Home Is A Strange Country Chapter 21

TWENTY ONE

CAPE TOWN TO MELBOURNE- SEPTEMBER 1906

     A week out of Cape Town and Florence noted that the weather was changing, becoming considerably colder than the journey had been so far. She stopped Mr Cookson on deck as he made his rounds of the passengers, checking the security of the ship and its contents.

     'Good morning Mr Cookson,' she said smiling at him. 'Can I ask you a question please?'

     'Of course Ma’am, fire away.' Florence stood thoughtfully for a moment then said, 'It’s getting colder this past few days, really cold. The temperature has dropped quite a bit. So, I want to know, are we going to see icebergs, and is this because we are following the Great Circle route?' Cookson stared at her in mild astonishment before answering.

     'Well I suppose the short answer is, yes, to both questions. We could see icebergs soon, and we are following a Great Circle to get to Melbourne. At the moment we are sailing almost south east, in a few days time we should be turning north east and then north to run into Port Philip.' Florence nodded her head and asked, 'Port Philip?'

     'That’s the name of the port just outside the city of Melbourne. We’ll be there for two days to unload everyone who is leaving us there, and the horses, so if you want to get ashore for a look around the city, this is your time to do it. But you mustn’t be late to get back on the ship, we don’t wait for anyone who is late.' He grinned at her, feeling that here was one passenger he would not have to chase back onboard the ship. Florence thanked him and, feeling chilled by the downturn in temperature, walked quickly back to her cabin, where she found that some form of heating system had warmed up the cabin quite nicely. Later on she lounged on her bed reading a book which she had borrowed from the ships library. It was all about Australia, and for Florence it filled in a lot of the gaps in her knowledge. She remained on her bed until the book was finished. What a place this sounds like, she thought to herself, can’t wait ‘til we get there.

     The following morning Florence woke and noticed immediately the temperature had dropped even more than the previous day. Gathering the counterpane around her shoulders she leaned up in bed on one elbow and pushed aside the curtain covering the window in the wall by the side of the bed. The sky was still a clear blue, but the colour had changed to one which was noticeably cooler and deeper in colour. Pushing herself up more to look directly out of the window she was amazed to see that from the horizon back to within a few hundred yards of the ship were icebergs. They did not cover the sea but there were a sufficiently large number for her to be unable to count them. The biggest appeared to be hundreds of feet long and high, the smallest was smaller than the ship itself. She shivered and sat watching the scene for some minutes until she was aware of Martha waking in the opposite bed.

     'Just have a look at this lot Martha,' she said. 'The sea is full of icebergs.' Martha slid from beneath her covers and gathered them around her to kneel alongside Florence on her bed and peered through the window with her.

     'Oh my God Flo. Are we going to be alright with that lot out there?'

     'I should think so, they haven’t just sprung up out of the sea, must have been there for most of the night. I’m sure Commodore Ditchburn will have had his men out looking for them and steering us away from them. Let’s go and get some breakfast and then go up on deck to see what’s going on.'

     The two women went to the dining room and found it was crowded with people, all buzzing with the same topic of conversation; the icebergs and how safe the ship was in their presence. It seemed that the drop in temperature had affected the passengers appetite as everyone took advantage of the hot food on offer. After breakfast Florence and Martha went out onto the deck wrapped in their heaviest dresses and coats, pulling on clothes they thought they would not have the need of during their lives in Australia. It was an eye opener for them both. They pulled down the sleeves of their coats to protect their hands against the cold and held onto the ships rail against the swell of the waves. They stared in amazement at the variety of icebergs which they passed, the colours ranged from blue to yellow and white. Colours they never had expected.

     'They’re like monsters aren’t they?' Florence said to Martha quietly. Martha nodded her head without comment, and looked from one sight to another, sometimes extending her hand to point to a new one as it came into their view. The two women watched in silence for the most part, joined from time to time by other passengers, themselves awed into silence by what they saw. Soon the cold wormed its insidious way through their clothing and they were forced shivering back into the warmth of the various public rooms to drink mugs of hot tea or coffee provided for them by the waiters.

     The icebergs became a familiar sight to all of the passengers, and after a couple of days the novelty wore off, so that they simply gave them a passing glance if they were in sight on the deck or where one came close to the ship and could be seen through the windows. Which is not to say they were not in any potential danger. However, as Florence said to Martha, 'Lots of other ships have made it this far without hitting one, so I suppose we’ll be alright.' It was a comfort to know that the ship was made of solid steel, and had an alert crew to guide and protect them. What could go wrong?

     The following afternoon Florence was standing once again on the open deck holding the deck rail, steadying herself against the waves which had become a little higher during the morning, and were now causing a pronounced and definite bow wave as the ship pushed its way to Melbourne. Mr Cookson walked along the deck towards her and stood still a few feet away from her.

     'Good afternoon Mrs Lowe' he said. 'Enjoying the view?' Florence looked sideways towards him and smiled.

     'I see we are finally going north now Mr Cookson' she said.

     'Oh yes. How do you work that out then Mrs Lowe?' He returned her smile and gripped the deck rail lightly with one gloved hand.

     'When I was a child my Pa used to tell me that the sun would always set over the Prospect Mill in Bolton if I was standing in our back yard of our house, so I learned which was north and south. He told me about the points of the compass and so I looked at the sun today and it’s over there,' she pointed out over the port side of the ship. ''Cos it's over there at this time of day that's the west and ‘cos it’s on our left hand side, well, that means we are going north. And the icebergs disappeared yesterday as well.' She grinned a cheeky grin. 'Unless the captain has decided we’re not going to Australia and he’s taking us somewhere else.' Mr Cookson gave a strangled laugh,

     'No, you’re right, almost. We’re going north north east at the moment, I’ve just come from the bridge and that’s the course we’re on today. But you’re right about the sun.' He pointed out over the rail to the sun, still high in the sky, but well past its zenith. 'So, in under a week we should be approaching Albany in Western Australia. After offloading we'll be off to Melbourne. We have to offload the rest of the horses and most of the passengers there then we’ll leave for Sydney'

     Florence considered what he had said for a moment then said, 'I think I'll take your advice and have a look at Melbourne, as we’re there for two days. I suppose it’s easy enough to get into the city from the dockside?'

