11/10/2024
A couple of months ago, I published my memoir, a quirky 'tell all' about my life in music, performing, as a historian, folklore collector, record producer, and some of the notorious underground (and some above-ground) parties of Sydney. It has been really well-received and is a lively read (with loads of photographs). This cloudy weekend would be an ideal time to buy a copy and have a good read. The Potts Point Bookshop has copies (they also have a few remaining copies of 'The Good Old Bad Old Days'). They also handle mail orders. OR you can buy the eBook on Amazon for about $10. I can also handle mail orders if you message me.
Here's a sampler - chapter one
The Yikes & the Yids.
I feel like I haven’t ‘grown up’ yet. Surely, I am far too young to write a memoir, and despite getting close to knocking on the door of eighty, I feel like I am in my midlife. Is this a crisis? Possibly. Yet, if I don’t write the darned thing now, I fear it will be too late, much too late, to tackle in my eighties when I hope I will feel like I am in my fifties with fewer brain cells. Anyway, the brain is a liar, a big fat fibber; it makes us believe what we want to believe, and that, my friends, can be very selective. It’s time, and the time is a hair past a freckle!
Age often brings regrets, and I regret not keeping a diary. I have kept calendars, passports and boxes of documents relating to travel, projects, contracts and other aspects of my life. Fortunately, I have a good memory - the diary we all carry. My head is crammed with knowledge, probably useless unless you want to know about curious Australian history, music trivia, song words, recipes, travel stories, long-forgotten traditions and a bagatelle of other nonsense. So, with some trepidation, I am setting out on a personal adventure to tell some of my life stories.
I am very much my father’s son. I inherited his stoicism. In the mid-nineteen-sixties, I tape-recorded my father, George Fahey, and asked him about his time in WW2. I knew he had been a sergeant major in the Australian Army and that he marched every ANZAC Day, but by then, I was in my twenties, a radical thinker and defiantly anti-war. I recorded some of his family songs, but he was reluctant to speak about his war service. George was a thinker and a sensitive soul with a soft rolling Australian voice that refused to give up his Irish family heritage. He was first generation Irish-Australian, but like many of his generation, his accent was influenced by family and friends, unlike today, where it is influenced by popular entertainment. Those early forms of Australian speech have essentially disappeared to make our present homogenous language. Dad was never open about his wartime experience other than to say I was conceived near the war’s end in 1945. I just scraped in as a ‘baby boomer’ by a few days, having appeared on the 3rd of January 1946.
George served in Papua New Guinea and was involved in what was then called the Army’s ‘physical education program’. He was part of the medical unit and often told me about the kindness of the ‘fuzzy-wuzzy angels’, the volunteer local indigenous people who carried the wounded and assisted in so many other everyday areas of an ugly war on our northern doorstep.
Dad also told me about conscientious objectors, those who refused to go to war and, as targets of public anger, intended to humiliate them, were given white feathers that appeared anonymously by mail or dropped in the letterbox. I assume that’s where the term ‘chicken’ originated, implying cowardice. Dad didn’t like war and instilled in me the notion of pacifism. I liked how post-WW2 pacifists, myself included, reinterpreted the white feather as a peace symbol.
Many years later, as the first publisher of Eric Bogle’s song catalogue, particularly ‘And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda’ and ’No Man’s Land’, the futility of war became a familiar reminder.
Like many returned soldiers, Dad had a tin box containing his various medals, official service and discharge cards and a few yellowing photographs. He carried a much deeper reminder on his body, vicious skin cancers that resulted in years of treatment at Concord Repatriation Hospital. Many soldiers believed that irritating tropical ulcers, caused mainly by mosquito bites, could be cured by applying methylated spirits to the sore and then letting it dry in the tropical sun. It was an open invitation for melanomas. Dad had fair Irish skin, including light reddish hair, placing him in the number one candidate zone. I remember the hundreds of visits to Concord - my mother always solid - although she was no doubt struggling with fear - as we hoped for good news and Dad’s all-clear release. Dad was stoic, ever the optimist on the outside, but no doubt harboured fears. The Repat treatments continued for most of his life, including one horrific spell where the hospital used a new ‘treatment’ of cobalt ray to burn resistant cancer. Unfortunately, treating a spot on the bridge of his nose, they also burned out his tear ducts, which advanced his glaucoma, a condition I have inherited. In the end, in his early sixties, certainly much younger than I am as I write this, he was forced to retire and become homebound. He remained stoic.
