The Shorthand Writer

By V. Parker Kennedy

1957, United Kingdom.

Jane Frobisher crossed the world at eighteen years of age intending to ‘visit strange places and meet interesting people.’ Jane was a shorthand writer, an indispensable occupation in the 20th century. An opportunity to travel came in the form of a joint United Kingdom and Australian emigration programme enabling Jane to emigrate for the princely sum of five pounds. Following an extraordinary journey by sea and rail, it was an isolated mining town in outback Queensland that would interrupt her travels.

The treatment of women in and out of the court system, the dangers of isolation, plus the discovery of hundred-year-old skeletal remains enhances and supports the narrative. The effects of extreme weather conditions, including suffocating heat, an engulfing bedourie (dust storm) and the constant allure and fascination of a running river in desert country form a backdrop to the daily lives of the stalwarts who live in the outback.

While working as a shorthand writer in industry, law and commerce, plus assisting an author who wrote the defining history of the nation, Jane married, gave birth to an autistic child and ultimately divorced. But it was a Russian émigré, an Aboriginal woman and a bi-racial man who were to define her interesting if not challenging life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Dec 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925959970

V. Parker Kennedy

I was eighteen years old when I arrived in the north west Queensland mining town of Mount Isa, two days before Christmas, 1957 - an emigrant from the English Midland city of Birmingham. I fell in love with the township with the eclectic gathering of nationalities, all endeavouring to earn a living in that outback town full of opportunities.I married in Mount Isa and produced four children all born in Brisbane, now scattered around this great nation, while I currently live and write in the island state of Tasmania. I love the sheer delight of writing, but most of all, having the essential time to write.Having worked all my life as a shorthand writer, a skill no longer in demand, I wanted to write about the eclectic situations that demanded this skill during the last century. We were in such demand and could earn our living anywhere in the English speaking world.The best part of my day is when I sit at the computer in my library shortly after dawn. I switch off the phone and only check the calls at the end of my working day. Living alone, I’m able to ensure that writing forms part of almost every day and I’m fully aware that it’s bordering on an obsession. I publish under V Parker KennedyMy first book, “One Corner of an Ancient Land” was published in 2017 – an anthology detailing the lives, hopes and dreams of those intrepid settlers who opened up the land beyond the Selwyn Ranges in north- west Queensland. “The Shorthand Writer” is my second book, also set in north-west Queensland. During the lockdown I published a wartime romance entitled "The Owl and the Pussycat" under Val Kennedy. My latest publication is an anthology called “Century of Conflict”, beginning with the Boxer Rebellion in 1900 and ending with an explosion in Paris at midnight 2000. There are twelve stories, including the two world wars, women's suffrage, the troubles in Ireland and the disappearance of aboriginal women in Canada.I'm currently working on a novel set in the heady days of the burgeoning city of Mount Isa in the nineteen fifties. It's a murder mystery in a town believed to have housed over fifty different nationalities. It was a town of big money, sporting clubs and an over abundance of alcohol. It wasn't without its problems, especially between the soccer teams of Serbia and Croatia, not forgetting the underlying problems with the Brits and Germans.

Book preview

Prologue

Shorthand writers during the 20th century could earn their living in any office in the city, in hospitals, factories and anywhere there was a need for typed documents and recorded information. For those possessing writing speeds of up to 200 words a minute, work was available in higher paid, more prestigious occupations, such as verbatim recording in Supreme Court and parliamentary situations. High speed shorthand writers speaking multiple languages would attain the most financially rewarding positions within the United Nations.

From the end of the First World War until the nineteen eighties, there were hundreds of positions advertising for shorthand typists in any of the major newspapers of the larger cities. Learning the intricacies of shorthand cer­tainly enhanced opportunities for women taking their place in the workforce.

It is the opinion of many in the 21st Century, that the writing of shorthand is a skill of the past. Not so, for as well as still being used in legal and parliamentary matters, it is a vital skill for news reporters, often re­quired to pass an examination of writing shorthand at one hundred words a minute. Many personal assistants in executive positions are required to possess a knowledge of shorthand, as it is three times quicker and far more efficient to read back or type from shorthand notes than to organise audio recordings. Hansard recorders often now use machinery, but in recent years, shorthand writers have been utilised for added accuracy. The skill of writing shorthand has so far survived technology and is not yet ready to be consigned to the annals of history.

