Late January 1963. While the summer crowds were soon to head back to Melbourne for the February commencement of the school year, Marie, Rocky and their nearly 3 year old daughter Helen continued to enjoy the dry heat of the Mornington Peninsula, a heat tempered by afternoon sea breezes off Port Phillip Bay. Rather than sitting under a scorching Aussie sun Nina, Marie’s mother, preferred to spend her afternoons bringing in the washing, ironing and preparing dinner back at the house, The Gums. She’d rented it for a few summers now and loved nothing more than going down to the beach at dusk throwing the seagulls the dinner scraps as she bathed her bunion ridden feet in salt water.
The fibro house was hot, Australian architecture not yet adapted to its environment and insulation far from the norm. So hot days were spent at the beach under a canvas umbrella. The young parents sat in low beach chairs reading the paper or the Woman’s Weekly, listened to the ‘trannie’ 3LO or in years to come 3XY. Lathered in copper tone sunscreen and zinc cream the littlies played at the shoreline with buckets and spades creating elaborate castles adorned with an array of shells and lime green translucent sea weed. Dips in the icy cold water in a floatie ring or on yellow kickboard elicited delighted squeals from the children, their chatter heard to the background score of buzzing motor boats, screeching water-skiers, the hum of the shark plane above and the squawk of seagulls scavenging fish entrails. Sun drenched and all played out, way before ‘daylight saving’ extended afternoons past tea time, the family headed back across Beach Road, wandering the short distance up Mc Culloch St as coarse Dromana sand fell from their heals.
Teatime. Summer salad of iceberg lettuce, big red tomatoes, salad onion, some old fashioned cucumber and kraft cheese dressed with Kraft Italian Salad dressing. A snag (sausage) from the frying pan ensconced in a thin slice of Tip Top white bread with a scrap of butter, Heinz tomato sauce at the ready. A cup of strong brewed tea with milk and sugar after a bowl of Streets Neapolitan ice cream.
A knock at the door. Who could that be on a summer evening? Nina opened the door to a burley police man blocking the fading evening light. He’d ambled the short distance across the road from the Dromana Police Station. “Mr. and Mrs. Dyer?” he enquired. Dad walked to the door with a feeling of disquiet. Confident there were no criminal charges at play, his mind filled with fears for family members. “Mr. Dyer, we received a call from Maree Daly”. Mum and dad’s gut tightened. Maree was Marie’s sister-in-law. Vin, Marie’s brother had survived WWII after a horrendous airplane crash in the Scottish snowed covered mountains, traumatised and injured himself he dragged his copilot for hours to seek assistance unaware the man was long dead. A year of rehabilitation followed, his body never the same. Vin and Maree had lost two infants just a few years ago and the toll on Maree had been extreme. Holding their breath, they awaited the policeman’s next words.
“Maree has had a call from St Vincent’s Hospital, there is news. You have a daughter”.
This is how I came to the Dyer family in 1963. Not many people can say a policeman knocked on the door and informed their parents they had a new child, not too different to ‘the stork bought you’ I suppose.
