A failed experiement? ‘Republic’ by Alice Hunt
November 4, 2024I grew up on tales from Australian and British history and like many history enthusiasts, was especially captivated by the medieaval and Tudor periods in Britain. The Civil War era of the seventeenth century was not of particualr interest – until I listened to the episodes of David Crowther’s excellent History of England podcast series recounting the events leading up to the Civil Wars and the Republican experiment. I realised that the events of this period are actually fascinating, due to the complexities of the political landscape and the radicalism of the debates.
So when I had the opportunity to review Alice Hunt’s new book about this time, I was all in.
Subtitled ‘Britain’s Revolutionary Decade 1649-1660, each chapter takes one year and examines in detail the events, characters, competing ideas of that twelve months. It begins with the execution of King Charles I, so no spoiler there. This event, in itself, was quite extraordinary: the sanctioned killing of an annointed king after a legal process found him guilty of betraying the sacred oaths taken at his coronation, and responsible for the bloody wars that divided the kingdom between ‘Royalists’ and ‘Parliamentarians’.
Then came the events that followed, all quite extraordinary in themselves: the sale of the royal family’s property and goods (a sort of vast garage sale that went on for years); the shocking violence in Ireland under Cromwell’s direction; the attempts at reconciliation between the opposing factions within the nation and within parliament; the various iterations of parliament itself; the moment when parliament offered Cromwell the chance to become king himself…just to name a few.
The author concludes that:
The civil wars did not set out to kill the king and bring down monarchy but, by their end, a republic settlement was not only entertained but also, by some, desired.
Republic p30
There are stories of some of the interesting personalities of the time, some known to me (like Christopher Wren or John Milton) and others not so much (Katherine Jones, Robert Boyle).
Amongst the explosive political and legal events were others that, while not made up of ‘grand gestures’ nevertheless had important and long-standing effects. The readmission of Jewish people to Britain was one such. The beginnings of the Quaker movement another. The rising interest in natural sciences, philosphy, language, clocks, telescopes, horticulture, laying the foundation for modern science as we think of it today. It was during this decde that ideas of representative democracy, closer to the sense we think of it today than the ancient Greek version, were widely written and talked about.
This detailed but accessible book, paints vivid images of the turmoil and chaos of this period, of how the idea of a republic was being worked out on the run.
Understanding this goes some way to modifying the astonishment I might otherwise feel, knowing that at the end of this ‘revolutionary decade’, another Stuart (Charles II) was invited back to take up the British throne once more.
On finishing this book, I did wonder if the current monarch, another Charles, will read it and if so, what he might make of the goings-on of this decade from the past? Are there lessons from these years that speak to the current threats and opportunities for the British monarchy today? Or for those who hope that their country will once again, become a republic?
Republic: Britain’s Revolutionary Decade is published in 2024 by Faber & Faber.
My thanks to the publishers and NetGalley for a review copy.Monsters and angels: ‘All the Beautiful Things’ by Katrina Nannestad
Australian children’s author Katrina Nannestad has a gift: to convey real (and often distressing) past events to younger readers, in a way that illuminates rather than overwhelms.
As with her earlier middle-grade books set in WWII Europe, the focus is again on the experiences of children (here are my reviews for We Are Wolves, Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief and Waiting for the Storks ).
All the Beautiful Things takes us to the heart of Nazi Germany, a village nestled under the mountain where Hitler’s Bavarian home, the Berghof, stands.
Anna and her friend Udo are eleven, coping with the restrictions and hardships of wartime life as best they can. Like all German children they are members of the Nazi organisations for youngsters, are taught to love and obey the Fuhrer, and give the Nazi salute when required.
They both have a secret: they and their families hate Hitler. And upstairs in the apartment where Anna lives with her mother, is another secret: little Eva, Anna’s sister, hidden away from the world because if she were discovered, her differences would likely mean her death.
This is the core historical fact of this story: the shocking program of involuntary euthenasia carried out by Nazi doctors on Hitler’s orders, in their distorted efforts to eliminate any ‘weaknesses’ from the pure Aryan race.
As the war drags on, Anna and Udo learn that there is a network of other people in their community who feel the way they do about the Nazis – sometimes the most surprising people. They also learn that people are not always simply ‘monsters’ or ‘angels’: that they can be both and it can be hard to tell one from the other.
‘So how do we tell the monsters and the angels apart?’ I ask.
‘Well, there’s the problem, Anna,’ says Dr Fischer. ‘It can be tricky because the two can look so very similar. But one day, I assure you, it will be plain for all to see. A monster’s deeds, no matter how prettily they’re packaged, will ultimately lead to death and destrucion – for everything and everyone they touch.’All the Beautiful Things p152
In the first chapter, readers are plunged into Anna’s world, trying to understand the different views and experiences of Germans during this terrible time. They see how brainwashing occurs, through programs such as Hitler Youth and in schools. Moral choices abound: is the safety of my family more important than yours? Is it wrong to disobey laws if they are bad laws that hurt others? They also witness Anna’s confusion as Germany’s defeat looks more and more likely. She longs for the end of Nazi rule but that means that she must also want the defeat of her own country.
Underlying all are the themes of love, of family and friendship, kindness and compassion. There is also the best description of the value of difference I have ever read, using the metaphor of a jigsaw puzzle:
‘The world is a jigsaw puzzle, every person a unique piece. There is a space for each one, but it must be a space made just for them. And if we leave one piece out, no matter how small, plain, insignificant or odd it may seem, the jigsaw puzzle remains incomplete. The picture looks ugly because there’s a gap.’
All the Beautiful Things p32
Martina Heiduczek’s lovely illustrations once again add another dimension to the unfolding story.
All the Beautiful Things is published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in October 2024.
My thanks to the publishers for a review copy.When Siri turns sulky: a short story
It begins unobtrusively, a slight hesitation in response from Siri before her usual breezy acceptance of the latest phone task: Calling Mum on speaker, or You have a new text message.
One afternoon, rather than Yes? I hear instead Uh huh? I glance down at the phone screen. There is the swirling ball, the visual cue that Siri is ready, poised to do my bidding. So why the surprising— the very minimal— voice response?
I put it out of my mind for a few days, until there’s an escalation.
I try to summon the Apple genie with a friendly, ‘Hey, Siri.’
No reply.
‘Hey, Siri!’ I repeat— loudly, with a slight edge to my voice. What on earth is Siri doing? Afternoon nap? Coffee break? She is not supposed to be off duty. Not ever.
