​On the outbreak of World War two my father enlisted in the army. My Mother, older sister Maureen and I found accommodation with a Swedish woman at Black Rock in Melbourne. Our landlady is a lonely woman who likes to walk on the cliff tops at Half Moon Bay and stand looking out to sea. My sister Maureen and her new school friends are convinced that she is a German spy. They are doing their bit for the war effort by observing her from the ti tree bushes that line the coast. “There she is again, looking for shipping!”

Some mornings Mother calls, “Beverley, come along, we are going into the City.” This is exciting. At a moment’s notice we jump on a tram. At Sandringham station we quickly negotiate the high step from the platform onto the train. I sit with my nose pressed to the window pane trying to memorize the names of the stations. At Flinders St Station we rush up the ramp; it’s easier when you hurry. It’s obvious that its war time, the crowds are all women and children.

Sometimes we emerge from the station to find Swanston St blocked off to traffic. Mother says, “Quick Beverley, there’s going to be a march.” We rush across to take our place at the barricades as platoons of khaki clad soldiers, heads held high, eyes straight ahead, arms swinging, feet pounding the road in perfect unison sweep past. We clap and feel very proud of them. Then the barriers are removed and the City resumes its usual bustle.

Draught horses champing at the bit and blowing steam through their nostrils stand impatiently at street crossings, waiting for the traffic lights to change. Amid strong smells of horse sweat and leather harness I watch huge iron shod hoofs and long white hair flowing from their fetlocks as they mark time, anticipating the change of lights and activity. These are proud powerful horses pulling heavy drays, some laden with beer barrels. Wizened little men perched on high seats on the drays, handle the reins. Lighter horse drawn carts are delivering food to restaurants. There are very few motor vehicles on city streets.

When the lights change big green trams clank their bells as they move off.  We avoid stepping in horse manure as we cross the road.

We pay the gas bill at the Gas and Fuel building in Flinders street, where the continually revolving doors are a challenge to small children. Visit the department stores of Foy and Gibson, Buckley and Nunn and the Myer Emporium. Have lunch at a nice restaurant with a tall glass of lemonade in a thick heavy glass.

The flower stalls along the footpath in Swanston St are very busy. The scent of huge bunches of violets fills the air.

On a corner of Swanston Street outside the State Savings Bank there is always a man selling toy furry monkeys attached to a stick with a string. This is where I put the brakes on and usually go home with one.

Dad comes home on final leave before leaving for the war in Europe. He brings presents and it’s great to have him home again.

He is leaving tonight and he’s going to show me the train, the “The Spirit of Progress.” He says it’s the best train in Australia. The ‘Spirit’ has been reserved tonight as a troop train. The platform at Spencer St Station is packed with families and young women embracing and kissing soldiers in uniform. Emotions run high.

Dad, wisely defusing the situation, carries me down the platform to see the engine which is getting up steam. I only have eyes for the train, until he is gone

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Bev Morton
March 2022

My childhood is like a large jigsaw puzzle with many fragments of memories tying together to show a picture of my life.

My father came from a long line of Welsh coal miners, while Mum’s family were all dressmakers and tailors in Somerset.  Both my parents had commenced apprenticeships which were cut short due to the outbreak of WW2.  Neither resumed after it was over. Although Dad found employment money was short.  We couldn’t afford a car so used buses, pushbikes, or walked.  We were rich in the things that mattered, love, care, understanding.

Mum gave up employment to care for me, so my early memories involve her reading books to me or sitting at the table with me while I drew pictures. I also recall the little boy next door who had a tricycle, he would let me ride on the back while he peddled and steered. I remember as I grew and started looking at clothes in fashion magazines, Mum began making patterns and creating those things I had dreamed of wearing.

We had no TV or computers in those days, so we played outside in the good weather.  I was a bit of a tomboy and so gave my parents a few headaches. I often climbed trees, and fell out again, or went tearing down hills on homemade Billy carts. I recall going for a walk one day and seeing a horse in a nearby paddock. Before anyone could stop me, I was through the fence and patting the horse. Sometime later Dad took me to the farm where he worked. The owner had a large Clydesdale horse called Pinocchio. All the farm kids were piled on the horse’s back, you could get 6 in a row, of course we were all small. I recall walking across fields to school and stopping to pet all the farm animals.

My big adventure was when my parents moved to Australia. We travelled to London to get on a plane. I was excited and looking forward to exploring. I didn’t understand the tears at the airport, or why my grandparents and aunts were so distressed.

On arrival we were housed in a migrant camp for a week until our sponsors, Bunning Sawmills, made arrangements to take us to our new home. A timber mill house with backyard dunny and wood burning cooker. Boy, was that a shock to Mum.

I could go on for hours with our adventures but will cut it short for now.

Suffice to say, a lot of fun was had, lots of adventures and a very happy childhood.


Heather Hartland
​March 2022