Soaring High

My memoirs now complete, I am working on the new rainbow.

Coastal limestone presents a problem

I haven’t yet been able to grow a decent root vegetable in my garden. I thought it was coastal limestone but I wonder if it is a mixture. I have tried a raised bin with potting mix but even here the ‘bugs’ eat them as they strike the surface. I’ve now managed to eradicate these, (they’re very fond of beer). I can’t say my garden has been a failure. It seems that the coastal limestone will grow scores of passion fruit. I put it down to this seeing no other reason. When I thought the vine must be exhausted I found another dozen, enough for all my friends as well.

This is not the limit to my blessings. A native tree from Queensland, the Macadamia, has also flourished with enough of the pendant nuts to satisfy the black cockies as well. It is now 5 meters and still growing in a small garden and this attracts the birds. It is the favourite nesting place for my favourite Willie Wagtail. I hear his call coming from there as soon as I come out onto the patio. Their friendliness to humans is a bonus when you do not feel in a position to keep a pet.

I gave up on the citrus trees. My orange died but the grapefruit hung on. No fruit! Stuart and I were discussing the possibility of taking it

out and planting something else but decided to leave it a year. When weeding underneath the following year, I felt something bong my head. Looking up, I discovered clusters of grapefruit and many flowers. We cannot eat them but our friends and family love them – and they keep coming! It seems the soil is very selective. We are having passion fruit every day for months now from a small plant I had also given up.

CHAPTER 1

lived at Trevine (Trefin in the welsh language). on the Pembroke coast. Chilling winds blow most of the year and mists envelop the deep ravines. I made a pilgrimage here when staying at St. Davids with my brother, Vernon. I found a tombstone in the Baptist cemetery to Mary Anne, wife of William James of Trenivid Lodge who died in 1912 age 34. No age to die. The name ‘William’ has always been in the family. The poet, William James was a great uncle somewhere along the line. My father often talked of him and how he lit his pipe of an evening by the fireside using priceless poems which were lost to posterity. I found reference to a William James in the library of the University of Western Australia. I was disappointed – he only wrote in welsh. I want to get my great uncle’s poems translated some time to find out if he thought on the same lines as I do.

Although my father took to the building trade, my father’s family were all sea-farers so I went down to the sea from there. I saw what must have been a familiar sight to the fishermen – black tilted rocks topped with tufted grass and tansy. The present situation seemed to forbid the launching of a boat at that point. At Trefine Mill a plaque records ‘it was a busy little place of fishermen and trading boats.’ I remembered my father telling me how an uncle went out to Australia on a tea-clipper at some time. Now the place is a sleepy little hamlet.

As I walked these cliffs I thought of the grandfather I had never met. My father often said – he would have loved to meet you. The same goes for me. I feel a sort of bereavement. It would have been nice for me and my brother to have known at least one genetic Grandfather.

The mill was vital to the town for 500 years but closed in 1918 as a larger establishment took over the milling of flour delivered by sea. A poem by Crwys shows the pathos of change in ‘The Mill does not Grind Tonight.’

There was a natural small boat harbour at Aber Castle and this looked a much likelier place for fishermen to live. There were small fishermen’s cottages perched on a rise above the harbour together with a ruined granary from Tudor times. Now, I could imagine my grandfather living in one of these cottages. It seemed like a secret harbour – the kind which was favoured in the days of Norsemen’s raids.

It was said that Howell Davies, who was instrumental in forming the non-conformist movement in Wales preached there in 1743. I think my family had ‘chapel’ affiliations at least on my father’s side.

My father’s church associations were many in those growing years. He claimed to have joined every Sunday school prior to their annual outing. He lived through the Welsh Revival. Though he sang their songs all his life when working, he never joined a church. He reported how they sang hymns in the streets. I noticed this singing when I was there last. My father loved the old churches where he did his apprenticeship as a carpenter. He carved the ends of many pews in a trefoil pattern and other artistic decorations. His mother, he told me, gave her last few pence to get him apprenticed as a carpenter. He used to cook a kipper on a slate in the gutter, working early and late into the evening.