In 2010, I filmed my uncle, Mossy Phillips, my mother’s eldest brother, at the Montefiore Home at Hunters Hill. Mossy was 93 and had lost both legs, but not his infectious joy for life and love for family. I had done a concert at the home a few months earlier where I had sung some of the songs and ditties I had learnt off Mossy and returned in early 2011 with my older sister Zandra, always Mossy’s favourite niece, and a small camera team. I wanted to record some of his memories, old family songs, and his playing the piano and ukulele. I thought I knew a fair bit about my family history, but you could have knocked me over with a feather when Mossy told us that my father had been a conscientious objector. He refused to be placed in any situation where he would have to kill another man; however, he said, “I’ll do anything else to serve, including latrine duty.” He was sent to the training camp at Goulburn, and despite having no medical experience, he was positioned in the medical unit. Not long in Papua New Guinea, he was promoted to Medical Quartermaster.
Mossy had been very close to George and held him in awe as the one who morally led the family. Maybe it was because Dad loved my mother and, unusual for the time, had been determined to marry Mossy’s eldest sister and into a poor Jewish family. Dad always said the ‘tykes’, a peculiarly unflattering Australian reference to Irish Catholics, and ‘yids’, an equally offensive nickname from the Jewish Yiddish, were the ideal family combo. He also said religion, government and busybodies had no place in love. It was a lifelong union.
I cannot consider my own life without telling the stories of my parent’s lives. I am very much a proud product of both their families and, I suspect, the fact that my father, George Patrick, was the eldest son of 16 children to Mary and John Fahey, and my mother, Deborah, the eldest of 9 children from Polly and Sid Phillips, they were always seen as the family leaders. My parents were the quasi patriarch and matriarch - the sensible guardians of both families prepared for what would inevitably be ‘thick and thin’.
The Fahey and Phillips families had one thing in common: they didn’t have a cracker between them. The Fahey’s, good Irish catholic breeders, never had enough to satisfy hunger but always enough for Granny Marie and eldest daughter, Kathleen, to drop a few coins onto the church’s plate every Sunday. My memories of Grandma Fahey were of a frail, tiny woman with a life of hardship stamped on her brow. She smelled of lavender and sunlight soap. My father, ever the dutiful son, visited every week and always presented me with her gift of a holy picture card or yet another brown scapular to tie around my neck.
Grandfather John ‘Jack’ Fahey was born in Balmain in 1875, and granny Marie Moore was born in the small NSW town of Dalton in 1878. Her father was a teacher in nearby Gunning. Jack and Marie were married in 1898. Marie was twenty. Dad always said his mother went to Mass every single day of her life. I wish I had spent more time with her, but my visits to their little house on Balmain Road, Leichhardt, were almost exclusively reserved for time in Granddad's shed. It was a wonderland, and I can still see, smell and hear it as I write these notes. John Fahey, a wire worker by trade, was a short man with a fire in his belly. His beard was brown from Champion ready-rubbed to***co and strong china tea. He had what I later recognised as a stain known as ‘Jack the Painter’, a permanent brown tea stain around the face. Jack also liked a drink and, more often than not, too much at the local Bald Faced Stag Hotel at the end of the street on Parramatta Road. I liked hanging around the footpath waiting for him because the pub was next door to the Leichhardt Stadium - one of the old-time wrestling and boxing stadiums. The stadium screamed memories and still had old, tattered posters on the wall, and if I was lucky, I could sneak in and watch training sessions. In the thirties, forties and fifties, competitive fighting was a massive sport with its own legal and illegal gambling support system. Years later, the great carrier of Australian folk songs, Sally Sloane, told me how she wrestled at the Leichhardt Stadium during the Great Depression. “I was a good fighter, and after a fight, the audience would throw coins, five and sixpenny pieces, up on the ring. We could make good money.” The stadium eventually became a ten-pin bowling alley.
