The Firefighter Blues. Alan Bruce
closer.
Less than one kilometre away, there was a smaller neighbouring estate, Heathcote Hostel and, along with East Hills Hostel, both were bounded by the suburbs of Moorebank and Hammondville to the north-west. To the south-west was the Holsworthy Military Base, firing ranges and army accommodation. The nearest school was Hammondville Public, where both my sister and I attended.
The running of the hostel was overseen by a manager who would allocate a hut to each family on arrival. If you were considered a small family, as we were, then you would share with another. There was a dividing wall that separated the two but as you can imagine, the thin, flimsy construction didn’t allow for much privacy.
Our arrival debriefing by the hostel manager and staff was, for the most part, gibberish to me, but a few sentences did spark my interest. I’m not sure if it was an official part of the speech or just a resident chatting to my parents, but I recall listening to stories about the abundance of red-bellied black snakes, funnel-web and red-back spiders, and a detailed description of the pain a bull ant can cause if you’re unlucky enough to be bitten on the bum by one of the nasty little critters.
‘Don’t sit on the ground without checking first. The little bastards pack a huge wallop that’ll bring tears to yer eyes,’ one old bloke said.
Our new home did accommodate all sorts of weird, wonderful and sometimes dangerous creatures – and that included the residents.
Mum and Dad didn’t appear to be too fazed but I’m sure others were thinking, where on Earth are we? the jungles of Africa or some Antipodean hell ? Also, we were lucky, our distant relatives, Rosemary and Dave Binnie and their two children, Grant and Heather were already residing on the hostel. Having family nearby certainly helped us settle into our new way of life.
For my parents, living in the huts came with a whole new set of challenges. The semicircular design of the hut walls became the enemy of anything square and symmetrical. Not that we had much in the way of furniture; a green, sticky vinyl lounge which doubled as Mum and Dad’s bed, a tiny table and two smaller beds for Jenny and me. It seemed impossible to locate anything square against the curved walls and so the tiny interior of the huts was reduced even further by their poor design. I know it annoyed Mum and Dad, but Jenny and I couldn’t care less as we spent most of our days playing outside.
I have horrible memories of trying to sleep during our first few Australian summers. Like a billy can on an open fire, the wretched huts would spend all day absorbing heat from the summer sun, then at nightfall would mock us with creaks and groans as we lay on our boiling beds, sunburnt, feverish and swimming in sweat. It was also my first introduction to the most annoying creature on Earth...the Aussie mozzie. Like blood sucking satellites, the maddening mosquitoes would circle our heads, taunting us for hours while we desperately tried to grab some sleep sleep. The incessant buzzing only stopped once the tiny pests landed on any piece of exposed skin, where they anchored down and feasted until fat and bloated on Bruce blood. As if that wasn't irritating enough, every now and then Dad would burst into our room armed with a bazooka loaded with liquid insect repellent. Pump, pump, swish, swish! and suddenly, along with my eyes, nose and mouth, our tiny bedroom was filled with a toxic mist strong enough to instantly kill every critter in it. Heaven knows what effect it had on myself and Jenny. We would simply, hold our breath, pull the sheet over our heads and wait for the fog to settle.
My sister and I had very few toys but we were never bored. It was easy to fill your day by poking broken twigs down trapdoor spider holes, watching ants devour dead snakes or simply playing with any of the hundred or so children scattered throughout the hostel. The migrant camp didn’t offer much in the way of recreation facilities but it didn’t seem to matter. We were surrounded by bushland, Williams Creek and the Georges River so it was easy to dream up some sort of adventure. As the hostel was once used by the military, It wasn't unusual to find old rusty bayonets, machetes or the odd belt of spent bullet cartridges, lost or discarded after previous army manoeuvres. Close to our home, on a barren patch of red clay, were two huge piles of broken concrete blocks left over from earlier building demolitions. The local kids had nicknamed them ‘The Rocks’. It was a haven for the resident snakes and other reptiles yet I and other hostel kids would spend hours clambering all over them, crawling through tunnels and crevices with no concept of the dangers slithering around us.
Jenny and I would often wander through the scrub to play in nearby Williams Creek. A small area around a huge elevated sewer pipe was a favourite spot for the local kids. Thick, polluted froth lay motionless on the coffee-coloured creek and it was usually guarded by a metre or more of deep sticky mud that would gurgle and slurp as it sucked our plastic sandals from our feet. We should’ve been terrified but our naivety and adventurous spirit won out and earaches, stinging eyes and infected scabs were our reward for taking on the filthy mire.
~
On one particular occasion our zest for adventure could have had very tragic consequences. While walking through bushland adjacent to Williams Creek, Jenny decided to head to the water's edge while I waited further up the bank. Suddenly, a man brandishing a machete appeared out of nowhere. As if frozen, like a terrified statue, Jenny stood motionless. He then attempted to grab her hand and lead her further into the bush. Although very young, it just didn't feel right and I'm sure Jenny felt the same. The stranger mumbled something just as I yelled,
'Jenny this way!'
As if zapped by a cattle prod, she woke from her trance and in a flash, sprinted towards me. Panic stricken, we both ran as fast as we could, up the narrow bush path and headed for home. Too frightened to look back, we just focused on our little hut in the distance and ran as fast as our trembling legs would carry us.
Mum and Dad were in our hut when we stumbled in through the doorway. Frantic, sweaty and out of breath, we couldn't get the words out quick enough. They could see the fear in our eyes as Jenny blurted out,
'A man tried to grab me, he asked me to take off my swimming costume.’ Dad was gone before the last words left Jenny's lips. He headed straight for the bush. Sighting no-one suspicious looking, he returned shortly after. He then set off again in his car to search the entire hostel and the surrounding area. It was dark when he finally arrived home. Although livid that his search was unsuccessful, neither he or Mum went to the police. Jenny and I were given a lecture about venturing too far into the bushland and that was the end of the matter.
What made Jenny's unsavoury experience even more chilling, was a horrifying event that occurred a few weeks later. The rape and murder of twelve year old, Monica Schofield, a hostel resident. The body of young Monica was found on the 25th June, 1963, in a shallow grave near Deadmans Creek, a few miles from the hostel. She was walking towards the footbridge to attend East Hills high school when she was abducted.
Monica's family, like thousands of other British migrants, moved to Australia hoping to provide greater opportunities for their children. After such a tragedy, the Schofield family moved back to Britain, distancing themselves from the unbearable, heartbreaking and haunting memories of their daughter's death.
Caught in Grafton, a few months later, the convicted murderer, Barry Rodrick, was sentenced to life in prison. This was exchanged for an eternity in hell, when in 1970, he killed himself with a gun he made in gaol. I doubt if anyone mourned his passing.
We will never know if the two episodes are linked but its something that's haunted Jenny for decades.
~
There was a small park not too far from our hut, although ‘park’ is probably an exaggeration. During our time there, all that remained was a swing, a set of monkey bars and a slippery slide that was so poorly maintained you would cut your legs on the metal protrusions, or in summer, burn your arse and thighs as the rusty, pitted steel ensured your descent was slow and painful.
Friday nights were a treat as a local social worker named Skip would arrive with a van full of soccer balls, rugby balls and odd bits and pieces of sporting equipment. I’m not sure if he was from a local charity or was hired by the hostel manager, but as kids we were just grateful for the