Childhood to Priesthood

From the 1935 – 1957 journals of Kevin O’Loughlin

Foreword

Our uncle, Kevin O'Loughlin, was born in Pinnaroo in the Mallee region of South Australia in 1935. As children we only knew of our uncle as being in the seminary and then, after 1966, as Father Kevin, the priest. Over the years, we’d hear snippets of stories of his childhood experiences and adventures. But they were that just that: snippets.

In later years, Kevin would talk about his journals and then he shared some readings from them. He had begun keeping journals in his long periods of hospitalisation for treatment of his clubfeet. After some encouragement Kevin has compiled some stories from his journals into this document and it opens doors in so many ways.

It tells the story of Kevin’s early life and his journey to the point of making a decision to become a priest. It paints a picture of life in rural South Australia from another era. It describes the painful experience of a child born with and treated for club feet. It also shares the early family life of not just Kevin, but a whole family, our father Paul and his brothers Ray, Maurice and Jim (also a priest) and his sister Francie, and our grandparents and cousins and aunties and uncles. And then there are the people Kevin met in his hometown and in his stays in Adelaide, the people he worked with and the people he met on his journey with three other men looking for and finding itinerant work along the eastern side of Australia – “a working holiday”.

The stories are treasure to us. Times change, however, these stories from the journals tell the wonderful tale of those magic years of early adulthood, having adventures, discovering new places, making new friends, life beyond the confines of family and birthplace and the making of life choices.

Kevin’s journals are surprisingly candid. He talks about feeling lonely and different as a child, he talks about his doubts about becoming a priest, he talks about pain and fear. Whatever happened through all this, fortitude and insight took him on another trajectory towards a spiritual religious life. This is part of his story.

Gabrielle O’Loughlin and Larry O’Loughlin

June 2023

MyFather,MyFeetandaHospital

MyDaddiedonemonthaftermythird birthday.Icanrememberakerfufflegoing oninthehousefromthedarkenedbedroom whereIwasstandingupinmycotandIwas listeningtothedoctortalkingquietlyto MumandDad.ThatnightDadwastakento thelocalhospital,andhediedtherefrom pneumoniajustthreeweeksafterhis mother’sdeath.Hewasonly48yearsold.

Idon’trememberanythingabouthisfuneral becauseIprobablywasn’tthere,having beentakentoAdelaidebysomeonetohave newplastersputonmyfeetandlegs.After Icamehome,Idoremembersittingdownat thebigtableinthekitchenandaskingMum “Where’sDad?”Mumreplied,“Dad’sgone toheaven”.Itwasmorethanfiftyyears laterwhileonaspiritualdirectors’course, doingamemoryexerciseonmyearlylife whenIbegantofeelsadandangryasIrememberedthatday.

Idohavesomememoriesofmydad.HeoncecametotheAdelaideChildren’s HospitaltoDuncanWardintheAllanCampbellBuildingtobringmehome,and hecarriedmeouttoMr.BillVenning’scaronKingWilliamRoad.Mr.Venning worealonggreydustcoat,butthejourneyhomewasablank.

MyonlyothermemoryofDadiswhenIwasatwo-year-old.Onenightbefore wewenttobed,DadplayedagamewithFrancieandmeaswesatonthefloor withourbacksagainstthewall.Dadwascountingourtoesbeforeliftingusup, oneineacharm,andtakingustothemantelpiecewheretherewasalittle ashtraywhichwasshapedlikeapondwithalittleyellowducksittingonits edge.IthadJaffalolliesinit,andwewereabletotakeoneeachbeforehe carriedustoourcots.

Most of my early life is associated with the Children’s Hospital in Adelaide and having plasters on my legs as I was born with clubfeet. Mum said they were like two little fists turned inwards. She said she was glad there was a locum doctor at Pinnaroo at the time. He knew the condition of talipes1 and sent Mum to the Children’s Hospital where I was put in plaster from my toes to my waist. Later, when I was eighteen months old the plasters were reduced to my thighs and later still, to my knees.

From then on, my life was spent travelling from Pinnaroo to Adelaide every few months to have the plasters changed and the feet straightened a bit more. This meant having an anaesthetic, which at that time was ether. I still hate the smell of methylated spirits, which reminds me of ether. There were frightening hallucinations during the operation and nausea and vomiting when I woke up. Then I was in bed, with a big tin box over my legs with big lights in it, drying the new plasters. It was covered with a green sheet to stop the light from shining in the ward.

It usually was night-time when I woke up as everything was quiet. The lights in the ward were on pulleys, which were extended nearly to the floor so that the nurses could see where they were walking and there was enough dim light available to attend to the children. They carried torches that looked like kerosene lanterns.

The ward was on the first floor on the corner of King William Road and Brougham Place and the building was later demolished. I could hear and see the trams toiling up the hill to O’Connell Street and coming down faster and quieter. My feet were always hurting, I hated those plasters, I hated the ether, and I hated having the plasters cut off. I was always scared the big cutters would cut into my legs even though they never did.

One of my constant strong memories is of Mum leaving me in the pre-op room and saying good-bye. She would leave the room, walk across the big empty ward with its highly polished floorboards and I would belookingatherthroughthewindow,crying.Asshereachedthedoorshe wouldturnandwaveanddisappear.Ineverknewwhen,orif,shewouldcome back.Sheprobablywouldhavecaughtthetrainnextmorningtogohometo Pinnarootolookaftertheotherkids.

Thereweresixofus,Raymond,Paul,James,Maurice,Kevin,andonegirl, FrancesEllen,theyoungestofthefamily.Mumtoldusthatdadgaveusboys onlyonenameeachbecausehesaidthattherewastoomuchwritingwhen fillingoutformswithtwoormoreChristiannames.However,oursisterwas namedafterourtwograndmothers,soshewasspecialandstillis.EvenifMum didstayinAdelaideshewouldhavetowaituntilWednesdayafternoonor Sundayafternoonbeforeshecouldcomeandvisitthehospital.Visitinghours wereverystrictlylimitedinthe1930’sand1940’s.Idon’tknowhowthe nursescopedwithill,homesickchildren.Today,thehospitalwouldnotbeable tofunctionwithoutsomeparentslivinginandcaringfortheirchildren.

Oneoftheworstthingswaswaitingintheoutpatient’swaitingroomforhours atatime,notknowingiftheyweregoingtokeepmeinhospitalorletmego home.Usually,theykeptmethere.Onememorabletimewasinearly1945 whenIwasnineyearsold.DrWest,anorthopaedicsurgeonwhohadnotlong returnedfromLondonwasflicking throughthethickvolumeofmycase notessaying,“Plasters,plasters, plasters,toomanybloodyplasters. I’mgoingtooperateonhim.”Ray, oureldestbrother,musthavebeen there,andhetoldmedecadeslater thatIjustacceptedthedecision calmly.Idon’treallyrememberwhat Iwasthinking,exceptthatIwas pleasedthatitmightmeannothaving togothroughtheetherexperience onaregularbasis.Ontheother hand,Iwasworriedthatitmighthurt alot.

