A small, 1950s cream faux leather suitcase, the remainder of a wedding-gift-set; the other, ‘long gone to the Brotherhood’. A brass clasp that has to be … h–e–l–d … longer than you’d expect … until … Click! A slightly fusty smell. Shot burgundy satin lining, yellow-lidded, plastic Kodak containers, crossing-the-line certificates and… a photo! The only picture needed to bring everything back. My family, and Grandma, boarding the TV Fairstar.

 “You’re going to Australia!”

It meant staying with Grandma, moving school, lots of pre-departure drop-ins, a bloody nose for misbehaving, a farewell party, and a clan doorknocker for our new home, from Dad’s older sister. “Will ye no’ come back again?”

Coats, hats, my brother Murray and Dad with ties, we board in order of height. Sensible. I’m at the front, held back by an Officer. “Stay out of trouble, stay with the family.” A ridiculous plastic rain cover over my blue velvet beret, no recollection of rain, hanging on to my little crossover bag. Who is more wide-eyed, Murray? Me? He still looks shocked at having witnessed everything we own, including the Hillman Minx, hoisted onto the ship. Both certainly surprised by the photographer. Mum is in charge, that’s normal, handling documents and a large envelope. Grandma has been pulled over to one side and is hidden behind a steward. Dad glances in her direction, ready to step in if needed. His expression is unwavering, serious.

Soon it will be neat navy “swimmers” with a white pleated skirt. Much better.

Daddy will take me to one of the ship’s swimming pools and teach me to, “Sit on the edge… hands out in front… in you go… ” He never tires of gently pushing me, encouraging me. The water is something I come to love. I also love our secret packets of crisps, Picnic and Mars bars!

Mum’s smile is wiped from her face as she is seasick most of the way. She is mostly in the cabin than anywhere else. She has packed beautiful new summer clothes and somehow manages to improvise costumes for various fancy dress parties. I dutifully parade in pyjamas, crimson, carefully covered in ‘Buttons and Bows’, but the song means nothing to me. Murray, in a silk printed shirt, a stocking yanked over his face, a plait down his back, looking vaguely Chinese. A girl dressed as a bride-doll-in-a-box wins the prize!

Exotic places: Portugal, Port Said, and scary Suez.

Swimming and quoits, on-shore excursions, Murray and I only meet when we have to, at dinner, when we have to “behave” in front of Tony the Italian waiter. I remember being envious of other children on board who got to eat together. I have never since heard Murray mention anything of the experience. He would have been told to look after his little sister but he would have done it from a distance.

Grandma spends a great deal of time meeting others, playing cards, reading and writing letters – always writing letters. I realise now she was never going to stay. It is not easy to be a migrant at 66; she will find it hot, she will find it strange and she doesn’t like “beasties”. The land of her birth beckons, she returns within a year. Her familiar blue, newsy aerogrammes cheer our mailboxes at number 18 Ebden Avenue and Lot 122 Winmalee Drive.

Another photo, another girl stands in front of her brother, holding on to a streamer, hanging over a barrier, at Station Pier. “They’re here, they’re here!” The littlies- that’s what we will call them- strain to see through.

Adele has been looking forward to meeting these big cousins who have come all the way from Scotland to live at her house.

A great deal of effort has gone in to arranging rooms and beds. She is looking forward to midnight feasts and whisperings and giggling into the night. Taking in the enormous size of the ship as it docks, she has a slightly curious but puzzled look on her five year-old face. It could be the noise of the brass band playing – dah, dah, da-da-da, da-da dah… Sousa… strange… Stars and stripes for ever!
Somehow my mother has caught sight of her brother and his family. They have made sure they were early enough to be in the front, and near a gangway.
It is freezing. It is dark. It is wet. As we drive down Beaconsfield Parade, amid the excitement, the relief, the strange fatigue of finally arriving, my parents wonder, “What have we done?”
But who can predict the future? All I know is, I am entranced by the big houses lining the front and enjoy the chatter of my new bright little companion.

But after two years, we do go back to Scotland…the newly built house at Glen Waverley is sold, lock, stock, tartan carpet and potato crop. We are on board another boat, the Himalaya.
Glasgow for nearly a year; staying with Grandma again. I struggle to join my handwriting, Dad struggles to find work. The Himalaya, again – through the Panama Canal this time – showing off, castanets overboard!

Today in Melbourne, forty-six years later.

Flip the photo, scribble 1966 across it, place on top, close the case, shove to back of cupboard. Maybe one day, one of Murray’s five children will pull it down, look through the contents and smile, before sending it to ‘the Brotherhood’. Maybe one day I will knock on the door of that house in Black Rock and ask for the door-knocker with the Ross clan motto, ‘Spem successus alit’, which means ‘success nourishes hope’.