DENNY Family

DENNY Martha Ellen "Nellie"

Martha Ellen ‘Nellie’ DENNY nee WHITT,  was born in England. Mary married Charles Denny at Gnowangerup in 1916.

They named their farm ‘Denton Park’ They had six children: Mavis; Esther; Russell; Jean; Mary and Grace.

Russell was killed on 27 May 1943.

Esther also pre-deceased her parents.

Charles died 3 March 1965 aged 78 years.

Nellie died 15 November 1975 aged 80 years. Charlie and Nellie are buried at Gnowangerup Cemetery.

 MARY WRIGHT, "TRUDIE" BARNARD & "NELLIE" DENNY            #1
 

Memories of Denton Park by Sandra Hewitt

Grandma and Granddad Denny lived at Pallinup, between Gnowangerup and Broomehill, on a War Service Settlement farm.  The farm was allocated to Granddad after the First World War. They called the property Denton Park.

My abiding memory of Granddad, who died when I was 17 and attending boarding school, is of him walking, very stiffly and slowly with two walking sticks.  He had very severe arthritis.

Granddad was the epitome of an English gentleman.  I never, ever heard him swear.  When very provoked he would shout a bit, yelling, “Dash my buttons” or “Now look what you’ve done.  You’ve upset the applecart” and he would threateningly wave his stick, but that was the absolute extent of his wrath. I asked Mavis, his eldest daughter, if she’d ever heard her father swear.  “Once”, she said, only once”.

It was Mavis’s job, as a six year old, to shut up the cows and calves each night.  One day, one of the bully calves had playfully run up to her and butted her so that she toppled over.  This terrified her.    A couple of days later they were returning home after visiting Grandma’s sister Esther, who lived at Woodyarrup, the neighbouring farm.  Esther’s husband was the manager at Woodyarrup so he sanctioned a short cut through the paddocks of the two properties.  Arriving at the last gate nearest home, Mavis was told to get out to open the gate.

“Are there any cows in this paddock?” she asked Granddad.

“Yes”, he replied, “But they are a long way away”.

“I don’t want to get out of the car then”, said Mavis.

“You just do as you’re told and get out and DAMN well open the gate”, roared Granddad.

Mavis distinctly remembers Grandma giving him a dickens of a lecture about swearing in front of her children!  It didn’t happen again.

True to his gentlemanly way, Granddad always answered questions from inquisitive children most diplomatically.  Once, Mum arrived home from the chemist with a pamphlet of a very pregnant lady in her package. Grantley grabbed the pamphlet and took it to Granddad demandingly asking, “Grandad, why is this lady’s tummy so fat?”

“Well now”, said Granddad.  “I think she must have been eating too much Christmas pudding”.  Eavesdropping, I said.  “Don’t be silly Granddad.  She’s PREGNANT”

Precocious brat!!  I was all of about 6 years old!

Granddad loved birds and had several large aviaries in the garden near the house as well as a big pigeon coop up near the shed.  The aviaries were full of budgies and canaries and small quail which ran around the floor of the cages.  He used to collect worms from the garden and cut them into little pieces at Grandma’s kitchen sink to feed to the tiny quail chicks.

For many years he kept a diary in which he detailed the variety and frequency of visits of all the birds in the area.  He observed their nest building in the timber surrounding the house and watched as their young chicks grew to adulthood.

Several pages in the diary are reserved for the story of Peter the Pigeon. Peter was a Bronze-winged pigeon, which Granddad retrieved from the nest as a fledgling.  He hand reared the bird and watched, as over a period of some five years, it found a mate and raised several families of chicks.  The population of Bronze-wings around the house increased markedly and Granddad assumed that they were mostly Peter’s descendents Peter remained very tame and  Granddad was very upset when, one day, he found him caught in a trap he’d set to keep rabbits out of his vegetable garden.  He amputated Peter’s leg, but not long after that the bird disappeared and the story of Peter, sadly, drew to a close

One of his walking sticks was a traditional type with a shepherd’s crook at the top. He was very proficient with the end of it and could retrieve and pick things up from the ground, thus saving him from bending his creaking bones.  The other stick he had fashioned himself from a sturdy piece of wood, cut from a small tree branch. It was a bit wobbly in the middle, but he had sanded and polished it until it was very smooth and put a rubber stopper on the end to prevent it from slipping when he leant on it. He had patiently carved the head of a bird on the other end and this comfortably fitted his old, knarled hand.