Theoperationonmyrightfootwasscheduledfor19March1945,theFeastof St.Joseph.IwasapupilatStJoseph’sSchool,andIdidn’tsleepmuchthenight beforetheoperationasIwasscared.IkeptprayingtoSt.Josephtoworka miracleandfixthefootwithoutsurgery.Iconsoledmyselfbythinkingthatthis wastheyearthatthewar(WWII)wouldendandthatIwouldbeabletowalk well.Bothhappenedafewmonthslater.

IspentsixweeksconfinedtobedinthegreatbigAngasWardalongBrougham Place,whichhasnowbeenreplacedbytheSamuelWayBuilding.Forthefirst weekorso,thefoot(backinplaster)waspainful.Thesurgeonhadfusedsome bones,andstraightenedthefootbyremovingothers,Ithink.

Foranine-year-oldinhospital,adayislikeaweek,aweekislikeamonthand sixweeksislikehalfayear.Ihadverylittletoreadortokeepmymind occupied.Nowandagainthenurseswheeledmybeddowntothehospital schoolwhereIdidsums.Boring.TherewereveryfewvisitorsasMumandthe familywereathome,150milesawaywhichwassevenhoursbytrain.One visitorhowevercamenowandagain,Fr.TomO’Rourke,thehospitalChaplain andparishpriestofWalkervilleparish.HewastheparishpriestatPinnaroo when Dad died and he had white hair, a gentle smile and a soft Irish brogue which I thought went with all priests.

Probably because I spent my infancy encased in plaster of Paris, I was able to sit still, and I used to sit on top of the bed after the nurses had made it. The cotton blankets and folded back sheets were as tight as a drum and as the saying goes, you could have bounced a shilling on it. Anyway, I didn’t mess it up and I would climb between the board-like sheets when it was time to go to sleep. That just would not happen to children in hospitals now as there are play areas and play coordinators and volunteers who are wonderful in keeping the patients occupied and distracted. I am still neat and tidy and don’t leave my bedroom in the morning without making my bed the way the nurses used to, with strict envelope corners. If I am a bit obsessive now, you can blame my time in hospital.

Prior to the first operation and from the time I could walk, I wore surgical boots with calipers on both legs. After that operation there was only one caliper until the second surgery two years later. This time Dr Wilson, Dr West’s understudy, performed the operation. I’m sure it didn’t turn out as good as the right foot but perhaps Dr West picked the easier foot.

This time I knew what to expect and the pain again was awful. Again, I was confined to bed in the Angas Ward for another six weeks in the great big open space with its highly polished floors together with a balcony and canvas blinds facing Brougham Place. This time I think I was lonelier than the first time and this time I knew it was going to be almost forever. I used to look out across the gardens and wonder if I would ever get out again. And here I am today working as a priest walking across the same lawns almost every day going to visit the sick and injured children.

Then I hated the hospital, now I love it. Sometimes I am amazed and so grateful that I can come and walk around the Children’s hospital freely and walk home again. I could stay there all day and all night talking to frightened children and listening to their anxious parents.

However, back in 1947, I had my twelfth birthday in hospital, and I’m still surprised how many children do have their birthdays in hospital. I remember getting a card from school signed by the grade 6 and 7 kids from St Joseph’s School, some with a little message reminding me how one day I jumped on the back of the school bus as it was leaving school. It was a truck covered by tarpaulin with seats in it and a step on the back and Mr. Thomas, the bus owner/driver stopped the truck and came around the back and told me off.

Even though the visiting hours were still only on Wednesday and Sunday afternoons, my brother Paul, who was 18, used to call in on his bicycle several times a week on his way home from the Technician Training School in Franklin Street in the City. I think he saw it as a chance to meet the nurses. I made the mistake of introducing him to a particularly lovely nurse whom I loved very much. She was very kind and used to piggyback me to the bathroom to give me a bath and I remember her with much affection.

There was a custom on the Angas Ward that if you were good and behaved yourself during the day, you would be allowed to go and sleep on the balcony. I didn’t get out there very often. In the two years since the first operation, I had become less of the nice little sweet boy, and I was more ‘stir crazy’ or hospital wise. Some of the smaller children who were long term patients (even longer than I was) were allowed to walk around the ward. It was easy to get them to do things for me like bringing books or toys or taking messages.

Sometimes when the nurses were at the changeover of shifts, I would get one or two of these kids to go and get a barouche and bring it alongside my bed. How I miss those barouches. Like the T Model Ford, they’ve evolved. Then they were used to transport patients to theatre etc. The barouches had two 28” bicycle wheels with inflated rubber tyres that squealed on the polished floor if turned too sharply. There was a pair of smaller, solid rubber wheels on each end of the trolley. Anyhow once the barouche was safely alongside the bed, I would lower the rails on the bed and slip across onto the barouche. Then with a certain amount of difficulty I would just reach the two centre wheels and push off from the bed.

It was a bit like a rocket launch. It was quite difficult to steer because it teetered front or back depending on where I sat and because there was no way of controlling which way the front wheels turned. So, there was a great deal of squealing and screeching of tyres and a lot of laughter and squeals from the other children. Inevitably a nurse would come out to see what all the noise was about and so for another few nights the balcony was out of bounds, but I didn’t care. The joy and freedom of movement, doing something daring and making the other kids laugh was worth the punishment. I still enjoy making people laugh and I wonder if the daring has stayed with me.

At the end of six weeks, they cut the plaster off my leg and the surgeon examined my foot and he seemed satisfied and ordered another plaster. Then I was able to leave the hospital but not to go home, so I stayed in Adelaide for another few weeks. They taught me how to use crutches, particularly how to go up and down steps and stairs.

I first stayed with my Auntie Sis and Uncle Tom in their upstairs flat in Jetty Road, Glenelg. The Royal Agricultural Show was on, so I caught the Bay tram to Goodwood and hopped on my crutches over to the Showgrounds. With a crowd of people, I was watching the log chopping when a bloke inside the fence stood in front of me. I couldn’t see properly so I lifted one of my crutches and leant over the fence and poked him in the back. He spun around and when he saw this skinny kid on crutches, he grinned and moved aside.

Hopping around the sideshows I came across the boxing tent where the boxers and the spruiker were preparing for the next show, so I stood near the stage. Standing on a raised platform in front of the tent, an Aboriginal boxer who was in a dressing gown with a towel around his neck was ringing a ship’s bell with a rope on the donger and another boxer was beating a big bass drum. The spruiker stopped the noise when a big enough crowd had gathered. He began by extolling the abilities of the two or three boxers on the platform, then called for any likely lads to come up and challenge the champions. He promised a big cash prize if they could beat one of them. Eventually two or three young blokes climbed up on the stage. I think the first one might have been one of the troupes, even though he came out from the crowd.

When he finished, the spruiker jumped off the platform in front of me and invited me in to watch the fights. Inside, he got one of the troupes to get a bucket and turned it upside down for me to sit on. I was the only one in the tent sitting down and it was the only time in my life that I’ve had a ringside seat. Of course, none of the challengers beat any of the champions. I really enjoyed the show and the atmosphere and particularly the thoughtfulness and generosity of the showman.

They are called showmen, not only because they put on a good show to entertain people but also because they follow the Agricultural Shows around the country, setting up their tents and rides and swings for each show. Most times for just one day, particularly in towns like Pinnaroo. Every year I would go and watch the performance on the stage before the show inside, with the boxers limbering up, shadow boxing and sniffing loudly as they sparred the air. But I never went in again to watch the fights as I don’t like prizefighting, or violence of any kind.

