The Backdrop to my early youth was the Second World War. Initially a European war, when Japan entered the fray in December 1941, it extended to South-East Asia. Perth prepared for an invasion that was not to be. The Japanese captured my father in Java; he spent over three years in a prisoner of war camp and did not return home until the end of 1945. During his absence, with the onset of puberty, I entered a period of great sensitivity and loneliness, offset only by the diligence with which I pursued my school and then my university studies. However, slowly I came out of my shell. I developed a few friends who were not of my mother's making and, during my university course, spent a year living in Melbourne away from home. At the age of twenty-one I gave up the practice of religion, worked in Sydney for a year after graduation and then, unexpectedly, received an offer of a lectureship at the University of Western Australia. Returning to Perth, I continued my painful emancipation from loneliness, culminating in marriage to Kathleen Melson in December 1954. This opened an entirely new phase of my life.

- I

In 1941, after the departure of Dad overseas to Singapore and Malaya, the war in Europe escalated and my scrap book grew in size. Soon I was pasting material from newspapers into a second volume. By September 1940, Adolf Hitler's long-awaited blitz of London had started with 300 bombers attacking the East End. A week before Dad left to take up overseas duty in May 1941, 550 German planes, in brilliant moonlight, dropped hundreds of high explosive bombs and 100,000 incendiaries on London in a few hours. As the news came through to Western Australia, no wonder Dad felt that he must take part in the war against Germany, quite apart from any sense of adventure that he had.

My scissors were at work as our newspapers carried accounts of the sinking of the 45,000 ton Bismark, claimed by the Germans to be unsinkable. Soon, I cut out articles recounting the loss of the aircraft carrier, HMS Ark Royal and, much nearer to home, the sinking of HMAS Sydney off the coast of Western Australia. Germany invaded Russia and, on 7 December, the Japanese bombed the great US naval base at Pearl Harbour in Hawaii. This brought the United States of America into the war.

In January 1942 the Japanese pushed the Allied troops back in Malaysia and by mid-February they had taken Singapore. A few days later they bombed Darwin. The war had come to Australia and soon we expected Perth to be bombed, prior to invasion. In May, three Japanese miniature submarines made a daring attack in Sydney harbour and torpedoed several ships.

- II

Before the Japanese entered the war, Mother received regular letters from Dad. He reached Singapore in June 1941 and Mother celebrated her wedding anniversary by herself - for the first time in sixteen years. Each week a letter arrived, first from Singapore then, later, from Butterworth in Malaya. I remember

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Mother received a parcel containing two beautifully carved heads, while Joan and I each received a coconut carved with a face. I also received a Malayan Kris sword. Mother's diary noted:

In his spare time at Butterworth Vic was the mess secretary. Soon, Butterworth got the name of being the best fed station in the RAF and at least cost. Vic was paraded before the commanding officer at Singapore Headquarters and appointed command messing officer for the RAF in the Far East.. . . Vic certainly went places. They wanted an organiser and he excels in that work. He went to every RAF station in Malaya, and to north and south Burma.

Then came the news: “War declared against Japan”. Mother learnt this at 9.30 in the morning in December 1941. She wrote:

It came as a terrific blow to me, I just collapsed on my bed and cried so bitterly; the horror of it all hurt so much. I was alone and wanted Vic so much. The day had come that I knew would come, when sorrows hung more heavily on my shoulders and I just felt I couldn't bear any more.

When Singapore fell, Mother received a brief cable from Dad: “Safe and Well” - presumably from Java. At the beginning of March we received news of the loss of HMAS Perth, sunk with total loss of life in the Sunda Straits. Then, both Broome and Wyndham were bombed and a few days later, Java capitulated to the Japanese.

We now expected Dad home any day as one of his colleagues, having escaped from Java, rang and asked for him - expecting that he would have returned. One by one, Dad's RAF friends turned up, but Dad did not arrive. Mother wrote:

Why, oh why should it always be me to be so unlucky? Vic didn't escape - - - ? . . . I had a bad heart turn in the morning and felt really ill. The shocks I am getting upset me so much. My nervous system is awful and my heart pounds for its life. Sometimes I feel it will burst, and I feel so miserable and ill.

It was not until 28 July 1942 that an elderly man bicycled from his home in Leederville to tell mother that he had heard a message from Batavia radio to say that Dad had been taken prisoner of war on 8 March. Several people throughout Australia picked up this message and wrote to her; However, this was unofficial and for a long time she could not be sure whether he was alive or dead.

In November 1942 she received a message from him but it was full of propaganda. This read:

I am a prisoner of war in Java, I was taken soon after the capitulation, by the Nipponese Government, on March 8th. Fortunately I am in good health and I am being well treated by the Nipponese Army.

The Nipponese Army appear to be well equipped and of high morale, whereas the few English troops and many Dutch did not appear to be keen, leaving much of the work to be done by the Australians, as usual. There was, however, little fighting in Java, our allies showing their usual attitude of muddle.

You have probably heard many stories of bad treatment of prisoners by the Nipponese Army, but I have no hesitation in saying from my own observation that this is not so; we are well treated, and food is sufficient - rice, soup and tea.

It is generally felt that the sooner this is over and Australia makes peace with the Nipponese the better it will be for all. Do not worry about me, as I feel sure I will be home soon. Much love to you, Joan and Jack.

He knew that she would take no notice of the propaganda he was forced to write, but it was one way of letting her know that he was alive. When Dad returned to Australia at the end of 1945 he was anything but well. He had left Australia weighing 14 stone ( 196 lbs or 89 kg) and returned weighing 7 stone (98 lbs or 45 kg). He never regained good health and, after his death in 1974, Mother was declared a war widow.

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THE SECOND WORLD WAR DAD BECOMES A JAPANESE PRISONER OF WAR

It was on 15 September 1945 that Mother heard on the radio that the war was over. The Allies had dropped two atomic bombs, the first on Hiroshima on 6 August and the second on Nagasaki on 9 August. It was not until twenty-eight years later, in 1973, that she could write of this:

I just couldn't believe it, after all these years. I just burst into tears, my mind flashing - was Vic alive? I had three cards from him in Java, each twelve months old, so anything could have happened. Everyone thought that Vic could not have lived through a POW life, but I knew and felt always that Vic had to be alive. But what state would he be in?

During Dad's long period as a prisoner of war I was aware of Mother's distress, but she hid much of it from us, and I was insensitive to most things outside myself. I remember once being irritated because she asked me not to play on the piano the song "My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean". The words of the song are:

Bread is broken - never cut - at dinner. Only a small portion should be taken at a time, in order to avoid biting off what we require. . . .

The book then discusses in minute detail the etiquette required in handling the menu card, the hors d'oeuvres, soup, fish, entrées, joints, sweets and cheese. The description continues:

The young guest should be acquainted with the various glasses which form part of the "cover", that is, the dinner service laid for each diner. A long

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stemmed glass with wide, shallow bowl, or else a small tumbler, is used for champagne. A green or rose coloured glass for hock; a small, ordinary glass for sherry. A claret-glass is midway in size between a sherry and a champagne glass. There are usually three glasses laid for each diner according to the wines served. . .

The ladies leave the dining room at a sign from the hostess to the principal lady guest. All the gentlemen stand while they leave, the gentleman nearest the door holding it open while they pass out and closing it after them.

Formerly, gentlemen spent a long time over their wine and cigars, but this practice has changed. Fifteen or twenty minutes is long enough for them to remain before joining the company in the drawing room. The gentleman of highest rank leads to the drawing room; the host follows last. Coffee and liqueurs are served in the drawing room.

We could not prise Brian away from this book until he had absorbed every section. Years later I joked that it was this book, and the time Brian spent reading it at our home, that set him on the path to become the managing director of Australia's biggest company, BHP. But, joking aside, although the book was old-fashioned, there was much in it that was useful. While I was often shy, I was never embarrassed in later years through inadequate knowledge about how to behave in any company.

- VI

We dubbed the third year of high school “The Junior” year; at the end of the year all students faced their first public examination to obtain their Junior Certificate. Two years' later they sat for the Leaving Certificate. Those gaining passes in appropriate subjects matriculated into the University of Western Australia. Joan had taken her "Junior" in 1941, left school and started a secretarial course in 1942. I was to sit for my “Junior” in 1942, but continued to absent myself from school as much as possible for fear of the strap. Two months before the examination, the headmaster, Brother Keenan, wrote to my mother:

This boy has missed so much school this year, he will be ineligible to sit for the Junior Examination.

Nonetheless, I sat for the examination, did very well, and obtained a scholarship to continue my studies. I applied for two scholarships: The Coombe Scholarship, which was a government scholarship, and the Lynn Scholarship, offered by the Catholic Church. I remember being very nervous while sitting in Government House ballroom, which had been converted to government offices during the war, awaiting my call for interview. Never before had I faced a panel of six people who threw questions at me. I remember saying that I was interested in electricity and hoped to become an electrical engineer. One panel member asked me what was electricity? Part of my answer was that, like the wind, it was something that could not be seen, but that its effects could be noted and measured. This seemed to satisfy him.

The Lynn scholarship was more valuable than the Coombe scholarship in that, besides giving financial support for the last two years of school, it also offered support for three years at the university. When I was awarded it, I withdrew from the Coombe Scholarship because I could not hold both.

In 1942 the school leaving age was fourteen, and most students taking the Junior were over fifteen years of age. Very few went on to further schooling. The only "senior" government high school was Modern School in Subiaco. My school did not go beyond that year, although they were about to introduce two higher classes. Private schools catered for those who wanted to continue their education, and Mother was

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very anxious that I should attend one of the four Public Schools. In Western Australia, the name "Public School" had the same meaning as in Britain: a private, fee-paying school of some privilege. A good education at a "snob" school appealed to my mother. In Perth these were Hale School, Guildford Grammar School, Scotch College and Aquinas College, so in 1943 I transferred to the Catholic Aquinas College.

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Aquinas was a long way from home, so I started at 7.30 in the morning, walked to Walcott street where I caught the number 19 tram that travelled down Walcott Street to Beaufort Street, and continued into the city. I alighted in Barrack street at the St. George's Terrace corner and then walked across the road to catch a "Metro" bus shortly after 8.00 am. Many Aquinas "day" boys caught this bus, which travelled across the causeway and then headed down Canning Highway. We alighted at the Como side of Canning Bridge and awaited the arrival of the small bus owned by the school. This was a broken-down affair powered by gas-producer, and was not always reliable. It got us senior boys to school ready for classes that started at 8.30 am. Junior boys arrived later. Our classes ended at 3.45 pm when we reversed the procedure, although two Metro buses came to the College itself, left at 4.00 pm and returned us to the city. By the time I reached Barrack Street and waited for the number 19 tram, I was among the shoppers and workers returning home; the trams were usually very crowded. At night I did two to three hours of homework, so it was a long day.

The tram was a very popular form of transport. From Barrack Street, the number 15 ran up to North Perth via Bulwer and Fitzgerald Streets. The number 18 ran out to the end of Beaufort Street, Inglewood, while my tram only went out Walcott Street, Mt.Lawley to the junction with Fitzgerald Street. Other trams ran along Hay Street, west to Subiaco, or east to Victoria Park. Several routes, such as to Crawley and Nedlands had been disbanded in favour of buses - all of which were privately owned. A completely independent tram system operated in Fremantle. Our trams had wooden seats with slatted wooden backs, hinged at the base so they could be swung over from one side of the seat to the other. Passengers then always faced the direction of travel. The tram in Walcott Street went along a single track in the middle of the road. Sometimes, while waiting for a tram to return from the Fitzgerald Street terminus, I would hear the banging sound of the seat backs being swung over for the return journey.

The trams could be driven from either end and, besides the driver, a conductor collected fares, and called out to passengers to move down the tram when the central aisle was crowded and ever more people were trying to get aboard. The adult fare into the city was threepence, and for a child, one penny. These trams were hazards to motorists, who always passed them on the left-hand side. I remember that, when I learnt to drive a car at the age of seventeen, I was always afraid to pass a tram, particularly if I could see a parked car ahead. As motor vehicle traffic increased, the trams gave way to trolley buses and motor buses.

My journey to and from school was usually without incident although on the homeward trip the boys were very noisy. We knew the friendly bus-drivers, and often urged them to go faster, or to pass this car or that. Fortunately, they just grinned and took no notice of our urging unless it was safe.

One morning as I walked to the bus in St. George's Terrace, Sir James Mitchell, the Lieutenant Governor, stopped me. Jimmie Mitchell, as he was known, was a very popular man and often took morning walks from Government House in the Terrace. He said to me:

‘I see you go to Aquinas College. What class are you in?’ ‘Sub-Leaving.’ ‘I hope you don't smoke or drink.’ ‘No I don't.’ ‘Good. I want you to take my advice: don't start smoking. If you decide not to smoke and put the money that you would save in a box, then, when you turn twenty-one, you can come to me and I will double the amount you have saved.’

I did not take his advice, as I tried smoking for a while when I was at the University, but I have often wondered what would have happened if, at the age of twenty-one, I had turned up at Government House and claimed my reward!

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One day on my way home an incident of a very different kind disturbed me. As my tram neared Walcott Street, it came to a halt. There seemed some commotion on the left. Looking out of my window to the road on my left I saw the body of a boy of twelve, lying in a pool of blood. This gave me a great shock. He seemed dead, and I presumed he had been hit by a motor car.

- VII When I transferred to Aquinas, I found that my respected science and mathematics teacher, Brother Hodda, had also transferred to that school. This was good, as I enjoyed his teaching. Unfortunately, another of my classmates also transferred so that, whereas I had hoped that I would leave the nickname Handsome behind me, it stayed with me until the end of my school days.

Mathematics always intrigued me and, in 1943, I discovered two things of interest: the Slide Rule, and Calculus. One day when rummaging in a draw in my father's desk, I came across a slide rule and tried to discover how it worked. It was a simple device for performing multiplication and division with limited accuracy. In later years, with the advent of the electronic pocket calculator, it became as the dinosaur - an extinct species but, throughout my undergraduate years, every engineering student carried one.

The slide rule consisted of a slotted rule with another rule sliding inside the slot. I noted that the ivory-like surfaces were finely engraved with numbers ranging from 1 to 10, but they were not uniformly spaced. The distance from 1 to 2 seemed the same as the distance from 2 to 4 or of 4 to 8. Other mysterious scales were also marked on the rule. A sliding rectangular piece of glass fitted over the scales and this had a hairline mark in the middle for lining up the numbers on the various scales. Although I found a way to perform multiplication with it, I had to await a visit of my grandfather, Harry Rumble, to show me its proper use.

He told me that the scales were divided logarithmically and that, by moving the slide, one could add different physical lengths and so carry out multiplication or, by subtracting physical lengths, division. Because the scales had limited precision and accuracy, the result was always approximate. He moved the slide on my rule to illustrate the multiplication of two by two:

1 2 4 8 7 Body 1 2 4 8 7 Slide

Setting the “1" on the slide against the “2" on the body of the rule, he read the number on the body corresponding to “2" on the slide.

‘There you are,’ he said, ‘see that! Two times two equals......’

and, looking at the rule closely, he proudly pronounced: ‘3.99'. He laughed at his little joke illustrating the limited accuracy of rule, and of the absurdity of the user not recognising common sense. I quickly learnt to use the slide rule to check sums that I had done by longhand, or by using four-figure tables of logarithms.

In the 1940s calculus was not introduced until one reached university level. Much of our work at school in applied mathematics and dynamics involved labourious geometric proofs. For my birthday in 1942 Mother gave me a large book called An Outline of Wireless, which I found very well written. Early in the following year, I discovered in Alberts Bookshop in Forrest Place another book by the same author, entitled: The Mathematics of Wireless. The book was expensive and cost nine shillings and sixpence, so I saved up until I could buy it. I read it from cover to cover and was fascinated by two particular chapters. One had the title A Nibble at Differential Calculus and the other, A Nibble at Integral

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Calculus. Soon I discovered that this powerful tool enabled me to prove most of the principles of dynamics in a very simple and elegant way.

One day at school, having been taught a certain proof in dynamics, Brother Hodda asked everyone in the class to demonstrate their understanding by writing it down as a test. He took all the results away to mark them. Next day, when we were doing individual class work, he called me out to his desk. There he had my proof in which I had used calculus.

‘Do you understand what you are doing?’ He asked. ‘Yes, I've read a book on the subject.’ ‘Then, explain it to me.’ I spent the next fifteen minutes explaining to him my proof and my understanding of the principles of calculus. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘As you understand it, you can use it.’

I found that dynamics was much easier when I used this more elegant approach.

Once a week I went to school dressed in army uniform as a member of the School cadets. We were issued with ancient 310 calibre rifles, which we actually used once when a bus took us to Claremont Rifle Range. We spent most of the time cleaning them, presenting arms, and discovering the joys of being ordered about by a drill sergeant. My only difficulty was that I had trouble on route marches because of my flat feet. Once a year we had an army camp for a week. Of these camps I only recall one very embarrassing situation. Every boy can throw a ball overarm - that is, every boy except me. During the camp we had hand-grenade practice. Our platoon formed a long line and, one by one, we took a dummy grenade and threw it as far as possible on to the oval. My heart was in my mouth, as I knew I could not throw. If I threw underarm, I would be laughed at; so I attempted overarm. The grenade landed only a few feet from the line.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?’ Screamed the burly, middle-aged drill sergeant. ‘You've just blown up the whole bloody platoon! ‘How the bloody hell can you reach this age without knowing how to throw a bloody ball?’

Everyone burst into laughter and I retired, shamed and perspiring. My skills lay elsewhere.

Beneath the wooden grandstand at the side of the oval, the College had a hall in which movies were shown to boarders on Saturday nights. However, at the end of 1943, the old projector wore out. Being wartime, a new one could not be bought. Brother Hodda knew a mechanical engineer who said he would make a new projector for him in his workshop, but he could not supply the sound equipment. Knowing that I knew something of electronics, Brother Hodda asked me whether I could tackle the job. So, I took it on. First I found out what electronic parts could be bought, and then I designed an amplifier to use them. I felt relieved when finally the job was completed, everything worked, and the boarders again could have their movies.

Over the two years after leaving the Highgate school, I took great interest in writing small booklets. From the age of ten I had used my father's typewriter, two-finger style, and loved writing. My most ambitious project was to write a textbook on chemistry up to Junior standard. This took several hundred pages; I bound it with care. In December 1943 I wrote an eighty-page booklet, which I called The Mathematics of Set Construction. Then, with my knowledge of the slide rule, I saw examples of nomographs, or abacs, which, by placing a rule across a page on which various scales were drawn, calculations could be made. I discovered how they worked, wrote a booklet on the subject and included several practical examples - such as an abac to work out gas volume, pressure, temperature relationships.

