Mother of Ten Page 3

  I guess it’s not much of an idea, love, because we are not in a position to afford it, are we darl?

  In another letter, undated but written around the same time, he once again laments that he is unable to get out to be with her and asks if there is anything she wants.

  I want you to have anything you desire, love, and if I can get it you will have it love.

  Myrtle apparently asked him to get her a camera because in another letter he apologises that he was not able to get one in Seymour and promises to try to get her one in Melbourne when he is transferred to the hospital there.

  Not all his letters have survived the years but they must have written daily to each other because later in the same letter he comments:

  I haven’t had a letter from you today, Myrtle. I guess I will get it this afternoon, love.

  All of his letters start with ‘Dearest Myrtle’ and end with ‘your ever loving husband’ and several rows of kisses. Wherever he could find space on the lettergram he added more kisses and messages like ‘all my love to you, darl’. He asks about his son in each letter. In one he writes:

  Gosh, Bobby is getting a big fellow, isn’t he? He’s not very tall though.

  Myrtle apparently took a photo of Bobby, probably with a camera borrowed from her new mother-in-law, and sent it to George. I am not sure how tall he expected a child of less than six months to be!

  Myrtle must have also made mention of Bobby being ill, for George goes on to say:

  Myrtle what’s this about him dying? He’s not looking that bad is he love? He’s not going to die - look who his parents are! Anyway, if he is sick, send me a telegram and I will see if they will give me some compassionate leave.

  The reference to Myrtle’s fear that Bobby might be dying is interesting. Mothers who have been separated from their babies have reported experiencing such fears with subsequent children, believing their child might die as punishment for ‘abandoning’ their previous child or children.

  After receiving a bone graft at Heidelberg Hospital in Melbourne to repair a wrist injury, George was finally reunited with his family when he was discharged from the army in March 1945 and returned to Orbost.

  The township of Orbost is a small community in the East Gippsland Shire 375 kilometres east of Melbourne. It is part of the territorial home of the Kurnai people who once occupied the whole of East Gippsland. The town is situated on the banks of the Snowy River with its mouth a picturesque ten-minute drive away.

  Established in 1842, Orbost was initially a farming community but a significant timber industry developed due to the area’s rich forestry resources and the 1939 fires, one of Australia’s worst natural disasters. It had been a hot, dry summer during 1938 and 1939 with fires breaking out over the state. On January 13, 1939 (known as Black Friday) temperatures reached over 45 degrees Celsius. A northerly wind hit the state and the fires became one massive fire front. Seventy one people died. More than 20 000 square kilometres of land were burnt including several towns, 1300 homes and 69 sawmills.

  Prior to 1939, Victoria's major sawmilling industry had been concentrated in the mountain ash forests of the Central Highlands close to Melbourne. However, the fires destroyed the bulk of the forests and mills in this area. The demand for timber to service the post-war housing boom was urgent. The sawmilling industry had to be restructured and relocated. East Gippsland, with its rich timber resources, was the ideal choice. It was the timber industry that later provided my father with an income that enabled him to (just) support his growing family.

  When Myrtle and George, my mother and father, began their life together in Orbost, Australian society was similar to that in countries like the USA and Britain at the time. Mainstream Australia was predominately ‘white’ people descended from the early convicts and settlers who, in the main, were from the United Kingdom. England was considered ‘The Mother Country’.

  People were conservative and resistant to change. New ideas, even concepts as simple and innocent as coffee espresso machines, outdoor dining and kerbside cafes were met with horrified opposition and legal wrangles. The resistance to any modification of the clearly defined roles of men and women was such that changes were inconceivable. Men were expected to fill the role of family bread winner. Women were expected to be good wives and mothers by staying at home and caring for their children and their husbands. Divorce was condemned as shameful. The woman, whose job it was to keep the family together, was considered to be at fault in the event of a marriage breakdown. There were no support services for divorcees with or without children. Any woman on her own whether a divorcee or a widow was viewed with suspicion. They were often socially excluded, especially in country towns.

