Home Is Where the House Is

By Una Clarke

“If only the walls could speak.” It is 1947 and recently demobilised young Royal Navy sailor Dusty Miller has returned to Australia to set up a house with his wartime sweetheart and wife, Wendy. The walls really do speak in this heartfelt narrative as five houses narrate the poignant struggles of Dusty and Wendy when they begin their married life in post-WWII Australia from their first home reluctantly shared by a disgruntled and obnoxious tenant. The couple juggle a new baby with the arrival of Dusty’s resentful family ‘fresh off the boat’, while in their next home in the western suburbs of Sydney, they deal with the devastating effects of a childhood illness. With houses difficult to find, furniture very expensive to buy and returned servicemen vying for jobs, they often turn to self-sufficiency to survive when Wendy, on a tiny budget, sews the whole family new outfits for the Queen’s Royal Visit in 1953.
The same stoic, determined and can-do attitude helps the Millers through financial hardships as they experience the successes and joys of raising three daughters and welcoming grandchildren into their ever-expanding family. Houses situated in geographically diverse areas of a small coastal town, Sydney suburbs, big country town and tiny, isolated rural hamlet tell the story of the family based on true events, giving both an insightful and authentic record of an Australian family in the thirty post-war years to 1977, particularly regarding the work by women.
Home Is Where the House Is is a sequel to Ripples of War by the same author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528910453

Una Clarke

Una Clarke, an Australian, met her English sailor husband while serving in the air force during that period. She began writing short stories when her third daughter started school. Her first book, Land of the Rippling Gold, is still read in schools. Her husband, being in the post office, moved from large country towns to cities, the seaside, small country towns and back to the city, over a period of thirty years, so the idea of the houses telling the story of their lives, loves, sorrows and joys was born. She never wanted to move but eventually realised that: Home Is Where the House Is.

Book preview

Home Is Where the House Is

Una Clarke

Austin Macauley Publishers

Home Is Where the House Is

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

House Number One, 60 Spring Street, Orange. 1947–1952

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

House Number Two, Ten Collins Street, Pendle Hill. 1952–1960

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

268 Byng Street, Orange 1960–1966

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

26 Ocean Street, Windang. 1966–1971

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Post Office Residence, Ariah Park. 1971-1978

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Author’s Note

About the Author

Una Clarke, an Australian, met her English sailor husband while serving in the air force during that period. She began writing short stories when her third daughter started school. Her first book, Land of the Rippling Gold, is still read in schools. Her husband, being in the post office, moved from large country towns to cities, the seaside, small country towns and back to the city, over a period of thirty years, so the idea of the houses telling the story of their lives, loves, sorrows and joys was born. She never wanted to move but eventually realised that: Home Is Where the House Is.

Dedication

Dedicated to my three daughters and their families.

Copyright Information ©

Una Clarke (2021)

The right of Una Clarke to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528910446 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528910453 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank the editors at Austin Macauley for believing my book is worth publishing.

I owe many thanks to my dear departed husband of 60 years, for his support when I spent so many hours at my desk; for the numerous cups of tea he brought me; for encouraging me to keep trying when the rejections came.

I began writing using a lead pencil and an exercise book and then he bought me an old Remington typewriter. After that came a portable, then a word processor. In the year 2000, he presented me with one of the early computers. Each one has made writing easier.

Thanks, too, go to my family for allowing me to write about the funny, happy, tragic and emotional experiences of their own lives.

House Number One,

60 Spring Street, Orange.

1947–1952

Chapter One

SO, YOU DO NOT believe a house has feelings or emotions. Then consider this: why do some people, when inspecting a house to buy or rent, frequently remark upon its comfortable or welcoming feel! On the other hand, some may say it has a chill about it; a feeling they dislike, yet some are so enthusiastic they insist they have fallen in love at first sight. Then again, who has not heard of haunted houses and tales of sightings of one or more ghosts! I have even heard people utter; ‘What a story this house could tell if it could only talk.’ Well, I should know all about houses because, you see, I AM ONE!

