Round Aus Pt1- Taree to Surfer’s Paradise

It’s cold and wet, the rain pours down,

The lawn’s a sea of mud.

The flamin’ cows – so tired they are –

Won’t even chew the cud.

The happy frogs down in the swamp

Are croaking “What a Ripper” 

The farmer’s cold and empty

Like a freshly gutted kipper.

With all this rain just where’s the dough

To pay the mortgage off?

Fair dinkum it would make you pack

Your bags and bugger off. 

This rotten rain, enough it is,

To give a man the pip.

Let’s sling our hook. Let’s do a bunk,

And let the mortgage rip. 

Our bags are packed. We’ve caught the coach,

Got up at dawn betimes.

And now we’re off with Ted and Baz

For warmer, drier climes.

Boys and girls, and chaps and blokes

And all you little bairns,

We’re roving north in Eggins’ coach 

To sunlit, tropic Cairns.

So all ye merry gentlefolk.

Let nothing ye dismay.

We’ll chase the sun and have some fun,

And do it all……..”Myway”.

We’ve had the cold, we’ve had the rain,

We’ve had the rotten weather.

We’re sallying forth and travelling north

Out to the Never-Never.

When we stop we’ll say “Good day”

To snakes, goannas, lizards.

And every night we’ll pour the grog

Straight down our bone dry gizzards.

 And why not,folks? – For people praise

The gentle art of giving.

Let’s give a little to ourselves!

Life’s also made for living.

We picked up Bet at Harrington,

But Ted got into strife.

He’d missed the town right off the tour,

Said Jan, his lady wife.

Near Kempsey, over Worrel Creek,

Ted pointed with a sneer.

“Those blokes are really up a creek.

The pub there has no beer.”

And it’s a fact! Slim Dusty who

Now lives down in the smog,

Amassed his fortune singing of

This pub run out of grog.

Nambucca Heads was where we stopped

To sip our morning tea.

Blue river waters surge to meet

The shimmering, boundless, sea.

Crash Bang McCarthy once lived here.

Car mending was his racket.

From tales I hear I greatly fear

He never made his packet.

Ted Hill knew Crash Bang very well

Before he called it quits.

A tractor tyre he once blew up

Exploded into bits.

Repairing once a fire engine,

Crash Bang fell in the mire;

Took morning tea, came back to see

The engine was on fire.

South Grafton RSL Club was

The venue for our lunch.

Ted said they’d catered often for

The Taree “Myway” Bunch.

But one successful barbecue

Had got so stinking hot

It took the tables, took the Club,

And torched the flamin’ lot!

We therefore crossed the city to

Its second RSL.

This Club did NOT burn down, and we – 

Well, we did pretty well.

When leaving Grafton later on

Irene could not be found.

The pokies had her in their spell.

‘Twas Ted was brought her round.

Murwillumbah we by-passed and

Condong hove into sight.

And when you say that name be sure

Your teeth are fixed in tight.

Speeding north through New South Wales,

(With zero interruption), 

Within a few short hours we reached 

The State of Mass Corruption.

 And if our Baz steps on the gas

So we can get a beer.

Well, drinking time is not a crime –

–Just raise your hats and cheer.

And should a passing cop come up,

Is speeding such a sin?

We’ll slip the cop his fifty bucks,

And everyone chip in!

For that’s the way they organise

Within the Sunshine State.

Don’t moan and growl. Don’t weep and howl.

It’s kismet, chaps. It’s fate.

It’s great that Cec McCaffrey

Has brought his Kath along

The word is (if we’re very good),

She’ll lead us all in song.

Kath did this in New Zealand

While our coach climbed Arthur’s Pass.

We knew if we went o’er the edge

We’d land right on……………….the grass.

Kath cheered us up. But umpteen sheep

Took flight straight up the hill.

They didn’t like the music, see……?

…….(I think they’re running still !)

Har-de-har and Ho-de ho !

Just kidding, sweet Kathleen.

You really are the nicest girl

That we have ever seen.

So dear old Ted, we’re in your hands.

(You’ve never been a failure !)

We leave it up to you and Baz

To show us round Australia.

Poetry 2 Pt3 My Way Tour – Outback then home.

At the township of Wauchope, a bit down the track,

Cricket’s a great relaxation.

Should a ball fall upon the roof of the pub,

All adjourn for a generous libation.

The batsmen all aim for the roof of the pub –

While the game’s on they all drink alot.

The fans and the players at day’s end, in fact,

Are quite rotten and stinking and shot.

One day o’er the grandstand a fellow was draped:

His face had a horrible twist.

An odour of beer killed the flies at ten feet.

He was totally Mozart and Liszt.

Ted Hill who’d stopped by, sought further advice;

“Pray, who is this beer=sodden wreck?”

His informant said, “Well, we’ve been playing three days …

… And this is the Umpire, by heck!”

“How utterly crude,” said Ted. “Surely the cop

Who looks after the law around here

Could pick up this joker and shove him in jail,

Thus removing the odour of beer.”

The man said: “The thing is, this Umpire you see,

Whose smell alcoholic won’t cease,

Is also a much valued townsman. He’s our …

… Representative of the Police!”

Lest you should think that we’re rough and uncouth,

Our tour had it’s cultural side.

In Darwin we studied the farming of crocs;

At Katherine – The Gorge! – High and wide.

At Alice the work of the old pioneers

In the Centre, in great isolation,

Was brought to us clearly. We marvelled how they

Had helped to establish our Nation.

We were slated to visit the great Standley Chasm

Where dingoes ferocious are found.

Ted said: “Now Marj, please … Just a quick word …

… Concerning your playful pet hound.”

“Just keep the Blue Heeler on heat do you mind …?

Oh, my Gawd … That’s all wrong … NOT on heat!

Just keep him away from those wild dingo dogs.

Make sure he’s chained up to your seat!”

“Forty long years have we two been wed,”

Said Marj, “and it’s quite plain to see …

… The bugger’s a wild uncontrollable dog.

Why, he worked for the old PMG!”

Once more a Casino – At Alice this time.

Spend a bit! Why not lighten your packs?

If you hold on, tenacious, you know that mendacious

Public servants will take it in tax!

The pokies spewed coins. Jess shouted: “I’ve won!

The casino has come up with pay dirt!”

A frenzy gripped Jess – She pressed coins in galore

But she lost the damned lot plus her Tay-Shirt.*

*Irish for T-Shirt

Noel Fullarton’s place has camels galore;

Each one of us got up to ride ‘em.

It’s a toss-up which sight is more greatly bizarre –

The camels or people astride ‘em.

Mavis the elder, leaving her beast,

Staggered bow-legged over the course.

She looked like a cowboy who, riding the range,

Has been sitting too long on his horse.

But Mavis the Younger sat up there in style;

She really deserved a medallion.

Quite clearly she felt for a moment as if

She was home on her thoroughbred stallion.

The camel boy helped Irene down from her steed.

(He told her his mates called him “Andy”.)

She cried: “Oh, my God! This is all that I need!

I’m sure I’ve gone totally bandy!”

The Roll of those heroes who got to the top

Of Ayer’s Rock shall now be set out:-

Melva and Nevill, Bev, Barry and Mavis –

The stars of our Rock Walkabout!

Regarding Ayers Rock it was Bob who came up

With a scheme both bizarre and original.

“Do away with th climb. Put a flying fox in.

Help the oldies and folk aboriginal.”

Most of our Mob took a flight round The Rock

And The Olgas … In glorious weather.

Kids in their teens flew our flying machines

With expertise and no effort whatever.

We had a short sip at the red Sunset Strip.

Then as sunset gave way to the night,

The huge … colour-changing … great bulk of Ayers Rock

Slipped softly and gently from sight.