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INTERESTS IN MATHEMATICS & SCIENCE ARMY CADETS MATRICULATION

At the end of 1944 I gained the science prize at school, took my Leaving examination, did well, and matriculated into the University to enrol in engineering.

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Again, I found myself not unhappy to be leaving school. The Brothers decreed that, when we entered our Sub-Leaving year, we were too old to receive the strap as a daily routine. This, however, did not prevent one or two Brothers from meting out rough treatment. We had an English teacher, whose name I forget because we only knew him as “Basher”.

While we were doing our work, he strolled up and down the aisle between two rows of desks. If he thought someone was not paying sufficient attention to his books, on reaching the back of the room, he would turn round and walk slowly to the front. When he reached the offender, he would deliver him a powerful blow with his open hand either to the side of the head or to the shoulder. This usually knocked the boy out of his seat and on to the floor. Basher said nothing, he waited until the boy resumed his seat, and then he walked on. Although this did not happen often, whenever he walked to the back of the room and turned around quietly, everyone was in fear that they would become the object of his displeasure.

Basher required us to memorise his own critique of various pieces of literature. He never encouraged us to discuss it and give personal views. We had to know the views he thought appropriate to express in the examination room. Apart from Brother Hodda, most of my teachers depended excessively on rote learning, with the threat of punishment, should we not comply. Perhaps it was a reflection of the authority of the Church, where we were required to accept and not question its teachings. In May 1944, Brother Green, who taught me Latin, wrote on the bottom of my term report:

It is a pity John is absent so often. I hope this term will be better for him.

I suffered excessively from bad colds, but I also continued my practice of malingering. School did little for me that I could not do for myself. I left Aquinas with no feeling of belonging to the school; I had no desire to return, and never did.

- VIII

In the last three years of school, outwardly at least, I had achieved much. Starting with the experience of making announcements at school concerts, in 1942 I had delivered a successful public address; the award of a shining cup bolstered my self-confidence. Slowly I became more independent and learnt to travel by myself on tram and bus. I increased my range of personal associations through holidaying at Cottesloe. I saw Brian and Harold Loton when mother invited them to our home, or arranged for me to visit them. However, I would never initiate anything, and made no real friends outside school hours. By not taking part in the rough and tumble of sport and by not learning to mix with and work with a group, I missed the basic socialisation process that I badly needed, as it had been lacking at Yarloop. I felt shy and awkward and would not take part in any group activity.

When I was fourteen, my sister had a birthday party at our home. They started playing the game of "postman's knock". An equal number of boys and girls sat in our lounge room and each was given a number on a piece of paper, the boys having odd numbers and the girls having even numbers, but no one present knew who had which number. To start the game, a boy left the room and went into the hallway out of view of everyone. He then chose an even number. This was announced, and the girl with that number joined the boy in the Hall where they kissed and cuddled. The girl then told the boy an odd number, which he announced on returning to the lounge room. Whatever boy had that number then joined the girl in the hall for a kiss and a cuddle. This went on until almost all the boys had kissed and cuddled all the girls. It was a popular teenage game but it terrified me. I ran to the back fence and hid, refusing to come anywhere near the house until everyone had gone home. I then worried about what everyone thought of me for opting out in such a childish way.

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FINAL SCHOOL DAYS ADOLESCENT SENSITIVITY PUBERTY AND SEX

So sensitive did I become that I would not visit friends who lived nearby because I might not be welcomed, or I might be rejected. This feeling of rejection and criticism from others was very strong. If, when walking home along the footpath, I saw someone I knew coming towards me on the same footpath, I crossed over to the other side of the street and walked along, looking at the gardens, pretending that I had not seen them. In this way I avoided the dreadful embarrassment of having to say hello.

When travelling on the tram with my mother and sister, Mother always expected me to hand up the money and ask for the tickets - because she said “it was nice for the man to do this.” This terrified me. When I travelled alone on the tram I knew the fare exactly, but held it in my hand, counting it, over and over again, before the conductor reached me. Although I counted it fifty times, I was convinced that he would accuse me of trying to cheat him by tendering the wrong amount. An even greater fear occurred when I reached fifteen years of age and might be expected to pay an adult fare. If I offered up a child's fare, I was convinced that the conductor on reaching me would say ‘How old are you? Don't give me that, you should be paying an adult fare.’

Sometimes, coming home on a crowded tram with people standing packed in the aisle, we would reach the point where I should alight before the conductor took my fare. It was too difficult to reach him to give him my money, and yet I was convinced that if I simply got off the tram without paying my fare he would see me and call out `What do you think you are doing, trying to get off without paying for your ticket?'

When we moved to Woodroyd Street, my parents installed a telephone. I refused to answer it. The prospect of having to speak to someone at the other end of the line frightened me. This irrational fear lasted all my life, although I eventually forced myself to use the phone. Usually I would not enter a shop to buy anything. If I saw something in the window that I badly wanted, I would walk past the window many times, trying to pluck up the necessary courage, only to go home, without making a purchase, and feeling very bad about it. There was one exception to this. When I visited Alberts bookshop and found a book I wanted to buy, I procrastinated for a long time, trying to overcome the fear of facing the salesman, but I usually made the purchase eventually.

For most youngsters, the period of adolescence is marked by a super-sensitivity about oneself; there are alternating periods of elation and depression; interest in the opposite sex develops and the first experimentation with close relationships takes place. Periods of self assertion, and rejection of authority particularly of parents - occur, often resulting in quarrels over rules and limits.

I fitted into this pattern only in some respects. I became very self-conscious around the age of fourteen or fifteen and very sensitive to what other people said about me, or what I thought they must think about me. Sometimes I criticised my mother but her standard reply was, `Don't say things like that, because it will hurt me too much.' I felt this to be a form of blackmail.

Just after my father returned from the War in 1945 and I was seventeen, he took me into a clothing shop in Perth to buy me a new suit. We could not find a ready-made suit to fit well. `Of course,' my father said to the salesman, `he's barrel chested.' The salesman agreed. I felt that I had leprosy, and hated my father for what he said. Always, throughout my childhood, I felt that my father put me down. He would start talking to me on some erudite matter -such as an aspect of Roman history that he loved - with the words, `Of course, as you well know . . .' Well, I didn't know. How could I be expected to know? But I felt that he did expect me to know and that I was thus an inferior being.

So, as I advanced further into my adolescent years, I advanced further into myself, and became introverted. To compensate, I read books, pursued radio as a hobby, and concentrated on my studies, which, fortunately, I enjoyed.

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As an older teenager it was quite impossible for me to form a close relationship with anyone - let alone with a girl. I had gone through puberty without knowing anything about the physical changes that would take place. My mother had not told me, and my father was a prisoner of war in Java. Even had he been home, my lack of relationship with him would have made communication impossible on so sensitive a topic. As I did not associate closely with other boys outside class, I knew nothing of boys' talk about sex. Since I had never seen a mature person naked, the physical and emotional changes overtook me completely by surprise. I did not know how to handle my emerging sexual drive, and engaged secretly in masturbation, feeling very guilty about this and about the fantasies that accompanied the act. I could not discuss this with anyone.

My Highgate school made some attempt at sex education but it was totally inadequate. We had a single half hour session when the local parish priest came to talk to us. Any boy in the class who was under fourteen had to leave -the talk was not for him. But whatever he talked about was in such vague and unreal terms for a boy of my age that its entire content now escapes me and had no impact on me at all, other than to make me aware that any new feelings I had were to be considered very sinful and should be confessed in the confessional.

Sex was simply not discussed in the respectable press, in books or on the radio. I felt that my feelings and fantasies must be much more intense and sinful than those of other boys and this made me feel very bad. Of course, I was just a normal boy experiencing the normal feelings of sexuality but, like most young inexperienced people, I felt that no one had the problem that I had, and my problem was too shameful to talk about to anyone, let alone such an authority figure as a priest.

Towards the end of 1942, when I was grappling with this problem, we had a religious retreat for one week at school. Sometime during the week we were expected to make a general confession - that is, make a confession for all the sins we had ever committed. As each day went by I became more and more agitated. By far, my greatest sins were the lustful thoughts I had when masturbating - and I did this daily, no matter how hard I tried not to. The priest was available to hear our confessions every day. I put it off, and put it off until it reached Friday. This was the last day, and I had not yet been to confession. So, I forced myself to go:

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ ‘Yes, my son.’ ‘I sometimes forget to say my prayers, I quarrel with my sister and am disobedient to my mother.’ ‘Yes, my son. . . Are you sure that is all?’ I came out in a cold sweat. Of course it wasn't all. There was a long pause, until finally I blurted out: ‘And sometimes I play with myself.....’ I trailed off. ‘Yes, my son, and does anything happen when you play with yourself?’ At this, courage failed me. Of course something happened, but how could I say it? So, I whispered ‘No.’ and could be drawn no further.

I came away from my confession visibly trembling with my shirt clinging to me, wet with perspiration. Inwardly I felt terrible, not only because of the ordeal I had gone through by making such an admission, but because of the guilt I felt through not telling the priest the truth. I had lied in the confessional.

It was then that I suddenly developed an interest in the Perth Public Library. I made several furtive visits to it and hunted for medical books, or for anything that discussed the subject of sex. I found quite a few, and could take these off the shelf, read them in some quiet corner, and then leave them there when I departed. Nobody need know what I was reading. So I read about the physiology of sex, and about the body changes at puberty. I learnt about menstruation and about sexual intercourse. I also read about various sexually transmitted diseases and about prostitution. Finally, I read about pregnancy and childbirth, and even a little about birth control. This extensive reading required many visits to the

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library. Never did I tell my mother what I read, and I always felt guilty when leaving the library. Fortunately, I no longer worried about my guardian angel.

After reading about sex in the public library and discovering the possibilities and dangers of pregnancy and of sexually transmitted diseases, I realised that there was no way I could let myself have casual sex with a girl, no matter how much I might desire it or fantasise about it. I could think of nothing worse than getting a girl pregnant. This attitude was governed by the following thoughts - in order of importance to me at that time: First, what would people think about me when they learnt that I had got a girl pregnant? Secondly, I would never be able to talk to a girl beforehand about steps to prevent conception; the whole subject was taboo; Anyway there was absolutely no way I could front up to someone in a chemist shop and ask for condoms. Finally, how would I possibly handle the problem of having a child and an unmarried mother on my hands?

One last incident occurred in 1946. My twenty year old sister, Joan, was about to leave Western Australia for America to marry Joe Dougan and mother gave her a book on sex and marriage. I plucked up the courage to ask her if I could read the book. She said she would ask Dad. Dad said, No. So one day, when they were all out, I went to the place where I knew it was hidden and read it for myself, secretly.

It was a great pity that this and my earlier reading in the public library had to be done furtively because it made me feel guilty, as the possessor of forbidden knowledge. I decided that sex would have to remain in my fantasies for quite some time. But the fear of a sexual relationship forming prevented me from making any kind of relationship at all. All people scared me, but girls doubly scared me.

- IX

My last year at school and the first year at university - 1944 and 1945 - were tumultuous years in the progress of World War II. In January 1944, just before the start of my school year, British and American troops landed in Italy and pushed towards Rome. Then, on 6 June, an enormous armada of Allied troops landed at Normandy, France. This was "D-Day" and the commencement of the “second front” urged for so long by the Russians, who were fighting the Germans in the East. We were very excited by the developments, but dismayed when we received news of the German “secret weapon” launched against London. First came the V1 rockets, and then the V2 rockets, fifteen-ton pilotless craft each carrying one ton of high explosive.

By February 1945 the Allies had hit back. Constant bombing raids reduced Dresden to rubble and, in April, Berlin was taken and Hitler committed suicide. The war in Europe was over, only to reveal the horrors of the German concentration camps. Grisly pictures of the Belsen death camp with emaciated and dead bodies appeared in our papers.

Progress was also made in the Asian arena against Japan, but the war with that country was brought to a precipitate end by the dropping of two atomic bombs in August 1945. So ended World War II and the world tried to return to normality. For me it was marked at the end of the year by the return of my father.

- X

The University of Western Australia that I was now about to enter was the only university in the State and was very small. Founded in 1913 and located initially at Irwin Street in central Perth, the Engineering School established itself on the Crawley site as early as 1914, occupying the old Shenton homestead. By 1945, all faculties of the University were at Crawley and the Engineering School still

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occupied Shenton House. Enrolments during World War II fell, but were never high, as the following figures show:

When I became a first year student in 1945, the only faculties and their enrolments were: Arts (455), Law (21), Science (216), Engineering (150) and Agriculture (30). Dental Science appeared in 1946, Education in 1948, Economics and Commerce in 1955 and Medicine in 1957. In my final year of engineering in 1949, that faculty had grown from 150 to 256 students.

The physical development of the Crawley site was correspondingly small. It centred on Whitfeld court with its reflection pond built by engineering students in 1932 and was flanked by Winthrop Hall to the south, the Library, Administration and Arts Faculty housed in a single building to the west and Hackett Hall, providing accommodation for the Guild of Undergraduates and a refectory, to the east. South of the Arts building was the Physics and Chemistry building. Geology and Zoology were located in buildings backing on to Kings Park. South of the main buildings and accessible through grounds that became marshy in winter, stood Shenton House with several outhouses for Civil and Mechanical Engineering workshops, and a two-storey brick building built in 1927, carrying the name "Engineering Hall". Much of this part of the site had been taken over by the Americans as part of the Catalina flying boat base, and they had erected some temporary buildings, now ready for demolition. The faculty of Agriculture was further south again.

I found that I was eligible for a Commonwealth scholarship and, as this was more valuable than the Lynn Scholarship, I relinquished the latter. Mother always thought it important to make contact with influential people and urged me to visit the university registrar, Professor Sanders, before beginning the academic year. This was unnecessary, but mother pushed me into it. My conversation with Sanders was polite and short.

‘What school have you come from?’ ‘Aquinas College.’ ‘Well, you'll be out by the end of the year.’

Sanders apparently had no faith in Catholic education and had seen too many young men come with brilliant school records, only to fail badly in the first year of their university course. For some reason, his statement did not upset me. I did not like the way most of the Brothers drilled their students by rote, and had already learnt to be self-disciplined in the matter of study.

As the first day of the academic year approached I became nervous. I knew no-one there. No-one in my Aquinas class had enrolled in engineering. I was still sixteen years of age, whereas most students entering the university were eighteen, or almost eighteen. I felt awkward and out of place. However, I soon found myself sitting quite comfortably in lectures. My main subjects were Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, a Structural Engineering unit and one in Engineering Drawing. There were just forty of us, and all were called “Reserved” students. The war years had drained students away from the university and the government now realised that it had to maintain a core of highly trained people - engineers being one important group. Anyone who had done well in their school examinations became a Reserved Student. Even if you were eighteen years of age, you could not join the armed services, but were reserved for higher education.

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THE UNIVERSITY IN 1945 INITIATION INTO THE UNIVERSITY ENGINEERS' CLUB

- XI

On the first Friday, as we sat in the prefabricated temporary drawing office beside Shenton House, a group of senior engineering students arrived. They announced themselves as officers of the UEC - The University Engineers' Club - to which we all belonged. They curtly told us that we were all to be sitting in the drawing office at 6.00 pm the following Friday to take part in our initiation into the club. We were to wear footy shorts and little else.

On the appointed day I found myself sitting on one of the benches waiting anxiously. We all knew that it was traditional that we be initiated into the club, and woe betides any young student who failed to turn up. The seniors had carefully circulated hair-raising stories about what would happen to such miscreants: They would be singled out during the following week, initiated with twice the severity of the rest of us and then taken by car into the centre of the city and dropped naked in the street amongst the office crowds and shoppers going home in the late afternoon. Such a threat was sufficient to ensure that all forty of us were present at the appointed hour.

We sat contemplating the glass of warm beer, the cold meat pie and the glass of milk the seniors required us to consume before the initiation started. Most of the seniors appeared a little drunk and gloated over us as they asked, by way of precaution, whether anyone present had a weak constitution or a heart condition, as they didn't want to have a death on their hands. They explained we would be initiated, one by one, by drawing names from a hat. Once initiated there would be a beer party, following which we were to march over to the reflection pond by Winthrop Hall and throw as many science students into it as possible. Their initiation was elsewhere on campus.

So it started. We were taken at three or four minute intervals.

‘Which one will it be this time? Let's take another name from the hat.’

‘Ah, yes we have the lucky one, it begins with a "B".’

‘Stand up all the people whose names begin with “B”. I wonder which one of you it is? Could it be you, or you?’

‘It's Bradshaw. Right, Bradshaw, out here. You know the score. Off with your shirt and shoes. Leave those here. Shorts only.’

So they marched Bradshaw out of the drawing office to disappear through the half-hatch door of the mechanical workshop opposite. As, one by one, our company became depleted, the noise from the nearby buildings rose. There was shouting, the sound of clanging iron, the sound of hitting interspersed with blood curdling screams. We guessed it to be carefully orchestrated sound effects for our benefit, but we couldn't be sure, so everyone put on a show of nervous bravado.

Every now and again one or two from the scene of action came to relieve our guards so they could take a turn in the general merriment. They spoke together in purposefully hushed, loud voices.

‘You should have seen that last one, Bill.’ ‘Yeah? What happened to him?’ ‘He just couldn't take it and passed out on us. I don't think he liked the sight of blood - his own.’ ‘How is he now?’ ‘Oh we brought him around, but he still had to go through with it.’ ‘Yeah?’

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‘Yeah, we had to hold him up on both sides. He really looked a mess when we finished with him. You get more in the end if you can't take it.’

We were subdued now. Another exaggerated account no doubt to scare us, but again, we couldn't be sure.

‘OK, Fall, You're next. Off with shirt and shoes.’

Heart beating fast, they led me through the half-hatch door. Inside a reception party awaited me. This was just the "softening up" waiting room.

‘Strip off, and get up on that table.’ My shorts were thrown on to a pile of others. I was prodded to clamber up on to a small desk. Half a dozen stood around, drinking.

‘Pretty poor specimen isn't he?’ ‘Knobbly knees and a sunken chest - where are the muscles?’ They walked around me derisively, poking fun. ‘He hasn't got much equipment either; the girls wouldn't go for him.’ ‘Now you've embarrassed him. Look, he's blushing.’ ‘Don't you know anything about the birds and bees, Fresher?’ ‘I bet he's never knocked off a girl.’