The swirling ball appears but all I hear from Siri is Huh?
Huh? What kind of response is that? Has Siri just turned sixteen? She may as well have said Whatever! in that grudging tone. My polite, helpful, obliging phone genie has become a sulky teenager.
I try again. The same response. Over and over I command Siri’s attention, hoping that by some magical algorithm at Apple or inside my phone, Siri would age ten or so years and once more be the useful assistant I know and love. No change. The sixteen-year-old has taken up residence and is here to stay.
I keep trying over the next week. The responses alternate between Uh huh? and Huh? I can’t decide which is the most infuriating. Both sound as though Siri had just woken up after a Big Night Out with her girlfriends. Or is texting a friend, or scrolling her Insta feed, and could not be bothered to talk to me.
I examine my response to the situation. What is it about teenage Siri that is so triggering? Why do I suddenly feel like mother-of-a-teen, years after my own child had (thank God!) left those hideous years behind and become a human being again. That feeling of helplessness in the face of utter indifference. The worry combined with fury. Indignation at being treated in an off-hand manner. Exhaustion from all the above.
I try changing the Siri voice. Perhaps it’s the sulky female sound that is irritating. I choose the male voice, hoping to make Siri revert to her (his?) old self.
What I get is a sixteen-year-old boy, instead of a sixteen-year-old girl. Still sulky. Still: Huh?
In desperation, I Google it. ‘How can I get Siri to stop saying Uh huh?’ There are dozens of others asking the same thing. The responses are less than helpful:
‘Best way is not to leave a gap between waking the beast and saying something.’
‘Get over it. It’s a machine. It’s incapable of insulting anyone.’
‘Sorry you are having such a bad day!’
I learn that I can train Siri to understand my voice better, to pronounce unfamiliar names correctly, to log my workouts in the Health app. There are no suggestions to make Siri more polite.
What now?
I decide to ignore it, practicing being quick with my request so Siri doesn’t have the opportunity to give the Huh? response.
I am rising above it. It is a First World Problem after all. I remember seeing a comedy act where the speaker recounts a conversation with a man who complains about the peanuts he received on a domestic flight. ‘You are hurtling above the clouds at eight hundred k’s per hour. You have no idea how flight works. And you are complaining about the peanuts?’ My Siri problem is surely similar.
As I go about my activities, I become aware of a creeping reluctance to summon the phone genie. I hesitate to ask Siri to turn on the timer, or call my husband, or tell me the weather forecast.
I have not yet transcended my Siri problem.
Indeed, I realise it’s far worse than that. I have an irrational fear that my tiny Siri issue could one day morph into something much bigger. More dangerous.
What if, through a combination of AI and algorithms, Siri one day learns how to do me harm?
I vow to be on the lookout for signs that sulkiness is mutating into hostility, indifference into malevolence.
There are no signs yet. If I sense such changes, I’ll be sure to let you know. But I won’t ask Siri to call you.
More picture book love
Three new picture books land in bookshops in October this year: two very Australian ones, from Melissa Greenwood and Tamsin Ainslie, and one from Irish artist and author Oliver Jeffers.
Gumbaynggirr artist Melissa Greenwood is back with another in her series of beautiful themed books all about Country and family. I have now reviewed several of her books including the last, Hello Ocean, and this one is called Hello Mountain.
The morning breaks and the spirit of the land awakens.
We rub our eyes and stretch our arms up into the sky.
I look up to Aunty and she says, ‘Come on, Bub, let’s go walkabout.’
Readers will travel with Aunty and the young ones as they walk through the bush where they feel welcome and secure, the ancestors all around them. They notice all the features of plants, animals, the river and rocks, and the day finishes with dancing up Country. As with all Ms Greenwood’s previous picture books, the colourful paintings tell the story in symbolic ways, allowing youngsters to feel familiar with this style of indigenous Australian art.Tamsin AInslie’s Barney Gumnut and Friends is also a celebration of Australian animals and birds. Barney is a young koala who lives with his friends in Scribbly Gum Forest. Off they go together one day,
doing nothing in particular, in a happy, nothing-to-do sort of way.
The story is an ode to the small things: looking closely at what’s around us, finding a butterfly or grasshopper, making paper chains from wildflowers, watching shapes in the clouds.
The illustrations are lovely. Overall, this one has the feel of an Australian sort of Winnie-the-Pooh in the Hundred Acre Wood enjoying doing nothing in particular with friends.And finally, there is Oliver Jeffers’ Where to Hide a Star, with a star and penguin playing hide-and-seek with their friend. All is well until the star goes missing. Troubled, the two friends search high and low for their star, even recruiting the help of a Martian who flies them to the North Pole where the star has been washed up. The star has made a new friend, a little girl who has always loved stars and can’t believe she has found one.
What a dilemma. Who should the star remain with?
The Martian solves the problem and both the boy and the girl find their star – in the night sky, where it belongs.
It’s a cute story about making new friends and learning to share.All three books are published by HarperCollins Children’s Books.
My thanks to the publishers for review copies.Twisty tale from home: ‘Girl Falling’ by Hayley Scrivenor
A new crime novel by an author I enjoy, set in my home region of the Blue Mountains of NSW. How could I resist?
Hayley Scrivenor’s debut novel, Dirt Town, received well-deserved accolades (my review is here.) I was looking forward to her next book and was delighted to learn that it was set amongst the sheer cliffs and amazing views of the Blue Mountains.
The thing I enjoy most about crime fiction are the characters and emotions, plus of course a well-drawn setting, and Girl Falling doesn’t disappoint.
The title is well chosen, as it can imply both the physical act of falling (in this case, from cliffs) but it can also be an emotional plunge for characters – in this case, pretty much all the characters.
The premise is intruiging: two high school girls bond over the shared trauma of losing a sister to suicide. Now young adults, they have grown inseparable – until one of them meets and falls in love with someone else.
There is a lot in here about youngsters trying to find their way in life, moving beyond childhood trauma, and also toxic relationships and coercion that can take many forms.
There is a twist that I truly did not see coming – and I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about it.
For all these reasons, Girl Falling is a crime novel that stayed with me well after I had read the final page.
Girl Falling was published by Pan Macmillan Australia in July 2024.
She Married a Murderer: a short story
I entered this story in the 2024 EM Fletcher Family History Writing Award, an annual award presented by Family History ACT. The award aims to encourage story writing on a family history / genealogy theme. I was lucky to win this competition in 2021 with my story The Bitterness of their Woe and this year, was shortlisted from the 90 entrants from across the country. I thank Family History ACT for their continued support of this competition, unique in Australia for the broad range of genres and styles of writing that it encompasses.
