William (Bill) Harding
Ship name / Flight number: Fairsea
Arrival date: 26/10/1957
My name is William (Bill) Harding. I was born on 7 May 1940 in Old Trafford, Manchester, England. I became a Little Brother in 1957, aged 17 years old and this is my story:
I’d say my interest in Australia first began in 1955, during a Geography lesson at school (Stretford Secondary Modern School for Boys) with my teacher Mr Cole, when it was interrupted by Mr Crow, our headmaster, who entered the classroom with a young man, an Australian, who came to give us a talk about life in his country and the opportunities for great adventure for young men.
Until then, I knew very little about that part of the world, growing up in an age when there was no television in working class people’s homes - certainly not where I lived; and of course many years before the Internet or Google came into being - so consequently if you wanted to know anything you had to go to the Library and read up about it.
It was a terrific talk: our visitor spoke of the wide open spaces, farming, cattle mustering, the friendships that were easily formed and the Australian way of life.
I left school in that summer of 1955 and the memory of that talk on Australia stayed with me.
It was around the middle of 1956, when I started looking around at where I lived in Old Trafford, and began thinking 'Is this it?'. Everywhere I looked there were bombed houses; in fact, most streets had bomb damage from World War II and many bomb sites were still the playgrounds of most kids back then, and I knew I had to get away.
In May 1957, when I turned 17, I asked my parents if I could join the Army. That didn't go down well. The war was still vividly in their minds, so the answer was an emphatic 'No!'
A few days later I saw an advert in the Manchester Evening News, our local newspaper, inviting young lads aged between 16 and 18 years to apply for migration to Australia for a new life of adventure, for only £5, sponsored by the Big Brother Movement, an Australian Government youth migration scheme, which immediately triggered the memory of that talk about life in Australia at school a couple of years before, which got me imagining a new life as a Cowboy on the other side of the world!
Deciding it was a great idea, I boldly asked my parents if I could go to Australia and was quite surprised when they smilingly replied, without hesitation: 'Australia? Yes, of course you can go, son.'
They thought I was kidding - but I wasn't.
A few weeks later, there was stunned silence in my house when I handed my parents an application form from The Big Brother Movement, pointing to the printed directive at the bottom saying: ‘Parents/guardians please sign here’. Back then, the age of consent was 21 years, so being a minor at 17 years old I still needed my parents consent and signature.
The thought of their only son leaving home and sailing to the other side of the world caused my parents and family a lot of anxiety, although I was unaware of it then, but after repeatedly saying how much I wanted to go, after a few days they could see I was determined and reluctantly signed the form.
After my interview with representatives of BBM at Australia House in Manchester, followed by a full medical examination, I was soon on my way.
I had become a Little Brother.
On the day of departure, up at the crack of dawn, my parents drove me to Southampton Docks in Hampshire, over 200 miles south from Manchester, the only place I had ever known my whole life, so when it came time to say our goodbyes it was a very emotional experience for all of us, to say the very least.
As our ship, the ss Sitmar 'Fairsea', began pulling away from the dockside, the band still playing the traditional tune of farewell: 'Now is the Hour (for us to say goodbye)', I thought to myself, as I leaned over the ships’s guard rail waving back at my parents and sobbing little sister: 'Have I done the right thing?' but it was too late now for any mind-changing - (many years later, I learned that my poor broken-hearted mother had a nervous breakdown immediately after I left, which very sad situation they had always kept from me.)
I won't elaborate about ship-board life, each day soon becoming the same as the one before looking out at nothing but sea, although I recall it was exciting at first, when I was asked to become the PE Instructor in the keep-fit class for the other Little Brothers every morning up on the open deck, which included other mostly migrant passengers unconnected to BBM. Daily exercises consisted of running around the deck, push-ups and the usual physical activities you'd expect, which everyone seemed to enjoy.
However, there wasn't much else for a bunch of young teenage lads to do, and the long voyage soon became quite tedious, doing nothing much constructive other than playing deck games and sitting around eating! The eating part seemed to be an all-day activity and no-one ever went hungry!
The most exciting part for me was sailing down the Suez Canal in convoy with a line of other big ships, both passenger and cargo. But all I wanted to do was arrive in Australia so I could get on with my new life as a Cowboy!
Soon after arrival in Sydney, on a very hot 26 October 1957, having been met by officials of the Big Brother Movement, I, along with all the other lads I'd spent the past six or so weeks at sea with, was offered the option to either work in the City or on a Farm. With no other ambition except becoming a cowboy, I immediately chose Farm. After completing new migrant arrival formalities, I was soon boarding a coach with the other lads, all of us ‘Little Brothers’ now, and all with similar dreams to mine, before setting off for Karmsley Hills Training Farm, Liverpool.
