Wednesday, May 6th

Another piece of writing - on the topic 'Mrs Windsor's Children:

Living in a modest three-bedroom house in Rocherlea might seem like a world of difference from the very comfortable (some might say privileged) existence they had enjoyed in England but Kathy and Bill didn’t see it like that.  The fiasco of Brexit had not delivered what PM BoJo had promised, the shambles of their Coronavirus response and the withdrawal of Scotland and Wales from the Union hadn’t helped and, when Bill’s grandmother had died (of a broken heart, perhaps) and his father had taken over the family business, all the resentments of a disillusioned population had spilled over into riots in the streets.  Everyone said performances like that were disgraceful and to be expected in places like Hong Kong, perhaps, but never in civilised England.

Bill’s brother and his wife had already settled in Canada and, by all accounts, were living life to the full, but Kathy and Bill wanted something different – to be normal for a change.  Moving to Tasmania seemed a good start.  Adopting other versions of their names also seemed like a good idea – another break from the past. His old name, Will, smacked too much of Eton and Kate sounded too much like the sort of person who played Netball on Saturday afternoon and got drunk with her mates after the match.  Kathy and Bill, on the other hand, sounded like the middle-aged couple you might meet playing bowls. 

Bill couldn’t do much about his receding hairline but he did manage to grow a pretty decent moustache, even though Kathy said that it reminded her of Frank Zappa, whoever he was.  Kathy was quite happy with her life, working three mornings a week at Woolies, and looking after their kids who were at the local high school, and Bill had a job selling cars.  He had first been offered a job with Holden but that didn’t last long so someone put in a good word with Errol Stewart and a job was found for him at the Ford dealership in Launceston.  It was probably that nice Mr Morrison who arranged it.  

When Kathy and Bill had first come to Australia, their visas were signed personally by a Mr Dutton.  Mr Dutton and Mr Morrison had met them at the airport with welcome gifts and offers of directorships and so on.  Kathy and Bill hadn’t realised that Australia was so welcoming to refugees.  All those reports in the Guardian about turning back the boats and locking people up in concentration camps must have been fake news as Mr Morrison had said. 

The local people they had met in Rocherlea all seemed nice.  Australians didn’t seem to have the habit of tugging forelocks and bowing like people in England, and they seemed to swear a lot.  When Bill had sold his first car, the manager had said, ‘You’re a bloody beauty!’  Bill didn’t know whether that was a compliment or not but when the boss bought him a beer later, he assumed it was a good thing.

Yes, life might be alright in Tassie.  Well, the kids were picking up some bad habits, like chewing gum, and Kathy had taken up smoking but these were probably just teething problems.  As the Australians often said, “She’ll be right.’