around us.
Jenny and I would often wander through the scrub to play in nearby Williams Creek. A small area around a huge elevated sewer pipe was a favourite spot for the local kids. Thick, polluted froth lay motionless on the coffee-coloured creek and it was usually guarded by a metre or more of deep sticky mud that would gurgle and slurp as it sucked our plastic sandals from our feet. We should’ve been terrified but our naivety and adventurous spirit won out and earaches, stinging eyes and infected scabs were our reward for taking on the filthy mire.
~
On one particular occasion our zest for adventure could have had very tragic consequences. While walking through bushland adjacent to Williams Creek, Jenny decided to head to the water's edge while I waited further up the bank. Suddenly, a man brandishing a machete appeared out of nowhere. As if frozen, like a terrified statue, Jenny stood motionless. He then attempted to grab her hand and lead her further into the bush. Although very young, it just didn't feel right and I'm sure Jenny felt the same. The stranger mumbled something just as I yelled,
'Jenny this way!'
As if zapped by a cattle prod, she woke from her trance and in a flash, sprinted towards me. Panic stricken, we both ran as fast as we could, up the narrow bush path and headed for home. Too frightened to look back, we just focused on our little hut in the distance and ran as fast as our trembling legs would carry us.
Mum and Dad were in our hut when we stumbled in through the doorway. Frantic, sweaty and out of breath, we couldn't get the words out quick enough. They could see the fear in our eyes as Jenny blurted out,
'A man tried to grab me, he asked me to take off my swimming costume.’ Dad was gone before the last words left Jenny's lips. He headed straight for the bush. Sighting no-one suspicious looking, he returned shortly after. He then set off again in his car to search the entire hostel and the surrounding area. It was dark when he finally arrived home. Although livid that his search was unsuccessful, neither he or Mum went to the police. Jenny and I were given a lecture about venturing too far into the bushland and that was the end of the matter.
What made Jenny's unsavoury experience even more chilling, was a horrifying event that occurred a few weeks later. The rape and murder of twelve year old, Monica Schofield, a hostel resident. The body of young Monica was found on the 25th June, 1963, in a shallow grave near Deadmans Creek, a few miles from the hostel. She was walking towards the footbridge to attend East Hills high school when she was abducted.
Monica's family, like thousands of other British migrants, moved to Australia hoping to provide greater opportunities for their children. After such a tragedy, the Schofield family moved back to Britain, distancing themselves from the unbearable, heartbreaking and haunting memories of their daughter's death.
Caught in Grafton, a few months later, the convicted murderer, Barry Rodrick, was sentenced to life in prison. This was exchanged for an eternity in hell, when in 1970, he killed himself with a gun he made in gaol. I doubt if anyone mourned his passing.
We will never know if the two episodes are linked but its something that's haunted Jenny for decades.
~
There was a small park not too far from our hut, although ‘park’ is probably an exaggeration. During our time there, all that remained was a swing, a set of monkey bars and a slippery slide that was so poorly maintained you would cut your legs on the metal protrusions, or in summer, burn your arse and thighs as the rusty, pitted steel ensured your descent was slow and painful.
Friday nights were a treat as a local social worker named Skip would arrive with a van full of soccer balls, rugby balls and odd bits and pieces of sporting equipment. I’m not sure if he was from a local charity or was hired by the hostel manager, but as kids we were just grateful for the games and the chance to meet other children from different areas of the camp.
The layout of the hostel meant that every four to six huts shared a communal toilet/shower block. They were pretty awful by today’s standards. Cold bare concrete; no privacy; poor lighting; and hot water that either scalded you or didn’t work at all. In summer it wasn’t uncommon to share your shower cubicle with a curious huntsman or redback spider or one of the many species of frogs chasing mozzies, flies and colourful Christmas beetles. A laundry building was situated strategically between huts and these contained a handful of tubs and a spin-drier, where sadly, on occasion, an unlucky stray cat would take a joy ride … some of the teenage kids got a little bored from time to time.
There was one large communal canteen block where all the residents ate. Meals were provided as part of your rent and were basic, British and boring. As I didn't like Toad in the Hole, boiled cabbage or beef stew, I lived on potatoes and gravy and not much else. The dessert, or ‘pudding’as we called it, was more suited to filling the belly of an Arctic explorer, rather than a hyperactive, overheated kid galloping about during a sweaty Australian summer. Warm dishes of tapioca, semolina, sago and custard were some of the usual suspects on offer. My friends and I always looked forward to Christmas as the canteen staff would serve up ice cream, a real treat and a cool refreshing alternative during summer. After a while, quite a few residents purchased electric frypans, usually from local retailer, Waltons, where shoppers could buy a variety of household items on credit. This would allow families, mine included, to enjoy something that resembled a Sunday roast, a welcome break from the unappetising Commonwealth cuisine. The 'Waltons man,' probably an unwelcome site for some, would go door to door collecting weekly payments from the local residents.
Like living inside an old black and white photograph, everything about the hostel’s appearance was drab, devoid of colour and imagination. Apart from the faded green recreation building, most of the other structures appeared gloomy, uninteresting and dull. The huts were grey, the paths, gutters, drain covers, canteen, amenities block … all grey. The asbestos rope covering the hot water pipes, the bare concrete shower cubicles, the concrete slabs left bare from previous hut demolitions … grey. There were a few flower gardens near the manager’s office and general store, which, during spring, would fight the drabness to add a touch of colour to the otherwise dull-looking camp.
My parents landed jobs within days of arriving: this was the early sixties and there was an abundance of work in the factories of Sydney. While Mum and Dad worked, my sister and I were looked after by the neighbours who shared our hut, the Langley family. The mother, Nelly, was a very kind woman who would watch over Jenny and me before and after school or whenever Mum and Dad weren’t home. Very few could afford child care back then and everybody relied on each other to get through some of the tougher times.
~
Hammondville Primary School was the first school I ever attended as I was too young for school in Scotland. Jenny, a year older than me, did spend some time at the local school back in Letham so she didn’t experience the first day jitters that I did, although, from memory, there wasn’t much to it. Mum had to work so I was simply dropped off with my sister, a quick hello to the teacher and Mum was gone. I recall an emptiness in my stomach but I don’t think it lasted long. Throughout my entire life, my father never stepped foot inside any school that I attended. Come to think of it, apart from dropping me off on my first day, neither did Mum.
The school student population was a mix of army kids, a few locals, and us … the children from East Hills and Heathcote Hostels.
Hammondville Primary is still in operation today and many of the original buildings are still in use.
There was a local bus that picked up all the hostel kids and dropped us at school. I was barely five years old and, to