In 1957, Liverpool was still considered ‘out bush', then being untouched by today's urban sprawl. It's now a suburb of Sydney.
On arrival on that very warm day, we were all given a nice meal and then shown to our dormitory - The Bunkhouse - our new home for the duration of our training and the start of our new life in Australia. I remember it was quite draconian, but very clean and orderly.
That same afternoon, while we were still getting acquainted with our surroundings (and with each other in some cases, not all of us having interacted with each other during the 6-week voyage), there was suddenly great excitement when a mini bush-fire broke out, and we all piled in with blankets and shovels for a couple of hours until it was contained. To us lads, it was a fantastic experience! In the first few hours of arriving in Australia, we'd had a coach ride through 'the Bush'; a good meal; a new bed in The Bunkhouse; had our first sightings of some real-life kangaroos, and put out a bushfire!!
But all the excitement didn't end there: That evening, after dinner, a 4-piece ensemble band turned up with seven or eight smiling mature ladies from the local Country Women's Association - us lads all sitting in chairs against the wall, having no idea what they were there for - when suddenly the band struck up and all the lovely smiling ladies started walking towards us! I can remember thinking: "Please God, don't let me be picked!" But, whoever is in charge 'up there' didn't take any notice, because I was the first lad picked and the next minute we were all up, awkwardly 'waltzing' around the room with our matronly partners while the enthusiastic band played on, none of us knowing how to dance a single step of ballroom!
We were all a bit bemused at first, because only six weeks before - especially us lads from UK cities and towns - had been jiving every night to the rock-and-roll beat of Bill Hayley and the Comets, Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley - but I have to say, if turned out to be great night for everyone!
However, the next day was one of the most devastating days of my life:
Having been born in Manchester in 1940, during World War II with nightly bombs dropping over England’s major towns and cities, causing untold terror and destruction all around us, I, then only a tiny baby, along with my mother and all our neighbours living in streets nearby, spent a lot of time in air-raid shelters, away from the aerial carnage above. And all the while, houses were being reduced to rubble all around; sirens going off at all hours of the night, and Air-raid wardens coming around shouting "Turn those lights off!", while suffering four years of strict rationing because of food shortages and basic household supplies. Life was hard for everyone.
But nothing I'd been through, not so many years before, (albeit I’d been too young to really understand the magnitude of what was happening at the time), prepared me for what was in store for me the very next morning (my first) at Karmsley Hill Farm:
At 8.30am, straight after breakfast, we were all called outside to a meeting with the leaders of our group, to be told what our respective jobs would be at Karmsley Hill Training Farm.
Some lads would be responsible for looking after cows, some with horses, some mending fences and others general maintenance.
Then it was my turn to be told what my job allocation was. So certain this was going to be the start of my Big Adventure, my hopes and dreams of riding the range about to become reality: I have never forgotten the next thirteen words that were spoken:
“WILLIAM, YOU WILL BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FEEDING OF ALL DUCKS AND CHICKENS!”
I went into mini shock as my world came crashing down in that dreadful moment!
In my mind I was going to be riding tall in the saddle while driving a thousand-head of cattle across the bush, the sound of the cowboy song: “The Man from Laramie”, in my ears. And then, each evening, after the herd had settled down, the blazing sun sinking beyond the horizon, finding the nearest pub and fronting up to the bar, saying:”A cold beer, please, mate.” I was stunned!
Soon afterwards, although still in disbelief, I gathered my thoughts, went straight to see the group leaders, thanked them for their help and told them this wasn’t for me and that I was going straight back to Sydney. They said they understood and very kindly arranged new temporary accommodation at another BBM hostel in Homebush.
It took a while to recover from my earlier shattering disappointment, but I did enjoy my time at the new hostel having caught up with a few lads I’d met on the ship. Now and then, older LBs who had been in Australia for a while popped in to catch up with new friends they had made. I recall one LB who was working with the Salvation Army and lived in a converted furniture truck with other Salvation Army soldiers, travelling around rural Australia spreading The Word. Lovely lad.
Another lad who visited, had a farm left to him by the farmer he worked for, who had died and bequeathed it to him in his will!
And another LB who visited our hostel, was a real Go-Getter who loved his work on the farm so much, the farmer he worked for, recognising the lad’s enthusiasm and entrepreneurial attitude, gave him an acre of his own land to do with as he wished. So he planted a whole acre of potatoes!
I remember that night a few of us sitting around trying to work out how many tons of spuds it would yield, and most importantly: how much money he’d make!
