I made my ringbolt out of Sydney on the M.V. Wanganella and it took four days to get to Auckland. As the ship had pulled away from the passenger wharf in Sydney, I had deliberately taken up a position near the Chief Purser, who would be standing close to the gangway, generally his official station when leaving port. I enthusiastically waved and shouted goodbyes to the heaving mass of people on the wharf seeing off their loved ones. The purser smiled at me; just another young guy, waving to his family. He would have seen that many times before. Swizzo, the crewmember who was helping me, had fixed up an unused out-of-order bathroom as my accommodation. It was quite comfortable with a mattress on the deck and blankets if I needed them. Either he or his friend brought food to me, usually just after meal times.
I thought the safest ploy was to pass myself off as one of the passengers as far as possible. To that end I used to have a stroll around the decks and got quite chatty with two passengers. By the second day I had built up a bit of trust with them. As a result of our conversations I was able to disclose that I was a stowaway. This didn’t faze them a bit, in fact quite the reverse. One of them was a leading New Zealand artist, who was returning from the UK. The New Zealand government had commissioned him to paint a full-length portrait of the then young Queen Elizabeth to hang in the Governor General’s residence. Unfortunately, I can’t remember his name now and I imagine he has passed on. However he and his companion, a nice young English chap, were very kind to me. They used to bring me fruit from the dining room, biscuits and chocolate. We sat in the deck chairs one afternoon discussing spiritualism. It appeared the artist was deeply involved in it. To this day I still remember him stating that Winston Churchill was a confirmed spiritualist. That statement made a great impression on me. From an early age I had revered Churchill and it caused me to have an interest in the subject of spiritualism in later years. On two later occasions I saw the young chap walking around in downtown Auckland and we always waved and shared a knowing smile. They were good people and I hope they had a happy life together.
We’ve safely cleared the wharf gates now and I breathe a sigh of relief. Standing there on the corner of Queen and Custom Streets my mood was helped by the lovely sunny October day that Auckland was providing. People were going about their business in a leisurely, unhurried manner. It was about mid-day and from where I was standing, only two hundred yards from the docks and the ferry buildings, I could hear the whine of the cranes and the shouts of the wharf foremen as they signalled the crane drivers overhead. The trams were busily clanking up and down Queen Street, discharging and then taking on new passengers and gliding off along the tram lines. The ever reliable trams were loved by the citizens and were a part of the fascinating kaleidoscope of downtown Auckland. Office and shop workers were sitting eating their lunches in the sunshine, on benches or in casual groups on the Central Post Office steps. The Post Office was one of those grand buildings designed to project steadfastness and stability, which it did; but I thought the assembled throng of people projected it even better. The thoughts pressing on my mind were that I might be broke, but I wasn’t broken; I might feel a bit apprehensive for the future and things would be tough for a while, but I knew I would find my way and above all I knew and felt I was meant to be here.
I made my way across Customs Street and into, what was then, The Great Northern Hotel. It was later rebranded as the “Auckland Hotel”. New Zealand pubs were so different from the traditional English type. They were huge drinking barns designed to dispense as much beer as possible in the restricted hours that their licences allowed. They had to shut by six o’clock in the evening, which gave rise to the infamous “six o’clock swill”. The beer was served out of long pipes that the barmen could walk up and down the bar with. The ice-cold beer was mostly sold in jugs, as they were easier and faster to fill. It wasn’t very civilized but the drinkers had a job to do and that’s how they did it. I was on a mission by now and was about to phone Billy. I was fervently hoping that she still entertained a fondness for me. I was also wondering if I had been usurped by a more available suitor.
As I mentioned, I had the princely sum of eight pennies to my name, two of which I was about to use on a phone call.
“Hello, Gables Hotel, can I help you?”
“Err, yes, Is Billy there?”
“Billy? We don’t have anybody by that name here, Sir.”
“You don’t? Are you sure?”
“Is it a guest or a member of staff you wish to speak to, Sir?”
“Staff. She’s one of the housemaids.”
“Oh you must mean Moana or Cathy Lee I think. Anyway, staff aren’t allowed phone calls.”
My heart was beginning to sink.
“Please don’t hang up,” I say with real conviction, “this is an emergency”.