     'Oh yes, no trouble at all. There’s a regular train service right from the dock offices into the centre of Melbourne, shouldn’t take too long, it’s about four miles, that’s all. If you go to the Sandridge station it will take you right into the centre of the city to the Melbourne Terminus. It’s on the corner of Flinders Street, right next to the fish market, so if you are  not sure of where you are, just follow your nose and the smell of fish.' He laughed, and Florence joined in. 'It’s a beautiful building and you can’t fail to miss it. It’s got four stories and is all gold and red brick. Last time I was here it was being extended, not sure if it’s finished yet.' He paused and then continued,  'I think you’ll like Melbourne. It’s a beautiful place. Lots of fairly new buildings, ’cos it’s the capital, and they’re still building it. There are lots of things to see whilst you are there. Just take care of yourself if you are going by yourself though, there are one or two places you might not like to go to once the sun goes down. But don’t let me put you off. It’s a fine city and I’m sure you'll like it. Maybe you would be best to get the Circular Tram when you get there. It'll take you round the outskirts of the city centre, give you an idea what it is like and how big it is.'

     'Thanks Mr Cookson, I’ll remember that. I’ll probably be going with Martha, we both want to have a look at the place and stretch our legs a bit.' Mr Cookson nodded his head in agreement with her suggestion, then, tipping his cap politely made his farewell and walked away down the deck.

     On the ninth of September the ship pulled into Albany on the southern tip of Western Australia where, as Mr Cookson had said, some of the cargo was discharged to the dockside and some of the passengers left the ship to make a start on their new lives. More importantly to the inhabitants of the town of Albany though was the delivery of mail from England, which the Persic carried. Because Albany was the first port of call in Australia for the post from England, the arrival of any of the mail ships was eagerly awaited. The mail travelled by coach from Albany to various parts of the country. It was faster than the ships passage.

     The Persic stayed overnight in the port, leaving on the tenth in the early hours of the morning. At dinner that night Florence and Martha were seated as usual by themselves, at a table close to one which contained six single men, who were obviously enjoying a story being told by one of them to the others. After several outbursts of raucous laughter Florence’s curiosity could stand it no longer and enquired from the young man closest to them what they were laughing at. He was a young ruddy faced individual wearing a coarse jacket and trousers which did not match in any way, the jacket being a green tweed whilst the trousers were a light brown. He leaned back in his seat and related his story quietly to Florence whilst the others at his table fell silent. Florence and Martha listened in silence whilst Mr Cochran, the storyteller, related the tale. It appeared that during the early hours of that morning whilst the ship was still tied up alongside the hook shaped pier standing out from the dockside into King George Sound, an incident had occurred.

     About two o’clock that morning one of the passengers, a retired English Army, Major Ernest Elliot, had somehow or other fallen from the gangway from the pier to the ship into the harbour. No doubt, Mr Cochran speculated, the good Major was under the influence of an excess of alcohol. Luckily for the Major though, one of the other passengers who had probably accompanied him, managed to fish him out of the water, with no apparent injury to either of them. The hilarity of the situation was being spread around with many of the other passengers, all of them adding and embellishing the story as it was told and re-told. Florence felt the men were being a little too cruel in the re-telling of the story and sat with a stony face as Cochran completed the telling.

     'I don’t think that’s funny. He could have drowned. How would you feel about that then?' She said eventually, and turned back to her table where she and Martha completed their meal in silence. It appeared that the dampening of Major Elliot had no detrimental effect on him or the ship, as it sailed from the port of Albany on time at six thirty in the morning of Sunday, the tenth of September.

     On the fourteenth of September Mr Cookson’s words were still familiar in Florence's mind when two and a half weeks after leaving Cape Town the SS Persic pulled alongside the dock at Sandridge, a few miles south of the city of Melbourne. The final part of the journey into the port was a scene of frantic activity onboard. Those leaving the ship were busy packing their luggage, and the crew made final preparations for the cargo and horses to be offloaded onto the dock.

     The ship slid slowly through the entrance to the wide bay which had been one of the first places in Australia to be discovered. Slowly, the ship was manoeuvred across the bay, which opened up in front of them into an almost circular shape. Though relatively shallow it provided good anchorage to the early ships, and today it was a large natural harbour, capable of taking ships of any size into its safe anchorage. As the SS Persic slowly pulled alongside the dock, built like a pier from the edge of the harbour out into the bay, Florence and Martha walked from their cabin after breakfast and stood on the deck to gain the best vantage point to watch all that was happening, both onboard and on the dock itself. Florence took hold of the deck rail alongside Martha. 'Here Martha, this rail’s wet.' She said.

'Didn’t you hear the rain last night? It was hammering it down for ages,' her friend replied. Florence looked at the rain which was still clearly visible in globules on the deck and the deck rail.

'I never heard a thing,' she said. 'Must have been dead to the world.'

The two women pointed alternately to things which caught their eye either on the dock or on the shore. A narrow gauge railway ran down the centre of the length of the dock, horses pulling carts of cargo from the shore to the ships laid up alongside both sides of the docks. Porters and dockworkers pulling on small hand held carts laden with luggage for the passenger ships, and others with larger carts laden with cargo for the holds. They watched with excited anticipation as their ship became ready for the discharge of its passengers and cargo; in particular they were interested in the horses which had accompanied them from England.

