THE AFRICAN ADVENTURES OF A TOWN TEENAGER
15th June 2015
I am writing to you after receiving a copy of your newspaper article from December 9th, 2014, "Memory Lane", which featured my father, Tom Guthrie. You have in the past featured stories about his life, which was indeed, an adventure.
I find it a challenge to write a brief article about my father's life - which was an extraordinary life - not only because I loved him so deeply, but because I want to recall the truth of the man and his life, not an idealised version of the fabulous, yet flawed, man he was.
He was born in West Hartlepool on 12th May 1921, and grew up in 1 Mozart Street, the youngest son in a family of eight children, born to Ellen (nee McGloughlin) and Robert Guthrie, of Guthrie's Lemonade.
His father died of alcoholism when he was eighteen months old, and his diminutive mother reigned over the household with an iron ill and great discipline. As a child he was known to be a daredevil, he loved exercise and was a great swimmer who swam off snowy beaches, dived from great heights, he learned to box, raced wooden box carts, rode bicycles and horses with abandon, and generally gave his mother lots to worry about. He left Hartlepool in his early teens and went to work in London, where his first purchase was an encyclopaedia 'So I could learn' - education and health were two passions he pursued relentlessly all of his life. He applied for a job as a bell boy at the Dorchester Hotel, and was rejected, despite 'being a good looking boy, you could never talk to the guests with that accent'. Determined as ever, he attended elocution classes, and some while later got the job, and after training, was promoted to serving in the dining room. That set a benchmark as he always insisted on the dining table being set with linen napkins, good glasses, and all his children attended elocution classes - speaking 'well' was always important to him, and my mother's pronounced Hartlepool accent until the day she died was a cross she carried!
He served in WW2 in the Oxford and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, also taking the role of Physical Education Instructor, he was renowned for his strength and endurance, and was proud of his muscular physique. He married his childhood sweetheart, Vera Hedley, also of Mozart Street in 1943, and my sister Susan was born in April the following year, during one of the worst bombings of London. He was home on leave from Europe at the time, and family lore says he guided the ambulance back through bomb craters to their home by lighting one match after another.
After the war ended, my parents decided to emigrate to South Africa - this decision was made after seeing a picture of sunny skies and Table Mountain in Cape Town in a newspaper advert. My father went ahead to find work, and your previous articles published have told of his early days there. A year later my mother and sister joined him, and nine months later I was born in Cape Town. My parents fell in love with Africa at first glance, it was a lifelong love affair. They made good friends, my mother worked in a department store and my father worked for the Scottish Tube Company, but money was scarce. We lived in a flat overlooking Table Bay on one side, and Table Mountain on the other, on the edge of District 6, which was then an area reserved for native Africans. They enjoyed the sunshine, beautiful beaches, swimming in the ocean, an active social life, although he never smoked nor drank (perhaps in a reaction to his father) and walking on Table Mountain. All his life, good health was important to my Dad and he encouraged his children to exercise often and eat well. My brother Ian was born in 1956, a very ill baby requiring expensive financial medical procedures - so although our family were happy, we still struggled financially. When he heard of the "Copper Rush" where thousands of men were headed north to Northern Rhodesia hoping to get a job with Anglo American on the mines, his desire to provide 'more' for his family and his adventurous spirit had him once more leave my mother in search of work on the mines. There were thousands competing for jobs, and he was delighted after some months to gain employment on Bancroft Mine, close to the Congo border. He sent a telegram to my mother, who shortly afterwards, packed herself and their three kids on a steam train which took four days and four nights, travelling through three African countries to join him there.
This is something we can hardly comprehend today, but they were adventurers and pioneers, they were young and wanted the best for their family, they had already left the land of their birth and their families, and despite their inexperience and their fears, were resilient, very hard working, and determined to be successful and happy.
And they did so.
