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[aussietrekker]

A few days later, Colette ran off the bus straight to Mum with some awful news.
"SHERYL'S MUM DIED!"
Mum was shocked. Sheryl was only 7, and was the eldest of three children.
Colette had no details, but it was very sudden and unexpected. The family had just moved to Altona the day before. Pending the completion of their new house, they were staying with an aunt and uncle a few streets away. The last time Sheryl saw her mother was when she saw her off on the bus in Blyth Street, bound for St.Mary's in Williamstown. Then Mrs. McGinness, all of thirty years old, headed back to her sister's house, opened the front gate and dropped dead. It was a terrible tragedy.
The family was well supported by numerous relatives. They had a wonderful grandmother, and various aunts and uncles who took turns at living in periodically, with their own young children. Their father did an admirable job raising the children alone, and sacrificed his good job at the Dockyards to become an Insurance Agent, so that he could work his own flexible hours and give priority to the children.
We were due to move to Altona ourselves within weeks, and when Sheryl joined Colette at St. Mary's in Altona after the summer holidays, the friendship resumed, and continued through high school. Over the years they would be seen at church on Sunday, and on the way home, Mum would always say how awful it was for those "poor wee children with no Ma", and wasn't their Da doing a great job. She spoke of Mr. McGinness like he ought to be canonised and without fail, always ended the conversation with a reverent "That man never remarried".

[aussietrekker]

With only weeks to go till we moved into the new house, the excitement was mounting within our family. While we were at school, Mum and Dad were making more frequent trips to the building site, and reporting what had been done. I remember Cherie asking me one day how long there was to go, and telling her that it was just a matter of little metal strips being placed in the doorways of the bathroom,toilet and laundry. Then we could move in!
In those last weeks, I recall a fun activity at school. There was a drive to collect empty packages of certain household products, with points being allocated for each item which led to some reward for the school- not unlike the supermarket dockets of the 90's which acquired computers. Daily, the kids in my class would arrive with armfuls of boxes and wrappers. They included VitaBrits, VEB Eggs, Lipton's Tea and Phillip's light bulb wrappers.
I so wanted a piece of the action, but had nothing to bring. With the majority of hostel supplies delivered in bulk and without packaging, my only hope was the breakfast cereal. But alas, when I brought a Weetbix box, it was ineligible. If only it had been wanted instead of VitaBrits, I would have had access to dozens of empty boxes, thanks to my "contacts" in the canteen. I would have been a hero! Then I had a brainwave. Our new house would need light bulbs. I couldn't wait till the weekend when we went for an inspection, and I would get a chance to deliver a mass contribution of blue Phillip's wrappers. When the day arrived, I excitedly scavenged every nook and cranny of the house, gathering packaging discarded by the builders. But the sparkies had failed me- every last light bulb in the house was Osram.

[aussietrekker]

Every child has its nemesis. It can happen for any number of reasons. Perhaps the first encounter with each other got off to a bad start. Or it may be a situation where the children feel a need to continue an animosity perpetuated between bickering parents. Or it may be due to ongoing physical or verbal assault by a known bully, or best friends falling out. In the complex world of the immature struggle of forming friends and enemies in childhood, it may be something simple and unexplainable. Someone, even a stranger suddenly "doesn't like the look of you" and next thing you know, you're trying to outdo each other by name-calling and sparring in the street or the schoolyard. Maybe you don't even know their name, or why you're picking on each other, but you're ready to do battle every time you meet.
Sometimes there is no reason at all, and out of the blue, you end your harmless day with an unexpected new nemesis. I'll call mine "Lizzie".
Lizzie was a tall girl who towered over me. I really knew nothing about her, except that she spoke with a North of England accent and I never ever saw a smile on her face. She was just one of the hundreds of children seen daily in the canteen and elsewhere. We'd never had a conversation, although we always said hello to each other when passing, and moved on. Then one day, Lizzie turned on me. There was neither reason nor provocation. It happened around the time of the Dancing Classes.

