Lessons
From Fairbridge: 1963-1969 & 2005
John
Sumner (Tomaszewski) from
I
was an “inmate” (only joking, I was a Fairbridge kid really) from 27th
May 1963 to some time in 1969, arriving during the period in which Fairbridge
was only taking in children from one-parent families. My Dad had died before I
was four years of age so my mum had to do whatever it took to keep us going and
coming to
Settling
In
Arrival
at Fairbridge was much the same for many of us. Off the ship (“Fair Sky” in
our case); find your possessions; watch your sister, sitting on a mountain of
luggage, having her picture taken for the front page of the West Australian; get
in the Principal’s car; brief tour of
The
next few weeks were mostly spent learning not to feel deserted (make sure you
weren’t crying when someone could see you); coping with mozzie bites;
toughening the soles of our feet (no shoes except on special occasions, Sundays
for church and going to high school) and learning how to avoid “stubbing your
toe”; and trying to adapt to a new way of life.
Life
Goes On
Some
silly public servant at Australia House in
My
biggest concern, as a child, had been, “Do they have toys in
Primary
school was my first significant distraction from the initial shock of separation
from Mum. I was thrust into grade five with Mr Frank Blackwell. He was a great
teacher but had a tendency to take things personally so we suffered the
occasional flare of temper. I always enjoyed the time when he would read stories
to us while we dreamed of better things in our futures. Fairbridge Primary
school was a government school but was on site as part of the farm so all the
primary kids only had to walk (run) to school and between there and the main
dining room for lunch. We had a dedicated choir in our primary school and one
year we were invited to sing on a TV show called, “Children’s Channel
Seven”. I managed to get left behind in the waiting room when our cue came,
because I had gone to the toilet. After some moments of panic, that I might miss
my 15 seconds of fame, I was re-united in the studio with the choir and I guess
we are still on a black and white tape in an archive somewhere.
High
school brought expanded horizons and “prep”. Prep was always after dinner
and held in the main dining room. It was usually supervised by one of the
primary school teachers who had quarters on the farm. In those days it was first
year, second year, third year and so on. We were obliged to stay for longer
amounts of time each night, as we progressed through the school years with the
fourth and fifth year students being left to supervise themselves and lock up
the building after the teacher reached his time limit. We generally had a
further 30 minutes to an hour to ourselves. We did spend time doing homework but
it was an opportune time for anyone who happened to have a romance partner in
the same group. Read what you like into that but it was all very innocent as far
as I remember.
Most
of these good souls must be long gone by know so there must be no harsh words
here. Our cottage mother was “Aunty Gibson”, always known as “Aunty”, or
“Aunty Gibby” (real name Anne Gibson) and, of course, I saw her as a barrier
to my intentions but the majority of our time with her was ok. She was strict
but fair and certainly taught us to fend for ourselves on the domestic front.
Gibby was Scottish and believed in good solid standards of behaviour and
education. She always did the chores with us and equally shared in the fun
things. As I grew older I found communication more difficult with more frequent
disagreements, which must be put down to adolescence, but I am sure she always
meant the best for us.
Occasionally
a cottage mother would need a holiday and we would have a relief cottage mother.
These women ranged from tyrants to mothers and I remember one particularly nice
lady who was either Indian or Polynesian and we all thought she was terrific.
She played guitar and we had sing-songs around the lounge fire at night.
Endless
rounds of chores were not too tough once you accepted that the work was always
there so you might as well get on with it. Endless raking and weeding in the
garden compound - as it was known. Endless cleaning of the floors. Polishing on
Saturday morning with old socks wrapped and tied around our feet. I enjoyed the
cooking roster. I turned out to be good at cooking eggs. I could cook an egg in
just about any way another boy requested although the most common method was
frying. Another boy my age was very good at porridge. We all took turns and were
given jobs according to our age and ability. Riding my bike to the dairy to ride
back carrying a one-gallon billy full of milk was an achievement. Chopping wood,
lighting the copper fire for bath water and later the Braemar heater for the
same purpose, doing small amounts of your own laundry and scrubbing the bathroom
floor were just a few of the things we learned. Cleaning out the grease-trap was
not a welcome chore but luckily it only came around about once a week and then
it was shared around anyway.