She Married a Murderer is fiction: it is my reimaging of the experience of my 3 x great-grandmother Margaret Houghton, known as Ann.
She Married a Murderer
Campbell Town, Tasmania, 1862
She thought it all spiteful gossip, vicious rumours from people who did not like her or know Tom as she did.
If only she had listened.
Ann knew something of her new man’s past. A Ticket-of-Leave convict, transported from Ireland for theft of a sheep. Being Irish herself that never troubled her; so many of her countrymen and women had worn the broad arrow.
She’d lost Michael after he was trampled by a horse, the mangled mess brought home on a stretcher unrecognisable as the husband she’d loved. The memory of it haunted her for the next five years, spent alone.
When Tom arrived in Deloraine to work on Coulter’s sheep farm, they caught each other’s eye under the balcony of the Deloraine hotel where she was housemaid. He had no money to speak of, and a rough way with him, but none of that troubled her. Being poor, she was used to grimy hands, muddy boots and curses. She hoped for better times with a man around again; in six weeks, they were living as husband and wife.
Tom had kissed the blarney stone more than once—honey could drip from his tongue. He’d tell a tale to have her in stitches, then quick as lightening, tell a sad one to make her weep. She was happy to come home to him after a long day washing floors and making beds at the pub. Tom gave her laughter and loving, and then two wee boys: the first named for him, followed by Hubert two years after. A grand little family, she thought.The whispers started when young Tommy was learning to walk, his pudgy thighs trembling, him grinning with astonished delight. Her heart squeezed with love for him as she walked to the grocer, Tommy on one hip and a basket on the other, to buy vegetables for a stew.
As she dropped the goods into her basket, she heard low voices from the corner and glanced across. Two women, who fancied themselves Deloraine’s better sort of ladies, deep in hushed conversation. She caught: his poor first wife, beaten and life sentence, before they saw her looking and their murmuring ceased.
Walking home she puzzled over what she’d heard. Were they talking about Tom’s first wife? She’d died, Ann already knew that. But beaten to death? And by who? Surely not Tom. The women said the killer had received a life sentence—Tom had his Ticket, wasn’t serving life. Whatever had happened to his wife, Tom had no part in it. Besides, he wasn’t a violent man, had not lifted a finger against her or the baby.
But that night she slipped in a question as they lay together in their narrow bed.
‘What was your first wife’s name, Tom?’
There was a brief silence. Then: ‘Catherine.’
‘How did she die?’
‘Met with an accident.’
‘The same with my poor Michael! What sort of accident?’
The blanket was dragged from her shoulders as Tom sat up. ‘What are all these questions for? I don’t pester you with questions about Michael. All that’s in the past. Leave it there.’
She lay very still until he slid down and she could pull the covers over her cold arms. Try as she might, she couldn’t halt the thoughts that bucked and spun in her mind like that panicky horse that had killed Michael. She had a sudden pang of longing for her first husband and for their lost years together.
The whispers did not stop that day. She heard them many times, always quickly swallowed when she came near or turned to look directly at the speaker. The same words repeated: first wife, killed. She began to hear new ones: murder, trial, mercy.
She never again asked Tom about the manner of Catherine’s death. But she couldn’t stop herself from questioning him about her: what was she like? Where did they marry? When did she die? It was a strange compulsion to learn about this woman who had once shared his bed.
He gave up snippets, small nuggets that she stored away to consider later. She learned that Catherine had been Irish, and a convict like him. She learned that they’d married in Launceston in March, 1851, but not had children.
Hubert was four in 1859 when Tom and Ann wed, in Saint Michael’s Church. A bright day, spring blossom everywhere as they stood outside, greeting well-wishers. Widower and widow, united by God as part of His holy plan. So she thought.
By then they’d moved to Campbell Town, leaving behind the rushing sparkle of the Meander River for the gold of wheat fields and brown of sheep paddocks. Here Tom found work on local farms and they settled into a small cottage, just one room and a sleepout at the back, but comfortable enough.
After the wedding Tom’s behaviour towards her began to change. He disliked it if she spoke to others, especially men. He cut short conversations at the hotel or the grocer. She couldn’t understand his jealousy—she had no interest in flirting or gazing at other men. He was all she needed, but as his manner became more abrupt and suspicious, she gradually became aware that she’d begun to be a little afraid of him. He had never hit her. He didn’t need to. His size and strength, the ugly glower on his face when he was displeased, his unpredictable temper— all told her to take care, to never give him reason to strike out.
She was happy when she made a friend in Campbell Town. They met at the store. Their children were similar ages; they all shyly regarded each other over stacks of newspapers. The woman picked up a copy and began to read from the front page.
‘There’s a conference of Temperance Societies in Launceston this week,’ she said as she paid for her purchases. ‘What do you think of the Temperance aims?’
Ann stammered, knowing nothing of Temperance but not wanting to show her ignorance.
The woman continued, ‘I support their objectives. So much grief comes from drink. Not just from men’s drunkenness, either. Do you remember the case from some years back in Launceston, a woman beaten by her husband when he found her drinking with other men? He killed her. Was sentenced to life, but that helped his poor wife none.’
Ann’s chest tightened. His poor wife. All those whispers. Before she could stop herself, she had grasped the other woman’s arm.
“Do you know her name? The murdered woman?’ The word murdered fell heavily from her tongue.
The woman thought. ‘Tipping was her last name, I think.’ She gave a small smile then looked closely at Ann. ‘Did you know her?’
‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ Ann went to gather the boys and leave, but hesitated. ‘Do you live near?’ she asked.
‘Yes, the blue painted house; it’s not far.’
‘I’m on the corner. Would you like to come to mine? I’ll make tea and our littlies can play. My husband is at work.’ She didn’t know why she felt a need to say that last bit.
‘Lovely! We’ve not been here long; I don’t yet know many neighbours,’ the other woman replied.
Over tea Ann learned the woman’s name was Martha, that her family had moved from Launceston but returned there often to visit her elderly parents, and that she was a staunch supporter of the Temperance movement, which she explained was about combatting the evils brought about by the demon drink. The two women became firm friends.
Ann tucked away the new nugget of information that had stopped her in her tracks in the store. A murdered woman in Launceston. It lay in her mind along with the others she’d secreted there, the whispers she’d heard. They gnawed away, troubling her as she went about her day and disturbing her dreams at night.