Someone rescued me by announcing: ‘We're ready’

‘OK, get down from there, Fresher. We're blindfolding you, and there's a cornflour paste on the inside of the blindfold, so keep your eyes shut. We'd hate you to get cornflour in them.’

Two fellows held me by the shoulders while a third came up behind and slipped a blindfold over my eyes and tied it tightly. The half dozen appeared to form a ring around me and buffeted me round and round from one to the other, generally manhandling me and roughing me up.

‘OK. Let's go!’ They grabbed my hands and rushed me off backwards at a stumbling half-running pace. They ran me through what seemed like several rooms, then pulled me backwards up some stairs until we reached a landing. There they twirled me round and round until I felt quite giddy. Next, they gave me a heavy push and realised I was falling backwards down the stairs. I flailed out in all directions, trying to save myself, but fell into two fellows a third of the way down who grabbed me and continued running me backwards down the stairs. At the bottom there was a deafening, almost ear-splitting noise. Later I discovered that someone had a long piece of metal that rang like a bell when struck, and this was being held right beside my head.

Stumbling on, they dragged me into what felt like a big room with all manner of sounds, yelling and screaming, with someone talking through a megaphone in the distance. I felt totally confused. Suddenly I was pushed on to a wet slippery surface, so slippery that I fell over. The floor had been heavily greased and I became covered in it.

‘Are you drunk, Fresher? Can't you stand up?’

I made an effort and was prodded on the behind. Dry floor at last.

‘Stand up Fresher.’ I struggled to my feet. Suddenly someone came up behind me and grasped my shoulders. A searing, paralysing electric shock went through me. The fellow had put on a pair of leather gloves with electrodes attached to the fingers. Someone was vigorously turning the handle of an old

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telephone magneto that gave a most unpleasant but relatively harmless shock. He just hung on until I stumbled and fell on to the floor.

There was no time to be scared now. Everything happened in succession so quickly that I simply endured one experience after another. When I fell to the floor, the electric shock stopped. I was grabbed, turned on to my stomach. It seemed there were about six fellows armed with paint. Across my back they stencilled the letters UEC in black. They turned me over and, while the same letters were stencilled across my chest, a water base paint was sloshed over my body.

`Open your legs, Fresher, so we can get at you,' I heard yelled in my ear. I had my legs clamped firmly together. I kept them that way, but they were pulled wide apart while some fellow, having dipped his hands into the paint pot to obtain a good supply, worked the paint firmly and deliberately into my genitals.

‘I think he's ready for the inquisition.’

They hauled me to my feet, feeling very confused and very messy. Again they manhandled me and dragged me further down the room.

‘Sit down!’ Came the command; I was pushed into sitting position. My buttocks contacted a large block of ice that was to be my seat for the next few minutes. I felt someone fumbling with my blindfold to untie it.

‘Look into the spotlight, Fresher!’

This was the voice behind the megaphone, loud and sneering. At close range a spotlight shone into my face and blinded me after the darkness.

‘Don't look away! Look at the spotlight!’

My head was turned and held in the appropriate direction. ‘What is your name, Fresher?’ ‘Come on, answer when you are spoken to!’

As I collected my wits, I became vaguely conscious of a long stick being pushed forward between my legs but, in the blinding light, I could not quite make out what it was.

‘Don't look down, Fresher. Look at the light! We've got something to remind you to be polite!’

Next moment I received an electric shock to the genitals. Another telephone magneto had been connected between the block of ice and an electrode on the end of the stick. Instinctively my hands went down to cover and protect myself.

‘What are you doing, Fresher?’, Sneered the megaphone, ‘Masturbating in public?’ ‘No’ ‘Then take your hands away. We can't have you pulling yourself off in front of everyone, can we?’ My hands were grabbed and pulled away. ‘Now tell us, Fresher, What is your name?’ ‘John Fall’ I said in a soft voice. ‘Can't hear you, say it louder. Give him another prod.’ ‘John Fall,’ I yelled. ‘That's better.’ ‘What school do you come from, Fresher?’ ‘Aquinas’

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Derisive laughter greeted this. ‘Look at him fellows, this miserable sod says he's from Aquinas. Might have known.’ ‘Give him another prod.’ I heard called, and braced myself for another shock. My hands were being held, so I couldn't protect myself. ‘No,’ commanded another more serious voice, ‘He's had enough.’

So the questions continued, mostly of a sexual character. No matter what answer I gave, it was met with derisive laughter. At last it was over.

The megaphone said, ‘Now you've got to perform a feat of skill. Take him away.’

They lifted me off the ice and out of the glare of the spotlight. I saw that I was indeed in a large room and there was activity in all directions. As I left the inquisition I saw another hapless soul being placed on the ice, and I heard the megaphone summon him to look at the spotlight. They took me to the back of the room and pointed to a large flat, shallow pan that was filled to a depth of about two inches with a thick oily substance. It might have been oil, or molasses. A large gum-nut sat in the middle of the dish.

‘Right, Fresher, this is what you've got to do. Squat over that tray and pick up the gumnut in your arse, then crawl on all fours the whole length of this room up to the stage at the front without letting it drop. If it drops to the floor you've got to squat over it and pick it up again in your arse without touching it with your hands, and when you get to the top, drop it into the bucket. Get going.’

I could see others farther up the room performing this task, so there was nothing for it but to comply. At this stage I think I would have complied with anything. For all I knew they might have a few more prods waiting to shock anyone into submission, so I sat down into the thick oily substance. Being slippery the gumnut did not want to stay put and several times dropped off into the pan before I managed to lodge it securely. Eventually I crawled on my way along the floor. Senior students flanked me on either side yelling abuse at me. They had buckets of flour and threw handfuls over me, particularly over my buttocks, covered in the thick oil. Twice the gumnut fell off. Twice I squirmed about on the floor trying to pick it up and then regain my all-fours position without it dropping off. At last I reached my destination and shook the gumnut into the appointed bucket.

‘Stand up when you are before the President, Fresher!’

On the stage three well-dressed senior students sat in chairs. The central one was the president of the Club.

‘You have withstood the test of initiation,’ he said to me, ‘Your last act is to drink from the holy grail.’

A chamber pot was passed to me, filled with yellow lime and soda that had lost its effervescence. Several sausages with their skins removed floated in it. It looked revolting.

‘Drink from it!’

I had no choice, as they pushed my head forcibly into the pot. I gritted my teeth. As my lips reached the liquid I realised I was not what it seemed.

‘He actually enjoys it.’ I heard someone say.

‘Right,’ said the president, ‘Now you have drunk from the holy grail, you are a full member of the club.’ He lent forward and shook my hand.

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INITIATION INTO THE UNIVERSITY ENGINEERS' CLUB LIFE AS A STUDENT

They led me into an adjoining room, where I discovered all my classmates who had gone before me. Most of them had shorts on again, but looked a terrible mess. ‘Where do you get your shorts?’ I was directed to a corner of the room. All the shorts had been piled in a heap. After much searching I found mine and put them on. For the first time I looked at myself and at the others. Smeared with what seemed a striated calcimine paint, we all had huge black letters stencilled on us back and front. No wonder it felt uncomfortable putting on my shorts because, from waist down, the paint had been applied thickly and worked into our bodies, while we still dripped with the flour and oil from the gumnut episode.

We exchanged our experiences. When the last freshman had been initiated, the seniors joined us and opened another keg of beer. I did not drink and had trouble enough swallowing the warm beer given us during "dinner." Fortunately soft drink was available.

The seniors then reminded us that our task was not complete. We had yet to throw the science students into the pond. This, we were told, was the purpose of the stencilled letters on our bodies: we could easily identify our fellow members and so would not start throwing each other in the pond. Anyone else was fair game. So, with most of us a little drunk, and sharing the comradeship of mutually experienced hardships, we set out from the engineering school in the dark, wearing our shorts and war paint, and headed in the general direction of Winthrop Hall. We chanted the Engineers' Club song, which we had been made to learn before dinner, and must have looked a formidable mob. We reached the pond at the same time as the science freshmen. All the science students had their chins painted black, so the foe was easily recognised. Not being one for fighting and skirmishing, I largely looked on and managed to avoid landing in the pond, but many were the splashes over the next half hour.

Eventually it came to an end. Under Winthrop Hall in those days there was a men's changing room with hot showers. Soon the besmeared, sweaty band of science and engineering students were helping each other clean up. It was a case of everyone scrubbing down everyone else. Fortunately the water-based paint came off fairly easily. Not so the black stencilled paint. It stuck and stuck. The engineers were not so bad but the science students had a difficult time with their faces. One fellow scrubbed his face raw until it bled, and still the black paint could be seen. Even after cleaning up we realised we had to put our messy shorts back on again and then traipse back to the drawing office to collect shirts and shoes.

I forget how I got home to Mt. Lawley that night. I think it must have been by public transport - trolley bus and tram - because no one had cars, and my daytime mode of travel was by bicycle. My mother had waited up for me.

‘ What was it like?’ She enquired. ‘ Oh, All right, I suppose.’

I don't think I ever described to her what really happened.

I did not agree with initiation ceremonies, particularly when the inquisitors were drunk and sometimes went too far. The ceremonies continued for a few years and the authorities continued to turn a blind eye to them until one year, in Adelaide, a first year student was thrown into the Torrens river, struck a submerged iron spike and was killed. The ceremony was then banned in all Australian Universities.

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Looking back from fifty years after the event, I still do not agree with initiation ceremonies but have no hard feelings about my initiation. It is indelibly inscribed in my memory. . . and it did instil a sense of comradeship in us all.

- XII

As the academic year got into its stride, I discovered that life was not quite as free as I had been told. Everyone had said that university lecturers did not care whether you attended their classes. Everything was up to you: the only requirement was to pass the exams at the end of the year. However, I found that each department kept a record of my laboratory class attendance since, without time spent in the lab, practical skills could not be acquired. As "reserved" students, the roll was taken in all lectures. Students who were eighteen years of age might use university enrolment to dodge military service. Anyone consistently absent from classes was asked to explain their behaviour, and could easily find themselves in the army. When the war ended, such roll-taking ceased.

I remember roll-taking in our chemistry lectures. We sat in a tiered lecture theatre with rows and rows of long benches. Behind each place there was a number, and we all had to sit in our own numbered place. When Professor Bayliss started his lecture, a young assistant entered the room holding a pad. She wrote down the numbers that were not covered by students sitting in their places.

This room was the venue for another incident that I have never forgotten and from which I learnt. The tiers in the theatre were steep. One day, when Bayliss had his back to the students and was writing a chemical equation on the board, a young man from about three-quarters of the way back placed a bottle in the aisle and gave it a gentle push. Slowly gaining momentum, it went ‘bip, bop, bip, bip, bip....’ as it toppled from one step to the next, finally coming to rest at the bottom. Professor Bayliss seemed to take no notice; he kept writing on the board until he had finished. Then, he walked around to the front of the bench, which was laden with chemical apparatus, stopped in front of the bottle, looked down at it, and then, raising his head and pointing his finger, he audibly counted the steps: ‘One, two, three, four....’ We realised that, while continuing to lecture to the board, he had counted the number of “bips” he had heard as the bottle descended. Finally he walked up the steps, stopped, looked to the boy on the left and then to the one on the right. Turning to one, in a voice of authority, he spoke but one word: ‘Out!’ The boy got up and departed. Everyone in the class was mightily impressed. From that day onwards never did anyone play up in his class. He had demonstrated that he was in control and was very alert. He was also one of our best lecturers, able to communicate clearly and hold the interest of his class.

I learnt from this and, many years later when I became a lecturer, endeavoured to emulate his style. One day, when I entered the engineering lecture theatre and stood at the rostrum, I discovered a huge two-metre long crowbar resting vertically in front of me. It impeded my view, so I decided to move it, but wondered why there was such an expectant hush in the class. I soon discovered: As I picked it up, I realised that the students had heated it. I knew that, if I dropped it, the students would have “won” - as this is what they wanted me to do. So, although it was almost blistering my fingers, I reverently lifted it and carried it slowly, like a regal mace, to the side of the room, and gently lowered it to the floor. When I returned to the rostrum, I received an enormous round of applause.

A few years later when the number of first-year engineering students had swelled to a total of four hundred, I was lecturing a class of two hundred. Such a class affords relative anonymity to an individual, and is much harder to control than a small class. As I spoke, someone started to whistle for a second or two, then stopped, and repeated the whistle several times. It was very disruptive. I had long learnt that

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PRANKS IN LECTURES - THE NEED TO BELONG TO A GROUP - BILL DUXBURY

the worst way to treat such behaviour was to give a moral lecture, so I stopped and said: ‘Would the person who is whistling either stop disrupting the class, or come down here in the front and show everyone how well he can really whistle?’ I had thrown down the gauntlet to the offender. There was a silence for almost five seconds, and then a young man from near the back, got up, and walked down to the front. Putting his fingers to his mouth, he gave a long, earsplitting whistle, grinned sheepishly, and returned to his seat amidst a sea of hand-clapping from his classmates. Never again did he whistle in class, and never again did that class disrupt me. I had dealt with the simple problem in a lighthearted way, and everyone felt good about it.

My self-confidence of later years was totally absent in 1945. While some of my lecturers were good, others were very bad. I simply accepted it. The Dean of Engineering, Professor Blakey, chain-smoked through all his lectures, holding one cigarette after another in his nicotine-stained fingers. He continually wandered off his technical subject and told us yarns about his experiences as a civil engineer. At least he was interesting. Some were downright boring and, although they knew their subject, made no attempt to communicate it to us in a clear and interesting way. I got the impression that they would rather be doing something else.

The University environment took me out of my previously sheltered and protected existence at home and school. I often felt very uncomfortable when with groups of students. In mixed groups, the boys aired their worldly wisdom, talking about the politics of the day. They had opinions about everything. Perhaps they were trying to impress the girls, but it made me feel bad, as I had no opinions about anything, knew nothing of politics, and was rarely game to open my mouth. There were no girls in the engineering faculty and so, when the boys were together, they often talked of their sexual exploits -probably with much wishful exaggeration -and sprinkled their language with a liberal use of taboo words such as ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’. For some boys, every second word was ‘fuck’, no matter what the topic of conversation. Four letter words were unknown to my mother, and certainly never used by my father. Many boys used coarse language, such as referring to someone as an ‘arse-hole’.

Nonetheless, I badly needed to belong to a group. Never could I bring myself to use the taboo words, but slowly I replaced “fib” with “lie”, overcame the emotional problem of saying “damn” and even began using the word “God” as an expletive. Most students smoked, so I took it up, as it seemed the “grownup” thing to do, but eventually I gave it up.

During the first half of 1945 I felt extremely lonely and went into some very deep depressed moods. Everything around me felt black, I hardly communicated with my mother or sister. There was even a time when I seriously contemplated suicide. And then I made friends with Bill Duxbury, another first-year engineer. I discovered that, like me, he was interested in radio, and this common interest drew us together. Bill's father was a psychiatric nurse at Graylands mental hospital and he lived in a small timber-framed asbestos house with his family in Claremont not far from the hospital. Soon we saw much of each other. On the weekend I often rode my bicycle to Claremont to visit him, or he rode to my place. We spent all our time talking about electronics. He lifted me out of my depression and I remember that at the end of the year I wrote him a long letter telling him of what he had done for me. He replied saying that he understood because sometimes he felt that way himself, but we could never talk about it in person.

Bill was more adventurous than I and decided to learn dancing. He asked me to join him, so once a week we went into central Perth to Andre Drummond's school of old-time dancing. Andre referred to us both as “The Professors” - because we each had several pens in our shirt pocket. I was very nervous at taking a partner, felt clumsy and was sure I would tread on the girl's feet. I could not relax and so could not dance smoothly. Bill, on the other hand, made such good progress that besides learning to dance, he

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found a girlfriend. Bill and I also decided to go to the First-Aid classes held in the University for engineering students. Every student was required to obtain a certificate before graduation. Most left it to their final year, so Bill and I found ourselves the only first-year students in the class of senior students.

When the end of the year came, I took and passed all my examinations comfortably. Bill, however, failed some exams, as his interests had transferred to his girlfriend. He was allowed to take supplementary exams in January, but failed these. He dropped out of the University, his girlfriend became pregnant and they married. Eventually, Bill became a radio technician and disappeared out of my life. My last association with him was during the long vacation at the end of the year. A faculty regulation decreed that every engineering student must obtain six weeks' practical experience during each long vacation. Dad had returned from the war, and arranged that Bill and I spend our six weeks working in the Yarloop workshops. We both shared a bedroom in the home of Roy Williamson, the boiler attendant at the workshops.

We enjoyed this and had opportunity to try journal scraping - fitting journals to axle bearings, and learning to use a lathe and see what went on in the pattern and moulding shops. The local young men, some of whom had been at school with me, considered us naive city-slickers, unaware of the world. Word was spread that one day at work we would be stripped naked for a lark and left in the street. Roy Williamson agreed to keep a knapsack by him at work, holding two pairs of shorts in case of need. Fortunately, the need did not arise. We did not like one older fellow who, every time he walked past us, grabbed our genitals through our trousers and tried to fondle them. We tried to squirm out of his way, while all the fellows in the workshops laughed. One day the young fellows in the pattern-making shop, fashioned a gigantic set of male genitals and placed them at our work place to see how we would react when we discovered them. They considered us very innocent and fair-game.

Bill returned home before me to take his supplementary exams. After he left, I made good friends with one or two of the local boys and went rabbit shooting with them. Overall, it was good experience of both engineering and of life.

- XIII

Dad returned home on 10 October 1945 on board the Tamaroa. Mother borrowed a car from the Bath family who lived on the corner of Walcott and Fitzgerald Streets. The Baths were old family friends, having lived in Bunbury in the days when mother was single. Since coming to Perth, they had been very good to her while Dad was in Java, although she did not always approve of them as they enjoyed earthy jokes and laughed raucously, slapping their sides, when they heard or told a good one. Mother was once scandalised when the Baths lent Joan and me a gramophone record and the song started with the words:

There's a man who comes to our house every single day Poppa comes home and the man goes away Oh, Poppa does the work, and Momma gets the pay And the man comes around when Poppa goes away.

