Our Time

By Allan Denny

Our Time follows the story of a child born between the Depression and Second World War and his subsequent restlessness, desire to travel, and the chance meeting of Genevieve, the woman who would turn out to be the love of his life.
Our time: done.
A time to live: done.
A time to die: done.
A time to honour my promise to write this book in Genevieve’s memory: done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jun 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925959116

Allan Denny

Allan Denny, born between the Great Depression and World War 2, grew up in Sydney and then rural Australia before following his passion and travelling to England and Sweden. In between his travels he met and fell in love with Genevieve, who then shared his life and even more travels with him, both overseas and back in Australia.

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A time to live,

a time to die,

to bid adieu.

ALLAN DENNY

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147

Hazelbrook NSW 2779

https://www.indiemosh.com.au/

Copyright 2019 © Allan Denny

All rights reserved

Licence Notes

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Disclaimer

Although the author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, the author and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

Genevieve & Allan

A Life Shared.

To every thing there is a season,

and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate;

A time of war, and a time of peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, Holy Bible

List of Images

1. Allan at Aden on the way to England

2. Castle Urquhart

3. 53 years ago – were we ever so young?

4. Genevieve informing me of her pregnancy

5. Paula at two months

6. Our first camp at Little Beach

7. Icy morning – minus 1 degree

8. Peaceful setting – wonderous time spent here

9. Myall Lakes Sunset – even better with a glass of wine

10. Indian Head, Fraser Island

11. Bowarrady Lake, Fraser Island

12. Eclipse on Myall Lake

13. Under sail, Myall Lake

14. Tilligerry Creek

15. Genevieve pondering the future

16. Mon Repos Hatchery

17. Genevieve in Rockhampton

18. Start of our Trip to the Tip

19. Mountain range looking back

20. Split Rock – Jerry and me

21. Navigating Gunshot Creek

22. Elliot Falls

23. Beautiful Smiths Creek, on the way to the Tip

24. Results of flooding creek crossing

25. Genevieve's lunch

26. Roman candle

27. At the tip of Australia

28. The shed where we lived while the house was being built

29. Broken arm. Ah well, shit happens

30. House is finished to lockup stage

31. Rigging for test sail – purchasing Campus 28

32. Surveying and inspecting.

33. Cassowary and apprehensive Allan

34. Genevieve propping up the post at Cobbold Gorge Camping Village office

35. Nature’s carving: Cobolt Gorge

36. Overnighted at Einasleigh Pub

37. Our campsite, Lawn Hill National Park

38. Entering Middle Gorge at Lawn Hill

39. Morning walk of 3.8 km to view the Gorge from the Stacks

40. Genevieve recovering from the steep climb up to Island Stack across Lawn Hill Creek

41. The stunning Carpentaria Sunset

A time to be born

A man in the house

Unnoticed by world events, in a quiet part of Sydney, Australia, Iris has given birth to a male child at Crown Street Women’s Hospital.

Among rows of terraced houses in a suburban street in Paddington, a place we called home, amidst a period of unrest in Australia, as in the rest of the world, people are recovering from the Great Depression of the 1930s.

On the world stage, the theatre of war looms. While the free world struggles with its debt, now is the time to strike. A World at War – declared 1939.

A niche in a time, made possible for my birth in 1937.

Into this turmoil I began my life with one parent, my mother Iris. Her husband, Reginald, was deployed overseas to combat the threat to Australia.

My recollections of that period are fragmented memories: at age two or three, standing in a timber-sided cot, watching the sun light up filaments of dust as they swirled in the breeze through the open window; across the shaded room, a small cane bassinette and, under the window, a mystery object that would I later identify as a pedal sewing machine, a place where I would play, sitting on the pedal and turning the large wheel.

My world comprised my mother and a small baby, Brenda, who slept in a bassinette. As I grew older, Iris would tolerate my often-asked question: ‘Do I have a father?’ Her reply: he was a soldier and was away.

It was a difficult transition from having one parent to two. At the doorway, stood a man dressed in military uniform – a tall man, appearing as if he touched the ceiling, in his hand a large duffel bag. Was this stranger my father? He bent over to lift me from the floor. At eye level, each looked at the other. His eyes were strong and piercing, but from stained hair on his upper lip came an unpleasant smell.

That brief introduction over, it wasn’t until much later that this man, my father, returned. If Mum ever spoke of him it was only to say, ‘You’re the same as your father!’ I felt chastised, that I had done something wrong.

His homecoming soon faded from memory.

Later memories, as I grew older, have me standing on the front porch behind a wrought-iron fence with post tips in the shape of spears.

Returned servicemen trudging past the gate to the pub, a few stepping out on crutches, always a ready smile. Others wearing a patch over one eye and still others, being supported, holding a vacant expression.

An old man dressed in rags shouting, ‘Any old iron!’ as he pushes the cart up the road, and I watch him disappear, the sound lingering, ‘Any old iron’.

