To My Family.
Clara and George.
• Chapter 1: I Won't Detain You.
• Chapter 2: Big Harry.
• Chapter 3: Louisa Chapman.
• Chapter 4: Lena.
• Chapter 5: Lena and Harry.
• Chapter 6: Kerang.
• Chapter 7: Clara Jones.
• Chapter 8: West Australia.
• Chapter 9: Annie Davis.
• Chapter 10: George Thomas Fitzgerald.
• Chapter 11: Brookton, Armadale, Clara and George Married.
• Chapter 12: Bunbury, Bassendean, Subiaco, West Australia.
• Chapter 13: S. S. Wanganella, Melbourne and Sydney.
• Chapter 14: Mornington--New Zealand.
• Chapter 15: Invercargill.
• Chapter 16: Nelson.
• Chapter 17: Wellington--S.S. Maheno--Melbourne.
• Chapter 18: Ballarat.
• Chapter 19: Adelaide.
• Family Memories:
  Tribute to G. T.
  Tribute to Clara.
  Captain Manuel Awarded the D.F.C.
  The Fitzgerald-Langley Debate.
  G. T.'s Ministries.
  Holiday Reading.
  Genealogy.
  Those Seven People.

      This is a story. It is not an official family history, and it is certainly not fiction. All the characters you may meet within the following pages were, and are, real people. It is an historical novel.

      A literary critic may comment adversely on a family history which is evidently incorrect in facts and figures quoted. With a novel, however on the same grounds of accuracy, he may not. Because when certain details are not available the writer uses his imagination to successfully continue with his story. This I have done. I trust you find it readable.

      All my family have been totally supportive of me during the years it took to produce this book. Some had more opportunities than others. Gwen did some research in England for me, Barbara and Lin accepted the vital role of providing finance to get the project off the ground. Son, John, and his wife, Judy, took over the binding contract. Son-in-law, Roger Hollard, assisted by his wife Helen, undertook the quite onerous tasks of typing, checking, and giving excellent advice. His contribution was invaluable.

      My wife, Phyllis, was my ever present encourager, and very patient sounding board.

      Without the support of these wonderful people this book would still be a messy heap of papers.

      This is the story of Clara and George Fitzgerald and their family.

      It commences in 1834 when Joseph Davis married in Richmond, England; he and his wife were to become the Grandparents of George Thomas Fitzgerald.

      In 1853 William Jones married in Thornbury, England; he and his wife were to have many grandchildren; one of whom was Clara Blanche Jones.

      It was 9.37 a.m. on Saturday May 25th, 1910 as George Fitzgerald drove his horse and sulky through the dusty main street of Beverley, Western Australia.

      His horse was an ex brumby, Jack by name, and after a long spell on the broad acres of George's 912 acre farm, he was fat and sleek but somewhat slow in his movements, and so George allowed the reins to rest easy and Jack relieved of any restriction took the well known track to the Beverley railway station arriving there at 9.48 a.m., two minutes prior to the arrival of the Perth to Brookton passenger train.

      As the crowded train came noisily to a stop two heads looked enquiringly from a carriage window. George was amazed to hear voices calling him to come over to Brookton and help out. Harry Banks and Harry Manning were ministers of the Churches of Christ in Western Australia and were travelling to Brookton to conduct special services and when they saw George, who was also a member of the Churches of Christ, they grasped the opportunity of involving him in this special effort.

      "I can't", George quickly replied, "I have the horse and sulky."

      The guard was on the Platform ready to give the starting signal when almost miraculously Billy Doohan appeared on the Platform. Billy was a brother-in-law to George and after a quick consultation he agreed to see to the horse and sulky.

      George paid for his ticket and as the train moved out he jumped aboard and was on his way to Brookton.

      At the 11 a.m. service the next day, Harry Banks was the speaker, Harry Manning and George were among the congregation crowded into the small Church building.

      During the course of the service, Harry noticed that George was behaving strangely and while the singing of the great old hymn "Oh for a thousand tongues, to sing my great Redeemer's praise" was in progress he asked; "What on Earth is the matter with you?"

      George said, "That organist, who is she?" Harry said, "Clara Jones and we are going to the Jones' home for lunch." Thereafter George settled and began acting rationally again.

      The service over, the two Harry's and George were transported by sulkies to the Jones' homestead and soon after arrival there, either by design or accident, George and Clara found themselves alone in the drawing room. The silence was very heavy. George could not find words and the delightful Clara, slim, lovely and nineteen

was overcome by shyness and annoyance at the rising colour in her shapely cheeks.

      Finally, George spoke. "Well, Miss Jones," he said, "I won't detain you."

      Miss Jones however had other ideas. She was to be detained for the next fifty-six years.

      Elberton Parish Church in Thornbury, England in the county of Gloucester was filled to overflowing with friends and well-wishers when on March 17th 1853 Mr J. K. Charlton joined in marriage William Jones and Anne White. William was the son Mr and Mrs William Jones of Thornbury. Ann was the daughter of Mr and Mrs James White of Alverston, also in the county of Gloucester.

      Soon after their marriage, they decided to emigrate to Australia and said farewell to their friends and family on October 11 1853, as they boarded the Emerald Isle and commenced the long journey to Australia where they arrived on January 15 1854. The Emerald Isle docked at Port Adelaide and after three months on the high seas William and Ann were very happy to be among the many passengers who had chosen South Australia as their future home and they went ashore full of plans and high expectations.

      Among those who travelled with them from England, was a Mr J. Vaughan who became well known later as one of the joint founders of the East End Market in Adelaide.

      The migrants remained in and around the young and thriving city of Adelaide for two years and then decided to take up land in the Virginia area where with varying degrees of success they farmed for twenty years. William and his wife were baptised, while living at Virginia, by Mr J. Wilcock of the Mallala Church of Christ and they became members and workers in the Bible Christian Church in Virginia.

      In 1876, the family moved to Wild Horse Plains where William had purchased a large tract of scrub land in that area which promised to be an excellent farming proposition and when the heavy work of clearing was over, they farmed very successfully there for fifteen years.

      When William celebrated his sixty-third birthday, and Ann her fifty-seventh, they decided to retire to the city and left the farm in the capable hands of their sons. They purchased a home at 1 Thomas Street, Unley and became respected and much loved citizens in that area. Their witness to Jesus Christ had continued and strengthened throughout the years and they became associated with the Unley Church of Christ where William served as a Deacon and Ann was tireless in the Women's' work. They had a family of ten, the eldest was William Henry, known as Harry, horn in Virginia in 1856. Their second child was also a son, Alfred.

      When the family moved to Wild Horse Plains, Harry who had established a black-smith business in Virginia, remained in that town while Alfred and other members of the family accompanied their parents.

      Alf Jones married in Wild Horse Plains and became one of the district's excellent farmers.

      Harry Jones' blacksmiths shop was something of a meeting place for young and old. The sound of the twelve and six pound hammers was like music in the ears of the youngsters and at any given time Big Harry would have a captive audience and little eyes would widen as Harry took the piece of steel and shaped it to fit the hoof of the horse standing near by. When the shoe was red hot and Harry plunged it in to the tub of water and steam shot up to the low ceiling, there were squeals of delight.

      Big Harry was patient with those whom he described as the 'little ones', and so long as they did not come too close or fiddle with his much loved equipment, they were welcome. Harry listened quietly to their tales of joy and woe, he was mainly a non-communicating man, but loved to tease and each of his hero worshippers would at some time be the butt of his clever but friendly teasing.

      He had rapport with the young members of the Virginia community but this rapport appeared to dissipate as they became teenagers and his complaints against this group may or may not have been true but what is true is that Big Harry and the older children did not get along.

      Harry's Blacksmith shop was not only a hide-out for the very young but it was also a much sought after haven with the male population of Virginia who after a dispute with their spouses, mainly over too much time and money spent at the local hotel would find their way to the Anvil house and pour out their troubles to Big Harry who always listened in silence broken only by a sly dig handed out in the same manner as when teasing the little ones. After a session with Harry, somehow the aggrieved persons always felt

better and usually went home to kiss and make up with their wives and promise with tongue in the cheek to be different in the future.

      Harry lived in one of these homes as a boarder; Alice Gill, a happy, Irish lass with five young children and a quiet withdrawn little husband "did for him" during the period from Monday morning until Saturday afternoon when Harry would harness his little black mare and drive home to spend the Sunday with his family at Wild Horse Plains. The Gill children, three girls and two boys, ranging from eight years to ten months, loved having the big blacksmith in their home and always when Harry had finished the last jobs and closed his little shop there would be at least two children with eager faces, waiting to walk him home and tiny hands would be clasped by hard horny ones and together in the failing light they would walk to the mud brick cottage where Alice would have a hearty meal ready.

      Big Harry Jones was an identity in Virginia, with the young he was a hero, with the teenagers he was a bore and with the adult population he was respected. Big Harry, they said, was not too talkative, but he was honest, never overcharged and always kept a promise.

      In the year 1875, John Alexander Chapman of Gloucestershire, England, suddenly decided to sell out and emigrate to South Australia. Having made the decision he acted quickly and within six months he and his family had landed at Port Adelaide and from there had moved to a temporary residence in Kent Town, a suburb near Adelaide.

      During the brief stay here, Mr Chapman made frequent trips to the country areas in search of suitable land on which to settle his family and finally decided On Wild Horse Plains. The farm was fairly large with a suitable home, so the Chapman's moved their few belongings and commenced their new life full of high hopes. The farm prospered and his family became part of the Australian scene and the elder of his two daughters, Louisa, became one of the sought after girls in Wild Horse Plains and beyond. All proposals of marriage however, were rejected, until one night the good looking young blacksmith, Big Harry Jones, who was a very popular

figure with the female section in that area, asked her to be his wife. She accepted immediately.

      Following her acceptance of Big Harry, she suffered great trauma with her family, particularly her father, who believed she was marrying, as he put it, 'beneath her station'. Louisa, however, would not budge. It was to be Harry Jones or no one.

      The wedding was celebrated on the 7th August 1882, in the drawing room of the Chapman home and as the minister joined the couple in marriage, John Chapman could be seen through the drawing room window following the plough. He would have no part in a marriage he felt was wrong for his daughter. Early in 1883, Harry and Louisa travelled by ship to Kangaroo Island where Harry had obtained a tract of virgin land.

      It was hard pioneering work for the young couple and they received little reward for their labor. Three children were born on the island and the family lived in a small house which Harry had built. When a fourth child was due, Louisa became very ill. The only doctor on the island was delayed and could not reach the Jones' farm for several hours because of a storm lashing the island and Louisa's life ebbed away after giving birth to a baby girl.

      Harry left with four children was desolate.

      The Kangaroo Island farm was sold and Harry, quite useless with children hired a temporary governess and with her expert help took his family back to Wild Horse Plains where the three older children were cared for by Harry's brother, Alf, and his wife. The baby was taken to Adelaide to her grand parents.

      Harry's venture into farming had proved, unsuccessful; however, he planned that at sometime in the future he would take up land in Northern Victoria but as he had now to provide for four children, he reopened the Blacksmiths shop at Virginia. He was welcomed back at the forge by the adult population and now there was a new generation of youngsters to watch approvingly as Harry plied his fascinating trade.

      He boarded with a Mrs Ryan, an elderly widowed lady, who was very happy to have him and could well do with the extra cash his board money brought her. So, he resumed his old life and was again a commuter between Virginia and Wild Horse Plains.

      Helena Lavinia Manuel was no ordinary girl. She was a short trim figure, with dark eyes, suggesting the possibility of Spanish or Portuguese ancestry. One of her eyes, however, had, through an accident turned in slightly, consequently changing just a little, perhaps, her otherwise fine appearance. Her black hair, expressive face and exquisite active hands, her quite unabrasive nature, made her quite an identity in Wild Horse Plains. She was not the outgoing type, but was popular with her peers, admired by the boys and loved by the older members of the township.

      Lena was talented. Her ability as a cook was unchallenged and in fact she excelled at any task related to the home front. The amazing talent, however, which endeared her to all her friends and others, was her ability to handle and understand children. The most difficult child responded to Lena and without any nonsense, coaxing or bribing she would have the rebellious and so called 'naughty' ones virtually eating out of her hand in no time.

      The mothers at Wild Horse Plains, driven to near distraction by their offsprings would frequently

call on Mrs Manuel and ask for Lena's help. This, Lena would happily give, and when the time came for her to depart the little ones would be happy and manageable again. Her inventiveness, ingenuity, patience and love were limitless. The consensus among the mothers of that town was that Lena was not only sweet and gentle, but with children, she was a genius.

      Lena had five brothers and five sisters, so within her own family she had ample opportunity to use her talents but she needed other experiences. So after celebrating her seventeenth birthday she commenced applying for positions with the larger, wealthy type homes in South Australia.

      The first position in service was as a parlor maid to the Lindsay family at Angaston, who owned the famous stud, which still bears that name. She remained here for two years. Her employers were more than satisfied with her work and when she terminated her employment with them, they offered her inducements to remain, but Lena had her sights set on something more rewarding. She had observed the governess at the stud farm caring for the four Lindsay children and she believed she was capable of this quite exacting task of acting as nurse maid, teacher and companion to young children and she knew, that to be fulfilled and happy, her life just had to be spent with children.

      She left the lovely town of Angaston on the 17th November 1885, and returned briefly to Wild Horse Plains where she was received with enthusiasm by her family and friends. Her stay in the home town was however to be very short as she had recently applied for the position of governess to the three children of a Mr and Mrs Fry of North Adelaide and she had been accepted.

      From the moment she took up her duties, Lena became a very important part of the family. She naturally excelled at her work, and her talent with children was quickly noted by her employers, who readily gave her a free hand with the children, and very quickly, because of their mother's preoccupation with charity and other work which took her from the home a great deal, Lena became not only governess, teacher and companion, but virtually their mother. Indeed, they looked upon her as such, and the many night calls were made to Lena, who was always equal to their needs and earned their idolising love.

      During this period, Lena became a member of the Kermode Street Church of Christ, in North Adelaide, where she accepted Jesus Christ as her Saviour and was baptised by Pastor M. Gore.

      Lena's life was to be one of complete devotion to the principles so clearly enunciated by her Lord. She became an active member and a much loved person of that congregation and it was here that she became associated with the Lyle family.

      Thomas Lyle had been one of the pioneers of the Churches of Christ in Australia and he and his son and family were members, workers and leaders at Kermode Street. In the happy years at North Adelaide, Lena accompanied the Fry family on vacations to the North Western town of Pt Germein and also to a farmer friends home at Port Wakefield.

      The place she loved however, was Port Elliot on the beautiful south coast. When it came time for the beach holiday, the large family coach, pulled by two frisky white horses and driven by Mr Fry's footman would take the journey down the

south road and up the torturous Willunga hill and on to the coast.

      On arrival at Port Elliot, they would take up residence at Cliff House, the premier accommodation hotel in that area. Cliff House was ideally situated high above the beauty of Horseshoe Bay and one need only sit on the wide front verandah to have a perfect view of Freemans Knob, the famous Breakwater, Plum Pudding rock, Gull Island and Commodore Point.

      Lena loved every second spent at Port Elliot and being free from her teaching duties she was able to spend the hours with the children walking round the rocks from Knights beach to Horseshoe bay stopping frequently on the way to enjoy the pounding of the sea on the cliff rocks or spending happy hours picnicking at Green Bay or when the weather was right swimming at the delightful ladies bay, so called because it was used exclusively by members of the fair sex and their children. No wandering male eyes were permitted to rest upon the female form, even though it was enclosed in neck to knee bathing costumes. The days for Lena would go all too rapidly and she and her charges would try and fit in as much as possible of the joys they believed were only available at Port Elliot. Frequently, the long walks would extend beyond Knights beach and Commodore Point, the two recognised boundary points of this famous sea side resort and they would finish at places like Middleton, a nearby beach. Here Lena and her little ones would rummage among the abundant deposits of shells and take home the best and proudly display their prizes to their parents and other guests at Cliff House.

      Then, when the holiday was over, Mr Fry's coach would be loaded and the return journey on the narrow, roughly surfaced road would be made and Lena would again take up the many duties as an integral part of the Fry household. Lena was very happy with her position as governess and when in late January 1890 she planned to return briefly to Wild Horse Plains her thoughts for the future centered only around her life at North Adelaide.

      Harry Jones was weekending with his brother Alf and his family at Wild Horse Plains when Lena returned to the town. During the first afternoon, Lena went visiting, and one of her calls was to the Alf Jones home and on arrival there she was greeted enthusiastically by the family and she met Big Harry Jones.

      They had known each other for years, now, however, Lena and Harry saw each other as it were for the first time. The afternoon and the evening were pleasantly spent and when it came time for Lena to return home Big Harry escorted her to the front gate of the Manuel home which stood on the main road to Port Wakefield.

      A sincere friendship was quickly established between the tiny Lena and Big Harry, which, very soon, blossomed into a courtship. Courting however, was a difficult matter, Harry was occupied with his business in Virginia and his family at Wild Horse Plains, and Lena was busy with her demanding governess duties at North Adelaide. Nevertheless, like all people in love they managed extremely well, with Lena's ingenuity, Harry's persistence and the good offices

of Cobb & Co. coaches they saw each other on fairly frequent occasions.

      Big Harry was well known and respected in Virginia, Wild Horse Plains and Kangaroo Island, and now became well known and respected in North Adelaide. He became a popular figure in the servants quarters in Mr Fry's home. They loved his bigness, his teasing, and the fact that their beloved Lena was his girl friend.

      Harry was a believer but had never confessed that Jesus Christ was his Lord, However, whenever possible he accompanied Lena to the Kermode Street Church of Christ and was also well accepted by the folk who made up that quite large congregation.

      On the 12th of June 1890, their engagement was announced and the excitement at the Alf Jones' home at Wild Horse Plains knew no bounds. Harry's three children had quickly responded to Lena's child-loving magic and with this announcement they realised that this wonderful person was to be their own mother. They could scarcely believe their good fortune and as they hugged their big Dad as never before they plied him with urgent questions of how long would they have to wait, where would they live and when could they start calling her mother.

      Lena, always gentle, sweet and loving was also a very practical person and for some months before Harry asked her to be his wife had assessed very thoughtfully and wisely her possible future, and she could see that it could include her becoming a step-mother to Harry's children. With this knowledge, she formulated a plan for herself. She would never be a step-mother, in fact that word would never be uttered in her home. The

children would be hers on exactly the same terms as those who may be born of her marriage. Lena Prayed for strength and wisdom to carry out her plan and the children soon became aware of an extra dimension in her love and long before she became Mrs Harry Jones there was a rapport between herself and the children which many natural mothers could have wished for themselves.

      On Saturday, 1st October 1890 excitement was at fever Pitch in the home of Mr Fry. It was Lena's wedding day and from Mr Fry and his lady right down to the stable boy everyone loved Lena. Mrs Fry was providing the wedding dress and the other members of the staff were all busy getting everything in readiness.

      The large dining room had been decorated and extra tables and other necessary furniture moved in. The large cake had been donated and decorated by the North Adelaide baker who supplied the Fry family.

      Lena was not permitted to carry out any of the many tasks such an occasion bought in its wake. Her friends had surprised her with a breakfast tray in her bed and had brought their wedding gifts to her and wished her well and instructed her to remain upstairs and rest.

      At 1.30 p.m., Mrs Fry came to Lena and with loving hands dressed the tiny bride and when Mr Fry's phaeton pulled up outside the big iron gates, Lena was ready. The day was pleasant, with bursts of sunshine, and as Lena was helped in to her bridal carriage the sun shone brightly and highlighted the quality and love of the young woman who was soon to take her marriage vows.

      Big Harry was nervous as he awaited the arrival of his bride; the ceremony was to take place at the Kermode Street chapel, and he and his best man were early on the scene and now as the appointed time of 3.30 p.m. had come and gone he became fidgety and had to be reassured by the officiating minister Pastor Gore; soon however, the organist commenced Mendelssohn's well known wedding march, and Harry relaxed and then was married to his Lena before a full church of well-wishers. The bride, as usual, was composed and serene; serenity was the key note of Lena's life and now as she took Harry Jones to be her husband she had never been more serene or looked more lovely.

      Among the many friends who witnessed the ceremony were members of the Lyle family, and also others from the family of Dr J C Verco, later to become Sir Joseph Verco, and a very famous surgeon.

      Back at the Fry home there was feverish activity. Some of the staff had been to the church, others had agreed to remain behind and have everything in readiness when Lena and her husband should arrive. And when finally the phaeton stopped at the front gate, and Harry helped his wife to alight, everything indeed was ready. It was a feast to be remembered, and when Mr Fry proposed the toast to the bride and bridegroom, he was joined by all the guests when he said, "Today we are losing a gem, and with all our love we wish her well, and hope that her married life will be filled with the happiness she so much deserves." Then they returned to Wild Horse Plains where Harry had arranged to rent a small cottage from Mrs Worsley, and now Lena's real joy was complete. She could have the family together and the three children who had shared

in the excitement of the wedding, and the credible food and celebrations were of the same mind as their new mother. This was at last home.

      North Western Victoria provided a busy, bustling scene in the year 1891, and the town of Kerang shared in this activity, as new landowners arrived daily to take up their virgin blocks, and commence the long haul of clearing their land and converting the mallee scrub into farm land.

      One such arrival was Harry Jones and his family from Wild Horse Plains, South Australia. They had said farewell to friends and family three weeks before, and with a horse and spring dray had travelled to Adelaide and had spent a night in West's Coffee palace in Hindley Street. Their route took them through Tailem Bend, through the mallee country which at that time was virtually undisturbed, and still had another thirty years to wait for the soldiers/settlers clearing axes and resultant disastrous sand drifts. The track led them through the tiny settlements of Pinnaroo and Ouyen, and when a days driving was over Lena would prepare a bed for her little ones under the shelter of the dray, when the last tired but excited voice was quiet she and Harry would sleep under the stars.

      When the journey was at last over, Lena and the children remained for a period with relatives who had arrived in Kerang twelve months earlier, and Harry built the first home on the shores of Lake Balbal.

      Harry's first building was a temporary corrugated iron structure, and this was later replaced by a two roomed mud brick home. It was from this home, six months after the arrival at Kerang that Harry emerged at 2.00 a.m. one morning, harnessed his horse, and drove to a nearby farm to obtain the help of the farmer's wife. Lena was about to give birth to her first born. It was a daughter, blue eyed and lovely.

      Lena's joy knew no bounds, and she named her Clara Blanche. The date was August 29th 1891.

      On the 20th January 1902, the SS Buninyong quietly rode the slight swell as it lay in its moorings at Port Melbourne. It was due to sail at 9.00 p.m. that night for Western Australia.

      The passenger list of the showed a Mr & Mrs Harry Jones and their seven children, booked from Melbourne to Fremantle. Their 10 hard years at Kerang had ended, and Harry had sold the property to a fancy bidder whose offer could not be resisted, he had become disillusioned with Victoria and had set his sights on a life for himself and his family in Queensland. So after the sale was finalised he entrained for Melbourne to make arrangements for the trip to the sunshine state.

      On arrival in Melbourne however, he purchased a newspaper at Spencer Street railway station, and read on the front page news of great opportunities out West, and immediately changed his plans and booked for Western Australia. He arrived back in Kerang the following day and told his family of the changed plans. Lena, as always, was prepared and happy to do whatever pleased Harry, and quickly made the adjustment. The

children, however, who had heard many tales of Queensland, were disappointed and said so. But Harry did not consult with them. They were there to do as they were told.

      Clara was now ten. She had enjoyed her life on the shores of Lake Balbal, and was sorry it was to end. The three babies born to Lena were a constant source of joy to her, and as Clara shared with her mother the intense love of children, Lena came to depend on her, and each new member of the family quickly learned to love her. She was a gentle soul, quiet, thoughtful and unselfish, and happy to share the many tasks associated with the home, particularly with the children.

      Lena, however, was frequently frustrated with her first-born. She was quite impractical, and an inveterate dreamer. This fault, or perhaps quality, was the cause of some sharp scenes between Clara and her mother, And on occasions, Clara, a lover of solitude, would be found sitting on the shores of her beloved lake staring dreamily into space, her unfinished tasks quite forgotten.

      As Lena had planned, the family was a tightly knit, loving community, although it must be said that little outward show of love came from Harry. He had rapport with the very young but later this disappeared, and a communication problem developed, and Clara and the others had difficulty in understanding his bluff, offhanded way. The family however, was moulded by Lena and love was the keynote of all family operations, and the words 'half brother & half sister' were completely unknown to them; they were truly brothers and sisters.

      Clara had warm friendships within the family and also a close relationship with her cousin Robey Manuel. This friendship commenced at Lake Balbal between them lasted a lifetime. Robey was mad about the new automobile, and he used to tell Clara of these new contraptions travelling at high speeds of thirty miles per hour (48 kmh), and he used to dream about flying in the air, and he believed that one day these cars would actually take to the air and fly. Clara listened to this intense boy with great interest, and at times was almost convinced that he could be right.

      Robey became a very famous Australian. He was a member of the first Australian Flying Corp, and when aviation was in its infancy he was there at the forefront. He flew the first RAF planes to take part in the worlds first aerial warfare. He became Australia's first air ace; he fought many successful sorties against the famous Red Baron troupe, and although he was not accredited with bringing the Baron down, he encountered him on numerous occasions, and was never worsted by him. He was decorated and acclaimed as Australia's greatest war time pilot, and when the second world war cast its shadow he again offered for active flying service. This however, because of his age, was rejected.

      For a period he served in a training capacity, but the inaction irked him, so he sought and gained, his release. He continued to create records and at one time had held an active pilot's license for a longer period than any other Australian, and was still flying his own plane at eighty years of age. When he died in 1976, the nation paid tribute to its first air ace and said of him that he was a great and intrepid Australian.

      His family knew him also as a good man, husband, father and loving grandfather. Clara remembered him always as her happy playmate of Kerang.

      At 9.00 p.m. on the 20th January 1902 the master of the Buninyong received the all clear and set sail for the West. The Harry Jones family were among the passengers who had responded to the call of the Golden West, and Lena left, as she had arrived 10 years earlier, pregnant.

      The Buninyong arrived tired and battered, at 12.20 p.m. on 26th January 1902, and was tied up at the number one wharf at Fremantle. The little ship had encountered storms through the Great Australian Bight, and heavy seas in the Indian ocean, resulting in arrival time eight hours behind schedule.

      Clara discovered two things on this eventful trip, first that she loved the sea, and second, that the sea did not reciprocate her feelings. She was ill before they had reached the open sea and remained confined to her cabin for most of the journey. She had been given a four berth cabin to share with the three little ones and the plan was that she would be in charge of them between Melbourne and Fremantle, and attend to their many needs while Lena and the older sister arranged for the rest of the family.

      However in the event the young children were kept busy looking after their beloved sister. When the family stepped on to West Australian soil a reaction came from Harry. It was strong and harsh. In fact it was instant hate; for as far as he could see it was a sandy waste, and in

direct contrast to the pictures which had been so glowingly painted by the writers who had influenced his decision to settle in the West. He was to live in the west for 26 years, but his first impressions remained with him, and he always disliked the land of his adoption. The other members of the family, however, were pleased that the sea journey was at last over, and Clara was more than thankful when she felt the earth again beneath her feet, and sandy and uninteresting though it was, she was happy.

      Soon after arrival in Fremantle Harry had inspected and purchased seven houses in the eastern part of the city, and in one of these he installed his family, and upon the rental received from the others he hoped to live the life of a retired gentleman. This plan worked reasonably well until the two older boys became sick, and Lena received strong advice from the doctor to make arrangement for their return to the country, and Harry once more set out to find suitable farming land.

      This search took him away from the home frequently, and during these periods it fell to Lena to collect the rent from their tenants. Frequently Clara saw Lena distressed and worried, when her only source of income was denied her because she was unable to collect the rents.

      The highlights for Clara in these Freemantle years were the visits of a Mrs Brown, Lena's midwife, and between 1902 and late 1907 three such visits were made, and a girl and two boys were added to the family. It now numbered ten and Clara loved them all, and they in turn placed her in that special and wonderful category alongside Lena.

      Another event of great importance to Clara, took place in the Fremantle Church of Christ, when she willingly and lovingly gave her young life to the Lord Jesus Christ. She was ten years of age when she pledged her love and loyalty to Him, and she never faltered in her endeavour to follow in His steps, and she became a gracious, thoughtful and unostentatious, concerned Christian woman, and she was loved and admired by all who knew her.

      She was to be a lovely ambassador for her Saviour for seventy three years. Harry, also made the good confession in the church at Fremantle, and this was also a source of joy and happiness to young Clara.

      Towards the end of their six year stay in Freemantle, Clara was saddened by the departure of her older sister, who left the home to travel to Adelaide, where she was occupied for five years in the task of caring for her aged grandparents. Clara loved this sister and the parting was not easy, but made easier by the fact that the Fremantle days were about to end.

      She was involved in the ensuing busy period of preparations. The family planned to move to Clara's next home, Brookton Western Australia.

      Joseph Davis was a tailor who lived and worked in the town of Barnes in the district of Richmond in Surrey, England.

      In the year 1833 he met and fell in love with Mary Ann Carpenter and later they were married.

      Their first child, Charles Henry, was born in 1835, and then between 1837 and 1847 six more children were born, three girls and three boys. On March 20th 1850, their eighth child was born, a girl; she was named Annie. She spent her early years in Barnes and emigrated to Australia with her family in the mid 1850s. Later she displayed a quality voice, and gave promise of becoming a superb singer. Her mother was ambitious and saw for her daughter the possibility of a glittering stage career.

      Annie, however, had other ideas, and at the age of eighteen she married Mr John Kemp of Melbourne. The marriage did not last long and ended in divorce.

      Later she met John Robert Fitzgerald, and they were married in Victoria on 17th March 1874.

      John Fitzgerald was a rugged Irishman. He was born in Queenstown Cork in 1840, and emigrated to Australia in 1860. He was a storekeeper in the northern New South Wales town of Carinda and when the first shearers' strike took place in the 1890s, he showed sympathy with the strikers and gave them goods on credit. This offended the squatters and graziers in the area, who boycotted his business, and finally he was forced to close his doors, and look elsewhere for work. His search for employment took him to Broken Hill, where it is alleged he lost his life in the South Broken Hill mines.

      In 1894 Annie married Robert Sleight, and the following year she accompanied him to Beverley, Western Australia where they settled on virgin land a few miles out of the township. The farm they created they named "Cirencester". Annie had seven children; five girls and two boys, and by the year 1895 four of these had married. So they remained in New South Wales, and the three younger children, one of whom was also married, moved to the West with Annie and Robert. The youngest child was a boy, George Thomas Fitzgerald.

      George Thomas Fitzgerald was born on the 22nd May 1889 at the northern New South Wales town of Carinda. Annie believed that this one, her seventh, and last, could provide her wish to have a child in full time service to the Holy Roman Church. As she watched her son develop into a serious intense boy, interested in life and people, she felt that indeed George would make an ideal priest and shepherd of the flock.

      When George was about four years of age, John Robert, his Dad, decided to quit Carinda still quite unrepentant for lending his support to the shearers in their great effort to establish decent working conditions and suitable rates of pay for an industry upon which the developing young country was so dependent. But, as always, when people use their influence to help the worker in his constant struggle against those who exploit him, he was branded by the graziers and squatters, and therefore could see no future in Carinda and decided to try his luck in the busy New South Wales mining scene at Broken Hill.

      George's first memory in life was of his Dad saddling a big black horse, and mounting it and riding away. Although he used to watch and wait for his return he did not come back and young George had seen the last of his beloved Dad.

      After settling in Beverley, George commenced his school days at the Beverley Primary School. He was a good, but not brilliant student. He loved the farm, the great outdoors, and his family best of all, and at a very young age he became an excellent axeman. He was able to put this ability to good effect as he helped to clear the land for their future property. He was a natural with horses, a lover of hard work and early rising, and, according to the local comments, a brilliant farmer in the making.

      The son of an Irishman, he inherited many of the characteristics which allegedly belong to that justice loving, and compassionate race of people. He was quick tempered, did not bear fools gladly, could see quickly how things should be done, and was at a loss to know why others could not see things as he saw them; was intolerant of injustice; was always for the underdog, and constantly finding himself at loggerheads with the establishment, in much the same way as his Dad had before him. He was an intense boy with high ideals, very loving and forgiving, and his quick temper, although very often on the scene, never lasted and did not become, at any stage, an ill temper. He was respected by his peers, loved by his friends, and they all believed that young George Fitzgerald would become the most successful and wealthy farmer in the area.

      Annie, however, still cherished other ideas. But when she died in Beverley in 1903, at the age of 53, George was fourteen and showed no indication

that he was about to devote his life to the church, and in fact during his early years he had become an avid reader, and quickly devoured all he could find on man's struggle, the Industrial revolution, anti war material and atheism. His favourite atheistic writer was Robert Blatchford. He was almost prepared to admit that the anti-God theories proposed by this clever author could be right. He continued to attend mass with his sisters, but the more he read, the more he became disenchanted with the Roman religion as he saw it, and he believed that there must be something more vital and more important than that which was presented to him by his church.

      So his reading became more intense, and more searching, and the end result appeared that he would renounce the beliefs of his family, and enter an agnostic situation, where he would neither reject nor accept Christianity.

      In George's sixteenth year the West Australian government, anxious to increase the acreage for wheat cultivation in that state, offered virgin land to experienced sons of farmers who had reached the age of sixteen. This was a free offer, and the only condition was that the land must immediately be cleared and cropped at the earliest opportunity. George made application for land and was granted 912 acres of scrub country east of Beverley, and so once again the axeman's art was used to its fullest extent, and in record time George assisted by his family, had his land under cultivation.