“They all say that, Sir.”
My heart sank lower; I was starting to wonder where I would be sleeping tonight.
“Hang on a minute, Mate,” he said in a much changed and friendlier voice. “I’ll get her for you.”
I could hear him laughing as he called out to her. I had to smile myself; I realised I had just been treated to a bit of Kiwi humour.
Billy, as I was still calling her, was coming down to meet me in the Queen Street Milk Bar, a regular meeting place for our group. As it happened I knew Maureen one of the girls working there, from when I had been in Auckland on the Athenic. I had been out with her for a couple of nights so I was able to sit there and enjoy a milk shake while I was waiting and I have to tell you, New Zealand milk shakes are something to die for. Another stroke of good fortune came my way. I asked Maureen, if she knew a George Porter and she did. It seems everybody did. Better still, she was going out with him now and he would be picking her up at seven that night when she finished her shift. I really couldn’t believe my luck. I know it sounds unlikely, but thinking about it, the Auckland seagoing fraternity was so small and everybody generally knew each other, sooner or later in the next few days we would have caught up.
Billy strolled in looking great and seemed genuinely pleased to see me. We sat in our booth and chatted while holding hands and stealing the odd kiss. Everything was okay for me to stay in the room with her. What a relief that was and what a pleasure awaited me. I was looking at Billy when from behind me I heard:
“Hi there Len you old bastard,” accompanied by a massive thump on the back.
I learnt that this was a high compliment in New Zealand. Only real mates can call each other a bastard. Naturally, it was George. Maureen had phoned and told him I was in town. Men weren’t into hugging each other in those days, but we did. I went to introduce him to Billy but they already knew each other. We all sat in the booth for a while, George and I swapping yarns and checking on mates - where they were and what ships they might be on. Then George pulled ten pounds out of his pocket, gave it to me and proceeded to tell the girls why he owed it to me, throwing in a dollop of me being a good bloke, blah, blah… I have to tell you that those old sayings about being rewarded in life for kind acts, which we generally question, certainly felt true for me then and it couldn’t have come at a better time.
“Right we’re celebrating,” said George.
“Yeah let’s go to the Hi Diddle Griddle, it’s great there,” piped up Maureen. “It’s great to see you back here,” she added.
Maureen was a nice girl; she and I remained friends for many years, as did George and I. The Hi Diddle Griddle was the type of fifties/sixties dine and dance restaurant-come-club that did so well in those days. Drink was generally illegally served or you smuggled your own in. There were draconian licensing laws back then. Funnily enough though, it seemed to make the outings more exciting. We were greeted in a friendly manner and taken to our table by the headwaiter. It turned out that he was a friend of George’s called Keith Morgan and he became a lifelong friend of mine.
Keith was another English ex-seaman; he had jumped ship a few years previously. Keith had been caught and had served a month in Mt. Crawford jail and was then allowed to stay, which was how the system operated at the time. The Kiwis seemed to feel that the month’s jail was your punishment and that you didn’t deserve to have the additional punishment of being deported. Unlike Australia, where in the old days you needed a conviction to get in, but was now grounds for booting you out. Keith had become a bit of a legend with the Poms in New Zealand. He was a very well built, strong guy, who kept himself in good condition. When he wasn’t working as a waiter he spent his daytime as a lifeguard at Parnell Baths. I think his main reason for doing so was to get access to the flock of pretty girls who congregated there. I joined him there on many occasions.
Keith’s moment of fame came about in a pub brawl in Dunedin, a city at the bottom of the South Island. This was the hometown of a certain Danny Glozier, a New Zealand champion boxer. He was nicknamed “The Southland Buzz Saw”. Danny was a member of a famous boxing family and connected, by marriage and friendship, to another famous boxing and street fighting family, the McNally’s. Two of them, Joe and Paddy, both held New Zealand amateur and professional titles. These guys were absolute legends in New Zealand and it took a brave man to cross them. An argument had apparently erupted over a girl Keith was taking out; some say it was Danny’s sister. Whatever, the cause of the dispute was now lost and pride was at stake. Danny and Keith went outside for a ‘straightener’. It was actually very brave of Keith. All the wise money would have been on Danny and eventually that proved to be the winning bet. But it didn’t come easy. I first heard Keith’s version. He was modest and not inclined to talk about it too much, you had to drag it out of him. Many years later certain events in boxing brought Danny and me into regular contact and we became mates. I felt I knew him well enough to ask him about that fight behind the pub in Dunedin, which was held in such great regard by the Poms. Danny told me that he had got the surprise of his fighting life, even though he had won. He said that Keith, although not a boxer, was quite skilled as a street fighter. Don’t be surprised I thought; remember Keith was a Tottenham boy. Using that and coupled with his surprising strength, he had made it a very hard fight. Danny had to be at his best to win. They mutually called it a day. Keith was pretty battered, but had stayed the distance with a champion, hence the legend was born. Danny was a really good guy, who went on to be a very successful businessman. I spent many happy times in his company; he was the original ‘rough diamond’ and a real Kiwi bloke.
