Tragedy in Elwood

In July 1963 I was weeks away from my sixth birthday. Our neighbourhood was always buzzing with children dropping into each others homes via rough shod holes in the backyard fences. Games were created on the run in the street. If you were quick enough you could join in otherwise watch from the sidelines and enjoy the spectacle. 

One morning as I climbed through the back fence I could hear excited conversations near by. I poked my head through the Stockton's back fence. My brother, Donald, Scott and Johnny were feverishly digging at the base of the huge oak tree. Donald had convinced them of some buried treasure! We were all drawn into this enticing adventure. By lunchtime we each had a go at digging down and down to the unseen treasure. Reality reared its head by mid afternoon when Donald's mum Eunice got wind of all the activity and put an immediate stop to it before one of us was accidently buried. Her booming voice always guaranteed that orders were immediately followed....

Soon after we were playing chasey down Wave St. While trying to keep up with the bigger kids I fell heavily on the grey asphalt footpath. With bleeding knees I stumbled to my feet and tried to be brave. One of the big boys Johnny came to my aid and walked me home to get some band aides. I was surprised by his spontaneous kindness while the rest of the boys were mere specks at the end of our street.

It was only a matter of weeks later that Johnny 9, his sister Christine 6 and sister Vicki 2 years were murdered along with their mother at their house in Pine Ave. Their father was then found the following day by fisherman in the cold July bay at Elwood suspected of drowning.

How did we make sense of this horror in our little Elwood Hamlet? I saw the older boys in the neighbourhood cry for the first time. Our parents discussed the horror in hushed tones and tried to answer our disjointed questions and desperate need to make sense of this new frightening world.

Sydney Morning Herald July 8 1963

The Kibbutz in Elwood...

"They met on the bridge at midnight

But never will they meet again.......

For she was just a jersey cow

And he was a country train......"

My sister wrote this in my new autograph book. It was a cream embossed book with multi coloured pastel pages. Somehow this stuck with me and has become a metaphor for life. In amongst the love, beauty and kindness there is also a brutal reality which keeps us in check.

Malcolm comes for lunch

A buzz consumed Wave St that Sunday morning in 1968 in the Californian Bungalow which mum bought 12 years before under duress. Dad was layed up in hospital after a jeep roll at Puckapunyal or 'Pucka' as he called it. He sustained a punctured lung and had his spleen removed and remained in hospital for a number of weeks.

When the real estate agent showed mum the property which was going at a reduced price. He whisked mum (Sheila) through the small rooms of the 1930s 'Cal Bung' and she began to notice a recurring line in the rooms at picture rail level...

"What's that line?" she tentatively asked (being a woman of the mid fifties and out of her comfort zone!) As she didn't want to create a fuss..

"Oh, yes there was a bit of a flood 3 months ago combined with a high tide along the canal. The water board engineers are working on it at the moment so it shouldn't happen again!"

Sheila believed a leap of faith was the only solution in that decision making moment. The only other alternative was to continue living with her rather Victorian parents in Brighton. So the deal was done as  18,000 pounds bought their future.

On this particular Sunday morning mum was busy in the kitchen cooking lunch for a special guest called Malcolm Muggeridge. In the late 1960s Malcolm was well known for his intellect and vast writings on religion and programs on the BBC. Still a practicing agnostic at that time he probably caused some consternation in religious circles. Though his gentle manner and ability to listen to alternative opinions he quickly accumulated a following. 

Dad was working on a TV series called Encounter for Crawford Productions with Barry Jones and they had secured Malcolm to feature on the program which brought him to Melbourne.

Lunch was a great success with lots of conversation and visits from various neighbours to meet Malcolm Muggeridge. Dad also gave Malcolm a tour of our neighbourhood. Malcolm was intrigued with the make shift holes in the back of our fence and neighbouring homes. I remember dad waving his arm in a generous sweep and stating. "Yes Malcolm we call this the 'Elwood Kibbutz' as there are five houses connected through the back fences and the children come and go as they please."

After lunch my sister Lisa and I walked down to Elwood Beach with dad and Malcolm. As we strolled along towards Point Ormond I noticed some people stopping and looking at Malcolm which was a strange experience, though he was oblivious to all of the attention. As the day closed I knew that the memories would stay with me and I needed to record the memory.

Elwood Beach

Elwood Beach

My first visit to Elwood beach at the age of 6 months in 1958. In the background there's the Elwood Sea Scouts which my brother attended in the 1960's. Then a photo of my sister Lisa at Elwood Beach playing with whats at hand, an old cigarette packet!

Elwood History

Growing up in Elwood had so many tangents. My earliest memories are a cold frosty August morning sliding up and down a deck chair in the back yard at Wave St. I realise now it was on my 3rd birthday in 1960 hence the occasion for the camera. Mum and I shared our birthday on the 10th of August each year.

Cracker Night

Cracker night on Elwood Canal. Guy Fawkes is the name most associated with the 1605 gunpowder plot being the attempt by Guy Fawkes and others to blow up the king, James 1 and members of Parliament. Guy Fawkes was caught on the spot and a ‘guy’ is still burned on bonfires and lit to celebrate the ‘miraculous’ survival of James I. We didn’t know the details then but there was always that sense of something mysterious which invovled creating a ghoulish effigy of the guy!

Early November each year the excitement would build. The neighbourhood kids from Foam, Wave and Tide St go together and began to build the fire for the big night. Our houses were all connected though holes in the back fences so that we could run in and out of backyards with ease and our mums would even use these shortcuts after 5pm to partake in social gatherings..

One year we all helped to build a scarecrow styled ‘Guy” and wheeled him along Wave St and tentatively knocked at the front door of each houses in our street and asked if we could have a little ‘money for the Guy’ something we had heard about which gave meaning to this special night.

With the proceeds we excitedly went up to the newsagent in Ormond Rd and bought our selection of crackers, rockets, jumping jacks, catherine wheels and Chinese lanterns.

We were all bursting with pride this particular year as the pyre was huge ready for the night! Just before dinner one of the neighbourhood boys Donald came running into our house shouting someone has lit the fire already !The guy is burnt. With disbelief we all ran down to the corner of Foam and Tide St only to see a charred mess. We had all worked so hard and day had been built on the anticipation of the dark and Guy Fawkes night  beginning. 

A couple of parents and older brothers rallied and we managed to reconstruct the pyre just as darkness fell. That year we all made sure a wonderful night was had for all the neighbourhood. In the adrenaline filled excitement one of the neighbors' dad’s rushed towards me in the darkness. I was proudly holding up a large sparkler which melted away the days disappointments. John then cheerfully asked if he could light his cracker. Living for the moment of course I said yes! Then “booomm!!!” went the penny bunger in front of my face and in John’s hand. I screamed and cried not really understanding what had happened and John was yelling and jumping around like a cartoon character... Somehow we escaped serious injuries although the memory is seared into my brain..

Later that evening my dad and brother rigged up a catherine wheel on the old wooden laundry out the back. They hammered a nail into the wall and attached the catherine wheel. Everyone was instructed to stand back while the blokes fiddled about with matches. Suddenly the wheel came to life with sparks shooting in all directions as the wheel spun and exerted a scream noise in its wake. I found it a little frightening and was certain some of the sparks landed on my arm but there was lots of cheering when the wheel came to a stop all was silent but for the acrid smoke and charred remains.