Nod to the Admiral

By Jenny Kroonstuiver

For Bluey and Molly Turner, 1901 brings a big change: a baby on the way and the purchase of the Trafalgar Hotel in the tiny mining town of Trafalgar in the Western Australian goldfields.

They find themselves thrust into the lifestyle of a rapidly growing mining town of diverse personalities and politics amidst learning how to run a new business. Overlooking them all is the painting of Admiral Nelson, both loved and detested.

This is a heartwarming story about friendship and family, set in the turbulent times of a fast developing gold mining industry when the town of Trafalgar was in its heyday. The three families of the Turners, O’Connells and Primroses, core to the Trafalagar Hotel, face the challenges of daily life, clashes of culture, a devastating war, and the inlfuenza pandemic, whilst watching their own children grow up to a rapidly changing world.

Based on the historical events which affected Trafalgar from 1900-1925, Nod to the Admiral brings the tiny town and its inhabitants to life with empathy and a touch of humour.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781922912800

Jenny Kroonstuiver

Born in the 1950s, Jenny Kroonstuiver spent her childhood living on pastoral stations firstly in western Queensland and then on the Nullarbor Plain in Western Australia. She trained as a teacher and spent several years teaching in country areas of the Northern Territory and Queensland, before returning to Kalgoorlie in the 1980s. After a short-lived marriage, she raised her four children alone, continuing to work in the broader education sector. From 2004, she took up a role managing the national training system for the Australian meat industry, a role she held until her retirement in 2020. After publishing several family histories and biographies, this is her third novel in the series of the lost towns of the Eastern Goldfields of Western Australia.Other novels in the lost towns of the Eastern Goldfields series: The Memory Chest Nod to the Admiral

Book preview

Prologue

Liam O’Connell drove slowly through the deserted streets of Trafalgar, noting the piles of rubble, discarded and rusty corrugated iron, flattened fences and occasional still standing brick chimney, resilient against the ravages of time and neglect. In the long-forgotten gardens, an occasional hardy rose bush bravely displayed faded blooms among woody, long-forgotten geraniums.

Nestled among the ruins were one or two shacks, evidently still inhabited, wisps of smoke rising from cracked chimneys, with the inevitable detritus of scavenging from deserted properties decorating the front yards. Liam paused briefly in front of what had been Rosie’s house over 80 years ago, now just a vacant block, his prized rose garden nothing more than a memory. He wondered how much Emily, his wife, remembered of her childhood home.

Adjusting his hat to better protect his eyes from the glare of the mid-summer sun, he drove slowly past the site of the old railway station, remembering Bluey telling him the story of the long fight to retain services on the Loop Line. Now it was nothing more than a pile of rubble, the railway lines long gone, although the sign ‘Trafalgar’ still bravely marked the spot. He remembered the day that he and his father had arrived on the bustling platform of that station, to the welcoming astonishment of Aunt Molly. So long ago, but such an important event in his life.

At the end of the street, he stopped the car in front of the ruined hotel, nothing more than crumbling brick walls and rusted iron railings. Even so, the remains of the building were more resilient than the neighbouring houses, now just memories. The fence was long gone, but the front gate, erected by his father, still hung lopsidedly on rusted hinges, and the small courtyard, so loved by Molly, was overgrown with wild ivy. He smiled as he remembered the tiny woman sitting there with her mending, her hands ever busy.

The back yard was visible through the rubble of the old hotel. Where the stables had been, now lay piles of rusted corrugated iron. Admiral’s corner was nothing more than a memory, and the vegetable garden, so lovingly tended by his father, just flattened earth. He smiled as he remembered the cricket games of his childhood, with Billy and Alfie, as well as Admiral. Admiral had been his means of acceptance in a time where black and white were so rigidly divided.

In his mind he could hear Bluey calling for last drinks. Such a huge red bear of a man, admired and respected in the small community, opposed by few. He smiled as he remembered Bluey talking to the detested and then loved painting which served as a permanent reminder of his own name.

Sadly, he looked around the scattered remains of his childhood, holding so many memories, and now soon to disappear forever into the gaping Super Pit. So many stories of a happy, yet challenging, childhood. He lifted his camera and snapped a few photos, not sure if he could even bring himself to use them, preferring instead to recall the vibrant, happy place of the hotel of his youth.