Granddad always had a moustache.  When I was about three and sitting on his knee, I apparently gazed up at him and asked, most seriously, “Granddad, does your face HAVE to be like that?”

Grandma had a glass eye.  She was chopping wood one day when a chip of wood flew up and into her eye. By the time they reached help it was too late to save her sight. She was 35 years old when this happened and her eldest daughter Mavis can remember the dreadful incident vividly. She said it was terrible.

Sometimes Grandma would leave her eye out, soaking in a glass of salty water. She told us it could still see us even while in the glass and, believing her, we behaved accordingly!  On these days Grandma put an eye patch on. Like a pirate!

Grandma always wore an apron over her dress, both garments sewn by herself with the apron fashioned from old calico flour bags.  She was a large breasted woman and I don’t think she ever wore a bra.  Instead her sagging breasts were supported somewhat by the bib of the apron. If a visitor arrived unexpectedly, the apron would be quickly removed and hung on a peg behind the kitchen door.

She was a beautiful cook.  She baked bread on a regular basis and her cake tins were always full with scrumptious cakes and biscuits.  Pastries were her specialty and we were often treated to Cornish Pasties and apple pies.  We even liked “blow-fly slice” – so called because of the sultanas it contained!

After I married, I asked her for her recipe for vegetable soup, which, to this day, is the best I have ever tasted.   “A bit of this and a bit of that”, she told me.  “No”, I persisted.  “You’ll have to write it out for me”.

Of course she did, but no matter how hard I tried, mine never ever tasted like hers.  Perhaps it was because her soup pot remained in place at the back of the wood stove and each day “a bit of this and a bit of that” would be added.  No wonder it was impossible to imitate the flavour!

Grandma and Granddad ’s closest neighbours were the Treasure family, who lived about three kilometres away at Martinup, their property on the main road leading to Gnowangerup.  Convicts had built Martinup Homestead from stone hewn from the rocks on the farm. It was a long house, unusual in design because the rooms were not connected to eachother.  Rather, each room opened, army barrack style, onto a long wooden floored verandah which extended the full length of the house.  There was no floor in the kitchen, just smooth flat black stones from the creek butted closely together and polished and shiny from years of walking and sweeping.  The house was surrounded by a lovely garden, which was Mrs Treasure’s pride and joy.

The neighbours always addressed eachother as “Mr and Mrs”.  Never Leo and Vicki, or Charlie and Nellie, their Christian names. This, despite frequent and constant contact over many, many, years.  This, despite frequent social occasions of tennis on the clay court at the front of Granddad and Grandma’s house and the mingling and close friendships of the offspring of their respective families. This, despite the support they gave each other when they both lost sons in the War.

During winter Leo always wore an old brown army greatcoat, his nose always dripped and he sniffed continuously.  This infuriated Grandma.  “Don’t know why he doesn’t use a hanky”, she would say.  She also delighted in having a bit of a poke at Vicki, who unlike herself, would get all “dolled up” to go to town. Vicki had a wardrobe full of shop-bought town dresses and would don lots of perfume and paint two bright red spots of rouge on her cheeks. I never saw Grandma wear make-up and she only had a couple of town dresses, which she’d hand-sewn for herself anyway.

Leo was a gambler and ran an account with the local TAB in Katanning.  On race days he would walk the three kilometers along the road to Denton Park in order to use the phone – the only phone for miles around at that time - to ring and place his bets.  The phone was a wooden contraption, which hung on the wall in the lounge room just to the side of the fireplace.  The receiver was a long glass shaped object which was attached by a fuzzy cord to the box and which was unhooked from its cradle and held to the ear, whilst the message was spoken into a cup-shaped mouthpiece in the centre of the box.

“I’ll have two bob each way on (horse’s name) in the second race”, old Leo would yell into the phone. Grandma, who didn’t really approve of the fact that Leo was a gambler, would sniff and declare, “If he yells any louder, they’ll hear him in Katanning without him having to use the phone”!  Down his list he would go, all bets thoroughly researched, one presumed, by reading the articles in the newspaper.