[aussietrekker]

One of the hostel mothers, who'd had some experience in the entertainment industry back home, had the brilliant idea of running dancing classes for the girls. It was an enterprising way to supplement the family income, and with Mr.Lawrence's blessing, weekly lessons commenced at the Recreation Hall. There was great excitement and within weeks, little girls and big girls, silk purses and sow's ears alike were flocking to learn Ballet and Tap. Evidently, Lizzie was among them.
So I was surprised when one day, my "hello" in the street was returned with nastiness. After receiving a few vague scornful comments, the penny dropped. Lizzie, by being part of the new dancing community, had "gone up in the world", and was giving herself airs. The bottom line was that she was learning ballet and I wasn't, and she was going to keep reminding me. With every encounter, the tension between us rose. And so did the pretentiousness. She took to calling ballet "ball-AY" which was supposed to sound snobby and impressive, but spoken in a North-of-England accent, to me it sounded silly and common. I was a snob in my own way, and being a tomboy, thought ballet dresses and lessons with their lousy pirouettes were a waste of time. Had it been a girls' football team, I would have been there with bells on.

[aussietrekker]

After a few of these exchanges, which sunk to "you're not doing ball-AY", I decided to "take the piss". Each time she said the word, I would reply by calling it Belly. She didn't like it. I told her that Belly was boring, and I wasn't interested in her boring old Belly, and it was the biggest waste of time, and she was mad for doing it. I was fed up with her, but she wouldn't let up. Then one day, I put a stop to it.
She approached me on the path, a couple of cronies in tow. Then she started on the regular spiel, and I replied with my newfound mockery. But she had a new knife to twist. "We're practising for the Christmas concert. Everyone in the hostel is going to be there watching us dance, and you're going to be jealous!"
I'd had enough. Knowing I had nothing to lose, I pulled out my trump card.
"Oh I don't think so. You see, while your parents have been wasting their money giving you Belly lessons, mine have been saving theirs and have built a new house. I won't be here for your rotten concert. When you're stuck here in this rotten hostel eating horrible hostel food on Christmas Day, we'll be in our new house with Mum's cooking. In fact, we're moving in tomorrow. Look for me tomorrow. I won't be here!
She gave me the coldest stare and said nothing. I had shamed her and cast aspersions on her parents for being wasteful, and in front of her friends. I walked off, and felt good.

[aussietrekker]

Fifty years down the track, I treasure all the memories of the mixed blessings of life for a child in a migrant hostel. It was the most unique experience, and I see it now as being somewhat character-building. For four years now, I have been reunited with so many of the "children" that I played with, fought with, and travelled with on the school bus. When we get together a couple of times a year for a pub lunch, we pool our memories, and provide "missing pieces" to our individual jigsaws that have been lost in the mists of time. Some of us can recall more incidents more than others, and I particularly enjoy hearing the reminiscences of those who were teenagers at the time, whose stories put an additional slant on hostel life as they were a little bit older. They talk not of collecting cereal toys and going to the Tarax Show, but of wagging high school, Dansette record players, horse-riding, spending endless summers at the Back Beach, courtships with the hostel boys, gang warfare with the "Willy Boys", excursions for which I was too young at the time, and even going to Melbourne to catch a glimpse of the Beatles at the side of the road. It's a good feeling to "belong" to something so special. Migrants- even those whose first language is English- will always have a foot in two worlds, and frequently feel that they belong to neither as various situations occur in their lifetimes. But the "bridge" of intense (and for some, oppressive) community living, however temporary, is a one-of-a-kind exclusive club that brought us all together by our isolation and (by today's standards) marginalisation. For me, an additional joy was reuniting in England in 2010 with the three Simonds sisters, whose parents were very homesick and returned to England after the obligatory two years. As none of them have ever been back to Australia, they remarked on how they'd wondered over the years how different their lives would have been had they stayed here. I ask myself the same thing- if a taxi man hadn't met us at the airport on Good Friday and Dad had taken us instead to a hotel and found other short-term accommodation, our lives would have taken a different path. In hindsight, I'm glad we went to a migrant hostel. But on Wednesday, November 25, 1964, the day we moved into our own house, by feelings could not have been more polarised.