John Fahey’s shed was at the rear of the tiny duplex cottage. It seemed very big to me, and my favourite fun was turning the slow grindstone, which produced a continual modulated hum. Jack was a Jack-of-all-trades; he would have had to have been and had tools to repair just about anything. He had shoe lasts, chimney sweeping apparatus, all manner of hammers, tiles, bits of wood, rubber and old to***co tins of tacks, nails, rubber seals and whatever. Pop Fahey had what he called “a lot of dooverlackies’ which he stored along with his ‘whatchamacallit’ and the ‘thingamajig’. He seemed to be constantly rolling his ci******es and to have a fag end in his mouth. As he worked, he inevitably sang some old ditty. If that wasn’t enough, the radio was always broadcasting parliament. Above the hammering, grinding, radio and singing came the occasional curse - “Bugger that Pig Iron Bob”. “Black Jack McEwen - bah! wouldn’t know what work is!” he would declare. He disliked the conservative and divisive catholic commentator B. A. Santamaria, who he despised as a ‘toady scab’ for his part in splitting the Labor Party ranks, which eventually led to the formation of the Democratic Labor Party. He maintained an even longer and louder hatred for Labor renegade socialist and unionist turned conservative William ‘Billy’ Hughes. My father, George, sang one ditty he had from his father, referring to Billy Hughes door-knocking in their electorate.
Knock, Knock,
Who’s that knocking on the door?
If it’s Billy Hughes and his wife,
We will chase them with a knife,
And they won’t come knocking any more.
I liked playing with the shoe last, rubber strips and glue pots in the shed. Three lasts of different sizes were used to mend the family shoes (when the kids had shoes!). The Fahey’s were too poor to be able to afford new shoes or the luxury of a bootmaker. Dad inherited the last, which he used to mend our shoes. Considering Grandad’s smoking and drinking and Granny’s seemingly never-ending pregnancies, it is somewhat surprising they both lived long lives. Marie Fahey died in 1967 at 89, and John (Jack) Fahey a year later at 93.
Fahey family gathering circa 1949 at Nancy and Alfred Fahey’s wedding. (I’m the wee lad in the bottom right-hand corner with dad’s hand across my chest. Mom is on the far right with the embroidery top.
My father voted ALP all his life, and my mother, unusually defiant, never revealed her vote. She would always say it was her hard-earned prerogative and a secret vote. For all we knew, she could have scribbled ‘bananas’ or something on the voting forms. I quite enjoyed the mystery of not knowing and the surprising fact that my father never made a fuss about it.
Dad’s Labor beliefs certainly passed to me, and we would have healthy political discussions whenever possible. The more we talked, the more he revealed. He had been a socialist in his youth, even flirting with communism, but, like many, abandoned those ideals when the Russian Bear invaded its neighbours. He was a big supporter of Arthur Caldwell, leader of the ALP. Still, he referred to him as ‘Cocky Caldwell,' referencing the man’s unfortunate facial features and manner of speech, “A good man, but Cocky will never be prime minister with a moosh like that.” Like his father, Dad despised Prime Minister Robert Menzies, berating his continual ‘Reds under the beds’ campaigning and never forgetting his ‘Pig Iron Bob’ legacy during the build-up to WW2. In 1989, I wrote The Balls of Bob Menzies, a book that tracked the history and parodies of twentieth-century political and social change. I dedicated the book to my father and quoted one of his most boisterous songs, the book’s title.
The balls of Bob Menzies are wrinkled and crinkled,
Curvaceous and spacious as the dome of St. Paul’s,
The crowds they all muster to gaze at that cluster;
They stand and stare at that wondrous pair
Of Bob Menzies’ balls -
Balls, balls, balls, balls
Balls, balls, balls, balls,
Bob Menzies’ balls.
The book was a decent seller; however, my publisher, Angus & Robertson, reported having a few problems with booksellers - some elderly female customers were embarrassed to approach the sales desk to ask, “Where can I find ‘The Balls of Bob Menzies?”. I can imagine the snide response, “You’ll probably have to ask Dame Patti.” The revised edition adding the ‘greedy nineties’, edited by Katharine Brisbane and published by Currency Press in 2000, was titled Ratbags & Rabblerousers. Its publication was given an appropriately rowdy launch. We took over the corner of Hyde Park where Liverpool and Elizabeth Streets meet, turned it into Speaker’s Corner, and celebrated the book with two feisty writers worthy of the book’s title - Bob Ellis and Piers Ackerman. John Dengate, the legendary satirist, sang some of his biting political parodies.