On
attaining the elevated status of “high school kid”, our lives shifted into a
new domain. “Task” entered our lives and it had a payment attached to it.
That was really exciting! We were paid one shilling into our bank account and
one shilling in our hand at the end of each week. I usually spent the shilling
in the shop – minus one penny for the church collection plate and one penny
for the Saturday night movie. One of the “task” jobs was to help serve,
stock shelves and make up orders in the shop. Mr Bill Pettit was the storekeeper
and he was always very amiable. I made myself popular with the younger kids on
Saturday mornings by slipping an extra lolly into their white paper bag as they
parted with their pennies. Mr Pettit may have advised me that I might have to
use some of my pennies to account for the shortfall in stock but I don’t
recall it.
There
were some other interesting jobs for the “task” force. Some I remember
were…
·
Washing the coke – I think it was used in the main kitchen
for heating/cooking – a gruelling, filthy, suffocating procedure but we seemed
to like the challenge.
·
Gardening at the Staff Kitchen for Mrs Stevenson, the staff
cook, – Adrian Benstead and I spent hours there hacking out a particularly
vicious geranium infestation. One day, when I thought she was away, I was
snooping around peeking through the almost continuous windows and was startled
to see that she was merely having a day off and was in bed reading! A lesson
learned.
·
Working in the communal vegetable garden, down by the river,
under the supervision of Mr Mihovilivich (apologies if not spelled correctly)
who some referred to as “Duncle”. It was an opportunity for would be smokers
to have a surreptitious fag away from the prying eyes of staff. I am thankful I
was never able to handle smoking.
·
Manning the dairy – smelly and sloppy work but still did
not seem to bother those who scored that one.
·
Working in the laundry – girls only so I don’t know much
about that. I did hear a story about one of the girls being ribbed for
“romantically” laying her boyfriend’s pyjamas on top of hers in the
ironing press. (If this is you - own up and tell us your story!)
·
Chopping wood at the girls’ cottages – I would think that
all the boys were quite happy to do that one. I know I was.
Trying
to outsmart the authorities (staff) was a constant game as we grew older. One
such event was the attempt by myself and
Letters
To Your Parents
Friday
brought letter writing night. We diligently wrote to our parents. Gibby read our
letters – to “check the spelling” – and returned them to us for sealing
in the envelope and then gathered them up for posting. A good procedure, I
suspect, to ensure that no complaints got through. It probably taught us to only
tell about the good things and therefore focus on the better aspects of our
lives.
I
never did get used to the constant, urgent need of our sports/house master (Noel
Wishart) to inflict interminable exercise through sport. We had football,
hockey, basketball, cricket, softball, weekly athletics carnivals and weekly
swimming carnivals according to season and gender. Running with spiked shoes was
the one thing I took a liking to because it was the one thing I could do with a
bit of success. We were fortunate to get some tennis courts and a basketball
court and I managed to develop a liking for tennis. There were occasional
flash-in-the-pan schemes to help us “grow” and probably intended more to
keep us occupied and therefore free from the idle hands problem that you’ve
heard about. One such scheme was fitness training in the gym (now the museum in
the clubhouse) which came to be known as “belly training” – you can make
your own guesses as to the source of that name (chances are you’ll recognise
the title and why it occurred). It was fun and did actually help our fitness but
I don’t remember it going on for very long. One day John Line showed up as
deputy principal or something and decided to use his army experience to give us
“initiative training”. Again we went to the gym and had to solve problems
like how to cross a make-believe ravine with a clubhouse bench, some rope and a
team of buddies. It too was fun but didn’t last long. Most likely the constant
change was to prevent mutiny.
The
most memorable change was that I became captain of my sport team in all manner
of things at which I was totally inept. I captained a footy team, a cricket team
and a swimming team without any trace of qualification to do so – except that
I was able to make a speech after the game and I could organize little kids. It
was another learning experience but I did not really deserve the role.
