My life story by Henry J Macey (best e reader for manga .TXT) 📕

by ornate wooden posts with lattice woodwork top and bottom to make fencing.  Some of them had mosquito netting all around their verandas so the occupants could sit outside their homes on hot nights.

 

They were all very picturesque in there own way, and Jane fell in love with them.  There was a feeling of space here; the houses were single-storey types but not all the same style.  You can see Freemantle harbour from Cottesloe, for it was only a few miles away.  Between is a Bay of the clear blue, sparkling water, and golden sand that had no footprints until we walked upon it.  We could not believe our eyes for we were the only ones there.  Along the shore road, there was a parking place that has a beach café.  As it was mid-afternoon it was very hot, so we went in for a cool drink.  At this point Marine Pd. runs onto Curtin Av. Sitting at the window, I could see the busy Stirling highway across the railway track that separates the two roads.

 

I could also see two large buildings; one had a large dog painted on its wall.  The other had large windows all along its length.  Asking the owner what they were got the reply “you just landed.” I nodded.  He went on to tell me that the building with the dog was the Dingo flour Co, the other was the Holden car factory.  That evening we met Tom and Elsie, in the lounge for a drink. I ordered two lagers with lime for the girls, and two beers for Tom and me.  The barman pulled them all from the same tap, so I said that I thought I ordered two lagers and two beers? He said, “That’s all we got mate!”

 

Next day, we were picked up by a minibus, which took us to Graylands hostel for a meeting with government officials.  The hostel looked like an old army camp and its nickname was Stalag Thirteen.  We had little trouble finding Don and his wife Margaret.  They were housed in a brick flat.  It had two rooms and no kitchen as all meals were provided in a large canteen, the cost of which was included in the rent.

 

Don took me to the reception office, to look at the main information notice board.  There was a list of job vacancies on it.  Don pointed to one, it was asking for cooks to work in the kitchens on the camp.  He was going to try for it, as he had been a cook in the Army.  He suggested we could both do this until something else turned up.  I could not find anything else on the board in which I had any experience, but I was no cook.  I decided to go for it too, what did I have to lose?

 

After the meeting with the officials, Don and I went to see the camp manager about the cook's jobs.  I also asked about getting out of the hotel we were in.  He gave us both jobs and said he would get my family and me into Graylands at once, as it was their policy to have workers living on site.  So now I was a cook, earning forty dollars a week, roughly twenty pounds.

 

I did learn many things in that job, like how to skin ox tongues and press them.  I became quite a good curry & soup maker too.  At mealtimes, I would make up salads for those on diets.  You could get bored eating the same thing day after day, so I dressed them up some.  I would shape the ham slices into cones and piped creamed potatoes into them.  Tomatoes and radish I would take a pointed knife, and pierce a zigzag cut around the centre to form two frilled halves.  It was not a lot but it was appreciated.

 

Cooking for fifteen hundred people was no mean feat.  Everything had to be timed to perfection.  Sacks of potatoes had to be put into the peeling machines.  On the days we had chips; the potatoes were chipped and blanched ready to be fully cooked later.  Steaks had to be tenderised by hitting them with a meat hammer, hundreds of them.  Two cooks sweated over hot plates cooking them.

 

We worked in shifts, and when I was not on duty, I went around looking for other work.  I found a few part-time jobs; delivering new cars for Holden Motors. Selling food plans door to door, in the evenings.  If you bought food from this company, they gave you a freezer to keep it in.  The money from these jobs went into the bank, as I had to build up some capital.  I had bought an old Holden car for three hundred dollars, and it left me broke.

 

One car delivery was to Geraldton, three hundred miles away.  A car transporter was going up with six cars, and I had to drive number seven.  I had to drive it with the speedometer disconnected.  The car transporters driver would carry petrol for the car I was to bring back.  We arrived at the first garage in Geraldton, late at night.  And unloaded all the new cars, and re-loaded three old cars onto the top deck and three new cars on the bottom deck, which had to be taken off at his next stop.  I would leave the one I had driven here.

