Last days at Millers Point
Florence, Cherie and Barney are some of the few residents left after the NSW Government sold off public housing in Sydney's Miller's Point.
Ann Arnold and Tiger Webb
In 2014 the NSW Government announced a sell-off of public housing in the historic Millers Point area of the Sydney CBD and the nearby Sirius Building.
The Government says the more than $500 million raised will be used to build over 1,000 houses elsewhere.
Most Millers Point residents have been relocated to new homes, but for now a handful remain.
Halfway through our interview, Florence Seckold's phone rings. She's been shedding a few tears, but as she excuses herself to answer the phone, she grins. "I've won Lotto, I hope," she says.
Florence is 83 years old, and — with the exception of a few years living with her mother-in-law — has lived in Millers Point and the Rocks her whole life.
"I'll ring you back," she says, hanging up the phone. A pause. "That's another girl [who is] terribly upset at the thought of having to go".
In the 1950s, Florence worked at the Bushells factory, operating the machines, packing parcels of tea.
She met her wharf worker husband, Teddy, at Bushells, and together they raised two children. Teddy died in 2014, after 62 years together.
Florence received the letter informing her of the Millers Point housing sale the day after her husband's funeral.
There are over 60,000 people on the waiting list for public housing in NSW. Expected waiting times, according to government figures, are often over 10 years.
Florence's stone cottage is over 100 years old. The NSW Government is selling these heritage-listed properties, with their expensive maintenance costs, to build new housing elsewhere.
"I've said to people: why can't I die around here? Let us age and die in place. Don't shunt us around like we're chess pieces. I've had enough; I want to stay to the bitter end."
She points to her respiratory problems, her history of shingles. "I mean, how long am I going to live for?"
For the past two years Florence been agonising over what to do — where to go, and when. Now she has accepted a suitable place to relocate in a nearby suburb.
The apartment on offer has new carpet, a fresh coat of paint. She'll have company, as well — three women from the Millers Point area have already relocated to the same building.
"People that've moved there say, 'Oh, it's lovely.'"
Most of the 400 social housing tenants who were in Millers Point and The Rocks have left already.
Florence says that even though they appreciate the better condition of their new accommodation, when they close their doors at night, there's one thought in their minds: it's not Millers Point.
Florence was brought up not to cry. "But now, drop of a hat, I'm in tears," she says. "It's emotional strain. It's not fair."
"This is where I would like to stay, but I can see that it's not going to happen." She considers her Pyrmont offer.
"It would be stupid not to take it."
Sitting in her living room with the radio on, Cherie Johnson was stunned to find out she had lost her home.
It was 2014, and Pru Goward — then NSW minister for planning — was holding a press conference atop the Cahill Expressway, with Cherie's 1980s apartment building, Sirius, as a backdrop.
Some 293 "high value public housing property assets" in Sirius and nearby Millers Point had been earmarked for sale.
The profits were to be reinvested into the flagging NSW public housing system.
Tenants in Millers Point and the Rocks — many of whom were elderly, some from families who'd been in the area for generations — were to be moved elsewhere within two years.
"It was 11am," Cherie says. "I almost collapsed."
Hours later, Johnson opened the front door and saw the notice of the sale, a letter left on the ground.
Whoever had left it hadn't even bothered to knock, Cherie claims.
The Sirius building is a protrusion in the brutalist style, a jut erupting from Sydney's tourist mecca. Cherie moved in with her mother in 1980, the year it opened.
"We had never been in [public] housing beforehand," Cherie says. Cherie and her mother were in financial dire straits.
They'd been living on top of a fruit shop for 14 years, but the rent went up and they ran out of options.
On her first day in the neighbourhood, Cherie — big hair, a bright smile and even brighter lipstick — was greeted warmly by a neighbour. She smiles.
"We both felt — mum and I — instantly at home."
For 19 years, Cherie worked at a nearby pub. When her mother had a stroke and required daily care, Cherie didn't bat an eyelid.
"She was my mum, my best friend, and sister all rolled into one," Cherie says, offering foil-wrapped chocolates.
