The story is set in country that Mum had explored extensively in 1941, the winter immediately after Dad embarked with the 8th Division AIF to Malaya. In Australia’s Alps she had already written about her various expeditions on the Main Range, to the Ramsheads and to the Cascades in the winter of 1941, and Winged Skis was another opportunity for her to explore this beloved country, this time with the added challenge of writing for young teenagers. She could dream that once again she was skiing and exploring the peaks and valleys she adored, but this time with her beloved son. In reality, at the time Mum was writing Winged Skis Harry had not had a chance to venture much beyond Thredbo, the Ramsheads, Dead Horse Gap, the summit of Mt Kosciusko and perhaps the Main Range in winter. The book was a promise of great adventures to come and suggested that there was so much to which Harry could look forward.
The idea that Barry might ski as much as he wished, provided he did his correspondence lessons, was a little too close to home. It had been Mum’s original aim that so long as we did our schoolwork we could ski as much as possible each winter. Again, the reality in our family was different. In the early sixties Harry would have been at the Corryong primary school and about to start at Geelong Grammar. I don’t recall Mum ever taking him out of school so that we could all ski; perhaps he was dropped at the school bus before we set off for Thredbo and someone else picked him up in the afternoon while Mum returned from Thredbo with John and me. By this time I was already aware from some of Dad’s remarks that he thought Mum was taking us to Thredbo too often and this was a source of friction between them.
Re-reading Winged Skis I felt uncomfortable with the idea that Barry was so obviously Harry; there was only one letter differentiating their names! Correspondence with Mr Gaywood at Hutchinson in Melbourne mentions that Dorothy Tomlinson at the publisher’s London office objected to the book being dedicated to Harry because it made it more obvious that Harry was the model for Barry in the story. Mum argued that Harry had even asked that the hero be named after him. While he might have done at one point, I wonder if he would have felt comfortable with it as he grew up?
Mum pressed ahead with a surprising indifference to the warnings. She usually took her publisher’s advice, but she and Dorothy Tomlinson didn’t always see eye to eye, and in this instance Mum brushed aside her counsel. The hero’s name was not the only source of my discomfort. There was also the fine line between fiction and the reality of our lives, which would embarrass me later when I went to school. I never knew what Harry really felt about Winged Skis and perhaps he didn’t really know himself. Sometimes these sorts of thoughts take years to germinate, possibly because when one is very young one feels bad harbouring critical thoughts of a parent.
Dorothy Tomlinson expressed other reservations about the manuscript in a letter to Mum dated 10 September (probably 1962).
Incident takes the place of sustained action, and the descriptions of skiing, well done as they are, become monotonous. In my opinion, too, the mixture of fine writing and a children’s adventure story does not really work and I think boys would probably react against this monotonously happy and successful atmosphere, as Barry develops into the perfect skier, scrupulously obeys the mountain rules and enjoys so many rapturous days of skiing; they might also feel a tinge of embarrassment at the passages where Barry and Michael discuss poetry.
Given these misgivings, it is surprising that Winged Skis was ever published. Much to Mum’s delight, however, a review by Noel Streatfeild in the British press paid tribute to her ‘superb gift for creating atmosphere: the excitement of skiing; the feeling of being able to fly over untrodden snow; the exquisite beauty of snow-covered mountains; the feeling of achievement at the end of a long day in terrible weather when, by willpower only, the end of the journey is reached’.2 In an August 1964 review in Ski Australia, Dorothy Ryman also paid tribute to Mum’s writing about the mountains, but she was not blind to the ‘slender plot’.3
Winged Skis never enjoyed the financial success of the Brumby books, yet it was highly commended in the Children’s Book of the Year Awards in 1965. Annette Macarthur-Onslow’s evocative sketches might have been part of its success. It was the first teenage story to be set in the Australian snowfields and, despite criticism, it does have a certain appeal for those who enjoy skiing.