Turning, he looked back down what had been Lake Street, remembering the fire station, the school, the trains. In his mind, he was sitting in the dray as it passed the friends and neighbours of his childhood. Now, it was nothing more than a shimmering, forgotten street.

Within the next month, Trafalgar would be gone. Erased completely from the landscape into the yawning crater of the Super Pit. Those last few determined residents would be moved on, helpless to hold out against the tide of progress.

Born of mining, the tiny town was about to disappear. A servant to the giant industry which was the reason for both its beginning and its demise, it was destined to become nothing more than a memory.

Chapter 1

Bluey Turner hammered in the last nail and stepped back to admire his handiwork. The completed sign with its gold lettering proudly announced ‘Silas H. Turner, Licensee’ above the doorway of the Trafalgar Hotel. He folded his massive arms and stood surveying his new home and business. His eyes were drawn to the secretive ‘H’ on the sign. That was as close to his detested second name, Horatio, that he intended the community of Trafalgar to come. He had winced every time he had to write it in full on all the legal documents involving the sale of the hotel and had even sworn the bankers to secrecy. As far as he was concerned there was no need to perpetuate the embarrassment on the hotel sign.

Silas had earned the nickname ‘Bluey’ almost as soon as he had set foot in Fremantle nine years earlier, in 1892. A large man, standing well over six feet, and sporting a head of thick coppery hair with an even redder beard, he had barely stepped onto the wharf from the cargo ship which had carried him from Norfolk, when one of the lumpers had yelled, Hey Bluey, move yourself, as he started to unload crates from the hold. The name had stuck immediately, and the only time he had momentarily reverted to Silas was on the day he married Molly O’Connell, in Kalgoorlie in 1894.

‘Horatio’ had been an unwelcome gift from his grandmother. His tiny home village of Burnham Thorpe, on the River Burn in Norfolk, had been the birthplace of vice-admiral Horatio Nelson. Nelson’s untimely death in 1805 at Trafalgar, after fighting the Franco-Spanish fleet, had spurred a wave of patriotic sentiment across the village, and the name Horatio began appearing regularly in the baptismal records of the local churches. His father, born in 1821, was the fourth boy in his family to whom his mother had proudly awarded the second name of Horatio. He continued the tradition with his children at the urging of the same ageing matriarch. No-one in the family had ever even met Admiral Nelson, as far as Bluey knew, and he had actively avoided acknowledging the detested name for as long as he could remember.

Now, on the other side of the world, standing in front of the ironically named ‘Trafalgar Hotel’, in the tiny goldfields town of Trafalgar, he felt an intense desire to suppress the ghosts of his past. The two-story stone and brick building stood majestically on the large block, with a smaller single-story wood and iron building to one side. Its wide verandahs, shaded by a bull-nosed corrugated iron roof with a decorative parapet, overlooked the western side of the small mining town, including the new railway. It was an attractive building that had a sense of permanence about it, surrounded as it was by the makeshift tin and hessian structures of the nearby houses.

Well, it’s ours. He turned to the diminutive woman standing quietly by his side. This is our new life.

It was two weeks since his successful bid for the auctioned property, leased from the Hannan’s Brewery. It had been a spur of the moment decision, after he and his wife Molly had read a notice about the upcoming auction in the newspaper. Until that moment buying a hotel had never even crossed his mind, but for some reason he kept going back to the advertisement and found himself delaying his return to Niagara in order to attend the auction.

Years of reasonably successful prospecting and frugal living in a two-roomed house in Niagara meant that he had accumulated a tidy sum at the Western Australian Bank. He still had hopes of finding the big nugget which would enable him to retire a wealthy man, but all the same, he had done reasonably well over the years. This latest visit to Kalgoorlie had produced a surprise for them both. The doctor had confirmed that Molly was pregnant. After years of marriage, they had long since given up any hope of having a child, and the surprising news had caused him to look twice at the advertisement for the hotel in the nearby town of Trafalgar. The small town of Niagara seemed to have reached its peak. The chance of finding nuggets was becoming rare, and ideas of moving elsewhere had dominated his thinking for several months.

