I AM SITTING IN FRONT OF A TEA CHEST COVERED IN A layer of dust. As I open it and marvel at the treasures that lie within, I feel as though I’m at an all-you-can-eat buffet, the menu centred on my elusive grandfather. I’m excited, hungry, but I am also aware of the price of overindulgence, of the toll it will take if I consume everything all at once.
I spy a thick, hand-stitched belt with a tin clasp, an eagle rising from its scuffed surface. It’s stamped Gott mit uns. God with us.
‘That’s a German army belt.’ My uncle Brett holds it up and joins the two ends together in the air, measuring the invisible waist of a young soldier proudly dressed for battle. ‘Dad would’ve brought it back from the war.’
I pull out Frank’s own army belt, bent and cracked with age, the domed pockets now empty. I join the ends together in a similar fashion, and we lie the two belts down, one on top of the other. They measure the same-size waist. They could have belonged to the same person. The phrase ‘the measure of a man’ springs to mind.
Here in my uncle’s attic, I have found Frank’s personal black box: an anthology of army payslips, cigarette coupons and furlough passes; black-and-white photographs of friends and family; medical records mixed in with handwritten postcards and letters; perfectly preserved labels soaked off beer and wine and vermouth bottles from Italy and Egypt; statements from the Loyal Excelsior Lodge; newspaper clippings of engagement notices and honour rolls, the names long since forgotten; an intricately designed Christmas card Frank sent his siblings from Italy in 1944; dozens of Neville Colvin’s Clueless cartoons snipped out of wartime newspapers.
My favourite of all of Frank’s treasures are the three four-leaf clovers he plucked from a field in Italy, pressed and preserved among the pages of his soldier’s pay-book, their delicate leaves a fragile reminder of how lucky he was to return from the war. Mum has told me he always had an eye for them; he would often stop the lawnmower and pluck them as he went, putting them in his pocket for safekeeping.
I caress Frank’s fob watch, long since stopped, and his army sewing kit, the needles still threaded with browned wool and cotton threads. His coin collection rattles in a tin stamped Danmark. His builder’s tool belt groans as we heave it on to the tabletop, then Brett places a pair of scuffed brown boots beside it, the name CHRISTMAS scored in inky black capitals on each inside heel.
‘Those were Dad’s work boots. Steel-capped. I think he bought them just before he left. See how the toes are all scuffed? That’s cos he would have been down on his hands and knees all the time. I wear them when I mow the lawns.’
‘Are your feet the same size as Poppa’s?’
‘Yeah. Funny, isn’t it?’
The measure of a man.
A few days later, I will mention these boxes and boots to my cousin Luke, Brett’s son, and he will tell me that he has never seen them before. It is in such moments that I begin to understand what Erebus stole from our family.
Hugh Francis Christmas was born in the winter of 1921, the firstborn son of Emily Gillum and Hugh Frank Christmas of Temuka. Since both father and son carried exactly the same name, my grandfather was called by his second name, Frank. According to one family story, Emily and Hugh were quite smitten with each other, and Frank was born only months after they wed, but family records prove otherwise. Emily and Hugh were married in July 1920, and Frank was born a decent eleven months later.
My great-grandfather was a farmer and rabbit trapper, and when Frank was little the family followed Hugh’s work north to Harakeke Farm in Kaitoke. Emily and Hugh’s family grew to include two daughters and two more sons, born over the following years. Two school photographs, taken at Kaitoke School in 1935, show younger sisters Colleen and Sylvie shoeless but smiling, while brothers Frank, Bob and Jim sport the ‘Christmas ears’.
Frank’s childhood was spent shooting rabbits and pigeons, tinkering with traps, and whitebaiting on the Whangaehu River. As the eldest, Frank was also expected to help his father on the farm. By the end of 1935, the family moved to New Plymouth, when Hugh took a job as a tramway mechanic.
Frank was bright and able, and did remarkably well at school. He completed his studies to Standard Six level (Year Eight), and attained his Certificate of Proficiency from Upper Mangorei School. Due to his excellent scores across the board, his head teacher recommended he further his education with an agricultural course at high school. He was fourteen years old.
Frank before he went to war in 1942 at the age of 21. Note the ‘Christmas ears’.
One version of our family story claims that Frank then won a scholarship to attend Whanganui Collegiate high school, but he was living in New Plymouth at the time. This might be an error that is one of many misunderstandings and misrememberings about my grandfather, or then again perhaps it is true. The one thing my family can all agree on is money—there just wasn’t enough. The Christmas family lived on the breadline most weeks, the country was in a depression and there were five children to feed. My great-grandparents decided high school wasn’t an option for Frank—a decision my grandfather would always regret—and if there ever was a scholarship offer it was turned down.
So, under the watchful presence of Taranaki, Frank set to work on the family plot. In 1938, he worked as a farm labourer for George Roberts, who described him in dark, looping script as a ‘real honest worker and a most reliable man’. Then, in August 1940, Frank went on to work for the Marr Brothers in Upper Mangorei, who wrote of him as a ‘very capable and conscientious workman’.