Her mother, Betty Johnson, died three years ago.
Nestled gently on a favoured chair beside the window, the urn that holds her ashes has one of the nation's best views.
The sense of community at the Sirius social housing building is difficult for Cherie to articulate.
"I felt like I was living in a little country town," she says. "Everyone knows, loves, cares and respects one another. We come together in times of crisis or hardship."
Cherie talks in present tense, but in fact most of her neighbours have gone. There's just a handful left, and no-one on her floor.
The absence of people, combined with the shag carpet and plywood walls make give Sirius something of a Overlook Hotel vibe.
The elevators hum, bored. "It's like living in a ghost town," Cherie says.
For her part, Cherie doesn't know when — or where — she will go next. There have been some offers, but she can't see herself leaving the area.
Access to her doctors is a consideration, as is the prospect of returning to work at the nearby hotel. She also worries about security in a new neighbourhood.
"I've never had depression before but since [the sale was announced], I'm finding it very difficult.
"I'm devastated. I think that if I move somewhere else, I feel as though I'll sort of curl up in the fetal position and die."
Then she collects herself, and starts showing off her many ornaments and photos. Cherie works endlessly in her apartment.
"I'm a worker," Cherie Johnson says, "and I've always been a worker."
In nearly 70 years, Barney Gardner has only lived in two houses.
"The house I live in now, I moved into in 1989," he says of his downstairs nook on High Street in Millers Point. The other house is the house next door.
His home is one of a long line of two-storey red brick terraces with white wooden railings, one flat upstairs, one downstairs. Many are now boarded up.
"I lived a whole 67 years of my life in this one spot."
When Barney describes scenes of his upbringing, it sounds closer to Victorian England than Sydney, Australia.
Barney has tales of sneaking onto the long-gone wharves to go fishing — of being caught by watchmen, and hiding in the nooks among the terraces.
Barney chased trucks laden with goods from the docks, cutting holes in bags of onions, potatoes and carrots.
As the trucks changed gears up the hill, the vegetables would fall out. "We'd pick them up and take them home to our mums," he says.
The men worked on the wharves, in bond stores and wool stores. The women mostly stayed at home.
After work, the men would go to the local pub for beers, and the mothers would chat while they sat on the steps shelling peas. "It was a typical working-class area."
The Millers Point properties haven't always been public housing. For most of Barney's lifetime, the area was home to hundreds of workers.
Nobody else, he says, wanted to live here. The terraces were constructed by the government in the early 1900s, purpose-built for dock workers.
In the 1980s, Barney says, a meeting was called at the local community hall, informing residents that the Department of Housing was taking over management of the properties.
"And we weren't happy about that," Barney says. "Weren't happy at all."
Often, public housing residents are tarred with the derogatory term "housos". "I detest that," Barney says.
"We tried to explain to people, we weren't Department of Housing, we were Maritime Service Board tenants, and before that Trust tenants."
When the Maritime Service Board owned the houses, Barney says, they had their own tradesmen to take care of periodic maintenance.
Dockworkers are a handy lot — Barney remembers many working bees and house paintings.
Once the Department of Housing took over, things started to change. "Both governments slowly let things deteriorate."
There are collapsed balconies, houses with serious mould problems.
"We've had people that have left here because of that," Barney says. "I call that eviction by dereliction, due to non-maintenance of repair work."
Barney is the main point of contact for the Miller's Point Public Housing Tenants Group. His wish to see the suburb preserved goes beyond nostalgia.
"It is the only living heritage suburb in Australia," he says.
Looking over his collection of newspaper articles and TV spots, you can see the effect years of fighting to save Millers Point has had on him.
"Barney has done — is doing — an incredible job," a resident tells me. "A largely thankless job, too."
Recently Barney went along with relocation officers to look at a place in Chippendale, just west of the CBD.
It was a nice-enough unit, he says, but it was on the fourth floor. Barney doesn't deal well with heights.
But there was a bigger problem.