Their only opportunity to inspect the hotel had been on the Saturday before the auction. He and Molly had caught the train from Kalgoorlie and wandered through the spacious rooms, surprised at the well-appointed building. The ground floor held two bars, a tap room, several parlours, a kitchen pantry, two bedrooms and a bathroom – the first indoor bathroom they had seen for several years.

It was immediately evident that the previous owner had decided to capitalise on the name ‘Trafalgar’ with a large painting of Nelson mounted commandingly in the front entrance. The red-cheeked Admiral was dressed in full regalia, from the gold-trimmed bicorne hat to the high-necked navy jacket adorned with medals, gold buttons and fringed gold epaulets and was depicted with a far-away look in his eyes.

That will be the first thing to go, if I buy this place, Bluey had muttered under his breath, hastily turning to inspect the bar area.

Upstairs was a large room and a further five bedrooms as well as another two small parlours. The building to the side contained a billiard room, shop, dining room, kitchen and another five bedrooms.

We’re going to need a cook and several maids, as well as at least three men, commented Molly. This is a much larger undertakin’ than I originally thought. Do you really t’ink we can manage it?

Well, my father owned a coach inn just outside Burnham Thorpe, so I have some idea of how to run a hotel. But I do admit that this is much larger than his inn. From memory, I think it only had four bedrooms, so this is much grander. Your experience as a maid in the Grand Hotel will serve us well, too. It’s going to take most of our savings, but I think this is a good investment.

The advertisement said that Trafalgar is one of the most progressive towns in the area, and when you look at how many new houses we can see from the verandah, I guess that might be true. The auctioneer mentioned that 132 lots had been released last July, so there must be more to come, as well.

Bluey nodded. The Brown Hill extension of the Loop Line is due to open early next year, so that will connect Trafalgar far more easily with Kalgoorlie and Boulder. It’s risky, but I think we can do it.

Molly looked up adoringly at her husband of seven years. Standing at just under 5 feet, she seemed child-like beside her massive husband. But the attraction had been immediate, right from the morning she had found him snoring drunkenly in one of the upstairs bedrooms that she had been sent to clean at the Grand Hotel. He had reminded her of a huge hibernating red bear, not that she had ever seen a real one, and she had shrunk back in surprise as he sat up in the bed, shirtless, grinning at her lopsidedly and asking for some water.

Molly and her brother, Declan, had left Ireland in 1889, after both their parents and younger sister and brother had been killed in the Armagh railway disaster. The long-anticipated Methodist Sunday School excursion had turned into a nightmare when couplings had given way and the two rear carriages had been propelled downhill into the path of an approaching passenger train. Over eighty people, including the other four members of the O’Connell family, had been killed instantly. Molly and Declan, shocked but relatively unhurt, had been pulled from the wreckage hours later. A well-intentioned Methodist minister arranged for the orphans to be sent to Australia, fully believing that they needed to get as far away from the site of the disaster as possible. He had organised employment with a Methodist family in Fremantle, and generous members of the congregation had paid their fares.

Molly remembered nothing of the disaster. She had been knocked unconscious, only waking moments before being rescued. She had vague memories of screaming as the uncoupled carriage had gathered speed, but after that … nothing. Declan, however, had been conscious the whole time. He had been pinned between two crushed seats, unable to provide assistance to the dying members of his family. He had not spoken of the accident since that day, largely urged by the well-meaning minister to put it all behind him.

Arriving in Fremantle, they stepped off the ship to find no-one there to meet them. They soon learned that the gentleman who had agreed to employ them had died, his house and belongings had been sold, and the rest of his family had returned to Ireland. With little money and nowhere to go, they gratefully accepted an offer of employment from a fellow passenger who had been recruiting staff for the Grand Hotel in the far away Goldfields. Terrified, they embarked on the long train trip to Kalgoorlie, over 350 miles away. It was the first time they had boarded a train since the day of the fateful accident, and Molly sat white-knuckled with her eyes shut tightly for several hours before she relaxed enough to take in the scenery of this strange country.

Seventeen-year-old Declan was restless and angry and had lasted only two weeks as a stable-boy at the hotel before leaving with a visiting prospector to try his hand at prospecting for gold near Coolgardie. But fourteen-year-old Molly found that she enjoyed the hard work and the strange mix of nationalities, and that life at the hotel suited her. Since he left, she rarely heard from Declan, apart from one brief encounter at Niagara, and although he was never far from her thoughts, she had long accepted that their lives had taken different paths.

