Man Who Loved Crocodiles: And Stories of Other Adventurous Australians

the MAN

WHO LOVED

CROCODILES

and stories of other

ADVENTUROUS AUSTRALIANS

Marg Carroll grew up in the isolated Murga Valley in central western New South Wales. Curiosity about people and places took her to Sydney University to study geography, followed by postgraduate degrees in town and country planning, and social ecology. When she married, Marg moved back to central New South Wales from where she has worked off-farm in local government and community development establishing innovative projects in rural areas, such as the first Abbeyfield family-style house for older people in New South Wales, ORANGESEARCH healthy cities project and the Central West Rural Financial Counselling Service. From the NSW Agriculture Department in Orange she headed the statewide Rural Women’s Network for six years.

Marg runs the family farm at Molong with husband Bill and helped found the Upper Mandagery Landcare Group. An Australian Rural Leadership scholarship provided the catalyst for her to photograph and write about remarkable rural Australians. Her first book Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives was published in 2001, and her next book Reinventing the Bush: Inspiring stories of young Australians in 2008.

the MAN

WHO LOVED

CROCODILES

and stories of other

ADVENTUROUS AUSTRALIANS

Marg Carroll

First published in Australia in 2011

Copyright © Marg Carroll 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

from the National Library of Australia

www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74237 033 0

Typeset in 12.5/17 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my beloved family: husband Bill Carroll, sons Robbie

and Dunc and daughter Beck, son-in-law Scott Byrne and

daughter-in-law Thi-Thi Lam.

The generations that went before are my role models and

those following—Angus and Eliza Byrne, Wil and soon-to-

be-born baby Carroll—are the catalyst for storytelling.

The difficult things of the world must once have been easy;

The great things must once have been small . . .

A thousand-mile journey begins with one step.

Lao-Tse, Chinese philosopher

CONTENTS

Map

Foreword

Introduction

1 Flying High—Heather Innes

2 Last of the Buffalo-hide Hunters—Peter and Lena Pan Quee

3 The Camel Lady—Di and Cedric Zischke

4 Back-country Milkman—Bill Baird

5 For Love of the Land—Pam Robinson

6 The Man who Loved Crocodiles—Malcolm Douglas

7 The Colour of Life—Ada Clark

8 Perfect Pearl—Seaman Dan

9 Supermum—Mabel Kilby

10 The Promise—Ian and Lyn Conway

11 Healing with Nature—Janice Sarre Smith

12 Escape to Freedom with the Help of a Daisy—Milos Stefanek

Acknowledgements

FOREWORD

Here Marg Carroll pulls together stories of incredible Australians and their amazing lives. I often worry that our society is not one in which age and its accompanying wisdom are revered. In telling these tales, and telling them so beautifully, Marg makes it impossible to feel anything but respect and love for these admirable ‘one off’ souls. Each character—for they truly are characters, rich and nuanced, determined, resilient and with a lifetime of wisdom and experience—could have an entire book written for them. Each life detailed is extraordinary in some way. In an age where fame is awarded to individuals at times carelessly, I am so heartened by this tome of tales. The stories of these Australians shine a bright light on the heart of our country’s identity. Our national spirit and strength are shown at their indomitable best through the eyes of every person chronicled here.

Stories like that of Heather Innes who learned early in her career what it takes to succeed. She’s a truly incredible woman, a pioneer in every sense of the word. Her talents many, she excelled as a sportswoman, policewoman, pilot, and all in a time when opportunities for women were certainly not abundant. Her journey to become the first woman police officer in Tasmania, and in 1984 the head of the drug squad, is so inspirational.

Then there are Peter and Lena Pan Quee. The delight in the daring of his youth is evident, and his account of becoming a crocodile shooter—until this practice was outlawed in 1971—is rich with pure guile. There’s an instant likeability to this couple who, in the face of ‘Aboriginal protection policies’ of years past, have made an indelible mark on their community, and together achieved such great things. Their strength as a couple is apparent in every conversation and anecdote. Peter, with little schooling but intimate knowledge of things far more important, has a tenacity and attitude I so admire.

Mabel Kilby’s story gives new meaning to the idea of a noisy family. With fourteen children filling her small house, she epitomises the art of loving and rearing, and brings much distinction to our gender.

