by David Vernon
My Mother was a star. Her name was a household word of the era. She was pursued by the press of the day, hungry for little bits of gossip. None of it hurtful or invasive, unlike today’s trend, but more a gentle peep into the alluring life of a celebrity. What she wore, who she was seen with, where she went, what she thought.
“Marcia Hart was seen leaving the cocktail lounge of the Chevron Hotel last night, wearing a defining gown in navy silk. Escorted by her husband, Richard le Breton, she looked radiant. We wonder if they were celebrating something special …”
Her face was framed by the crossword puzzle in the amusement page of the Listener In, and on a grander scale, her face was plastered on billboards across Melbourne advertising Robur Tea: “Ah, Robur …” She smiled and sipped her cuppa …
All this was beyond my awareness. A little six-year-old girl doesn’t know about fame and status, fuss and nonsense. Mum goes to work, is often not home, but Mum is Mum. Yes, she looks pretty, and dresses pretty, but her professional life had no relevance to me. In fact her work was always a mystery. I knew it was important because she always dressed up to go to work. Her hair was always ‘Gossamered’ into an arresting style; Arpege perfume lingered in her clothes, lipstick glistened on her lips, and her high heels clip-clopped across the cement of our garage floor in a delicious grown-up sound that I always tried to imitate by clumping around in my dress-up pumps.
“Darling, it looks like you are going to have to come to work with me today. You will have to be very quiet. Children need to be seen and not heard, you know. We had better get you dressed for town.”
‘Dressed for town’ meant my black and royal blue tartan skirt on a white cotton bodice, a pale blue angora jumper, white ankle socks and patent leather court shoes. She parted my curly hair and caught it back on one side with a ribbon tied in a bow. I knew this was a special outing.
Together we drove all the way into the city in my mother’s very own FJ Holden, cream duco with maroon upholstery. My mother would fling her left arm in front of my body whenever she had to brake unexpectedly; a pointless but well-meaning attempt to keep me from crashing into the steel dashboard, should we have a collision. When the sun shone through the windscreen the leather-like upholstery released chemical fumes that made me feel carsick. Usually when I drove in that car I felt queasy. On this day, however, I didn’t; I was so caught up in the importance of it all. The journey seemed to be unbearably long, as we lived in a growing suburb on the outer side of town. Now it is in the heartland of the metro area but then we had vacant land around us where we could have a roaring bonfire on Guy Fawkes night, and we did: catherine wheels, penny bungers, tom thumbs, sparklers (for sissies) and sky-piercing rockets that were launched from old beer bottles.
My mother was completely at home driving in the city. We drove past Flinders Street station with all the clocks across the front entrance. She navigated the tramlines with ease, finally parking near the 3XY building. With a firm grip on my hand, she sailed into the foyer with the confidence and carriage of one who expects to be noticed and respected. Various people greeted her and made pleasant remarks about me, but also to me. I smiled shyly, knowing I had significance just because I was my mother’s daughter.
Part way along a stale, green linoleum covered corridor hemmed in by worn cream walls, we entered another cluster of rooms. One was ‘The Studio’ and another, separated from the studio by a large window, was the producer’s room. The studio was stark, containing only a couple of chairs, a large microphone and an array of very odd things: a car door hinged from the wall; concrete paving with sand sprinkled on it; a carton full of shredded paper; two half coconut shells, a Bakelite telephone and bell.
“Mary, this is my daughter, Eloise. This is Miss Disney, darling.”
And so I met the other performers, about four of them, and all wearing their ‘dressed for town’ clothes, including hats for the ladies. Everyone seemed kind but distant, distracted, preparing for the day’s work. This was not child territory.
“I want you to sit on this chair and don’t move. You must stay completely quiet once the red light comes on. This is very important. Do you understand me?”
I was in no doubt about it; I was wide eyed and silenced just by being there, watching these glamorous people, and realising that my mother was central to the whole performance.
Instructions and discussion swirled around me. The producer was pointing and explaining; the actors were waving their scripts about, looking over each other’s shoulders, checking and practicing passages of dialogue.
Finally the hubbub died away, the actors arranged themselves in an arc around the microphone; the producer, wearing headphones, returned to his glassed-in room. He counted down … “4,3,2,1,” pointed to the actors, the red ‘On Air’ light glowed and the live to air radio drama broadcast began. I sat quiet as a mouse watching, listening, spellbound. I don’t remember the name of that show. Radio serials and single episode dramas were the entertainment fodder of the population — listened to and followed closely by millions.
I heard my mother’s ‘Radio voice’, so different from the voice she used at home. A posh, self-assured voice, carefully crafted to convey the character she was portraying. Nothing like the admonishing, “You’re walking on thin ice, my girl” or the loving ‘sugar plum, caraway-seedy cake whistle blow all the same’ voice that I was familiar with. Here was my mother, but not my mother. Here was a shimmering, animated be-anything-you-want-to–be lady! Nothing was by chance. They all played their roles, Miss Disney and the men, talking, arguing, laughing, crying, coming and going. It was a reality of make believe, and I was transported.