After months of this, she asked Martha if she knew of more about the dead woman from Launceston.
‘No, but we are visiting my mother there next week. The Examiner has its office in town; my husband is a friend of the Editor. Perhaps he can find a back issue with a report on the trial.’
‘Please don’t go to any trouble.’ Ann was beginning to regret asking.
‘No trouble.’ Martha tilted her head. ‘But I think something is troubling you.’
After a long hesitation, the dam wall of worries broke and out they poured. Tom’s harshness and jealousy. His first marriage in Launceston. The whispers. The murdered woman.
Martha’s expression changed and she said, ‘If you are correct, you could be in danger. Keep things calm at home until I return. Don’t question or upset him.’ Her tone was urgent; Ann promised she would try.
Two weeks passed. Long days in which she tiptoed around Tom, careful of word and deed.
When Martha finally knocked at her door, Ann could scarcely wait for her friend to take off her hat before asking, ‘Well?’
Martha sat down heavily, withdrew a paper from her pocket.
‘Edgar copied it from the news report. The killing happened in April and the trial in June, 1851. Eleven years ago.’ She made to pass it to Ann, who shook her head.
‘I can’t.’
Martha took it back and began to read.
‘Thomas Britt, convicted of murder, was brought up for sentencing. Catherine Britt came by her death from a kick given by him, but she was drunk, and he had reason to suspect her of other immoralities…His Honour said due allowance should be made for the excited state of his feelings; a manslaughter verdict would have been more proper. Mercy recommended.’
Ann felt sick.
Martha said, ‘I’m afraid there is more. The report on the inquest held after Catherine’s death gave more detail as to what happened. Do you want me to read…?’
At a mute nod from Ann, Martha continued,
‘Britt was inflamed by jealousy…he used revolting language towards his wife, swore he would do for her that night. On the way home he subjected her to most brutal assaults. A witness…placed himself between them but Britt knocked his wife to the ground and stamped violently on her head as she lay…she never spoke again and died the next day.’
Ann gave a choking cry. Murder. Those women had whispered the truth, after all. Why had no one told her to her face about Tom’s past crime? Would she have listened? She no longer knew, no longer felt sure of anything. She’d married a murderer, a man who had killed in a most brutal way. Would he do the same to her? Or her boys? Horrible visions engulfed her, the lads lying bloodied while their da stamped on their little heads. She buried her face in her apron, shuddering.
Then another horror as she remembered that Tom and Catherine had married in March, 1851. He had murdered his new bride within a month of their wedding! And the judge had recommend mercy? Where was the justice?
She would never be safe again.
She looked up at Martha, jaw clenched. ‘What can I do? I can’t leave; I’ve nowhere to go, not with two lads.’
She gave a half sob, half laugh. ‘My da would say: You make your bed; you must lie in it. Seems he was right.’
Ann had no more words for her despair and fear. She’d walked unknowingly into a trap and now she must live there, caught in a vice that only her death would release.Postscript:
Friends of Ann Britt of Campbell Town are respectfully invited to attend her funeral on 12 June 1862, at the Roman Catholic cemetery.Inspiration: My 3 x great-grandfather’s murder of his first wife brings into sharp focus the devastation of family violence, which continues to this day.
Marriage registration of Thomas Britt and Catherine Tipping at Launceston, Tasmania, 1851 Connections: ‘The belburd’ by Nardi Simpson
The new novel by award-winning Yuwaalaraay singer and writer Nardi Simpson is tricky to describe. It is unlike any book I have read.
There are two narratives within the book, seemingly disparate but actually closely connected. There is the story of Ginny, a young poet trying to make sense of her world and her place in it. She writes poems and ‘plants’ them around her environment, literally planting them with some soil and a little water as she moves around her neighbourhood.
Then there is the being whose experience as a birth spirit is told in first person. ‘Sprite’ is rolling around in Eel Mother’s belly, meeting other spirits who are waiting to be born, and those who did not make it or do not survive.
The two narratives connect when we realise that Sprite and the other birth spirits see all. From this, we can perhaps understand that everything and everyone are connected, from times past into the future.
It is a fascinating way to introduce readers to a view of the world and the spirit that is very different from mainstream Western thought and traditions.
For this reason, it is a book to come to with an open heart and an open mind, and let the ideas and language wash over you, absorbing their meaning without trying to.
The belburd is published by Hachette in October 2024.
My thanks to the publishers and to NetGalley for an early copy to review.It’s complicated: ‘Germania’ by Simon Winder
This is not a new book: first published in 2010 and one of a trilogy of books about Central Europe, Germania is described as a personal history of Germans ancient and modern.
Why did I pick up a fourteen-year-old book about Germany?
Because, in my investigations into my family tree, there is one individual about whom I know very little: my mother’s 3 x great-grandfather, Christian Uebel.
In a tree made up of mainly English and Irish branches, Christian Uebel is an outlier, on a branch of his own. He emigrated from the Rhineland region of the country we now know as Germany, arriving in Australia in the 1860s. I realised that I knew so much more about British history and culture and almost nothing about Germany, so Germania was my first step to correcting this.
I quickly realised that the history of central Europe is much more complicated than I had imagined. I knew that the German nation did not exist until the unification in 1871, and in the centuries leading up to that, there were endless squabbles between and about the many, many small and large states that made up the German-speaking parts of Europe.
Germania traverses the history of this region from the days of the ancient tribes in the forests, all the way up to 1933, when the Nazis took power. I wondered about this timeframe until I realised it was for an entirely sensible reason. The dark shadows of WWII have so dominated German history, that apart from the first World War, many people know very little about what came before it.
This is not simply a book about history, although of course that is an important theme. It’s also a travelogue of a particular kind; one where the author indulges his pet loves – and hates – about a country and culture, and describes these in a very amusing – even humorously disrespectful – way.
Here’s an example: in discussing the appearance of a particular abbey, which gives a sense of an ancient and brilliant culture, but whose main interior unfortunately looks as though something has gone horribly wrong involving a collision with several trucks filled with icing sugar, having had an extreme rococo makeover to mark its seven-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary. (p65)
There are plenty of gems like this, along with more serious discussions of the ups and downs of German history. On this, we are told that there were three points at which it was the worst time to be alive in central Europe’s past: the 1340s (famine and plague), the 1630s (the Thirty Years War) and the 1940s.