Your paper has highlighted some of the great adventures they had together, but here are a few more - the time my father was camping on the banks of the Zambezi River on a fishing trip with friends and woke up when a large black maned lion put its head through the tent flap. The time when these same friends were warned of an impending elephant stampede through their camp, and disregarded the warning, narrowly missed being trampled by the rampaging herd. The many lives my father saved down the mines, in the mud rush, in accidents, in his role as life saver at the swimming pool, and in the open pit. The times he was called out in the middle of the night to rescue a 400 tonne Euclid, perched perilously over the edge of the open pit, and abandoned by a terrified driver. He would climb up into that cab and manoeuvre that gigantic machine back from the edge, and certain death. He was given a nickname by his "gang', the black men who went underground with him, "Bwana Tembo" meaning "Bwana Strong Rope", they believed him to be supremely strong and fearless. The times my father served in the Bush War during the Congo Uprising,when hundreds of refugees trailed beaten and bloodied across the Congolese Border into Northern Rhodesia, when fearful things happened and my mother, like all other women, at home alone with the kids and afraid for days at a time, with a car readied for emergency departure, packed with fuel, water, food, blankets, and essentials in case we had to depart. It was after this war that my father decided to take his family back to England, for their safety. We journeyed back via ship, and the family hated England on sight. After Africa, it was an alien land and freezing cold, dark, damp, the sun never shone, people laughed at our strange accents and us kids could not understand what people were saying. We lasted eighteen months, and the day my parents decided to 'go home to Africa' was the happiest day of our lives. I remember my Grandmother being appalled that we referred to Africa as 'home', insisting that England was, and always would be, home. We knew better.
We returned to Northern Rhodesia to Chingola in 1961, where our lives continued almost without losing a beat, happily in the sunshine. My sister married, my brother went to boarding school in South Africa, I attended high school and met my childhood sweetheart, whom I married a few years later. My father became an engineer in the open pit, and enjoyed being a Mason, especially when he became Grand Master of the Lodge. He was editor for a couple of community newspapers where he could utilise his passion for words and writing. He continued to swim thirty laps or more at the Olympic swimming pool every day, a time I treasured with him, and showed off his prowess performing complex dives from the top board whilst people cheered below. When I was 17, he introduced me to yoga, a practice we shared for the rest of his life. My mother worked most of her married life in a variety of jobs, she was an energetic woman who loved people, and was talented in so many ways - she loved to knit and her dressmaking skills were outstanding, she was an extrovert who loved to entertain, every Sunday afternoon, twenty or more people would arrive and we would have a BBQ (called a 'braai' in Africa). She and my father were graceful and accomplished dancers, music played a big part in our household, Dad loved to sing and played the mouth organ almost till the day he died. He loved an audience, large or small and participated in a few theatrical productions with my sister. He was a mechanic by trade, and he loved motor cars, his favourite possession was a pale blue Mercedes Benz they bought in Germany, drove through Europe, and could not resist driving that Mercedes Benz back into Hartlepool to show his family, a true success story, and then shipped it back to Africa.
Around this time, my father left the mine for a job which gave him more prestige and money, a private company called Loch Whylie, where he was Chief Engineer. My parents loved to travel and did so often, their favourite holiday being a six months cruise around the world when they visited Australia, and met my mother's sister, Eileen Hedley, who had emigrated to Australia after the WW2. They returned to Africa filled with stories of Australia - of the beauty, peace, safety, abundance and friendliness of the people - the shops were full of food, you could buy petrol, own your own house, the sun shone, the schools were exceptional, and there were excellent medical facilities.
This was relevant to our family in the sixties, as Northern Rhodesia had won independence from Britain in 1964 and become Zambia. Now the pendulum swung and life became increasingly difficult for us Europeans, who had once enjoyed a wonderful, sometimes luxurious, lifestyle, often at the expense of black Africans. Our safety was now at stake, with robberies, rape, murder, disappearances, lack of medicine and doctors, food rationing, petrol rationing, corrupt police, lack of insurance and qualified teachers; it was frightening and unsettling and people began to leave the country in droves. My parents kept speaking about emigrating to Australia and when my husband and I had a terrible car accident with unforeseen consequences, we applied to and were accepted by Australia, emigrating in 1973. My parents followed two years later with my brother.