Mother was very nervous, setting out on that October morning. She picked up Alan Jenkins and Wing Commander Gregson, both of whom were RAF associates of Dad, Gregson himself being a prisoner of war who had flown home ahead of the others. As our car neared Fremantle, Mother felt close to tears, so Alan Jenkins drove. Soon we were all standing on Fremantle wharf awaiting the ship to dock. Uncle Eric, Aunty Lydia and Aunty Phyl were also there, along with many hundreds of other people. Joan announced that she felt unwell - not realising that she was about to develop measles. Everyone scanned the rails of the ship, lined with dozens of ex-prisoners of war, hoping to find their loved ones. Eventually we spotted Dad. He seemed very thin, and his face sunken. When he came off the ship, his newly issued uniform just hung on him.

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MY FATHER RETURNS FROM THE WAR HIS LIFE AS A P.O.W.

I find it hard to recapture my emotions on that day. There was excitement and anticipation, but there was also a detached foreboding. When Dad greeted us, I felt he was a man I did not know. It was four and a half years since I had seen him. I had not really known him in 1941 when I was thirteen; with the intervening years I had changed. Mother had urged us to call him "Dad" when we met, but I found that very difficult to do. He was a stranger to me. And I was a stranger to him. When he left, I was still a boy. Now I had grown tall and more mature. There were four years of our lives, of which he knew nothing. There were four years of the world events of which he knew very little. He had spent four years in limbo.

We drove him to a military camp in Wembley for a checkup and then, when he was released, drove home. At the Wharf, Dad had arranged with several fellow P.O.W.s to have dinner that night at the Esplanade hotel. Joan developed a rash and went to bed with measles. I stayed home to look after her, while my parents caught a tram to a dinner that neither enjoyed.

It took Dad a long time to recover. At first he could not sleep in a bed, but spent his night on the hard boards. He suffered from nightmares and various physical ailments, but I knew nothing of this for some years until one day mother quietly told me. Slowly I re-established relations with him, but they were no better than those I had experienced when younger. He was still a very private man and did not share his thoughts or feelings with others. A man simply cracked hardy and got on with the job. Although he weighed only seven stone when he first arrived home, he soon recovered his prewar fourteen stone. He rejoined Millars and went back to his old job as auditor and inspector. Soon the company Dodge car was parked at our home.

As time went by, I asked him to tell me about his experiences as a POW He said very little, but told me to read a book by Rohan Rivett Behind Bamboo. He bought this book early in 1946 and placed relevant newspaper clippings inside the cover. He drew my attention to some of these as typical:

Our day was something like this: we had breakfast about seven o'clock in the morning, and we got boiled rice and, if we were lucky, a spoonful of sugar. For drink it was just tea; no sugar or milk. After breakfast came roll-call, usually at eight o'clock. Eventually they made us number off in Japanese: Itchy, nee, san, see, go, roco . . .

Next, we drew our tools and started work. Sometimes we had a tidy march, or maybe we were locally on the job. We were dressed in our G-string -like a loin cloth. It was a piece of string with a square of white sheeting or sacking. That's all we were in most of the time. We didn't need clothes. For one thing, if you had clothes you would be more uncomfortable on account of the lice - you couldn't get rid of the lice. All you carried was a tobacco tin - that is, if you had any tobacco - under the string, which held it against you.

We would stop for a meal about one o'clock. We got rice again and sometimes salt fish, and any vegetable we may have been lucky enough to have. Then we would work again until six. Sometimes we were on a "task" job - a job we had to finish on that particular day. Often that was very hard, but we usually managed to get it done. The Japanese ill-treated us only if we were caught not working.

Sometimes we were slapped in the face or beaten. They punished their own soldiers by slapping or beating, and thought we should be punished in the same way. It made us mad to be slapped by a Japanese because we were not used to it. In our country, if anyone slaps you, you slap them back. But in prison camp, if anyone slapped a Japanese it would either mean his being shot, or ten men being shot in the same camp.

When we returned to camp after work, we had rice again. Sometimes it was made as a stew with boiled vegetables.

Another account emphasised the lack of nutritious food so that men lost weight and became ill.

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Although the Japanese record is lightened by deeds of kindness extended to captives by individuals, the general approach was based on a continuous litany of work and punishment. Punishments, which were inflicted for little or no excuse, included severe beatings, standing at attention in the open in all weathers for long periods, and solitary confinement. The severity of punishment varied with the mood and particular tantrum of the Jap concerned.

Much of the work was unpleasant and detrimental to the prisoners' health. The Japanese made the life of the sick in camp as unpleasant as possible to get them to go to work. They beat them, then they were put on half-rations.

Inside the cover of the book, Dad also placed an article by Dunlop who wrote in the British Medical Journal in 1946 of the deterioration of the working force under semi-starvation, disease, and illimitable exhaustion. Sickness was regarded as a crime. He wrote of malaria, dysentery, enteritis, cholera, malnutrition, tropical ulcers and other skin diseases, apart from injuries through work. Jungle surgery with little or no anaesthetic was carried out with great difficulty, and necessity truly became the mother of invention.

I remember once remarking to Dad, rather smugly, that I had never hated anyone, to which he made the simple reply: ‘Then you have never been hurt enough.’

As Dad reestablished himself, he became a crew member on Uncle Horace's yacht Mercedes and enjoyed racing on Saturday afternoons. He never made close friends, and read voraciously in his spare time. In 1956 he left Millars' Timber and Trading Company to become Chief Accountant and Secretary of the Worsely Timber Company and then in 1962, left them to become the General Manager of the Swan Timber Company that later merged with Douglas Jones company of Guildford. He retired in 1967.

- XIV

In 1946, as I entered my second year at the university, we all tried to establish a normal life. Joan worked for A.N.A. - the Australian National Airlines. She had developed a passion for aeroplanes. As she later recalled:

In Mt. Lawley, I spent my whole time building model planes out of cardboard, and reading all the stories I could on World War I. At Yarloop I had lived in my mind and was into horses and cowboys. . . all boys' pursuits. I hated being a girl, and didn't want to be a girl. When I came up to Mt. Lawley, I transferred this to aeroplanes. But, in my reading, I was not like a young girl, romantic over the men in the Air-Force. I was the man in the Air-Force. I flew the planes.

Before she completed her business training in 1942, she saw an advertisement for an office job with ANA based at Perth Airport at Maylands. With mother's help she obtained this position, but the reality was different from her fantasies. She recalled later:

There was no fancy office. It was right in the hanger, and I was stuck in a corner. My "bigdeal" job was to update repair manuals for aircraft by pasting amendment pages into the manuals. I was a little disgusted at that. . .

Eventually Joan became the stores-costing-clerk and made close friends with other girls who worked there. She had become engaged to Joe Dougan and, after he left Perth and the war ended, her only thought was to join him in America. Mother was not happy that Joan should go to the United States, as she knew that Joe had little to offer her, and she would face a difficult life in a strange country. But she

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knew that Joan loved Joe, and was willing to let her go. But Dad objected to her plans. Years later, Joan recalled:

I fought with my father: First, he said I wasn't going to America. I was under twenty-one, so I couldn't go without him signing the papers. I remember a terrible scene with him. I told him that he hadn't cared about me since I was eleven, and yet now he was stopping me from something that he knew nothing about. So he signed the papers. I guess I was very independent and headstrong.

So, at the end of 1946, we all assembled on Perth station to farewell her as she took the train to Sydney, and then a ship to San Francisco. From there she took a train across to New Jersey on the eastern seaboard. Joan and Joe married in New Jersey on 7 December 1946.

With this, Joan went out of my life for many years, although mother wrote long letters to her every week, and could never overcome the loss of her daughter. She could speak of nothing but Joan all the time, and eventually I became annoyed. Probably I felt jealous, as Joan seemed to count as everything while I seemed to count as nothing.

I still enjoyed playing the piano, but found I had to restrict myself severely to playing only when Dad was out of the house, or when he was shaving in the bathroom in the morning. He took great pride in proclaiming that the piano - and most music - was just noise to him. The only tune he liked, he said, was Danny Boy.

During my first year at the university I bought a copy of the University Calendar - a handbook detailing the courses in all faculties and the rules and regulations of the University. Carefully I studied the structure of the engineering course. I was dismayed to find how little of it concerned electrical engineering. The entire course seemed heavily biased to civil engineering - as was perhaps appropriate to the engineering demands of Western Australia at the time. Professor Blakey was the Dean of Engineering, not of Civil Engineering. There was no professor of Mechanical Engineering, while Electrical Engineering was represented by a single staff member, Associate Professor Fraenkel, who, having been appointed in 1916, was on the point of retirement. The first course in electrical engineering did not start until the third term of second year, whereas it seemed that I was destined to study surveying and more structural engineering for the whole year in 1946.

I read the general regulations and discovered that with permission of the Dean of the faculty, a student could substitute any one course for another. So I approached Professor Blakey and asked for permission to substitute second year physics for the prescribed unit in structural engineering. He did not seem happy about this, as structural engineering was his own subject. He argued about the value of a general engineering degree but finally, and reluctantly, gave me permission, with what I felt was bad grace.

I remember little about my detailed studies that year, except that we seemed to spend hours on the oval learning to use theodolites, with the purpose of surveying the university. Much of the time, I trained the telescopic sight of my theodolite on girls on the other side of the oval, rather than on the building whose bearings I was supposed to find. Hymie Spigl, the Government Astronomer, taught us surveying and did so by reading at great speed directly from his prepared notes, pausing only for the audible intake of another breath to sustain him for the next four sentences. He did not appreciate interruptions. Everyone made fun of him by misquoting him.

When third term arrived, we started a course on electrical circuit theory, given by Professor Fraenkel. I was very disappointed as I already knew the entire course from my private reading. Fraenkel was known to all students as "Tater". He was a Dane and, although he had lived many years in Australia, still had

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poor command of the language. He earned his nickname through his inability to pronounced 2 - the Greek letter, Theta. Tater was a short, fat man who smoked cigars, the ash from which often dropped on his waistcoat. He spoke with an almost indecipherable guttural accent, so that the students said that his lectures were very good, if only you could understand Danish.

The year almost ended in disaster. I made friends with another radio hobbyist -Kevin Parsons - and became distracted from my studies. At the end of the year I failed my mathematics unit and was given a "supplementary" examination - a chance to try again about two months after the main examination. I was very worried about this, since I had never failed an exam before. I prepared myself well for the "sup."

Arriving at the university in January of the following year for the afternoon exam, one of my classmates approached me: ‘How did you like the maths exam this morning?’ He asked. ‘This morning! Oh, My God, I thought it was this afternoon.’

Heart beating fast, I rushed down to the engineering school to find the dean. Professor Blakey was return- ing from lunch. I panted out to him what had happened. He looked at me, smiled and, in his laconic way, said: ‘Well, you'll be repeating second year, won't you?’ He turned his back on me and went on his way, having no further interest in me. I was crestfallen. I rushed to the Mathematics Department to find my lecturer, Professor Weatherburn, to tell him of the calamity. His secretary said he was out, and would not be in until nine in the morning.

After a sleepless night of worry I stood on his doorstep precisely at nine. Breathlessly I told him what had happened.

‘Have you seen the paper?’ He queried. ‘No.’ This was truthful because, although my classmate had thrust a copy of the paper at me, I was too worried even to look at it. ‘Then take this paper, sit down and do it now.’ So I sat down, took the examination and passed it comfortably.

I have never forgotten the chance that Weatherburn gave me. More than that, I have never forgotten the trust he had in me. I could easily have seen the paper and said I had not. But he considered me truthful and trusted me; he saw the better side of human nature and did not presume the worst side. The contrast with the Dean of my faculty was very great indeed. From this I learnt a powerful lesson, which in the years to come I put into practice whenever the opportunity arose:

If we take people as they are, we make them worse; if we treat them as though they were what they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.

and, remembering Professor Weatherburn and what he had unconsciously taught me, I said: ‘Yes, it is so.’

During the long vacation at the end of 1946 I secured a job with the Post Master General's Department. At that time this department controlled not only the Post Office, but also all telecommunications. I was set to work in their transmission laboratory on the top floor of the General Post Office in Forrest Place. I found that one of my jobs was to answer the telephone to give other employees in the building the latest test cricket scores. England was playing against Australia and one radio station devoted itself to continuous coverage of the game. Employees were not allowed to have radios at their workplace, but the transmission laboratory rightfully possessed a powerful communications receiver. It played the test cricket all day; every time our phone rang, I received the request: `What's the score?' I knew nothing about cricket and disliked the game, so had no interest in listening to the program. However, after being compelled to listen to it constantly, it did not take long for me to develop an interest. That interest did not last.

I spent one week sitting above a Post Office manhole on the beach a little south of Cottesloe. The submarine cable to Rottnest Island was faulty. We had equipment to measure the distance to the fault and two-way radio communication with a trawler that eventually dragged the cable at the right spot and lifted it to the surface for repair. It was hot February weather. One day the boss arrived in the form of Keith Taplin. He was immediately concerned about me and thought I might become badly sunburnt. He ordered a shelter to be erected to give us shade. I discovered that within the Department he was always known as "Uncle" because he shepherded his flock of employees, careful of their well-being, and critical of their moral wrong doings. He told me that he had to show particular interest in me as he had just been appointed Senior Lecturer in Electrical Engineering at the University, and was taking over from Professor Fraenkel. Over the next years I was to come to know him very well.

Academically, 1947 was uneventful. Never again was I to fail an examination. Keith Taplin joined the staff and, for the first time, I enjoyed a full year of study in electrical engineering. However, few students liked Taplin's style. He seemed austere, never told a humorous or lighthearted story, and did not know how to handle a class that misbehaved. His technique was to stop the lecture and give a ten minute discourse on moral behaviour: a procedure doomed to failure. Most engineering students were high-spirited, intelligent and somewhat rebellious young men, not prepared to take kindly to a moral lecture, or to sit peacefully through a lecture that they found boring.

The Electrical Engineering Department now had a new, if temporary, timber-framed asbestos building. This comprised two laboratories for heavy electrical machinery and circuit experiments, a small technicians' workshop, and a raised area at one end providing office space for staff and a secretary.

One day while I was working in the laboratory, Taplin came to see me: ‘Do you have an overdue book from the Engineering Library?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you have it with you now?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you have enough money on you to pay the fine, or shall I lend it to you?’ ‘I have enough money with me.’ ‘Then get straight over to the library, return it, and then come back to me and tell me that you have done it.’

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Three months earlier I had plucked up courage to take a book out of the library, but then did not have the courage to return it by the due date. I kept putting it off, saying to myself: `I will take it back tomorrow.' but, I never did. I received several notices that the book was overdue. The more overdue it became, and the greater the imposed fine, the more afraid I became to return it. I worried what the librarian would say to me for keeping it so long. When Taplin forced me, it was thirteen weeks overdue. Returning the book to the library, I paid the fine, and nothing was said. No one growled at me or criticised me. All my procrastination had been useless and unnecessary. However, it took me many years to learn from this experience and to overcome such fears.

XV

During 1946 I formed a friendship with a family that lasted many years and which proved very valuable to me. I had become acquainted with Len Halbert who ran a radio repair shop in Beaufort Street, not far from the Walcott Street corner. Sometimes I bought components from him; at other times he invited me into his workshop in the room behind the counter, and we talked about radio. One morning, while he and I were talking, a twelve year-old boy came to the shop and asked for a component that Len did not have in stock. The boy looked disappointed; I realised that I had such a component at home that I no longer needed.

I said, ‘I have one of those that you can have. Where do you live?’ ‘Rookwood Street.’ ‘That's not far from me, because I live in Woodroyd Street. Come around to my house at two o'clock, and you can have it. By the way, what is your name?’ ‘John Dean.’

Shortly after two in the afternoon, John arrived at my back door, crying. He said that his father had hit him because he wanted to come and see me, when he had not done all his chores, and he had defied his father. I felt sorry for John, gave him the component, and then walked back with him to his house and met his parents.

This was the beginning of a long association with Horace and Rhona Dean and their two boys, John and Michael. They were a musical family: Horace was a first violinist in the West Australian Symphony Orchestra, Rhona played the piano, and both boys learnt the violin. Horace also owned an eighteen-foot cruiser yacht, Fantasia, which he sailed, but did not race, on Sundays. He was looking for a crew member older than his sons, and I fitted the bill. Soon I was sailing with them regularly. During the summer months almost every Sunday morning I walked to their home, helped load their old Austin car with sailing gear and set off with them to the Royal Perth Yacht Club then located at the foot of Barrack Street. Most days we sailed down to Peppermint Grove, Mosman Bay or to Point Walter, where we had a picnic lunch before returning to Perth. I was the sheet-hand, and thoroughly enjoyed the day's outing. Mother usually made me a large apple pie to take along.

Often I paid them a social visit, although initially I found this hard to do. I would walk down Rookwood street but then walk straight past their house, afraid to go in. I was afraid that they would ask me why I had come, and I had come for no reason other than to spend some time with them. Somehow this seemed an insufficient reason, so I walked past the house two or three times before having the courage to go in. They always welcomed me. Soon, I also came to know Rhona Dean's mother, Mrs Fancote.

I was very proud of my friendship with this family. It was the first family whose friendship I had formed without the intercession of my mother. This made it special. Although “Young John” was six years my junior, this mattered less as each year passed, and I found that I related to his parents as well as I related to him. Sometimes I spent the evening with the family and with Vaughan Hanley, the leader of the orchestra, who lived nearby. We all sat around the kitchen table and yarned for hours on all manner of

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topics. I went with the family to Wesley College annual speech nights where John usually gave a violin solo.

Horace was a thin, wiry man, and a complete larrikin. If he drove his car through the city and we passed a wedding group in the street, he would lean out the window and call out to them in a loud voice: ‘You'll be sorry! You'll be sorry! You've got years of married blitz ahead of you!’ He was no respecter of authority, was jocular and irreverent in outlook, easy to talk with, and a complete contrast to my father. His wife always seemed constantly shocked by his behaviour. She would say: ‘Oh Horace! Oh Horace! Don't!’ He took no notice.

I had both lighthearted and serious conversations with them. We talked about music and about the orchestra and the people within it. Sometimes young John and I rode our bicycles to City beach for a swim; sometimes, in winter I spent hours with Horace down at the yacht club scraping off barnacles and helping to repaint the boat while yarning to him. Perhaps he was the father that my own father could not be. The family was very good for me, but I noticed that Mother slowly became very critical of Rhona. I now realise that the Dean family stole her little boy from her, and she resented it.

