Open Writing

There had been an alteration in the accommodation at Golden Hind, Royal Naval shore base Sydney, during the months of my absence, a time spent roaming the wavy and wonderful Pacific Ocean. When I did return, rows of wooden huts had replaced the tent lines of earlier days. At this distance of time -- some 50 plus years -- no memories remain of my life and times during what was to be my penultimate visit there. That is, with one exception.

Throughout my service in the Royal Navy an oft-repeated reminder, delivered from officialdom, was that leave in that illustrious service was a privilege and not a right. Indeed, the only time one could be certain of enjoying such a liberty was after the event, since re-call was ever a possibility. The ruling in the times of which I write was that leave might be requested every six months, all things being equal -- not much use applying for leave whilst serving at sea. Also in those days, a system was in operation in Australia whereby names and addresses could be obtained of people who were prepared to accommodate British service personnel, and such kind-hearted souls might, in our case, live anywhere in New South Wales.

Becoming jaded by shore-base life, I had the desire to get away from it all. There were already up-homers in Sydney -- ‘up-homers’ being the address of local benefactors, and I had spent my previous week’s leave there, in addition to week nights and weekends. It seemed good manners, therefore, to deposit myself on someone else’s hospitality, and I could have a change of scenery at the same time.

The trouble was I had enjoyed the seven days leave just referred to only a matter of weeks prior to such Oliver Twist emotions. My pay book showed when the last leave occurred. That entry had to go, so I engaged the services of Milton. Milton came like a fabled genie in a bottle, and with a few deft strokes of a magic wand -- a matchstick actually -- wallah, my pay book showed I hadn’t had any leave for over six months. I was proud of my handiwork, prouder still even when the book passed inspection and seven days were granted me.

Trouble was, I later learned, that when applying for a new pay book one’s old one was scanned beneath an ultraviolet light which revealed any ‘califudging’ that might have taken place. Consequently, I never dared risk a change of book, with the result that my existing one at the end of my service was held together with several strips of Elastoplast, but that was years ahead. Suffice to say my sins never found me out.

Back now to what was then the present. On application at the respective office for up-homers I was supplied with the address of a Mr. Turner, Stratford, NSW, nothing more. Equipped with this information, I made further enquiries and learned that a railway journey of some 180 miles was necessary, this taking me north via Newcastle to Stratford, which lay in the Dungog Forestry area. And thus it was that in Sydney I boarded a train which was pointing itself in that direction.

The travelling conditions of those times do not apply today, so their description is not a forewarning, merely the relating of an experience that I have borne in mind over the passage of time. Railway passenger coaches of those days were constructed on the design of early American ones, those depicted in Western films, boarding and alighting platforms at each end with a central communicating aisle. There was also drinking water at the end of each compartment, this contained in a glass carafe with accompanying tumbler, although I never saw anyone make use of that facility. It always looked somehow sinister to me, swilling about upon its accommodating shelf. But then I was at an impressionable age, being no more than 20 years old at the time. I had led a sheltered life. The Royal Navy had protected me from the wicked world outside.

So, in my virginal ignorance of Australian train travel, I sat facing forward. The coach doors were kept open in the hot weather to allow for the free passage of air. Also passing through were soot smuts from the steam engine. The immaculately washed and ironed white front I was wearing was thus presented to the black fusillade, with the result that long before Newcastle was reached that piece of clothing began to look Dalmatian doggish, as did my white cap.

On arrival in Newcastle I reported as instructed to the leave office, or whatever it was called, only to find it locked and deserted. It was also doleful in appearance, being a workman’s hut on iron wheels parked in a side street. It could well have been an omen, since I was scheduled for future dilapidated accommodation.

First, though, there was to be a night spent in a civilized abode, the invitation to which came from an obvious stranger who, seeing me standing by the roadside evidently perplexed, enquired -- after hearing my tale of woe -- if I would care to spend the night at his family home. Generous as the offer was, I must admit a shadow of suspicion flitted across my thoughts. I’d read the News of the World -- avidly -- and was aware that there were men who took advantage of innocent young sailors. It also crossed my mind that there may be women of such intent also, so I accepted.

As events evolved, there was no need for qualms. The family consisted of husband and wife with two very young daughters, all of Polish extraction, by the name of Tillityki, and I was immediately and most generously accepted into the family group. Next day farewells were made and I boarded the Kempsey Mail, a train which would deliver me to my final destination. Actually, it was late evening when I left Newcastle, since I remember darkness prevented me from viewing the passing scenery.

There must have been a long downhill run at the latter end of my journey since the train rattled, shook and rocked, creating the impression that I was still at sea. Eventually the ticket collector informed me we were approaching Stratford. I alighted onto a small wooden platform with a wooden bus shelter-type structure attached. It was around two a.m., and I had arrived in the Dungog Forestry area.

Greetings were made by a short-statured figure in khaki shirt and shorts, wearing a battered bush hat and swinging a storm lantern, which I suspected he had waved at the train to get the driver to stop. There was a feeling that I was stepping back in history, so much so that in reply to his welcome I smothered the impulse to reply, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume,” and settled for a very English “How do you do?”

Mr. Turner, my bush-clad host, led the way off the tiny wooden station across a dirt road -- which I was later to learn was the main Pacific Highway with a tendency to disappear in heavy rain -- then into a wooden shed on the edge of more wooden structures, with piles of logs heaped all around. Although married, Mrs. Turner, whom I never met, understandably chose to live in Newcastle, where her husband joined her at weekends, after attending his business during the week, a business in which wood was the prominent feature, since my host owned the local sawmill.

He was also the owner of a prodigious appetite for alcohol. Indeed, he was an alcoholic, but at that particular moment in our relationship I was innocent of the fact. I should perhaps have suspected something of the sort since as soon as we were inside the wooden shack -- my home for a few days -- he produced, as if by magic, a bottle of rum, remarking that since I was a mariner he presumed I would welcome a tot, or two. I was his guest, so how could I refuse?

Also, he supposed, I was hungry and hard-boiled two eggs for me. We drank a little rum, and two more hard-boiled eggs were served up. Another round or so of ‘Nelson’s blood’ and he convinced me that I could complete the consumption of the half-dozen eggs, which I did. Then I retired to the iron-framed mosquito-netted bed provided, there to sleep the sleep of the just, my inner self being well embalmed with a rum and egg poultice. It had been a long and eventful day.