Having established that, I can now begin my story; or rather the story of a couple who came to my attention one cold, blustery, autumn day as they trailed behind an estate agent gazing upon my uninspiring features with polite interest. Earlier in the day, the agent had nailed a For Sale notice on my front paling fence.

I knew immediately that they were not impressed. Nor was it surprising, given the extent of my shortcomings.

They were an attractive pair. Deeply bronzed from the sun, he was tall and dark with long-lashed brown eyes and well-marked brows. A slightly off-centre nose and chipped front tooth only slightly marred his film star good looks—though he could have done with a little more flesh on his frame. She too was slim, despite the slight bulge of pregnancy barely concealed by her loose cotton dress. Her short fine hair permed and styled after the fashion of the day, was also as dark, the contrast making her fair complexion appear almost excessively pale. The colour of her eyes, blue green in some lights, greenish grey in others, was not easy to determine. Their youth and vitality were like a fresh current of air through my musty, dusty interior as they advanced along the hall only pausing briefly to glance into the bedrooms.

‘There’s only two, but they are of a fair size,’ the agent is quick to point out.

Walking on, the young man remarks, ‘I’m not keen on the panels on the walls though—they’re dark and depressing.’

‘You could always paint them! You would need to coat them with aluminium paint first of course, else the stain will bleed through…’ His voice trails off as they enter the lounge-cum-dining room to see the same waist-high varnished panelling with narrow wooden slats of an identical shade, covering joins in the white fibro-plaster sheets that line all my ceilings and most walls. This room is rectangular and extends the whole width of my single-fronted design. Its tiny open grate with decorative, black-enamelled cast-iron surroundings nestles across one corner, while a photograph of a funeral procession winding down the town’s main street has pride of place on the carved wooden mantelpiece. Double outward-opening casement windows face the brick wall of the house next door.

Expressions carefully inscrutable, they move on through the doorway leading to the kitchen. Now perhaps, there may be a reaction from her!

Her eyes open wide as they sweep the room. ‘The fuel stove looks nice, well-blacked and shining but…where’s the sink? There’s not even a tap!’

‘Well, if your husband is handy,’ the agent puts in hastily, ‘it wouldn’t take long to tap into the water pipe running around the house to the outside toilet.’ Thumping my wall with his knuckles, he continues, ‘See…it’s just below the window here. Easy, just connect a short length of pipe, bring it through the wall and attach a tap. An old chap has rented the place for many years and it seems the owner has not done much in the way of improvements, but it has great possibilities and it does have running water in the laundry. Come and see.’

‘Mind the step,’ he warns, stepping down onto the concrete floor and pausing to knock on the weatherboards, ‘Solid as a rock!’ he tells them. ‘This wall formed the back of the house before the veranda was built-in.’

Moving to the entrance of the small combined bathroom and laundry adjoining the kitchen, they gaze silently upon twin concrete washtubs and a galvanized tin bath standing on solid stove legs. A large copper cemented into a square brick structure with a small iron door hiding the grate underneath, and boxes of newspapers, old clothes and rubbish scattered about take up what little space remains.

‘When you want a bath, just fill the copper, light a fire in the grate, and hey presto! hot water,’ he remarks with an air of false brightness.

The pair nod but make no comment.

Unbolting the back door constructed from wooden planks, then spreading his hands expansively, his manner is now confiding. ‘Just look at the size of the back yard! Granted the block is narrow, however being twice the length of most back yards more than makes up for that. You can run chooks, plant an orchard; have a great vegetable garden, anything you like.’

They have to agree he is right about the size. However, over the years a succession of horses has eaten every blade of grass as it appears on the hard-packed soil.

‘About the tenant…’ the young man begins hesitantly, ‘is he prepared to…that is, will he move out if it’s sold?’