In 2011, interviewing Mossy, I was floored when he related that my grandfather, John Fahey, was a full-time union organiser for the Seaman’s Union. This would have been in the first decade of the twentieth century when bitter struggles were commonplace in the maritime industry. I suspect this also meant John had been a socialist, as the Seamen’s Union held very close ties to the emerging Left. Socialism at this stage was not necessarily a dirty word. It was akin to the ideals of worker rights of early international socialism, the emerging International Workers of the World (IWW), and its cry of One Big Union. Socialist dreams were idealistic from necessity. He could not have been a communist, as the Communist Party of Australia wasn’t established until 1920. I still can’t imagine how Granny, Pop Fahey, their sixteen children, and dad’s sister Kathleen’s son, Colin, all lived in the one tiny duplex house. Dad, the eldest, was born there in 1910, and Mary and John died there in their late nineties. Pop Fahey smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, bred like a rabbit and lived until 93. My father recalled his siblings going to Leichhardt Public School, a rather draconian institution, and going through the garbage bins at lunchtime to find food scraps.
In 1967, Dad scribbled out a note with the names and ages of each of his siblings as of that year: Eileen Ann, 69, Mabel deceased; Madeline Ann, 65, Thomas deceased; Kathleen Mary, 62, John deceased, Veronica 60, Winifred Mary 59, George Francis 57, Mary Patricia 55, William Joseph 52, Alfred Francis 52, Francis deceased, Minnie Joanna 48, Leslie deceased.
My mother was born in London’s east end. Her parents, my grandparents, were Mary ‘Polly’ Solomons and Sidney ’Sid’ Phillips. Both families originally came from Holland in the nineteenth century. Sid had been a cook in the British Army, and Polly’s family were ‘travellers’ and costermongers near Bow Bells. Like many Jews, they skedaddled out of Europe after WWI. Sid, Polly, my mother Deborah, and her brother, Moses ‘Mossy’, arrived in Sydney in 1920. Mom was eight. They had no money and no contacts. They weren’t religious Jews, so no support was forthcoming from the Jewish aid organisations. I asked Mossy, the eldest son, where the family had lived in the eastern suburbs. He reckoned they had lived in “over one hundred different places, always one step in front of the landlord”. He recalled my mother, as the eldest daughter and himself being told to “collect the babies” as the family did their familiar midnight flit to avoid the rent collectors.
To say they were dirt poor would be an understatement, but they managed to survive. Eventually, their east-ender history proved helpful, and they were given one of the first sanctioned street vendor barrow licenses in Sydney. Sid’s cart was situated on Liverpool Street in front of the fashionable Mark Foy’s department store, and they sold fruit and flowers. Mossy told of how the eldest Phillips kids were despatched every morning at 4 am to walk from 122 Hastings Parade, Bondi, to the wealthy suburbs of Double Bay, Bellevue Hill, Rose Bay and Darling Point to ‘harvest’ flowers. These stolen flowers were then fashioned into posies and comprised most of the ‘stock’ sold from the barrow.
My sister, Zandra, eight years older than me, remembers our newly married parents living in a rented semi-detached house in Spring Street, Abbotsford. She was born there, where the family lived before Dad went to war.
Before being sent to the Goulburn Training Camp, George was employed at a box factory and, apparently, during the Depression, did relief work in building the Abbotsford Public Swimming Baths.
After Dad had enlisted in the army, my mother, Deborah, and her sister, Lilly, took over a small corner grocery store on the Great North Road, Abbotsford. Zandra recalls that money was very short and that Deb, Lilly, and baby Zandra lived over the shop. Lilly’s husband, Bill, had also gone off to war. “Mom and Aunty Lilly, still in their early twenties, used to measure out things like sugar, flour, salt, etc. and always got the giggles when they had to bag the pepper. They made ice blocks out of milk and strawberry essence.” Deb delivered the groceries on a bicycle with my young sister, Zandra, about three years old, hanging on the back seat. “The living quarters upstairs were sparse without much furniture, and there was no table, so we always ate ‘picnic style’. I remember they used to put the radio on and dance every night.”
Zandra continues, “There was a tram stop out the front of the shop, and we used to visit both grandparents, the Fahey’s and the Phillips’, regularly. I remember returning home from the Phillips’ at Bondi one night, and Polly had given Mom two eggs - a delicacy. Mom had put the eggs down her blouse to protect them, and all of a sudden, the tram lurched, and Mom, who was standing, fell against the side and broke the two eggs. She burst into tears, probably at the thought of me not getting the treat. I remember looking at the gooey mess.”