      The year 1907 was to be a very decisive one in George's life. He had continued his wide reading and his mind was well conditioned to take the step he often contemplated of announcing his

disbelief in Christian teaching, when, in the midst of all this a new family, the Hendersons, moved into the neighbouring farm.

      Mr & Mrs Henderson, and their son Ray, were farmers, but also they were workers in the Baptist church, and Mr Henderson was a local preacher; but more importantly, they were beautiful people who loved their fellow man, and carried into their lives and actions all the things they taught about their Lord and. Master, Jesus Christ. Through them, George began to see, very slowly, that Blatchford and all the other atheistic writers could have missed the vital factor in their deliberation, and that factor was the love of Jesus, and upon this he began to climb back from a dark, unsatisfactory agnostic situation, to a new look at Jesus, not as a hoax, or merely as a figure of history, or even as transcendent man, but as the Son of God.

      Under the loving influence of the Henderson family, George's reading patterns changed dramatically, and he now read the great Christian authors, was encouraged in Bible study, and for the first time in his life he shared in house prayer meetings. Prayer had been a word to George, but now it became a reality. He shocked his family and friends by attending the local Baptist church and sharing in their activities and fellowship.

      Within weeks of the Hendersons arrival in Beverley, George and Ray had become almost inseparable. They worked together on their farms, they worshipped together, they talked and talked, mainly about the Christian life and its real meaning--the centrality of Jesus, and what a commitment to Him really meant in ones daily life. George's excitement knew no bounds, and

his sisters were amazed at the change in their beloved young brother. They could not believe that the new neighbours could make all that much difference, and they believed George had fallen in love with a local lass who was known to be very fond of the handsome young farmer. They were wrong, of course, because George now saw the end of his searching, and a possible wonderful new beginning, and in August 1908, he accepted that new life and was baptised by Mr Henderson in the dam on his own property.

      The renouncing of his early faith and beliefs was not without trauma, and his family and associates saw it as an act of disloyalty, and for many he was no longer accepted in their homes or lives. George accepted it all, and with the best grace his naturally intolerant spirit could muster, because he now felt alive and at peace and in love with all mankind.

      His influence on the home was dramatic, and his sisters listened to him as he unfolded the story of the cross, of Jesus' love, and his great teaching, and how he associated himself not with the wealthy but with the poor, and how if implemented in peoples lives, His Gospel could revolutionise the world. "There could be"' George used to say, "a world without war where exploitation was unknown and man's love for man would replace man's hate for his fellow creatures." This amazed them all, and one sister, Alice, hung on to every word her young brother uttered. Alice was four years older than George, and despite the little gap in their ages, they had always been very close, and throughout his life George always spoke of her as his favourite sister.

      She was loved by all the Beverley folk, and was indeed quite remarkable, extremely capable, bright, good looking, friendly, and loving, and one whose company was sought after by members of both sexes, the male sex being in the forefront. But the apple of her eye was young George, and from the day he was baptised her mind was constantly on this new life that her special brother talked so confidently and excitedly about.

      Alice knew that this was not just idle talk, because living in the same home as George, she could testify to the fact that a magnificent change had taken place, and indeed her brother was a new person, still vital, intense, mercurial, inclined towards intolerance, and in a mad hurry to get things done. But he was different, and more thoughtful for the needs of others, and to Alice this was dramatic and wonderful, she determined to know more, and if possible to have it for herself. She and George studied the Bible together, and prayed also. For her it was sheer excitement, and it came as no surprise to George when after one of their thrilling sessions Alice made a loving commitment to her Lord, and George baptised her in the dam on his own property.

      His favourite sister had become his very first convert. During her long life she was to be a shining witness for her beloved Saviour.

      Soon after Alice's baptism, George applied to enter The College of The Bible, a theological institution in Melbourne, operated by the Churches of Christ in Australia. He had become exposed to the writings of Thomas Glass, Barton Stone, Thomas Campbell, and his brilliant son Alexander, and he believed that their plea for the unity of all God's people based on New Testament Christianity, was a thrilling concept,

and one to which he could give his life; and the Christian group in Australia continuing the teachings of these great men, was the Churches of Christ. Hence the application to these people.

      The Henderson family, steeped as they were in Baptist teaching, were at first disappointed that George was not to become a minister in their own churches, but they shared his enthusiasm, and reminded themselves that the Church was the Body of Christ on earth, and that denominational boundaries are artificial and man made, and they were so happy that they had been used to bring George face to face with his Saviour.

      George's application to study in Melbourne was accepted, and he commenced his studies in February 1909. George was the seventh student to be enrolled in this new college, the headquarters of which at that time had not been determined. However after a short period of taking lectures in an inner Melbourne suburb, a beautiful old home was purchased in Elm Road, Glen Iris; and this became The College of The Bible, with its first principal, Mr A. R. Main, who was assisted by Mr Randall Pitman, and Mr Taylor, who was in charge of secular subjects.

      It was a thrilling time for George as he studied the exegesis of New & Old Testaments, homiletics, and other theological subjects, and also he was required to gain a working knowledge of Greek, a language which mostly remained a mystery to him. George was a hard working student who achieved excellent results, but he was no linguist. It was observed by teachers and students that in George Fitzgerald the College had a brilliant orator in the making, and great

things were predicted for him, in the area of public speaking and debating, and as the days of 1909 quickly ran their course, this feature of George's work became more and more evident.

      Towards the end of the year George received letters from Beverley indicating a problem for him in relation to his farm, which had been leased to a Mr Whyatt. Mr Whyatt had decided that instead of using the broadacres for wheat crop, he would turn the neat, well maintained farm into a piggery. This he had done, but the farm was, as a result in a run down condition, and as an asset it was fast deteriorating. George decided on a bold plan. He approached Mr Main he asked for leave of absence from his studies for one year, undertaking that he would return in 1911 and complete his studies. The course was, at that time, for three years, George, however, believed that he could, if permitted, complete two years work in one.

      After some delay permission for this unusual course was given, and at the conclusion of 1909 George returned to Western Australia and again became the busy, bustling farmer of Beverley.

      Highlights of George's first year at the College of the Bible were his very satisfactory results in all his examinations, and the emerging evident ability as an orator, and one incident which occurred in his first weekend church.

      At this country location, an elder had had all his own way for years, and had ruled the flock with a rod of iron. George was warned not to offend him, and to accept his outrageous behaviour with good grace. On the first Sunday George stood up to preach, and immediately this elder, who always positioned himself near the front,

noisily took out a copy of the Saturday Age (the Melbourne paper), and proceeded to read it. George stopped dead. And as the seconds ticked by, the elder, against his will, looked up and very deliberately George said, "When you put that paper away sir I'll continue with my sermon." He reluctantly complied but swore that this young upstart would be taught a lesson. However, in the event, George was supported by the membership and his weekend trips were mainly very happy and effective. So 1910 was just around the corner and George happily prepared for it, little knowing what it was to provide.

      The move from Fremantle to Brookton took place in December 1907, and after the family were settled in their new home, Harry, assisted by his two eldest sons, recommenced their farm life.

      Clara, now 16, was adored by all the younger members of the family, and among her many duties was the pleasant one of teaching the little ones about God's love and leading them gently and lovingly through the Bible stories. These sessions had a lasting effect on her brothers and sisters, and 65 years later they were still commenting on these lesson times as a big influence in their lives.

      Clara was also active outside the Brookton Home, and shared in the work and the witness of the Church of Christ where she was a Sunday School teacher and church organist. The minister was Harry Manning, and at that time his wife had presented him with their first child, a son. Clara loved this baby, and whenever possible she would visit the manse hoping for the privilege of spending some time with young Donald.

      In 1939 Donald Manning married Clara's beautiful and much loved sister, Laura, in Adelaide. Don and Laura Manning settled back in their home state of Western Australia, after their marriage and lived for many years at Narrogin, and later moved to Perth. They were very special to Clara, and became special to every member of her family.

      After a few years of successful farming at Brookton, Harry purchased a property in Armadale, and another home was constructed mainly by the two eldest boys assisted by Harry, who was now taking things much easier, as he had received an adverse report on an alleged heart condition.

      Now Clara commenced her Armadale days, and the pattern of her life continued to be in the same unselfish and thoughtful way. Young George Fitzgerald, whom she had met at the Brookton church in 1910, had become a regular visitor to the Jones' home, and she was engaged to be married to him at some time in the then reasonably uncertain future.

      George had completed his year back on the farm at Beverley, then had sold the property and kept his promise made in 1909 to Mr Main to return to the College of The Bible in 1911. At the conclusion of 1911, George was passed by his examiners with high marks, and had accepted an invitation to minister with the church at Bunbury, Western Australia.

      In February 1912 George commenced his work at Bunbury and also helped with a little church at Harvey. During this, his first year as a minister of the Gospel, he became well known in Bunbury as an outspoken, very effective

evangelist, and was loved by his people, and very much admired by the young female group who fell for the good looking, intense and compassionate young man who was the minister. George however never wavered in his love for, and commitment to, the lovely Clara.

      The Brookton and Armadale years had been very happy and eventful; three more children had been added to the home, making a total of 10 births to Lena. One, a boy, had died at a young age, and so with three of the first family, and nine of her own, Lena's prayer for children to love and influence had certainly been answered. These busy days were, for Clara, drawing to a close, as the year 1912 put up the shutters, and gave way to 1913.

      On the 6th February 1913 the Jones' home at Armadale was on the move before the first light of dawn came over the hill. It was Clara's wedding day. The marriage, and the social celebration afterwards, were all to take place within the home. By 1.00 p.m. all was in readiness, and the bride elect who had shared in all the activities, was now dressed lovingly by her tiny Mum, and when George arrived, Harry Manning, who was officially to tie the knot, was ready and waiting. At 3.30 p.m. standing together in the dining room, and witnessed by all the family, and some close friends, George, in his strong, positive voice, pledged his life and love to Clara, and she in her gracious and quiet manner gave George her loving and everlasting pledge.

      Lena and the other girls had excelled themselves in the kitchen, and the wedding feast was something special. When the festivities finally ended, Harry Manning committed the young couple to the care of their Heavenly Father, whom they

both loved, and had promised to serve, and the final goodbyes were said. Some of the younger ones were not at all happy about this dark stranger taking their beloved Clara away, and they shed some not too silent tears, and when Lena hugged and kissed her beautiful first born, she joined them, but silently. Time, work, and lack of money, precluded any thought of a honeymoon, so the newly weds travelled direct to their new home at Samson Street Bunbury.

      George set a pattern at the Bunbury church, which he was to follow during a life time of ministry. He was a gifted speaker and debater, and learned to use these talents to their best effect, and was consequently sought after as a speaker. His pastoral work was also excellent, and he was a welcome visitor in the homes of his church people.

      He was however an intense man, and early in his first ministry this intensity caused a health breakdown and during the period of convalescence he worked on a fruit block at Harvey, and the outdoor work and freedom from the duties he always considered pressing, had their effect and he was soon able to resume the work he loved.

      The whole church membership admired and loved young Clara, who by her unostentatious, quiet and lovely way with people had made a big hit with both young and old. They were all concerned for her, and some of the older ladies quite anxious on her behalf, during her first pregnancy. When on the 27th January 1914 she gave birth to a son, the church claimed this special baby as their own.

      Clara had a very special Uncle, Clarence Manuel, Lena's brother, so the new arrival, born at home in Samson Street, was named after this Uncle, and the second given name was Lindsay.

      So the manse at Bunbury was the first home of Clara's first born, Clarence Lindsay Fitzgerald.

      The ministry at Bunbury concluded at the end of 1914, when George was invited to work with the Bassendean church. The Bunbury members were not happy about the arrangement, but were thankful for the years of sharing with a young minister who they all believed had a great future in the work of convincing others of God's love and the Saviourhood of His Son, Jesus. As Clara packed her meager belongings in preparation for the move to the city, she did so with mixed feelings. Since her birth at Kerang in 1891, she had spent much of her 23 years in the country, and she loved trees, open spaces, the farmer folk, and in fact anything close to nature, and so she wondered about this first appointment of her husband to a city church.

      Clara was pregnant again, and all the breaking of an old home, and the making of a new one, and the settling in to a new church with all its attendant difficulties, were all carried out with her usual serene dignity during the latter stage of this her second pregnancy.

      George's ministry at Bassendean commenced in February 1915, and two months later at 6.20 p.m. on April 3rd, Clara gave birth to her second son. He was given the names Douglas John. I was that baby; and just 70 years later I'm setting down these details. Much of it told to me by my beautiful, unforgettable Mother. Much of it gained by my own research, and some of it, I

hasten to add, is what I believed or imagined could have happened. I state the above merely to explain the change that will now occur. The word "they" will largely be replaced by the word, "we".

      The years of learning at Bunbury had served Dad very well. He moved into the work at Bassendean with greater certainty, and was received lovingly by the church members, and it proved to be one of the very fine ministries of his career, and fifty years later people still mention the years of G.T., as he was known, as some of the best.

      The 1914-1918 Great War was, by 1915, tearing the nations apart, and filling the world with horror, hatred and destruction.

      Dad's part in this great obscenity was to oppose it with all the strength of his mind and body. The church at Bassendean, the wider church brotherhood, and in fact the whole state of Western Australia, became quickly aware that in George Fitzgerald they had a fearless war resister, who did not count the cost to himself in loss of popularity or possible surveillance of his activities by the authorities. He spoke, he wrote, he debated, and soon became one of the outstanding opponents of our involvement in this European war. Because of his stand our home in Bassendean became a centre for counselling, encouragement, and advice for those young men who shared his beliefs and were prepared to suffer the ostracism of their friends, family, and others, and if necessary to go to gaol, rather than swear to kill their fellow men.

      Pacifism was a dirty word in those days, and Dad was a pacifist, and eagerly identified himself

with the movement in Western Australia, and gave support to any who sincerely refused the command to take up arms. His court appearances on behalf of other pacifists were notable because of their integrity and forcefulness, and while many admired him, many others heaped abuse and indignities upon him, and he, and others, were recipients of the traditional white feather. Dad however, took it all in his stride, and as the war progressed he redoubled his efforts on behalf of world peace.

      When the armistice was signed on November 11th 1918, he had grown in stature, his speaking and debating skills had been sharpened, his commitment to his Lord and Master, and the work of His church was at a higher level, and he had received many accolades from the community for his integrity and his many other outstanding talents. Even his enemies had to grudgingly admit that in George Fitzgerald Western Australia had a man who could not be classified as ordinary; he was extra ordinary.

      Another main event in our stay at Bassendean was the arrival of a baby girl, Olive Jeannie. She came to be with us on the 22nd of August 1917, and it was a great event. Dad, already the father of two lively, and sometimes troublesome sons, was, according to Mum's report, quite overcome when he realised that he was actually the father of a member of the fair sex, and he unashamedly shed tears of joy when he held his first born baby girl. He was, as this story will tell, to grow quite used to that experience.

      So now we were five. Jean, as she was called, soon became a welcome part of the busy manse home. I do not remember her triumphal entry into our lives, but I was aware of her presence about September in 1917.

      Soon after the end of the war, Dad's ministry at Bassendean ended. The church at Subiaco had invited him to take their pulpit, and he had agreed.

      At the end of 1918 Clara, again pregnant, had to start breaking another home, and prepare for her third in six years. The ministry in Subiaco was to be a short one, and was in fact over in one year. It was a very happy and effective period, and some of the members became life-time friends of the family's. Dad continued to impress as a fine preacher, dedicated to his calling as a minister, loved by his people, and feared by those who sought to exploit weaker members of the community.

      The important family event of our years' stay at Subiaco, was the presentation by Mum, to her beloved young husband, of a second baby girl. She was given the lovely names of Gwenyth Joy. Gwen, according to her mother, lived up to the name of Joy, and was indeed a joyous baby. She came to us on February 26th 1919, and we welcomed her.

      The reason for the short ministry at Subiaco was the need in New Zealand for trained ministers from Australia to accept full time work in the dominion, and an invitation had been made to Dad to serve with the Mornington church in Dunedin. Dad had accepted, and now Mum had to go through the trauma of leaving loved ones, and being separated from her Mum and Dad, and from all the members of her family. They were all in Western Australia, and this was a heart rending break for her, and once again the home had to packed up, and she had to steel herself to the task of living in another land, building a new set of friends, putting together a home for her

dynamic, vital and ever moving husband and four lively young children.

      The passage was booked for March 4th 1920, on the SS Wanganella.

      I believe it's a sad thing that children do not recall what happens to them from the date of their birth to perhaps year 4 or 5 of their life. And in this regard I would be no exception. However there are some events I do remember in my West Australian years, and they are as follows.

      One day during our Bassendean experience, I was standing on the front gate watching the passing parade, when two soldiers walked past the house. They were unsteady on their feet, and in fact were swaying from side to side, and when they drew level with me they abused me and told me to get off that gate or suffer the consequences. I obeyed very promptly, and ran into Mum and asked her what it was all about. She explained that the two men were drunk, and I think I received my first lesson in total abstinence, and I believe I made a childish pledge to myself that never would that happen to me. That pledge has never been broken. My age at that time would, I believe, be about three years.

      Many years after the Western Australian experience I described an event to my mother, and she said it was an exact record of the actual happening, and that at the time I was two and one half years old. We were at the seaside, the baby, Jean, was protected from the sun by a large black umbrella, and when a gust of wind blew it into the sea, Dad tried to snare it with his fishing line, quite, as it happened, unsuccessfully. But the suddenness of the action and the tragic loss of the umbrella etched it in my memory forever.

      We were on holiday. The house was large and commodious, and every morning a cow would push the gate open, turn on the tap with its horns, drink deeply and go, leaving the tap running. The home was, I was told, at Cottesloe, and was owned by a Mr Albany Bell, a prominent West Australia business man, and a member of the Churches of Christ. My age, between three and tour.

      I recalled a home in the country which we visited occasionally, and also a dark haired attractive young lass who lived there with her parents. I was told that it was my grandparents home at Armadale, where Mum and Dad were married, and the girl was Mums' beloved sister, Laura.

      This story has become part of the Fitzgerald folklore, and may appear to have been embellished a little with the years, and although only four years of age at the time, I can vouch for its accuracy.

      At the rear of our home in Subiaco there was a short lane, and on the back fences of these homes were the toilets, and each toilet had a door opening out onto the lane. This provision made it simple for the night cart man to carry out his unpleasant, but very necessary tasks.

      Lin believed that this arrangement could be improved upon, so he suggested that we open the doors, and put them on the latch, giving us at times a very clear view of several white bottoms. It was great while it lasted. But somehow the residents had no sense of humour, and when they discovered our improvements there was a great deal of yelling and shouting and fist waving, and horrified ladies complaining to Mum about her depraved children. Mum however, loyal

and lovely, said quite positively that her boys would not do such a thing. But to their everlasting shame they both had to plead guilty. I do recall many justified punishments I received, but cannot remember any being meted out for this major crime.

      March 4th 1920 came quickly enough, and at 4.00 p.m. the SS Wanganella departed from the port of Fremantle, and on board, among many other passengers, were Mr & Mrs George Fitzgerald, and their four children. The West Australian years were over. For Dad they had commenced in 1895, and for Mum in 1902. Their paths had crossed in 1910, and since then they have travelled wonderfully together, and the Clara & George dynasty, which commenced with their marriage at Armadale in 1913, had already produced four children, and now as the Wanganella took to the waves in the Indian ocean, they were full of high hopes for their new life in New Zealand. For Mum it was a sad parting from her family, and the days on the high seas were not attractive to her. She was a poor sailor, and she was again pregnant.

      I recall extremely well being a passenger on the Wanganella, and I remember the thrill as we left the quiet waters of the Swan River, and were actually on the ocean waves. From that wonderful moment I remember my life, so to my reader I say that the story of Clara & George no longer depends on historical facts provided by my mother, or on my research, or indeed on my own imagination.

      Moving from one place to another, setting up a new home, can be very exciting for young children, and we were excited. We'd seen pictures of big ships, but to actually be a passenger on a ship we considered to be huge and palatial, was an experience out of this world.

      At the time of boarding the Wanganella, Lin, our eldest, was six, I was nearly five, Jean was two and a half, Gwen, our baby was 12 months old, and for each one of us it was an adventure of our young lives. For Lin and me, being the grown up ones, it was even more special, and the Wanganella was soon to become our oyster. We part of our area, and were on speaking terms with many of the stewards and other

officers. The sea journey for us was made more interesting by the presence of the Edwards family, also travelling steerage. Ray, the son, was about our age, and he shared all our exploits and explorations. His father was a magician, of sorts, and was always finding money in our ears, knees and elbows, and he could join string together simply by putting the two ends in his mouth, and the join could not be seen by human eyes. For us he was a fascinating man. So with all this, and the terrific meals, where we were actually served by stewards in uniform, it was an unforgettable experience.

      The Wanganella was, at that time, a reasonably new ship, and still had thirty years to serve before it was finally scrapped. So she rode the waves well, and when we entered the Great Australian Bight, She was able to cope with the heavy seas, which are normal in those waters.

      Mum was sick, and was not able to share at meal times. Dad, always an excellent sailor, was not confined at any stage to his bunk, and Lin and I were showing signs of following our Dad in this way. Our girls, being younger, also had little or no difficulty.

      We called in at Port Melbourne, and after a brief stay we headed into the Bass Strait, and then turned North and arrived in the beautiful Sydney Harbour six days after leaving Fremantle. We stayed in Sydney for two days, before undertaking the final leg of our sea trip to New Zealand.

      While in Sydney we were in the home of our Auntie Dolly, who was one of Dad's older sisters who had remained in New South Wales when Dad and his family left to make their home in Western

Australia. The presence of Western Australian cousins may, or may not, have been appreciated by Auntie Dolly's sons, but I recall vividly some disagreement, and the upshot was that a sizeable piece of wood, with the business end of a 50 mm nail being hurled in my direction, tearing a piece of flesh from my right knee, and even now I can see Aunt Dolly and Mum rushing to my aid, as the blood spurted. However I was soon patched up, and on speaking terms again with my cousins. But I still carry the scars, to this day.

      The two day break in Sydney must have been a blessing for Mum, travelling with four kids, being pregnant, and sea sick, would be no fun. So she may not have looked forward to the trip across the Tasman sea, (which can be very rough), in the same way as her four children undoubtedly did.

      The Wanganella departed for Port Chalmers in the South Island of New Zealand at 8.00 a.m. on 15th march 1920. The passenger list had changed considerably, and we had lost our playmate Ray, and also our magician. But as our ship went through the famous Sydney Harbour Heads, we were again a very excited family. New Zealand lay directly ahead of us.

      The SS Wanganella arrived at Port Chalmers, the cold, misty harbour which serves the South Island city of Dunedin, at 10.00 a.m. on the 19th March 1920, after a reasonably good passage from Sydney.

      We were met at the harbour by Mr J. Ingles-Wright and transported in his large car to his impressive home in Mornington, a suburb of Dunedin. Mr Ingles-Wright was a prominent businessman in New Zealand, and one who was involved in many activities which, at one time, included the position of British High Commissioner in the dominion of New Zealand. He was also the Elder, and strong leader, in the little Mornington church to which Dad had been invited to serve as evangelist.

      In their home, which was very spacious, provision had been made for our family to spend one week before we moved to our home, which at that time was not quite ready for occupancy. The week in this gracious home in New Zealand whose owners because of their position of power and wealth were able to provide whatever they needed or wanted, was a nightmare for mum and Dad, and

      I'm sure that the end of their first week in New Zealand could not come quickly enough. The son of this home, a young man, perhaps in his late teens, was a dog fancier, and because he was the son of a very wealthy home he was able to obtain the best in New Zealand and beyond, whenever he made purchases to build his kennel numbers.

      There was a small shed on the property, and the interior walls were covered with pretty labels, with certain printing shown on the face of each one. The colors were red, green, purple and blue. Lin and I, with some experience in rearranging things, decided that the walls would look much better if they had the natural timber look, so we gently took each cardboard label down and not so gently tore them up into small pieces and decorated the floor with this confetti like material.

      The young man on a routine check later that day, found that all his hard won certificates of merit, his first, second, third and honorable mention cards awarded him at many locations throughout both the South and North Islands of New Zealand had been systematically and fiendishly, as he believed, destroyed.

      The sedate and lovely Ingles-Wright mansion had never been in such uproar as on this occasion. I was soundly thrashed by Dad, and Lin received the same treatment, and I crawled under the bed being used by Mum and Dad, and nursed my aches and pains for a long time. I was hurt on the outside, but more on the inside, because I didn't know why everybody had gone so mad, I didn't know what I had done, or why the cards were so important. It was some time later I discovered the seriousness of this escapade. It was a bad beginning for us in New Zealand and I'm

sure that the Ingles-Wright family heaved a sigh of relief when the new minister and his family could be moved out.

      This move occurred on March 26th 1920, and on that day we really commenced our life together as a family in New Zealand. The house we lived in was not large but Mum and Dad had by this time acquired a fair bit of knowledge about fitting families into small spaces and making do with very little.

      Our Dad as has previously been mentioned, was a positive, dynamic man, and whilst he was loving and considerate, he was not one to be sat on by any member of his congregation, and this included those with wealth and power, who very often in our churches are fawned upon and looked up to.

      Some of the New Zealand churches had the sad reputation for many years of crucifying their ministers, particularly those who were young; and sometimes it was believed by church boards and others, that recruits from the Australian brotherhood should be shown the correct way in which a preacher should operate; he was in their humble opinion, not there as a leader, a co-elder, or one who was there to guide and plan the church in operation, but as a servant only.

      This then was the situation Dad faced in Mornington. A very wealthy and influential Elder, an official board subservient to him, and willing at all times to do his bidding regardless of what the minister may think. This was not a situation in which our Dad could really operate effectively, and soon after the official welcome period was over, difficulties did occur.

      On April 3rd 1920, there were celebrations in our home. I reached the age of 5, and both Lin and I started school. We were placed in the same grade, but within a short space of time Lin was promoted, and for the remainder of our school days he was away ahead and I brought up the rear as best I could.

      I recall this first day very well, but the second day is more firmly imprinted on my memory. The school lout and bully had been caught on top of the girls lavatories using a peep hole through the roof, and our lady teacher promised him, and the class, a lesson. She took a thin branch from the willow tree, stripped it of its green bark, and thrashed him with it in front of the class, and the bully boy was really hurt and howling, and the class was very subdued. The punishment I believe was fair, but the public display of it seemed cruel and unnecessary.

      In the town of Mornington I had my first brush with death. There was a large family in our street. They had an old type home with a large verandah on all sides. The father of this home was the local milkman, and we used to take the billy and obtain our supplies. The youngest member of the family, a girl, became very ill, and each morning we would enquire about her condition, and on one such occasion the mother replied, very casually, "Oh, she died last night. Would you like to see her?" I was horrified, and I left in a hurry, shocked that I had come so close to this awful thing called death. The mother seemed surprised at my hurried departure.

      In the family next door, there were three boys. They were older than either Lin or I, but they tolerated us. They were interesting and active

lads, and they had dug a large underground room in the front garden, roofed it, and made it quite comfortable with seats and table. The main use of this dugout was as a cinema. They were the proud owners of an early type film projector, and on occasions we were invited to see the movies. In this dugout we were introduced to the stars of the celluloid, and cheered the feats of Tom Mix and his wonder horse, and laughed ourselves silly at the antics of Charlie Chaplin and the Max Sennett comedians. I believe however we did our first film viewing under the lap. Mum and Dad, as I remember, were not really smitten with the movie age just then making its influence felt throughout the world, and in fact our first contact with a picture theatre came some time later and the double bill of films was--"Tom Mix Rides Again" & "The Radio King", and I recall the action and the thrill of them both extremely well.

      One cold morning in Mornington I shall never forget. Dad, who always made his sweetheart a cup of tea in the morning, got up at the normal time, and instead of lighting the little gas ring, came bounding into our room, and invited us, or rather urgently instructed us to get out quickly and come with him. We did this and he opened the back door and the sight and sheer thrill and joy of it has never left me.

      It had snowed all night, and the whole world was covered in a thick white mantle, and it was so quiet and beautiful, that as I write about it now, 65 years later, I am there as a little child, drinking it all in and wondering how anything could look so beautiful. Later that day, Dad made us a big snowman, and finished it with pieces of coal for eyes, mouth and buttons. It was our proud possession for about three

days, and finally, and sadly, it disappeared along with all other traces of our first snow storm.

      In our short stay in Mornington there was another major event. Our third baby girl was born on 7th August 1920. A lady, nurse McCail, had been living with us for a short period and we thought this was beaut, little dreaming that she was there for a very definite and wonderful purpose.

      Dad often shared with us in our bedroom, and he came in on this day, and asked us to guess what we had in our home. There were many guesses, dogs, cats, some special foods, chocolates, and all sorts of childish things, and finally we had to be told that it was a baby.

      Immediately I asked, "Is it a boy?". "No," Dad replied, " a beautiful baby girl." I was very disappointed, I badly needed a baby brother, and had in fact been praying for this, so I said, "I don't want to see her." But when nurse McCail took me to the crib the next day I was hooked. Our new addition was given the quite delightful names of Enid Lavinia. Enid smiled genuinely according to her mum, much earlier than any other baby she had known before or since. And her smiles and happiness soon became part of the Mornington manse. Now we were seven.

      Our lovely mum had been married to her beloved George for seven and a half years, and during that reasonably short period she had lived in four homes and produced five children.

      The situation at the Mornington Church had not improved. Mr Ingles Wright was not able to cope with a young minister, capable though he may be,

who could not believe that he, as the Elder, must always have the final say on all matters, and that his leadership was all important. Dad tried to explain to his Elder what he believed the role of an Elder to be, and also he took him carefully through the New Testament, so that together they could discover what the role of the minister should be. Mr Ingles Wright remained unconvinced and Dad, believing as he always did that the church is greater than the individual, asked to be released, and this was agreed to in September of 1920.

      The minister at the Invercargill Church had at this time just completed his term of three years and had received a call to minister elsewhere and when the Invercargill board heard that young George Fitzgerald was available for appointment, they lost no time in making contact and some of them saw him in Mornington, and offered him a three year term of ministry. Dad accepted, and after six months of unhappiness, he was keen to make the move to Invercargill. Mum had now made and broken three home and now with five children ranging from six and a half years to two and a half months, had to do it all over again, but for this time she carried out these heart breaking tasks free of a pregnancy.

      We moved from the Mornington scene on October 10th, 1920, and again the older manse children were excited and looking forward to new adventures in a new location.

      We travelled by 3'6" gauge train from Dunedin to Invercargill, and were met at the railway station by members of Dad's new church.

      Our first impression of Invercargill was that it was like England and of course at our tender ages we had not seen the British Isles or knew very much about them, but there was a very definite explanation. Dad was always concerned for his family, and hoped that they would from an early age become readers.

      To stimulate our desire for knowledge, he had introduced us to the Children's Newspaper, a publication produced in England and edited by Arthur Mee. We used to wait eagerly for its arrival and absorb all its contents. Although it dealt with many things of supreme interest to young children, its background and flavour was always English. Dad's hope, that as we read and were fascinated by the writings of Arthur Mee, we would reach out and enter the larger world of book reading, worked well in Lin's case and by his seventh year he was already becoming a bookworm.

      The beginning, however, of my life-time adventure in the world of books did not occur until later, perhaps when I was nine years old. But along with the rest of the family I read the Children's Newspaper, and looking back over sixty-five years, I can remember many things that the editor brought to my attention, and I believe they had a lasting effect. So, we arrived at the Invercargill Station, and it was a little bit of England to us. Why? Because lined up row upon row with beautifully groomed horses, were many Hansom cabs, and because of our exposure to all things English, we knew about Hansom cabs.

      We were driven to our new home at Ythan Street, and commenced living in Invercargill. It was to be our home for the next three years and ten months. The ladies of the church had stocked the larder with many attractive goodies and to five eager young people, this put the seal of greatness on the folk who were to he our friends in the years ahead.

      The welcome extended to the new minister and his family set the pattern which was to be followed throughout the entire ministry. It was quiet, thoughtful, loving, and sincere--with caring as its keynote. Invercargill had been settled mainly by Scottish people, and all of the admirable qualities of Scotland the brave were clearly discernible in these folk who made up the membership of our new church.

      After the welcome, Dad's second ministry in New Zealand began on a very high note, and remained there for the whole period as he shared with his people, teaching and instructing them, baptising and marrying them, and becoming an important Part of their lives. The situation here was

quite the opposite to the church at Mornington--domination was replaced by a loving acceptance and a willingness to cooperate, and when necessary to be led by the one whom they had called to be their leader.

      Soon after taking up residence at Ythan Street, Dad took Lin and me to the South School, which was to be our house of learning during the Invercargill experience. It was a good school, and for me it has no unhappy memories. It was Jean's first school, and in the last few months before our departure to another place in New Zealand, Gwen was also enrolled as a pupil.

      Our new city, being the most southerly in the world, was a place of extreme cold, so we became very used to snow storms and heavy frosts, which would freeze our water pipes, causing extreme pressure, and occasionally they would burst, resulting in minor flooding and wetness in all the wrong places. We loved these frosts, and were always fascinated by the delicate shapes on the lawn and fruit trees, and also by the long icicles which formed on any garden tap which happened to be dripping. Whenever a frost was possible, we would place plates of milk on the lawn, get up early the next morning and enjoy a feast of frozen milk.

      The manse was a real home to us--constructed of weatherboards with sufficient room, at a squeeze, for our growing family. The backyard was large with a number of established fruit trees, and also black and red currants and gooseberry bushes. There were lawns back and front, and plenty of room for our many games, or to get away from each other, which at times, was very necessary.

