We came to Gosford to live in 1939 and I have many memories of it as a small town.
Gosford was a quiet place in the 1940s and Christmas, in our house at least, was in fact a non-event. No carols in the park and if you wanted to see Santa, it meant a trip to Grace Bros. or David Jones in the city. No fancy lights, in fact no lights at all on show because of the war. On the fi rst day of the school holidays my sister and I would decorate the dining room with red and green crinkle paper streamers. Our decorations never varied except maybe for the number of twists we put in the streamers as we strung them from the four corners of the room and tied them around the light shade in the centre. No sticky tape in those days. We had one concertina thing that opened out into a pretty paper bell that hung over the table. The empty pillow slip left on the end of the bed always held a few treasures by Christmas morning and the mystery of how they got there remained for many a year. Books featured largely and the quality increased with the years. ‘Girls Own Annual’ was a regular addition as were the Abbey Girl’s series and one bumper year there was a beautifully bound ‘Oliver Twist’ all for me. Regular as clockwork from Grandma came a hankie with a shilling knotted in the corner. No big Christmas dinner, but mum did cook a chook, steamed only, and browned in the pot by the addition of a sprinkling of Gravox on the breast. Mashed potato and tinned PMU peas, followed by a Big Sister tinned plum pudding with her own, inimitable egg custard. Most Christmases our cousins from Queensland arrived to take up residence in the backyard. As petrol was rationed I wonder now how they managed to drive all that way with a caravan in tow. But drive they did and pulled up in our backyard directly opposite the laundry which became their kitchen for the duration. It was a pretty good camp with the outside toilet part of the garage laundry complex. They ate their evening meal at one of the Greek cafes downtown and then both families would gather around the piano for a sing song. It was a time of juicy ripe watermelons, swims in the barnacle encrusted old pool on the waterfront and tall stories as our brothers and fathers yarned the days away. I miss it all.
Letter, 19 Dec 2014
Marilyn Cartmill, Killcare