I went down to Sydney, the weather was fine

I got me a job on the P&O Line

They paint the ships black and they paint the ships white

And they work all the Fivers by day and by night

Heave away, Heave away

From London to Sydney’s a hell of a way!

1

1957

Departure

The phone call from Australia House in London to a Birmingham Solicitor’s office had been brief. Jane Frobisher had been given an hour in which to give them her answer – to sail or not to sail.

"There’s been a cancellation on the SS Hindu Kush on Friday, the 15th November and we’re phoning today to offer you the berth. I know it’s short notice, but you did say you could leave at any time."

That’s the day after tomorrow. It only gives me a day and a half to arrange my affairs. I’d have to talk to my parents, she retaliated.

What about I ring you back in an hour and we’ll go from there. If you can’t accept the placement, I’ll have to phone around for someone else. That’s it then, I’ll phone you again in an hour’s time. My name is Wesley and I’ll be your liaison officer until you’re taken on board.

Following phone calls to her parents, resulting in both tears and realistic objections, the family reached their reluctant decision. Jane would accept the offer, adding her name to the list of emigrants bound for Sydney and ultimately a mining town in outback Queensland.

Fifty minutes later, on a rain sodden Wednesday morning, Jane Frobisher returned Wesley’s call. Yes, she would accept passage on the SS Hindu Kush, sailing the day after next.

There were hasty farewell visits with friends and family to arrange, as well as the business of closing bank accounts, organising traveller’s cheques and advising government departments regarding tax and national health services. Finally, it was time to pack her splendid set of brand new matching faux crocodile skin suitcases.

There was little conversation the night before Jane left the family home, the atmosphere in the house akin to someone dying. It was, in fact, to be the death of that nuclear family, as they would never again live together en famille. Henry Frobisher, after taking a long, contemplative walk, held Jane in a close embrace and whispered, Nothing will ever be the same again, will it? It seems a drastic step to take for one so young. We’d not expected you to leave until you were at least twenty. Evelyn Frobisher didn’t go to bed until just before dawn, lightly dozing in her chair by the fire accompanied only by the animals as she wept.

Henry later commented that on the final morning under her parents’ roof, for the first time in his daughter’s life, she had woken without persistent encouragement. She had hurried downstairs, made a pot of tea, proudly conveying it on a breakfast tray into their bedroom. They had accepted the tea from their daughter’s hands in silence – no one being able to find the right words. Jane sat on the bottom of the bed, her arms around her knees and drank in the vision of her parents – her handsome and eloquently spoken father and her glamorous, free spirited mother.

Jane was eighteen years old and eager, no, desperate, to travel and see the wonders of the world. As she was hastily preparing for the unexpected last minute passage on a modern streamlined ocean liner, it was sheer excitement reading about all the exotic places she’d be visiting en route to Australia. The first port of call would be Gibraltar, incorporating a two-day stopover, including a transitory trip into Spain. It was non-stop across the Mediterranean to Port Said in Egypt – a dream come true. The ship was to be part of the first convoy through the Suez Canal after Colonel Nasser declared Egyptian ownership. Then it was due east and a few days in Bombay – India, mystic India – finally crossing the Indian Ocean to Australia.

It was dark when the taxi arrived to take them to the railway station, thus shielding Jane from having a last look at her favourite oak tree, remaining always her favourite childhood memory. She didn’t have the diversion of a last minute look at the familiar sixteenth century manor house across the road or the vision of the whimpering of the family dog on the other side of the gate. She was trying not to think of all the things she’d miss and wasn’t even conscious of the cold, miserable November morning.

The family of three travelled to London on an early morning express train from Birmingham, transferring to a boat train taking them to the port of Tilbury. They tried to act as if it were one of their regular outings to London, making small talk about the pleasures of travelling to the nation’s capital by train. Henry Frobisher fussed and worried about her luggage, ardently questioning her ability to look after it until her final destination.

Jane walked anxiously through the entrance into Tilbury Docks, looking forlornly at the overcast sky. The incessant, drizzling rain converged with the metallic hue of the sea, the two immutably morphing into one. The day was depressingly grey, grimy and dispiriting; the surrounding buildings and departure sheds unashamedly squalid and forbidding. Only the P&O Liner was bright and cheerful, already festooned with falling streamers, her engines humming in readiness for departure.