      A main feature of the home was the kitchen and its heating arrangements. It was equipped with a large stove, which gave a warm glow of comfort to the whole area. Alongside the stove, in its own cabinet, was a quite large water tank. With the heat provided from the fire, through an ingenious system of connecting pipes, the cold tank water would be converted into boiling hot water. It was a feature of this lovely family home, and we all recall its friendly operation very clearly. Saturday night baths were always a messy, happy occasion in our home, and they, and many other things, were dependant upon the water heater and its safe and reliable operation. In our four years of close and loving contact with this unique feature, it never failed to deliver the goods.

      The chapel was barely a minutes walk from the manse. It was a well constructed, fairly large wooden building equipped with all of the normal church fittings, and an organ, which sounded quite melodious, but needed the efforts of someone behind the scene, and quite out of sight to constantly continue pumping until the organist no longer required his assistance.

      This used to operate quite well, until one Sunday morning after Dad had completed his sermon he announced the closing hymn, the organist touched all the right notes, but nothing happened. So, she tried again, but with the same result, then looked appealingly at Dad. Dad left the pulpit, and discovered the pumping brother was very sound asleep, he was awakened with some difficulty, and asked gently to get pumping, which he did, and the service finally drew to a close.

      At this time, Dad had been preaching for ten years, and his skill as a teacher and orator made me wonder how anyone could sleep through one of his sermons. He was developing the spell binding qualities which would make him, in later years, the most stimulating speaker in our Australasian churches.

      The Church was alive with throbbing activity, with a large Sunday School and Adult Bible class, which, in addition to producing many fine Christian men and women who made their mark for their Master in Invercargill and elsewhere, it challenged three young men to full time service, namely Albert Ladbrook, George Mathieson and Ray Blampied, who served the Australasian Brotherhood in many areas, and with distinction. Albert Ladbrook also served in South Africa, and each one of them would point to their beloved G.T. as their "father" in the faith.

      This adult Bible class was notable for another reason. It was held on Sunday morning before the 11.00 a.m. service and two of its members were very young, and did not in any way qualify as young adults. Lin and I were those junior members, and we shared with our Dad in this thrilling part of his work. This arrangement was made so that on a busy Sunday morning, Mum's increasing workload would be lightened a little. Lin and I never needed any urging to get going on Sunday morning, because it was really something to us to be sharing with a group of young men and women whom we hero worshipped.

      On two wonderful occasions, Dad took the Bible class to fabulous Stewart Island, and we went along with them. The sea journey across the sometimes very tempestuous Foveau Strait in a large converted tugboat, called the Marie

Theresa, was dream-like for us. The sight of icebergs in the distance and Sperm Whales close at hand were unforgettable memories. Stewart Island is a wonder island, set in the extreme, cold southern seas, it is alive with luxurious tropical growth. The explanation for this phenomenon is a warm stream of water coming from the north east which gives the tiny land mass a higher temperature, and with the ample rainfall, conditions are just right for tropical growth. Our two trips to this magic Isle must remain as highlights in our travel experience, and Thule Bay, Half Moon Bay, the navigable creeks and canals and the whole beautiful scene will remain with us forever.

      On our second trip to the island, Albert Ladbrook took his sister, who bore the delightful name of Tui and also a brother, Ken. They were about our age and so we joined forces to do what we considered to be daring and exciting.

      The campers lived together in a large home overlooking Thule Bay, and it was one of the rules that after the midday meal everyone had a rest period, and that included us.

      One particular sunny day, we waited until all was quiet, then sneaked out one by one and met at the beach. After consultation, we decided to carry out our most ambitious plan. Some unsuspecting fisherman had moored his little dinghy a short distance from the shoreline. We waded out to it, loosed the moorings and scrambled on board. There was an island which appeared to be reasonably close, and this was to be our first ever rowing experience--there and back again before the afternoon siesta was over. We had seen others rowing, and it seemed fairly straight forward, but to keep our dinghy headed

for that elusive Island we found, was not the pushover it had appeared to be. However, we did get the knack, and taking it in turns we eventually reached our destination, but as it had taken an age, we were now a bit concerned about the reaction back at the camp. The siesta we knew would be well and truly over, so we turned our craft with some difficulty, and rowed as hard as our tired arms would permit, and arrived fairly expertly, we believed, to within sight of the haven of Thule Bay, when we became aware of two distraught figures searching the island and finally coming in desperation to the beach, and looking out to sea they spotted our boat. At that moment, Lin and I were in charge of the oars, and we were rowing strongly and really making the little craft move. On seeing and hearing Dad and Albert, our cool deserted us, and for quite some hopeless minutes, our boat stayed stubbornly still, or went round and round in circles. The more we tried, the worse mess we got in to. During the whole period of our immobility Dad and Albert were like two frantic Generals in charge of the beach head, both waving their arms about madly, and issuing opposing instructions and jumping up and down as evidently none of their shouted orders were taken the slightest notice of.

      Finally, we did forget our fright, and steadied our nerves long enough to get moving smoothly again, and when the boat touched the sandy beach we felt like conquering heroes--that feeling, I may add, did not last long.

      The Invercargill years were the commencement point for many things which remained with us for the remainder of our lives. Lin and I were constantly involved with each other. We shared the same bedroom, we went to school together,

played on the common, flew our home made kites; Lin's models always hit the sky quicker, and remained aloft longer than mine, because he was much more careful and meticulous in the construction stages. We kicked footballs, played cricket and did all those things which normal, lively lads tend to do.

      Money, however, was always our problem--there just was not any of it available. The churches may have loved their ministers, but the thought of paying an adequate salary did not occur to them. So such a thing as pocket money was unknown to us, but we did need just a few pence occasionally. To rectify this we collected anything we could find, mainly bottles, and then sold them to the highest bidder. But whilst this was a help, it proved to be a poor return for our labour. So Lin, who usually had the money making ideas, suggested that we go into the business of collecting lead and selling it to a plumber. We found out that the plumbing trade was not interested in our little bits and pieces, until one day in his search for an outlet, Lin found an accommodating member of this trade, quite close to our school, and he put a proposition to us. Collect all your little bits and pieces, and make them into half pound ingots, and I will buy them. So, we built a fire place in the back yard, Lin worked out the container size that would be needed, and the lead pieces were melted, and the ingots formed and at last we had a very small but somewhat more steady form of income. As a boy, Lin was enterprising, and as an adult this admirable quality never deserted him.

      Another important feature in our lives at this time was the introduction into our home of an English publication known as the Ladies Home

Journal, which was a beautifully produced magazine, edited by the very talented and highly respected journalist Flora Klickmann. It was Mum's only extravagance, and it became a very vital part of our education. Through the pages of the journal, we learned of an entirely different way of life as we were introduced to the Royals of England, and the elegant sets surrounding them.

      The magazine would arrive monthly, and the four older members of our family could hardly wait for its appearance. When it was delivered, we would read avidly and hang on to everything that we saw in word and pictures, then Mum would finally have the opportunity to settle down quietly and absorb the news from overseas.

      The journal brought many things of interest to us. We watched the young Duke of York hang his hat up to the lovely Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons, and when they were married, we were agog with excitement and drooled over the pictures of the beautiful bride and the handsome young prince. We were also part of the show when the most unattractive Lord Harewood married the not so bright Princess Royal. We saw their babies, we were introduced to their nannies, and other important members of the Royal Household.

      We became aware of Buckingham Palace and the fascination it and the occupants had for the English People. We saw the picturesque Trooping of the Colors, and the famous changing of the guard. We met some famous people who were at that time ruling England--the incredibly handsome young Ramsay MacDonald, who for a brief period in 1924 was the first Labor Prime Minister in Great Britain. Names like Baldwin, Simon, Churchill, Joseph Chamberlain and his two sons,

Austen and Neville, and many others became known to us. However, their significance in the world of Politics passed us by, as we were mainly interested in Royalty and their activities.

      It was a strange beginning for a family who would later become oriented in a very different way, and come to believe that whilst the constitutional monarchy of England had some things to recommend it, it was largely wrongly based, and that adulation given to a family because of their birth was totally undesirable, and should be reserved for those who, because of their sacrifice, compassion and dedication, have added something to the goodness that is in this world. We also became a family who refused to take up arms, and kill our fellow man, even though we were called upon to do so by that very same Duke of York we admired so much in his courting days. He was at that time the King of England and Emperor of the British Empire. So Mum's Ladies Home Journal had a very definite place in our lives and taught us many things. When Flora Klickmann retired as Editor of the Journal, we each felt a sense of personal loss, and we looked upon her successor, Anne Hepple, as something of an usurper. However, time soon healed our hurt, and we came to believe that Anne was great and nearly as good as our beloved Flora.

      Our literary hero, Arthur Mee, had produced his famous Children's Encyclopedia, and I believe that Dad must have been one of the earliest subscribers. It was issued monthly, and now, in addition to the Children's Newspaper and the Ladies Journal, we had another publication which was destined to play a very important role in our education. These monthly issues were later bound into larger, but manageable volumes, and were our constant companions and remained an

important part of our lives long after we had said goodbye to childhood days.

      Arthur Mee was perhaps fifty years ahead of his time, and he taught us about noise and visual pollution, about the ecology and conservation, matters which, long after his death, and decades after we had entered the adult stages, were to become significant issues.

      He took us on fascinating journeys to all the countries of the world, and introduced us to their people, culture and customs. We accompanied him on almost unbelievably interesting trips to the solar system, to the Arctic, to the Antarctic, and many other regions of this universe.

      He introduced us to the great characters of history, the statesmen, the inventors, the explorers, the men of the church, the presidents of the U.S.A., the Kings and Queens of England and many others.

      He took us back to the beginning of time, and taught us about the earth, and how it was formed.

      He gave us our first look at primitive man, the Java man, the Neanderthal and others.

      He challenged us to think, and not always blindly accept, but to research and discover.

      He encouraged us to love beauty--the beauty of this world.

      He taught us about the horror of violence and destructiveness, and he invited us to consider the uselessness and obscenity of war. Beauty, creativity, the wonders of the universe, honesty

of thought, boldness tempered with wisdom, and love and respect for one's fellow man regardless of creed or color, were always at a premium in his writings. Hate, destruction, war and violence were treated as obscenities.

      Arthur Mee became an authority and guide on all of these matters, and he was one of those who moulded our thinking, and determined many of our conclusions about the world in which we live; it became to us not a place to be exploited for man's profit, but a precious gift to be preserved, loved, maintained and enjoyed. He also, in a very strange way, provided comfort on those occasions when we believed that the world, and particularly our beloved parents, were against us. When we deserved punishment and got it, and were sent to our rooms, one of the consolation prizes was to be able to fall on the bed feeling dreadfully unwanted, but clutching a volume of the encyclopedia, the fascination of which helped us to forget our troubles and 1 believe it speeded up the process of rehabilitation and hastened our return at a non rebellious, cooperative member of the family circle once again.

      We were manse kids, and fairly normal sort of children. We did much of the same things as our peers, but there was a difference. All our entertainment and amusement were church oriented, and soon after our arrival we were introduced to the church social.

      These were happy, noisy and wonderful occasions where young and old joined together in fun, games and other activities, and finished the night with a mouth watering supper.

      Another feature was the yearly sale of work; where in the bazaar atmosphere we joined the

many buyers of the wide range of goods offered for sale. Our purchases, however, were restricted mainly to toffee apples, Turkish delight and other sweets. To us it was a great occasion, and at that time we were blissfully unaware that sales of work were in many of our churches an unmentionable thing and one which had caused a split in some churches. So not having this knowledge, we looked forward to the sales of work, and enjoyed them immensely.

      Another main feature was the Sunday School picnic. It was always held at "Belgravia", a stately home set in large grounds on the outskirts of Invercargill. We travelled from the church to the picnic ground by a large wagon fitted with protective sides, and hauled by two Clydesdale horses.

      The driver was a very handsome young man known to all his admirers as Gar Todd. Garfield Todd was the son of the owners of Belgravia who were prominent and wealthy business people in New Zealand, and he was destined to move a long way from his present task of driving Sunday School children on their big day, or assisting the family brick and tile business. He was to become the Prime Minister of Rhodesia, and he would lose his Prime Ministership and the leadership of his party because of his anti-racist policies.

      Later, during the latter stages of an infamous regime in that country, he would for a period of time be under constant surveillance and house arrest, and would with his daughter Judith, who was a dedicated anti-racist writer and lecturer, become a world figure, and in 1986 would receive a knighthood from the Queen of England.

      As I stand and watch the scene in a modern supermarket, as I sometimes do, and listen to the cacophony of sound, and see the hassled Mums doing their shopping in just the way other people decided they must, and I see them selecting their own goods, loading them into their trolleys which they push from place to place and aisle to aisle, frequently with one or two children adding their little bit of tension, and very often seeking in vain for an employee to assist them with some urgently required information, I know that they have been well and truly conned.

      During our Invercargill years, I don't recall shopping for our supplies at all; there must have been a corner shop somewhere close where we could pick up certain items, but for the rest, it was all done at the back door with Mum giving the orders and later the same day receiving the supplies over the same doorstep.

      She had a variety of tradesmen constantly knocking at the back door, and for the day to day supplies, she had no need to go anywhere near a shop. These back door salesmen were mainly courteous, efficient people very keen to remain as Mum's suppliers. They included a baker, butcher, milkman, grocer, green-grocer, egg man, butter man, laundry man, and haberdasher and in addition, hawkers would call and supply all of the little things a housewife may need.

      Mum, had a pretty tough spin with a large family fairly early in married life, and with a loving, loyal and wonderful husband, who because of his Irish background--his commitment to ideals, his tenseness, his temper which was not always beautifully under control, his inability to totally relax, and the many other features which

are always associated with an intelligent highly strung man going places in the world, her lot was not always easy, in fact, quite often the reverse. But for shopping, she had it made, and her poor sisters who shop today in chromium plated modern shopping complexes have been taken for a ride.

      After one year and eight months of Invercargill life, another event of great interest and importance occurred. Nurse McCail, who had been Mum's nurse at the time of Enid's birth, was again a part of our family life, and we, not yet knowing the facts of life, thought it was pleasant to have her with us.

      It was about 6.00 p.m., May 25th, 1922, and both Dad, Mum and the Nurse were missing from the tea table, and we were left to our own devices. As usual, when this was the case, it was noisy, but through our noise, we heard the sharp, very distinct cry of a new born baby, and we were delighted. But our delight was somewhat dampened when the nurse came into the dining room and announced that we had a baby sister, but she was not smiling, and she asked us to form a single line with Lin in the lead, and the others to follow, and we would be allowed to kiss the new arrival. We did this, and noticed the troubled look on the faces on both Mum and Dad, and then, we were quickly escorted from the room. As we departed, the doctor who was still in attendance bent low over the little one's cot and looked very grave. Later, we all went to bed a little subdued, and wondered what it was all about.

      The next morning, Nurse McCail and Dad were much brighter, and we were again allowed to see Mum and the new baby. Every true mother after the birth of her babe looks heavenly, and Mum had

that look about her. She smiled and welcomed us all and the sadness of the previous night was gone. It was a great occasion.

      It transpired that the Doctor had told Mum and Dad that the beautiful young life was not long for this world, and would not see the light of what would have been her first day. However, he had not reckoned with the strong will to live that this tiny babe had. She lived through the night, watched over prayerfully by Dad and the Nurse, and when the first light of dawn shone through the windows, new hope came with it. The doctor was summoned; he stood by the little one amazed and almost speechless, and finally he gave his verdict. "Your beautiful babe", he said, "has battled for life for every second of the thirteen hours she has been with us. Now I believe that she will live, and not only will she live, but she'll do it with vigour and will."

      How wrong was his first guess, and how true the second! Our new sister soon became a lively and lovely part of our manse life. She was given the lovely name of Nancy, and was the one chosen to proudly wear the name of her Mum as her second given name.

      So, Nancy Clara with great difficulty and almost miraculously moved us on from the blessed figure of seven, and now we were eight.

      On the 6th February, 1923, Mum and Dad celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary. They had served the churches in Australia and New Zealand in five ministries, and their workload had always been onerous, six children had come to share their busy life, but they had never had a holiday.

      The church arranged leave for them, and they planned for the trip they always referred to as their honeymoon. The place selected to spend the days of this long awaited holiday was Queenstown, reputed at that time to be on of the world's beauty spots, located amongst glorious New Zealand scenery, and on the shores of Lake Wakitipu.

      Gwen, Enid and baby Nance accompanied "the honeymooners". Lin, Jean and I were left in the loving care of church members. The holiday worked wonders for them both, and Dad came back re-invigorated and happy to settle into his demanding church work. Mum came back looking so beautiful and young, that as I write, I can see her as she told us about the wonderful gloryland of Queenstown. I believe she looked more lovely than I had ever seen her.

      The fascination of Queenstown caught my imagination, and although I was only eight years of age, I made an undertaking with myself that someday I would see this wonderful place.

      Fifty three years had to pass before I was able to achieve this ambition, and when it did occur, I was able to share it with my own beautiful girl, who by that time had been my wife and companion for thirty nine years, and I found it as entrancing as our wonderful pair of "honeymooners" had back there in the year 1923.

      In the last year of our Invercargill stay, the event of which I had prayed for actually happened. Mum was taken to hospital on February 15th, 1924, and the next day, she gave birth to a boy. This wonderful arrival was the first of the family born in a hospital, so we were robbed this time of the drama which had surrounded the

previous births. He was special--being the first male after four births of the opposite sex, and he was given a royal welcome, when finally, and it seemed to me an eternity, they released our Mum from hospital. Two men were very special to Mum--a young brother Keith, and her beloved George. So this baby was named after them both, and he became Keith George Fitzgerald, and now we were nine.

      As the early months of 1924 disappeared into history, it became clear that our magic days in Invercargill were soon to end. The minister at the Nelson Church had completed his term of ministry, and was returning to Australia, and so, the church board offered Dad an engagement with them. The offer was unexpected, and I believe, unwanted, the years at Invercargill had been golden ones for Dad, and he did not wish to sever his connection with the folk who had become so much part of his life.

      The Invercargill church felt the same way and they did not want to release their beloved minister. However after many meetings, discussions and heart-searching, an agreement was reached and Dad was released. And so the happy and eventful years spent in flat, cold, but very friendly, Invercargill were soon to be over.

      When we arrived from the southern city three years and ten months before, we were a family of seven, now with the addition of Nancy Clara, and Keith George, we were nine.

      Our eldest, Lin, was now ten, and was already showing signs of developing a strong and tall frame. He was the patient type, not easily ruffled, was a great reader, and whilst the other members chose mainly to use precious time in fun

and games, he could be found on his bed reading, eating sultanas or raisins, and absorbing any book which came to hand.

      Jean was nearly seven years old; she was about to enter her third year of primary education; she was showing a little of what was to be her trade mark later in life, gentleness, which should never be mistaken for weakness.

      Gwen was five, and was in her first year of schooling, and the delicious sense of humour, which had the effect in later years of always bowling me over, was appearing. At that time, she was very tubby and round and her loving brothers and sisters had made up a little jingle, and whenever she needed cheering up we would sing it to her; and it went like this,

      "Fatty Fitch fell in a ditch, ate some mud and got a stitch."

      Enid was four and still a preschooler. She was developing as a quick bright lass and showing early signs of the athletic ability which was to make her the top family athlete.

      Nancy was two years and two months, and Keith, our baby, was one year and five months old, and both of these junior members were very important to us, and were developing along very attractive lines.

      I was nine, short for my age, in fact undersize, although not a sickly person I did readily pick up all the childhood complaints, and whenever this happened Lin would be encouraged to get as close to me as he might dare, and hopefully he would catch the same virus--but he never did, so I had to endure the mumps, measles, and

chicken pox on my own. I followed, with eager ness, the writings of the authors and editors mentioned previously but I had not yet read my first book.

      Dad was a virile young man of 35 summers; he did, however, have some health difficulties, mainly brought about, I believe, by nervous tension, and on one occasion he went on a sixteen day fast which may have had some beneficial effect; the visual effects were ghastly, and made our Dad look like a very old, wasted man.

      He was a strict father, one who could be depended on to keep his promise, even if that promise happened to be an unpleasant one flowing on from a possible action of non compliance with his wishes or instructions. He was however, always fair and just, and although the razor strop, which he used on many occasions, was hurtful to one's bottom, the matter was soon forgotten, because we could sense that he was a concerned parent, a strong leader, and we knew that despite everything, he really loved us.

      Mum was 33, her tall, rather stately figure and her good looks belied the fact that she was the mother of seven children. She was a lovely lady, mainly very easy to get along with, difficult to unbalance, not very keen on administering corporal punishment, and if and when she did, it was done without a lot of enthusiasm. She was the very model of a loyal wife, and I cannot recall a time when she in any way opposed Dad's ruling, although I suspect that on occasions that deep down she disagreed rather strongly.

      Despite all her years of travel, exposure to people, home building and breaking, and a lively family, she had not lost, nor did she ever, the

quality which in the far off Kerang days used to annoy her mum; that is the habit of putting off today what could be done tomorrow. She still had the ability to dream while unfinished tasks called for attention. Our home life was, consequently, friendly, and strictly non-clockwork in its operation, and I suppose somewhat hap       hazard. Mum was the perfect foil for her dynamic mate, and together they were a wonderful team who loved each other deeply and showed a constant and loving concern for their children's welfare.

      So the wonderful Invercargill days, which had added so much to us, were over; our furniture was packed and moved out.

      Our last night was spent in the homes of several of our church families. Lin and I were billeted with the Mabellson family. They had two young teenage girls, Jean and Winnie. I was hopelessly in love with Jean. She, perhaps, was nineteen, and I had reached the mature age of nine, but this did not occur to me as a possible barrier; she was my girl. But spending the night in this home brought all my romantic dreams crashing around my head. I was introduced to Jean's young man. I was desolate. My love instantly turned to hate. I would not talk to her, I believe I made our short stay in this hospitable home, a little unpleasant.

      The next day the church met on the Invercargill station to say goodbye to their beloved minister and his family. There were many tearful scenes, and my faithless lover took me in her arms and kissed me goodbye. I returned the kiss, but frigidly and without enthusiasm. Our last look at our beloved city was taken from the railway carriage, and soon we were back in Dunedin where

we were booked as passengers on a coastal vessel which we boarded during the late afternoon, and just before nightfall we departed Pt Chalmers, steamed up the east coast of the South Island, called in at Lyttleton Harbour, then on to Nelson, where we were met at the wharf by an eager group of welcomers from our new church. Our Nelson experience was about to commence.

      The city of Nelson, as can be well imagined, was named after Britain's great naval hero, Lord Horatio Nelson. It was a small, but very interesting place, and one of its neighbouring towns recalled Nelson's famous victory at Blenheim. Set on the shores of Tasman Bay, with the picturesque Maitai River running through it, and with a mysterious looking mountain range close by, it was a very attractive city.

      The mountains, if given their correct Maori name, were the Monga Tapu Ranges. They were sacred to the Maori race and revered by them. But we, in our ignorance of the Maori language, always referred to them as the Mokotaps.

      Nelson's own particular share of the beautiful Tasman Bay, was at Tahunanui, and the beach took that name. It was a fine stretch of golden sand, and the summer playground for the Nelson dwellers and their families. But, again being of European stock, we shortened the lovely name to what we believed was the more manageable, Tahuna.

      Nelson was set in the midst of apple growing country, and the names of Motueka, Stoke, and Richmond, were famous throughout New Zealand, and beyond, for their delicious apple crops. Nelson provided the port facilities for these apple, and other, exports from the outlying districts, and it was consequently a reasonably busy place.

      Nelson was on the famous New Zealand fault line, and earth quakes, or rather earth tremors were not uncommon. They could be heard coming as they rattled the crockery and other effects in the houses in their path, and when our turn came the slight earth movement did the same with our home, and the uncanny noise would continue to be heard in the distance. We did not, however, experience any damaging earthquakes during our two years in the apple headquarters of beautiful New Zealand.

      Nelson had its detractors in New Zealand, and was labelled as "sleepy hollow", and a place famous for only two things, its apples and its old maids. As we knew it in 1924, it was a town of twelve thousand people, perhaps slower than the other larger cities, but a truly beautiful place in which to live. The climate was good, the people friendly, the scenery close by delightful, the town itself neat and well maintained, and plenty of things for kids to do, with beach, hills and river within easy reach; but the old maid story was indeed correct.

      Our first home in our new town was in Van Diemen Street. It was a fairly large weatherboard house, big enough to accommodate our growing family. The Hampden Street Primary School was just around the corner, a couple of minutes walk

away. It was at this school that Lin, Jean and Gwen were enrolled as students. In my class, however, there was no vacancy, so I very reluctantly, and if I remember correctly a little rebelliously, became a part of the Brook Street Boys School.

      It was some distance away from our home, and my first day there I recall as one of the loneliest of my life. I was separated from the other members of my family in an impersonal all male school, and I set myself on the course of implacable hatred of the whole setup. And when the final bell on that first day rang I trudged wearily home, quite believing that at the Brook Street Boys School I would go down in history as their most pathetic failure.

      The distance between the school and our home was perhaps a mile and a half, and it took me a long time to complete, and as I approached Van Diemen Street, two excited young girls dashed up the street to meet me; Jean and Gwen, with the blessed and wonderful news that there was now a vacancy at Hampden Street, and the headmaster, Mr East, was offering me the first option. The deal was sealed on the spot, and the next day I went off happily with the others, to my new school, and remained there with Lin, Jean and Gwen for the whole period of my residence in Nelson.

      We were later to be joined by Enid, who had her first class-room learning experience in this wonderful school.

      Mr East became an important part of our lives. He ran an excellent school where friendly relations were encouraged between pupils, also between pupils and teachers, and in many ways he

was ahead of his time. A vital and intense young man, he was a returned soldier from World War I, suffering physically, and perhaps spiritually from the effects of the holocaust. He was to rapidly climb the promotion ladder in his chosen profession, and later became the senior inspector of schools in the Dominion of New Zealand.

      Opposite our new school was a very fine red brick building, known as the Nelson College. It was a secondary institution, and it boasted of a number of famous previous scholars; the most notable being Lord Rutherford, who demonstrated to the scientific world how the atom could be split, and he predicted that at some time in the future this would be achieved. Twenty five years after his demonstration, which captured world wide attention, the atom was indeed split in just the way he said it would be.

      Very soon after our move to Van Diemen Street, we became very familiar with the area and the people who were our neighbours. Just around the corner on the road which led to the church, and to the business area of Nelson, there was the Wyagang family, and the eldest girl, Faith by name, became one of our mates. There was a family directly behind us, the Baberfields. They were members of the church, and a little further on, the Walkley family, they were also church members. Ken Walkley, the son of this home, was an older teenager. He did all sorts of interesting things, like working in logging camps and operating large circular saws to reduce the huge trees to manageable timber sizes. He was friendly and he tolerated Lin and me, even when our questions became a little tiresome. And right next door was our headmaster, Mr East and his wife.

      In 1911 Dad was in his final year in the College of The Bible. He shared his room with a New Zealand student, a Mr Walter Mansell. They became very firm friends, and when the time for parting came they believed that wherever their church work may take them they would always keep in touch with each other.

      Wally Mansell, on completion of his college course, offered for missionary work in Africa. He and his young wife were stationed at the Bulawayo mission in Rhodesia, which was operated by the New Zealand Churches of Christ. Their work and time in Bulawayo, however, was to be very short, as Wally Mansell became a victim of the fatal sleeping sickness, and after a short illness, died, leaving his wife and their young baby daughter Hazel Ingomai. Mrs Mansell returned to New Zealand, settling in Nelson, where she was an active member of Dad's new church. Hazel was about our age, and although not a close neighbour, she became our closest friend during the New Zealand experience. She was a tomboy, and at times was referred to as Tom Fitzgerald, so closely did she identify with our family.

      Years later she was to return, with her mother, to the Bulawayo mission in Rhodesia, and give her life to the work so dear to her wonderful and saintly father, the man she never knew.

      The Van Diemen home block was not on huge lines, but it was adequate. It had a small creek on the rear boundary, with Hawthorn trees on the banks. The berries of these we used to make into a very unpalatable jam, which to us was great because we had created it. When the berries aged and blackened we used the juice to make ink. It was a very poor imitation of the real thing, but again, we thought it was great.

      The Maitai river was a great drawcard for Nelson youngsters. It was a clear, fresh, slow moving stream, very suitable for punting and other activities. We would watch with a little envy I guess, while the many punts were skilfully operated by their proud owners. As we watched them a desire developed, and grew very strongly, to be punt owners ourselves. We were often given a free ride by our mates, but this only fuelled our desire to be captains of our own ship.

      I was a very slipshod and inefficient builder, but I collected some bits and pieces, shaped them into a small punt of sorts, and fitted it with a mast with the skull and crossbones flag. To launch my craft I dressed as a pirate; but the only waters it ever sailed on were the waters of our local creek. The punt was nearly as wide as the creek itself, and I recall that I launched it on my own without any of my family to cheer me on, and when I stepped from the bank onto the punt, I quickly became aware that as a boat builder I had a lot to learn. Very soon my first attempt at punt building was scrapped.

      The need however, for a good craft that we could sail in the Maitai was pretty urgent. But as always money, or lack of it, was our problem. And so Dad came to our aid. He bought us the two sides, we had to supply the rest of the material and do the whole job ourselves.

      Petrol, in those early days of the automobile was sold in tins, which were contained in strong wooden boxes made of excellent softwood. We were able to scrounge several of these, and after carefully taking them apart, we used the timber to form the flat bottom, and the seats. Every precious piece of our plume Motor spirit cases was used; and when firmly in place, having been nailed in position,(not a correct boat building procedure), we spent some of our cash gained by selling things and running messages for the neighbours, to purchase small quantities of tar and pitch, using these in the accepted way to keep the water out. When finally completed we had a real launching ceremony; the whole family was there, and each member, including Mum and Dad, were given introductory rides.

      Some little water seeped in at times, but it sailed beautifully, and was our pride and joy for the next few months.

      It was moored near the home of one of our mates, who was lucky enough to live right on the river, and whenever we could we would be there amongst the Nelson punting community, and our home built craft was as good as any; we believed so anyway.

      The Maitai was subject to occasional flooding, and after a big storm late in January 1925, it flooded badly, causing considerable damage to bridges and other installations. We went to the mooring spot to see if our punt had survived, but sadly it, and all the others moored in the same spot, and I believe anywhere along the river, had been smashed beyond repair, or swept out to sea. Ours was one that had gone to sea.

      So the joy of punting was over for us, but we had enjoyed every second of the experience. When we see pictures of the back river at Cambridge, with the students operating their punt poles, we have nostalgic thoughts about this delightful pastime.

      The second day of October 1924 provided the family with a very unhappy memory.

      It was a Saturday, and a cold one. Lin, Jean, Gwen, Nance, Keith, and I, were up early, and had a fire burning brightly in the living room. Mum and Dad were in bed; Enid was with them. As we sat by the fire reading our old favourites, The Children's Encyclopedia, we were a very contented and happy group. In the midst of this happy scene, a large spark flew from the fire and landed on Gwen's flannelette nightgown. It immediately caught alight and in a second was flaming. As she ran, screaming, I threw my copy of the encyclopedia at her. My aim was good, but it had no influence on the flames, and so we ran with her, also screaming, heading for the back yard, the worst possible place, when like a thunderbolt, Dad hurled himself at the flames. Right where he and Gwen fell there was a large mat, and he quickly and expertly wrapped the little burnt body in it, and extinguished the flames. Lin and I dashed up the street to Faith Wyagang's home, and used the 'phone to ring the local doctor, and then waited on the corner, equipped with newspapers to flag him down when he should arrive. He was there in a matter of minutes. He flew out of his 1923 Nash sedan, and into the house, where in moments he had the shocking happening under control. He oiled and dressed the burns lightly, and had Gwen in an ambulance, on the way to the hospital, in very

quick time, with Dad, in the doctor's car, following the ambulance to the hospital. We remained at home and awaited Dad's return, and the doctor's verdict.

      When they returned, the outlook for Gwen was not good. She had received third degree burns to more than 30% of her body. Her back was badly burned, but, mercifully, her face, and other visible parts were largely unaffected. Doctor Washburn said it would be touch and go for the first three days, but if she was still with us at the conclusion of that period there would be a reasonable hope that, with the best care that he and the hospital could provide, she may pull through. He said that the burns themselves were enough to cope with, but the whole body was in a state of terrible shock, that all the medical skill that he and others had would be taxed to combat this condition. When he left, however, he did not leave us exactly hopeless. He did believe that Gwen would return to us, but the road ahead would be a very difficult one, and he repeated his statement that the next three days ahead would be very crucial ones, and he advised us to keep hoping. We did that alright, and we added some childish prayers to our hoping.

      In the Monday's issue of the Nelson morning paper there was a full report of the dramatic accident, and the article stated that the five and a half year old young sufferer was showing great courage, and that because of this the doctors attending her believed that she would live, even though normally the odds would be against her.

      Our Gwen in the headlines; and the reporters talking about her courage! She was our heroine,

and I'm sure we all pledged that when she arrived home we would always be her willing slaves, and never, would we quarrel with her again.

      These newspaper reports continued for the next few days, and the final one announced that the patient was out of danger, and had been removed from the seriously ill list, and placed among the group due for recovery, and possible early release from hospital. This was great news for us all, and Mr East, who had been keeping the whole school posted on the latest developments, was very happy to advise his pupils, at general assembly, that Gwen Fitzgerald was out of danger, and would be returning in due course to take her place in class again. There was no cheering as I recall, but there was a joint sigh of relief.