[Joy52]

Wonderful insight, Aussietrekker and you bought up some things which I have said myself over the years. I am often asked "Are you English or are you a Kiwi?" I always reply "Both" because that is how I feel. I also believe that my experiences as an immigrant made me what I am today. Diversity and difficulty make you a stronger person. I appreciate everything that I have because those days on the hostel were pretty bleak and I never expect anything to be given to me - I expect to earn it. I have also wondered what my life would have been like had we remained in England. Who would I have married, where would I be living now and what children would I have? It's great to look back on the good times such as playing in the bush, swimming in the lagoons etc but we know the down side to it aswell. Like I said, I'm sure it made us stronger.

[aussietrekker]

Yes. No one can ever understand or empathise with a migrant, except another migrant. When I hear or read of people lobbying for "rights" of today's spoon-fed imports- legal and illegal- I realise that there is a LalaLand out there. Few, if any, have actually been through the migrant experience themselves, and the excuses they pull out of their rear end to support imaginary migrants who they've never met, let alone offered to help, is unfathomable. Today, it is flavour-of-the-month to see any migrant as a victim of some kind. Especially if they have sad brown eyes to accompany their tale. The reality for migrants throughout history is that there is no cushion waiting upon arrival in a new country. They have to claw their way up through the workforce, and adapt to the host society by their own efforts. They must necessarily experience discrimination from the cautious local inhabitants until they "prove themselves" by their behaviour. And if their behaviour disturbs the peace of a community- on an individual or large scale- racism will be the result. I wonder how many of these do-gooders would want to accept my account of discrimination and persecution, within my own family through decades in war-torn Ulster- especially those we left behind? (and that includes some fleeing to a refugee camp, and one being murdered by a drive-by sniper). Not many, I should think. My eyes are the wrong colour, my command of English is too good, and Ulster is not a third-world country. I would expect my story to be disputed or rejected.
The mindset of today's Australians towards new migrants is so different to what our poor parents had to put up with. Back then it was sink or swim, integrate or isolate. Do it yourself or PO back to Pommyland. And what are the young people learning from all this new age of entitlement and relentless media propaganda? When I recently spoke to a young uni student,comparing the dreadful experiences of the many post-war European migrants (who are personally known to us all), with today's (real or fabricated) tales of today's boat-people, her reply was. "But they were only fleeing Hitler, not the Taliban".

[aussietrekker]

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 1964.

Eight months almost to the day since our arrival in Australia, the time had come to move on. And like my parents, I couldn't move on quickly enough.
I was over the hostel. I was fed up seeing the same people at the canteen three times a day, and every time we used the community bathrooms. I was over being stuck with the same kids each day on the school bus, and watching my back with some of the nastier elements in the playgrounds and elsewhere. I had changed. I was no longer feeling like the pious little girl who had been seen off at the docks in Belfast by the extended family only eight months before. The law of the jungle- and the jungle of interaction among children being the cruellest of all- had in that short time, spawned a necessary defence mechanism. I could feel myself becoming brazen and cheeky, and it didn't sit well with me.
So for the last time on that Wednesday morning, we had breakfast in the canteen, and washed our cutlery and mugs via the foot pedal, before returning them to Reception. I would miss nothing except the cards and toys from the cereal boxes. We collected our final crib bags. I was growing tired of the same old sandwiches anyway, and from tomorrow on, it would be Mum making our school lunches. We boarded the bus for St. Mary's for the last time. I would miss the singing on the way home each day. But the anticipation and excitement I felt as we headed towards St.Mary's for the last time, far outweighed any reservations I was feeling.

[aussietrekker]

