Railway topic
Most of the workers on the Picton to Blenheim railway line were brought to Picton from England in 1872 by the contractors Brogden and Son. The 124 men arrived with their families on the Schielthallion and were engaged for two years at 5/- a day.
The company, on the advice of the New Zealand police, employed an Irishman, Michael Scanlan, to keep the peace between these workers called ‘Brogden’s navvies’ and the Picton sailors and whalers who were opposed to these ‘landlubbers’ and the building of the new viaduct at the Picton end. He had earlier been employed in Australia as an armed Gold Escort protecting the Gold coach travelling from the goldfields of Bendigo and Ballarat to the bank in Melbourne. He moved to New Zealand and married in Wellington. Later he was in Havelock during the gold rush then the family moved to Picton where author Nelle Scanlan was born. She would later become well known for her Pencarrow series of novels, parts of which were set in Marlborough. In her autobiography she recalls great fights took place in the weekends between the two groups of railway workers and the Picton factions. “Bottles and bricks and fists flew and at times it got quite out of hand”.
The viaduct was completed and the line opened in 1875 but only went as far as the swampy land at Opawa near Blenheim to begin with. After an official Government visit a bridge was built across the river, and in 1880 the line continued to the site of the present day railway station in Blenheim. Even before this time statements were being made about the desirability of a Wellington to Picton fast steamer across Cook Strait linking to the railway systems in both islands.
By 1962 this dream became a reality with the first of the roll-on-roll-off ferries, Aramona. Trains, carrying freight, could be driven onto the ferry at one end and be driven off at the other to continue their journey by rail.
© Julie Kennedy March 2018
Most of the workers on the Picton to Blenheim railway line were brought to Picton from England in 1872 by the contractors Brogden and Son. The 124 men arrived with their families on the Schielthallion and were engaged for two years at 5/- a day.
The company, on the advice of the New Zealand police, employed an Irishman, Michael Scanlan, to keep the peace between these workers called ‘Brogden’s navvies’ and the Picton sailors and whalers who were opposed to these ‘landlubbers’ and the building of the new viaduct at the Picton end. He had earlier been employed in Australia as an armed Gold Escort protecting the Gold coach travelling from the goldfields of Bendigo and Ballarat to the bank in Melbourne. He moved to New Zealand and married in Wellington. Later he was in Havelock during the gold rush then the family moved to Picton where author Nelle Scanlan was born. She would later become well known for her Pencarrow series of novels, parts of which were set in Marlborough. In her autobiography she recalls great fights took place in the weekends between the two groups of railway workers and the Picton factions. “Bottles and bricks and fists flew and at times it got quite out of hand”.
The viaduct was completed and the line opened in 1875 but only went as far as the swampy land at Opawa near Blenheim to begin with. After an official Government visit a bridge was built across the river, and in 1880 the line continued to the site of the present day railway station in Blenheim. Even before this time statements were being made about the desirability of a Wellington to Picton fast steamer across Cook Strait linking to the railway systems in both islands.
By 1962 this dream became a reality with the first of the roll-on-roll-off ferries, Aramona. Trains, carrying freight, could be driven onto the ferry at one end and be driven off at the other to continue their journey by rail.
© Julie Kennedy March 2018
Isle of Wight 1956By Susan Kerr
A dozen or so black and white, musty photos. As I sort through them, I try to take in the memories and emotions. My brother and I are standing in the midst of a small grass playing field, with a row of cabins, side by side behind us, where damp towels and underwear hang limply from clothes lines in the July sun. We both look cheerful, in our white shorts and shirts. Throughout the whole holiday, my mother has parted my hair down the middle, clipped it back at either side, and curled it somehow. My brother is giggling with his shoulders hunched up: probably some joke from my Uncle Fred. |
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That’s what I liked most about that holiday. There wasn’t just our family, but my Uncle and Aunt and my older cousin Maureen as well. Maureen grew so beautiful in years to come that I always envied her, but in those days, despite her pretty clothes, she was quite plain. She wore glasses and told me that the kids called her “four eyes” at school. I loved playing with Maureen. With my father’s sister Margaret and her family with us, it always eased the tension that hung in the air when we were just on our own: we felt safe. Normally my father was moody and strict, and we never knew when he would become angry.
