The View From Connor's Hill (6 page)

World War II saw the young men in the Heard family join the services — my father into the army, and his brother Cliff, the navy. On return from one leave, he married Mum. They moved into the tiny room at the Smith Street house; Nana Heard now slept under the staircase. The other five Heards had to fit into the remaining two bedrooms, but that arrangement didn't last. Baby Ian arrived, and my parents moved to the big bedroom downstairs.

Dad was then posted to Townsville, and he was there when it was bombed. Darwin, Broome, and Townsville were all targets of Japanese bombing during that stage of the war. Yet, as so often happens, our politicians kept knowledge of most of this from the Australian public.

It was during his time in Townsville that my father became very ill with a blood disorder. At the time, this was diagnosed as having stemmed from his multiple broken noses. He had managed to break it several times while competing as an amateur boxer representing the army in inter-service bouts. He was ill for many months. The army, unable to offer any further medical assistance, discharged him from the hospital and the service. He returned to 23 Smith Street. It was 1944; the end of the war was in sight.

Not long after he arrived home, Mum became pregnant with me. Dad immediately returned to civilian employment, but his health never really improved or changed for almost two years. Consequently, he struggled to keep working as an upholsterer. Between them, the entire Heard family eked out a living that paid the rent and put food on the table, but nothing more.

By early 1945, I was born, and Ian had a young brother. Now it was my parents and we two boys in the
big
room. In January 1946, Mum fell pregnant again. Within months, my father's lingering blood disorder attacked a major organ — his heart. He stopped work, and his health deteriorated rapidly. His brother Cliff, who still lived at Smith Street at the time, vividly remembers carrying my dad through the house and along the street to catch a tram to the hospital. He told me that, at the most, my father would have weighed roughly six stone. He died within days. Although Dad was given the simplest funeral, I know from enquiries and from talking to family members that, when my father died, the entire Heard clan was almost penniless and destitute.

Three months after my father's death, my brother Robbie was born. He was a blue baby — for him to live after birth required a full blood transfusion. Life for my mother must have been hell.

The Heards all rallied together — one of the plans had been to adopt us three boys into the other Heard families, since by now three of them had married or planned to marry. Then help came in the way of Legacy. My father, being in the army, had been away during a lot of the war. He didn't go outside Australia, but somehow his circumstances fitted Legacy's requirements. Mum got a pension, and we remained in Smith Street.

Oblivious to all of this, I thought my life as a youngster had been good. I can still remember Nana Heard, the house, and the upstairs area — the tiny room, and the alcove under the staircase. They are all fond memories, yet most of the time we lived life as paupers.

The following year, Mum, my brothers Ian and Robbie, and I moved to Ringwood. We would be living in a house near Mum's parents, who had arranged rental accommodation for us. The address was on the corner of Great Ryrie Street and Bedford Road. Known as ‘Corbett's Orchid', it was our first real house. It was a half-acre block with a huge yard.

They were an odd couple, my mum's parents, Nana Roy and Uncle Jock. Uncle Jock, Nan's second husband, was a tall, bonny Scot with a broad accent and a beaming smile. He enjoyed life and loved us kids. Nana Roy, Mum's mum, by comparison was tiny, grey-haired, and always busy. Their house was always spotless. She continually nagged Uncle Jock, yet his smile remained firmly planted.

After a brief stay in the Great Ryrie Street house, we moved to Wilana Street in Ringwood, right next to Nana Roy's. My first memory of this new address was vivid. It happened several days after moving into our new old-weatherboard house. I would have been about three or four. I recall lying on my back on the front lawn, staring up at a huge, tall, dead tree. There were clouds rushing across the sky. It was quite windy. Suddenly, the tree started to fall. I got up, rushed inside, and screamed the news to my mother. We ran outside. The tree was big enough to hit the house if it fell in that direction. Yet, when Mum rushed outside, the tree hadn't moved. I'm sure I muttered something like, ‘It must have gone back up, Mum.'