She had been working at the Grand Hotel for nearly four years when she encountered the hung-over Bluey and had been instantly drawn to the huge Englishman with the strange name. He had been prospecting near the Niagara area for the previous two years, with some success, and enthusiastically believed that great riches were nearly within his grasp. She spent many hours listening, transfixed, to his stories of the bush to the north.

Three weeks later they were married, and Molly found herself heading off even further into the outback on a new adventure. For the first four years of their marriage, they had moved from camp to camp, before settling into the tiny Niagara house three years ago. Now, as she stood and looked at the enormous building that was to be their new home, she felt a little overwhelmed and drew closer to her husband.

C’mon Molly, let’s go and explore our new home more thoroughly. And I have a painting of dear old Horatio Nelson to remove.

Chapter 2

What’s all that yelling in the saloon about? asked Molly as she passed Bluey in the corridor on her way to the kitchen.

It’s the Trafalgar Process Association meeting, answered Bluey. Apparently the railways Commissioner has decided to move the Trafalgar Station, even though it has only just been completed. There are some very angry people in there! They were supposed to meet in the front parlour, but there are about 150 people, so I had to move them to the saloon. Even there, it’s standing room only.

Why do they want to move it? asked Molly as she handed the tray she was carrying to one of the passing maids. I thought the current place worked well. That’s grand, Mary, thank you. After you have washed these cups, you can go to bed.

It’s something to do with the new Brown Hill Loop Line, I think they want to move the station to a more central position. We have to close soon, so I hope they are nearly finished. How many rooms are occupied tonight?

All of them. I’ve even had to put two people in a couple of the rooms. I t’ink most of them are at the meetin’, so if it is nearly finished we might yet get to bed before midnight. I’m just so knackered these days. It’s time this babog came to say hello to the world!

Molly smiled as she patted her stomach. With the baby due any day, she was struggling to keep up with the demands of a busy hotel and was looking forward to a few days’ rest with a new baby.

I think some of them will stay on until the official opening of the Loop Line on Saturday, said Bluey as he led Molly to a nearby chair. They seem to have invited Members of Parliament and all kinds of dignitaries. But I think most of the festivities are planned for Brown Hill, with just a brief ceremony for Trafalgar.

The last six months had seen them rapidly learn the hotel business. In the first few weeks they had advertised for staff and now had a full complement of maids, a cook and three young men who managed the stables, bar and gardening duties. They had even employed a book-keeper, a bespectacled Londoner with the pretty name of Walter Primrose, who insisted on wearing a trim suit to work every day, no matter what the weather. Because of his round, chubby cheeks, most of the other staff had nicknamed him ‘Rosie’, but it was a name that no-one ever dared use to his face – then it was always a respectful ‘Mr Primrose’. Having a bookkeeper had proven a godsend for Bluey and Molly, neither of whom had much schooling behind them, and the daily calculation of expenses, recording bookings and addressing council and taxation requirements had been one of their greatest challenges.

All but three of the staff lived locally in Trafalgar, and so they had been able to let most of the bedrooms. Bluey and Molly had taken the two downstairs bedrooms for themselves, a wise decision as it turned out, because their proximity to the bar and the front door allowed them to keep an eye on the comings and goings of their guests.

Despite Bluey’s best intentions, the painting of Admiral Nelson still welcomed patrons to the front foyer. True to his word, he had taken it down the day he received the keys to the hotel, but after a week of patrons asking ‘What happened to the Admiral?’, he had reluctantly put it back. Even now though, he plotted to remove it. There were rumours of a Post Office being planned for Trafalgar, and he quietly planned to donate the painting as soon as the new building was built.

They had been surprised at the demand on their downstairs rooms for community meetings. At least twice weekly the rooms were booked for meetings of groups such as the Cricket Club, Progress Association, Football Club and even the newly-formed Rifle Association. Most meetings finished early and the patrons repaired to the bar to finish off the evening’s discussions. Realising the lucrative benefits to be derived from hosting such meetings, Bluey had begun offering incentives, such as special rates for permanent bookings, in order to attract community groups away from his main competitor, the Terminus Hotel.

