Grandparents - Paternal

William and Florence Crick and children

William Crick

Born: 1881, Old Heath, Colchester, Essex, UK
Died: 1964, Carnegie, Victoria, Australia

Florence Emily 'Florrie' Jackaman

Born: 1874, Mendlesham, Sussex, UK
Died: 1951, Carnegie, Victoria, Australia

Children

Albert William, born 1903, West Ham, London, UK
Jack, born 1906, Canning Town, Essex, UK
Cyril, born 1910, Brentwood, Essex, UK

William Crick

Florence and William married in 1902 at St Marys in The Boltons in Kensington, now a quiet island in busy London. When you’re there today, only the sound of nannies and their charges on the street break the quiet.

Over the next 11 years Florence and William had three children, Albert William (my dad).

Obviously, they moved around a fair bit, and in 1913 made a huge move emigrating to Australia aboard the SS Beltana, arriving in Melbourne in 1913. There’s no evidence of why they chose to make such a break, my father certainly didn’t speak of it, even if he knew. I feel like my grandfather was a bit of a restless character. At a time when his brothers took up the family profession of brickmaking he went to London and worked as a railway signalman and later as an insurance agent. Once in Australia, he worked as an electricity meter reader and later collector, again moving around a bit in the south of Melbourne until settling in the then new suburb of Carnegie sometime in the early 1920s.

Florence Emily 'Florrie' Jackaman

I never knew my grandmother Florence, she died in 1951, two years after I was born. I vaguely remember a photo on the wall in my grandad’s house and my mum speaking of ‘old Mrs Crick.’

Until April 2011, apart from one story my mum told of her, I had nothing of her, no photos or other artefacts, no memories. Then, completely out of the blue, from reading this blog, a previously unknown cousin, Marge Coombes, contacted me and said she had a photo of Florence. 'Would I like a copy?' she asked. Following my very enthusiastic 'yes' it duly arrived. It's the photo above, and shows not only Florence, but my grandfather and my dad as a young man (he's standing behind Florence) and his brothers, Jack (behind William) and Cyril. It turns out the photo was actually a postcard sent to my great grandmother with a message in Florence's handwriting. So, suddenly, Florence was much more 'real' to me.

Florence was born in Mendlesham (see here), in 1874 and her birth registered under her mother’s surname (Cobbold), so I would assume she was illegitimate – her mother (Mary Ann) married George Jackaman in 1875 and Florence took that name: her birth date on her wedding certificate retrospectively revised to legitimise her. I assume George was her father, though it is possible he was not.

In the 1891 census, Florence is shown as a domestic at the local vicarage, but by 1901 she’s in London working and living as a domestic in a fairly grand home in Kensington. Working with her is an Elizabeth Crick, so I assume she met my grandfather, William Crick, through Elizabeth. I can’t yet connect Elizabeth to our Cricks, but it seems very unlikely to be a co-incidence. However, interestingly, there are Jackamans in my grandfather’s family tree too, but from Essex, not Suffolk.

The House at Woornack Road

Today, Carnegie is a quiet, leafy, middle class suburb in the east of Melbourne on the fringe of the old Melbourne. There is nothing but suburban sprawl between it, distant Dandenong and beyond. When my grandfather moved there, it was a brand new suburb with paddocks, farms and small settlements between it and the then country town of Dandenong.

Carnegie was originally called Rosstown, after William Murray Ross, a developer. The name was changed in 1909 to try and distance the suburb from the connotations of failure brought about by Ross' sugar beet mill project which never began production, and the Rosstown Railway. The name Carnegie was chosen in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to secure funds for a library from the philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. The original name lives on in the name of the local hotel, and Rosstown Road. (Wikipedia).

My grandparents built a house there that I remember vividly from my childhood. A modest weatherboard house in XXXX style, it had a brick fence with wrought iron gates that opened on a long ashphalt driveway that led up to the driveway. The driveway passed under a tall topiary arch at the swide of the house. We never entered by the front door, we always passed under the arch to the back of the house.

Once through the back door of the house, it always seemed cool and quiet inside. Immediately inside the door was a lobby containing a large pantry, quite often granddad would produce a soft drink for me out of that pantry. There was an umbrella stand in this lobby made out of an elephant's foot - it seemed incredibly exotic to me when I was a child. To the left was a bathroom, to the right a kitchen. This kitchen was tiny, there was no room for much except a small sink, a table for two people, some shelves and a stove set into a brick surround. I'm pretty sure the lobby and bathroom had been added on as you could see the weatherboards that had formed the back of the house surrounding the door that led into the main part of the house.