 

We had started and fuelled an old car to make sure it was a goer for my return journey before loading his cars.  When we had finished loading, I waved to the car transporters driver as he left.  I returned to my car and started it up again to pull off; and switched on the headlights.  The engine stopped, I had a flat battery.  The car would not start again on the key, but luckily, there was a downhill slope so I bump started it.  Switching on the sidelights, I was relieved to find that it kept going, so I drove out of town on them alone.  Picking up speed, I tried the headlights again with my fingers crossed, and it kept going I was on my way.

 

About forty miles south of Geraldton, just off the main highway, is a town called Dongara.  As I reached the turnoff for the town, a car switched on its headlights and cut across me, forcing me off the road.  Before I could get out of the car, a gun was pushed into my ear.  And I was told to step from the car by a police officer.  He was wearing his uniform coat over his pyjamas and told me I was under arrest.  Someone had seen me leave the garage and had rung the police saying the car had been stolen.

 

I had one hell of a job trying to convince him I was just delivering the car back to Perth.  I had to get him to ring the garage owner, to prove that this car was one he was sending back.  Then I had a hard time convincing him, I had not stolen his car. Then I argued if I knew where the keys for the new car were, why then would I steal this old heap of crap.  The policeman eventually lets me go, but would not help me get the car started again.

In his words he had wasted enough time and sleep on me already, he was going back to bed I could do what I liked.  I had to wait until someone came along who was willing enough to give me a tow

 

G. S. I

 

As I have said, on my off-duty hours, I looked for other work.  Searching through the papers, I came upon an advert for an oil exploration company called Geographical Services International, known by its initials G.S.I.  I phoned them and got an appointment, for an interview.

 

The job on offer was a camp manager. Part of my job on the camp, was to keep track of the stores and reorder stock so I thought I could do this job.  I would work on-site seven days a week for eight weeks, and then have two weeks off.  My pay would be eighty dollars a week, and they would fly me there and back.  That was double the money I was earning at present.  I told them I would let them know and I went home to discuss it with Jane.

 

She wasn’t too happy that I would be away for so long at a time, but the money would put us on a good footing.  So I found myself on a plane heading for Broome, one thousand three hundred and forty miles north of Perth.  The plane landed on the dusty airstrip, mid-afternoon on a very hot day, and I was sweating the moment I stepped from the plane.

 

The airport bus took most of the passengers into town.  I found my hotel the Roebuck, as I would be picked up in the morning to be taken to the camp.  Until then I was as free as a bird, I could have a good look around Broome.  The town was not the place it is now; in fact, it was just an outback town by the sea. It was clean and well kept; at one time it used to be a thriving port for the oyster and pearl trade, but no longer.

 

I was told that buccaneers once used the area, and the hotel was named after Captain Roebuck.  There is an area called Roebuck Plain nearby, and the waters off Broome are called ‘Buccaneers Archipelago’.  As the water here is very shallow over the coral, a long pier runs out to sea for a mile, which allowed the old pearl lugger’s to land their cargo.  An old narrow-gauge rail track run down the centaur of the pier back then, I don’t know if it still douses.  The locals used the pier for fishing, and they had many small boats tied up to it.

 

As I walked out to sea on the pier, the soft sea breeze cooled me down. The temperature was in the hundreds, and the land reflected that heat.  It was still hot out over the water, but the sea didn’t throw it back at you. The water was so clear you could see the bottom, even at the end of the pier, where the depth is about thirty feet.  I stood out there for some time looking at the vast array of fish, and there were greenback turtles too, swimming around and under me.

 

About ten o’clock the next morning, a battered four-wheel drive pulled up outside the hotel with a G, S, I, logo on the side.  From it stepped a tall American, wearing a Stetson hat.  I was already waiting in the lobby, as he asked for me at the reception.

I approached him and introduced myself; he took a long look at me and asked why I was dressed in a suit. I told him that as I was hired as camp manager, I thought I had better dress the part.  A huge smile spread across his face as he said,

 

“Go and put on some shorts, and meet me at the bar.”  When I got back to the bar, the American pushed