Nevertheless I did find plenty of enjoyment in our sporting/social exchanges
with
Movies
Every
week, on Saturday night, we paid one penny to get into the clubhouse for a
movie. Noel Wishart generally ran these sessions and we had a magnificently
clattery old 16mm projector. We sat on backless, wooden benches. Girls on one
side of the aisle – boys on the other. Most of the movies were ok but some
were so bad that we got more entertainment from counting down the seconds to the
start of the new reel. Do you remember the clock device that wiped out the
number and revealed the next one? Then suddenly the next part of the movie would
start. Occasionally the film would jam and overheat and we hooted at the
projected scene melting into a white hole as the film blistered into
nothingness. The high school kids always new the title of the week’s film
before the “School Notices” came out because it was collected from the
railway station by the school bus driver on Friday mornings. One lucky kid would
be appointed to actually run down the platform and pick up the film box. He
would get back on the bus and everyone would yell out, “What’s the movie?”
There was a period when the kid who did this was obliged to yell back, “Toby
Tyler!” because it had been a frequent, less than exciting, visitor to our
theatre. I can’t even remember what it was about but I know I roared with
laugher, along with everyone else, at this lame joke every time it was made.
Black
and white TV arrived at some time but it was mostly junk even then and very few
of us had access. TV became a sore point with some of the cottage mothers when
one had a TV and the other didn’t so she would “lose” her boys to some
other woman! I don’t know if this happened with the girls. When Gibby got a TV
she (and some of the boys) used to watch the wrestling, with “Killer
Kowalski” and other such heroes, and she would get really wound up as if those
guys were right there in our lounge and could hear her yelling at them. I
preferred “Bandstand” or whatever was the equivalent at that time.
Monthly
Events
Monthly
haircuts were always a source of great amusement and serious ribbings for the
boys – especially the high school boys. Haircuts were invariably inflicted
after dinner and so there was no escaping the jeers or whistles as you arrived
late and made your grand entrance into the homework session. We lined up to take
turns at George Elliot’s house - whipped
off our shirts, sat on a wooden crate, and he promptly slashed a hair trimmer
straight up the sides and rears of our heads. It seemed as if he didn’t ever
touch the front or top because some boys could comb their forelocks back to
cover the ghastly cold patch on the back of the neck. I don’t think my
childhood, front wave has ever recovered. Didn’t stop me from being a “long
haired type” in the 70s though.
Monthly
socials were an absolute highlight and were usually supervised by Noel Wishart.
We had elected prefects who had the responsibility of decorating the club house
and organising catering and music. I think we were lucky to have Marlene Roberts
in our era because without her we probably would not have had supper properly
organised. The boys had to bring a bottle of soft drink and the girls had to
bring a plate of food. These events were always anticipated with nervousness and
excitement. “Will I get to dance with…?”; “Who’s got a tie I can
borrow?”; “Will my shoes be trendy enough?”; “Will we get some good
music?”. The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” was always popular. In those
days most of us knew how to dance holding our partner. The last dance of the
night was always the most exciting because it was now or never, and we would
pluck up the courage to ask the right girl for the dance. Someone would turn off
the lights so we could dance in the dark and Noel W. would flash the lights on
and off without warning just to make sure nobody was kissing! No doubt our kids
would find it quite lame nowadays but we loved it.
Another
monthly event was often referred to as “boarders’ weekend”. I was never
involved so I have doubts about the accuracy of this.
Kids would pack for a weekend and get on the school bus –
affectionately known as the “Yellow Submarine” – and head for
We
were rarely allowed to withdraw money from our bank accounts and then only after
a grilling by the Gestapo to ascertain the direction of our spending.
Consequently I only tried once to access money and that attempt failed
miserably. I tried to withdraw money to buy a present for my Mum but the Gestapo
officer didn’t believe me when I told him the date of my Mum’s birthday as
Bob Mitchell’s mum had a birthday the same day and therefore I must have been
trying it on!?!? At the time it was harrowing but looking back now it seems the
process might have been merely a misguided attempt to educate us about money
management.
