​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

One of my first childhood memories is running from the police.

At Deniliquin, the Edward River is in flood! Breaking its banks the swirling flood water fills the gullies and billabongs that surround the river. The water swirls madly around the large river red gums that grow in its path. Seemingly in a delight at its escape from the river, it eddies and swirls. This creates frothy bubbles that fascinate a toddler who has also escaped with her older sister to observe the flood. It’s my first sweet taste of adventure.

There are lots of boys swimming in the flood water having a wonderful time. We stand on a bridge surrounded by flood water to watch them and peering down through the steel slats I can see the flood water flowing swiftly past. Half an upright egg shell floats by, fancy that, an egg shell boat!  My reverie is disturbed by a shout,

“The police are coming, run!”

There’s a mad scramble out of the water as a police car approaches very slowly down the track. My sister Maureen shouts “Run” and is dragging me off the bridge. We dash through water and up the path. She yells at me, “You’re a nuisance; you don’t run fast enough, you nearly got us caught!”

My parents came to Australia in the spirit of adventure to make their fortune. Instead of a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow they found the dust and drought of the Riverina.

We live in the town, in Harfleur St in a house known as the old golf house. When it’s hot Mother is homesick for England and it always seems to be hot. Heat waves seem to be the ‘norm.’ The only relief we have from the heat is to spend the day at the park under the shade of the trees.  We straggle tiredly home in the evenings.

​Banks of dust laden cloud roll in on the horizon and the sky is dark red. The smell of red dust alerts us and we run to the house. Mother calls “Come in children, there’s going to be a dust storm!” We race inside and help her place towels against the cracks of doors and windows, but the atmosphere is still choking with the dust that filters through. It’s dark inside; you can see and hear nothing except red dust pounding against the window panes. When it’s all over the dust must be swept from the house.

Dad has been approached by Stock and Station agent Harry Tuck who is owed money by some of the local squatocracy. His proposal is for Dad to grow crops on their land on a share farmer basis, so they can pay their bills. Always a super optimist Dad works hard anticipating success but is thwarted by drought time and time again.

When there are spare parts being flown in for the tractors we go out to the aerodrome to wait for “the Wingull” the sweetest tiny blue plane. It’s exciting when it lands and taxies down the runway and we go out to meet it. Sometimes I’m allowed to stand on the wing!

We left Deniliquin at the beginning of World War 2 when my father joined the Army. I was three years old.

It was over sixty years before I returned. I stepped out of the car in the Main St and
instantly there was the smell of Deniliquin, and the quality of the sunshine and the
dryness of the atmosphere that I remembered so well. I felt that I was home again!

Bev Morton