  Australian society was transformed during the 1950s by thousands of new migrants from Britain, Greece, Italy and other European countries. These were boom times for the island continent. The national shortage of workers was filled by the new migrants who were employed on construction projects such as the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme, which diverted water from the Snowy River to make electricity.

  With a growing family and little money, my parents would not have had time to think too much about the changes taking place in Australia. By this time, Orbost was well established as a prosperous centre for forestry and agricultural industries and a service town for the outlying areas with a population of approximately 2000. In the 1950s, Orbost’s local timber industry began to expand dramatically in response to Australia’s need for timber to supply the building trade. Dad, who trained as a butcher’s apprentice before the war and worked on local farms immediately after the war, had now joined the timber industry where future prospects were promising.

  Chapter 5

  Sometimes, during the school holidays and at weekends, Dad would take us all out to the woodcutters’ camp.

  There were men everywhere, some with axes and some with saws: strong men with the broad shoulders and calloused hands of hard-working bushmen. White Australians with faces tanned to mahogany brown from daily exposure to the sun were barely discernible from Aboriginal Australians. Some men worked with shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing their tanned forearms. Others wore blue or white singlets fully exposing their muscled arms. They all wore long pants and boots and most heads were covered by hats or berets.

  The work environment of these tough men exposed them to danger at every turn. Death could claim any one of them without notice. Men were sometimes killed when trapped under trees or tractors or killed in accidents with machinery. If they were bitten by a spider or a snake they had to do the best they could without medical expertise. Accidents with a saw or axe could result in injuries; serious and not so serious. Men with finger tips missing, half a finger or a toe missing were not an unusual sight among the timber workers.

  They worked ten to twelve hours a day for six days of the week with Sundays reserved for sharpening tools and any housekeeping they deemed necessary to do. What time they had free was spent playing cards, telling tales and singing songs.

  Despite the rough conditions, they were a happy lot; calling through the trees to each other, insulting each other with cheerful grins and joking together. Italians, Australians and men from Eastern Europe worked and lived as a large family unit. Most of them were family men who enjoyed having Mum and us kids visit. When we arrived, they waved to us and called out various welcomes.

  “G’day.” “Ciao.” “Hey, kids.”

  Working out in the bush and camping out for a week or more at a time, the men became accustomed to using uninhibited language so one of them would issue a warning for everyone to be careful when we were there.

  “Righto, you blokes, mind your Ps and Qs now.”

  Mum smiled in acknowledgement of their respect.

  My brothers and I loved to watch the felling of a tree. When we saw Dad sizing up a tall tree we could hardly contain our excitement.

  “Are you going to chop down a tree?” my brothers asked.

  “Maybe,” said my father,
revealing his broad forehead as he pushed his hat back slightly and craned his neck to scan the line of the tree.

  He was assessing the distance and direction of the tree’s drop to make sure it would fall clear of other trees. Plummeting branches from above, or ‘widow makers’ as the men called them, were swift and silent killers. Affected branches that did not break off were even worse because, although they stayed on the tree, they could fall at anytime, catching workers below unawares to cause serious injury or death. Dad also needed to make sure everyone was clear of the path the tree would fall along.

  The other men continued with their work: some trimmed fallen trees and cut away any remaining branches, some men barked trimmed trees and pairs of men with crosscut saws sliced trunks into logs. Dad, sleeves already rolled up, took up his axe and stood legs apart by the tree. Mum gathered us into a spot where we would be safe but still able to observe.

  We watched Dad’s lithe body and supple movements, as he brought his axe down swiftly stroke after stroke, to cut a scarf in the tree which would guide its fall. The smell of the tree’s sap was stronger with each blow.