Mum took great care in her research. In an undated letter to Dorothy Tomlinson, she mentions that she had given a copy of the manuscript to the head ski instructor at Thredbo, asking him to check that the opinions expressed by the ski instructors in the story were credible. Mum explained: ‘I had intended having Barry hurt, but the children begged me not to.’ It is possible that Mum found our feedback less than helpful on some occasions, but here she heeded it. Even when I re-read Winged Skis as an adult I was glad that Barry had not been injured.
Having a book written just for him didn’t really help Harry to read fluently or independently. It must have been a sad disappointment not just for Mum, but probably even more so for Harry. I never knew if when he first went to boarding school he too found that Mum’s books could be a source of some embarrassment among his peers. It was not until I read a letter dated 14 December 1960 from Mum to her friend and fellow writer Henrietta Drake-Brockman that I realised Mum understood Harry had reading difficulties. She explained that she was working on a story for Harry, ‘but he battles reading so much that it is a rather thankless task. He does not even like being read to. It is most extraordinary.’ Having dedicated her first two children’s books to Indi, Mum had to persist. If Harry had not had a book dedicated to him he would have felt left out.
It was seldom if ever heard of then, but my own subsequent research indicates that Harry may have suffered from dyslexia. The tragedy was that Mum and Dad most likely didn’t realise that Harry’s problems could not be cured with just a little more time and effort from Harry himself. He probably needed professional help, but at that time such difficulties were not sufficiently understood, and appropriate help was not readily available. I don’t think it helped Harry’s confidence that most of the time he had to wear thick glasses; a family friend Mrs Hay told me that not long after he started boarding school at Geelong Grammar he tried to get rid of them by burying them beside the school playing fields.
But Harry was particularly fortunate in the care and understanding he received from many of the masters at Geelong Grammar, and the friendships he developed with those who knew him at the school. His obituary in the school magazine, The Corian, remarked, ‘In all parts of the school [Harry’s] cheerfulness, his courage and perseverance earned him respect from all members of the community.’4 To visit the school and share memories with some of his old masters and friends has always brought me great pleasure.
However, nothing could compensate for the discrepancy between Dad’s ambition for Harry to follow him to Jesus College, Cambridge, and the reality that Harry was struggling academically. I remember that Harry frequently seemed to be in trouble for poor school reports. In 1967, Harry’s final year at Geelong Grammar, his future career became a battleground not only between him and Dad, but also between Dad and Mum. Arguing that it would give him the time and opportunity to develop, Dad was insistent, against Harry’s wishes, that he should go jackarooing near Warren in New South Wales. Their correspondence reveals a sad breakdown in communication. While Dad clearly thought he was making himself available for discussions and was irritated that Harry didn’t jump at the opportunities being offered to him to talk about his future, Dad made little effort to initiate conversations with Harry, nor indeed to assist him with his enquiries about possible alternative careers. Unfortunately there was little constructive response from Dad to Harry’s clearly thought out and well-written letters explaining his wishes. Obviously he had gone to great trouble and I suspect that a kind master at Geelong Grammar may well have helped him. Harry really wanted to do a diploma in electronics; he would have thrived in the computer age. In many ways he was born before his time.
There had been
earlier problems in their relationship. Sometime during the summer of 1963 Mum remarked in a letter to Granny that ‘Tom went camping on his own after all his theories of a man taking his son out alone, Harry said he was too nasty to him and he wouldn’t go. I feel sorry for Tom, but wondered if it might not bring him to his oats a bit.’ Harry found Mum easier to talk to so it was understandable that, perhaps even without realising he was doing so, he attempted to have Mum not only support him but also argue his case for his future for him. Spotting injustice in the way Dad was treating Harry, Mum went into the fray to battle for her son and his attempt to pursue a career for which he would be suited. In doing so she may have made Harry’s situation and his relationship with Dad even more difficult; as I had discovered at school, she could be too fierce an ally.
