An Albany Childhood – part 4

 BATTLING

For it is not death or hardship that is a fearful thing, but the fear of death and hardship.                                                                                                           Epictetus

While the rest of the house was being built we lived in the back two rooms. Dad had the stumps in place and a stockpile of material salvaged from the demolition sites, but we needed more money for the rest of the dream. The Commonwealth Bank was the place to go for a loan. It was the only bank in those days so the manager, who was close to God as far as my parents were concerned. He promised 10 000 pounds on the condition that they put the roof on first. They were stony broke, so this was not going to happen any time soon.

In those tough times, one kindness was never forgotten. The owner of the town’s department store, Drew Robinson, stopped Mum in the store one day. He asked how they were getting along. She tried to crack hardy but admitted that cooking on one small primus burner was no fun. With that, he ordered her to go and pick herself out a stove. When she protested that she couldn’t possibly afford it, he told her he wasn’t asking her to pay for it. A Metters wood stove was duly delivered and made all the difference to our lives. Dad was able to repay Drew by doing repairs to his boat

Dad often worked on boats. His family had been carpenters and wheelwrights in Bushmills, Ireland for generations. The skills he had learned in Ireland such a bending wood to make the barrels for Bushmills Whiskey came in handy. He also had the skill of cutting shingles and got the job of re-roofing part of St John’s Church in York street.

Disaster struck. Dad cut off his finger in the buzz-saw at work. He couldn’t work for weeks, but his boss stuck by him and he was paid. He also received a hundred pounds in compensation through the carpenter’s union, and so we got our roof. Mum said later in life that she felt guilty about being pleased for this windfall. With the roof came the loan and with the loan came more stress. This time it was Dad who was stressed. He hated owing money, especially this unbelievable amount. It was paid back at four pounds a week out of a twenty-pound wage packet.

In what was one of the saddest moments of my life, Dad decided to sell his precious accordion and for a while, there was no music in our lives.

Well no music to speak of. We had an old His Master’s Voice radio, made of brown, wood-grain, bakelite, which had an emblem of a little Jack Russell with his ear cocked to a phonograph. I don’t think Albany had a local radio station in early 1950,s but the ABC with its BBC voices was our one flimsy connection to the outside world. Dad arrived home just after 5 PM. By 5.30 we were eating our evening meal (tea we called it). The conversation was always lively, but it was stopped mid-sentence when the news came on at 6 o’clock.

My Grandmother, Christina Wilson listening to the radio

My friend, Maxine’s parents also liked music. It was mainly big band music because Mel played the cornet, but he and Molly, his wife sang My Blue Heaven over and over.     

                  Just Molly and me, and baby makes three                                                                               

               We’re happy in My Blue Heaven                                                                                   

It’s still etched into my memory. It’s a late 1920’s song.  Like many of the men, Mel had come back from the war. I think people were just happy to be in a place that was happy and safe. Everything came later to most of us in Australia than it did in Europe, especially in the country. In those early days, nostalgia limited my parent’s music tastes to the classical, and opera, and of course their beloved songs from home.

A few years later when the wage packet had grown and the mortgage had shrunk John bought another accordion and learned not to miss his finger or a beat. He also bought a turntable and made a walnut cabinet for it in Art Deco style with curved corners. I can’t describe the love that went into that cabinet! It was French polished with seven coats of shellac and fine sanding in between each coat before he was satisfied. We bought two EP’s, extended playing records, which meant they had two pieces of music on each side. One was Beniamino Gigli and the other the soprano Maria Callas. Rachmaninoff with his Prelude in C Sharp Minor was a gift from an aunt. We were all enthralled by this modern wonder and Gigli, Maria and Rachmaninoff competed for our rapt attention.

Music was a big part of Scottish culture. When folk gathered there was a Ceilidh, and it was mandatory for everyone to perform in some way. No one was judged on the quality of their voice or their ability with their instrument. It was enough that they wanted to sing or play, recite a poem or tell a story. My mother and father were both blessed with fine voices. Dad had a good strong tenor voice. Mum could hold a complex melody with ease. I have old tape recordings to testify to that. When there was a gathering in our house, which usually happened when a Scottish ship arrived in port, Dad played his accordion, and often his mouth organ. We had several fine singers among our friends, but most of all there was dancing. The mat was rolled up, the couch and chairs were pushed back and our small lounge room would be alive with couples Stripping the Willow or doing the Eightsome Reel. And all this was done without alcohol. We couldn’t afford it in those days. Perhaps the only time was Hogmanay – New Year’s Eve when a cup o’ kindness would be shared. A few years ago, when my sisters and I went back to Scotland, I tried to capture the wild energy of a wedding ceilidh. 

Dad with my sons and his accordion.

 

You can read more about growing up in Albany in Part 3.