‘Yes, I believe so. If not, I presume you know the law; ex-service personnel are entitled to vacant possession of a house they own or are paying off, provided they intend to occupy it themselves.’

‘Yes,’ he admits ‘we have heard that.’

‘Both of us were in the forces during the war,’ she informs him. ‘I was in the WAAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Australian Air Force) and was based in Melbourne and Dusty served in the Royal Navy with the British Pacific Fleet up north. We met when his ship came in for a six-week refit. The problem is, there are so few houses on the market in our price range and we desperately need to find one because we’re renting a room over a bakery. We were told we couldn’t have children when we went there and it’s too small anyway,’ she finishes in a rush.

‘Well then, are you interested in this?’

Her husband turns to her. She is twisting a shiny gold wedding ring. It is easy to gauge their deep feelings by the tenderness in their eyes as they gaze at each other.

‘We can’t put an old man out, can we, love?’ he asks.

She shakes her head; smiles at their companion. ‘We’ll discuss it and let you know. Thank you so much for showing it to us.’

Holding hands, they walk off down the driveway. I do not expect to see them again.

*

For more years than I care to recall, one family has occupied my premises as tenants. During those years, their only child, a daughter, grew up and married, and the mother passed on. The photograph of her funeral procession has graced the mantelpiece ever since, and her husband has lived here alone except for the horse that occupies half of the block. The daughter, who married a man called Hardy, calls once a week to clean the stove and polish the linoleum and dark-stained wooden floors.

Mr Cotterham, now in his early seventies, has become a bitter, wizened old man, permanently bent from his habit of trudging the streets searching for screws, nuts, bolts, any old piece of junk he can find to bring home. With his grimy felt hat jammed upon sparse hair, shabby clothes, and rheumy blue eyes glinting through gold-rimmed granny glasses, he could easily be mistaken for an old tramp.

After an argument, many years’ earlier (the cause long since forgotten), he has hated his congenial next-door neighbour passionately. Frequent mutterings of his intention of ‘tying him up with barbed wire, pouring kerosene over him, setting him alight and throwing him off the Harbour Bridge,’ would be alarming if there was any chance of it happening (for a start, Mr Agland is both younger and stronger). His ravings merely show the extent of his malevolence.

Life now continues in its usual boring way with the old man following the same routine each morning. After a frugal breakfast of toast and tea, he prepares a saucer of salted water before carrying it to the laundry tub. There he repeatedly sniffs and snuffles the mixture into his nostrils and down his throat, then gargles and spits the mucus into the tub. Next, he retrieves his cutthroat razor and leather strop from behind the door and strops until satisfied the edge of the knife is sharp enough to sever a hair from his head when held against it. Then after lathering his face with soap and shaving brush, painstakingly removing the grey stubble with the razor and carefully combing scanty strands across his head, he grabs his hat and is ready for his walk. Sunday mornings he dresses in his best suit, harnesses the horse to the sulky, and drives to his daughter’s for lunch.

The Sunday after the young couple’s visit, old Cotterham had just finished his ablutions when a ring from the bell on my front door woke me from a light doze. The old man failed to hear it. The second ring was longer.

Muttering to himself, he shuffles up the passageway and opens the door. ‘If you’re them religious lot, you can turn right round and scram,’ he snarls rudely. ‘Go bother that scurrilous rogue next door.’

The young man shakes his head and says hurriedly, ‘I’m Doug Miller—most people call me Dusty—and this is my wife, Wendy. We inspected your house last weekend, Mr Cotterham. We just wanted to know…we were wondering…that is, if we buy it…would you be prepared to move?’

‘Well, if it means gettin’ away from that Bill Agland next door, I most certainly would!’ He launches into a tirade against the neighbour while, looking uncomfortable, they stand, waiting for him to finish.

When he does, finally, the young man asks, ‘So you’re happy to move, I take it?’

‘I said so, didn’t I―when I find something suitable.’