     Ten thoroughbred horses, destined for a variety of breeders in the state of Victoria, Tasmania and New South Wales, who hoped to improve the strains of racehorse flesh in the country, had made the journey with them, and now their excited noises and stamping sounded loud beneath decks in the front cargo hold when the smell of dry land hit their nostrils. The two young women watched as cargo handlers assisted the grooms, who had accompanied the horses on their trip from England. The grooms tied broad blue canvas harnesses under the belly of each horse and attached the harness to the derricks on the foredeck. Some of the horses went peacefully and swung over the side of the ship to the dockside, seemingly grateful to be going back on dry land, whilst others were visibly distressed by the airborne experience, their legs thrashing or just simply twitching against the movement and harness. Five of the horses were offloaded at Melbourne, whilst the other five remained onboard for the trip to Sydney, where they too would be offloaded. The grooms safely escorted the horses to the dock where their instinct was to try and immediately escape the harness. The grooms held them secure against a head collar and lead rein, and stood talking quietly to them, and stroking them to calm them down. Eventually, as each horse calmed down, the groom led it away. Some of them were taken away directly to a dockside stable where they would remain for a few days waiting for their new owners to collect them, whilst others were loaded into the backs of wooden horse boxes drawn up in a short line on the dock. Each box could accommodate two horses, if needed, which were loaded into the boxes by a ramp lowered down from the back of the vehicle to the dockside. Once loaded and comfortably tied by their lead rein the ramp was raised, and the groom took his place alongside the driver, who controlled the two dray horses which then slowly pulled the box along the dock to its final destination on the outskirts of the city. The whole process took over two hours to complete, preventing other cargo being offloaded at the same time, only then did the cargo, human and non-human, start to leave the ship.

     When the first of the passengers for Melbourne started to leave the ship, Florence and Martha joined them in the walk down the gangway onto the dockside, and enjoyed their first experience of dry land since their departure from Liverpool. At Cape Town they had decided not to venture into the city from fear induced by other passengers who told tales of experiences which were then exaggerated by others who had made the trip. Flourishing umbrellas against the constant thin rain which had started, the two women walked carefully along the line of the narrow railway to the edge of the docks, and finally through the ornate dock gates into the suburb of Sandridge. They followed the directions given to them by Mr Cookson and found the railway station and then the train to the centre of the city. The journey took no more than twenty minutes, and both of them were pleasantly surprised when they came out of the station to find themselves in the centre of a busy bustling wide road, close to a wide bridge over the river Yarra. The two of them stood for a few minutes looking around them, taking in the new sights. They stared in some amazement at the railway station. It was four stories high and still being built upon further. The brick used in its construction was faced in red and yellow, and as clean as anything either had ever seen; not at all like a dirty English railway station. At one side of the main entrance to the station was a temporary extension building, being used as a ticket office. Opposite the station were other similar sized buildings, all apparently quite recently constructed. They caught a brown single deck tram outside the station and took their seats on the street side, watching out through the windows as the tram chugged its noisy way along the streets of Melbourne.

     The tram took them around the outer edges of the city centre and gave them tantalising views of magnificent buildings either fully finished, or in the course of construction, alongside others which looked to have been built some years before. When the tram passed the ends of the streets they were given views down hills to the centre of the city. 'Feels like we are riding around a tea cup doesn't it Flo?' Martha quipped. Florence simply nodded her head, trying to take in all the buildings, the signs on them, the roofs and the glimpses of streets falling away from them on the outskirts of the centre. There were imposing churches, hotels, office buildings, shops and theatres; all built one next to the other, and seemingly inhabited by an army of people who scurried like large upright ants into and out of them. At one point on their trip they came to a crossroads where the street they were on fell gently away from them. They saw three churches set on three sides of a wide crossroads. Reading the name on a large notice board set in the grounds outside one of the churches Florence discovered it was a cathedral, the other two being smaller and less grand in design, but no less imposing. By the time they had completed half a circuit of the city centre the thin but steady rain had stopped, and the heavy cloud which had hung over the city from early morning now blew off courtesy of a wind which came across the city from off the sea. From leaving the ship the rain had been light but fairly persistent and the two women soon became wet, but now that it had cleared up they decided to walk for a while and dry off their clothes.

'Thought this was supposed to be a nice warm dry country' Flo said a little morosely. Martha laughed.

     'Can’t have it hot and sunny all the time or nowt would grow. Anyway, looks like the weather’s picking up, skies’re clearing, clouds’re clearing. A bit of a walk will do us good after being cooped up on the ship all this time. Come on misery, cheer up.' She punched Florence lightly on the arm. 'Let’s get off here.'  

They got off the tram near to the Parliament buildings and dodged the puddles lying on the flagged pavements as they crossed over the street. Opposite the imposing Parliament building, with its lines of columns was an equally imposing hotel, The Windsor Hotel, which seemed to them to be as large and imposing as the Parliament building. They read and remembered the street names on the side of the buildings, so that they would be able more easily to find their way back to the trams and trains for their return journey to the ship.

After walking a short way along Spring Street near to the Parliament building, they looked over to one side of the street, and discovered it overlooked some railway lines and sidings. They decided that the area seemed to be winding away from the city centre. After a brief conversation they turned around and re-traced their steps towards the stop they had arrived at. Standing for a moment at the top of Bourke Street with the Parliament buildings behind them they looked down the hill towards the city centre, taking in the broad roadways and pavements studded with trees which were casting shade over the pedestrians now that the sun had come out again.

     'Isn’t it grand Flo?' Martha said quietly.