Coober Pedy’s next stop … The weather stays fine …

Everybody is having a ball.

With these few brief words your Scribe now signs off.

Thank you Ted, thank you Baz, thank you all.


We finally enter a township of dust –

Immense mullock heaps all around.

“Coober Pedy,” in fact, in the old native tongue,


Men toil just like moles beneath the brown earth.

Will the hard rock its jewels ever yield?

Houses and churches are built underground

In the world’s largest known opal field.

Our coach stops outside the Umoonah Mine

And inside we all of us trundle.

The opals displayed are so sparkling and bright

Each one of the guys drops a bundle.

The girls on their fingers have opals like fire,

(And for all that I know on their toes);

Each guy has a dazed sort of look on his face

And an overdraft wherever he goes.

Barry and Ted checked the nightclub at Coober;

They thought that it might be a ripper.

They said that the girls were all A-One Okay,

But completely wrote off the male stripper.

The ladies cried, “Ted, why can’t WE come along?”

Ted said, “Girls, now please … I’d be HUNG …

If I took you ladies to a show out of Hades …

AnyWAY… You are ALL … Far too YOUNG!

“Old ladies I’d take … OLD ones have calmed down …

But NEVER young ones in their prime.

There could be a riot ‘cos none of you girls

Is older than sweet thirty nine.”

Coober behind us, we’re out on the road,

Just like a southerly buster.

Before daylight fails we shall all have arrived

Way down at the Port of Augusta.

Nelson and Jess toddle often up front,

Inventiveness never yet waning.

Jess tells us yarns of galahs in the toot,

The Blue Heeler’s most entertaining.

The bus gave a jerk. Ted said: “Listen, Jess, love –

If your hand on my knee starts to roam

I must tell you, my dear, I’ve now spent damn near

Two full weeks away from my home.”

Jess said: “That’s enough of your nonsense and stuff!

Just give us no more of that bosh!

The bus jerked; had I fallen, then Teddy, old boy,

You’d have gotten one hell of a squash!”

“The trouble with men – they can’t help it, poor dears,

Is – giving no reason or rhyme –

They lose their docility, get full of virility –

And think it’s once more Christmas time.”

It’s far from surprising that Nelson is known

As Professor and Surgeon of Trees.

He has lectured on this and on Blue Heeler Dogs

Upon which he shows great expertise.

Remarkable trees are the type “Never-never.”

(They’re not found in any museum).

Nor are they found in any place else,

“Cos you never, but never can see ‘em.

At the Port called Augusta we’d beds soft and warm;

Our sleep was calm, sweet and profound.

The exception was Bev, who’d not slept a wink.

(She denied Bill had chased her around).

We crossed Spencer Gulf, drove through Horrocks’ Pass,

Had a comfort stop at Orroroo;

(An old fashioned town with horse hitching posts,

And a ballroom-sized gentlemen’s loo).

We pulled up for lunch at a wild one-horse joint,

A place that was called “Mannhill”.

But anyone hoping to find manna there

Must have been some sort of dill.

They locked up the pub, refused us their toots,

Would not even give us a beer.

Ted said to the boss: “Your rotten pub stinks.

Be sure that we won’t come back here.”

At Broken later a banquet chinese

Was eaten, and Oh! What a feast!

With chopsticks deployed everybody enjoyed

Exotic delights of the east.

Certificates issued to all on this night –

To those who were Ayers Rock ‘On-toppers,”

Who’d travelled the long north-south bitumen road …

And those who were just “Chicken Rockers.”

Why, even those chaps who looked once at Ayers Rock …

And gave up! … (Is this reprehensible?) …

We’re given a prize! … For of everyone there,

Those chaps were the most bloody sensible!

After drinks, with The Heeler a few sallied forth

To start the Club pokies a-bleeding.

A defeat quite complete set our crowd on its seat,

And our dough got one hell of a kneading.

But never mind, folks! – To Dubbo next day,

By way of Cobar and Wilcannia.

At the long journey’s end – a first class motel,

A warm shower, a cold beer … Rule Brittania!

Presentations were made by Ted to us all.

(Barry distributed prizes).

Weddings and birthdays were suitably marked

With cakes of all shapes and sizes.

We made presentations to Barry and Ted

Who’d done such a wonderful job.

Many were those who expressed the good will

Of the guys and the gals in our Mob.

Happy we’ve met, most happily been

Together o’er half of our land.

Much laughter we’ve shared and many sights seen,

From the south to the Timor Sea strand.

Advance, then Australia so beauteous and wide,

Source of our deep inspiration;

Home of our people from so many lands –

But one indivisible Nation. 


Poetry2 Pt2 My Way Tour – Darwin

As the trip speeds up and we reach the Kingdoms of the Cattle Barons, the rhythm of the verse alters and breaks into a canter.

A barbeque lunch at McKinlay’s Bush Pub

Was eaten with happy enjoyment.

And numerous flies partook of the feast

Because of their skilful deployment.

We kept them at bay as best we could

With the famous Australian Wave

And sometimes we swatted them dead on the plate

Just to teach those flies how to behave.

After the meal, a young lady in red

Pranced happily into the street.

A huge bull stood there with massive great horns,

Munching grass satisfyingly sweet.

She waved her red jacket right under his nose,

Then turned with expression superior.

But Ted, who was filming this all for TV,

Cried: “Watch out for the bull! Your posterior!”

The lady in red then quite lost her head,

Gave a scream and bolted like lightning.

The bull went on munching, while Ted, cam’ra crunching,

With a grin filmed this drama most frightening.

He’d made it all up – The bull hadn’t moved,

Just stood there all quiet and serene.

But the lady in red stamped her foot as she said:

“I’ll kill Ted!… Or my name’s … not Irene!”

That Friday in Winton the drovers played up.

They were quite well behaved, though, at first.

They came into town and invaded the pubs

Bringing with them insatiable thirst.

The blues mostly started at chucking out time

When the publicans turned off the grog,

They stoushed in the pubs, then they stoushed in the streets,

A frightable, stoushable mob.

The sheilas joined in, trading punches with glee.

They gave and received much contusion.

These cowboys were stoushing all over the street.

God! What an awful confusion!

The cop cars arrived and they turned up their lights,

But the cops didn’t join in the blue.

They smoked cigarettes while the stockmen got decked.

Then they drove off saying quietly, “Hooroo!”

The stockmen and gals at last settled down,

Battered and bruised and well worn.

They had cartons of tinnies they’d brought from the pubs,

So they grogged on and grogged on til dawn.

Then stockmen and dogs with their sheilas and all –

  • (The sheilas were sometimes delectable) –

Drove back to the bush to do some more work,

Leaving Winton once more quite respectable.

And northward, still northward our “My Way” Mob went,

Each day we became a bit wiser:

Saw emus and ant hills, the parched thirsty land.

Then – oasis! The town of Mount Isa!

The Mount Isa Mine yields up fabulous wealth,

Namely silver, zinc, copper and lead.

Isolation is conquered, the wilderness tamed.

And there’s civilisation instead.

The Railways of Queensland are keen on this mine:

The charges it paid for it’s freight

Were sixty three million last calendar year –

A sweet little cop for the State.

When the star spangled velvet soft cloak of the dusk

Thickens – gentle and slow – into night,

Then over the township the mine buildings watch,

Bejewelled with a silvery light.

Our old mate Hill Ted found under his bed

Words of many a popular song.

In our motel at Isa, in a way to surprise ya,

We yodelled and carolled along.

So everyone’s happy – Success to the trip,

Good on you, Teddy old son.

Congratulations from all of our mob

On a job that is very well done.


At the Homestead of Springvale we had a good night:

The guests were all Fourex beer slurping.