  When he was satisfied with the scarf cut, Dad went around to the other side of the tree, removing his shirt and throwing it over a tree stump as he did so. His white armless singlet revealed his broad shoulders. Wedges of wood whistled through the air as his axe cut deeper into the tree’s trunk. His face showed intense concentration and perspiration oozed over his forehead and cheeks. By the time the tree began to lean forward, the damp of perspiration showed through his singlet at his shoulder blades and across his chest. He stepped clear of the tree with a glance at us to make sure we were safe.

  “Timber!” he yelled.

  “Timber!” My brothers exchanged grins as they echoed the call.

  Everyone stopped to watch as the tree leaned and groaned. Its roots separated from earth with a creak. The lofty giant headed inexorably to the ground, shuddering through the foliage of its neighbours to land with a loud crack.

  Bobby and Maxie ran to the fallen tree. They scrambled along the trunk, checking the branches for birds’ nests that might have eggs in it. My mother did not usually allow them to take eggs from nests but she knew birds could not return to the nests in felled trees. Unable to find a nest, Bobby and Maxie turned their attention to the tree itself.

  “Can we help with the tree, Dad?

  “Yeah, can we help, Dad?”

  “You can but not right now. You can help bark the tree later, if you like.”

  That was the job my brothers liked best; stripping the bark off the tree to unveil the smooth cream trunk, greasy with eucalyptus oil. They also loved gathering witchetty grubs which they found in some logs after the men split them. They would give them to Bluey, the camp cook, who grilled them on the coals of the fire. Witchetty grubs are the fat, wriggling white larvae of moths. I left the eating of these delicacies, much prized by the Aboriginal people, to my brothers.

  Mum usually took us for a walk through the bush while Dad was working. Sometimes the bush was pretty with yellow wattles, brown boronia flowers, crimson bottlebrush or gum trees with bluish leaves. The smell of tree bark and eucalyptus oil fused with the smell of earth and damp leaves on the ground. When you are deep in the bush it is not hard to understand why the Aboriginal people believe mrarts (ghosts of ancestors) wander there. The bush can be full of sounds one minute, birds whistling and chattering, breezes whispering and trees swishing, then deeply silent the next, creating the sense of an unseen presence. Luckily for us, mrarts were mostly only seen at night.

  On our walks, my brothers would scramble on ahead, jumping over fallen logs, searching for animal burrows and kicking aside sticks to disturb lizards and goannas which were always too fast for them to catch. Like my brothers, I loved to run along the creek beds, stopping to catch frogs and watch them jump from my hands back into the water.

  We would see beautiful birds like rainbow lorikeets and honey eaters and occasionally hear the threatening scream of the sugar glider protecting its food, perhaps from a stealthy bird. Mum would point out the wildflowers to me: native bluebells and orchids and even native buttercups. Our walk in the bush was a wilderness adventure.

  The faint smell of wood smoke greeted us when we returned to the woodcutters’ camp. The men had stirred the camp fire, ready for ‘smoko’. That was when they stopped work and gathered around the fire, sitting on tree stumps and logs ready for tea, cake and smokes. Some of them rolled their own cigarettes and others smoked pipes. I loved the smell of pipe tobacco.

  For making tea, they had an old blackened billy can, fashioned from a tin that once contained canned peaches. A wire handle had been looped through holes punched on either side of the can. The serrated edge caused by opening the tin with a can-opener had been filed to a smooth finish. The billy was suspended over the fire on thick wire which was held up by two sticks on either side of the fire; far enough away not to catch alight. The sturdy sticks had been forked at the top to allow the wire to slip through and be held in place.

  When the water in the billy was boiling, Bluey threw a handful of tea in. Bluey was a big man with thick red hair and freckles all over his face. His old hat was held together in places with large safety pins.

  “Hey, Bluey,” called one of the men. “That’s not dynamite you’re throwin’ in that billy, is it?”

  Bluey joined in the laughter with the men. Throwing dynamite in the billy was a standing joke. Apparently, back in the 1800s a man ‘up around Buchan’ took it into his head to thaw some dynamite in a billy-can over his camp fire. He thawed the dynamite but, alas, the explosion killed him instantly.