These two letters have been stored for over 70 years in a leather compendium, along with Frank’s school certificates and everything else that’s buried in my uncle’s attic. The compendium is a time capsule of sorts, waiting patiently for someone to come along and aerate its thinning pages.
I reach for my grandfather’s pocket diary, and as I skim-read it an imaginary warning beacon sounds in my mind, reminding me of the danger of overindulgence. Whoop whoop. I keep reading.
27–29 August 1942
Arrived back in Palmerston North after ten days special leave … left Palmerston for Trentham Camp. Good weather Palm. Nth but wet at Trentham … went to pictures, saw I Wanted Wings.
Here is a stockpile of Frank’s stories and trinkets, his experiences and memories taking physical form. The detective in me deduces that, if Frank wrote it down or collected it, then it must have been important, it must have happened just like this.
September 1942
Marvellous weather. Went on leave to Petone … overcast and windy, night manoeuvres, saw Fast Train … Fine day. Leave to Wellington, visited zoo. Had photo taken in camp with whole of A Company … Hail and snow, saw Ride ’em Cowboy.
My grandfather’s compendium offers snapshots of his life. It’s a taste of his humour and his biography and his belonging. A sampling of what was important and interesting and unforgettable. Seeing his name on all these faded papers, I recognise the same looping H that I write. Frank is coming into focus, but he still feels slightly out of reach.
Fine day, rifle range, did washing, saw The Penalty at Paekakariki… (went to the jug… scrubbed out Colonel’s hut … released from the jug) … wrote to Mum … Went to Otaki / Wanganui / Wellington … saw Affairs of Tina Valentine / Night in New Orleans / Billy the Kid … went to Palm. Nth, stayed the night at Railway Buffet Hotel … saw Eagle Squadron.
Just before his conscription to the army in 1941, Frank was working on a farm in Ōmatā for one Mr McKee. He fell in love with the boss’s daughter Joan, and they got engaged right before he shipped out.
Saturday 28 November 1942
Wet day. Went to town in morning and got engaged to Joan and went to pictures in the evening but was sick so didn’t see any. Stayed at Jury’s.
Engaged to be married 37 years before his untimely death—37 years to the day.
On Saturday 12 December 1942, Frank left Wellington for North Africa, but his engagement to Joan was short-lived. It ended a mere few months after his departure.
Friday 5 February 1943
Got two letters from Joan.
Her inky name, scrawled across the bottom of this diary entry, is smudged. Fat fingers have wiped something wet from the page.
This same diary lists the letters that Frank wrote to her—one a week, from December 1942 through to February 1943. Then nothing. Joan’s name and address, tucked away at the back of the diary, is now marked with a dark blue X.
Frank’s focus turned to adventure and duty.
… wrote to Mum and Colleen and Sylvie … anchored off Fremantle … went to church… saw turtles … retarded clocks … got paid in Egyptian.
There are photos of citadels and mosques and camels, from Cairo to Helwan, Bengasi and Tripoli. There are descriptions of the pyramids and the people and the odd market brawl. Frank’s accounts of downtime with his new best mates Ken and Jack are peppered with the routine of maintenance and inoculations and drills. There is a growing discomfort—hot as hell … sick as a dog—and Frank begins volunteering for whatever job he can, to make himself indispensable, to stay alive.
As we go through everything, my uncle tells me that Frank was a dab hand at haircuts. I discover a copy of a licence authorising Frank to drive an army-issue motorcycle. Even way back then, my poppa was a badass.
I find Frank’s Italian pocket dictionary, the pages dog-eared from use.
Wednesday 31 March 1943
Went into action proper for the first time, everything went well except for an odd shell landing around us …
Saw thousands of Italian prisoners passing all day … saw Jerry bombing not far away and saw three of his planes come down … moved on again for 35 miles, Jerry bombed us but no damage.
In July 1944, Frank was promoted to the role of lance bombardier, and six months later in January 1945 he entered a heavily bombed village in Italy. It was bitterly cold, the village was deserted, and snow had begun to fall. After securing the area, Frank helped himself to a discarded winter coat from a house that was in ruins. Frank honestly believed it had been abandoned, but the family was hiding in the cellar and reported the incident. Military records then confirm that Lance Bombardier Hugh Francis Christmas committed the offence of ‘improper possession of civilian property’. He was charged with looting, and his punishment was demotion to the rank of gunner. Given Frank’s reputation for honesty and common sense—and the snow drifts that were piling up around him—I can only imagine how well that went down.
My mother, aunts and uncle confirm this story, and say he always felt bad about the incident. He had a good relationship with the Italian civilians. He felt for them, especially the children, and would go out of his way to help them.