Bets safely laid, Leo would always be invited to stay for a cup of tea.  Grandma would make the tea in a big pot - covered to keep it warm - with a multi coloured, fashioned from scraps of wool, hand-knitted cosy. After a short while when Grandma deemed that the tea was sufficiently brewed she would pour into each cup straining through a silver tea strainer (which I still have) and plates of goodies from her latest batch of cooking would be offered.

Leo always ate well.  One day, to my absolute amazement at the enormity of it, he took a biscuit from the plate, took a huge bite out of it, munched a bit, and then, without the slightest embarrassment, put the remaining piece back on the plate.    “Not quite up to your usual standard, Mrs. Denny”, he declared.  I waited for the sky to fall in, but Grandma didn’t say a word!

Unlike Telyarup, Grandma and Granddad’s house was quite small and not nearly as grand.   Granddad had built much of it himself and it had “grown like Popsy” as the family expanded and more rooms were required.  The main part of the house originally consisted of just four main rooms with a verandah on the front and a porch at the back.  Most people entered the kitchen, the hub of the house, via the back porch, which also served as the storeroom cum pantry and had a small bathroom off to one side.  The largest bedroom led off the kitchen and was big enough for several beds.  At the rear of the kitchen, a door led into a large combined dining and lounge room with a big open fire- place at one end.  Grandma’s bedroom was next to this room.  From the lounge room a door opened out onto the front verandah which had a small sleep-out on the side where Granddad used to sleep.  A second sleep-out was located around the side of the house and was shared by Mum and her sister Jean.

There was no proper plumbing apart from two cold water pipes running from the tank outside.  One pipe led to the kitchen sink and the other to copper in the back porch next to the bathroom .Hot water for the kitchen was obtained from a huge urn, which resided permanently on one side of the stove.  The copper was usually lit late each afternoon in readiness for the family bath-time before dinner in the evening.

Apart from the huge, deep, white enamel bath, the bathroom housed a blue washstand with a marble top upon which resided a large white china basin with a matching jug.  I can vividly remember the icy cold feel of the water on an early winter’s morning when Mum washed our faces in readiness for the day.  At home we had a hot water tap to take the chill off.  No such luxury at Grandma’s!

When Grandma died the old washstand was destined to be discarded so I asked for the piece of marble.  I took it to an Italian stonemason in Albany to have it made smaller and to be cleaned and polished. He regarded it scornfully and offered to replace it with a new “bewdiful” piece of stone.  He remained unconvinced even after I told him that the stone had been my Grandmother’s and that I wanted it for sentimental reasons.

The marble has been my chopping board for almost all my married life.  Its underside still has specks of the blue paint from the old washstand that it once stood on.

Grandma’s wood boxes were next to the cupboard in the porch.  It was always our job to collect her sticks for “morning wood” - the kindling she used to start the fire in the mornings in the kitchen and under the copper.  Just down from the house was a huge stand of natural timber.  If we were being bothersome, to get us out from under her feet, we were banished to the trees and we were not permitted back inside until we’d filled the boxes. She hardly ever had to collect the sticks herself, which was testimony as to how often we must have annoyed her!

Christmas time was a fabulous event at Denton Park.  Mum’s three sisters always made an effort to be there and Grandma would cook a huge meal for us all to enjoy. We always had proper thruppences in the Christmas pudding. Amazingly, every year and without fail, Granddad always got the most!  As we all ate our pudding, we would line them up next to our plates, each person keeping tabs on everyone else’s booty, especially Granddad ’s.  Sometimes the number you got equalled his and there would be great excitement!  Fancy getting more thruppences than Granddad!!  But then, miraculously and at the very last minute, he always managed to find just one more, so that he got the most yet again. It was very strange, as sometimes that last thruppence was very shiny and with not a crumb of pudding stuck to it!

We always gave the thruppences back to Grandma who would trade them in for other money that we could spend.  The thruppenny pieces would be washed and put away in a jar ready for next Christmas.  We got the best end of this bargain, because even if we’d managed to find just one solitary thruppence in your pudding, we would always get at least a shilling in exchange!  