We had a wonderful time that night at the ‘Griddle’. It became a regular haunt of mine and nothing was too much trouble for the staff there. Billy just loved it; she really let her hair down. She was so handsome looking, as were many half-caste Maori. She was also blessed with a fine sense of rhythm. Her dancing caught all the male eyes and I felt a glow of satisfaction over that. I really felt that I had landed on my feet. Thinking about it later, I realised that the unwritten law of assistance amongst merchant seaman had largely contributed to the situation I now found myself in. In all honesty, it couldn’t have happened without it. As we sat chatting, George asked me what I had been doing since he last saw me. I told him of my problems with the girl in England and with her father and touched on the business we had started. It was an office and window cleaning business. I realised George was taking a more than usual interest in the subject. He disappeared into the office to use the phone. When he came back, he told me about his brother-in-law, Joey Garner and his friend Peter Thornton, both ex seaman. Peter was English, Joey a Kiwi. As it happens they had recently brought a cleaning business and they were struggling with it. George had phoned Joey and lauded my abilities to him and they wanted to see me to work up some ideas to get the business pumping and also to see whether I wanted a job. That night, while lying there with Billy, I thought about the day. It was like this - I had started off with no money, no friends, maybe no girlfriend and maybe nowhere to sleep. Everything was reversed by the end of that significant day. Some money, somewhere to sleep, new friends, a job, prospects and Dinger covered when he arrived. Funny old world.
When we were not dancing, the live entertainment was Australasia’s top female impersonator, a hugely talented Kiwi called Noel McKay. Noel had been a founder member of the famous Kiwi Concert Party. They were the wartime entertainment party of service men, who toured the army camps and battlefield areas entertaining the troops. They enjoyed a high reputation for their wartime efforts in which they were often exposed to great danger. They occupied a similar place in the nation’s esteem to that of ‘forces’ sweetheart’, the great Vera Lynn, in the UK. For many years after the war they used to have nationwide reunion tours, which were always a sell out. I suppose they were great nostalgic nights out for the returned servicemen, who would have originally seen them performing in the Pacific theatre or the deserts of North Africa. What a pleasure it must have been for the service men, now returned safely home, to be able to share such an experience with their wives and families.
All good things do come to an end. The music had stopped and most of the other tables were cleared. Keith had brought us a round of special coffees, the method for giving alcoholic drink after licensing hours. George and Keith had a bit of a squabble over the bill. I tried to contribute with my tenner but was told to stay out of it. We sat around the table happily chatting away; the girls were into a deep conversation about some other girl who had done something out of order. Keith was coming over to join us. I asked George what was going on over the bill. He said not to worry about it. It transpired that he had a deal going with Keith. At that time transistor radios and other novelty products were unavailable in New Zealand due to overseas currency shortages. George being very much the entrepreneur was smuggling them into the country and Keith was his main outlet for them. Keith sold them in the restaurant, at the Parnell baths and to other shady shops and dealers. They had a very good thing going. A while later I became aware that Keith was also running a team of safecrackers, all English boys; one of them was in fact an ex-London bobby. I got to know them all quite well. One of them was nicknamed “Socks” as he always wore them on his hands when out on a job. They were successful for a couple of years, but the police were getting close to them, so they wisely decided to shut up shop. I used to call them, ‘the gang who couldn’t shoot straight’. They just laughed at me. I wouldn’t name them now, but they know who they are, again all good blokes.