raise her younger sister, Sheena, while their mother ( Mary) was forced to find work.
As a teenager, Mum and a couple of girlfriends took to the road on their pushbikes and toured all of Scotland, staying in youth hostels and mingling with like-minded teenagers from around the globe. She also taught Sunday school and was heavily involved in the Girl Guide movement. One thing she did share with my father was her love of music. Mum was a member of a band called The Heather Loupers. They entertained audiences throughout the county of Angus for many years. Some time later, Dad who was a wonderful singer, would occasionally team up with Mum and perform at various small concert parties throughout the county. I can imagine the atmosphere in the tiny, cramped, smoke filled, village halls. Mum on piano while providing vocal harmony to Dad’s Bing Crosby-like voice. They often spoke fondly of those days.
Our house was always filled with music. It was either Mum serenading my sister and me with children’s songs and nursery rhymes or Dad singing one of their old favourites. They seemed to know hundreds of songs, mostly tear-jerkers about leaving Scotland, missing Scotland or going home to Scotland. The Scots must be notorious for leaving, coming back, then leaving again. Great fodder for songwriters, I suppose. I’d heard stories of Dad singing for beers at various pubs once his drinking money had run out. Although Mum was embarrassed, we all knew, deep inside, she also thought it amusing.
She was an exceptionally hard worker and I’ve often told friends that I have very few memories of my mother sitting down. Strange as that may seem, when I picture her, she is at the kitchen sink, cooking something on the stove, doing laundry or cleaning something around the house. She always had a full-time day job yet still managed to look after her family and would only relax late at night with a book or in front of the television. For Mum, daytime meant work time. She was a very stoic woman at times but very loving and caring towards us, her children. She seemed able to endure just about anything life tossed up to her.
Like Dad, she didn’t feel comfortable displaying certain emotions. I think she saw it as a sign of weakness, the British ‘stiff upper lip’ was hardwired into their generation. Although emotionally guarded, she was one of the kindest ladies you could meet. That kindness was usually displayed by actions rather than words. She had quite rigid moral boundaries which often clashed with my father’s, sometimes misguided, morals. I suppose opposites do attract. Even though, like most of her generation, she bottled up a lot of her feelings, every now and then the contents would overflow; she would explode and huge arguments with my father would ensue, lasting for days, sometimes weeks. No-one ever gave in or apologised, they just seemed to carry on as normal once both had calmed down. Maybe their apologies were carried out away from us children; who knows? My sister, Jenny, and I learned all sorts of Scottish slang and swear words at a very young age. Although I still think even the vilest cursing sounds comical when spoken with a Scottish accent.
‘Hud yer weesht! No, you hud yoors!’ Scottish slang for ‘hold your tongue’ or ‘shut your mouth’ was commonly heard around our house.
‘Stop yer havering or I’ll skelp yer lug,’ was often directed at me.
'Quit yer greetin or I'll gee ya something tae greet aboot' was another.
I definitely don’t remember my parents having harsh words or anything resembling a robust argument on our voyage to Australia. Our cabin was so cramped that privacy was non-existent; I only remember smiles and laughter and the odd bout of seasickness.
~
It was 1962, I was almost five years old and we were steaming towards the Suez Canal. Thoughts of Scotland, the only home I knew, were already being tucked away safely in the back of my brain. Like thousands of other British families, we were immigrating to Australia, taking advantage of the Australian Government’s Assisted Passage Migration Scheme. Mum and Dad paid ten pounds each and my sister, Jennifer, and I, travelled for free. It was a deal too good to pass up for countless families in post-war Britain. Many believed that Australia was ‘the promised land’, offering an abundance of work, fantastic weather and opportunities galore for those willing to seek them out. At least that’s what the brochures implied.
Our ship, the Castel Felice, was small compared to today’s super liners but to a young boy who loved to explore, it seemed huge. She was built in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1930 and commissioned as the Kenya, spending most of her early years as a troopship. A major refit was completed in 1952 and the Kenya became part of the Sitmar Line and was renamed the Castel Felice.
Mum, Dad, Jenny and I occupied a small cabin just above the waterline. I remember we had a tiny porthole that the crew would lock shut and cover up when the weather turned bad, which was quite often. We were luckier than most; we had a family cabin all to ourselves. Most families were split up, fathers and sons in one cabin and mothers and daughters shared another. Despite our living quarters, I loved being out on the ocean – and still do. There’s nothing that invigorates my soul more than the sight and smell of the sea.
One crisp, breezy morning, Dad and I ventured out onto the lower deck. As I strained my neck to peek over the side, I was deafened by the piercing whistle of the wind blowing through the rusted rails and weather beaten balustrades of the Castel Felice. Like cavalry, a never ending procession of white crested waves attacked the bow of our ship. A cycle of low deep thuds and sinister hisses saw salty spray shooting to the heavens, signalling the start of the next briny onslaught. The swell would lift us skywards before disappearing under the well worn, travel weary hull. The flimsy-looking rail was the only thing that separated me from the foaming sea below; it was both frightening and exhilarating for a four year old, yet somehow, I felt safe. I always felt safe in my father’s arms. It didn’t happen often, but when he did pick me up, I thought he was the strongest man in the world. I knew he wouldn’t let me go, his tattooed forearms had sinews, veins and muscles popping out everywhere. To me he was like a giant, or a superhero.
I didn’t know it then, but that was to be one of the last times he would hold me that close. He hugged me so few times, I can still remember them all. When I was six, he playfully carried me across Wattamolla Lagoon and then we ‘accidentally’ hugged fifteen years later at my wedding. I don’t remember too many other times. I knew he loved me, but it was love from afar and he was uneasy and uncomfortable about showing it. A trait I’ve no doubt inherited.
My mother and sister were playing board games in our cabin, but Dad and I were out for adventure; we were looking for pirates. Staring into the glare, we were on the lookout for distant masts daring to fly the skull and crossbones. I loved tales about pirates and hidden treasure and I’m sure I was some type of seafarer in a past life. I also found the ocean had a gentle side. There’s nothing more peaceful than falling asleep to the sound of lapping waves or the gentle rolling of a ship.
My lookout duties were temporarily interrupted by something magical. I’d spotted hundreds of strange creatures alongside our ship. One minute they flew through the air like giant dragonflies then they would hit the water, making frothy little explosions before once again surfing the bow waves. I can still smell my Dad’s tobacco breath as he whispered, ‘They’re just flying fish, thousands of them oot here.’
Not to me; to me they were magic.
I’m still amazed at the odd things I remember about our six-week voyage. I was mesmerised by the Italian crew’s strange accents; weird ice cream (gelato) and a very dark and scary movie theatre, deep in the bowels of the ship. I had my first taste of pineapple juice and even today, that sweet smell still reminds me of breakfast on the ship.
The link between memory and smell is, for the most part, pleasurable, but sadly for me it became a curse later in life and an unwanted trigger for memories I would often try to suppress.
One unsavoury recollection