It was time for me to go back to the hospital as an outpatient to have the plaster removed for the last time and I had to go back each day to have physiotherapy on my feet. So now I was lucky enough to stay with my cousin Eileen and her husband Len. They had a two-year-old toddler and a baby girl and were living behind an empty shop in O’Connell Street not far from the hospital. The shop front is still there and currently used as a Greek restaurant. I was able to walk to the hospital each day for physio and was told to do exercises, but I didn’t keep them up unfortunately.

Len and Eileen had both been in the Army during WWII. Len had served in the Libyan Desert and in Papua-New Guinea and they were renting the shop while building a new War Service home at East Glenelg. Each Sunday we would catch the tram to Glengowrie and walk to the building site. All the time I was there the only thing that had been done were the concrete foundations and we would walk around them imagining what the finished house would look like.

Eventhoughitwastwoyearssincethewarended,materialswerestillvery scarceandsoittookalongtimetobuildahouse.

Oneevening afterteamy brotherPaul calledinand askedEileenif Icouldgofora rideonthe motorbike.He waswithsome ofhismates whohad motorbikes andoneof themhada bareplatform inplaceofasidecar,whichwasreasonablycommonatthetime.So,PaulandI satontheboardwithmebetweenhislegsandhimholdingontome.Itwasa bitscarybutthrillingandwerodeintothecityandpulledupinHindleyStreet. Theretheladstalkedforagesastheyweretooyoungtogointothepubsas thedrinkingageatthattimewas21.Itwasnearlymidnightwhentheydecided togohomeandbringingatwelve-year-oldhomeandknockingonthedoorin themiddleofthenightbroughtapredictableandunderstandableresponse fromEileen.Paulcoppedit!Whileitwasaperfectlyinnocentouting,we deservedthetellingoff.

AnotheroutingtookplacearoundthattimewhenIwasstayingwiththe Hentschke’satProspectwheretheyhadalittlecornershopwhichsoldmost thingsincludingfruitandvegetables.HissonRonandIhadbeenfriendssince GradeOneattheOaksSchool.IremembergoingintotheEastEndMarket earlyinthemorningwithMr.Hentschke(Mel).

The outing happened when Haydn Bunton Snr, the great and famous footballer, asked Mel if Ron and I could go with him and his son, Haydn jnr. who was our age, (he also became a great and famous footballer) to the Kilburn Speedway that night. It was very exciting as we were alongside the fence and copped the wet sand in our faces if the cars and bikes went too close. One little car did hit the fence a bit further down from us. I liked the bikes with sidecars best as the bloke in the sidecar would have to throw his weight across the bike many times to keep them from tipping over.

All good things come to an end and so too did my association with the Children’s Hospital. I was glad of that because if I had needed more treatment, I would have had to go to the Royal Adelaide Hospital and I didn’t want to do that either. Even though I hated being in hospital I was and am always grateful for what they did for me, particularly the nurses, who were so kind and caring and beautiful in their starched uniforms and dinky caps and veils and blue capes. Their scissors had their name engraved on them and their watches were pinned upside down on their front so they could count the seconds while taking a child’s pulse. Only the sisters with their big red capes were a bit scary. Ever since that time, the Adelaide Children’s Hospital nurses have been the benchmark for me and yet today I also admire the present generation of nurses very much.

The doctors too were mostly kind although some were a bit gruff, and I was always a bit intimidated by them. Of course, being part of a hierarchical system, they were important but nearly all men, so that the nurses and sisters who were mostly all women would always defer to them. Only the Matron, who was very scary, seemed to be an equal to the doctors and I think even some of the doctors may have been a bit wary of the Matron.

Sometimes when examining my feet and legs, the doctors would say that I would be a good footballer one day, having had to carry plasters around so much. That never happened as I was too small, and I didn’t like being bumped and thrown around and it always hurt when I kicked the ball. I wasn’t good at kicking the ball probably because when you know something is going to hurt you hold back a bit. Sometimes they would say I was going to be a doctor with all my experience of doctors and nurses and hospitals. I didn’t become a doctor as I doubt if I was clever enough.

However, I did become a priest and when I did the desire in me grew year after year to come back to the Adelaide Children’s Hospital as a Chaplain and sure enough fifty-six years after leaving the hospital for the last time as a patient, I was appointed Catholic Chaplain to the now Women’s and Children’s Hospital in North Adelaide. A dream fulfilled and one that is still going on. One day the dream will end but I will always be grateful for it.

Images of family at Pinnaroo

Trainsandpeoplewhocaredforme

Ihavesignificantchildhoodmemoriesabouttrainsandvariouskindpeople whocaredformeandlovedmewhenMumwasunabletoleavetherestofthe family.TherewasadailytrainfromPinnarootoAdelaidecalleda‘mixed goods’trainwhichhadtwoorthreepassengercarriagesandseveralgoods wagons.Thetrainstoppedateverytownandsiding(wheretherewasno town),toleavegoodsandpickupcreamcansandmailandsometimesagoods wagonhadtobeleftatatown,orotheremptyonespickedup.Thisinvolved thesteamengineleavingthepassengercarriagesonasidelinewhileitwentoff andshuntedwagonsonoroffourtrain,soeventhoughitwasaround150 milesfromPinnarootoAdelaide,thetriptooksevenhoursatleast.Thetrain leftat7:00am andarrived after2:00pm andthe journey throughthe MtLofty

Rangeswas arduous, needingtwo steam enginesfor theclimbout ofAdelaide.

Earlyinthe morning before sunriseinthewinter,MumwouldhaveaMalleestumpfiregoingintheliving roomandshewouldgivemeawashandthendressme.Ourbackdoor verandahfacedeastsotherisingsunfloodedtheroomwithbeautifullightand therewouldbeathickfrostoftenoverthebackyard.Afterporridgeandacup ofcocoa,theolderboyswouldtakemeinahomemadecarttotherailway station.

This cart was great. It was made from a largish (3ft long x 2ft wide and 2ft deep) wooden crate mounted on two motorbike wheels, without tyres or rubber running on the steel rims and two angled wooden shafts completed the cart. I would sit in the cart with my suitcase and one of the brothers would push the cart a half a mile to the railway station. So, it was already an adventure even before I got on the train. The cart was a great invention, not only could it carry all sorts of things like groceries, stumps and the like, but also me and my sister.

Sometimes Mum would accompany me on the train especially if she had to speak to the doctors. If it was wintertime the carriages had foot warmers on the floor between each pair of seats and these were quite effective. The train would stop for refreshments at Parrakie where they had the best pasties I’ve ever tasted and everyone who wanted a cup of tea and a pasty had to get off the train platform and walk across to the refreshment room which also had a small bar at one end. The next famous refreshment rooms were at Murray Bridge right across the wide platform. The platforms were huge, big enough to cater for the Melbourne Express travellers. You had to wait a long time to get served and just when you got the boiling hot cup of tea, the guard would sing out ‘All aboard please!’ Most people dawdled back to the train in dribs and drabs. When he yelled out again over the public address system, I was scared we would miss the train and maybe that is where I got my penchant for punctuality.