I
am still curious about one thing. If I had several years of one shilling (later
10 cents of course) per week being deposited to my account – and little or no
money taken out - why, on the day I left, did I receive a total withdrawal of
the grand sum of only five or six dollars?? Many years later I heard a
disturbing explanation for it but it would be unwise to repeat that in print
without evidence. We certainly learned about earning money but I don’t
think the savings lesson was well managed.
Expeditions
On The Farm
A
much anticipated event was any expedition within the farm boundaries. There was
“Welley Pool” and the general region known as the hills but more
specifically, “Happy Valley” and of course the swimming pool behind the weir
(in the river – not that concrete box that some of us hated due to
interminable swimming “carnivals”).
Welley
Pool was wonderful. The water was clean and fresh and you could live your life
there as a kid. There were marron to catch, boats to sail, a natural platform to
jump off, a rope to swing on and endless water fun. I lost a small,
battery-powered, motor boat, I had received as a gift, when it got sucked into a
tiny underwater cave which went deeper than anyone’s arm length. I was
devastated. That boat was a miniature of my futuredream.
Happy
valley was exactly that. Summer weekends or holiday excursions there were a
kid’s idea of bliss. We had a tremendous, long, mud slide that ended with a
mighty splash in the river so you could run back up dripping wet and do it
again! We usually went in great groups of several or all cottages together, but
sometimes you could go with just a couple of mates. At the end of the afternoon
it was invariably, “Aw, do we have to go now? Can’t we just have one more
slide?” Just the walk to the valley and back was an adventure of its own. Some
people could balance along on the water main – even at places where it crossed
a deeper than usual dip and even with others pushing from behind. Whose turn is
it to carry the billy or the picnic stuff? Who can get away with playing a joke
on the cottage mothers that wouldn’t work elsewhere? Could you hold hands with
your secret sweetheart while straggling behind a little? The day invariably
finished with that glowing, exhausted feeling after showers and dinner in your
own cottage.
Other
Distractions
Some
kids had musical instruments to play. There was one boy, Martin Wall, who was
very good at guitar and he entertained us on many an occasion. I acquired a
piano accordion but I was always banished to the laundry for practice as I made
too much noise. I eventually gave up trying - probably lacked the drive. Learned
guitar later in life anyway and have had considerable enjoyment with hundreds of
children while I was teaching in primary schools and made some income playing
pubs. Some kids got quite good on the recorder – you know, that whistle thing
that was always taught in Grade Four.
There
was an outbreak of Scarlet Fever which was very exciting because we were
quarantined and could not go into Pinjarra to attend high school. In spite of
the quarantine there were not many actual cases of scarlet fever. That event
would have provided ammunition for the one or two high school kids who
“hated” Fairbridge kids.
Mandurah
camp was always great fun in the Christmas holidays. The only thing that spoiled
it was latrine duty but even that was tolerated in the usual Fairbridge way and,
as far as I know, no one picked up any diseases by getting accidentally splashed
from a huge bucket of blended urine. The open air dining room was a treat and
there was always some fun activity in camp or at the beach. I think we even had
an outdoor movie or two.
Pushbikes
were a source of endless activity. Noel Wishart used to drive somewhere with a
trailer and come back with a load of bike frames and miscellaneous parts. There
was a pecking order, based on age, and the best quality parts went to the first
in line. If you missed out you just had to wait until Noel’s next trip. Some
bikes had to be seen to be believed! Mismatched gears and chains would cause a
sudden jump and a frequent, ungainly, unintended dismount. Front forks at the
wrong angle would make steering an advanced skill. Lack of brakes would be
really exciting! Cushioned saddles were strictly for wimps. Cow horn handlebars
were scarce but some boys modified theirs by filling the tube with sand, heating
it over a bonfire and bending it into the desired shape. Ingenious!
My
bike frequently got me a, “Tut! Tut!” from the nursing sister when I
reported to the hospital for bodily repairs. Once she even confiscated my bike
so that I could complete one set of repairs before generating a fresh injury.
Eventually that bike was killed by some woman who accidentally drove her car
over it outside the dairy. That day I had to carry the billy and the bike back
to
As
we became bolder with our riding skills we entered the “broggy”
competitions. The object was to start riding at the church, gain as much speed
as possible as you raced down the hill towards the dining room and hit the
brakes, or force the “fixed wheel” to lock, as soon as you hit the gravel.