     'Beautiful. I bet this is as big a city as Manchester or London.'

     'You think so? Not sure, never been to London. Tell you what though, it's a heck of a lot cleaner.'

     They walked down Bourke Street for a short while and then turned right along an arbitrarily chosen narrow lane, until they came to Little Bourke Street, then across a main road where they finally turned left onto yet another street going downhill. The thought came to them that they were almost lost.

'I hope you're keeping an eye on where we are going Martha' Florence said.

     'It’s easy Flo. This place is built on a grid system.' Florence looked at her friend questioningly. 'I mean that the streets go straight in both directions. When one of them crosses another street, well that one is straight as well. Have you not noticed? It means that as long as you keep taking left turns or right turns, well, eventually you’ll come back onto the street you started at. Keep your eyes on the streets we go down.' Florence nodded her head and looked around her at the street they were on at that moment. They were close to a magnificent building made from soft light fawn coloured stone, and separated from the roadway by wide green lawns and surrounded by a black metal fence. It did not appear to welcome unannounced visitors. The entrance to the building, a wide pillared doorway was accessed by a stately range of steps leading from the street across the lawns to the doors at the front. The two women stood looking in awe at the building and read on a notice that it was the State Library of Victoria.

     'Let’s have a bit of a rest shall we Flo?' Martha said. She pointed to the small wall which held the fence. Florence grinned and walked to the wall where they both sat down, Martha slumped beside her and bent to massage her feet.

     'Needed this Flo,' she said. 'My feet are killing me.' Florence looked around her for the name of the street and found it on a building at the corner.

     'La Trobe Street' she said. Martha followed her glance.

     'Swanston Street,' Martha said. 'What?'

     'It’s on Swanston Street, La Trobe Street is that one over there.' She indicated the street on the corner.

     'Must have been a Scouser' Florence said.

     'What?' Martha asked.

     'You know, Liverpudlians, Scousers. Scousers always say, ‘Alright La?’ when they are asking you how you are. So this Trobe feller must have been a Scouser, La must have been his first name.' Martha burst out laughing, both women bent low over their aching feet on the pavement, causing two women walking past them to look in their direction.

     'You’re mad you are Flo.' said Martha. The two young women sat on the wall for a few minutes, easing their feet and wiping sweat from their foreheads with the backs of their hands. Florence looked at her wristwatch.

     'Time we were getting back to the ship Martha?' she asked.

     'I think so. By the time we get there it should be time for dinner, or getting on that way.' Martha replied.

     Martha was right. They stopped off to have a cup of tea at a small cafe on Bourke Street, then caught the tram back to the station on Flinders Street and then a tram to the docks. By the time they arrived back onboard it was almost time for dinner to be served. The ship was quiet as they approached. Cargo had been discharged and reloaded, passengers had left, and it appeared that the passengers who had left had not been replaced. The ship was quieter than when they had left. It now held just over a hundred passengers for the final leg of their journey to Sydney, though it seemed to hold the same number of crew members, judging from the number of waiters who busied around them in the dining room that evening.

Home Is A Strange Country Chapter 20

TWENTY

LIVERPOOL TO CAPE TOWN AUGUST 1906

     That first morning onboard the Persic something awoke Florence with a start. She opened her eyes and immediately knew where she was, but it was the strange noise which woke her which she had difficulty placing. She held her breath in case the noise repeated itself and then breathed out again when it didn't. She moved her head to one side and saw that her cabin mate, Martha, was apparently still fast asleep. Florence reached to the small cubby hole set in the wall by the side of her head and took out the wrist watch she had placed there last night. The time showed a little after eight in the morning. Smiling to herself she stretched long and luxuriantly, then turned onto her side fully, and with her head supported by her hand she started to read the ships programme which they had found slipped under the doorway last night on returning to the cabin. Breakfast would be served at eight thirty in the main dining room, followed by lunch at one o'clock and dinner at six thirty in the evening. The thought of three heavy meals a day brought a smile to her lips and she turned over onto her back and threw off the bedclothes. Martha stirred in her bed and looked towards Florence. 'Mornin'' she murmured sleepily.

     'And a very good morning to you young lady,' called Florence loud and joyfully, and kicked her feet off the bed onto the floor. 'Come on lazy bones. Time to get out of your pit and off to breakfast.' Her friend moaned in mock horror.

     'Don't tell me you are always this cheerful in the morning' she said.

     'Always. Makes you sick doesn't it?' Florence replied grinning and started to dress herself. Martha climbed slowly out of her bed and the two of them juggled and nudged each other for several minutes as they both tried to dress at the same time in the confined space between the two beds in the room. Eventually they were dressed and made their way down to the large dining room in the deck below. At a little after a quarter to nine the room was almost full and the two young women waited patiently until a waiter found them an unoccupied table against one of the walls. He handed them each a menu and said,

     'Have a look at what you want and I’ll be back in a bit, but to start with you’ll find porridge and Quaker Oats, toast and rolls on that table over there,' turning his head in the direction of a long table set further along the wall by which they were seated. Florence nodded her head as the young man left them. They looked surreptitiously around at their fellow passengers taking breakfast with them, and discovered that whilst there were some obviously married couples, some with children and infants, there were also some unaccompanied women like themselves, but the majority of the people onboard appeared to be single, unattached young men.

     'Oooo,' cooed Martha, her head bent low over her menu.

     'Behave yourself Martha Luck,' Florence said quietly. 'You’re a married woman.'

     'I know, but I’m just looking at the menu,' she replied, and took the menu card in her hand close up to her face, a broad smile creasing her face. 'There’s a lot to choose from isn't there?' she giggled.

     'Martha!' Florence admonished, hissing between her teeth. 'Stop it. Concentrate on what you’re going to eat.'