My last day at school was pleasantly memorable. I must have done something right during the months in Grade Six, as I recall being followed around by numerous children, especially the Marble Boys, throughout the day. One boy, John Murphy, stuck to me like a faithful puppy-dog everywhere I went. I was like the Pied Piper till the final bell sounded, and had never felt so popular. I would not see most of those boys again, but would see nearly all the girls, as we would be going to St. Joseph's, the newly built girls' high school in Altona, the following year. I had been very happy at St. Mary's, but looked forward to the adventure of a new school in the morning.
As the school bus arrived back at the hostel and I jumped off, who should be waiting there but Lizzie! "You told me you were leaving today!" she snapped sarcastically. "I am! Mum and Dad have loaded up the car and are waiting for us." And I left her standing there, not even wasting oxygen on a "goodbye".
Mum and Dad were impatient to get going, but gave me leave to farewell the Perconte family. I ran around to their unit excitedly, and after they'd wished us good luck, we said our farewells. I don't recall wanting to say goodbye to anyone else, except Maggie and Anton in the canteen, but there must have been others.
In the final minutes before leaving, Dad had "unfinished business". A Scottish family had recently moved into the unit behind us. They were always fighting, and the walls being of thin fibro cement, we heard them nightly. During the daytime, Mum said the mother was fond of singing a popular song that went:
DANG ME, DANG ME,
THEY OUGHT TO GET A ROPE AND HANG ME.
At the onset of the rows in the evenings, Dad, with nothing better to do, would put his ear to the wall and listen. Some of the insults used between the sparring parties were quite comical, and as he relayed them, we all would have a good laugh. Some parts of the wall were more acoustically productive than others. So Dad, upon leaving our unit, grabbed a pencil and drew a large ear. Alongside it, he wrote "BEST LISTENING SPOT!"
I too had unfinished business. I asked Dad for a certain little piece of cardboard with a purple stamp, and the empty milk bottle. I wasn't going to let Mrs. Salamon rob MY Daddy of sixpence! I ran round to the shop, did the exchange and as I triumphantly handed over the coin to where it rightfully belonged, felt that I had made the world a better place.
Eventually, about five o'clock, we drove out of the hostel gate and were gone.

END OF PART ONE

[aussietrekker]

[b][u]PART 2- THE BEGINNING OF OUR ASSIMILATION.

It took only five or ten minutes to drive from the hostel to our new house. We exited the gates for the last time, and turned left down Kororoit Creek Road past the oil tanks and vacant fields. As we turned left into Miller's Road, we passed the huge Cherry Lake on the right, and swampland on the left. Apart from the refinery offices, there was no habitation at all between the hostel and Altona. We drove down a long road called Civic Parade, and we passed a giant copper domed roof, which looked like a flying saucer. This belonged to the ultra-modern Council chamber. When we reached the Altona High School, we turned right into Grieve Highway, now called Grieve Parade. Backing onto the high school was a primary school, and this was at the bottom of our new street, Brook Drive. It was a long street, three-tenths of a mile long according to Dad, and had some intersecting small keyhole-shaped streets called Courts. A lot of the houses towards the bottom and the lower courts were already occupied, and some even had front lawns, but the street had no trees. As the street progressed, we saw houses in various stages of construction, and many blocks that were still vacant. The footpaths were new, but they didn't go across to the road like in Britain. Between the footpath and the road was a grass strip about 4 feet wide. This was called a Nature Strip, and it ran the length of every street in Altona and elsewhere. Our house, number 62 was right at the top of the street, four doors from the end. There was a timber house next door, then nothing between us and the Geelong railway line. No house on the other side and at the back, nothing between us and Cherry Lake. If my parents had wanted an isolated spot, they had picked it well. We were certainly out in the "boonies".
The garden and driveway areas were just hunks of clay, with a bit of builders' rubbish. The house had a lovely new smell, and we were so glad to be there. Our own kitchen and the luxury of our own toilet at last! There were three bedrooms. Martin and Colette would share the back room, and I would have the smaller room in the middle. We each had a bookend bed with a built-in light. Mum and Dad had been busy at the auctions, and the house was looking cosy. We had our green vinyl settee in the lounge, a buffet containing the set of Colliers Encyclopedias that had migrated with us, and a new laminex table in the kitchen. The fireplace was very nice, made of strata stone, and instead of an open fire, there was provision for a briquette heater. This had a glass door that had to be opened by a large spanner-type object, and the briquettes would be delivered weekly, just like the coal in Ireland. Outside the front door, there was a slimline wooden box about 2' x 3' built into the wall. This was the meter box, and it contained the electricity reading apparatus and fuse box. Our house was powered entirely by electricity. We had a raised concrete verandah with three or four steps, enclosed by wrought iron. Dad built a nice timber letterbox, and attached it to the fence. There were no slots in front doors for mail. Every house had its own letterbox at street level, and the postman, who rode a bike, would pop the letters in at lightning speed from house to house, blowing a whistle as he did so. Our house was bordered by three 6' fences, but there was no front wall. Across the street was a big paddock which was earmarked for a future reserve and playground, beyond which the empty paddocks continued all the way to Laverton. We had a clear view to the Geelong railway line and the Petrochemical company in distant Maidstone Street. Mum told us we could look forward to seeing it lit up at night like a huge Christmas tree.

