Bound for South Australia

The exodus to Australia included my own direct family, my mother’s sister and brothers as well as her parents. My mother’s brother, Joe, had emigrated some two years earlier with Alf Paterson, to pave the way for us, so to speak. It subsequently took several years for her younger brother, Peter, to make the move as well. Eight of us began the exodus. The voyage took exactly four-weeks sailing via Port Said, Colombo in Ceylon, then on to Perth and Adelaide in Australia on an ocean liner, and was the most thrilling experience of my life as an eleven-year-old boy. We sailed on the SS Stratheden. My father was embarrassed by the ship’s name, and before we sailed would only reluctantly reveal its name to his workmates, if asked. The ship shared the same name as a nearby mental institution in Scotland. It was a lovely ship, and the crew made every effort to make the trip a holiday to remember. The journey from Oakley to Glasgow where we joined our relatives, and then on to Tilbury on the Thames to board such a huge ship was an adventure. It must have been one of the hottest days on record when we arrived in Adelaide, or so it seemed at the time. The ferociousness of the February sun was so intense I could scarcely keep my eyes open for longer than a few seconds at a time. I found myself blinking continually. The sky was so bright the sunlight seemed to bleach the colour from the surroundings.

My uncle Joe, who had immigrated with Alf Paterson two years earlier, was at the dockside to meet us along with Eddie and Cathy Paterson and their two kids Robert and Brian. They didn’t seem to mind the heat at all. Joe had bought a house in Rostrevor, an Adelaide suburb, and this was to be our new home for a while. That’s a lot a lot of people in one house; a three bed roomed house, at that. The image of nine people sitting at a six-place dining table each evening is firmly burnt into my memory. However, of that particular memory, it is my grandfather’s image I have most deeply ingrained in my mind. I sat opposite him at mealtime. He loved eating molasses with bread and butter. He would often butter a single slice of bread, spoon on more than an ample covering of the black molasses, and shove it into his mouth with relish. He had a few teeth missing, though now I think of it, to have as many teeth as he had at his age was not such a bad effort. Anyway, I have this image of him with lips parted taking huge bites of the bread and watching the black molasses goo oozing between the gaps in his teeth. He ate with his mouth open, and the sight of him masticating his food almost turned my stomach. It’s a pity I didn’t take the opportunity to get to know him better. I may not have had such a derogatory image of him had I taken more effort. We stayed at Rostrevor for two years.

Australia was different from Scotland in so many ways the most noticeable of which was the weather. We sailed in January in winter. In fact the snowfalls were so heavy that the ‘boat train’ as it was called, which was to take us from Scotland to England, was halted by snow on the track, and the delay nearly caused us to miss the ship’s departure. Part way through the journey the train had stopped at a bleak country station somewhere in England in the middle of the night. The stationmaster was running up and down the platform advising people that snow had blocked the tack and no one knew how long it would take to clear, and that another train was due shortly on another line. The other train was not an express, but the line was clear. No one knew what to do.

Snowfalls could be intense. There was one occasion my father was in Dunfermline and it snowed particular heavily. We always travelled by bus to and from Dunfermline. We didn’t have a car. There was a real cold snap, which put a lot of buses out of action. On this particularly cold winter’s day all the buses on our line had already left or were cancelled, except for one, but this bus had a flat battery. The bus station supervisor had said to those waiting that there would be no more buses leaving for Oakley, but if they could get behind this one to give it a push-start they could have it. And that’s what they did, and it worked. All the passengers got behind the bus, and in a huge effort heaved the bus into movement. The engine burst into life and everyone ran to board it, but by the time my father got to the door, not only was every seat taken, the aisle was full with people packed like sardines. He watched the bus drive off into the distance. He walked home that day, and it snowed all they way. I remember seeing him when he got home. He looked like a snowman or someone from an arctic expedition. I doubt if he saw the funny side of it, and I’ll bet he was freezing.

