Chapter Twenty-Two

So there I was, standing at the bottom of Queen Street, Auckland, having left a trail of destruction behind me back home. My stance belied the fact that I only had eight pennies in my pocket. I was nineteen, nearly twenty and wondering what my next move should be. I had my girlfriend Billy’s phone number in my pocket. I had just walked through the wharf gates with crewmembers of the ship that I had secretly boarded in Sydney. I had my few possessions in Dad’s old army hold all.

“See you later and good luck with that Sheila,” Pete, one of the ship’s crew, called out as we went our separate ways. They were going to their homes and families; I was heading into an uncertain world. Dinger and I had jumped ship in Sydney as planned. We had survived a real helter-skelter time. Sydney was a tough town, especially if you were a stranger and broke. We were there for about ten days. We had walked down the DM’s gangplank with the princely sum of about three or four pounds between us. However we had that most prized of assets, the confidence of youth.

We had spent a night in a doss house in George St. It masqueraded as the United Services Club and was used mainly by down-and-outs and alcoholics. It charged one shilling a night, so you can guess what it was like. We had forlornly made our way down to the dock. There we sat on a wharf bench and watched the Dominion Monarch being shepherded out into the stream by the busy tugs. She was turned and slowly made her way under the Harbour Bridge and then she was gone from our sight. Suddenly the realisation hit. Shit! We’ve done it. We’re on our own and homeless. For non-seafarers this may be hard to understand, but when you join a ship it becomes your home. It gives you shelter, food, order and stability. As the Dominion Monarch disappeared, so did our stability and our home.

We made contact with some Kiwi seamen in an infamous dockside pub, the Piermont Hotel. It was a well-known watering hole that catered for dockers, seamen, crims, pimps and hookers and was a clearinghouse for stolen and pilfered cargo. It was noisy and rough and one could easily imagine Long John Silver holding court there. I had been in some dives in different ports, but this was something else. Almost anything could be bought or sold, any sexual persuasion catered for, any injury or murder easily arranged. Welcome to Australia’s dark underbelly, I thought.

During the miserable time Dinger and I spent in Sydney we were constantly broke, but even tough times seem to throw up opportunities and a little scam came our way courtesy of a chance meeting at the Piermont Hotel. We fell in amongst the seamen and dockers there and befriended a group who worked on a demolition site nearby, the Fort Macquarie Tram Depot that was later to become the famous Sydney Opera House. They were a rough but friendly bunch and using the ruse that we were thinking of applying for jobs on the site, we gleaned many facts about their employment and work practices. They told us how much they were paid and more importantly, how they were paid. Labour was in demand and wages were high. The work force was constantly changing and the pay clerks used a number system to identify workers when making wages payments. The system was backed up by a numbered disk. It gave us an idea. We got talking to one of the younger workers who was nearer our age and persuaded him to assist us in a bit of skulduggery. A couple of the Aussie workers were complaining about a fellow worker who owed them money. He hadn’t come to work for a couple of days and they were wondering whether he’d come in to pick up his wages on payday. They worked a ‘three-days-in-hand’ system, so it would be a full week’s pay with overtime and penal rates etc. just waiting to be plucked. The younger guy gave us the absentee’s name and pay disk number and agreed to lend us his own identification disc. The pay clerks were always hassled and just used to ask “name and number” while the worker stood there with his disc in his hand and gave his name and his number, collected the pay packet and signed for it. It had to be worth a shot. We cut the young guy in on the deal. He thought it was a great lark and a bit of fun. For us it was the difference between eating and going hungry.

Fortunately the absent worker was about Dinger’s build and colouring in case the pay clerk remembered him. So it was obvious that Dinger should have the honour of doing the job. I stood aside, selfless as ever, just as I had done for Ken Wilson with the school robbery. My strengths have often been in the planning department with these matters. And being an old Mill End boy, Dinger was up for it.

Payday arrived. We met our young accomplice as arranged and had about an hour to kill. We hung around the building site. Dinger and I had both worked on building sites before, but nothing anywhere near as large as this. A siren screeched to announce pay time and the young lad signalled Dinger to follow him to the correct queue. Dinger slipped into the line about ten back from the counter and watched the procedure, smiling and cracking jokes with the other workers. He volunteered the old saws of building sites worldwide, such as “Today the golden eagle craps”. It seemed an eternity from where I was watching, but eventually Dinger reached the pay clerk and flashed him a smile. The pay clerk asked him the endlessly repeated question. Dinger gave the name and number and waved the disk in the pay clerk’s direction. The clerk didn’t even look at it; he just passed Dinger a pen to sign the wages book. Dinger copied the real signature as best he could. The clerk handed him the wages and as easy as that we were flush again.

Our worker must have been on a good rate and had worked a lot of overtime. Good for him. We now had the equivalent of about four hundred pounds in today’s money and that was more than enough to tide us over until our respective ringbolts were available. Our accomplice knew we were struggling so settled for about fifteen percent of the take. I’m sure our benefactor would have had his wages paid after he moaned and complained to the pay clerk for long enough, so no real harm done I suppose and to this day I look at the Sydney Opera House with great affection.

Elsewhere in this story I mention George Porter. George was a Kiwi seaman who plied his trade on British ships. He had once been shipwrecked on one in a massive storm in the Irish Sea. All hands were lost apart from George and I think, two others. I had previously met George when he was a DBS, meaning a “Distressed British Seaman” a self-explanatory term used to describe a situation any British seaman may find himself in for reasons of health, accident, missing a ship etc. They are entitled to full support and repatriation from other British ships, or embassies from whatever country they may find themselves in.