It was while I was at the Homebush hostel I managed to secure a job at the book sellers Angus & Robertson in Sydney (99 Castlereagh Street). I think they gave me a job out of kindness after I went in straight from the street, dressed in a smart sports jacket and black trousers, and asked if they had any vacancies, having only just arrived in Australia a few days before, and I was pleased when they offered me a position there and then.
Without realising it at the time, I soon learned that they created a new ‘department’ for me in the basement! Right away I became Head of that department for the simple reason I was the only one in it!
What the new job entailed was quite interesting in that a customer would come into the shop looking for a book they had read a few years back and wanted to get a copy to read again, or perhaps they had heard of a book they liked the sound of, liked the storyline, but didn’t know the author’s name - or knew the author’s name but not what the book was entitled. It was my job to track such books down!
I clearly remember one occasion in November 1957 when American film-producer Mike Todd, husband of famous filmstar Elizabeth Taylor, came in to the shop looking to buy a copy of the novel by Daphne du Maurier, entitled ‘The Scapegoat’. The novel had only recently been published and released for sale, but we didn’t have it in stock at the time, so my task was to visit other publishing houses and outlets around Sydney looking for a copy I could acquire for Mr Todd.
You must remember there weren’t any computers or internet in 1957, so there was plenty of foot-slogging - just mine - involved! Well, after traipsing all over Sydney for hours on end, no-one was more surprised than me when I did eventually locate a copy in David Jones of all places, just up the road from A&R in Castlereagh Street (and still is at same location in 2025 after all these years)!
Feeling chuffed with myself, I returned back to my place of work with my acquisition and was further gobsmacked when my happy manager said: “Since you found the book, you will have the privilege of delivering it yourself, in person!”
Looking back now, at 17 years of age, not having had the slightest interest whatsoever in ‘celebrity’ until then, I remember it was a bit of a buzz when that hotel door opened and I handed the book personally to Mike Todd and saw Elizabeth Taylor, with a towel in a turban wrapped around her (I presume) wet hair, standing behind him in the hotel room at the time.
Elizabeth Taylor, then considered the most beautiful movie star in the whole World! In the flesh!
Although I had a good job at Angus & Robertson, it didn’t quell my hunger to see for myself what Australia had to offer. My mate Norman Wright (another LB from Yorkshire I’d palled up with at the hostel in Homebush) had heard that there was good money to be earned in Tasmania, picking fruit for the IXL Jam Factory in Hobart, a place we’d never heard of before, and thought we could hopefully find work there. More importantly, because we’d heard that Tasmania was more like England, and both feeling a bit homesick at the time, decided to give it a go. So I gave in my notice at the bookshop and about a week later we boarded the train to Melbourne and then caught the ferry across to Tasmania.
Well, what a shock we got when we landed at Beauty Point! There was nothing there but a green building with a big clockface on the front and a signpost pointing inland stating: TO HOBART!
After a short discussion, having no clue how far away Hobart was, and no money to get us there by public transport, Norm and I decided to walk and try to pick up some casual work along the way, with no real clue what lay ahead for us or in fact how long our journey would take.
But no-one wanted to take us on!
I suppose, after the first few days of trudging along, sleeping rough at the sides of roads, in shop doorways and fields, two young unkempt English lads wearing by now shabby suits, both carrying heavy suitcases and looking the worst for wear since leaving Beauty Point, must’ve looked out-of-place and certainly not reliable candidates for employment! Needless to say, we had no choice but to keep going, with flagging hopes and dreams, until we eventually reached Hobart, all enthusiasm spent, having walked for ten whole days, our only food along the way being two loaves of bread, a tin of black treacle and a tin of Heinz 57 Variety Vegetable Soup - and NO can opener!
To our further dismay, our arrival and introduction to Hobart turned out to be a diabolical disaster from the start. Still looking for the IXL Jam factory while walking past a queue of young people waiting outside a cinema, the sight of two dishevelled teenage lads in shabby foreign-looking suits, with Tony Curtis hairstyles, carrying suitcases, must have looked out-of-place at a time (1957) in Tasmania, being way behind the times compared to England and young fashion as we then wore being completely alien at the time, was all too much for a group of young Tasmanian lads who decided we were a threat to them, whereupon they leapt from the queue and started attacking us both! As it was, that wasn’t a problem for me and Norm, having lived through the first five years of war, our homes being relentlessly bombed by the enemy; the next twelve years surrounded by bomb sites we’d only known as playgrounds, so scrapping in the street with rival gangs was what we did!
