The Christmas We Struck Gold
I was 26 when I left my work as a country parson to take up the prestigious position as the Minister of Cheltenham Church of Christ Victoria. This Church had the reputation of being a very large and alive Church. But that was a mirage. The reality was quite different as this young country parson was soon to discover. The life of a suburban Minister has some real surprises.
Every Christmas time our Sunday School had an empty Christmas tree. It was sort of a reverse Christmas tree in that the Sunday School kids did not receive a present when they came to this Christmas tree, but on the Sunday before Christmas they each brought a wrapped gift for another child and left it beneath the Christmas tree. It was their way of saying that they had family and security and gifts galore, and they wanted in the true spirit of Christmas to give something to other children who didn’t have what they had. Our Mothers Club, connected with the Sunday School, collected all the gifts, checked them out for suitability for the various ages, and then on Christmas Eve gave a party for all the children left at the Gordon Boys’ Home. The Gordon Boys’ Home in Hyatt was always the centre of much tension in our church.
First of all there were a whole lot of people in our church who used to refer to it with a great deal of humour when I wasn’t around, as the Gordon Moyes Home. But it actually was the Gordon Boys’ Home named in honour of the great British General who died at Khartoum, General Charles Gordon. He had left his fortune to care for orphans around the world and there were a series throughout the British Empire of orphanages named the Gordon Boys’ Home.
However, there wasn’t much to laugh about for the kids at the Gordon Boys’ Home. They were a tough lot and generally speaking the two State schools which these children attended dreaded the beginning of a new year with the arrival of another lot of Gordon Boys. These children were very difficult to mix in with other children in the school and certainly in the Sunday School. That’s why we had a special Christmas party for them. The last time they had attempted to combine the children of the Sunday School with the children from the Gordon Boys’ Home I am told there was nearly a riot with the boys from the Home stealing any toy they wanted which had been given to the Sunday School kids and bashing up any child who refused to deliver. They were a tough lot and no-one liked the idea of having a combined function with them. The church parents certainly didn’t want their precious little kids mixing with the boys from Highett because their reputation was well known.
The church kids themselves didn’t like mixing with the Gordon Boys because they seemed always to get the best toys and even if parents explained to them that they were lucky because they had their own home and family, whereas these poor boys didn’t have any family, in the minds of many of our church kids they would have much rather traded their home and their parents in order to get the better toys given to the Gordon Boys. And then the Gordon Boys themselves just seemed to like to show their supremacy in every way. These boys were not orphans, but children who had been put into a home because their parents were unable to control them – a hundred and thirty of them in one large orphanage. The Superintendent who ran the orphanage, Mr. Langdon, was an elderly kindly man, a fine Christian, and a rather fatherly type whom I’m sure didn’t fully understand what his charges were up to when he wasn’t around.
At Christmas time most of the boys went to their own homes and then returned a day or two later. Some were taken out by holiday hosts who had them for four weeks or so of the January holiday. These, who had been with their holiday hosts, came back spoiled rotten and totally uncontrollable, and usually with several items belonging to the family which the family as yet had not missed. But there was always a residue left in the Home over Christmas. These were the ones who didn’t have a home to go to, or else were not chosen by the staff for holiday hosts, or who, it was thought, were better kept together under the eye of the staff rather than let loose on society. So consequently our Sunday School ran an empty Christmas tree at which presents were placed for all of the children from the Gordon Boys’ Homes, and we had a separate party down in one of the church halls at which the residue who had not gone away were invited.
Early one week I visited Gordon Boys’ Home and spoke to Mr. Langdon. I used to run a Sunday School there early on Sunday morning before the first Service where I took down some of the most steadfast and competent teachers in order to tackle the extremely difficult task of teaching the kids something of God’s love. They had a chapel known as “The Chapel of the Boy” with boy sized pews and on the end of each pew in a rather beautiful fashion there had been carved by a master craftsman an Australian bush animal – koala, kangaroo, possum, emu and the like – and all of the stained glass windows and other features of the chapel were designed to be of the right size for boys. However, the dreams and hopes of those who established this chapel were never realised and conducting worship or anything more than the most elementary of religious instruction was nigh impossible.
We had tried to integrate the children and that had failed. And that year we were on a new tack trying to integrate the few teenagers who were in the Home with our Youth Fellowship in our Teens Group and the older ones in the Christian Youth Fellowship. The boys had to stay in the home until they were sixteen and then if they had a younger brother or two in the home the older ones would stay on in a special place known as Gordon House so that the family could still remain together. In those enlightened days it was felt that if the older child stayed then the younger would have a model to follow and the unity of the family would be preserved. It might have worked out for the younger one, but inevitably it only created resistance and bitterness on behalf of the elder one.