Once through that door, there was a small sitting room that had glass fronted bookshelves on either side of a fireplace, these bookcases fascinated me, apart from books and photos they had amazing objects like a seahorse skeleton. I spent a lot of time on visits peering at these treasures. On one wall was a picture illustrating the story of the little drummer boy in Napoleon's army (????).

My grandad had a lounge chair with wooden arms in the corner near a window. I remember him sitting in that chair, smoking his pipe, dressed in a cardigan, collar and tie. I hear his voice even now. I adored him.

Beyond that were two small bedrooms, the master bedroom and a lounge. The front door opened directly onto this lounge, which never seemed to be used. Indeed, many years later my Uncle Jack took me through this part of the house and I'm pretty sure this was the first time I'd been in it.

Leaving the house, you stepped through the back door (the wooden screen door banging behind you) into a space enclosed by an open frame that extended the roof line of the house. You can just see it in the photo of granddad and Uncle Jack at the fishpond. The frame was partially covered by some sort of creeper which created a cool, dampish space for the fern garden under it.

As you faced the back of the block from this space there were two enclosed areas on either side of a concrete path leading all the way to the garage at the very back of the property. On the left was a space enclosed on three sides that contained an aviary. There were only a few birds in the aviary when I knew the house, but it had once held a lot more. The open side of this space faced a small workshop. Quite a few times I ‘helped’ my grandfather fix or make something in this workshop. Sometimes he even made me a car or other toy out of scrap wood. I think this workshop had once been the laundry – part of the floor and adjacent wall were bricked in the way our laundry was to accommodate a copper for heating water on wash days.

On the right facing from the back door was the fish pond. It was enclosed on all four sides – three of which were more fern gardens. The fish pond was quite small and covered in chicken wire to protect the fish. It held a dozen or so large goldfish swimming among the lily pads. I can remember watching those fish for what seemed like hours.

Uncle Jack and Granddad Crick looking towards the fishpond. This is how I remember my grandad.

Sprinkled among the ferns in this area were many creatures, some of them monkeys, others just indefinable beings. They were made from painted pieces of driftwood, coconut shells and so on. Some had hair made from coir, if I remember right. I found them somewhat scary as a child, but fascinating. I guess my grandfather had made them, but I don’t really know. The only thing I can compare them to is some of the animal figures in the Rock Garden of Chardigarh in India.

This whole area was green, shady and still, lit only by dappled sunlight. There were plenty of things to see in it, but equally, you could just sit and read or just doze. It occurs to me that my love of similar places comes from this little oasis in my grandfather’s house.

Walking along the concrete path took you to the backyard. Here the path was raised two or so feet above the surrounds. The lower area had a series of raised garden beds each had a frame on top made from plumbing pipe allowing each bed to be covered in chicken wire. I remember strawberries growing here surrounded by straw, but I’m sure other things were grown here. It looked very much like the allotments that were once common in England. Along the fence line were a number of chook pens. By my time they were no longer used as such, but must have held a large number of chooks at one time. On the other side of this space was a frame made from plumbing pipe that had some sort of apple tree trained to grow on it. The apples were sour and inedible, but I think they were used for preserves and the like.

Next to the apple frame was a narrow driveway leading to the garage – the centre of operations in the eye of my Uncle Jack and dad. The garage looked like it had been built in two stages, the left side professionally; the right and taller part of the structure, not so professionally. This part was where the cars were worked on; it had a compacted dirt floor and always smelt of oil. If your clothes made contact with the floor here you were left with a black oily smudge on them.

Oddly, there were several prints mounted on the wall here. Covered in plastic, they were framed by scrap bits of pine that had been painted green or red. I can’t remember the subjects of the prints, but I’m pretty sure they were 19th century style prints of ‘uplifting’ or military subjects.

The other part of the garage was the workshop and contained a variety of lathes and drills as well as workbenches and storage. It was always cool and dim in here, lit by a single naked globe. I watched my uncle with fascination as he turned out replacement car parts that could not bought or things to fix things around the house.

It’s all gone now, of course, bulldozed after my uncle’s death and replaced by units. The thought of that eccentric but absolutely fascinating space being ruthlessly torn down fills me with sadness. I’ve stood in front of 48 Woornack Road many times since, but the dull boredom of the chocolate coloured units there now is too sad to linger for long.