Bruny Island Girl

Max Cutcliffe

Description

In the year 1879, William and Jane Burns from Durham, England, migrated to Newcastle, Australia, in the hope of finding a better life for themselves and their two children, Joseph, aged three, and Elizabeth, aged one. Stormy seas, interspersed with weeks of boredom, made their three-month-long voyage on the sailing ship, William Stonehouse, anything but pleasant. William, like his father, was a coal miner and found work easily in a Newcastle colliery. During this time, he befriended a German immigrant, Wilhelm Zschachner, and learned that a new coal discovery had been made in the state of Tasmania. The thought of moving to Tasmania was challenging to the Burns family now that they had two additional children. Nevertheless, they repacked their furniture and treasures brought out with them from England and moved to remote Bruny Island, off Tasmania''s southeast coast.Here, they were true pioneers. Between working the new coal mine, William and his still-increasing family cleared a parcel of land on Coal Point and built themselves a cosy home from axe-split palings. Sadly, William died young after a rock fall at the mine, forcing Jane to become a midwife in order to keep the family together until they reached adulthood and married. Joyce - the ''Bruny Island Girl'' - was born in 1899 to Louisa, one of Jane''s daughters, and this book tells the story of her remarkable life on the island before marrying Cecil Cutcliffe. Max Cutcliffe is one of their sons and the author of this book.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 30 octobre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528966023
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Bruny Island Girl
Max Cutcliffe
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-10-30
Bruny Island Girl About the Author About the Book Dedication Copyright Information © Prologue Chapter 1 Quiet Corner Chapter 2 Coal Point Chapter 3 Clifton Chapter 4 Alonnah Chapter 5 Return to Clifton Chapter 6 The Great War Chapter 7 A Job in Town Chapter 8 Return to Bruny Chapter 9 Cecil’s Easter Visit Chapter 10 Dear Joyce, Dear Cecil Chapter 11 Return to Hobart and Cecil Epilogue
About the Author
Max Cutcliffe grew up in Hobart, Tasmania, with his mother (the Bruny Island Girl); his father, Cecil; three brothers; and a sister. He frequently chatted with his mother’s mother, Louisa, who also lived in Hobart. In his youth, he frequently journeyed back and forth to Bruny Island and stayed with his ageing Uncle Joe at Clifton, where his mother was born and lived until she married Cecil. Years later, from his many notes and from family knowledge, he put together a manuscript that he called Bruny Island Girl . He wanted to preserve the history of this pioneering family from England, even though they had now all passed on. In recent times, his partner, Cath Morris Williams, read his manuscript and suggested that he should try and have it published. And so he did. Cath’s help in editing the manuscript is greatly appreciated.
Max Cutcliffe’s mother was a quiet lady, so it is hoped she approves her son’s actions and is happy to have her name, and that of her English pioneering family, live on for many years to come through this book.
About the Book
In the year 1879, William and Jane Burns from Durham, England, migrated to Newcastle, Australia, in the hope of finding a better life for themselves and their two children, Joseph, aged three, and Elizabeth, aged one. Stormy seas, interspersed with weeks of boredom, made their three-month-long voyage on the sailing ship, William Stonehouse, anything but pleasant. William, like his father, was a coal miner and found work easily in a Newcastle colliery. During this time, he befriended a German immigrant, Wilhelm Zschachner, and learned that a new coal discovery had been made in the state of Tasmania. The thought of moving to Tasmania was challenging to the Burns family now that they had two additional children. Nevertheless, they repacked their furniture and treasures brought out with them from England and moved to remote Bruny Island, off Tasmania’s southeast coast.
Here, they were true pioneers. Between working the new coal mine, William and his still-increasing family cleared a parcel of land on Coal Point and built themselves a cosy home from axe-split palings. Sadly, William died young after a rock fall at the mine, forcing Jane to become a midwife in order to keep the family together until they reached adulthood and married. Joyce – the ‘Bruny Island Girl’ – was born in 1899 to Louisa, one of Jane’s daughters, and this book tells the story of her remarkable life on the island before marrying Cecil Cutcliffe. Max Cutcliffe is one of their sons and the author of this book.

‘Bruny Island’, as it is known today, was originally written as ‘Bruni Island’, named after the early navigator Bruni D’Entrecasteaux. ‘Bruni Island’ became ‘Bruny Island’ after the name was anglicised prior to 1920. In the early dialogue of this book, the local residents refer to the island as ‘Bruni’, the only known spelling of the word at that time.


