[Newspaper article?]
FAREWELL TO A GHOST VILLAGE
[Photo of Mrs. Mary Meadows?]
Frail, grey-haired Mrs. Mary Meadows padded along the
gravel road in red felt slippers, pointing to the
derelict brick chimneys poking stalk-like through
the long grass. "That was Fuller's store. See, there
are the two steps. This was the butcher's. Here was
the draper's shop. And there are the chimneys of my
big house."
This was Burnett's Face, near Denniston, 1956 - a
coalmine "ghost town." But to nostalgic Mrs.
Meadows it was Burnett's Face soon after the turn
of the century - a thriving, bustling community of
hundreds.
Mrs Meadows had met us at the door of her tiny red
and green corrugated iron cottage, one of half a
dozen or so buildings remaining near the ruins of
the minehead. A hotel; the library with it's
booklined wall, untouched for years; the mission
hall; four small corrugated iron houses.
"It broke my heart to see the places go, " she said.
"I have seen some changes. By gee, we used to be a
happy crowd. You couldn't have wished for a happier
place."
Her only companion now, her budgie, Joey, chirped in
the sunlight shafting through the open door.
"We had two halls. I was on the committee running the
dances. All the food left over we gave to the children
at picnics. They had races and games. But no one is
interested in the place now. They were happier days.
People were more sociable. They would all join in when
you got anything up. The people have gradually drifted
away down to the nicer houses on the flat. And the men are
paid to travel to work daily by bus. That's what started
the drift."
"But how do you spend your time Mrs Meadows?"
"Oh, it's pretty miserable. I lie in bed listening to the
radio serials. They keep me company."
Mrs. Meadows looked up to the large coloured photograph
on the wall of her husband in his best blue suit and roll-
collar jersey, holding his concertina, which has rested
on Mrs Meadows' mantelpiece since he died in 1920 as the
result of a mine injury two years earlier. Then 76-year-
old Mrs Meadows brought out piles of photographs of
Burnett's Face as it was: a jumble of small corrugated
iron and weather-board houses, shops, partly-formed roads,
and tree trunks. Proudly she displayed a large exercise
book containing annual reports of her 19 years as
Burnett's Face postmistress.
The last entry read: "Closed Money Order Savings Bank
and postal sections today. Transferred telephone and
telegraph to Ropers Hotel. Balance and accounts all
correct and records have been well kept. Mrs Meadows
has performed a great service during her 19 years as
postmistress, and will be missed by her many friends.
R. E. Glen, Telegraphist, Westport, 26/2/53."
But Mrs Meadows, the Face's most colourful personality,
is leaving too. She will go to Westport to live with
her daughter and son-in-law, who have occupied one of the
remaining cottages on the Face all their married lives.
And so the drift from the mining townships on the
plateau to the more comfortable bungalows on the
coastal strip below continues. Burnett's Face is dead.
And there are vacant houses in Denniston.
Go to the Mount Rochfort Hotel for a view of the
changing scene. The bar is quiet, and you can chat
to the licensee. Outside stand four railways buses.
There is a noise of motors in the distance. It is
coming closer: buses bringing the day shift from the
mine. The licensee breaks off the conversation and
briskly pulls a string of beers which he spaces out
around the bar counter.
The door bursts open. Twenty miners, newly scrubbed
with carbolic soap - but with black-rimmed eyes - rush
in. Each swallows a glass, then another, slaps down
his shilling, and heads for the door and a railways bus
for a subsidised ride down to the comfort of the flat.
Special Correspondent.
[Photo of derelict town?]
Burnett's Face, once a thriving mining town. The small
corrugated iron cottage in the centre has been Mrs.
Meadows home for many years. The small room on the
side was the post office. There was a row of shops
on the other side of the road.
Mannering & Donaldson
