so dark and deep and I was terrified of falling in. My mother always made sure that Jenny and I stayed a safe distance away, as neither she nor my father could swim.
‘Dinnae be gawn near that pool.’
Her nervousness just added to my paranoia.
As the voyage dragged on, every now and then, one of us would need something from one of our three ‘kists’ (Scottish for case or trunk), which were stored deep in the cargo hold, well below the waterline. I often went with Dad to retrieve whatever it was we needed. Even though it was cramped and claustrophobic, I could always conjure up something to turn the chore into an adventure. It always smelled strange; a mixture of musty old clothes and the sea. I liked to dart in and out of the trunks and cases piled to the ceiling, playing some weird type of solo hide-and-seek.
We stopped only twice before our first Australian port – Fremantle. At the north western end of the Suez Canal, we anchored at Port Said before sailing through the canal, into the Red Sea to Aden in Yemen. We left the ship for a shore excursion at Egypt's Port Said. The strange aromas, the humidity and the crowds were like nothing any of us had ever experienced; except for Dad, he seemed to take it all in his stride. Maybe he was still drunk from his hours spent in the ship’s bar. I can still feel how tightly my mother was holding my hand as we brushed past noisy locals tending dozens of shabby market stalls. Her grip was crushing my tiny fingers.
‘Dinnae you bairns let go of ma hand,’ was something we heard over and over.
I was sure she was terrified that my sister and I were going to get lost and the ship would be forced to sail without us. Completely illogical but this was the first time she had left the shores of Scotland.
Dad, on the other hand, had travelled extensively and this was just a walk in the park for him. He would barter, haggle and abuse the locals in his strong Scottish brogue and I felt completely calm when I was with him.
Jenny and I were allowed one gift each but the choices were limited; a tin tractor or a stuffed camel. Naturally I chose the tractor but my sister had to surrender her camel when we arrived back at the ship as there were rumours that they were stuffed with old bandages. The Castel Felice’s quarantine officers weren’t taking any chances so poor Jenny went without.
~
One day there was a real buzz about the ship as we were told by one of the staff in an Italian accent, ‘Tomorrow we’ll be crossing the line.’
This meant the Castel Felice would be crossing the equator. For centuries seafarers would celebrate the occasion with some sort of festive event which usually involved the Roman God, Neptune. We, the children, were to have a fancy-dress party. My mother somehow managed to transform me into a Native American, complete with headdress, tomahawk and war paint. I’m not sure how she managed as I’m sure fancy-dress clothing wasn’t high on the list of ship’s supplies but my mother was a very resourceful woman. She had worked for years in childcare centres and children’s hospitals so her craftwork skills were finely honed.
My parents never really spoke about why they packed up everything they owned into three kists and set sail for the other side of the globe. Years later, whenever I quizzed them their stock standard answer was, ‘To give you bairns a better life.’
I was way too young to know what was wrong with my old life but I didn’t care at the time, we were off on a great adventure.
I had lost track of how long we had been at sea when Mum woke us up one morning.
‘Wake up. We’re in Fremantle, it’s in Western Australia,’ she whispered.
It meant nothing to me; the only recognisable word that jumped out was ‘Australia’. I’m sure I cheered;
‘Yes, we’ve made it – Australia!’
It wasn’t until breakfast that I was told we were visiting Fremantle only for the day and would be heading off to our final destination, Sydney, that night.
Dad had made prior arrangements to meet an old friend from Scotland who had settled in Perth a year earlier. There had been some miscommunication along the way as his friend thought we were settling in Western Australia and had arranged work for my father as well as temporary accommodation with his family. He may have been disappointed when he realised we were travelling on to Sydney but he certainly didn’t show it.
He had a small van and we all piled in for a tour of Fremantle and Perth. It was an open van, or as we Australians now call it, a ute. It was one of the most pleasant experiences of my young life. Dad and his friend were in the front of the van and Jenny and I piled in the back with Mum. For some reason, the sky seemed larger and brighter than the Scottish sky I had once lived under. I still remember how the warmth of the sun made me feel. It was uplifting and I could sense that our entire family felt the same. Maybe we were just glad to get off the ship.
I was hypnotised by the sky; how could it be so blue? There was not a dab of grey or a blob of beige anywhere. Like the base coat of an artist’s canvas, the heavens were painted in nothing but glorious, rich, beautiful blue. Not only did Australia look and smell different, it sounded different. My ears were tantalised by some of the most beautiful sounds I’d ever heard. It was probably just a magpie or currawong mixed with the echoing tones of the local bellbirds but they seemed to form a harmonious soundscape that none of us had ever experienced. I knew we weren’t listening to the jackdaw or robin; this was a foreign song that sounded warm and welcoming.
The old van chugged slowly to the top of a hill where we parked next to a garden clock made from flowers and other plants. It was an actual working clock and Dad seemed fascinated by it, as he was by all clocks, large and small.
He shouted, ‘Hey, get a load o’ this clock, Betty, it’s made oot o’ floowers.’
I was more interested in the rustling noises from tiny lizards darting in and out of the leafy undergrowth, although the strange flowers did fill the air with beautiful intoxicating aromas. We may have been visiting the local botanical gardens but I couldn’t be sure. The stillness of the sweet-smelling air was a welcome contrast to the constant and annoying wind that dried lips, ruined women’s hairdos and sent untethered hats skywards aboard our rolling rust bucket of a ship.
The day ended way too soon and, before I knew it, we were back on board, once again surrounded by drab grey and white, with the songbird’s chorus replaced by the dull drone of the ship’s engines. As the old tugs pushed, pulled and nudged us away from our berth there was a sense of excitement among those left on board.
We were Sydney-bound and it wouldn’t be long before we reached our new home, where our lives would change forever.
TANKER 8, ASSISTANCE REQUIRED, TRUCK MVA, LIVERPOOL
Murray Kear and I are driving Liverpool’s water tanker when we are called to assist at a truck accident. The water tanker is an off-road vehicle designed for bushfires and wouldn’t normally be called to a motor vehicle accident (MVA), but our rescue truck is on scene and requires the assistance of Murray, our Senior Rescue Firefighter.
When we arrive at the address, we’re surprised to find that the incident is located in a suburban back yard.
It’s complete chaos. A guy around twenty years old is yelling and cursing while punching palings off the side fence. An elderly woman screams at the top of her voice