However, someone must’ve called the Police because it wasn’t long before they turned up, whereupon our attackers immediately legged it, leaving us both standing there looking perplexed and dishevelled, two lost teenagers holding on grimly to our battered luggage.
One of the Police officers, a sergeant, his curiosity clearly piqued seeing us there with our suitcases, drove us to the local Police Station after hearing our story, where he took full statements from each of us, although we weren’t arrested or charged with committing any public offence. In fact, we were treated very well and he let us rest in one of the cells for a while, later bringing us each a plate of corned beef sandwiches and hot sweet tea in a tin cup, before arranging our next two nights accommodation at the YMCA.
While still in Hobart, we tried unsuccessfully to get work at the IXL Jam factory, the reason we went to Tasmania in the first place, later finding out that under Immigration laws we had no rights to leave the Australian mainland at all, so within a couple of days were ‘deported’ back to Sydney as ‘17 year old Vagrants’ (!) under Police guard, the first one escorting us to the airport where he put us on a plane to Melbourne. Upon arrival in Melbourne, another Police officer put us on a train back to Sydney, with strict instructions to report directly to the Big Brother Movement head office (33 Macquarie Place, Sydney) to see a Mr Mansell, the most senior official whose office was on the second floor!
At the BBM office, Norm didn’t want to face Mr Mansell and decided that he’d look after our suitcases in the foyer while I went up to see him on my own. I didn’t much fancy it myself either, although I must say neither of us thought we’d done anything wrong to start with! We were just a couple of lads on a Great Adventure, prepared to work hard to better our position in life and, even now, age 84 - 68 years later - I still don’t think we did anything wrong!
But Mr Mansell didn’t see it that way at all! (NB: Please see the attached copy of the letter sent to my parents in England, following Norm’s and my return to Sydney from Tasmania.)
After the anticipated dressing down he gave me, I asked him if it would be possible for Norman and I to please return to the Homebush hostel that night. His answer was a flat out ‘NO!’
I then asked him if he knew of somewhere we could get a bed for the night, his answer still being indelibly emblazoned in my mind after all these years:
“SLEEP UNDER THE SYDNEY HARBOUR BRIDGE FOR ALL I CARE!”
Without another word, although somewhat crestfallen, I turned to leave and as I walked towards the door, he said: “Harding, come back here!” and took a One Pound banknote from a desk drawer, saying: “Here, take this.” But, even though I was flat broke by now, Pride wouldn’t let me take the money, and without another word I turned my back and left his office.
In the adjoining office, there was a more elderly gentleman (whose name I later found out was Mr Jones) who must have heard what Mr Mansell had said, because he looked at me quite embarrassed.
When I got back down to the foyer and told a worried-looking Norm what had just happened, he said: “But Bill, mate, we haven’t got a cracker between us! We need that pound! “ So I said, “well, you go back up and get it then!” but he said, earnestly: “No, you go. You know him and I’ve never met him!” to which we both burst out laughing.
Anyway, swallowing my pride, I did go back to Mansell’s office and asked for the pound, saying I would return the money when I was back on my feet.
Later that day, Norm and I had a good bit of luck when, after leaving the Big Brother office we walked up to the “Mars” coffee shop in Elizabeth Street, Sydney, which had been my go-to cafe when I worked at Angus & Robertson, and ordered Steak and Chips twice, costing us 13 shillings and 4 pence (13s/4d), which left us with six shillings and eight pence (6s/8d) between us from the pound Mr Mansell had grudgingly given us.
Anyway, while we were tucking in to our food, one of the waiters asked us: “What’s with the suitcases?” so I told him briefly what our situation was and that we were looking for a place to stay that night, and straight off he said: “I might be able to help you. I’ll just make a quick phone call.” And the next minute he handed me a slip of paper with a name and address on it, telling us to go straight there as the owner was expecting us. It was a godsend to say the very least.
Our saviour’s name was Oscar Borecki of 6 Llandaff Street, Bondi Junction, Sydney.
On arrival at the boarding house we explained to Oscar that we had very little money but would be looking for work immediately so we could pay our way, but, smiling warmly, he said not to worry about that because there were plenty of jobs to do around the place to earn our keep.
My job was cooking breakfasts for the other boarders each morning, washing the dishes, helping Chef with evening meals, running errands and sweeping the floors. Norm’s job was mainly looking after the gardens and general basic maintenance around the house.