As the years went by, Rhona and Horace did what they could to find a suitable girl for me. They invited a succession of young girls of my age out for a day's sailing. Horace seemed to enjoy their company, and I made their presence legitimate - but, if Rhona hoped that I would find myself a girlfriend through their efforts, she was doomed to disappointment. I enjoyed being with the girls on the boat, but never did I have the courage to ask them out. I was not yet ready in my social development for this.

In 1948 I went to Melbourne for a year, and later John studied at the Melbourne Conservatorium of Music. I still sailed with Horace in 1949 and 1950 but then, in 1951, I went to Sydney. From then on, my association with the family decreased. John married Margot Robertson, a soprano, and became a viola player in the West Australian Symphony Orchestra. I married in 1954 and our lives went in different directions.

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- XVI

While I completed my second and third years of academic study, the world started its recovery from the Second World War. Many changes were afoot. Politically, two opposing blocs emerged in Europe - and British Prime Minister Winston Churchill spoke of an Iron Curtain descending between Russia and the West. In 1946, civil war broke out in India. This resulted in the separation of the Moslems and the Hindus in 1947 by the formation of Pakistan. In 1948, the State of Israel was created, while in Indonesia, President Sukarno called for greater independence from the Dutch.

Within Australia, the Federal Government announced great development projects such as the Snowy River Scheme. Britain looked to the Australian desert as an ideal location for atomic bomb tests, and we embarked on a migration program, bringing displaced persons from Europe. In 1947, Western Australia had a population of 502,000 while Australia's population as a whole was 7.5 million. Soon this was to rise dramatically. As servicemen returned to civilian life, a great demand for housing arose and all building materials were scarce. We introduced a forty-hour working week and, in 1948, produced the Holden, the first Australian-made car.

I let all this flow past me. In spite of my 1942 speech about the need to make money available for peaceful purposes, I took little interest in political or economic affairs. More exciting to me was the announcement in February 1946 that the University of Pennsylvania had developed a machine known as ENIAC. This Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer had 18,000 electronic valves, but no moving parts. It was more than an electronic adding machine, because it could be “programmed” to perform many different complex calculations at high speed. I read about it, but did not know how it worked.

Towards the end of my third academic year, Taplin approached me and said that he could offer me a position in 1948 in the PMG Research Laboratories in Melbourne. It was a faculty requirement that all engineering students spend their fourth year in the field gaining practical experience before returning for their fifth and final year. For a young person in my position this seemed a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Most students would obtain jobs in Western Australia where the available experience was limited. The PMG Research Laboratories offered top-rate experience. However, it meant leaving home for the first time in my life and travelling to a distant part of Australia, so I thought very carefully about it before accepting his offer.

As my train pulled out of Perth station on the first stage of the journey to Melbourne, I was excited and not a little nervous. I would be away from home for almost twelve months and had no idea of what might lie ahead of me. Finding accommodation in Melbourne had been of some concern until Mother contacted the YCW - the Young Catholic Workers organisation. They arranged that I stay with the Brady family in Moonee Ponds, and said that one of their members would meet me at Melbourne station and take me there. So I had no immediate worries.

We climbed slowly over the Darling range, but did not get very far. The steam train stopped, and we heard guards walking up and down the line. They said that we had a “hotbox” - an overheated bearing in one of the bogies. After three-quarters of an hour, we went on our way without further incident. For the first time I slept on a train. The bed was comfortable and I slept well to the clinking and clanking of the carriages and the clickerty-clack of the wheels. Late in the night I awoke because everything was still. We had stopped at Merredin. Early next morning, before breakfast, we steamed into a platform at Kalgoorlie railway station. On the other side of the platform stood the transcontinental train awaiting us.

The Perth-Kalgoorlie 3N6O gauge line had been built to serve the goldfields before the turn of the century and before federation of the States. The Commonwealth “Trans” train did not commence service until 1917 and used the international 4N8½O gauge. This ran to Port Augusta where there was another change of gauge to Adelaide.

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THE DEAN FAMILY 1948: I TAKE THE TRANSCONTINENTAL TRAIN TO MELBOURNE

Everyone alighted from the Perth train, crossed the platform and found their new compartments in the “Trans” train. Then, while all the baggage and freight were moved from one train to another, we went to the dining car for breakfast. Soon we were chugging out, east of the goldfields, heading for the great Nullarbor plain. While many people thought that “Nullarbor” was an aboriginal name, my five-year study of Latin told me that Null-Arbor simply meant “no-tree”. And that was precisely what it was. We passed the tiny railway-worker sidings of Rawlinna and Haig, slowing to drop off supplies, passed the straggling band of aboriginals that lined the track, and then entered the three-hundred-mile straight stretch across the plain itself. Looking out the window to the horizon I saw red earth and low, flat, grey-green spinifex bush, but no trees. The view remained unchanged all that day and into the next.

I was in a compartment for two, and my companion was a man in his early-thirties. Once, when we were looking out the window to comparative nothingness, he became excited. ‘There's some wildlife out there.’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘Where? I can't see anything.’ ‘Over there, about ten miles out.’ ‘I still can't see anything.’ ‘Can you see those black specks in the sky?’ ‘yes.’ ‘Well, they are birds and, where you see those particular birds, there is always wildlife beneath.’

He told me that, as a young lad, he had first gone droving and had spent much time in the bush where he learnt how to read the signs. Then he had gone down to Esperance to fish. Now he was running from the police because they had caught him poaching in restricted waters.

It was summer and very hot on the Nullarbor plain. Our compartments were not air-conditioned and, if we opened the carriage windows, there was the danger that soot from the coal-fired engines would enter, dirty everything and get in our eyes. So we were thankful when the train pulled in to a slightly larger settlement called Cook. The train stopped here to take on coal and water, while everyone walked over to the small pub for a drink. Soon the bar was crowded with passengers, guards, drivers, stewards, sleeping-car attendants - indeed, the entire train crammed into the pub in search of something with which to refresh themselves. When the engine had taken on water and was ready to go, the driver returned to the train, sounded the hooter many times as people slowly emerged and wandered back. Then, when the guards thought that everyone was on board, they made one last journey to the pub to pick up any wayward stragglers so the train would not go without them. Eventually we were on our way.

We ran out of the plain and headed towards comparative civilisation, reaching Port Augusta at the head of Spencer Gulf shortly after breakfast. Port Augusta was a small town with a population of about 6,000 and still in semi-arid country as the annual rainfall was only nine inches - insufficient for agricultural purposes. However, it was an important junction, for here was another change in railway gauge. Again we said goodbye to one train and joined another that awaited us on the other side of the platform. The distance from Port Augusta to Adelaide was a little over 300 km - a half day journey, so there were no sleeping cars on this next train. We sat in ordinary carriages and enjoyed the return of a more lush countryside as we neared Adelaide.

We reached Adelaide at lunch time and found we had a few free hours to spend as the overnight train to Melbourne did not leave until early evening. Many people did not bother about a sleeping car for this overnight journey, but I was thankful to have a sleeping car with a comfortable bed. We arrived at Spencer street station in the morning, after running through what seemed like miles and miles of parallel railway tracks, overhead electric wires for the electric trains, and passing many factories. On the platform I looked for my contact, who greeted me and took me to meet the Brady family with whom I was to stay. So started another phase of my life.

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- XVII

I stayed with the Brady family all year, but would willingly have moved had I been able to find other cheap accommodation. My “apprentice” wage at the PMG was low, and I wanted to save enough money to pay not only for my train trip over to Melbourne but for a return journey by sea. After making allowance for this, there was little left for board and lodging or for entertainment. Mrs Brady gave me full board, even packing a lunch for me each day, and she charged very little. Against this, Mr and Mrs Brady were narrow-minded, bigoted Irish Catholics - and I found this difficult.

They had three children, a boy and a girl straddling my age, and young Vincent, who was ten. Mr Brady worked for the Victorian Railways, and spent all his working day out in the shunting yards. Their house backed on to the Melbourne-Sydney railway line and trains constantly thundered past, including the famous “Spirit of Progress”, which went through shortly after six o'clock each night. Their back garden was black mud, probably blackened by the accumulation of coal-dust over the years; this oozed, and became saturated from the rain during the winter months.

The household knew few social graces, and the children spoke the strong nasal slang that I came to associate with working class people of Melbourne. Because of my relative isolation from Australian children as a child, and my close association with my mother and English-accented father, I did not have a strong Australian accent. My background and that of the Brady's was as different as chalk from cheese. Perhaps, unconsciously, I felt snobbish, but tried not to show it.

Mr Brady constantly and disparagingly referred to me as a member of the “Intelligentsia.” I was a university student, read books such as Reade's Martyrdom of Man, which I bought in a Melbourne bookshop, and was obviously not a member of the “working class”. Their reading was confined to light, popular magazines. The daughter's conversation centred around the ever-changing boy-girl relationships in the Catholic Youth Club attached to the local Church to which she and her brother Bernie belonged. The club held social gatherings and dances every Saturday night. As my experience with Andre Drummond's class was enough to turn me off dancing, I did not attend the club. I was not known to socialise, and spent my time either reading serious books or studying in the bedroom that I shared with Bernie.

So I had little in common with the son and daughter, while Vincent often had a runny nose and whined. Every week, Mr Brady tutored Vincent in his knowledge of the Catholic religion, requiring him to recite what he had been learning at school. Although this is a caricature, the phrase

Say “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild”, you little brat, or I'll give you a clip over the ear-'ole.

comes to mind as typifying their relationship. No wonder young Vincent whined. Nonetheless, they fed me well, looked after me physically, while I did my share of the chores around the house.

Fortunately, two other fourth-year students had come from Perth to work in Melbourne. One was David Dunwoodie, and the other, Doug Shute, whose father was a piano-tuner in Subiaco. Doug, an Electrical Engineering student, worked with me in the PMG Research Labs. We three became firm friends and spent much time together on the weekends. None of us had money in our pockets, so we did inexpensive things. We wandered around the Botanical and Fitzroy Gardens and inspected Captain Cook's Cottage; we took the tram to St.Kilda beach; we visited the Museum and Art Gallery. Much of our time we sat in parks and talked. Then we discovered "Music for the people" - free open air concerts conducted on Sundays in the Myer Music Bowl. There they played light classical music, which I enjoyed. Browsing in the city bookshops I extravagantly bought a large book with the title The Victor Book of the Symphony, read it, and became even more interested in classical music.

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CROSSING THE NULLARBOR 1948: LIFE WITH THE BRADY FAMILY

During the year, I read that there was to be a demonstration in the city of a new gramophone recording technique, known as the “microgroove”, or long-playing record. This was a vinyl based record that revolved at 33 revs per minute, compared with 78 rpm for current records. The newspaper notice claimed that the new records produced unheard-of realism, and lasted up to half an hour per side, compared with the three or four minutes for existing records. So one lunch time I went to a demonstration. First they played a piece of classical music, recorded on the old record system, complete with its limited quality and inherent background hiss. Then they switched to the new record and played the same piece. The clarity of the percussion and the strings seemed unbelievable, while there was no background noise. I decided that one day, when I was rich, I would build a collection of such records.

Around April, another boarder appeared in the Brady family. Vincent moved into the bedroom with his parents, while the new boarder, Maureen, took his room. Maureen was the niece of Mrs Brady. She was in her mid to late twenties, and was married. She came to Melbourne from Ballarat to be near her ex-serviceman husband, who had recently been admitted to Heidelberg Hospital because of war injuries. Maureen was more serious than the rest of the family and I enjoyed talking with her; we got on well together. This, however, had an unfortunate sequel.

After several months, Mr and Mrs Brady announced that they were going to Sydney with Vincent for a three-week holiday, and that the rest of the household could manage itself while they were away. I thought nothing of the fact that on Saturday nights I stayed home to read or study while the others, apart from Maureen, went to the Youth Club.

One Sunday morning, shortly after the Brady's returned from Sydney, I heard them engaged in a dreadful argument with Maureen in the kitchen. Suddenly Maureen rushed into my room and cried, ‘Tell them it's not true! Tell them it's not true!’

Before I could respond, Mr Brady burst into the room, livid with anger, ‘I thought you were a decent boy, but I am not going to let you get away with having an affair with Maureen while we were in Sydney. Get out of my house immediately!’

I protested my innocence, saying that I had never had an affair with Maureen, and Maureen backed me up. But Mr Brady was in no mood to listen; He became ever more angry and showed me the door.

I spent all that day wandering the streets of Moonee Ponds and Essendon, very upset and wondering what to do. It had never occurred to me that the presence of Maureen and me, alone in the house every Saturday night, would be grounds for accusing us of having an affair. I was naive. I could do nothing on the Sunday to find other accommodation, so decided I would try to return to the house, stay the night there, and find somewhere else the next day.

When I returned, the quarrel between the Brady's and Maureen had subsided. It had started over something that had nothing to do with me. However, when Mr Brady's ire was aroused, he seized on anything to support his case. Maureen and I had been in the house together. That was enough, in the heat of the moment, for him to accuse me. He came to me, half apologetically, and said he had been wrong, and that I could continue to live in the house with them.

Had I been able to afford it, I would have moved, but I did not have the money. It was not long before I would be returning to Perth, and I had already paid a deposit for my fare on the M.V. Manunda, so I tolerated life in the house until it was time to leave. Looking back, in hindsight, it was good experience, and life with the Brady's gave me a new dimension to my experience of life, although I did not see it like that at the time.

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- XVIII

The Brady family occupied little of my time while I was in Melbourne. My major interest was my work with the PMG Research Laboratories. Each morning I caught the electric train from Moonee Ponds to the Flinders Street station in the city. It was then a short walk up Swanston Street to 59 Little Collin Street, the home of the Research Labs. My assignment was to work in the telephone transmission laboratory under the supervision of John Wilson. He put me to work on the problem of designing an improved telephone receiver - that is, the part of the telephone placed to the ear.

The receiver seemed such a simple thing: a small circular metal diaphragm located near the poles of a magnet on which coils were wound. Electrical currents, representing the telephone message, passed through the coils, altering the magnetic field and thereby changing the attraction of the metal diaphragm, which then vibrated in sympathy with the electrical currents to produce the audible sound. After working for three months on this problem, the Department moved me to another section; they planned to introduce me to three or four areas of the laboratory's work during my stay. However, I had become so fascinated with my work on the telephone receiver that I requested a transfer back to that section to continue my work. I found that the seemingly simple telephone receiver was anything but that. I became engrossed in the theory of mechanical vibrating systems, as the diaphragm was a vibrating plate. This led me into complex mathematics. Then I found that the innocent air space behind the diaphragm played an important role in damping the diaphragm motion at certain frequencies. The problem was how to design this air space to give the best effect. This led me into the subject of acoustics and to resonance in acoustic cavities. Finally there was the design of an efficient magnetic system to make the receiver as sensitive as possible.

At one time I used a powerful microscope to measure the diaphragm vibration. I found that vibration from vehicle traffic in the street disturbed my measurements, and discovered that, by making all my measurements from the top of a heavy safe, I could overcome this problem. Much of my time I spent perched six feet up in the air on top of the safe - to the amusement of the technicians.

It was a very productive year for me. I met, and became friends with several engineers and technicians and, for the first time in my life, did some extended research. When I returned to Perth in December, I set about writing a report on the work I had done. At the end of February 1949 I completed a 300-page report entitled: "An Introduction to the Analysis and Design of Telephone Receivers." I showed this to Keith Taplin and asked if it could be used as my final-year thesis, but he refused, saying that my thesis must cover work that I did during my final year of study.

Of all the people in the Research Laboratories, I came to know John Wilson best. In 1951 I was to meet him again under somewhat different circumstances. I was then working in Sydney, came down to Melbourne for two weeks on business, and contacted him. He arranged to meet me one day at 5.00 pm at the laboratories. When I arrived he said that his wife was holidaying in Sydney, and suggested that we go to an hotel for a meal. ‘I know just the place,’ he said, ‘I believe they have a very good nude floor show.’

This was a new experience for me, as I had never been to such a place. We walked to the hotel and arrived far too early either for dinner, or for the show. However, rather than turn us away, they took us in, gave us a table almost on the stage and served us drinks while waiting. John and I talked and drank. He proved to be a heavy drinker, and I found it difficult to keep pace with him. Eventually the room filled with patrons and dinner was served. We found ourselves in a key position. When the nude show started, the performers picked our prominent table for special attention. I found this somewhat embarrassing as I was not accustomed to having women remove their clothing in front of me. Leaning over our table, they shook their bare breasts and seductively gyrated their bellies before my nose. John seemed in his element.

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THE BRADY `AFFAIR' 1948: WORK AT THE PMG RESEARCH LABORATORIES

The evening ended abruptly, and unfortunately, for me. I had drunk more alcohol than I wanted and this had a bad effect. Outwardly I did not appear drunk, nor did I feel drunk, but a painful pressure built up in my chest. At the end of the floor show I excused myself and went to the men's toilet. When I did not return, John came looking for me. He found me on the floor in a cubicle where I had fainted. As I had not seemed drunk, this disturbed him: he thought I had had a heart attack. When I recovered, the chest pain was gone and I felt perfectly well. John, however, was worried, thought we should call it a day, and took me to my hotel.

- XIX

I enjoyed the return trip to Perth by sea, and travelled on a small interstate ship, the Manunda, a vessel of about 10,000 tons. One day it was rough in the Australian Bight and I was seasick. I lay stretched out on the canvas covering of a hatch on the boat deck and stared at the blue sky, because it made me less aware of the troublesome motion; that night I had a badly sunburnt face.

Back home in Perth, I wrote my long report on the work I had done in Melbourne and then, with six other students, commenced the final year of my electrical engineering course. Keith Taplin introduced me to ultrasonics and, at the end of the year I presented a 340-page thesis entitled The Theory and Design of Piezoelectric Ultrasonic Agitators. I had developed the habit of being very thorough and exhaustive in everything I did and wrote of the properties of dielectric materials, the mathematics of elasticity, the vibration of piezoelectric crystals, the theory of acoustic wave propagation and its application to ultrasonics. The thesis concluded with a report on the application of these principles to my practical design of an ultrasonic agitator. This thesis gained the dubious reputation of being the fattest volume in the collection of theses in the engineering library. However, it did not gain me first-class honours. My second-year failure in mathematics precluded me from gaining a first-class degree, for which no blemish on one's record was allowed. I was awarded a second-class honours' degree, but gained the Cable Makers Award for the best thesis.

