other words, "Millie," the little girl who migrated from Winchester, in England, in 1912, with her out of work parents, to build a new life in sunny Australia, and who, at North Bankstown School met a shy boy, also an English migrant, named Stan, with whom she "kept company" for ten years.
During 1958 two letters arrived in Australia from our London office and they were to have a far-reaching effect on my future. The first was a request that Australian offices explore the possibility of making offers of sheepskins for sale by London office to the European market. All state offices were unanimous in their rejection of this proposal, maintaining that the Company's Australian marketing machine was only geared to sell on behalf of primary producers to local fellmongers and merchant packers. The second London letter, however, was more persistant and suggested an approach to local packers. I was the only one to positively respond to this suggestion and in due course I obtained an offer from the firm of Brian Simpson Pty. Ltd. Some weeks later I made the first of many hundreds of shipments of sheepskins to the order of London office.
By the end of 1959 I had shipped 3772 bales, and the London Produce Manager was starting to plan his first business trip to the colonies.
I met Charles and Freda Davis at Mascot airport on 2nd October, 1960. On the way over from New Zealand the interior of their plane had been partially wrecked by a party of professional entertainers headed by the famous Liverpudlian, Cilla Black. An incensed Charles declared, "They make me feel ashamed of being an Englishman." After settling the Davis's in the Hotel Steyne at Manly (with which they were delighted), we set off on a three weeks concentrated promotional tour of the Eastern States and Tasmania, which, incidentally by way of relaxation, included a visit to a country property - "Barramundi" at Cape Shanks - owned by a sheepskin exporter, George Miscamble; and a dinner party at Bendroydt's "Caprice" Restaurant at Rose Bay. Another demonstration of what a small world it is we live in occurred when Aunt Isabelle gave a dinner party at her home in North Baldwin, which included the Davis's and a local friend's visiting English mother, who lived in (of all places in London) Potters Bar; the same suburb the Davis's lived in.
Soon after their return home to London Charles and Freda Davis were involved in a shocking motor-car accident in which Freda was killed and Charles hospitalised for months. When he made his second visit to the colonies in March, 1965, Charles Davis was accompanied by another lovely lady. He had married Sister Gwynne Williams who had nursed him back to life four years earlier; but I'll leave that story until I'm in the 60s.
Meanwhile, back in the 50s a grateful country client was asking me if I would like a Christmas present of a turkey; - for which I thanked him very much. When I called at St.Leonards Railway Station to pick up what I thought would be a brown paper parcel or cardboard carton, you can imagine the shock I got when I was presented with a crate containing a very large live gobbler. My poultry dressing experience up to this point of time had not gone beyond the beheading of a chook or two. A 28 pound turkey that looked you straight in the eye was a challenge. After I converted him to an item of food, we faced another problem. To get it to fit in our small oven Jeanma had to sit it on a very shallow aluminium tray, which, during the cooking process, overflowed. The result was a liberal deposit of turkeyfat all over the kitchen floor. I can't remember what he tasted like!
By 1953 I was growing tired of pushing an old fashioned hand mower over our rather extensive buffalo lawns and nature strips. In a local paper a chap named Richardson was advertising a new fangled rotary mower; so I paid a visit to his back-yard factory at Mortlake and was given a demonstration. Mr. Richardson's property, behind the gas-works, backed on to a large paddock of dense, rank paspalum, which his machine had no trouble in converting into lawn. For about twenty pounds I became the owner of a "Victa," which was No.35 off the production line. Its two-stroke Villiers engine disturbed the quiet of Warraroon Road for a long while. When, after many worn out blades were replaced, I bought my second rotary mower. Mr. Richardson was turning out "Victas" by the thousand and he had numerous competitors, and the price had multiplied five or six times.
On the 16th September, 1956, something happened that was to ultimately have an extensive effect on everyone's way of life; television Channel Nine commenced transmission in Sydney. I can remember, on a number of occasions when this first happened, taking an evening stroll over to an electricians shop in Burns Bay Road, Lane Cove, and watching, with other locals, this wondrous new invention flickering in his window. I was reminded then of another "first", when, in the late 1920s, I sat through my first talking picture, Al Jolson in the "Jazz Singer." When we were eventually able to afford a T.V. (black and white) of our own, it was a sad day for the radio and stereogram, for we ceased to sit and listen to those lovely orchestral and operatic records we had so selectively collected over the years.
Nowadays organised staff training within big firms is treated just as a matter of course, but in 1957 it was considered a novelty and only just becoming accepted in the Australian business world. So I regarded myself as very fortunate when I was selected with seventeen others from all states, to attend the Company's inaugural Management (or Senior Officers) Course for two weeks in November, 1957, at a guest-house, "Mayerloyd," in Warburton, Victoria. From Sunday, the 17th to Saturday, the 30th we were brainwashed with lectures on Personnel Management, Planned Company Organisation, Financing, Pastoral Investment, Inflation, Pastoral Economics, Industrial Relations, Budgeting, Advertising, Company Structure and Expansion, etc. etc. etc. Despite the pressure I enjoyed every minute of it and I think this also applied to all the other participants. Later the Company introduced a Cadet Training scheme for promising juniors in the firm. A number of to-days managers were once cadets. It is interesting to note, however, that to-days General Manager, who was once a wool-valuer at Geelong, was never a cadet or a "management course" participant.
After the war my brother-in-law, Ted Wright, joined the Graziers Co-operative Shearing Company ("GRAZCOS"). In those days their main function was contract shearing and classing on country properties. In 1947 Ted was appointed North-Western representative and he took his family off to live in Moree, where they made many friends in the grazing community. In the early 50s he was moved to Melbourne and promoted to Manager for Victoria. This is how Isabelle happened to be living at North Baldwin when I was in Melbourne with the Davis's. However, Ted was not with us at the Davis dinner party; - he had died suddenly on the 28th May, 1958. Once again I had been reminded that death was not the perogative of the aged.
In June 1959 my old friend, Harry Kinghorn, who sadly passed away last year, 1985, asked me how old I was. When I told him he said, "My boy, you are facing the sunset, you'd better sign this;" which I did. The piece of paper I signed was an application form for membership to the Wollstonecraft Bowling Club Limited.
        So much for the 1950s!
Except for one very important day, the 15th September, 1958, the day I made the last payment to the Lane Cove and District Co-operative Terminating Building Society No. 2 Limited; and thirty-six and one quarter perches of real estate on the corner of Warraroon and Taleeban Roads, Lane Cove became my very own, unencumbered.
        For the time being, lots of love from,
        Pa.
P.S.
Something has just occurred to me. Before I pass by the 5Os I must make some reference to an important developement in my social life.
It was in the early 5Os that I learnt to appreciate and love the magic of top class symphonic music, and for this I have to thank an inspired Sydney Symphony Orchestra brought to life by Eugene Goossens.
Jean-ma and I spent many an evening glued to the radio, or sitting on the uncomfortable seats of the Sydney Town Hall, being transported into a heavenly world peopled by pianists, violinists, cellists, and all the players of wood-winds and percussion; all hypnotised into super performances by the baton of Eugene Goossens.
Into our lounge room, from time to time, floated the haunting strains of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique, the majesty of Mahler's Second Symphony and Beethoven's Choral, and Piano Concertos of Rachmaninoff, Schumann and Saint-Saens. The result was that we spent more than we could afford on many prized classical recordings, since lost to a burglar, who must have also been a Goossens fan.
Eugene Goossens was appointed chief conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra in 1947; not without violent opposition from some local aspirants for the job. During the next ten years he enriched the musical life of Sydney and supervised what has nostalgically been called the Golden Age of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. It was a time when audiences, as never before, had a post-war craving for the consolation and spiritual renewal offered by fine music.
It is interesting to note that, as well as orchestral concerts, Eugene Goossens staged a number of operas at the Sydney Conservatorium, including his own "Judith" with a student named Joan Sutherland in the title role.
Sadly his career ended abruptly in 1956 when he was charged with importing pornagraphic material and he left Sydney never to return. Although he pleaded guilty , through his legal adviser, Shand Q.C., it is generally thought that he'd been "setup" by those disgruntled and envious of his success.
Whatever his crime, if any, he opened up for me a new wonderful world of sound, for which I must say, "Many, many thanks, Mr. Goossens, where-ever you are.

        Chapter Eight
        1959-1963
        Lane Cove.
15th May, 1987. To my dear Children,
Before I put to paper the dramas of the sixties, there is one earlier escapade I have overlooked and I think it deserves recording.
In the bad old days, before the abolition of six o'clock closing, it was the custom after wool sales to congregate with work-mates and wool clients in the bar of Aarons Hotel in Gresham Street. As mine host, Len Woolridge, regularly paid his "subscription" to the licensing police for "protection", we were always well informed of pending after-hours raids. That is, except for one night, when police from a different licensing district took it into their heads to enforce the law of the land. A lot of names, well and respectably known in the city, were recorded in police note books that night. An incensed Len Woolridge attended to the legal representation in court of all his customers and nothing more would have been heard about it, except that "Truth", and "Truth" only, decided that some big names were involved and the incident deserved reporting. "Truth" was a Sunday newspaper specialising in scandal, particularly juicy, lurid divorce scandal where nothing was left to the imagination. I think it was spawned by the pink "Police Gazette."
Jeanma's mother had a very prim and proper friend named Mrs. Luce. I was never quite sure if Mrs. Luce approved of me. I think she thought that Jean-ma could have done better for herself when she changed her name to "Shorter." Soon after the Aarons raid, whilst visiting Olive Hill, Mrs. Luce was most anxious to know if I had a brother named "James," whose name she'd seen in the newspapers recently. Answering in the negative, I expressed surprise that anyone we might know would ever be guilty of reading that dreadful and scandalous rag, "Truth;" which had the effect of silencing her inquiry!
To spot my name the old devil must have read "Truth" from cover to cover.
I was on my way to being declared a habitual criminal, when shortly after this incident, I was charged and fined in the Phillip Street Court House for walking across Bridge Street at an angle of 45 degrees. In those days it was almost a criminal offence to walk across any city street at any angle other than 90 degrees. This, at a time when politicians, Premiers and police were unashamedly accepting bribes to turn a blind eye to the illegal activities of casino operators, S.P. bookies and sly grog shops. On the other hand, "jay-walkers", like me, had no chance of escaping the consequences of their infamy.
In 1960 David was at Sydney University, in the Faculty of Engineering. At the end of 1957 (when the Sputnik was launched into space) he had secured a high enough pass in the Leaving Certificate exam to enable him to be a bit choosy regarding the cadetships being offered by industry and Government instrumentalities. By the time he had his last of many interviews he was an expert at being interviewed. In fact we heard on the grape-vine that the selection panel at "Chesty Bonds" cotton mills felt that they were being interviewed by him, not him by them. Eventually he was won by the English electrical firm of Crompton, Parkinson.
In 1960 Phillipa started at the Physiotherapy School attached to Sydney University, and Richard started at North Sydney Boys High School where he too was to become a Prefect like his brother. To maintain the standard set by his big brother Richard had to work ever so much harder - and I'm glad to say that he did just that. This year, as far as the children were concerned, was comparativley uneventful. The drama of waiting for them to come home in their cars had not yet hit us.
It was your Grandmother who supplied the drama at this time. In June 1960 she booked into the Mater Private Hospital at Crows Nest, for a hysterotomy and one night after the operation, frightened six months growth out of everybody by haemorrhaging internally. The prompt action of the night sister probably saved her life. I have visions of an ambulance with flashing lights and sirens blaring, racing through the night to the Red Cross blood bank, for a supply of "Aids-free" R H negative, except that "Aids" hadn't been heard of up till then. My appreciation of the nursing profession expanded no end after this incident, and whenever they threatened industrial action because their demands for a wage increase were ignored, I felt that this was one strike that was justified. If our greedy specialist doctors, capitalising on others misfortune, could only find it in their hearts to share some of their excessive rewards with their medical "sisters," I feel sure we would have a much happier, trouble-free and more effective health industry.
Jeanma's friend, Phyllis Meyer, is a nursing sister. As well as occasionally acting as Matron, she was in charge of and responsible for the post-operative (life and death) ward of a private hospital in Killara. When the end of the week came, it was Phyllis's son, a plumbers mate, who brought home the larger pay envelope.
In 1961 it was I who supplied a different sort of drama.
Jack Goff, who had taken over when Tom Wilkie retired as New South Wales manager, was a small and very energetic man. He made up for his five foot six by his shrewdness, his sceptic wit, and by driving the biggest Chevrolet the company could buy. We were good friends but not exactly close. I can remember once, while we were strolling back to the office after the weekly woolbrokers association meeting; he startled me with a very puzzling question. "How secure did I feel working for an English firm like the New Zealand Loan?". "Did I know that if we didn't come up with a profit satisfactory in the eyes of the London Board of Directors, they could close us down overnight?"
He must have had a premonition, because shortly after, late in 1961 in fact, we received the devastating news that the London boards of New Zealand Loan and Dalgety and Company had decided to amalgamate the two firms. Despite the fact that NZL was paying a 14% dividend as against our deadly opposition Dalgety's 8%, we couldn't help feeling that we were being taken over by the bigger firm, and our jobs were "on the block," so to speak; especially when it was announced that Dalgety's Les Parker would be Australian General Manager, with our Jack Gale his assistant. However, when the numbers went up in New South Wales, Jack Goff was appointed Manager with Dalgety's disillusioned socialite, Dick Bavin, his assistant. This was like Peacock and Howard in reverse. Dalgety's wool manager, Dick Bretnall, was transferred to Head Office and I was appointed manager of the combined wool and produce departments. Very soon after his appointment Les Parker retired and J. S. Gale became General Manager for Australia.
Jack Gale had risen from the ranks in New Zealand Loan, where he started as an assistant stock salesman. As General Manager he was fond of bringing all his executives together socially, including the wives. I'll never forget our first introduction to Mamie Gale, who was known, behind her back, as "The Duchess." She peered at Jeanma like someone looking through a lorgnette, and with a mouthful of plums said, "Mrs. Shorter, have you any sons?". Without waiting for a reply she continued, "I have three, - three wonderful boys." Ten to fifteen years later one of them, Keith, was to make a dubious name for himself. In the early 1970's Keith Gale made Australian corporate history by making the Gollin Group one of Australia's most aggressive and successful trading companies. But in 1975 fame turned to infamy when the group, a pace-setter in Australian trade with Japan and South Korea, crashed spectacularly with debts exceeding one hundred and twenty million dollars. Gale, the group's chief executive, and Richard Glenister, its finance director, got jail terms of 13 and 12 years respectively for cheating and defrauding Gollin of more than $400,000 each. The length of the court case, 62 days, and the severity of the sentences, were records for Australian white collar crime.
Jack Gale didn't live to see the Gollin debacle, but poor Mamie had to face the music. She died soon afterwards. The shock no doubt contributed largely to her demise.
During his incarceration at Cessnock Keith Gale took a Degree in Economic History, and on his release two years ago set himself up in Perth as a business consultant.
Forty years after I had written "tintinabulation" in my little word book, I came across another word in which I became greatly interested. The word was "computerisation" but it did not appear in my dictionary so I was not able to write alongside it a clear-cut definition.
Just before the "Dalgety-N.Z.L." merger took place I had been flirting with the local sales manager of an English company called "International Calculators and Tabulators Pty. Ltd." or I.C.T. He was trying to sell me accounting machines, and I was trying to find out more about some other equipment his company was developing; a card punching machine, a punch-card sorting machine and a printing calculator that he called a "computer;" just the word to stimulate my imagination.
The functions of a wool-broker, in very simple language, were as follows :- He received a bale of wool from his client. He weighed it and recorded its description. Then he stored it. Later he catalogued it and then sold it at auction. On the morning after the sale he presented the buyer with an invoice and received payment 14 days later. He needed these 14 days to produce an account-sales for his client and, what was most important, balance his books. The final operation was to pay his client (the vendor) the proceeds of the sale less direct costs (freight etc.) and his commission. With respect of each sale, - and there were 20 to 30 each year, - this operation was multiplied many thousands of times, and it was done ninety percent manually; - that is, with the old ready-reckoner books and pen and ink.
After six months flirting with I.C.T. I conceived, in conjunction with their Sales Manager, a grand scheme which involved punching a card for every bale we received, and then coding into it progressively all the information required to produce the final invoice and sales account. To carry out this plan I had to import from the U.K., a card punching machine, a punch-card sorting machine and a "printing-calculator," all of which would cost lots of pounds sterling.
Faint heart never won fair lady, so they say, so I boldly applied to Head Office for Australia for the necessary currency. Suffice is to say that my scheme was thrown out "lock, stock and barrel."
The only supporter I had was my friend, "Puggy" Douglas, who was my counter-part in an opposition firm, Australian Mercantile Land and Finance Company. Ken Douglas acquired his nick-name when he was at school at "Shore;" the same time that I was at High School. He had a turned-up nose on a flat face, and when you were looking at him you just couldn't help being reminded of a pug dog. So he became "Puggy," and it stuck to him all his life.
Soon after the rejection by Head Office, I was approached by a representative from I.B.M. who had similar equipment to I.C.T., but it was in Australia, and what's more, it could be rented.
Without committing the company to excessive capital expense I proceeded to put the grand plan into operation with the aid of rented punch machines, operated by my converted typists, and rented time from I.B.M.'s E.D.P. (Electronic Data Processing) Department. To cut a long story short, the result was that at 10.30 p.m. on the day of sale my boys returned from I.B.M. with all buyers invoices and clients account sale completed and balanced, something that previously had taken 14 days to accomplish.
Sometime prior to this I had given a job, as junior clerk, to a lad named Brian Dumbrell, who had been to North Sydney Boys High (while David was there) and for some domestic reason had to leave school before sitting for the Leaving Certificate. Brian was a tinkerer. He was a "wizard" at fixing cars, clocks, radios etc. So its not surprising that he took a very lively interest in our E.D.P. equipment. He spent hours of his own time playing and experimenting with the programming panels that contained hundreds of plug-holes and masses of connection wires. The result was that we were able to find more uses for our punch-cards that we ever expected.
Our success, however, in the computer field, was our undoing. Head Office at last recognised its value, established a Head Office E.D.P. Department, staffed it with university graduates, who wouldn't have recognised a bale of wool if it had fallen on them, and proceeded to "computerise" the whole Australian organisation.
Brian, not possessing a university degree, left to join an opposition firm , and I sadly, said good-bye to my brainchild. "We've got other plans for you," said the General Manager for Australia!
When I was a small boy, on the occasions I rode the Milsons Point ferry to town, I always looked out for the "Matson" ships, the "Ventura" and the "Sonoma." They did the San Francisco to Sydney passenger run, and always berthed at East Circular Quay, near the Fort Denison tram-sheds, where the Opera House now stands. I imagined that one day I'd stowaway on the "Sonoma" and visit those romantic exotic South Sea ports she called at on her way back to San Francisco. Before I could execute this plan they replaced the "Ventura" and "Somona" with the "stowaway-proof" luxury liners "Mariposa" and "Monterey."
One morning, in the early 1960s, as the Mariposa" was entering the "Heads," an old man was leaning on the upper-deck railing viewing, through twinkling but misty eyes, the magic that was Sydney Harbour bathed in early morning sunlight. The old man was Jeanma's Uncle Tom; and he was coming home.
Thomas Walker was Olive Hill's only brother. At the age of 19 he had left Australia to join his elder sisters in California where he settled down, married and had two children; Stewart who died very young, and Betty who became Mrs. Neilson. Uncle Tom's first wife died at a comparatively early age, and in time he married her sister who was also to have an early demise. Finally Uncle Tom married their best freind, Mabel, who was accompanying him on this sentimental journey. Rumour had it that he had made his fortune in the brewing industry.
Firstly he visited the home of his boyhood in Shadforth Street, Mosman, where the current occupant, who had lived there for only thirty years, invited him in for tea and scones. Next to Glebe Point, where he found that his old home was being used as the office block in the centre of Hardy's timber yard. It was from Glebe Point that he used to row across the harbour.
On departure day, on the "Mariposa," we had a rare old party in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," (nothing to do with the American literary classic) where I had my first and last taste of American bourbon. I was presented with half a bottle of the stuff which I still have.
In 1985, we entertained for one day, Uncle Tom's three grandchildren, Eric, Sonia and Adam Neilson while they were on a Pacific holiday tour with their mother, Kathy, and their maternal grandmother, Mrs. Salmon, I'm afraid Jeanma wasn't greatly impressed with her American cousins whose ambition didn't go beyond becoming professional baseball players.
The early 60s were eventful years, and not the least eventful was firstly, 1961 when David turned 21; then 1962 when he graduated, then 1963 when Phillipa turned 21; and finally 1964 when she graduated. Twice within eighteen months we joined the throng of proud parents within the hallowed walls of Sydney University Great Hall, to watch the graduation of our young hopefuls, - and we still had one to go.
At the same time I had become Chairman of the Wool Committee of the Sydney Wool-selling Brokers Association, and as such became responsible for the orderly marketing of wool in New South Wales, and again as such, became Junior Spokesman ("spokesperson" hadn't been invented up till then) for the Wool Trade in Sydney.
At that time a number of wool-buyers had started bypassing the capital city auction sales and were buying direct from the growers. The press had reported me as saying that the practice of growers selling direct to over-seas buyers, instead of through the auction system, would, in the long term, be to their (the growers) disadvantage.
Cam Tucker, a genial Queenslander, used to do the ABC Channel Two weather report. He also conducted a quarter-hour interview session prior to the news ("Wide, something or other, he called it) when he discussed subjects of a controversial nature, and of interest to the man on the land. In due course he approached me with the request that I "star" in one of his quarter-hour sessions on the subject of "The Private Selling Of Wool." My principals had doubts as to the wisdom of this move, but after telling me what not to say, agreed to the interview taking place.
On my arriving at the Gore Hill studios, to say that I had a stomach-ful of butterflies, would have been putting it mildly. After the make-up girls had finished with me, I sat down with Cam Tucker and we had a cup of coffee and a friendly chat. As the dreaded time drew close I reminded him that we hadn't discussed (as promised) the questions he was going to ask. To which he replied "Oh, we did all that over coffee." The "studio" in which I was interviewed was a completely bare room with two hard chairs, two TV cameras and two arc lights under which I sweated profusely.
Gratefully there was no adverse reaction to my expressed opinions which, I struggled to keep on a very low, and uncontroversial key. Perhaps it was because no one even saw me on my first and only appearance on television;- which is understandable, because, in those days, on another channel, Australia's first satirical show, the high rating "Mavis Bramston Show" had just started. It starred Carol Raye, Gordon Chater, Noeline Brown, Barrie Creyton, Ron Fraser, with the unseen title role being played by Maggie Dence, whose parents Barbara and Bob were to become our Contract Bridge opponents each Monday and Thursday.
It was during my chairmanship of the Wool Committee that the controversial Wool Floor Price Scheme was being formulated. The wealthy graziers were bitterly opposed to any Government interference in the marketing of wool. On the other hand the battlers felt they were entitled to some protection from the characteristic slumps the wool market suffered. As both classes were our clients I had to adopt a strictly "King Solomon" attitude, but secretly I sided with the "big boys." When it seemed inevitible that scheme of some sort was going to be foisted on us, I supported it on condition that the floor price was no more than, say, 90% of the cost of production. After all the scheme was not being introduced so that woolgrowers would be sure of a profit; it was to help lessen their losses during a market slump. The profits they'd make when the market peaked would take care of the 10%. The stockpile the Australian Wool Corporation built up even when I was selling indicated that the floor price was too high and it's been too high ever since. Just another example of "Greed Inc."
My good friend, Dick Blackwell, was an enthusiastic member of the Broken Bay Game Fishing Club, and his pride and joy was his twin screw fishing launch, "Carranya." Each year in March the Game Fishing Clubs from Sydney, Port Hacking, Broken Bay, Lake Macquarie, Newcastle and Port Stephens, held a combined fishing competition fortnight at Port Stephens. Dick first visited Port Stephens in the early 60s and the following year I was one of the crew when "Carranya" sailed up the cost. The other two were Dick's father and an old fisherman friend of Dick's named "Old Harry." After meeting "Old Harry" I came to understand the meaning of the saying "Old fishermen never die, they just smell that way."
Entering Port Stephens, on a sea of special blue, between little verdant islands, on a sunny March afternoon, was an experience I'll never forget. We passed Shoal Bay, not yet emasculated by developers, and anchored off the mini Halifax Park beach which we shared with Stan Fox and "Miss Eve." The next morning, before making the rush out to sea to catch the first marlin shark or yellow-fin tuna, eighty odd boats did a "march past" the Shoal Bay jetty and weighing station, led by "Commodore" Bob Dyer in his "wedding cake", bristling with fishing rods, the majestic "Tennesee Two." (it was an all white boat with two upper decks, hence the "wedding cake.")
Bob Dyer had come to Australia from Nashville, Tennesee before World War Two, as a small time vaudeville entertainer. I had seen him on the Tivoli stage singing "There's a hole in the Old Oaken Bucket." I understand, however, that his piece de resistance was really "The Death of Willie." Dyer liked Australia. He married one of the girls in the Tivoli chorus and stayed. Bob and Dolly were soon into radio. In those phrenetic early days Bob relied heavily on the comedy tricks he learnt in vaudeville. It was slapstick radio designed as much for the eye as the ear; and the reason was that the audience was there in the auditorium to see those radio shows being made. A "Can You Take It" contestant once wheeled a pram, carrying a midget dressed as a baby, up Pitt Street, for the princley prize of fifty pounds.
With the advent of television Bob and Dolly took to the new medium like a marlin to water. Dyer was an entrepreneur, an electronic circus ring-master, and now and again he discovered a star such as Barry Jones, now Federal Minister for Science, whose bumptious mastery of the quizzes kept millions of Australians spellbound. Bob Dyer's work in the "Pick-a-Box" and "BP Super" Shows earned him an OBE in the Queens honours, and in 1971 the television industry honoured him with its highest award, a gold Logie; - which caused Bob to exclaim, "I'm flabber-bloodlygastered."
At the conclusion of the first days fishing at Port Stephens, a monster bar-b-que was held in the Army hut on Halifax Park, with Bob Dyer as M.C. and the days catch of marlin as the menu. It was then I formed the opinion that marlin could hardly be called a tasty fish.