     'That’s the trouble Flo. I am.' Martha looked from behind the menu, grinning back at her.

     The menu was extensive. In addition to the toast and rolls, tea and coffee and porridge, which would normally have been a substantial breakfast for either of the two women, there was also bacon and fried eggs, Devilled bones, Minced Collops and mashed potatoes, Mutton chops, chipped potatoes, Sausage and rice, stewed Tripe and onions, Curry and rice, Irish stew, Liver and Bacon, Dry Hash, Sausage and Mashed potatoes. It took them both several minutes to decide on what they wished to eat. The waiter stood by their sides patiently, occasionally explaining to them what individual dishes were, the ones they had never encountered before. Finally they made their choices and sat back to wait for the waiter to return. The noise in the dining room rose as people sat back to wait for their breakfasts to be brought to them, and when the meals were brought, the noise level dropped again as people fell into eating their dishes.

     After breakfast Flo and Martha took themselves around the deck to exercise some of the food off. 'I can’t see me eating this much for the rest of the trip' Martha said.

     'I’ll be as fat as a pig before we get to Sydney.' Florence replied as they considered whether to sit on one of the wooden deck seats and chairs which were lined up on part of the deck area. 'Keep going Martha. We need to get some exercise,' Florence said as Martha appeared to be ready to sit on one of the chairs. Martha walked along with her, until finally, after an hour they were sufficiently tired to consider they warranted a rest. Florence lounged back in the deck chair on the outer deck, examining the other canvas seats arranged alongside them. The sun was shining brightly over the far side of the ship, casting a shadow over them as they sat on the starboard side. Though still in the shade they were soon hot. Florence lifted her head to look over the side of the ship. The sea was a deep blue and only a few waves broke the surface, the sunlight flickering on the tips of the waves as they glided smoothly through the water. 'Where do you reckon we are Flo?' Martha asked.

     'Somewhere at sea I think,' Florence replied grinning. Martha flicked her hand across from her deck chair and hit Florence on the arm.

     'Smarty pants' she said.

     'I think we are somewhere near France or Spain at the moment, on our way down to Africa. Should be crossing the line in a week so I think.' Martha glanced across to her.

     'What do you mean, crossing the line?' she asked.

     'It’s when we cross over the Equator. Sometimes they do a sort of party onboard ships when you cross from the north to the south, when you go over the Equator line.' Florence replied. 'I read about it in a book from the library in town. It’s a sort of ceremony which people going across the Equator are involved in by the crews of ships. We might get involved in it, or maybe not. I think there’s too many passengers onboard for everyone to be involved.' She paused for a moment before continuing. 'No. They’ll probably just put on a show for us using the new crew members.' She nodded her head to confirm what she had said. Martha stretched out her arms above her head,

     'Oh, it’s beautiful isn’t it? I could manage this sort of life forever and ever. Couldn’t you?'

     'Might get tired of it eventually, but I think it would take a long time.' Florence grinned.

     The two women stayed on deck for some time, finding themselves dozing into a light sleep from time to time, the unaccustomed heavy breakfast acting well as a soporific. They were roused from their slumberous state by the sound of a bell ringing somewhere from inside the ship. Other passengers seated alongside them on the deck woke with a start and stared from one to the other wondering what this interruption was about. A sailor carrying a tray on his upturned hand walked slowly along the deck calling out,

     'Lunch is served ladies and gentlemen. Lunch is served.' Florence groaned loudly and said softly.

     'Bloody hell Martha, what're they trying to do, feed us up to kill us for fresh meat?' The two women eased themselves from the canvas deck chairs and walked slowly down into the dining room to undergo yet another trial by food.

     At the end of the first week both women noticed that some of their clothes were beginning to become quite tight around their waists, and so they decided to cut down on what they were eating, but both found it difficult. The food was not only of a high quality, and fresh from the onboard refrigerated stores, but also came in quantities both women found difficult to refuse.

     The White Star Line had gone to great lengths to change the nature of life onboard for the passengers to Australia. The ships were bigger than earlier ones on the route, and built specifically for the Australia run. The SS Persic, one of five in a new Jubilee class built for the line, was five hundred and fifty feet long, sixty three across the widest part and forty three feet from the bottom of the hull to deck. There were areas set aside on the deck for sports, and both women took part in Deck Tennis; Shuffleboard and Deck Quoits competitions were held daily. They also took advantage of the free postcards and headed notepaper and envelopes to write from time to time to their respective families, settling themselves in the comfortable chairs set at the round tables in the Reading and Writing room. Along the main deck areas there were lines of canvas chairs and deck chairs for the sole use of passengers, and during the warm weather of Florence’s voyage these were constantly in use by all the passengers. Whilst the vessel also carried cargo, the passengers were never inconvenienced by its presence. Even when the crew were engaged in loading or unloading at the ports where the ship called. Even the ten thoroughbred horses onboard appeared to be enjoying the trip, little or nothing could be detected of their presence by the other human passengers. From time to time during their post dinner evening walks around the ship, they would peep into the Smoking Room and catch glimpses of men settling back in easy chairs smoking on their pipes, cigars or cigarettes. Occasionally Florence considered causing a stir by entering the room by herself, but her nerve failed her at the last moment. In any case, she thought, I don't smoke, but it would be good to cause a bit of a commotion, just for once to go into the room.

     Five days out from Liverpool Martha stood by herself on the starboard side of the upper deck looking south towards the horizon. The sun was shining brightly in a clear cloudless sky. Yet, it appeared to her that a large bank of dark cloud was covering part of the horizon, and to Florence's mind this was a sure sign of forthcoming bad weather. She searched around for Mr Cookson and caught sight of him on the lower deck beneath her. He was supervise a gang of four men who were clearing away tarpaulin coverings from one of the forward hatches, whilst another group of sailors appeared to be slackening off the lines which restrained one of the small winches set in the forward part of the deck. Mr Cookson glanced around the deck at the work the men were doing and took off his cap for a moment to wipe his brown. He saw Florence on the deck above him alongside the bridge and raised a hand in a friendly greeting to her. She waved back and called to him.

