DUE TO THE FACT I HAVE LEARNT SO MUCH MORE AND WISH TO REWRITE
D O N O T R E A D pleeeeeeeeeeeeease
UPDATED Feb 2 2010: Kindly edited by Jan Mulcahy, Northern Rivers Family History Writer's Group.
"Hurry up youse guys, it's 'arpast' four, e'll be here soon!" I said with my newly aquired 'Loo accent. My cousin Michael, my brother Martin and I looked forward to Mr McKnight's daily treck home. Nonchalantly swinging on the wrought iron gate awaiting the man who my mother oft stated 'invented the Kettle Whistle'.
An elderly man soon appeared over the crest of the hill. His little derby hat perched on his head, and his pin-striped suit flapping; he seemed to me from a lost time.
"Let's see what I have here," he smiled and reached with great difficulty into his waistcoat pocket, fob watch dangling. Palming a handful of coins he selected and placed a coin in our outstretched hands. I received a penny and the little kids half pennies, 'haypnees' we called them.
"I wonder if kept any farthings for babies?" I thought.
"Oh gee, thanks Mr. McKnight", we all chorused, gratefully eyeing off our ice-cream money.
With the deed done he struggled down Brougham Street, cane in hand, towards Aunty Billy's house. His face was very close to the ground. Was he searching for more coins along the way? Mr McKnight's face was always close to the ground. Bent over double, he suffered from curvature of the spine.
As a child I thought he was a lovely old gentleman who maybe got all his money from inventing the kettle whistle. Mum later told me Mr. McKnight invented the cork screw, not the kettle whistle .. neither of which are credited to him.
My home life was very confusing for various reasons that I will not go into right now. The local 'hang' for kids was the council playground; Woolloomooloo Council Playground, it was my out ..
1951 'starring' in a short doco about the playground
I sported orthapedic boots (which were fashionable not!), throughout the day - at nights, iron splints were strapped with lengths of bandages to my little twisted legs.
I'm walking in my mind's eye down Brougham Street on my way to the playground in the 50s, pausing outside the varying Terrace Houses along the way listening to the latest tunes broadcasting from the radio ..
Teresa Brewer's screeching version of "Boll Weevil" offset by Doris Day's lilting "Que Sera Sera", but it was the upbeat "Tzena Tzena" that would start my heart racing. These songs gave me the basis for my quest for musical knowledge. Doris Day "Que Sera Sera", Tzena Tzena", the Barry Sisters version that I first heard in the '50s, however, The Weavers featuring Pete Seeger did an excellent job of it, a sign of great things to come. What a magnificent banjo player he was, such an inspiration during the '60s. (Research has conveyed to me that "Tzena Tzena"'was not originally a Hebrew folk song.)
Humming "Que Sera Sera" I would close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to be part of the world of music world, a place I mistakenly imagined where one could escape from the horror of ‘homelife’. I later joined this world – far from escaping the horrors of homelife, I found a world of drugs, disloyalty, dishonour and deception.
Back home again - tea (dinner) at 5 on the dot, always 5 on the dot. Back to reality; as portrayed by my family.
The Queen Victoria Building (QVB) is situated on a city block, George, York and Market Streets. In 1963 the Queen Victoria housed the offices of the Sydney County Council. Facing demolition in the '80s, heritage stepped in and the QVB was restored and is now a shopping complex ..
My first position was in the mail-room, I was working with peers, my wage, eight pounds per week. This was an excellent income for a young girl. I continued my studies at East Sydney Technical College, with evening courses in advanced Shorthand and English, it was another year before I was given a promotion.
The Sydney County Council (S.C.C.) located in the Queen Victoria Biulding (Q.V.B) dealt in the sale of electrical appliances, 'Cooking with Electricity' demonstrations, electricity accounts etc., conditions were excellent - it was 'cushy', with overtime, penalty rates, tea money, several breaks, an hour lunch, uniforms, holiday pay and long service leave. I sat for an exam and was moved on up to the position of shorthand/typist in Sales, located in York Street.
The Council's Social Club arranged 'theatre parties' at reduced rates, to theatres, movies, restaurants, this included Sydney Stadium, Astor Motel, Theatre and the Chevron Hotel.
I was sixteen, the Supremes were cooing in the background, girl groups were popular including The Crystals, Ronettes, Shangri Las, Shirelles and The Exciters. The surfing craze temporarily dominated the fashion, airwaves and Kings Cross Theatre was converted into our first live band venue. I took up the guitar.
The Beatles were just about to invade the world !!
I never quite fitted the mould, cardigans, hairspray, make-up, stockings and high-heels - little carbon copies of their mothers, was not my style.