My parents bought a house on the Maroochydore River in Queensland, arguably one of the most beautiful places in Australia, and my mother settled happily but not my Dad - for nine months he struggled to make it home. Consequently, the next few years were challenging, years of upheaval and emotional turmoil, with Dad seeking but not finding, the sense of belonging and community he had always enjoyed in Africa. It broke my mother's heart, and mine, when they returned to South Africa - their belongings were still on a ship making its way to Australia, and my parents were headed back there! Dad got a job in Cape Town, a city he loved and had landed in 26 years earlier, but they stayed for just two years, before once again heading back to Zambia. But that too, was short lived and my father made another momentous decision, to accept a job on the diamond mines in Angola, a country that was then immersed in a civil war. They were stationed in Dundu, about 400 kms from the nearest town, a mining town filled with hundreds of men, and a handful of courageous women, including my mother. Their accommodation in thick bush was very basic, my mother regularly had to rid the house of snakes and monkeys, but worse than that was the constant threat of danger, there were soldiers patrolling and hundreds of land mines, plus the isolation and loneliness were constant. My indomitable mother, with the aid of a four local men, set up a kitchen and dining room to feed these miners a well balanced diet - and to give herself something meaningful to do with her time, and earned her the reputation of being Everybody's Mother. My father worked shifts and was often away, and eventually she was the only woman left in the mining village, an untenable situation. For the next two or three years, my mother lived with my husband, son and I in Australia for several months of the year, joining my father for a few weeks holiday in England annually, or he would fly back to us in Australia each year. One day my father who was out on a patrol with a colleague, and seriously ill with malaria and typhoid and lack of good nutrition, had an accident on a rugged bush track and rolled the Landrover. After hours in the bush, both men were airlifted out by the mining company to England, where Dad spent some weeks recovering before heading 'home' to Australia, bringing my 83 year old grandmother, my mother's mother with him, one of Australia's oldest immigrants.
And this time, it was HOME, and his final destination. This time, my father embraced Sydney and Australia - although never with quite the same passion he had loved Africa. My mother absolutely refused to move again, and Dad realised his swashbuckling days were over. He got a job he enjoyed, made many friends, became very involved in the bowling club where he became a Bowling Instructor and Assessor, something he was very proud of, he was a tenor and joined two different choirs where he sang in concerts, he swam regularly, joined me in my weekly yoga group, resumed his activities with the Masonic Lodge, and my parents enjoyed being a big part of their grandson's life, taking care of him after school whilst I worked, enjoying many family celebrations, theatrical productions my mother starred in, wonderful holidays, and volunteering at the school and in church activities.
He retired at 65, and had more time to pursue his many and varied interests: he walked a couple of miles every day, even at the end of his life, when he had to use a walking frame. He was an avid reader and he loved to write and joined the University of the Third Age where he learned to use a computer and regularly emailed friends around the world. His interest in the world never faltered, and he loved documentaries, travel shows, and the world and local news bulletins, he read the paper from cover to cover every day, he loved history and geography and could quote obscure facts and figures, sometimes we all knew, just to impress people! He was an artists model for the local art studio, and oils and charcoals of him dressed as an Arab in flowing robes, a Mexican in a huge sombrero, and him wearing his beloved Scots kilt are still in the collections of many. He loved a gathering of people and enjoyed the role of raconteur, regaling his audience with stories, jokes and music. He was an orator who loved reading and reciting poetry, his favourite was Rudyard Kipling, and he often wept as he spoke; music had the same effect on him. He was a man 'before his time' in that he was unafraid to express his emotions.
When my husband retired and we moved out of Sydney to live on five acres in the country village of Berry, south of Sydney, (my parents then in their seventies) moved too, where they lived close by for 12 years before their deaths. Berry is a small community of friendly people who welcomed them with open arms, and they wholeheartedly participated in the church, the bowling club, Dad played music and entertained 'the old folks' in care facilities, they were always a raving success as Father and Mrs. Christmas at the kindergarten, the Nursing Home, and street parties. They generously volunteered their time to an international charity, helping me to raise funds for children in Nepal and Africa and to organise marathon bike rides for teenagers. They were known for their love of life, and each other - a living example of a happy marriage - their generosity, laughter, dancing, music and warm welcome. My mother's scones and sausage rolls were, and remain, legendary. They 'adopted' people of all ages from other countries, broken homes, anyone hurt or sick or sad or alone and were known as 'The Baby and Kid Magnets.' Where there were children, you would find my parents - Dad could do magic tricks, sing, dance and whistle and make music on his comb - he was willing to be the fool - and my mother fed, admonished, loved and cuddled. It is fair to say they were beloved by their family, friends and community, and their deaths deeply mourned. An hour in their company was a balm to the soul, and it was my great fortune to have them as my parents.