     'Mr Cookson, what's that big cloud? Is it a storm?' she called. She pointed out to the horizon whilst holding onto the polished wooden deck rail against the gently swelling of the sea. Mr Cookson's head turned and followed in the direction she was pointing, then turned back and called up to Florence, 'That's Madeira Miss.' Noting he was busily occupied with work with the gang of men Florence simply nodded her head and silently mouthed a thank you, before turning to walk back along the deck so as not to distract him further. For fifteen minutes she stood watching as the cloud shrouded island came closer, until her legs became tired of simply standing, and she found herself a deck chair on the lower deck where she could watch the unfolding scene in seated comfort. Florence eased herself down into the seat and watched the sea rising and falling gently in her view. The sun shone down on her, forcing her to screw up her eyes against the bright light. Soon she was asleep, and remained that way until a short kick on her right ankle woke her with a start. It was Martha. 'You were snoring like a good 'un there Flo,' she said. Florence pulled herself upright in the seat and ran her hand across a thin line of dribble from her mouth across her chin. 'I weren't were I?' she muttered, looking around her to see who was sitting close by and who might have seen her in her dishevelled state. There was no one. 'Like a good 'un Flo.' Her friend said as she pulled up a second deck chair alongside Florence.

     'Anyway, what's so special for you to spend so much time up here. Found a new feller have you?' she asked. Florence hit out at her with her hand and only just missed catching her arm. 'You cheeky monkey' she said. 'Happily married woman I am, don't you know?' The two women settled down in silence to watch the bank of cloud growing closer by the minute. Their silence was interrupted by the approach of Mr Cookson from the rear of the ship. He stopped in front of them and raised a hand to his cap. 'Afternoon ladies. Enjoying the sun?'

     'Thanks Mr C. ' Florence replied, 'We are indeed. Lovely isn't it? Bit like Blackpool on a good day.' The three of them laughed and Mr Cookson made to leave them, but Florence stopped him. 'Mr Cookson. Why is that cloud bank so big? It seems to be getting bigger and bigger the closer we get, and I keep thinking I can see bits of something peeping over the top of it.'

     'That's the island of Madeira.' He said. 'It's about thirty five miles long and very high, made of old volcanoes, and really lovely. Very green and lots of trees and flowers and things. We are going to pull in there to take on some fresh fruit and maybe some fish. They have one like a snake which they catch by shining a light into the sea. They call it a Black Scabbard.' He stopped as the woman looked at him in disbelief.

     'Go on, pull the other leg.' Florence said. 'It's got bells on and plays Annie Laurie.' Cookson frowned at her, not understanding quiet what she had meant. 'I'm serious,' he continued, 'The fish lives deep down in the sea but it comes up to  near the surface at night to feed. The fishermen shine a big light down on the surface and that attracts the fish to them. When it comes up they hook it on a line and then it's next stop is the market. So, we could see some on the dinner table soon.'

     Florence and Martha looked at each other not knowing just how much of what Mr Cookson had said that they could trust, and decided they could trust him. 'So when are going to see this Black Scabbard then?' Martha asked. Cookson took a silver plated pocket watch from a fob attached to his coat lapel and flipped open the case. 'Should be no more than a few hours from now.' He said. 'We'll be taking on fruit and vegetables from the island then be off again.' Florence turned her head towards the island which was now becoming clearer as the ship drew closer. She saw that the cloud was shrouded over the mountains on the island only on the north side as the Persic drew closer to the west of the island.

     Within an hour the ship had drawn round the tip of the island where, for the first time, she had a good view of the land. It was so green and mountainous, she had never before seen anything like it. She could clearly make out forests of tall trees and roads cut through them, but as her eyes came down the mountain to the sea, she was unable to make out a quayside substantial enough to take the Persic. She stood by the ships rail watching as the ship drew closer and closer to a township some distance from the western tip they had rounded. Small towns and hamlets seemed to be built onto the sides of precarious mountainsides, held together by small sinewy roads which followed the rise and fall of the hills until they fell down to the sea. Slowly the ship drew close to the town where a small jetty had been built in stone to incorporate two natural stone outcrops close to the far edge of the town. The jetty itself was quite high and formed of smooth concrete. Men and boys ran along its length as the ship drew slowly to a halt in the bay before dropping its anchor, stopping stern first to the edge of the shore. That had answered Florence's unasked question.

     She walked along to the stern of the ship and watched as small boats with two or three men on board rowed out from the rocky shore to the ships' side. Leaning over the rail she watched a conversation carried out between the men in the bobbing boats and one of the ship's crew who was standing on the lower level of a metal ladder stretching from the side of the ship almost to the waters' edge. It seemed that between the men one of them spoke Portuguese or English, she was not close enough to make out precisely what was being said, but guessed from their activities that some sort of transaction was being negotiated. Over the next half hour the small boats left the safety of the Persic and returned to the rocks on the shore where large loaded sacks, piled high on the shore line, were lifted by teams of men into the rowing boats and then ferried out to the ship. Once there the derrick was swung over the side and the sacks brought onboard where men of the ship's crew carried them between them into the holds of the ship. The refurbishment of fresh fruit and vegetables had taken no more than an hour and a half, and then the anchor was raised and once more the ship sailed out from the island, south towards Africa.