When Mum brought me to Adelaide, we usually stayed at Glenelg with Auntie Sis (Mum’s older sister) and Uncle Tom. They lived in an upstairs flat in twin blocks of flats called ‘Princes Mansions’ (so named long before the Greek magnate came to Australia) on Jetty Road opposite the Ozone Cinema and next door to Wenzel’s Cake Shop and a short walk to Brighton Road tram stop. I loved staying there as the flats seemed so exotic with all the different people living so close together and over the years, I got to know many of them.

When it was time to return to Pinnaroo we had to catch the early morning Bay tram which left around 6.00am. When we heard it going past on the way to the Jetty, we knew it was time to go downstairs and across Jetty Road to the tram stop at Brighton Road. In those days, the early morning trams went all the way to the Adelaide Railway Station and for the rest of the day the terminus was in Victoria Square. At the Station, there always seemed to be hordes of people coming and going up and down the wide stairs and the curved, long ramp. The Pinnaroo train pulled by the fascinating steam engine left Platform One at exactly 7.00am with Mum and I aboard.

When the train stopped at Aldgate in the Adelaide Hills, a woman on the platform would walk alongside the train selling flowers through the windows and in the springtime, Mum always bought several daffodils for 2 shillings. In later years when I was old enough to travel by myself, I used to buy a bunch of daffodils for Mum, and she was always pleased to receive them. One time I felt embarrassed when she was telling my older brothers that I was more thoughtful than they were. That didn’t earn me any Brownie points with them, however.

Mum also always bought a copy of The Advertiser at the Adelaide railway station before we left. After reading it she would write a onepage letter and roll it up in the newspaper ready to throw out to Uncle Gus, her older brother. He was a fettler working on the railway line with a gang of around 6 or 8 men and they would be away from Pinnaroo all week camping out or in railway huts. The train would slow down as it went past the repair gang and the men would stand alongside the line singing out ‘Paper, paper!’ Mum would try to see Uncle Gus and throw the paper with the note to him, and I can still see his smiling face looking up at the carriages. Of course, I continued that custom too when I was older, travelling by myself.

Fettlers working on the railway track.

Because the trip was so long, I occupied the time by reading mostly and in the early days Enid Blyton’s ‘Sunny Stories’ with the Famous Five and the Secret

Seven were my favourites and later an English weekly the ‘Champion’ took up most of the time. It had exciting stories like ‘Red Fury’ the Red Indian boxer with his famous ‘one-two’ knockout punch, ‘The Lost Commandos’ a group of six commandos behind enemy lines in occupied France, ‘Colwyn Dane’ the ace detective and many more adventure stories.

When I was tired of reading, I would just look out the window at the mallee trees alongside the track on each side and after Tailem Bend there was not much to look at that was of much interest. I think I knew every tree between Tailem Bend and Pinnaroo and I could generally tell exactly where we were just by looking at the trees and paddocks.

Mollie and Leo Tregenza lived at 118 Coglin Street, Brompton, an inner Western suburb and they looked after me more often than other people (except Auntie Kitty) in Adelaide. Mollie was our first cousin, the eldest daughter of Auntie Sis and Uncle Tom McGahan. Mum used to say that she was twelve years younger than her sister, Auntie Sis and that she was twelve years older than Mollie, so Mollie was a good bit older than me.

Leo was a cross-country jockey who used to ride for Uncle Tom who trained hurdlers and steeplechasers as well as horses for flat races. I can’t remember what work Leo did for a living because he wouldn’t have earned much money riding jumpers. He was one of those cross-country jockeys with the nickname ‘Autumn Leaves’ because of the many falls he endured. Ironically and tragically, many years later he died from a fall off the back of a truck on the way home from a workers’ picnic.

Being a jockey, Leo was a little bloke and Mollie was much larger. He drove a 1920’s canvas top sedan and most Sunday afternoons they drove to Glenelg for afternoon tea with the McGahan’s at Prince’s Mansions on Jetty Road. Leo had an infectious, cackling laugh and around my fifth birthday he taught me how to whistle and unfortunately, I think I also learnt his laugh which I have had to live with it all my life, irritating some people and amusing others. I do however enjoy making people laugh.

When I first stayed with Mollie and Leo they lived at Birkenhead on the road to Outer Harbour, opposite the cement works and the Sulphur factory and oil depots which was not the best environment for an asthmatic as Mollie was. The Second World War had just begun and there was a tall searchlight tower across the road near the wharves. The operator took Leo and me up to the top one night and switched the light on which was huge and very bright.

The cargo ships and tankers were berthed at the wharves across the road and most of the seamen were Chinese coolies. Mollie often threatened me that if I strayed too far, the coolies would get me so I was terrified of them because I would see them walking along the road and they did look very strange, with their conical pointed hats. I was only four at the time.

Sometimes Mollie would have an asthma attack and she also suffered with headaches and one day when she had a headache and was lying down, she sent me down to the corner shop about 150 metres down the road to buy some Bex Powders. When I got into the shop, I forgot what I had to get and there in front of me were some Easter eggs made from hard icing. So, I said I had come for an Easter egg, which the shopkeeper gave me, and I paid him with the money for the Bex Powders. When I got back home Mollie asked me for the Bex. She was not happy when she saw the Easter egg, so she sent me back to the shop straight away to exchange it, which I did immediately. Unfortunately, when I gave it back to the man it was cracked and not good, but the shopkeeper was a kind man and knew Mollie needed the Bex Powders. So, he took pity on me and after tut-tutting he exchanged the Easter egg for the Bex. I don’t remember being trusted to do messages again and since then I’ve never liked hard icing Easter eggs either.

Mollie and Leo left Birkenhead and settled at Brompton at 118 Coglin Street which at the time was an industrial suburb with gasometers and factories and pug holes where they excavated clay for making bricks. I was forbidden to climb over their back fence as their little house was on the edge of a large pug hole and later this area became Rowley Park Speedway and is now a gentrified suburb with townhouses built on the reclaimed land.

They had two cockatoos in separate cages, a little Corella and Sulphur Crested Cockatoo and both could talk. The Sulphur Crested used to call out ‘Where are you, Leo?’ in a voice that sounded very much like Mollie’s, and I think the cockatoos were both over eighty years old. I don’t remember any other pets.

When it was time for me to return to Pinnaroo by train, Leo drove Mollie and me to the North Adelaide Railway Station on his way to work around 6.00am. That train came into Adelaide Railway Station at Platform Twelve, so we had to hurry down to Platform One where the Pinnaroo train was waiting to leave at 7.00am. I had my return ticket with me, and Mollie would have to buy a platform ticket. Sometimes I would meet somebody from Pinnaroo who knew Mum who promised to keep an eye on me. Most times I would be on my own. I was probably around six or seven years old at that time, so I was able to read stories on the long journey home.

Several years ago, as I was driving down Port Road, I saw the sign to Coglin Street. I decided to make a small pilgrimage. I found the house and the memories began to surface. Then I drove to the North Adelaide Railway Station, which is no longer staffed. A sudden wave of intense sadness came over me and I wondered why. A couple of days before I had seen the beautiful

Latin American film called ‘Central Station’ about a little boy whose mother had been killed in a street accident outside the railway station. The little boy caught a train and went looking for his father who was working hundreds of miles away. It was a sad film, which I found quite moving. The conjunction of the two incidents coming so close together affected me deeply, and still do. I think they combined to encourage me to record my memories of childhood, many of them are so vivid.