The Phillips were living at 122 Hastings Parade, Bondi. Grandma Polly, Moss (22), Charlie (16), Lou (14), Clive (5). Jack, aged 20, had gone to war. Also living in the house was an English friend of Polly’s called Hardy, plus his two daughters, Dotty and Thelma. The Abbotsford shop was becoming too difficult, so my mother, her sister Lilly and Zandra also moved into Bondi. Twelve people plus, when on leave, Uncle Bill Lindsay, Mom’s brother Jack Phillips and Dad. Sixteen people almost made the three-bedroom house a village. Polly had one bedroom, Hardy shared one with his two daughters, and Auntie Lilly, Mom and Zandra shared the third bedroom. All the others slept on stretchers on the verandah. My mother would have been 28 then, and Zandra about four or five. Zandra thinks I was probably conceived in this house - what was one more in such a crowded house!
I was always Nana Polly’s favourite and visited her daily when we lived in the Sydney suburb of Eastlakes (the second time). She and Sid lived in a granny flat behind Mossy and his wife Jean’s place, across the road from their corner store.
I would arrive after school to the same scenario. Polly would be knitting one of her crochet creations - sofa covers, shawls, headwear, etc. - and sitting at the table with playing cards ready. Sid would usually be snoring heavily in another corner. He amazed me because he could sleep with his head under a heavy blanket, something I have never been able to do. Polly would beckon me in, put down the knitting, and start shuffling the cards. We played two-pack 16-card Polish rummy - quite a fistful for a young boy’s hand - or poker. After a few games, she would walk over to Sid, still snoring like a train, extract his money roll; he always seemed to have a roll of notes, peel off a handful, which she put down her ample bosom, hand me a ten-shilling note, then proceeded to shake Sid violently encouraging him to wake up and join the game. I suspect he was already awake, knew the routine, and played along.
It seemed as if nearly all the Phillips family gambled. Polly and Sid loved their cards, and Nana even dared to take me to a professional, no doubt illegal, card joint in Kellett Street, Kings Cross, more than a few times. I went for the free chicken sandwiches and the excitement of going out with this larger-than-life woman everyone seemed to know and love. We stopped going after someone got murdered at the club.
There was singing, dancing, and cards whenever the Phillips family got together. Polly could also do card tricks. Sid followed the races, and the house was full of piano playing and the droning voice of radio race coverage. At one stage, I thought race broadcaster Ken Howard lived in the spare room. The races used to drive me nuts, and I still run whenever I hear race broadcasts. Thankfully, I didn’t inherit any gambling genes.
Sid was bald as a badger, which he passed on to all the males of our family, and, alas, I followed my mother’s side since my father had a full head of wavy hair. Polly had the most extraordinarily long hair, which she washed in beer. Her hair fascinated me as I watched her comb the long tresses and weave complicated plaits she piled on her head. It looked something like a pile of sausages wrapped around her head. She held it together with elaborate, large, black decorative pins. Although short, Polly had more than an ample bosom - they were bazookas! She usually wore crocheted tops and sometimes a matching tam o’shanter hat. She was a short woman but never short of a conversation. Polly was a real charmer and storyteller.
I remember arriving at her place one day; they were living above a butcher shop on Anzac Parade, Kensington, and I was taken back to see two Catholic nuns sipping mugs of tea and laughing their heads off. The good sisters had been door-knocking for some local cause, and Polly, ever-keen for a chat, had invited them in. They had been there for over three hours!
After Sid gave up the barrow, he started selling stationery at Paddy’s Market in the Haymarket. The old Sydney market was lively in those days, and I loved joining him whenever I could, despite the fact he got there at 4 am. He had his permanent spot and surrounded himself with pencils, biros, various-sized paper pads, envelopes, etc. But this wasn’t his real job. Sid knew everyone, and everyone knew Sid. I was never sure if he was operating as an illegal betting service giving or getting race tips, but I do know this was his main business. After the market closed, he would be off to the track, preferably Randwick, and then home to Snoresville.
Food was always an important part of the Phillips family life, but I don’t recall Polly ever boiling as much as an egg. My sister recalled Polly as “…a dreadful cook. During the war years, there were a lot of mouths to feed and not a lot of money. They must have pooled any army allowances, and Lilly worked in a shop somewhere because she would sometimes bring home a stale cake, which was a real treat. Polly served up chops or sausages, mashed potatoes and gravy so often that I still remember the smell. She made the gravy in the morning and would remove the skin in the evening.”