I made several visits to Port Stephens, during which we generally had moderate success as fishermen. There is nothing more exhilerating than playing a game fish on a light line and watching it jumping out of the water a hundred yards behind the boat in its efforts to free itself. There were two events, however, that were anything but moderate and they are indelibly etched in my memory. The first was when Dick hooked a white shark on a twenty (?) pound breaking strain line. After playing it for half an hour Dick contacted Bob Dyer on the two-way radio seeking advice on how to land it. Bob was as excited as we were and for the next three hours kept in constant radio touch. He felt sure that if we could land it on that line it would be a world record. It surfaced once and gave us all a helluva fright. It looked almost as big as "Carranya." Finally after towing us out into the coastal shipping lanes the brute broke free and we dejectly returned to port.
The second event was, to say the least, more successful. On this occasion wool sales clashing with the Port Stephens fortmight had prevented me from making the trip by sea. As Dalgety/NZL wool manager I was the custodian of a black exterior-red interior Humber Super Snipe, before the merger it had been the pride and joy of Dick Bavin, Dalgety's Sydney Manager. On one Thursday evening I set off, in the Humber, for Halifax Park and a long week-end on "Carranya." The boys, Dick, Bob Martin and Granpa, had tired of "surface" fishing and decided to give the "bottom" a try, so that I could take a fish feed home to Jeanma, Nan and Betty Martin. With the aid of the depthfinder, we located a reef to the east of Broughton Island and dropped the "hook." We must have been on top of a metropolis of hungry schnapper. In less than an hour we had literally half filled the cock-pit with five to ten pound schnapper, and we heard something we never thought we'd ever hear when Grandpa Otto Blackwell said, "I'm too tired and exhausted to fish any more." Back in port we faced the problem of how to get the catch back to Sydney.
Dick had a large galvanised trough in "Carranya" which neatly sat on the back seat of my car. We filled the trough with ice and the fish that wouldn't fit in "Carranya's" freezer, and off I went. Driving through Newcastle I had to brake suddenly at a cross street. Yes, you've guessed right. The trough tipped over depositing fish and slosh all over the red carpetted floor. On arriving home those same fish more than covered our kitchen floor as, after calling in Nan, Bet, the Brays, and all the neighbours, we went through the ritual of "one for you, one for him, one for me," many times over.
And the Humber! - well, despite all the modern deodorants the smell remained until the day we traded it in, to remind me of the greatest day's fishing I ever had.
        Just a little bit of fisherman's boasting from
        Your loving,
        Pa.
        Chapter Nine
        1964-1966
        Lane Cove
        10th October, 1987.
My dear children,
On the 25th March, 1964, we celebrated our Silver Wedding Anniversary by attending the wedding of Wendy Blackwell and John Moore at St.Stephens Church, in Macquarie Street, Sydney.
The evening started off with problems, when we, and all the wedding cars on the way to the Church, got caught in a North Sydney traffic jam during the peak hours. As we crawled across Sydney Harbour Bridge we passed the bride's car in the other lane. To our horror Wendy leaned out of the window and yelled, "Uncle Neck, I've forgotten my petticoat, will you please go back and get it." So we paid two tolls, fought our way back to 1 Carranya Road, and arrived at the church half way through the ceremony. Later as we approached the Bridal Party, at the reception in the "Amory" at Ashfield, Wendy, with a mischieveous grin on her face, discreetly lifted the hem of her wedding gown to show us two bare feet.
I had the job of proposing the toast to the Bride and Groom and about that I can remember just three things. Firstly, someone giving me a triple scotch, secondly, comparing John with the clean and friendly and wholesome north-western country kids I had made friends with during my school holidays in Moree, and thirdly, high-lighting Wendy's thoughtfulness and interest in others, and giving as an example, her Christmas gift to us of a new garbage can, which prompted me to say that every time I put the garbage out I was reminded of Wendy.
Soon after this Wendy must have noticed that the brush with which we cleaned our toilet was almost devoid of bristles. Sure enough Wendy and John's present to Jean-ma on her next birthday was a new toilet brush, complete with holder. I am very glad this didn't happen before the wedding, because, with a triple scotch aboard, I might have been tempted to include that story in my speech, and conclude by saying that every time we went to the toilet we would be reminded of Wendy and John.
I was sorry that I forgot to tell the story about the time that Wendy first introduced us to her "intended." John had been having concertina lessons, and had brought along his instrument just in case someone asked him to play, which, of course, we did. After the recital I made a shocking fauz pas when I asked the name of the piece, and John replied, "God Save The Queen."
You may wonder how I came to be called "Uncle Neck." Well, when she was a small child, Wendy (or Woo, as she was called) had a habit of transposing words, and on one occasion exclaimed, after I had experienced some misfortune, "Poor old Uncle Neck has got it in the rus, again;" and with her, the name stuck.
There will always be a bond between us and the Junior Moores for they chose not only our wedding date for their own, but also named their three children, David, Richard and Philippa. By the end of 1964 our David was well established in Crompton-Parkinson, travelling each day to Campbelltown; our Phillipa was about to leave Royal Prince Alfred for Tamworth Base Hospital; our Richard was sitting for his Leaving Certificate; and our Jean-ma had gone back to school; - The East Sydney Technical College - Ceramics Department.
As a school-girl at North Sydney Girls High School, one of Jean-ma's favourite subjects was Art. Unfortunately for her, her early artistic career suffered a severe set-back when she had to leave school prematurely in order to nurse her mother. However, in the 1930s she made another attempt to develop her latent skills when she attended classes on ceramic art conducted by Nell McCredie in a studio over a shop in George Street, opposite Wynyard Railway Station; a shop long since demolished. Once again her artistic career was interupted when she met me and I talked her in to giving married life a trial and raising a family.
Undaunted, as soon as her last-born could be safely left in my hands, with some of her local friends, she joined the pottery classes at the Chatswood Evening School where she came under the benign artistic influence of Mrs. Phyllis Molesworth. With Chatswood pupils as its nucleus, and Jean-ma an enthusiastic foundation member, Phyllis Molesworth formed the North Shore Arts and Crafts Group, and in July 1956 they held their first exhibition in the Chatswood School of Arts. These exhibitions are now held in the Pymble Community Hall each July and are of such a high standard that they attract thousands of visitors.
In search of perfection, in 1963 Jean-ma enrolled at the East Sydney Technical College and became committed to a three year ceramic arts course. Coincidently and independently Barbara Dean, now Gilchrist, had done the same, and the two worked together, rubbing shoulders with Bohemians like Peter Travis, Janet Mansfield and other long-hairs.
After their graduation Jean-ma and Barbara joined the Ceramic Study Group who had a pottery studio in the cellar of a building in Walker Street, North Sydney, occupied by the Royal Art Society of N.S.W. at that time run by Roma Lewington. In this damp cellar, with other group members, among whom were Marg Gaden and Rosalie Shirlaw (mother of the winning Olympic sculler; now the Shore "eights" coach), Jean-ma and Barbara's inspirations turned into ceramic masterpieces that won prizes in the Royal Easter Show. The marvel of it all was that neither of them contracted pneumonia during their stay there.
Finally in July 1969 we purchased a small "Blau" hobby kiln that could be "fired " off a domestic electric power-point, and the really interesting work began; particularly when three years later we invested in a sophisticated "Ward" kiln with an automatic device that switched it off when it reached the correct temperature. The years that followed, up to the early 80s, were crammed with successful exhibitions of Jean-ma's work, with commercial art galleries eager to dispose of anything she could produce; - for a commission, of course. But I'm racing too far ahead.
In December 1964 Jack Goff resigned as N.S.W. manager for Dalgety/NZL, to take up the position of "the big boss" of Kameruka Estate; a feudal collection of nineteen dairy farms in the Bega district. The hub of the organisation was a cheese factory and a palatial home presided over by the Lord of the Fief - Master Goff. "Kameruka" was owned by a Scottish family named Tooth, who also owned a brewery, "The White Horse," in Sydney.
Following Jack Goff's resignation, Eric Nolan, formerly Dalgety's South Australian Manager, was appointed Manager for New South Wales, with Brian Hawkes and myself as Joint Assistant Managers. The "powers that were" then made, what I thought at the time, a very peculiar decision. They made me responsible for the Company's activities relating to Merchandising, Insurance, Property Sales, Travel and Shipping, sections in which I'd had no experience. Whilst Brian Hawkes, who was originally an insurance manager, was responsible for Wool, Fatstock, Station Produce, Bloodstock, Exports and Finance. I supposed that the Company was following the practice of the banks who moved their branch managers as soon as they became too familiar with company clientele. Within the next decade, this move, where I lost control of, in particular, Sheepskin Exports, was to be proved very much to the Company's disadvantage.
One of the fringe benefits of my appointment was membership of the Australian Club; two loyal old clients of the New Zealand Loan, Tom McHattie and Norman Allen were my nominators. There I rubbed shoulders with some of the wealthiest graziers in the land, not forgetting such big names as Sir Garfield Barwick and company; in fact, "the Establishment." Unfortunately I was not there long enough to be the recipient of an honour for "services to the wool industry," or, in other words, just doing my job, which seems to be a good enough reason for public servants to receive recognition from our monarch on her birthday or New Years Day.
Phillipa with three friends, Rossie Dance, Philippa Hasker and Libby McIntosh, left, on the M.V. Gallileo, on an over-seas adventure, in May 1965. I had organised a business trip North when she resigned from Tamworth Base Hospital where I interrupted her sad farewells, to bring her back to Sydney. On the run home she cried all the way from Tamworth to Newcastle.
This adventure will no doubt be the subject of a few chapters when, for the benefit of her grand-children, she writes her life story. Suffice for me to say that the events that stick in my mind are, her working in a London hospital with a blind physio-therapist; selling her blood when she was stony broke in Athens, and meeting by accident her Aunt Isabelle in Piccadilly, both of them unaware that the other was anywhere else but home in Australia.
I knew the four girls intended making a camping-holiday-tour of Europe, so I armed Phillipa with a letter of introduction to our French agent in Mazamet, M. Rene Roques, just in case a "friend in need" was really needed. Apparently they called on old Rene, who treated them to dinner at his home and afterwards drove them back to the camp site and to his horror discovered, as he reported to me later, that the four girls were actually sleeping on the ground. I think from then on he visualised me as being part aborigine.
When Phillipa arrived home on the M.V. Canberra (via Panema Canal) in October, 1966, her most significant comment was, "If ever I have a doughter of my own she will never be allowed to go over-seas." (She needn't have worried, for she ended up with 4 boys.)
By this time another of our fledglings was in England. David was doing a four months training course at Crompton Parkinson's Doncaster (UK) works.
"Aunt Isa" had been on a world tour with a friend, Betty Cory. While in England they met Dick Pope. His wife, Heather, had died some seven or eight years earlier. Soon after her arrival back home Isabelle phoned to tell me that she was getting married again; and there was no prize for guessing who the bride-groom was. Would I come down and give her away?
Once again I combined business with pleasure. After attending a monster sheep sale at "Widgiewa" in the Riverina, I carried on to Melbourne, with Jean-ma, and there, at St.Silas Church, in North Baldwin, on the 18th November, 1966, I became a bi-sexual; my sister's bridesmaid (or matron of honour), at the same time her nearest male relative (or giver-away) and also at the same time, my old friend Dick Pope's best man - for the second time. I had a very busy time that day with veils and rings and bouquets.
Earlier that same year a horrific change in all our lives had taken place, when we were all "decimalised." Sadly I converted my "browns" (pennies), my "bobs" and "deenas" (shillings) and my "quids." No longer could I call five shillings a "dollar", for it was in fact now equal to ten shillings, and was made up of one hundred cents. How unromantic. After twenty years of dollars and cents not one of the seven decimal coins or six notes has earned a familiar nick-name. Nobody will convince me that the feet-pounds and pints system, and the good old pounds-shillings-and pences, were not only a lot more romantic than our metric measurements and decimal currency, but are not so out of use as the various Government Boards would have us believe.
I am still told that I am a "yard" or "three feet" short of the jack. I still boast that my car can do so many "miles" to the "gallon." I have yet to hear a bream fisherman skiting about a "beaut one point five kilo" bream he landed off West Head. To any self-respecting fisherman a "three pounder" will always be a "beaut four pounder." Tall men are still "sixfooters," shapely blondes (thank goodness) are still 36-24-36, and a "seven" still holds seven "onces" of beer. Also, after a trip over-seas, Australia is still "miles" better than any other country in this "metricated" world.
If there were any grey hairs starting to show on our heads at this time they could have been, at least partially, attributed to the fact that David owned, and drove, a Morris Elite, and he had acquired an interest in a Perisher Valley ski lodge to which he raced on Friday nights so that he could get a full week-end ski-ing, and then race back to Sydney on Sunday nights.
During the Easter holidays in 1965 the inevitable happened when they rolled the car on the Monaro Highway, Phillipa and John Clark were with him at the time and I still shudder when I think what might have happened. I can only conclude that there must be such an organisation as "Guardian Angels Incorporated" and that our kids subscriptions were up to date.
At long last, on the 1st February, 1967, to be exact I was appointed Manager of Schute Bell Badgery Lumby Limited, (now a wholly owned subsidary of Dalgety/NZL) forty-four years and four months after I'd joined the firm as a pimply-faced office boy. I imagined that I would now have ahead of me less than six years of comparatively easy and interesting work; something I was trained for and enjoyed. Then I remembered the first and last words to me from the founder of the firm, Frank Dillon Bell, 44 years earlier, "You can take it from me, Shorter, being the boss is not all beer and skittles;" the truth of which I was soon to find out.
In the mid 1960s I treated myself to a nostalgic dose of "Lindfield Revisited."
Prominent among my childhood heroes were the Australian explorers. I can remember feeling sorry that I was not born a hundred years earlier, so that I could have been part of Hume and Hovell's expedition up the Tumut Valley and their incredible feat of transport over the Buddong Range and on to the Murray River; - so that I could have shared Allan Cunningham's joy as he travelled through "Pandora's Pass" to view the Liverpool Plains; - so that I could stand by John Oxley's side on Mount Seaview and contemplate the dense forests he still had to hack through before he reached the Penal settlement of Port Macquarie;- so that I could have joined Captain Sturt's historic voyage down the Murrumbidgee River; - who knows; the fate of Burke and Wills may have been different had I been with them.
Bearing all this in mind, it is not surprising that soon after we moved to 22 Newark Crescent, Lindfield in 1918 I commenced "exploring" the many acres of virgin bushland that lay to the west between our home and the Lane Cove River; an area where blacks of the Cameragal tribes once camped and escaped convicts lay in hiding.
As I "explored" my new Playground, very carefully I mapped it, from home to Fullers Bridge and old Fiddens Wharf.
Incidently, Joseph Pheedons, whose name was pronounced and subsequently corrupted to "Fiddens," was a famous Lane Cove River waterman and timber-getter, who, in the early 1800s, according to the writer Alexander Harris, "-every tide did he make a trip to Sydney, pulling long heavy oars with three tons of wood in the boat, besides loading and unloading; two trips up and down, or, to strike an average, about forty-six miles -."
On my map, very carefully I noted, the spots where grew the waratahs, the native roses, the flannel flowers, the white boronia, and epacris longiflora. Very carefully I drew the the bush tracks that led to these spots, and to a swimming pool called "The Blue Hole," part of the head-waters of the Lane Cove River, under the old wooden Deburghs Bridge.
I'm afraid that I wouldn't have passed a surveyors examination with this map; a pocket compass was my only guide; in those days I didn't have the assistance of Mister Gregory's street directory.
Nevertheless on my map I traced a creek which had its source in the hollow between Balfour and Bent Street, Lindfield, skirted a number of back yards, then gurgled its way through leafy gullies till its waters joined the Lane Cove River, amongst the she-oaks and mangroves, at a spot near Fullers Bridge called "Jenkins Orchard," where, from time to time, with my pals, Ron Rae and Col Marr, I helped myself to floury Christmas apples and half-ripe pears.
In the grand scheme of things, one little suburban creek can't be said to count for much. To generations of local children, however, it was Utopia. In or on its waters were small fish, eels, turtles, wild ducks, yabbies and all sorts of weird and wonderful tiny bugs; and I collected them all. Professor "Drydust," they called me.
The surrounding bush was equally wonderous. The number of things to grab the attention seemed endless; gaping banksia men, dripping tenacles of blood-red resin from the angophoras, aggressive bulldog ants, elusive cicadas, unreachable possum nests, chattering birds, lizards and even poisonous snakes. As an escape from school and home (and from rules, cleanliness and order), the creek and bush were prized assets, and I treated them as such.
Revisiting these childhood haunts nearly 40 years later was a rude and sickening surprise. Outwardly, things looked much the same. But close up the waters of the creek - the artery that sustained all life - had become strangely sterile. Delicate water weeds had been replaced by spreading webs of green slime. Where that water tumbled over rocks, a brown soapy scum formed. Pools that were once wide and deep were choked by silt, and littering the silt banks were old car tyres, bottles, beer cans and papers, interpersed with gaudy plastic bottle tops and chunks of packaging foam. Creekside vegetation was festooned with tatty sheets of plastic, snagged high up in the branches after some past flood.
A favourite water-hole for catching tad-poles had shrunk to half its former size; its outstanding feature was now an abandoned super-market trolley lying on its side in the centre. The plant life on either side of the creek banks had been transormed. Most of the native trees and bushes - notable the elegant casuarinas and paper-barks were gone. The possum nests, in the tall gums that remained, were empty. Native ferns wrestled with sprawling blackberry bushes, privet, lantana and kikuyu grass for space and light, and a whole grove of mature banksia trees had been smashed down and burnt.
Up on the hill where once I had picked native roses and waratahs, an Air Force Base had been built and later converted to a Migrant Camp.
At a spot on the banks of the Lane Cove River, where once I fished for cat-fish (that blew up like balloons when you landed them), on New Years morning, 1963, they found, in amongst the discarded cardboard cartons, the semi-nude bodies of Dr. Gilbert Bogle, a brilliant CSIRO scientist, and Mrs. Margaret Chandler, a 29 year old mother of two. They were last seen alive at a New Year's Eve party. Over twenty years later the cause of their death is still unknown. Police, scientists and criminologists all over the world have studied the case and dubbed it "the mystery of the century." Speculation ranged from a suicide pact or "crime passionille," to a cloak and dagger plot by the Russian KGB. Rumour had it that the police knew who dunnit but could not produce sufficient court-room-acceptable proof to lay a charge.
So much for Justice! And so much for "Lindfield Revisited" - Two human beings and a creek that died.
At about this time we happened to learn that a number of streams in another part of the country - the Southern Mountains - were dying, just like my little creek, but in a far more noble and worthwhile cause. In fact, something very exciting was happening near Mount Kosciusko. So one day we set forth and booked in at a motel overlooking the partly demolished village of Jindabyne.
Next morning we boarded a tourist bus and that night, after a short tour included Guthega Dam and Power Station, we were bedded down in a workmens dormitory hut at Island Bend, where a comparatively small dam had been built to hold the water that was to be diverted from Lake Eucumbene (Snowy River) to the Murray Power Stations.
The next day started off quietly enough with a launch trip across Lake Eucumbene to Old Adaminaby, feeding the Kangaroos on an island en route. But the bus trip that followed was a hair-raising experience. We were taken to Happy Jacks, by short cut down the side of a mountain, on a construction road that was normally used by 4-wheel-drive vehicles and soon after was closed to buses. Happy Jacks was a pondage holding water being diverted to the Tumut Power Stations. In the afternoon we visited Tumut No.2 Poser Station built inside a mountain and finished up in another workmens dormitory hut in Cabramurra. That night we joined the population of Cabramurra in the Community Hall playing Bingo.
Our last day was taken up with visits to Tumut Pond, Tooma Dam and the new town of Khancoban where we saw Muray No.1 and No.2 Power Stations under construction, with bull-dozer drivers pushing their machines over the steep mountain side like flies on a wall. Lunch was served at the Geehi construction canteen, before a quick trip back to Jindabyne via Thredbo.
I can remember an amusing aside on this trip. One of our fellow passengers was a rather talkative grazier named "Renshaw" (a brother of one-time Labour Premier, Jack Renshaw). A wool client of Elder Smith's, he very loudly condemned all company mergers, particularly that of Dalgety and New Zealand Loan. Ironically, within a month or two, Elders had merged with Goldsbrough Mort. I felt like writing to him and asking what he thought about it.
Twenty odd years later, while my broken-down car was being made to function by a N.R.M.A. mechanic, I spent a couple of very interesting hours yarning to the engineer-in-charge of the Blowering Dam and Power Station at Tumut, the second largest dam in the Snowy Mountains Scheme. He had been on the job for 27 years and had participated in the original survey work in the Tumut Valley. He explained how the supply of power and irrigation water controlled, how the power line were thrown across the valleys, with Italian workmen dangling from them in bosuns chairs, and how they went about the rejuvenation of damaged natural surrounds. At the foot of the dam a most attractive picnic park had been laid out; but soon after, its lawns had been decimated by the swarms of rabbits who made their homes in the dam wall, so the park now is completely enclosed in a rabbitproof fence.
His most significant comment, however, came when he said, "Thank goodness the Snowy Mountains Hydro-electric Power Act got through parliament before the 50s. Had the decision been delayed much longer, I'm afraid the "greenies" would have become electorally strong enough to "torpedo" it the same way they wrecked the Franklin Dam scheme."
Environmentalists are an odd breed of people. They storm and rant and violently demonstrate against the building of a hydro-electric complex like the Franklin River project, then, I'd say 99%, go home, turn on their electric light, micro-wave oven and electric blanket, but never give a thought for the poor fellow whose farm was submerged in order to maintain this standard of living for them. They chain themselves to forest giants protesting against the greed of logging companies, then return to a comfortable home whose roof timbers, floor, and sometimes walls, are only their because some other forest giants have been felled to supply that timber. There is a word for this kind of attitude but for the moment it escapes me.
        Until next time,
        your loving,
        Pa.

