One dad’s life
The young boy stood on the platform, waiting for his train. His mother and father had just dropped him off moments before in their old Austin 7 city car.
Around his neck, a small cardboard tag tied with brown string gave his name.
A small leather bag at his side held his clothes and belongings.
He was off to Wales, like over one hundred thousand young children of his generation. To escape the bombs which had fallen nightly on London for the last few weeks.
His mother and step father were going back to the city to continue their grim work of assessing the damage and estimating repair costs for home owners in London. A task which often meant being confronted with not only destruction but also death and despair.
The station was shrouded in a light mist, and it was chilly.
The boy was rugged up in a dark overcoat, with big brown buttons that looked far too large for his small chubby frame.
His curly hair — refusing to be tamed — poked out at all angles from under his peaked cap.
A tear trickled down one cheek. He sniffled and wiped it away with the back of his hand
A porter saw the boy sniffling and wiping his cheek and walked over, kneeling down so he was at eye level with the boy.
“Hello, what’s all this then?” he said, whilst giving the boy a warm smile and handing him a monogrammed handkerchief.
The boy took the hanky and continued to wipe his cheek and then his nose which was now running as well. Shyly, the boy, who was only three and a half, looked down at his scuffed brown leather shoes, and proffered the handkerchief to the man.
“That’s ok, you can keep it son. So what’s your name”, the porter persisted.
“Bernard” the boy said quietly.
“It’s going to be OK, Bernard. There will be lovely family at the other end of the line to look after you.” the man explained
The boy just stood quietly, looking down.
Just then a whistle sounded and a plume of smoke poured out of the tunnel about 100 metres from where the boy stood. He looked up in the direction of the sound.
“Alright then, your train is here, let’s get you loaded” The porter said and held out his hand.
The boy took his hand and walked quietly with him over to the train which was now pulling to a halt, steam billowing around the wheels of the carriages just like Hogwarts Express in the Harry Potter movies. The porter hoisted him up into the carriage through a door, and then handed him up the small suitcase, which came up to nearly his waist.
For the next year or so, that little boy — Bernard George Aloysius Wells — would play in the meadows of the Welsh countryside; learn to sing at the local school; build crude models of warplanes; and most importantly grow up in safety away from German bombs falling on his London home.
But, he would for ever turn his nose up in disgust at cabbage — a staple of the soups he was fed whilst an evacuee in the Welsh Countryside.
Otherwise, my dad spoke fondly of this adventure, unlike some other Londoners of his generation who simply hated the experience. Albeit he didn’t recall a lot of it, due to his young age. But he remembers the kindness of his foster care home and the children. He also remembers walking along a beach with one of his mums friends — the actress Jean Simmons — but this may have been back in England a little later — he wasn’t sure.
When a little older, and the war was over, Bernard became a star pupil and a good sportsman, taking a hat trick in one youth cricket game.
He would regularly come and watch me play cricket when I took up the game a generation later.
And on one or two special occasions, an adoring son got to bat with his “old dad”
At the age of 14, Bernie — as he now much preferred to be called by friends — was again ripped from his English childhood and this time it was a permanent move.
His mum, my nan — would never call him anything other than Bernard, took him on a ship to far away Australia as part of the “ten pound pom” program as it became known.
Bernard came to Australia with his mum and her new husband — Eric. Now with a new surname of Leonard — Nan told me often of how Bernard pestered the ships captain and crew every day for the voyage and was honoured with a full Neptunes crossing ceremony — the time honoured tradition when a ship crosses the Equator. A certificate bearing his name is a prized family possession along with his Kent Schools District 440 yard swimming certificates.
Bernie finished his schooling under the constant barrage of racist taunts from 1950’s Aussie schoolboys. He toughed this out with a resilience born of evacuation at 3 and a half to Wales. He received and metered out his fair share of blood noses, but was always at pains to decry fights when I was a boy. Perhaps this is why I only ever threw one punch in one fight at school.
Perhaps also, this toughness was in his genes — his great, great grandfather — George Wells, owned a large coal mine near the village of Eckington — a gentleman who employed more than 500 workers — but yet was not too far removed from the hard life of owning mines and who looked after his workers through both good times and disaster. The family were great benefactors to the local community, building churches and providing for community care — something that would be passed down to my father as well.
He continued his excellent academic results, and according to the stories, once beat Frank Sedgeman in a school tennis game. Mum and Dad enjoyed a weekly game of tennis in Castle Hill for many years when they moved us back to Sydney from Canberra in the early 1970’s.
Speaking of family, Bernie married Jean Elizabeth Burns of Scottish heritage in 1961 and my sister and I were born in Canberra in the mid and late 60’s respectively.
Bernie became a lay preacher and used his Gerry Gee Ventriloquist doll to teach Sunday School much to our delight as kids. He played the accordion and organ and drowned out every other voice in the Church Choir with his booming tenor voice. He could also call us home from dinner when we were playing at the park two blocks away from home. I’d like to think a little of the Welsh experience remained in his love of singing and music. A nice balance for his hate of all things cabbage, brussel sprout and the like.
He managed our soccer team, worked hard, built our home, and from time to time ran his own business in Sydney and in Canberra. I recall working with him laying cork floor tiles for his customers and him working late into the night to complete jobs on time.
He was tough but consistent as a father yet I don’t think the war experience as a child ever completely left him — he hated waste and worked hard to contribute to a safe and civil society — with church and volunteer work for the local Liberal party and as a Justice of the Peace.
He once drove backwards from Tumut to Blowering on icy roads because he had no chains and reverse gear was the only way to get traction in the old Valiant station wagon. No wonder he could reverse a car so well!
For all his life experience, and achievements — he was to me simply Dad. The person who metered out punishment when we mucked up; who sat by me and helped me write English Essays for school; and who sat up a little straighter and prouder when my soccer and cricket achievements were mentioned in school or church events.
At the age of 3 1/2 myself I had a proper little english accent and to this day people still occasionally ask me where I was born. Dad lapsed back into his accent anytime he was around his countrymen for a dinner or celebration.
His outlook on life was shaped by experiences in London within the sound of Bow Bells; in Wales within the sound of the boys choir; and in Australia within the sound of the Kookaburra and Magpie.
A life of music, sport and hard toil.
My dad — “Bernie” — passed away in 1987 at the age of 50, when I was just 22. I still remember looking back from our car during the drive to the cemetery and seeing hundreds of cars with their lights on following us from the church. A real representation of how much and by how many he was loved and respected.
A life well lived, but way too short, and yet his influence continues to this day, through his family and his son.
To my Dad.