The industrial revolution caused much change in South Wales. My grandfather, Thomas James, moved to the rapidly developing port of Swansea and there he got a paid job on the tugs which escorted the coal boats into Swansea docks. Captain James, I am told was a well known identity in Belview Street (incidentally, Dylan Thomas wrote of life close by). ‘Under Milkwood’ gave us a description of life in Gran James’ home before the bombing. The port of Swansea at that time was acting like a magnet exporting coal from the valleys.

As a child I played with a real ship’s compass. It must have belonged to my grandfather. I didn’t know the value of such a thing at that time.

I don’t know when my grandfather died. (since writing Philip has obtained his death certificate – it was 16/3/26). He never saw me. My cousin, Dainton, says he thinks that grandfather died of a bee sting when out hunting. This could tally as there is another rumour that he accidentally shot off his ring finger when a gun went off. But then, Dainton loved to pull a leg. (True he did – the death certificate said – he died of phthisis ie tuberculosis.)

My visit to the Pembroke coast was only one week but there I felt some of the family past. I did many long walks on the cliffs with my brother, Vernon, and his wife, Nell, and felt an affinity for those massive rocks of tilted black granite – felt the awe of those ‘don’t look down now’ cliff walks that inspired many a poet. The welsh language bred poets because of the musical and rhythmic nature of the flow of words.

Grandfather became captain of the tug ‘Trusty’ which piloted ships to and from Swansea docks. My second cousin, Wally John Carey, has produced a few more names. Skipper of the Pilot Boats Woodbridge and Roger Beck.

JAMES IS MY NAME 

Anyone out thereby the name of James or nee James perhaps you would like to look at my memoirs which I have just completed. Memoirs by Barbara Good. Don’t forget to write your autobiography.

IN THE BEGINNING “If you are the mother of school children and happen to have an free afternoon. Why not write a letter to a grandchild you have never met?” – you’re joking. Well, I couldn’t get up, so feeling in the mood to say something to someone, I reached for a paper and pencil. I felt that a grandchild who was not there was better than no one. This is how the letter started and this is how my autobiography was born:

It was a windy afternoon. My back was playing up that day. I decided a cup of coffee was the only cure and threw my feet onto the lounge. I picked up a magazine. I read incredulously;

 You will only know me as the Nan who was always there – no past to confuse you. I was a child like you not really so long ago. I had a Nan who was fond of me. I was born on a hillside in Wales and was taken from the nursing home to a tall terraced house in Swansea where we could see the bay and the tide distant on the horizon or covering the expanse of flat sand.

Dear child,

The fog horns were some of the early sounds of my memory. They bayed in the mists and called through my sleep as they had to the paternal grandfather whom I had never seen. Captain James, Master Mariner, manned the tug the ‘Trusty’ but that is my father’s story.

THURSDAY ISLAND

Well, I have ‘done’ the lot now! This was my last frontier. Sorry for my long absence but I had to go to the Tip of far North Queensland and that was something for a lady of my age. Why have we both got a fascination for islands?
We could see Prince of Wales Island, a strip of pale blue seen from the cairn of stones with the flag. Across the Albany Passage it looked empty and forsaken having only 100 inhabitants. Our sights were set on a smaller Island.
Seisia, where the boat leaves, was a full-blown settlement which reminded us of the tropical island paradise of fiction – the coconut palms – the smooth early mornings seas – the distant islands on the horizon – wild turkey scurrying on an urgent mission – well organised accommodation a jump away from the beach – we were set up for a beautiful rest cure at Seisia Holiday Park, Bamaga. But we had to leave the wharf and travel across on the ferry for just over an hour to Thursday Island.
This was settled in 1877. Due to a perceived threat to Australia from the North a military fort was built on Green Hill, excellent position for surveillance of the Albany Passage and other Islands. It had no water but some was piped across from Horn Island, an even smaller Island, which now contains an airport. There I was more interested in an account of the Horseshoe Crabs which have a medicinal value. I was surprised to find all amenities here with a well-established hospital and TAFE training for nurses. The Flying Doctor Services were only available to the airstrip on Horn Island so helicopters were used to transfer severe cases.
The Catholic Cathedral for the Torres Strait Islands invited photographs but the Anglican one was under repairs which needed to be done before the paralysis of ‘the wet’ set in.

Pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up. Eccles.4:10 NIV.

That fussy little person – his sister – but he wished he could see her now…just for one last moment. He’d say sorry too. She really cared for him, with all his faults. He felt he was, after all, a bit of a black sheep!

All that was left was to live through all his memories of the crew again…Alice and Mary had such a close bond. He felt Mary’s heartbreak as her mother fell sick again. That’s what you do before you die…to treasure every one of the crew for the last time. A warm and loving picture was growing in his mind.

And some exciting adventures remembered too!

He thought. He asked himself. He was afraid to move his body but his eyes moved over the jungle-type undergrowth. In a moment of panic, like cold ice trickling down his spine he saw it – the broken tail fin of an aircraft! opened his heavy eyes. He expected to be in his bedroom at the back of the farmstead but this didn’t look like his check curtains. He clenched his fingers around a cascade of green leaves! Yes – leaves they were – definitely leaves! They were damp. If this was his mattress, it felt very uncomfortable. It was hurting his back – ah yes! – that was it! He’d been helping his father, David, in the shearing shed. Very few people knew how back breaking that work was! He tried to alter his position. His hip didn’t turn but the effort produced a sharp electric pain which made him cry out. He closed his eyes. From the silence there came a cry, a shriek and a babble he couldn’t understand. It wasn’t Australian – in fact, it was bird noise. He sank back.

A Learning Curve.

I didn’t know there was so much more I could do with the Golden Spiral and the Secret Rainbow. I sat down with it in front of me and imagined the movements and reactions of the crew. They came alive. They are best published together because one isn’t complete without the other. I am afraid it’s going to merit another reprint and that will be expensive as the Autobiography is now firming up and the family are getting restless.

We press on. I have worked out the new book will average 36X2,000 words. Each part has 18 chapters averaging 2,000 words a chapter. I think I will trust it to a children’s book agent because the autobiography will be expensive to print with many photos.

POLISHING THE RAINBOW

To bring about a much larger and more descriptive novel I’m returning to work on a Song at Rainbow’s End. This title is rather long but I prefer it because it appeals to my musical friends and also suggests the ‘pot of gold’ which represents a young life transformed. I will take this title for the combined novel and hope it will grow to a fair size when the Golden Spiral is added.

The characters can be painted in much livelier colours and the background enlarged. I am hoping to join the two novels to make one of greater length. The epilogue at the end of the first book would be slightly altered to bring it in at the end of the Golden Spiral. This short piece answers a lot of questions posed and shows the characters as adults. There is one sad note (that’s life) but most of the other characters have their problems resolved thanks to the courage of our timid hero.

One warm afternoon about 45 years ago, I rested an aching back on my bed while the children were at school. I wearily took up a magazine and read; ‘if you have a spare moment’ – I had and was bored, ‘write a letter to a grandchild not yet born’. Well, I couldn’t have grandchildren yet, my firstborn was 9 – she had a long way to go! So I got up with difficulty and found a pen and paper – then I started to write.

“Dear Grandchild, you may only know me as ‘Nan’ but I had a Nan too and she lived on a hillside in Wales, etc.” So I went on – and on – and on. At that stage I wrote about three A4 tightly spaced sheets. I had no computer. It was in longhand. I never stopped from there, though I had to break off to fetch the children from school.

Later I was given a primitive computer. Today, having written 3 children’s novels, one history of music in this State, 2 books of poetry and a few oddments for magazines, I am now digging up the buried treasures, editing them and enlarging. My computing is more like ‘state of the art’. One memory may have been forgotten in the years between but the written notes bringing back to me more of the past. I surprise myself at the variety of experiences in my life. Isn’t it the same for all of us?

I started by checking the known rellies and these gave me a lot of family information. Then I went into Ancestry and checking the family tree found a few more that I didn’t know I had. That was an added bonus. The pages keep piling up – I don’t see the end of it. Now the problem is how to get it into print so that each member of the family can have a copy.

A few days ago I showed these words to my married grandson and he was overwhelmed. To think that I was contemplating his birth so long ago!

Next time I would like to say more about family trees.