      After three weeks, including many visits from her family, and many others, the great day came, and Gwen was returned to us. She was still heavily bandaged, and for some time the remaining burn sores, which were still pretty extensive, had to be dressed by Mum. She was the queen of Van Diemen Street, and her every wish was our command, and this included, not only her family, but the many mates in the area who had been appalled by the horror of the near fatal burning, and with us had watched Gwen's progress, and who were continually at our back door enquiring the latest news. Full recovery was not rapid, but Doctor Washburn, who still kept in touch, was very proud of his young patient, who refused to give up, but battled bravely, and won against tremendous odds.

      Before the school year of 1924 was over, Gwen had taken her place in the classroom, and was

one of the happy kids playing vigorously in the playground with her many mates. So, the initial horror was over, a remarkable recovery had taken place, but the heavy scarring in both mind and body of the young victim, would take a little longer. The bodily scars would, of course, remain forever.

      The solemn promise we made to ourselves to always treat our sister like a heroine, and never have any disputes with her, did last for some time, but eventually in the rough and tumble of manse life, and with lively brothers and sisters, she was eased off her pedestal, and thankfully, became one of the mob again, She shared in the family fun and fights, and with a return to good health her delightful sense of humour returned. And to all outward appearances the horror of October 2nd 1924 was not forgotten but was behind us.

      Mrs Mansell, and Hazel, continued to be an important part of our lives. Hazel joined us in all of our activities, and was in the forefront of our most daring escapades. Mrs Mansell has a special place with us as a story teller par excellence. Her tales of Africa, the monkeys and other animals, near her Rhodesian home, and also of the many adventures she shared with her husband while in the mission fields, always had us hanging onto every word. In addition to her ability as a raconteur, she was also an excellent cook, and she specialised in those marvellous things which we saw only in shop windows, or perhaps when mum could save a few shillings and give one of us a birthday party. Little cream cakes, cream puffs, cream horns, prettily iced log cakes, and many other tempting delicacies.

      On one occasion the six eldest were invited by Mrs Mansell, to join her, and Hazel, on a picnic at Tahuna beach. The night before this event, we all went to her home, and were shown into a room in which was a large table loaded with delicious cooking, fresh from the Mansell kitchen.

      We returned home and tried, all talking at the same time, to explain to Mum just what a monster feast was in store for us at Tahuna on the next day.

      The day broke fine and clear, just as we had ordered. Mum asked me to go to the shop to make some purchases for her before we departed. When I dressed I pulled on an old pair of trousers, ones which I had not worn for a long time, and I walked off to do mum's bidding. As I hurried past Faith Wyagang's home, I plunged my right hand into the trouser pocket and found a shilling; "Pennies from heaven." I thought. I excitedly completed my message, and spread the word amongst the rest that I had found a shilling. Of course I was the envy of them all, as one penny was wealth to us, but one shilling was rare wealth.

      We prepared to leave, and said goodbye to Mum, and then on to the bedroom to say farewell to Dad. He kissed the others, but refused to accept mine. He just firmly held my hand, and when the others had gone, said, "Where did you get that shilling Doug?" I replied, "I found it just as I was passing Faith Wyagang's place." It may not have been the whole truth, but I felt it was not a lie. But it did not satisfy Dad, and he kept looking at me in the eye, and demanded the whole truth, which under that constant gaze, he very

soon had; The verdict, "You stay at home and miss the picnic." It was the worst sentence of my life to that point, and visions of those glorious sweet things, passed before my eyes. Very soon the visions were blocked out by a flood of tears, which continued for some time. When I could cry no more I went into the little shed where we dumped wood chips and ashes, and literally covered myself with these, and laid on the back lawn, beaten, amazed, and resentful that such a thing could happen to a little boy. Soon I heard a voice, "Look dear," it said, "your clothes are in such a mess, let's clean them up. I have something nice for you in the kitchen." Mum, with love, understanding, and a little tear in her grey eyes, cleaned me up, and fed me a delightful little meal, and did her very best to cheer me up; but that was almost impossible. The great calamity of missing out on all that food was a disaster which I believed would scar me for the rest of my life. Happily, however, I was quite wrong, and when the others returned I was back to normal, and I shared, as well as I might, in the replay of their wonderful day. But every time they mentioned cream-cakes, I winced.

      The few short months we spent at Van Diemen Street were packed with action and drama, and following Gwen's near fatal burning, another shocking accident occurred to one of our near neighbours, and it really gave our young minds a deep concern for the victim and in my case a lasting distrust of certain equipment.

      Ken Walkley, our older mate and church member, from the house just around the corner, was working at a logging camp and operating a very large circular saw. As he approached the cutting bench, he slipped, and fell heavily onto the

spinning blade. The first contact was dead centre across his forehead, and the saw teeth, toughened and sharpened as they were to handle huge logs of hard timber, quickly bit into his skull, and actually tore a piece from the front of the brain. Then the head fell back, and again forward and onto the saw a second time, cutting deeply into the bridge of the nose, leaving, miraculously, the eyes completely untouched. Then again back and forwards, this time lacerating the upper lip and gums. He was rushed from the camp after some delay, to the Nelson Base Hospital, and the doctors, after their first examination, gave him no hope of survival.

      However, as is often true in such cases, they were wrong, and the daily bulletins indicated that perhaps Ken Walkley was about to make medical history and recover from his shocking injuries and brain damage, and hopefully resume a normal happy life again. This he did, to the amazement of the medical profession and many others associated with the case.

      We were relieved and happy, when after many weeks he returned home. Later when he was out and about, he became the hero of all the local lads, including Lin and me. The scars would remain forever, and the severe headaches which he suffered would also be with him during his life time. But he did resume his normal life. I am however, unsure about a resumption of work in a logging camp.

      During Ken's long stay in hospital, we used to call on Mrs Walkley and try, in our best childish, way to console her. On one such occasion, Lin, doing his best as a budding young pastor, asked the troubled lady if she could really see the brains of her injured son through the hole

      in his head. Mrs Walkley was understanding and gentle in her response; but as an attempt at consolation, it left much to be desired.

      As the very eventful year of 1924 drew to a close, it was evident that our stay in Van Diemen Street was to end at some in the near future. Dad's church board was searching for a permanent, larger, and more suitable dwelling to be used as the manse. They were interested in a lovely home situated near the top of quite a steep hill, in a street known, appropriately, as Mount Street.

      This hill rose sharply from the flat terrain at its foot, the road of Macadamised surface taking the user up a very sharp incline, through a hairpin bend, and continuing as a two way street for some distance. Near the top the road divided and it was a one way street for the remainder of its length before ending as a dead end street. The median strip was natural bush and scrub, consisting mainly of a very prickly gorse. There was no roadway on the opposite end of the hill as it was too steep for road traffic, however a long zigzag track had been provided for pedestrians.

      This hill, and Mount Street, were a feature of Nelson, and when we heard that we may be living right up there where we could look down on the town, and out to the sea on the other side, we were excited.

      However, at that time it was only a possibility and not a certainty. Life at Van Diemen Street continued, and our church and many other activities kept us busy.

      Our school days at Hampden Street were very happy. Headmaster East was still our friendly and helpful next door neighbour. Hazel Mansell spent more time in our home than she did in her own. Our mates in the area were a very important part of our lives, and when we thought about leaving, the excitement had a little edge of sadness.

      In February 1925, the church was able to buy the Mount Street home and now we were certain of our move to the very top of Nelson, which occurred about one month later, on the 5th March 1925.

      The seven months we had spent at the Van Diemen Street home were as eventful as any I can remember of a similar period. Jean, Mum, Lin, and Keith had celebrated birthdays there, and we had shared a wonderful Christmas period.

      The festive season in our home was a great occasion. Christmas eve was spent at home, full of anticipation. We would all hang up our stockings, and at the first light of day, around 5.00 am, the place would be alive with activity as we all got together and opened our stockings, proudly and thankfully, displaying what Father Christmas had left for us. Lin and I had discovered in our Invercargill days that the old gentleman did not really exist, but at that time all the others were firm believers. Our Mum and Dad, with so little money, really did us proud, seeing to it that we had a thrilling Christmas morning.

      Chocolates and other sweets, which we were not normally able to afford, were eagerly consumed, and breakfast time, which was usually a great family occasion was bypassed as the day proceeded happily until our Christmas dinner was

announced. We all had some share in the preparation, and when Dad finally carved the chook, and we each had our serve, our joy was complete. Poultry was a great delicacy, associated only with Christmas day; certainly a once a year meal. The real plum pudding which followed was so beautiful that we hated to eat the last mouthful; while the threepenny pieces mum had saved and hidden in each serving, so no one would be disappointed, were the icing on the cake.

      Christmas tea was also, a great family time, where we ate with gusto all the things Mum had provided. We let off steam a little, and carried on in typical, noisy, Fitzgerald fashion.

      Quite early that night a very tired and happy family would gather their little heaps of presents and put them within close reach of the bed, and gratefully go to sleep. That was just about how it was on Christmas day, 1924.

      Before we started to pack up our home in the manse, to move to Mount Street, there was another birthday. Gwen had reached the age of six on 26/2/25. The party was the last big fling at Van Diemen Street. Mum provided all the normal party goodies, bread and butter with hundreds and thousands, little cakes, sweets, cordial, and a birthday cake with six candles. Faith Wyagang, Hazel, several other of Gwen's mates, and the whole family, shared in this party; Gwen's first since her accident. It was also notable for another reason: the mystery banana.

      Mum had read about a trick with bananas, and she tried it out for the first time. It worked, and mystified us all. When the banana was peeled,

instead of one large piece of fruit, there were several pieces which appeared to have been neatly cut with a knife. This, however, was not possible, because the skin itself was untouched. It created great amazement and interest. To all our questions Mum replied that they were just mystery bananas. We did not hear the explanation from her. But Jean, I believe, found some tiny holes in the skin, and finally it was discovered that by the deft use of a needle and thread, this trick could be fairly easily worked. The mystery banana became a part of our lives thereafter.

      After Gwen's great party, we started to prepare for the move to Mount Street. We said goodbye to Faith and her family, to the Baberfields, to Mr & Mrs Walkley, Ken, and our other mates. Mr East was also moving to a larger home in Mount Street, so he was to continue to be our close neighbour and friend throughout the whole Nelson experience.

      Our new home was a large type family house. It was built on a hill, and at that time the thought of cutting in to the hill to provide a flat area around the house, had not, I think, occurred to builders, so wisely they designed the building so that people could walk from the front gate on fairly level ground, and straight onto the verandah, then the main rooms of the house were built on that level and steps were provided to a lower level, where smaller rooms, laundries and other facilities were built. This was our Mount Street home. The block itself was on a very steep slope from front to back, but constructed as it was, the house took care of this and once inside the presence of a slope outside was not important. But in the garden and back yard, however, it was climbing all the way.

      The property from the front fence to the rear boundary, would I believe, be at least half an acre. The paddock, as we called the large area beyond our garden limits, was extremely steep and quite unsuitable for ball games and many other activities. But it did provide a welcome open space.

      When we arrived it was host to many huge pine trees. These were later felled and we had a great time among the pine cones and smaller branches, which we saved for our own beautiful open fire place.

      The home was ideal for a large family. The rooms were adequate in design and size. Fireplaces were in all main rooms, it had a good kitchen, and for 1925, reasonably good facilities. It had a friendly atmosphere which we enjoyed, together with the fact that there was room both inside and out for all our activities, and we did not at any time feel cramped or shut in.

      From the street it looked quite an impressive home, and this appearance was heightened by a large Australian flowering gum tree, which was the joy of all nature lovers, and the cause for many favourable comments.

      Our neighbours were all friendly, but perhaps we did not identify with them in the same way we did with the Wyagangs, Baberfields, Walkleys, and others in and around Van Diemen Street. However they were all good folk willing to assist others when and if necessary.

      One of these was a Mr Chittendon. He was a tall, stately, grey haired gentleman, and totally blind. His daily work was in the town of Nelson, so it was necessary for him to make the journey

down and up the hill each day. This was difficult because of his blindness. But his son drove a panel van and could easily provide transport for his Dad. But whenever Mr Chittendon rode in a motor vehicle he was violently ill. The problem was solved by the provision of a chromium plated bar, fitted at the correct level on the back of the van. Mr Chittendon stood behind the van, took hold of the bar, and when the son drove off, he would do what we called "a whip behind", a thing which we also tried, but were forbidden to do. His heavy footsteps could be heard at 8.15 a.m. and at 5.30 p.m. every day, as he "whipped" behind the panel van.

      We were not street kids, but our steep old Mount Street was fascinating, and we did spend some of our time enjoying it. The median strip was a favourite spot, and many hours were spent forcing our way through the prickly gorse, making secret, and sometimes very public tunnels, and coming through very blood stained and scratched, but quite eager to be the first one to negotiate new passages.

      On one memorable occasion, when the undergrowth was very dry on the median strip, it caught alight, and we witnessed our first bushfire. The gorse burned very fiercely, and we were terrified.

      Dad carried out his church visiting at that time, and for many years after, on a push bike. Using Dad's bike on the steep slopes of Mount Street Lin and I learnt to ride a bicycle. Lin being much taller than I, managed very easily. The only way I could ride was to put my right leg under the top bar, and after gaining balance, in this very unbalanced fashion, and

with Lin's help and encouragement, I was eventually able to move forward slowly and awkwardly, but later gained confidence and could manage down and up the hill quite efficiently.

      The almost crab-like action worked well until I finally grew an extra inch and was able to join the "big ones", and ride normally. Mum was happy when this occurred, as my legs and sometimes sox, would be a mess of grease where my right leg rubbed against the greasy chain.

      Our street led to a dead end, and at the dead end was a large weatherboard home. It was unoccupied, and in the garden was the best ever banana passion fruit vine; its luscious fruit provided us with an extra source of vitamins and energy. We were frequent callers at that lovely rambling old garden, and the passion fruit supply, although severely tested, never seemed to run out.

      We had to pass this way on our school journey, and it was at this spot that the road ran out of suitable terrain for road traffic, and where the long zigzag track commenced. It was easy going in the morning, but tough climbing after our schoolday was over. However, I believe we enjoyed it, and I cannot remember a complaint from anyone of the school goers.

      Enid started her school days during the Mount Street period, and young and small as she was, she had to make the steep trek up the zigzag track with the rest of us. Sometimes our trip down the mountain would be made very pleasant. Mr East would join us; he was excellent company. He had one rule. Discuss anything that was happening in New Zealand, and the world, or anything else, but not a word would he tolerate about school or school work.

      In winter time all school children in Nelson went to school bare footed. No shoes or boots were allowed. The winter months were very wet, and it was believed by the Education Department that wet feet, shoes and sox, would do far more damage than the occasional stubbed toe--hence the instruction barring footwear. It worked well and the incidence of colds, flu, and similar winter ailments was far lower in New Zealand than in other parts of the world, where no such instruction existed. Our bare feet became very familiar with the macadamised surface of our beloved Mount Street, and also with the special non slip surface of the wonderful zigzag track.

      And so our street, and our zigzag track were important to us, and we have many happy memories of them; and one which terrified us.

      Some of our Van Diemen Street activities were lost to us in our lofty Mount Street location. The Maitai River was down the hill, and on the other side of the town. Since the stream had removed our punt, we did not see so much of Nelson's lovely waterway. However there were many other things to do, and one of them was to take long walks to Tahuna Beach.

      The track was down our steep paddock, across a valley, then over another fairly steep line of hills, then flat walking until we reached the sand hills. Below them were the golden sands of lovely Tahuna. The walk seemed like ten miles, but possibly four would be closer to the real figure. Whatever the distance, we were very tired manse kids when we sat on the beach and rested awhile before attempting the return trip. The road back always seemed like twenty miles, but we always made it. That steep climb through our paddock was a severe test to our legs and

back muscles. What a joy it was to get back to the manse kitchen, and eat whatever we were permitted, often brown bread and dripping. We just loved it.

      We also entered the world of show business during our stay on the mountain. We did this to obtain a little money, something of which we were always short. Our plan worked this way. We would advertise by word of mouth amongst all the Mount Street kids, that on a certain date there would be a penny concert at our home. Then we would get busy.

      Lin and I constructed a Punch and Judy show, and made all the puppets and necessary gear. Lin worked on the script, and this was always the star act. The girls would practice singing duets, and also quartets. Lin would polish up on some poor magic tricks, and also practice standing on his head. Together we would make loads of toffee, using Mum's sugar, with other ingredients, and very often mess up her stove as the sugary mixture boiled over. Mum also came to our aid in the matter of drinks, and provided, from her constantly empty housekeeping purse, enough money for one bottle of raspberry cordial. Then when the big day arrived the kids would be there.

      Jean, always with a pleasant smile, would stand at the door of the small room we used in the lower level building, and put out her hand for the pennies. When all moneys had been collected, and everyone was seated, some on the floor, some lucky enough to have a chair, the show would start.

      Jean and Gwen would sing a song sweetly. After this introductory item, the Punch and Judy show would be moved in and Lin would take over, providing the voice and action. This always went over well, and received a few claps. Then Jean, Gwen, Enid, and Nance, would offer a vocal contribution. Then Lin would do his very ordinary magic tricks, another song, and finally Lin would show the audience that he really could stand on his head for quite some time without falling. That would bring the show to a conclusion. It was really not a good penny's worth, but when we brought out the toffee and cordial, the short comings of our acts were soon forgotten, everyone was satisfied and fully prepared to give it another go when the next concert was announced.

      When the pine trees were being felled in our paddock, Dad sharpened his axe, honing it so beautifully that one could almost shave with it. On one occasion, after a session of wood chopping, he inadvertently left the axe alongside the heap of wood, and he asked Lin to go into the paddock and retrieve it, so he could put it in a safe place away from the kids.

      Lin, normally not a disobedient lad, failed to carry out Dad's instructions, and the girls went to play in the paddock, where they found the axe. Jean picked it up and tried a neat swing at a piece of wood. But instead of splitting the wood, the razor like blade sunk deeply into her foot. She and the others returned from the paddock as quickly as possible, with Jean leaving a very real trail of blood on the grass. She was not crying, and her white, set face showed no signs of complaint. She certainly did not blame anyone; in fact in the true manner of the stoic, she was taking it in her stride.

      The message quickly got through to Dad, and he hurled himself down the hill. When he say the gaping wound, and the blood spurting, he said just one word. "Damn." That word, uttered by our father, threatened my whole existence. I could not believe that my ears had received the right message. But it was true. I decided there and then to run away from home. I confided my plan to Lin, who was not as disturbed as I, just a little amazed. Lin had other things to think about. His main concern was what would happen to him after the bleeding in Jean's foot had been stopped, and Dad was again back to normal.

      It took time, but eventually it was achieved and Dad came into the living room where Lin awaited his sentence, while I stood sullenly by, planning my escape. The expected tirade did not come. Lin was reprimanded strongly, but no punishment was meted out, and I was mollified, but still very critical of, and quite unloving towards a Dad, who could so easily say that big "D".

      On one particular cold Wednesday night, Lin, Jean, Gwen, Enid, and Nance, were comfortably seated in front of a huge fire. The heat of the fire reached me as I sat at the living room table, battling with my arithmetic homework. I was really struggling. Dad was in his study, also with a fire in the smaller grate. Keith was in his cot sleeping soundly, while Mum was at a church meeting.

      This was the scene, and apart from the hopeless grappling with a subject that mastered me for many years before I finally became its master, everything was quiet and peaceful. Without a warning, or a hint of its onset, the house appeared to be rocked by a deafening explosion, then a brief space of comparative quiet, then another explosion.

      Dad grabbed Keith from his cot, and we all headed outside in case the house really went up on the third occasion. By the time we reached the front door, the street, and our yard were full of people, all convinced that the explosions would have removed at least half of the house.

      We all hurried to the back yard to see the damage, and were amazed to see everything standing, and apparently in excellent order. It was a mystery only for a few moments. When we locked up at the roof line there was something missing. The big chimney had gone. This was the cause of the explosion. The night was quiet and still, without a breath of wind, but the big chimney decided it could hold together no longer, and just fell in a heap.

      It had been a tall structure, with a very heavy, ornate top, and when the many hundreds of bricks tell, they were caught in the gutter, and for a few brief seconds there was silence, before they fell onto the root of the lower level of the house. Hence the two explosions.

      The neighbours stood around for some time before returning to their homes, and we finally returned to the fire. Keith was allowed to stay with us until Mum returned. Upon her return, she found us excited and somewhat shell shocked family, all speaking at once, and all eager to accompany her to view the damage. Finally we were told to go to bed, which we did a little apprehensively, and somewhat reluctantly.

      The builders were on the job within a day or two, and a new, much smaller chimney was built to replace the one which had really brought the population of Mount Street out, en masse, on a cold night in 1925.

      In 1925 the New Zealand electors went to the polls and re-elected the conservative government, with the Hon. Bill Massey as Prime Minister. The newspaper advertisements, some of them quite scurrilous, depicted members of the opposition Labour Party as near traitors to their country, and as potential destroyers of democracy and the economy. I became very interested in this campaign. Within our home all things relating to New Zealand and Australian politics, and world current affairs' were discussed freely.

      Dad's strong support for the Labour Party was well known to us all. But we were not really au fait with many features of the political scene.

      During the campaign I decided I wanted to know more, and plied Dad with many questions about the two parties, what they stood for, all about the candidates who were trying to woo the Nelson electors. On polling night Dad suggested that we go for a walk down the mountain and into the town itself. I eagerly accepted.

      As we approached the centre of the city, there was a big crowd, with plenty of shouting. As we moved closer I saw for the first time, the huge white boards used to show the progress of the local contest, along with other results as they came to hand, as well as the National figures. I was fascinated, even though the Labour man was doing badly in Nelson, and the Party was faring no better nationally.

      Those big poll result boards at Nelson were the spark that set alight in me a keen and lasting interest in politics in general, and the Labour Party in particular.

      Within a few days Mr Massey was declared the winner, and retained the Prime Minister's job. As I recall, he did one very great thing for the school children of New Zealand. In 1926, he died, and we were all given a full day holiday.

      Spring Grove was a small country town close to Nelson. We had a church there with Mr John Watt as the minister. He was a fiery man, full of zeal, and quite outspoken. He and Dad were great mates and exchanged pulpits often, working together extremely well.

      Mr Watt persuaded his board of officers to have a weeks mission, with G. T. Fitzgerald as the missioner. That part of the plan was excellent, but when he proposed that because it was school holidays the whole family should accompany G.T. Mum was not really so keen on the idea. She knew her tribe of seven, and how active they were, and how troublesome they may be in somebody else's home. It was not her idea of a holiday, hence she demurred, but finally agreed.

      Mr and Mrs Watt had three children, John, Joan, and the youngest member was a girl who answered to the unusual name of Gebbie.

      The mission was great, with some of us accompanying Dad each night, and being thrilled to hear him preach, and to witness some of the crowded audiences making the good confession, committing their lives to Christ.

      The home scene, however, was just ordinary. I remember Mrs Watt's quiet frustration as she attempted to cope with a family of nine in her usually fairly ordered type of home. She was unlike her husband. She was kind, somewhat aloof, tall, stately, and dignified. The manse kids from Nelson were, although she tried hard to hide the fact, a bit of a trial to her.

      It was during this holiday that the story of my life very nearly closed at age ten, and possibly Lin's at age eleven.

      There was a river close to the Watt's home; John, Lin and I were exploring the area near this, normally fairly wide, quick flowing stream, which at that time was flowing fairly strongly through one half of the river bed. The other half we used as a ford. On coming close to the swift waters, I got a little too close, and was quickly in trouble, and in a flash, I was swept away.

      I believed it was the end. The look of fear on Lin's face, which was the last thing I remembered before I was engulfed by the river, convinced me that he thought the same. However, he acted immediately, plunging in after me. But he was in the same difficulty, being swept quickly downstream. My own feeling as the waters grew swifter, sucking at my body, completely submerging it, was that it was curtains. I certainly felt a little sad about that, but helpless to do anything about it.

      Just as I gave up hope, my right arm, which must have been briefly above the water level at that time, brushed against something very prickly. I grabbed and held on tight. Although the water complained at losing it's victim, I was able with a lot of difficulty, to pull myself onto the bank. I lay there exhausted, wondering why I had not drowned. Soon John and Lin came racing along the bank and found me.

      The relief on Lin's face, was as memorable as the fearful look of a few moments before. Lin had saved himself in much the same way as I. He was taller and stronger than I, and so perhaps

was not in as much danger; but he did risk his all to come after his younger brother.

      After resting for some time, we returned home to report the near drowning incident. It created a little spark of interest, but I felt then, and now, that the serious nature of what had occurred, was not fully realised.

      Our week at Spring Grove finally ended, and we noisily packed our bags, said our goodbyes, and all carrying something, we walked along the road to the Spring Grove station, to board the Nelson train. When we were within fifty meters of the station, the train, whistling merrily, set off on its journey. We had missed it by a whisker, but missed it very surely.

      We retraced our steps, and when Mrs Watt saw that straggling family of nine returning, her face registered tragic despair. She made no pretence of welcoming us back. She was too honest for that, but she simply went about grimly remaking the beds, and trying to make the meals she had prepared for five, provide for fourteen. Queen Alexandria of England died that day, and I believe Mrs Watt would have gladly joined her.

      The membership of Dad's church had quickly responded to him and his ministry. All people, young and old, loved Mum. She was the very model of an ideal preachers wife, quiet, unostentatious, never seeking position or the opportunity to organise others, or to be the spokeswoman for the female members of the congregation. She was just there, loyally supporting her husband in everything he said and did. She received the love and admiration of the whole membership.

      Sundays would provide plenty of exercise for all of us. Church in the morning, Sunday School, and a seven p.m. service. That meant quite a bit of mountain climbing in one day, but we did not complain, but rather enjoyed being part of it all.

      The Sunday school was very large, with the anniversaries something to remember. They were too large to be accommodated in any of the church buildings, so the School of Music was booked every year, with the seating arranged for the massed choir.

      The Nelson Church of Christ Sunday School anniversary attracted large crowds. Many of them, having no connection at all with the church, came year after year, because of the quality of the music.

      Usually an anniversary occasion was a Sunday afternoon fixture. But in Nelson, it was so popular that the singers were required to be in attendance on two nights during the week. The rewards, as the crowds showed their appreciation when the final numbers were sung, were great.

      Dad's services as a speaker were still sought after, and on one occasion he travelled to Wellington, in response to a request for a weeks mission effort at the South Wellington church. I accompanied him on this trip. As we boarded the S.S. Ngaio the ship which did the cross channel runs, I felt very much a V.I.P. We stayed in the large home of Mr & Mrs Milton Vickery, who were leaders in the South Wellington church. Being the young son of the missioner, and the guest of some pretty important people, I was very happy with my lot, and I'm afraid I may have felt a little important.

      The meetings were a brilliant success, and when we went up the gangway of the Ngaio it was the end of a great adventure with my Dad. The sea journey was an overnight trip, and when we arrived on time at Nelson, and were met by the family, I knew it was really over; but it was a very precious memory.

      Dad's years at the Nelson church were outstanding, and he was loved and trusted by his board and the many members. He continued to stand up and be counted on all moral issues, and took a lead in the fight against the liquor traffic. When the referendum on the question of prohibition took place, he was a much sought after speaker. In whatever area he operated, he gave an impression of strength and integrity.

      Our postman was a friendly man who handled the hostile dogs on our mountain with a great deal of patience. Rain or shine, our letters would be delivered twice a day. In late February 1926, our letter intake appeared to increase somewhat, and a number of letters arrived which had been posted in a place in Victoria, Australia, called Ballarat. Later the reason for these letters became known. Dad had been invited to return to Australia, and minister at the Dawson Street church in Ballarat.

      The minister of that very large provincial church, Mr A. W. Connor, after a life time of service to his Lord, and the Churches of Christ in Australia, was retiring. The church board, knowing a good deal of G.T.'s work in the West, and in New Zealand, had offered him a three year term as their minister. When the letter of acceptance was finally written and forwarded to Ballarat, we were agog with excitement.

      Nelson had given us so much, and the two years we had spent there were packed with experiences, the memories of which would remain with us for all time. But a sea voyage to Australia; new friends; new places; and the possibility of meeting some real live Aunts, Uncles, and cousins, and perhaps even to meet up with our own grandparents, was a thrilling prospect.

      The month between the date when the final decision to leave had been made, and the departure date, did go a little slower than all the previous ones in Nelson, which had really travelled at a very fast pace. Eventually the time came for us to pack our furniture and attend the farewell function.

      The church hall was packed. The Broughs, the Bulls, the Knapps, the Griffiths, were all there and also Mr Pettit, who ran the little store at the bottom of our hill, and always gave us good weight when we were wealthy enough to purchase one penny's worth of boiled lollies, it appeared that every church family was also well represented.

      The Van Diemen Street crowd, the Baberfields, Mrs Walkley and Ken, the Wyagang family (who were Methodists), were all there to wish us well in Australia.

      All speakers spoke eulogistically of Dad's ministry. Of his courage, his speaking ability, his kindness, and the fearlessness he displayed on many occasions, and also his talent as a gentle understanding pastor.

      Mum was also highly praised for her fine qualities as a ministers wife, a mother and a

friend, and it was also noted by the various speakers that much of G.T.'s success was due to the beautiful partner who shared his life, stood behind him, and supported him at all times.

      And so they expressed their thanks for the two wonderful years of ministry, and wished us God's blessing in our new sphere in Victoria.

      There was a beautiful supper, and some of our friends, who could not be at the wharf to wave us goodbye, said wonderful things about us, some of the ladies bestowed a kiss on our cheeks. I recall not being over keen on that exercise, but it was all part of a great night, and as we climbed our mountain we were a very happy family looking forward with eagerness to the future.

      We had several other farewell parties in the next couple of days, in our home, and the Mansell home. The parting from Hazel was not easy. She had been our constant companion and mate in all our daring exploits. She was, with the possible exception of Enid, the most daring of the whole crew, and we loved her, and her Mum, very much, and we really believed neither time nor distance could disturb such a friendship as ours. But time and distance did just that. After they returned to Rhodesia to resume their missionary work at Bulawayo there were letters flying in both directions for some time, but eventually these ceased, and largely, and sadly, we lost contact. But during those last forty eight hours in Nelson, no such thing could be contemplated, so we happily re-lived some of the best years of our young lives, and recalled some of the many things we had shared together.

      With our Mount Street home looking very forlorn, and the farewell meetings behind us, it was time to look toward Australia.

      The SS Ngaio was undergoing a refit, and we were booked to travel on a small passenger ship which Dad dubbed as "the fishing smack". When all our final goodbyes were said to the crowds and well-wishers on the wharf, we actually had to walk down the gangplank, so small was our craft. The waters of Cook Strait, however, were smooth that night, and we arrived safely, and on time in Wellington, and were met by Mr and Mrs Milton Vickery and a Mr Robert Ladbrook. So the Nelson experience was really over, and we were perhaps a little sad about that, but we believed that what lay ahead was so exciting that it left little room for sadness.

      We had spent almost exactly two years in beautiful Nelson, and we were all grateful for the experience. We loved the place, and ever after, whenever we heard the name mentioned, many happy memories would come flooding back.

      Mr Robert Ladbrook's late model Buick tourer was waiting for us at the Wellington wharf. He drove us to a main street in the city, where he owned a sweets store. Robert Ladbrook, his wife, and daughter, Phyllis, were members of the Invercargill church. They were involved there in the same business of manufacturing sweets and running a retail outlet for their own products. They left Invercargill during Dad's term of ministry there, and set up business in Wellington. Phyllis Ladbrook was a friendly girl, inclined to be large, but she took notice of us kids, and so I thought she was pretty good, and at that time she was one of my pinups.

      The visit to the wonderful sweets store, where we met up again with Phyllis, was a highlight. After we'd been presented with some of the Ladbrook goodies, we left for their suburban home, where we were due to spend two nights prior to our departure for Sydney. As the sleek new Buick sped us from city to the suburbs I took careful note of all the landmarks, where and when we turned, either to right or left, how many centres we drove through, the size and type of buildings, also anything else which may help

me if I should have to find my own way back to Wellington. Mrs Ladbrook was there to welcome us when we arrived at their large, well appointed home.

      The factory, which was in the back yard, was of particular interest to us, and when we were shown through and saw the long tables loaded with freshly made sweets of many varieties, we believed that this was to be a heavenly two days. However, our hopes were dashed a little when Mrs Ladbrook put us on our honour not to touch any of the sweets at all. But she said we were welcome to eat any of those in what she called the reject bins, where misshapen and odd lollies were carelessly tossed. To us, they were a bonanza, and we kept those bins pretty empty during the next two days.

      After lunch on that first day I invited Lin to come for a walk. He refused, believing it was far better to remain close to the reject bins than go walking in a strange city with his brother. Without seeking permission, I set out on my own, hoping to arrive safely at Ladbrook's store in Wellington. This was my plan, to return to see Phyllis, and the reason for taking note of all the landmarks on the outward journey. The five miles distance between our temporary home and the centre of Wellington was covered in excellent time. My memory had served me well as I, arrived at the correct street where I knew I would find Phyllis, and the sweet store.

      I walked up and down that busy street many times, but could not find the shop loaded with chocolates and other sweets. So after a great deal of walking, and not a little worry, I stood still, checked my landmarks, and sure enough I was at the right spot. But someone had moved the Ladbrook store, lock, stock, and barrel.

      When further careful searching failed, I stood on a busy street corner, watching the policeman on point duty. I had by now given up. I knew I was beaten, and for the first time I realised what a foolish thing I had done. As a great deal of time had elapsed, I wondered if I had been missed at home, and what they would be doing about it.