The longest skid mark resulted in the rider being held in awe by the admiring
onlookers and fellow competitors.
One
Christmas we were all extremely impressed when a boy in our cottage received,
from his mum, a brand new Malvern Star bike – with gears and proper brakes –
worth twenty-six pounds, nineteen shillings and sixpence!
Christmas
was always special and great fun. We had a visit from Santa who arrived on a
trailer pulled by the tractor. He gave out gifts (from your parents) and
lollies. This was, on one occasion at least, actually the brother of Mrs Fry
(matron). Some years later I was told that this man was the well known
politician, Kim Beasley (snr) and therefore, I assume, Mrs Fry was Aunty to the
current Kim Beasley – politician.
At
any time it could be a surprise, a relief or a sadness to discover that some
family was leaving Fairbridge to go off and re-establish their family unit in
the city or a country town or even another state. Very occasionally they would
be giving up and returning to
Embarrassed
hugs and, “See you around,” were generally the best I could muster. I
sometimes later cringed with guilt at having made parting comments intended to
be amusing but turning out to be sarcastic through youthful inexperience. I am
sure that some potential life long friends were lost in those brief moments of
emotional ignorance.
Sometimes
there would be staff changes and the inevitable, all important question at
primary school: “Who will be my teacher next year?”
During
the latter part of 1969, my mum and, recently acquired at the time, step-dad got
fed up with my complaining and paid for me to board in Pinjarra for the last
part of my high school leaving year. Neil Armstrong said wise words on the moon
and some bloke won a brand new Valiant Charger (from radio 6PR maybe) for
guessing nearest to the actual minute Neil stepped onto the lunar surface. We
passed our exams and went out to face the world as independent souls, establish
a source of income and our place in society and maybe raise families of our own.
Yes,
it was a long trip from
Note:
Much of the above story was deliberately written as if being spoken aloud and
some comments may seem derogatory. They are intended to be amusing and from the
point of view of a young child through to a teenager so please don’t be
offended. Any one who feels the need to communicate with me can e-mail me at:
js1@westnet.com.au.
If
you can find the time I, and many others, would really like to read how you
remember your time at Fairbridge. Please add your memories to this archive.
If
you’ve read this far I appreciate your patience. My ego is now soothed.
Everything
appeared somehow smaller – even the church.
I
did enjoy the re-union and it was great catching up with friends from my
cottage, and other people I would count as friends even though we rarely get
together. I even found an old flame – not that she is old, just a flame. As
with all these occasions I found there was not enough time to really listen to
any one person. I would have liked to have had more time with everyone who had a
story to tell.
I
was disappointed that very few people from my era brought their families to
Fairbridge (including myself) but I guess that’s just the way it is. I was
impressed that some people recognised me even though I didn’t recognise them.
“You haven’t changed!” was flattering but amusing. I don’t think I had a
beard, glasses or a larger waistline than I should have, when I was a Fairbridge
kid.
While
there were lots of people on site I was greatly enjoying the visit but I found
it quite different after everyone left.
I
wandered around by myself taking more pictures. That old weir was looking very
forlorn. The diving board was trying to drown itself for lack of children to
play with. The dairy was feeling abandoned. The hospital was very ill. While I
was capturing photograph memories around
I
guess it was a sense of loss at what I perceived as destruction of part of my
personal history (a bit self-centred really). Not that I hadn’t expected major
changes but change is rarely experienced exactly as it is imagined it will be.
I
had to sit down for a few minutes and get myself together again. Muttering
things like, “I really don’t need to be here.” It was a totally unexpected
re-action.
After
a few minutes I was OK again and no-one appeared so I continued taking pictures
around the farm – wondering about life’s abundant capacity to confront us
with new lessons. I packed up my camera and headed off to spend the night at my
friend’s house in Mandurah, and refresh myself for the trip home to my family
and the present.
A History of Fairbridge Farm School, Pinjarra, Western Australia
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