Later in 1945, Frank returned home a broken man. He was awarded the Africa Star and the Italy Star, but like those he fought alongside, he just couldn’t adapt to life back home. The tales are numerous: he drinks, he hunts, he goes whitebaiting. He is sent to Temuka to recuperate with relatives. He works a multitude of jobs, and eventually makes his way north towards his family. Towards the mountain.
Frank and Eileen on their wedding day on 4 September 1948. (Photo courtesy of Puke Ariki.)
He cuts out newspaper pages listing the war wounded and dead—numbers and ranks and names lined up one after the other. Perhaps he keeps them as a reminder that he made it home, or perhaps he reads their names and sees their faces. Seventy years later, these names still lie between postcards and payslips.
In 1947, Frank meets my grandmother Eileen through their siblings at a flat in New Plymouth, and they are married on 4 September 1948. Through the war rehabilitation scheme, Frank starts a building apprenticeship. He is still connected to his buddies from the war, Ken and Jack, and my family lovingly calls them Uncle. Together, they go camping with their families, they drink and reminisce. Their wives become sisters, and their children cousins. One day, far in the future, Uncle Jack will speak in Frank’s absence, first at Frank’s youngest daughter’s wedding and again at his son’s twenty-first birthday.
Frank and Eileen have two daughters: first my mother, Raewyn, in 1950, then her sister Denise in 1952. Frank goes whitebaiting. He raises chickens. Later, the couple are blessed with two more children: Pauline in 1960, then Brett in 1966. There were now two sets of children, two pretty pairs. The gap between the eldest and the youngest is sixteen years, so their experiences of their father are as different as they are, but they agree on the main things: he loved his orchids, he loved his family, and he loved to go whitebaiting.
Here in the research room at Puke Ariki museum and library, I am surrounded by dusty boxes of district council records, a makeshift fort of ledgers and documents that I hide behind as I search for evidence of Frank. The familiar jumble of consonants and vowels jumps off the page again and again: H. F. Christmas. Frank Christmas, Builder. Meticulous record-keeping in the form of handwritten script traces my grandfather’s craftsmanship through the years, from Devon Street to Huatoki Street, The Strand and Brooklands Road, from Waitara to Ōmatā, and everywhere in between.
Then I come upon an address I know by heart: 33 Cumberland Street. A home of childhood sleepovers and family dinners, of laughing so hard I once wet my knickers. An address I wrote with regularity on envelopes and cards to my cousin Nat, back when pen pals were common, when handwritten letters still mattered. The family home that Frank built for my aunt and uncle, Denise and Selwyn, a place where his measurements and notes can still be found on ceiling beams and bracing, hidden under layers of dust and memories that time cannot erase.
Underscoring applications and building consents and plans is my grandfather’s signature. He built houses and garages, extensions and renovations, sleepouts and carports. He helped build the Fitzroy Surf Life Saving Club and classrooms at various schools. He worked on the Newton King building before it gave way to shopping malls and mass parking. He built a church, the Bell Block Catholic Centre, still adorned in the original seventies wallpaper. Despite the passage of time, evidence of Frank still exists.
I sit with Mary Southee, a retired teacher and friend of Eileen’s, and feel instantly at home. Her living room speaks to her children and grandchildren, who often visit, their photographs and artwork adorning the walls. The winter sun streams through the front windows as we take a seat at the kitchen table.
‘My parents used to sit behind your grandparents at church,’ she tells me, then points to the house down the road, its green-gabled roof jutting out over trees and fences. ‘Your grandfather built that.’
A warm feeling comes over me, and I feel Frank draw closer as Mary pours the tea.
Mary tells me about the young woman called Lyn who once lived in that green-gabled house. Lyn grew up just down the road from my grandparents, and when she got married she asked Frank to build her a family home—but then she and her husband had trouble conceiving. A miscarriage, followed by heartache and desperation. Mary tells me that Frank took Lyn under his wing.
The night of Erebus, Mary was at home watching the news while she fed her two-month-old daughter. She remembers feeling stunned, even before she found out who was on board. Meanwhile, down the road, Lyn was devastated. Mere days after the disaster, Lyn herself died of an undiagnosed heart condition. Her funeral ended up being right before Frank’s. Two funerals so close together at Christmastime is a lasting memory for Mary.
‘I really admired Eileen,’ Mary says. ‘She was so brave. The loveliest person. Always well turned out.’
It is Mary who takes me to the Bell Block Catholic Centre, with its brown-patterned wallpaper. It is also Mary who tells me that Frank built the Catholic parish hall in Fitzroy. My grandparents attended that church for many, many years, but I had never realised that he built the Sunday-school hall of my holidays. As I leave Mary’s house, I wonder why I didn’t know about this. Why was this story not included with all the other family stories that have been shared?
My mother, aunts and uncle have told me that Frank was a humble man who didn’t suffer fools. He could connect with just about anyone. He had a strong sense of duty, and wanted to do the right thing. He led with his heart, loved his family, and would have done anything for my grandmother. When he died, he and Eileen had been married 30 years.