      There was a slight lull in the traffic flow, so I walked to the policeman, who, when he saw a young lad with a very troubled look on his face approaching him, stopped all traffic, then listened to me very politely, although some of the motorists who were held up were not so polite. He took his time, but indicated that he did not know Ladbrook's sweet store. He said however that he would be relieved in a few minutes, and he would help me to find it. He instructed me to wait on a particular corner for him, and not to move until he arrived. My very heavy heart lifted a little, but as I prepared to take up my waiting position, a very angry looking car came toward me, pulled up with a screech of brakes, and two very irate men jumped out. Robert Ladbrook and Dad! I got it from both of them. Like a whipped dog I sat in the back seat of the big Buick wishing I had that wonderful policeman to say a word for me.

      After some time, and more harsh words, we drove to the shop, which was within a half minutes walking distance from the spot where I had finally given up my search. Perhaps I was already developing the habit, which has been the bane of my wife's life, that of standing directly in front of something and not being able to see it.

      Phyllis was told all about my reckless behaviour in a strange city, and when I was asked why I had done it, I replied, "Because I wanted to see Phyllis." She took me into her arms and as I rested briefly on her ample bosom, a few very genuine tears flowed, and she comforted me. But my tears had no effect on my two stern-faced minders in the bowler hats, who were standing close by. They looked as though they would like to do something pretty awful to me, but because of the location, and the presence of ladies, they had to restrain themselves. But they were certainly not going to let me out of their sight.

      After Phyllis had placed a bag of the choicest sweets in my hand, we left for the Ladbrook home. In quick time we were there, and again I had to face more advice from Dad and Robert. This worried me, but the distraught look on Mum's face worried me even more.

      When it was her turn to speak, she told me how foolish I had been, and how unfair it was to our host and hostess. She hoped that I had learned my lesson. I sure had. Then she gently enquired of me how on earth I had done it, and she asked, "How did you get to Wellington, by tram or bus?". When I told her I had walked, she was a little unbelieving, but when I assured her, that it was so, and I told her about my checking of the route, and the landmarks on the trip from Wellington that morning, she was quite amazed, and said in her lovely way, "What you did dear was wrong, but I think you're a very clever boy. "

      At last I felt restored. Even the forbidding looks from the two men, now without their bowler hats, but apparently none the less menacing, could not spoil that moment. I was now free to go with the other kids and raid the reject bins.

      The next day was spent in staying very close to the house, fitting in as many visits as possible to the lolly factory, being fed at Mrs Ladbrook's well supplied table, and a visit to the harbour.

      At the Wellington wharves there were a number of ships tied up that day, and upon Mr Ladbrook's enquiry, we were told the ship at number two wharf would be making the next run from Wellington to Sydney, at 8.00 a.m. on Monday 5th August 1926. The name of this ship, which would take us back to Australia, was the "S.S. Maheno".

      On Thursday 6th July, 1905, there was a fine 5,000 ton ship launched at Glasgow in Scotland. It had been built for the Union Steamship Company, and was intended for service in Australian and New Zealand waters. After the launching and naming ceremony, it was given the final touches, and when the interior fitting was complete, it was subjected to stiff sea trials off the Scottish coast, and in the Irish Sea. It came through these with flying colours, then later set sail for the Antipodes arriving in Perth, Australia, five weeks later.

      Soon after its arrival, the work as a coastal and New Zealand passenger vessel commenced. It continued in this service for the next ten years, then in 1915 it was taken over by the Australian government. It was used for the next four years as a supply and troop ship. After its stint of war service, it was given a refit, then again placed in the Australian/New Zealand service. Its name, "S.S. Maheno".

      As we saw this ship from number two wharf in Wellington, on August 4th 1926, it looked great. It had just completed twenty one years of service, and to mark the occasion the owners had given it a new coat of paint. It was indeed a very spruce vessel.

      We could wait for the time when we should go aboard, only with some difficulty.

      The "S.S. Maheno" was to have a very special place in Australian maritime history.

      Monday 8th August 1926, was a fine day in Wellington. There was considerable excitement in the Robert Ladbrook home, as we prepared for our sea journey.

      When the Buick was ready, we were driven to the harbour, where we found a number of other well wishers, waiting on number two wharf, to wave us goodbye. They all came aboard, and approved of our ship, and the cabins which we would use for the next four and a half days.

      At 7.40 am. an officer gave the familiar instruction when a ship is about to depart, "All those going ashore, go ashore". Our friends left us to wait in a small group on the wharf.

      Right on time, the "Maheno" moved from its moorings. There were streamers and farewell calls. Very soon the harbour, and the city of Wellington, faded from view. We were actually on our way to wonderful Australia.

      We had spent six and a half years in New Zealand. In addition to the short unhappy period in Mornington, Dad had completed two highly successful ministries. He was well regarded in

the dominion as a brilliant orator and keen mind. He was loved and admired by all those who had come to know him personally, and many believed New Zealand was going to be much poorer because of his return to Australia.

      When we arrived in Dunedin in March, 1920, we were a family of six. Now, within the addition of three "Kiwi" babies, we were a large family of nine.

      Lin had reached the age of twelve years, I was eleven, Jean, just about nine, Gwen was seven, Nancy four, and Keith was two years of age. Enid was to celebrate her sixth birthday on the high seas between New Zealand and Australia, on Wednesday August 7th, 1926.

      Mum was still her lovely, placid self. The breaking of another home, and all the attendant difficulties of shifting a large family from one country to another, did not appear to upset her even balance in any way. It was a happy move for her, because she would now be closer to her family, and hopefully, see some of them from time to time. However, she was not looking forward to the sea journey, as she knew, even if the sea were reasonably calm, she would spend most of the four and a half days in her cabin bunk. And she was again pregnant.

      The Tasman sea is not noted for being a calm waterway. In fact, it is quite notorious for its storms. This journey of ours promised to be no exception. On the first day out the seas were heavy, but not unbearably rough. The second day, a little heavier, the third, August 7th, there were signs that a storm may be ahead. On this day we celebrated Enid's sixth birthday. It was

a happy occasion, when we all crowded into Mum and Dad's small cabin, and said our good wishes, and gave her presents. The one she was interested in, and the only one I remember, was a packet of glitter wax. It was the only family birthday celebrated at sea.

      Later that day the storm really hit, and it blew a gale all that night and the next day. On Thursday August 8th, the full complement of passengers was confined to their bunks, and with one exception, no one appeared at the dining room for meals. That exception was myself. During that wonderful day, I had the full attention of several waiters. I made the most of this golden opportunity.

      The storm abated in the early afternoon of that day, and it was reasonably calm on the last day.

      The captain of our ship, who had been sailing these, and other seas for twenty years, said it was the worst storm of his career, and he hoped never to see another one like it again.

      The "Maheno", a little the worse for the wear and tear of an unusually bad storm, was tied up at number five wharf in Sydney after lunch, on Friday, August 9th, 1926. It was a little late, but all that, and the severe sea sickness, was forgotten as we passed through the famous Sydney heads, and moved across the waters of the beautiful harbour, to our appointed berthing spot.

      When we said goodbye to the "S.S. Maheno", it was with regret. We were, however, twenty five years later, to see its name splashed across the headlines in our daily newspapers. By the late 1940's, the "Maheno" was no longer the slick

vessel we had known, it had come to the end of its useful life as a passenger vessel. It was used only for cargo runs in, and around, Melbourne ports. In 1950 it was tied up for the last time. It was purchased a Japanese firm, who were eagerly buying all Australian scrap iron. It was to be towed to a southern Japanese port and there to be broken up.

      The Prime Minister of Australia at that time, was Robert Menzies. Because of his activities in the sale of scrap metals to Japan, he was being confronted by the Australian Trade Union movement, which believed this was contrary to Australia's best interests. He was dubbed "pig iron Bob" at that time. The name remained with him throughout his whole political career.

      When the "Maheno" was attached to its towing vessel in Melbourne, all went well, until heavy weather was experienced along the east coast. The "Maheno" broke from its towing vessel, and was free for several days. It was finally hooked up again, but broke away a second time, and I believe was lost. It achieved immediate fame, as it was said the " S.S. Maheno" had joined the Australian Trade movement, and refused to go to Japan.

      And so after forty five years of faithful service the good ship "Maheno" achieved fame in its last moments.

      When we had disembarked, we made our way through the busy, bustling scene of Port Jackson. We walked to the historic area known as "The Rocks". We were told by Dad and Mum to remain in a certain position on the neat lawns there, and not to move until they had booked accommodation, and attended to other necessary matters. They

guaranteed a fairly quick return. Lin was placed in charge, and no one, not even I, was allowed to go exploring the big city.

      Our wait was a long one. When we finally saw Dad's bowler hat, with him underneath it, and Mum at his side, we were very relieved. Dad was carrying a very large brown paper bag. He emptied its contents on the lawn, where we sat, and we found it hard to believe our eyes. They were oranges, large navels. We had not seen oranges like it before. That meal, on the lawns on the famous "Rocks" in Sydney, was an unforgettable one, and never, before or since, have we tasted oranges so luscious and beautiful.

      We spent the night at the Peoples Palace, and after breakfast, a friend of Dad's, a church member of one of our Sydney churches, picked us up in his car, and drove us to the harbour. We were due to sail at eleven a.m. for Melbourne.

      The 16,000 ton P.& 0. liner, "M.V. Comorin" was the ship that was to take us from Sydney to Melbourne. If we had been excited when we travelled on the Wanganella and the "Maheno", our excitement knew no bounds now. We went aboard early and were fascinated by this floating palace.

      In November 1942, the "Comorin" was on troop carrying duty in the Mediterranean sea, when it struck a mine, and soon afterwards it joined the hundreds of other vessels lying on the sea bed of that famous waterway.

      The two days travel was a beautiful memory. The sea was kind to us, and even Mum was able to enjoy some meals. And what meals they were. And the service was out of this world.

      We had a scare on the first night out. Keith went missing. Without alerting Mum and Dad, the six of us conducted a thorough search. We were at the point of admitting defeat, and accepting the fact that our baby boy was miles behind us in the ocean; we were on our way to Mum and Dad's cabin, to tell them the dreadful news, when in one of the cabins we passed we heard the pleasant voice of one of the Goanese stewards talking to a child. We flung open the door, and there, oblivious to the panic he had caused, was our Keith. I believe he received more hugging, kissing, and spoiling, than he really deserved. But at two and a half years of age, who could blame him. We certainly did not.

      On arrival in Port Melbourne, we were met by George Mathieson, Albert Ladbrook, and a Mr Sharp, who was a Melbourne dentist, and Church of Christ member, and also, to us, almost unbelievably, we were met by Uncle Keith Jones, Mum's beloved young brother, who with George and Albert, was training for the ministry at the College of the Bible in Glen Iris. To actually meet, and be welcomed by, a real, live Uncle, was a wonderful, and memorable experience. He was tall, and we thought, very good looking, and he was so friendly to us, that from that moment until he died at the age of seventy seven, he was a firm favourite.

      We were driven to the Sharp home in the very latest T model Ford. How we all fitted into the cars of those days, I do not know, but we managed. Mrs Sharp cared for us during that day, and late in the afternoon, we were driven, again in the T model Ford, to Spencer Street station, where we boarded the train for Ballarat.

      After about three hours pleasant travel, we arrived on time at our destination, and were met by a church member, and transported to a small home in Lydiard Street, where we were welcomed and fed by two of the church ladies. Very soon a very tired Fitzgerald family went to bed, to spend their first night in Ballarat, the city built on gold, which was to be their home for the next seven tremendous years.

      On August 12th 1926, the Ballarat Railway station was not a very busy place. When we alighted from the train there were a few people meeting their friends, a few easy going porters, and a person of authority, in gold braid. But there were a great number of offers to pick up our luggage, and drive us to our destination. All over the station the cab owners call of "Gip, Gip, Gip", could be heard. Amongst these very traditional members of the horse and buggy fraternity, there was one man dressed in a leather coat, and wearing a leather cap, with goggles above the peak ready for immediate use. His call was so different, as he offered his services. He said, "Car, Car, Car". Only one taxi offering service at a large Provincial Railway Station in 1926, and many black, hearse like cabs; it may seem hard to believe, but that indeed was the case.

      By 1930 however, three and a half years later, the mighty automobile held sway, and only one cab remained, and he, true to the brotherhood of horse drawn cab drivers, resolutely refused to give up until the date of his retirement.

      Ballarat, the beautiful city of our adoption, correctly spelt is "Ballaarat". It is derived from two Aboriginal words, "Balla" and "Arrat", meaning resting or camping place. In 1838 William Yuille and Henry Anderson, settled by a reedy swamp, which came to be known as Yuille's Swamp. Gold was discovered in 1851, and the town grew quickly as gold seekers from around the world poured into the area.

      The largest lump of gold ever found, the "Welcome Nugget", was among the huge haul of the precious metal, either dug up, or picked up, in the Ballarat gold fields.

      Until the second world war, it was the sight of Australia's only battle field, at Eureka Stockade. After the gold rush days, the residents turned to agriculture, and farmed the fine volcanic local soil to very good effect.

      The city itself was planned with vision. The main street was wide enough to permit roads for up and down traffic, and in addition a seven metre garden statue and tree area right through the centre of the street. This magnificent boulevard was named "Sturt", after Commissioner Sturt, who was a prominent Ballarat citizen, and a close relative of the explorer Captain Sturt.

      Ballarat became known as the city of statues, with more than sixty important statues sculpted by some of the world's best sculptors operating at the time the city was being born.

      In a conservatory, situated in the Botanical Gardens, is the priceless statue, "The Flight from Pompeii", by Benzoni, and four other equally famous smaller pieces, "Ruth", "Rebecca", "Suzanna", and "Modesty". Thousands

of overseas visitors are attracted to this spot every year. In the Botanical Gardens also, is a unique avenue of statues of the Prime Ministers of Australia.

      Lake Wendouree, the pride of Ballarat, is Yuille Swamp, reclaimed, and made into one of the most beautiful lakes, in a large area noted for its lakes and waterways. Water is piped into the lake, and a fish hatchery, set up for the purpose, keep the waters well supplied with those elusive creatures, which only the privileged few can ever catch.

      When we stepped from the train on August 12th 1926, the city of Ballarat was just eighty eight years old. Being, as it is, fifteen hundred feet above sea level, it is a cold, but fascinating and beautiful, place. It had a population of 45,000 people, which increased from that night of our arrival, by nine, all of whom were eager to explore every square inch of its very attractive territory.

      The rooms provided for us in Lydiard Street were very inadequate. The single fronted, long, narrow type house, was owned by a Mrs Walker, who shared the home with her daughter, who was a podiatrist, operating a practice in a front room. This left very little space for a family of nine. But, we fitted in, and managed as well as we might. It, however, was not a brilliant start for Dad's ministry.

      Some years prior to our arrival, a Scottish immigrant, Mr James A Wilkie, had chosen Ballarat as his adopted town. He showed talent as an auctioneer, and his booming voice was heard at many sales in the area. He was offered

a partnership by a Mr Punshon, who ran a thriving land agent's business. It was accepted, and the firm name of "Punshon and Wilkie", was very well known in Ballarat and environs.

      Mr Wilkie became associated with the Church of Christ in-Ballarat, and was prominent in church affairs in Victoria. The Dawson Street board, put the matter of accommodating the new minister, and his family, in his capable hands, and what he did on their behalf, was quite inadequate.

      There was no provision whatever for a minister in Ballarat, no manse, and no consideration given to the urgent need of adequate housing. Dad had immediately to commence to search for a family home, in a suitable area, and buy it himself. This was finally achieved after much bike riding and indecision. The home he finally decided upon, was owned by Mr Harry Symons, a local, wealthy, butcher. An agreement on price was reached, and the deal was sealed.

      The house was a weatherboard home, fairly close to the footpath, double fronted, with a verandah across the front, and a small return verandah down the southern side. It was painted white, with a red roof. It was a six room home, nearly large enough for sleeping, eating and living quarters, for our large family. The kitchen was quite commodious, the living room only reasonable size, the bedrooms adequate, and Dad's study had to be used as his workroom and a bedroom. Lin and I slept outside. There was a large lobby area separating the kitchen and the living room, a passage across the back of the house, which may have commenced its life as a verandah, but had been enclosed, the bathroom was at the end of the passage, the wash house was a leanto building at the rear.

      The yard was large. The double front gates led to a gravel drive, which ended with another pair of double gates beyond which was an area just long enough, and enclosed well enough, to be used as a practice cricket pitch for a couple of cricket loving lads, who at that time, saw themselves, as potential test stars.

      Alongside the drive was a tall Cyprus hedge, and just beyond that, in the neighbours home, were fascinating sheds with shingled roofs. These sheds provided much fun and enjoyment for us, as they were treasure houses of Victoriana. The many wonderful relics of yesteryear were an eye opener to us. The most interesting were the horse drawn coaches and phaetons, all in good condition, just waiting for the time when they would be rediscovered. We used to frequently take imaginary drives in these carriages, and rummage around amongst the loads of treasure, and as far as I'm aware, the occupants of the house never interfered, perhaps we did it so quietly and well, that they were unaware of our activities.

      Our first snow storm in Ballarat was made more memorable because when we awoke to a silent white world, and looked towards our favourite sheds, the snow on the shingles looked so English, and so beautiful, that we have never forgotten it.

      There was a large structure in the back yard, which would not have been out of place in a farmyard. It was a long shed, with space for a bedroom, (this is where Lin and I slept), the toilet, a wood shed, and another large shed at the end. It ran lengthwise on the block, providing tons of space for all our gear. In this shed we witnessed the death agony of a

horse. It was bought to the large shed suffering from some obscure ailment, and was in pain. Its only joy in the last days of its life was when it heard Dad's voice, or could recognise his footsteps. Then, and only then would it whinny. The vet had to be called in, and the horse put down, and then the pig man was called, he cut the carcase up, and we were warned not to go near, the stench was awful, but from every vantage point possible, we watched the operation and put up with the stench.

      In the back lawn there was a large chestnut tree and also a palm tree, which we used for a May pole dancing game. The garden was beyond the lawn, and here, Dad grew most wonderful vegetables. Mr Symons had been an asparagus grower. This bed was very popular with us, but Dad gradually encroached upon it, then used it for more important products. He was a gardener par excellence. Very seldom would Mum need to purchase vegetables from the Greengrocer's van, when its owner called.

      There was a fowl house, and the occupants used to produce another much needed food item for Mum's kitchen. We had a favourite black hen, she was always friendly, would come to us and talk in her own hen's way whenever we went to feed the fowls. She went broody, and we set her up in a little enclosed wooden structure in the garden, gave her twelve eggs to hatch, and after her three weeks vigil, twelve lovely, fluffy, chickens emerged. We were amazed, and thrilled at the miracle of birth and new life.

      There was sufficient room for all our activities in this commodious yard.

      And so, with a six room home, fascinating shingle roof sheds close by, large sheds, magnificent chestnut and palm trees, fowls, a beautiful garden, a cricket pitch, and other playing areas, we were very happy with our Dad's choice. We settled in very comfortably, and soon forgot the cramped conditions of the previous months.

      At number 4 Baird Street, Ballarat North, we were really home.

      Our neighbours in the area were pleasant and interesting. Opposite us was a small, double fronted, wooden house, occupied by a widow, Mrs Breen, by name. She was always in dire trouble with her feet, and complained bitterly, whenever we spoke to her about her poor suffering feet. It was a genuine complaint, because, always, she put her shoes on the wrong feet. This lady was mostly in a slightly tipsy state, and when we were on a scrounging expedition, we would go to her back door, asking for empty bottles. She would put on a slightly hurt, and very haughty air, and advise us that she did not have any use for bottles at all. They would be scattered thick around the yard, but we were not supposed to see them. However she soon forgot the insult, and would again take up where she left off, about her poor suffering feet.

      Next door to Mrs Breen, was Mrs Sharp. She had a son. The husband was not normally in evidence. Mrs Sharp filled in her time with peddling local gossip and scandals. She would be delighted to grab one of us, and pour her stuff into our very eager ears.

      Then the Frampton family. They were good people, and very friendly to us. Further down the street

on our side, a Mrs Hill, and at the end of the street was the Page family. They were deprived, without any real visible means of support, especially in relation to workers in the family, there appeared to be none. They were poorly clothed, even worse than we were, and were evidently, unwashed. We tried to help them, and they willingly accepted any assistance. Gwen, however, thought our offers of help had gone far enough, when one of the older lads, Stan, fell for her charms, and caught her in a culvert one day, and planted a rather dirty kiss on her cheek.

      Next door was the Doull family. Jack Doull, his wife, and daughter Betty, and his wife's sister, Miss Collet, who had what we considered to be the best job in the world--the supervisor in charge of the refreshment rooms at the Ballarat Railway Station.

      Jack was a solid Australian citizen, a great supporter of the Australian Labour Party, and a staunch unionist, also an ex RAAF man from the first world war. A boiler maker by trade, he was employed by the Victorian Railways, in the workshops, which were close to Baird Street in Ballarat North. When in his eighty seventh year, he was ill, but chose to remain home. He was a widower, and looked after himself. On a certain Friday morning, however, he got up, dressed, and drove his 1963 Morris Major Elite, to the union office, paid his union dues (he always remained a fully paid up member), drove to the Ballarat Hospital, where he was admitted, and died that same weekend.

      When I was fourteen, he advised me to get a job in the workshops, and guaranteed me an apprenticeship with him, as a trainee boiler maker.

      The proposition was put to Dad, he decided against it. Jack was very disappointed, I was too, but mainly because it promised a way of leaving school, and getting away from the constant reminder that I would never amount to anything, because I could not understand the mysteries of Maths.

      How wise my Dad was. I dislike intensely working with iron and steel, in fact, I believe if I awoke one morning and found myself in a boilermakers shop, I would know that my life here on earth had been a failure, and after my demise, I had become a guest of the satanic prince.

      Betty, the eldest member of Jack's family, who was to become known as the eleventh member of the Fitzgerald family, has kept in touch with us during the last fifty three years.

      Our street was a reasonably short one. It was at right angles to a main through road, McArthur Street by name. On the corner of Baird and McArthur Streets, was a large home. The occupants were not the marrying kind. Two bachelor brothers, and a spinster sister. The McDonalds. They were very good neighbours. They owned the shingled roofed sheds which housed our treasures. They all had a world air about them, and were polite and friendly on all occasions.

      Further down McArthur Street, the Middleton family. They were the local milk vendors. Both Lin and I became part of their operation, and for years delivered milk to many parts of North Ballarat.

      Still further down the street, a large, well appointed home, owned by a Mr Arthur Williams. Mr Williams was a wealthy retired farmer, who

spent his working life on his property in Kaniva. He was a noted cricketer, and played in country matches against some of England's greatest stars, including, Ranji, Rhodes, Hobbs, and many others. He was still playing cricket, and keeping wickets at seventy three years of age.

      Mr Williams had a large family, four of whom went to the College of The Bible. Three of these became ministers of the Gospel. Mr E Lyall Williams, known in Christian circles around the world, and revered and loved in the Australian brotherhood, as a friend to many, and the distinguished emeritus principal of The College of The Bible in Glen Iris, is also a son.

      Soon after our arrival in Lydiard Street, Dad took us to the nearest school, at McArthur Street, where he enrolled us as students. So for Lin, Jean, Gwen, Enid, and me, it was our first experience of a Victorian school. It was not a very happy one. It was a rough, tough school, with plenty of bullying, and terrorising of the weak ones. The head master did not seek to control this feature of his school, and consequently we all disliked the place, and were eager to get away as soon as possible.

      We were soon picked out as something different. The New Zealand accent and pronunciation of certain words is very noticeable, and we were accused of having plums in our mouths, and putting on airs and graces. We were promptly named "Maori", and given the treatment, always meted out to anyone who happens to be different.

      Lin was tall, strong, and robust. The school bullies left him alone. I, on the other hand, was undersize, not very strong, and one who would run, rather than fight. So they concentrated on me, and made my life very unhappy.

      But after some weeks of being kicked around, I decided to fight back, and during one lunch time period, while I was on my way home, the mob of terrorists caught up with me, and told me I had to stand up and fight. This I agreed to do. The first fighter they put up was no match for me. I cleaned him up, and knocked him down with about four well placed blows. So they put up a second champion. It took me just two mighty punches, and he was on the ground, groaning and wiping a very blood stained face. Things were not going well for the gang. They believed I was easy meat, but on this occasion they were dead wrong.

      Just then. Lin came along, and they put up the school bully, Poker Hill. He was tough, thickset, nasty, and a born fighter. I mixed it with him for a while, but he was well out of my class as a boxer, so I threw in the towel.

      I was jeered at as a chicken and a coward, and Poker Hill threatened to tear me apart next time he caught up with me. Then, for the next week, he sought me out, and punched and terrorised me on every possible occasion. I took it without complaint, but when finally he really put the boots in, I warned him that if this continued, he would have to fight my brother. He was derisive. "I'll fight him any time, any place."

      So the brawl of the year was arranged: Poker Hill, the best and toughest fighter of the school, was pitted against the tall, quiet, patient, non-pugnacious, "Maori".

      The school was on Poker's side. The fight took place on September 27th, behind the Ballarat North railway station. The mob cheered Poker's every punch, and jeered the "Maori". However, in time, Lin outpunched and outpointed the bully,

and he was almost crying for mercy. But the mob urged him on, and finally, when he threw in the towel, they were stunned. Lin was acclaimed a clear winner. The school bully had at last been beaten. Poker Hill never spoke to me again, and certainly never laid a finger on me. In fact, from that day, his evil influence waned. Lin was respected by the rest of the school, and with me he was a hero.

      So began my firm belief in Pacifism as a way of life.

      This was the tone of McArthur Street school, and it was not good. So at the end of 1926, I left, and went to the Pleasant Street school. It had the same reputation as its street name suggests. Lin was enrolled at the Ballarat High School, and all the remaining children after serving an apprenticeship period at McArthur Street, transferred to Pleasant Street, and for each one of them that time could not come quickly enough.

      The Pleasant Street school was one and a half miles from Baird Street, a big increase on the distance between our home and the McArthur Street school, which was, perhaps a quarter of a mile, but not one of the family objected, even though it meant covering that distance four times per day, because apart from one special day a week, when we took or bought our lunch, we went home for the midday meal, which had to eaten smartly, before the return journey was made.

      Pleasant Street school was right on the spot where the first pioneers made their camp. It overlooked the lake, so our route took us by the shores of our beloved Lake Wendouree.

      When I enrolled in 1927, the headmaster, Mr Lehaine was just about to retire. Upon his retirement, a Mr Robert Baker was appointed. He and his family, were church members at Dawson Street. He was a great admirer of Dad's, an outstanding man, teacher, and headmaster. He maintained discipline and we had to be part of this, but he was very helpful to us. He realised the difficult position we were in as a family, financially, and that it was necessary for me to work before and after school. He recognised that these things can make a difference, and he made allowances, when necessary.

      From 1927 to 1933, there was always one, or more, Fitzgerald enrolled at Pleasant Street, and we loved our years there. However, there was one black spot. A teacher, James Taylor, known to all as "Grab" Taylor. He believed in brutal tactics, and terrorising his students. This we did not enjoy, but we all recall the Pleasant Street days as happy memories.

      Lake Wendouree, could be reached in a few minutes walk from our home. The walk to and from school around the Lake, gave us the wonderful opportunity of getting to know it thoroughly in all its moods. Each morning and afternoon we would see and learn something new. Its bird life was fascinating. The large intake pipes which supplied the Lake, were a constant source of interest, as were the changing face of the waters, the ingenious reed cutting machine, the comings and goings of the boats used by pleasure seekers, fishermen, and others.

      During Ballarat's very freezing winter, the Lake's edge would freeze, and we would try to use the ice as a skating rink. Mainly in this we

failed, because it was not really strong enough to carry our weight, but it was fun.

      We swam in the lake, rowed upon it, fished in it, picnicked alongside of it, we walked around it, sometimes ran around it, occasionally we viewed its beauty from a tramcar, we panned for gold on its shores, with some little degree of success, and with an old bike, with its rubber tyres removed, we rode down the slope across the jetty, and flew through the air to land with a splash in the water.

      Most of our activities we carried on, on our side of the lake. However, on occasions we would move our sphere of action to the Western side. Here there were a number of channels, with overhanging weeping willow trees. This area was known as fairy land. It was truly that.

      Quite close were the famous Ballarat Botanical Gardens, with their glorious displays of flowers in season, particularly the Begonia houses. Begonias are a Ballarat special, and the Begonia Festival attracts visitors from all over Australia, and beyond.

      There was also another attraction to us on this side of the Lake, a Nicolodeon. Put a penny in it, if you were lucky enough to have one, and it played a sweet tune.

      An area on our side of the Lake known as View Point, appeared to us at that time, to be a rather large isthmus, jutting right out into the lake. It was the stopping and starting place for the paddle steamer, which used to cross, and re-cross, the lake, and take the passenger, who could afford the one shilling fare, for a lovely

scenic ride. It was equipped with a player piano, and the music, wafting across the waters, and the splashing of the paddles, made very pleasant sounds.

      Close to View Point were the boat sheds, where the dinghies, row boats, fishing boats, and other larger craft, could be hired at a certain figure per hour.

      On one memorable occasion, Dad took us on a fishing expedition. The boat he hired was large, and we all fitted fairly comfortably. Mum had provided food fit for fisher folk, and we left the boatshed very happy in the knowledge that we would return loaded with the beautiful lake fish.

      Our lines were completely ignored by the fish population, but Mum's picnic lunch was good, and the rowing was great fun. It was a wonderful day, but suddenly it appeared that the daylight was no longer with us, as it was quickly getting dark. We headed as speedily as our oars could take us back to the boatshed. We went in a direct line to the boatshed, or so we believed, but it had disappeared, so we changed direction, and every few minutes one of us would see in the murk, a shape, and the happy cry would go up, "There's the boatshed", but always we were wrong. This happened time and time again.

      It finally dawned upon some of us that we were completely lost, and were actually going around in circles. Dad was clearly concerned, Mum in her cheerful, placid way, believed the next shadow we saw, would indeed be the boatshed. It was not. But eventually, after a long period of rowing in the darkness, on our beautiful lake, which somehow had become a bit threatening, we did see a large shadow which did not change as we rowed closer, and it really was the boatshed.

      The boatman was not at all amused, but happy, I believe, that his boat was safe, and had not been pinched.

      We went home, walking around our familiar track, and arrived at number four, very pleased that a potentially bad situation had ended so well. But the pans we had made ready to cook all that fish, were sadly put away.

      Near our Pleasant Street school there was a shop, operated by the Hadley family. They provided wonderful food and friendly service, to their many school age customers. Their pasties were unforgettable. At four pence each, they were large, well filled, and were easily the most popular lunch item.

      Further down the street, on a corner, was an empty block. It was purchased by a developer, who erected a shop. The first occupant of this new shop was a middle aged lady. We decided to try her wares, and we were met with a new kind of approach to customers. They were always wrong, and if they were schoolchildren, they were very wrong. She had large trays of half penny, one penny, and two penny, sweets, and we would naturally enquire the price. This would make her mad, and she would pick up her stick, crash it on the counter, and demand to know what sort of a school we went to. "Don't they teach you your lollies?". This would cause laughter amongst her potential customers, and again the stick would come crashing down, and with it a great deal of abuse of our school, and our teachers, for failing in this important part of our education.

      Because of this stupidity, I'm afraid she became the butt of our teasing, until she had had

enough, and she appeared on Mr Baker's doorstep, complaining that a number of his students were making her life unbearable. She had the names of every one of her alleged tormentors. I was among them.

      In the interview with Mr Baker, we took a strong but firm approach. He listened to our story, did not hand out any punishment, but instructed us not to go near her shop again. So we happily obeyed, and found our way back to Hadley's friendly store.

      The chapel at Dawson Street was a large building accommodating about three hundred people. The church membership was a similar figure. It was in the town itself, within half a minutes walk from Sturt Street. It was one and a half miles away from our home.

      The church was a very active group, with very well attended 11.00 a.m. and 7.00 p.m. services, large Sunday School, wonderful concerts, Sunday School picnics at the Gong Gong reservoir, and Lake Burrumbeet. Also, various clubs and a tremendous mutual improvement society. This activity was presided over by Dad and Mr Wilkie, both excellent debaters, and their assistance to the young men of the church was of the very highest quality. Mr Wilkie was, at that time, a champion debater, and had taken this prize at the South Street competitions, which were recognised as the leading competitions in the Southern hemisphere.

      Our Sunday activities included, 10.00 a.m. Christian Endeavour, 11.00 a.m. service, 2.30 p.m. Sunday School, and 7.00 p.m. service. Six journeys between Baird Street and Dawson Street each Sunday, making a total of nine miles.

      Dawson Street was a very much churched area. As almost within a stones throw of the chapel, there were three other churches. The Baptist, the Presbyterian, and the Catholic.

      The Catholic church was of particular interest to Jean, Gwen, Enid, and Nance. They became very good members of the Roman flock, and attended faithfully and devoutly to their religious duties. They made regular visits to the church of their forebears, and dipped into the holy water font, knelt dutifully before the crucifix, crossed themselves very humbly, and stood piously in front of the candles. Then if no other good Catholics were present, blew them out and quietly and quickly left before the smoking candles could be discovered.

      These activities in their religious life would be repeated often. I'm not sure whether or not they ever presented themselves at the confessional, but it would not surprise me if that had been the case.

      Nancy found a string of very strange beads on the path leading up to the front door of the church, and took them home. They were spotted by Dad, who urgently required where she had obtained them. He was told the bare truth. Nance had to return them to the spot where she had found them. This was done, and thankfully, Dad asked no further questions.

      There were two other Churches of Christ in Ballarat, one at York Street, the other Peel Street. Dad assisted these smaller churches a great deal, and the York Street people believe that G. T.'s work and missions, really lifted their cause from a small group to a much larger and more influential church.

      George Mathieson became the minister at Peel Street, and so the association with him, which commenced in 1922 in Invercargill, New Zealand, continued through some of the Ballarat years.