The majority of ocean liners of the 1950’s boasted two or three classes – first, second and third. Although there was a mixture of people waiting to sail on the SS Hindu Kush, the ship carried only first and second-class passengers. The first-class passengers enjoyed two thirds of the ship for their own absolute indulgence, most of whom were partaking in a round-the-world cruise. The remaining third of the ship was home to a combination of second-class passengers and migrants bound for Fremantle, Melbourne or Sydney. Jane Frobisher was one of the one hundred and fifty four migrants under the British-Australian Assisted Passage Scheme. Secure gates confined the second-class passengers to their third of the ship, which nevertheless provided a swimming pool, deck games and offered the most comprehensive variety of food. The quayside was therefore littered either with happy people going on a once in a lifetime holiday, already holding brightly coloured streamers for the traditional farewell, or those sad and sombre families being torn asunder by emigration.

Sea voyages to the antipodes in the nineteen fifties meant weeks if not months of travel and often remained financially beyond the reach of working men and women. It was quite a few years before expeditious flights would transport travellers across two hemispheres in under two days.

Why was it that travelling the world meant so much to Jane? Was it because she’d enjoyed listening to all the stories of how and why her mother was born in Australia, her father born in Canada, a great grandfather had spent over thirty years of Army service in India and a great aunt, a missionary in China at the time of the Boxer Rebellion. Her whole family seemed to have been emigrants, soldiers or travellers for generations. She had never aspired to a life in the suburbs, a semi-detached residence, a garage, two point four children and two weeks holiday at the seaside during the summer months.

Now it was time to depart these shores and she wished she felt happier about leaving everything and everyone she knew. Jane and her parents huddled together beside that beautiful ship and although hundreds of happy voyagers or apprehensive emigrants surrounded them, they had only eyes for one another. Her mother’s clear blemish free skin was ashen and her distinctive blue eyes had turned grey, like the day. Her father’s eyes were full of sadness, glistening tears waiting to escape.

He took Jane’s hands in his. You can come home any time, you know, phone me and I’ll get you home. I wish you weren’t going, of course, but I know your mind’s made up. Make sure your traveller’s cheques are safely put away – you know what you’re like, always losing things. Look after your money – put some in different places. For goodness sake, don’t lose your handbag as it contains the only documentation proving who you are. He paused and put his hands on her shoulders, repeating, You know you can come home at any time, but better by far you don’t leave today – better by far. It’s not too late to change your mind, even now.

Although Jane didn’t know it at the time, that was the last day her family would ever spend together – the three of them – their last precious hours spent in tears, anguish and desperate sadness.

The ship’s bell tolled, alerting visitors to return to the quay. The funnels belched black smoke into the atmosphere, declaring the ship’s impatience to depart that dismal place. It was the impetus either for people to increase their laughter and excitement in anticipation of a once in a lifetime sea voyage or for others to weep with sadness at the prospect of a lengthy separation from those they were leaving behind.

Gangways swung onto the quay, mooring ropes were detached, accompanied by a final blast of smoke from the funnels – the ship was gradually slipping away from the dock, streamers ultimately breaking and floating on the foaming water. The last view Jane had of her parents was of their arms wrapped around each other, her father wiping away tears with one hand and holding up her mother with the other. They were weeping into the driving rain while the band played Anchors Away and Auld Lang Syne as the ship slowly departed the quay. She cried until she couldn’t see them any longer, finally collapsing into a nearby deck chair.

Jane was to share a cabin with three others, all of them emigrating to and settling in Melbourne. Margaret was joining her fiancée; they were to be married early in the New Year. Louise was reluctantly going to reside with her daughter and grandchildren and Jean was newly married, her husband, disappointingly, being allocated another cabin for men only. They were all Ten Pound Poms, emigrants who were part of the current migration programme, encouraging affordable emigration to Australia. Jane, however, was only a Five Pound Pom, as she was under the age of nineteen. All were teary and vulnerable, but decided to go on deck and get a bit of fresh air and familiarise themselves with the layout of the ship.

Later in the afternoon, Jane and her cabin companions were enjoying afternoon tea in the upstairs library area, when someone called out, Have your last look at England – it’ll be a good many years before you see her again.

