Where Destiny Leads

WHERE DESTINY LEADS

Tony Hargreaves

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Tony Hargreaves

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Table of Contents

Chapter One Dissatisfaction

Chapter Two Bound for Europe

Chapter Three A new life in Australia

Chapter Four Wave Hill cattle station

Chapter Five A change of employment

Chapter Six A return to the city

Chapter Seven Overland to Australia

Chapter Eight Arrival In Darwin

Chapter Nine Return to Sydney

Chapter One

I had left school at the age of fourteen years and nine months secure in the knowledge that I was going to be employed by my father in his printing company. After all I had worked there every Saturday for the last four years and had spent every school holiday for the same period......cleaning machines and doing odd jobs that earned me the sort of money that gained respect from all of my school mates.

I had no need for a greater education. I knew it all ....or so I thought.

But, (and there always is a but) reality set in. I was going to be standing in front of a machine in one spot day in day out ....clickity clack, clickity clack paper and cardboard disappearing through the mouth of the machine I was feeding every hour. NO! I did not want this for the rest of my life.

Things had to change.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised I could go off and do all the things I had read about.

The following day I posted an application to a company in Norway for work on a whaling ship. With this done I felt a little better and was able to relax and wait for a reply.

Eventually, I received a reply from the whaling company advising only Norwegians were being employed at that time, and thanking me for my interest. That was no real problem to accept, as I had considered beforehand, the likelihood of failure in several of my attempts.

During a discussion one evening with some friends it became obvious they felt the same way I did. We were all looking for a little excitement. Sure we were getting our share of action, the type London has to offer. Lot's of girls and the occasional brawl in a pub or dance hall (one such occasion had seen Ed and I hospitalised after running up against a mob of nasty characters who believed bottles and boots were essential. The initiator of this savage attack spent several weeks sleeping off his injuries in a coma). But we wanted a bit more adventure and travel.

Now there are all sorts of people in the world. Those who talk about it, and those who go out and do it.

Ed (a good friend) wanted to be one who did it. So we scanned the newspapers and found there was a natural gas pipeline being built across England, and the construction team was down on the South Coast. Believing this would give us more experience for world-class employment we headed off to apply for a job.

In those days of the mid sixties, it was not that hard to find and keep employment. We were both big guys, clean cut and reasonably respectable in our appearance. We both got a start and were given an address to take our belongings to. The Company paid living away allowance and arranged the accommodation as we progressed across the country.

The work was easy and most of the time boring. The men we worked with were Americans from Texas. It's hard to believe they would need imported welders in England, but that was the case.

The couple of weeks we spent on that job were uneventful and really the only thing I learned on that job was - automatic cars don't have a clutch (I was asked to move a station wagon that was bogged in deep mud by one of the executive Americans).

Having not heard that such a system had been designed I proceeded to try and let the pedal up as I accelerated. As this is impossible on an automatic, it won't be hard to imagine the clouds of smoke pouring from the wheels and from under the bonnet. I tried in this fashion for at least twenty minutes to move the car, and then one of the more knowledgeable fellows informed me, the pedal I was slipping was the brake pedal and that was why there were only two pedals .....not three. It must have amazed the other guys that I was employed as a truck driver, driving a ten-ton truck fitted with four-wheel drive.

There was one memorable night spent in the terribly over crowded Guest House we were lodging in back in town. The room we were allotted to had eight of those cheap tubular metal-framed beds that fold up, crammed into it, all of which contained rough characters that snored like chain saws.

From the first day we were not pleased with the conditions........but thought we would toughen up.

Being caring and considerate members of this fraternity (and conscious of the fact that a huge drunken Irishman being woken from a deep sleep might not be too happy) we always got changed in the bathroom and never switched the lights on, if someone was in bed when we arrived home from the Pub.

On this particular night we had consumed our fair share of alcohol and arrived back at the house quite late, tiptoeing into the room and stumbling between the beds we managed to wake most of the occupants which earned us a stream of abuse.

Sometime in the middle of the night I was woken by a startled cry from Ed. Hey Tone!....there's someone in my bed.

Even though I had always known that Ed had an active imagination I sat up in the pitch dark and as I did so, my hand touched what I immediately realized was a spare leg in MY bed. Jeez Ed there's someone in my bed too I screeched.............sounding like a scene from Goldilocks and the three bears.

The reaction this caused was similar to someone throwing a grenade into an Army barracks. The guy nearest the door leapt out of bed and switched the lights on amidst a constant stream of swearing, only to discover that Eddy had somehow or other climbed under the blanket from the foot of my bed, and was sitting up at one end of my bed and I was sitting up at the other. We were verbally abused by the six other occupants in the room that were virtual strangers.

