Writing exercises for Writing Family History @UTAS

Doing His Duty Wally Cope stood at the rail of his ship. Around him he could see the other ships in his convoy preparing to leave King George Sound. The warships were already steamed up, their funnels belching smoke, sailors visible at the side saluting as they left Australian shores for Suez and then Europe. Wally had been happy in his job as a junior clerk in an accounting firm. His father, Walter, had found him a good job in Perth. Wally’s boyish good looks, quick mind and influential family friends all promised him a bright future. But at the moment this future was on hold and a much more dangerous path lay ahead. Like many young men Wally had thrilled to the tales of derring-do and mateship from Gallipoli. His mother and sisters wanted him to stay but his friends had joined up. His father’s friend, the Bishop of Bunbury, had preached that it was time for all young men to enlist to help the nation in its first mission on the world stage. Walter, though long resident in Australia, was English by birth. His family had written often and Wally felt as English as he did Australian. Now that the casualty lists had confirmed the cost of the Gallipoli campaign Wally had decided to join. He felt comfort in his faith that God would protect him from the dangers ahead. Walter, that great sportsman, agreed that this was to be his boy’s chance to shine. So Wally had enlisted, a slender but fit lad and perfect for the infantry. Country boys were prime material. Wally could see that land was now out of sight. Ahead was the sea, then Europe and his new future. BADGEBUP My maternal Grandmother, Mavis Kemble, was born in 1920 in the small Western Australian hamlet of Badgebup. In 1921 this area was largely settled by families who had come over from South Australia around the turn of the century. Some were first generation Australians of German descent. All had come to a new state that was thriving after the goldrushes of the 1890s. New land was opened up to agriculture to feed a population that had surged. The Kembles had come as a family unit. The patriarch, John Kemble, had come from a broken family. His father had been a violent drunk who had deserted his family early on. John had not shown much promise until a family tragedy saw him turn to Methodism. Reports from family friends and in the local South Australian newspapers seem to have encouraged the mass migration. At first things were good. The boys found a farm each, the girls found a husband each. Sam, Mavis’ father, was a middle child but a natural leader in the community. He worked hard and the farm thrived. Mavis was surrounded by a loving extended family. At the end of primary school she was sent to the best private school in the regional town of Katanning. Then the depression hit. Rabbits came in huge numbers. Money was tight and no matter how hard a man worked he struggled to provide for his family. Mavis was withdrawn from the posh school. Memories of how quickly fortunes could change haunted the rest of her life. Le State c’est Moi It was a hot November night in Broome. In a makeshift tent a group of men are drinking and laughing. Some will describe them as Italian, others as Anglo-Indian, but they were trouble. Not far away Captain ‘Meda’ Smith, a short, avuncular Scotsman, but with a strong belief in himself, was finishing a whisky with friends. He was the master of the Government Revenue Schooner whose name gave him his nickname. He wore many hats in the northern half of the colony of Western Australia- Inspector of Pearl Shell Fisheries, J.P.- but at the moment it was his position as Protector The men in the tent had been plying the local native women with drink and then, so the whispers had it, having their way with them. Nothing was likely to inflame racial tension as the sexual use of women of one race by another’s men. Smith knew this well. A few drinks had made the issue burn in the front of his brain. Action was required. Saying goodnight to his companions, Smith purposely strode to the tent of the troublemakers. Reaching the tent he puffed on his cigar. It was dark, almost midnight, and those inside didn’t notice they were being observed. Decision made, Smith strode forward. His right hand reached out to the roof. The tinder dry grass and timbers were lit up by the cigar. Satisfied with his work Smith turned on his heel and headed back to his vessel. Inside the tent voices were raised in alarm and men tumbled out the door just as the roof fell in. THE ISLAND OF HOY James Taylor Sinclair was born on the Orcadian island of Hoy in the middle of summer 1868. Orkney is a long way from Geraldton where he died, but there is one weather factor that they share- the wind. Anyone who has driven to Geraldton can see the affect the wind has on the vegetation just south of the town. Trees are stunted and grow bent over, showing the strength and direction of the wind whipping in from the Indian Ocean. The Orkney islands too are products of the wind. Indeed, the islanders are too. The local joke is that Orcadians are nothing but blown away Norwegians. From time immemorable the islanders have farmed and fished. Scapa Flow sits between the main island, called Mainland, and Hoy, a great natural harbour used by the Vikings and the Royal Navy. Hoy is, like the other islands, flat with low vegetation and little in the way of trees. At the north end of the island it rises into sheer cliffs. On the western side of this stands a sea stack called The Old Man of Hoy. The lower half of Hoy has small farms and a couple of hamlets. Low stone walls divide the small holdings of the locals. Sinclairs, Taylors, Gunns and Sutherlands fill the desolate cemetery at Longhope. Many of the graves are empty, as the men drowned at sea. Many of the houses are empty, as the families moved away in search of an easier life. The Jamaican For many years I had heard that we had Jamaican blood in our family. How else did a family that was from the UK get such a great tan in summer? It seemed a good story. There was even an old wooden letter opener with ‘Jamaica’ on it that my paternal Granny gave to me as a boy. But this same Granny was the keeper of the secrets, because it was her long-divorced husband who was the descendant of the Jamaican line. And Granny hated him. Supposedly she had burned everything when he left in the early 1960s. One of my Aunt’s berated me when I dared say I was interested to know what had happened to my Grandfather. One day my mum was reading the paper. ‘Hey Rob, read this, I think its about your missing Jamaican family’ she said to me. And it was. A couple were coming from America and one of them was looking for descendants of Thomas Smith and Rosa Sara Henriques. Thomas I knew about, an old sea captain from Scotland known as ‘Meda’ after one of his ships. Rosa, she was new. And such an exotic name to be found in the Smith family! Even the disapproving Aunt was keen to meet our distant relative. It was the wife we were related to, and yes, she had been born in Jamaica. She had heard from her elders how Rosa had gone to Australia, done the Lord’s work in opposing drink and even met royalty. Then she and Thomas had gone back to the family plantation to die, leaving a son and grandson in Australia. This grandson had in turn deserted his family and disappeared into thin air. He was my missing Grandfather.