      Dad conducted twelve missions in Ballarat. They were held in tents or church buildings, and all were highly successful. His song leader was a Mr Harold Feary, a member of the founding family of the York Street church.

      One of the missions was shared with a Mr Arthur Hurren, and another with Mr T H Scambler, who was at that time the Principal of the College of the Bible. He was one of the most gracious men it has been my pleasure to meet, and during the time of this mission he was in our home a great deal, and we were privileged to get to know him well.

      Our church family at Dawson Street was wonderful. We shared with them on every possible occasion. There were families such as, the Morris's, the Bailey's, the Wilkie's, and others, who became a special part of our lives. A very special single lady, Miss Louie Franklin, became Mum's first really close friend in her years of ministry. She was the only person, to that time, with whom Mum exchanged Christian names. She always was conscious of her role as a minister's wife, and did not want to be seen as one who played favourites.

      Miss Franklin was a practical friend, frequently on our doorstep, offering to make clothes, darn, mend, or do anything which would help Mum cope with her very heavy load. She was a loving, concerned Christian lady, and we all learned to love her too; but she was dynamite on us if we talked or misbehaved in church. Her look of admonition just could not be ignored.

      A Mrs Lucas had founded a dress making firm in Ballarat, many years before our arrival. It had developed into the largest establishment manufacturing ladies frocks in the Southern hemisphere. Her son, Mr Ted Price, who was the governing director of the firm at that time, with his wife and family, were church members. They were extremely wealthy people, but were always helpful to our family.

      The church increased in numbers and influence under Dad's guidance and preaching. He was widely known and accepted in the city of Ballarat, and sought after as a speaker.

      Lin and I commenced our working life in October 1926. On arrival in Ballarat we applied for a paper delivery job at The Courier office. There were no vacancies, but later, a Mr Fricke came to our home, and told Dad that within a week two vacancies would occur, and the jobs were ours if we wanted them.

      Dad bought me a second hand BSA semi racing bike, and Lin used Dad's bike, and for the next two years, we had to arise at 4.30 a.m., ride to The Courier office in Sturt Street, be issued with one hundred Couriers, wrap them so they could be thrown over the fences, then for the next hour and a half we would be riding and delivering.

      The income of seven and sixpence per week, each, was fabulous. However, it went to Mum, and she gave us each one shilling back, sixpence to spend, and sixpence to go into the bank. We felt it was a pretty good deal, because a lad with sixpence in those days was considered pretty well off, and it was amazing what we did with those few pence.

      We joined an unofficial strike of Courier paper boys. Our demand was for ten shillings per week. Finally it was decided that we were worth more than the seven and sixpence, and the management gave us sixpence rise. But Mr Fricke was not amused. He placed a black mark against the names of all those who had joined the strike. He gradually weeded them out, and with us he saw his opportunity, when our alarm clock failed one morning, and instead of being on the doorstep at 5.00 a.m., it was 6.15 a.m., and we were told that in a short time we would be replaced. And we were.

      Thereafter we delivered papers for other firms, and became milk deliverers for the Middleton Dairies.

      During our busy years of bike riding and delivering papers and milk, also covering a distance of three miles each way to and from the Ballarat High School, and the many excursions into the country with our mates, and the long ride to the Millbrook Farm, Lin and I piled up fantastic mileages. As a matter of interest, we used to buy a tire, known as the Oceanic. If this tire could be worn out in under twelve months, the makers guaranteed to replace it with a new one. Our suppliers became a little tired of us over the years, we always, or practically always, got our new tires for nothing.

      In November 1926, Mum called on a friendly doctor in Sturt Street. Dr Sloss, by name. He was of German nationality, and was born Schloss, but had changed his name during world war I. Mum's pregnancy was now in its eighth month, and she felt that it may be time to have a check. After this was done, Dr Sloss was deeply concerned. Mum's kidneys were in extremely bad condition, and he told her quite frankly that

this birth was due to be difficult, if not actually dangerous. Mum in her gentle, unselfish way, had not bothered about herself, and this was in fact, the first time she had consulted a medical practitioner about this pregnancy. Dr Sloss was not impressed. He told her that she should have sought some advice months ago, and if this had been done, he believed the condition which was now present, could have been prevented.

      Mum gave as her reason for the neglect, that all of her seven births had been trouble free, and she believed that this one would be the same. The German doctor replied simply, "Well it is not going to be the same, and I want to see your husband as early as possible. And please tell him that the matter is very urgent."

      Dad hastened to the surgery, and was given a very worrying picture. Mum's kidneys could not stand a birth at that time, and if the baby were to be premature, it would go very hard with her. He felt her prospects of survival would be very slim. Every care had to be taken, and he asked to be advised when Mum went into labour, and he would be waiting at the Wendouree Private Hospital.

      On December 4th 1926, Mum commenced labour, and was quickly transported to the hospital, where next day, December 5th, she gave birth to a baby girl. But when Dad returned home after visiting her, he wept.

      We stayed home from school that afternoon, and just lived in fear. Dr Sloss, and another doctor assisting him, told Dad, that Mum had, perhaps at the best, a fifty-fifty chance of survival. They recommended her immediate removal to the

base hospital, where the best equipment and services were available. This was done, and for days, our Dad was a sad, lost man, as his beloved wife's life, hung in the balance.

      The churches were praying for her recovery, and so were many others, including her seven kids, who could not even contemplate a future without her.

      Gradually the daily bulletins showed some improvement, and after a fortnight of uncertainty, her life was pronounced safe. Dad's tears stopped, and we resumed our busy noisy lives again.

      The baby was named, Marjorie Hazel. She was one of the brightest babies I can remember. Always happy, laughing, and apparently, trying to share with us the things she would love to say. Her lips seemed to be bursting with words she had yet to learn.

      Marjorie was a joy to us. We were now older, and more able to appreciate a new life in our home. So we welcomed her. We were more than thankful that when she came home, she was carried by her own beautiful, very alive, mother.

      We had some special visitors in 1928. The gentleman was a tall, very big framed man, wearing a heavy black overcoat and hat. He looked to us to be very old, and his movements were slow, and there was little, if any, sparkle in his approach. His wife was a tiny lady, dwarfed beside her big husband. She was dark, lively, very friendly, and totally dedicated to her man. In fact, we considered that she spoilt him rather shamefully. They were Harry Jones, and his wife Lena. Our own real grandparents. The

same Big Harry and Lena of this story. We welcomed them with open arms. It was to us, almost unbelievable, that these two people were actually Mum's parents, and that they were with us in the same home, and that after all, they were real people.

      It was a great family time. They remained only for a few days, and went on to Adelaide. Our Grandfather did not make a tremendous impression, but Grandma did. And although they were different, we loved them both, and were so proud to be able to tell our mates that we had our grandparents from the West, staying with us.

      It was at Baird Street that we met our beautiful Auntie Laura. She and a friend had been living and working in New South Wales, and were returning to West Australia. Her visit was a highlight of the Ballarat years, and was the commencement of a friendship that was special to all of us, and one that was to last throughout all the years.

      Back in the twenties and thirties, churches did not overpay their ministers. Dad received the princely sum of five pounds per week. On this income, he and Mum had to clothe, feed and educate eight children, clothe and feed themselves, provide for church offerings, and other emergencies, and in addition, buy their home. It was almost an impossible task. The clothing problem was handled by the time honoured method of hand me downs. Not many clothes were bought from the shop. Mum made all the girls clothes, and her own, Dad mended all the boots and shoes, and in fact, so surrounded was he by heaps of shoes in the process of being mended, that when Keith commenced his school days, on being asked what his father did for a living, he confidently replied, that he was a boot maker.

      To feed eight hungry children, and two adults on the meager house-keeping allowance, was a near impossible assignment. Our diet was based very largely on what Dad grew in the garden, and produced otherwise in the backyard. Meat was seen on our plates occasionally, in the form of sausages in batter, toad-in-the-hole, we called it, or brawn. When Mum could afford to buy a shillings worth of shin of beef, this would be expertly turned into a delightful meal of brawn. It was, and is, a family favourite. Meals of mock duck, colonial goose, marrow stuffed with many types of vegetables, and roasted, vegetable pie, pufftaloons, scones, wheatmeal and oatmeal porridge, and wholemeal bread, sometimes with butter from the shop, never with butter and jam, sometimes with dripping, and others with dairy butter made by Mum from scalded cream. We also had a cow for a long period.

      We may have been very limited in the clothes we wore, but our shoes were always kept in good condition, and we never went hungry, and always Mum tried, and I believe succeeded, to make our meals both health giving, and attractive.

      The constant grind of trying to make ends meet, and planning for a large family, was the topic of discussion between Dad, and a certain Mr Wilton Chapman one day. Mr Chapman was a farmer in the nearby district of Millbrook, also a member of the Peel Street church. Upon hearing of the unequal struggle that Dad and Mum had to face daily, he made a suggestion to Dad, and it was this. "Come to Millbrook, plant some potatoes, use your Mondays and holidays to look after them, and when sold, they will provide you with the extra money you so sorely need." Dad was tempted, but did not give his reply until some time later. When he did, it was in agreement with Mr Chapman's suggestion, and from that moment, a new chapter in our lives began.

      Millbrook was fifteen miles from Ballarat, travelling towards Melbourne. It was a very fine potato growing district, with mainly heavy volcanic soil, so suited for farming and cropping of any description.

      A farmer close to the Chapman holding, Mr Dave Cantwell by name, was at that time planning his retirement, and when approached by his neighbour, and asked if there would be any hope of renting his property, he said, "Yes." A deal was struck.

      This small farm with a stone house, barn, stable, cow shed, creek and spring, was to become an important part of our lives. Dad, helped by Wilton Chapman, planted the first crop of potatoes. It turned out well, and gave Dad a little money to go further into his venture on behalf of his family.

      There were two brothers in Millbrook, the Sullivans. They owned one of the best farms in the area, but they did not use it. They were both alcoholics and cared nothing for their land. When approached by Dad and Wilton, with a proposition to rent their property, exclusive of the home, they were eager to oblige. So the beautiful chocolate coloured soil, was ploughed and harrowed once again, and planted, mainly with potatoes. It produced excellent crops.

      The old stone house was a joy to us. Old fashioned in construction, with a large farm type kitchen, another large room, where we ate our meals on a pine flooring table built by Dad with a hammer and axe, we had wonderful country meals around this table, and many happy memories are associated with it.

      Millbrook was fifteen miles from Ballarat, travelling towards Melbourne. It was a very fine potato growing district, with mainly heavy volcanic soil, so suited for farming and cropping of any description.

      A farmer close to the Chapman holding, Mr Dave Cantwell by name, was at that time planning his retirement, and when approached by his neighbour, and asked if there would be any hope of renting his property, he said, "Yes.". A deal was struck.

      This small farm with a stone house, barn, stable, cow shed, creek and spring, was to become an important part of our lives. Dad, helped by Wilton Chapman, planted the first crop of potatoes. It turned out well, and gave Dad a little money to go further into his venture on behalf of his family.

      There were two brothers in Millbrook, the Sullivans. They owned one of the best farms in the area, but they did not use it. They were both alcoholics and cared nothing for their land. When approached by Dad and Wilton, with a proposition to rent their property, exclusive of the home, they were eager to oblige. So the beautiful chocolate coloured soil, was ploughed and harrowed once again, and planted, mainly with potatoes. It produced excellent crops.

      The old stone house was a joy to us. Old fashioned in construction, with a large farm type kitchen, another large room, where we ate our meals on a pine flooring table built by Dad with a hammer and axe, we had wonderful country meals around this table, and many happy memories are associated with it.

      I recall both Dad and Mum looking like very shy school kids at one particular lunch time meal. We were discussing cows. Wilton always loaned us a cow, named Strawberry, when we were on location. Mum used to milk it, and the buckets of milk and also the thick scalded cream, were a great attraction. But on this occasion, the discussion went beyond milk, and Gwen asked a very innocent question. "What on earth do they keep bulls for?"

      Mum's grey eyes dropped to the table. Dad blushed and looked out the window. The silence was almost ominous, no one dared to speak. Gwen is still waiting for her answer. Then the usual mealtime noise started again, and when it was safe I leaned towards Mum, and said quietly, "That was one of the awkward questions". And Mum, looking all shy again, nodded in agreement.

      The bedrooms were not flash. We kids mainly slept on the floor, on beds made of bags of straw. Lin and I slept in the small attic, which was reached by a fascinating old staircase.

      The verandahs around the house, and the old world garden, with Rosemary hedges bordering the areas which once were flower beds, were important parts of our playing area.

      In addition to Strawberry, our friendly little cow, we had three work horses on the property, Roan, Nipper, and Fanny. They were used by Dad, Lin and I in the heavy farm work of ploughing. We used hand held, single furrow ploughs, also spiked iron harrows for harrowing the land after the ploughs had done their work, and when the potato crop was green and growing, we used the scruffler, an implement designed to keep the soil friable between the rows of potatoes, and to heap the soil against the base of the plants.

      When the crops were ready for digging, we employed labour to do the actual digging. These men were paid so much per bag.

      We followed them up, sowed the bags, loaded them onto a horse drawn wagon, which we drove to the Millbrook station, where a rail truck would be waiting. This would be loaded, consigned, either to Melbourne or Ballarat, whichever place was offering the best price at that time.

      Potatoes had for some years been bringing a good price. But soon after we started our operation, the market was sluggish, and later the situation worsened as the depression of the late twenties and early thirties, deepened. We also had two other horses; one a small bay, was an identity in the district, and known as Sir Thomas. It had worked for years doing certain work associated with the war effort in the first world war, and was given a courtesy title by the Millbrook community in recognition of his excellent service. He was a riding hack, and used in the buggy. The other, a fine cream coloured Arab type animal, was a riding horse, and could really move. We loved it when he was in a galloping mood.

      Jean promised to be a very fine horsewoman, but her opportunities were limited.

      The potato crops appeared to attract a particular type of weed, the fat hen. It grew prolifically along the rows of potatoes. If it were allowed to develop, it would grow very large, and damage the crop. So this was one of our chores. Pulling up the fat hen. It was one that was unpopular.

      Dad also grew many crops of green peas. We shared in the back breaking job of picking, bagging, and getting them ready for the market. They were mainly sold to dealers in Ballarat. But on one occasion we had several bags over, and I was commissioned to drive to Gordon, a nearby township, and try to sell them to the local greengrocer.

      On arrival in Gordon I approached the greengrocer, who inspected my wares. He showed interest, and enquired how much per pound. Now before my departure, I had asked Dad the same question, and he had replied, "Try and get tuppence halfpenny, or threepence." So my confident reply was just that, "tuppence halfpenny, or threepence." With a smirk on his face he accepted the lower figure.

      I unloaded, returned home, and repeated the exact words of my conversation with the shopkeeper. Immediately there was a howl of laughter from Dad, and the rest of the family. The story of my astute business deal of that day, has dogged me through the years, and it is still mentioned by the family when we talk of Millbrook days.

      The Millbrook years were unforgettable, and had a very great influence on eight Fitzgerald children, and taught them many things.

      As a way out of Dad's financial problems it promised well, but because of depressed trading conditions, it did not live up to its promise, and was never a bonanza, but I believe it helped a little, but Dad was never repaid for the hard, slogging work during those years.

      Our holidays were spent at Millbrook, but our life was at number four, Baird Street, Ballarat North, and in that weatherboard home there was constant throbbing activity, with eight very different characters, all developing in their own way, and finding difficulty quite often with the method of someone else's development. So there were rows, fights, and arguments, some of them of quite monumental proportions, but there was little, if any, malice, and on the whole we got on pretty well together, and shared in the fun of living.

      Dad, a convinced pacifist, believed when he first became a father, that he should practice his beliefs, and never administer corporal punishment to his children. However, two West Australian boys convinced him that this was hopeless, and he dropped it. Whenever necessary he handed out that type of punishment. When one of our number was for it, we would suffer along with the one receiving punishment. But after it was all over, we would enquire of the hurt one, "How did you like your hiding?". Or, if a larruping had been promised, "How did you like your larruping?". It was cruel I guess, but in our turn, we all had to take it.

      Dad, as an educator, was magnificent. The living room, where such a lot of our living together was done, was the scene of his clever teaching. Whenever he could, which was pretty often, he would sit around the fire with us, and read books like the "Pilgrim's Progress", The "Sentimental Bloke", and passages from the Bible. He fascinated us with his stories, which just seemed to pour out of his agile brain, and he entertained us for years with a serial which he called "The adventures of Dimples and Dumples".

      Sometimes, to test our knowledge, he would act a part of the Bible. We had to guess the characters, and discuss the action with him. On other occasions, he would invite one of us, and he would nominate the person, to start a story, then each of us would have to continue. Occasionally it would go on for a long period, each of us eager to improve the story in our own way. He would discuss all sorts of things with us. The affairs of the world, what was happening in the political scene in Victoria and Australia, and there was always a dictionary handy, and whenever we did not understand a word, we were encouraged to look it up immediately.

      It was all very great stuff, and rich in the quality of togetherness, so important for developing children. That living room was the scene of many other activities. All our homework was done there, our indoor games played on the large table, and here we learned to play table tennis. Dad, not an excellent achiever in the sporting world, used to play on occasions, and with due modesty may I say that in our class, Lin and I both became expert at the game, and for many years were pretty hard to beat.

      It was a room of crowding, wonderful memories. Saturday night was a special. The chip bath heater would do overtime in catering for the weekly baths. The bath was a long one made of tin with a steep slope at one end. This was ideal for terrific slides, and a very soapy messy splash at the end of it. The battered old bath stood a great deal of this treatment for years, until one bath night, Enid was doing a super special slide, and the bath could take no more of it. It burst wide open, with a consequent flooding of the whole area.

      After the baths were over, we would get into our night gear and go quickly to the living room, where a bright fire would be normally burning. It was nearly always cold in Ballarat.

      Mum would have a large pot of superb vegy soup and plenty of hot scones waiting for us. It was the traditional Saturday evening meal, and we looked upon it as a feast.

      We also had many tests of athletic skill in swimming, running and skipping. Enid was the top athlete. She could run like a hare, and swim like an otter. The skipping contests would continue over long periods of time. We reached the total of 900 skips without a miss, and we thought this was unbeatable. Then one day I was lucky enough to increase that total to 1164. It stood as the family record for some time, but then Enid skipped herself into the record books. She recorded a total of 1309 skips. During her long stint with the skipping rope Mum called us for lunch when she was at the 1172 mark, but she wouldn't stop. And so while the others ate their lunch, she and I remained until a very tired body could not quite make the number 1310 skip, then we ate our late lunch, and that record was not broken, and stands to this day.

      It is alleged by certain members of my family, that when we were story telling around the fire, and it was my turn to commence the tale, that I would always start with some events that had occurred on a cricket field somewhere around the world. Then, if I had a second turn, although many other interesting things had come to the surface as the story progressed, I would always bring it back to my favourite sport. The allegation could well be true, because from our first year back in Australia, we became aware of

a young cricketer, one of the greatest ever to grace a cricket oval, Bill Ponsford, who was at that time staggering the sporting world, and had just made a world record of 429 runs, while playing for his home state of Victoria

      This fired our imagination, and cricket became number one with both Lin and me.

      In Ballarat we had the opportunity of seeing the greats from England, also our own heroes. We were there with most of Ballarat to see the greatest team ever to leave England's shores, the mighty 1928 team, do its stuff on the Ballarat oval.

      The next team to arrive was the body line group, under the very arrogant player Douglas Jardine. They were a strong team and were expected to crush the locals very easily. The first English wicket fell early, and Jardine with a lordly sweep on to the ground, ignored a group of autograph hunters, pulled on his gloves adjusted his harlequin cap, took block from the umpire, looked around the field, and signalled that he was ready. The young, slim bowler started his run, and Jardine set out to show this yokel just how good he was. Down came the first ball, fast. Very fast. It took Jardine's middle stump. He was out for a duck. With a sour look he left the crease and was replaced by another player; same result. First ball, and back in the pavilion: and in quick succession the young bowler took two more wickets until he had the amazing figures of 4 wickets for three runs.

      He finished his innings for 4 for 32, and the name Wally Stalker was on everybody's lips, and the papers hailed him as a potential test star. It did not, however, happen that way. Wally Stalker, a fellow Ballarat High School student, having humbled the pride of England's batting in such a spectacular way, was our hero, and the toast of Ballarat sporting circles for a long period.

      The Ballarat trams fascinated us. They were an early type vehicle, cast offs from the Melbourne transport system, and years later the city of Ballarat was to cast them off to the city of Bendigo. We did not ride on them very much, because that cost money. However, we admired them, and they did give us some help occasionally.

      They were not fast movers, and when they stopped at the top of Drummond Street, close to our home, we would hook onto the rail at the back, and when the driver gave the starting clang, we would be ready, steeled for action. As the pace increased, so our legs would start working up and down, like a very busy pair of pistons. Our feet would be hitting the bitumen with constant and urgent thumps in very rapid succession; but let go? It was not in our thinking. We hung on until the driver slowed down at the next stopping place, or until our legs could take no more. It really was great fun, if a little dangerous.

      Ballarat, famed as it is as one of the great gold fields in Australia, had many interesting relics of those far off days, such as wells, holes, and deep mine shafts. A hill, which was originally heavily timbered, was a great source

of the precious metal, and although in our time it was a white clay eminence, it was known, and still is, as Black Hill.

      Here we found much to occupy our spare time, exploring the shafts of the old mine and the old mining gear, was a fascinating dip into the past. Some of the pits were, I believe, very dangerous, but that did not occur to us, and thankfully we escaped any injury.

      In October 1928, Dad was conducting one of his missions at Dawson Street. The meetings were held in the large Sunday School hall, and as usual, when Dad was the speaker, it was filled night after night. On the 13th October, he gave the invitation, and I, with some others, accepted Jesus Christ as Lord of my life, with my own Dad taking my confession. Later during the same mission, Lin, and our mates, Cliff and Lloyd Morris, and Ross Bailey, also chose to become followers of that same Jesus.

      We were all baptised together at the same Sunday morning service. It was a great and memorable occasion. I was thirteen and a half years of age, and my boyish prayer, that I would never hit my sisters again, and that I would learn to control the quick Irish temper I had inherited from my Dad, were both answered, and many others throughout the years have received the same considerate loving treatment.

      To be a very junior member of the King's army, has been to me a great privilege, and I give thanks constantly for the Christian home I was born into, and the Mum and Dad who showed the way, and the Christian wife who has shared fifty years of my life.

      In later years, in Ballarat, Dad baptised Jean, Gwen, and Enid. Still later, he had the joy of baptising Nancy and his two youngest, Keith and Marjorie.

      Soon after this mission was over, we received a visit from a Mr Arthur Fisher, the minister of the Church of Christ at Warrnambool. He was in Ballarat to show a group of lads the famous city. Lin and I were permitted to join the party, and in two days we saw a great deal of our own city. The visits to the Sunshine Sweets and Biscuit factory, and to Chapmans Ham and Sausage making establishments, were highlights. The joy of being driven around in the very latest Chev motor car, the Capitol model, was, to a couple of lads who knew every car and their various models, and could correctly identify them all from quite a distance, was really something.

      Mr Fisher made a suggestion to Dad, he offered a holiday by the seaside. As he was planning to take his family to Adelaide during the summer holidays, he offered the manse at Warrnambool for two weeks in January, 1929. If the offer were accepted, Dad would take the Sunday services at the church.

      The offer was accepted, and early in 1929, we were driven by two of the car owning members at our church to the lovely seaside resort of Warrnambool. The manse was a fair distance from the beautiful beach, and the walk there and back again in the heat, was readily accepted. We enjoyed this, our first family holiday. However, it was a bit tough on Mum and Dad, trying to ensure that the manse was left in the same condition as we found it, and also we all had a stomach upset which caused some problems, and

kept us away from the beach for a couple of days. But, it was a great experience for us, and when the cars called to take us home, we were a bit sorry, but somehow I think Mum was not. A holiday in someone else's home was not her idea of relaxing.

      There was one highlight from the Warrnambool holiday, One sunny day, Dad announced that he had arranged a trip for us. So with eager anticipation, we prepared for this day out. We walked to a large stable, which specialised in hiring out horse drawn vehicles. The attendant brought out a buggy, harnessed an easy going black horse, and did all the necessary things to make it a touring unit. The buggy had two seats, back to back. These would normally accommodate four adults comfortably. When ten people clamoured aboard, the horror on the face of the attendant had to be seen to be believed.

      Mum and Dad were in the front seat, with Keith at their feet, and Marj between them. Jean, Gwen, and Nance, were on the back seat, Lin and I sat on the floor and dangled our legs over the rear of the buggy, and Enid found a very uncomfortable place on th floor under the seats.

      As we left the hiring stables, we observed the unbelieving headshakes of some of the bystanders, also the hope and prayer look on the face of the owner.

      All went well. The scenery was great, the horse slow, but co-operative. Dad with his bowler hat up top, was the driver, and Mum, with a lovely wide picture hat, shared the view with him, and the two little ones, and hoped for the best.

      Later, a large Hupmobile car came up from the rear, and instead of passing us, it slowed almost to a stop. The driver poked his head out of the window, and said, "Are they all yours?". This hit Dad between the eyes, and he yelled back in no uncertain way, "No, they're all yours". A deep blush, and "Oh George", from under the picture hat. Dad tried to explain, but he was very weak and finally gave up and drove grimly on. It was a great family occasion. The overloaded buggy should have been captured by a Box Brownie camera, and kept for posterity.

      The owner heaved a sigh of relief, when we returned his buggy none the worse for its experience.

      By 1929, the family, with for the exception of Marjorie, who was at that time approaching her third birthday, were all at school. Nance and Keith had been enrolled at McArthur Street school, Jean, Gwen, and Enid, had all been promoted to Pleasant Street, and were making the long, but thrilling journey around the lake with me.

      When Nance was a new comer at school, her class learned a song about the fox which tried valiantly to get at some juicy grapes. When finally he saw they were out of his reach, he exclaimed, "Such is not the food for me." Nance, in a sweet little voice, sang this for the family, around the fire one night. But instead of using the word "such", she replaced it with "stratch". Mum, gently told her, "The word is such dear". She stoutly stood by her "stratch" word, and so we, not so gently, backed Mum up, and the more we tried to instruct her, the madder she became. The look on her face, as she surveyed her family, said it all. "What a lot of

ignoramuses I've got to live with". With a horrified look, she removed herself from us, and went to bed.

      She continued to use her own special word, but later it was replaced by "such". Mum heard it, but did not comment. We heard it, and we did comment. Nance's "stratch" word is part of the family folklore.

      Keith's first day at school was a bit traumatic. He was a more gentle soul than some of his brothers and sisters, and when he reported his activities on that first day, he said he was standing in the line and the boy directly behind him punched him in the back. We enquired, "And what did you do to him?'. He replied, "I looked around". He was given a bit of advice from the rest of the family, about what to do next time. However, we feared that he may become, as I was, the butt of bullies. But about two months later, when we heard him advising one of his sisters to "go for your gat you yellow dog", we reckoned he was making the grade pretty well.

      On February 7th, 1930, a great and memorable event took place in Dawson Street. A Mr J. S. Langley of the Rationalist Society of Australia, had been taking part in debates around the country, and mainly because of his clever platform tricks, was able to carry the crowds with him. Dad challenged him to debate the topic, "It is reasonable to believe in God". He readily accepted.

      The church building was packed. Many students from the College of The Bible had made the trip from Melbourne, and there were representatives from other church bodies, local government, business circles, and the various newspapers.

      The atmosphere was electric, when G. T. made his first speech. It was a beautifully prepared, well reasoned statement, and was well received by the crowd. Then it was Mr Langley's turn. He presented little new material, but in a very clever, crowd-winning style, he ridiculed his opponent's arguments, making fun of some very serious, challenging statements.

      It was a consummate act, and when he sat down, a section of the crowd clapped vigorously. Dad had been noting Langley's statement, and writing in a relaxed quiet manner, and none of us were quite ready for his next act.

      During the next few minutes the crowd were treated to some of the greatest oratory many of them were ever likely to hear. Dad's Irish love of a combat had been fired by his opponent's platform trickery. He exposed it completely in his own explosive way, and took absolute control of the debate. Mr Langley thereafter could not find a way back. The crowd, even those who may have been sympathetic to Langley's cause, had to admit that he had been soundly beaten.

      It was reported in the daily press, and all the writers agreed that G. T. Fitzgerald was a formidable debater, and had taken all the honours.

      Mr Langley's career faded very noticeably from this time, and very seldom were his arid statements on God and creation made from public platforms, either in debate or in any other form. A full report, written by Mr T. H. Scambler, is printed in the back of the book.

      In Victoria at that time, a vote on the production and sale of alcoholic beverages was taken every tour years. And this occurred during our time in Ballarat.

      It was a very rugged campaign, and Dad and his kids were right in the thick of it. A Reverend Heathcote, a Church of England minister, was stumping the country on behalf of the liquor interests. He threw out a challenge for anyone on the opposite side to debate the question with him.

      Dad accepted the challenge.

      The debate took place in a city theatre, which was filled to overflowing with interested spectators.

      Mr Heathcote, an older man, and one who appeared to be quite gentle, was however a skilled debater, but he proved no match for the champion of the prohibition cause. Dad took the honours, and no further challenges were issued by the liquor trade.

      In May 1932, Dad went to Melbourne, and conducted a mission with Mr Scambler in his church at Box Hill. He also preached the Conference sermon for the Victorian and Tasmanian Brotherhood. His brilliant oratory was again the subject of favourable comment as he delivered his message in a packed, large city hall in Melbourne.

      On the 15th November, 1930, I was working with a farm labourer, Mr Tom McTighe, on the farm. I had left school, and from Monday to Friday I was batching, cooking, and attending to the farm work, then I would return home by bike, and spend the weekend with the family. On this

particular day I was ill. Tom took me home in the dray, and on arrival at the Cantwell property, he contacted Wilton Chapman, who drove me to Ballarat. Dad was taking the Prayer Meeting. He left, and after seeing me, took me immediately to Dr Sloss, who ordered an urgent appendicitis operation.

      I was operated on that night by a Dr Ridings, and remained at the Base Hospital for three weeks. During this period I was told by Dad, that Mum had also been taken to hospital, a private one in close proximity to the Base Hospital. I asked Dad why she was in hospital. I was given a very vague answer. From the date of her marriage on 6th February, 1913, to the birth of Marjorie on Sth December, 1926, Mum had eight pregnancies. This was to be her ninth, but it ended in a miscarriage, and after about a weeks rest and care, she was allowed to return home.

      We used to write notes to each other from our hospital beds, and her happy letters made my very long stay in hospital, just a little easier.

      After the time in hospital I did not return to the farm, but went back to the Ballarat High School. I remained there during 1931, and finally concluded my school days, and the losing battles with mathematics, at the end of that year.

      Apart from my operation, hospitalisation and sickness, was not a great part of our lives. Colds and minor complaints, stomach aches, for which we were given a dose of castor oil, but little else.

      There were, however, two memorable instances. On the occasion of our first snow storm, when we witnessed with delight the snow covered shingles, we made snowmen, and shied snowballs, and enjoyed the fun, which only snow can provide.

      Jean, however, did not join in. She just wanted to look at the beauty of it all, so she just stood and stared, and soon left us and went inside. Dad was in front of the fire in the living room, studying. She sat by him, warming herself, and remained there quietly for a long period. She then told Dad why she was there, and what had happened.

      While she watched us, her sight started to disappear. This got worse, and so with the little vision she had left, she made her way to the fire and sat down. There she went completely blind, and remained that way for a reasonably long period. Then, gradually, her sight returned. Dad, on hearing her story, examined her eyes. They were alright. She had suffered snow blindness. She was the only one of the eight who ever claimed such a distinction.

      The other illness of note was Gwen's bout of Bells' paralysis. A complaint which is unusual, and not at all pleasant for the victim. But to us, it was funny.

      Half of her face was paralysed, the other half, normal. We would ask her to make certain facial movements; the result was almost grotesque. Especially when she attempted a simple exercise like whistling. This action twisted her face in such a comical way, as so to please us, Gwen did it very often. She was placid about it all, and enjoyed the howls of laughter.

      Fortunately the difficulty cleared up, and Gwen's face was not permanently effected.

      For several years, the girls and I, arranged a Christmas treat for the kids of Baird Street, and other surrounding areas, who had a lot less than we did. They certainly could not have had very much.

      But we believed that we could, and should, help to make their Christmas period just a little happier. By selling bottles, and anything else that people would buy, running messages, and saving every penny we could get our hands on, and by pooling our resources, we used to put together enough money to buy each of the children we had invited, a little present.

      Usually there was some over for sweets, and other Christmas items. Wrapping paper, cards, and other trinkets normally associated with Christmas, we could not afford, so we made them all as best we could.

      We would obtain a pine tree from an area we knew about, where we did not have to pay, erect it in the lounge, decorate it with all our home made things, wrap the parcels, place them under the tree, and for a few days just enjoy the sight and the anticipation.

      When the day arrived, Jean and Gwen would do an excellent job of dressing me as Father Christmas. They had made a long red cotton coat, and when this was put on, belted, with a red cap on my head, and my face given the beard treatment with cotton wool, I really did pass for the old gentleman. Very few of the kids who knew me very well, ever guessed that it was just Doug behind the disguise.

      The little present, and the sweets we handed around so proudly, were really very little, but these kids believed it was a bonanza. We would also feed them on something provided by Mum, topped off by raspberry cordial.

      It was a happy occasion, and when they left, thanking us for their best Christmas ever, we felt pretty good, and almost looked forward to the next year when we would again start to scrimp and scrape, and go without our own lollies, so we could do it all over again.

      So, for six and a half years, our Ballarat experience proceeded on pretty thrilling, and very active lines.