A talent quest held their attention despite 

A great deal of belching and burping.

Four of our “My Way” mob entered the quest:

It was Ted Hill who held high our banner.

He sang “bye-bye Blackbird” and took out a prize

In his custom’ry debonair manner.

At the end of a quest a gal wandered home,

Turned the doorknob and switched on the lights.

The man on the bed she gave scarcely a glance.

(One avoids nasty masculine sights).

She sank on the bed… The husband sat up.

“Move closer dear…Room I’ve got plenty.”

“My Gawd,” screamed the lass. “I’m in Room Number One!

I should have been in One and Twenty!”

The man then yelled out: “By cripes! Who’s this?

I thought that… that… you were my wife!

Quick – Buzz off for Pete’s sake – Or else I shall be

Up to my eyeballs in strife!”

Another young lady of sixty and five

Hung her knickers upon the verandah.

In the night they would dry…But Ted Hill, very spry,

In the early morn took a quick gander.

He grabbed his equipment and then filmed the lot,

Made the knickers a picture enchanting.

Those knickers a major attraction will be

On the tape of our Mob’s gallivanting.

At Springs Mataranka that self same young gal

Lost her top – “In the change room,” she said.

Her hubby had also lost track of his trunks.

Just what cooks in that old dressing shed?

“Tis said these warm springs have curative powers,

And this claim is most probably right.

Certain it is that at the motel

The bed springs were creaking that night.

And if some good persons should have a few doubts…

… Misgivings…or even concerns…

By hell, we are going to use it up now,

And leave nothing at all for the worms!

So onwards to Darwin with Coach Captain Baz

At the wheel with all cylinders sparking.

Baz drives very skilfully – quiet and polite –

No screaming, no bawling, no barking.

Of a sudden before us the blue sky was grey,

Then came smoke clouds, thick, swirling and black.

We found we were running a gauntlet of flame.

Should we stop? Is there time to turn back?

But Barry drove on through the furnace-hot fire

Til the coach was once more in the clear.

Everyone cheered, and Mavis proclaimed:

“I SWEAR I’ll buy Barry a beer!”

In Darwin just after (with Ted’s helpful hand)

We went to the gleaming casino.

Bright pokies and card games greeted us there,

And something that people call “Keno.”

We stayed there two hours and most dropped a few bob:

Coin is MADE round to GO round, we know.

But Vic came out smiling because he had beaten

The pokies … was rolling in dough.

Our folks hand-fed fish at the edge of the sea

With bread, which the fish suck and eat.

While Ted filmed all this, locals grinned as they watched,

Whisp’ring “Bottoms up! Ooh! What a treat!”

A catamaran took us out the next day

O’er the harbour so blue and so shining.

On the tropical isle of Mandorah we stayed

For an hour or so, swimming and dining.

Pretty good tucker is buffalo meat,

And for fish don’t go past barramundi.

So we ate buff and barra this beautiful day,

(Which is Darwin’s main meal on a Sunday!)

Darwin’s a city most fair, there’s no doubt.

Were we younger in tones quite stentorian,

We’d say: “Let’s pack up mate and bugger the South.

Let’s go north and become… Territorian!”


Darwin is booming. The pride of the North

Is up and developing fast.

Cyclone Tracy is gone. Modern buildings abound.

This NEW Darwin city will last.

Many in Darwin have never been south

To the site which gave birth to the Nation.

Instead they look north to horizons quite new,

With confidence, strength, jubilation.

Sydney and Melbourne are foreign to them –

Their fleshpots they calmly ignore.

Yet people in Darwin are thin on the ground

Who’ve not seen at least Singapore.

At Darwin the tides rise and fall many feet.

Crocodiles … Sea Wasps … abound.

Quite natural it is that with such nasty things

There are very few swimmers around.

But when they say crocs waddle up the main street,

Be sure they are having a shot …

Unless your informant has been on the Bundy …

… In which case his brains gone to pot.

At the “Buffalo Shop” Mavis won some dried meat

Which will pregnancy stop – That’s a fact!

You take it NOT AFTER … and NOT YET BEFORE …

But INSTEAD of committing the act!

So farewell to Darwin – we now travel south:

Our schedule will not let us tarry.

All aboard, boys and girls, and move down the aisle.

Put the hoof on the gas, Captain Barry.

When at Springvale we stopped, bathrooms so small we found

That we really could not turn about.

We asked Mavis Senior: :How do you wash?”

She said: “Simple! Head first and arse out!”

On Ted’s shirt young Bev a large button was sewing.

(This is true because everyone’s seen ‘em).

Ted gave a loud squawk, said: “I think you have sewn

The button on my duodenum.”

The clean streets of Katherine come into view

South of Darwin. (Springvale’s down the street).

A further day’s drive down the bitumen, then …

You’ll find yourselves in Tennant Creek.

The manager of our motel at this town

Dashed around at a furious pace.

He was also the chef and, one would have thought,

Was engaged in some sort of race.

That night in the bar he produced a guitar,

Sang love songs in German and Russian.

His fine Russian eyes charmed the girls with their size.

… They were simpering, smiling and blushin’.

Poetry2 Pt1 My Way Tour – Toowoomba

“MY  WAY”   TOUR,   JUNE, 1988  –    


Jim Foxon’s  Meanderings.


The worst night of my life I spent ‘

Twas on the eighth of June

‘Twas worse by far than when I went

Upon my honeymoon


The wife was up and down all night.

(It wasn’t what you think).

The waterworks were quite all right.

We’d never had a drink.


Upon that morn at half past five

We had to catch a bus.

So mother stayed awake all night.

What a bloody fuss!


For SHE kept ME awake as well –

Nearly drove me barmy!

Brought back all those awful years

That I’d spent in the army.


And when we got out in the cold

Of morn – stars in the sky!

‘Twas cold enough to freeze ’em off!

Oh my, oh my, oh my!


But when we climbed aboard the bus

So mis-er-ab-le still,

We both thawed out a little bit.

We met a Ted called Hill.


The red-rimmed dawn came up and Ted

Unfurled the Aussie flag.

“Sing loud the National Anthem chaps –

No one’s allowed to lag!”


“Just sing, and don’t salute,” Ted said,

“The bus is rather jerky.

If you stand up and then salute,

You’ll fall head over turkey.”


That night up in Toowoomba

We all sat down to dine.

We’d had a session in the pu

With Fosters, Scotch and wine.


Thus while we exercised the fang,

No one was really stinking.

Yet still and all there’d been a bit

Of fairly serious drinking.


So when the girl who was in charge

Told jokes of love and lust,

We all sat back and held our sides

And laughed out fit to bust.


Toowoomba – Garden City    

Of Aussie’s Sunshine State!

To say it’s merely pretty

Would greatly under-rate.


The neat, attractive gardens

The eye continually meets,

The bright and lovely houses,

The wide and sweeping streets.


Then on to Miles, a well kept town,

With Pioneer Museum. 

Were all such things so well concealed,

Most folk would never see ‘em.


In central Queensland Roma is

Where boab trees abound.

They line its dusty, faded streets,

Misshapen, portly, round.


At Charleville straw hats appeared, 

Fitted by Baz and Ted.

The fitting was a trifle weird,

But each lid found its head.


Yet there’s a price we have to pay

For anti-sun protection.

Our hats are marked with “Tours My-way”

Er…….”Myway Tours.” (Correction).


We saw the Stockman’s Hall of Fame –

Queen Liz was at this spot.

From miles around the people came;

The sun was flamin’ hot!


When she was asked just how she felt

The Queen said, “Well, of course,

My anal pain recalls the taim

When I fell orf my horse!”