I could talk so of every one of the people. I found myself on the verge of tears at times, and laughing out loud at others, as I read these stories. There was so much I learned from these characters. Like me, you’ve probably always believed that the hump of a camel contains water. Not so, I now know, thanks to Di Zischke. The hump in fact is a repository of fat. Di is an amazing woman, and as I closed the page on her chapter, I couldn’t help feeling that I had met a friend. What a hilarious lack of fear of reprisals she showed in taking a camel (and a horse) in a lift to the top floor of the Brisbane Hilton for an event she was attending. Talk about flying in the face of convention! Then, of course, there’s her husband Cedric, still breaking in horses at 82.

In every walk of life, in every community, there is so much to admire. Often it’s the most unassuming individuals who warrant attention. The people profiled in the pages following are remarkable examples of this; Marg has chronicled a cross section of Australian life that showcases some of the best traits of human nature. I consider myself fortunate in how often I travel, and my travels take me to far-flung corners of this country. Being named Senior Australian of the Year in January 2010 provided me with even greater opportunity to meet, talk and share ideas with people, and particularly to connect with the very valuable ‘seniors’ of this country. Again and again, I am overwhelmed by the wealth of stories I am told. I am filled with a conviction of how extraordinary ordinary people are, if only we can make the time to really listen to what they have to say. We all have a story to tell, a lifetime of memories and experiences that form a rich tapestry of being. In twenty-first century culture, where life is fast paced and values change daily, this book serves as a tribute to and refreshing reminder of the past and, importantly, to the values of the past. I have huge confidence that anyone who reads it will be touched by each chapter, as I was. I thank Marg for bringing these stories to us; for sharing these remarkable lives.

Maggie Beer

August 2011

INTRODUCTION

‘This morning I read about a 92-year-old who still plies the 420-kilometre Hay to Ivanhoe route, delivering mail to stations along the way. He was a prisoner of war on the Thai– Burma Railway, and in Hiroshima when the A-bomb was dropped. Are you interested in his story?’ That was how my publisher, Stuart Neal, catapulted me into the life journeys of these wise elders back on the first working day of 2009. Well, who could refuse such a temptation?

For me, this book completes a trilogy compiled over the last decade about rural Australians: of people in their middle years in Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives, published in 2001; on young Australians in Reinventing the Bush, in 2008; and now those over 60—all up, 57 remarkable men and women spread across the continent.

This book tracks real lives, wherein lie the ingredients of the best dramas: bold dreams and overcoming mighty obstacles. It’s my own search for inspiration, drawn from the humanity and adventures of people who have changed our country. The land and seascapes that shaped the lives of my storytellers have captured my imagination too, from the turquoise waters of Torres Strait to the jagged coastline of northwest Tasmania, into the purple-red Centre and the rugged Snowy Mountains.

To hear the story of a person who has lived long and well is a privilege beyond price. It is a strange and wonderful process to delve into another life; strange because we usually focus on our own lives, not those of others, and wonderful because the discovery is akin to uncovering a treasure. Peeling back the layers of an older person’s life is particularly rewarding, to stir a sudden memory or surprise laughter or a tear. It takes trust to tell your story to a stranger, and most of these people were brought up in an era where feelings were kept hidden, where the depths and heights of experience rarely surfaced.

I love getting to know a person and unravelling the threads of his or her life. I met Bill Baird in Hay first; being greeted by his old-world courtesy and wry humour was like revisiting my parents, a poignant realisation as he lifted an eyebrow like my witty father, or ducked his head to hide emotion as my mother had perfected. But most telling was revisiting the values of another era: respect for others, self-deprecating and humble ways, hard work and droll remarks that cut to the chase.

The energy and passion each person brings to their causes and to daily life never ceased to amaze me. To be around men and women who, in their seventies, eighties, even nineties, embrace life and work like those half their age is invigorating. As artist Ada Clark observes, curiosity and being involved is what keeps you youthful. It also leads to focusing on the positives, and gives the confidence to stand up for one’s principles, even at the risk to life. Little formal education—‘three weeks at school . . . once’ for Bill Baird—hasn’t hindered the ability of some of these elders to succeed. Milos Stefanek arrived in Australia a penniless refugee after the war, and the Pan Quees and Ian Conway are Stolen Generation, but all are proudly self-made men and women. They can express the pain and hardship of their early lives in a way that invites understanding and admiration, yet have the compassion to help others less fortunate.