We worked out next morning that Ed had gone to the toilet half asleep, had staggered back into the room desperately trying not to wake the other guys and had mistakenly crawled into the bottom end of my bed, which in the dark had seemed to be the location he had set out from.

I should add that the beds were not set out in a row, they were just pushed in anywhere they would fit, and you had to walk between beds to get to your own.

We will never know what the group of Irish Labourers sharing that room really thought.......but we made a real effort not to upset them again.

We left the job after a couple of weeks and had a hard time getting the money owed to us. It is always the way when terminating, the employer always has a different opinion regarding what he has to pay. In this case, we were told that there was a qualifying period before the living away allowance is paid. Rather than argue with the clown on site, we returned to London and jumped up and down at the head-office until we got it.

Ed and I then decided to apply for work with a scaffolding company. We had often seen the men working at great heights on thin tubes of steel and thought what an exciting job it would be. We were accepted after a brief interview and were sent to an address we were given, to start the following morning. On arrival we contacted the foreman and were shown a chimneystack at least 25 metres high with the steel framework around it. Our job, we were told, was to climb to the top and assist the rigger to unbolt the steel and help to pass it down to the ground.

Ed looked at me, I looked at him and we both turned our heads to the top of the stack, which was swaying in the high wind. Apparently we must have both shuffled our feet at the same time, because both of us thought the other was about to climb the steelwork........and neither of us wanted to appear nervous. At the top we both tried to figure out how we had become caught up in this situation. The wind was even stronger at 25 metres than down on the ground, the steelwork and the chimneystack were moving more than both us thought possible without falling over, and the rigger was swinging around oblivious to the movement of the structure, and the knocking of our knees.

After a short while the area manager came around and suggested that as it was so windy we might be better off on a more stable job. This suggestion was accepted with relief from Ed and I, and we all headed off to a large housing estate some distance away. Ed decided the work was not for him and left at the end of the first week. However, it wasn't the heights that he objected to, as I later found he enjoyed balancing on the edge of cranes and buildings a hundred or so metres above ground.

For myself I loved the really hard physical work, but I can honestly say there were times when I was really scared; however I always managed to control the fear.

At this time I was training in karate and worked out in the London Karate Kai Dojo three nights a week and on Saturdays. This type of work complimented the training, and I was probably the fittest I ever became.

Author and the foreman - Scaffolding – Author with another scaffolder

There was an image to live up to. As we were the ones who worked higher and on more precarious sections than any other site worker we commanded respect. We wore a special belt with spanners and spirit levels hanging from it and the jingling noise was part of the image. We never removed these belts until we got home, even on the trains and buses the spanners dangled and clanged, but we pretended not to notice.

Eventually I became more comfortable at height and became a little over confident. That was until I stepped on a cross member (known as a transom) that had not been attached correctly and I started falling. Thankfully the guy I was working with had realised the cross bar was loose as he stepped over it and turned to warn me just as I started my unscheduled descent. He was able to grab my shirt and pull me just far enough for me to be able to grab the nearest firm structure. That slowed me down considerably, and from that time on I walked very carefully.

That was the only accident I came close to having myself, although I did cause a couple of close calls for other people. The first was when I undid a fitting and the foreman pulled the tube out and instead of staying in position the fitting hit him on the head. The injury was not that bad, but the fellow swore he had been electrocuted and had hit his head after. I did try to tell him what happened, but when he insisted he had been a victim of the site electrician, who was I to argue.

The next was quite amusing for us to witness. It was freezing cold and there was snow on the ground, we had been asked to go up about 30 metres to remove some tie-tubes that were in the way of the painters. Up we went like frozen monkeys and proceeded to fulfill the request. My partner was on the floor above me and started to undo the top fittings. I had undone mine already and when asked if I had the weight....I replied Yes. Well I thought I had the weight - only frozen hands can be misleading.

Unfortunately the Clerk of Works office was directly below us. After what seemed like an awfully long time (enough to make us think we had got away with it) the white faced, shaking Clerk appeared. We were duly summoned to assist in pulling out the three metre length of steel from the ground. The tube had gone through the roof and had stuck firmly in the ground within half a metre of his desk. The Clerk of Works is a pretty important man on a large building site, and it was not long before our area manager arrived to personally kick our backsides. Needless to say, we were not allowed back on that particular job.