        Chapter Ten
        Geriatric Wisdom
        Lane Cove.
        8th December, 1987.
My Dear Children,
Four of you have already received from my cograndparent, affectionately known as "Kenno" his "Document of Wisdom." For the benefit of my other seven grandchildren "Kenno's" philosophy is hereunder repeated, and I quote:-
        "In reply to your request to document the wisdom of a
lifetime - My first advice is to be as much like your parents as possible. You will look far and wide for better examples of people who have made the most of their lives and opportunities.
I sincerely believe it is worth grandparents documenting their ideas, because when it comes to experience, they have something even your parents don't have, and that is, we have lived through all 5 stages of living - childhood, youth, young adulthood, middle age and finally old age, and it is in the fifth stage that we can look back and decide what we would do differently if we had our whole life to live again. There is no doubt that we learn most from our mistakes - not from our successes, although the things we did correctly help to confirm why we are convinced about some of our experiences.
The first lesson is perhaps why Asians are so successful, and in case you have doubts about that statement, you'll find how hard they are to beat, if you come against Chinese, Vietnamese or Japanese students in school or university. Like you children (you must be exceptionally wise for young Australians) the Asians have a tremendous respect for the wisdom of worthwhile elderly people, and they (the Asians) are prepared to listen enormously by being guided away from the mistakes that their predecessors made. If someone knows where the bombs are located in a minefield, it is really well worth seeking advice about which are the safe pathways through.
My first conviction - Your body is the most incredible machine that was ever "invented", it will work longer than almost anything man can make, without requiring replacement parts. If given the opportunity, it will do the majority of its own repairs. Given reasonable conditions it will guard you against serious diseases - its incredible immune system will send the right combatants to attack any invaders menacing your health. Its brain is a more brilliant set of electronics than the largest costliest computer ever built.
You were born with a set of genes. They determine the colour of your hair and eyes, your face and figure. These genes are the human "memory bank" that has been accumulating data for about 400 million years. No wonder our man-made computers with only 20 or 30 years of experience bear no comparison to your personal computer, your marvellous brain. What a good idea to make the most of it.
To see just one example of its brilliance, watch the fingers of a concert pianist at the keyboard during a concerto that calls for his hands to choose an endless succession of extraordinarily difficult chords and runs and differences in weight and volume of notes, tempo that changes from lightning speed to measured slowness and leaps again to frenetic full gallops of glorious melody - then consider that this "computer" mind can store all this for an uninterrupted 45 minutes, or an hour of music, but that same pianist tomorrow night can order his "memory bank" to produce, just as brilliantly, a totally new concerto from his repertoire of perhaps a score or more.
Now think that same musician is quite likely to speak 5 or 6 languages, play squash for relaxation, and help his children with their physics and trigonometry. But that is not all, perhaps that same musician or one of his predecessors, wrote, in crotchets and quaver, all that glorious melody, and orchestrated it for the huge variety of brass, strings, winds, percussion and any other instruments that combine to make a symphony orchestra; and it all formed and was created in the wonderful electronic miracle equipment we call our brain.
Because your body, and that includes that brilliant brain, is the only one you will ever have, surely the most sensible thing any person can do, is to maximise its potential. To maximise the one and only you, there are (I believe) very distinct do's and don'ts. Again I find it hard to give you as good an example as your mother. Study her for the right do's and the right don'ts.
If I had my whole life over again, I would start from my first opportunity, and never let up on physical fitness. I put physical fitness before mental fitness, because I believe maximising your mental potential, demands maximum physique. As already considered, the brain is an unbelievable brilliant "creative, storage and reasoning" piece of electronics. Its dynamo is the body. Someone is sure to point out that there have been men and women of immense brilliance (like Einstein) who may or may not have been at all athletic or vigorous (although I seem to remember seeing Einstein as a tennis player). Others will point out that many genius's produced their most brilliant work when plagued by illness. Unfortunately, there are too few genius's and those who are so blessed are sometimes genetic freaks, born with incredible constitutions and massive "electrical" intellectual equipment. The great promise of any healthy person, however, is the frequent statement of genius (which has so often been made) which is:- Genius is one fifth inspiration and four-fifths application". It is not remarkable that many of the world's most successful athletes are also amongst the world's most successful people, in business, professions, or even capitalising on their sport.
To me there's not a lot of difference between the fitness of an Olympic gold medallist and a dedicated amateur. Its the general level of fitness that is so important and not being genetically programmed to being an Olympic gold medallist, or becoming involved in a single sport, to the exclusion of a balanced life.
So to carry out this conviction of treasuring your health and fitness, let's think of a few of the do's and don'ts. They often require self-discipline, particularly initially, but when they get to be a habit, you usually find you greatly prefer to do the right thing by your body.
Exercise is probably the best example. You often have to speak to your lazy bones in a very severe tone of voice to get out of bed and go running and swimming - particularly on wet and windy mornings, but, as you all already know, the glow you feel and your clear head after you have made the effort, make it all so very worthwhile.
Physical fitness will extend your life. But that's not the most important consideration. What is more important, is that it will extend the quality of your life. You'll be fitter, and by physical comparisons, so much younger than your years, if you maintain, day in, day out, hard regular exercise, and I would include in that routine yoga, and when mental pressures are really on, meditation. Again for proof, I quote your mother. At 40, with 4 children, she could be fat, flabby, short of breath, tired and dull. As one reaches old age, you realise that it is not number of years that are important. We know an old lady who lived to be 96, but the last 19 years were spent in bed in a nursing home. Those last 19 years were not a bonus. Long life is only and advantage when you can enjoy it. I am sure that if you lay the right foundations (and you have done so to date), and you keep up the fitness and respect for your body, you can greatly extend the length and quality of your lives. There is no reason why at 70 and far beyond, you can not enjoy all the things you enjoy as young people.
The do's then are exercise; giving a lot of attention to eating the right food; and being intellectually involved and enthused about living.
To pause a moment about food. I never quite considered how important it was until the last couple of months when I have been on pills to reduce my blood pressure (I still think there may be a more natural and better way, although blood-pressure can be genetic also). To achieve the miracle of reducing my blood pressure from 219/95 (pumping up a column of mercury) to 140/80, in less than 6 weeks, I took 1.5 milligrams of a drug per day! That made me realise the potential for good, and bad, in all the great quantities of "food-fuel" we shovel into our "engines" every day. If its vegetable, grains, protein, beans, and all the great fruits and goodies your mother dished up, its good. If it is animal fats, salt, excessive sugar, laced with chemical preservatives and colouring, or cooked vitamin-less, it is just oily sludge dragging down your performance. Among the "don'ts" is :- don't expect most doctors to know about nutrition. It is barely in the medical curriculum, so you'll have to look elsewhere for facts on the chemistry of foods.
Heading the list of don'ts is - don't start bad habits. You are already aware that, though not the most injurious, the most quickly acquired drug habit is smoking. I know a man who gave up the habit for 8 years, lit one cigarette for his stepdaughter, and now smokes about 80 cheroots a day, coughs like a clogged vacuum cleaner, and is a certain candidate for emphysema, heart disease or lung cancer, or all three. The ridiculous thing about smoking is the way kids start. Cigarettes are packaged to look like beautiful exotic sweets. In fact they taste like burning leaf mould (not to be confused with dry leaves). They burn your tongue, stink your breath and clothes, and if smokers are honest with you, they are distinctly unpleasant; but people smoke because they adopted the habit to show off (not realising how stupid they look and are) and the only pleasure they get (and its a form of pleasure) is satisfying the fearful drug dependency they get every 15 to 29 minutes when the nicotine has been diluted by their valiant body trying to eliminate it.
There is one exception, but like all drugs it has to be approached with great self-discipline and if at any time it use even begins to be compulsive, you have to stop and stop for good. This permissable "vice" is alcohol, which is a social habit, a pleasant addition to other gastronomic indulgences, and if used in moderation can actually reduce stress and extend life - BUT - if abused or allowed to become master (instead of very humble servant that can be dismissed an not even missed) then alcohol can be as disastrous as the worst hard drugs. Alcohol abuse destroys more promissing careers, kills more people in motor accidents, reduces some people to pitiable, prematurely aged derelicts, destroys family life, loses fortunes and finally totally destroys the habitual drunk. Its danger is that it relaxes and because just one drink brings on euphoric relaxation, it is more difficult to refuse the second drink, more difficult still to refuse the third and thereafter follows no sense of responsibility at all.
Experienced, sophisticated and intelligent drinkers acquire their experience in the loving and caring atmosphere of their homes, learn to appreciate the combination of good food and moderate drink, realise their own sensible limits and have the strength of character to demand as their inalienable right, the right to stay absolutely sober, even if everyone else chooses to over-indulge. Powerful self-respect and conviction are not scorned by one's peers - they may pretend to disapprove of your strength of character, but the worthwhile peers will admire you and wish they too, had the same moral strength.
And while on moral strength, never hesitate to say to anyone you know who has drunk too much, that you won't be driven in their car. Find a tactful excuse if you can, but if you can't, don't get in the car.
My next conviction is that in a healthy body, a top class brain increases in efficiency by maximum use, and that your satisfaction during your life, and your satisfaction in reviewing your life when you are old, will all be dependent on what use you make of your brain, your intellect.
In school, whether primary, secondary or tertiary (university), you have two choices. One is to waste the greatest opportunity in life, the other is to relish the wonderful gift of being exposed to teaching, a privilege not available too billions of children in 3rd world countries. Ignore the temperament of the teacher. They may or may not be gifted communicators, but they have knowledge. Make sure you get every morsel they have to offer. Probe and dig for all the knowledge you can get. Try to extend your teachers and professors. Take up the challenge to be excellent. You may not have the luck to be the absolute top - genius and brilliance can be a gift - but your performances to date indicate that great achievement is well within your orbit (I am more than delighted with your results to date). The people who get the most out of life are the people with searching minds - the people who are intensely interested in everything for the sheer joy of excellence and knowledge, and being an "intellectual champion".
Note how many of the truly massive mentalities throughout history, the Leonardo da Vinci's, the Winston Churchills, the Lord Nuffields, the Einsteins, the Earl Mountbattens (assassinated at 80+) lived to great old age. A close to home example was Professor Wilkinson who was 92 when he died in his sleep. It is exceptional for extremely gifted people to die young - not because they are gifted, but because their lifelong obsession with their aim (or frequently a great number of interests), keeps them physically and mentally on an intellectual high and a life of physical vitality, while the nonachievers die at 65 or less of boredom and lack of activity. Titian probably the world's greatest painter, died at 99. Churchill was an outstanding example of a brilliant mind with a vast width of obsessive interest. He was an adventurer, earned his living as a journalist and war reporter, flier, soldier, outstanding painter, historian, writer of great distinction, obsessed with house building, orator, and the political leader who did more than any man on earth to save the world from Nazi domination, slavery and moral degradation. Despite having carried more responsibility and burden than any man in history to date, he lived to be a hearty 85 (or was it 86).
Great minds, in great bodies, with great obsessions in life, are the ultimate aims I hope for in my grandchildren. Note my term "great obsesseion"? It does not necessarily mean "wealth". Mozart died penniless, his pauper's grave remains unknown, but his music will live for eternity.
Note also that I don't advocate poverty. It has little to recommend it. Poverty spells (often) lack of independence, (usually( lack of privacy, (invariably) lack of comfort, (usually) hunger and therefore physical weakness, and (usually) lack of recognition and self-respect. It can be very hard on your family too. There should be a balance between devotion to your ideal and objective, and having the strength to demand that your labour and devotion to your ideal is recognised and rewarded. Don't ever underestimate or undersell yourself. Conversely follow Churchill's advice - "Bite off more than you can chew and then chew like hell".
My father, your great grandfather, who should be remembered with awe and affection for the role he played in life, that has carried benefits on from generation to generation, once said to me, as a very young man entering the business world: "If your boss asks you if you can jump over the moon, don't say no. Say I haven't tried it yet sir, but if you want it done, I'll give it a really good try." That was when the moon was up in a "literal" heaven, Astronaut Armstrong had no idea he was destined to jump over the moon, and the idea that man ever could jump over the moon would have been ridiculed by less visionary men.
What my dear Dad was saying was, have confidence in your ability to achieve anything you set your mind to. If you really want something badly enough, almost anything is either achievable or, to use a colloquialism "You can give it a good shake", which means you can learn a lot and achieve a lot towards that so called "unattainable" objective.
What about morals? The first moral principle in my view is that there is only one sin, and that sin is consciously harming innocent people (or consciously and pointlessly being cruel and uncaring about any other living thing).
When you analyse it, causing harm to others embraces a lot of individual sins. For example there is little to choose between making a machine gun and being the soldier who pulls the trigger. It can be validly argued that making the gun for profit was much more sinful than firing it in self defence.
This moral principle of asking yourself whether your lifetime activities will leave the world a better place because you lived in it, or a place despoiled by your selfishness or greed, will allow you, when evaluating your life at any or every stage in it, to review your actions either with pride or shame.
None of us is a complete saint. Most saints would be terribly boring to live with. This grandfather certainly wouldn't want a clutch of "holier than thou" grandchildren. When you do kick over the traces, take into consideration who is going to suffer - a careless moment or a reckless act could destroy the life or mind of someone you didn't mean to hurt.
If you do falter occasionally on your way along the road of life, just take the experience responsibly, make amends if you can, but go on again determined to do better.
Honesty. It may not be the quickest way to make money, but it is the only policy in life. We strive for wealth almost invariably to lift the status and plesure of our family. But the only thing you can and should be sure of leaving your successors, is a bright and shiny good name and the knowledge that you and they together, can look any person on earth straight in the eye and feel no sense of shame.
My final advice to you is to consider four important subjects - in order of priority - world peace, environment, heritage and beauty.
World Peace because war is barbaric, senseless, without victors; it is the product of prejudice, narrow-mindedness, ignorance and appalling greed. There have been occasions when it has been necessary. For example it was necessary to defeat Hitler, who was the nearest human to a spiritual devil ever, but where the wickedness and gullibility was most manifest, was in the actions of those Germans who supported the Nazis and allowed their nation to launch a war. With the invention of atomic weapons all war must be totlly outlawed. Throughout your lives make your dedication to this idel a paramount conviction.
Environment. The world can be a paradise, if man will only act towards it responsibly. Again man's need, his greed, his selfishness and an attitude of "I'm all right, let the rest of the world worry about deserts, soil erosion, pollution and the future world for subsequent generations" is not good enough. I am appalled at acts of violence by irresponsible vandals who rip down the council's newly planted trees, scatter litter over the beaches they use, throw rubbish on the highways, waste fuel and rubber when showing off driving away from the traffic lights and so on. As your body and brain are the only ones you'll ever have, our beautiful world is the only one of its kind (we know of) in the entire Universe, and we better all make the most of it. Plant trees and all forms of greenery, fight soil erosion and saltation, re-cycle and save energy, avoid excessive use of harmful chemicals and conserve species - we never know which unlikely scrap of weed or which insignificant animal or insect may be needed to breed new generations of animal life or produce new chemicals essential to man. Nature is wonderful. Man is the only animal capable of destroying it.
Heritage. Environment is part of heritage, but heritage includes the accumulated creativity of all the people who preceded us. Heritage includes ancient marvels like the Pyramids of Egypt and the Aztecs, the sculptures and treasures of ancient Greece and Rome such as you can see in the Vatican Museum in Rome, and the National Gallery in London, but heritage includes all the lovely buildings, the magnificently crafted furniture, the painting, the crafts of the potters and artists in cermic, the art of silver and gold smiths, the art of China and the East. To become an art connoisseur is to enjoy culture, to have the fun (and sometimes incredible rewards) from discovering something beautiful as well as precious. It may be lying unnoticed covered in dust and spiderwebs almost anywhere in the world. If you have an informed eye and a love of beauty, you may someday find a treasure. Even if you don't, you can enjoy being on intimate terms with craftsmanship, culture and beauty, and that can be as rewarding as the richest dinner.
And finally Beauty. It is everywhere from the incredible wonders of nature - the wings of a butterfly, the shape and colour of a flower or a tree, the patterns of the feathers on a lorikeet's head or wing, or a peacock's or lyrebird's tail - snow on trees, icicles hanging from roofs and branches, sunsets at night, clouds and mists, fish and coral in a tropical sea, seaweed and sand seen through your snorkle - take time to see it, and remember, the most beautiful thing to have, to give to receive, is a smile."
I have read with great interest "Kenno's" advice to his grandchildren. In fact I have read it several times, and with each reading my endorsement of his sentiments has become stronger. He has left little room for further recommendations from me. So it is with a certain feeling of temerity, therefore, that I make these further comments.
Much as I'd like to think we live in "Utopia," I have found that it pays to acknowledge the facts of life and nature. For safety's sake, bear in mind that, to a degree, the law of the jungle still prevails in this sophisticated and computerised world. Don't be misled in believing that Adolf Hitler was the last of his tribe. I make no excuse for quoting platitudes like "might is right" (whether it be physical or mental), "survival is the prerogative of the fittest", and " it takes all sorts to make a World" (like finger-prints, no two humans are the same).
While you are following "Kenno's" excellent counselling, never forget that you live in a very large world, full of many, many people, some of whom you'll have to come into very close contact with. Like you, these people will have ambitions and cravings, and their decisions will at times influence and conflict with yours. Just as the circumstances of their birth, their up-bringing, their natures, and their very survival could differ from yours, so their methods of achieving their ambitions will also differ; and it will be to your advantage to know just how they differ.
All of which leads me to admonish you to make a close study of human nature and the art of making friends and influencing people. Learn from history and others experiences; it will help you to understand and solve many problems, to avoid misjudgements and even to choose a compatible vocation; and when choosing a vocation, lean towards, not only something you're good at, but also something you like doing, something that has an element of challenge. Above all make yourself "wanted", even indispensible, to those many other people in this grand old world we live in, and it wont hurt to remember that you will catch more flies with honey than you will with vinegar.
Having expressed an opinion on living, may I now express an opinion on dying.
Recently the newspapers gave front page headlines to a suicide pact entered into by a well known married couple in the prime of life and in good health, who gave as their reason for committing this crime, that they didn't want to be a burden on their family in their old age. Their act has naturally created a very lively controversy, with much prominence given to the opinion that it was an act of courage. Don't let us overlook the fact that there is just as strong an arguement for declaring it an act of cowardice. Of course we all hope that we can avoid ending up a burden for our loved ones to bear; but because we suspect that this is a possiblity, does this suspicion justify us depriving ourselves of the joy of living now; the joy of sharing our loved ones successes and sympathising with their failures? I think not. Let me quote just one more platitude. "While there's life there's hope", to which I'll make one exception. When hope depends on a miracle forget about those infernal life-prolonging machines.
To finish this letter I'm going to revert to Kenno's "Document of Wisdom." Whilst he covered such qualities as "morality", "beauty" and "honesty," he omitted to give you a paragraph on "chastity," which. in my dictionary, is described, inter alia, as "moral and sexual purity;" - "the state of being unadulterated."
Nowadays, with pornography becoming an accepted art, with TV screens pushing explicit sex into our lounge rooms, with authors deliberately writing into their plots lurid sex scenes, which they hope will cause the censor to ban their book and so increase its sales, with contraceptic pills and condoms being marketed like cigarettes and toothpaste, with sex education being rammed down their little throats from age five, it's quite understandable that the present generation of ten to thirty year olds will think that sexual intercourse is as normal as going to the toilet.
The temptation to experiment - to put into practice the theories propounded by present day sex psychologists must be tremendous.
If you ever contemplate doing some experimenting along these lines, and your strength of character is not quite enough to enable you to resist, remember that, apart from the health risk, the experience must soil and cheapen both of you. Why do I say this?. Let me ask you a question.
You are about to turn twenty-one. My birthday present to you is going to be a Holden Nova car - money no object. I take you along to a car dealer who has a brand new Nova in his show room and an identical model in his second-hand yard. You have the unrestricted choice of either. Which one would take,?
        Isn't growing up frustrating.?
        Pa.
P.S.
I'm sorry that I felt obliged to raise this controversial subject of "chastity". I suppose it is because I believe that the most important function of your life is the creating of another life,
Disregarding the health risks, in satisfying your lust you run the risk of inadvertantly placing yourself in a position of not being able to carry out the next most important function in your life, and that is, nurturing and guiding the life you've created, so that it ultimately enjoys, at least, the same advantages you have enjoyed in your life - the advantage of having a loving, caring and responsible parent - a parent that has endowed you with the equipment and armament necessary to face an anything but caring and loving world.
        Chapter Eleven
        1965-1969
15th February 1988 My dear children,
In March, 1965, the Manager of the London Wool Hides and Skin Department, Mr. Charles Davis, made his second trip to the colonies. This time he was accompanied by his new Welsh wife, Gwynne, whose well-being became Jean-ma's responsibility. Gwynne was an ardent bird-lover (back home in Somerset she regularly feeds a colony of Blue Tits in her front garden) so a visit to Taronga Zoo Park was a "must". There, much to her delight, she found a bird who seemed to spend all its waking hours whistling up the "Tonic Sol Fa" scale until it reached the top note; and then went horribly flat. Two years later she paid a second visit to Taronga and sure enough the same bird was still practising its scales and still going flat on the top note. Well, we assume it was the same bird; it might have been its son or daughter.