Meeting every new subject made me reflect on the nature of courage and daring. How did Peter Pan Quee hunt wild buffalo from horseback, or Heather Innes fly the turbulent currents over Bass Strait, or Seaman Dan hover calmly underwater to avoid the bends while being circled by bronze whaler sharks? Lena Pan Quee won a Commonwealth bravery award for saving her husband from a crocodile attack, but all fifteen of the interviewees could have won awards for courage. As Nelson Mandela reflected in The Long Road to Freedom, ‘courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers fear.’

That unquenchable spirit is what helped my storytellers survive traumatic events. For Milos Stefanek that was enduring thirteen Nazi and SS camps during World War II, and escaping twice. Malcolm Douglas captured rogue saltwater crocodiles more intent on eating him than moving to his wildlife park, while Di Zischke trailed the explorers Burke and Wills over half the continent alone with her four camels, every day facing the unknown horizon.

How about tenacity? I think of Mabel Kilby bringing up fourteen children in a one-room house with little money and the most basic facilities. Or Pam Robinson, a pioneer of the Landcare movement, who stuck with an important government enquiry for a year while recovering from a broken back. And Janice Sarre Smith, beginning her natural skincare business again at 54 after betrayal and ruin by a partner. These are people with guts and determination.

Many are driven by the urge to create, like Ada Clark, who at 80 still travels the world painting and collecting treasures to fashion into exquisite jewellery, or Seaman Dan, the country’s oldest ARIA (Australian Record Industry Association) winner, who was ‘discovered’ as a singer at the ripe old age of 70.

Lyn and Ian Conway, from Kings Creek Station in the Red Centre, inspire with their vision to educate impoverished Indigenous children at decent schools to give them a brighter future. For many of these subjects, service and care for others is ingrained, as is altruism and a desire to make the world a better place.

I am lucky to follow the trail of people who value the magnificence of a storm at sea or a tropical sunset, the mystical silence of a cave or an eagle soaring on an updraft more than they do the mighty dollar and a conventional lifestyle. Such an emphasis breeds a fierce independence, a joy in their own company and the capacity to follow unusual paths. Surrounded by the elements, even pitted against them, they have grown to respect the power of the wind, the sun and the waves.

Readers always ask how I find such remarkable people; the answer is in all kinds of nooks and crannies—via networks and friends, the internet and the media. The search is like a treasure hunt. It’s exhilarating to find someone who fits my mental map for stories of rich diversity, who imparts the flavour of a state or landscape, and who differs markedly from any previous subject. I’ve unashamedly followed my own taste for adventure and for exploring issues of the environment, a better life for First Australians, the protection of endangered species and nurturing young people. That has led me to an array of people who tackle contemporary issues armed with a toolbox of experience.

Modesty and lack of ego are defining characteristics of the subjects. As I wondered how one becomes wise, my storytellers would tell me they hadn’t discovered that either. Yet I think their lives, and the pearls dropped throughout the stories, show otherwise. People who have lived fully show us that we are not defined by what we do but rather by what we are. I have tried to reveal through the stories what has helped shape each person, which in turn drives what they do. The human being is the focus.

The untimely death of Malcolm Douglas at his Broome Wilderness Park soon after showing me his precious bilbies was shattering for all around him. I feel for his family and am glad I had the opportunity to tell part of his story and honour his life in some small way. He was an extraordinary man who changed attitudes towards Indigenous people, outback places and the endangered fauna he cared for so deeply. He never preached, but his message shines through in his outstanding films and wildlife parks.

For others, brushes with death led to the emergence of a variety of beliefs: in God, in the connection of a person to the universe, and in faith in one’s own ability. Whatever the spiritual base, I discerned a respect for the beliefs of others. Hope and a promise for a more peaceful future lie in such examples of open hearts and minds.