Initially, the kitchens had opened only to serve breakfast to the residents, but recently they had begun serving an evening meal three times a week and had already found that some of the meeting groups were asking for those evenings in order to access the evening meal as well. Molly was already looking for a second cook so that they could extend the dinner service to five nights a week, but there was considerable competition with the Terminus Hotel for staff, and she was finding it difficult to find a suitable person.

All of a sudden, the saloon door flew open, and a red-faced Patrick Murphy strode past them with a surly, ‘good night’, as he marched through the front door. Bluey looked after him in amusement.

I guess that means Murphy’s motion lost, then! he smiled. When I left the room, he was demanding a recount.

There followed a steady stream of men, deep in discussion about the evening’s events. Most nodded a curt goodnight to Bluey and Molly as they headed out the front door, while a few mounted the stairs to their rooms. Fifteen minutes later, the saloon had emptied. Bluey thankfully closed the front door and went to help Molly tidy the saloon.

We had a very interesting guest check-in this afternoon, she smiled at Bluey as he stacked chairs at the side of the room. Have you ever heard of a Patrick Hannan? He said everyone calls him Paddy.

Oh yes, I certainly have, said Bluey. He was the one who made the big gold find at Mt Charlotte about eight years ago. I ran across him a couple of times when I first started prospecting. He was with a couple of other Irish blokes – I think one was called Flanagan, but I can’t remember the other one. I doubt he’d remember me, though. Did he say why he was here?

I t’ink he just wanted a bath and a bed for the night. He’s on his tod and said something about havin’ achin’ bones and just needin’ a comfortable bed. I had never heard of him before, but he seems a nice man, and he comes from County Clare, so we got to talkin’ about the home country for a while. He’s been out here since the 1860s. He reminded me a bit of my father, actually.

I’ll say hello to him in the morning at breakfast. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about him – he’s pretty famous in prospecting circles. In fact, that’s where the name of Hannan’s Brewery came from. C’mon, let’s leave the rest of this to the maids and go to bed.

Chapter 3

Bluey met Paddy Hannan the following morning as he passed through the dining room, carrying a pitcher of milk for the kitchen. The diminutive Irishman was tucking into a hearty breakfast of liver and onions and nodded to Bluey as he passed through. On his return, Bluey stopped by the table and held out his hand in greeting.

Mr Hannan, welcome to the Trafalgar Hotel. I have heard much about you.

Top of the mornin’ to you, young fella, said Paddy rising to shake his hand. The name’s Patrick, but all m’ friends call me Paddy. So, you must the new owner?

Yes, Bluey Turner. Do you mind if I sit for a minute?

Be my guest, said Paddy, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him. I call in here every few months for a bath and a comfortable bed. I used to go into Kalgoorlie, but they always seem to make a fuss. You seem to be doin’ well if the crowd last night is anythin’ to go by. I see you kept the Admiral though. I never did like that paintin’!

Bluey smiled, warming immediately to the old prospector. He surveyed the unassuming man sitting opposite him. His weather-beaten face was framed by a bald head and wispy beard, and his slight frame belied a resilience brought about by years of walking and camping. Bluey guessed Paddy would be in his mid-sixties, even though he had the bearing of a younger man.

The Admiral is on borrowed time. I have plans to move him to the new Post Office. I come from the same village as he did, and his success at the Battle of Trafalgar spawned several generations of ‘Horatios’ across the village. Tell me, Paddy, are you still prospecting? I would have thought the find at Kalgoorlie would have set you up for life.

Aye, Lad, this is the only life I know. In the t’irty years I’ve been in Australia I’ve prospected in Ballarat, Temora, Teetulpa, Southern Cross and Coolgardie. Give me a horse, a swag and a dog, and I’m happy.

I was prospecting before I bought this place – up near Niagara. It yielded enough to buy the hotel, and with a wife and a baby on the way, this seemed a timely move. I never did make the big find, like you and your friends did, though. Where are you prosecting at the moment? asked Bluey.

Oh, here and there. I like to be on me tod and I just keep movin’ wherever the urge takes me. I mined at The Hannan Award for a while and then took m’self off to the seaside for a holiday in about 1894. I’ve been back for about seven years.