Charles Davis retired at the end of 1966 and the Hamburg_Amerika Shipping Company, in appriciation of the amount of shipping business the Company had placed with them, gave Charles and Gwynne a free trip to Australia and back on one of their freighters, the "Dresden". This was rather ironical because it was me who arranged all the shipping from the Australian end. The Davis's were accompanied on the "Dresden" by two friends, Mr. and Mrs. Tim Stone, whose son (or daughter) was being married in Perth; and one of the guests at the wedding happened to be Robyn Squires (nee Farleigh), another example of what a small world it is we live in. The "Dresden" was still in Melbourne when my world started falling apart.
The year 1967 has to be designated my "disaster" year. If I had consulted my astrologer he most likely would have told me that my stars were in violent conflict with Mars or Uranus or something, and to avoid at all costs all risky responsibilities.
The next few pages may be a bit borimg to you, but I feel that the events leading up to this disaster period are so important to me, that I must record them.
After my Schute Bell appointment, at the suggestion of Charles Davis, I endeavoured to have the Sheepskin Export Department transferred back to Schute Bell Badgery Lumby Limited, but Australian Head Office was not letting go of a very lucrative operation. and one that kept them in favour with London Office. who was very generously covered for two and a half per- cent commissionon on every shipment.
When I first became involved in the export of sheepskins in 1959 although I was employed by the New Zealand Loan company. to avoid involving the Parent Company in possible O.T.C. taxation commitments. shipments were made in the name of Schute Bell (an Australian subsidiary) to New Zealand Loan (Produce) Limited. (a London subsidiary). In June,1966, we shipped the last contract made in Schute Bell's name and from then on all shipments were made in the name of Dalgety and New Zealand Loan Limited, Sydney, to the order of Dalgety N.Z.L. (London) Limited,and that's how Australian Head Office was going to keep it, and no wonder,for the combined gross earnings to the Company (Australia and London) from this operation up to February, 1967 , was nine hundred thousand dollars.
        The scheme I started in 1959 functioned in this way:-
(1) A sheepskin merchant (packer) offered Schute Bell firm 48 hours sheepskins of a nominated specification at a price F.O.B. in Australian currency, for delivery within two months.
(2) Schute Bell (me) converted to C.I.F. English currency, covering London office for two and a half per cent commission, and cabled the offer to London.
(3) London sold at the offered price or cabled back "best bid", which the packer accepted, or reduced his original offer, and so on and so on, until a sale was made, or the offer cancelled.
(4) On delivery to the wharf, the packer rendered an invoice and specification to Schute Bell.
(5) When the documents were cleared, Schute Bell paid the packer, and after obtaining necessary Health Certificates and Custom Clearances lodged the documents with the Bank for presentation to London for payment.

About six months after our first shipment, offers were obtained from W. E. Whitehead and Son, a firm that had satisfactorily dealt with Melbourne office, selling scoured skin-wool, some years previously. At that time the father was running the business, now the son, Bill Junior, was number one, and a very active operator too. In a short time the Whitewhead business comprised about eighty per cent of our sheepskin exports.
Because of the magnitude of the turnover (his average monthly figure by 1965 had reached 3500 bales valued at $500,000) Bill Whitehead was unable to finance the operation on his own, and applied to the Company for assistance. The Company, anxious to maintain this profitable business and in view of the previous satisfactory dealings with the Whitehead family, agreed to make a generous advance payment against each shipment as soon as the sale was made, with the balance to be paid as soon as shipping documents were cleared, which would have to be within two months. Whitehead Junior's standing with the Company had been greatly enhanced when, in 1961, he visited London and the Continent, including London's Mazamet agent. Rene Roques, accompanied by Charles Davis.
The account was controlled with the co-operation of Whitehead's bank in Melbourne, the E.S.& A., and monthly audited statements by Whitehead's firm of accountants. Spot checks of his stocks were also made from time to time. However, in May 1967, he failed to deliver, on time, several shipments against which he had received substantial advances. Investigations disclosed that, for the past six months or so, the stocks held, as shewn on his audited statements, included large amounts of "futures contracts" on which he was to incur heavy losses. He was in fact bankrupt and Dalgety-NZL was his largest creditor. The press reported him as owing Dalgety-NZL a million dollars, but this was a gross exaggeration. In a panic move Head Office cancelled all outstanding contracts, much to the over-seas buyers delight. Because the local sheepskin market had declined quite substantially, we could have made a handsome profit (and lessened our loss considerably) by fulfilling these contracts. At the same time we could have acquired, at minimum cost, an operating sheepskin packing business.
Over the years there had been a constant urging by London Office, backed up by certain Australian Head Office executives, because of the kudos they were receiving, to build up the sheepskin export business, and it seemed that I was the only one in the Company in Australia, with sufficient entree to the sheepskin trade to put this into effect. So, although Brian Hawkes was officially in charge of the export activities of the Company, the responsibility of increasing the turnover of the sheepskin section of this department had reverted to me. When Whitehead and Son collapsed, because Sydney office had organised the financing of this account, and despite the urging of Head Office and London Office to encourage this lucrative business, Sydney management was held responsible for the debacle and, to satisfy the local Board, someone had to be blamed.
Head Office very conveniently overlooked the fact that, shortly before the crash, they had entertained Mr. Bill Whitehead Jnr. at a lavish board room luncheon when grandoise schemes for the future were widely discussed. Within two weeks they were looking for a scape-goat, or two.
The person, now dead, for whom I felt Eric Nolan and I "took the rap," had the power to influence those who would decide whether we were dismissed with loss of all privileges, or, retired with a pension "on account of ill-health." It just happened that both of us were in a state of "ill- health" at the time. Early in the 1960s I'd had my first E.C.G. and had given up smoking because of occasional mild angina attacks. Eric Nolan decided to fight the decision but I think he came off second best - he and Arthur Dunstan were anything but friends. He later teamed up with an estate agent friend named Holgate, and died in the early 70s. I, on the other hand, believing that half a loaf is better than none, kept my mouth shut, accepted the second alternative, and started looking around for a job.
The Victorian Police (Fraud Squad) charged Bill Whitehead with deliberate corporate fraud. I was called to Melbourne as a police witness on several occasions and wasted many frustrated hours while a magistrate asked stupid questions. I found out these magistrates were appointed to these positions, playing God, not because they had studied law and become Batchelors of Law and Liberty, not because they might have had an unblemished and uncorruptible character, not because they may have been at some time a professor (or even a student) of psychology, no, they had started off as "Clerks of the Court" and received their automatic promotion solely according to the number of years they had been able to hold their jobs in the Department of "Justice." Killing time in the corridors of justice made me very inquisitive - and cynical. After many adjournments, the chief police witness, Whitehead's clerk, having been killed in a car accident, the magistrate (his holidays over-due) very hurriedly committed Whitehead for trial. Incidently a trial which never took place; his lawyers having obtained his release on a good behaviour bond.
Very few of us, if any, go through life without experiencing in some form or other, its ups and its downs - its peaks of achievements and its depths of disasters. What a boring thing life would be if this were not so! One of the deepest depths I ever reached was my exit interview with Bob Hart, the General Manager of the Company. When I received the summons my agitated stomach, if not my instinct, told me that this just had to be it. I still have a vivid mental picture in my mind of Bob (we were on Christian name terms) sitting behind his monstrous desk, smiling up at me and telling me to make myself comfortable in a chair opposite him. The first thing that caught my eye was a neatly folded hankerchief lying on the desk and I thought, "you old bugger, Bob, you think I'm going to break up," and I steeled myself to make sure that hankerchief wasn't needed. I can remember him informing me, in due course, that he had told the Board he felt that he was as much responsible for the "Whitehead disaster" as I was, and had, in fact, offered them his resignation. It's not surprising the Board rejected this offer. After all, it was much harder to replace a General Manager that a couple of branch managers.
He inquired after my health and the family, was glad to hear the mortage on the house had been paid off and then informed me that the Board had granted me a pension equivalent to half my salary. Slowly the white hankerchief found its way back into his pocket; - and the interview was over.
I found myself outside chatting to his secretary, and thinking, "bugger it all, the man's just sacked me, and here I am, thinking what a good bloke he is." In fact, I thought more of him then than I had before I entered his office. Funny old world, isn't it.?

While I was waiting for the position of Executive Officer of the Fatstock Salesmen's Association to fall vacant, Dick Blackwell was looking for Purchasing Officer for his factory, Paint Industries Pty. Ltd. Naturally I favoured the "bird in hand" and thus commenced for me five years of very interesting work.

I was responsible for the acquisition of all raw materials required for the manufacture of paint and resins. I found that what I could remember of my school-boy chemistry was quite helpful; for so many of my purchases were industrial chemicals. The laboratory and my predecessor used a system of abbreviations for the recording of raw materials. Whilst I still remembered that CaO was lime and H2SO4 was sulphuric acid, there were a lot of new abbreviations I had to learn. One that puzzled me for a long time was I C E which at first I thought might be something like "iso carbonated ethenol." In time, much to my embarrassment, I was informed that I.C.E. was what it spelt - frozen water.
I am glad to say that 1967 closed on a much happier note than it started. On the 14th. December, in the "Shore" Chapel, Phillipa Jean Shorter and William Richard King became your mother, father, aunt, and uncle. Fortunately for us, the four girls who had sailed away on the "Gallileo" in May, 1965, had instinctively left their hearts behind in Australia. Our fear that we might be presented with a Scottish Doctor son-in-law, or a Greek shipping magnate,or a Swedish car-maker, or a French fashion designer, proved to be quite unfounded.
The two highlights of this wedding that I specially remember were, firstly, my frantic last minute search, unsuccessfully, for a pair of missing white gloves (shades of Wendy and John's wedding), and returning home to find the bride and bridesmaids, Pamela King, Barbara Hulton, and Philippa Hasker, getting "high" on champagne - they had found the gloves at home.
The second high-light was the violent storm that met us as we left the Chapel to drive to the reception in, what is now, "Schweiser Hof," (then in course of construction) at Warrawee; - a storm that cut a swathe through the northern shore of Sydney Harbour; de-roofing a number of Spit Junction shops.
There was, of course, a third reason for remembering the date of Bill and Phillipa's wedding. On the 14th. of December, 1967, the Prime Minister of Australia, Harold Holt, was drowned in the surf off Portsea, in Victoria.
In July 1966 I had bought from the Department of Main Roads a second- hand 850 Morris Mini Minor. Jean-ma had learnt to drive and obtain her license (not without incident) on David's Holden while he was in Doncaster, England, with Crompton Parkinson. It was acquired specifically for Jean-ma's use; I had my own company car, a Chrysler V8. However, after I left Dalgety- NZL, the Mini, firstly,came in very useful as transport (via Putney punt) to Paint Industries in Mortlake, and later, for a summer holiday with our good friends, Harry and Mona Kinghorn, at a ski-lodge in North Perisher Valley; the Kinghorns also had a Mini Minor. For two weeks we gulped lungfuls of pure mountain air, consumed pounds of juicy steaks bar-b-cued beside snow-fed crystal streams on whose banks and adjacent hillsides grew the most exquisite high country wild flowers. We were able, on this occasion, to drive to the summit of Mount Kosciusko, and watch, in amazement, a tourist bus turn around on about 20 square yards of roadway.
The following year we had another holiday with the Kinghorns (and the two Minis); this time to Melbourne via the South Coast, Kameruka Cheese Factory, Yarram milk factory on the South Gippslands Highway, and Phillip Island and it's 7.10 p.m. parade of fairy penguins. After spending a few days with G.G.(Great-grand-ma), Isa and Dick, we returned via Mount Buffalo (Bright), Thredbo and Canberra. Being so close, we couldn't resist another visit to Kosciusko, but this time the peak was still snow-covered, so we picniced beside an ice-lake amid the snow-daisies just below the summit.
Parents of sons have many problems, not the least of which occurs when they (the sons) start bringing girl-friends home. Each one, you think, might be your future daughter-in-law, so you hover between being too gushing, and frightening her away, and too critical and frightening both away. Commencing with David's high-school days, we went through the routine of being nice to many girls David brought home; all except one, a painted blonde with bee-hive hair-do; a camp follower of Newport Surf Club. I suspected at the time that it was a "dare" on David's part.
One by one they came and were gone , until one day the ski slopes of Perisher Valley gave up one of its snow princesses so that she could become your mother and aunt. David and Carol were married in a quaint little stone seafarers church overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Watsons Bay, with friends gathering afterwards at historic "Dunara" (once the home of Dorothea Mackellar) where ghosts in a corner whispered, "I love a sun-burnt country," - but I am trespassing on the domain of my beautiful and talented daughter-in-law who, I feel sure in twenty or thirty years time, will be bashing out on a type-writer (excuse me - her word processor) her memoirs for her grandchildren.

With the elder chicks flying the coop and testing their wings, and with the youngest member of the nest starting to grow feathers, it is not surprising that, even without my disasterous '67, the 1960s were very eventful years.
At the end of 1964 Richard passed his Leaving Certificat Examination and obtained for himself a position in the Colonial Sugar Refining Company, which included enrollment in the faculty of Chemical Engineering at the University of New South Wales, and time off for lectures and study. At about the same time the Menzies Government passed legislation re-introducing a form of conscription, which was called "National Service." There was the inevitable criticism from the unions, but to most Australians it seemed that a "dose of army discipline" would not hurt our young men. Something I could have agreed with if it had applied to ALL our young men; but the Government had a weird and wonderful way of selecting those who should, on reaching their eighteenth birthday, spend two years as soldiers of the Queen. All dates were placed in a barrel and if your birth date was drawn out you found yourself in a queue outside the nearest army depot, with a cut lunch in your hand.
While Richard was attending lectures at the University of N.S.W., the 15th. of July, 1947, was drawn out of the barrel. Very kindly the Australian Army allowed him to continue his course and deferred his call-up until he completed his studies, or sooner, if he failed in one of his yearly exams. On a day in February, 1970, Jean-ma and I again played the role of proud parents when our third chick donned cap and gown to receive his scroll of acheivement in the Science Theatre of the University of N.S.W., and on this occasion we were joined by "G.G." and another "princess", this time a blonde one, who was to become your aunt and mother.
As soon as he was financially able and legally old enough, Richard acquired four tyres, a steering wheel and what went with them; and Jean-ma spent many sleepless nights waiting for him to come home, for, unfortunately her Ricky was accident prone. After three or four prangs he finally made a job of it one night when he wrapped his car around a light stanchion and mail-box outside the Lane Cove shops. The car was a write-off and for several weeks afterwards, every time we walked past that leaning stanchion and scarred mail-box and damaged shop front, we silently thanked our (and his) lucky stars that he was able to walk home that night with no more than a few bruises and a punctured ego.
Richard's first few days of military service were spent in the Kapooka camp near Wagga; then he was transferred to Scheyville Officers Training Camp just north of Vineyard, a village on the Windsor Road, and we were able to make a couple of visits there during his course.
The first was a church parade held in St.Matthews, the old historical church at Windsor, with Eastern Command Military Band, in their picturesque red tunics and white helmets, playing the hymns instead of the organ; really most impressive and ear shattering.
The second invitation was to the passing out parade, when Richard committed the nearly unforgivable sin. He knocked off his cap on to the parade ground while presenting arms. This physical faux pas, however, did not prevent him from receiving his commission from the hands of the Governor of New South Wales, Sir Roden Cutler; all very impressive and spectacular.
Passing out parades always bring a lump into my throat; it happened this time just as it had happened thirteen years earlier on North Sydney Oval, when David's school cadet corps said good-bye to school days and passed over the flag to the incoming Company.
Australian law allows for the compulsory enlistment of men into the Army only in the event of a direct threat to Australia. At the time Richard received his commission Liberal governments had been bending the rules by sending National Servicemen into the Vietnam war zone. The response to this was years of "antiVietnam-war" demonstrations. I can remember the famous incident when protesters lay down in Macquarie Street, Sydney, to stop the motor-cade carrying the American President,Lyndon Johnson, and the N.S.W. Premier, Robin Askin, who was reported to have told the police to "run the bastards over." One hundred and eighty seven national servicemen, including trainees from Scheyville, lost their lives in Vietnam, so its no wonder the Australian public reacted as they did.
With all this exercising our minds Jean-ma and I breathed a sigh of relief when Rick was posted to a Signals Unit at Dundas. It seemed that because it was the "signals" section of the Army, Rick was required to produce two referees, and Dick Blackwell and Frank Bray agreed to act in this capacity. Dick and Frank were both extremely amused and intrigued at the "cloak and dagger" interrogation they were subjected to by the men from A.S.I.O., on the history, loyalties and political leanings of the Shorter family. I suppose this was fair enough, after all Australia was at war, and no doubt our young hopeful was about to be involved in the receiving and transmitting of official communications that just could be of a highly "top secret" nature.

Richard was "de-mobbed" in 1971. Two years before this happened the news- papers thrice - no, four times - carried headlines of great importance. On the 16th. March, 1969, the birth of William King Junior was announced, and on the 14th. of April, Cameron James Shorter's arrival hit the headlines, - our very first two grandchildren. The third and, to us, least important headline hit the front pages on the 22nd. July, and let us know that two Americans, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, had just had a picnic on the moon.
Although over a year went by before the fourth headline appeared, it was worth waiting for; for it announced, on the 20th. of October. 1970, the arrival of the lovely Princess Karina; - our first grand-daughter; may she be protected from witches with apples.

One evening in December, 1970, Richard and Deanne came home with starry eyes to announce that they were engaged. We were ,of course, absolutely delighted at the news, but it was very difficult to show the true extent of our delight, because on that day we had at last been able to get G.G., much against her will, into the Caroline Chisholm Nursing Home, at Burns Bay, Lane Cove. On the 4th. December, her 88th. birthday, my mother, G.G. (short for Great Grandmother), suffered a stroke while sitting at our dinner table. Jamie King was born the same day, and Jean-ma was minding 20 month old Billy while Phillipa was in hospital. Three weeks later we came to the conclusion that Jean-ma could not nurse G.G. any longer. Thus commenced the 1970s.
St. Swithins Anglican Church in Pymble was the scene of another happy wedding when we won another lovely daughter-inlaw. The date was the 14th. of December, 1971, exactly to the day, four years after we'd won a prize in the son-in-law lottery. The reception was held at the Pymble Golf Club where once again all our old friends gathered together to wish our youngsters well. Often since then, Jean-ma and I have sat and pondered over our good fortune in the "in-law" business. With so many marriages cracking under the strain of these modern and changing times, was it the way we brought our kids up, or was it just plain bloody good luck.?
You will remember that back in the 1930s I made my first contact with Royalty. In September, 1974, I made my second contact with Royalty and this is how it happened.