I embarked on this journey to recognise and respect these national treasures, and to inspire others to record the stories of an older generation. They surely are the hidden gold of our nation, often stereotyped or considered ‘past it’ in a society that focuses on youth. What a waste if we miss the opportunity to learn from people who have endured unimaginable experiences, many during the Depression and wartime, yet had the strength of character to follow their dreams and build fulfilling lives.

Real stories can touch our humanity and move us to understand not just the person we are reading about but also ourselves. Rich lives such as these build a mosaic of Australia over the past century—surely a priceless legacy.

1

FLYING HIGH

Heather Innes, AM—Pioneer of the skies and fighting

crime, Smithton, Tasmania

You may not pick Heather Innes—slight in stature with short-cropped reddish hair, a cheeky grin and quick wit— as a champion sportswoman, top pilot or formidable crime fighter. Her modesty and mastery of understatement ensure no hint of an illustrious past.

Heather hails from northwest Tasmania, a small coastal town called Smithton, where she was born on 11 June 1939. She has moved back to her roots, the wild coastline battered by the Roaring Forties that gather force across the depths of the Southern Ocean and Great Australian Bight. Stark, rocky islands jut from the sea, hiding caves hollowed by the surging waves. These islands are part of Heather’s psyche; as a little girl she heard the stories of pirates, poachers and sealers. ‘The islands are imbued with their history. My grandfather had sailing ships operating between Melbourne and Smithton. As a child of eight or nine I went around the islands on boats.’ Heather learnt to sail and swim in the often-choppy seas and to respect the moods of Bass Strait.

Her delicate fair skin is an inheritance from her Scottish forebears who settled here in the 1860s, keeping their culture alive and calling the area they selected Scotchtown, just south of Smithton. Fishing, agriculture and forestry developed as the main industries in this otherwise untamed region. Heather is the fifth generation in a close-knit community around Circular Head. Her father, Ted, and mother, Lil, lived on Tier Hill, a street overlooking Smithton. ‘Mum and Dad were born in Smithton and Dad was a supervisor at the local sawmill.’ Her sisters were older—Doreen by ten years and Louise by four. ‘Being the youngest probably meant I was spoilt. My parents were caring; everything they did was for us. We were brought up with strict Christian principles and learnt to value what we had. Mum made our clothes or we had hand-me-downs.’

As a country family, the Innes relied on their homegrown vegetables, fowls and a cow. ‘Dad was a hunter. He caught rabbits with his dogs and shot ducks.’ Heather was her father’s shadow; as a child she soon mastered skinning a rabbit or wallaby. ‘I used to go out on mill jobs with Dad and learnt to add up quickly just as he did,’ she says, ‘counting the timber when it was loaded on trucks. He was a fine carpenter and taught me.’ Ted worked with blackwood, much of it rare fid-dleback with its beautiful swirled grain. He crafted exquisite furniture and his small daughter watched as he measured and fashioned the wood, polishing it to a smooth finish.

On Anzac Day 1950, the sawmill had shut down for repairs. Ted Innes was heading off to fix the problem as a passenger in the mill bus. A taxi crossed the road and ran into the bus, throwing Ted onto the road. The taxi ran over him and he suffered fatal injuries. Doreen remembers her father smiling as he said goodbye to them that day before heading to the mill. ‘Ten minutes later a friend knocked at the door saying there had been an accident—how life can hinge on a moment. Heather didn’t show much, but she never really got over Dad’s death. Over her life she’s done everything she thought Dad would be proud of.’

Ted Innes’ death changed the dynamic of all their lives; Lil was now the breadwinner. ‘She was handy with a needle and a good dressmaker,’ says Heather. ‘A foreign gentleman who owned a rather up-market dress shop offered Mum a job managing his shop. Louise was always at the top of the class and a good athlete. She might have pursued an academic career, but she took over Doreen’s job as secretary/bookkeeper at Murphy’s garage when Doreen married and left.’

Under her father’s instruction, Heather had built a model sailing ship, and her mother sewed the sails. Soon after her father’s death, ten-year-old Heather took her boat to Cowrie Point for launching. She anchored it with a long piece of fishing line, but the sea swelled and a gust of wind caught the sails, whipping it away across Bass Strait. Soon after, Heather broke into an uncharacteristic tantrum at school and Louise had to be called from the senior school to calm her.

