Robert William Edward Romeril - My father by his daughter Dorothy (Dot)

 

My Father: The Life of Robert William Edward Romeril

As told by Aunty Dot, reshaped here for our family blog

Robert William Edward Romeril b1887 d1967.
"Top photos enhanced with the use of Chatgpt"
Top left circa 1917 - top left 01 Sep 1966

My father, Robert William Edward Romeril  (Bert), was born on 3 July 1887 in Darlington, Sydney, New South Wales. He was the third child of Edward Thomas Romeril and Martha Farncombe. His father, a Frenchman from the Isle of Jersey, worked as a sea captain on coastal ships, and perhaps gave up the sea when he married. We know very little after that — there is no record of him after 1889.

Research has since found information about the whereabouts of Bert.

Our Elusive great grandfather

Around that time, Martha’s mother travelled to Sydney and returned to Melbourne with Martha, Berty, my father, his two older sisters, and a baby sister. Dad was only two years old when the family settled in Market Street, South Melbourne.

When he was twelve, Martha remarried. Dad’s stepfather apprenticed him to plumbing — a trade he hated. Two years later, he left home and headed for the country, earning his living breaking in horses and doing general station-hand work.

On 26 January 1911, at twenty-three, he enlisted as a professional soldier in the Australian Field Artillery permanent forces in Melbourne. He served at the Queenscliff Barracks and the Victorian Barracks on St Kilda Road. Life for the men stationed in Melbourne was lively; the socialites of Toorak regularly invited them to functions, and they enjoyed those days immensely.

Then the First World War was declared. Bert — as my father was known — and most of the other men immediately enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force for overseas service. His army number was 51. He embarked for war on 18 October 1914.

He trained in Egypt before landing at Cape Helles, Gallipoli. While disembarking from the pontoon, he dislocated his knee and, under heavy Turkish fire, crawled across the beach in agony. Unable to walk, he survived on wild berries and kept firing at the enemy from the shoreline.  After the evacuation from Gallipoli, he went to Tel-el-Kebir, and on 27 March 1916, he arrived in the trenches of France, where he remained — aside from brief hospital stays — until the war ended.

Bert rose to the rank of Sergeant and served on the large artillery guns. The constant roaring of the guns caused one of his ears to bleed continually, and with little medical treatment available, he ultimately became deaf in that ear.

For more on how Bert and Annie connected after the war see Annie and Bert reconnect

On 15 February 1919, at thirty-one, he married  Josephine Annie Brudus  (Annie), whom he had known since childhood and corresponded with throughout the war. A month later, on 16 March 1919, he was discharged from the army in Melbourne.

Dad had no trade or manual skills, so he worked at his brother-in-law’s dairy in Brighton. In 1923 he tried running a fruit business in Prahran, and the following year he became a builder’s labourer working for Annie’s foster father — a job he would keep for life.

They bought a house in the country at Briar Hill. But when the Great Depression hit in 1930, the building trade collapsed and Bert was out of work again. By then, they had a daughter, another daughter who had tragically died at thirteen months, and three sons. That same year, I was born, and my father was forty-three.

My memories are of an older father, often away working in the country. He took any job he could find — building roads, labouring, whatever was needed.

When the Second World War began in 1939, Dad enlisted immediately. But at fifty-two, he was told he was too old for overseas service and was placed as a Sergeant in the Garrison. His duties were guarding the coast and supervising prisoners of war.

Dad’s army discipline spilled straight into our family life. I cannot remember him spending even one day in bed ill, though he had never been truly well since the First World War. If my brothers didn’t leap from bed at his first morning call, he would sometimes grab the entire mattress and throw it out. His shoes — no matter how worn — shone like mirrors. His hat was always tilted slightly to one side and hung on the bedpost at night.
He retired at eight each evening and rose at four in the morning, immediately switching the radio on at full volume. As children, we learned to sleep through anything, which, as our future spouses discovered, was not always a blessing. Thunderstorms, babies crying, things that went bump in the night — we heard none of it, thanks to Dad’s deafness.

He had little patience for sickness. If you could stand, you carried on. I once went to school for three weeks with a broken collarbone. Dad thought my screaming was pretend, and it was only addressed when the nuns sent home a note. By then it had already knitted.
“You die in bed,” he would often say.

A leather strap hung on a nail by the fireplace. It was never used on my sister or me, but my brothers felt it now and then — and still insist they deserved it.

Dad’s favourite pastime was panning for gold at Panton Hills. He and the boys would leave early on Saturday and return Sunday night, proudly bringing home a tiny glass phial with gold fragments inside. Occasionally there’d be a larger piece, and we’d all guess its value.

He never left home without kissing Mum goodbye, but he couldn’t bring himself to kiss or hug his children. His own mother hadn’t shown affection, and that shaped him deeply. He told Mum that when he left for the First World War, his mother was dying of cancer. He knew he would never see her again, but even after returning to the ward three times, he could not bring himself to kiss her goodbye.

We later called him Pop, and he worked and lived entirely for his family. In his eyes, there were no children better or brighter than his own. He adored his grandchildren and spoiled them dearly.

At seventy, he suffered a serious heart attack. The family gathered at his bedside. My sister and I stole our one and only kiss then, while he was too weak to protest — though his bright blue eyes were still capable of glaring. Had we known he would recover and live another ten years, we would never have dared to kiss him!

He lost his lifelong companion when Annie died in May 1966. After her passing, he lost the will to live. On 12 January 1967, Bert died in the Heidelberg Repatriation Hospital. He was cremated at Springvale Crematorium with army honours. His elderly First World War comrades assisted his sons as pall-bearers.

Robert William Edward Romeril_Josephine Annie Brudus cicra 1940s.  This is probably how their grandchildren remembered them.

This story was originally written by my Aunty Dot, and I used ChatGPT to help shape it into a family blog for all of us.”

I have had this story - along with others - in my Family History folder for many years.  Since posting the story from Aunty Dot on her mum I have found the original typed copies.  I am slowly uploading the stories as they are not too valuable sitting quietly on a computer!!  Of course sitting down with our grandparents and older aunts and uncles and hearing these memories is the ultimate however when we are younger we do not realise how limited our time was with them. 

It would be also great if family who remember their early years with Nan could share their stories on the blog.  

As you can see I am experimenting with Chatgpt with old photos.  I personally do like the originals however it is also great to see them "modernised".  I am not completely happy with the above photos of Pop however hopefully technology will improve in the future.