Audrey Day, nee Birks, Jean-ma's "foster sister," had two daughters. The younger, Suzanne, who was a physiotherapist, married a Finn named Karl Hertzmann. I think the young couple originally intended living in Australia, but Karl made the mistake of thinking that acceptance of a fair wage or salary in Australia, deserved an honest days work; something that was quite contrary to the thinking of his Australian work-mates. After trying several jobs ultimately made incompatible by his fellow workers, Karl decided, much to Audrey's dismay, to return to his homeland and claim an inheritance of a small forest block. There he chopped down a number of trees and with the timber they yielded, built his home.
With her daughter living on the other side of the world, it was inevitable that Audrey, whose husband, Norm, had died in 1969, would be making periodical visits to Finland. On these occasions she very kindly allowed Jean-ma and I to use her tickets for the Sydney Symphony Orchestra subscription concerts. One concert I'll never forget was one we nearly gave the miss because we'd never heard of the soloist, a flautist named James Galway, who, two years earlier had been playing in a drum and fife band in his native Belfast and was now principal flute in the Berlin Philharmonic.
That night we listened entranced as he gave encore after encore from his magic silver flute down to a tiny pocket-size tin whistle.
Another memorable concert in the 70s, was a Sydney Symphony Orchestra Benefit Night when Danny Kaye showed us how not to conduct an orchestra. For three hours he had the audience splitting their sides with laughter at his antics. Once again the encores were never-ending; with Danny declaring he was prepared to carry on all night - his car was just parked outside, but we, the audience had to catch a bus, so - "Good Night," he said. and so it was.
By way of returning a favour, we decided to take Audrey to a performance of "Don Giovanni" at the Opera House. As soon as the bookings opened I obtained tickets for the three best seats in the house; dead centre in the first row of the dress circle.
On arrival at the theatre on this historical night, the usherettes where to say the least, at a high pitch of excitement as they gave explicit instructions to patrons as they arrived. We were told that we were to stand as soon as the Royal Party arrived and remain standing until the Shah of Iran and his lovely lady were seated; guess where ? - directly behind us.
When I stole a glance over my shoulder I could see Their Royal Highesses flanked by Ladies-in-Waiting and Aides -de-camp and behind them a grim looking row of Iranese men in dark suits bulging over revolver holsters. Just before the curtain rose the Iranian National Anthen was played, with the audience standing, followed by "God Save The Queen," when half the audience sat down. I was mortified and felt like shouting out, "Stand up, you lousy lot of disloyal b-----ds," but, in time, I remembered the grey-suited men behind me. I didn't want to be gunned down before I'd seen the show; - the tickets weren't cheap.
I don't remember much about the opera. It was a bit disconcerting having the Royal Iranian breath cooling the backs of our necks.
        Thus ended my second contact with Royalty.
My one and only contact with Vice-Royalty had occurred in 1965 when the then London Chairman, Sir William Slim, made a tour of the Compnay's Australian branches. Sir William had been Governor General of Australia some years earlier. While I was "hob-nobbing" with Sir Bill at an office Company Luncheon, Jeanma, with the wives of Eric Nolan and Brian Hawkes, was being entertained by Lady Slim at Admiralty House, Kirribilli. She, Jean-ma, remembers sitting on the same toilet seat that the Queen sits on when she stays at Admiralty House. The Slims lived in an apartment in Windsor Castle. "If you're ever in London," said Lady Slim, "do look us up. Bill and I would love to see you." Unfortunately the day we visited Windsor Castle ten years later they were not in residence.
        Must close now,
        Lots of love,
        Pa.
        Chapter Twelve
        1970-1975
        LANE COVE.
        6th. June, 1988.
My dear children,
It's months since I last wrote, and when I did I think I had reached the 1970s. So let me continue.
In March, 1972, Harry and Mona Kinghorn invited us to join them in a bank holiday flat over the Commonwealth Bank at Port Macquarie, where we spent a very happy two weeks together. As Harry had spent his boyhood in Kempsey, it was inevitable that one of our many outings took in Kempsey and South West Rocks. The day was memorable for at least two reasons. First, quite by chance, having a delightful country pub lunch at the Gladstone Hotel where Harry discovered that "mine host," many years previously, had worked for his (Harry's) father in his Kempsey store. Then, second, on arriving at South West Rocks, Harry's favourite boyhood surfing beach, we found the surf polluted with the Sydney Ferry wrecks; which brings me to the story of the "Kalang."
Before the Sydney Harbour Bridge was open on the 19th. March, 1932, when we drove to the city, our first stop was always the queue at Milsons Point, where we drove on to a vehicular ferry - either the "Kalang" or the "Koompatoo," and then we were leisurely shipped across the harbour to Bennelong Point.
After the war ended the "Kalang" was converted into the double- decked "Show Boat," catering for dance parties, road shows and tourist groups. The New Zealand Loan Office Social Club patronised the "Sydney Show Boat" on a number of occasions, and they were very enjoyable functions. Ultimately the novelty of dancing and eating on a rolling deck wore off. Patronage declined and the "Show Boat" was put into moth-balls in the Parramatta River at Mortlake. Towards the end of the 1960s Sydney Ferries Limited finally got a Philipino buyer to take over the Show Boat plus a number of other redundant ferries. It was a grand gala day at Mortlake when an ocean-going Dutch tug set off for Manila, with bunting flapping in the wind and the "Show Boat", the one-time "Kalang" and four other ferries in tow. Jean-ma and I just happened to be on the Putney punt at the time. As the Dutch tug approached Smoky Cape it ran into some very dirty weather, which worsened to such an extent that, during the night, the ferries broke loose and drifted towards South West Rocks to find a resting place in the sands of Trial Bay.
Bearing in mind the many times I had trodden her decks, I couldn't help feeling just a little sad as I watched, two years later, "Kalang's" skeleton being pounded by the angry Trial Bay surf.
We finished this holiday with some time at Noosa Heads, exploring the Sunshine Coast, the Glasshouse Mountains, Buderim ginger factory, and the wonderful surrounding country-side. It was here that we made our first contact with the "hippie" world. A group of surfies and their girl friends and their babies were camped on the Noosa Heads Reserve, living very comfortably, thank you, on their pooled dole cheques. Made you think a bit!.

Our activities were brought to a sudden halt in July, 1972, when your Grandmother gave us all the fright of our lives by having a heart attack.
With this upheaval in our lives came the realisation of how fortunate we were to be only five minutes ambulance ride from one of the most efficiently equipped hospitals in the country; even more so now than it was then. There we learnt the real meaning of intensive care although the new Royal North Shore building was still unfinished at the time. Doctor Middleton gave Jean-ma something to worry about when he started toying with the idea of open heart surgery, which wasn't the everyday occurance then as it is to-day. Fortunately she recovered without resorting to this extreme action, and has satisfactorily passed many tests since. Whilst in "Intensive Care" Jean-ma received an unsolicited visit from a certain unknown "Doctor Stuckey" who asked her to draw a deep breath and then retired. For this service I received a bill for $37.00, and this at a time when a half-hour consultation with a G.P. cost $12.00. How my cynical heart bleeds for the poor poverty-stricken specialist doctors, who now go on strike for more money just like the wharf- labourers.

We spent the rest of 1972 nursing Jean-ma back to her normal impatient energetic self.
Three more grandchildren arrived in 1973; Damon on the 31st. March and the twins, David and Anthony, on the 14th. of April. The King's house was being pulled apart when the twins arrived so Phillipa brought her babies home to 2 Taleeban Road, until their home in The Grove, Balmoral, was livable. Meantime we were having a taste of unit life at "Cambridge" in Prince Street, Mosman. An aunt of Bill King's was having a trip overseas at the time and we were occupying her unit. Whilst there a two-bedroom unit in the adjoining block, "Oxford", came on the market for $27,000 and I made my second and last property investment.
On the 2nd. July, 1973, my 65th. birthday, I retired from Paint Industries Pty. Ltd., and this time it was for good. The next day I received the following letter from your Jean-ma :-
        "My Beloved Husband,
I welcome you home with pride and pleasure. There may have been more pleasure in it 30 years ago but there would never have been more pride. And I welcome you with the reassertion of the vow I made to you 34 years ago. I still take you for better or for worse. My pride lies in the fact that you've made it to retirement. This is a great achievement you know. Since you first went to work you have manoeuvred your way past some formidable dangers ..... a couple of wars, cancer, heart attacks, automobile crashes, take-overs, mental break-downs and lightning. A man who has survived the perils of these last 50 years is a hero just by still being alive. I'll want you to have a nap every afternoon because it'll be good for you, and because you deserve the luxury. I'll want you to sit up on week nights to your hearts content and watch all the late TV movies you want. I'll want you to come and go as you like to fish or to play bowls with your pals as long as you want. And I'm taking $100.00 out of savings to buy you some casual clothes for this great new adventure of your life. Naturally, with a change like this, there has to be some "don'ts," for instance :-
Don't forget to wipe your feet before you come into the house or better still, leave your dirty gardening boots outside.
Don't come into my kitchen except to wash up or make porridge.
Don't make any appointments on the days I visit my girlfriends - I'll need transport.
        Don't go out without combing your hair (what's left of it)
Don't go out into the garden just as I'm about to serve a meal.
Don't leave the Sydney Morning Herald lying around the house after you've finished reading it.
        Don't go out without polishing your shoes.
        Don't snore.
        Don't wear your underclothes two days running.
No doubt this list will need some revision after I've had some experience of your retirement, in the meantime, happy living
        with lots of love
        Your Devoted Wife."

I strongly suspect that Jean-Ma had a lot of assistance from one of her more experienced cronies when she wrote that letter.
In August, 1973, we received an invitation to the Golden Wedding Anniversary of Albert and Beatrice Collison. When I first joined Wollstonecraft Bowling Club in 1959 one of the members who went out of his way to amke me feel welcome was Albert Collison, he had been a member since 1955. Any ability I might have as a lawn bowler now, goes back to old Albert's interest in me. Likewise my approach to him was a sympathetic one because I had the feeling that he was not wholly acceptable to the aristocracy of the Wollstonecraft Bowling Club. This suspicion was confirmed when he confided in me that the committee had once told him if he continued to wear black socks with his bowling creams he would be barred from the club. Later, when he was 80 years of age, he was skipper of the team with the most wins when Wollstonecraft was knocked out in a semi-final match of the No.3 Metropolitan Pennants.
Albert Collison was, what was known in the old days as, a "spec" builder. As a young fellow he saved up enough money to buy a block of land, and some bricks and some sand and lime, then, with some help from the then Government Savings Bank, built a house, which he sold at a modest profit. This enabled him to buy another block of land and repeat the operation over and over again. "Spec" builders came in two grades, dishonest and honest. I always felt that Albert belonged to the latter.
Albert and Bea were devout Baptists, so we were all expecting a very dry party at the Pool Terrace Room in Killara Inn on the 18th. of August, 1973. To our delight Albert had organised diferently. On one side of the room were his church friends who were being served orange juice, whilst on the other side were his bowling friends who were served anything from the most humble beer to the most exotic liqueur, and at the head table sat the Collison family of Albert and Beatrice, their doctor son, David, and doctor daughter (married to a doctor} and three grandchildren. Jean-ma was so impressed that she approached Albert at the conclusion of the function, saying, "You must be very proud of your family, Albert." To which he replied "Yes I am indeed, but, any credit due for our family must go to Bea. She brought them up very strict. When they were naughty she read them a passage from the Old Testament." "And what happened when they were good?." Jean-ma asked, and after a pause Albert replied, "She read them a passage from the New Testament." He died in 1975 and they buried him with his bowls tie on.
In September, 1973, Shirley and Frank Bray's son, Peter, was to be married in Melbourne. At the same time the Brays had obtained the loan of a holiday cottage at Lorne and we were invited to share it with them. Our trip to Melbourne was delightful because the weather was good to us and it was Springtime. Travelling down the Maroondah Highway we took a detour; a scenic forest road that skirted the Eildon Dam. At the head of the dam, the low hills, that normally were covered in a carpet of green, were, on this occasion, literally smothered in yellow black-eyed daisies, right to the waters edge. They gave a warm glow to the scene which is one I'm not likely to forget. Passing through Fraser National Park, with its breath-taking views, and the village of Eildon, we rejoined the highway at Taggerty, and enjoyed once again the run through the tree-ferns of Narbethong and on to Melbourne. The wedding over we made a bee-line, with the Brays, for Geelong, Torquay, Anglesea and finally Lorne.
Lorne was a mixture of fishing village and holiday resort. It had a number of old fashioned boarding houses where, I imagine, between the wars, many respectable Melbournians spent their vacations, their Christmases and their Easters. It also boasted a large pier attached to the fishermens co-operative, on to which, each day, were hoisted the fishing trawlers that fed the freezers with their catches of barracoota; an elongated fish which we felt should have been sold by the yard rather than by the pound, and which supplemented our menu on a number of occasions.
While there we had visits from our Melbourne family,and also the Blackwells who accompanied us on a most interesting trip along the Great Ocean Road to Port Campbell, there to view the Twelve Apostles and the Marble Arch; great natural rock columns and formations that had been carved out of the coast line by the constant battering of waves that rolled in from the Southern Ocean.

We spent some time at Lorne Bowling Club. They were a very hospitable group of people - made us feel like visiting foreign dignitaries, and on our last day there presented us with two souvenir spoons.
Just as our holiday commenced with a blaze of yellow at Eildon, so it ended with a blaze of blue as we wended our way home inland past paddocks at Jerilderie and hills at Cowra covered in "Patersons Curse" - a sight pleasing to our eyes but not so pleasing to the farmers whose pastures it swallows; hence the title "curse." So much for 1973.
1974 was a year of tripping around; I suppose it was because it was my first full year of retirement.
In March Dick Blackwell and Bob Martin brought the "Carranya" up to Port Stephens again for the annual two weeks game fishing competition, after which I drove the girls up and booked in at "Dutchies" in Nelsons Bay. A pleasant break which was to be finished off with a week's cruise up the Myall River and into the Lakes; something I had looked forward to ever since I camped on the Myall Lake shore at Bungwahl, 39 years earlier. Unfortunately the girls shied at living on "Carranya" despite the fact that it was a luxury cruiser with three cabins, two bathrooms and a stateroom, as well as a spacious deck. They feigned a bout of 'flu and the trip was off. On the car ride home I couldn't help noticing what a miraculous recovery they had made by the time we reached Newcastle.
On the 29th. of May,1974, we were presented with another grandson, Jason Richard Shorter, another J.R.S., and the first of the Shorter Juniors.
The following month we made our first trip to Coffs Harbour with Hal and Erina More, with a weeks stop-over at Port Macquarie. One of our club members, Roy Blundell, who spent his winters in Coffs Harbour, thought that Wollstonecraft Bowling Club should be represented at the annual "Bananacoast Carnival" and he organised accordingly. We haven't missed entering a team since.
Yet another trip was taken in 1974 - to the Melbourne family for Xmas, via a leisurely run down the Princes Highway. The most memorable detours were the visit to Mallacoota Inlet, and the Snowy River's entrance to the sea near Orbost. That was on the way down. On the way back we found a delightful little village tucked away at the mouth of the Pambula River, and then later called on Clive and Clair Haslingdon at Culburra, at the mouth, or one of the mouths of the Shoalhaven River. An irate Clive gave us a twenty minutes tour of Culburra where all the prime real estate had been reclaimed for an aboriginal reserve. Sadly it was a familiar scene; a collection of humpies, stray dogs, flies and empty beer bottles in North Culburra, and in South Culburra the tidy brick bungalows of the white retirees. It's very difficult, in Australia, not to be a racist. So much for 1974.
With seven grand-sons and only one grand-daughter you can imagine our joy and delight when, on the 1st. of April, the lovely princess Vivienne joined our happy family. Damon was adamant that her name was "vivvy (pause) enn". To me she was little Jean-ma; and still is.
June 1975 saw us repeating our North Coast trip to Port Macquarie and Coffs Harbour; this time, in addition to the Mores we had with us Alan and Audrey Cavill and Arthur and Lilian Jones. This was a very happy holiday, playing mixed bowls at various clubs, eating at R.S.L. Club bistros and the men playing in the Bananacoast Open Fours. We've always managed to win at least one match in these events.

I don't remember lifting any pianos or any similar heavy objects, and I don't regard lawn bowls as a strenuous sport, but for some reason or other, soon after we returned home, I acquired a double hernia, which lead to four weeks in the Mater Private Hospital and Harry Cumberland wielding the knife.
Harry Cumberland was, no doubt, a very able surgeon, who, I imagine took life, and his profession, very seriously. I only saw him smile once and that was when Jean-ma and I met him in the lift as I was on my way to the "post-op" consultation. He greeted me with a playful punch on the shoulder and said, "How are the bowels?". (I'd been plagued with constipation whilst in hospital) Jean-ma, just to be socialable piped up, "So you play bowls too, do you?", which comment produced a very blank look on the face of H. Cumberland, F.R.C.S
It was while I was in hospital, to be exact,on the 22nd. November 1975, that my mother, Florence Isabelle Shorter, nee de Witt, died in Melbourne. In my absence, my dear old friend and brother-in-law, Dick Pope, attended to all those matters associated with the passing of ones dear ones.
To say the least, my mother was a remarkably capable woman. She was two weeks short of her 93rd. birthday when she died; just five years after she had suffered a stroke, which was about the first and only illness she'd had in her life. At the age of 88 she was still taking herself to the city by public transport, going to concerts, visiting exhibitions and any friends who were still alive. She often bewailed the fact that she was the last of her contempories. I can remember on one occasion, after a days window-shopping in the city, she was 87 at the time, she returned home to find us out and she without a key. Undaunted she found an unlocked window , prized it open and crawled inside. She was having a quiet "cuppa" when we arrived home.
She attributed her good health and long life to the fact that during her last years at school - the old Fort Street Girls High School on Observatory Hill, now the S.H.Ervin Gallery - among the subjects she studied for her Junior University Examination was Physiology and Hygiene. I know she would have loved to have been a doctor. Instead she took a job as a book-keeper in the office of R.H.Gordon and Company's furniture emporium, in George Street, Brickfield Hill, opposite the mighty Anthony Hordern's department store, since demolished.
My mother had a school chum named Dora Priestley, who lived in Tryon Street, Chatswood, and later, The Grove, Roseville. Aunty Dora had three of the healthiest looking children you could imagine - Gwen, Alan and Sam. She maintained that their good health sprang from the liberal dose of castor oil she forced into them on the first Monday of every month. My Mother was only interested in castor oil as a means of keeping my bowels open; but I just couldn't get the stuff down, not even with orange juice or Holbrooks sauce. Finally she had to resort to Epsom Salts, then licorice powder and then Californian Syrup of Figs as a cure for my constipation. Her cure for a sore throat was good old Bonningtons Irish Moss; for a cut or open sore, iodine; for a cold in the head, a basin of hot water with a dash of Frys Balsam; for a cold on the chest, a mustard or "anti-phlagestine" poultice; and for a fever, a hot lemon drink, an A.P.C. powder and a good lie down. To build up resistance to winter ills, each Autumn, I cleaned up jars of Burroughs, Wellcome's cod liver oil and malt, whilst my energy was boosted in the Summer with a course of Clements Tonic; vile stuff, full of iron and what energy it gave you.
My Mother had a booster of her own. As much Kruschen salts as would cover a sixpence taken daily. She never complained about arthritis, and she said she felt like jumping over the fence just like the little man was doing on the label attached to the Kruschen Salts jar.
I suppose all this, and the para-medical knowledge she had acquired at school, is the reason she reached the grand old age of 93, and, perhaps why I feel like a 60 year old on my 8Oth. birthday.
        Once again, for the time being, lots of love,
        Pa.
        Chapter Thirteen
        1976
        LANE COVE.
        15th. December, 1988.
My dear kids,
When Jean-ma and I were in our teens and early twenties it was a rare occasion indeed when one of our contempories travelled outside Australia. not so our kids. By the time they were 25 they - and most of their friends - had been on trips overseas, and come home with glowing accounts of the places they had visited. So it was understandable that my thoughts, as soon as I was fully retired, should turn to the one place I had vowed to one day to visit; namely London.
With invitations from two English cousins, and my business associate, Charles Davis; with membership in the Overseas League and a maturing life insurance policy, I started organising the great adventure.
Firstly, a return ticket for two to London, via Kuala Lumpur and Kuwait, with a weeks holiday stop-over in Malaysia and Singapore, negoiated at a discount price with Malaysian Airlines.
Secondly, a six months lease of the house, left in the hands of Estate Agents, Gilbert, Kemp and Coy. - more of that later.
Thirdly, the storing in the garage of all personal and surplus house-hold effects not needed by the tenant.