In central Queensland towns, you know,

All people far and near

Will only wash in water, but –

They drink the Fourex beer!


In Winton’s pub I said: “Now mate –

Your water’s rather strong.

You pump, I guess, outside the town,

From some old billabong?”


“This water, mate,” says he, “don’t come

From any billabong. 

It comes from DEEP BELOW, and hence –

The bloody awful pong.”


“I must confess,” said I, “that beer

Is better…Even stout.”

“Good-oh,” he said. “I’ll order two!

And don’t forget…Your shout!”


We’re taking off for Darwin now.

Say, just how does that seize ya?

Darwin! – Lovely northern jewel!

The next stop…Indonesia!












Poetry 1 To Irena

Although you always did deplore 

My frequent locking of your door,

With gentle, kind and boundless tact

You pardoned this egregious act;

And swore – despite my mortal sin – 

You’d save me from the loony bin.

Should I grow frail and get the flutters

You’d keep me from the House of Nutters.

And I — to show that I’m true blue –

Will do as much, my dear, for you. 

Ch13 Epilogue and poetry.

This is not the end of the history of the Foxon Family. Hopefully it is only the beginning of our story in Australia. The rest lies in the future, and is unknowable to me. All I can do is to wish those future generations good luck.

I am pleased about one important thing. Although our ancestors, through no fault of their own, knew hard times, we have escaped. We have escaped from the back-breaking toil, the telltale blue scars, the lifelong slavery of Yorkshire company coal mines. We have escaped from the squalor of the East End of London and from the contemptible isolation of the European ghetto. We have escaped from the physical poverty engendered by lack of money. And we have escaped from the spiritual poverty of ignorance. In Australia, the slate has been wiped clean. What we now write on that slate is up to us. If we go back to poverty or regress to ignorance, the fault is our own.          

The next generation, provided we can be blessed with peace, has the opportunity of a better life than any before it. What they make of that opportunity lies within their hands.

Progress depends partly on ability, partly on work, and partly on luck. But luck, after all, is when opportunity meets preparation and preparation involves perseverance. So above all, one’s success depends on perseverance and preparation.

The world becomes ever more crowded and complex. How can one make sense of the pullulating human ant-heap?

Once I had a goldfish pond in the front garden. The algae, nourished by sunlight, provided ample food, and the happy fishy residents bred up from half a dozen to over a hundred. It was interesting to see how the awkward, exotic fantails decreased in number and reverted to more basic forms – survival of the fittest! There must be a lesson in that!                             

One day, fifty yards down the road, a Council workman sprayed some weeds with poison. A zephyr of wind deposited a few droplets of hormone spray in the pond. Over a period of a week the fish slowly succumbed and floated white and lifeless to the surface. 

So it is with humankind. A nuclear holocaust, a melting of the ice caps, a tilting of the earth’s axis, a collision with a lump of matter from outer space, the explosion, or the collapse of the sun ………..One day our planet Earth will become the communal “Vernichtungslager” of us all, and it won’t matter a rap whether we are Christian, Jew or Muslim, white, black or brindle, fish, fowl or reptile. As more of us realise this, the Theatre of the Absurd gains added significance. But it does not supply any of the answers.

Actually, nothing has changed. All men are cousins. That is biologically demonstrable. We all live, and we all die. We must survive as long as we can because that is our inborn nature. And we must live together and seek happiness, for happiness is the ultimate goal.

But first we must have sufficient food and shelter ………For who can be happy in the cold with an empty belly? These things we must obtain for ourselves and our families. And that means continuous effort and the acceptance of responsibility.

My Yorkshire father and my Cockney mother believed that all should work and do the right thing by each other as far as possible, remembering that in the last analysis one has a sacred and primal duty to look after one’s own family. 

In this connection my father said to me many times, “If a man has children with a woman, he should never leave her, or them.” I believed him, and I still believe him. I might add that in my view the same strictures apply to a woman, and the only possible excuse to break the union in her case might be extreme and unbearable cruelty. Many of the modern generation would disagree, I know. It is easy for articulate moderns to juggle with words and show that licence and self-indulgence are permissible and even intelligent, while duty and responsibility are unnecessary. It only worries me that in sowing the wind, they may in later years reap a whirlwind in a delinquent and unstable society.

Did I say that we should seek happiness? Of course we should. But true happiness and an integrated society can only come from the acceptance of duty and responsibility by all of us.

One could now enter into a lengthy and extremely boring dissertation on religious morals and political philosophies and hypocrisies, but enough is enough. My descendants will decide of their own accord whether they wish to be socialists, Marxists, capitalists or opportunists, Catholics, Shmatholics, Protestants, Jews or Callathumpians. All that has no importance, provided they are good people.

I have one regret in my life. I wish I had spent more time with my children when they were young. But, too often, I was working overtime, or was too upset or worried to be able to give more generously of my time. Children are our greatest treasure, and we have them for such a short while. I hope that my own children learn from my mistakes. 

Oscar Wilde said somewhere: “As they grow older, children judge their parents. Sometimes they forgive them.”

I wish this for my grandchildren and great grandchildren all down the years – that each one of them may become what Irene’s mother, in Yiddish, would have called a “Mensch”!  A Mensch is a courageous, well-balanced person, able to control every situation with intelligence and strength of character.

If I were ever elevated to the English House of Lords (a very remote possibility!) and had to look for a family motto, I would have emblazoned on a scroll the words of Edith Piaf, the French nightclub singer. She had known great poverty, being literally born on a Parisian sidewalk. 

With typical Gallic economy of phrase, she said: “C’est pas une honte d’etre pauvre, mais c’en est une de vouloir rester dans la crasse!” – It is not a disgrace to be poor…But it certainly becomes one if you are prepared to remain in the shit!”. 

…Now there was a Mensch!!!

When Irene and I came to Australia in 1949, I looked from Caringbah towards Sydney one night, and was inspired to make one of my rare, mostly disastrous, and always incautious incursions into verse.

I might finish off this memoir with those lines.

Before doing so, I should explain that in those days “Displaced Persons” was a euphemism for a refugee from a camp in war-torn Europe. “New Australian” was a term coined by the Department of Immigration to distinguish those Pommies and Reffos who had only recently arrived from the other Pommies and Reffos, (now dinky-di Aussies), who had been in this country for at least one generation. The term “New Australian” had an honoured currency for many years, and in some fashion might even have helped to weld together those of different ethnic origins into one Australian amalgam.

Well ……………here comes the poetry.

                          Silent suburban Sydney, softly folded in the star-shot fog of night…

                          What other being of some far-off time gazed upon a similar sight?

                          Perhaps some dark-skinned hunter on his nocturnal way,

                          Perhaps some exiled convict stared as I across the black of Botany Bay.

                          I too am exiled from the land where I was born,

                          And my heart too is by a sweet nostalgia torn.

                          Yet this is pure illusion, I suspect…

                          Because all things – the good and bad – are good…in retrospect.

                          The squalor, slums and class distinction one forgets.

                          Time heals the festering wounds…then one regrets.

                          Yet this Australia – just another land for me – 

                          Shall for my children and their children “Homeland” be.

                          Here Displaced Persons, once denied the right to live,

                          Their strength, their talents and their sons, shall to Australia give.

                          The dreaming, red-tipped bushland gums shall start

                          Then to the muted thunder of a nation’s heart.

                          And we will build within this southern space —

                          We Britons, Greeks, Italians, Poles – a new Australian race.

To survive, my children, that is the object, to survive without hurting the other fellow any more than you have to. Perhaps, with luck, in this new country, we may do a little better than survive.

So good luck to you all – family, friends and readers of my tale – and very much love.

