knocked on one door of a family with the name San Miguel, but they were not home. Their neighbours indicated that they would be coming back soon, however, so they gave me a chair to sit on for my wait. I thanked the two women and the neighbours and sat in the sun, admiring the cobbled streets and beautiful old buildings. Very soon the San Miguels returned, but unfortunately they were no relation. The husband had an idea, however, and drove me to another house close by. I was taken up a large, winding staircase where an elderly woman sat, dressed in almost Victoriana attire. She was eighty-eight years old and spoke perfect English, as she had lived in Melbourne fifty years prior. She told me that she had relatives by the name of Carlotta Sands who lived in the Melbourne suburb of Surrey Hills, and who knew the San Miguels. She spoke in Spanish to my driver and explained that he would be taking me to the home of the Ferrans, a family closely related to the San Miguels and one of the original San Miguel homes.
When we arrived, once again I waited while my story was explained. The family consisted of Agapito Ferran’s 86-year-old widow, Josefa (Agapito was my father’s first cousin), her three unmarried daughters, Merce, Carolina and Carmen; another daughter, Rosa, her husband, Pere, their teenage daughter, Montserrat and son, Salvador. They asked to see my passport, and then lo and behold brought out a portrait of my father’s family, including a photo of Dad’s youngest sister, Patricia, on her wedding day. Well, then there was great excitement! They were all babbling away in Spanish, so the teenage son went next door and brought back two young men who spoke English. I explained that my boyfriend was at the garage, so one of them drove me to pick Paul up. We then returned to the two-story white stucco homestead, where the family had laid out home-brewed wine, pineapple brandy, crusty bread drizzled in olive oil, homegrown tomatoes, olives and ham off the bone. They asked us back for lunch on the Wednesday and although I presented ‘Mama’ with chocolates and flowers, the delicious smorgasbord and tapas delights they had prepared for me outdid my small gifts. It was an extraordinary meeting — almost surreal. Was it luck or a miracle? I pondered over these thoughts as Dad was lifted into the ambulance.
I was allowed to accompany my father and Mum would follow in her car. We said our goodbyes to Sister Hill, knowing her services would no longer be needed. I gently squeezed Dad’s hand as the ambulance turned into Princess Street. He was conscious but his speech was very slurred. He seemed frightened and confused, like a small child.
I held back tears as I whispered, ‘Everything will be alright, we are just getting you to a lovely hospital.’
I was only twenty-three years old and my father was dying — he was seventy-five.
Mum and I kept vigils at the hospital and on the weekend Mum only returned home late in the evenings. On Monday 11 March, Leon, Dad’s 43-year-old son (my half-brother) and his mother spent the afternoon with him. Ten years later, Leon, would also be dying — of prostrate cancer.
When Mum returned from her visit on Tuesday, she was tearful — Dad was getting weaker. When we visited him on Wednesday, he was unconscious. On Thursday I spent an hour with him and Mum wouldn’t leave his side. Later that night I was at home with Paul. The telephone rang — it was 8.15pm. Mum’s voice came on the line and my heart sank.
‘My darling Jaime, your wonderful father passed away at 8pm tonight. He is at last in peace. I’ll be home soon.’
I walked back into the sun lounge and burst into tears. I was glad Paul had stayed with me.
After Paul left and Mum had made the necessary immediate phone calls, she made a pot of tea and said she had something very important to tell me. Although she was exhausted, I could tell by the look in her eyes that whatever it was she had to say, it was extremely significant to us both. I sat close to her on the couch as she poured the tea and began her story.
Florence Annie Johnston was born at home on 6 October 1909 at 46 Birkenhead Street, North Fitzroy, Melbourne. She was the second daughter of William Patterson Johnston who came from a staunch, Protestant Irish background and Annie Johnston (née O’Halloran) from a Catholic Irish one. Annie’s mother, Brigid O’Halloran (née Hession) was born in Galway, Ireland in 1845. In June 1862, aged seventeen, she left Southampton on board the Boanerges bound for Melbourne, although she took residence in the country area of Wangaratta. She married Thomas O’Halloran on 5 September 1873, and they moved to Beechworth in the north-east of Victoria. Thomas was born in Kilkenny, Ireland in 1839, and at age twenty-five he left Liverpool on board the Royal Dane, heading for Melbourne. Brigid and Thomas had seven children between 1874 and 1881: Mary, Thomas Jr, Michael, Catherine (Kate), Nell, Annie, and Brigid.
Annie and William Johnston’s family began with the birth of Henry, also known as Harry (1906), followed by Dorothy (1908), then Florence, Arthur (1913), and Lillian (1914). They soon moved to a larger home at 215 Holden Street, Fitzroy.
The family managed to get by on William’s mediocre salary as an insurance clerk; however, he had an eye for a pretty face, drank far too much, and loved to gamble. William’s father, George Johnston, was born in the County of Fermanagh, (Northern) Ireland, in 1831, and after meeting an English girl, Annie Hill, they migrated to Australia in 1862. George then worked as a warden at Pentridge Gaol; it was here he gained a reputation as a cruel and vicious man. Many a prisoner was beaten during his violent outbursts. A crack shot with a rifle, George won trophies for his expertise and was present at the execution of Ned Kelly. The family had lodgings at Pentridge and it was here that all the children (apart from Margaret Matilda, born in Ireland in 1859) were born. George Johnston died at just forty-seven years old on 19 February 1885, five years after the death of Ned Kelly. It was a relief for 17-year-old William, who also received beatings from his father, the memory of which would lead to him finding solace in whisky.
William’s drinking and gambling increased after two major tragedies. On 3 January 1911, little three-year-old Dorothy died of pneumonia after a nasty bout of whooping cough. Then, on 3 December 1915, William’s two-year-old son Arthur died after contracting diphtheria. During this time diphtheria killed more Australians than any other disease. Although Florence was only six when her baby brother died, she had vivid memories of visiting him in the hospital. He was under quarantine, so she could only wave to him through the large glass doors. When she learnt that Arthur was not coming home, she cried in her bed every night for a month. Her parents were devastated, and not long afterwards their arguing escalated. The two deaths caused a rift between Annie and William that only increased as the years rolled by.
Regardless of their problems, William became a top salesman with AMP Insurance; however, he eventually blotted his copybook with an unethical transaction and lost his permanency. After this he had to rely on commissions, and it was around this time that he became an illegal S.P. Bookie. Very early on, Annie began to take wads of cash out of his winnings when he was too drunk to realise. She opened a new bank account and watched as the balance rose, along with the interest. She had to plan for the future, especially when she learnt that William had a mistress. She turned a blind eye to the affair — at least she didn’t have to succumb to her marital duties as often — so, in a way, it was a relief, and she kept the secret to herself for twenty odd years. She confronted the woman when she turned up at William’s funeral, the first week of January 1938. He had died on New Year’s Day, and no one in the family enjoyed New Year’s Eve after that, especially Florence, who had adored her father.
Florence was a happy child with golden, corn-coloured hair, bright blue eyes and an inquisitive nature. She was born the year that her birth state, Victoria, had finally granted women’s suffrage. It was something that made her feel somewhat important, and led her to be always ahead of her time, and very independent. By her early teens, she had asked to be called Fay. Florence, she had stated, was far too old-fashioned and staid. She attended the local Catholic school, although Harry was back and forth between Protestant and Catholic schools. William wanted his eldest son to be bought