The holiday camp was not Butlin’s, but provided similar enjoyments. It also meant that my mother and aunt were freed from cooking. The camp photographer took two splendid photos. All sprawled on the grass, the seven us smile out and the weather looks perfect. Another photo captures an evening in the hall. I stand proud with my hair brushed, wearing a prim seersucker dress with puffed sleeves. My mother, aunt and Maureen are resplendent in shirt-waisters. My father grins with a new mustache in the foreground, while Uncle Fred lurks in the shadows at the back.
The camp was situated in the south of the Isle of Wight near Black Gang Chine. There was no amusement park then, but we could still scramble down the steep cliffs that overlooked the Chine, and down the steps to the stony beach. Since then, the Chine has crumbled away. In the village, there was a gift shop where we could buy souvenirs with our pocket money. Despite the Polio epidemic, there was still swimming in the camp pool, with terrible swimsuits, and curls protected by tight rubber caps.
The last photo shows David and me standing with my father on the ferry on our way home. David leans against me. I am wearing my pleated skirt now and my school blazer. The end of a holiday and the beginning of whole new journey.
The holiday camp was not Butlin’s, but provided similar enjoyments. It also meant that my mother and aunt were freed from cooking. The camp photographer took two splendid photos. All sprawled on the grass, the seven us smile out and the weather looks perfect. Another photo captures an evening in the hall. I stand proud with my hair brushed, wearing a prim seersucker dress with puffed sleeves. My mother, aunt and Maureen are resplendent in shirt-waisters. My father grins with a new mustache in the foreground, while Uncle Fred lurks in the shadows at the back.
The camp was situated in the south of the Isle of Wight near Black Gang Chine. There was no amusement park then, but we could still scramble down the steep cliffs that overlooked the Chine, and down the steps to the stony beach. Since then, the Chine has crumbled away. In the village, there was a gift shop where we could buy souvenirs with our pocket money. Despite the Polio epidemic, there was still swimming in the camp pool, with terrible swimsuits, and curls protected by tight rubber caps.
The last photo shows David and me standing with my father on the ferry on our way home. David leans against me. I am wearing my pleated skirt now and my school blazer. The end of a holiday and the beginning of whole new journey.
Tattoos and Chocolate
By Peter Thomas
Despite having inadvertently given coincidence a bit of a nudge I still feel chance is too blunt a tool to have dug that tunnel through the decades.
Great Grandma was over ninety and living alone when she came to stay with me. Her memory was only good in patches and I’d assumed that was why she had her telephone number tattooed on her left forearm. Perhaps I was being romantic when I speculated she hoped to meet someone special and be able to pass on her number.
But the explanation wasn’t what I expected. Of course I knew she was Austrian and Jewish but she’d never mentioned German concentration camps before. The number tattooed on her arm had been “her” number and decades later she’d chosen that same number as her telephone number.
I asked her how she managed to survive when so many died.
She sighed. ‘I know it’s hard to believe now, but when I was fifteen people said I was pretty. One of the SS guards called Karl must have thought so too. During the day I worked in the workshops, and at night I gave him what he wanted. In exchange he gave me food. I never knew whether I was given food that should have been for the other women. One by one they all died of overwork and starvation.’
‘The Germans must have been monsters to let that happen.’
‘No, you mustn’t call them monsters. If you do you are making an excuse for them. They were ordinary people like us, who had been exposed to insidious indoctrination and peer pressure to produce a collective madness. The tragedy isn’t the death of all those Jews and gypsies. That is over, it is history now and the memory is just a telephone number on my arm. The real tragedy is, to win the war, we allowed the Nazis to make us surpass their ruthlessness. And since then we have developed the art of killing and destruction to new monstrous heights. Most of those who experienced the holocaust are dead, or like me soon will be.’