      The picturesque town, we loved. The lake was a very important feature. Our schooling, mainly, we enjoyed. The occasional snow storms were unforgettable. The church at Dawson Street, with all its wonderful activities for young people, was our life, and its members our friends.

      Early in 1933, we heard about the largest Church of Christ in Australasia, a place called Maylands, in South Australia. Their minister, Mr Ernie Allan, was leaving, and the church board was looking for a minister who could undertake this very large work.

      They contacted Dad, and he was giving it favourable consideration.

      Maylands, South Australia, became the main top of conversation. We looked up maps and obtained all the relevant information available. When some time later, Dad told us that he had accepted the call to the Maylands church, we considered we knew quite a bit about the State which was soon to become our home.

      Dad was now forty four years of age. His years in Ballarat had been very difficult, because of the Depression, a large family, his normal church work, farm work, and the many missions he conducted, together with all the other calls which come to very capable people.

      His health was somewhat indifferent; migraines, nervous dyspepsia, and other problems which needed the attention of Dr Sloss, health specialist Dr Meullenbelt, and herbalist George Gear. However, he was not hospitalised, or indeed did he remain in bed for any long period. His life was far too busy to give in to any complaint.

      The years at Dawson Street served to enhance his reputation as an outstanding platform man, teacher, debater, and an outstanding leader in any righteous cause.

      He was also loved as a beautiful pastor and counsellor. Though I often wondered how he would respond if someone asked him Gwen's question, "What do they keep bulls for?", because wonderful Dad though he was, the nearest he could ever get to talking about such things, was to instruct us about the birds and the bees, and the salmon. To utter the word "sex" in his presence, would be to court serious trouble, and yet, I do believe he was a concerned, excellent, counsellor.

      Mum was nearly forty two when the decision was made to leave Ballarat. As usual, she accepted it graciously, and set about gently preparing for the next episode in her life. She had already lived in New Zealand, two states in Australia, and now this move could prove to be a happy one for her, because her parents had left the West, and settled in Torrens Park, a suburb of Adelaide.

      Mum enjoyed good health, did not suffer from the nervous complaints of her husband, and she carried her forty two years extremely well.

      Lin was nineteen. He was tall, well built, and at six feet one and a half inches, he towered above most people. His patience was constant. He was not always amongst the hurly burly of our family, he was wisely educating himself in his wide reading. He had completed the Intermediate exam, and in 1932, had matriculated. He received credits and distinctions in both examinations.

      The Depression in 1933 was very deep. It was impossible to secure employment, and so Lin worked on the farm with me.

      Jean was sixteen. She had completed her years at Pleasant Street school, which included two years of High School work; then in 1932, she was enrolled at the Ballarat Technical School. She had Mum's gentleness and quietness, but these admirable qualities were not alone in her make up. She was the bane of "grab" Taylor's life. She would stand her ground, and refuse to be browbeaten by him, and would flap her eyes at him, and appear to take no notice of his threats. She was also, when the occasion demanded it, an excellent fighter. Not the scratch and pull the hair type, but with a Les Darcy stance, she would punch it out with the best of them. Usually she came out the winner. But she fought only to prove a point, when some principle she held was being challenged.

      Jean had a very good alto voice, and used it to good effect whenever required in connection with church work.

      Gwen was now fourteen. She had completed the Pleasant Street High School work in 1932. She then joined Jean at the Ballarat Technical School, in 1933. She was a very bright, interesting teenager, with a delicious sense of humour. She was very dedicated to her friends, was keen on her church activities, particularly the special work with the junior Christian Endeavour. Gwen was also a singer, with a very good soprano voice. She and Jean sang duets together, and their efforts were always very acceptable, and praised by their audiences.

      Gwen also had excellent acting ability. In one of the best cantatas produced during our Ballarat years, she sang one of the soprano parts, and received "rave" notices.

      Enid had just turned six when we arrived in Ballarat in 1926, and now she was thirteen. She was the queen of the Fitzgerald athletic contests. The fleetness of foot, and other movements were matched by a bright mind, and also an ability with language. Her sharp repartee in debate was a very admirable quality. She was always the one, who by devious methods, always saw to it that when one of the family was sent to bed without the evening meal, that they did not go completely hungry. And at birthday time, Enid would always be depended upon to produce a gift. Her pennies would be saved, and put aside to honour a brother or sister entering a new year of experience.

      In 1933 Enid was in the first year of her high school work at Pleasant Street.

      In May 1933, when the decision to leave Ballarat was made, Nancy turned eleven, and was still at Pleasant Street Primary school. Nance was an intelligent, bright, talented lass, and her tremendous creative abilities which she developed later in life, were already evident.

      She was able to create, plan, stitch things together, and produce finished articles a lot earlier than most of her family. She also gave promise that one day, when she was a homemaker, that home of hers would be run on excellent lines, and would be as pretty as a picture.

      Some of her family gave her the courtesy title of "ubiquitous Nance", she had the amazing capacity to be everywhere, and always in the right places at the right time.

      Keith, our 1924 New Zealand baby, was now nine. In 1933 he was doing his fifth grade work at Pleasant Street, and Marjorie was in her seventh year, and in grade two at the same school. They were bright, beaut youngsters, very family minded, and provided quite a contrast in personalities.

      Keith was the thoughtful, patient type, not quite as boisterous as some other members of his family. Marj was always bubbling. The words which she tried to form as a tiny baby, were there now, and she really kept us alive. They a lot of their growing up together, and they identified with each other extremely well.

      In a family of two distinct tiers; the first with four older members, the second with another four. Of this second tier, Keith and Marj were

the last. Perhaps there were times when they wished that they were up among the big ones, and felt a little bit excluded. However, this in a large family is unavoidable. But we enjoyed having them, and certainly could not have done without them. They both looked forward, with us, to the move interstate.

      I finally left my school days behind in 1931. During 1932 I worked on the farm, took my first paid full time job, at the Eureka tile factory, and later ran a very unsuccessful venture in a nursery and a milk round.

      In 1933 I was back on the farm. When I was operated on for appendicitis in 1930, I was known as, and frequently called within the family, "the squib". I was just over five feet in height. Two years later I had grown quite a bit, and measured six feet and half an inch. Lin still topped me by an inch or so, but I was surprisingly, and quite unexpectedly, a six footer, and I was happy about that.

      The decision to leave Ballarat called for a certain amount of planning. The farm work was still demanding, and could not be completed until September. So it was decided that the family would leave by the Adelaide Express on Wednesday, August 20th, just over seven years after our arrival. Lin and I would remain to complete the necessary farm work, and join the family in Maylands on September 2nd

      The farewell services in Dawson Street were a great tribute to Dad and Mum. The Ballarat Courier reported on these, and commented favourably on the departing minister and his work and influence.

      The church met at the Ballarat station to wave the family goodbye. One of the members was deputed to speak from the platform, and a lady member given the pleasant task of presenting Mum with a sheaf of flowers.

      The train was due to leave at 6.30 p.m. At 6.27 p.m. there was no sign of the minister or his family. At 6.29 p.m. on the dot, they trooped on to the platform. The guard was ready to give the starting signal. They piled in quickly, the speechmaker put his prepared speech in his pocket, and the flower lady hurled the lovely Ballarat flowers through the open window. Miraculously, but typically, they had just made it.

      The Ballarat years were over, Adelaide, Maylands, and South Australia, were directly ahead.

      We became citizens of lovely Adelaide in the spring of 1933. Our new home was at 6 Nora Street, Maylands, a few doors away from the Church building, which stood on the corner of Nora Street, and Wellington Road, which was a main arterial road in the eastern suburbs.

      The chapel was an imposing red brick structure, quite large, and reasonably new, having commenced its service only six years prior to our arrival.

      The home was a brick and freestone building, well built, with sufficient room for a small family. But for a family of ten, it was cramped. Lin and I slept in a converted garage, and the others fitted in, but it was a pinch. And so, one of Dad's earliest tasks was to look for a larger home for his family.

      Our near neighbours were church members; on one side the Stacey family. Mr Fred Stacey was at that time the Federal member for the seat of

Adelaide. Dad's first wedding at Maylands, was the marriage of a daughter of this home, Marjorie, to a Mr Laurie Elliott, son of a wealthy Adelaide businessman. And on the other side, the Daw family, who ran a fish market in the city. Nancy, the daughter of this home, was later to marry a minister of our churches, and spend her life as a very fine and effective lady of the manse.

      Some very early visitors to Nora Street were Pastor and Mrs Wilkie Thomson. Their appearance was of great interest to us, as Mrs Thomson was one of Mum's younger sisters, Annie. The Wilkie Thomsons were ministering at Maylands, Western Australia, and were on route to Hobart, to attend the Federal Conference of our churches. They were to travel from Melbourne to Launceston by the Bass Strait ferry, the Narrana. Auntie Annie indicated that she would be sharing her cabin with one of the female delegates from a South Australian church. She was unaware of the lady's name, or which church she attended. As it turned out, her travelling companion was one of our Maylands church girls; Phylis Lyle by name.

      Phyl Lyle was, and still is, an interesting girl. She was a great grand daughter of Mr T S Lyle, one of the pioneers of our churches in Victoria, and also in South Australia, and the daughter of Mr and Mrs William C. Lyle, a much loved and well respected couple in Maylands. Mr Lyle was a member of the very fine and dedicated church board, who were in office at the time Dad took over as minister.

      Phyl was a church organist, a Sunday School teacher, also a teacher of music, and an excellent left handed tennis player, playing at that time as first lady for a team entered in

the Adelaide and suburban competitions. The grade of tennis was reasonably high, and she was up among the leaders. Phyl was an interesting girl alright! But five years my senior, with plenty of associates in her own age group.

      The overnight trip on the small and ageing Narrana, was quite horrific, with most passengers suffering sea sickness. Phyl's cabin mate was one of these, and being an excellent sailor herself, Phyl spent a very disturbed and sleepless night attending to our Auntie Annie, and trying to make her comfortable.

      When the storm of the night was over, and the journey through the quiet waters of the river had restored the sick ones, Phyl's travelling mate, introduced her to a very special brother, Keith Jones.

      Our stay in Nora Street was for a few months only. Dad's search for a larger home was very successful, and ended at 146 Wellington Road, Payneham. The house of his choice was made for our family.

      It was a large stone and brick building, with eight commodious rooms, verandahs around most of the outside walls, a large cellar, ample outbuildings, and everywhere room to move. It was an ideal manse for a family of ten.

      The grounds were, by suburban standards huge. The house block itself was much larger than the normal size, and in addition, there was a paddock with plenty of space to keep a cow and grow a large vegetable garden.

      There was also a tennis court. Its surface was solid, tamped earth; but quite good enough for the many family contests which took place there throughout the happy years we spent in this most attractive family home.

      The Maylands Church of Christ, in the year 1933, had a very special place in our brotherhood. It was the largest of them all, either in Australia or New Zealand. Big was the operative word at this church. A senior Christian Endeavour Society with an average weekly attendance of 70; Intermediate and Junior groups of C. E. also drawing large numbers every week; a Sunday School of 450, including staff, (the largest in the South Australian brotherhood); an extremely active mutual improvement Society; an adult Bible Class, attracting between 20 and 30, meeting on a Sunday afternoon; a well attended mid week prayer and Bible study meeting; very active women's work; sporting groups playing mainly tennis and basketball, and entering teams in the Churches of Christ competitions.

      Maylands Church of Christ was certainly big in every way, and it needed a man big in organising ability, an able preacher, an excellent pastor, and one who could ride a bike scores of miles every week, and keep on doing it year after year.

      They certainly found just the right man in G. T. He was the fourth minister to be appointed to undertake the Maylands work, and he proved to be, in those difficult depression years, a near perfect choice.

      Employment in South Australia in 1933, was at one of its lowest points, and both Lin and I presented ourselves to many prospective

employers, to be told, almost invariably, that we were too old. Lin made an application to the Education Department to enter their training college, with a view to becoming a teacher. There were no vacancies, and he received very little encouragement; but that application proved to be very important later.

      For a period Lin tried to sell Electrolux vacuum cleaners to the housewives of Adelaide, most of whom were scarcely able to afford a broom; and so he decided to leave this almost impossible task to other salesmen, and took a job with a Mr Hale, who ran a small furniture shop in Adelaide. When bankruptcy forced the closing of this undertaking, he worked for a period in a market garden owned by a Mr Collins, one of our church members, who in conjunction with the market garden, operated a greengrocers round, which he later offered to Lin. The offer was accepted. Lin bought a Superior K Chevrolet, 1926 model, and sold vegetables and fruit to the ladies on his round. He continued in this for some time, but it was mainly work for very little return, so the Chev was sold, and again he offered his services to those who hired labour, and was successful in obtaining employment with John Martins Emporium, one of the largest stores in the main shopping area in Rundle Street in the city of Adelaide.

      Lin's good business ability was quickly noted by his superiors, and in the three years he worked with this firm, he rose from the normal counter work, given to all new comers, to charge hand in the tailoring department.

      In 1938 the Education Department decided to run a twelve months training course for teachers, and when Lin applied to enter this course, he

was told that there were sufficient applications, and as his was on the end of the queue, he could not be considered. Lin protested, and said that his application was made five years previously in 1933. This was doubted; but when the records were checked, this was indeed found to be the case, and he was accepted.

      After the twelve months course he was posted to a small one teacher school at Sandilands, in the Ardrossan area, on the Yorke Peninsula. It was a humble beginning for his very fine career in Education circles in South Australia.

      When the Churches of Christ were first established in South Australia, there were two groups; one meeting in Adelaide, led by Thomas Magarey, and the other in Willunga, led by the Lawrie family. The early historians of our movement in South Australia believed that the Adelaide church was the first, and this is the generally accepted position. Later historians, however, are convinced that the Willunga people were our real pioneers.

      The name Brooker, has become a very well known one in South Australia. A co-founder of the East End market was a Mr T. H. Brooker, who was also a member of parliament at the time when politicians received no remuneration at all.

      Within the church membership at Maylands, we had a Mr and Mrs Alick Lawrie. Mr Lawrie was a descendant of the Willunga Lawrie family, and his wife was a daughter of Mr T. H. Brooker. They had two daughters, Barbara and Shirley. Soon after our arrival in Maylands, Barbara became Lin's steady girlfriend, and in December 1939, they married, and in the following years had a family of four; one son, and three daughters.

      Lin was a good racquet handler, and played in the A tennis team for the Maylands church.

      In October 1933, Mr Laurie Elliott, whose father manufactured, among many other things, the very popular Super Elliott cycles, offered me a job in their city warehouse. This was accepted, and I earned, for a very full and busy weeks work, ten shillings. After working there for two years, I was earning the princely sum of twenty two shillings per week. I left in October 1935, and worked on various jobs, mainly in the city store of John Martins on sale days and Wednesdays, and I spent the busy Christmas period of 1935 there, in the Santa Claus Department with the kids.

      A period of unemployment followed the Christmas of 1935, and in February 1936, I was offered two jobs. One with the Myer Emporium, and the other with the South Australian Railways Department. I chose the latter, and entered the service on 25th February, 1936.

      My introduction to Railway operation was as a car cleaner, which duty I very happily embraced. The car cleaning tasks were to make way for some better appointments in the 39 years which followed.

      The first marriage in Clara and George's family, took place on June 12th, 1937. I was the bridegroom, and my lovely bride was the interesting tennis playing, church organist, Phyl Lyle, who had accompanied Annie Thomson on her voyage to Tasmania in 1933.

      We had a family of three. Two sons, and one daughter. Our second son was lost to us as a result of a tragic accident in 1945.

      I was an enthusiastic tennis player, and represented the church in the B team, and during the winter months, I played baseball for the Kensington C team.

      Jean's working life actually commenced in 1933, a few months prior to our departure from Ballarat. Her first employers were two dress making experts: Edie Hitchcock, and Maisie Strange. They were great teachers, bosses, and excellent friends. Their parting gift to Jean were an complete outfit, her going away clothes for the Adelaide trip.

      In Adelaide she worked for a miserable few months, for a Miss Nan Hudd, also a dress maker. She disliked the set up, and although Dad believed dress making was a nice occupation for a young girl, she left as soon as possible, and commenced work in the Soda fountain at John Martins, and later, was promoted to the wool Department. Her service was terminated after an argument with a director of the firm, over some customer complaint. She discovered that in his eyes, the customer, no matter how rude or arrogant, was always right. I was not present when she was told that her services were no longer required, but I can picture the scene extremely well. Her face would have been completely drained of colour, she would take the blow quietly and with dignity, but because she believed she had done what was right, be completely unrepentant.

      The next day she obtained employment in a jeweller's shop in an arcade. Dad thought this was not suitable, so he got a job for her in Myers Emporium, where she remained for two years. Later she worked as a rug making demonstrator,

and also in a specialised field of producing gift cards, which required designing and painting skills, both of these she was able to provide.

      The general manager in the dominion of New Zealand, for Kiwi Australia Ltd., was a young Melbourne man, Mr Bill Thompson. Bill had previously been with the Gardiner church in Victoria, and when he met Jean he fell for her undoubted charms; after a courtship lasting two years, they married in February 1941; they had a family of five. Three daughters, and two sons.

      Jean played basketball for our churches for a number of years, specialising in the attack wing position, and also played social tennis.

      When the family arrived in South Australia Gwen was enrolled at the Norwood High School. She was a student there for the remainder of 1933, and also to the end of the school year in 1934. Her first job after leaving school, was at John Martins, in the book department. Later she worked in the mail order and credit departments; then for ten years was a member of the staff of the New Zealand Insurance Company.

      In 1949 Gwen enrolled at the Adelaide University to study Social Science. She received her diploma at the conclusion of 1951, and the next year she received an appointment with the Commonwealth Department of Immigration. Gwen represented the church in basketball, and as a high school lass played the vigorous game of hockey.

      Enid's introduction to the South Australian school system was not a particularly happy feature of her learning years. She was placed in grade seven at the Wellington Road school, and had to remain there for the final months of 1933 before going to the Norwood High School. Her scholastic attainments to that time, would have indicated that she should have been enrolled at the High School immediately.

      She was at Norwood for two years, then attended Business College for one year; then obtained employment with Colton Palmer and Prestons large city warehouse, and later worked at Charles Moores city emporium.

      In 1936 Enid attended a C. E. camp at Mount Barker. In every way she was athletic, and one of her specialties was tree climbing, which she did with an agility which could suggest that somewhere, way back, her forebears could have indeed been monkeys. She was climbing high in the highest tree in the area one day, when she was spotted by a young chap, Gordon Forbes. He watched with fascination as she nimbly jumped from branch to branch, and when finally the descent had been successfully accomplished, she landed lightly and safely on terra firma, did a couple of quick cart wheels, then with a very easy running action headed for the girls quarters.

      Gordon decided he must meet this lass. He engineered it, and he was the first suitor of any of the girls to come to our home.

      Gordon was a Mosley Street Methodist boy, from Glenelg, interested in C. E. and youth work, and a good cricketer. He used his playing skills while representing church teams for many years. He had

aspirations of becoming a Methodist minister, but when doors did not open, he remained with his chosen occupation in the world of things electrical. Enid and Gordon married in March 1942. They subsequently had a family of six; five sons, and one daughter.

      Enid was a natural ball handler, and played basketball for the church, and also social tennis.

      The Wellington Road school was the scene of Nancy's introduction to classroom teaching, South Australian style. She was one of its students for two years and four months, then followed one year at the Norwood High School.

      When she left school days behind her, she took a job in the mail order department at Cravens Store in Adelaide; then followed a period at Business College; then an appointment at the Presbyterian church office; and later more training in shorthand and typing at the Adelaide School of Mines. Later, as a member of the South Australian work force, she had two other appointments; one as a demonstrator of Potter and Moores products, at another large city store, Miller Andersons, and also secretarial work with Cooks Ltd., a firm of home builders.

      The Argent Street Methodist church, which was reasonably close to Maylands, had in 1938, a young church organist, Ron Pitkin, by name, who decided to relinquish his playing duties with his home church, and transfer to our church. He was followed soon after by his mother and father, and later by a young Aunt, who at that time was contemplating marriage. She was a member of the Roman Catholic church, and her fiancé, an nominal Protestant.

      Problems had arisen, and Dad had been able to counsel her, and still later, another Aunt of Ron's also joined us.

      The presence of the older members of this family was noted, and we were happy to welcome them. But apart from that it caused few ripples of interest, particularly amongst the teenage population of the church. But Ron's presence did cause big ripples. Especially among the fair sex. He was good looking, a good musician, and very appealing to the young lasses, and there was a deal of friendly rivalry among them.

      Quite understandably, Ron Pitkin hung his hat up to our Nance, and she was quite happy to see that it remained in that position. Nance and Ron were married in October 1943, and have three children; two daughters, and one son. Nance played hockey at school, tennis for the church, and in 1935 she was chosen as a member of the squad to provide players for the primary schools to compete in interstate basketball. She missed final selection because she failed to meet the height required.

      In 1933, Keith was nine. He joined the grade three children at the Wellington Road school, and remained at this house of learning for four and a half years, then after one year at Norwood High, commenced work with a motor firm. Later, he was for a short period, with Philmacs Engineering, followed by employment with another firm doing the same class of work, Millers Engineering Company, then two years service in the radio department at A G Healings Ltd. This was followed by an apprenticeship of four years with Newton And McLaren Ltd., and then he worked

as an electrician with two other South Australian firms, and also with the State Electricity Commission in Victoria.

      On his return to Adelaide he was trained by the P.M.G. Department as a technician, and spent twelve years in that role, during which period he studied for, and obtained, a Diploma of Social Science, and the next twenty years he was involved in social work in the city of Adelaide; then commenced his own business as a Handyman Builder in the Adelaide Hills. In 1948 Keith attended a Youth camp at the lovely town of Tanunda in the Barossa Valley. There he met a nursing sister, Pat Kleicke, who was small in stature, but very big in good looks, and quite a delightful person.

      After a period of interesting friendship, a romance blossomed, and they were married in April 1950, and their family was one daughter, and four sons.

      Keith learned the game of tennis on our court in the home at Payneham, and later he became an effective racquet handler.

      Marjorie was in her seventh year when we arrived in Adelaide. She was enrolled at the Wellington Road school, with Enid, Nance, and Keith, and continued with this primary school education for the next five and a half years.

      Then followed two years at High School; one term at the Thebarton Central School, and one year at Business College. When Marj hung up her school bag for the last time, she gained employment with The Guardian Insurance Company. Later she changed from clerical work to a Telephonist Receptionist appointment with Rasch Motors.

      She left the work force temporarily to remain at home to assist Mum. When her help was no longer required on the home front, she gained a position with Motor Traders, and later resigned to take up clerical work with the Engineering firm of Forwood Downs.

      Marj was a basketballer, and a tennis player.

      One of Dad's ministerial colleagues was a Mr Wilf Nankivell. He had trained for the ministry in America, and also had worked among the churches there. He and his wife had a family of three, all sons. The eldest, Joseph Frank, was born in America in 1925. By the year 1944, Frank was a tall, good looking lad of nineteen summers, and was a student at the Adelaide University doing a Science degree.

      In connection with some church activity, he met, and fell in love with, our Marj. Sincere friendship was followed by romance, engagement, and marriage, which occurred in December 1948. Marj and Frank had six children; five daughters, and one son. Their eldest, Elizabeth, died as a result of an accident.

      During the month of February 1938, there were two special family highlights.

      On the sixth February, Mum and Dad celebrated their Silver anniversary. It was a great family occasion. The church invited them to a twenty fifth wedding breakfast, and presented them with a case of cutlery, and said many fine things about them.

      The second event which occurred a three weeks later, brought this comment from Mum, when she was speaking to me, "This dear, is the greatest thrill of my life."

      She was holding her first grandchild, John Lyle, who had been born in the Rowan Hospital in Maylands that day. The parents, my wife Phyllis, and I, were no less elated. John was to be the first of thirty five grandchildren. Thirty three of whom lived to maturity, and two little ones who did not, were lost to us through tragic accidents. Our Robert Lyle, and Marj and Frank's, Elizabeth.

      In August 1938, five years after the commencement date of the Maylands ministry, Dad received an invitation to return to New Zealand to minister with the Ponsonby Road church in Auckland, as their resident minister, Mr E. L. Williams, was leaving to take up an appointment as lecturer in the College of The Bible, in Glen Iris, Victoria.

      Dad accepted the call. Mum was not keen, and the decision met with a mixed reception among the six members whom it would effect. Lin and I were to remain in South Australia, as I had a government position, a wife and son; Lin was teaching, and preparing to marry in 1939.

      There was a great deal of disappointment among the board members and the church folk at Maylands, when the decision was announced. Many believed that Maylands was to lose its best minister, and they expressed their feelings very strongly.

      Dad brought his five and a half years of ministry to a fine climax, when he preached his last sermon to a very large and appreciative audience, on the last Sunday in February, 1939.

      The highlights of Dad's five and a half years of ministry in Maylands, were numerous. Strong leadership, in his own church and the wider brotherhood, gave to the letters "G. T." some sort of magical quality. His appearance on the floor of conference was a signal for every seat to be filled; the delegates knew that what would then follow should not be missed.

      His commitment to world peace, his deep involvement in his fight against social evils, his Irish wit, his brilliant oratory, made him an outstanding contributor to any debate. Those who opposed him admired his debating skills, and his integrity, and found him to be a formidable opponent, but a gracious one.

      The Christian Endeavour movement was, in the 30's, a very strong and vital influence in training young people for service in their churches and Christian life. Strong leadership was required to guide these activities. Dad became the very innovative and fine president of the C. E. in South Australia. His influence among young Christians was one which gave positive direction years later. Many great leaders of all denominations would point to the days when they were guided, enthused, and occasionally prodded by G. T.

      In 1916 the South Australian electors indicated by a large majority, in a referendum, their preference for hotels to be firmly closed at 6.00 p.m. This very satisfactory arrangement continued for the next twenty years, then the brewing interests and their various lobbies started campaigning for a return to a later closing time, the most preferred one being 10.00 p.m.

      The forces of righteousness swung into action, and opposed the proposed changes. Churches everywhere, backed by organisations such as social workers groups, house wives associations, and many others mounted a major campaign; but it was disjointed and in need of a central leader. Almost with one voice they voted that the strongest personality, the best known person, the man with conviction, character and integrity, and one who had the speaking and organising ability to carry their programme through to a successful conclusion, was G. T. Fitzgerald; and so for the ensuing months, the organisation of this huge push against this drug which because of its effect on corporate living, on marriage, on the ever present problems of murder, carnage on the roads, wife bashing, abuse and neglect of children, as the most lethal of them all, was in his hands. The support received from other church leaders was magnificent.

      Under Dad's leadership interested young people were organised. They marched in large numbers through the city, and in one of the greatest protest marches seen in the streets of Adelaide. Dad was the very prominent, 'out-front' leader of this march, and the thousands who were behind him followed very enthusiastically, and their message started to seep into the minds of the politicians who were soon to cast their vote on this matter.

      Dad spoke at huge rallies; he debated, and he lobbied right there in Parliament House. The final result was that the infamous Bill was defeated. Dad was hailed by the forces of righteousness in South Australia, and beyond, as a brilliant leader and organiser, and one who could be depended upon to carry the fight right to the enemy's door and come through a clear winner.

      It was a great victory for wives, children, and concerned people everywhere. They acknowledged their indebtedness to the one who had led them so successfully in opposing the entrenched forces of the liquor traffic.

      Dad could not be accurately described as the father of camping in our churches in South Australia, because prior to 1933, a timid start had been made in this direction. But he did give this important feature of church life a new dimension, and his Tanunda and Gawler camps became important events in the lives of many young Christians. G. T.'s strong leadership, powerful, challenging teaching, and his ability to get alongside young people, made these fixtures a must for many youngsters, who at the time of writing this, fifty years later, are in many cases leaders, elders, workers, and also ministers in our South Australian and wider brotherhood.

      G. T. set the pattern for camping in our churches, and although it cannot be claimed that he was the initiator, he was the innovator who built a fine structure on very small foundations.

      If it be true that in 1939 our churches in South Australia were very conservative in their approach to many vital issues, and also that our churches were insular and somewhat removed from the mainstream of life where common man lives, marries, has a family, faces his problems, scores a victory or is defeated and finally dies, then it is also true that as I write these words in 1986, there have been vast changes during the last fifty three years; and in place of the old, there is a concerned brotherhood, more alert to the needs of its fellowman, and more willing to identify with his struggles, and less eager to run for cover when big issues have to be faced.

      Many wonderful people have played their part in these changes. One of those was G. T.; perhaps the most important of them all, particularly in the early stages. He jolted people out of their complacency, taught them to lift their horizons, made them face up to problems which they previously believed were none of the church's business, encouraged them to study their priorities carefully and get them straight; he taught them that war is contrary to the mind and spirit of their Lord, and he led the way in showing the churches how they could really serve their fellowmen.

      The years from 1933 to 1939 were tremendous ones in the life of G. T. and the South Australian brotherhood was never quite the same after he had passed this way.

      The overseas terminal for the city of Adelaide is at Outer Harbour, and Saturday 5th March, 1939, there were large crowds at the wharves to wave their final goodbyes to a beloved minister,

his wife, and their family. Most of our friends went aboard the "Orion", and sought out each member of the family to say a king word of farewell. But several people made the comment that Jean was not present. Later however, Mum and Dad were re-assured by three of these well-wishers, when they said they had seen Jean and had spoken to her. They were mistaken. It was Enid they had seen. At that time Jean and Enid were so much alike that some people believed them to be twins.

      When those not travelling had been put ashore, the gangplank was removed and just as it landed back on the wharf a taxi pulled up, and Jean appeared with her case and a large sheaf of flowers. Dad appeared ready to jump. As he yelled at Jean for her lateness he nearly lost his false teeth, but saved them from a very salty grave, but just. He was clearly

      Overwrought, and scarcely able to handle himself.

      Mum quietened him down as the Orion pulled slowly away. On shore a Mr Frank Glover, and I, went in search for some kind of help, and were told that a pilot boat would be taking late mail and other items to the ship. We requested that Jean be permitted to go on the pilot boat and catch her ship. This was agreed to. So the last we saw of her was as she quite nonchalantly climbed the rope ladder from the pilot boat to the lower deck of the "Orion".

      Jean was 21 years of age. She had expressed her opposition to the New Zealand move, and said on one occasion that she was not going to make the trip, and the reason for Dad's display was that he believed it to be a little show of last minute rebellion; but it was not the case at all. Jean had spent the previous night with a girlfriend's family. At the appointed time the

father of this home drove his late model car from their suburban home onto the main route to Outer Harbour. He had proceeded several miles, when his car broke down. A taxi was called to complete the journey, which could still have been made quite comfortably in time to catch the ship. The taxi man assured them that all would be well but had scarcely finished saying it, when his car also broke down. A second taxi was called, and time now was running out. He tried hard, ignored speed limits, and lost the race by just about 20 seconds.

      I was not present on the "Orion" as it headed towards its first port of call, Burnie, in Tasmania, but I have been reliably informed that Dad was finally placated, and accepted, with good grace, Jean's very hard luck, but true, story.

      Six months after the commencement of the Ponsonby Road ministry, war was declared, and Dad's World War One involvement with the War Resister and Pacifist Movements was repeated. He again suffered for his beliefs, and some of those who claimed to be servants of Jesus Christ, made his life very tense, and I believe at times, unhappy.

      There were many good things achieved in the two years he led this church; but his constant refusal to allow his ministry to be used as a recruiting agency for the army, caused some difficulty, and when he left, he had earned the love and admiration of the great majority of his church members, but from a small, vocal section, criticism.

      Dad became part of the motoring world in 1940, when ne bought a 1935 Ford V8. He was 51, and had never driven before; but he was passed by his examiners, and was able to drive through, and see, a great deal of the picturesque North Island of New Zealand before returning to South Australia.

      Dad owned three other cars, and a truck. He was not fully able to cope with the demands of an internal combustion engine, and was really a very poor motorist. The grandchildren still remember Grandpa driving his car up the Mount Lofty ranges, from Adelaide to Blackwood. It was unthinkable for him to change gears. Instead he would rock his body backwards and forwards, as he sat in the driver's seat, believing that this extra pressure would push his car along, and obviate the need for a gear change.

      To travel with Dad in his car on an interstate trip was not always a pleasant experience, because his constant talk was all about the car and how it was running. It appeared that he believed that it was some sort of a monster waiting to play some sort of a dirty trick, or blow up at any minute. He did, however, drive for 25 years, and although he was responsible for a couple of quite spectacular accidents, he was not accident prone, and I believe that in his own way, he received a lot of satisfaction and enjoyment from his driving experiences.

      The family returned to South Australia in 1941. Dad had been invited to work with the Mile End church, and early in that year the move was made and the family settled in the manse, which had unwisely been located right next to the church.

      His ministry at Mile End was made difficult because soon after his return, people with pacifist convictions were on his doorstep seeking advice, counselling, and support in their court appearances. These he gladly gave, and quickly became, as he had been in New Zealand, a recognised leader of the Pacifist movement.

      The church membership was divided in its support for his strongly held views, and one member, who had the name of an elder but the heart of something very different, led this small but dissident vocal group; consequently it was not one of Dad's happiest ministries.

      During these war years he was a witness in the courts on many occasions, and a fine magistrate, Mr Skipper, who handled a great number of applications for persons to be accepted as conscientious objectors, made a statement in his court; it was significant, and was picked up by the media, and appeared in the local newspapers. He said this,

      "Whenever an applicant appearing before me is supported by the Reverend G. T. Fitzgerald, I am assured of the integrity of that man, and satisfied that his application is genuine."

      Few men ever receive such an accolade of trust.

