 |
| Origins of the scone cutter |
She was a cheerful lady, of generous proportions, dressed in a bright blue T-shirt, her blond hair tied back, a bucket and mop in her hand. We suddenly felt like naughty kids, caught trespassing in the empty playground. But she smiled, and said ‘G’day’, as Aussies do. We hastily explained that this was Bill’s old school, and that these tan coloured prefabricated buildings, at the back of the main school, shaded by the ever-present gum trees, were the actual classrooms where he studied – or at least attended – metalwork and woodwork over fifty years ago. She exchanged memories of school in Whyalla, and then said ‘I shouldn’t really do this, but would you like to see inside?’ And there it was, even down to the very workbench - scratched varnish, worn red drawer fronts - where he made the little metal scone-cutter which is now in the jumble of my kitchen drawer, thousands for miles away.
 |
| 24 Nicolson Avenue |
Earlier, standing in his old home at 24 Nicholson Avenue, feeling, as you do, that everything was smaller than he remembered, we looked out at the towering Radiata Pine on the pavement, which had been a little tree then, and had to be watered carefully every evening. Despite inevitable alterations and extensions, the house from the front, was exactly as it had been – red brick, a little wooden porch, corrugated iron roof, neat little lawn, edged with flowers. The memories still clung to those red brick walls – making cardboard models on the floor of his bedroom; jumping onto his parents’ bed while they tried to have a long lie; lying on the floor of the living room, listening to the gramophone to while away the hours till the deadening summer heat faded into cooler night air (no air conditioning then, to cope with temperatures of 40 degrees); the lemon and orange trees that had been in the garden, the grapefruit tree that had never produced grapefruit; the vines that produced abundant white grapes; the chickens, brown and white, that had pecked about their fenced enclosure. All these pleasant ghosts were there, as Emily, the current owner, showed us round and exchanged names of people they both knew.
 |
| Mount Laura Homestead |
The Mount Laura Homestead, now a museum, had been the home of the Nicolson family, who were the major and some of earliest landowners in the area. Bill remembered Mr. Nicolson, who had been an acquaintance of his dad. It’s quiet green gardens, shady verandahs, and rooms brimming with memorabilia, filled the morning with nostalgia. Red covered books of funeral records revealed the name of one of his companion, who had died of cancer aged only 11. His whole class attended the funeral, and Bill stood there, in the sun, feeling his deep sadness at the loss of a close friend. A cornucopia of memories.
Amazing...
ReplyDelete