And lastly, the transferring of our Commonwealth Savings Bank Account from Lane Cove to the Aldwich (London) branch. Only the packing of our bags remained to be done.
Our departure on the 15th. March, 1976, was not without incident. In the electronic scanner just before departure at Sydney Airport I produced a very positive response and was immediately grabbed by several uniformed gentlemen who insisted on examining the contents of my personal bag. When I told them the innocent looking parcel, covered with David Jones wrapping paper, was a "Wiltshire" stay-sharp kitchen knife, a present for Cousin Mary from Brother- in-law Dick, it was promptly confiscated and I was stood aside with another would-be traveller, a villianous looking Arab bound for Kuwait, and who, I learnt later, was a butcher carry his tools of trade in HIS personal bag. Fortunately the plane waited for me; - the last passenger aboard.
I thought that I had lost Mary's present, but at Heathrow Airport as we were disembarking, I was surprised to see in the hands of a pretty little air hostess, a parcel wrapped in David Jones paper, which was handed over to me with a gorgeous smile.
I'll always remember that flight for two reasons. Firstly, the Englishman (a Mr. Henry) who sat next to me from Kuala Lumpur to London and who told me that, as a school-boy he'd been evacuated to Australia during World War Two. When asked whereabouts in Australia he laughed and said, "I doubt that you've ever heard of the place." When pressed he added, " a little village near the city of Sydney called Lane Cove; I was a boarder at Riverview College." Immediately we became bosum friends and by the time we reached Heathrow Jean-ma and I had an invitation to visit him at his home in Jersey in the Channel Isles, but unfortunately we were unable to keep the appointment.
The other reason for remembering that flight was the unforgetable sight, at first light, of the peaks of the Swiss Alps, kissed pink by the morning sun, and looking like fantasy islands in a sea of fleecy billowing white cloud.
London, early morning, on Friday the 19th. March, 1976, was a very cold spot; to be precise, 2 degrees celcius, so our first port of call was Swan and Edgar, and Marks and Spencer to purchase two over-coats. Wrapped in these we ventured out into Piccadilly Circus to be accosted by a street photographer who uttered six words - "Smile please - two pounds - thank you." I kissed my two pounds good-bye, and six months later had my faith in human nature restored when I found two photos amongst our mail on our return home.
Our first week in London was like a game of Monopoly. We strolled down Bond Street, Park Lane, The Strand, Regent Street.
Piccadilly, The Mall and Birdcage Walk. We gawked at Admiralty Arch, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, The Horse Guards Barracks, Soho, Carnaby Street and Trafalgar Square; all the places we'd read about and dreamed about for the past fifty years. We rode the tube and the buses, and we walked, and we walked and we walked; and as we walked I began to understand what my Australian-born mother meant when she use to declare that her life's ambition was to go HOME to London. So many of her Australian-born generation called England "home." Sadly I think this quaint notion started to die out with my generation and the advent of the Second World War.
After saturating ourselves with London we tried to organise a trip to Jersey, but found that all accommodation in the Channel Islands had been booked out twelve mnoths earlier by English trippers eager to acquire some duty-free merchandise. Undaunted our travel consultant, thinking we were set on going to some island, booked us for a week at the Shanklin Hotel, on the Isle of Wight. Followed a British Rail trip to Portsmouth Peir, then, after a bomb scare, a ferry ride to Ryde, and a short journey to Shanklin in the old Piccadilly tube train.
The holiday package included free bus travel all over the island, which enabled us to explore at least one hundred of its 155 square miles. We revelled in "plowmans lunches" in ancient thatch-roofed pubs, while we visited Cowes Yacht Club, a well preserved 1800 year old Roman villa near Newport, the delightful old world village of Godshill, St. Catherine's Light, Henry the Eighth's castle at Yarmouth, the village of Niton with its "Buddle Inn", the haunt of 18th. and 19th. century smugglers, and of course Carisbrooke Castle, just to mention a few.
In the Isle of Wight we were getting our first taste of "on the spot" English history. Carisbrooke Castle, built on the site of an old Roman fort, is not only of great historic interest, but is also one of the best preserved in Southern England. King Charles the First spent the last years of his life imprisoned there before being brought to trial, and eventually losing his head.
Because of an endless supply of water, Carisbrooke Castle was practically siege-proof. The source of this water was a 161 foot well which is still functioning. During our visit we watched water being drawn from the well by bucket, powered by a "donkey wheel" {the donkey's name was Jill), just as it has been done for the past four hundred years. Within the walls of Carisbrooke is the Chapel of Saint Nicholas, according to the plaque, founded in 1070 - re-built 1738 - dismantled 1856 - rebuilt 1904." In England nothing is considered historically old unless it was built at least 300 years ago. On the day we visited Carisbrooke we lunched at the "Castle Inn" where they have been serving pints since it was built in 1684.
During the Roman occupation of Britain the Isle of Wight was under the rule of the Emperor Vespasian. From excavations carried out at various locations, such as the one we saw, ample evidence has been found to indicate that during this time the island enjoyed a period of considerable prosperity; and no wonder. The land we saw in the centre of the island looked extremely fertile and reminded me of the country around Bathurst, Orange and Cowra - with a better rainfall, of course.
Although the temperature ranged from 2 to 13 degrees celsius, it was sunny for our entire stay of one week which came to an end all too quickly.
Once again we were absorbing London, where red buses ran you around the city and green buses showed you the suburbs. On a green bus we journeyed to Hatfield in Hertfordshire. Hatfield provided us with our first taste of "a stately home" of England. Hatfield House, whose history begins about 1497 when the Bishop of Ely finished building the old palace still standing to-day to the west of the present house.
The Old Palace was confiscated by Henry the Eighth when he broke away from the Catholic Church, and it became the home of his children, Mary, Elizabeth and Edward. From the tower above the palace, so the story goes, Mary, the eldest, waved vainly to her father as he rode past with averted face after her mother Catherine's divorce. A few years later, after the next Queen, Anne, had been executed, her daughter, Elizabeth is described as living there without even the necessary clothes to keep her decent. Later her father became more friendly to her and she spent much of her childhood happily at Hatfield, sharing her education with her young brother Edward. Though not yet in their teens, the royal children were set to learn several languages including Latin and Greek, as well as history, theology and science. The learning acquired by Elizabeth during her life at Hatfield was to stand her in good stead when she was later to assume the responsibilities of Queenhood.
The guided tour we made of Hatfield House was, to say the least, artistically and historically aweinspiring. Its rooms and galleries contained treasures that included, letters from Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots and other royal personages, several great seals of British Kings and Queens, gloves and stockings, the first pair of their type ever worn in England, Queen Elizabeth's garden hat, wine decanters and glasses the betrothal gift of King Phillip of Spain and Queen Mary of England, the captured armour worn by the men of the Spanish Armada and many tapestries including those known as the "Four Seasons," because they depict the every-day life of the seventeenth century in Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. They are the finest examples of English tapestries of their period in existance. On the walls not covered with tapestries, hung works by famous artists including Joshua Reynolds; and the celebrated "Rainbow Portrait" of Queen Elizabeth the First.
In the grounds of Hatfield House we were shewn an old gnarled oak tree, suitably plaqued. In l558, seated under it, Elizabeth Tudor was reading, probaly a history book, when news of her accession to the throne of England was brought to her.
Before leaving Australia I had transferred our funds in Australian currency to the Aldwich branch of the Commonwealth Savings Bank as the English pound was low at the time and weakening. This meant every time I drew English currency from the bank I received a better rate of exchange. Despite this advantage we still had to watch our pennies, so, to conserve funds, we moved to cheaper accommodation; a bed and breakfast establishment in Gloucester Place called "Hart House," presided over by Mr. and Mrs. Bowden. Mrs. B. was an ardent royalist. Whenever the Queen and Prince Phillip ventured out in their carriage, she would always be one of the cheering crowd waving her little Union Jack. We thought it was only silly Australian tourists who did that.
The view from our top-floor bedroom at Hart House encompassed a sea of chimney pots, from which I expected to appear, at any moment, the sooty face of Dick Van Dyke with Mary Poppins and her umbrella floating down to meet him. Gloucester Place also seemed to be the popular living locality for the London Arab population. I kept thinking I saw Peter O'Toole and Anthony Quinn walking past our front door. Selfridges, the store that sold everything, was close by in Oxford Street and we were told that it was owned by the Arabs.
Also close by, in Portman Square, was the Wallace Exhibition (armoury period furniture, clocks etc. etc.) and only a block away was Baker Street, down which, at night, I'm sure, clip-clopped an ethereal hansom cab carrying the ghosts of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson to their last elementary case.
It was from Baker Street station, one Sunday morning, we travelled by tube to Aldgate, and after a short walk, came to Petticoat Lane with its dozens and dozens of stalls, its Cockney barkers, its costermongers with their Pearly King and Pearly Queen. We were pushing through, shoulder to shoulder, with crowds of other would-be customers, when Jean-ma paused to make an inquiry from a gent in a battered bowler 'at. "Noice to 'ave ya arahnd,luv," he said. "Just tree pahnds for the aht, luv." And after "luv" had made her selection. "Jist pie me big bruvver, luv, 'es the boss." After Jean-ma had beaten "big bruvver" down to "two pahnds sixty pee" I was the proud possessor of an elegant tweed hat complete with "fevver."
Petticoat Lane had a unique atmosphere; an atmosphere charged with abundant Cockney humour and wit. Later we found, in Soho, another smaller street with a similar atmosphere - Rupert Street with its barrows and kerbside stalls; its sex shops, flea market, street musicians and, of all places, a shop specially catering for needs of left-handed people. We particularly remember Rupert Street because of a bedraggled old flautist, who would have held his own with James Galway. We couldn't leave until he had finished his piece.
We decided that it was time to find out what made Danny Kaye and Max Bygrave look so happy when they sang about "Tulips from Amsterdam," but we had a few days to fill in, which we did with visits to St. Pauls Cathedral, (after lunch at the "Cheshire Cheese" in Fleet Street}, The Tower and Tower Bridge, Hyde Park and the Serpentine, and finally, The Royal Festival Hall where the London Symphany Orchestra dispensed gems from RimskyKorsakov, Rachmaninoff, and finished up with the "Symphony of the Spheres."
Next day K.L.M. deposited us at Amsterdam Airport; then a "Cosmos" bus delivered us to a BAD (health) hotel in Scheveningen, a Bondi-type beach suburb of The Hague. Exactly eleven days earlier the 1976 European Song Contest had been held in The Hague, and we had watched it on TV in the lounge of the Shanklin Hotel. It was excellent entertainment and much to our delight the winner was England with the song "Save Your Kisses For Me." So The Hague was not completely unfamiliar to us.
Guided bus tours can be tiring; so much is crammed into so limited a period and the tour we were about to take was no exception. It opened with an indescribable blaze of colour - Keukenhof Gardens, in Lisse, about 20 kilometres north of The Hague.
Entering the gates of Keukenhof was like entering the gates of Fairyland - a fairyland of vivid iridescent colour - nature at its most glorious. The Hollanders boast it is the greatest flower show on earth, and who am I to disagree. Under the tracery of winter branches of century-old beeches, elms and silver birches, brilliant green lawns surround beds massed with millions, yes millions (approximately six million we were told) of flowering bulbs, including thousands of varities of tulips, daffodils, and red, white and blue hyacinths. Around the beautiful cascades and ponds flowering shrubs abounded and when we entered the green houses (5000 square metres of them) we were literally dazzled by the fluorescent color, despite the dull day. This the result of 25 years of miraculous professional skill and artistry as practiced by the Dutch bulb growers. The 50 acre park was, in the 15th. century, a pleasure garden of the Countess Jacqueline of Bavaria. In it she sought solace from her frequent love-sicknesses, and found the herbs and vegetables for her noble kitchen; hence the name "Keukenhof", which means in English "kitchen garden."
Close by Keukenhof was a bulb nursery where the bus stopped to allow the English tourists to place orders for the latest strains of tulips and hyacinths. This nursery also sported a cottage factory manufacturing clogs. Just to prove we'd been to Holland we bought a pair.
The rest of the day was very fully occupied with visits to historical Haarlem; its cathedral has four doors, each used by a different branch of the Christian church. We lunched at Volendam, a quaint touristy fishing village on the Zuider Zee.
The afternoon was spent in Amsterdam, first by launch on the harbour and then through the canals, and later a visit to a diamond factory and on to the Art Gallery to view the original works of Rembrandt and Frans Hals; and I mustn't forget the detour to the red-light district where "lovely ladies" displayed their " wares" in the front windows of their establishments.
Next morning our first port of call was the old world town of Delft, one of the most beautiful and interesting old towns in the Netherlands. Her little streets edge canals, which are shaded by graceful lime trees, and her history recalls such important European figures as William the Silent, who was assassinated on the steps of the cathedral that faces the market square. The bullet holes on the cathedral wall are still there to authenticate the story.
Jean-ma's hobby, as you know, is pottery and because of this our interest in Delft revolved around the famous Delft pottery where we watched the hand- painting of exotic pieces and discussed matters of common interest with the artisans. Strange to say, the clay used a Delft comes from the south of England. Some weeks later we were to meet, in Newton Abbot, the suppliers, who happened to be known to our friends, Hal and Erina More.
Delftware is reminisant of those qualities peculiar to mediaeval Chinese porcelains, whether it be functional pieces, like lovely tea-sets, or purely decorative, like graceful candlesticks or vases. It attracts the eye at once because of its inimitable BLUE. Blending so warmly with its back- ground glaze, this colour, unique in vibration, is at once exciting, whether it outlines a composition of flowers, birds or landscape hinting of Rembrandt or Vermeer. There are many original designs used in the creation of Delftware, which is always hand painted. These are the brain-children of well known Dutch painters, whilst others are echos of fine designs which were prominent in handsome collections of eighteenth century ceramics.
Rotterdam was our next stop. A city rebuilt after being bombed off the map during World War Two. It was strange seeing all the department stores open and doing brisk business. Strange? yes; because it was Good Friday.
We lunched at Kinderijk where dozens of wind-mills line the canals and the River Lek. The wind-mills, now protected by National Trust, once pumped water on to the irrigated fields, but now this is done by diesel power.
We finished the day with visits to Schoonhoven, a town supporting 32 silver-smiths, a cheese factory, and miniture Madurodam (an exhibition of scaled down models of Holland's famous buildings and utilities); then finally The Dutch Houses of Parliament at The Hague.
We were glad of the 3 or 4 hours forced rest next day while we waited for the fog to lift at Rotterdam Airport.
I cannot leave Holland without making mention of two of our fellow- travellers. The first, a charming English widow, Mrs. Margaret Zalia, of Croydon, whose husband was shot by the Russians during the Hungarian uprising. She escaped on the last train to cross the border. The other, an ear-bashing typical ocker Australian tourist from Queensland, who battened on to us much to our embarrassment, but nevertheless was very volubly responsible for us getting a seat in the first plane to leave Rotterdam after the fog lifted. That was Saturday, the 17th. April, 1976.
That afternoon, as we boarded, at Waterloo Station, what once might have been known as "The London and South Western," we realised that we were about to experience, for the first time, the charm of rural England.
We were met at Crewkerne by Charles and Gwyn Davis.When he retired from Dalgety-NZL Charles Davis sold his place in the London suburb of Potters Bar and he and Gwyn migrated to the village of East Lambrook, in Somerset, where, according to Peter Dawson, the "zider" apples grow. There they were able to indulge in their hobbies of gardening, bird watching and wine making; elder- berry wine, sloe, rowanberry, pear, black currant and dandelion wine; you name it, they made it. During the next five months, when we stayed with them, on and off, we were ever aware, from the burping noises that issued from the dark recesses in the house, that more brews were fermenting their way to final maturity. I once spent a whole morning gathering dandelion flowers for a brew which, unfortunately hadn't matured by the time we left England.
East Lambrook was a typical Somerset village. It comprised 67 houses, a manor, a pub (The Rose and Crown) and the Church of St. James. The church was built in 1313 and its first incumbent was John de Weston. On the nave wall there was engraved an unbroken up-to-date list of incumbents since 1313, and it was significant that for the first 200 years all the names were French; no doubt a left-over from the Norman invasion. The building was restored to its present condition during the three years 1778 to 1780; the same time poor old Arthur Phillip was struggling to keep alive his newly found colony of Sydney, in far off New South Wales. I very much regret that I was unable to meet the Vicar of St. James, who lived in another village. Within a 5 mile radius of East Lambrook were dozens of similar villages complete with pub, church and manor house, and, although they were only small communities, they had big names like Kingsbury Episcopi, (famous for its pub, the Wyndham Arms), Whitelackington, Shepton Beauchamp (whose main street was called Love Lane), West Lambrook, Martock, Barrington (the headquarters of the district thatching firm), Stocklinch and Puckington. The nearest thing to a town was South Pethington, a metropolis by comparison, because it was the shopping centre for the district. And finally there was Bembridge, with its pub called "The Rusty Axe," famous for its plowmans lunches of which we partook on many occasions.
The Somerset Country-side gave us a wonderful feeling of relaxation. We made leisurely visits, first to Wiltshire, via Somerton (the Somerton yarn market), the village of Alford (with a sign informing us that "180 cattle, 18 children and 6 ponies" lived there}, and after lunch at the George Inn in Longbridge Deverill, a ook at the Marquis of Bath's very stately home, "Longleat," of which I have retained three lasting impressions.
Firstly, the glorious first glimpse of "Longleat" from a hill-top garden very aptly named "Heavans Gate." Secondly, the deer park, yes, with real live rein-deer in it, and thirdly, the gallery where works of art by Winston Churchill and Adolf Hitler are hung side by side.
The trip home encompassed Wells Cathedral, Glastonbury's old abbey ruins King Alfred's church in Othery, and Sedge Moor, the scene of the famous historical battle.
The other leisurely visit was made into Devon. It started at Lyme Regis (which strictly speaking is in Dorset) and proceeded west along the coast via Axmouth to Seaton, then to the delightful village of Beer, which boasted one of Her Majesty's Life Guard Stations (Wreck Savers Inc.). Nearby was Branscombe, one of the prettiest villages yet seen, with its leafy lane leading down to the beaches, and its Norman church of St. Winifreds. Then home to East Lambrook through Honiton, of lace fame, and Axminister, of carpet fame.
Our "Rural Experiment" continued when we moved into Hampshire to spend a few days with the Hellards, at Bottom Ponds Farm, Owslebury, a few miles out of Winchester. Mary Hellard was the daughter of George Shorter, who was my grandfather James Shorter's step-brother, so that Mary was my cousin two or three times removed. Philip Hellard was a tenant farmer running a dairy herd of 8O to 1OO Ayrshires (all named and pampered like chldren) and cropping a large (for that area) acreage of wheat. Some 1O or 12 years earlier Philip had ploughed up quantities of pottery shards which he passed on to the archaeological department of one of the universities. An aerial survey showed up a ring of darker green on his field of growing wheat. Excavating began and this ring proved to be the ditch surrounding an ancient Belgic village of pre-Roman times, on top of which the Romans had built a military camp. For up to 1O years, much to the Hellard's inconvenience, the archaeologists toiled unearthing Belgic burial jars, dozens of Roman pottery pieces, parts of a chariot, and the intact skeleton of a Roman soldier complete with sword, spear and armour. All these treasures comprise "The Owslebury Collection" displayed in a special room in the Roman section of the British Museum, which we were to view later. Philip has a large collection of his own, which unfortunately, his said, were "unauthenticated."
We spent two happy sunny days with Philip and Mary who gave us a quick look at Hampshire; the Winchester Cathedral where great uncle Alfred Witt once held office, a trip through the New Forest, with its wild ponies, then to Lymington and the beautiful Exbury Gardens. The next day, before we made our second foray on to the Continent, we had a quiet send-off luncheon at the Bush Inn at Ovington, on the Itchen River.