With Mum’s sisters coming home there were lots of (at least 12 to 15) cousins to play with and we always had a great time at this annual gathering.  The old tennis court was put to good use for games of cricket and tennis and the board games of monopoly and draughts and fiddlesticks and snakes and ladders would all come out and the competition would be on for one and all!  When we tired of inside games we would romp in the garden and terrify the life out of the birds in Granddad ’s aviary.

The absolute highlight of Christmas Day came around after lunch, when all the washing up was done and the house had been given a quick tidy up.  Then it was time for the presents.  Grandma always had a huge tree set up on the verandah which we’d help to decorate with Chinese lanterns and lots of streamers and chains made out of crepe paper.  The presents were piled up under the tree in readiness for the arrival of Father Christmas. Chairs would be taken outside for the adults to sit on whilst we kids would sit on the floor in the front, closest to the tree, full of excitement, waiting for the “Ho Ho Ho” and for HIM to appear from around the side of the house. There would be lots of prodding and poking and shushing as we all hoped to be the first to see him. Sometimes Grandma would tell us that she had received a message to say that he was running late and so we’d sing Christmas carols to pass the time. It was agony if the delay was such that we had to sing Jingle Bells twice!   Then, at last!  We would hear the bell clanging and the loud “Ho Ho” and around the corner he would come! The oldest cousins would help him up the verandah steps, sit him down comfortably and offer him a bottle of beer (which he never drank) and some cake (which he usually ate) and then he would begin. Starting with the oldest grandchild (Judith) we would, in turn, and as our name was called, go up, sit on his knee, have a chat and receive our parcel.

After the kids received their parcels it was the adult’s turn. The Mums went first.  They were too big to sit on Father Christmas’ knee so they had to give him a kiss instead.  We thought they were very daring!  Fancy kissing Father Christmas with all that beard on his face!  We would watch with bated breath, poking and prodding and watching for the final moment when we would all cheer and clap like crazy!  Then came the Dads’ turns but, disappointingly, they got off very lightly.  They didn’t have to give him a kiss.  They only had to shake hands, which wasn’t nearly as brave or exciting.

Funny thing though.  Grandad was always missing! Not that, in all our excitement, we seemed to notice his absence.  Even as we got older and wiser, not willing to spoil the magic, we just accepted Grandma’s explanation that Grandad had gone to his room for a rest and to sleep off his big Christmas dinner!  Neither did it matter that as the years went by, Father Christmas’ red outfit got faded and a bit shabby and that his funny white beard became thinner and more straggly and ragged.

Mum left school when she was about fourteen and didn’t ever really have a “proper” career.  She taught needlework at the little Pallinup School, where she’d been a pupil, but apart from that, she stayed at home with Granddad and Grandma and helped them with the farm.  She became the substitute son, taking over when Russell went away to War, and remaining when, tragically, he didn’t return.

Dad and Mum’s brother, Russell, were great friends, despite the fact that Russell was a couple of years Dad’s senior.  Dad was very envious when Russell went away to War.  He wanted to join up as well but he was too young, and in any case, Pop  vehemently opposed any suggestion of the idea and justified his ruling on the matter by stating that someone had to stay behind to grow the crops to feed the troops!  In truth, his own memories of life as a soldier during the First World War influenced his decision but I know that Dad resented Pop for it and felt that he was “letting down the side” by remaining home.

Apart from the devastating loss of her only brother Mum said that her life was pretty happy during the war years. She worked hard but when the jobs were really tough she and Granddad would call on the neighbours to help.  June Treasure was a great friend and they collaborated on many of the jobs around the farms.  Dad would occasionally be called upon to help out with some of the really heavy work and I guess that he was only too happy to oblige as it gave he and Mum an extra excuse to spend time together!

No one had much money, but they always had plenty of food on the table and they learned to re model their dresses and to make do. Items of clothing like stockings were hideously expensive and beyond their reach so they painted their legs with special brown leg paint instead, even adding the detail of a painted line up the backs of their legs like the seam on proper stockings!  They cut each other’s hair and this led to Mum telling me a  “pay – back” story involving Jean and herself.   Apparently Mum had done something to really annoy her sister and refused to apologise. Jean let the matter fester for weeks until the day that they were preparing for a dance at the local hall. She sat Mum down to cut her hair and did a perfect job of cutting just one side of her head.  “I’m leaving you like that”, she said, “That’ll teach you to be a pig”! Poor Mum was distraught, especially as Jean let the matter drag out and only reneged  and evened  up the hair cut a short time before they left for the dance!