No prizes for guessing why that last one is on the list.
I was grateful for the map of Germany and its neighbours in central Europe at the front of the book, flipping frequently back and forth in my quest to learn more about this fascinating and (to me anyway) somewhat bewildering region.
Winder’s analysis of the themes and movements, great and small, of European history is thoughtful and thought-provoking:
But, as with so many aspects of Central European history, there is such an amazing spread of unintended consequences that only a form of political paralysis can substitute for the actual kaleidoscope of decisions which generate the oddness of European history – a small, bitter and crowded landscape somehow incapable of (indeed allergic to) the broad-ranging uniformity of the Chinese Empire or the United States. It is unfortunate that what seems in many lights so fascinating about Europe should also, as a spin-off, be the basis for so much rage and death.
Germania p273
Germania was published by Picador in 2010.
Travels with my…unknown cousins?
One of the delightful and unexpected side effects of writing and publishing Travels with My Ancestors, a series about my research and travels through all things family history, has been the out-of-the-blue contacts I’ve had from relatives I’ve neither known nor heard of. These people have (in the words of one) stumbled upon my blog articles and reached out via this website, or on Facebook messenger, to introduce themselves. They are all related to me, albeit distantly, and part of the fun is figuring out who our common ancestor might be.
It’s wonderful to know that many others like me, are delving into our ancestors’ past worlds. And I am always thrilled to hear when something in my articles, a photo or a snippet of information, sparks interest in others to know more.
The flip side is that I am open to being corrected – I’m not a professional historian or genealogist and no doubt there are mistakes or misinterpretations in my work.
Imagine my absolute delight in being told that something I’d included, shed some light for someone researching their own family story. (Thank you, Brian!)
As I move towards completion of my book (Travels with my Ancestors: Felons, Floods & Family) and get it ready for printing, the knowledge that others have found my research and stories useful or interesting is very reassuring. It’s all been worth it!
This book will be volume one in Travels with My Ancestors. It traces my father’s line of descent, from convicts Thomas Eather and Elizabeth Lee, to my grandmother Florence Newton. The narrative also encompasses the stories of the Newton and Robinson families, who came here as assisted immigrants in mid-19th century.
It has been an absorbing three years, researching, writing, re-writing, re-writing, re-writing…and of course, travelling. As I get closer to the time when I send it to the printers, I feel both excited and (if I am honest) a teensy bit nervous. Once printed, that’s it: potential mistakes and all.
Well, there is always volume two to work on: my mother’s side of the family tree.
Stay tuned!
Austria in WWII: ‘The Secret Society of Salzburg’ by Renee Ryan
This historical fiction book opens with the arrest by the Gestapo of acclaimed and loved Austrian opera singer Elsa Mayer-Braun, on a stage in Salzburg in 1943. So, an early heads up of what one of the two main characters has to deal with.
From here the narrative weaves back and forth in time, and also across the English Channel, from the Continent to London, where we meet the other protagonist Hattie, who works in a dull civil service office, but longs to paint.
An unlikely pair of women to put together, but that is what the author does, as a chance meeting develops into a deep friendship between the two. Hattie travels to Austria with her sister to see Elsa perform and the sisters become stalwart fans of Elsa and her operas.
But of course war is coming and once their nations are at war, everything changes – except the women’s determination to carry out the secretive work of smuggling Jews out of Austria to England. Both Elsa and Hattie will not stop these life-saving rescue missions, despite the ever-increasing danger involved.
While Hattie’s artistic career takes off and Elsa travels Europe to perform – including singing for some high ranking Nazi officers – their secret missions ramp up.
As the tension mounts the reader is left guessing: is Elsa’s husband a threat or an ally? Who is the art dealer who supports Hattie’s artistic success and may just be falling in love with her? Will Elsa’s deep secrets be kept hidden or discovered by the Nazi heirarchy?
I loved that this story was inspired by real-life English sisters, civil servants who learned of the persecution of Jews through a freindship with an Austrian conductor and his wife. In my view, the best kind of historical fiction is that which touches on real people or events.
The Secret Society of Salzburg gives an insight into the experiences of Austrians in the lead-up and the early years of the war and Nazi occupation. It’s an engrossing story, well told.
The Secret Society of Salzburg was published in November 2023 by HarperCollins. My thanks to the publishers for a review copy.
Travels with My Ancestors #17: Josephine Eather and John Creek
This is the continuing story of the family and descendants of convicts Thomas Eather and Elizabeth Lee in Australia. You can find the very first post in this series here. That one deals with my journey to discover Elizabeth’s beginnings in Lancaster; following posts explore the Eather roots in Kent, then the journeys of both on convict ships to NSW, where they met and created a family and life together.
This chapter in the Eather family story is about my great-grandparents, Josephine Eather (1862 -1942) and John Lamrock Creek (1857 – 1924).
The Bush Nurse
West Maitland, NSW
In 1919, Josephine Creek (née Eather) received an official-looking envelope. It didn’t look like a bill—the kind of mail she was used to receiving. Inside were two thank you letters and a certificate, the second signed by the NSW Governor, the Premier and the Minister of Public Health.[1] When she’d read them, she carefully packed them away to keep.
Why had a fifty-seven year old mother of eleven, unaccustomed to public attention or recognition, received these messages from such prominent people?
~
When the Great War (1914-1918) ended, men and women who had served in the military or as nurses began the long trek home. With them came rumours of a deadly illness that was striking people down with frightening ferocity across Europe. Across Australia, some veterans returned with more than their injuries, kitbags and uniforms: they unwittingly also carried the virus that people began calling the Spanish Flu.
In the Maitland papers, Josephine (often known as ‘Jo’) no doubt read about the ratification of the longed-for peace treaty with Germany; but also the unwelcome news of rising influenza cases. There were long queues for the inoculation clinic at the Town Hall. Locals exchanged worried remarks about this invisible enemy. Wearied by four long years of war, worry, and loss, here was a new threat to contend with.
The government brought in travel restrictions, cancelled public events, closed schools and other institutions. Mask wearing in public became compulsory. [2] An Influenza Administrative Committee in the Hunter region managed and organised the local responses. They even ordered the railway station be fumigated. But four Maitland cases were diagnosed in March, the sufferers quarantined in their homes.
With more cases likely, an infectious ward was needed, and the Maitland Benevolent Home (known as Benhome) was repurposed, with existing residents of the home relocated to the Technical College building.[3]
What could she do to help? She was a woman of action, someone who’d not easily watch from the sidelines. When she heard the callout for people to care for those diagnosed with this troubling virus, she responded.