About forty or fifty people lined the ship’s rails, watching the coast fade gradually from view, following which, deep in thought, they returned to their seats in silence. Jane only discovered her handbag wasn’t where she’d left it when the bell sounded for dinner. She was immediately panic stricken, looking valiantly but in vain for her missing handbag, as did everyone else in the vicinity.

Someone might have found it and handed it into the Purser’s office, suggested Jean’s husband, Eric. We’ll look for his office and see if it’s turned up.

Eric knocked several times on the Purser’s office door, before a young inexperienced looking girl arrived to unlock and open it.

Sorry, but the Purser isn’t available at the moment, but I can put you in touch with one of the Fivers if you like?

Fivers?

Yes, one of the fifth officers, who will take all your details and report to the Purser, who will eventually send for you to discuss your matter.

My matter? My problem, you mean. Everything I owned, except my luggage, was in my handbag. Simply everything. I’ve over two thousand miles to travel once I arrive at Sydney. I really need my handbag, which contains all my money, traveller’s cheques and documentation. I’ve such a long way to travel to my destination.

I’m obviously not authorised to deal with your matter – er, problem. Take a seat in the passageway while I look for a fiver. I’ll be as quick as possible.

Eric settled Jane in a chair outside the office. You’ll be all right here. I’d better get back to Jean, as she’ll start to worry if I’m away too long.

Within ten minutes, a young man came hurrying along the corridor, reminding Jane of a head prefect in his brand new uniform.

Sorry to have kept you waiting and I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me, as the Purser is snowed under at the moment.

He opened the door and asked Jane to take one of the two seats facing a very large desk. It was obviously not his personal office, but he sat on the corner of the desk exuding savoir-faire, condescendingly asking the hapless female facing him, Now, how can I help?

I’ve mislaid my handbag in the library area on the second deck.

And you mislaid it – how?

I put it on the floor by the side of my chair while we had tea, during which someone announced that we could have a last look at the coastline of England, or something like that. Which I did. I wasn’t away from my chair for more than two or three minutes, but when the bell rang for afternoon tea and I looked for it, well, it just wasn’t there. Everyone in the room searched and it was nowhere to be found. Everything I have in the world is in that handbag!

Was, you mean. By now, I’m afraid whoever took it, would have taken out the money and thrown it overboard. But we can look on the bright side and hope that someone found it and will hand it in to us, so all I can advise is that you come back in the morning and we’ll see where we go from there.

Later that day, almost before sunset, Jane could remember standing on the top deck of that beautiful luxury ocean liner, gazing at a distant shore, probably France. She was in the lamentable position of having been relieved of her handbag containing all her personal possessions while sailing through the English Channel. She had seventeen thousand miles yet to journey to her destination of a mining town in outback Queensland without money or any document of identity.

2

The Journey

Jane was walking off the most interesting and substantial array of breakfast food she’d ever seen or tasted, when a voice came over the loudspeaker requesting that ‘Miss Jane Frobisher report to the Chief Purser’s office, please.’ Quickly searching for the nearest stairs, she tried to remember the whereabouts of the Purser’s office and on which deck. It took her a while to remember the way, being considerably out of breath as she timidly knocked on the office door.

Enter at your peril! discharged a loud, authoritative masculine voice. Jane entered and stood in front of his huge desk covered with papers, files, a variety of telephones and numerous untouched beverages.

Take a seat, Miss Frobisher – and the news isn’t good, as your handbag hasn’t turned up, so we must decide what’s going to happen to you now. You can’t possibly continue on the voyage, of course, as you’ve no money, no identity papers and I see that you’re bound for Sydney and then travelling two thousand miles by train to the middle of Australia. No, dear, you can’t possibly continue with the voyage – added to which, of course, you’re officially a minor. First port of call is Gibraltar. You can phone one of your parents, your father if possible, from there and we’ll do our best to arrange a suitable way of transporting you back home. It’s jolly bad luck, I know, but I can’t see there’s any alternative.

Jane didn’t say a word, as the Head Purser never gave her a chance. She couldn’t think of a thing to say in response to his suggestion, so she reluctantly acquiesced, consumed by both disappointment and embarrassment.

The Chief Purser continued, So, you have today and tomorrow until we arrive in Gib, so look on the bright side and think of it as a holiday on an ocean liner, albeit a brief one. No trouble contacting your father?

No, I’ll be able to contact either my mother or father.