However, down near the Nepean Highway was a new place called Gordon house where Reg and Nina Hickman cared for twelve teenagers. These teenagers went out to work, earned their own way in the world, paid a reasonable rent, played football in our church football team, and attended our Youth Fellowship. Reg and Nina were two of the great saints of God. They were mature Christians, warm-hearted and utterly dedicated to caring for the boys. I had a soft spot for the teenage boys. There were the James brothers whom I have kept contact with ever since and others who not only grew up in Gordon House but who came to faith and membership in our church and became fine Christian members.
On this day after I had received from Mr. Langdon that there were thirty two young uncontrollables able to come to our Christmas party on the Friday night I went down to Gordon House to see if there were any teenagers there who would like to come to the party too. Reg answered the door. As I went into the lounge he commented “We’ve only three here at the moment – the McLeod boys. All the rest have gone off for Christmas. I’m quite sure they’d like to come down to the party.”
Standing in the lounge room was a most unusual man – tall, wiry, thin as a rake with a wide moustache and a thin goatee beard on his chin with long hair to the collar of his leather coat. He was an Australian version of Wild Bill Hickock.
Reg introduced me. “Dr. Moyes I’d like you to meet Mr. McLeod. He’s the father of the three boys here at the moment and he’s staying with us. We’ve got room in one of the rooms and he has just bedded down for a few days over Christmas.” Mr. McLeod thrust out a hand. It was hard and bony. “Angus McLeod” he said “Pleased to meet you”. I muttered some comment to Mr. McLeod about being pleased to meet him and noting an accent I said “Oh, you’re Scottish are you? It’s a very fine Scottish name, Angus McLeod”. He instantly went cold. “I’m not Scottish! I’m Irish and proud of it! We come from Belfast. We might have Scottish blood back many generations ago, but it’s sure been diluted by Irish whisky ever since. We’re not Scottish, we’re Irish! And so are my three sons, aren’t you boys? This is Shamus, Patrick and little Kelvin.”
He didn’t need to introduce me to the three boys as I already knew them quite well. Nina Hickman saved the situation by saying quickly “Now you’ll all have a nice cup of tea” and with that whipped out a piece of round sponge cake and started cutting it and putting it on plates for each of us. I sat down on the couch next to Mr. McLeod and anxious to head off the Irish/Scottish rivalry said to him “What do you do Mr. McLeod?”
“I’m a gold miner – actually that’s not quite correct. To be particular about it, I’m a gold mine owner. I own the SHINING PEAT BOG mine on El Dorado Road, Shuttleton Creek.” The name didn’t mean much to me and I must have looked a little bit vacant because Mr. McLeod went on “North of Jamieson – one of the best places for gold in the whole of the Australian Alps. We took out twenty thousand ounces last century. Shuttleton had thirty thousand people there once, back in the sixties – that’s the eighteen sixties. Shuttleton Creek was always a good area and there’s still plenty of gold in those hills. There’s not much now because no-one is willing to work it so I have it all pretty much to myself. We have a few fossickers come through occasionally and people who go panning. I’ve got my own crusher. It came down from Walhalla. It does the job quite nicely. I stay in Shuttleton most of the time. I only come to town for diesel and blasting powder. I’ve got leases all over. No-one can come cradling in. Anyone who does panning is OK or if they work over the old mullock heaps, but I won’t have anybody cradling. My mine’s a secret. No-one knows where it is. Oh, there’s lots of gold there, I’ve seen it. But I don’t have enough money just yet to buy enough blastin’ powder but when I do I’ll have it out, and then I’ll buy a nice little farm and settle down. The SHINING PEAT BOG will give me up her fortune soon.”
While he was talking to me about his mine I looked across at Reg, where he was sitting expressionless except when he saw me looking at him he raised his eyes towards heaven. Mr. McLeod went on at great length explaining to me what a great place Shuttleton Creek used to be and how after he’s found his gold there will be another rush on in that area. In the meantime he has come down to see the boys and to get some more blasting powder and diesel and then he’ll be back up.
“Well, I hope you can stay …er… till Friday night, Mr. McLeod, when we have a great Christmas party. It’ll be a great party with presents for all the boys and I’m quite sure they’ll love to have their dad with them.” Mr. McLeod looked at me. “Party? You can count on it. I’ll be there. Nothing like a good party!” I thought it best not to explain to him that this was a party put on by the Mothers Club and it would be a dry party.