After approximately six months of working on building sites around London, I decided to try to get work on ships to combine work and travel and get to see a bit of the world.

So I telephoned the Merchant Navy to find out the likelihood of working on an English ship.

I was told there was no hope, but sensing the guy I had spoken to was a bit slow, I decided to apply in person. This gained me a similar response. After some deliberation on the matter and being rather persistent I then wrote a letter applying for a position. My impression was, it is easy to say no, but if you have to go to the trouble of replying to a written application, then it is just as easy to write yes. Apparently my logic was sound. Within a week or so, I received a letter requesting me to arrange a time for a medical. This I did, hoping the Merchant Navy would not object to my colour vision problem. The doctor did mention it, but offered to leave it off my record as I had been offered a position in the Engine Room, which did not require colour perception to be so critical. That was it, I was in, and off to a new life. Having said my farewells to family and friends I boarded a train bound for Liverpool to start my initial training at the Merchant Seaman’s Training School.

This was not the first time away from home for me, in fact I had been overseas twice and had made several small scale camping trips with friends, and alone. However nothing I had experienced so far had prepared me for the conditions I found at the Seaman’s Hostel the Merchant Navy had booked me in to. What a dump.

The building was terrible and was full of really rough looking characters that seemed to be left over from another era. It was like going back in time, and I felt out of place not having an eye patch and a parrot.

It is probably appropriate at this point to insert a copy of a short story written by a friend of mine, which will help to highlight the naivety and romantic ideas of young men starting out on their first adventures. The story is about Ed Johnson and me and the story is very true, with only a few slight embellishments.

We had decided that at some time in the future we would cross the final barrier of the English Channel and launch ourselves, as soldiers of fortune, on to the unsuspecting world. But that was in the future. Meanwhile Tony had decided that we needed practice. Six foot three inches tall, black curly hair and a muscular yet lithe body that would have served well as a model for a Greek athlete, Tony had but one obvious failing and that was his fanatical reverence for the rule book. Everything in life had rules associated with it and they being above any kind of reproach were meant to be obeyed - certainly not to be ignored, avoided, discussed, bent or in any way mutilated. I had become used to his nature and in spite of it and my own failings, about which I have not got the time to elaborate here, we managed to be great friends. We spent our maturing years together exploring the depravities that London offered two eager teenagers. Fired by lust and the need for experience and knowledge, but mainly by lust, we adorned ourselves in the latest fashions and armed with the rule book quota of one double scotch for dutch courage, stood beside every dance floor in London. Here, like cattlemen at a live-stock show, we pondered on the various merits of the female bodies cavorting before us in couples. Experience had taught us to ignore those beauties at the top of the list from whom one look made the blood rush to your face and the money rush to a safe corner of your wallet, because every move you made was being observed by some associated monster who lurked in the shadows of the bar, sharpening his stiletto or polishing his knuckle duster. Far more logical, we thought, to concentrate on the middle of the spectrum, those that had not been deposited at the bottom of the list with the uglies but had not attained the dangerous top position. However as is such with the best-laid plans of mice and men, the girls we escorted home usually came from the bottom of the list. We even played this game by the rules. I would take the rough one and Tony would take the good-looking one and the next time around Tony would take the good-looking one and I would get the rough one, which is a problem with befriending potential Greek gods.

And so we employed our time in the years of post-puberty leaping from dance hall to disco to pub. The inevitable boredom and emptiness came over us, slowly at first like a dripping tap. In search of meaning we checked out a church hall dance. Boredom came over us like a bucket of slops.

There had to be a way out of this stupid game that could only end in a council flat surrounded by wet nappies.

Travel broadens the mind said Tony, quoting from one of his rule books. It also ruptures the bank book I replied.

But the seed of an idea had been sown and we soon discovered that by using that mode of transport known as hitch-hiking, travel and poverty could be combined, even if only spasmodically.

Handbooks on camping, hiking and associated activities were duly consulted and in no time at all, every known rule ever designed to hinder the progress of such minded people was known by Tony.

Author hiking to Wales - Ed on the way to Wales

Mount Snowden didn't know it yet but it, along with the rest of North Wales, was to be our first target.

The fact that Everest is 8848 metres high and that Snowden is only 1085 did not deter us from visiting the very shop where Sir Edmond Hilary obtained his supplies, which were to help him win the battle against the worlds tallest mountain. Armed with everything available that we could afford - emergency food rations, special keep-you-alive chocolate, a whole carton of glucose tablets, space blankets (we're not going that far are we ?), special quick release rucksacks. why do we need quick release rucksacks ?In case we have to drop them in a hurry and run Oh I see. The latest, biggest, reddest boots I have ever seen, great thick woolly socks that gave the impression of gout in both feet were worn, string underwear, knives, hatchets, compass, etc. In fact I am not exaggerating when I say we had everything including the kitchen sink. A small canvas folding one maybe but we had it.