There was another, quite different aspect to my final year. I had always lacked the confidence to put myself up for public office in any student affairs. I did not attend social functions of the Engineers' Club, and generally opted out of anything of that kind. However, when I returned from Melbourne, before the commencement of the academic year, several committee members of the Engineers' Club approached me and pressured me into accepting a position on the committee with the august title of “Chairman of the Electrical Sub-Committee”. This committee hired public address equipment - and such items as festoons of coloured lights -to other student bodies within the University. Although the war was over, supplies were difficult to obtain, and the engineers were the only people on campus who had such equipment. The problem was that their major amplifier was in disrepair, and they wanted someone who would build them a new one. They saw me as that person. I designed and built an amplifier for them, gathered three or four other students around me to form the “subcommittee” and then between us, farmed out the work to be done.

Two or three times a week a public address system was required at lunch-time on Whitfeld court, or elsewhere, for a political or other kind of rally. Most Friday nights there was a dance for which our coloured lights were hired. We put them up on Friday afternoon and took them down the following day. We supplied equipment for faculty dinners and balls and made a small fortune for our club. This was the only way in which I saw something of the social life of the university, although I usually attended graduation ceremonies in Winthrop Hall.

Because total student numbers were so small, the University scheduled a single annual ceremony at which there was sufficient room for undergraduates to attend. There was no great organ to entertain the audience of parents with serious and sedate music before the ceremony proper. The undergraduates had a piano on the stage and conducted their own lighthearted and usually irreverent entertainment. We all had copies of the booklet Grad Rags from which we sang the student club songs, often in opposition to each

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other. Undergraduates made their own procession into the Hall, with student faculty representatives at the head, carrying their faculty club banner.

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1949: MY FINAL ENGINEERING YEAR GRADUATION AND OTHER `CEREMONIES'

When the official procession with senators and professors entered the hall, all the undergraduates broke into song to the tune of the traditional "John Brown's Body", from the American Civil War:

W ho are these a-coming with a slow and measured tread

Most emphatic figures dressed in green and gold and red

They couldn't move much slower if their boots were made of lead

As they come marching on.

Firstly come the Senators, a Neolithic crew

W ho pass a resolution when they've nothing else to do

. . . . .

and so on for verse after verse, each verse being a parody of some section of the hierarchy.

Sir James Mitchell, the Governor, was often asked by the University Senate to make a viceregal presence and give the occasional address. Portly Mitchell was well known to urge all graduates to go on the land. One year, the undergraduates held a mock graduation ceremony before the commencement of the real one. Someone, dressed as the portly governor gave a wonderful parody of his speech about “going on the land”. Unfortunately the real Governor arrived before the departure of the fake. They shook hands.

There was always much rivalry between the Science and Engineering students. One year the engineers determined to steal the science banner at the graduation ceremony, and let this be known. Consequently, the science students surrounded their banner in the procession with a group of burly bodyguards. However, the engineers had explored the architectural features of Winthrop Hall and knew that the spaces between the ceiling rafters were no more than chicken wire, lined with hessian. One of their fellows got into the ceiling with a fishing line, cut back part of the chicken wire and, at the crucial moment, lowered the line, hooked the science banner and whisked it away to dizzy heights above the procession. Once in the ceiling cavity, the banner was quickly dropped to the ground outside the Hall where a waiting engineering athlete caught it, and raced with it to Stirling Highway, where another engineer on a motorcycle sped off with it. Rumour had it that the banner was taken to the home of Professor Blakey, where it was hidden in his safe.

In 1949 there was one other incident of note in Winthrop Hall. Notices appeared around the university, and articles were written in the student newspaper, Pelican, that an eminent and knowledgeable French gentleman by the name of M. Leps would be visiting Perth and had agreed to give a lunchtime lecture on abstract art in Winthrop Hall. Admission to the lecture would be free but, since the demand for seats would be high, everyone was urged to book a seat beforehand. Each day during the week before the scheduled event, several people sat at a table outside the refectory, with a box-office plan of Winthrop Hall seating, and issued printed tickets. The organisers approached several academics in the Arts faculty, and asked them for their opinion of the work of M. Leps. I understand that several gave critical reviews, but I did not see them.

The Engineers' Club was asked to provide a public address system for the occasion so, an hour before the event started, I was in the hall, at a side balcony setting up my equipment. Two of the organisers approached me:

‘I think we should tell you something,’ one of them said, ‘in case there is any trouble.’ ‘There is no such person as M. Leps, and this is nothing more than a big hoax. We have invited many prominent people to attend, and they will be sitting in the front rows, but we are concerned lest someone gets wind of what's happening and tries to sabotage the sound system. We are posting a guard at each end of this corridor so no one can get to you, but we thought you should know.’

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My interest in the event increased considerably. Standing from my vantage point overlooking the stage and the Hall, I watched ushers showing guests to their seats; Soon the Hall filled and a chairman arrived to introduce the guest. Next came Leps himself, who proceeded to give a quite incomprehensible but erudite sounding speech on abstract modern art in broken English with a strong French accent. After the event was over and people departed, it was gradually leaked that the whole thing was a hoax. Many people had red faces.

Student pranks were many, but few were as clever or as audacious as that of M. Leps. Sometimes, pranks were perpetrated at faculty dinners. Each student faculty club held an annual ball in Winthrop Hall and an annual dinner, held on campus, to which the academic staff were invited. The Dean usually made a speech. Because the university grounds were extensive and largely undeveloped, the Head Gardener, George Munns, kept a flock of fifty sheep. These were moved from one part of the campus to another and provided an economical lawn mower, as they kept the grass trimmed and provided fertiliser. At one faculty dinner, just as the Dean rose to give his speech, the doors opened and fifty sheep were ushered into the room.

It is unfortunate that because of shyness I never attended as an undergraduate an Engineers' Ball (always advertised as “Engineers' Balls are the Best.”) or an Engineers' Club dinner. In later years, as an academic staff member I attended many, and several times was called upon, in place of the Dean, to give the toast to the Engineers' Club. It seems strange that, from such diffident beginnings, I should develop a reputation as a good public speaker. For example, in 1966 when I was subdean and Professor David Allen-Williams was Dean, he prevailed on me to give the speech. David was himself an accomplished, if somewhat dry, speaker but one who, as a Cambridge graduate, prided himself on the breadth of his education. Each week within the faculty we reserved the hour from noon on Wednesdays as "Faculty Hour." No technical lectures were scheduled for anyone during this sacred hour, when we invited guests to talk on all manner of topics. The Dean introduced the guest, and David always included some poetry in his introduction.

I took advantage of this and, after reminding the students of the Dean's well-known characteristics, launched into the following poem:

A lyrical Dean is a joy to be seen With his verses, his couplets and odes. He must have a book In which he can look How else could he cook up such episodes.

But if you are like me, Existentially condemned to be free . . . To choose your own path and your way, Recall this living example With evidence so ample Of the link between Science and Humanity.

For the powers in our hands Are but useless firebrands Lest we know that the fire is worth setting. Not "How?", but "W hy?' Is humanity's true cry And the Wisdom that's surely worth getting.

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1949: STUDENT PRANKS FACULTY DINNERS I GIVE UP MY RELIGION

- XX

On 7 May 1949 I had my twenty-first birthday and became of age. It was traditional to have a large party to mark this important event, but I did not want one. Instead, my parents gave me a typewriter. More importantly, at my coming of age, I told my mother that I was discontinuing my practice of religion.

When they married, my parents undertook to raise me as a Catholic and they honoured that undertaking. Therefore, I felt that I had the responsibility to remain a Catholic until I became my own man. I was most surprised when my mother announced that the only reason why she had remained a Catholic all these years was because of her marriage promise to raise her children as Catholics. Because of this vow, she felt it necessary to set me a good example. So, when I stopped going to church, so did she. Mother, however, still needed the peace that a church could give her and, after many years, attended the Anglican Church. She always sat at the back of the Church because she felt claustrophobic, and always enjoyed the presence of small children with their simple, unquestioning innocence.

My own decision to leave the Church had been brewing for a long time although, because of the authority that the Church wielded, and the overpowering feelings of guilt that this imposed on me, the decision was not an easy one to make. I had never had what is called a "religious experience." Emotionally, church attendance, the rituals, the sacraments and the saying of prayers were all without meaning. Perhaps a comment that my father once made about the Church also influenced me. I expressed some doubt to him. He replied that the Church was similar to a cricket club: A cricket club is formed so that members can enjoy a game of cricket but eventually it becomes so organised, so rigid, and so full of rules, that more time is spent arguing about the rules than about playing the game.

The God of the Old Testament always seemed a wrathful God. If Jesus and Christianity preached a creed of love, then this did not tally with the God of the Old Testament. Nor did the attitude of mission priests, who preached hellfire and damnation for all who did not obey the tenets of the Church. I also had trouble with the discrepancy between a religion that preached love, and the practice of its officials. My parents brought me up with very strong beliefs about the importance of truth, honesty and compassion. For all her own fears and troubles, Mother was, in her own way, a very compassionate person. Dad was very sincere and honest. The Church also upheld these values. Since the priests and the Christian Brothers were men of God, then they were also obviously men of great truth, great honesty and compassion. I discovered that often they were not.

Dad owned a many-volumed set of books called The Historian's History of the World. When I was sixteen years of age, I used these to discover something of the history of the Church, told from the point of view of an historian, rather than as Catholic dogma. When I came to the history of the inquisition, I was appalled at the description of tortures inflicted in the name of the Catholic Faith. How could people, who supposedly preached love and compassion, behave in such a way, so contrary to the message taught by Christ?

Another book helped destroy my faith. My famous uncle, the Rev. Dr. Leslie Rumble, had written several books under the title Radio Replies. These were in the form of questions and answers about the Catholic Church. I discovered one question that asked:

You tell non-Catholics that they should read books about the Catholic faith, and yet you forbid Catholics to read books from other faiths. Is this not inconsistent?

My uncle's answer was simple:

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No, it is not inconsistent, because the Catholic already knows that he has the truth.

Not only did I find this arrogant, but illogical. To me it seemed that, if one really had the truth, his answer would make sense, but how was it possible to discover the truth unless one probed all possibilities? I wanted to be analytical and use my mind. I did not have what the Catholics demanded, unquestioning faith and obedience.

In 1943, while I was at Aquinas College, I became curious about the story of Noah's Ark. The bible gave the size of the Ark in cubits. I discovered what the length of a cubit was in modern terms and from this worked out the volume of the Ark. It was easy to conclude that all the animals could not possibly have fitted into it. Here was a dilemma: I had been told that I must believe the bible because it was the inspired word of God. I had also been taught the scientific method and found, therefore, a conflict between the two.

Not knowing how to resolve the dilemma I approached my science teacher Brother Hodda in the school grounds and confronted him with the problem. His reply was simple: ‘No matter what you have worked out for yourself, believe the bible!’ This response I found incredible. Here was my respected science teacher telling me not to use common sense and reason but to have faith in the bible although it conflicted with what I knew must be true. He never realised how strong was the nail that he drove into the coffin of my religious faith that day.

I was sufficiently naive to believe that anyone who was a Catholic must uphold all the virtues that it preached. I was shocked to discover the way of life of the Brady family. Their local Church upheld them as fine and virtuous Catholics, and yet their behaviour at home completely contradicted this. This realisation drove the final nail into the coffin, and made it inevitable that when I turned twenty-one a few months' later, I would make the decision that I did.

There was another factor that led me to give up my Catholic faith, of which I was less proud. In 1942 at my school religious retreat I had lied in the confessional. The guilt of this hung heavily upon me. Until that time I had felt myself to be like a pure, sparkling and polished diamond. That image was now tarnished: the diamond had been dulled. I went to confession once a month, and no one was supposed to go to holy communion if in a state of serious sin. I worried about how it would look to others if I did not take communion at mass when everyone else did. Perhaps they would all realise that I was in a state of serious sin. When I did take communion, I felt bad for doing so. This was another sin that should be confessed.

As time went by, it became ever more difficult to face the confessional box. Then I committed a further sin. On a Saturday afternoon I would tell my mother that I was going to confession, get on my bicycle and set off in the direction of the church. I spent half an hour riding around the nearby streets. Returning home, I did not announce that I had not been to confession. This compounded my feeling of guilt.

After I formally announced that I would no longer practise my religion, I felt enormous relief but guilt did not entirely disappear. I had been taught at school about so-called “lapsed” Catholics: sinful people who did not uphold their faith and honour their Church. I had been taught the phrase “Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.” This implied: there is no escape. For years I avoided priests; I avoided visiting my old school for fear that I would either be accused of being a lapsed Catholic, or that I would sin by pretending, even by omission, that I was still a Catholic. When I worked in Sydney in 1951 I refused to visit my Uncle for fear that he should discover my loss of Faith. The fear of authority still hung heavily upon me.

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WHY I ABANDONED RELIGION 1951: I TAKE A JOB IN SYDNEY

It was to take at least another fifteen years before I had sufficient faith in myself to resolve this problem of guilt. It was only then that I became clear about my attitude to religion and the meaning of life. By that time I had done many things of which my learned uncle would have disapproved: I had read much about other non-Christian religions.

- XXI

The years from 1949 to 1952 saw important developments on the world front that would dominate much of our thinking over the coming years. In 1949 Russian dictator Josef Stalin established the Communist German Democratic Republic. For many years this focussed European tension on the confrontation between West and East Germany.

In October of that year, Mao Tse-Tung proclaimed China a Communist Republic - setting the stage for years of tension between that country and the West, particular the USA. Early in 1950 Vietnam effectively became two nations when Britain and USA recognised Emperor Bao Dai in the South, while Russia endorsed Ho Chi Minh's rule over the Communist North. Fighting broke out between North Vietnam and the French in the South. This conflict was to escalate eventually to engulf and inflame young people around the world. In the same year, North Korea attacked South Korea, and the United States stepped in to aid the South.

The world focussed on the impending global conflict between Capitalism and Communism. Australian Prime Minister, Robert Menzies, saw communists infiltrating everywhere into Australian society particularly into the Trade Union movement - and unsuccessfully tried to ban the Communist Party. Finally, in 1952, King George VI - whose coronation we had celebrated in 1937 - died and his daughter Elizabeth became our Queen.

Both 1949 and 1950 were comparatively quiet, routine years for me. When I completed my degree, Keith Taplin persuaded me to accept a position as a Commonwealth Research Fellow and stay on in the Department, extending my work on ultrasonics. During the year I enrolled in a first-year philosophy unit but forsook the course when I was scheduled to lead a seminar on the nature of God. Given my recent decisions about religion, I found this too threatening.

Half way through the year, Keith Taplin asked me to give half a dozen lectures to the final-year students on the topic of electrical measurements. I greatly enjoyed preparing and giving these lectures to the small class, which included a few ex-servicemen who were much older than I. It made me realise that I would enjoy a career as a university lecturer. However, first I needed wider experience - which I was not getting by working on ultrasonics. I decided that I needed a professional job for perhaps five years before turning, if possible, to a university career.

Thinking that I would gain better experience outside Western Australia, I visited the local representative of AWA - Amalgamated Wireless Australasia Ltd. AWA had a large manufacturing business in Ashfield, Sydney. Within a week I had a job offer. At the end of 1950, I again boarded the train to Kalgoorlie and then crossed the Nullarbor Plain to Port Augusta and then to Adelaide. I made a break in my journey at Adelaide to stay two weeks with the Anderson family. Mr Anderson had been a friend of Dad's while they were both in Java. They had a daughter, Josie, slightly younger than I, and I got on very well with her. For the first time in my life I found myself not self-conscious when with a girl. I was changing. After the holiday in Adelaide I caught a bus that took me inland to Sydney via the Murray River.

The personnel officer at AWA found me accommodation in Ashfield, not far from their factory. This was a single room with lodging but no board. Three or four men, all much older than I, lodged there under the watchful eye of a firm, and very strict landlady. I had to find my own breakfast, lunch and tea for which there were no facilities in the house, and did not enjoy this life style. One of my close

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friends from Western Australia, Kevin Parsons, started working for the Department of Civil Aviation in Sydney that year. He also had accommodation problems. There was still a housing shortage, and flats were almost impossible to obtain.

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WHY I ABANDONED RELIGION 1951: I TAKE A JOB IN SYDNEY

We placed an advertisement in the paper stating that two young graduate electrical engineers from Western Australia sought accommodation with some board. We did not expect replies, and were surprised when we received five. So, on Saturday morning, we set out to visit them all. Most were quite dreadful and unsuitable.

One offer came from a Mrs MacArthur at an address in Rose Bay - a rather exclusive suburb. When we arrived at the address, we found ourselves facing a multi storey block of upper-class luxury apartments. We went to the fifth floor, walking over deep pile carpets in the corridor, and rang the bell. Eventually an attractive young man opened the door and showed us into the lounge. He said that Mrs MacArthur would not be long and then left us. I surveyed the scene: We stood on a luxurious carpet on which a fluffy white kitten was playing with a ball of wool. Beyond, a huge picture window looked out over the harbour. The furniture was expensive. Surely this could not be the right address for someone wanting to take in two boarders?

Before I had time to explore these ideas, Mrs MacArthur arrived. She was a well-dressed woman of fifty, with a blue hair rinse. She greeted us with great affectation:

‘Oh, you lovely boys,’ she placed her hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. ‘I would so love to have you here. Let me show you your room.’

She took us into a large bedroom that we were to share. It, too, was sumptuously furnished and also looked out over the harbour. After telling us the rent, which was very reasonable, she continued, ‘I bet you both have a great time with the girls.’ She nudged me in the ribs and gave us a knowing look. ‘I don't mind what girls you drag up to your room at night provided each weekend you take me down to the local pub for a bucket of slops.’

Kevin and I could not back out quick enough. We thanked her, told her we had others places to inspect and would let her know. Later, we wondered what life would have been like had we accepted her offer, dragged our girls into our room, and then taken her for the weekly bucket of slops. We also wondered what else went on in the apartment.

We settled for a very different place in the southern suburb of Mortdale. A refined family, with two daughters around twenty years of age, faced financial difficulties, when Mr Lambert became incurably ill. He was to die just after I returned to Perth. They gave us an enclosed side veranda as a bedroom and offered breakfast and dinner. We accepted this, and it proved good accommodation. We became part of the family, and they let me play their piano. It was a much better arrangement than the single room I had at Ashfield, although I had a long way to travel every day.