A dilemma faced us. We had the option of waiting for the snow to be cleared from the track or moving off the express and onto a local rail service with the clear track. We opted for the train with the clear track. It was slow and cold, and when we arrived at the docks we were very late. We later heard that the express train we had been on had overtaken us during the night. When the train arrived at Tilbury, we had to run from the station to the dock. The customs officials knew the ship was on the verge of departing, and we were hurried through the embarkation process and raced to the ship. There was also a bit of commotion, along the way, as my mother lost one of her fur gloves in the rush. These gloves were one of her luxuries, and loosing them would have been upsetting for her. My brother turned on his heel and raced back through the crowds in search of it. I don’t doubt we were amongst the last to arrive, as the ship sailed soon after we boarded. In the time it took us to find our cabins and get back on deck to look around we had missed seeing the gang plank being removed, missed all the action of casting off the moorings, missed seeing people waving each other goodbye, have no idea whether people threw streamers to their friends and relatives at the dock side, missed the entire show of the ship’s departure, and missed the sights as we sailed out the Thames. In the shortest time we could get organised in our cabins and get back outside we were in the English Channel. I saw the white cliffs of Dover as a thin strip under an overcast sky fading in the distance.

All’s well that end’s well, some would say, and we got to the ship on time. Indeed so, but we cut it too fine. It would have been a better idea to get to London a few days ahead of the departure date, spend some time looking at the sights rather than trying to arrive at the dock on the day we were due to sail, but that’s only me. I wonder what plans were in place, if any, had the ship sailed without us; particularly with our bridges burnt, so to speak. We had packed up and left our home. Our cabin luggage and packing cases were already on board. New tenants may have been allocated to our old house in Oakley. We could have flown to Port Said in Egypt, the first port of call and boarded there, or would we have waited, how long I have no idea, for the next ship. I doubt if there was too much spare cash for either alternative. Neither alternative would have been particularly appealing. I didn’t hear anyone discussing it. The consequences probably didn’t bear thinking about. The adults probably went off in search of the bar, and had a quiet drink while their heart rates dropped back to normal. I went off to explore the ship.

The ocean voyage was an exciting prospect. Perhaps this particular ship wasn’t as glamorous as it once might have been, nearing the end of its life, but there was little to complain about with the service. There were stewards to attend to our cabin needs, and everything was done to make the voyage comfortable. Brian was our steward, and he looked after us throughout the day. He woke us with a gentle tap on the pillow, and a morning cuppa along with a copy of Good Morning, the ships daily newsletter informing of the days activities and things to do. Meals were served on a staggered roster. We’d be off to breakfast in the dining room, and when we got back our beds were made.

Coffee was served daily in one of the lounges at two in the afternoon. Waiters would circulate amongst the tables with a silver pot in each hand, and pouring simultaneously from each pot, and never spilling a drop. It was a delight to watch, so elegant, so refined, but so bitter. I don’t know how the adults could drink that stuff. I had to fill the tiny cups with sugar to make it palatable.

The weather was miserable in the first few days of the voyage with rain and wind keeping people indoors, and crossing the Bay of Biscay made many people seasick. The swell was so heavy it heaved the ship like a cork sending water from the swimming pool crashing hard against one side then the other as the ship rolled and pitched in the huge waves. This region is renowned for its rough waters. Generally, you could only feel the motion of ocean swell when in bed, and barely at all when you were up and about.

June was unmarried and as a consequence was allocated a cabin in the singles quarters. She had to share her cabin with strangers, which she detested. The cabin was also quite distant from the rest of us, and was located a long way below decks. There were elevators, but it was still well out of the way, and the route to her cabin led through a variety of passages, up and over ramps that may have had something to do with the proximity to the engine room or hold. It was easy to take a wrong turning and get lost on the way. The cabin wasn’t below the water level, but I think she thought it was, and with her fear of the ship sinking she was very unhappy. Her cabin porthole was completely sealed, and spray from the larger waves splashed it occasionally. This put her on edge. She complained and was eventually moved. I have no idea where Vic was located; no doubt in the single men’s quarters. I don’t think he complained.