There was a wonderful atmosphere at 6 Llandaff Street, all because of Oscar’s kind and generous attitude towards his other residents, all kindly women in their 30s, I recall; all of whom, I imagine, had probably ‘fallen on hard times’ in their younger lives, and, without exception, treated Norm and I as kid brothers. Each evening, we would all relax together on comfortable sofas and armchairs in the main living room, softly chatting or listening to a play or talk on the wireless; the ladies usually dressed in colourful candlewick robes, with their hair in big rollers high on their heads, getting ready for work later on.
I loved every minute of living at Oscar’s place. It was a safe haven for two unworldly young boys from the North of England, who until then had never before left the safe security of their own homes; let alone travel alone to the other side of the world!
On the night of 6 February 1958, however - a date etched indelibly on my mind to this day - the comfortable peace was suddenly shattered when, while sitting together with all the other residents at 6 Llandaff Street, a Breaking News message on the wireless reported that a plane carrying the whole Manchester United Football team - widely known universally as The Busby Babes! - had crashed, killing 23 passengers instantly, eight of them United players! It was a moment of complete and utter shock to me, hearing such dreadful news, being a passionate Manchester United football fan. Being 12,000 miles from home, family and lifelong friends, the feeling of devastation I experienced upon hearing this dreadful news was too much for me to deal with, but my new friends, recognising my distress, immediately rallied around with genuine compassion and support.
As much as I loved living at 6 Llandaff Street, it wasn’t too long before I began to feel the need to widen my horizons, and when I approached Oscar, he being such a good man, fully appreciated and understood my decision to move out and into the workforce, and in fact was full of encouragement and wished me luck.
I’d heard that the New South Wales Government Railways were looking for staff, so I applied at the Recruitment office at Central Station and was told to come back in a few days to take a written test which would involve general knowledge questions, mathematics, English and spelling, which included a 250-word essay on my subject of choice. Maths and spelling were no problem, but this 250-word essay was a bit of a worry.
At that time, I used to receive a monthly comic called ‘Classics Illustrated’, a step up from British kids’ comics of the day: Beano, Dandy, Wizard, Hotspur and Adventurer. On the back page of the ‘Classic’, there were always interesting articles about Art, great Painters, Engineers, Poets and innovative people from the past who had made contributions towards the betterment of Society and the enrichment of mankind. The latest issue of the ‘Classic’ had held my interest, being about the famous Greek Sculptor, Phidias, whose works were outshining all others of the time. It told of two of his great works: one being the ‘Statue of Zeus’, erected in the Temple of Zeus at Olympia, (circa 432BC), and the other, ‘Athena Parthenos’, the virgin goddess Athena sited at the Athens Parthenon.
Anyway, over the next two days I memorised this fascinating article, which told of the problems Phidias had had with other established sculptors of the day, including the politics of it all et al, so that when I attended for my test, I was fully prepared.
At the end of the written test, after an hour or so in deep concentration, I handed in my paper to the instructor, who, having glanced at my essay submission, looked up at me with glazed eyes, having had no expectation of what my finished work would cover. It was as though he couldn’t even comprehend what he had read, which seemed quite plausible to me, because just then I didn’t have much idea what I’d written about either!
Nevertheless, I passed the test, and was informed I would be employed by the New South Wales Government Railway with immediate effect.
It’s funny the things that stick in your mind. I clearly remember before I left the exam office that day, the exams officer said to me: “Now, Bill, a bit of advice before you start your new job. If at any time you feel you can’t cope at all, just stop what you are doing, walk away, make a cup of tea and have a smoke.”
Can you imagine the outcry if that was said today, especially to a minor? It’s highly likely your work colleagues would demand an immediate dismissal; the police would be called; you’d end up with a huge financial penalty, or possibly cop a custodial sentence and a permanent criminal record that would last for the rest of your life!
Over the next four years I had three positions with the NSW Railways: the first being as a telegraph boy in the Telegraph Office at Central Station, delivering internal department-to-department messages; and sending and receiving messages.
(As a brief aside to my LB story, I must mention that about seven years ago, my wife, Barbara, and I made a short trip to Sydney from Adelaide, where we live now, and went to the Opal kiosk at Central Station to collect a couple of public transport cards. At the desk, I had a deja vu moment when I realised I was standing at the exact spot I’d stood pretty much every day I worked at the Telegraph Office, all those years ago in 1958, when it used to be the Milk Bar at which my fellow Railways colleagues and I used to buy our milk shakes, always served in huge aluminium flasks (strawberry with double-malt always my choice!) which had to be consumed at the kiosk standing up because there was no customer seating, before handing the ‘empties’ back to be used again, and again.)