During the year Kevin became engaged to a girl whose family lived at Maitland; He and I went to their home for a weekend engagement party. On the Saturday night, they held a dance in the house. Kevin's fiancée had a sixteen year-old sister Betsy and, during the evening, I plucked up courage to ask her to dance with me. I danced with her all night and with no one else. She was warm and soft and I felt very relaxed when I held her close to me. We talked easily and I felt very tender towards her. Next morning everyone was late getting up, and her mother let me take her breakfast in bed. I sat on the end of the bed talking to her, and felt very close and intimate. Somehow her smile churned me up inside. If no one else was home and she had encouraged me to jump into bed with her, I would have done so. I also realised that I was twenty-three and she was only sixteen, so I did not attempt to continue my association with her after we returned to Sydney, but I realised that I was definitely changing. At last I had discovered that girls could have an attraction for me that overcame my shyness of them.

I enjoyed my work with AWA. First, I worked on Antenna development and then became involved with their DME or Distance Measurement Equipment for aircraft. They were manufacturing this for the Department of Civil Aviation who would soon be commissioning it. This was a secondary radar system

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in which transmitters in the aircraft interrogated ground stations and calculated how long it took to receive an answer back at the aircraft. This was then translated into the distance of the aircraft from the ground beacon, and appeared on a dial on the instrument panel.

Although I enjoyed the work, the lengthy travel each day from Mortdale was irksome. I complained of this to Kevin. He suggested that I change jobs and come to work for DCA. This was in his own self-interest. He was in charge of training and maintenance, a job he disliked because he wanted to work in the practical construction and installation area. He could not move into that area until a replacement for him was found in his present position.

Kevin constantly badgered me to take his job. ‘It's ideal for you,’ he said. ‘You enjoy teaching and in this job you would be in charge of the technicians' training school. You also know something about DME - which is just about to be introduced into DCA. Training courses on the operation and maintenance of DME equipment must be introduced at the training school. You would be in your element.’

Kevin kept up the pressure until finally I thought he might be right. It would be much easier to get to work at Mascot Airport than to AWA at Ashfield, so finally I agreed, and changed jobs. Kevin smiled at the chance to get into the job that he really wanted, while I quite enjoyed my work developing training courses in the new equipment. However, AWA was none too pleased at my departure.

Even my job with the Department of Civil Aviation was short-lived. In September, I unexpectedly received a letter from Keith Taplin, telling me that the University had created an additional lecturing position in the Department. He invited me to apply. Although I wanted to become a university lecturer eventually, my plan was first to gain five years of practical experience. The invitation caught me by surprise: it had come too soon. I debated within myself what to do. Finally, as I did not know when another opportunity would arise, I submitted an application. I told myself that it would be good experience to apply; there would be other applicants more experienced than I, and I did not expect to be offered the job. I was doubly surprised when I gained the post.

Again I booked a passage to Fremantle - this time on the M.V. Westralia, another small interstate vessel. After sailing from Sydney and calling at Melbourne, the ship arrived at Adelaide early in the morning and did not depart until 8.30 pm. The Anderson family met me in the morning and I did not return to the ship until 8.15 pm. When I reached my two-berth cabin, I found two middle-aged, red-nosed, portly gentlemen waiting for me. My cabin companion from Sydney had left the ship at Adelaide, and one of the two men now waiting on me had been assigned the vacant berth. They introduced themselves and explained their position. ‘My friend Bill and I have just joined the ship and would like to share a cabin, but we have been split up. I wonder whether you would mind changing with my friend, so we can be together?’ It mattered not to me in which cabin I travelled, so I readily agreed. Much relieved, Bill, profuse with thanks, drew a whisky flask from his hip pocket. ‘That's most awfully decent of you, old man,’ he said, ‘you must have a drink on us.’ He spotted a large tumbler on the washbasin, reached for it and, before I could protest, emptied his flask into it, and handed it to me, almost full. I had never drunk hard liquor but did not like to refuse. I swallowed the burning liquid and remembered little else, except that I woke up next morning in a new cabin with a most dreadful hangover.

- XXII

Over the next six years I threw myself into my task as a lecturer in the University. The department was very small. Keith Taplin was Head of Department; Howard Bundell, only a few years older than I, concentrated on the electrical power field, while I developed the area of communications and

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electronics. I worked and studied very hard because my undergraduate degree had contained very little in the field of communications and nothing in electronics.

The engineering school as a whole was still dominated by Professor Blakey and the Civil Engineering Department. Indeed, Blakey wanted to maintain the entire school under his control, relegating the heads of Electrical and Mechanical Engineering to minor positions. He was a Professor, while they were only Senior Lecturers, or later, Readers. The two emerging departments smarted under his yoke and fought hard to establish themselves as coequals with Civil Engineering.

I was shocked when I attended my first Engineering Faculty meetings. These were held monthly in the Senate room above the great gate at Winthrop Hall. As faculties increased in size, they gradually outgrew this room with its highly polished U-shaped jarrah table, headed by another table across the top at which the Dean presided, flanked by the faculty secretary and minute taker. Around the walls hung oil paintings of past Chancellors. It was a quietly sumptuous, dignified room - but my first faculty meeting in that room was anything but dignified.

Blakey and Taplin engaged in an emotional tirade of words in which Taplin accused Blakey of lowdown skulduggery to suppress the Electrical Engineering Department. The argument became heated. Taplin was so affected by the alleged wrongdoings perpetrated against him by the Dean and by the bitterness of the debate that tears flowed from his eyes. Clearly there was no love lost between the two. It was also evident that this was not the way that mature and highly educated men should behave. I came away disillusioned by reality.

I was to discover that Keith Taplin always took criticism of his department as a personal attack on himself, and always assumed that other people were driven by the worst possible motives. There was, however, another side to him, in which he could show care and compassion towards people, particularly if they were disadvantaged, or if he saw them as the underdog being trampled on by others. He always preached morals to others, particularly if he thought their actions were less than moral. He often frustrated and annoyed me, but this was tempered by his obvious concern for my well-being. However, since so many of his actions were charged with, and directed by emotion rather than by reason, he was not a very satisfactory departmental head.

Blakey died later in 1952 and his place was taken by Keith Cooper. This did much to relieve the interdepartmental animosity but it persisted until the Mechanical and Electrical Engineering Departments grew in size and together could outvote the Civil Engineering Department; it did not finally die until all three departments had full professors at their head. At an intermediate stage, while the departmental heads argued, much constructive work was done jointly by their junior members of staff working together cooperatively.

- XXIII

I quickly made friends with Howard Bundell. Howard had been appointed a lecturer in 1948 while I was in Melbourne. We came to know each other well in 1950 when he and I took a camping trip to the south west of the State in his Austin A40 car. Other than the main road to Bunbury, Busselton or Albany, most other roads were still corrugated-gravel and needed some care in driving. If we drove too slowly, we were jolted by every corrugation. If we drove too fast, while we skated over the top of the corrugations, we faced the danger of hitting a dust-filled pothole, or of skidding off the road.

On this trip, while travelling south of Pemberton, we left the main road at Northcliffe and headed along a sand track towards Windy Harbour. At one point the track was just wide enough for one vehicle; On our left was a steep sandy rise, on the right, a swamp, and we came head-to-head with a large American car going in the opposite direction. Fortunately we had a spade with us. We took turns in cutting away the sand-hill until there was enough room for the American car to pass us. Covered in

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dust, and wearing our straw hats, we later encountered a flat-top lorry coming towards us. There was now plenty of room for them to pass us; as they did so, we noted about twenty men sitting on the flat tray of the truck. They called out, ‘Have you got your shootin' irons?’ and sped on their way in a cloud of dust. When we reached Windy Harbour we found only women and children gathered around their tents. They called out to us, ‘Did you pass the men?’ It appears that the men had set out to have a drink at the nearest pub - forty miles away.

Howard was brought up by an aunt, and was still single. When I renewed my friendship with him in 1952, we saw much of each other. Although, as an undergraduate, I did not drink, I had learnt to enjoy beer when I was in Sydney. On my return to Perth, after work, Howard and I often visited "Steve's" the Nedlands Park Hotel, which was the old drinking hole for University students and staff. We were in a small group that gathered there, and I had to be very careful not to drink too much because I was never a heavy drinker. It was the custom for everyone to “shout” one another in turn. If there were eight of us in the group, then the first person bought a beer for everyone. This continued in rotation until everyone had bought all the others a drink. I could not handle eight drinks, so made a point of being the second or at the most, the third, person to “shout” the others. It was unthinkable to leave before shouting the others.

Howard loved reading; he also owned a large collection of 78 rpm records. I built myself a very high quality record player and had started collecting records. The new 33 rpm microgroove long-playing records were just coming on to the market, but were in very short supply. Now that I was on a university salary, I had money in my pocket so, once a month, I visited a music store, Nicholsons, in Barrack Street, central Perth. I became known to the salesman who would take me to the back of the shop and let me browse through a couple of dozen disks that had recently come into stock but had not yet been put on display. My first purchase was Beethoven's sixth Symphony, and, as the months went by, my growing collection reflected not so much my taste in music, but what came into the shop.

I joined the World Book Club and from them purchased a monthly book - usually a novel. I also became a constant visitor to the University Bookshop and could rarely enter it without coming out with an armful of books. While I bought many technical books, my interests became much wider. I bought books with such titles as: A Short History of our Times, The Miraculous Birth of Language, From Cave Painting to Comic Strip, Churchill's five volumes of The Second World War and Norbert Wiener's book, The Human Use of Human Beings. As each year went by I was attracted frequently to books that dealt with human and social issues.

I continued to live with my parents in Mt. Lawley but felt bad about it. As long as I was unmarried, Mother expected me to live at home. If I had announced that I was leaving home to live in a flat elsewhere in Perth, she would have been very hurt. While I remained single, my place was in my parents' home, nowhere else. Leaving home would be interpreted as rebellion. This attitude was not unusual for the period, particularly with respect to girls. My cousin Miriamme wanted to leave home, but found that there was no way that she could do it, unless she left the State. Leaving home was almost an immoral act.

Over 1952 and 1953 I was very lonely, in spite of my activities. My relations with my parents deteriorated. Mother said that she did not like Kevin Parsons. She saw him as my undoing. ‘Ever since you were with him in Sydney,’ she said, ‘you have not been as nice a person. He has changed you for the worse.’ What she did not realise was that it was not Kevin Parsons that caused me to change, but my experience of independence and my desire for it. She still wanted me to be the loving little boy who depended on her, appreciated everything she did for me whether I wanted it or not, and one who agreed with her in all things. I felt smothered by her.

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She found it hard to accept me as a man with my own set of values that might not always correspond with hers. I also started to realise that very often her actions sprang from her own needs. She would say, ‘Wouldn't it be nice for you to come on a picnic with me,’ whereas, being more honest, she should have said, ‘I would like you to come on a picnic with me.’ She was always supposedly doing things for me, but mostly this did not consider my needs, but hers. I found it hard to speak directly to her about this because she would respond with the well-worn phrase, ‘Don't say things like that to me, because you will hurt me too much.’ Increasingly I found myself in a bind; often I was moody and antagonistic towards my parents. They must have found me very difficult, and I have nothing to be proud of in the way I handled an increasingly difficult situation.

For years I had wanted to learn to play the piano but had never had the opportunity, so I asked the Dean family if they could suggest someone. They did, and I found myself taking lessons as a raw recruit with many bad habits from Stephanie James. I was shocked when I discovered that she was one of the music examiners in the State. Unfortunately, although I enjoyed learning, I was very nervous and tense when taking a lesson, and never overcame this. I also found it very difficult to find time to practise. Dad hated the sound of the piano. The only time I could practise was when he was in the bathroom shaving in the morning, or when he was at work. Most of the day I was also at work, so it was very difficult. Eventually I gave up the lessons because it became impossible to progress under the circumstances.

- XXIV

Mother thought it was time that I had a girlfriend and tried pushing various girls towards me. With the aid of her sister Phyllis, she introduced me to the Sachse family, a large family of fervent Catholics. Through my cousins Miriamme and Elsa I had some contact with the Sachse girls and found myself invited both over to their house in Wembley and to spend a few days on their farm at Bencubbin. Eventually, I took a liking to the second eldest girl, Josie, and would have liked her to become my steady girlfriend. When I asked her, she said that this was not possible as she already had a steady boyfriend, although he was temporarily in Darwin. I was very upset by this, but got over it and continued to visit the family. Then they announced that they wanted to go square dancing and wanted me to go along as it needed four couples to make a set.

I was undecided; I felt nervous about dancing and usually avoided it. Under pressure, I agreed to join them. Square dancing was just starting to take Australia by storm. I knew nothing about it but went along with the group to the University refectory where every Saturday night a club, called the International House Square Dance Club, met. I discovered that square dancing was totally unlike other forms of dancing that I knew. One did not keep a single partner; there were no close holding or embarrassing clinches; it was active, precise, and stimulating - and no prior skill at dancing was needed. To my surprise I enjoyed it very much.

At the end of the following week I rang the Sachse's and discovered that they were not going again. They had not liked it. They all wanted the romantic hold-your-partner-close-to-you style, and square dancing was not this. I was in a dilemma. I liked it, and wanted to go again, but we were supposed to turn up in prearranged groups of eight. After much debating in my mind, I plucked up courage and decided to turn up by myself. I did and, as luck would have it, there was one group there that needed a man. When they saw me enter the refectory by myself, they said, ‘There's a man!’ And they grabbed me.

This was the greatest stroke of good luck that ever befell me because in that group was a girl, Kay Melson, who eventually became my wife, and with whom I was to lead a life of happiness. Looking back, I realised how fortunate it was that Josie Sachse already had a steady boyfriend because, had she not, I might never have met the person who became so central to my life.

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Our square dance group comprised several young married couples: Gwen and Cran Smither, Vera and Roy Atkinson, Eileen and Jack Bailey. We also had Gwen's sister, Joan Daley, Dorothy Carrie, Kay Melson, Colin Bourne and me. Not everyone came every week, but we always had sufficient numbers to make a set. Other people who joined the group from time to time were Michael Cullity, a former student of mine who lived near me in Mt. Lawley, and Kay's cousin, Tom Turner who had come out from Britain.

Everyone in the group was friendly and unaffected, and initially I was equally friends with them all. However, I soon realised that I liked Kay Melson very much. She was a gentle and kind person and somewhat shy, as was I. We talked easily. I discovered that she lived with her parents and sister in East Fremantle. I also realised that each week Colin Bourne brought her to the square dance, but I did not know whether they were boy and girlfriend. At the time, I did not know that Colin worked in the same building in Perth as did Kay and that several times he had asked her to go out with him. She had always refused. She also refused when he asked her to go square dancing with him. ‘Don't be silly,’ Colin had said, ‘It's just a friendly group.’ So he persuaded her to go along, and each week he picked her up and took her to the University refectory. Sometimes Colin was out of Perth on business and could not go square dancing.

One week, thinking that Colin was out of town, I plucked up courage, rang Kay and asked if I could pick her up at her home. Thinking that Colin was still out of town, she agreed. However, soon after I arrived at her home, Colin also arrived having returned to Perth earlier than expected. He took one look at us and said, ‘I'll see you both up at Uni,’ and went on his way. He quickly realised that Kay and I were forming a close relationship and made way for us.

-o0o

My upbringing and Kay's were remarkably similar although our backgrounds were very different. Kay's father was born in Sheffield, Yorkshire on 9 December 1899, joined the army at the age of seventeen, served in India and then became restless. He migrated to Western Australia and first became a wool-classer, although he finished his career as a health inspector. In 1925 he married Violet Allerton. He served in the Second World War. Vi was born in Woodford, Essex on 23 March 1902 and migrated to Western Australia with her parents sometime after 1910. Initially they lived in a tent while they cleared a block of land in Palmyra and later built their own house. Kay, who was born on 18 October 1926, had a happy childhood within a close-knit family. She loved her grandparents' home with its kittens, ducklings, goslings and baby rabbits. Her grandmother also kept a cow.

Kay and her younger sister Doreen depended on each other for companionship as Vi did not approve of the neighbourhood children's language and behaviour. Like me, Kay grew up shy and socially inept. Her upbringing was left to her mother who accepted the prevailing custom that girls did not need education beyond third year high school. Leaving school, Kay enrolled in Underwoods Business College in 1942 and then worked for Watsons Supply Stores in Fremantle. She transferred to the Colonial Mutual Life Association in central Perth and worked for them until her marriage, apart from a year spent with her family when her father took a job in Colac, Victoria.

It was at Watsons that she was given the name Kay. She was christened Kathleen Mary but, as there was another Kathleen at Watsons, they gave her a new name. She was known as Kay from the time I met her. At CML she formed a close friendship with five other girls who were to remain lifelong friends. After marriage, they met regularly, first to discuss their husbands, then their babies, teenage children and finally their grandchildren. Kay valued this special set of friends and brought qualities of honesty, friendship, sincerity and trust to all that she did.

- XXV

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I TAKE UP SQUARE DANCING AND FORM A RELATIONSHIP WITH KAY MELSON

At this time, my mode of transport was a 250 cc Ariel motorbike that I had bought on my return from Sydney. It was not my first motorbike. In 1945, as a first-year student at the University, I rode my pushbike every day from home in Mt. Lawley to the University. Somehow, my mother scraped up enough money to give me a secondhand Harley-Davidson “pea-shooter”. Mother's friend, Laurie Wilkinson, who was then living in Perth, found it for her, and taught me how to ride. It was very old and very unreliable but served me during the early days of my undergraduate course. Finally it fell to pieces and finished its life on the local dump.

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After his return from the war, Dad taught me to drive a car, taking me out along the bushland area of Walter Road - now the fully developed suburb of Dianella. He must have been an effective teacher as I obtained my licence the first time I went for a test. However, I could not afford a car of my own and, whenever I asked if I could borrow my parents' car, they made such a fuss about the great privilege they were bestowing on me by giving me permission that finally I refused to ask for it. They had been unable to afford a car of their own until in their mid-thirties, and begrudged the fact that I wanted access to a car when I was only twenty-one or twenty-two. I felt so put-down that I resolved that, should I ever have children, I would always happily lend them my car without fuss.

In 1952 I had difficulty in buying my Ariel motorcycle. My fear of going into shops gripped me and I walked past many a motorcycle shop without having the courage to go in and inspect one. Finally I forced myself into a shop and virtually bought the first motorcycle I saw. My knowledgeable friends did not think much of my choice. ‘Why on earth did you buy an Ariel?’ they said, ‘You should have bought a decent bike, like a Triumph.’ However, I now had my own transport and did not rely constantly on my parents.