‘Naturally, we understand that. If we do buy, the agent says that being old title it will probably take three months or more to settle, as there are many titles to look up. Well, thank you very much. We may be seeing you again soon then if things work out.’

As they reach the end of the drive, I hear him murmur, ‘that neighbour is a bit of a worry, love. I think we’d better try to find out if the man is as bad as he makes out.’

*

Some six months later, the sound of pram wheels on the front path announces the arrival of visitors. It is the young couple again; he is pushing a cane pram containing a small sleeping baby. He puts the brake on while she adjusts the blankets before they mount the front steps together.

‘I hope he’s home,’ she whispers anxiously.

Being in the front bedroom, Cotterham has heard the bell the first time. He opens the door a crack and peers out. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ he remarks, opening a little wider. ‘Well, didn’t think to see you again. What do you want?’

‘I believe you were notified that we were buying this house,’ the young man begins with a smile, ‘well, the sale took six months—much longer than we expected I’m afraid—however, it has gone through now and we own it…subject to the mortgage of course. Our landlady is giving us a hard time because of the baby, pestering us to move out…we were wondering if you’ve had any success finding somewhere to live.’

‘No—I have not!’ he snarls. ‘Houses are scarcer than hen’s teeth.’

The couple stare at each other in disbelief.

Dusty finds his voice; ‘You’ve been looking for a house?’ Then his voice rises, ‘We wouldn’t have had to buy this if we’d been able to rent! With returned men and women flooding the market, and so few houses built during the war, if one does become available, they’re asking key money and getting it.’ He leans forward and softens his tone, ‘We don’t want to get tough and force you out, Mr Cotterham, but we are desperate.’

There is an embarrassing silence before Cotterham assumes a wheedling tone, ‘What about if I have all me furniture moved into one bedroom so you could move into the rest? You feed me and I’ll pay board until I find somewhere else.’

Wendy turns to her husband; ‘It would be a solution. What do you think, love?’

He gestures resignedly, ‘You decide. You’ll be doing the extra work.’

She faces Cotterham. ‘All right, we agree. When can we move in?’

‘Next weekend…if yeh want. I’ll get me daughter and her husband to help me pack up.’

They go off looking much happier. I feel sorry for them. They do not know the old man as I do.

During the next week, the Hardys arrive and a flurry of activity disturbs my peace and sends dust flying. Furniture is stacked to the ceiling in the second bedroom on both sides, leaving a narrow passage leading to his bed. Nothing remains in the other rooms. He even has the linoleum squares taken up in all but the hall, leaving varnished boards round the edges and bare patches in the middle.

On Saturday, around lunchtime, a small truck arrives with the new owners and their possessions are unloaded. There is little enough; a double bed, a child’s cot, a short wardrobe for men’s clothes (commonly called a low-boy) and a chest of drawers go in the front bedroom. A cheap new polished-wood dining table with four chairs and two unmatched armchairs go into the lounge room and a drop-top, foot-pedal sewing machine positioned under the window. The rest of the furniture, a new stained-wood cabinet with sliding glass doors; a table made from pine; second-hand chairs that have seen better days; a varnished wooden ice chest and lastly a small white marble-topped cupboard, all end up in the kitchen. The latter item which once, no doubt, had been a bedroom washstand holding an old-fashioned china basin and jug, now reposes under the kitchen window to store pots and pans and provide a surface for washing-up or cooking.

With the truck empty, the shifters depart and having unpacked the kitchenware, the couple have now started on the bedroom. While Wendy neatly places clothing in drawers, Dusty sets about constructing a corner wardrobe for the clothes laid out upon the bed. He measures, cuts and screws until he has a length of wooden doweling fitted for the coat hangers, and a piece of curtaining wire stretched across the front. Wendy hands him a flowered cotton curtain to thread onto the wire and it is ready for the hanging of the clothes.