As she said that I remembered the old man who ran the boutique chocolate factory just out of town. He too had a number tattooed on his forearm. Could he be another survivor?
It was Friday afternoon when I drove Great Grandma to the chocolate factory. He was there and I left her talking to him while I slipped away to sample the chocolates.
As we drove home I asked her if the chocolate man had ever been in a concentration camp.
‘Oh yes. I remember him. The number on his arm is 2875531.’
‘So he too escaped?’
‘Yes, in a way. As the Red Army closed in the SS tattooed on his arm became two fives and he added the other five numbers. So the SS guard escaped by becoming a “liberated” victim.’
‘Are you going to expose him?’
‘No he’s invited me out to dinner.’
‘You’re not going to accept are you?’
‘Yes I am, and after all this time I’d like you to get to know your Great Grandfather.’
Despite having inadvertently given coincidence a bit of a nudge I still feel chance is too blunt a tool to have dug that tunnel through the decades.
Great Grandma was over ninety and living alone when she came to stay with me. Her memory was only good in patches and I’d assumed that was why she had her telephone number tattooed on her left forearm. Perhaps I was being romantic when I speculated she hoped to meet someone special and be able to pass on her number.
But the explanation wasn’t what I expected. Of course I knew she was Austrian and Jewish but she’d never mentioned German concentration camps before. The number tattooed on her arm had been “her” number and decades later she’d chosen that same number as her telephone number.
I asked her how she managed to survive when so many died.
She sighed. ‘I know it’s hard to believe now, but when I was fifteen people said I was pretty. One of the SS guards called Karl must have thought so too. During the day I worked in the workshops, and at night I gave him what he wanted. In exchange he gave me food. I never knew whether I was given food that should have been for the other women. One by one they all died of overwork and starvation.’
‘The Germans must have been monsters to let that happen.’
‘No, you mustn’t call them monsters. If you do you are making an excuse for them. They were ordinary people like us, who had been exposed to insidious indoctrination and peer pressure to produce a collective madness. The tragedy isn’t the death of all those Jews and gypsies. That is over, it is history now and the memory is just a telephone number on my arm. The real tragedy is, to win the war, we allowed the Nazis to make us surpass their ruthlessness. And since then we have developed the art of killing and destruction to new monstrous heights. Most of those who experienced the holocaust are dead, or like me soon will be.’
As she said that I remembered the old man who ran the boutique chocolate factory just out of town. He too had a number tattooed on his forearm. Could he be another survivor?
It was Friday afternoon when I drove Great Grandma to the chocolate factory. He was there and I left her talking to him while I slipped away to sample the chocolates.
As we drove home I asked her if the chocolate man had ever been in a concentration camp.
‘Oh yes. I remember him. The number on his arm is 2875531.’
‘So he too escaped?’
‘Yes, in a way. As the Red Army closed in the SS tattooed on his arm became two fives and he added the other five numbers. So the SS guard escaped by becoming a “liberated” victim.’
‘Are you going to expose him?’
‘No he’s invited me out to dinner.’
‘You’re not going to accept are you?’
‘Yes I am, and after all this time I’d like you to get to know your Great Grandfather.’
Writers of Picton September 2017 Challenge
‘Police have cordoned off a house in Lower Hutt but say there is no danger to the public’
Emergency Exit - Irene Thomas
Thus came the broadcast over Radio Jive at 11.30am on 31st June. People in the surrounding district pricked up their ears, always alert to hearing of ‘scandalous goings on’ in their neighbourhood. Folks considering themselves ‘in the know’ thought it could be a methamphetamine lab discovered, a cannabis plantation, a hostage taken if not a runaway delinquent holed up in the locality. However non of these dramatic circumstances prevailed on this day. The event was a gathering of mostly elderly people assembling prior to a ‘pot luck’ lunch at one of the larger houses. An assortment of vehicles could be seen nearby. There were several cars, an assortment of mobility scooters, one or two wheelchairs and a walking frame left in the porch.