Unfortunately, Kay's mother, Vi, did not particularly like her daughter riding around on the back of a motorbike, so I started thinking of a car. In mid 1954, while driving to the University one morning, I nearly came to grief on the bike. Travelling along Thomas Street towards Nedlands, I approached the Kings Park Road corner. All the traffic coming from Nedlands, wanting to turn right into Kings Park Road, was backed up behind a stationary bus taking on passengers. As there was no cross-traffic, I entered the intersection. Suddenly an impatient driver, three cars behind the bus, swung out into the road to turn right and did not see me. I braked heavily, the motorcycle skidded and swung round on the wet road, and I finished lying on the road with the bike on top of me. Although not injured, I was badly shaken. I decided that motorbikes were unsafe and it was not long before I sold it and bought my first car - a secondhand Ford Anglia tourer. Kay's mother was much happier.

Kay and I continued our weekly square dancing and both enjoyed it very much as we became more proficient. The format of the dance intrigued me and I started calling the dance when our group had social gatherings at our homes. This I found challenging. Our form of dancing was known as “Impromptu Square Dancing”, as the dancers never knew what would be the next call. A set comprised four couples standing on the sides of an imaginary square. To the beat of rhythmic music, the caller then called a sequence of moves, such as

Sashay round the corner of the ring,

back to your partner and give her a swing, or

Circle to the left and I'll tell you what,

The head two gents tie a double-bow knot.

Each figure of the dance - of which there were many, such as the Sashay, or tying a double-bow knot was known to the dancers, but they did not know the sequence in which they would be called. The caller decided that sequence, calling moves in such as way that the dance progressed smoothly. It was a lighthearted dance to be enjoyed, with plenty of room for laughter, good-natured fun, and the making of mistakes. Often it became a game between the caller and the dancers. He would start the call with simple moves and then slowly make them more and more complex. It only took one person in the set to make an error for the whole set to be thrown into confusion. It was the object of the caller to make the calls eventually so demanding that mistakes would be made. The dancers determined not to make a mistake, no matter how difficult the calls.

The pattern of calling always included rhyming cues that would limit the moves that might follow. I enjoyed the demand this placed on the caller. Always I called three or four moves ahead of the figure being danced at any moment; I watched the dancers to modify my call should they fall into error but also planned in my head the next three or four calls after the ones I was then calling. I enjoyed the mental gymnastics required, while keeping to the nonstop rhythm of the dance.

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SQUARE DANCING . ENGAGEMENT . BUYING A HOUSE AND PLANNING MARRIAGE

At the end of 1953 my parents held a large New-Year's-Eve party in the back garden of their home, inviting some eighty relatives and friends, including my square dance group. It was a most successful evening during which we had square dancing on the lawns for those who wished to take part. Unfortunately Kay was not there. She had gone with her group of girlfriends to spend a few days at Garden Island. At that time she and I were no more than good friends but I missed her and wished that she had been there.

By the following April we had grown much closer to each other. Early that month I asked Kay if she would marry me and was delighted when she said ‘Yes’. We seemed so well suited to each other. Once a week at lunch time I drove from the University to St.Georges' Terrace in Perth, picked her up outside the CML building, and then drove to the foreshore in Mounts Bay Road under the shadow of Mount Eliza. There we sat on a park bench near the edge of the river and had our lunch. We planned to marry in December 1954.

As a sentimental gesture we declared that on each anniversary of our engagement we would lunch on the same park bench by the river. We did not count on the entire bay being reclaimed, the Narrows Bridge being built, and a complex traffic interchange system being developed on the location of our park bench!

- XXVI

There was much to be done between the time of our engagement and marriage. At first we thought we would rent a house but, after discussion with our parents, started thinking seriously of buying one. The housing situation was easing and a few "spec" houses were coming on the market. These were homes constructed by a builder as a speculation. As they neared completion, the builder put them on the market for sale. There were several homes advertised at under £4,000 so we carefully checked whether we could raise the necessary deposit and could afford the monthly repayments on a mortgage.

We were fortunate since Kay worked in the Housing Loan Department of CML. Not only could she arrange the loan but, as an employee of the company, she could obtain a discounted rate of interest. For some years she had been saving to take a holiday to Britain with her girlfriends. She abandoned this plan, and put all her money towards establishing our home. My parents had said that they would give us a set of lounge-room furniture as a wedding present, but agreed that we could buy it on time-payment, and they would give us the capital sum to put towards the house. Finally, we realised that it was just possible to purchase a home, so we went looking for one.

We found a small house nearing completion at 318 Mill Point Road, South Perth, and purchased it for £3,800 in October 1954, two months before the date of our planned marriage on 11 December. It was a compact house, but adequate for our needs. It comprised a small lounge, a main bedroom and two other bedrooms - one of which we used as a dining room. We had a big kitchen and a laundry -fitted with cement troughs and a gas copper. The house was set on a full quarter acre block of land and had an extensive back garden that was initially a mass of weeds and sand. We were delighted with our purchase. We furnished it with a settee and two chairs in the lounge; a double bed, two wardrobes and dressing-table in our bedroom, while we purchased a cheap deal table and four unpainted chairs for the dining room. If more than four people came for a meal, we used a pine packing case as a seat. Our house, like most houses in those days, had tongue and groove wooden jarrah floors, which we polished. We had a small rug in the lounge and in our bedroom, and eventually we laid a linoleum in the kitchen. As we could not afford a refrigerator, we bought an ice-chest. There was no garage for our car.

Traditionally, all arrangements for a wedding are made by the parents of the bride, but my mother was a strong-minded character and simply took over. Joe and Vi Melson, Kay's parents, were no match for her determination. There was only one way that the marriage could be arranged -her way. Mother had

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not arranged the marriage of her daughter Joan because that marriage had taken place in America, so my marriage became a substitute. The ceremony had to be held at a fashionable church. This, she decided, was Christ Church, Claremont. She justified this decision as being half way between the Melson's home in East Fremantle and her home in Mt. Lawley. Kay's mother wanted the reception held a hall in Fremantle where her daughter Doreen had her wedding reception a year earlier, but my mother declared that this was too distant for most of her relatives and friends. There was great difficulty in finding a suitable venue for the reception as most were booked but finally we secured a hall at Wanslea in Cottesloe, which was a home for children temporarily unable to live with their parents.

I was no longer a churchgoer, and Kay and her family did not belong to a Church, although she and her sister Doreen had attended the local Sunday school as children. Christ Church was Anglican, so Kay and I called on the rector, Rev. Arthur Pidd. He agreed to marry us in the Church but asked us to attend several sessions with him at the rectory, to make sure we knew sufficient about the Anglican faith and about the obligations of the marriage into which we were entering. He lent me a book to read: The Reconstruction of Belief by Charles Gore. This was a large book of almost one thousand pages. Although it did not change my beliefs at the time, it must have impressed me since, in September 1960, when we were living in London, I purchased a copy.

Two weeks before our marriage my Ford Anglia car broke down. The valves on the four-cylinder, side-valve engine had burnt out and the engine was badly carbonised due to running on low-octane fuel. We planned to have our honeymoon at Caves House, Yallingup in the South-West of the State, and something had to be done about the car before we set out. I had no money and could not afford to have the car repaired, so I decided to do it myself. I consulted the technicians in the Mechanical Engineering Department at the University. They told me that I needed to buy a new set of valves and a valve lifting tool, and they described what had to be done. So, one week before our marriage I took the car to the Mechanical Engineering workshops and borrowed all the tools I needed for the job. I spent the entire weekend dismantling the engine, removing the accumulated deposit of carbon, taking out the old valves, fitting and reseating the new ones and then putting everything together again. When everything was finished, I worried that the car would not start and that I had made some terrible blunder, as I had fumbled my way through the job with little knowledge of what I was doing. I was greatly relieved when the engine sprang into life and sounded sweet. The car regained its power and smoothness and I patted myself on the back for a job well done.

- XXVII

I suppose that it is natural not to remember much about the wedding itself. Both Kay and I were in a very excited and nervous state. We followed all the old-fashioned traditions including not seeing each other on the wedding day until we met at the Church. Howard Bundell was my best man, and Kay's sister, Doreen, acted as matron of honour. All our relatives and friends, including the Dean family and our square dance friends came to the wedding and to the reception. Our wedding breakfast was formal with a full range of toasts and speeches. Finally, Colin Bourne, from our square dance group, read the telegrams - adding a few spurious and suggestive ones of his own.

Kay and I worried about our square dance group. They were a high-spirited lot, and we were sure that they would decorate our car. Therefore, we had parked our car in the garage of my cousin Nancy whose home was nearby. We ordered a taxi to pick us up from the reception and take us to our car. When it came time to go, we waved goodbye to everyone, rushed outside, hopped into our waiting taxi and were gone. Our square dance group was frustrated. They could not find our car, so they decorated my father's car with tin cans and old boots, much to his annoyance. Colin Bourne, Cran Smither and others in our group were not going to be so easily thwarted. They decided that, as we had left the reception late, we could not be going out of town that night. They knew that we had an empty house in

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South Perth. What was more natural than that we should return there for our first night of marriage? It was a good guess.

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Kay and I returned to our house and, thinking it possible that the square dance group might come by, hid our car around the back where it could not be seen from the front. At one in the morning when we were nervously sharing a bed for the first time, we heard the sound of slamming car doors and the murmur of voices. ‘I'm sure they must be here.’ We recognised Colin's voice. ‘Go around the back, Michael, and see if they've hidden their car there.’ ‘Oh my God!’ We whispered, ‘here come our square dance friends.’ ‘Yes, the car's here.’ We heard Michael's voice in the distance.

That was enough for the group to hold a party on the front porch just outside our bedroom window. We lay low, pretending we were not there, but they kept up a banter in high spirits. ‘We know you are there, Kay and John, and we're just here to give some practical advice to you newly weds.’ ‘Are you worn out yet, John? We can't hear the bed shaking. Just keep it up all night! If you want to know how best to do it, just ask us!’

They went on and on with their embarrassing banter, joking to one another, and constantly making suggestive comments to us. Then they started another activity. We heard whispering and giggling, as they slid something along the ground. Then came swishing sounds as though they were throwing streamers through the air. If they could not decorate our car at the reception, then at least they were doing a good job to decorate the house. It was after two in the morning before they left.

As dawn approached, I crept out to find the street trees festooned with toilet paper while large placards on the porch proclaimed that we were newlyweds and inexperienced. As quickly as possible I removed all signs of the night's merriment and went back to bed. At seven o'clock there was a loud bang on our back door. There stood the milkman with a broad grin from ear to ear and a knowing look in his eye. ‘D'yer want any milk?’

How did he know we were there? I had taken down all the incriminating evidence. However, late morning when we finally drove off to start our honeymoon at Caves House, we took one last look back at our house. There, on top of our chimney, was an enormous structure supporting what purported to be a stork, with a large sign: “JUST MARRIED” We had no ladder and no means of climbing up to remove it. Later we discovered that our group had come complete with ladder and that, as they were carrying it around to the side of the house, a police car had driven past and given them a fright. Fortunately the police did not see them. We had no telephone in our house, so went to a public phone box opposite and rang my parents. We told them our dilemma and asked if they could take the sign down for us. We went on our way, leaving the sign intact.

Next morning was a Monday, and our house was on a bus route. Someone going to work saw the sign and rang the local newspaper. Soon a photographer arrived with a reporter. All the neighbours could tell him was that they thought we were a young English couple who had bought the house a couple of months ago. That afternoon, the front page of the evening paper displayed a large photo of our "Just Married" sign, and a short description of the young English couple who lived there.

Kay and I spent a happy week at Caves House, clambering over Canal Rocks at Yallingup, visiting Cape Naturaliste, the Margaret River caves, revisiting Meelup - which I had not seen since 1937, and motoring down to Augusta and Cape Leeuwin. All too soon it was over, and we returned home to settle down to married life.

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OUR WEDDING PRANKS BY OUR SQUARE DANCE GROUP SEXUAL SHYNESS

- XXVIII

While our square dance friends in jocular mood had offered “practical” advice to the newlyweds on their wedding night, Kay and I were novices in the field of intimate relations and could well have done with greater knowledge, certainty and self-assurance. We were both very shy about such things. Matters of sex were never mentioned seriously by anyone, nor were they discussed thoughtfully in the paper or on radio. This was before the days of television with its explicit treatment of sexuality and passion. Films obliquely suggested what took place but left everything to the imagination. The very importance given to suggestive sexual jokes by the community gave credence to the notion that there was much repressed sexual tension. Grown men often behaved like sniggering schoolboys telling dirty stories behind the school lavatory. I remember being surprised in the early 1960s when I gave a talk to men at an Apex Club -a service organisation in which most members were in the mid-twenties to thirties. When I mentioned “social intercourse”, there was an outbreak of schoolboy sniggering because they immediately thought of “sexual intercourse”. The word “intercourse” had but one meaning for them.

Kay and I were more reticent than most. We had both been brought up in a very protective way. Our friends never discussed sex openly and our parents were too embarrassed to mention it. Our world was a polite world, devoid of sexual slang or intimation. During our engagement, Kay and I had never discussed sex. We were both too shy to raise such a taboo subject. Our courtship had included kissing and cuddling but nothing more intimate. There was no way in which we could discuss contraception, which was a pity, because we could well have done with a period of life together without children. Our first child was born just nine months after we married.

On our wedding night we both knew implicitly that we would make love, but still did not discuss it. By the standard of later years we were very naive and simpleminded. That night when, in spite of our shyness, we consummated our marriage, I burst into tears at the release of tension while Kay simply held me close.

Perhaps, this may be one reason why our love strengthened and endured. It was based on deep caring for each other and a willingness to share both the good and the bad. We developed our relationship slowly with deep respect for each other. Sex was a powerful force within that loving relationship, but it developed as one bonding ingredient along with many others.

Thirty-five years after our marriage, having attended a course on writing autobiographical material, wrote my answer to the question: Who have you loved the most, and why? This is what I then wrote:

What is it, to love? It has so many levels of meaning. At one extreme one can "make love" and by this mean little more than to gratify desire through sexual intercourse possibly without regard to the other person. Or it may mean to "love thy neighbour as thyself" in the biblical sense - a sense unrelated to sex.

Perhaps for most people, their loving is a mixture of both strands.

Loving is caring for the being of another. It is concerned with fondness and affection, a desire to share with another.

To my mind Loving is the mutual facilitating of growth, through mutual sharing and giving, without preconditions. A loving act asks for no return, it is complete in itself.

But love is more than this. It is a reciprocal seeking of unity through that sharing. We cannot share fully that which we do not understand completely, so sharing implies

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deep communication. In so far as we do not communicate ourselves, we cannot fully share, and so cannot fully love.

Since there can be no preconditions in love, then this implies that we accept the loved one unconditionally. Only when trust and acceptance is complete can we give fully to each other. To the extent that we achieve this we can be natural and fully ourselves in the presence of those we love. To the extent that we can achieve this we can be at peace with ourselves and so with others. True love is life-enhancing.

A precondition to loving others is first to love oneself. If I do not like myself, then I cannot give myself fully to others. But, if I have communicated deeply with myself and reached a point where I understand myself in all my strengths and weaknesses and can positively affirm my being, then I can fully love others. To me this is the truth in the statement, “Love Thy neighbour, as Thyself.”

****

What an impossibly difficult definition of love I have given for a mere mortal such as myself. How could I possibly say that I have loved anyone in this complete sense? What a difference there is between “liking” someone, and “loving” someone. It's easy to like someone, it's easy to respect someone, it's easy to be “in-sex” with someone, but to “love” someone - Ah -that takes a lifetime, and even then it is not accomplished. But, like the bulls-eye of a target, it is something to be aimed for, even if it cannot be reached.

When I was young, did I look at love this way? Of course not.

What, then, did I experience?

I experienced low self-esteem; I had doubt and fear; Emotionally I had left the parental nest and its protection. I felt lonely and incomplete still needing comfort, safety and protection. I experienced sexual urge and frustration; I was attracted by physical form and by the personality of other people. I felt desire.

But, overwhelmingly, I had fear. Much had to be accomplished in understanding and accepting of myself before I could form a loving relationship.

I could not say why or how I formed a relationship with the girl who became my wife. But somehow it happened: We discovered that we liked each other and that each could supply some needs of the other. When, in 1954, Kay and I married, both of us were very unsure of ourselves.

Perhaps my love at that stage was based on Kay fulfilling my needs and seeming prepared to accept me; maybe the same applied for Kay. This was not love in its purest form as I have defined it; it was more the partial filling of an emptiness, but it was a start.

And how could one expect initial love to be much more than this? It takes time to trust deeply; it takes time to learn to communicate and understand; It takes time for mutual acceptance to be tested and recognised. It takes time for love to take root in the fertile soil of personal growth.

Until one grows as a person love may be partly identified with: "I need this and, if you love me, you will supply my need." This, of course, is not love. But while one is still full of Self, one may be selfish.

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THIRTY FIVE YEARS AFTER OUR MARRIAGE: REFLECTIONS ON LOVE

It seems paradoxical that one needs love to grow as a person and yet, unless one grows as a person, one cannot love fully.

I married in 1954 and it is now over 35 years later. I can say without hesitation that the person I have loved most is my wife Kay. With no one else have I shared so many things: happy moments, sad moments, moments when we thought our love and marriage might not last. We have laughed together and cried together, given to each other, shared, comforted and come to a point where our commitment to each other need not be questioned. We have come to know each other; as we have grown as persons, so we have grown closer, and the demand to satisfy personal needs has diminished.

We have not approached true love, as I have defined it, because that is impossible for a human being. I have many imperfections, I get tired and irritable and sometimes have expectations that may not be met. That is human, and part of human loving is to take account of and to accept those human imperfections. Part of our mutual giving can be to accept the imperfections we each see in the other. Our loving does not need constant protestations of love: that belongs to an early stage of personal growth. Love becomes the unspoken understanding.

In 1954 when Kay and I returned from our honeymoon and settled down to build our home and our lives together, I could not have written the above statement. It was the outcome of years of accumulated experience. Fortunately, we had all the ingredients needed for our mutual growth. I developed and became what I was to become in future years through the unstinting and loving support of Kay.

With my marriage in 1954, the days of my youth lay in the past. I now had something more valuable than silver or gold: I had someone who trusted me, who took away my alone-ness, and who became my companion in life. I had someone with whom to share the things that concerned me. I had someone in whom I could place my trust, so that we could explore and develop our values and our life together.

The years that were to follow were ones of consolidation.