  Bobby and Maxie might have been excited about the possibility of dynamite in Bluey’s billy but I was glad it contained tea leaves.

  After a few seconds Bluey removed the billy from the fire and placed it next to the hot coals, beating the outside of it with a stick to make the tea leaves sink to the bottom. Bobby and Maxie groaned in disappointment.

  “Ooooh, isn’t he going to swing the billy, Dad?”

  Using centrifugal force by swinging the billy was another way of getting the tea leaves to sink to the bottom. Dad often did it when he boiled the billy at home. We all loved to watch. My brothers studied the process carefully because Dad had promised they could do it when they were old enough.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Dad said.

  Bobby called to Bluey. “Are ya gonna swing the billy, Bluey?”

  “Handle’s too hot, young fella. I’d burn me hand off,” said Bluey, with a wink at my father.

  “Oooooh,” Bobby and Maxie chorused their disappointment.

  However, Bluey moved the billy away from the coals. After a couple of minutes he checked the heat of the handle by lifting it up with a stick and gingerly tapping it with his fingers.

  Bobby and Maxie waited. They nudged each other in excitement when Bluey lifted the billy from the ground. Then, with arm at full stretch, he swung the billy several times in a wide vertical circle. My brothers mimicked his swing with their own arms.

  When ‘the show’ was over, Bluey used an old piece of cloth to protect his hands as he tilted the billy and poured strong tea into each man’s enamel mug. Most of the men drank their tea black with lots of sugar; it was difficult to keep milk fresh in the bush. However, sometimes they had a can of Sunshine Full Cream Powdered Milk and could throw some into their mugs of tea or mix the powder with water to make liquid milk. My mother often made milk the same way at home.

  Mum usually baked a couple of Madeira cakes for the men for their morning tea. She cut off a large slice for each worker. They tucked into her cakes and devoured them in seconds. Except for the occasional appreciative grunt when eating Mum’s cake, most of the men were quiet during smoko. Bushmen were often quiet by nature but they also needed to conserve their energy for the rest of the day’s work. Sometimes, however, they told us stories.

  One day when we were sitting around the camp fire we heard t
he sound of someone not far away, chopping down a tree with an axe.

  “Listen,” said Bluey.

  Bluey looked across at Dad and smiled.

  “Matilda,” said Dad.

  I pricked my ears up. Matilda? I had not heard of a woman chopping down trees.

  “Can you hear her, Brigid?” said my father.

  I nodded. I was about to ask who Matilda was but Dad continued.

  “That’s Matilda,” he said. “She copies all the sounds we make.”

  I still did not understand. Did that mean she wasn’t really chopping down a tree? Bobby, being the eldest, already knew about Matilda so he enlightened me.

  “Matilda is a lyrebird,” he said.

  Now I understood. I knew about lyrebirds. My mother had told me that a lyrebird was a brown bird about the size of a chook with a tail like a peacock only not as colourful. She said lyrebirds could mimic any sound they heard. However, I had not realised that they could represent the sound so accurately. Matilda’s axe chopping was exactly like the real thing. Bluey grinned at my look of astonishment.

  “It’s Matilda all right,” he said, his broad grin making his freckles dance. “She can copy anything and get it spot on like the original. And ya know what? Matilda can play the mouth organ better than me.”

  In the evenings it was the habit of the men to have a sing-a-long before they went to bed. Bluey played the mouth organ, some of the others played the gum leaves, someone else played a tune on a comb and somebody banged on a 44 gallon drum with a couple of sticks.

  Bluey called out to the other men. “Remember that night Matilda was playin’ the mouth organ?”

  Voices called back. Heads nodded. Men laughed.

  “She really had me goin’ that night,” said Bluey. “We were all just sittin’ around here tired and quiet and waitin’ for the billy to boil when we heard someone in the bush playin’ Waltzing Matilda on a mouth organ. Fair dinkum! You coulda knocked me down with a feather.”