I explained that Nari was compiling a family tree.  “She’ll run into a bit of trouble with Grandma’s side of the family”, she said, “Her brothers changed their name on the ship out to Australia”

It seemed that Grandma and her siblings had made a pact never to divulge this fact.  Apparently their father had a huge gambling problem in the U.K. and he was always in trouble with the police for unpaid debts.  Grandma’s brothers had decided (with their parent’s blessing) that, to avoid any possibility that a blemished family reputation would follow them to Australia, that they would change their surname from Clarke to Whitt.  They’d all promised their Mother that they would never reveal the truth and it wasn’t until Esther (Grandma’s youngest sister) was well into her 80’s that she confessed to her own granddaughter, who was also researching the family tree. Esther’s granddaughter had run into a dead wall and was quite mystified that she could not trace anything back beyond the ship’s records of the boy’s arrival in Australia.

This revelation occurred on a day when quite a few members of the family had gathered in Katanning, where Esther had lived for many years, for a “mini” family reunion. It was obvious that Esther had something important to say because she wasn’t her usual cheery self, and, in fact, seemed quite distracted and unsettled.  Finally the reason was unveiled when she related the story about her brother’s actions. Even after all the years, the disclosure distressed her.  She said over and over again that she felt dreadful that she had broken a promise!    She was quite astonished when everyone present, laughed it off, and, to the contrary, thought it was most exciting!  We had a proper black sheep in the family tree!

The boys arrived and settled in Gnowangerup and wrote home to the family, that, as it was a good life in Australia, the girls should follow.  Of Grandma’s siblings, I can remember Aunty Annie, Auntie Esther and Uncle Bill and Uncle Percy but I think that another brother, Uncle George, also settled here as well.

Granddad never spoke about his family in England, apart from one brother who had come to an unfortunate end in Kenya.  This brother (Russell) had owned a garage there. One day it caught fire. He was very badly burnt trying to extinguish the flames.  His black workers panicked and ran away, and with no one there to render assistance, he died.

Granddad had another two brothers and a sister named Laura, presumably, after whom Mum was named.

As children growing up we did see Grandma’s brothers and sister very occasionally.  Uncle Bill we dubbed “Kissing Bill” because he always insisted on planting a huge sloppy kiss upon us whenever we met.  We all tried to avoid him, but he had a memory like an elephant and he would announce hours after he’d arrived “I haven’t kissed you yet” if you’d been smart enough to dodge him at the outset.  There was no escaping him!!

Aunty Esther was a more frequent visitor as, for years, her husband was the head overseer at Woodyarrup, a well-known sheep property, whose boundaries adjoined Denton Park.  Aunty Esther was a little dot of a thing and she wore “coke bottle” glasses to compensate for her poor eyesight.  She giggled a lot.  She was lovely.

When Granddad first arrived in Australia, he worked for a short time as a surveyor. However, being a qualified butcher by trade, the opportunity arose for him and a man named Jim Grocock to go into partnership in the Gnowangerup butcher’s shop. This was just prior to World War I and he was courting Grandma.  Grandma’s brothers were quite suspicious of him and, for some reason, opposed the idea of them marrying.  Grandma wasn’t 21 but they finally agreed, very reluctantly, to the match, but warned Granddad that if he hurt a hair on Grandma’s head then he would have them to answer to!

When War broke out Granddad left the butcher’s shop in Jim Grocock’s capable hands and joined the Light Horse.  Grandma often said in later years that it was quite unfair, as Jim Grocock had never paid Grandad a penny for the business when he returned from the War. By then he had assumed ownership of the enterprise in his own right.  “He even makes me pay for my meat”, Grandma used to grumble!

While Grandad was away at the War, Grandma worked as a live-in housekeeper for a woman called Mrs Allydyce.  It was obviously a good arrangement and Grandma was happy there.

I’d always disliked Aunty Mavis, Mum’s oldest sister.  She always seemed so crabby!  She was also very religious and her piety was something that, as I grew up, I found hard to take.  She tore strips off me one day for saying “God” when I shouldn’t have.  I was taking the Lord’s name in vain!