I continued to work in governmental departments, including University of New South Wales, Solicitors, Foundation for Treatment of Drug Addicts and Alcoholics (FRATTAD), The Chamber of Commerce, Insurance and later on Libraries and Historical Societies. During the 80s I relocated to Yamba and purchased a stationery store/secretarial business, Yamba Office Supplies.
Looking at photos of the 'Old Loo', each one evoking a tale. Mums Dad was a South African, he was Jewish and of German descent, her Mum was a Liverpudlian Catholic. Uncles and aunts were, Dutch, Irish and Scottish. I am told my accent, as a child, was a mixture of all these influences. Personally, I preferred the Woolloomooloo ('Loo') accent with their 'aves and 'aven'ts' much to Mum's grief. Out with the Smiths, in with the Beats.
In the late '50s the Smiths moved into 82 (see No. 82 behind Nanny Hoffman). They were from Malta. What a delight! Mary and Joe Smith had six children ages ranged from five to twenty, the kids in Brougham Street had an instant new friend.
Sadly the Smiths relocated. They were however, replaced in the 60’s. We were entertained by the new arrivals, 'The Beatniks'. Paul and his girlfriend, a tall pregnant (heaven forbid) young lady, AND she was barefooted! And, there was George. I took a fancy to George.
George was shuffled off our veranda by Mum. "Get him out of here before your father gets home" she screamed, he’s a girl Lynette. Can't you smell the perfume?", the scent was 'Taboo'
The long red ponytail and singular golden ear-ring added to the feminine allusion. George peered out at me through black horned-rimmed glasses and announced he was saving to go to England and was working as a part-time artist’s model atEast Sydney Tech. I thought the ice-cream he bought me from the old Chinese fruit shop in Victoria Street. George, I believe, frequented The Royal George Hotel.
He took me for a walk to Elizabeth Bay and, somehow, I manage to meet him at the Ironworker's Building, a known communist hang near Circular Quay and we 'hand shuffled' to Graeme Bell’s traditional jazz band. I was so grown up ..me and all the beatniks! Sue Toohey and I went there often.
Couldn't find any Graeme Bell tracks today, but searching thru the op shops I found a tape of Jeanne Lewis doing Piaf,(click here)for a comprehsive site on Edith Piaf aka Little Sparrow
What huge classes we had in those days. I am at the far end near the stair-well. Standing to the left is Mrs. Rowe, a magnificent teacher she brought to our attention "A Brave New World", "1984", "Fahrenheit 451" and "Animal Farm" at that point in time these books were not part of our curriculum and were definitely not endorsed by the Education Department. School Song, sung to the tune of 'Tom the Piper's Son' "Dover Heights our song to thee, Dover Height we glory thee, Dover Heights all praise to thee, Glory, Honour, Dignity"
Photo: Catherine 'Kitty' McDonald, Liz Malone, Diane Willard, Sue Drake-Brockman, Lorraine Radford. I'm not in it!
In 1960 I transferred from Darlinghurst Public School to Dover Heights Girls High School. I soon organised a crew around me and we stumbled through life's little twists and turns together; discovering boys, make-up, and the freedom of listening to 'our' special music, mostly 'popsy' love songs. Having the odd puff on a ciggie, surfing, ice-skating etc., Saturday arvos at the 'pictures', jumping on and off the school bus, wagging school and hanging around the old tram shed at Rushcutter's Bay. High school brought many new adventures. One of our favourite journeys was our many trips to the Sydney Stadium.
Gene Pitney, Ricky Nelson, Bobby Rydell, Bobby Vee, Crash Craddock, Johnny Tillotson, Del Shannon, Shirelles, Paris Sisters on and on I could go. The early '60s singers were polished and sang a new style of 'pop' mainly appealing to young teens. Roy Orbison was of course, the greatest, but I had a soft spot for Bobby Vee.
Me and Bobby Vee. Bobby was about to go on! Scampering across many legs (and laps), I waited at the entrance for my darling - the giant of the radio, the man with the golden voice, my link to Buddy Holly - would he be 'real'!!! Could he be real? Dashing towards a man in a suit with his hair bouffanted at least a foot high I looked him squarely in the eye. "Have you seen Bobby Vee". The face beneath the hair smiled. To my utter horror it was none other than he (him), Bobby! My mouth dropped as I gasped in shock. Now, me being 12 and not so tall for my age, well, you get the picture. I don't think I was ever the same again .. not that I have anything against short people.Utube Mr Velline
I have lost contact with these girls and we were so close for so many years, I am hoping to find them throughout this journey.
My first radio I called my Mickey Mouse radio, it would join me at nights, under my blankets …. it was my secret, and I played it ever so softly. The back was hanging off exposing wires and such - I was oblivious to the danger. I loved waiting until a song finished and would strain my ears as the music faded. I believed if you listened hard enough the sound would never stop.