Do you have any family here? asked Bluey. It seems to be a lonely life.

I have a sister in Melbourne, over in the east. Haven’t seen her for years though. I guess I’ll head back there when I get too old for this life, but that’s a long way off yet.

The two chatted amiably for a few minutes, before Bluey reluctantly rose.

Well Paddy, it has been a pleasure to meet you, and I do hope you’ll call in again. Right now, I must head off and set up the bars for opening. No, don’t get up, you enjoy the rest of your breakfast.

Bluey nodded as he left the dining room, and headed through the foyer, offering a terse greeting to the Admiral under his breath as he passed through. He met Molly coming down the stairs.

I’ve just been talking to Paddy Hannan. He seems like a genial bloke.

Molly smiled. It’s nice to have a celebrity to stay, even if he is a Catholic. Silas, can you please move the chairs out of the front parlour today? We have the quadrille group coming in tonight. And can you move the piano back against the wall? Mr Halls is playing tonight and if the piano is back against the wall it softens the sound a little. He always plays as if the whole hotel should be listening to him. You can probably put the chairs into the other parlour, because there is a lodge meeting booked in there for tonight.

Yes, I need to bring back some of the chairs from the saloon, anyway. I don’t think the lodge will be meeting here much longer though, because they are planning to build their own hall. Mr Riley was in the bar the other night and told me about all the plans. I’ll do the chairs and piano after I speak to Rosie. Is he in?

Yes, but don’t let him hear you callin’ him that! Molly’s voice dropped as she castigated her husband. He’s in the office, collectin’ payments from the last of last night’s guests. Is Paddy Hannan stayin’ another night?

No, he said he’s heading off this morning, after he’s had his breakfast. I hope he comes back again, though. I’d like to have a good chat to him. How are you feeling today?

Oh grand, just grand, smiled Molly. I’ve got a couple of notices to pin up on the board in the foyer – Miss Foster is wantin’ a girl for the boardin’ house, and there’s another house to let in Lake Street. We’re going to need a bigger notice board soon. After that I need to check on the maids and then I’ll stop for a cup of tea.

Bluey patted her on the shoulder. You take care of our wee babe, and make sure you rest. Let’s have lunch in our own parlour. I have an idea I want to discuss with you.

When Bluey joined Molly in the parlour several hours later, he found her cutting slices of bread to go with the cold lamb, tomato and pickles the cook had sent in for their lunch.

Sit down Luv, and I’ll finish that, he said. You are looking a bit peaky today.

Yes, I’ve had a back-ache all morning. I suspect that our babog might be just about ready to make a move. What did you want to talk to me about? Molly sank gratefully into the chair Bluey had pulled out for her.

Well, I thought we might start a billiard competition. That billiard room beside the shop hardly ever seems to get used, except by some of the guests. I’ve talked to Rosie about it, and he seems to think it’s a good idea. If we do it on a Tuesday evening, we can offer a meal in the dining room, then run the competition, and be finished by 9.00pm. Then we won’t disturb the guests in those rooms at the back. What do you think?

I t’ink it’s a grand idea. But what about a cook? Mrs Garnet has been strugglin’ to cover the three nights we already do. I don’t t’ink she will want to add on Tuesday as well.

Problem solved! Rosie has mentioned that Mrs Ferguson, from one of those new houses up the other end of Lake Street, is looking for work as a cook. I thought we might try her for two nights a week and reduce Mrs Garnet down to just Thursday and Friday. Do you think she would be happy with that?

I’m sure she would. Her sister is expecting a baby any day, and she wants to be able to spend more time with her, so reducin’ to two nights a week would probably suit her just fine. In fact, if this Mrs Ferguson works out alright, we might be able to eventually have one cookin’ in the mornin’ and the other one in the evenin’s. What do you t’ink? Does Mr Primrose t’ink we can afford it?

Bluey grinned. You can’t bring yourself to call him ‘Rosie’, can you? Yes, he thinks it’s a good move.

I don’t call him Rosie because I’m worried I’ll forget and call him that to his face! Here, eat your lunch. I’m not very hungry, so I t’ink I’ll settle for a cup of sweet tea.

Are you sure you’re alright? Bluey looked at her with concern.