     Two days later there was a small riot onboard, or so it would have seemed to a casual observer. The passengers crushed to the rear of the ship to watch the proceedings. The disturbance was the Crossing the Line ceremony which the ship’s crew put on for the entertainment of the passengers. On the stern deck the crew arranged a canvas swimming pool which they filled with water from the ocean, and around it they built a series of long planks for the passengers to sit on whilst the entertainment progressed. The various members of Neptune’s assistants were displayed in all their costumed glory to the amusement of the passengers, as the crew went through the ritual of Crossing the Line. The ‘Pollywogs,’ one of the names given to crew who had never before made the trip, were inducted into the ritual. This involved them being smothered in various sticky foodstuffs, until it was impossible for the passengers to recognise who was who. Eventually they became trusted ‘ Shellbacks.’ This was followed by a ducking in the canvas swimming pool, the newly inducted members of Neptune’s men became lifelong members of his crew, or Sons of Neptune. Lasting for over two hours the passengers were happy when it all came to an end, and they were able to stretch their legs and resume a leisurely walk on the promenade decks. A memorable day for everyone, particularly the inducted crew!

     During the course of the journey Florence came to be aware of the variety of the social makeup of the passengers. Most appeared to her to be single men. Obviously attracted by the tales from the gold fields of Victoria, she thought. Though now it had been some fifty years ago, the gold fields were still attracting would be prospectors. There were several farmers with their wives and families on the ship, attracted by the subsidised passage and the promise of free or cheap land for cultivation in the new country. Australia had become a Federation of States only five years earlier, rather than a colony of the Empire. After much politicking and delays and votes, Australia had become a Federation of the various states, and this coming of age of the country had produced a steady outburst of new ideas and incentives to try to encourage immigration into the country. Suddenly the nation, and its people, found that they could try almost anything they wished without interference from England.  New ideas were tried out without having to look over their shoulders at 'the Old Country'. It had been a successful process, so successful that the White Star Line, along with other shipping lines, had become convinced enough of the burgeoning passenger trade to build ships specifically for the transport of immigrants to the country. In view of the lengthy nature of the trip to the new country, as opposed to some of the other major immigrant destinations, mainly Canada and America, the ships were constructed to carry more passengers in more comfort. This decision had the effect of removing some of the stigma attached to the label ‘immigrant’ from the ship, and the subsequent connotation of ‘steerage’ class. The single class ships built by the line had proved successful.  All of the ships were of almost twelve thousand tons, and capable of carrying up to three hundred passengers in addition to a substantial volume of cargo; this was an important factor in providing revenue for the vessel on its return journey from Australia to the England. For Florence, Martha and many of the other working class people making the voyage alongside them, the standard of life on the ships provided a level of comfort to which they had never before been exposed. The quantity and quality of food they enjoyed onboard was far higher than the majority of them had had in their homes in England. The provision of entertainment on the ships, the rooms set aside for quite reflection, the provision of books in a small library in the Reading and Writing Room, and the organised music and sports which took place on a regular basis, on an almost daily basis, gave them a taste of a life they had perhaps only read about before stepping on the ship at Liverpool.

     Three weeks after leaving Liverpool Florence was standing on the deck one morning after breakfast. She saw what appeared to be a low cloud covering part of the eastern horizon, a cloud which seemed neither to move nor grow bigger in any way. She stood alone watching the cloud for a few moments when she heard the footsteps of someone approaching her. It was Mr Cookson, the Chief Mate. He was walking along the deck towards her. She moved back from the rail into his path and smiled at him when he stopped and raised his right hand to the neb of his cap in a casual salute.

     'Good morning Ma’am. Can I help you?' he asked. Florence smiled broadly at him. She liked this man, had done from the first day he had shown her onboard. She felt he was a warm individual who always appeared to try to make life onboard happy and enjoyable for all the passengers.

     'Yes please Mr Cookson, you can.' She turned back to the ships rail and pointed out across the ocean to where she had seen the cloud. 'Is that a cloud out there Mr Cookson, or is it land?' The First Mate stood by her side at the rail and followed with his eyes where her hand was pointed. For a moment he screwed up his eyes under his cap against the sun before turning to her.

     'That, Mrs Lowe, is Africa. To be more precise, that is Table Mountain which you can see, the mountain which lies just behind Cape Town, our next port of call.' He turned and smiled at her. 'Well done Mrs Lowe. I think that you are the first person onboard to spot land since leaving Madeira.' Florence beamed widely and turned back to look at the cloud which lay over Table Mountain.

     'Well I never' she said softly. 'Africa. How exciting.'

     'We are due in port there some time tomorrow to take on a few more passengers and to deliver some of the cargo we have onboard. We should be in port for twelve or eighteen hours before we set off again for Melbourne.' He paused then asked, 'This is your first time here isn’t it?' Florence nodded her head.

     'Yes, first time I’ve ever been out of England. It’s all strange and very exciting for me, and for Martha as well.'

     'Not frightened about it?' Cookson asked.

     'Not really, more excited than anything else. I’m really looking forward to seeing my husband again in Sydney. That’s another four weeks though isn’t it?'

     'That’s right, four weeks after we leave Cape Town we’ll be pulling in to Sydney, couple of days before that we’ll stop off in Melbourne for a day, then off again to Sydney.'

     Florence was thoughtful for a few seconds, considering what he had said. She looked up at him and then said softly,

     'A lot of people’s lives will change thanks to you, this ship, and Commodore Ditchburn, won’t they Mr Cookson?' Cookson looked down at the young woman by his side. He was a little taken aback by her question, it displayed a level of intelligence and thoughtfulness he had never anticipated in a working class woman from the north of England.