When I was a child, I used to wonder why adults forgot what it was like to be a child and to not be aware of how a child was feeling. I was determined not to become like that. Someone has said, ‘Adults are obsolete children’ but only because they forget what it was like when they were a child. The saying, ‘Get in touch with the child within’ is a truism. I used to think it a bit soppy but having done so since, I realise the great value of doing so.

‘Suffer the little children’ as Jesus said. Children are the great survivors even when they suffer greatly. I say to mothers of premature or sick babies and infants ‘They are made to last a hundred years’, and that’s just their bodies. The spirit of a baby struggling to live is awe-inspiring. They are the greatest gift we have – and each one is unique. I also tell them that when you look into the eyes of a baby you are looking at God. And when a baby looks at you, and they look and look, that is God looking at you.

I loved Mollie and Leo and I know they loved me as I was the child they were unable to have, and I always felt loved and at home with them and I never felt lonely, and I always felt safe. I can remember one day when Mollie was sitting on a bench in the central market having a rest and I was roaming about not far from her. A man began talking to me and Mollie was up like a shot and took me by the hand and sat down again. Stranger danger was alive and well even in those days. However, coming from the country I don’t think it impinged upon our consciousness as much as for city people.

There is the famous occasion when Francie, who was five and I was aged seven, went missing in the city for several hours. It happened when Mum took us to the Regent Cinema in Rundle Street to see the film ‘Bambi’. The film had already begun when Mum took us into the darkened cinema and told us to wait there for her to come back after her appointment. She knew she had plentyoftimebecausewecouldstaythereandwatchthefilmagainatthenext session.

Thefilmendedsadlywiththeforestfireandalltheanimalsrunningfromitand ‘Bambi’lookingforitsmother.Attheendofthefilmallthepeopleinthe cinema,whichwasfull,gotupandbeganleaving.So,FrancieandIgotupand wentoutwiththem,thinkingwewouldmeetMumatthedoor.Afterwaiting thereforawhileandshestillhadn’tcomeback,Idecidedwewouldcatchthe tramtoGlenelg.

Unfortunately,weturnedrightinsteadofleft,andheadedtowardsPulteney Street.Icanrememberseeingtheironhoopsaroundthegardenbedsin HindmarshSquare.WeshouldhavebeeninVictoriaSquarewherethetrams leftforGlenelg.So,wesetoutagain,wewalkedandwalked,andIdidn’tknow wherewewereorwhatroutewehadtaken.Eventually,wewerewalking downHindleyStreet.LookingdownasidestreetIsawthecolumnsof ParliamentHouseonNorthTerrace.

Iknew immediately wherewe were,because thatwas wherethe

Somerton double-decker busturned aroundto beginthe returnjourney. So,wewent downtheside streetand foundabuswaitingatthebusstopinfrontoftheStrathmoreHotel.We climbedupthespiralstairtotheupperdeckandsatdowninthefrontseatsoI couldseewheretogetoff.Thebusconductorcamealong,andIgavehimthe rightmoneyandsaid,‘TwochildrentotheBayplease’.

–21–

When the bus turned off Anzac Highway into Gordon St, I knew it was time to go down the steps to be ready to get off at Jetty Road. It was only a couple of hundred yards to Auntie Sis’s flat where we were staying. Mum was standing out on the footpath keeping an eye on both the tram stop at Brighton Road and the bus stop in the opposite direction. She was pleased to see us and didn’t reprimand me.

I like to think she had great confidence in my ability and nous to find our way home. Mum was always unflappable. She had contacted the Police when she returned to the cinema, and we weren’t there. They said they would keep an eye out for us and said that we were probably window-shopping. Our cousin Triss, who was about twenty-two and lived on Jetty Road with Auntie Sis and Uncle Tom, was beside herself with worry and couldn’t understand how Mum could be so calm. Mum notified the Police that we were home safely and thanked them for their trouble. I wonder how much trouble they did take – they didn’t find us.

It was a memorable experience in my life and looking back I find it remarkable that I didn’t feel lost, and I wasn’t worried as I was sure we would find the tram. It was a gentler time on the streets of Adelaide than today, and I didn’t need to ask anyone for directions or help. This flaw has affected my life in later years, and I think I inherited this independent trait from Mum and my being away from the family so much in my early childhood.

Postscript: Later Francie worked for several years in TAA2 Air Cargo. When people came complaining about the airline losing their parcels, Francie would simply say, ‘It is not lost, it is misplaced at the moment and we will get it for you!’ I like to think that we were not lost, maybe misplaced, but not missing. I think both of us were confident we would find the way home.

Auntie Kitty, Dad’s sister, is another person who had a big influence on my early childhood. Auntie Kitty lived with Uncle Frank, her brother, in the original family homestead seven miles from Pinnaroo until Uncle Frank married Sue Spain. She then moved four miles further south to live with Uncle Laurie, her bachelor brother, a WW1 Returned Soldier, who farmed the land there. Auntie Ettie was an older sister, who did the cooking and cleaning.

Auntie Kitty never married and like many other women in between the two World Wars, she was a victim of the slaughter of so many of the young men at Gallipoli and in France. She was a great hostess and loved putting on lavish lunches and parties, inviting family and friends to the old homestead. After the children were fed, the adults came into the dining room, Aunty Kitty would wait on the adults, and then organise the children with games and creative activities. There was a big sand hill a few hundred yards behind the house, which almost covered some of the Mallee trees and this was a great place for fun for the kids.

Auntie Kitty often used to accompany me on the train taking me to the hospital and sometimes she used to get a ride with someone going to town by car. There weren’t many cars around as there was petrol rationing due to the war, but she was friends with June David, wife of Harry who had the Commercial Hotel and a big black limousine. He himself was a large, stout man and I remember one Sunday at one of Auntie Kitty’s parties being in the dining room when a large platter piled with corn cobs was carried in and put on the table in front of the diners. Harry David tucked a big white serviette into his shirt collar and began to demolish the lot. We kids were standing on the other side of the table, our noses level with the plates and our eyes popping out.

When I was about six years old Auntie Kitty took me into the Commercial Hotel and up the big wide staircase to the private apartment to see June David and her new baby, David. He grew up to become a renowned surgeon, setting up the Cranio-Facial Unit at the Adelaide Children’s Hospital. So after more than fifty years later our paths crossed again when I became chaplain at the Women’s and Children’s Hospital and would take part in the monthly Cranio-Facial Clinics.

While in Adelaide on the hospital visits Auntie Kitty and I stayed at several different places. Sometimes it would be at the O’Loughlin’s at Torrensville or the Morris’s at Wattle Avenue, Fullarton where they had a huge mansion, which had two living areas with extensive grounds and a beautiful garden with a sweeping gravel drive. The rich perfume of roses and the cooing of doves still reawaken the memory of that home.

Myfavouriteplace howeverwasnextdoorto theMetroCinemarunby Mrs.Allen,anotherof AuntieKitty’sfriends.It wasatwo-storybuilding withaninnercourtyard andacoveredbalconyon foursideswithgeometric woodenbalustrades, reminiscentofthehotel buildingsinthecowboy moviesbeingshownnextdoorattheMetro.Anopenareawithsomegardens andpathsfortheresidentsoccupiedthecentralarea.Itwassuchanexotic andromanticplaceforme–thestuffofnovels.Anangledfrontdoorin HindleyStreetsharedwithanotherangleddoorintoabarbershop,ledupstairs totheboardinghouse.