Word had got around that this was no ordinary meeting of the club, which was dedicated to the acceptance of voluntary euthanasia. No! It was the ‘pot luck’ aspect of the day. People were arriving carrying mysterious bundles and packages and it was rumoured that this could be their final meeting and that no one would leave there alive. Hence the police were called and surrounded the house while they considered their next move.
Word had got around that this was no ordinary meeting of the club, which was dedicated to the acceptance of voluntary euthanasia. No! It was the ‘pot luck’ aspect of the day. People were arriving carrying mysterious bundles and packages and it was rumoured that this could be their final meeting and that no one would leave there alive. Hence the police were called and surrounded the house while they considered their next move.
Writers of Picton April 2017 Challenge - ‘Something for Nothing’
Something for Nothing by Les Tubman
Money for nothing and chicks for free, goes the song, and it certainly made lots of money for Dire Straits; some of that money came out of my own pocket. Although I no longer own that LP the idea of something for nothing still resonates in my psyche.
As a species, we are drawn to the concept of the freebie like moths to the flame. We are mesmerised with ‘buy one get one free,’ ‘sixty per cent off’ and no payment for six months.’ If we can’t be bothered, checking out the sale there is always the lighted candle of lotto. For a mere twenty bucks, we can join with thousands of other hopeful losers waiting for the balls to
fall on Saturday night and the glittery promise of more money than we can spend in a lifetime. Or, as usual, to be let down. To quote Mark Knopfler again, ‘that ain’t workin.’
We seem to be surrounded by promises of something for nothing; promises that seldom deliver. Scam artists are still fleecing elderly folks out of their life savings with promises that sound too good to be true. I would like to expand on these thoughts but I have an appointment with a lovely young man from Africa who has honoured me with the task of assisting him with his immigration to New Zealand. He is a genuine Nigerian prince who has already put a substantial sum of money into my bank account. This afternoon I am expecting the final transfer of funds that will set me up for the rest of my life.
As a species, we are drawn to the concept of the freebie like moths to the flame. We are mesmerised with ‘buy one get one free,’ ‘sixty per cent off’ and no payment for six months.’ If we can’t be bothered, checking out the sale there is always the lighted candle of lotto. For a mere twenty bucks, we can join with thousands of other hopeful losers waiting for the balls to
fall on Saturday night and the glittery promise of more money than we can spend in a lifetime. Or, as usual, to be let down. To quote Mark Knopfler again, ‘that ain’t workin.’
We seem to be surrounded by promises of something for nothing; promises that seldom deliver. Scam artists are still fleecing elderly folks out of their life savings with promises that sound too good to be true. I would like to expand on these thoughts but I have an appointment with a lovely young man from Africa who has honoured me with the task of assisting him with his immigration to New Zealand. He is a genuine Nigerian prince who has already put a substantial sum of money into my bank account. This afternoon I am expecting the final transfer of funds that will set me up for the rest of my life.
Writers of Picton March 2017 Challenge - ‘Calm Lavender Evenings’
Calm Lavender Evenings by Irene Thomas
The subtle aura of lavender pervaded her senses by degrees…this pervasiveness being not just the aroma but an aura slowly encompassing her whole being as she relaxed. Then began the slow fading of light, as one would expect at the close of day; bright to begin with then slowly taking on the faintest of hues of lavender, ill defined, smoky lavender before tardily developing a deepening mauve colour. She felt, rather than heard, that birdsong had diminished to an indefinable twitter and was now fading. A penetrating calm washed over her giving her an inclination to stay here forever. She could not remember a calm restfulness such as this and gave herself up to its enjoyment before succumbing to sleep.