Our households were the centre of many celebrations, friends sometimes said 'Your family will celebrate the opening of an envelope!" It was true! Christmas was always enormous with a house full of friends, family and 'stray waifs', Mothers Day, Fathers Day, anniversaries, and birthdays were acknowledged with tables full of food, music and dancing, often in fancy dress or hats - they both loved to dress up, in funny clothes, or in formal attire of tuxedo and ball gown. They were a good looking couple all of their lives, slim and active, and my Dad was a vain man - his clothing, nails, hair, moustache, and shoes were always impeccable - he once bought a set of clothing and shoes belonging to Clark Gable from a film set - and they fitted him perfectly, he did look like that film star, and could have been his 'movie double'.
On their 60th wedding anniversary, they delighted in a letter from the Queen and the Governor of Australia amongst dozens of other tributes, and we had a sit down dinner at a country home for 60 people who danced and sang and gave speeches.
He prided himself on his flat stomach, and was still doing yoga, plus push ups, sit ups, and chin ups the year he died. Women of all ages adored him, he was a gentleman, charming and entertaining company. Six year after his death, in the annual Anzac Day March honouring those who died during the wars of the world, I march pushing an empty wheelchair in memory of my father, there is a group of women who march with me because they loved my Dad. But he only ever had eyes for my mother, who adored him. They argued about trivial things, often unconsciously, and could both be stubborn - but they were very loving and touchy-feely, holding hands, kissing and cuddling. I would often catch them gazing at each other with profound love, speaking their silent language.
My father got quite forgetful and his balance was poor towards the end of his life, but he was strong and apparently healthy until a few weeks before his death on 6th April 2009. We had a funeral fit for the beloved Elder, the Statesman he was, with a tribal drum and a leopard skin on the altar, the church filled with African Proteas, a fine opera singer singing his favourite hymns, a few hundred people at the service, and a bagpiper playing. After his cremation we walked into the gardens, and unbelievably, a massive kangaroo hopped past the entrance. People laughed and said "That's Tom doing his encore!" That night we partied till midnight with champagne and wine and beer, moving speeches, music, singing, dancing, and good food. He always loved a party.
My mother was utterly devastated. My parents had known each other from birth. My father's mother delivered my mother, and my mother's grandmother delivered my father, in Mozart Street. We didn't realise it, but her loss was mortal. She was in good health and worked hard to get on with life, tried to continue to contribute with the passion she always had, working at St. Vincent de Paul twice a week, washing and cooking and cleaning, baby sitting, baking for friends and family, and still insisting on doing my ironing each week.
Six months after Dad's death, in the middle of the night, she fell over in the dark on her way to the toilet. She split her aorta, and died three days later. Her heart was, quite literally, broken. Our family believe that Dad had yet again gone ahead, and was waiting for her, as he always had. Six months was too long to be parted from each other. Her funeral was two days before their 66th wedding anniversary, and my sisters and I dressed her beautifully for her reunion with her beloved. We filled the church once more with hundreds of people, flowers, ribbons, butterflies and toys to represent the children of the world - and gave each person a tiny plant to take home for their garden, symbolising her love of life, plus a small bag of sweets - as she always carried some in her bag 'for the kids'. Again we partied and sang and danced, told stories - and wept - till midnight.
My parents were born into very poor families in Hartlepool, but they were well loved and taught fundamental values of that era which were their lifelong foundation. They led rich, productive, fulfilling, and very happy lives, right up until the end. I feel blessed to have had parents who were fun loving, talented, courageous, adventurous, interesting - and somewhat eccentric! - who lived life to the fullest, gave generously, and loved deeply.
My son tells me he thinks of them, "Dancing together somewhere over Africa". I like that.
Thank you for taking the time to read this. Please feel free to edit appropriately for your column. If your readers would like to know more, or knew of my parents or their family, I would be happy to hear from you.
P.O. Box 256, Berry, New South Wales, Australia