This accumulation of essential equipment led quickly to our first major problem. With rucksacks packed to the brim and tents, pots and pans etc., tied to the outside, they were so heavy they were totally impossible to move. The rule books did not cover the possibility of not having fifty Sherpas to carry your gear for you, so Tony insisted that as all the items were ruled essential we would have to carry them ourselves. With grim determination and encouragement from the nothing's impossible rule, we struggled for some hours with the problem of getting an immovable object off the ground onto our backs and moving in a manner as close as possible to resemble walking. The eventual solution was for one of us to kneel down while the other levered the massive weight into position where the straps could be done up then, using anything that was handy and solidly fixed he could pull himself into an almost vertical posture. This skill however was not acquired without event, when you realise that if the first one was exceedingly difficult to maneuver into position then the second one could only be worse. - the problem being that the second one had to be lifted by the person who already had one on his back. Tony was unfortunate enough to discover this weakness in the plan first. The movement could only have been called poetic when the two ridiculous weights first found equilibrium and he spun around his parents lounge room in perfect pirouettes, but the scene became increasingly less pleasant as he lost control and began to collide with odd bits of furniture that got in the way. When he finally came to rest sandwiched between the two great packs rocking gently on the floor, he had involved a standard lamp, the curtains, a very nice glass vase his grandmother had given his mother, and the cat, all of which looked far worse for their last few moments wear. However, with some rapid apologises and his mother thumbing through her witches curse book as she waved goodbye, we were on our way.

We just couldn't have guessed the stir that our great red boots were to cause. Perhaps it was a mixture of those and the Quasimodo appearance of our two bent, overburdened bodies, but everyone looked at us. Some smiled with slight disbelief while others roared with laughter, but all looked. In fact, and this is the total truth, we caused two minor car accidents. Both cases occurred in precisely the same manner. As we shuffled our way past traffic lights the Mrs. Grabbed her husband's arm to point us out and their two gaping-mouthed faces were transfixed upon us as their car glided into the one in front waiting at the red light. We pondered on the possibility of this happening twice by pure chance but decided that the Guiness book of records would not be interested.

Author with both packs - Campsite on Mount Snowdon

Dying of malnutrition, exposure and humped backs we arrived in the Snowdonia National Park the next day. It was late in the day and we had to find our first camp site as quickly as possible. We leant against a stone farm wall and Tony observed that the grass just the other side of a small stream with a row of stepping stones to cross by, looked just right and decided to investigate. This led to Tony's second stroke of bad luck. His dance began in approximately the centre of the moss covered stepping-stones and continued through many endless seconds. Anyone else would have slipped a few times and allowed the inevitable to happen but Tony was determined to get the most out of the situation. He continued in what can best be described as a perfect display of Cossack dancing. Crouched down with his legs flying in several directions he progressed across two more of the slippery stones before the inevitable happened. It was almost a relief when the splash came - for me at least. I don't know if it is possible to die from laughing but I came pretty close to it.

Hampered by my pack, the uncontrollable spasms of laughter travelled up and down my body and occasionally left my mouth in agonised yells, but mostly ended in my stomach, twisting it out of shape and almost certainly causing the constipation which accompanied me throughout the rest of the trip.

Shaking off the excess moisture Tony returned to say that the ground was no better on the other side of the stream. So we followed the sign to a nearby campsite. It was close to dark now and the little stone farmhouse surrounded by tents and nestling in the lap of the encompassing mountains looked very comforting indeed. Blurred by exhaustion, I can hardly remember preparing for and finally sinking into sleep that night.

We awoke next morning with the sun shining brightly in our faces and we sleepily discussed the recent and future happenings. This bright sun is torture, I said We'll have to put the tent up next time. We did put it up remembered Tony. Why didn't we get in it?' I asked. We did he answered. Realisation came upon us and we turned our heads to a slightly uphill direction and saw our tent, its front flaps slapping gently in the morning breeze.

Experience is the only education worth gaining - none of the books told us that if you park your tent on the side of a mountain you stand a good chance of not being in it when you awake in the morning, especially if you're inside a slippery sleeping bag. Lucky we didn't put it up on the edge of a precipice mumbled Tony. This