At all the critical moments someone was at hand to open and close the car door; walk on the spot on the sand covered paving; thump the cardboard box full of paper (simulating foliage being cut away to allow a character to make headway through bush); make a telephone ring and pick up the receiver. It all happened exactly when it was supposed to, and the performers flowed on like a mellow river revealing the story to the listeners with tension and intrigue, drama and relief. Finally, the denouement, and the music rolled. The red light went off and it was all over. Out came the producer.
“Well done everyone. See you all tomorrow.” How could he be so matter of fact?
“What a good girl you’ve been,” burbled Mary Disney. “Are you sure you weren’t bored?” What, bored? No, No, No. I had been mesmerised, absorbing and enjoying this new world.
The cast gathered themselves, kissed cheeks and said their various “Goodbye Marcia, darling, good show.” Then they left.
As a reward for my good behaviour my mother took me to Gibbey’s Coffee Lounge. Located on one or other of the Little Burke or Little Collins streets, it was a cramped, below-pavement, well-patronised hangout for sophisticated Melbournites. It buzzed with conversation in a heady aroma of roasted coffee beans and Sobrani smoke. We squeezed ourselves into a tiny, two person booth and she ordered me ice cream and chocolate sauce; just coffee for herself.
What heaven! Everything sparkled for me. But the brightest, most luminous object in my heavenly sky that day was my mother. I had been allowed to see her in an intimate way that had previously been hidden from me; a part of her, which was reserved for the adoring fans and respected colleagues. Now I too knew, deep in my young being, along with her many fans, that she was a shining star.
Eloise Ford lives in the hills just outside of Perth, Western Australia, with her husband, dog and assorted chooks. After many years of working full-time she now leads a more balanced part-time working life. The remainder of her time she spends enjoying walking in the nearby bush, pottering in the garden, practising Tai Chi and sharing time with her family and friends. An avid reader, she sees herself as a newcomer to writing.
Historical note: A Star is Born is, as far as I can remember, a true account. My mother was the celebrated radio actress, Marcia Hart, whose career spanned the ‘40s and ‘50s in Melbourne. She took leading roles in countle
ss popular radio dramas, and later performed in early locally made TV shows such as Consider Your Verdict. She was regularly in the newspapers and advertisements. I was part of her private life but on a few occasions I accompanied her to the studio and I actually played a live-to-air speaking role in one performance. Unfortunately I don’t recall what it was!
One Woman’s War Effort
— Mona Finley
Here I am, stealing a few quiet moments alone on a busy day when there is so much to be done. I pick up the album, just as I have done so often before, but this time aware that likely this will be the very last occasion I will hold it in my hands. It doesn’t really belong to me, but to the people of this town, and soon we will be leaving Darlington Point for Tom to take up his new position. But the album has been part of my daily life for some time now, and I could not help but feel an attachment as I watched it grow, rather like a proud parent. Now I feel the need to say goodbye. Somehow it came about that it was me, the wife of the local policeman, who took on the task of collecting all the contributions and assembling the pages. It was no hardship however, and I soon realised that the writing of it provided so much pleasure and pride for so many, and even a degree of comfort for those in need of it. To my mind the result is nothing less than a little treasure, and my hope is that it will be cherished as such by whomever it finds a home with in the future.
I turn the pages slowly and read again the words written by mothers, wives, sisters and friends, and some by soldiers themselves. They each recorded the names and regiments of the men serving, and many added a few lines more; a brief story. I gaze now at the photographs of young men posing proudly in their clean, brand-new uniforms, their fresh innocent faces looking back at me with different expressions: some solemn, others cheerful. Some of those dear young faces will never age now. The men who were spared are returning home from overseas, and there could be more stories yet to be added, but collecting them will be the concern of someone else. This war — the Great War as they have come to call it — has at last drawn to a close, and for that we are thankful.
How did the idea for an album first arise? I don’t recall that, but remember clearly the wonder of how it just grew and grew, as not only our local lads from Darlington Point and Whitton were written in, but names were added from beyond our immediate area. People added other relatives or friends whose service they wished to commemorate. Like Tom’s brother Mark; not a local boy but from their hometown on the coast. I pasted in one of the letters he wrote us. Good fortune was with him, he has already returned home and been able to add a few lines of his own. Then of course, there were some of Tom’s fellow police officers, ones he’d known from Wagga Wagga and Urana.
There are men here from all walks of life, and that is reflected in the hand-writing — the writing of many hands. Some pages are set out in neat copperplate, from the pen of a teacher or clerk, then others that show the writer more accustomed to handling horses or heavy tools than a pen. On these pages labourers and landowners are set side by side, along with clerks and bookkeepers, railway workers, publicans, blacksmiths and station hands. Miss Watt, the schoolteacher, alone added twelve names — relatives or teacher colleagues — and Mrs White from Kerarbury Station had no less than seven nephews serving, all in here. One of them was out from Scotland visiting her, and took a ship home as fast as he could to enlist there. Maybe if he hadn’t hurried so, he might have joined another regiment, and not been with the Gordon Highlanders at Mametz, in France. That is where he is now, and will remain.