"When I went there I said to the people, 'I don't know anyone here. I don't know anyone within a kilometre radius. What am I going to do?'"
In 2014 the NSW Government announced a sell-off of public housing in the historic Millers Point area of the Sydney CBD and the nearby Sirius Building.
The Government says the more than $500 million raised will be used to build over 1,000 houses elsewhere.
Most Millers Point residents have been relocated to new homes, but for now a handful remain.
Florence
Halfway through our interview, Florence Seckold's phone rings. She's been shedding a few tears, but as she excuses herself to answer the phone, she grins. "I've won Lotto, I hope," she says.
Florence is 83 years old, and — with the exception of a few years living with her mother-in-law — has lived in Millers Point and the Rocks her whole life.
"I'll ring you back," she says, hanging up the phone. A pause. "That's another girl [who is] terribly upset at the thought of having to go".
In the 1950s, Florence worked at the Bushells factory, operating the machines, packing parcels of tea.
She met her wharf worker husband, Teddy, at Bushells, and together they raised two children. Teddy died in 2014, after 62 years together.
Florence received the letter informing her of the Millers Point housing sale the day after her husband's funeral.
There are over 60,000 people on the waiting list for public housing in NSW. Expected waiting times, according to government figures, are often over 10 years.
Florence's stone cottage is over 100 years old. The NSW Government is selling these heritage-listed properties, with their expensive maintenance costs, to build new housing elsewhere.
"I've said to people: why can't I die around here? Let us age and die in place. Don't shunt us around like we're chess pieces. I've had enough; I want to stay to the bitter end."
She points to her respiratory problems, her history of shingles. "I mean, how long am I going to live for?"
For the past two years Florence been agonising over what to do — where to go, and when. Now she has accepted a suitable place to relocate in a nearby suburb.
The apartment on offer has new carpet, a fresh coat of paint. She'll have company, as well — three women from the Millers Point area have already relocated to the same building.
"People that've moved there say, 'Oh, it's lovely.'"
Most of the 400 social housing tenants who were in Millers Point and The Rocks have left already.
Florence says that even though they appreciate the better condition of their new accommodation, when they close their doors at night, there's one thought in their minds: it's not Millers Point.
Florence was brought up not to cry. "But now, drop of a hat, I'm in tears," she says. "It's emotional strain. It's not fair."
"This is where I would like to stay, but I can see that it's not going to happen." She considers her Pyrmont offer.
"It would be stupid not to take it."
Cherie
Sitting in her living room with the radio on, Cherie Johnson was stunned to find out she had lost her home.
It was 2014, and Pru Goward — then NSW minister for planning — was holding a press conference atop the Cahill Expressway, with Cherie's 1980s apartment building, Sirius, as a backdrop.
Some 293 "high value public housing property assets" in Sirius and nearby Millers Point had been earmarked for sale.
The profits were to be reinvested into the flagging NSW public housing system.
Tenants in Millers Point and the Rocks — many of whom were elderly, some from families who'd been in the area for generations — were to be moved elsewhere within two years.
"It was 11am," Cherie says. "I almost collapsed."
Hours later, Johnson opened the front door and saw the notice of the sale, a letter left on the ground.
Whoever had left it hadn't even bothered to knock, Cherie claims.
The Sirius building is a protrusion in the brutalist style, a jut erupting from Sydney's tourist mecca. Cherie moved in with her mother in 1980, the year it opened.
"We had never been in [public] housing beforehand," Cherie says. Cherie and her mother were in financial dire straits.
They'd been living on top of a fruit shop for 14 years, but the rent went up and they ran out of options.
On her first day in the neighbourhood, Cherie — big hair, a bright smile and even brighter lipstick — was greeted warmly by a neighbour. She smiles.
"We both felt — mum and I — instantly at home."
For 19 years, Cherie worked at a nearby pub. When her mother had a stroke and required daily care, Cherie didn't bat an eyelid.
"She was my mum, my best friend, and sister all rolled into one," Cherie says, offering foil-wrapped chocolates.
Her mother, Betty Johnson, died three years ago.