[aussietrekker]

The walls were painted, but it wouldn't be long before Dad would revive his penchant for wallpapering. He had already built a little stepladder for the purpose. We had no curtains at first, but in a matter of weeks the bare windows would be fitted with venetian blinds. It would be a while before the bare floorboards would have carpet, and even then, they would be rationed to one room at a time. I didn't care about curtains or carpet, but the lounge was sadly lacking a TV. Again, it would be months before a secondhand set was purchased, and in the meantime the ill-fated radiogram and Dad's dodgy records served as a poor substitute.
But in the kitchen, nothing was lacking. Mum was delighted. There was a new stove and cupboards, a dinosaur of a fridge,
a stainless steel sink and a tiled floor. As well as a back window, there was a big corner window that faced the street. By this window, Mum had placed a new multi-level wire rack that held our new set of saucepans, each with a very attractive range of coloured metallic lids. I thought they looked very snazzy. The cupboards were well-stocked, and it was exciting to examine the packaging of the various items. Being still in "St. Mary's collecting mode", I was looking for wrappers that would have been in demand at school the day before, and was vexed upon discovering a box of Vita-Brits. It was too late!
It was a beautiful warm evening, being late November, and as teatime became overdue, Mum rustled up a salad. After eight months of hostel fare, no salad before or since has ever tasted so beautiful.

[Robert (Bob) Taylor]

Thanks for your continuing story....reading it prompted similar memories and nostalgia. When we arrived in NZ in 1961, we went into a new 2 bedroom townhouse. I can still travel back when I smell new paintwork and new furniture odours. As you also mention the reaquaintence with fresh and home baked food was an absolute treat that still sticks in my mind today..50 odd years on. We did cook the odd meal at Bunnerong hostel on primitive and make do appliances. A Sunbeam frying pan and an upturned electric heater was used to boil up in a saucepan. From what I can remember most people did similar things to keep healthy and sane. The food offered by the Hostel kitchens it would seem was similarly below average..judging by the majority of posts herein. Cheers, Bob.

[aussietrekker]

Thanks Bob. I greatly appreciate hearing that this blog is reviving memories for so many people, and I also enjoy the personal recollections from the readers. My family didn't cook with any makeshift items, we just went to the canteen. The food in our hostel was quite good, but after a while it became tiresome. There's no cooking in the world that compares with your own Ma's.

[aussietrekker]

We woke up in our new beds the following morning, a Thursday. If we'd had any hopes of a day of getting used to our new surroundings, we had another thing coming. We would be starting school at 9 o'clock regardless. There was a new state primary school at the bottom of the street, and I dearly wish it had been chosen for proximity and other reasons, but no. The Church Directive won yet again, and we were despatched to another St.Mary's in Railway Street in the middle of town, which would mean a long and arduous walk twice a day, and three times the distance from the local school.
Mum had already visited the school to enrol us, and gave the following account. Upon her arrival at the office, the head nun, Sister Veronica was remonstrating with a Maltese woman who was also there to enrol her children. The exasperated conversation consisted of the woman being told that each class was already stretched to capacity and badly overcrowded, with 80 children in Grade Two alone. There was simply no room. Mum's heart sank. When the prospective mother left, Sister Veronica turned to Mum, her face fuming. "She expects us to make room for their children, but they won't even bother going to Mass on Sunday!". But the demeanour changed when Mum spoke in her Irish accent. That alone would by default, guarantee Mass attendance every Sunday. After a brief introduction, Mum was asked "How many children have you got?" "Three", says Ma, and straightaway she was told "They can start in the morning!"