Yes, there those pages — too many! — that begin with the words “In memory of …” and yet the spirit of the book is pride rather than sorrow. I notice too, that although it is all about a time of war, somehow the word ‘war’ is never mentioned: odd, that. An exception of a sort is where one soldier included the words: ‘La guerre finis,’ exercising the smattering of French he had acquired. Some of the lads listed the places they had seen, as if they had been on a tour, a pleasure jaunt. It seems it is how they want to tell their stories for those who love and await them. I think there might even be one or two jokes hidden among the boys’ writings, jokes other soldiers would understand: I don’t, and perhaps it is better so.
All of us, every family, were relieved when our men returned home, but how sweetly that feeling was put into words by a young girl, Rena Disher, writing for her brother Norman: “… returned to Darlington Point 5/2/19 and was welcomed by his friends who cannot express their pleasure at having him home among them.” Her delight in that homecoming was made poignant by the fact that there would be no homecoming for their brother Fred.
And here is little Mary Jane Turner, dead at eighteen years old just like so many young men. With delicate health, a weak heart, war work proved to be too much for her. My Tom wrote the lines for her, saying that while she hadn’t worn a uniform her efforts and sacrifice deserved to be remembered along with the others. Tom’s job calls for him to be out in the community noticing what goes on, and he was aware how vital was the work that women did for the war. We strived to make a difference, to support our men; the Red Cross and the Comforts Fund, and the many, many hands that tirelessly knitted warm articles, or collected and packed parcels to send. Not forgetting the Christmas cakes; I still have my recipe: ‘Soldiers’ Cake – improved by keeping’ it says, and well it would need to keep. Those cakes had long journeys to make, wrapped in so many layers and sewn into calico. I too, did what I could in all those ways, but maybe the making of this little album — serving as it did to boost morale, giving heart to those waiting as well as recording memories — might also be termed war work, and remains closest to my heart.
There have been meetings in town, and talk about a memorial. Some want the Great War to be remembered, others just want to forget and get on with their lives. Will things ever go back to normal, as it used to be, or has the war changed everything too much? The shots fired on the front reached around the world to injure and mutilate families here at home. For widows and orphans, for aging parents without grandchildren to look forward to — for them the changes are unalterable. Their losses remain like gaping wounds that will take long to heal. I wonder too, about the men returning from the front; maybe there are some wounds that cannot be seen. There will be no forgetting for them, with or without any marble shrine.
With my mind on memorials and remembrance, I feel the need to record my own name somewhere, and make my purpose known in years to come. I leaf through the album looking for a clear space, and find a page with a portrait of Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig well down the page. I take up my pen and write: ‘This collection was collected by Helena M.J. Johnston, wife of Sergeant Thomas Johnston (Mounted Police) of Darlington Point, Riverina District, so that the memory of these brave boys shall never die out.’ I blot my words carefully and close the book, laying it aside to await being collected by its new keeper. I hear our boxes being moved, ready to load up, and at any moment now Tom will be calling out, asking why I am daydreaming when there is work to be done.
Mona Finley lives in country New South Wales in a locality that has provided her a rich field for historical research. She graduated in 2007 in the Advanced Diploma of Local, Family, and Applied History from the University of New England, and aims to become a recognised historian. When not researching or writing Mona is a spasmodic gardener and a budding accordionist.
Historical note: A commemorative album created in a country town at the close of World War I contained stories and revealed webs of kinship that extended far beyond the immediate district. All persons named in this story were real people; the narrator’s musings are drawn from my own imagination.
The Colour of Innocence
— Lecinda Stringer
The drought had scorched the land of its once luscious green grass, leaving it dusty and dry. The trees were dying. Their branches were almost bare, as they reached up to the sky as if pleading, begging, for rain. In what shade was offered, small Aboriginal children played quietly. They stared
at the small white girl, nearby carrying one of their own.
“It’s Annie!” they whispered amongst themselves.
“But what’s she doing with one of them?” another hissed back. They gathered in a small crowd, venturing out into the sweltering Australian sun. They stood back, staring and whispering.
It was the gentle sway of the tree’s foliage that allowed her to catch a glimpse of the wide brown eyes peering out. Knowing she should keep going, curiosity got the better of her. She made her way to the big gum, further catching glimpses of those piercing eyes and the tangled, unruly hair. She crept closer. Hesitating, she remembered they had told her not to touch ‘them’, not to go near ‘them’ or to acknowledge ‘their’ existence. ‘They’ were filthy little troublemakers, her mother had said.
As she reached the foot of the tree, she gazed at the blood glistening on the bark. She followed its trail upwards until her gaze rested on the little Aboriginal girl. She hesitated, wondering what to do, when a drop of blood fell onto the ground before her. This little girl was hurt and she knew she had to help her.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” she whispered.
Annie looked down at the little white girl with pretty blue eyes and brown curly hair and wished she was just as pretty. Maybe if she was, they wouldn’t throw stones at her, and her head wouldn’t hurt so much. Once she had climbed up the tree and they couldn’t hurt her anymore they had gone away, but she still didn’t feel safe climbing down. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been up there, but she was getting thirsty and knew she had to get down soon.