Lot's wife, you remember, was turned into a pillar of salt because she looked back, over her shoulder. I was luckier.

Forty years is a long time, it is indeed more than half a life-time, yet it is surprising just how much can be remembered, just how much you store away in your subconscious mind. What prompted this train of thought, what brought on these nostalgic ramblings, you're asking. Long ago, far too long ago, I was a small girl, and a child migrant to Australia. Now after forty years I had returned to my homeland and to the fulfilment of a long cherished dream, to visit again the home of my childhood.

I looked in vain for the big iron gates, my last glimpse of our old home forty years before; they were gone, as so many things were gone, but the Porter's Lodge still stood, looking no different from the days when I had hidden behind it as a child. The Governor's House, scene of many a victory-our Governors were well known for their soft hearts and a fall and a few tears, always within good view of the drawing room windows, never failed to bring a sweet!

In silence I stood before the large monument, beneath which lies the man who made this place possible. It was his wish to be buried here among his children, and the seat which is part of the monument was always occupied by laughing, happy children. His real monument! I looked at the kindly face of the little Doctor whose likeness is carved here and remembered; so much. Dr. Barnardo was only a. small man at 5ft 3inch, but there was nothing small about his ideas, nothing little about his humanity. In one of the old cottages I spoke with Emily Runcie, she who was Emily Pearson, the same girl whose likeness is carved with that of Dr. Barnardo. Emily remembered the good doctor well; now 78, she told me in her own bright manner how one bright Sunday morning Dr. Barnardo was giving a sermon, his subject: Back-sliding. He put his leg over the pulpit rail to demonstrate his theme, slipped and fell. The children, highly delighted, laughed uproariously. Dr. Barnardo looked stern: "Children", said he, "Don't laugh, this is merely an illustration."

The Church, with its square tower, held many memories. I walked inside; it is a beautiful place, the stained glass window over the altar is the same as that in St. John's, Albany, settling for me the mystery that had always puzzled me, why it had always seemed somehow familiar. Cairns House-the old clock tower still chiming out the hours as I had remembered. I had my photograph taken proudly outside my old cottage, so appropriately named Hope, but found, to my dismay, the other old cottage, Hawthorne, had been demolished.

Standing on The Village green, looking over my shoulder, I saw again in my mind's eye the Easter Days of old; the huge Easter egg being cracked with great ceremony and scrabbling with others for the chips of chocolate that flew from the table. This was but one of the procession of memories that flitted past me. Did you know that Australia provided a hospital for Dr. Barnardo's in Essex? Neither did I until I returned here, but the plaque at the doorway proudly states that the money was raised in Australia, and the hospital is named "The Australasian Hospital". Approximately two-thirds of the land is being sold today and the money is being used to effect the improvements in the remaining buildings. I was taken over several of the cottages; they are bright, airy, modern; they have indoor toilets. Bright inlaid lino, gay curtains, pictures pleasant and modern, like any normal home where there are children; toys, dolls, books lie about in pleasant untidiness. There is no, feeling, no hint, of institutional life. Each cottage, I was amazed to find, has television, and boys and girls are brought up together as a family, another thing I noted with complete approval and deep satisfaction.

I climbed the seventeen stairs to, the five bedrooms of my old home and stood lost in thought and memory. My guide understandingly left me alone. Looking over my shoulder into the past, I slipped back down the lanes of my memories. In my mind's eye, I saw a nightie. clad figure scampering past me from the room which had been mine, back in time the lightning flashed, the thunder crashed loudly, the little figure moved silently, swiftly, on bare feet, and disappeared into the room across the landing. I had no need to follow; r knew what I would see in there. A small curly head would be resting on big sister's feet, safe and secure from the storms that raged outside.

I walked down, slowly, thoughtfully, counting the stairs as I descended. Silently I said goodbye to the curly-headed ghost of myself she who had sped so silently past me. Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt, because she looked over her shoulder. I was luckier; looking over my shoulder I fulfilled a life-long ambition. laid a ghost that had haunted my thoughts for forty years, and now I look forward with gratitude to returning to my home in the sun.

The Guild Messenger August 1970

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