Although we were embarking at Folkstone, and not Dover, I couldn't help thinking of Vera Lynn and World War Two Spitfires, as we watched the white cliffs fade into the distance.
Having read so much about rough channel crossings and the inevitable seasickness, we were agreeably surprised at the smoothness of our trip to Ostend. A normal ride on a Manly ferry would have been rougher.
We were met at Ostend by our Swiss driver, Adolpha, and our Yugo-Slav hostess who was very inappropriately names Blanka. She should have been called "Brighta." She spoke five languages fluently. These two were about to lead us through nine days of concentrated sight-seeing of which I will relate some highlights.
We stayed the night at Brussels and next morning set off, through the country-side of East Brabant and the industrial city of Liege, to arrive at the border of West Germany where there were masses of trailers waiting for special permission to travel. Normally they could only use the autobahns between 4 p.m. and 8 a.m.
Our first stop was Cologne to visit its magnificent 461 foot high twin- tower cathedral, amazingly unscathed by World War Two bombs, thanks to the accuracy of our RAF air-crews. Paradoxically on the other side of the city square, opposite this grand 12th. century edifice, was a garish "McDonalds" blatantly advertising "Big Macs" at so many pfinnings each, with free French fries, or should I say German fries.
Following the banks of the Rhine we next reached Bonn, the capital of West Germany, and the sister town of Oxford in England. It reminded me so much of Canberra. I suppose because it was city of public servants who spared no expense when it came to supporting culture, building and maintaining parliament houses, shopping malls, theatres, parks and concert halls. After all, in 177O, it was Beethoven who was born there. Everything in Bonn was so clean. We were taken on a tour of the diplomats suburb of Bad Godesberg - the "Mugga Way" of Bonn, - where, I thought, the Australian Legation held its own with those of other countries.
That night we were bedded down in Coblenz and I was awakened early next morning by an awful clattering noise in the street. When I dressed and went out to investigate I was confronted with hundreds of tanks and armoured vehicles, around which helmeted German soldiers with automatic rifles were milling. For one terrifying moment I thought that World War Three had been declared and we were about to be interned for the duration. My fears were allayed when "Mine Host" explained that it was just another military exercise in progress.
At Coblenz we boarded a ferry which took us up the Rhine River to St. Goarhausen, passing many picturesque fortified ancient castles, masses of vineyards growing on the very steep hillsides, and the legendary Lorelei Rock, where, they say, golden haired maidens used to lure sailors to their destruction. Rejoining the bus at St. Goar, we lunched at Rudesheim in the heart of the Rhine wine-lands, and, skirting the American air base at Weisbaden, pressed on to Kehl for the night. After the meal that night Jean-ma and I went for a "constitutional". It took us across the Rhine Bridge and we found ourselves in the city of Strasbourg, which, of course, is in France. We had to produce our passports in order to get back to our "digs."
I've always wanted a cuckoo clock. I got my opportunity to acquire one next day at a shop in the Black Forest; about thirty other people did the same. We entered Switzerland at Schaffhausen and soon after came to the spectacular Rhine Falls, allegedly described by Goethe as "the source of the oceans."
We travelled down the western shore of Lake Constance, on to Vaduz, the "capital" of the principality of Leichenstein, a community of forty thousand souls ruled from the fairy-tale Kokenburg Castle, by Franz Joseph the Second. I couldn't help thinking of that spot in Western Australia - Hat or Hut something or other - ruled over by Prince Rupert; except that the independant principality of Leichensten did actually function as a state.
The town of Domat-Ems, on the banks of the Upper Rhine, where we stayed next, had a large fountain in the centre of the town square. We were amazed to see peasant women doing their washing at this fountain - and it wasn't for the benefit of tourists either. Not far away, in the industrial town of Chur they were busy making washing machines for export.
We got our first sight of snow next day as we climbed up to Julier Pass (225O metres high) and over into St. Moritz, and lunch at the most fashionable resort in Switzerland. The "season" was over so we missed being welcomes by the Counts and Dukes and the film stars of the European jet-set. But didn't miss the run down the "Maloja Pass", with its spectacular scenery and 3O hair- pin bends; some of which necessitated backing the bus and two swings of the steering wheel. Our driver's advice was "If you're nervous, just close your eyes, like I do." . At Chiavenna, at the bottom, we crossed the border into Italy, and could't help noticing the difference in the style of dwellings. In Switzerland the farm-houses were neat and tidy, freshly painted, with sound gates and fences and well kept gardens. In Italy the unpainted houses were roofed with stone, fences broken down and gardens over-run with weeds. Following afternoon tea at Bellano, we skirted around Lake Como to return back to Switzerland and make camp in Lugarno where we stayed two nights.
Of all the places we had visited up to this time I think Lugarno was my favourite, and perhaps still is. One couldn't help being impressed by its luxurient lakeside gardens, its fountains and shaded walks, its shopping streets with cool colonades and cafes facing the lake and the artistically patterned paved lakeside esplanades. Having a full day in Lugarno gave us time to explore the lake by launch, which included afternoon tea at a shore-line teahouse, smothered in sunshine and wisteria blossom, and called "The Caprino." While we nibbled our scones, our Italian launch skipper, who had a beautiful tenor voice, entertained us with unaccompanied renditions of "O Sole Mio," "South of the Border," and "Riva Dercha Roma." It took me back to the days when I used to avidly listen to a session on Radio 2GB called "World Famous Tenors" and Beniamino Gigli was the favourite.
Another delightful call on the lake was the village of Gandria, clinging precariously to the mountain side which dropped sheer to the water's edge. Nevertheless it was able to support 2OO inhabitants, 11 cafes, a street market, a highly decorated church and a grove of imported Australian eucalyptus trees.
Very reluctantly we left Lugarno and climbed over St. Bernadino Pass, through a four mile tunnel where the speed is 8O kilometres per hour, no more no less. At the end of the tunnel one comes to the source of the Rhine then the hydro-electric lake at Sufers. Skirting Lake Zurich, through blossom-laden orchards, we came to the town of Schwys, named after the founder of the Swiss Federation.
Lunch was served at Lucerne, the lovely city with its covered medieval bridges,its old water tower and smart shopping streets fanning out from lake-side promenades; and everything was so clean. We actually watched city workmen washing the footpaths with hose and broom. I wish we had been able to stay longer in Lucerne; instead we moved on to stay the night at a farm-house bed and breakfast at Richental.
Next morning we passed through another 4 mile tunnel into Basle then crossed the French border at the village of St. Louis.
The rest of our trip seems to have been an anti-climax, except perhaps for the all too short a stop in Luxemburg, and the fish market in Ostend before we embarked for Dover aboard the M.V.Koningin Elisabeth, whose vehicular doors, I'm glad to say, were securely closed before we hit the rough water of the English Channel.
We had a very short rest at the Overseas League before setting out on our second British Rail holiday, this time to York.
As we sped north at a hundred miles per hour; gazing at the English country-side flashing by, my mind drifted back to my first year at high school and my first English history lesson, covering Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, who rose against the invading Romans and , at the head of a vast army of Britons, sacked Camelodunum (present day Colchester) and took Londonium and Verulamium (St.Albans). Her victory, however, was short lived. In the Roman counter-attack her army of 8O,OOO was wiped out and she, poor soul, committed suicide; after which the Roman legions marched north {through the English country-side I was now gazing at} and, on the banks of the River Foss where it joins the Ouse, they established a military camp, which in time became the town of Eboracum, the Roman military capital of Britain. Over centuries Eboracum changed to Saxon Eoforwic, then to Danish Jorvik and finally under the Norman conquerors, it became the walled city of York; the second largest city of England and one of its main religious centres, supporting over forty churches. In due course it gave birth to such famous names as Guy Fawkes, Dick Turpin and Herbert Sutcliffe.
We were bedded down in Newington House, in Blossom Street, a comfortable little hostelry nestling amid trees adjacent to York Race Course. Sharing our roof was a group of London school children, armed with pencils, exercise books and cameras, doing a history project. This group was one of dozens of similar groups {all in charge of conscientious teachers) that we met during our visits to the three museums of York; the first being the traditional York Museum which, apart from the fossilised remains of a 25 foot long 16O,OOO year old ichthyosaurs and a comprehensive display of Yorkshire wildlife, housed a huge collection of local Roman relics. York railway station was built on a Roman cemetery site, which yielded many treasures during the construction of the station.
Another spot of great interest was the National Railway Museum, with the largest collection of railway relics under one roof in Britain, or for that matter, in the world.
A novel experience, museum-wise, was our visit to the old Female Prison which had been converted in 1935 by Doctor John Kirk into what is now known as the Castle Museum. Doctor Kirk realised before anyone else that many of the objects used for centuries in the every-day life of country people, farmers, craftsmen, shop-keepers and many others, were fast disappearing with the advent of mass production, and he began to collect them. He collected anything and everything that could be called bygone, and which to most other people was junk. Finally he presented his outstanding collection to the City of York who gave him the old prison buildings in which to house it. To-day the Castle Museum is one of the most successful folk museums in the world.
Browsing through Castle Museum we were reminded that once upon a time you could buy nails by the pound in an ironmongers shop, instead of in a cellophane pack in a hardware store. As well as "Old Dutch Cleanser", Lifebouy Soap and Bryant and May matches, you could buy sugar, flour and biscuits by the pound at your grocer, instead of packaged in a supermarket. The haberdasher supplied your reels of cotton and packets of pins; the chemist your Epsom Salts and A.P.C. powders, and your milk was poured into your "billy-can" by the dairy-man who drew it from a tap at the back of his milk-cart. And finally we were reminded that you didn't have to go to a "fruitorium" to buy an apple, you got that at a greengrocers; that mens clothes came from a tailor, not "Just Jeans," and that instead of driving your car to a petrol station, you rode your horse to the black-smith's forge to have him re-shoed. So much for progress!
We were glad to have the time to meander arounder the old city wall and through the streets of York. Through Petergate, The Shambles, Fossgate, Godramgate, and the shortest street with the lonest name, Whip-ma-whop-ma-gate. Incidently, these "gates" didn't swing on hinges. The word "gate" is a corruption of the Scandinavian word "gatan" meaning street; a reminder that York was once the Viking town of Jorvik.
In these streets stood many historical buildings. Perhaps the most interesting (excluding York Minster) would have been the Merchant Adventurers Hall; built in 1367 entirely of wood, still standing and still being used by York's various Merchant Guilds.
One Sunday we endeavoured to attend the advertised Evensong at York Minster and, to our horror, found ourselves with others, blocked by rope barriers and parish councillors selling souvenirs to tourists. In reply to my letter of complaint the Archbishop of York begged my indulgence and hoped that I would understand that the up-keep of a cathedral was very costly and that tourist dollars, not the offertory, were their main source of income.
From York we made many delightful trips to parts of interest. At British Rail's expense we visited Scarborough, with its donkeys on the sands, and Leeds with a bus ride to Temple Newsom and the finest display of azaleas and rhododendrons I have ever seen. At our expense, we took a bus, via Ripon, to Fountains Abbey, the most extensive Cistercian ruins in England, in a setting of lawns, woods, river and water gardens. And then to Harrogate to see a display of tulips equal to many in Holland. So much for Yorkshire.
I will always have nostalgic memories of the City of York. It reminded me of the city I grew up in as a child. A city built by masons and carpenters. A city with, lets call it, character and tradition. A city unblemished by ghastly columns of concrete, steel and glass.
After a very happy fortnight we returned to "Hart House" and another twelve days of walking London.
When I think back to our days in London I marvel at our ability to keep going day after day. I think we both felt that we will be here once - and once only - so we just had to draw on our reserve of energy in order to make the most of it. One day in York and within twenty-four hours we were hob- nobbing with the plaid-clothed gardeners of England at the Chelsea Flower Show; a stunning floral exhibition under a huge white canvas tent that created a light that clothed the blooms in an ethereal glow. The exhibit that impressed me most was the wall of delphiniums, not one of them less than six feet high. We learnt something at the Chelsea Flower Show; that the "clee-mate-us" that grows over Australian fences becomes "clem-a-tiss" when it takes root in an English garden.
We spent another day at the British Museum, eventually discovering the "Owslebury Exhibit." After explaining to the man in uniform our special interest in this exhibit I was allowed to photograph it.
We had a picnic with the geese and squirrels in Regents Park one day and on another lunched at the "Hare and Hound" in Hampstead Heath.
On Wednesday, 2nd. June, 1976, "Derby Day," we were the guests of "Dalgetys" who entertained all their overseas visitors on top of a roof-less, double-decker, champagne and chicken laden bus, which transported us from Victoria Station to Epsom Downs in the company of dozens of other similar buses, all of whom were, in due course, parked opposite the race-course grand-stand. The theme of the day was "carnivale." The centre of the race-course reminded me of the side-show section of the Sydney Royal Show. We cheered the Queen and Prince Phillip as they rode down the straight in an open carriage, then drank their health in more champagne. I backed Lester Piggot on an American horse, Empery, in the Derby and, I'm glad to relate, more than recovered my earlier losses. The ride back was hilarious with the bus crews and their alcoholic passengers maintaining the carnival atmosphere all the way back to the city. By way of contrast we spent the next day quietly launching up to Kew Gardens and getting stuck on a Thames mud bank in the process.
We were unable to obtain tickets for the "Trooping of the Colours" so settled for second best by standing in The Mall, with camera clicking, behind a burly guardsman, and watching the rehearsal. Five foot-bands, all the household carriages, two horse bands, hundreds of bearskins and horse guards, and Prince Phillip on the Queen's horse - Most impressive. Only the Queen was missing.
Then one fine and warm Sunday evening we walked across the foot-way of the Waterloo Bridge, dined at the restaurant attached to the Royal Festival Hall, then listened to Beethoven's Second Piano Concerto followed by a thrilling, "super four x" performance of his Ninth (Choral) Symphany by the London Symphany Orchestra and London Symphany Choir under the baton of Andre Previn. It was hard to sleep that night, we were so busy re-living that evening's experience - and we needed a good sleep for next morning we were off on our third British Rail holiday; this time to Tenby, on the coast of South Wales.
We went to Tenby to find out why Captain Cook named our part of the world "NEW South Wales," and after a few days there I came to the conclusion that it must have been because of the white sandy beaches that skirt the Eastern Australian coast-line; the coast-line he was charting. This seemed to be the only feature the two lands had in common. He would have been equally justified had he named us "New Pembrokeshire."
We stayed at the "Hotel Panorama," perched atop a cliff over-looking Tenby Beach, which at high tide, was about ten yards wide, and at low tide, was about three-quarters of a mile wide, such were the tides of the Bristol Channel.
Tenby reminded me of Manly, N.S.W., between the two world wars; a place where country folk spent their holidays, turning North and South Steyne surf red as they washed off the dust of the western plains. Likewise, at Tenby holidaying Londoners were busy washing the London soot off their pale white bodies, which they hoped, after two weeks sunshine, would take on a colour resembling that of their West Indian next-door neighbours.
It seemed that every square mile of Britain had some association with historic historic and pre-historic events and Tenby in particualar and Pembrokeshire in general, were no exceptions. History in Pembrokeshire goes back to pre-historic times - the country is rich in mega-lithic remains - and it is steeped in Celtic folk-lore. Many of the coastal towns and villages are of Scandinavian origin, for raiding Vikings settled there. Anya Seton's novel "Avalon" was based on this historical fact. Later the Normans and the Flemings came. Uniquely, the county has long been known as "Little England beyond Wales" for in the southern area Anglo-Saxons, Normans and Flemings have contributed their own language and characteristics.
We saw evidence of the Norman influence when we made bus trips to adjacent towns and villages, each of which seemed to have ite own ruined Norman castle, and its own Norman church; the church still functioning. We visited Pembroke, on Milford Haven, where stood the old warime Sunderland Seaplane Base, now an oil refinery. This trip included a run south, through Lamphey with its ruined 14th. century "Palace of the Bishops of St. David," then down a country lane to Botherston near St. Govan's Head, and close by was the 13th. century Hermitage and Chapel of St. Govan, wedged into a cleft in the cliffs and reached only by rough steps, hewn many centuries ago.
Another short bus ride took us to the picturesque fishing (and touristy) village of Lydstep, and on to Manorbeir, a charming village that is a remarkable example of a Norman baron's estate with all its appendages of castle, church, mill, dovecote and pond. The impressive castle is of slightly later date and it embodies a chapel and hall over a vaulted undercroft. A car-park attendant proudly informed us that in the grounds was a neolithic-age tomb, "The Kings Quoit," that Giraldus Cambrensis, the medieval Welsh historian, was born there, and that Lady So and So actually lived in the castle, was in fact currently in residence. I meant to ask if she had running water, an inside toilet and central heating, or was she living as the Normans did.
Tenby was originally a walled town with five gates (of which only one remains} overlooked from the headland, by a Norman castle; now the towns museum. It was once a stronghold of King Charles' Royalists but eventually fell to Cromwell's Roundheads in 1648; the museum has cannon-balls to prove it. Whilst browsing through the narrow streets, I was intrigued to see a sign, "The Koolabah, over the door of a shop and tea-room. I couldn't resist investigating further, and, sure enough, the proprietor was an expatriate Australian, who, 25 years previously, during a visit, had changed from a New South Welshman to a Old South Welshman.
One day we embarked on small launch in Tenby Harbour, and set sail for Caldey Island, about three miles off shore.
On Caldey (from the Norse "keld" meaning fresh water spring, and "ey" an island) we came across the Johnny Walker of all Cistercian Monastries - born 52O and still going strong, which is really not very long when one realises that the history of the island goes back to 8OOO B.C. Human remains and flint instruments of the Stone Age, and bones of animals long extinct in Britain, have been excavated by one of the monks. In those far off times the island formed part of the mainland. Broken bits of pottery of the early Iron Age have been dug up, as well as other material believed to be Roman, proving that life has gone on there from time immemorial.
Setting foot on Caldey was like entering a BBC studio during the filming of an episode of "Oh Brother." If Derek Nimmo had come up to me and said, "Welcome, Brother," I wouldn't have been the least surprised.
Much to Jean-ma's disgust, women were not allowed inside the monastry, so we had to rely on the brochure for information regarding the interior. The grounds, however, presented us with a quaint scene of cowled monks, in home-made leather thongs and heavy woollen robes, pushing wheel-barrows through the vegetable garden, (part of the 35O acre farm), raking up leaves, picking flowers and tilling the soil.
In addition to the farm, the monks had a unique way of keeping solvent. They had a very lucrative perfume industry; starting with the gathering of gorse blossom, the operation of a still on the island and finishing with a very busy little shop in Tenby. Their product is now well known nationally and internationally.
We visited the Old Priory and St.Illtud's Church with its stone spire leaning 4O inches from the perpendicular, proving that the ancient monks never practiced freemasonery. These old buildings contained within their walls the whole Christian history of Caldey Island.
We were made very welcome at Tenby Bowling Club where we spent our last day watching Ireland play South Wales on a green running 8 to 9 seconds.
Next day on Tenby Railway Station, whilst waiting for the train that was to take us back to London, we were confronted by a very pretty young lady who said to us; "British Rail would like to know how much you enjoyed your holiday in Tenby." She turned out to be an Aussie girl having a working holiday herself..
        Until next time, lots of love,