The next day I took the names and numbers of the kids with their ages around to Jessie Lyons. There were thirty two of them from the Gordon Boys’ Home and the three boys from Gordon House. Jessie Lyons was the Mothers Club Treasurer and she’d be marking the presents, picking out presents that were suitable for each child at whichever age, and then re-wrapping them and putting their name on it for placing underneath the tree. Her sister was visiting her “I’d like you to meet Lizzie, Lizzie Lyons. She’s me sister and she’s up here for a few days.” Lizzie was a plain, rather frail looking woman who gave the appearance of having been worn out. She didn’t have much to say. I chatted for a while and handed over my list of thiry two young boys and three teenagers and when I was leaving said “Well, I’m pleased to meet you Mrs. Lyons. I hope you’ll come to our party on Friday night. You’ll be most welcome.” I shook hands all round and went to leave by the back door. “Oh, Jessie – just one thing. Reg and Nina’s kids at Gordon House will be coming down so we’ll need some older gifts suitable for teenagers. The McLeod kids will be there – young Shamus and Patrick and …er …er. ..” I paused, not remembering the last name.
Lizzie Lyons looked up startled, turned pale “The youngest one – his name’s not Kelvin is it?” I nodded. I thought she’d faint. She slumped down on the chair and looked at her sister. “Shall I tell him?” Jessie said “Go on Lizzie – tell Mr. Moyes.” Lizzie started to tell me “Me name’s not Lyons, that’s Jessie’s name. I just use her name. My name is McLeod. They’re my kids.” She said nothing else. I asked “Why are they in Gordon House?” “Because I couldn’t look after them proper. We lived in a shack with no water, no electricity, no sewerage, and no food half the time. Me husband was a prospector in the mines from Jamieson – a little place called Shuttleton’s Creek. He was all right, always dreaming, dreaming he was going to strike it rich, always dreaming about getting a big payload and then he would look after us. But he never did. Spent most of our money on blasting powder and beer. Welfare came up one day. They looked at our place and look me up and down. Said I wasn’t a fit and proper mother, and the shack was only fit for pigs, and they took the kids. They wouldn’t tell me where they were taking them, they just took the kids. I went to court about it and the court said I wasn’t fit and proper and a magistrate looked down his nose at me. But I love those kids Mr. Moyes. It was just …. it was just …. it was just that we weren’t able to look after them proper.”
Lizzie was crying and blowing her nose into her handkerchief. I just waited without saying a word. “After a couple of years I got sick of it, what with me husband down the mine all day and me on me own and nothing in the house and nothing to do and no neighbours or nothing. So I just left. Just walked out. I’ve got a flat now down at Frankston and I come up here and see Jessie every now and then. She’s been with me to the Department but they won’t tell me where they are until Kelvin’s sixteen years of age.”
I considered the situation. I couldn’t tell her officially where the children were, and if I took her up to see them I’m sure that would have created a problem for Reg and Nina. If I took her and introduced her to Mr. Langdon he would be obliged to tell the Department and they would probably say she wasn’t to see the children as she upset them. And yet it seemed only right, now she knew where they were, that the mother should see them. I suddenly had an idea. “Come to our Christmas party on Friday night. Your children will be there.” Lizzie burst out into tears. It was as if I was giving her the very best Christmas present of all.
Friday night was noisy. There were kids everywhere. If I’d sat down and counted every kid who went past me I would have been sure there were a hundred, or even two hundred, of them there. There were thirty two Gordon Boys going round like bees in a bottle and it just seemed like one or two hundred. They were like thirty two unguided missiles. We had some Christmas films that I’d got from Fact & Faith Films about the real Christmas story. I screened them on the church sixteen millimetre projector. The kids weren’t really interested. They were only interested in one thing – when were they getting the toys from under the tree?
In due course Jessie and the President of the Mothers Club handed out the toys as the names were called out one at a time. Paper was torn off and scattered everywhere and shouts of joy turned into frequent squabbles as someone tried to take someone else’s present, but the biggest gift of all was in the second front row. Seated on the end were Reg and Nina and next to them a rather wild looking Angus McLeod, and next to him were his three sons, and then, with her arm around little Kelvin was Lizzie his mother, and next to her was Jessie. They each had their toys, but they also had each other. Maybe not forever. Maybe not even next year. But on that night before Christmas they were together again and they had each other. Old Angus said to me that it was the best Christmas party ever.
That night in my study I spent some time writing up my journal and looking out of the window at the never ending stream of cars stopping at the traffic lights at the corner of Nepean Highway and Chesterville Road, that wide intersection that was dominated by the lovely white Church with the high white tower noting down the events of another day as a suburban minister.
GORDON MOYES