My name is John Heather. In 1952 I was five years old and living with my parents, Norman and Peggy and two older brothers Neil and Lea at 59 Cambridge Road, South Norwood, London S.E. 25.
Fed up with post war Britain and possibly because they wanted to put distance between themselves and dad's domineering Mother, North of England clog dancing champion and actress, Annie Brereton, the folks applied for an assisted passage to Australia. The application was turned down, the Aussies wanted artisans and dad worked in assurance.
A relation of Mum’s had been stationed during the war with the RAF in Salisbury, Rhodesia and thought it a great place to bring up kids. The folks decided to give it a go, applied to the Rhodesia Embassy and were accepted.
The next thing I remember is waving dad goodbye. He took the train from Norwood Junction out to Heathrow Airport which was no more than a Nissin hut in a large field, and flew off.
Four days later the plane landed at Sarum Airport, a tarmac strip in the middle of nowhere, about eight miles from Salisbury.
The immigration officer on duty at the airport took a dislike to dad and kept him back till the last bus had left for Salisbury which meant dad had to walk the eight miles into town - at night carrying his suitcases. What a great introduction to Rhodesia ...incidentally, it wouldn’t be the last time the Heather's would have a run in with an obnoxious immigration officer.
As
soon as Dad had organized somewhere for us to live we followed with our pet Alsatian, Tina, aboard the Winchester Castle, part of
the Union Castle fleet that operated between Europe and Africa. Because of the distinctive lavender coloured
hulls they were called the ‘Lavender Ladies’.
The Winchester Castle
I was in a high state of excitement as we trooped up the narrow
gangway. The purser checked our names from a list and pointed us in the general
direction of our cabin. The
cabin was pretty Spartan; two sets of bunks, a wash basin and a cupboard.
No
sooner had we stowed our luggage than the ship’s horn sounded, announcing our imminent departure. The upper deck was crowded but we managed
to find a place by the rail. Streamers were thrown down to family and friends
gathered on the quayside below. With the fog horn
blaring and the strains “Auld Lang Syne” piped through speakers, the Winchester Castle
inched away from the dock. We had no one to wave to so Mum told us to wave goodbye to England as we wouldn't be seeing the old country for a long time.
Even as a five year old I found the image of paper streamers growing taught then snapping, very poignant.
Even as a five year old I found the image of paper streamers growing taught then snapping, very poignant.
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