Nestled gently on a favoured chair beside the window, the urn that holds her ashes has one of the nation's best views.
The sense of community at the Sirius social housing building is difficult for Cherie to articulate.
"I felt like I was living in a little country town," she says. "Everyone knows, loves, cares and respects one another. We come together in times of crisis or hardship."
Cherie talks in present tense, but in fact most of her neighbours have gone. There's just a handful left, and no-one on her floor.
The absence of people, combined with the shag carpet and plywood walls make give Sirius something of a Overlook Hotel vibe.
The elevators hum, bored. "It's like living in a ghost town," Cherie says.
For her part, Cherie doesn't know when — or where — she will go next. There have been some offers, but she can't see herself leaving the area.
Access to her doctors is a consideration, as is the prospect of returning to work at the nearby hotel. She also worries about security in a new neighbourhood.
"I've never had depression before but since [the sale was announced], I'm finding it very difficult.
"I'm devastated. I think that if I move somewhere else, I feel as though I'll sort of curl up in the fetal position and die."
Then she collects herself, and starts showing off her many ornaments and photos. Cherie works endlessly in her apartment.
"I'm a worker," Cherie Johnson says, "and I've always been a worker."
Barney
In nearly 70 years, Barney Gardner has only lived in two houses.
"The house I live in now, I moved into in 1989," he says of his downstairs nook on High Street in Millers Point. The other house is the house next door.
His home is one of a long line of two-storey red brick terraces with white wooden railings, one flat upstairs, one downstairs. Many are now boarded up.
"I lived a whole 67 years of my life in this one spot."
When Barney describes scenes of his upbringing, it sounds closer to Victorian England than Sydney, Australia.
Barney has tales of sneaking onto the long-gone wharves to go fishing — of being caught by watchmen, and hiding in the nooks among the terraces.
Barney chased trucks laden with goods from the docks, cutting holes in bags of onions, potatoes and carrots.
As the trucks changed gears up the hill, the vegetables would fall out. "We'd pick them up and take them home to our mums," he says.
The men worked on the wharves, in bond stores and wool stores. The women mostly stayed at home.
After work, the men would go to the local pub for beers, and the mothers would chat while they sat on the steps shelling peas. "It was a typical working-class area."
The Millers Point properties haven't always been public housing. For most of Barney's lifetime, the area was home to hundreds of workers.
Nobody else, he says, wanted to live here. The terraces were constructed by the government in the early 1900s, purpose-built for dock workers.
In the 1980s, Barney says, a meeting was called at the local community hall, informing residents that the Department of Housing was taking over management of the properties.
"And we weren't happy about that," Barney says. "Weren't happy at all."
Often, public housing residents are tarred with the derogatory term "housos". "I detest that," Barney says.
"We tried to explain to people, we weren't Department of Housing, we were Maritime Service Board tenants, and before that Trust tenants."
When the Maritime Service Board owned the houses, Barney says, they had their own tradesmen to take care of periodic maintenance.
Dockworkers are a handy lot — Barney remembers many working bees and house paintings.
Once the Department of Housing took over, things started to change. "Both governments slowly let things deteriorate."
There are collapsed balconies, houses with serious mould problems.
"We've had people that have left here because of that," Barney says. "I call that eviction by dereliction, due to non-maintenance of repair work."
Barney is the main point of contact for the Miller's Point Public Housing Tenants Group. His wish to see the suburb preserved goes beyond nostalgia.
"It is the only living heritage suburb in Australia," he says.
Looking over his collection of newspaper articles and TV spots, you can see the effect years of fighting to save Millers Point has had on him.
"Barney has done — is doing — an incredible job," a resident tells me. "A largely thankless job, too."
Recently Barney went along with relocation officers to look at a place in Chippendale, just west of the CBD.
It was a nice-enough unit, he says, but it was on the fourth floor. Barney doesn't deal well with heights.
But there was a bigger problem.
"When I went there I said to the people, 'I don't know anyone here. I don't know anyone within a kilometre radius. What am I going to do?'"