TherewereotherpeoplewhocaredformeatdifferenttimesincludingJack andKathMcCabe.JackwasUncleDick’ssonandourcousin,butmucholder.I wasthreeandahalfyearsoldwhenJackwroteacharacterreferenceforme, whichhesenttoMum.Istillhavetheoriginal.

“Prospect15-12-1938

“ThisistocertifythatKevinO’Loughlinhasworkedformeforthree monthsasgeneralhandyman(wateringlawns,rosesetc.)andhasgiven everysatisfaction.Heleavesofhisownaccordandwemuchregretlosing hisservicesandwillbewillingreengagehimatanyfuturedate.”

IwenttoschoolatPinnarooatStJoseph’sSchool,nexttotheChurchfora shortwhileinGradeOne.Asitwasaboutamilefromhome,Mumthoughtit wastoofarformetowalktwiceaday,soIwenttolivewithUncleLaurieand AuntyEttie,greatUncleDaveandGeorgeFitzgerald,anex-armyEnglishman whoworkedforUncleLaurie.UncleLaurieandGeorgehadbothbeeninWorld WarIandUncleDavehadbeenintheBoerWarinAfrica.

Acrossthesandyroadfromthe farmhousetherewasasingleroom bushschoolcalled‘TheOaks’School, namedafterourfamilyfarmwhich DadandMumhadtoleaveafewyears earlierbecauseoftheDepressionand droughtsandforeclosure.Theschool occupiedacornerofthe600-acre blockoftheirformerfarm.Thewood andironschoolbuildingstoodon stumpsinthecentreoftheblock surroundedbymalleescrubwhere someofthestudentstetheredtheir horsesandtheseparategirls’and boys’dunnieswereontheedgeofthe scrubbehindtheschoolbuilding.

Therewereaboutseventeenpupilsat schoolfromGradeOnetoGradeSeven comingfromsurroundingfarms.TheonlyteacherwasMr.AllanLanewho livedinoneofthehousesonouroldfarmandrodehisbiketoschool.The threeofusGradeOnes,MichaelFoale,RonHentschkeandIsharedadeskin thebackrow,andwebecamegoodfriendsandremainedsoduringour schooldaysandbeyond.

Itwasthereatthebackoftheclasswithmytwofriends,whileMr.Lanewas occupiedwiththebig kids,thatIfirst recognizedthatIhadan abilitytomakepeople laugh.Iusedtosay somethingfunnyandthe othertwowouldlaugh andthentheywouldget intotroublewhileIwould beconcentratingonmy work,laughinginwardly andhopingMr.Lanewouldn’trealisethatIstartedit.Ofcourse,Icoppeditat lunchtimefromtheothertwo.

Sometimes,inseason,therewouldbepaddymelonfightsbetweenthebig boysandgirls.Paddymelonsgrewinthesurroundingpaddocksandwerethe sizeofcannonballsandhadhard,thickskin.Therewereothersmallerones whichweregolfballsizecoveredwithspikes,afearfulweaponinthehandsof anaccuratethrower.Sometimesthelittlekidsstrayedtooclosetothewar zoneandgothitintheheadorworseonthenose.Thentherewouldbetears andtroublewiththeteacherandareluctanttruceuntilthenexttime.

Itwasareallyhappyyear.IenjoyedbeingonthefarmwithUncleLaurie especially–Ithinkhewasmyfirsthero.Ifeelprivilegedtohavegrownupin theearlyfortiesonthefarm whentherewereonlyafew motorcarsontheroads.Uncle

Lauriedidn’thaveacarora truck,onlyhorsedrawn sulkies,wagonsandfarm machinery,ploughs,combines andstrippers.Stripperswere thefirstgenerationof harvestersusedtoreapthe cropsofwheatandbarley. Theyhadnoconnectionwith thepresentdaymeaningof theword.

Therewasnoelectricityonthefarmatthattimeandthewindmill-powered generatorsproducingdirectcurrentelectricitycamelater.Then,wedepended onkerosenelanternsandlampsincludingAladdinlampswithasuperiorlight fromtheveryfragilesilk-likefilaments.Wetbatteriespoweredthewireless andthesehadtobere-chargedinthetownperiodicallyandpetrolengines drovethechaffcutterandwinnower,whichwerebroughtinbyacontractor aftertheharvesting.

Therewasaverypoorharvestin1944.Itwasadroughtyear,withmanydust storms,withvisibilityofonlyafewyards.ThewinnowingcontractorandUncle LaurieandGeorge,thefarmhand,hadtoshovelthesandofftheheapof reapedgrainbeforetheycouldputitthroughthewinnowertoseparatethe wheatfromthechaffandthechaffwasbroughtbackintothechaffshedto feedthedraughthorses.Thewheatwasbaggedinthree-bushelbagsand stackeduprightinthepaddockuntilthebagsewercame.Whenthebagswere sewnup,theywereloadedontothehorse-drawnwagonorontothecarrier’s truckandtakentoChandosrailwaysidingwhereeverybagwasweighed individuallyandmarked.Apetroldrivenelevatorcarriedthebagupthewheat stack,wherethelumpertookitonhisshouldersanddumpeditneatlyinthe growingstack.Harvestinthosedaystookalong,longtime.

Shearingseasonwasanexcitingtimewithallthenoiseandmovementand extrapeoplearoundforaweekormore.AuntyKittyservedtheshearersand workersahuge,cookedbreakfastandthentookabigcakeorhotsconeswitha hugealuminiumteapotdowntotheshearingshedformorningandafternoon tea.Ilovedthesmellofthesheepandthenoiseoftheshearingmachinesand theyellsoftheshearersandroustaboutsandwoolclassers.SometimesIwas allowedtoclimbintothebaleofsortedwoolandstampitdown.OthertimesI wouldlieonthepackedbalesstackedoutintheyardanddaydreamortalkto myimaginaryfriend.Apartfromschooldays,Ididn’tseeotherkidsverymuch thoughsometimesIwouldgodowntoHenstchke’sforaweekendandplay with Ron. Other times he would come and stay with us where he and I would explore the scrub and look for mushrooms or set rabbit traps in the evening and go around them the next morning, to see if we caught any rabbits.

The Oaks school closed at the end of my first year at school. So, then I had to walk a mile to St Joseph’s School in Pinnaroo with Francie, Maurice and Jim. My classmates in Grade Two were Michael Foale who now came by bus to school from their farm out from Parilla and Stan Freeman who lived a few doors from the school.

I’m not sure how many were in the school at that time but later there were about nineteen pupils in most years. The large schoolroom was divided into two by a timber partition with Grade One to Grade Four in one room and Grades Five, Six and Seven in the other. There were three Sisters of St Joseph living in the Convent next to the school and two of them taught classes and the third taught music (piano) in the parlour of the convent and prepared the meals for the Sisters. Over the years, some were nice, one or two were crabby and a couple of strict ones including Sr. Kevin!

My schooling was interrupted by my trips to the Children’s Hospital every few months to get new plasters for my legs and boots and calipers which we called ‘irons’. Even though there was (and still is) a school at the Hospital where I was wheeled down to in my bed, I didn’t really learn much there as the lessons were too spasmodic and unconnected.