Apart from her supposed ‘pure living”, I’d always put down my dislike of her to two other reasons.  Firstly, she’d looked after me when Mum went into hospital to have Grantley and I had grown up knowing that it was she who had taken my dummy off me.  Reason enough to dislike her!!  Also, I had the luxury of knowing what it was like to be the oldest grandchild on the Smith side of the family, and, of course, I was well down the line on the Denny side. Aunty Mavis’s Judith was the oldest and therefore Grandma’s pet, so I was jealously resentful about this as well.  After all, she was Judith’s mother!

I guess adulthood brings a certain acceptance of things and looking back it all seemed a bit silly.  So, I was amazed, when seeing me to the door after my visit, Aunty Mavis said to me, “I have a confession to make to you”.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Well”, said Aunty Mavis, “When I was a child, I hated your Mother”.

Astounded, I asked, “Whatever for?”

“Because she was always Granddad’s favourite”, she replied.  “I was the eldest, and I always had to do all the jobs.  Your Mum was sick for a lot of the time so she didn’t have to help.  In Granddad’s eyes she could never do any wrong and it was like that all our lives.”

As I drove off, I couldn’t help wondering whether as a child I had sensed the resentment Mavis held for Mum and had picked up the negative “vibes”.  Was this part of the reason that had made me dislike her so much?  Certainly, it hadn’t taken long for the story about her depriving me of my dummy to become one that I could laugh about.  Aunty Mavis had told me that her cat had swallowed it. How unfortunate for the cat!!  Apparently, at every opportunity I grabbed it and squeezed and squeezed, all the while declaring, “I can feel it Aunty Mavis”, as the hapless animal’s ribs were squeezed to near breaking point!

I’d certainly been aware of the very close relationship that Mum had with her father.  I’d always put it down to the fact that it was she who had replaced her brother Russell, and that it was she who had worked the farm with Grandad when Russell hadn’t returned from the War.  I also knew that she had been a very bad asthmatic as a child.  The little oil burner, which is a treasured possession, was used constantly, to try to bring her some relief during an attack.  Then, Grandma would melt camphor in the little dish under the candle, which also acted as a night-light. I guess this provided some comfort but I doubt that this treatment contributed to the fact that Mum eventually grew out of her asthma. I can’t remember her ever being troubled by it in later life.

Its funny how your concept of a person can be so different from that which other people in the family hold.

I was talking about Grandad to Aunty Jean one day and she painted a very different picture of the man to that which I had always held.  To me, he was always gentle, calm and an absolute gentleman.  Jean begged to differ.   Apparently, he roared like a bull

When things went wrong and he could be quite cruel in his verbal battering of Grandma.  He was also quite opinionated and dogmatic in his views.

“He was a Pom, Sandra”, said Jean.  “Everyone knows that Poms think that they know everything!”

Jean confirmed for me that Mum was Granddad’s pet and also that Grandad had been quite mean to Mavis.  “It was obvious, when we were teenagers, that he didn’t like her.  Not that the rest of us ever knew why”, Jean told me. “Grandma must have known though, because she tried to make up for it by always confiding in Mavis and making much of the fact that she was the eldest in the family”.

No wonder Mavis was so crabby!   Funnily enough, Jean’s girls, like me, had never liked her much either!   My cousin Janis agreed that she was too pure!  

Mum always scoffed about Mavis’ religious leanings later in her life.  “Making up for being wild and wayward as a girl”, she would say.  For me, the adjectives of “wild” and

 “wayward” were incongruous in the extreme when applied to Mavis. My imagination could not stretch that far!

Jean also said that Grandad was a bit of a control freak.  Once they’d grown up and were old enough to be socializing in the district, Jean said it was always a battle to get permission to go to any of the events that were on. The activities were never out of the ordinary or outlandish.   Just a dance at the local school, or something equally as innocent. Nevertheless, they would shake in their shoes as they sought sanction to go.

 “Go and ask your father”, Grandma always said.

In they would go to Grandad.

“He wouldn’t even look up from his book or paper to acknowledge our request.  It was either Yes or No.   If he said No, it was pointless arguing”, Jean told me.