Sid was the cook in the family and a good one at that. His specialities were Jewish recipes, and I loved watching him prepare giant jars of pickled dill cucumbers, sliced tomatoes in vinegar and brown sugar, and making horseradish sauces (I was chief grater) and, on Fridays, great piles of beautifully cooked fish. After he had fried the fish, he used the same fishy oil to make the thinnest pancakes imaginable, sprinkled with sugar, then rolled and splashed with lemon juice. They were delicious. Another of Sid’s specialities was the best-tasting ‘Jewish penicillin’ I had ever eaten. He called it ‘lokshen soup’ because of the wiggly little egg noodles. He boiled up the toughest old boiler fowls and occasionally a rooster, but they simmered for hours and were infused with the flavour of celery, peppercorns and parsley. One morning, I was watching him finish up the process when I asked what he was using to strain the ‘muck’ from the chicken soup. “Polly’s old stockings.” came the reply. My mind went spinning. I doubt if Sid ever bought any food - it was all swapped for racing tips at the markets.
The one thing Polly did prepare, as the old song goes, ‘Polly put the kettle on, and we’ll all have tea’ (she always sang the song as she made the tea). We ate large Jewish matzo biscuits smothered in butter and honey or Vegemite. This was just about as Jewish as we got - except for Polly’s continual stories about which actor, actress or singer was Jewish. Everyone in films, on vinyl or staring at me from the television, seemed Jewish.
Polly always claimed she had a second sense. A gypsy heritage. She often read my tea leaves and talked about ghosts. One story that stayed with me concerned her son, my uncle Jack, an Air Force gunner. One night during WW2, Polly woke up shouting, “Jack’s been shot down, Jack’s been shot down.” Two days later, the family received news that Jack Phillip’s fighter bomber had been shot down precisely when Polly had her vision at 2.10 am. Thankfully, Jack survived the ordeal. The tale was told so many times it’s challenging to separate fact from fiction.
Polly was always singing little ditties and old music hall songs. I have never tired of these family heirlooms, and I still carry them in my head and occasionally in my repertoire.
Susie, Susie, sitting in the Chinese shop,
The more she sits, the more she knits,
The more she knits, the more she sits,
Susie, Susie, sitting in the Chinese shop.
(Try saying these six times - I double dare you!)
She sells sea shells down by the seaside
Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers
Such skill at sewing shirts
Our shy young sister Susie shows!
Some soldiers send epistles,
Say they'd sooner sleep in thistles
Than the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews.
One ditty that made me laugh was her reference to American sailors stealing ‘our girls’ in Kings Cross.
Twinkle twinkle, little star,
Went for a ride in a Yankee car,
What she did I ain’t admittin’
But what she’s knittin’
Ain’t for Britain!
Sid died in August 1970 from a stroke whilst coming home on the bus. Ever the star, Polly made a more dramatic exit three months later. We had several conversations about death, which she didn’t seem uncomfortable about, and it usually ended with Polly saying she wanted to go “Just like Marilyn Monroe.” I was never too sure exactly how Marilyn went, except she was found dead in a hotel room. When Polly’s time came, and I swear this is true, I remember going to see the body. She had made herself up in the usual manner - hair coiled and pinned up, crocheted top, mascara, rouge, lipstick, etc. - with her arms across her chest. She looked very peaceful for a woman who had raised nine children against all the odds and had had what could only be described as a hard but fascinating life. I am convinced a simple note was placed on the piano, no doubt intended for me, inscribed ‘just like Marilyn Monroe’.
Mossy was my favourite uncle, mainly because, being a local, I saw so much of him, although all my mother’s siblings were extremely close. Mossy’s son, Raymond, became a famous cricketer and sports manager. Mossy was also the most musical and interesting. He played stride piano and ukulele, sang like a music hall belter and seemed interested in everything from photography to aviation history. After his wife, Jean Brandon, died, he married again, and both he and his bride, Anne, moved into the Montefiore Aged Home at Hunters Hill. He lost his legs and was confined to a wheelchair but lived until he died in 2011, in his late nineties.
In 2022, I did an ABC radio interview with Sarah McDonald. I was promoting my latest book, Dead & Buried: The Curious History of Sydney’s Earliest Burial Grounds, and mentioned that Rookwood Cemetery had a designated place for gypsy burials. The telephone rang hot, with listeners saying it was inappropriate to use the description ‘gypsy’. I didn’t think too much of it other than to make a mental note. Unrelated, my sister called me a week later and said, “You’ll never guess what Amanda found?” Amanda, Zandra’s eldest daughter, had been chasing up our family history, was unaware of my radio interview, and had found my mother’s mother’s birth certificate. There in print was ‘Polly Solomons - ‘traveller’. I now had the cultural trifecta - Catholic, Jewish and Gypsy!