Harry suggested that he might be able to train in electronics in the army if he were called up as part of the National Service scheme that was introduced in 1964. Judging by a letter from Dad to Harry, it seems that Harry did not make the necessary enquiries about whether it would be possible to do his vocational training in the army and it was Mum who wrote letters asking about courses available at technical colleges. Dad responded by insisting again that Harry go jackarooing: he didn’t see that Harry was suffering as a result of his dictatorial stance; probably he was too busy to notice. Even by the standards of the day Dad’s attitudes could be old-fashioned.
Mum’s efforts on Harry’s behalf did not help her relationship with Dad and tensions escalated. Both could be malicious to each other. Mum, miserable and unable to influence Dad’s decisions, begged Harry to write politely to his father, pointing out to him during long discussions that ‘if you really quarrel with Dad it is going to make life most frightfully difficult for me, and for the others too’.
Dad didn’t budge. After Harry stayed with him in Sydney on his way up north to start his jackarooing job, Uncle Edward wrote to Mum saying that he understood she had ‘a serious problem’ in attempting to settle Harry’s future. Uncle Edward tried to be helpful and supportive, but there was little he could do for either Harry or Mum. There was only one player in this drama who needed to back down and that was not going to happen. Mum was convinced she was right, and mostly she probably was. Dad thought he was right too, but almost anyone who knew our family probably realised that in this instance he was not entirely justified. If Dad was strong-willed when he came home from Changi, he seemed all the more so now.
My suspicion is that Dad ultimately acquired a special type of stubborn determination from his experience of human nature while in captivity and that he felt that those who had not endured similar experiences were comparatively naive and spoilt. Perhaps it was this perception that made him feel that he alone had the background necessary to make the important decisions in the family. Dad and some of his fellow POWs may have thought that their experience gave them something more to offer their communities, and by extension their own families, on their return home. In captivity Dad would have seen the best and the worst of people, and he probably came to his own conclusions about what brought out the best in a person. Perhaps Dad thought the psychology he learned in Changi would work on his own family, but I don’t know. Dad didn’t talk much about his experiences in Changi beyond studying geology, history, Banjo Paterson’s poetry and reading everything he could lay his hands on. He didn’t mind talking about the Changi Ski Club, a group of keen skiers who discussed where they had skied and where they might venture after the war. He also mentioned helping Uncle Ken with his malarial research, writing a prize-winning essay – and starvation. Hunger was always at the forefront of anything he said about Changi.
In the summer of 1967–68, Harry was turning eighteen. There were three years until he reached twenty-one, the golden age of majority. It would have been interesting to see what might have happened if he had stood his ground and refused to take up the jackarooing position. When at the time I heard that Dad had threatened to disinherit him if he didn’t go, it reminded me that Dad claimed Granddaddy M had said Dad could play ‘ducks and drakes’ with the property if he wished. Dad could do as he liked but Harry didn’t even have a say in his choice of career without fear of retribution.
If Harry had left home, Dad might have reported his son missing to the police and Harry and Dad would have had to cope with the publicity his actions would undoubtedly have attracted. But I can’t help feeling that if he had chosen this course, Dad’s friends and colleagues would have understood Harry’s plight and tried to talk Dad around to reason. Perhaps Dad was challenging Harry to stand up to him more. I really don’t know if Dad would have changed his will, as he threatened, but I think it unlikely that he intended to torment Harry as he did. I don’t think Dad could see what he was doing. It was hard for us all to witness what Harry endured.
As children we had been brought up to obey our parents and this Harry continued to do. But it left huge rifts between father and son and between Dad and Mum. There were moments when Mum felt that Harry was turning against her too, simply because she couldn’t help him find a way of dealing with his father. All in all, 1971 was a particularly tough year for both Harry and Mum. Thankfully, Harry had a trip to Europe in early 1972 to look forward to.