Yes, I’m grand. But I do think the babog might come today. I’ve been uncomfortable all mornin’ and my back is giving me hell. I t’ink we might send for the midwife this afternoon.

Chapter 4

Molly’s suspicions were proven correct and William Silas Turner lustily entered the world in the early hours of the following morning. For once, Bluey was grateful for Mr Hall’s pounding on the piano for the Quadrille dancers, as the noise drowned out Molly’s cries as the night progressed. After closing the door on the last of the lodge members shortly after 11.00, he paced the foyer, alternatively abusing the Admiral or begging him to relieve Molly’s pain. By the time the midwife finally called him in to meet his new son and kiss a weary Molly, all manner of possibilities had plagued his mind, and he breathed a sigh of relief to find they were both well.

Well, young Billy, welcome to the Trafalgar Hotel, he smiled down to the tiny bundle in his arms. He looked over at Molly, who was smiling tiredly.

Are you sure you don’t want to add ‘Horatio’ to his name? Your grandmother would approve. she asked with a wicked grin.

Not in a month of Sundays. By the time Grandmere becomes aware of the birth of this one, he will be fully baptised and well beyond her reach. William Silas Turner suits him just fine.

Ach, I’m only coddlin’ ye! I t’ink William Silas is a grand name.

Bluey gently handed the tiny bundle back to Molly.

Here you go, love. I’ll sleep in the parlour tonight so you get some rest. You are so brave, my dear, to have endured all this. What a fine son we have!

Three days later, young Billy Turner had his first outing, when Molly and Bluey walked down to the railway station to witness the official opening of the Brown Hill Loop Line. The leaders of the Progress Association had chosen their wives, Mary Grey and Phillipa Riley, to hold the ribbon across the line in front of the approaching train. The gaily decorated train broke the ribbon as it drew to a stop, amid the cheers of the assembled community.

I think most of the Trafalgar residents are here, Bluey commented to Mary. That’s the minister speaking now. It’s a pity we can’t really hear him. That breeze is blowing his voice away.

The minister continued speaking for a good thirty minutes, by which time the assembled group was getting restless, there being nowhere to sit. Standing to one side, Molly and Bluey were taking turns holding the tiny baby, who slept peacefully throughout the entire event. Finally, the minister handed over to Errol Grey, the Chairman of the Progress Committee, who thankfully limited his speech to acknowl­edging a few key people. Then the assembled dignitaries climbed back onto the train. They waved scarves at the residents as the train drew slowly out of the station and headed for Hill End.

Well, that’s it, said Bluey, as they started walking back to the hotel. There are supposed to be four trains a day now, but Mr Grey said that they were petitioning for that number to be increased to eight.

It will certainly make access to the other towns far easier, smiled Molly. I’ve heard that there are some very good theatres being built in Boulder and I would love to be able to go there one night when Billy is a little older. Now all we need is a proper Post Office.

What a saga that is! Mr Grey was telling me that the Progress Committee had proposed a site, but that there was a counter-proposal to put one post office half way between Brown Hill and Trafalgar, instead of allocating one each. What a silly idea! You would think that in a town of over 800 people we would merit a post office of our own. I think it’s a long way off yet, though. The Admiral is safe in our foyer for the time being.

Are you still determined to give him to the Post Office? asked Molly. I’ve rather got used to the old fellow now. I find myself wishin’ him ‘good morning’ every time I go to the kitchen in the mornin’. Oh, what was that? She pointed to a small shape which had dashed across the road ahead of them.

Probably a rabbit. There have been quite a few about lately. A couple of boys brought two they had caught to the hotel yesterday but Mrs Garnet sent them off, saying they were too small to cook. One of the blokes in the bar said there were quite a few burrows out near the single men’s camp. Are you going to take Billy to church tomorrow?

Yes, I t’ink I might take him with me so that I can arrange the christenin’. The new minister, Rev Poole seems a nice fellow, but I t’ink it’s Rev Wheatley speakin’ tomorrow. The paper said his subject will be ‘Our God is a consumin’ fire.’