The family ran a dairy cow on their small farm. ‘Every morning one of my sisters would get the cow, Mum would milk it and I would take it back.’ Heather took on her father’s household tasks, cutting wood and bringing in sticks for the fire, digging the vegetable garden and growing food for the table. Hard physical work and early responsibilities gave her skills, determination and strength, qualities that honed her athleticism.

Heather was known as the class clown. The teacher would put her outside for disruptive behaviour and at times send her home. When her mother heard the latest misdemeanour she would rouse on her, although Heather suspected she inwardly smiled. Heather was a tomboy, proudest of playing in the Tier Hill boys’ football team and nominated captain of the youngsters. They would take on the Railway boys in rough and tumble games. In an old photo, the little girl’s face and knees are smeared with dirt as she stands in the middle of a huddle of boys, holding the ball and grinning at her teammates.

‘My school reports usually said Could do better, because I was more interested in sport than study.’ In the 1950s, Smithton had scant sporting facilities, but it did have enthusiastic teachers and a focus on track and field events. Heather says everyone did athletics at Smithton High School whether they were good or bad, and she was fortunate that the school owned a javelin. ‘I was good at athletics, but the javelin is like throwing a spear. You need speed and timing and to be able to convert strength into energy. It’s a sport where people are usually mature before they reach their peak at 25 or 27. I was relatively strong for my age and had a natural technique, which my teachers saw.’

Being from an isolated community made it hard for Heather to further this new-found sporting skill, but through her involvement in the Circular Head amateur athletics club and competing along the coast she began to work her way into the athletics world.

In 1955, sixteen-year-old Heather left school and represented Tasmania in hockey at the Australian championships in Brisbane. The following year she played against an all-England side and was again selected for Tasmania. She was fleet-footed and agile and a powerful, accurate hitter. All the time her javelin throwing was improving.

She broke the Australian senior women’s javelin record as a junior early in 1956 at the Tasmanian championships with a throw of 115 feet (35 metres), which shattered the previous record by more than five metres. At the same championships she won the shot-put, came second in the high jump and gained a place in the long jump. The all-rounder entered the 80-metre hurdles at the last minute despite never having jumped a hurdle, and was narrowly defeated for first.

Training took up much of her time, so much so that when a boyfriend visited, Heather would retire to bed early and leave her mother and sisters to entertain him.

Melbourne was to host the Olympic Games in November 1956. To be chosen for the javelin required throwing on a level field that met international standards of slope, size and wind speed. Tasmania could boast no suitable events and none of the fields met the standard, so Heather had to go to Melbourne. She missed reaching the target distance of 39 metres in the first Olympic trials, but made it at the next round. Her throw was a tiny 20 centimetres short of that by the top Australian female javelin thrower.

Heather showed style in other arenas too. The Tasmanian men’s hockey team persuaded her to have a go at the Luna Park shooting gallery. Duck after duck dropped to her sharp eye until she had won a pack of cigarettes, which she tossed to the men. After she shot 70 ducks in a row the gallery attendant refused to hand out any more cigarettes—a blessing in disguise for the athletes.

In October, Heather Innes was named in the Australian team, the first Tasmanian woman ever to compete at the Olympics. The people of Smithton weren’t surprised. ‘They felt proud and part of it. After my father had been killed and our mother brought up us girls, they supported me and raised money for my fares to compete at state level and then the Olympics.’ Telegrams came thick and fast, including one from Premier Robert Cosgrove, and even one from the Smithton postmaster, who informed Heather of the busy day she had given them.

Up until selection, Heather had only been able to read books about javelin throwing and coach herself, using the heavy men’s javelin at school and heaving bricks for practice. By then, she had been throwing the 2.5-metre javelin for only eighteen months. Heather also picked up tips from other athletes.

‘Australia qualified just over the standard, therefore as a nation we were not strong in that event.’ An Austrian coach was brought in before the Games to lift the quality of all the Australian field athletes. His assessment of the budding Tasmanian was less than encouraging. ‘You’ll never be any good at the javelin,’ he told Heather.

I asked if this had deterred her.