I met and assisted George, who was a real character, in Buenos Aires, where he had run into some trouble the details of which he never disclosed. He was nineteen at the time and a real handful. Anyway he was being repatriated to the UK on the Highland Monarch so he and I became friendly. He fired up my imagination with stories of New Zealand, his family and friends, most of whom I was destined to meet in later years. I liked him, but not everyone did and many thought him a bit mouthy. He really was an exceptional character as is evidenced by this following little story. We had made our way back to the UK via Lisbon in Portugal. Whilst in Lisbon George had gone ashore for some fun. Fortunately I was on watch, so I couldn’t join him. Inevitably George got into a scrap in a brothel, causing him to miss the ship and we sailed off without him. I thought that was the last I would see of him, but nothing was ever that simple with George. A few days later, after calling into Las Palmas, we were being guided into our berth in the King George V Dock, Pool of London and there on the wharf, waving and shouting, was George, with a big smile on his face. He had hitched a lift with another British ship and beaten us home.

That evening we had a drink in the Round House in Canning Town, a favourite watering hole for us. George was thanking me for my support; he knew he wasn’t liked by some. George told me most of his gear had been lost or stolen and he didn’t have a coat. I was wearing a really sharp windcheater type jacket, which was superb for travelling in. I also had another jacket in Dad’s holdall with all my other kit. I knew he wouldn’t ask, anyway, but I couldn’t leave him like that, so I took my jacket off and gave it to him, plus five pounds as I had just been paid off and was flush. He thanked me and we said our goodbyes. He said if ever I was in Auckland I could contact him through the New Zealand Seaman’s Office in Albert Street. I didn’t think much more about it as I made my way home. I thought that really was the last I would see of him.

Life is so strange. About four months later I was sitting at the pictures with a local girl and the Gaumont British News came on. As I previously mentioned, there had been a massive storm in the Irish Sea and a ship was lost with most of the crew and one of the few survivors was interviewed. He was dressed in a blanket, looking cold and dishevelled and battered. This sad looking picture of a survivor was plastered all over the newspapers. Yes, it was George, minus my good jacket. So there you go. Some people will do anything to get on the news. Which is what I said to him when I eventually caught up with him in Auckland a year or so later. George’s name had been invaluable in our meeting with the Kiwi seamen in the “Piermont Hotel” and Dinger and I were soon organised for ringbolts to Auckland; all’s well that ends well.

Me, at home, after my first trip. With sisters, Jean and Joyce and mum, Sarah.

Me at 17, 1955. I don’t think I was ever quite innocent even if I may have looked it.

THE R.M.S. HIGHLAND MONARCH

My first ship. I sailed on her for three trips to South America, October 1955 – Trip two highlight was boxing in Rosario. I also sailed on her sister ship the, ‘Highland Brigade’, with Dinger Singleton and Bill ‘Onions’ Horwood, Ricky boys.

BOXING TEAM ON R.M.S. HIGHLAND MONARCH

After the boxing night in Rosario, Argentina - R/L, Terry, A real boxer - Trainer, Inky – Boxer, Sleepy Fox - Me – Boxer - Steward – Trainer. A lesson in life, never volunteer, I was KO’d.

THE R.M.S. DESIADO

Another trip to Buenos Aires where I met Maria, the Brazilian girl, 1957.

THE ATHENIC

This was my first ship to New Zealand, 1957. The Athenic was a great ship. I had an affair with passenger, Helen on her. Notice the foremast and yardarm that I had to ascend and clear a jammed flag.

THE Q.S.M.V DOMINION MONARCH

Over the side painting the hull in Lytleton Harbour. The ship I jumped with Dave Singleton in Sydney, 1958. The D.M. as she was affectionately known. She transported many immigrants to Australia and New Zealand in her illustrious life. Launched in 1938 she served until 1962. She was a troop carrier from 1940.

The New Zealand Scows, Rahiri and The Jane Gifford under full sail. I crewed on both of these vessels in 1959. The Jane Gifford now restored and berthed in Warkworth, a living museum and tribute to older ways.

Me on the deck of the Rahiri beached on Mototapu Island Hauraki Gulf, 1959. She was my home for a while in 1959-60. Truly great, carefree days.

Me, on beautiful Milford Beach, Auckland in 1961, aged 23. The times were a’ changing. Not long after this I, “got of the bus”. A few years later, I was living in a property I owned, that was on the beach.

Holiday back in England with family after eleven years. L/R Me, brothers - John & Edward, sisters - Jean, Joyce and niece - Denise.

EARLY BOXING PROMOTION IN Y.M.C.A. AUKLAND

L/R Manny Santos – Commonwealth Lightweight Champion, ABA suit, Me, Joey Santos – ranked 10th Light Welterweight in the World, Bob Scott, co-manager and business associate, meet him in book 2. At this time, I was President/Promoter for the very successful, ‘South Pacific Boxing Association.’

ME WITH FRIENDS, ALL AUKLAND CHARACTERS, 1986

L/R Me, Detective Inspector John Hughes; Ray Miller, my staunch partner; Rambo (Alan Harris), a real character and long time friend and Jerry Clayton at my daughter’s 21^st birthday party, at our Takapuna beach house. D.I. John Hughes and also Jerry Clayton, who will feature heavily in book 2, in a High Court case that I was involved in.

Me with Rainton Hastie, King of the strip clubs, in the Bay of Islands, Christmas 1984. Rainton and I eventually became friends and partners, after early threatening skirmishes.

THE ‘AMALFI’, THOSE WERE THE DAYS

Cruising the Hauraki Gulf. A 38-foot, Hartley design, she slept six comfortably, but usually 10, uncomfortably. All good things come to an end.