The milkman delivered milk from the cart to each door step as the horse ambled along the road.

During the winter, the gas heater was switched on in what used to be the fireplace. Using bifold doors, the warmth could be contained to this one room, the one that Brenda and I slept in.

In the back yard I envisaged building a cubby house, but only managed four posts before running out of material.

The laundry was under the house with a large copper boiler where Mum worked enveloped in steam, moving the now hot clothes to the twin laundry tubs. Using a wooden mandolin to scrub the clothes before rinsing, she’d then wring them out using a hand-operated ringer, then drop them into a woven cane basket. With the basket balanced on her hip, it was only a short walk to the clothesline.

Just beyond the clothesline, passionfruit grew over a trellis on the outhouse. When the fruit was in season, a competition existed between us and the birds.

My duties were to mow the large back lawn, using an old second-hand push mower.

For our shopping, we accompanied Mum by tram to the Sydney markets. With us onboard the tram trundled and swayed along, often ringing its bell. We sat on wooden batten seats, hanging on for grim life, but we enjoyed every moment.

We knew we were at the markets because of the noise – people everywhere and trucks laden with vegetables. Once the tram came to a halt, we excitedly clambered down, hand in hand, and headed over to the market stalls. In awe we tried to take in the sights and sounds, turning our heads in differing directions and not watching. Mum would yell, ‘Watch where you’re going!’

So many people hurrying in differing directions, the noise as each person spoke together, making no sense to us, as they stood before long tables of different vegetables.

The butchers were next as we pushed through the fly-meshed doors. Sawdust lay spread across the floor, while overhead, meat hung from hooks. On the counter, glass-enclosed cabinets showed more varieties of meat. Mum bought a few differing types and paid with tickets called coupons.

It was my responsibility to carry the string bags containing the wrapped parcels: ‘Don’t drop them.’

Returning home, we stopped at the corner store for other items. The man behind the counter gave us a lolly. Mum prompted, as mothers are wont to do: ‘Say thank you.’

At other times the Salvos delivered cabbages, which Mum pickled. She made her own soap by rendering large tins of fat.

Dinner sometimes comprised half a pig’s head, tripe with parsley sauce, corned beef with mashed potatoes and cabbage. Sheep’s brains and stew were the standby.

One evening a month I attended Cubs, dressed up in long socks with colourful garters, tan shorts and a shirt with awards of merit sown to the lapels. At the local scout hall we stood and faced the green scout flag with its bronze wolf’s head on top. The other two flags were Australian and British. Crouching and in unison we performed the scout pledge, thus – dip, dip, bob, bobbing and saluted the with two fingers as we committed our allegiance.

Our sponsor was a person called Big Chief Little-Wolfe, who showed up on one occasion in Indian feather headdress.

When I returned from the Cubs, Mum would make a pot of tea and listen to the radio news of the War. One of my favourite programs was ‘The Search for the Golden Boomerang’. Then there was a classroom comedy, ‘Yes, What?’, and to get me ready for bed, the boring Bob Menzies talked and talked. In no time I was yawning, ready for my sleep.

I remember going to a Scout Gymkhana – there was a bus ride, somewhere out in the bush, a distance which required camping overnight. I had to prepare for a tenderfoot badge. Part of the test was to make a cook’s bench (a preparation area containing chopping board and wash basin) from saplings and twine, and erect a tent.

As children, Sis and I knew no different to the life we led. Even though Dad was away at war, life was normal.

One night, whilst sitting on the bed, I heard the reverberating sound of a plane passing overhead. At once the searchlights lit up the night sky, crisscrossing until they picked out the plane, on each wing round, coloured emblems, designating the country of origin.

Then one evening it ended. Loud noises of contagious excitement came through an open window coming from the street. We sprang to look outside and could see people singing and dancing in the street. In their excitement they screamed, ‘The war has ended! It’s finished!’ The atmosphere was electrifying. I don’t remember going to bed.

The next day, there was still an air of excitement. People slept where they had fallen, the street was littered with rubbish, and radios blared the same message: ‘The war has ended.’

Demobbed. I believe that’s the term used for returning soldiers, who come home to their families, and then try to find employment.

I can’t imagine being one day at the battlefront, next day adjusting to civilian life.

This was a period of change for our family. We became unsettling as a Dad found it hard to find employment. He often travelled distances to achieve work; even then it was of short duration.

When he was at home, we stood in awe of him. We didn’t know what to say, or how to behave.

He kept a gasmask, uniform and service revolver in a locked, wooden box. One evening (so I was told by Margaret, my youngest sister) he shot up garbage cans in the street and as the police were on their way for him, he came into the bedroom I shared with my other sister, Brenda, and stuffed the revolver under her pillow. Soon, someone came into the room and removed the revolver, but I had my eyes squeezed shut tight. I was told I was whimpering with fear, then the police took him away.

Sometime later