        Pa.
        Chapter Fourteen
        More 1976
        2 Taleeban Road,
        Lane Cove.
        2Oth. June, 1989.
My dear children,
Many years ago I was an avid reader of H.V.Morton's "In Search Of" books; mentally living with him as he travelled through England. Scotland and Wales. The time had now come for me to physically re-live that experience.
Back in London, we took delivery of the "driveyourself" Morris Mini Minor we had leased for the next six weeks. Joining us in our "Search of England, Scotland and Wales" and driving another Mini Minor, were our friends and Lane Cove neighbours, Gloria and Ray Watson.
The drive out of London, in strange cars, and in traffic equal tp Sydney's peak hour,was a nerve-wracking experience. By the time we reached Ripley all four of us were ready for the nice and quiet, relaxed Plowmans lunch and pint of bitter that was waiting for us at the local pub.
After a bed and breakfast at Emsworth, the next days highlight had to be our visit to Salisbury Cathedral.
Like York Minster, which had its origin in a little wooden church built by King Edwin in 627, with the construction of the present building commencing in 122O, Salisbury Cathedral had its origin in a small church built by St. Osmund in 1O92, with the construction of the present building also commencing in 122O. It was completed in 1258 , that is, all except the tower and spire which wasn't finished until nearly one hundred years later. It was worth waiting for because its the tallest cathedral spire in Britain; just exactly 4O1 feet high. And a clock was added in 1386, and believe it or not, it still works.
But all this wasn't why our visit to Salisbury was so special. As we entered the nave we were greeted by a glorious surge of choral and organ music. For the next hour or so we listened, at times with tears in our eyes, to an unofficial recital by the 44 strong Choir of the Naseby Park Church in Sweden, who were just as pleasing to the eye, robed in their burgundy surplices, as they were to the ear. Whilst on a concert tour of Britain, they were testing the acoustics of a high domed cathedral building as well as doing a full dress rehearsal. Just by way of an encore the visiting organist gave us an half an hour practising on the booming Salisbury pipe organ. Dame Fortune certainly smiled on us that wet day!
Our visit to Wilton House later in the afternoon was an anti-climax despite the fact that it held one of the finest private art collectins in England; including Rembrandts, Van Dyks, Reynolds, not forgetting Winston Churchill. A hostelry called "The Cribbage Hut" in Sutton Mandeville kept us dry that night.
Before setting out on our "In Search" trip I had acquired a number of "Shell" road maps. On these maps roads were divided into four colour groups The "blue" were freeways that carried the screaming cars and air-polluting semi-trailers. The "red" lines were roads connecting the big towns. The uncoloured were the unsealed lanes of the farm areas, whilst the "yellow" lineswe were the sealed roads that joined together the quaint hamlets and remote fishing villages of Great Britain. Ninety percent of our travelling was going to be done on the "yellow" roads.
We travelled to Shaftsbury by one of these "yellow" roads then found our way to Milton Abbas, in Dorset, where the lord of the manor once transplanted the whole village to make more breathing space for himself. Built in 938 by King Athelstan for the Benedictine monks, restored in 13O9, the Abbas is now a boys school. We lunched in the village of ( wait for it) Piddletranthide, visited Sherborne School where "Good-bye Mr. Chips" was filmed and proceeded to get lost in the high-hedged lanes of Somerset. Next day after stops at Exeter and Newton Abbott, the town that supplied the clay that is turned into Delftware, we found ourselves in the centre of Dartmoor amongst the black-faced sheep and wild ponies. On our left loomed the foreboding walls of the famous prison. I was glad that it was summer-time and sunny; it must be a very bleak and eerie spot in Winter. God help the poor convict that chose to escape on a winter's night!
That night we were the paying guests of Mr. Edwards, a gentleman farmer, of Colemarton Farm, Tavistock, in Devon. He was a breeder of prize Devon cattle. One of his bulls, that, incidently slept outside our bedroom window, was waiting shipment to the Department of Agriculture in Zambia. Our bedrooms were upstairs and the floors had a slope of about one in forty, which I suppse was understandable, for the farmhouse was built in the 16th. century and I don't think levels had been introduced to Britain by then.
For our evening meal we were directed to a sinister looking tavern on the main Plymouth Road. As we entered the taproom all conversation stopped. I think they thought that we were a couple of excise men. However, when the tooth-less "Master of the House" learnt that we were Australian tourists, we were received with open arms, and one farmer presented us with a bottle of his special farm made cider, which mine host informed us, exceeded the legal alcohol level, hence the fear of excise men. It went down very well with our potato pie served in the back parlour. Many years later I was to re-live this experience when the curtain rose on the tavern scene of "Les Miserables."
I suppose I should remember the next day for the narrow streets of Liskeard, where we shopped; the picturesque villages of Looe and Polperro; the ferry at Bodinnick and the cathedral at Truro. The event, however, that comes to mind first was our purchase from a Cornish baker, in Cornish Polperro, of the largest and most succulent Cornish pastie I've ever tasted.
In Falmouth we were the first "bed and breakfast" customers of Mr. Herbert J. Boultings, who was an avid collector of cigarette cards; he had a special room in his house that was completely filled with his files of cigarette cards. He also owned a very friendly dog that bid us farewell by lifting his leg on our picnic basket; it was fully laden too.
The Sunday we were there the Falmouth Central Methodist Church was celebrating the centenary of its beginning, and its foundation minister happened to be the Reverend Johns, who happened to be the great-grand-uncle of our travelling companion, Gloria Watson. I was very disappointed that the organisers didn't include her in their service when she made herself known as the great-grand-niece of their founder. We found many gravestones with the name "Johns" on them during our several calls at Cornish cemetries.
From Falmouth we "searched and discovered Cornwall - disused tin mines and Cornish beam engines - china clay mines and Cornish potteries - (including the famous Bernard Leach's) - the beaches of St.Ives and Newquay - King Arthur's town of Tintagel, with its National Trust Post Office built entirely of stone, including the roof. Although we searched high and low, we could not find any pirates in Penzance, but just south of the town we did find the cute little fishing village of Mousehole, pronounced "Muzzle."
The next night we were back in Devon only to discover that "The Half Moon Inn" in the village of Sheepwash was fully booked out by their regular salmon fishermen customers, each of whom, it seemed had rented a few yards of the bank of the River Torridge, with the hope that one day a four-pounder would be foolish enough to be attracted by their bogus flies. For our
accommodation we had to make do with "bed and breakfast" at Mrs. Ford's "Happy Valley" donkey stud farm, which meant that next morning we were awakened by, not only the singing of black-birds, but also the plaintiff braying of donkeys.
After skirting Taunton, which, I think is regarded as the capital of Somerset, we lunched that day at Burrowbridge; a village perched on a ridge of slightly higher ground which centuries ago was an island surrounded by marshes. There was once a small monastry there to which King Alfred came when hard pressed by the Danes. He lodged in a hut nearby whence comes the story of the burnt cakes. Burrowbridge has many links with the past but one that remains unchanged is the ancient withy growing industry, which has recently been strongly revived and has even entered the export market. And what are "withies" ? - you say. Well, they are young willow branches (or suckers} which are stripped, dried and steamed and used for basket making. When I was an ardent square-dancer I often wondered where the dance title "Strip the Willow" came from. At last I know. Gwyn Davis once pointed out to us a "withy" farm, where, from hundreds of willow stumps, sprouted thousands of "withies."
We came to, and climbed up, Glastonbury Tor, 5OO feet, where once stood a church housing the Holy Grail, and we were told that King Arthur and Queen Guihevere were buried there somewhere. Having had our fill of religion, history and strawberries (West Somerset must be England's strawberry patch) we decided to sample some scenery and headed for the Cheddar Gorge in the Mendip Hills. Well, we weren't disappointed with the scenery but we had to share it with the contents of dozens of tourist buses, using up every available inch of parking space. That night in Clutton a Mrs. Porter not only bedded us down but also set before us a sumptious meal drawn from her own farm and garden. I have come to the conclusion that the ancient Romans must have been a very clean race. Either that or they were very enthusiastic plumbers,or both. Every Roman ruin we saw in England included the remnants of a tiled bath-room, some including elaborate hot and cold water systems. We found further evidence of well-washed Romans next day in the city of Bath. Here there were extensive remains of medicinal baths, altars, temple ruins, furnace rooms and a great Roman built conduit through which the main modern bath still received its water.
It was with a certain amount of reluctance that we left Bath; a very attractive city with its Abbey, its Georgian terraces and circuses and its flower-decked shopping streets. By that afternoon we were in the Cotswolds looking for accommodation in Bourton-on-the-Water, or Lower or Upper Swell, or Moreton-inMarsh, or Upper or Lower Slaughter, and finally finding it in Stow-on-the-Wold.
Dalgety's London Office had very kindly presented us with two tickets for Wimbledon Centre Court, so from Stow-on-the-Wold we back-tracked to Oxford; with detour to the Churchill graves at Bladon, and also to the enormous Blenheim Castle, which was given to Winston's great great grand- daddy, John, the first Duke of Marlborough, for winning the Battle of Blenheim in 17O4, - nothing to do with the promotion of a certain brand of cigarette.
While we were admiring the magnificence of Blenheim Castle, many thousands of miles away, our tenth grandchild was admiring the magnificence of the world into which he had just entered. Mark Travers Shorter was born on the 24th. of June, 1976, but it was two weeks later before we received this wonderful news.
From Oxford British Rail took us to Wimbledon on about the hottest day in its history - the 25th. June, 1976. To add to our discomfort we had to watch our hero, John Newcombe, take a beating from South African, Bruce Mitton. To soften the blow Pilic and Australia's Syd Ball then put Jimmy Connors and "Nasty" Nastase through the hoops.
We met Frank and Maisie Hinde there and together we had the traditional "strawberries and cream on Wimbledon Lawn," except that, by then the lawn had become a dust bowl. In future, when we watch Wimbledon on TV we will be able to see the seats we sweated in. A very interesting day but much nicer if the thermometer had been ten degrees lower.
From Oxford next day we took a long drive across England to Ross-on-Wye, then spent several delightful hours criss-crossing the Wye valley on farm lanes, admiring the rose-smothered farm houses, until we came to Hereford, the home of the white faced bulls.
We met up with the Watsons once more and became the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Hughes at Oaklands Farm, near Kington on the Welsh border. The Hughes were very busy hay-making when we arrived and were still carting it into their barns when we turned in at ten thirty that night. The predicted rain they were worrying about didn't materialise
The drive through Wales took us through the stark hills of the tree-less Cambrian Mountains. Villages with names such as Rhayader and Gwmystwyth were few and far between. Black-faced sheep sheltered from the wind in any hole they could find and there was precious little water fro them in the dams. We were looking for something really dramatic when we saw "Devils Bridge" on the mao; but it turned out to be just another mountain village. Then we reached Aberystwyth, a coastal town with a beach of black sand and black pebbles. It was very apparent that we were in North Wales because the locals spoke Welsh, particularly if "foreigners" like us were around. When you walked into a shop in North Wales, the local customer and shopkeeper would be conversing in English until you drew near when they'd switch to Welsh which annoyed me intensely. It reminded me of something I'd been told in Tenby; something about an invisible but definite line called the "Landsker" a name of Norse origin meaning boundry. This particular boundry followed a line of Norman castles that formed a gentle curve from Newgale on St. Brides Bay to Penarth just south of Cardiff. North of the line was known as the Welshery, and south of it the Englishery; to us, in other words, the unfriendly and the friendly.
In Tal-y-bont, just south of Harlech, whose men are responsible for the Welsh National Anthem, we found accommodation with a Mrs. Starr, a tight lipped talkative creature who demanded an extra twenty pence for every bath we had, despite the fact that water was plentiful in these coastal towns due to a supplementary source from hill dams built 15OO years ago by the Romans. So into the hills we went to have a another look at history.
During the next two days we criss-crossed North Wales visiting all the touristy spots, starting with Harlech Castle, where Edward the First was crowned; then to Beddgelart with its legendary "Hounds Grave," Caernarvon Castle where all the Princes of Wales are installed, and the Menai Bridge connecting Anglesey to mainland Wales. A night in Llanberis then up the Pass of Llanberis to Pen-y-pass Youth Hostel with majestic Mount Snowden on our right; the whole place swarming with Tyrolean-clad youth walking and climbing over this awe-inspiring scenery. The hotel in Pen-y-Gwryd, just over the pass, was the Mountain Rescue Committee's base. On its parlour ceiling were the signatures of many world-famous international mountain climbers, including Sir Edmund Hilary.
I remember Betws-y-coed as a lovely leafy town on the banks of the River Lledr, and I remember Pentrefoelas as a quaint village where we bought bread from a baker who actually milled his own flour in a water-mill whose wheel looked as if it had been turning for hundreds of years. He proudly showed us the whole process from grain to loaf.
By way of extreme contrast our next trek took us into the Llechwedd Slate Mine at Blaenau Ffestiniog. Since 1846 this mine has been supplying the world's houses with slate roofs. No doubt some of the Federation homes in Sydney owe their rain-proofness to Llechwedd. It takes ten tons of raw material to make one ton of commercial slate, so you can guess the size of the slag heaps that surround this mine.
Our last night in Wales was spent at Mrs. Skinner's Tal-y-bont Farm, in Rhyduchaf, near Lake Bala, or as the Welsh say, Llyn Tagid. Mrs. Skinner had a mother, who, I suspected, disapproved of her daughter taking in paying guests, including us. As she always conversed with her daughter in Welsh, much to my annoyance, I could only surmise from her facial expression what she was complaining about. I had earlier purchased a phrasebook, so at supper that night I was able to ask the two ladies, in perfect (?) Welsh, "What are we having for breakfast tomorrow?" I enjoyed watching the embarrassed glances between mother and daughter. So much for Wales.
Our re-entry to civilised England was made at the City of Chester, with its famous clock in St.Werburgh Street; a street flanked by many attractive Tudor buildings. We had time too, to visit Chester's Pink Cathedral, its interior beautifully decorated by massive coloured windows and mosaic walls, creating a dignified and warm atmosphere. The warmth of course could have been an optical allusion brought about by the Chester red sandstone of which the building was constructed.
When we think of Chester, however, we don't think of Tudor buildings and pink cathedrals, but rather of a certain driving escapade.
We were desparately looking for somewhere to park, when I spied a car-park in the distance and made a bee-line for it. Quite obliviously I was driving through a pedestrian plaza with the poor Watsons trying to follow me and copping all the flak from a crowd of irate pedestrians. Fortunately the local constabulary were busy attending to a fire at the other end of the town.
A rather sorrowful memory of Chester involved a visit to the cemetery at Blacon. Whilst browsing around the spectacular rose garden that surrounded the crematorium we came upon a field of white tomb-stones. It was a World War Two Air Force Cemetery. Sadly we noted that the ages on those plain white memorials ranged from sixteen to twenty-four; with the twenties very much in the minority. This pathetic "God's Acre" surely had a message. Firstly, it reminded us that the "Battle of Britain" had been fought, and won, by "bits of boys;" - English boys, Australian, Canadian and New Zealand boys; - and the mmessage? - never let it happen again.
When the Watsons left us to visit friends, we made off to spend a few days with Cousin Christine, but before reaching Grange-over-Sands we had a night in the village of Warton.
We found Warton smothered in bunting and the Stars and Stripes fluttering from every flag-pole, as well as the church steeple; the church, incidently, was a gift from the American people. Why all this interest in the United States of America? Well, we were told, George Washington's ancestors lived in Warton and what better excuse could there be for having a festival week every year commencing on the Fourth of July.
Christine Huthwaite, nee Woodhouse, was the daughter of "Aunt Carrie," my grand-father de Witt's youngest sister. She was ,therefore my mother's first cousin, and the widow of an Indian army officer. Christine had made a number of trips to Australia, visiting her sister, Isabel Pyper, in Westbury, Tasmania, and we had met her on her way through Sydney. What she missed out in height, she made up for in energy, so our two days at Grange-over-Sands were packed full of interest.
In her car Christine showed us the Lakes District that tourists never see; such as - Elterater and Tarn Hows nestling under the pikes of the Cumbrian Mountains - quaint villages like Greenodd, Penny Bridge, and Hawkshead, where the poet Tennyson lived, just to mention a few. We saw Windemere, of course, in glorious sunshine, and we picnic-lunched on the banks of Coniston Water near the spot where Donald Campbell lost his life trying to break the world water speed record. Coming back home to Grangeover -Sands we passed the Reckitts Blue Factory, and the old disused cotton-mill, built in 183O, haunted by the ghosts of many orphan children murdered, so the story goes, by a callous employer unwilling to pay their meagre wages during the cotton slump caused by the American Civil War. And what a novel murder; he sent them on a picnic on the sands at low tide, and let the rising tide do the rest.
Next day was Sunday, so off we go to church at Cartmel Priory, which simply oozed history. A retired canon of the church had appointed himself Honorary Steward of Cartmel and after the service this gentleman kindly told us its history. Built in the 12th. century from a plan seen in a vision by a very devout monk; its walls were six feet thick allowing for many built-in secret passages. I was reminded of my "Boys Own Paper" childhood days when I was an ardent fan of Billy Bunter and his friends, and lapped up their many school-boy adventures in the secret passages of Greyfriars Academy. Within Cartmel Priory lodges the Seal of Charles the First, who had the monks support; its wall still bears the scars of Cromwell's assault. When the Priory was built the monks vowed that the poor would never go hungry. With this object in view two loaves of bread were always kept in the chapel. This tradition remains unaltered to this day, and the Honorary Steward showed us the two loaves to prove it.
We rejoined the Watsons next day for a couple of nights at Mr. and Mrs. Kegg's "Old Mill Farm" in the Lyth Valley. The white-washed two-storey farm cottage had a wall three feet thick and rough hewn ceiling beams with the axe cuts still showing. We slept in the two attic bedrooms up-stairs. The cottage was surrounded by a typical English garden of canterbury bells, lupins sweet williams and delphiniums, all growing higgerlypiggerly, and on the adjacent dairy roof flowering succulents grew in a bed of moss. Nearby and beside a truly babbling stream was a disused flour mill, its water-wheel long since motionless, but the interior still covered in flour dust and cobwebs' and giving off that gorgeous aroma of crushed grain. In the eaves a kestrel had built its nest and was busy feeding two chicks fully feathered but with down still clinging.
About a mile away was the village of Crosthwaite. On the map it was called Church Town which was fitting enough because it supported a stone church that appeared to be far too large for such a small village. I could easily imagine its churchyard being the inspiration for "Grays Elegy." Next door was the rambling village pub, "The Punch Bowl," where we had our evening meal, followed by a slow walk home in the twilight of aa beautiful English summer day.
I can find only one word to aptly fit the scene, - tranquility. Just picture this :- A freshly mown field into which a small mob of black-faced ewes and their lambs had been turned, the evening air filled with their bleatings. - black and white Ayrshires still grazing and hens still scratching in mulched hay, searching for the last elusive worm of the day,- a kestrel swooping on to a field mouse to feed its ravenous youngsters, - and the chirping of blue-tits coming from the six foot hedges that lined the lane that lead to our two feather beds.
As we approached Old Mill Farm, how appropriate that I should hear, drifting into the twilight air, the lilting strains of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphany; but when we reached the cottage it was empty, so it must have been my vivid imagination.
On the morning we said good-bye to the Keggs, the wind velocity would have been recorded as zero; so as we passed Windemere, Rydalwater, Grasmere, Thirlmere and Derwent Water, each in turn gave us a perfect mirror picture of distant pikes and a colourful countryside. We negotiated the super-steep "Honister Pass" to admire more reflections in Buttermere and Crummock Water. After passing Cockermouth, Worsworth's birthplace, Carlisle, and Brampton, we had our first view of Hadrians Wall, alongside the ruins of Landercost Priory. The remains of Hadrians Wall stretch for seventy-five miles from Bowness on the Solway to Wallsend on the Tyne. Built by its namesake in A.D. 12O, it was originally twenty feet high and eight feet thick, with towers every mile. The Scots must have looked upon it like the East Germans did the Berlin Wall. Over the centuries it has been whittled away stone by stone.
We entered Scotland at Gretna Green to the playing of a touristy piper standing outside a touristy black-smith's shop, and soon after found digs near Annan, at Beech Grove Farm on the banks of Solway Firth.
In Dumfries, which we visited next morning, there are many memorials to Bobbie Burns. The one we paid homage to was his favourite chair, which was still set up in the tap-room of his favourite "howff," The Globe Inn. Bobbie Burns must be everyones favourite poet, for wasn't it he who helped us all to bear our disappointments, when he wrote, "the best laid plans of mice and men, gang aft aglay."
Six miles south of Dumfries is Sweetheart Abbey, founded in 127O by Devorgilla in memory of her husband. He was John Balliol and when he died, leaving her the richest widow in Europe, she carried his heart, so the story goes, in an iron casket for 21 years, and had it buried with her in this Abbey, h hence the name, "Sweetheart." She also founded Balliol College in Oxford, and had a bridge over the River Nith in Dumfries, named after her. Quite some Lady!
Soon after leaving Sweetheart Abbey we came to Little Loch Arthur and nearby a village with the quaint name of Beeswing; then on to the town of Castle Douglas, with its Threave Castle, the 14th. century home of the Black Douglases. I was disappointed that the whiskey (eight years maturing) distillery was no where to be seen.
From Castle Douglas, for ten miles, we followed a road skirting the Eastern banks of, first the River Dee, then Loch Ken, set in beautiful farm- lands and fir plantations, the trees growing right to the waters edge. At the end of the ten miles was tiny New Galloway where we lunched.
The afternoon was spent traversing open moor country, through the picturesque village of Moniave, on to Thornhill and then over the dramatic Dalveen Pass. Much further North we found digs in Larnach.
Next a quick run into Edinburgh where we picked up mail at the Overseas League and ran into, metaphorically speaking, two Sydney bowling friends, Wal and Helen Drysdale, - it was a small world after all.
That afternoon we headed west, and I still have a vivid mental picture of the drive through Falkirk. There must have been a garden competition on, for there were about twenty cottages, adjacent to one another, with front gardens completely massed and ablaze with roses of every colour and in full bloom. Passing through Dunbarton we came to the village of Arden and close by was Mr. and Mrs. McAuselan's "Meikle (Little) Dumfin Farm, ready and willing to give us bed and breakfast.
Mr. McAuselan was born in the room we slept in, and members of his family had lived in the cottage for over three hundred years. They were part of the Buchanan Clan, whose castle was used as a hospital during World War Two after which, so the story goes, its roof was removed to avoid paying taxes. The Buchanan Clan was founded in the 13th. century by Macauselan O'Ryan, an Irish prince, who settled in the Lennox Hills, east of Loch Lomond, and later adopted the name of Buchanan.
From our bed-room window we had a lovely view of Loch Lomond, presided over in the distant north by the majestic 3192 feet of Ben Lomond. Nearer were the brilliant green fields of the farm; all except one which, having been recently harvested, had acquired a warm golden colour, dotted with browns of numerous circular windrows scattered about the field.
Mr. McAuselan was the proud owner of a mob of sixty blackfaced sheep and shearing time happened to be the day we arrived. There was no arrival of a shearers motor-cade, or dusty collection of mounted musterers at the station gate, there was no cranking up of the Lister engine; there was just the boss, his farm hand and two dogs driving the sheep into a corner, a tarpaulin spread on the grass and then the labourious clip, clip, clipping with hand shears. There was no skirting and rolling of fleeces, no clanking of a wool-press; just every bit of wool tossed into old chaff bags; no doubt for despatch to the local mill. For our evening meal we took a short run to a pub in Helensburgh on the Firth of Clyde. We could see the lights of Glasgow in the distance.
Next morning we left Loch Lomond at lovely Tarbet, and proceeded to encircle Argyllshire, passing Inveraray Castle, the white-washed town of Inveraray looking very much out of place - it should have been sitting on the edge of an Italian alpine lake, - lunching at Arduaine beside Loch Melfort, and arriving in Oban in pouring rain, conditions which caused us to cancel the car-ferry trip to Mull.
After spending the night at Connell we crossed the bridge at the entrance to Loch Etive which was a boiling tidal rip. I couldn't help wondering why someone hadn't thought of turning all that energy into hydro electric power. Reaching Ballachulich on Loch Leven, and being so close to historical Glencoe we detoured. The main scenic attraction of Glencoe was Bidean Nam Bian, a 3766 foot mountain that overlooked the glen. I was also a bit disappointed with the so-called massacre when I heard that only about fifty Macdonalds died in that treacherous attack; hardly a "massacre" when you think of the number killed on New South Wales roads in one month.
Once again on the main road, we passed through Fort William with Britain's highest mountain, Ben Nevis, (44O6 feet) towering on our right, and then we found ourselves travelling up the west bank of Loch Ness until we came to the ruins of Urquhart Castle. What puzzled us about this heap of tumbled down masonry was the large number of parked cars surrounding it. The mystery was solved when we found a crowd of tourists sitting on the banks of the Loch ready, with cameras cocked, to take the first pictures of the Loch Ness Monster; it was rumoured to have been recently sighted at this spot. We spent that night in Inverness.
After a very pleasant stay in Inverness we pointed our Minis towards Wester Ross, described as everyones idea of what the highlands should look like, - rugged mountains, silver lochs, white-washed crofts and villages, to which I like to add, - high moors, and clear streams tumbling over moon-rocks between silver birches and peet-brown pools, with long sea lochs biting into the mountains. All this we saw as we made our way next day to Kyle of Lochalsh; passing on the way the Corrieshalloch Gorge leading to Ullapool, Dundonnell where we lunched, then the beautiful Gruinard Bay with its pink sands.
Despite the fact that we were in the middle of a northern summer, the weather, when we left Inverness, was misty, bleak and very cold; what we considered to be typical Scottish weather. At Gruinard Bay, however, the climate had changed dramatically and a little further south in Inverewe, on the shore of Loch Ewe. they had tourist gardens which were actually described as subtropical. All this, it seems, was due to the warm gulf stream making a sweep on to the Scottish coast at this spot; a positive benefit too for the seaside village of Ullapool, a little further north.
We "boiled the billy" for afternoon tea on the shore of twelve mile long Loch Maree, passed through Achnasheelach Forest and beside Loch Carron, to reach, before tea-time, Mrs. Manson's "bed and breakfast" in Cnoc Terrace, Kyle of Lochalsh; incidently, "cnoc" pronounced "croc" is Gaelic for "hill."
From Kyle of Lochalsh a car ferry took us to Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye. To me, till then, Skye was just a place where a certain breed of terrier came from.
The Skye scene was a repetition of Wester Ross. Soon after leaving Kyleakin we had to stop so that I could take a picture you would expect to find on a chocolate box or Japanese calendar. The background of a lofty, craggy mountain, Sligachen, a tumbling stream over which spanned a rustic stone bridge, thw usual group of black-faced sheep, and to one side a white-washed cottage with wisps of smoke drifting from its chimney. There were a lot of pictures like this on Skye.
There were also a lot of dull and unattractive pictures; bleak and barron areas - boggy moors, pock-marked with peet diggings, their only claim to beauty being the odd clumps of pink and bell heather.
We shopped at Portree, Skye's largest town, and visited the Skye Woollen Mills and Edinbane Pottery; pressing on for afternoon tea at Dunvegan Castle. Well not exactly the castle - the castle car-park - Mrs. Macleod was out shopping. Dunvegan Castle has been the ancestral home of the MacLeod clan since the 13th. century; protected by Loch Dunvegan on one side and dominated by MacLeods Tables, two flat topped peaks of solid basalt, at the rear. The Watsons left us again for a visit to Aberdeen, and we retired to Dunvegan's "Misty Isle Hotel" where lads and lasses in colourful kilts served us with liquid refreshment and sustenance.
When selecting our accommodation each night it was the practice for the boys to make the initial inquiry and inspect the bedrooms and toilet facilities, and if satisfactory the girls would check and make the final decision. After my inspection of Mrs. Campbell's Mill Burn Farm cottage in Dunvegan, I had to say to Jean-ma, "the accommodation is very good, but we might have a problem with the land-lady; she looks as though she's been on the whiskey bottle all day." Fortunately Jean-ma decided to take the risk, for I had done poor Mrs. Campbell a grave injustice. Her red nose was the result of midge bites. Scottish midges were the equivalent of Australian sand-flies and it wasn't long before we too looked like two alcoholics. Our stay there was very interesting thanks to a friendly holidaying French family from St.Jean Marenne, who spent the evening practising their English on us.
Before returning to Edinburgh, where we planned to re-join the Watsons, we decided to see a bit more of Skye, so took off up the road that skirted the "kilt" cliffs of Skye's east coast, passing Lealt Falls and