Her awakening came gradually, as it was programmed to do. She ran a practised eye over the console noting that during her ‘calm lavender evening’ the shuttle had borne her along two point five of a light year towards her destination. No wonder she felt hungry! She swallowed the prescribed three capsules and drank her vegetable cocktail through a straw. Only two more sleeps to go before reporting for duty at the space station hospital.
Remembering the stimulation disc, she had popped in the player before her sleep she replaced it in its sleeve. She might have a change of disc for her next sleep, possibly a ballet…or maybe a lavender party.
Her awakening came gradually, as it was programmed to do. She ran a practised eye over the console noting that during her ‘calm lavender evening’ the shuttle had borne her along two point five of a light year towards her destination. No wonder she felt hungry! She swallowed the prescribed three capsules and drank her vegetable cocktail through a straw. Only two more sleeps to go before reporting for duty at the space station hospital.
Remembering the stimulation disc, she had popped in the player before her sleep she replaced it in its sleeve. She might have a change of disc for her next sleep, possibly a ballet…or maybe a lavender party.
Nana’s Garden by Les Tubman
Grandad’s house smelled like putty. I was told it came from the linseed oil that he mixed with chalk to hold the windows in place. His garden shed smelt entirely different. On hot days, the shed exuded the aromatic smell of Stockholm tar, which Grandad used to keep his cotton flounder net from rotting. Gladioli corms lay drying on sheets of newspaper near the small paned window. He was proud of his glads; they grew tall against the sunny wall at the front of the house where passers-by could see them and remark on their magnificent colours as he sat on his ratty old chair beside the gate. The remainder of his front garden was a mass of roses with narrow paths meandering through them. Grandad kept these walkways mowed to encourage people to stroll through his gnarly standards and highly scented hybrid teas until they emerged onto an apron of lawn in front of his gladioli.
After he died, the roses became overgrown and as Nana never followed his passion for flowers, the garden against the house became a jumble of weeds and the glads disappeared. A year or so later, she employed a gardener to tidy the front yard. Most of the rose gardens were dug over and replaced with lawns. It became my job to mow her lawns after school for which I was rewarded with two shillings and a glass of cold orange cordial on hot days. The gardener had planted lavender along the front of the house and Nana had him move the lichen dappled pew from the back shed and place it beside the lavender bed.
The flounder net had gone from the shed but the tang of the aromatic tar still lingered. The house smelled different too. Nana had mussie tussies on the windowsills and lavender sachets in all the drawers. The aroma of linseed oil had all but disappeared, as had Nana’s memory. She started calling me Eric. Eric was Grandad’s name and sometimes when I had finished her lawns, she would bring out a tray with a pot of tea and four wine biscuits on a saucer. We would sit quietly in the fading light listening to the bumblebees in the lavender. I often thought about Grandad’s glads but Nana’s fading memories were of calm lavender evenings in a distant Wiltshire garden.
After he died, the roses became overgrown and as Nana never followed his passion for flowers, the garden against the house became a jumble of weeds and the glads disappeared. A year or so later, she employed a gardener to tidy the front yard. Most of the rose gardens were dug over and replaced with lawns. It became my job to mow her lawns after school for which I was rewarded with two shillings and a glass of cold orange cordial on hot days. The gardener had planted lavender along the front of the house and Nana had him move the lichen dappled pew from the back shed and place it beside the lavender bed.
The flounder net had gone from the shed but the tang of the aromatic tar still lingered. The house smelled different too. Nana had mussie tussies on the windowsills and lavender sachets in all the drawers. The aroma of linseed oil had all but disappeared, as had Nana’s memory. She started calling me Eric. Eric was Grandad’s name and sometimes when I had finished her lawns, she would bring out a tray with a pot of tea and four wine biscuits on a saucer. We would sit quietly in the fading light listening to the bumblebees in the lavender. I often thought about Grandad’s glads but Nana’s fading memories were of calm lavender evenings in a distant Wiltshire garden.
