In 2020 I recieved a ‘Highly Acclaimed’ for this little memoir which I had entered in the Scribes Writers Prose Competition. It’s part of the series I’ve written (and am still writing) about our time at Exmouth.
During 2021 I concentrated on writing, editing and publishing Child of the War Years which many of you have read. That didn’t allow much time for writing anything else.
With the new year rapidly approaching, and the move to my new house now behind me, I can get to work on a couple of novels that have been languishing in old files. As that will take a lot of time and effort, and because I want to remind you, my readers, that I am still alive and attempting to get words onto the page/screen, I thought I’d begin by posting this. I changed the names for the competition, but it is a true story.
GO NORTH YOUNG MAN
Several times during the night I stirred from dreaming to see eerie lights wandering across the landscape ahead of us. Near dawn a twisted tree trunk, like something from a Grimm’s fairytale, appeared beside me—the scraping of its branches against the window jolted me awake. We had come to a halt, front wheels pointing skywards, rocks all around us and no sign of a road.
‘We’re lost. We’ll die of dehydration.’ I couldn’t hide the terror in my voice.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ my husband, Graham, growled. ‘The road must have washed away in a recent downpour and the grader hasn’t reached this far.’
He clambered out of the car to investigate the situation. ‘It’s a creek bed; dry at the moment, but we could dig for water if necessary,’ he said as he got back in. ‘Don’t worry; we’ll soon be out of here.’
How our Holden station wagon managed to negotiate those rocks I’ll never know, but in about fifteen minutes we were on our way again. Baby David and three year old Penelope were still asleep on the inflatable mattresses which covered our belongings in the back of the vehicle—twin-tub washing machine, playpen/cot, kitchenware, linen, clothes, toys, several books and food for two weeks.
As the sun rose, I looked around at flat, red-brown earth; tough, yellow-brown grasses edging the track; a sky free of clouds; not a tree or a trace of greenery in any direction. I love Australia, and at our wedding I’d said that I would love him forever, but I didn’t know if my vows could stretch to include this almost barren landscape. I said nothing and hoped for better as we continued heading north.
Near Exmouth we passed a beach which looked inviting—water of the deepest blue, gentle waves licking the shore. There was no time to stop but I was promised a swim the following Sunday. At six thirty we drove into the caravan park and parked beside our new home.
Stunned, I couldn’t open the door. Caravans and vehicles, all bearing scars, were dumped in a clearing in the desert-like scrub. I’d lived in a caravan in the bush before, but this looked like a refugee camp. Neither of us said anything as Graham unloaded children and belongings into the annexe, while I unpacked boxes to make breakfast. He drove off before it was ready, saying he’d eat at the camp.
Baby was soon asleep again in the playpen inside the caravan. Penelope, our adventurous three year old, wanted to explore. I found crayons and paper and set her up at the table while I tried to find a home for our kitchenware and food.
Determined to have the place organised by evening, I opened the first of our cases after wiping off the pindan. Sheets, towels, clothes—every item inside every case sent layers of red-brown dust into the air as I shook them.
At eight o’clock I had the washing machine filled with water heated by our electric plunger. The power went off.
‘Damn! How long will this last?’ Having just arrived, I didn’t think knocking on the neighbouring van was a good idea.
‘Penelope. Mummy’s going to the laundry. You stay inside and mind David.’
What a shock—used tampons dropped on the toilet floor, brown stained paper left in a corner and fear seeping out of grey concrete walls. Hatred and despair hung around that place of intended cleanliness. Terrified of germs leaping at me from every surface, I tried not to touch anything, holding door handles with my skirt and not daring to wash any part of me in the basins. The showers too, were a nightmare of disease ridden horror. I vowed to wear thongs when I had to use them, and to hang my clothes and towel over the smallest possible surface so that a minimum of other women’s grubbiness would affect them.
I didn’t get as far as the laundry that day, but hurried back to the van, determined that my daughter would use the potty and baby’s bath in the safety of our confined space.
At ten o’clock, with electricity running for an hour, I had sheets washed and hung on ropes installed by the previous occupants. By five the caravan and annexe looked almost like home. I washed the children in David’s baby bath, shook their pyjamas again and dressed them. By six, fed and falling asleep, I had them both tucked up in our bed. Once we were ready for bed, Penelope would sleep on a built-in seat beside the table and David’s cot would sit in the middle of the van.
My man had been awake for two days and a night. He arrived back at the caravan at about six thirty, hot and pindan streaked. We kissed lightly and he went off to shower while I served our dinner. In clean shirt and shorts, he joined me at the table after checking on his cherubs and kissing them goodnight.
Outside, we heard men and women yelling at children and each other. From the van closest to us came swearing of a kind I’d not heard before, as the man threw his son, aged about eight, down the steps and his wife hurled abuse at the boy.
Hearing the boy’s screams, we raced outside, almost falling over each other in our haste. My husband took one look and, pushing me ahead of him, hopped back inside and locked the door. We stood facing each other, dismayed and dumbstruck.
Living so close, we couldn’t shut out the surrounding rabble or protect our babies from their obscenities. The tears I had tried so hard to hold back all day burst the banks of my eyes. So much we had promised each other, so many expectations that were impossible to fulfil. How could I survive in that God forsaken place?
Born at the beginning of the Second World War, I have memories that are unique to an Australian child of that era. Many of us didn’t know our fathers because they went off to England to help the British fend off the Germans, or to places like New Guinea to fight the Japanese. For several years I have been writing my memoir. Not having a father in my life for those first few years meant that when he did come home, I had great difficulty learning to relate to him. In this piece I have tried to portray something of that feeling.