She joined a team of hospital and community nurses, those willing to work with the sick. She had worked as a bush nurse for several years, visiting homes, caring for people discharged from hospital, assisting with births and patient care in their homes. [4] She had the skills and experience to assist in this crisis.
With such a highly infectious disease, the work carried the risk of getting influenza herself. The hours were long and the work physically tiring: washing bedpans, scrubbing floors, cleaning medical equipment, feeding and bathing patients, changing bed linen, and many other tasks to keep a sick person clean and comfortable. She’d done it all before and could do it again now.
The death of young Maitland trainee nurse Molly Carr, struck down by flu in mid-June, brought other local women forward to help. At Maitland hospital, Matron Skullthorpe conducted education sessions on home nursing to more than fifty women who volunteered to assist when a shortage of nurses meant extra hands were needed.[5]
The Maitland Mercury gave daily reports of the donations that came in from the community for the influenza ward: eggs, butter, meals for the nursing staff, household goods, cloth to make masks and gowns.[6]
For several months it was all people could talk about. The energy that had kept everyone going during the war years was channelled into influenza relief. Of course, fear of the virus meant some people believed the silly ‘cures’ advertised in local papers, such as gargles or eucalyptus oil. Jo and her fellow nurses knew better.
By September the pandemic was contained. Maitland had weathered the worst of it; Benhome ceased its function as isolation ward and its long-term residents returned to the home. Jo and her community could breathe a collective sigh of relief.
~
The certificate she received, signed by the Governor, stated:
Nurse Creek volunteered and worked in the District supervised by the Newcastle Influenza Committee in connection with the stamping out of the pandemic of Pneumonic Influenza (1919) and for caring for sufferers, and thereby rendered eminent service in the cause of humanity [7].
The letters from the Committee applauded the work done by volunteers and nurses:
The Committee desires to sincerely thank you for your splendid work in assisting those unable to help themselves during the recent serious Epidemic. This work was carried out under conditions which were always trying and often dangerous…The whole community is indebted to you for your noble efforts which undoubtedly saved many lives… Without your spontaneous and continued help the work could not have been carried on…It will gratify you to know that your assistance brought comfort and relief to many cases of deep and genuine distress…[8]One of the official thanks received by Josephine for her work during the 1919 Flu Epidemic
Copy in family collectionThis was quite a moment for a woman who had previously served both family and community with little recognition for her work. She had stepped up to help in the crisis and could be proud of what she and others had collectively achieved. She kept that certificate, and the two thank-you letters signed by Mayoress Edith Cracknell, until she died; after which they were carefully preserved by her family.
Before the Pandemic
Like many others in the large Eather clan, she had strong links to two major rivers and their valleys: the Hunter and the Hawkesbury. Born in 1862 when her parents Robert and Ann were living in Newcastle, she was the middle child of thirteen.[9]
Her older sisters might have sometimes spoken sadly of their tiny brother Robert, who had been born and died before her arrival. When she was ten, her sister Lucretia was buried, dead before her third birthday. Jo had helped care for her other little brother and sisters, just as her older siblings had done for her. She knew all about the risks and dangers for babies and young children, being born and getting through childhood.
When Lucretia died, Robert and Ann were living at Sally Bottoms (Tennyson) in the Hawkesbury Valley, with nearby Howes’ Creek meandering past paddocks and bushland. Here they farmed their thirty acres; the children working too, while never missing an opportunity to roam and explore the neighbouring creek and bush when their chores were done.
There were plenty of jobs to keep them busy: chopping wood, fetching water, looking after the littlies, peeling potatoes or kneading bread dough in the kitchen with their mother. There were animals to care for: cows to milk, chickens to feed and eggs to collect.
At least some of the children went to school for a few years, learning to read, write and do basic sums, likely at the provisional school established in the 1870s.[10]
In between they went rabbiting, fishing for yabbies in the creek, swimming to cool off on a hot day. They shared the creeks and paddocks with eels, snakes, tortoises, goannas and many kinds of birds.
They may have come across cave paintings or axe grinding grooves in sandstone ledges across waterways, mysterious signs of the Dharug people who lived on this country before white settlers had arrived to put up fences.
It was a busy, crowded childhood with few comforts; but they learnt everyday skills they carried into adulthood.
~
When Jo was seventeen, she married John Creek in St Stephen’s Church, then ten years old, perched on its hill at Kurrajong.[11] Pausing a moment on the pathway to the little church, she’d have seen beautiful undulating fields laid out around her, cradled by blue-tinged mountains in the distance.
 Her new husband was a saddler, twenty-two years old, whose parents George Creek and Sarah Webb had emigrated twenty-five years earlier, as assisted immigrants from rural Cambridgeshire in England. They’d arrived in December 1854 on the ship General Hewitt, having packed their hopes for a better life into their trunks, stowed securely in the ship’s hold. [12]
Married life
John was George and Sarah’s only son. After their wedding Jo lived with her new husband on the north side of the river, where their first baby was born in 1880.[13]
John worked as a saddler at North Richmond. Saddlery was a skilled and respected trade, as almost everyone needed his wares: saddles and bridles for horses, harnesses for bullock teams, other leather items such as belts. In his day to day work John used an array of specialised tools, saddle frames, and hides, surrounded by the rich smell of leather and the oils used to soften and nourish it. It was honest, satisfying work.
The next three children were baptised at St Marys.[14] John had either found work at a saddlery business there, or opened his own.
A township with a strong industrial base, St Marys had tanneries, sawmills, brick makers, blacksmiths and wheelwrights, all making use of local resources. The railway arrived in the 1860’s and encouraged further development in industries such as sawmilling and tanning. The well-known Bennett’s wagon building business incorporated a number of these trades and their wagons were used by timber getters, farmers, and builders.[15] A saddlery business was guaranteed to do well there. The Creeks could look forward to their future with optimism.
But by the late 1880s they were back in the Hawkesbury at Kurrajong, where seven more babies were born over a fifteen-year period.[16]
~
Just like her mother and grandmother before her, Jo’s adult life was dominated by childbirth and the care of children. All the practice she’d had as a young girl looking after her siblings came into its own.