My grandparents had a nice cabin for two. The cabins were very basic, but who would want to spend their time in a cabin when there was so much to do elsewhere. We had a cabin on D deck. There was a bunk bed on each side as you entered. On the left was a small wardrobe, and a dressing table faced the door. At the far end of the cabin a narrow passage ran off to the right, which was too small for much else other than providing access to a sink which was located at the end of it. A porthole was positioned above the sink. There were air vents in the cabin, but no cooling system. A large metal scoop was provided that could be inserted into the open porthole. The scoop took advantage of the forward motion of the ship causing air to be forced into the cabin. It was a rather peculiar, but effective device. A notice on how to use the lifebelts was mounted on one of the painted steel walls.

My grandfather had made some cabin trunks prior to the journey, and had given two of them to my mother, and they were in the cabin too. He was a cabinetmaker by trade, and had made a very nice job of them too. He also made packing cases for the trip; for everyone except us. We had to find our own packing cases. He had a small workshop in the back yard in Glasgow, and made them there. He spent months constructing quality wooden boxes. They were very well made with dovetailed joints. Everything was done by hand including the dovetail joints, done the old way, the proper way; not using some jig and router. He fitted steel corners for reinforcement, and the lids were hinged, and would take a pad lock. They were nicely painted too. I recall him showing me with much pride his finished dovetails. He certainly seemed skilled in his trade. Cabinetmakers don’t have time to dovetail any more; modern fittings are plastic or particleboard nowadays. It was interesting to watch his skill during the construction of the dovetails joints. He never liked children, and I’m surprised, thinking back, he allowed my presence in the workshop. Maybe he was showing off, and I was his only audience. I have a couple of those original packing trunks he made, and use them for storage in the shed. He spent a lot of time in preparation for the journey, and I fancy he had been looking forward to it. He had bought a copy of the ship’s layout: a plan showing all the cabins and decks on a large fold out sheet. He had also spent a good few years working in the Clyde shipyards, and may have been excited at the prospect of sailing on a ship he had a hand in constructing. Interestingly, Peter also worked as cabinetmaker in the shipyards on the Clyde, and I believe father and son both worked in the same yard. I think it may have been the John Brown shipyard.

My father had to come up with his own packing cases for the trip. He didn’t have the tools to do this, nor the skills of my grandfather. So, close to the time when we had to have our things packed and ready for shipping he went to a local city warehouse in Dunfermline, and asked for some of their discarded crates. For the cost of a delivery fee, some very rough and ready crates were dropped off at our house. They were lined with plastic sheeting, packed, and the steel binding tape that was still attached when they were delivered was securely nailed down, and off they went. They were never opened (probably too difficult for customs), and they arrived safe and sound in Australia not much worse for ware.

There was plenty to do on board: deck tennis, quoits, swimming pool, table tennis, and chess and draughts sets were always available to use. There were various lounges, a library, movies were shown, dances held, and other entertainment. They even had a school that I was sent to. I suspect its main purpose was to keep the kids out of their parents’ hair rather than attempting to teach anything. It was boring and I decided to play hooky for the rest of the trip. There was another boy who must have had the same idea, and we became friends for the rest of the journey.

I was just under eleven when we sailed. I remember this well because signs had been posted all over the ship restricting the access of children. Restricting my freedom; what cheek! A-deck, at the top of the ship, was the place to be if you were a kid of my age. I remember racing up the stairs with much excitement and anticipation to be faced with a nasty sign saying, ‘Children under the age of eleven are not permitted on A-deck except under the supervision of an adult’. What! It could have been fun riding up and down the elevators, but there it was again: ‘Children under the age of eleven are not permitted in elevators except under the supervision of an adult’. There were more, but I can’t recall them. Of course, I ignored them when I could get away with it, but some member of the crew would generally see you and ask how old you were, and like an idiot I’d tell them my age, and be chased away. I should have lied for the sake of a few months.