In 1944 after my first operation, followed by six weeks in hospital I spent some time out on the farms with Auntie Kitty. At that time Auntie Kitty had been looking after her brother Uncle Frank, who was about to get married to Sue Spain, who then became Auntie Sue. She had been the midwife when I was born at the Pinnaroo Soldiers’ Memorial Hospital in 1935 and Auntie Kitty was in the process of transferring from Uncle Frank’s farm to Uncle Laurie’s farm, four miles further south. I was enrolled in the Adelaide Correspondence School and Auntie Kitty was my tutor. She made sure I did my lessons, and I really enjoyed the excitement of getting my assignments back from Adelaide with marks and encouraging comments from my teacher. Travelling by horse and cart (sulky) with Auntie Kitty was a welcome break from the lessons in the dining room.

However, she made sure that the eight-mile trip there and back was not wasted as she would make me recite the ‘times tables’ as we drove along and sometimes, she would give me spelling tests. Ever since I have been a good speller and usually notice misspelled words in written works. One day after we had a good rain, the dirt road had many huge pools of water on the sides of the road. One particularly large pool covered the whole road. As we droveupthebankintothescrubtogetpast it,Ithoughtweweregoingtofalloutofthe sulkyasittiltedovertowardsthewater,but noonecomplainedabouttheinconvenience becauseitwassogoodtogetrain.

InApril1946Iwasstayingoutonthefarm whenearlyonemorningthefarmworker GeorgeFitzgerald,stoodinthedoorwayof thebedroomandsaid,“YourUncleLaurie diedlastnightinthehospital”.That’sallhe said.IfeltI’dbeenpunchedinthestomach, andIgotupandwalkeddowntothe windmill.“It’snottrue,it’snottrue”I sobbed,hammeringonthetankwithmyfists andthenIsatthere,bawlingmyeyesout.A fewdayslater,astheyloweredhiscoffininto thegravealongsidethemalleescrubintheCatholicsectionofthePinnaroo CemeteryIwalkedawaycryingandcrying.Itwastrue.Itwasmyfirst experienceofrealgrief,andIwouldnever,everseeUncleLaurieagain.Never hearhimwhistleandswearatthesheepdogsroundingupthesheep.Never hearhimsay“makewayforaNavalOfficer!”ashecarriedtwobucketsoffresh milkintotheseparatorroomoutsidethekitchendoor.Ilearnedsomuchfrom him.Hewaslikeakindfathertome.IhavechosenagravesiteinthePinnaroo cemeteryjustuptherowfromhisgravewhereIhopetobeburied.

Thefollowingyear,thethreeofuswereinGradeSeven,the‘big’boysina19pupilschool.However,becauseof thesurgeryonmyfootImisseda thirdofayear’sschoolingand consequentlyIhadtorepeat

GradeSeven,thistimeonmyown. Itwasatimeofloneliness, resentmentandafeelingoffailure andIthinkIlostacertainamount ofself-confidencethatyear.At theendoftheyear,Isatfora scholarship exam at Sacred Heart College (SHC) at Somerton. This was the day an unidentified body was found on Somerton beach which was an unsolved mystery for many decades3. I missed out on the scholarship which didn’t help my self-confidence but despite my failure I was enrolled as a boarder at SHC at the beginning of 1949 and I think Auntie Kitty and Auntie Gertie contributed to the fees.

If I thought my last year at St Joseph’s was a difficult one, worse was yet to come. I was a skinny little kid with a disability who hated sport and running and all those things normal boys love. I was homesick the whole three years I was at boarding school, and I used to think ‘I don’t think I can endure even the sevenhour train journey home’. I was teased and bullied and even had the proverbial fist fight down the back of the school yard. My friend Bill Conley and I formed our own gang which carried out guerrilla attacks on an unsuspecting ‘enemy’. We were always hungry – sometimes we would waylay a ‘day scrag’ on his way to the classroom and snatch his kitbag and hang on to it until he gave us a sandwich each. To my shame, one day we resorted to torture bending a lad’s finger back until he gave in. One day boy used to bring two lunches to school each day – one for his boarder friend.

To this day I can’t understand why I consented to joining the Army cadets. Maybe I was trying to prove that I could do it, be like the other boys. It was a nightmare. The .303 rifle fitted just under my armpit when standing to attention and the marching and more marching were just purgatory. I found it nearly impossible to keep in step. Going to the Dean Rifle Range and firing the rifle at a target was sheer torture as I thought it had broken my shoulder.

College discipline overall was harsh, and I was no exception from receiving ‘cuts’ from the cane that the Brothers used to hang on their belt under their habit. One Brother had chemistry and physics tests on Fridays and there were ten questions worth ten marks each. The pass mark was 60 or 70 and anyone receiving under that spent the weekend writing out pages of chemistry or physics notes, or worse, under 50 marks you received the cane. On Monday mornings there would be a long line of boys outside the physics lab waiting for the Brother to give them their punishment and the severity depended on the number of answers they got wrong. It was stupid. Some of them had no chance of passing the test. While I didn’t enjoy physics and chemistry very much, I made sure that I passed the Friday test as I didn’t want to waste my weekend writing out pages of a physics textbook.

I really don’t want to go into my three years at college except to say I hated it and I wanted to leave at the end of year nine but was not allowed to. So, I left at the end of year ten with my Intermediate Certificate which enabled me to get a job. However, for all the loneliness, the bullying, the sport and cadets, the harsh discipline and the lack of sufficient food, I value what the Brothers gave me in that time. They fostered my faith and sowed seeds of a vocation to become a priest. But most of all I thank them for giving me a strong grounding in social justice and giving me social conscience.

Leaving school and going to work

Returning home for the last time from college and doing holiday work, I was cleaning the windows of the Eudunda Farmers Store when the teller of the Bank of Adelaide stopped and asked me if I would like to work in the bank. Stupidly I said ‘Yes’ even though I disliked maths, money and finance. So, I went to work in a bank beginning as the Office Boy having charge of the stamp money and petty cash and became the fifth and lowest member of the hierarchy. Tom Kingdon was the Manager, Ray Leaney the Teller and two Ledger Keepers, Des Behlau and Michael Somerville. I knew my place and was often reminded of it by the two blokes sitting on high stools entering cheques in the ledgers on the long, high desks.

After a short while I was elevated to the high stool at the long desk. The desk was a good design because you could stand up and examine the ledgers as the Teller and Manager did now and again. Although we began work at 9am the banking chamber didn’t open until 10am and closed at 3pm which gave us time to balance the ledgers using pull-handle adding machines, also on the high desk. When the ledgers were all balanced, we could leave work and it often became a competition to see how quickly we could ‘balance’. I think the record was when we walked out the front door at 3:10pm and of course the Banks at that time closed on Saturdays as well.

I was to stay working with the Bank at Pinnaroo for four years. Normally a junior would be transferred to another branch after probation for a year or so, but I think the reason I stayed so long was because Mum was widowed and could use my board money.

So, in that time I graduated to full time ledger keeper. The highest I got was ‘acting teller’ which was a highly responsible position. Before when I was an office boy my main responsibility was balancing the petty cash books and then I worked as one of the two ledger-keepers, picking up the registered mail from the post office. The bank notes came in neat little brown paper parcels of £200 in £10 or £20 denominations. I used to throw the package into the air and catch it on the way back from the post office saying “Good Morning Sir” to all the men I passed on the footpath.

