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‘Dear Dolly’, By Florence Leclerc Statham Book printed and hand bound at ‘Rosnay’ Canowindra, Australia. 23d of May 2015. Paper; Fabriano, 110 Gms ii To my family and friends, with love: F.L.S. iii CONTENTS Chapter I: Dolly’s parents .................................................................................... 1 Chapter II: Holidays. .......................................................................................... 13 Chapter III: The Leclercs ................................................................................... 28 Chapter IV : Louis Etienne and Esther Dulong de Rosnay........................... 42 Chapter V: The African Saga ............................................................................ 58 Chapter VI: Dolly facing her future ................................................................. 72 Chapter VII: George at L’Abadie ..................................................................... 84 Chapter VIII: Our rituals .................................................................................... 95 Chapter IX: Growing up in the fifties ............................................................ 115 Chapter X: Bonnemma dies............................................................................. 135 Chapter XI: George and Dolly Meister in Zurich ........................................ 148 Chapter XII. 1968: Paris .................................................................................. 166 Chapter XIV: New Caledonia ......................................................................... 202 Chapter XV: Indonesia to Europe: overland travels .................................... 217 Chapter XVI: Closing the loop ....................................................................... 235 Chapter XVII: Back to Australia .................................................................... 253 Chapter XVIII: Barraba, .................................................................................. 278 Chapter XIX: ‘Tumlong’ ................................................................................. 308 Chapter XX: Ongoing drought ........................................................................ 334 Chapter XXI: The Central West of N.S.W. A new start ............................. 349 Chapter XXII: Languedoc revisited ............................................................... 367 Postscript: December 2013 .............................................................................. 399 Family tree: people in the book. ..................................................................... 401 Family tree (historical) ..................................................................................... 405 iv From top: Jean Charles Leclerc, Dolly, Lucien Maugat, Minon and friend. v Introduction My brother and I often called our mother Mathouse, or P‟tite Mere when we were growing up in our native France. Overtime, she became „Dear Dolly‟ for her friends and our extended family and this is how I like to think of her now. Seven years ago, Dolly lost her husband: our stepfather, and for some times she lived alone in their little house, surrounded by vineyards and olive trees. „Mais‟, as we called him, died in this beautiful „Land of Oz‟ that he was so fond of on the 15th April 2007, two days short of his 87th birthday. We all miss him naturally, but my mother particularly, as he was the reason she got up every morning, finding fulfilment in the daily task of caring for him. A few months after the funeral she felt more lonely than ever, disoriented and anxious, and to compound the situation her short term memory was also letting her down. She had lost her life long companion, her soul mate in fact, but she could hardly remember the circumstances of his death and she kept asking me, time and time again, to describe his last moments to her. To help with the grieving process, I started to look for photographs and found nearly a century of her precious memories catalogued „her way‟ in faded envelopes and cigar boxes of the forties and fifties: old wedding invitations with dinner menus, death notices, pictures of First Communions, little hair locks as well as ancient postcards of family and friends and many photos. This could be a good project for both of us, I thought, and spreading the little containers on the dining table I offered to put the photos in „proper‟ albums and sort them in order. My mother tried to oblige, but I soon realised that I was confusing her. So I left the memos in the cigar boxes and we talked about what they all meant to her instead. The questions I was asking now about her childhood and family put a broad smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye that seemed to linger on all vi day. I was delighted, and the idea of writing her story, our family story, was born right then. She spoke of the many years of her long and adventurous life, remembering what it was like to grow up in France between the two World Wars, then losing her mother prematurely. Marrying my father. In spite of the stressful war time she lived her life to the full and, as it appears, with no regrets. From then on I was on a mission, so to speak, and the french words started to flow from my keyboard but after a couple of pages I stopped, and for the benefit of future generations in Australia, I turned to English to tell this story. Writing in my adopted language was a challenge for me, at least on that scale, but through trial and error I learnt a great deal about the beautiful rhythm and poetry of the English, and I kept writing - tant bien que mal-. Some sentence structures are still „not quite right‟, no doubt, and at one time I even thought of having the text reworked and professionally edited so to get a cleaner writing style. But I soon dismissed the idea as I felt that something of the spontaneity and true character of the story would be lost this way. It will become apparent as the events of our family lives unfold, that my mother‟s journey through life and my own are closely linked together. Just as one life is born of the other, my story will be following hers tightly and, „pas a pas‟, will take us both to this country of wide horizons and natural beauty that is ours now. On the way, I am strolling through the past and historic sites but I do not claim to be a historian. My „history notes‟ are merely an exploration through our family backgrounds and my thoughts and curiosity when meeting different cultures as I travel. I expect that those notes will seem a little daunting to our grandchildren but, in my view, they are important to the overall story telling process. The „journal‟ addition to the narrative was an experimental approach, which I enjoyed as I feel it gives the story some breathing space as well as a valuable perspective on my mother‟s character through her present life. Like the brightest of stars, the way she was is still shining through the way she is today in spite of the hazy clouds of lost memories. I am thankful to my family and in particular to my husband, Richard, for giving me valuable feedback on the project. Also to our oldest son, Sam, always encouraging me and giving me excellent advice on text design as well vii as many other technical tips for self publishing. Both, he and Richard also proof read the chapters of this story for me. I wrote two drafts: the earlier one, I presented to family members and one dear friend for appraisal, and then I worked on the second draft with a few changes and many additions. So I can safely say now that any remaining inadequacies in this final text are entirely my own. Florence Leclerc Statham Dolly, left, with her brother and sister, 1926. viii Chapter I: Dolly’s parents Dolly, Marie, Elisabeth Dolly‟ is my mother‟s first name but she was called Elisabeth during her twelve years of schooling, as the good Sisters of the French convent didn‟t know of a „Saint Dolly‟ who could possibly serve as a role model for the little girl. Her name displeased the Reverend Mother no doubt but Dolly was, in fact, quite proud of her parents‟ eccentric taste for such an unsaintly (and ungallic) name. Every afternoon, as soon as she walked out of the school grounds, Elisabeth was no more and Dolly reappeared for the rest of the day. It was like shedding her skin on a daily basis she used to say. She had been very fond of her school but when she eventually left this safe haven to face the big world, Elisabeth took her leave for the last time and Dolly settled in permanently and most happily. The invisible enemy. A world away in time and space, on a cool autumn day of the year 2007, I started to collect my mother‟s memories. She is now well prepared to relive the past and ready to pass on those bits of information that might not have been ever mentioned before. Some of the stories she is about to share with me date from WWI, before she was even of this world, nearly a century ago. She talks of the pain and turmoil that this war brought about, described to her by her uncles and particularly her own father. When WWI was declared in 1914 her father was just thirty-one years old. Alberic Francois Dulong de 1 Rosnay, the oldest son of Marguerite de Saint Phalle and Hermand Dulong de Rosnay came from this little town in France called Ormes in the Saone et Loire. He was a man in his prime, fit and healthy, and was called to fight right from the beginning of the war. Like many soldiers then he went off with great patriotism and the expectation of a quick victory but, as it turned out, this war was going to be long and bloody.