      During the war period, the five adult males in our family in South Australia, were all ordered to take the oath of allegiance, and be prepared to take up arms, if and when required. We all refused to obey, and each one in turn, brothers-in-law, Gordon Forbes, Ron Pitkin, Lin, Keith and I, were in court, and had to prove the genuineness of our claim to be registered as conscientious objectors. In each case we were successful.

      In 1943 Dad was 54 years of age, when he made a decision to leave the full time ministry and go back to another love of his; the land. He obtained a small holding in the market garden area in the beautiful Piccadilly Valley in the Adelaide Hills, and commenced work as a market gardener, also as the part time minister to the Stirling and Aldgate churches.

      The work of producing fine vegetables, preparing them for sale, transporting them to Adelaide, and setting up a sales area in the East End Market, was very heavy and demanding. It soon took its toll of Dad, who was a natural with vegetable production on a small scale. This, however, was very different. It was a job which called for constant hill climbing, many hours of watering, weeding, and in other ways attending to the needs of the developing plants, and when the produce was ready for sale the harvesting, washing, bunching, and loading, added up to a very busy, tiring, and sometimes frustrating occupation.

      The vehicle Dad drove to market was a heavy Bedford truck, and driving through the Adelaide Hills, very often in fog, handling the winding roads, sometimes in heavy traffic, parking his vehicle amongst the seasoned market gardeners, who knew all the tricks of their trade, returning home through the same hills, was for someone who always found it hard to come to terms with the motoring age, no mean effort. But Dad did this on a regular basis, and he did it very well.

      The whole impact of this new and demanding undertaking, placed some strains on his family life, and I believe it was not the happiest period in their lives together. However, nothing could disturb Clara and George's happiness for long and later a decision was made to leave the market garden, and buy a small property in Bridgewater. This was a farmlet, and although Dad still worked hard, and Mum worried a great deal about him, it was far less demanding than the Piccadilly project.

      Dad continued with his church work, and between 1943 and 1946 he was involved with Stirling-Aldgate, and also served as State Evangelist for a period.

      Between 1946 and 1950 he was in charge of the Edwardstown, Colonel Light, and Blackwood circuit. The Blackwood church had first opened its doors in 1916. The ensuing years had been very lean ones, and G. T. was a shot in the arm for this group who had struggled for so long, and seen such little result.

      Dad was to have a great influence on Blackwood, and instead of it being a tiny cause, it was to develop into one of the larger churches in Australia.

      In 1949 Dad received an invitation to minister with the Melbourne suburban church of Box Hill. The invitation was accepted, and the move to Victoria was made early in 1950. The home and farm at Bridgewater were let to tenants, and when in 1952 the Box Hill ministry had concluded, Mum and Dad returned to their home in the hills.

      Dad was now sixty three. He was still climbing hills, and attending to the work of his few acres, and still working too hard. Mum longed for a home of her own, away from the daily grind that Dad was putting himself through. And so a search for a home nearer to Adelaide, but somewhere in the lovely hills country was commenced.

      Their search took them to Blackwood, and a delightful home with large grounds was found in Glen Avenue, Hawthorndene. For Mum it was a dream home, and she believed it to be just too good for her. When Dad heard this, he wavered no longer, and settled for Glen Avenue.

      The Bridgewater property was sold, and the move made to Hawthorndene in 1953. Mum and Dad were to share thirteen wonderful years in this home, and it also became a meeting place for the family. The grandchildren loved it. There was plenty of room to play, and their beloved Gran and Grandpa, not so busy now, were able to spend time with them.

      It was not an uncommon sight for Dad to be working in his garden with two or three of the children following him closely, and hanging on to every word, as he weaved a wonderful story for them, in the same way as he used to for his own children.

      By April 1950, seven marriages had taken place. Our very attractive Gwenyth Joy, was still unmarried. There was a definite reason. On Tuesday 6th July, 1944, when a large ship, the Tokyo Maru, was making a slow journey through the South China sea, on its way from Burma to Japan, it was spotted by an American destroyer, and torpedoed. On board the Tokyo Maru were prisoners of war who had worked on the Burma railway, under unbelievably harsh conditions, and who had assisted in the construction of the new railway, and miraculously had come through alive.

      Disease, and the brutality which war always releases in otherwise good men, had failed to end their lives. Now the Japanese government was transporting them for further duty in Japan.

      When the torpedo hit, many of these unhappy men were killed instantly, or drowned. But there were many survivors. They were able to cling to life by using bits of wreckage as rafts. Because of their years of poor rations, extremely hard labour under inhospitable jungle conditions, most of these men who clung to their bits of floating timber, were weak, and their bodies so thin and emaciated, that even the effort of holding on placed terrible demands on their weakened muscles. Very often one would drop into the sea. Among the survivors was a South Australian man who was a very strong swimmer, and when ever he saw one of his mates in difficulty, he would leave his raft, swim over to him, and lift him back onto his bit of wreckage.

      This happened many times during the first three days, and when early on the fourth day, this man dropped from his raft, and was soon lost to sight, the South China Sea had claimed its last victim from the Tokyo Maru, because two hours later the survivors were picked up by a passing ship.

      Maru were prisoners of war who had worked on the Burma railway, under unbelievably harsh conditions, and who had assisted in the construction of the new railway, and miraculously had come through alive.

      Disease, and the brutality which war always releases in otherwise good men, had failed to end their lives. Now the Japanese government was transporting them for further duty in Japan.

      When the torpedo hit, many of these unhappy men were killed instantly, or drowned. But there were many survivors. They were able to cling to life by using bits of wreckage as rafts. Because of their years of poor rations, extremely hard labour under inhospitable jungle conditions, most of these men who clung to their bits of floating timber, were weak, and their bodies so thin and emaciated, that even the effort of holding on placed terrible demands on their weakened muscles. Very often one would drop into the sea. Among the survivors was a South Australian man who was a very strong swimmer, and whenever he saw one of his mates in difficulty, he would leave his raft, swim over to him, and lift him back onto his bit of wreckage.

      This happened many times during the first three days, and when early on the fourth day, this man dropped from his raft, and was soon lost to sight, the South China Sea had claimed its last victim from the Tokyo Maru, because two hours later the survivors were picked up by a passing ship.

      The strong swimmer had given his all to save his mates, but himself he could not save. His name, Oscar Jacobs. A fine Christian man from our Mount Compass Church of Christ. In 1941, just prior to his departure from Australia with the armed forces, he had become engaged to our Gwen.

      In 1953, in her capacity as a Social Worker, Gwen was commissioned, by the Commonwealth Department of Immigration, to escort a psychiatric deportee to London, and sailed in the "Maloja". During this six week voyage she met her husband to be, John Moore.

      They were engaged in December, 1953, returned to Australia in early 1954, and were married by Dad at Blackwood on April 17th of the same year.

      Gwen and John had a family of three; one daughter, and two sons.

      After the return from Box Hill, Dad returned to the Stirling and Aldgate circuit, and remained there until 1955. Then commenced a three year, part time, ministry with Blackwood, this was a tine period of activity, and saw excellent growth, and consolidation, and set the pattern for future development.

      At the conclusion of 1957, he was invited to return to Maylands for an interim ministry of one year. He gladly accepted. Twenty four years had elapsed since the commencement of the first Maylands ministry, which had proved to be one of his most effective, and certainly one of the happiest of his long career. This invitation gave him a great deal of personal satisfaction.

      The year 1958 was an extremely happy one for both Mum and Dad, and when it was over and a very appreciative church said farewell: I believe Dad would have wished it could continue a little longer.

      Clovelly Park board contacted Dad at the conclusion of the Maylands year, and offered him a part time ministry. This was accepted, and through 1959 and 1960, this Southern district church shared with a preacher and friend, whom most of the members had known and admired for many years. He was still a stimulating speaker, and continued to provide a challenge to all his listeners, and almost to a man, they loved him. In the words of one young man who was blessed to sit under that Clovelly Park ministry,

      "To know and love and share with G. T. Fitzgerald was to know and love and share something of what God is."

      G. T. had come a long way, since as a young man he became the minister of the Bunbury church in Western Australia. His brilliant mastery of the public platform, his integrity, his concern for the underdog, his organizing ability, his love for people, his commitment to unpopular causes such as world peace, his life time opposition to the liquor traffic and his devotion to his Lord and Master, made him an exceptional minister of the Gospel, and one who could never be classified as being cast in the common mould. He had that extra dimension, which few people ever achieve.

      Clovelly Park, South Australia, was to be his seventeenth ministry, and his last. When it was over in 1960, Dad took on the important, but lighter task, of assisting the resident minister at Blackwood in visitation work.

      A family highlight during the Glen Avenue years was the Christmas get together. Mum and Dad would prepare for this occasion for weeks before, and lovingly put together heaps of parcels, all neatly wrapped and labelled. Mum spent time in her kitchen preparing some of the food for the party. Dad would select a suitable pine branch from his own property, turn it into a Christmas tree, which would be erected in front of the fireplace, decorated, and all the parcels would be placed on the floor near the base of the tree. Some other festive season decorations would be hung, strung, or otherwise put into position. Then, when they were both tired out, they would pause for a brief period, and await the arrival of the first of their family. They would come in droves. When the six South Australian families were present, the members, including Mums, Dads, and children, sometimes numbered forty.

      The fun and games, and the incessant noise made the pre-present giving time a very happy occasion, if a bit trying for Mum and Dad. When all the presents had been handed out by Dad, the time the kids had been waiting for would start, and the mountains of food, much of which had been prepared in several kitchens around the city of Adelaide and brought to Glen Avenue by the girls, would soon be reduced to small, and very manageable proportions. Then with full stomachs, the many happy cousins would continue their games and noise, until the Mums and Dads, seeing the tired and drawn faces on the pair of wonderful grandparents, who had made such fun possible, would suggest that home would be the next best thing. The youngsters always disagreed, and hoped that the party would go on forever; and whilst each Christmas "do" at Glen

Avenue had to come to an end, the grandchildren never forgot them, and in their adult life they often commented on those happy and memorable occasions, and looked back upon them with nostalgia and thankfulness.

      On Sunday 17th April, 1966, Dad preached at the 11.00 a.m. service at the Blackwood church. He was nearly seventy seven years of age, and although his spellbinding days were over, he was still an excellent speaker, and his address and return to the pulpit, was a highlight for the Blackwood members.

      A previous church secretary and his wife were visiting on that occasion, and prior to the service he asked permission to tape Dad's sermon. This was arranged, and the whole service was recorded.

      Just about one month later, on May 13th,1966. Dad awakened and heard the garbage unit making its way slowly up the Glen Avenue hill. He hopped out of bed, picked up three loaded rubbish bins, one belonging to his neighbour and two of his own, ran about seventy five yards to the front gate, reached up to the garbage truck, and emptied the contents of his bins, had a cheery word with the operators, then after disposing of the empty bins, returned to the bedroom, and complained of severe chest pains. Mum rang the doctor, and when he arrived, his condition had worsened. He was taken by ambulance to the Royal Adelaide Hospital, suffering from a heart attack, where he lingered in an unconscious state for several hours, then he left us and went to be with his Lord.

      The news that G. T. had gone from us, seemed to most people, to be quite unbelievable: he seemed to be rock-like, and so permanent. Tributes poured in from all over Australasia, from those who had shared in his many wonderful ministries, and who in many cases looked upon him as their father in the faith. Also from people in other walks of life came messages of condolence and sympathy, as they too, mourned the loss of a man whom they considered, in his own way, to be a great man.

      His family found it very hard to adjust to a life without him. He had been such a tremendous influence on each one of us.

      The grandchildren were devastated; and from the oldest to the very youngest, they found it difficult to cope with the fact that this wonderful person, who was their very special possession and much loved grandfather, had been taken from them.

      Amongst the many cards, letters and telegrams we received, there was one from Anne and Wilkie Thomson; it read.

      "Love and sympathy to you all. George is triumphant".

      This we believed to be true.

      G. T. preached his last sermon on the 17th April, 1966, and by a stroke of good fortune, we have the tape which records it.

      The sermon his life preached will remain with us forever.

      After Dad's death, the home in Glen Avenue was sold, and the family had a flat built on to John and Gwen's home in Birch Avenue, in Hawthorndene. Their home had been built on part of Mum and Dad's large garden area, so when Mum moved in, she was in the same surroundings she loved, and which had so many happy memories for her.

      Mum lived in this home as happily and effectively as she could, without George, for six and a half years: then she had the misfortune to break her hip. The operation, hospitalisation, rehabilitation, physiotherapy. and the painful experience of learning to walk again placed great strains on her, and the will to live on without George, seemed to lose some of its direction. There was a period of uncertainty, and I believe, unhappiness for Mum, as her family left no stone un-turned to obtain the best possible care for her. We were finally successful in this quest. When she was accepted into the loving and compassionate care of Matron McKeon, and her deputy, Sister Dutton and their staff, at The Christian Rest Home at Everard Park.

      During her stay in this delightful home, where love is the keynote, she blossomed again for a while, and became a very popular patient with the nursing staff.

      But gradually, and sadly, her grip on life appeared to loosen considerably, and on 20th August, 1974. She left us to be with her Lord, whom she had loved and served so beautifully, and to be re-united with George.

      In the same way as when Dad had died eight years earlier, we received tributes from her many friends in Australia and New Zealand: the whole South Australian Churches of Christ Brotherhood was saddened by the news that this gracious lady, whom they loved and admired, had left this earthly scene. Her family, being much closer, had a belief which perhaps relieved their sadness a little, that Mum would be so happy to be with George again, and share in his triumph.

      The sermon of her life came through loud and clear; its message was one of gentleness, thoughtfulness, un-ostentation, optimism, graciousness, and selfless love.

      Now they were both gone from us, and our world had lost some of its strength and vitality, and some of its sweet perfume.

      As I write the last words in this book, the date is 25th May, 1987, and on that day the family which commenced with the love and marriage of Clara and George on 6th February, 1913, had grown quite considerably, and numbered one hundred and twenty nine. This figure includes all surviving direct descendants and their partners.

      This story will not end with the final words that I may write, it will go on forever; but to meet publication requirements, and other deadlines, I must now set down those two words,

      The following is a tribute to G. T. Fitzgerald, written by Mr E. P. C. Hollard. It appeared in The Australian Christian in May 1966. Mr Hollard is a minister with our Australasian churches, and is connected to the Fitzgerald family through the marriage of his only son, Roger, to Phyl and Doug's only daughter, Helen Ruth.

      "George 'G. T.' Fitzgerald has gone from us".

      This word swept around Adelaide on May 13th. The paper announced that he left behind him a family including sons and daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and a multitude of friends have since included themselves in the list as those who share the mourning of his passing.

      G. T., and how could he escape the affection of two initials standing for a good man, died as he lived, in a hurry! He's never been in anything else but a hurry from the time he first came across my path and captured my attention. Maybe he did slow down a little, possibly the words did not come as furiously, and I fancy that his step had slowed down to a fast walk, but once on his feet in a pulpit, or at a conference session, and G. T. was with us again.

      On Friday morning word came through that he'd been taken suddenly to hospital. Later in the morning the family, and their minister, were called for, and shortly after he slipped away from us all. Not much real fuss, just the old touch, "Let's get this done", and he was gone. But who can forget him?

      I was a young man in Glen Iris when I first became aware of him, two men were to play a large part in my own life from those years on. The gracious and lovely spirit of the beloved T. H. Scambler, and the fire and energy of G. T. Fitzgerald. Years ago Mr Scambler went away suddenly, and left a generation of young men bereft. Now Mr Fitzgerald has gone to join him.

      Around those Glen Iris years he was at Box-Hill and Ballarat, and because most young fellows like a debate of some kind, we revelled in the activities of G. T., when the late Mr Langley of the Rationalist Association threw out his challenges at Ballarat. He found himself up against a warrior in Dawson Street, and how our imaginations were fired as the warrior smote him hip and thigh. And only a Fitzgerald, that admixture of Irish and Paul, could handle it like he did. Every student joined in the victory and shouted aloud for the victor. Everyone of us caught alight with enthusiasm and possibly imagined ourselves as Daniel come to judgement, because G. T. was in the lists. And if the imagining has remained through the years, then there's a better breed of ministers somewhere.

      And who will ever forget those dynamic days of the six o'clock closing combats in South Australia? G. T. was in his prime, and if ever a one man army moved into action against the Philistines it happened then. Youth marched through the streets of Adelaide to the Town Hall, and packed it out. George Fitzgerald, then at Maylands, addressed them, then went on, at once, to Unley, where a similar meeting was awaiting to hear him. Time and time again he tried to get the liquor interests to put up as many as three men at one time, but they knew their foe. No man could have done as much to register that six p.m. continuance.

      A few years later, he left for New Zealand, and a letter appeared in the Adelaide Advertiser, from one not associated with our people, but he declared that the Churches of Christ in South Australia had failed the forces of righteousness by permitting Pastor G. T. Fitzgerald to leave the state. A fitting tribute to his standing in that community, but more to the fighting qualities that made him a born leader in any righteous cause.

      And during the last war, so great was the esteem of the courts, that when G. T. Fitzgerald appeared with a young man who had pacifist conviction, the sympathy of the court was almost assured. The courts knew that if G. T. stood with him, then only honour, conviction and integrity were involved. Few men build an image like that.

      Through the years he was my ideal as a preacher and minister. I looked upon him as Timothy must have often looked upon Paul, and within me was the desire to be like him. Had I his dynamic physical and mental approach to every situation, could I preach with such fearlessness and kindly spirit, could I love people and causes like he did, then I'd be a good minister of Jesus Christ. But who would ever seek to pay tribute to George Fitzgerald without asking who was behind such a man? Two factors stand supreme.

      One was his unswerving faith in Jesus Christ, his complete committal to the ministry of the Kingdom and Churches of Christ within it, and the other, the dignified, serenely lovely lady, known and respected throughout Australia and New Zealand, his beloved wife. To honour him is to honour her.

      So he has gone. George swept across many stages, dallying not on things of little value, caring for his family and loving the church, pausing

now and then to touch the life of people, like myself, but always onward. "To press on towards the high calling of God," is a verse which always has some sense of haste and rapid movement, it's the text of going somewhere, and it's about the only one I'd ever care to use about him. So I say again, he didn't take much time in dying.

      A multitude will join me in saying to his family, thank you for sharing a wonderful person with us, we'll all miss him, he was a part of so many. And what a wonderful thing it must be for all those Fitzgeralds to look forward to seeing him again, me too, for he was my ideal.

      This poem was written by Mr Lloyd Cooke, and appeared in the Blackwood Church of Christ Messenger on the 25th August 1974. Mr Cooke is a minister with our Australian churches, and was ministering at Blackwood at the time of Clara's death.

      Mr Robey Manuel was featured in the section dealing with Clara's early life in Kerang, Victoria. The following is an extract from a letter he wrote from France to his Uncle, Mr Fred Jones, who was a younger brother of big Harry Jones of our story.

      "Captain R. L. Manuel of the Australian Flying Corp, in a letter to his Uncle Mr F G Jones, Belair, dated June 13th, 1916, says,

      'The weather is poor today for flying, so I take the opportunity of telling you a little news. Under the authority of His Majesty the King I have been awarded the D.F.C., Distinguished Flying Cross. What I got it for, heaven only knows. I'm rather proud of it, for I'm one of the first to receive this new decoration, which is for flying men only. I was greatly surprised when the CO informed me of the matter. I have downed about a dozen Germans, but that's not why I received the decoration, as far as I can work out. While in an aerial combat with several Germans about twenty miles from Germany, I was diving too steeply,

and my machine partially collapsed, sending me down several thousands of feet out of control. I almost gave up the ghost. But, as luck would have it, I managed to right my noble steed and steer for our lines with my machine riddled with bullets. As I did so a German machine came right in front of me, and I had nothing to do but open both guns on him, and down he went. Previous to this I had shot down another one. Well I made for our lines like a lame dog, expecting at any moment that my machine would fall to pieces, as I could see wires and spars broken everywhere. Luckily for me, I encountered no more Germans, had I done so, all would have been up, as I was unable to take part in a fight in such a sad condition. Eventually I crossed the line, after being shot at numerous times from the ground by anti aircraft guns. I then cut down my speed to 70 mph, and landed within our lines without any mishap. I am acting flight commander now, and expect to be promoted to that position in a few days.'"

      Report of the Fitzgerald-Langley Debate referred to on page 172.

      This report was compiled by Mr T. H. Scambler, and appeared in The Australian Christian on February 27th, 1930. Mr Scambler was a much loved minister with the Australian churches, and also filled with distinction the position of Principal of The College of The Bible at Glen Iris. He was holidaying at various places in Victoria, and forwarding a report to The Australian Christian, and it just happened that he was in Ballarat on the night of the memorable debate.

      "We had another experience that did not belong to the usual run of holiday pleasure. We heard a spirited debated between Mr G. T. Fitzgerald, preacher of our Ballarat church, and Mr J. S. Langley, secretary of the Rationalist Association. The proposition was It is reasonable to believe in God'".

      The Dawson Street church building was crowded by an interested audience, over which Mr J. Wilkie presided. Our friend Langley, with whom we have had a number of encounters on the platform, and elsewhere, and whom we have heard on other occasions, displayed his usual characteristics to the full. There was the same gesture as he rose to speak, as though he would sweep away the applause of the people as too trifling to be bothered with. The same references to the numbers of preachers who had heard his challenges to debate, and ignored them. It is getting a little trite now, for quite a number of preachers have taken up the challenge lately. The same blustering challenge to all and sundry to come and meet him in debate, the same prolific

use of rhetorical questions which suggest lots of things and prove nothing, but which leave the unthinking hearers with the very decided impression that he could prove them if he wanted to. Mr Langley understands well what Oliver Wendell Holmes called the hydrostatic paradox of controversy. "Don't you know what that means?" asked the autocrat at the breakfast table, "Well I will tell you. You know that if I had a bent tube, one arm of which was the size of a pipe stem and the other big enough to hold the ocean, water would stand at the same height in one as in the other. Controversy equalises fools and wise men in the same way, and the fools know it." We do not think Mr Langley is a fool except in the sense of Psalm 14, verse 1. But we do think he fully understands the value of standing in the public eye alongside men whose thought dimensions are oceanic. He is a clever speaker, practiced in all the wiles of the debater. He made some good points too, but as we read through our extensive notes on the discussion, we are amazed at the extent to which he depends on sharp thrusts and quibbling criticisms to produce his effects, and how little he appeals to the logical faculty of his audience.

      In Mr Fitzgerald, he had an opponent whom he quickly learned to treat with becoming respect before the audience. The preacher is nimble minded and quick at repartee. He has the ability of keeping on tap the information gained by extensive reading, he has all the Irish relish of a fight, and was thoroughly well prepared for the encounter. He had read widely over the field covered by the proposition, and made a magnificent presentation of the reasonableness of faith in God, and effectively countered his opponent at every turn. If the editor is not becoming weary of this holiday prattle, an

illustration or two will give an idea of the quality of the matter presented by the disputants.

      Mr Fitzgerald described how he had at one time been a disciple of Robert Blatchford. He read his books and publications, and adopted his philosophy of life at a time when Blatchford was the leader of materialistic thought in England. He went on to tell that in old age Blatchford, had abandoned his materialism and accepted the spiritual interpretation of the universe, and pointed out how powerful must be the evidence that turned a man like Blatchford, in his old age after a life devoted to diligent study and advocacy, of the contrary position. Mr Langley replied, and we invite special attention to the nature of this reply. That Blatchford had not accepted Christianity as understood by the Churches of Christ, but had accepted spiritualism, and triumphantly asked, "if Robert Blatchford has come to the place where he can see spooks, are you prepared to accept him as a guide in the great questions of life?" Mr Fitzgerald in his rejoinder, made us see very clearly that there is a world of difference between spiritualism as Mr Langley used the word, and intended his hearers to understand it, and the investigations and conclusions of the Psychical Research Society which included such men as Sir Oliver Lodge, Sir William Crooks, and Robert Blatchford, men of the scientific mind, and whose work was worthy of careful consideration.

      Mr Fitzgerald made eloquent reference to the redeeming power of the grace of God. "I challenge Mr Langley" he cried, "to bring one drunkard, one profligate, who has been redeemed by the power of atheism."

      "I accept the challenge" interjected Mr Langley. "He has accepted the challenge" continued Mr

Fitzgerald, "and is going to bring to us the case of someone who has been saved from degradation because he ceased to believe in God."

      When Mr Langley rose to reply, the next moment he complained that when the challenge was accepted Mr Fitzgerald immediately changed the terms in which it was expressed, however those of us who are acquainted with Mr Langley's debating tactics, knew exactly what he would do, he would throw out another challenge, and have another debate to discuss this important question. He said, "I'm going to challenge Mr Fitzgerald to meet me again and discuss the subject, which is the most benefit to man, Christianity or atheism." It is ever thus with Mr Langley, when direct issues are pressed home. It happened thus in our debate two years ago, and in Dr Brant's a little later. No delay serves to divert the thoughts of many from the point in question and helps to create the impression that Mr Langley is so anxious to avoid. And did he bring that case, that demonstrated the power of atheism to redeem man from degradation and sin. We shall leave the reader to guess."

      G. T. served as a minister in many locations in Australia and New Zealand. The following shows his areas of service between 1912 and 1966.

      This article, written by G. T. Fitzgerald appeared in The Australian Christian on January 31st, 1935.

      "Recently I had two weeks in which I could do just whatever I chose. It was such a unique experience that I wondered if I could fill in that time worthily.

      It is believed by some people that preachers do not work, therefore they do not need holidays. The preparation of five or six addresses a week, the daily visitation of members, and non members, and the attendance at meetings, and committee meetings, on about seven or eight occasions per week, to say nothing of the soul force expended in preaching, teaching and the handling of other people's personal problems; these things are not regarded as work.

      I wish I had the courage of some men. I should then say, that those churches who allow their ministers to go on year after year, studying, preaching, and giving of themselves, without a proper yearly holiday, are lacking in the sense to appreciate the strain of it all, or they lack the heart that cares. I will, however, leave such a thing for someone else to say.

      I do know of one board of officers who demanded that their preacher go away and enjoy complete rest, and that board is my own. One of my officers made his seaside cottage at Port Elliot, on South Australia's lovely southern coastline, available to my wife and me, and the time we spent there together was so helpful, I would like to tell my preaching brethren, and their officers, all about it.

      The trip through the Adelaide hills and over Willunga Hill was beautiful, and continued to be interesting right through to Pt Elliot itself. Pt. Elliot is a delightful place for anyone who has learned to love quietness. The requirements for a great holiday, I believe, are, a beautiful quiet spot, as near as possible to natural condition, a good companion, one who loves the haunts of nature, time to relax, time to talk, and, good books. And I was favoured for all of these. My mind had hungered for the opportunity to have just two weeks to read those books, some of which had remained unopened for a lengthy period because of lack of time to discover the interest, challenge, and information contained within their covers. Now, however, I was free from sermon preparation, personal problems, meetings, and some of what I read I would like to share with your readers.

      Up among the stars, a book by Professor Eddington, "The Expanding Universe", gives a delightful vision of the untold millions of stars and planets that lie outside of our planetary systems. We are told by Eddington that our own galaxy is bounded by what we call the Milky Way, and that within this small portion of the universe are one hundred thousand million stars.

      That's quite a few. But lying away outside of the Milky Way, are a hundred thousand million galaxies, each galaxy containing one hundred thousand million stars with their planets. The fascinating thing to me is that those far off stars are running away from our galaxy. A hundred thousand million galaxies all in retreat. They are travelling rather fast too. At a pace ranging from fifteen thousand miles per second, to a hundred and eighty six thousand miles per second, according to their distance away.

      I don't know what we've done to make them want to get away so fast. Already some of them are so far away, that it takes light, travelling at 186 miles per second, day and night, Sundays included, millions and millions of years to reach us. But away they go. They go so fast that within 1,300,000,000 years our present telescopes will have to be scrapped, and more powerful ones put in their place. According to Einstein, these runaway galaxies are obeying the law of cosmic repulsion.

      But whether we discover the cause of this hurry scurry away from us, the fact remains, if Professor Eddington is correct, that the day will come when our galaxy will be a lonely island universe surrounded by a sea of twinkling space, with not a twinkling neighbour.

      Of course, Professor Eddington frankly confesses that these conclusions are based on theory. "Indeed," he says, "there are no purely observational facts about the heavenly bodies." One need not be surprised then if more complete knowledge in the future leads to this setting aside of present views, just as Eddington and Sir James Jeans unhesitatingly set aside the views of Laplace and others of the past. They depict the wonders of creation, but say very little concerning the wonder of the Creator. Sir James Jeans in his "Eos" confesses that everything points with overwhelming force to a definite event, or series of events of creation. "Eos and the Universe around us" by Jeans, and "The Expanding Universe" by Eddington, if read carefully and critically will fire the imagination to the point of a thrill, but at last lead us to exclaim afresh, "In the beginning, God. The heavens declare the glory of God".

      Before I leave these two men, one more thing. Eddington warns us that we must hurry. Hurry, if we are to study the far off stars. It is urgent, for they will recede, and within 1,300,000,000 years be beyond our reach. You smile. So did I. It may really seem urgent to the astronomer to get to business and study the stars. They may, or they may not be receding. But it is true that our opportunities for service to The Light of the world, are passing quickly away. And I can hear a really more urgent word coming from Him, whose light shines more clearly than the setting suns. "We must work the works of Him who sent us, for the night comes when no man can work."

      "Evolution or Creation?", is the name of another book I enjoyed. It is by a Sir Ambrose Fleming, M.A., D.S.C., F.R.S., of a London University, and a splendid contribution to the question of evolution or creation. I think many of our younger men would do well to read it carefully. It does not contain much that is new for our best informed men, but for most of us it is well worth while. Professor Fleming is definitely on the side of the sacred scriptures, and since he is a scholar of standing, should help to level us up a bit, and stop the superficial attitude so often found amongst folk who have learned just a little.

      "Reality", and "Adventure". Two great books by Canon Streeter; "Reality" and "Adventure", should be known to all of us. I confess I am not qualified to try and summarise the value of these great books. They make me put on my considering cap. Already I had dipped into them, but the quiet of the holiday made it possible to go further. They are worth buying. They make one think, and I know of nothing that is needed more amongst us than that.

      Back with Alexander Campbell. It was good too, to be led back to the days of Alexander Campbell, and the beginning of our religious movement. Dr Kellem's book gives a splendid analysis of the man and his thought. It was our delight to read, and re-read this years ago. Campbell's "Christian Baptist", and "The Christian System", and his various debates, and we owe quite a lot to him. But Dr Kellems has done quite an excellent job for us in analysing for us the teachings and viewpoints of Alexander Campbell. The Christian world may accuse some of us of being sectarian and narrow in outlook, but if we are, it is because we have failed to grasp the principles enunciated by Thomas and Alexander Campbell.

      "Among the Rationalists". Hearing of our debate with Mr Langley, the Rationalist leader, some of the Rationalists here have been seeking to bring about a debate. And so I read again some of the Rationalistic works, and selected, "The Churches and Modern Thought", by P. Vivian.

      I was back thinking the thoughts of the Rationalists. It's good to face up to the arguments of your critics, and to give them a chance to lay bare your weaknesses. I recognise that the thrusts of such writers do indeed penetrate into the argument and concepts held by some Christian folk. But then, they are less hard than I, for I never winced at his rapier thrusts. When he has said all that criticism and ridicule can say, I see standing before me one, who by claim and experience alike, has proved to be the way to life to self realization in its truer sense, and to God realization. I hear, again by Him enunciated, the only programme of life that embraces and satisfies us body, mind,

and spirit. As I laid aside the book written so trenchantly against my faith, I could see again the vision of the radiant face beckoning me, and I heard again the voice, as a voice of many waters, He is saying, "Follow Me." Again I bow my head; doubts are hushed. The soul responds to the call of her master, I have felt and know Him, who to know is life eternal. The heavens may pass away, and all things change, but the radiant Christ never. Lord Jesus, I come.

      The holiday is over. I go back now to pass on something of the vision to precious souls, that finding Him, they may find all.

      GEORGE THOMAS FITZGERALD was born 22/5/1889, and died at the Royal Adelaide Hospital on 13/5/1966, nine days before his seventy seventh birthday.

      CLARA BLANCHE FITZGERALD was born 29/8/1891, and died at the Churches of Christ Christian Rest Home, 34 Norman Terrace, Everard Park, South Australia, on 20/8/1974, nine days before her eighty third birthday.

      Their remains were interred in the same grave at The Centennial Park Cemetery, Fiveash Drive, Pasadena, South Australia. The grave site is in the AD General Section, path number 2, grave number 104.

      The seven people I grew up with were a talented lot. They were leaders in many spheres of activities, they held numerous positions of trust and responsibility in church and community affairs, in education, social work, and in many other areas of human endeavour. They were involved in commercial undertakings and in the public service. They provided from among their group, those who could lead in areas which demanded public speaking and organising ability. They were excellent homemakers, interior decorators, repairers and craft workers, and creators of lovely gardens in suburban Adelaide, and elsewhere.

      When a large hall somewhere in Adelaide was booked for a major church function, it was a distinct possibility that one of these seven would be entrusted with the floral decorations.

      Because of their ability and many talents, they were called upon to do many things, and normally carried them out with distinction.

      They were noted for their willingness to stand up and be counted when difficult issues had to be faced, and always they were fearless opponents of the destructive elements within the community, and their opposition to war was widely known, admired, but not always accepted.

      They all became world travellers, and one built a delightful home for his family in the Adelaide hills. They were concerned, friendly people, with many friends in many places.

      I joined them in world travel and opposition to war. I also became a builder, and after constructing a number of buildings in various parts of South Australia, I finally built a home for my family, in which we lived happily for twenty seven years.