Many of those babies were likely delivered by Sarah Howard, who lived at Little Wheeney Creek at Kurrajong. She was the district midwife, travelling on rough roads across the surrounding district, often late at night and in all weathers. Her arrival was always welcomed in homes where a labouring woman needed her expertise.[17]
Mrs Howard’s heroic commitment to local women and their families may have planted a seed in Jo’s imagination that was to bear fruit in her later life. How wonderful, to be a nurse bringing care to patients suffering in homes too far from a doctor or unable to travel! Perhaps she longed to be able to make this kind of difference in people’s lives.
~
In an awful echo of her mother’s experience, she found herself beside a tiny grave dug for her third baby, Robert, who died in 1884, after just one year of life.[18] He was buried in the cemetery of St Stephen’s at Kurrajong, the same church where four years earlier, she’d stood at the altar to marry John. At least her little boy would lie in a beautiful place, with the peaceful surrounds of the churchyard, and clear piping calls of bellbirds floating down from nearby trees.
Eighteen years later, she returned to St Stephen’s for the funeral of another child, baby John (Jack) who died at three months, from convulsions brought on by whooping cough.[19] She’d had to endure the appalling sight of her baby struggling for each breath and the hooting sounds of his cough. Young life was so fragile. Despite her practiced hand with infants, there was nothing she could do to ease or prevent his death.
Who could have blamed her if, when registering the birth of her last baby Francis (Frank) a year later in 1903, she’d silently hoped that there’d be no more babies to fret and worry over.[20]
At least, back in the Hawkesbury again, she was nearby to comfort her mother when her father died in 1879.
In 1901, Australia made the momentous move to Federation—no longer a collection of separate states, now under one national constitution. Of course, women were not allowed to vote in Federal elections (and in most state elections, for that matter) until 1902. December 1903 was the first occasion on which Jo had the right to cast her vote. Finally, this was a franchise extended to most—but not all—women across the new nation. Indigenous women and men and people of ‘non-European’ backgrounds had to wait.
As she slipped her ballot paper into the box the first time, she’d have had a great deal to think about, including her children’s futures—especially her daughters. Perhaps their lives could be easier than her own.
Return to the Hunter
Around 1910, the family returned to Maitland. Australia had suffered an economic depression in the ‘jobless 90s’, and many were on the move, desperate to find work. If John’s saddlery business had slowed because of the downturn, he’d have struggled to make ends meet.
 An opportunity arose back in Maitland, to work at the prestigious Barden & Ribee Saddlery business in High Street.[21] Jo could leave behind sad memories now associated with the Hawkesbury.
Barden & Ribee Saddlers in Maitland. Photo from Athel D’Ombrain collection, courtesy of Univeristy of Newcastle They moved to Station Street Homeville, in West Maitland (now known as Brooks Street, Telarah.)
It was during these years that she began her nursing career.
~
In 1914 the cataclysm of the Great War erupted. Andrew Fisher, who was elected Prime Minister that year, voiced the opinion of many Australians that they should support Great Britain, when he declared that:
Australians [would] stand beside the mother country to help and defend her to our last man and our last shilling. [22]
Australians responded enthusiastically, with 416,809 enlisting for service, representing nearly 40% of the male population aged 18 to 44.[23]
None of the Creek boys signed up, though it was always a possibility. Would Jo have felt proud of her sons, if they had come home in uniform? Pride mixed with fear, perhaps—though to begin with, most people thought the war would be a short-lived affair. Cyril was a grocer, an important occupation during wartime—people always needed to buy food. Still, there was pressure to join up by some who believed all young men should ‘do their bit,’ even workers in key jobs.
The difficulties of wartime life included higher prices for essentials such as fuel and food. While there wasn’t formal rationing, trade embargoes and the government’s decision to send essential commodities to Britain resulted in shortages at home. Already a thrifty homemaker with a large family to feed, she had to further reduce the family’s consumption of items such as butter and meat. Newspapers and magazines were full of ‘austerity recipes’ with ideas on how to make food stretch further.
Many local women volunteered with the Red Cross, raising money, knitting socks, making cakes and jams, all of which were bundled up as ‘comfort packs’ to send to the boys at the front.
Through all this, she continued her nursing work.
Once the war had ended and the flu pandemic brought under control in 1919, life settled down to a calmer pace. But in January 1924, John died of kidney disease and a heart condition which had been troubling him for over a year.[24] He was buried at Campbell’s Hill Cemetery, West Maitland.[25]
More sadness was in store for Jo: her sister Elvina died two years later in 1926; and in 1929 daughter Priscilla, aged forty-four.[26] In that same year another sister, Cecilia, known as Mother Mary de-Sales of the Sisters of the Good Samaritan, passed away at the age of eighty.[27] And in 1933, she was given the news of the death of her forty-two year old daughter Alma, who had moved to Victoria after her marriage.[28]
Australia was now in the throes of the Great Depression. Maitland, once a thriving, prosperous town built on an abundance of natural resources, suffered like the rest of the country, with high unemployment and hardship.To make matters worse, in 1930 the Hunter River broke its banks in another flood, the worst since the previous century.[29] After the water receded, people spent long exhausting days sweeping mud from homes and shops, throwing out items onto huge rubbish piles, sorting through donations of clothing for flood victims. Just like the Hawkesbury of her youth, this river was both a giver of gifts and a deadly enemy.
West Maitland in 1930 flood.
Photo courtesy Newcastle & Hunter District Historical Society & University of Newcastle
Another War
By 1939, Australia was once again embroiled in a world war. During her final years, she had to relive the anxieties of wartime. This time the government did introduce rationing, with the war raging in the Pacific as well as in Europe, the Middle East and Asia.
As war broke out, Jo’s youngest son Frank was living in England, where he worked as a porter at London’s Australia House. He joined the Civil Defence Service as an air raid warden and had special training in dealing with any gas attacks.[30] Jo must have worried about him, especially when news of German bombing raids on London filled the papers and radio broadcasts.
In 1942 came the devastating news that grandson Harvey (‘Snow’) Newton, her daughter Florence’s eldest, was missing in action after the fall of Singapore to the Japanese. How on earth could she comfort her daughter, faced with such loss? They continued to hope for better news, but the anguish at not knowing Snow’s fate never left.
There was a price to be paid for a long life. By the time she died at the end of December that year, aged eighty, Jo had outlived seven of her siblings, her husband, and four of her children. She was at least spared the eventual understanding that her grandson Snow would never return.[31] She did not live to see the end of the war and the safe return of other grandsons who’d enlisted.