Ch12 Pt2 Cundletown

When I arrived in Wingham, the School of Arts had just been taken over by Council as a public library. There were about five hundred books in it of the “Zane Grey” and “Ruby M. Ayres” type. Twenty-one years later we had a rebuilt and enlarged premises with fourteen thousand volumes of fiction and non-fiction covering every possible aspect, and the majority of these volumes I had chosen myself. Even the rather élitist Library Board had to admit that with our limited resources, we were providing an exceptionally good public service.

With regard to our road plant, we slowly increased it until we owned a large range of the most modern machinery, and by this we increased the scope of our work enormously.  

We established an industrial subdivision near the Sporting Complex as well as purchasing land near the Wingham Cemetery and subdividing it for industrial purposes. In this latter area we sold twenty acres to Angus Nugent and Sons Pty. Ltd. for one dollar to bring their tannery from Sydney to Wingham. We then subdivided the balance of the land and sold the blocks at such prices as to recoup our original expenditure. We made the tannery loans under the decentralisation legislation and the Local Government Act, and today they have a very large and viable business, which employs between fifty and sixty people.

We lent thirty per cent of the cost of establishing a factory to R. L. Child and Son Pty. Ltd., manufacturers of hydraulic hose fittings, to relocate part of their Sydney operation to the industrial area next to the sporting complex. They currently employ thirty-five persons, and if the business prospers, they have sufficient land to enlarge their factory four times over. I was pleased by a remark made by the managing director and reported in the local press that he was particularly grateful to the Town Clerk for all his help. Talk is cheap, we all know, but it was rather nice to have one’s efforts acknowledged just once.

The establishment of these industries in Wingham might seem small beer by city standards. But one should remember that in a small country town two new industries employing the best part of a hundred persons with the promise of more means an enormous boost to local prosperity. Another point is that for each industry we succeeded in getting established, the best part of a dozen might have made inquiries, taken up time, raised expectations, then simply vanished. 

In the early days in Wingham, I was one of the founders and secretary and general organiser of “The Wingham Dramatic Art and Musical Company”. We put on some shows of really professional quality, and I am sure Patricia and Peter remember taking part in “The King and I” and other shows. By this means we also raised enough money to build a home for a refugee family whom we brought to Australia from a camp in post war Europe. With this effort we actually put Wingham on the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald, which I always thought was no mean feat. The family did not entirely co-operate the way we had hoped, and the thing turned rather sour at a later date, but that was not our fault.

We underwent three amalgamation inquiries in Wingham between 1968 and 1979. We fought them all tooth and nail and won the first two. But we lost the 1979 one, and despite mass demonstrations in Sydney at the Town Hall and outside Parliament House by over two thousand people who had travelled especially from the country to protest against a number of proposals, Wingham ceased to exist as a separate entity as from 1st January, 1981. From that date, the Municipality of Wingham, the close-by Municipality of Taree and the surrounding Shire of Manning (less the Tuncurry and Nabiac areas) became known as The City of Greater Taree.

The former Town Clerk of the Municipality of Taree became the Town Clerk of the City of Greater Taree. The former Shire Clerk of Manning Shire became his Deputy. As the former Town Clerk of the Municipality of Wingham, I became the Administrative Officer of the City of Greater Taree. The title was rather grandiloquent. I had no idea what it really meant. The main thing was that I retained my scale of salary and my continuity of service. In a time of recession and unemployment where it would be difficult for a person of my age to get another job, I was grateful for this. I was nearly fifty-nine years of age and had six years to go before retirement. I had been Town Clerk of Wingham for twenty-one years and three months.

So, in August, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and eighty one, it is nearly time to bring this account of a small segment of my family history to a close. Irene and I live in a modest three bedroom brick veneer cottage with a double garage underneath. It overlooks the Manning River at Cundletown, just out of Taree on the mid north coast of New South Wales. We moved here twelve years ago, causing quite a stir in Wingham at the time, for the close-knit population did not fancy the idea of their chief administrative Council servant shifting to a rival town. However, now that I am working at the Council offices in Taree, it is very convenient.

Our children are grown up, and I am pleased with all of them. 

Patricia gained her General Nursing Certificate at the Royal Newcastle Hospital. After travelling to Canada, to her grandfather in London, France, North Africa, Spain and a kibbutz in Israel, she returned to Australia. More study resulted in passing her Midwifery training, to become a double certificate registered nurse. Irene and I were very proud of her for this effort, first because it demonstrated her perseverance and dedication, and secondly because always, throughout her life, she would have a profession to return to in case of necessity. Moreover, to be a good nurse is a help to being a good mother. Patricia upgraded her nursing qualifications and subsequently received the degree of Bachelor of Health Science, Nursing at the Catholic University in Sydney. 

Patricia married Raymond in 1975. Ray comes from old pioneers of the Newcastle district on his mother’s side. On his father’s side, he comes from mixed German and apparently Cherokee stock.  His German grandfather had emigrated to Canada and had married a full bloodied Cherokee woman, who was one of Ray’s grandmothers. This lady had travelled a long way from Georgia and North Carolina, the homeland of the Cherokee Indian Nation up to the 1830’s. The Cherokees of that day were highly successful farmers who competed vigorously with the white man in the agricultural area. So the American army under government orders dispossessed them and drove them westwards. Their prosperous farms were then stolen by the white settlers.

The Indian “Removals” were begun by General (later President) Andrew Jackson, also known as “Old Hickory” because of his hardness of character. They were continued under President Van Buren. The Cherokees were forced to vacate their comfortable homes at a moment’s notice. Soldiers then drove them mercilessly on a long winter’s march across the western plains to Oklahoma. During this terrible march when the icy winds began to blow down from Canada one quarter of the Cherokee Nation perished. The brutality of this North American forced exodus was repeated on a larger scale a century later by Hitler’s systematic concentration and murder of the Jews of Europe. I sometimes think that our grandchildren have a double injection of refugee blood. Perhaps with this they may be doubly endowed with the will to survive. 

Peter took up a Teacher’s Scholarship at the University of Newcastle. With the proceeds of this scholarship and by working shifts at the Newcastle works of BHP, he put himself through the University, obtained a Bachelor of Arts degree, and became a schoolteacher with the New South Wales Education Department. I should be remiss not to record that my father was in Australia when Peter received his degree and was enormously proud to be present at the ceremony in the Great Hall of the University. So were Irene and I.

Peter married Margaret in 1978. Margaret’s background is interesting. She traces her ancestry to a soldier of the First Fleet, and to convicts and soldiers who arrived very shortly afterwards from England, Scotland and Ireland. So within one generation my family, from being very new Australians, related to nobody, became old Australians related to many. 

When Christopher left school, he struck an unfortunate patch. He had matriculated from High School and might have gone to University, but graduates were finding it difficult to get jobs. Indeed, everybody was finding it difficult to get jobs, and a recession of frightening proportions stalked the land. School leavers were major victims, and once having failed to get work, found themselves even more disadvantaged the following year when more school leavers competed with them for insufficient jobs. Meanwhile Mr Malcolm Fraser, our millionaire Prime Minister of the time, well insulated by his inherited capital, his politician’s high wages, non-taxable allowances, free overseas trips and princely superannuation, was telling everybody that “Life was never meant to be easy”.

So Christopher had to get a job forthwith, and any professional studies he took up would have to be done part time. 

Christopher found a job with the Government Insurance Office of New South Wales at their headquarters in Elizabeth Street, Sydney, where he is working hard and saving his money, the classic formula for financial success. Irene and I have confidence in his intelligence and ability. Christopher studied for and obtained appropriate qualifications in the Insurance business.

My father used to say to me that if a man had good children, he was rich. It was a precept with which I agreed entirely.