My next job was at the Enfield Marshalling yards, as a Shunter, which, while it paid good money, entailed an element of danger as it involved ducking under the buffers of moving goods wagons, connecting the heavy brake air-hoses and ducking out again, skipping over the railway lines without missing a step - even slight errors of judgment could cost dear! Still, I earned very good money, and with a bit of overtime my fortnightly pay was £58 after Tax. That was good pay for an 18-year old in 1958.
Enfield Marshalling Yards was massive and I well remember one afternoon, while waiting for a goods train from Newcastle which I knew wouldn’t arrive for another hour or so, I decided to go for a walk along the track, checking for stray obstacles along the lines, when I spotted a small tent up ahead in a clearing. Thinking it belonged to one of the fettlers (railway maintenance crew), I went over to have a chat, but on lifting up the canvas opening flap I was surprised to see it was occupied by a young English lad about my own age, a cautious expression on his face. I asked him what he was doing there camping by the rail lines, and he apologised for being there, saying he had nowhere else to go. I said but what’s your story? Why are you here? I was further taken aback when he told me that his name was John Lees and that he had come to Australia with the Big Brother Movement, like myself, to which I replied that I too, was also a Little Brother, and to continue with his own story.
He said that on arrival in Australia he’d been taken by coach, with other Little Brothers from his ship, to Karmsley Hills Training Farm at Liverpool, but it didn’t work out at all well for him, so he left the farm and made his way back to Sydney. Arriving at the Big Brother Movement office, he went straight to see Mr Mansell to ask if he could be sent to the hostel in Homebush where some of the other Little Brothers had gone. He said he only wanted to stay there for a few days, while he looked for work.
Instead of offering help, true to form, Mr Mansell gave him a good dressing down, refused his request and told him: “ You’ve made your bed, now lie on it!”
John and I talked for a while longer and, needing to get back for the goods train which would be arriving shortly, I assured him I’d be back the next day with some cash and a bit of food to tide him over, and not to leave beforel I came back.
As I was on afternoon shift, it was quite late when I got back to my digs at 35 Railway Terrace, Lewisham, a boarding house owned by a lovely English lady known affectionately by us LBs, as Mrs D - her full name being Frances Johnson deVere - and whose other tenants were also Little Brothers, four of whom I was sharing a big room with. When I told them about John Lees, they all threw £1 each into the kitty, which was quite a good amount back then.
However, next afternoon when I went looking for him with £5, two hamburgers and a bottle of Coke, I was dismayed to find he’d gone! All I could think was that he must’ve been moved on and I felt so sorry I wasn’t able to show him the hand of friendship, with reassurances that he wasn’t on his own.
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So, if by chance my story ever gets published in the BBM magazine/newsletter, I should like to give a shout out to John Lees (if he’s still with us and reading this), and say: I think of you often, John, hoping that life has been kind to you, as it has to me.
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My social life, at 18, in Sydney was fantastic, due to the fact I earned decent money, and together with a couple of LB mates, our Saturday nights were always great! The day would always begin with a hearty English breakfast cooked by Mrs D, followed by an appointment with the local barber who, while expertly applying his razor in a shave and trim, would invariably ask in a low voice: “Something for the weekend, sir?” without missing a beat. (Alluding to the Pax contraceptive pessaries he sold to male clients!)
Later on, spruced up in smart suits, our first stop was ‘The Criterion Hotel’, Pitt Street, Sydney, for a couple of beers, before heading to the lively ‘Trocadero’ in George Street for a while; then to ‘Phyllis Bates Jazz Club’ for a bit of jazz and rock-and-roll for an hour or so, and ending up at the ‘Bells Hotel’ in Woolloomooloo for a few more beers to round off the night.
It might be worth mentioning that the licensee of ‘The Bells’ in 1958 was a nice guy called Jimmy Carruthers, then the World Bantamweight Champion boxer. Quite a few wharfies used to drink at his pub, who at times would get a bit ‘rowdy’ and stir things up a bit rough, to say the least, but Jimmy would always step in and swiftly sort things out his own way! Although Jimmy and I were never friends, whenever we saw each other in King’s Cross, we’d always greet each other and exchange a few pleasantries.
Another club me and my pals liked to visit was the ‘El Bongo’ in King’s Cross, a lively place, which was the favourite drinking hole for many American sailors, often stationed in Sydney on official naval exercises.
(When I think back to that time, it’s hard to believe that Australia enforced an All-White policy in the 1950s, which forbade all black military service personnel from entering licensed premises across the country, which was a terrible situation upon reflection. Considering that black American naval servicemen who along with their white serving compatriots, had only a few years earlier put their lives on the line in defence of Australia, and yet here they were forbidden from entering a hotel and ordering a cold drink at the bar! Thank goodness this all changed in 1973 when this policy was finally abolished by the Whitlam government!)