However, balancing the Teller’s till drawer at the close of business was much more stressful. If you ended up with too much money you had to go back and work out what went wrong and if it was under the balance and you couldn’t find the error, then you had to make it up out of your own pocket. There was one famous day when I had 200 pounds more than I should have had so I went over all the transactions and figures again and again and counted the money repeatedly. Then there was a phone call from the Railway Station Master, and he wanted to know if I had too much money in my till. I said ‘Yes, two hundred pounds.’ He had been making up the pay envelopes for all the railway workers and had kept on going over and overlooking the shortfall. I never lived it down.

One year on June 30th, the end of the financial year, we couldn’t balance the ledgers. There was a Ball on that night which we all went to and so after a bracket of dances, we would race back to the Bank from the Ball at the Pinnaroo Institute to try and sort it out. I think we did balance the ledgers before midnight.

While I found the bank work very boring, I was glad I had a job and was able to take part in town activities and events. I joined the Emergency Fire Service having the responsibility of working the pump engine on the back of the fire truck ‘Flick’. If the siren sounded while I was at work, I would drop my pen and grab my pushbike from the front verandah and pedal furiously up to the Fire Station, pull on my overalls and jump on the truck. Maurice would be there already, sitting in the driver’s seat with the engine going. Usually, it would be a grass fire or in a crop caused by a spark from a farm vehicle though sometimes it would be a house fire or a shed, but these were mostly at night.

One night we were all sleeping outside on the open verandah as usual when the siren went off. Mum, who was sleeping around the corner on the front verandah yelled out ‘Maurice!’ Maurice and I jumped through the bedroom window. We pulled our clothes over our pyjamas and ran up through the scrub to the Fire Station. We could see the flames from the sale yard buildings just down the hill and the chaff shed, and tearooms were well and truly alight. Someone said, ‘I wonder if there was someone sleeping in there?’ ‘Maybe they’re still there!’ But there were no human remains found the next day.

Pinnaroo 1950s

Because I was unable to play football, I got involved in the administration of the Pinnaroo South Football Club becoming the Honorary Secretary for three years. This involved organising a gatekeeper, drinks, umpire reports, and even reports for the tribunal if one or more of our players were reported. One particular day I found myself riding up to the Showgrounds on my faithful ‘treadley’ carrying two flagons of orange juice and a gatekeeper’s bag slung over my shoulder and I had to walk the bike up the last hill. No one turned up to work on the gate until later, so I stood there selling entrance tickets to patrons on foot and in cars.

Because I was under 21 years old, I couldn’t go into the pub and drink with the players and other officials after the game. Later in the evening after the pubs closed at 6:00pm, some of us would gather at one of our homes for a few drinks and have fish and chips for supper. Sometimes I would get sick out in the backyard, and I blamed this on having too much grog, but then sometime later I discovered that I was allergic to seafood.

Eventually, with a loan from Uncle Gerald I bought an old 1930 ESSEX Super Six Challenger Roadster with two doors and a ‘dickey seat’ in the back. It weighed 25 hundredweight4. One Saturday on my way to the football match at Panitya, over the Victorian border, I got it up to 60 mph (nearly 100 kph) and decided not to push it any faster as it was heavy on fuel so I couldn’t afford to drive it much. However, I made a point of driving it up the main street on Fridays when all the farmers came to town for their weekly shopping. I used to park the big machine in front of the Post Office to show off. My second job was ‘night boy’ on the local Telephone Exchange in the Post Office. This entailed being the telephonist during the night from 10:00pm until 7:00am. A fold-up bed could be opened up alongside the Exchange desk, so if a call came, a little flap over the caller’s number fell down, sending off an alarm that could wake the dead. I got to the stage of waking with the ‘click’ of the falling flap so that I would flick the flap up before the alarm went off. There were two hundred of these flaps, so I had to remember which one had called and then plug into the socket by their number and say ‘number please’ then connect the other end of the cord to the required number. If it was a local call, they could talk as long as they liked. If it were a ‘long distance’ call I would have to come online after threeminutesandsay,‘Threeminutes,areyouextending?’Iftheysaid"No”I couldgobacktosleep,iftheysaid"Yes”thenIwouldhavetowaitanother threeminutesandsay,‘Sixminutes,areyouextending?’andsoon.Ofcourse, Iwouldhavetowriteonapad,thetime,numbercalling,thenumbercalled andthelengthofcall. othercountrytown,Ifinallymadethedecisiontoresign.WhenIhadan interviewwiththebankmanager,heaskedme‘Whatareyougoingtodoon theoutside?’ItwasasifIwasleavingareligiousorder.Butthatishowbanks andotherbusinesseswereinthosedays.Youbeganatthebottomwhenyou leftschoolandgraduallyworkedyourwaytothetop,becomingamanagerand thenreceivingagoldwatchonyourretirementat65.

Generally,wedidn’tgettoomanycallsafter10:00pmbutfarmersareearly risers,sowehadtobetoo.Oneoftwoofuswouldtakethenightshiftevery secondweek.Thesalarywasonepoundaweek,whichsupplementedmybank salaryoffivepoundsaweek.IthinkthePostmasterlikedhavingbank employeesbecausewewereseentobereliablecharacters.Sometimeswe wouldchatwithourcounterpartsaroundthecountryoreveninterstate.The ‘Switchgirls’sometimeswouldaskifyoucouldcomeinabitearlysotheycould gettoaBallattheInstitute.Iwashappytodothisasdancingwasalwaysa trialforme–Ineverreallyenjoyedit.

Of course, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I was twenty with limited education and with no qualifications except a couple of references from my bank manager and the Postmaster. I thought that being a travelling salesman for Sunbeam or some such, driving around the country getting orders from shopkeepers and agents might be a good job. My sights were not set particularly high.

Before I put in my resignation, I did investigate joining the RAAF. I passed the written tests and then medical with a query about my feet and the next day I had an interview with a panel of Air Force officers. My interest lay in being a navigator rather than a pilot. It was all a bit of fantasyland, but at least I tried. That night after the interview I went to the Theatre Royal to see the Old Vic Theatre Company’s production of Shakespeare’s ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ starring Katherine Hepburn and Robert Helpmann and it was just magnificent. By an extraordinary coincidence I was sitting next to the woman RAAF Sergeant who was responsible for getting me into the interview that day. She was a friend of my brother Ray, who was in the Air Force. He told me later that even though the medical report was a bit unfavourable which would have precluded me from appearing before the panel, she wangled it because I was Ray’s brother.

Relieved, I travelled back to Pinnaroo by train. I knew I couldn’t handle all that marching, and I really had no idea of what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Just after I had handed in my resignation from the Bank giving thirty days’ notice, I met up with three young fellows from the Riverland who were working on a farm doing bag sewing during the harvest. We were sitting on our front lawn having a beer and chatting. I think Francie invited them down and one of them asked me what I was going to do after leaving the Bank. I replied that I had no idea, ‘Go to Adelaide to look for a job, I suppose’. They said, ‘why don’t you come with us? We’re just starting out on a working holiday around Australia. We don’t know how long it will take.’