“Why was he like that?” I asked Jean.

“I don’t know”, she replied. “I think it was a power thing with him”.

Aunty Jean confirmed the story about Grandad never swearing, with a tale of her own.  One day the local carrier, a man named Charlie Black, arrived to pick up some cattle from Denton Park.  The cattle were proving hard to load and Grandad, in frustration, actually said, “Damn”.  Unbeknown to him, Mrs Black was sitting in the cab of the truck.  Grandad was appalled when he realized this and apologized profusely to her.  Jean reckoned that, for years after, every time Grandad ran into Mrs Black in the street, he would apologize again.  Such was his shame!

Jean had married during the War, and she and her husband, Tommy, had settled in Melbourne.  Not long after Garry, their first son, was born, they decided to move back to WA.  They stayed at Denton Park while waiting for the completion of the construction of their own house.

Garry was a little tacker, used to life in the city.  He watched in absolute amazement as Grandma milked the cow.

“There’s no way I’m drinking that milk that comes out of those horrible sausages on that cow”, he declared.  “I want my milk out of a bottle!”

It was on for one and old then.  They searched the house for a bottle that resembled the milk bottles from the supermarket, so that Jean could pretend to Garry that the milk was coming from a bottle and not out of those sausages!

Mum was the only one of Grandma’s children to be born at home on the farm.  Mavis told me that she was disgusted when she was born and it was days before she agreed to even look at her lying in her cradle.  Then, her comment to Grandma was, “Why do you keep on having these black eyed babies?”

Mavis had been married for ages and she had three children of her own, Judith, Brian and Kerry.   I can remember there being much consternation within the family because, not satisfied with three children of her own, she decided firstly to foster, then subsequently to adopt, an aboriginal boy.  I think that religious duty had a lot to do with it.  I can remember eavesdropping on adult’s conversation and hearing that Mavis was determined to go ahead with this plan, despite some misgiving on the part of her husband, Uncle Bob, and the rest of the family.

And so, Martin joined the family.  His own mother had a problem with alcohol and had badly mistreated him to the point that the welfare department had stepped in. Mavis told me that he was very insecure when he arrived to live with them.  He would steal food and hide it away to eat later and he would cower in fright, and run and hide, if voices were raised in anger around him.

His mother knew he lived with Mavis and they would see her from time to time in the street.  One day, at a local football match, she tried to talk to Martin. She walked over to him, grabbed his hand and pulled him towards her.   Mavis said Martin was terrified.  He ran to the car screaming in fear, climbed in and locked all the doors.  He begged Mavis not to speak to her and kept saying, “Don’t send me back. Don’t send me back”.

Everything went well in their family until Martin hit his teens.  Then, they had a few terrible years with him, when he kicked over the traces and became quite uncontrollable. He drank heavily, joined the local bikie gang, and flagrantly disregarded all the rules of Mavis’ Christian household.  Years later, trying to analyze his behaviour, Mavis said that he never cared about his aboriginality, but he was obviously uncertain about his future and where he sat in their family and in the general the scheme of things.  I can remember Mum being very upset when she learned that Martin, in a fit of rage, had beaten Uncle Bob up.

“I knew something like that would happen one day”, she said.

Thankfully, this story does have a happy ending and it is due in no small part to Mavis’s patience and diligence with Martin, and the support she received from her other three children who always treated him like a brother.   An incident, which illustrates this, is the fact that, for a time, Kerry worked in a real estate office in Albany.  One afternoon,  

Martin dropped in to see her.  There were astonished looks when Kerry introduced Martin to her work colleagues as her brother, Martin.  Despite the obvious surprise and exchange of “funny looks” between her workmates, she told Mavis that she didn’t offer any explanation.  As far as she was concerned there was no need.

Martin went on to work in the mining industry.  He visits Mavis often and brings his children to see her.  He’s still a bikie!
 

Every endeavour has been made to accurately record the details however if you would like to provide additional images and/or newer information we are pleased to update the details on this site. Please use CONTACT at the top of this page to email us. We appreciate your involvement in recording the history of our area.

References:                 Article:      Memories of Denton Park by Sandra Hewitt

                                  Image:     1   Sandra Hewitt

Copyright : Gordon Freegard 2023