Chris was born in Pallavaram near Madras, now Chennai, in southern India towards the end of World War II.
He was the third child in a living family of five children: four boys and finally, the girl his mother had long hoped for.
In fact, when Chris arrived as the third son, his mother, Marge, wanted a girl so badly that she dressed him in short dresses and ribbons for several years.
Chris endured this arrangement with quiet patience… until he was six years old. One day, quite firmly, he refused. And that was the end of the dresses.
Being the middle child in a large family meant he often had to find his own place.
The older brothers form a pair.
Young children form another.
Chris lived somewhere in the middle.
Looking back now, I see that this position in the family probably fostered the independence that would later take him halfway around the world.
His father, Stan Roberts, worked at the Post and Telegraph Office. His mother taught French part-time at a local school.
The money was modest, but the house was rich in other ways, the laughter, the noise, the conversation and the little daily dramas that filled a room where so many lives unfolded together.
Chris, the third son in a living family of five children, like many young children, grew up with hand-me-downs from his older brothers. There were times when shoes were a luxury, and he often went to school barefoot until a pair of worn shoes finally reached him through the family chain, already well used, but accepted without complaint.
When he grew up and started working as a telegraphist, he handed over his wages to his mother every week to help support the family. Food, clothing and school needs for young children were all shared. He kept very little for himself. Saving for Australia took patience and discipline, but family came first.
That quiet sense of responsibility will stay with him for the rest of his life.