By these standards, Irene and I are indeed rich. For we have three fine children who, we know, will bring up good children in their turn. 

The grandchildren are, of course, a wonderful additional bonus. They are our future, our posterity. We hope that they make good marriages as time goes by and have good children in their turn. May they have health and happiness. If they have these they will acquire a sufficiency of wealth to meet their needs.

Ch12 Pt1 Wingham Town Clerk

I had arrived in Kempsey in the latter part of 1956. It was now 1959, and I was thirty-seven years old. I was once more chafing at the bit and dissatisfied with things at the Shire of Macleay.

It annoyed me that I was never allowed to attend Council meetings, was not allowed access to Council minutes, and apart from the general office routine, had very little idea what was going on. The Shire Clerk never sought my advice and never took me into his confidence. As a result, when Councillors asked me questions about aspects of development, I was unable to answer satisfactorily. The Shire Clerk had had a most unfortunate experience with his previous Deputy, and because of this, he had apparently decided to tell nobody anything at all. As a result of this experience, he was subsequently obliged to take three months’ leave, during which time I found that I was quite capable of doing his job once I gained some of the local knowledge previously denied me. When he returned to duty, I decided that it was time for me to move on.

Jobs were now beginning to dry up. For years there had been a shortage of qualified clerks, at least, in the country, the city slickers having apparently been unwilling to leave the fleshpots to migrate. Now, however, coastal jobs began to attract larger numbers of applicants. Jobs were still fairly easily available in the west. But once there, it was almost impossible to get back to the coast. I reasoned that in our lifetime the coast would be the area where most of the development and the action were. Certainly the amenities were there. Anyhow, I felt a great personal need to be near to the sea where I could visit sometimes and recharge my batteries. Thus, my objective must be a job on the coast as Clerk to a Council. So when Wingham Municipal Council advertised, I had little hesitation about putting in for the job. Wingham was eighty miles or so closer to Sydney and Newcastle than Kempsey, and it was only eight miles from Taree, a burgeoning town. Forster and Tuncurry were within easy reach, both excellent seaside resorts. Port Macquarie was not too far away. Wingham was a small town, but it suited. There was a mere ten shillings a week increase in pay, but I should be my own boss and run the business my way for once, as well as dealing directly with a Council of Aldermen.

Adequate educational opportunities were close at hand for the children. If I got stuck in Wingham, they could lead a happy and fulfilled childhood in this area. Moreover, facilities for further tertiary education or professional training were available relatively close at hand in Newcastle. When Irene and I had first come to Australia, I had picked Taree as the town where I would like to be Town or Shire Clerk for all these reasons. Wingham was very close indeed geographically speaking, and if the money was a little less than I might have hoped for, well, there were many worse places in New South Wales.

There were three applicants for the job apart from myself.

Nobody else had applied for the job because it apparently seemed so insignificant. Also, the threat of amalgamation overhung Wingham even in those days, and few people were prepared to take this risk. The incumbent Town Clerk was a Freemason, and he and I recognised each other the moment we met. Despite this, I never did attach much importance to the Masonic link. The days when you had to be either a Catholic or a Freemason to get a good job in the public service were passing, and it seemed to me that the sooner that kind of rubbish was buried, the better. I think that I got the job, in the final analysis, by default. The other candidates were so unacceptable for various reasons, that I was the only one left, in spite of the fact that I was a naturalised Australian and not a natural born one.

So I started work in Wingham. I immediately found that we were grossly understaffed and that I had no chance of getting any extra staff because the finances of the Council were balanced on a knife’s edge. The only plant we had was a tabletop Bedford truck which was of ancient vintage even in 1959, and a farm tractor with a blade on the front which acted as a grader-cum-dozer. Every time the thing struck a rock larger than the size of a football, the wheels spun, and the labourers had to rally round with pick and shovel. All the records were kept by hand. I had one old fellow who looked after the rates, thank goodness, but all the rest of the income and expenditure records, the ledgers, the plant returns, stores and materials, journal calculations and entries, periodic financial statements, annual statements of accounts, trial balances, annual estimates, calculation of appropriate rate levies – in fact every last thing to do with accountancy – were carried out personally and manually by me. In addition, I managed the show, raised loans, attended to all the mail, all the correspondence, organised all the Council meetings and did all the minutes. I worked a seven day week with daily overtime for ten years, and never got paid a penny extra. I calculate that Wingham Council owed me thousands upon thousands of dollars when I left, and my regret was that I never stood up to them and demanded what was rightfully mine. However, at the time, I was in a financial bind, and very worried. The children were at a stage when I did not want their school disturbed. I owed a lot of money and had very little capital. Wingham was a small, inward looking community. Had I stood up for my rights, they would probably have had to pay me. But there was a legal doubt in that the Mayor never authorised the overtime that I was forced to work. Also, our finances were so restricted at that time that every penny had to be watched. By all the rules of the game Wingham should have been amalgamated within a few months of my arrival. But I also had another personal and even selfish feeling deep in my heart. Here was a little community obviously on the point of collapse. I was determined to see that it did not collapse. Maybe this silly little place was my personal testing field and battleground. If I could make Wingham live and prosper I would know deep in my own consciousness that I had contributed a small amount to the development of Australia. Nobody would fully understand it but me. It does not matter a rap what other people think of you. It only matters what you think of yourself. I became determined that come what might, I would set Wingham on its feet so that it would never collapse. At the same time, I would earn sufficient money to ensure my children an undisturbed and secure childhood.

Today, I might take a different attitude. But what actually happened is factual, and backward thoughts are pointless.

When old Normie, who did the rates book and other odd jobs eventually retired, I mechanised the entire accounting process, installed an electronic accounting machine, and transferred the manual ledgers to card systems with automatic postings of the general and works cost ledgers at the same time. I replaced Normie with a female accounting machine operator with a good knowledge of bookkeeping.

Prior to this, I organised the financial and legal aspects of a sewerage scheme for the whole of the municipality, which had previously been on an antediluvian pan service. Subsequently I organised extensions of the sewer, and was in the process of organising with the Public Works Department a further augmentation of the overall sewerage scheme when Wingham was finally amalgamated in 1981. However, this augmentation was in train, and the town was to receive the benefits of it, amalgamations notwithstanding.

When I arrived in Wingham, slightly over a score of houses had been built under a Council housing scheme introduced by the Town Clerk who was my predecessor. When I left, we had financed four hundred new homes under the scheme, and a myriad of extensions and renovations. In addition we had built one small Council subdivision, one large subdivision of over two hundred houses, mostly Council financed, and a further large subdivision half constructed and built on at the time of amalgamation. Here again, the project had reached such a stage that the new Council had no alternative but to continue the work to completion.

I was able to obtain thousands of dollars by way of government grants for unemployment relief, which put kerb and gutter and footpath throughout the Municipality. (The manager of the local branch of the Commonwealth Bank said he always dreaded receiving correspondence from me asking for loan funds. He said that he knew that he would have to advance Council the money, because the picture I painted of Wingham’s plight was so heart rending that it made him cry. I used the same technique on government departments, and it worked amazingly well for about three years until they seemed to wake up to the fact that they were being rather free with their money).

During my time at Wingham, we built a filtrated and chlorinated 33⅓ metre swimming pool and extended it to 50 metres. We also turned our old garbage dump and an adjoining Crown lease into two hundred and seventy acres of sporting complex for football, hockey, cricket, shooting and other sports, and built a huge Sporting Pavilion, again partly with grants. The Sporting Pavilion contained for a long time the only basketball court in the area. It also contained squash courts, showers and dressing rooms, and on the outside a grandstand to seat one thousand people. This grandstand overlooked what came to be recognised as one of the best rugby league football fields in the area.