Good show. I’ll come with you when you contact home and we can make sure that you’re booked on a reliable vessel for your return journey. Any questions?

No, I don’t think so.

That’s the spirit – you’re young, so there’ll be other opportunities – you’ve plenty of time yet. Have your luggage brought to my office as soon as we dock and as I said, we’ll go ashore together to organise a passage home.

Jane made her way up to the top deck, her eyes drawn to the white foam of the ship’s wake. If she returned home within the next few days, she understood that she’d probably not leave again for quite a while – only for annual holidays. Once she was home, she knew that she couldn’t put her parents through the trauma of separation again.

Once the ship docked in Gibraltar, her adventure was effectively over, as it would be back to Birmingham in the cold and fog of late November. The Purser was adamant about offloading her and she knew he would stay with her until she’d arranged a passage home. Life, particularly with regard to her journey, was taking a turn for the worst; her travels on that beautiful ship now sailing through the Bay of Biscay would conclude on an island at the foot of Spain.

However, the gods were with this adventure-seeking girl; due to a strike by dockworkers, all shipping had to bypass Gibraltar until advised otherwise. Immediately, the fourth officer, over the loud speaker, informed all passengers that the ship would now continue straight through to Port Said, where they would reside for two days prior to joining the first convoy of passenger ships through the Suez Canal.

At the end of the first day crossing the Mediterranean Sea, an unusually choppy Mediterranean Sea, a voice coming from the loud speaker requested ‘the attendance of Miss Jane Frobisher in the Purser’s office prior to the first sitting of the evening meal.’ Jane speculated on what plans the Purser had in mind for her now – being apprehensive on two levels. First, she was more than a little intimidated by this gruff disciplinarian who ruled his staff with an iron tongue. Secondly, she was anxious about what he’d decided to do about her situation now that Gibraltar wasn’t an option. Heavily panting from climbing all those stairs, she bravely knocked on the door of the Purser’s lair.

Come in.

She entered to the din of ringing phones, several intercom machines and the purser giving a piece of his mind to some unfortunate recipient. He slammed down the phone and smiled to himself before looking at Jane, pointing to a seat opposite to his own.

Now, Jane, we’ve a bit of a problem with you, as it won’t be possible to offload you in Egypt. They have had all sorts of problems there and we’d better not give them anymore. The following port of call is Aden, a British Protectorate with ongoing murmurings of dissent and not conducive to obtaining passage for a single young woman back to England. We’re in the port of Bombay for a few days, but again that’s not a good place to connect with ships returning to the UK, as many of them are continuing to travel round the Cape and God only knows where else. I’ve decided to drop you off in Fremantle, where there are many ships sailing every day on their way back to the UK, so it looks as if your holiday will be a little extended. You’ll be able to contact your father from Bombay and work out your travel plans from there, but you’ve another few weeks before we reach Australia. There’s still the matter of you being without funds, of course.

An anxious young sounding voice coming over the intercom from the wireless room interrupted the Purser’s explanation, obviously nervous having to speak to the Purser.

An urgent message from head office, sir, shall I read it out to you, as they require an answer within the hour, if possible?

Yes, all right, go ahead.

It was a message that required a couple of answers from the Purser, so he asked for the message to be copied and sent to him. The jittery answer was ‘that there was no one in the office with me, sir and as I’m not allowed to use the office machinery, sir and I’m not allowed to leave the office, sir, so what shall I do, sir? I’ve been expecting a backup for the past hour, sir."

Jane stood, gaining the purser’s attention, saying, I can take down the message if he’ll read it to me and I’ll type it up for you; that is if I can use the typewriter over there. It’ll only take a minute and …

The Purser interrupted her, Using shorthand, you mean?

Yes, I’m a shorthand writer – it’ll only take a matter of minutes.

He seemed to hesitate, but only for a few seconds. All right, what do you need?

A lined piece of paper and a decent pencil – or, if not, any pencil.

The Purser timed Jane and noted that from the first word written in shorthand until she passed over the typed message, was six minutes. He deemed her quick, efficient and unobtrusive; the girl was exactly what he needed. He immediately decided that he could put her to work easily on those long lazy days between ports and turning towards her with a smile on his face, uttered the words, I’m going to offer you some work, Jane, a few hours each and every day. You’ll have plenty of leisure time, but you’ll earn yourself a bit of pocket money that’ll buy you the odd orange juice or something. What say you?