There weren’t actually many stopovers, but the ones we did make were interesting enough. The first was Port Said in Egypt. There were restrictions as to who could leave the ship; issues relating to passports that I didn’t understand. My grandfather’s passport allowed him access. So off he went for a day’s outing on his own. Very few passengers left the ship.

A myriad of traders in small watercraft approached the ship when it was docked at Pot Said. They had their wares on display in their boats, and would try to engage the passengers in trade. They weren’t allowed on board, so they encouraged passengers to trade with them over the side of the ship, from the lower decks. Money would be thrown over the side into the boats or placed in buckets rigged up with rope tied to the side of the ship for the purpose, and the various trinkets and stuffed toy animals would be exchanged. I was standing next to a young couple watching them barter with a trader. They were haggling over the price of a basketwork clothes bin. The trader was reluctant to part with the item without payment, and the passenger negotiating the deal insisted on inspecting the item before passing any money across. It was a stalemate, but a hand-full of paper cash was waved in the air proving to the trader their ability to pay, but insisted on inspecting the basket first. So, with confidence restored the trader hooked the item to the rope and it was pulled on board. The couple pleased with the basket waved at the trader, then laughed at him, and walked off with the basket. The trader was furious that he had been cheated. There was never any intention of making the payment.

There was cheating on both sides. Some of their goods were not the bargains they seemed. A lot of people bought various teddy bears, toy kangaroos and other cute little stuffed toy animals from these people only to discover later that the internal stuffing was not the usual cotton or straw, but filled with hospital waste: used bandages and dressings. Going through customs in Adelaide a huge pile of these stuffed toys were being collected for disposal. I wonder if they were responsible for any illness on board.

The Suez Canal was open when we sailed. That was an interesting experience. For so much of the voyage there was little to see except the blue waters reaching to the horizon in every direction. Though, the occasional flying fish or dolphins could be spotted racing the ship, near the bow. Of course, sometimes other ships would be seen travelling in the opposite direction. Vic joked on seeing one, “It’s full of all the people who emigrated on the earlier ship but didn’t like Australia, and that’s them going back home.” I think my father and Vic’s friendship strengthened during the trip to Australia. The canal seemed quite wide, but sufficiently narrow to make out people on the bank as we passed. I remember seeing a boy standing on the bank; he stood motionless, just watching the ship go by. I wonder where he is now. It must have been a strange sight to see a ship moving among the sand dunes. A ship of the desert!

We woke one morning and everything was still. The usual throb of the engines was gone. It wasn’t that the engine was particularly noisy, but the perfect silence that morning was noticeable. On this morning all was quiet. The ship was motionless, a dense fog surrounded us, and the water was perfectly glassy. The scene was both beautiful and eerie, at the same time. The canal links a series of lakes between Port Said and Suez, and the ship was anchored in one of the lakes, waiting for the fog to lift.

It’s curious that the Port Said customs was strict in allowing access only to those with passports, and yet when we arrived at Aden it was free for all. Everyone was allowed off the ship and there were no customs officials that I noticed. Aden was renowned for its shopping bargains. People saved before the voyage and went on shopping sprees there. I was encouraged to do this too, and saved for a movie camera. The ship was scheduled to arrive at about 2.00 am. It was a clear, warm, cloudless night. The water was quite still as the ship sailed slowly into port. The outline of the hills surrounding the port was visible as a dark shape against the night sky. There were only a few points of light to show any evidence of a costal town. But this was a ‘Barter Town’ and the closer the ship got to port the more the city lights were switched on as shops opened for business. Aden quickly began to glitter in the night, as it prepared for the punters in anticipation for another day’s trading.