Sounds like a good one to miss, commented Bluey dryly. Although he had been born and baptised an Anglican, Bluey steadfastly refused to attend any of the Sunday services. Molly continued to be a staunch Methodist, and this was the one minor point of friction between the two. Occasionally, after they had arrived at Trafalgar, and just to keep the peace, Bluey had reluctantly accompanied her to an evening service, if the hotel was closed. But after Rev Wheatley had taken the opportunity to speak resoundingly on the evils of drink and the importance of taking the pledge one night, Bluey had refused to return.

Well, there is a welcome social for Rev Poole on Monday night, but Rev Wheatley is the one speaking again. We’ve got at least two groups in on Monday though, so I couldn’t have gone anyway. If I can speak to Rev Wheatley tomorrow, I can try to arrange the christenin’ for next Sunday. Would that suit you? You will have to come, you know! After all, you are Billy’s father. Here, can you carry him for a bit? My arms are achin’.

Yes, I know. Of course I’ll be there, said Bluey resignedly, taking the tiny bundle into his huge arms. Who do you think we should ask to be the godparents?

Well, I was t’inkin’ perhaps we could ask the Grahams. Emma and I get on well, and they have five lovely children. What do you t’ink?

I think that’s a good choice. I’ve been playing cricket with Stewart, and he seems to be a nice bloke, even if he has taken the pledge! Seriously, though, they seem to be good parents, and their children are very polite.

Grand! I shall ask Emma at Church tomorrow, said Molly as they reached the front door of the hotel. Here let me take Billy back, he’s going to scream the buildin’ down in a minute because it’s time for him to be fed.

A few days later, Molly tapped on the office door where Bluey and Rosie were settling the morning’s accounts.

Could I have a moment with you both? she asked, as Bluey showed her to a chair. I was wonderin’ if we might t’ink about organisin’ an event for the coronation. The newspaper said yesterday that it has been set for 26 June, and I thought we might organise an afternoon social in celebration. If we make it an afternoon tea, then the women can get home to their families in time for dinner, and some of the men may stay on in the bar. What do you t’ink?

I think it’s a splendid idea, said Mr Primrose. This coronation has certainly been a long time coming, though. Queen Victoria died nearly eighteen months ago. To be honest, I’m surprised that Prince Edward has survived even this long. There are often reports of him being ill, and he already walks with a cane.

Well, he is nearly sixty! said Bluey. I agree, though, he’s not a patch on the fortitude of his mother. I had a real fondness for the old Queen. Molly, I think it’s a great idea. How many people do you think we should have?

Well, my thoughts are that it should be an invitation only event, maybe about 50 people? I t’ink we should focus on our regular patrons, particularly the people from the groups that book out our downstairs rooms on a regular basis. I had a quick chat to Mrs Garnet and Mrs Ferguson and they both had lots of ideas about what we could serve. I thought that if we use the front parlour and the saloon, then people will have some room to move about.

Have you got enough time to plan? asked Rosie. The coronation is only four weeks away.

Yes. To be sure, we can do it. I have planned it out in my mind already.

The next few weeks were full of planning and preparations. Molly supervised a thorough cleaning of the downstairs rooms, a task somewhat hampered by a week of steady rain which turned the surrounding yard into a mudbath. However, by 23 June the rooms were ready, invitations had been issued, food preparations had begun, and Molly finally felt as if the event was on track to be successful. Her final plan fell into place when Garth Wilson agreed to play the violin during the afternoon. Mr Hall had offered to play, and Molly had shuddered at the thought of him thumping the piano through her delicate afternoon tea. Finally, she managed a neat compromise by asking him to accompany Philippa Riley as she sang two songs, and then she urged that he should enjoy himself instead of feeling he should play all afternoon.

On the morning before the big event she was horrified to open the newspaper to find that Prince Edward was ill, an operation planned and the coronation postponed. She read the article with dismay, hurriedly going in search of Bluey. She found him at the water tank, pumping water from the delivery dray.

Silas, look at this! she exclaimed thrusting the paper into his hands. The King is ill and the coronation has been postponed. What am I goin’ to do! Molly was wringing her hands in anguish, thoughts of all the preparations going to waste.

Just a moment, let me read this, said Bluey. Handing her the pump arm, he quickly perused the article, and then turned to her.

"You know, I think we should go ahead and hold the social anyway. It says here that they are still going to hold a service at St Paul’s because so many dignitaries are already in London for the coronation. The King has also asked that the Coronation Dinner for