It was many years later that I realised the tree hadn't gone back up. Like another train in the station that makes you believe you're moving when in fact you're stationary, I'd imagined the clouds had stopped and the tree was falling. Such a fright for any youngster is bound to be one of their first memories.

There were four of us living in this seemingly large weatherboard house (many years later, I discovered it was tiny) with a radio. Yes, it was just Mum and her three boys; I was the middle one.

It's funny, but in years to come the sound of the radio would always be my first recollection of that house. It was always switched on. Mum used to listen to the radio serials: D24, which was a Hector Crawford production, Hop Harrigan, and others.

Ringwood was an outer suburb of Melbourne — the last major suburb east of the city, and a 30-minute train trip from Flinders Street Station. I loved this new environment. Nana Heard would also visit regularly, and we often returned to Smith Street. The train trip was always exciting. Ringwood was different from Collingwood in many ways. For instance, instead of us having to go to a shop to buy bread, milk, and ice at Ringwood, a horse and cart delivered those items.

Then there was the lavatory. Smith Street had had one with a chain that you pulled when you finished your business. It not only flushed; it made a low, hollow, bopping noise for ages. However, at Ringwood there was a whole industry involved around the humble lavatory, which was in a small room out the back. Once a week, at dawn, a man wearing a beret and a strange-looking leather cover on his shoulder would appear. He would run into our backyard carrying a can, open a rear flap to our lavatory, and remove the can inside it. Then he would unlatch the lid on the empty can he carried, attach the lid on the full one, and put the empty one under the lavatory seat. Closing the rear door, he'd heave the full one onto his leather-covered shoulder. The full can seemed to be very heavy. The man would sprint to the truck — commonly called the ‘night cart' — shove our can onto the tray, and then the truck would move to the next house. There would be two men operating either side of the street; I watched them every time they came to our house for the first few weeks.

Suddenly, our life changed yet again: our mother re-married. His name was Bob and he was a plumber — a dark-haired bloke from two streets away, near where we had first moved when we came to Ringwood. It was weird; I had never noticed him before. Mum continually prompted us to call this new man ‘Dad'. This seemed strange to me, because life seemed complete and without any need for this drastic alteration.

I gather, from our relations and others, that we three boys were very close at the time. Robbie, my younger brother, was born in 1946, a year after me. Ian, my older brother, was more than four years older than I was, and yet we stuck together like glue. I know that, for me, it was a confusing time having a new father.

After the move to Wilana Street, I started at the local kindergarten. This was located at the back of the Church of England, about three streets away, just near the railway underpass.

Then it was Ringwood Primary School. For me, it was just a short walk up to the end of the street, a right turn, and the classic old brick building was down at the end. School was great — particularly the playground, which boasted a slide, a rocker, and monkey bars. I had never seen these sorts of things before. The school was large, with many grades split into different levels. I made several good friends, most of whom lived just around the corner from us. We often played on the street and visited one another's places after school. The street was home to many team games; depending on the season, there would always be boys playing football or cricket on Wilana Street. Since few houses could boast a motorcar, traffic wasn't a problem on the sealed road.

The first highlight after our big move to Ringwood was to attend a Guy Fawkes night, more commonly called ‘firecracker night'. Over a period of weeks, locals would arrive with barrow-loads of wood and branches from gardens, and dump them just down the end of Wilana Street on a vacant block. The odd truck would also stop by with a tray load of off-cuts. Then, with all of this combustible material piled into a big heap called a bonfire, come the fifth of November, the entire street celebrated beside this blazing inferno. There were firecrackers, skyrockets, jumping jacks, penny bungers, tom thumbs, sparklers, double bungers, and Catherine wheels, just to name a few. It was better than any New Year's Eve I have ever seen — except for a nasty accident.