Dad used to tell me how much he missed his father after his death in 1917. It seems strange that a man who had made such an admission should then alienate his own son, but possibly Dad was unaware of the impact his decisions were having on Harry and indeed his entire family. It will never be known to what extent the explanation for this behaviour lay in wartime events. Uncle Jack used to roar the hell out of Dad when he was helping in the stockyards at Khancoban, and perhaps Dad felt that what worked for one generation was good enough for the next. Probably he thought it was ‘character building’. With the possible exception of his own father, Dad’s role models in the family had been volatile. Either he couldn’t see or refused to admit that such behaviour can have damaging consequences.
As the time came for each of us to leave school, our careers became a battlefield between Mum and Dad. Being the eldest, Indi blazed the way, but the main focus was on the boys’ careers. I was fortunate not to be within the radar of expectations. Dad argued that spending money on tertiary education for women was ‘the expensive way to the kitchen sink’, and believed Indi and I would marry and give up thoughts of careers. Initially he hadn’t been keen to support Indi to go to Monash University to do an Arts degree.
Mum fought for each of us to be able to pursue a field of our choice, even if we didn’t really know what we wanted to do. While her support was reassuring, the increasing discord between her and Dad was deeply upsetting. When his time came, John encountered similar problems to Harry’s with Dad and family life reached a new low. It was about that time that Mum stopped singing and playing her piano accordion. From the late 1960s there was hardly ever any music in the house. It seemed that an ill wind was blowing in our lives.
Some years ago Mum gave me one of Harry’s children’s books about a little red engine that had to climb difficult hills. It puffed away saying, ‘I think I can, I think I can’ as it climbed. The spine of the little book was broken and its pages were bent, as if it had been read over and over again, perhaps more by Mum than by Harry. The most fitting epitaph for Harry was that he died trying, probably trying harder than any of us were aware.
His death brought an end to his impossible quest to discover a niche for himself, or to even be permitted to look for one. It had been an awful situation for the long-awaited and much-desired son. At the time of his death Mum wrote, ‘The boy for whom we had dreamt nearly 40 years before – the boy who would become a man riding over the Towong Hill paddocks – another Mitchell for the Murray – a man who would have sons… & he was no longer living. Love, laughter and light…had gone.’
37
Wings to Find My Life
Just prior to beginning university in 1873, at the age of eighteen, Thomas William Mitchell, Dad’s uncle and Grandaddy M’s eldest b
rother, died of meningitis in West Melbourne. As a result Great-Grandfather Thomas Mitchell wouldn’t allow any of his other sons to follow their elder brother’s footsteps into tertiary education, or so Dad said. Dad’s elder brother, Thomas Hugh Mitchell (known as Uncle Hughie), was born on 21 February 1905 and died unexpectedly of unknown causes just three weeks later on 15 March, having lived only twenty-one days. Malcolm Chisholm, Dad’s cousin and eldest son of Pinkie (née Emma Isabella Mitchell) and Willie Chisholm, was killed in August 1914 in the First World War. Was it, I wonder, a coincidence that Harry, another eldest son, should also die so young? Was the family caught in an intergenerational pattern, or was it just a series of tragic accidents?
The coronial inquest into Harry’s death said: ‘Contusion of the brain and lacerations to both lungs accidentally received when the motor vehicle he was driving collided with another motor vehicle travelling in the opposite direction.’1 If discord between Mum and Dad had often unsettled me, Harry might have felt dogged by it to the point of distraction. Was Harry feeling so desperate about his future that he was not concentrating adequately on driving his grey Mini nor on the other traffic on the road? I haven’t seen the stretch of road on which he died and I don’t want to, because the road alone cannot provide any answers. It was a place where our lives changed forever. Afterwards my childhood was severed, as if divided by an impenetrable wall from the rest of my life.
Mum often remarked, ‘Changi touched you all, even though it happened before you were born.’ I have two questions I never asked in my parents’ lifetimes in response to Mum’s comment. First, what happened in Changi that ‘touched’ us all? And secondly, was Changi to blame for everything that went wrong after Dad returned at the end of the war? I didn’t ask Mum before she died as I didn’t want to cause further hurt when there was enough already. Later, I decided to do my own research.