Our last stop on Saturday nights was usually ‘The Hasty Tasty’. I should mention that only people in my age group would be familiar with this once popular venue in the late 1950s, and remember its vibrant atmosphere, it being essentially a Milk bar to which people looking for a great time would flock. On Saturday nights it was packed with Sailors, Soldiers and generally ‘people in a hurry’. Great memories!
My third position with the Railways was as Assistant Station Master and Relief Booking Clerk at St Peters Station, where I met Barbara, my future wife, herself then also 19 years of age. It was Monday, 7 March 1960.
There’s a good story about our meeting, but I won’t expand on it for the simple reason that I’m not interested in other people’s love stories, so I won’t bore you with mine. I will say, though, it was love at first sight for me and that feeling still remains to this day. In fact, we celebrated our 64th wedding anniversary on 3 December 2024.
Soon after the birth of our daughter, Maxine, the following year, we decided to return to England. However, as there was an outstanding issue with Mr Mansell I had long resolved to confront and settle, the day before our departure in August 1961, smartly dressed in a three-piece suit, gleaming watch-chain in the pocket of my waistcoat, I paid a visit to my arch nemesis at the Big Brother Office in Macquarie Place, Sydney.
Without a prior appointment, I went straight up to his office and, when his receptionist asked my name and reason for seeing Mr Mansell, I replied: “I’d rather not say, because I want to see if he remembers me.” Upon entering Mr Mansell’s office, he glanced up at me for a long minute and then, an expression of sudden recall on his face, pointed his finger towards me and said, “You are William Harding.”
Without engaging in conversation, I told him he had been unfairly out-of-order treating Norman and myself as he had done four years before, in response to which he muttered weakly about ‘teaching us a lesson’. I countered that there had been no lesson to be learned.
I then handed him a £10 note, asking that he give it to the next young lad who comes to him looking for help as I had done, emphasising that all the money was to be given to one lad only, and not £1 each to ten, because he would need it all should he ever be unfortunate enough to be in that position in the first place! I further told Mr Mansell that after Norman Wright and I - two still wet-behind-the-ears 17-year olds with hopes and dreams - had left the Big Brother office that day in 1957, with £1 between the two of us, not knowing what to do next or where we would be sleeping that night, we could have been in dire straits had we not had the incredible luck of meeting our saviour, the kind-hearted Oscar Borecki, who after hearing our story, immediately took us under his wing and gave us new hope!
Having said what I’d intended saying for so long, I wished him well and left his office without another word spoken by either of us.
The next day I said goodbye to Sydney, by sea once more, this time aboard the ss ‘Ellinis’ with no expectation or intention of ever seeing Australia again, and returned to England to begin a new life with my wife, Barbara, and our 6-week old baby daughter, Maxine.
However, life had other plans for this Little Brother, and it wasn’t long before Australia once more beckoned, stirring thoughts of those wide open spaces I still longed to see, but with a growing family of four (our son, Lincoln, arrived in January 1963), a small business in the rag trade to run and a mortgage to pay, it was another eleven years before we returned to the Land Down Under; this time deciding to give Adelaide, South Australia, a go.
It was the right decision.
As a steel-erector rigger in construction over the next 17 years I was lucky enough to work in many remote and untamed parts of Australia, where I feel confident in saying the majority of Australians have never even seen, let alone heard of, and for that I will always feel privileged and grateful.
Thinking back to 1957, when as a naive Little Brother I dreamed of the wide open spaces and life as a Cowboy, while I never did wear a stetson and ride a 4-legged horse, I certainly did wear a hard-hat and rode the high steel on a daily basis for the next eight years years as a construction worker on uranium and bauxite mines in the outback, spending months at a time in wonderfully remote places such as: NABARLEK in the Northern Territory; WEIPA, in the Gulf of Carpentaria; JABIRU, NT; BROKEN HILL, NSW; PORT AUGUSTA, SA; WHYALLA SA; PORT PIRIE SA; MOUNT GAMBIER, SA ; PHILLIP ISLAND, Vic, and I loved it all. It was a hard slog and at times very dangerous, hot work, and while the financial rewards were high, the most important aspect of it all was the priceless level of camaraderie between my Aussie peers and construction mates.
Something so precious and special and so very Australian. In fact, Dorothea Mackellar, in her beautiful poem: “I love a sunburnt country’, says it all.