‘It will have to do for now. Considering I’m no carpenter, I haven’t done too bad a job,’ Dusty tells her with a touch of pride. ‘Lucky your dad gave me a few tips. He’s a knowledgeable old boy.’

‘Sure is,’ she agrees. ‘He’s always been what they call, a good bush carpenter. He had to be, during the depression. We were not lucky enough to live in a big city like you. There were hardly any tradesmen in our tiny town and we couldn’t afford them anyway. Look what a strong job he made of the cot! Marian will soon need to go into it. Oh darling, isn’t it beaut that we can now put her out in the pram in our own backyard?’

‘Yes, love, though I do wish I could have bought more furniture for you. The shifter’s twenty-five shillings took the last cash in our bank account. However, I guess we can consider ourselves lucky to have the hundred quid deposit. The fifty pounds for the fees—gosh, that was the killer, never expected them to be that much even though the agent said that being old title it would be expensive. Anyway, he reckoned that if the house hadn’t been tenanted it would have cost eight hundred pounds instead of seven! Besides, we are only here at all, thanks to you, my love. If you hadn’t saved fifty pounds from your service pay and the allowance from the navy while I was away, plus all the stuff for the house you bought…’

‘And your ninety pounds,’ she is quick to remind, ‘and do not forget the hundred pounds wedding present my parents gave us because they didn’t have to pay out on a reception, just a family tea. We’ve needed every penny…’ She breaks off as he crushes her in his arms and kisses her until she gasps for air.

‘It’s a damn shame we have to share it with a stranger,’ he murmurs, sighing deeply as he releases her. ‘We have to stay here now, with nothing left in the bank. I just pray it works out and we don’t regret moving in with him.’

‘Don’t worry, my darling. We have all the basics. We can get the rest bit by bit and will appreciate them the more for having had to wait. Now…’ she continues, picking up several wet nappies and leaving him to collect his tools, ‘I had better go and wash these while Marian is asleep.’

About to dump them in the trough, she drops them on the copper and touches a slimy bottom with a cautious fingertip. A frown creasing her smooth forehead, she rummages in a cardboard box for scrubbing brush, soap and disinfectant, and cleans the trough thoroughly before putting the nappies in to soak.

Monday morning, after Dusty had gone to work, she learns the cause of the slime. Hearing snuffling and hawking, she goes to investigate—just in time to see Cotterham spitting into the trough of soaking nappies. She ducks back, nausea and disgust contorting her face. It is surprising she does not confront him. Then again, since he keeps raving on about his neighbour at every opportunity, I wonder if she is a little scared of him. I have no doubt of this after he begins stropping his razor and calls her to witness the hair test; too puffed up with his own cleverness to notice her shiver and turn even paler. When he leaves for his walk, she heaves a deep sigh of relief.

At the first faint sound of a bike coming up the driveway, she hurries out to meet him. (Our town is not so large that work is too far away for the breadwinner to ride home for lunch). He listens gravely as she gives him a hurried account of her morning while keeping an eye out in case Cotterham comes around the corner.

‘I’ll have a word with him about spitting in the trough,’ Dusty tells her, patting her reassuringly. ‘But you mustn’t distress yourself my love or you’ll lose your milk. You have too good an imagination, you know. I’m sure he wouldn’t hurt you or Marian. I saw him lean in and kiss her yesterday afternoon when she was outside in the pram.’

‘What!’ she is horrified. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I will not have that dirty old man kissing my baby. Don’t tell me I can’t put her outside in the fresh air again now!’

He tries to soothe her. ‘Yes, you can, just wait till he goes out. Look, love, we just have to put up with him for the time being. I am so sorry—what else can we do? I’ll talk to him tonight…’ he finishes hastily, urging her inside, ‘I hear him coming.’

Wendy serves up a hot dinner of T-bone steak and vegetables, with apple pie and custard to follow. Both men eat with relish.