It happened at my second Guy Fawkes night: the same street, the same vacant block, and a bigger bonfire. A young girl had a skyrocket aimed at her, she ducked, it landed in her hair, and she was rushed off to hospital. It was frightening. Quickly, the adults got into a blaming game. The girl, in my grade at school, wore a turban-like top for the rest of the year.

Just one block away from our street was a large park on Greenwood Avenue. Again, it was full of kids with footballs or cricket bats, with makeshift teams playing a game. Another craze at that time was kite-flying. A windy day would see half a dozen kites flying. Some kids were quite skilled, and their kite could swoop and dive. The kites were all hand-made with the help of parents or friends. Kids appeared to have few individual toys, and playing with friends occupied most of our time. Robbie and I shared an old, three-wheeled bike, and that was about it. Then someone made a billycart for Ian, and we all shared rides in it down Greenwood Avenue.

Every year, there were annual billycart races held in Ringwood. I cannot recall where, but I remember them being keenly supported, and many races were run before a winner was announced. One time, my brother Ian won, I believe.

Every day after school we went over to our grandparents, on my mother's side. As mentioned, they lived right next door. There was a convenient hole in the paling fence. Nan was wonderful — she gave us gifts and surprises that my mother was unable to afford. Nan's second husband, Pop, or ‘Uncle Jock' as he preferred, was the typical doting grandfather. He worked at a brickyard. At home, he devoted most of his time to his two passions: the vegie garden and we three wee boys.

By 1950, I had a half-brother, John, and the following year Jeff was born. My stepfather, who I now called ‘Dad', drove an old ute. Now, that was exciting. The privilege of riding in a car was something we bragged about at school. He also had a Pommy bloke called Duncan work with him in his plumbing business. He was a kind man who joked all the time.

Time just seemed to rush by in those early years at Ringwood. Nothing much happened until, umm … some men may want to skip the next two paragraphs.

About halfway through Year Two at school, my mother kept me at home one day. I was dressed up in a grey coat with grey shorts and tie. Next, she walked me to the station. Once on the platform, Mum changed into her cat-cleaning-a-kitten role. One of her habits that always bugged me was when she pulled out her hanky, liberally licked it, and then vigorously rubbed it over my face. This seemed to happen every time we went near that damn station. Suitably cleaned, we caught the train and got off in Melbourne.

Then, via a rattly tram, we arrived at a very large building that Mum said was a hospital. We went inside. Told nothing, the next thing I remember vividly was lying on a large table, surrounded by people in white uniforms with masks on. It was very scary, with a bright light over my head and with no one around who appeared interested in my welfare. The people in the room all seemed to be talking at once, until someone put a washer, or flannel, with horrible, smelly stuff over my face. A head with glasses and a white mask told me to count to ten, and the next thing I heard was, ‘Wake him up now.' This really frightened me, as I was already awake. I remember being wheeled to a room and spending the night in hospital.

The next day, my parents arrived and took me home — in a pram. I couldn't walk. Believe me, circumcision is a very frightening thing for a young boy.

The next week was agony, particularly the act of trying to have a pee. The end of my willy was covered in gauze of some kind, which allowed me to piddle without having to take the dressing off. This meant my wee splashed and sprayed in many directions — mainly over me. The ordeal was alarming, I had no idea why it was done. Not until years later was I told that the same thing happened to many boys during that era, because circumcision had suddenly become fashionable. I was simply thankful that my sausage regained its original colour after a week. I don't think I could have faced life with a purple willy wearing a lace bonnet.

For some reason, Nan and Uncle Jock then moved to Warrandyte. It was during my second year at school and, initially, we boys were very upset. However, it turned out that there was no need for us to worry as it simply meant a trip to Warrandyte every school holiday and on many weekends.

Every break, we three older boys would catch the bus at Ringwood Station, hand over our ticket, and enjoy the adventure of seeing some countryside while riding on the Warrandyte bus. I would kneel on the back seat with my nose against the big window. It was a 20-minute trip.