     'I suppose you’re right Ma’am' he said, 'Never really thought of it very much to tell the truth, but, yes, you are right. A lot of people will be starting a new life in Australia won’t they? I don’t think much about it as I tend to think of what I will be doing when I get back home after whatever trip I’ve been on, but, yes, you are probably right' He mulled over their short conversation for a moment, then, touching his hat once more excused himself and carried on walking slowly along the deck. Florence stared out across the sea at the low patch of cloud lying on the horizon to the east and south of their position.

     Florence stood by the ships rail for a few minutes more until she realised that the cloud she could see was not becoming any larger, so went downstairs to the Reading and Writing Room. The staircase which curled down between the two decks was grand and beautifully finished in wood panelling, picked out with white, cream and ivory coloured paintwork. On the wall were framed prints of old sailing ships, some of them having belonged in the past to the White Star Line, and others of fishing boats close in to the shore. In the Writing Room itself were framed maps of the oceans of the world. On them Florence used to frequently and excitedly trace the path the ship was taking to Australia. She opened the door and walked through into the room. One of the tables was occupied by four young men, all reading out of date English newspapers. She nodded an acknowledgement to them and walked over to one of the larger maps on the wall. It showed the earth laid out in a way she had never seen before. All the countries were flat and the seas also. She ran a finger from England to France then on to Spain and Africa, stopping at Cape Town on the southern tip of the continent. Then her eye went to the right, across the map, until she came to the western edge of Australia and traced her finger round the bottom to come to Melbourne, and then up a little to the right until finally her finger stopped at Sydney. For a few minutes she studied the map in detail, her eye going from one country to the next and across the sea, trying to understand out why it took three weeks for the long journey from England to Cape Town, yet took four weeks from Cape Town to Melbourne, which did not seem to be further in distance on the map. It did not appear to make any sense.

     She had been standing there for several minutes when she became aware that one of the men had risen from his seat to walk over to her. She turned and smiled as he stood to one side of her. He was older than her and wore a brown flecked worsted three piece suit over a white collar and dark brown tie. His hair was dark brown and thick on his head over a long angular tanned face. He smiled and nodded towards her.

     'Can I be of assistance to you?' he asked. Florence nodded her head and pointed to the tip of Africa and then across the map to Australia.

     'I’ve been trying to work out why it takes so long to go from here to here, and yet it only takes three weeks from England to here,' she said, indicating Cape Town. 'I can’t work it out.' He grinned at her then said,

     'It’s all because of the way the map is laid out and what they call Great Circles.' Florence’s expression showed complete puzzlement. 'Well,' he said, 'To start with, the earth is round, not flat like this map. And it’s not exactly round like a ball either, it’s more like an orange, flat at the top and bottom.' Florence pulled a mental picture to her mind of the large fresh orange she had eaten the previous night during her dinner. She nodded her understanding and the young man continued. 'Imagine that Cape Town is near the bottom of the orange and directly below England, and near to where it starts to go flat.' He paused for the image to sink in then carried on. 'Well, from Cape Town here on the map you have two ways to go to Australia. One is to go right round on the same level as Cape Town, the same latitude it’s called, or, you can go further south and then when you are level with Melbourne, come north. Does that make sense?' Florence looked at where he had been pointing on the map and tried to relate it to the orange in her head.

     'I think so.' She finally answered. 'So if you just went on the same latitude, then it would be a longer voyage, on the map, than if you went here and then north to Melbourne?' She traced the route on the map as she spoke, going deep down to the south of the map and then north to Australia.

     'You’ve got it.' The young man said. 'In the old days, before steam ships, well, ships had to follow the trade winds, and the trade winds blew along the lines of latitude, so ships took a lot longer because they had to sail before the winds a lot longer. But now because we don't rely on wind and sails we can ignore the winds and just go where the compass takes us. And that doesn’t take as long. But, it’s still a long way from Africa to Australia, whether you are following the trade winds or going under steam.' Florence looked at him.

     'Thank you. You’ve made it almost clear enough for me to understand, except for the thing you said about Great Circles.' He shook his head ruefully,

     'Sorry. The Great Circle routes are the shortest routes on the earth’s surface. That’s perhaps the best way to describe them. Is that any better?'

     'Yes it is. Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.' Florence nodded to him and turned back to leave the room by the door she had entered, her mind turning over shortest distances and Great Circles and lines of latitude. I think I understand what he meant, she said to herself, and closed the door behind her, walking out into a light breeze blowing across the deck. She walked along the deck for a while until she came to where the deckchairs had been placed whilst the passengers had been at breakfast. They were sheltered from the breeze by wooden panelling which ran from the top of the deck rail down to the deck itself. Martha was slumped in one of the seats along with several other passengers. There was an empty chair beside her.

     'Hello Martha?' she said and sat down beside her. Martha shielded her eyes against the sun which by now had climbed quite high in the sky.

     'Oh hello Flo,' she replied. 'Thought you’d got lost.'

     'No, not at all. Been learning all about Great Circles and why it takes so long to get to Australia.'

     'And?' her friend replied.

     'Too hard for you to understand, what with your limited education and all' Florence quipped.

     'Cheeky monkey,' Martha said grinning. 'What’s for lunch?'

     'Oh my God and little fishes Martha, nothing’ll fit you by the time we get to Sydney.'

The two women sat and relaxed in the sun, moving only for meals and when their conscience forced them to move. It was a lazy time for them both, and judging from the other passengers onboard, a lazy time for them as well. In fact, the only real excitement amongst the passengers and crew came the following evening when the ship came to slide gracefully into port at Cape Town.

For some twenty four hours the ship was a hive of activity as some of the passengers left the ship whilst others took their place. Cargo was moved from one hold to another, or replaced by other cargo going from Africa to Australia. Then the ship sailed once again and life sank back into its gentle, slightly hedonistic, routine.