Ch 11 Holocaust survivors

One other thing worthy of mention happened while we were in Kempsey: Irene discovered that she had some family in Melbourne. We learnt of Sophie’s existence through a letter from Irene’s mother, but as we only knew her maiden name, had some difficulty in tracking her down. We took the Morris Minor to Melbourne, and when we eventually did find her, we discovered that by a coincidence, she and her husband lived in the next street to our old friend Max, who had been so kind to us when we first arrived in Australia. 

Sophie was a small, dark haired, soignée, charming woman of excellent intelligence. Her husband, Abe, who was ten years older than she, was a typical European intellectual, ready to discuss any of a dozen subjects at the drop of a hat. By profession he was an industrial chemist; by inclination, a pianist, and he played that instrument with considerable skill. They were not typical Australians; they were typical Europeans of the tolerant, well-educated middle class. If the analytical intelligence, tolerance and understanding they brought to Australia were to become part of the Australian ethos, then Australia would surely benefit.

Sophie spoke English with barely a trace of accent. Abe was grey haired, hawk-faced, and spoke still with a strong German accent. The knowledge they both had of the English language was, however, encyclopaedic. I had always fancied myself as having something better than average skill and vocabulary in my native language, and I was chastened when they both beat me easily at Scrabble.

They had a daughter, Freida, who later married a young engineer, also the son immigrants. I always thought that there was a strong facial resemblance between Freida when young, and Patricia’s little boy, my grandson.

This side of our family was uncompromisingly, (if liberally), Jewish. By “liberal”, I mean the usual interpretation given to these matters. That is to say, customs are kept only if they fulfil a religious purpose, and a very wide tolerance is shown regarding religious matters. In the final analysis, however, a Jew is a Jew, even though one’s personal religious faith may wane on occasion. Moreover, to be a Jew is something of which one can be justifiably proud.

The story of how Sophie and Abe escaped the Holocaust and came to Australia will bear telling very briefly, as a representative of so many others.

Abe and Sophie were married in Germany just before the war. He had obtained his degree and was starting to build the foundations of a career. Because the threat from Nazi anti-Semitism had became so obvious, Abe planned to escape Germany, promising to send for Sophie as soon as he was able to establish himself in a more civilised and less murderous society. As for thousands of Jewish people, things did not proceed smoothly. 

On Nov 9 1938 a violent pogrom against the Jews was carried out across Germany. It became known as Kristallnacht. Thousands of men were rounded up and sent to newly built concentration camps. Abe was lucky. Several thousand men were allowed to be released to England, as long as they already had travel documents. 

Back in England, an old army camp at Sandwich, Kent, was generously offered for the protection of these men rescued from incarceration on Kristallnacht – it became known as Kitchener Camp. The men had to leave Germany immediately, without any chance of notifying families.

It is only with hindsight that Irene and I understand the difference between the fate of Abe and that of Irene’s brother on that night. Abe had seen a bleak future and had already taken steps to leave. Irene too had had the foresight to arrange travel to leave two weeks earlier. At 18 years old, Irene’s brother Heinrich did not listen to the exaggerations of his little sister, preferring to remain in Berlin with his mother. Only two weeks later, his mother regretted her insistence that Heini remain with her. Despite her pleadings and offers of money, Heinrich, having no travel documents, was rounded up and marched to the brand new, mass extinction gas chamber.

Sophie was also forced to leave Germany and seek refuge in France in order to save her life. Sadly, shortly after the declaration of war, the Germans pushed the English out of Europe and overran France.

Neither Sophie nor Abe knew the fate of the other; their families had been dispersed or sent to concentration camps. Thus, they lost touch with each other for seven years, not knowing whether the other was alive or dead.

Just when there seemed to be some hope for Abe and others welcomed into the camps at Richborough, the harsher face of England showed itself again. As they had done 160 years before, the “powers that be” decided it was time to deport its “enemy aliens” to Australia.  2542 men were put on a ship with only a 1600 person capacity and sent off across wartime waters, including some Italian survivors of a rescue ship that had been taking them to Canada. Abe’s story became a part of the infamous events aboard the ship Dunera. Alongside more than 2000 Jewish, genuine refugees fleeing murder by the Nazi regime, the British included a few hundred Germans and Nazi sympathisers. Combined with poorly trained crew and officers, the detainees were despised, robbed and abused, as if they were all “the enemy”. The hellish trip finally ended on arrival in Sydney on the 6th September 1940. Several months elapsed in the dust-ridden New South Wales internment camp at Hay, before men like Abe were officially recognised as genuine refugees. Despite their journey, Abe and others took the opportunity to volunteer for the Australian Army, seeking to contribute in some fashion to the defeat of the bestial Hitlerian regime that had brought death to so many innocent people.

Unfortunately, while on a training exercise, Abe broke his leg and was invalided out. The resilient Abe then got a job as an industrial chemist with a private firm in Melbourne, and set about establishing himself in this new land.

Back in France, Sophie fled to the southern unoccupied zone and obtained work as a “domestique” or servant girl. She spoke good French, but unfortunately with a recognisable German accent. She explained this by pretending that she was an Alsation – a native of that province on the borders of France and Germany which has been alternatively French and German so many times that the inhabitants are mostly bi-lingual and seemingly fight every other war on different sides. 

She changed jobs from time to time, the more so after the Germans occupied the southern part of France. If her employers suspected that she was something other than what she pretended to be, they said nothing, until the time when the Gestapo eventually caught up with her. She was betrayed, captured, and sent to a French concentration camp erected on French soil with the concurrence of the collaborationist Pétain Vichy Government. Conditions here were normal for concentration camps – a bowl of cabbage soup, and a small piece of bread each day if one was lucky. It was not long before people began to die of disease and malnutrition. When they died, the bodies were wrapped up in shrouds, carried outside the camp in stretchers at night, and left there, to be picked up in the morning by the burial carts.

One day a rumour sped through the camp like fire. The Jewish prisoners were to be collected together and sent in railway wagons to the gas ovens of the “Vernichtungslage” in Germany and Poland. Once one was in the railway truck, one was as good as dead. At the same time, escape from the concentration camp was virtually impossible. Sophie sought desperately for a plan to save her life.

With ingenuity and determination, she hoarded her bread ration every day. The bread thus saved was used to bribe a guard to wrap her in a shroud as if she were dead, and leave her outside the camp with the bodies one evening. That this was done is not as surprising as you might think. The guards were also poorly fed, and many not totally committed to their work. At dead of night, she cautiously unwrapped her shroud and ran away into surrounding forest, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the concentration camp.

Once more she supported herself by domestic work, keeping herself to herself, moving whenever she felt it necessary, always on the lookout for a sign that some person may have suspected her secret and betrayed her to the Gestapo. Somehow she survived until the Allied landing in Europe. Her relief when the terrible fear of betrayal and death was finally lifted would be hard to describe in words. 

Luck, or fate, can play an equally terrible or fortunate part in our lives. Sophie’s name had been registered on a Jewish Survivors list, by the Red Cross. As fate would have it, friends in New York, who were already in contact with Abe in Melbourne, saw this particular list. Overjoyed on learning this wonderful news, Abe was able to secure passage for Sophie from Marseilles to Melbourne, via Tahiti. Sophie put her language skills to good use, acting as an interpreter aboard ship.

After seven long, anxious years, Sophie and Abe were united again; a happy ending for two people, tinged with sadness and the memory of so many whose stories finished in a different and tragic way.