Jane smiled her acceptance of an offer she was in no position to refuse, being delighted that she would be earning money as a shorthand writer before she’d even arrived at her destination.

It turned out that apart from the odd message to P&O Headquarters, the Purser had ambitions to write his memoirs, his hand written notes being slow and laborious. A shorthand writer was exactly what he needed and when he could manage a little time immediately after lunch, he dutifully recorded the memoirs of his engaging life of some twenty-odd years spent at sea. Jane transcribed and typed the notes and delivered them to a smiling Purser who paid her immediately at the sea-going rate of five shillings an hour, which was a trifle more than she earned as a legal secretary back in Birmingham.

***

As the ship docked in Port Said, Jane knew she was alive, as the tantalising scent of the orient drifted towards the ship. The sight of the first palm trees, with the populace wearing clothes she’d seen only depicted in paintings made her smile with delight; if only she could have walked the alleyways of that ancient port! There was a large contingent of local military personnel patrolling with fixed bayonets, looking nervously at the number of people lining the decks of that beautiful ship. Coming in the ship’s wake, Jane counted at least fifty ships making up the convoy through the canal, causing much interest amongst the local population.

Jane never forgot sailing through the canal, as for most of it, she couldn’t see much water either side of the ship – it was like sailing through the sandy desert itself. She spent most of the day on deck, delighting in all the small communities scattered along the water and innumerable surviving artefacts of the ancient Pharaohs standing open to the elements for three thousand years. Luckily, the Purser – or Chief, as she now called him – didn’t require her services during that lovely, memorable day sailing through the desert towards the Red Sea.

Consequently, Jane now had a little money and could afford to despatch mail to her parents, who were never to hear about the lost handbag. After a while, the Chief stopped asking if she’d arranged a phone call with her father in Bombay, as he was so engrossed with writing his memoirs. She had to concede that she found his life more than a little interesting and even admitted acute embarrassment at the blatant disclosure of his many dalliances. At the end of the week, she’d lost count of the number of ladies he’d entertained; what on earth had been so attractive about this grey-haired, disgruntled, middle-aged Lothario?

Jane had noticed that there seemed to be a different level of morality at sea, frequently and obviously apparent as soon as they’d left port. The services of the fifth officers were particularly if not blatantly sought by the younger female passengers. She was told it wasn’t unusual to see them stealing back into their cabins after emerging from the officers’ quarters early in the morning.

The ship called in at the British Protectorate of Aden, a port where cheap fuel was available, so it was always a long, long queue to gain access to the harbour. Small boats delivered loading docks to take passengers into Crater City, where they could eagerly purchase non-taxable goods. The Purser decreed that Jane wasn’t allowed to visit this port, as she had no papers. Unfortunately, the same rule applied to Bombay, he added. Consequently, you’ll be able to earn yourself a bit of money by typing up my notes, he told her with a smile. However, on the second day anchored in that beautiful harbour in the sub-continent, the Purser took pity on the young traveller who could hear the sights and sounds of Bombay beckoning.

Come on then, Jane, I’ve wanted to visit the cultural centre of Jalup Majal for many a year, so we’ll show you a bit of Indian culture as a treat. You’re with me, so you won’t have to show any papers of identification when we leave or return to the ship. Get your glad rags on and if you don’t have a hat of some description, you’ll have to buy one, as it’ll be stinking hot. I’ll let you loose in one of the markets as well – you’re in for a great day out.

She did enjoy the day, as she was now able to replace her lost handbag plus all the paraphernalia that it housed. A purse, combs, new make-up, notebooks, pencils plus a diary to record her many experiences. She also purchased a few yards of beautiful material to have made into something stunning at a later date, some exotic sandals and a large hat, which would also be useful in outback Australia. These purchases took most of her money, but she knew she’d be earning more once they’d left India.

Jane was to suffer acute embarrassment as well, as she didn’t recognise or appreciate that one of the temples was dedicated to the relationships between men and women – the other between men and men. The Chief couldn’t believe she’d been allowed to travel the world without knowing anything about the male of the species. However, that’s how it was for girls in the nineteen fifties.

They had been walking round the incredibly artistic buildings that were contained in the cultural city for two or three hours. Jane said she would take a bit of a rest under the shaded area for a while.