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Dedication
In remembrance of a pioneer’s daughter,
loving mother
and grandmother.
Copyright Information ©
Max Cutcliffe (2019)
The right of Max Cutcliffe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528966023 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Prologue
Two kilometres beyond The Neck, the South Bruny Island Road branched left to Adventure Bay and right to Alonnah. I asked my ageing mother, Joyce Cutcliffe, for guidance, but for a moment, she seemed hesitant and delayed answering a little longer until bidding me turn the car left. Until now, she had been bubbling with enthusiasm about the newly paved road from Barnes Bay, the new houses and farms along the way, the tourist facilities at The Neck. But now, quite suddenly, she seemed to retreat within herself, grow pensive, perhaps even a little nervous. Further ahead, however, between breaks in the trees, her still youthful eyes swept across the broad, silvered waters of Adventure Bay to fasten on the familiar curved back of Penguin Island. She knew that the high-wooded headland adjacent to this tiny isle hid the sheer cliffs of Fluted Cape and also the rough Tasman Sea that pounded this inhospitable shoreline. We climbed from a wet, forested gully to cleared land again, to another new farm, another freshly painted homestead; then her excited eyes concentrated on the road directly ahead.
“Slow down, son,” she almost whispered, “we’re coming to Coal Point. You can pull off the road just ahead.”
Mother remained quiet in the parked car for a short time before deciding to open the door and step out onto the seemingly deserted road. She crossed to the other side and looked momentarily for a familiar crossing over the deep gutter, but seeing one no longer existed, simply propelled her 80-year-old body across the narrowest point and strolled up to the open gate of the property that once belonged to her beloved grandmother. She placed a hand on the gatepost and rested a while, allowing her eyes to wander across the surrounding scene that still held so many fond childhood memories for her. She raised a dilapidated letterbox lid and stared for a long time into a maze of cobwebs—at some treasure of the mind that only she could see or understand.
I stood close behind her, waiting to lend support when the truth of the tragedy dawned, when her arms would fly up in despair, when the tears would flow freely. I watched her eyes dart ahead to a pair of lifeless chimneys, a burned-out water tank, an area of black ashes and charred timbers that had only recently stopped smouldering—all that remained of a pioneer’s home, the last connecting bond with her early life of so long ago.
The grief I expected never came. Instead of tears, a slight smile spread across her face. For the moment, I was mystified, but when she released her grip on the gatepost and turned to proceed up the still visible garden path, she whispered something that greatly surprised me, yet those words suddenly made the situation abundantly clear. “I’ll go and see if Gran’s home,” she said quite simply. My undaunted mother was obviously intending to ignore the scene of devastation before her, and, instead, proposed to view the old house and garden as she had known them for most of a lifetime. She would view the scene ahead only through the eyes of her memory.
The remains of the garden ahead were waist deep in thistles and unkempt grass and surrounded by a dilapidated paling fence that allowed the neighbour’s cattle to roam inside at will. But Mother would remember her Uncle Joe’s vegetable garden when it flourished with greenery and easily sustained the whole family. This was the way she was seeing it now. She walked a few steps, then stopped on the path and looked right to where her uncle had grown his prized cabbages. At one time, there were neatly laid out plots of carrots and lettuces and runner beans that tried to climb skywards, beyond the ends of high tea-tree poles. Then, she turned her head left to remember a large plot of potatoes, rows of peas, cauliflower and tall raspberry canes that had flourished out of control along the fence. She stopped and looked about her, took a deep breath, rekindled her thoughts and allowed the atmosphere that seemed to overwhelm her to be absorbed. She was really home again—home to her birthplace. In her mind, the old homestead was exactly as it had been while she was growing up. This was where she had known true happiness, where she had milked the cows, picked the apples, cooked the family meals, and played with her old tomcat.
When Mother reached the charred remains of the old house, I wondered how she would react. But she never faltered. She stepped onto what was once the front veranda, glanced right to where her grandmother’s rocker and uncle’s chair had always stood, then continued another step to the front door. She steadied herself, turned right and walked into what was once her grandmother’s bedroom. The twisted slat springs and burnt iron supports of an old four-poster bed were all that remained. She strode across to this and rested a hand on the one standing post, then looked down as if checking to see whether her gran’s patchwork quilt was drawn evenly and wrinkle-free across the blankets, and that her pillows were well plumped with the embroidered corners placed the right way up. So often she had told me about this. Mother then turned, as if studying the crochet-work pictures hanging from the traditionally papered walls, checked the lace curtains covering the multi-paned window and eyed the doilies on the heavy cedar chest of drawers that only her gran ever opened. And when everything seemed in order, she left, stepping cautiously over the ashes of the passage to where once stood the living room.
She smiled. In her mind’s eye, Uncle Joe had rotated the pictures once again. General Gor