Cotterham moistens the corners of his lips with his tongue. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve had tucker this good,’ he remarks, upending the tomato sauce bottle over his food. Licking his finger, he wipes the sauce off the top and offers it to Wendy. She shakes her head and looks pointedly at her husband. Busy with his meal Dusty has not noticed the old man’s action, although had heard his remarks and agrees; ‘Yes, she sure is a beaut cook, my girl. I’m a lucky man.’

At that moment, Marian chooses to cry. Wendy picks up her plate resignedly, shoves it in the oven, and goes to check on her.

*

Listening to conversations, I soon learn a lot about the young couple, now both only twenty-one. They met just before the end of World War 2; became engaged and married five months later when his ship was in Sydney Harbour loading tinned food to take home to England whose people had suffered many shortages during the war. (During that five months, his ship, HMS Ursa, as part of the British Pacific Fleet, had the task of liberating Allied Prisoners of War imprisoned in Hong Kong and then showing the flag around Japan and its islands.) It was possible at that time, to marry with only a day’s notice, providing they had parental consent if under twenty-one. After twelve days’ honeymoon, his ship sailed, and though offered discharge in Australia and transfer to the Australian Navy, he had opted to sail with her, intending to persuade his family (mother, stepfather and younger brother) to immigrate. That part proved to be easy, however getting back to his bride had not. It had taken ten long months to obtain passage on a passenger ship and return, leaving his family to follow later as ten-pound immigrants. As that scheme had not yet started, they expected a wait, but now a year had passed and news of them getting a berth might not be far away and, being their sponsors, the pair had to guarantee them accommodation—another reason they had been so anxious to have their own home. If the old man had not moved by then, I anticipated more problems for them.

*

In their first week, most of Wendy’s close family had come to inspect their new establishment. Her sister Laura, toddler son in a basket on the front of her bike, having ridden from the other end of town where they lived, is the first to arrive. There is little to mark them as sisters apart from the shade of their hair. Laura has a mass of tight curls, warm brown skin and large velvety-brown eyes with more than a hint of mischief. No doubt, there had been French or Italian in their ancestry. Her child has inherited her colouring, though his eyes show a more serious personality.

She parks herself in a kitchen chair, holding the little boy on her lap, and inquires in a loud voice, ‘Where’s the old coot then? I pity you Kid, having to put up with him in your house.’ When Wendy, fingers to her lips, tries to shush her by pointing towards the back yard, she just laughs.

‘How’s about a nice cuppa, Kid, I’m bushed.’

Wendy turns to stoke the stove. ‘Won’t be long…kettle is nearly boiling.’

‘You’ve got the fire going? No wonder it’s so hot in here.’ Laura is fanning herself with a newspaper. ‘I see you’ve made scones. At least the oven is working okay. Guess what, Sis—you’re going to have another nephew or niece.’

‘That’s great. When is it due?’ She stoops to give her a sisterly hug.

‘Oh, somewhere around the middle of July next year, so you will have to get knitting again. Richard says he’ll ask his boss for leave to mind Bill when I go to the hospital.’

‘If he can’t, I can—or Mum will.’

‘Thanks, but Richard wants to do it this time. I haven’t told her yet, and don’t you! She’ll carry on about it being too soon—only 18 months between them. I will tell her when I’m ready. It’s none of her business anyway. Richard calls her a bloody interfering old duck. She’s had a couple of go-ins with him about all the jobs he has had since his demob. Now that he has a job he does like, learning to be an architect, I don’t want any more smart remarks from her.’

‘I know she’s a trial sometimes, but she does mean well, you know.’

‘Bloody hell, save us from well-meaning people. They are the hardest to deal with because they mean well. By the way, I had a letter from her yesterday. She wants to sell the farm now because Dad is having trouble with his arm. It’s developed arthritis or something and he’s finding the work too hard. His doctor says he could operate and straighten it—you know how it’s only had fifty per cent movement since he smashed his elbow when he was young—but then it could be permanently straight, no movement at all, so Dad says he won’t take the risk. Mum wants to buy another corner shop like they had before.’