Ch10 Pt6 Kempsey and exam results

Our house was perched on the ridge with beautiful views both ways, especially up the Tweed Valley to Mount Warning. The main window in the lounge was plate glass, and the view was like an oil painting of the Valley by a master landscape artist. Sometimes birds skimmed across the valley and tried to fly straight into our lounge room, often knocking themselves out on the plate glass. But the chief disadvantage in building on such commanding ground was brought home to us one night when a cyclonic wind started to blow. We had not realised the enormous energy created and dissipated in the form of cyclones on the Queensland coast. Now we found out. The house shuddered and shook throughout the entire night, and the wind only abated the next morning. During all this time, Irene and I lay silently in bed, waiting for the next sledgehammer blow to hit the house and make it shudder. Irene was wake and I was awake, but neither let the other know for fear of creating unnecessary alarm. The only people who slept peacefully through that night were Patricia and Peter in their bedrooms on the opposite side of the house. They slept the peaceful sleep of the innocent and the young.

The next morning, when Irene and I got out of bed and realised that we had both been awake simultaneously, we went downstairs to see what had happened to several large tea-chests containing heavy tools, books and household goods which we had stored under the house. They had been blown right across the road, and scattered into the scrub. Now we realised why our builder had actually anchored the house with huge bolts into the concrete foundations, and strongly strutted the wooden “stumps” on which the house stood.

It was very hot in Murwillumbah, and all the neighbours used to leave their front and back doors wide open all day long. Everybody knew everybody else, and in those days you could leave your house open without fear. We had a small bitzer dog at the time. He was only a puppy, but he was full of fun. He would run up and down the street and steal slippers and shoes from other people’s houses. At times I would have up to a dozen odd pieces of footwear hidden underneath the house. He was an incorrigible thief, and people started to complain. In the long run, I had to have him put down. He was a lovable animal, just the same, and the last dog I ever owned.

At the Council, I began to chafe at the large number of people senior to me. I thought I should never get promotion here. So when a job was advertised in Kempsey for an “A” Grade Clerk at Macleay Shire, I took it. I would be that much nearer Newcastle and Sydney, and in any event, I felt that middle age was starting to catch up with me. It was nearly time for me to think in terms of a permanent billet. The Council bought a very nice house for Irene and me at Kempsey, on the understanding that I refinance it from my own resources and pay them back at an early date. The sale of our house at Murwillumbah, and the raising of a further bank loan, fulfilled this task.

Our house in Sullivan Street, East Kempsey was a large fibro residence on sloping ground with a huge garage at the back. It was possibly the best house we had ever lived in during our Australian experience. Every day I walked over the big old-fashioned timber bridge that crossed the Macleay River to the Macleay Shire Council Chambers above Reg Harrington Motors in Belgrave Street, the main thoroughfare. 

I had joined a Masonic Lodge in Sydney, and gone through the 3rd degree in Murwillumbah, on a rainy night just before the entire town was flooded. In Kempsey I was fortunate enough to meet a number of men who embodied all that was good in Freemasonry. 

I never quite repeated the experience elsewhere. I reached the 18th Degree at Kempsey, and later, in Wingham, became the Master of the Royal Arch Chapter before abandoning “The Craft” for one reason and another.

We had had no car at Murwillumbah, but at Kempsey I bought an old but durable 1939 Chevrolet. It enabled us to make trips to Port Macquarie, Crescent Head, and the beaches. We also had a couple of very hazardous trips to Sydney. For in the old Chev the petrol had the habit of vaporising in the middle of a very hot day so that it never got as far as the engine, and the whole contraption stopped until the engine, and the weather had cooled down. I remember that one day we started off for Sydney at eight o’clock in the morning, but didn’t get there until well after midnight, being stranded for hours on what was then a dusty gravel road between Gloucester and Krambach.

After I had been at Kempsey a couple of months, Lloyd, the Shire Clerk, called me in. He said, “My wife has just rung me about you.”

I made a non-committal noise. I hardly knew his wife.

He went on, “She’s seen your name in the Sydney Morning Herald.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your name was published in the list of successful Technical College examination candidates. You’re a qualified Town and Shire Clerk.”

I don’t remember what I said. I know that an enormous wave of relief swept over me. I didn’t feel that I had suddenly been clothed in a garment of omniscience. I knew my limitations too well for that. But I was vastly pleased that through perseverance I, a stranger in a foreign land, had acquired a qualification that a very large number of the native born who aspired to it failed to obtain. That might mean I was lucky. But it certainly had to mean that I had perseverance and that if I wasn’t a genius, I surely wasn’t stupid either.

I will recall what Irene said when I rang her about it. She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Oh, my dear, I am so glad.”

The terms of my appointment to Macleay Shire were that if I got my ticket, they were immediately to promote me to Deputy Shire Clerk and, more importantly, pay me the going rate. To the credit of the Shire Clerk and the Council, this was done at once and without any argument.

It was during this time that Patricia learnt to swim at the local pool under the tuition of Neville Duke, the lessee, who was an excellent teacher. Peter, too, liked to paddle at the beach and occasionally dip his toes in the shallow end of Kempsey McElhone Memorial Pool, although he was rather small yet to take much of an interest in swimming. It was in Kempsey, too, that Chris, our Number Two son was born. It was rather fortunate that just before Christopher put in an appearance I had traded in the old 1939 Chev for a brand new Morris Minor. I was not quite 37 years old, and this was the first new car I had ever owned. I was, of course, vastly proud of the little wagon.

Irene had been experiencing discomfort for quite a while, and thought that labour pains had started. The doctor, an expatriate Pommy, put her into the Macleay District Hospital. However, nothing happened, and they sent her home to ”do some washing.” Being who she was, she was up at six o’clock next morning, doing just that in the laundry under the house.                                            

Half way through, she suddenly dashed upstairs, pulled me out of bed, and screamed at me to get the car going. At this stage, I was very glad that I had invested in a new Morris Minor, for the car started like a charm. Patricia and Peter, wondering what it was all about, piled into the back, Irene grabbed her suitcase, and we were away. No sooner were we in the street than she urged me to go faster. I crammed on speed, but then she cried out that I was going too fast and would risk an accident. So I slowed down. However, when I slowed down, I was told to step on it, otherwise I would have to deliver the baby personally in the car. This really shook me, for I hadn’t the faintest idea what would be required of me. Thus, alternately speeding up and slowing down, we shot across the timber bridge over the river, along the deserted main street, and finally arrived at the hospital on the other side of town.

Irene told me to drive right up to the door, practically fell out of the car under the sympathetic eyes of several globular pregnant ladies on the verandah, and into the understanding arms of a nurse who sized up the situation immediately. I was abruptly dismissed. This was women’s work. So I got back in the car and drove home with the kids. 

Reaching home five minutes later, I heard the phone ringing and dashed inside to answer it. They told me that we had another son, and that I could come back to see him. So once more I raced across town and entered the Macleay District Hospital.

There, on a table, Christopher lay stark naked. He was very obviously a manchild, and I will swear that he swivelled his head around on the table and grinned at me as I came through the door. His umbilical cord hung carelessly across his stomach and over the edge of the table. He seemed to be saying, “How are you mate, all right? Are you pleased to see me?”

Our next door neighbour in Kempsey was Ralph, an exceptionally fine man, who had built the house in which we now lived. One of his sons was called Christopher, and Irene told me that Patricia and Peter, between them, had decided that “Christopher” should be the name of their new brother. (“James” was inserted by Irene, after myself). Thus was Christopher named, and I only found out about it afterwards, when the registration had been made. I must confess that I thought it was a good choice. But I always told Irene that I was convinced that she had actually named Chris after the doctor who had attended her during pregnancy. She never failed to deny this with some vehemence. Incidentally, that doctor came charging down the road in his little car about half an hour after everything had happened. Apparently he had been abruptly pulled away from his breakfast, so young Chris really stirred the possum in Kempsey on that memorable morning in 1959.