The port wasn’t deep enough for the ship to berth. It moored some distance from the dock, and a series of shuttle craft ferried passengers from the ship. The town was a hive of activity, and we were as frantic or gullible as everyone else. We were soon approached by a taxi driver who said he would take us to the ‘real’ Aden. He explained that where we were at the moment was only the port and not the real town. This may or may not have been true, but it was certainly a prospect to be considered. We all bundled into the taxi, and the bright city lights soon began to fade in the distance as the car zoomed down the highway. June quickly became edgy. Her lack of confidence in the driver made the others feel tense. There were no streetlights, and the surroundings were becoming darker. It seemed like a country road. June began to express fears of being robbed or murdered. She wanted to stop and turn back, and was becoming quite agitated. I turned around and looked out the back window. There was little traffic, and the only hint of where we had been was a glow of light in the sky from the shop lights, and that was quickly fading. There was nothing the driver could say that would settle her mind, and the car sped on. Fortunately, the lights of the ‘real’ Aden could soon be seen ahead of us. Sure enough we entered another commercial district full of activity, and with the recognition of fellow passengers in the streets, tensions eased.

This place, wherever it was, seemed little different from the district we had just left. The taxi driver was probably being paid by the traders to bring the tourists out there. I expect the traders depended upon the continual stream of foreigners for their living, and didn’t want to see their businesses decline in favour of those nearer the port. With Aden being in the shipping lane at the end of the Red Sea it was perfectly placed to cash in on the trade from all the passing emigrants. Though, there wasn’t an infinite supply of emigrants, and the frequency of ships like ours would have been beginning to slow even then. I suspect the taxi driver’s services were in response to the reduced numbers of ships that docked. The livelihoods of these people would have been in dire straights when the Suez Canal was blocked in 1967, and by the time the canal was reopened there would have been fewer ships sailing.

The next stop was Colombo in Ceylon. Two things of significance I recall. One was the shopping trip in search of jewellery, and the other was the number of street beggars. Money was spent on jewellery and trinkets and nothing was given to the beggars.

A similar trick as used by the Arabian taxi driver in Aden was encountered in Colombo. We were approached by a young man who asked if we would like him to be our guide. Of course we would, and we went on a walking tour stopping at various places of interest, including a Buddhist temple, but no doubt on a direct route to some trader he was under instructions to guide us to. I think an emerald ring was purchased, possibly a few other things, and a set of tiny black wooden elephants with ivory tusks remained a souvenir of the day, and were always on display in my mother’s house.

The other thing I recall of Colombo was the number of people slumped on the ground with their backs against the walls of buildings extending their arms, begging. Some of these people seemed to be in a very bad way, and may have appreciated food more than money. Many were very obviously blind. Others with bloated bellies were lying or sitting in the gutter.

There was a small group of people busy with one. Someone was lying half on the road and half on the footpath. He or she was just a shape rather than a person, covered in worn and dirty clothes ruffling slightly in the breeze, and they made not the slightest movement as they lay there. A few onlookers stood and watched. One of them seemed to be issuing orders to the others. I suspect this individual’s troubles were over. I was told not to stare, but I had seen enough.

A lot of people had problems with their limbs, some only with stumps of legs, and others having little more than a torso to their body. These people used their arms to move around often holding wooden blocks to protect the skin on their hands from the roughness of the ground, and they would swing their torso between their arms enabling them to ‘walk’. A few in this situation had wheeled-platforms to sit on, and would push themselves around with their arms. By and large these people were ignored by the local people. They were invisible. Someone, at the time, described them as professional beggars who had put themselves into this situation by deliberately mutilating their bodies to elicit sympathy from passersby, for the express purpose of earning a living, and the best advice for us was to ignore them. We ignored them. My mother and June walked past without looking directly at them, or turning their heads away from the extended begging arms, and would quicken their pace until they were past. June appeared nauseous. My father and Vic seemed indifferent and walked on unaffected by the experience, and I followed their lead.

Soon we were back on board sitting down to coffee being served in the lounge by elegant waiters. The shops and street beggars seemed so far away when the ship sailed, and there were distractions on board. Soon there was the Crossing of the Line ceremony, visits to the ship’s bridge and engine room, and our first contact with Australia when we stopped at Fremantle. My brother became sick during the voyage and was bed ridden for about a week. Another boy became very ill and died. The ship stopped briefly and he was buried at sea. I wonder if there was any link to those stuffed animals; crammed with hospital waste and other nasties.