Wendy frowns, ‘They sold out just before Dusty got back from England, saying they couldn’t manage without me doing the housework and cooking, remember? They’ve only been at the farm twelve months.’

‘Their next shop wouldn’t want to be as busy as Byng Street! Still, it is up to them. You can quiz them about it on Friday. They’ll be here to visit you after lunching with me.’

‘Good, I’m anxious to show them the house. They haven’t been here since we moved in. Did you hear our young David is transferring to Lamrock and Lound’s Dubbo Menswear? He says it’s a leg up and means more money.’

‘Yep, our brother has done well. We’ll hardly ever see him then; not that he visits us much now.’

‘Same here; he is always off shooting rabbits and foxes with the boss, watching footy, or playing. He used to come to tea in the flat with us occasionally. I remember (she laughs at the memory) we ate, as you know, in the tiny kitchenette they had built in one corner of the balcony overlooking the street—so they could call just one room and use of a bathroom, a flat and charge twenty-five bob a week rent! Dusty was only getting five pounds, two and six a week at that time and I had to pay rent for ten weeks before we moved in, just to hold it. The tiny kitchen table, only a card table really, was up against the wall and we three could only just fit around it. David was sitting close to the open door. Anyway, this night we had grilled chops and after chewing the meat off the bone, he casually tossed it over his shoulder into the street. Dusty was shocked and I nearly choked trying to stop laughing while scolding him. He could have hit someone walking past! He didn’t care, just chuckled—thought it a great joke, until I threatened not to invite him again. I didn’t mean it; I love the young rascal. I’ll miss him. He was a great comfort to me when Dusty was away and we all lived together at the shop.’

Laura grins, ‘It was somewhat crowded with only two bedrooms and a sleep-out, especially when my Richard came home on leave and you had to sleep on the lounge.’

‘Yes, it wasn’t very comfortable. The worst thing, he usually arrived on the three o’clock train and I had to get out of my warm bed. Remember the time he came home unexpectedly and tapped on our bedroom window and I, like a fool, sprang up in fright and rushed into Mum and Dad’s room yelling, There’s a man at our window! Richard didn’t half tease me about that.’

‘Well, you’ve always been a bit of a fraidy cat. How would you be if you had to sleep in a house on your own?’

Wendy’s smile fades. ‘I’ve never had to…I guess I’d be nervous. Even in the Air Force I always had other girls in the same room.’

‘Anyway, now houses are so hard to rent, so many marrying and living with parents and little prospect of getting their own homes for years, I reckon we’re both lucky we’re not still with Mum and Dad.’ With that, she pulls a face and barks, ‘Hasn’t that bloody kettle boiled yet?’

‘Sorry.’ Wendy jumps up to make the tea, butter scones and cut chunks of fruitcake. ‘You had better not let Mum hear you swear. She reckons you learnt it from the nurses you worked with.’

‘Trust her!’

The sisters chatter on. Then Marian wakes, and for the next hour, before Laura and Bill leave for the ride home, their main subject is how clever their children are.

When Dusty arrives home, he too has brought news. A job is on offer in the welding section, provided he goes to night school at tech for six months to learn the technical side. It will mean more money in his wage packet he informs her while awaiting the tea she is preparing.

‘We’ll be getting six pounds seven and six pence a week after tax. The extra pound will be a big help. We need so many things, especially with Mum and Dad and Nipper coming out. After food, mortgage repayments and other expenses, there’s not much left.’

‘I know, it’s just that I don’t like being on my own at night with him.’

‘That is silly, darling. You are here alone with him in the daytime. He is a bit eccentric, probably bordering on dementia, but I doubt he would harm anyone. By the way, men at the factory reckon our neighbours, Mr and Mrs Agland, are a champion couple. Both are active in community work too. You should get to know them.’