What shaded area? questioned the Chief.

Well, the only one in the area. That one there in front of the brightly coloured building.

That isn’t a shaded area in front of the brightly coloured building. And have you noticed something distinctive about that particular structure?

No, except it’s the only one with some shade.

Jane, it’s obviously an entrance into a building designed for the worship of men – and their activities.

But it’s the only bit of shade in the whole area – I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I sat there for a while.

I’m sure they would, as I would, of course. Why do you think the entrance to the building is designed in that fashion?

I don’t know what you mean.

Well, the entrance consists of distinctive body parts, doesn’t it?

Body parts?

Yes, men’s body parts. Heaven above, Jane, what do you think they look like?

Jane looked at the Purser as if he were speaking another language and replied, I’m not sure. Are they bamboo shoots or elephant tusks, or something Indian?

The Chief guided her away from the building and from anyone within the vicinity; turning her towards the building, he whispered, They’re not bamboo shoots or elephant tusks, Jane – they’re male, er, male, um – they’re male members, Jane.

Members of what?

And you’re going to a mining town full of men and you have no idea about life whatsoever, do you? What was your father thinking? I tell you what, Jane, as soon as we get back to the ship, you’re going to see the ship’s doctor. She’s easy to talk to and you need to talk to someone, you really do.

Jane was a little perplexed at the Purser’s reaction to her lack of understanding concerning some aspects of the cultural village. However, she had enjoyed the most interesting day on the sub-continent, visiting the first of her interesting places during her travels.

The Chief spent the remainder of the day tut tutting every time he looked at Jane. Although she could be described as being a serious young girl, she wasn’t unattractive. Although slightly built, veering towards petite, she displayed a steadfast and confident walk. There were blonde streaks in her shoulder length light brown hair, her eyes manifesting almost a golden hue, reminiscent of a good scotch whiskey. He dreaded to think what effect the Australian sun would have on her complexion after a few years. Jane exhibited her Englishness with a self-effacing confidence that would hold her in good stead during any minatory situation.

Arriving back on the ship, as promised, he took Jane to the ship’s doctor and said she had to explain all about the facts of life to this young lady who has no idea, no bloody idea, whatsoever. He sailed out of the door, returning almost immediately, saying to the doctor and please include pictures, she hasn’t any idea, none whatsoever. I don’t know what her father was thinking.

It was a calm voyage across the Indian Ocean, Jane being busy for two days taking dictation from the Chief. However, during the morning of the third day, all engines stopped and the ship came to a gradual halt. There’s always a comforting hum of the engines aboard a ship, but it’s an eerie sensation when it stops and there’s virtual silence. On that particular day, the ocean was like a millpond, not a ripple on the vastness of the sea.

Jane was on the port side of the ship when something disturbed the waters roughly two to three hundred yards away, almost directly opposite. It quickly becoming evident to the rapidly increasing number of inquisitive passengers that the disturbing object was a slowly surfacing submarine. No one uttered a sound and soon there was a host of people lining the rails, avidly staring at something they’d seen only at the cinema. On the conning tower was a mark that no one recognised, surrounded by a half circle of five gold stars, like a half moon. No one from the submarine appeared, but the ship’s personnel must have been in contact with the sub, as the ship had come to a halt some forty minutes prior to the submarine surfacing.

This was the era of the Cold War, with tensions between the Soviet Union and the West fraught with difficulties, particularly with the threat of nuclear annihilation from both sides. Jane didn’t know what anyone else was thinking, but she could vividly imagine a direct hit from a torpedo or two – they’d be sunk in no time with very few survivors. To all on board, the submarine appeared menacing, especially as no one from the sub had shown themselves. A brief friendly gesture would have helped allay any fear and trepidation the majority of the passengers must have been experiencing.

Within the hour the submarine began to submerge exceedingly slowly, the water hardly rippling as it vanished beneath the waves. The familiar hum of the ship’s engines once again created the comforting sense of familiarity as it continued its journey. There was no official announcement as to why the ship had halted in the middle of the Indian Ocean or a reason given for the appearance of what was obviously a foreign submarine. Unhappily, it turned out to be the last day Jane worked for the Purser, as every officer on board remained on full alert until the ship docked in Sydney. As she’d spent most of her money in India, Jane was again faced with travelling to her destination with insufficient funds.

The Chief called Jane