‘No. It made me more determined.’

Heather and Shirley Strickland, captain of the women’s team, were the first Australians into the Olympic village. ‘We trained together. A magnificent athlete and true friend.’ As one of the youngest in the Australian (or any) team, the shy seventeen-year-old made friends with sportswomen from that golden era, including swimmer Dawn Fraser and sprinter Betty Cuthbert. ‘I think those relationships last because you can look at that person and appreciate all the work they had to put in to get there. It’s not whether they win or lose, but the character of the person.’

At the opening ceremony, on hearing the announcement ‘Australia’ she marched into the stadium as part of a team of 314 athletes. ‘It was absolutely stunning and a one-off opportunity for Australia as host nation.’ Heather was overwhelmed when Prime Minister Robert Menzies offered her and Betty Cuthbert a lift to the stadium in his limousine. He had heard that they’d waited in the Olympic village to meet him and might miss seeing their friend Shirley Strickland hurdle.

Heather’s mother and other Smithton supporters came to Melbourne. ‘Not to see me, but the Olympics,’ she adds. When it came to the qualifying rounds, Heather put everything into her top throw of 38.72 metres. She was up against the 1952 Olympic champion from Czechoslovakia and the silver medallist, a two-metre-tall Russian all-rounder. Heather didn’t make it to the finals, but felt proud to compete. ‘I was inexperienced. For instance, all the javelins were in a box. If you were clued up you would grab a couple to see which one suited you best. I was also too small. There were many variables and a lot to learn, but it was simply an honour to represent my country.’

Baron Pierre de Coubertin, who founded the Games in 1896, espoused the importance of taking part rather than winning. His ideal was for athletes to run harder, leap higher and swim faster, but in friendly contests, which were open to everyone everywhere and ultimately would forge fellowship between nations. Heather’s view reflected his vision. As a competitor, she wanted to see the focus shift from gold-medal prospects to lesser-known athletes. ‘They also work their butt off for at least four years and put in incredible dedication and effort, dieting and missing social life for this one day.’ In the closing ceremony, she swapped her white beret for the fez of a Pakistani marching behind her.

She persevered with the javelin and, with a personal best of 42 metres, looked set to compete for Australia at the Cardiff Commonwealth Games in 1958. But injury intervened—the tendon in her right elbow snapped. ‘What wrecks you is the jarring effect of running fast getting ready to throw the javelin, but having to stop suddenly at a line,’ she says.

‘After I left school I had a passion to join the air force or the police force,’ Heather recalls. Neither proved easy. She discovered the air force didn’t accept women, and the police force required her to be 21 and wait for a vacancy through the marriage or death of a serving policewoman.

Instead, Heather worked as a clerk at the English, Scottish & Australian Bank in Smithton, then took up a position with them in England, living and training overseas for three years. While driving from Italy to Austria in a Mini-Minor with friends, she remembers a Sound of Music moment. ‘We got out while driving over a pass and could hear beautiful singing. There in a paddock were nuns dressed in their blue habits and white wimples, chanting as they pulled up swedes.’

When Heather returned home to join the police force in 1961 at the age of 21, there were six other women officers in Tasmania. It had been the first state force in Australia to accept women, although they were few and far between; the first woman joined in 1917, but until 1940 there was only one other, who soon resigned. The police commissioner’s 2006 report celebrated 90 years of women in the force:

Initially women were employed within Tasmanian Police to focus on infants and children in danger, youthful offending, destitute and neglected children, truants and runaways, and wayward women who were subject to ‘moral danger’. As the years progressed more duties were opened up to women, including escorting women prisoners and mental patients, and working toward the suppression of offences such as fortune-telling.

It’s hard to believe this last sentence could have been written with a straight face! By the 1960s, women performed many of the same duties as the men but only received 75 per cent of the male salary. Men could become constables at 21 while women were auxiliary constables until they were 25, so they were always four years behind male counterparts in going for promotion. Policewomen weren’t allowed to wear trousers during the day; they had to walk the beat in skirts, stockings and high-heeled shoes.

‘I had a yen to help people,’ says Heather. ‘I was enthusiastic and thought I could change the world. We were used mainly in social welfare roles in