Boy Hood Days

It was Easter 1948. The sheer terror of the war years had finally passed; life slowly begun returning to normal.
Although the dreaded ration cards had finished, many things were constantly in short supply.
Our home workshop was built with whatever materials dad could scrounge.
An old T model Ford windscreen provided the window above the workbench.
The air compressor was a converted 500cc Triumph motor bike engine belt driven using a surplus electric motor.
In those early post war years, you built what you needed or managed with what was on offer.
We set off to Dromana a small bay-side town nestled at the foot of Arthur’s seat about fifty miles from Melbourne.
The municipal council caravan park was filled with a mixture of homemade plywood caravans alongside the desert tan or dull green army surplus tents.

In those early days, the park had no power. The male showers had no doors. Only the brave lingered under the shower as the water was freezing.
The laundry room comprised two rough cement sinks.
An antique hand wringer mounted between the laundry troughs.
The washing machine was a large smoke stained copper boiler that had seen better days.
A pile of firewood lay stacked in a large box in the corner. Each morning the camp ranger replenished the wood box.
When the laundry was empty I used the old copper to boil mussels scraped of the local pier piles.
No one seemed to be aware or care about the primitive conditions.

Ex US army White prim movers had been repainted and converted into semi trailer buses to ferry Easter holiday makers to the bay-side beaches.
Life was good.
Most days the father and son cricket matches were held in the centre of the park.
The adults moved the white painted rubbish bins to the open area to serve as the wickets.
Now I realize most fathers secretly wished they were relaxing in the tent.

Early every morning around seven AM the milkman circled the camping area in his horse and cart
Calling “milko” loudly ringing his bell.

Sleepy men and women carried various milk jugs formed a cue behind the cart chatting about last night’s news. The milkman opened the metal ten-gallon can and began filling the containers with a long handled ladle.
The milk in my childhood days still had cream. I often sneaked into the van while mum was out and skimmed off the cream as it separated.

A horse drawn ice cart came twice a week. The men gathered behind the cart’s door carrying towels. The iceman used a pick cutting off sections to fit the ice chests from the huge blocks.
The towels protected the men’s arms as they carried the ice back to their camps.
The ice chest normally had two compartments.
You placed the block of ice into the metal lined top compartment.
The lower compartment kept the food cold.

That afternoon there was a strange hush in the park. Adults gathered in small huddles.
Curious I woke dad from his afternoon nap. “Dad what’s going on, there are people gathering into small groups and talking?”
“Son it was on the radio last night. There’s a ship due at nine o’clock tonight in the south channel about four miles off Dromana.
After tea, we’ll gather up the deck chairs and blankets and head down to the beach.”
Now I was more confused than ever.
“Why, what’s the big deal?”
“Wait until tonight.” The ship is due to enter the heads at eight thirty.”

I went over to the Smith’s tent.
“Gary, do you know what’s going on tonight?”
He looked up from his baked bean sandwich.
“All I know is my parents are raving on about some ship due in tonight.”
A little peeved off and still none the wiser I headed back to our van.
The afternoon seemed to drag on forever.

At last dad started tea cooking the fish we had caught that morning.
Tea often was a risky adventure in itself. Our tea was cooked on a kerosene stove that flared up regularly if it was not pre heated sufficiently with mentholated sprite.
At times the fry pan also caught on fire engulfing the annex with yellow flames and black smoke.
Dad glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly eight we should head down to the beach. Grab the folding chairs and a blanket.”

All around the park hurricane lamps twinkled as families moved towards the beach.
It was pitch black except for the hurricane lamps. I was amazed, along the waters edge people wearing coats and blankets against the cold sat or stood chatting in small groups.
A small fire was lit near the waters edge. It caught quickly burning brightly casting flickering light and shadows on the people close by.

A faint glow appeared across the dark water. It appeared to be moving closer along the south channel.
As it drew closer I began to make out the outline of the ship.
She was ablaze in light looking more like a shining gem sailing on a black velvet ocean.
As if commanded, the people rose as one cheering and clapping along the waters edge. Some skyrockets blazed into the sky exploding into brilliant colors signaling welcome.
The brightly lit ship was unmistakable evidence the world had commenced to heal after those terrible war years.

Dad turned to me with tears in his eyes.
“Son what you are seeing is the first refuge ship to visit Melbourne since the war ended. Aboard her are eight hundred refugees from all over Europe seeking a new future in Australia?”
I looked up. Dad’s face filled with emotion.
“But why are they coming here?”

He sighed. “Their homes are in utter ruins, and God knows we need them to help us rebuild. We lost so many young men and women during the war.”
After half an hour the ship slowly faded from sight as she turned out of the southern channel and headed towards Melbourne.
Slowly, reluctantly, silently as if they were leaving a church service, the crowd turned from the beach and returned the caravan park.

The next morning Dad switched on the radio to catch the seven am news.
The primitive valves took about a minute to warm up.
The radio burst into life as dad reached for his morning cup of tea.
The ABC was wrapping up world events.
We sat in suspense waiting for the local news.
Finally, the announcer stated the General Black commissioned by the International Refugee Organization had sailed from Bremerhaven Germany berthed at Station pier last night carrying eight hundred refugees and displaced persons from various European Countries.