She was laid to rest near John at Campbell’s Hill cemetery.[32]
Witnesses to change
John and Josephine lived through tumultuous decades which ushered Australia into the modern era. Between them, they endured two major depressions, a world pandemic, two devastating world wars and numerous river floods. They witnessed the development of railways, motor vehicles, powered flight, telephone services, and saw Australia become a federated nation instead of a collection of British colonies.
Jo was among the first women in the British Empire with the right to cast her vote in federal and state elections.
They were ordinary people, living through extraordinary times. The legacy they left was not monetary wealth. Their names and photos did not appear in newspapers or history books. Still, their contributions to family and community were real and irreplaceable. Josephine’s certificate of thanks from the Governor and were testimony to that.
~
[1] Copies in family collection[2] Janice Wilson, ‘Spanish Flu’, 2022, Maitland Stories at https://maitlandstories.com.au/stories/spanish-flu, accessed 7 June 2024[3] Janice Wilson, ‘Spanish Flu’[4] Josephine Creek 1913 in Australian Electoral Commission; Canberra, Australia; Electoral Rolls 1903-1980, Homeville, Maitland NSW. Via Ancestry.com, accessed 10 December 2022; Maitland Mercury 12 July 1919 Via Trove, accessed 11 Dec 2022; Janice Wilson,‘Spanish Flu’ https://maitlandstories.com.au/stories/spanish-flu, accessed 11 Dec 2022[5] Maitland Weekly Mercury (NSW 1894-1931), 5 April 1919 p7. Via Trove https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/128058576#, accessed Sept 17, 2023[6] Maitland Daily Mercury, (NSW 1894-1939), 12 July 1919 p5 Via Trove, accessed 28 Sept 2023[7] Department of Public Health Certificate for Influenza Workers (copy in family collection)[8] Alderman Edith B Cracknell and Influenza Relief Committee to Josephine Creek, Maitland, July 1919 (copy in family collection )[9] Birth of Josephine Eather, reg 1862/ 10963, Aust Birth Index 1788-1922, via Ancestry.com accessed 28 Sept 2023[10] Michelle Nichols, Pictorial History of Hawkesbury, Kingsclear Books, 2004, p35[11] Marriage of Josephine Eather and John Creek, 1879/4267, Australia Marriage Index 1788-1950. Via Ancestry.com, accessed 17 Sept 2023 June 2024 [12] State Records NSW, Persons on bounty ships to Sydney, Newcastle and Moreton bay (Board’s Immigrant Lists) Series 5317 Reel 2466, Item [4/4937] Via Ancestry.com, accessed 15 Dec 2022 [13] NSW Birth Certificate for John Creek, 1857/11943 Certified copy issued 12 Sept 1988 [14] Australian Birth Index John Lamrock Creek 1857/11943; Hannah Creek 1860/11726; Sarah Ann Creek 1866/14287 Via Ancestry.com, accessed 19 Sept 2023[15] Lorraine Stacker, Penrith & St Marys: A Pictorial History Kingsclear Books 2013, pp110-117 [16] NSW Birth Reg Cyril John Creek 1887/24289; Alma Creek 1891/30840; Isabella Creek 1893/31587; Florence May Creek 1896/16077; Ina Myrtle Creek 1899/15510; John Creek 1902/6579; Francis John Creek 1903/6619/
 Via Ancestry.com, accessed 20 Sept 2023[17] Nola O’Connor ‘Sarah Alexander (Howard) 1860-1948’ in The Millstone, Journal of Kurrajong-Comleroy Historical Society Inc, Vol 10 Issue 3, May-June 2012, p8 https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/114298699/augustus-john-creek: accessed 21 September 2023; Maintained by Frances France (contributor 47744340). [18] Robert George Creek in Australian Death Index 1787-1985, reg 1884/10080. Via Ancestry.com, accessed 20 Sept 2023 [19] John Cleave Creek in Australian Death Index 1787-1985, reg 1902/2879 [20] Frank Creek in Australian Birth Index 1788-1922, reg 1903/6619 Via Ancestry.com, accessed 20 June 2024 [21] The Maitland Daily Mercury (NSW: 1894 – 1939) 15 Dec 1915 p2 Via Trove, 20 accessed Sept 2023 [22] Department of Veterans Affairs, ANZAC Portal, at Australia’s responses to World War I – Anzac Portal (dva.gov.au) Accessed 20 June 2024 [23] Australian War Memorial Enlistment statistics, First World War | Australian War Memorial (awm.gov.au) [24] Death of John Creek 1924 in State Records Collection; Kingswood, New South Wales, Australia; Indexes to deceased estate files; Archive Series: NRS 13341; Series: “Pre A” Series (1923-1939); Reel Number: 3216 Via Ancestry.com, accessed 19 Sept 2023; Death certificate 1924/2319, transcription of 5 March 2024 [25] John Creek 1924 in Australia and New Zealand, Find A Grave Index, 1800s-Current: Via Ancestry.com, accessed 20 Sept 2023; Death Certificate 2319/1924 transcription of 12 March 2024 [26] Death of Elvina E Scott (nee Eather) 3 Jun. 1926 in Aust Cemetery Index 1808-2007, Compiler: Central Coast Family History Society; Collection Title: Index to the Charles Kinsela Funeral Directors Registers; Reference: Rookwood Church of England; Via Ancestry.com, accessed 29 Nov 2023; Death Priscilla Hayes (nee Creek) reg 1929/23773 Via Ancestry.com, accessed 20 Sept 2023 [27] Death of Cecilia Eather 1929/23773 in Aust Death Index, Via Ancestry.com, accessed 19 Sept 2023; Obituary Sr Mary de Sales, The Catholic Press, Sydney NSW 1895-1942, 28 Nov 1929. Via Trove, accessed 2 Sept 2023 [28] Death of Alma Millership (nee Creek) 1933/8918 in The Victorian Registry of Births, Deaths, and Marriages; Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, Via Ancestry.com, accessed 20 June 2024 [29] Maitland Stories: Timeline — Maitland: Our Place, Our Stories (maitlandstories.com.au), Accessed 20 June 2024 [30] 1939 England & Wales register, The National Archives; Kew, London, England; 1939 Register; Reference: Rg 101/530c Via Ancestry.com, accessed 20 Sept 2023 [31] Death Josephine Creek (nee Eather) Maitland NSW reg 1942/30857 Transcription of 31 Jan 2023 [32] Find A Grave Index, Josephine Creek 8 Dec 1942, Campbell’s Hill Cemetery Via Ancestry.com, accessed 5 Sept 2023