In 1982 I began buying and renovating run-down residential properties in premier Adelaide suburbs, another level of construction I really enjoyed. In fact, Life was very good for Barbara and myself and our kids, until about 1988 when property values began to tumble in a recession that saw interest rates jump to 16 percent, but we managed to keep afloat and hold on until tragedy struck our perfect family, on 21 April 1990, when our 27-year old son Lincoln’s life ended during a South Australian Rally Championship event, when the rally car in which he was Navigator left the track at speed and hit a tree, causing fatal injury to our beloved son.
It was the worst day of our lives by far.
The devastation Barbara, Maxine and I suffered was so overpowering that we lost all interest in everything . But, when you borrow money at high interest rates to finance costly renovation projects, you can’t afford to take your foot off the pedal, so because Babs and I were unable to function rationally at that time, we lost everything, including our home and the will to continue the life we had hitherto enjoyed so much. As a consequence of which, we decided to return to England and attempt to start again in the country of our birth. Maxine, now married with her own young family, had other commitments in Adelaide and decided to remain in Australia, a difficult decision but one we all had to accept, albeit with heavy-heart.
But before we left, we still had one more important duty to perform on behalf of our son.
Lincoln, (himself a keen rally motorsport driver who had competed in South Australian Rally Championship events for some years) owned a very rare 1971 works-prepared racing Holden ‘Bathurst’ Monaro with a 350-Chevy engine and all original parts, which he had been lovingly restoring for many months (having been in a dilapidated condition when he first acquired it), with the full intention of donating it to the National Motor Museum at Birdwood, South Australia, upon completion. During this process, he once said to me that should anything happen to prevent him from doing so, would we promise to make the donation on his behalf. Prophetic words, upon reflection.
When Barbara called the Museum offering Lincoln’s car, the then Curator, John Chittleborough, expressed his gratitude to such an extent that he could barely believe such a donation was being offered, as this exact motor vehicle had been high on his list of desired acquisitions, with little hope of actually succeeding, so rare was this particular model and vintage in Australia by then.
A few days later Mr Chittleborough arranged a transporter to come to our home and collect the highly-prized newest addition to the National Motor Museum’s existing stable of treasured Australian vintage and international prestige vehicles, having also arranged an official handing-over ceremony and official Transfer of Ownership, which included a fine afternoon tea with sandwiches, cakes and other refreshments, courtesy of the highly respected National Motor Museum located in the grounds of the historic Birdwood Mill, to which all of our family and close friends were invited.
By the beginning of the 1991 national rally-sporting calendar, Lincoln’s much-loved rally car club, Walkerville All Cars (South Aust) had also set up the Lincoln Harding Memorial Award, a magnificent silver-plated trophy, officially recognised by Motorsport Australia (the national governing body for 4-wheeled motor-sport across Australia), which for the past 34 years has since been vigorously competed for by up-and-coming young rally drivers in the South Australian Rally Championships every year since 1991.
It’s hard to believe that now in 2025, Lincoln would be 62 years of age now (Max is 63!) and that the grandchildren of his close friends and rallying peers from 34 years ago, are now being taken by their grandparents to see the famous car their old mate, Linc, used to own - and drove competitively in 1989, when he came fourth outright in the 4th Round of the South Australian Rally Championship of 1989. Not bad going for a beat-up old car that was yet to be restored to its original 1971 perfection!
We did return to England in 1993, where we lived for the next 19 years, having set up a business making timber fire surrounds with Seumas, one of our son’s closest friends he’d known since he was 15 years old, in Adelaide, who had also left Australia for London in the same year we did.
All-in-all, we manufactured about 13,500 timber fire-surrounds, all bespoke, some of which ended up in Japan, New York, Germany, Cairns, N. Ireland, Charter House and one rather grand creation in the halls of Westminster, London!
However, in 2011, after having made 18 return trips to Adelaide since 1993 to visit our daughter and two young grandchildren, we all decided to return to Australia to live, the country we’d all held so dearly in our hearts for so very long, having lived through the most momentous years - among which had been the very best as well as the very worst of life experiences imaginable for all of our family.
Bill Harding at the BBM Adelaide Reunion in January 2025.
And so, after selling our home in England, we returned to Adelaide, South Australia, in 2012, where we still live happily to this day, having become proud Citizens of this great country in 2016.
I feel bound to say that I have always felt grateful to the Big Brother Movement for giving me that first introduction to Australia in 1957, which turned out to be the best thing that ever happened in my life and made me the person I am today, still a proud ‘Little Brother’ even now, in my 85th year, having lived my own Australian dream.
We’ve just finished building a new home in Port Adelaide, which we moved into on 16 December 2024.
Still living the Australian Dream and looking for the next Big Adventure!
My life has been full. This has been but a short snapshot of it.
Thank you, Big Brother!