"No, you can't take your transistor fishing Lynette!" Well, I did and, yes I left in on a rock, and yess it got very wet and was ruined. Mr. Seckold gave me my first transistor radio known affectionately as a 'trannie' by us teenagers. Mr. Seckold, who was one of our boarders was the only exception to Mum's 'No Drunk's Allowed’ rule. Mr. Seckold would make a bee-line to his room after a day's work at Goodyear's (bottom of William St). It was a hoot to peek into his room, he would sit in his armchair sneering and grimacing at himself in the mirror. Shit, he may have been sneering at us peeking. I guess he may have heard the shuffling and giggling. After all Mr. Seckold was nuts, but not deaf.
The Metro Theatre also referred to as The Minerva (it stood on the original Minerva Estate). The Metro Theatre was very plush and us older kids would frequent there on Saturday afternoons. During interval we'd nick over to the Rex Hotel hoping to catch a glimpse of visiting celebrities. To recall a few: Desmond Tester and The Mouseketeers. Chubby Checker, Sheena, Cisco Kid, Duane Eddy and Brenda Lee.
My grandma threw out all my treasures in 1965 this included all my autographs treasured early Beatles autographs and photos. As she said, “paper was joost roobbish”! Since 1959 I had listed every song as I heard it......this went with out with the 'roobbish'.
"No, you can't go to the playground Lynette?" "Whhhhy?"
"You know whhhyyyyy."Indeed I did! I had left my little sister there unattended. Stupid her ran into a tennis racquet and had to be carted off to hospital. Where was I?
Didn't think I'd be missed as I crept out of the playground, with the gang from Woolloomooloo .. "Double U, Double O, Double LL, Double O, M, Double O…", we'd chant on the way to anywhere.
Scaling the wall and into the comic factory, I was both nervous and excited, completely forgetting my little sister I had left behind.
We'd plonk on a mountain of comics. Don't know why we bothered as the comics, not yet cut, were still in huge bundles with only one page, repeated umpteen times. Playing 'hidings' there was good though! Georgie and I would hide together. Georgie was Greek and lived in the house next to the Butler Stairs.
"Lynette, I don't want you bringing any more children here!" Mum said, as she sent Georgina the little dark girl packing. Georgina was from an unidentified race. "I swear Lynette if there was a Green person in the street you would bring them home." I always had a love of strays she reckons. Apparently, if you’re foreign or dark, you are a stray (?)
"I don't know why they intermarry it's so unfair on the children", she often bleated, having come from a mixed raced family she was only too aware of the taunts. If anyone brings home a darker skinned person, even to this day, they seem to end up sitting on the back step. She refers to the poor unfortunate as flossy. "They have a naame Mum."
George (The Beatnik) was a 'green person'. Crazy Wayne Barnes was a green person. I found green people were much more fun ... ..."so, can I go to the plaaayground, yet?"
BIG BILL BROONZY "If You're White, It's Alright
This little song that I'm singin' about, People, you all know that it's true, If you're black and gotta work for livin'. Now, this is what they will say to you,
They says: "If you's white, You's alright, If you's brown, Stick around, But if you's black, oh, brother, Get back, get back, get back
I was in a place one night, They was all havin' fun, They was all buyin' beer and wine, But they would not sell me none.
I went to an employment office, I got a number and I got in line, They called everybody's number, But they never did call mine.
They was payin' him a dollar an hour, And they was payin' me fifty cents. I helped win sweet victories, With my plow and hoe,
Now, I want you to tell me, brother, What you gonna do 'bout the old Jim Crow
With our 'two bobs' (24 pence) clutched in our hot little hands we'd all head off to the Kings Cross Theatre. There would be a 'cowboy' serial to start off the show, then a B Grade Movie. We'd return from interval buddled up with goodies, Scorched Peanut Bars, chips and ice-creams. Shortly after the feature film came on The Jones boys; Stephen, Richard and Llewelyn would hop over the seats and join us.
'50s and '60s After playing basketball or tennis for the Woolloomooloo Council Playground on Saturday morning, going to the 'pitchas' in the 'arvo' was the 'norm' .. Stephen Jones
"Can Lynette go to the pitchas" mostly it was "No!". If I was permitted to go, the team and I would march through the streets singing "we're the gang from Woolloomooloo, from Woolloomooloo we are, We fight them all big and small no matter who they are, OOh W-double O-double L-double O-M-double O ??"
The entrance fee was 9 pence for two feature films plus a serial, usually the Lone Ranger ... I was able to purchase all the goodies afore mentioned with the change!! During interval we would do a quick loop of the Cross, hoping to spot a film star or entertainer, on one memorable occasion we were fortunate enough to see Elizabeth Taylor make a grand appearance on the steps of Hampton Court. She was so incredibly tiny. After interval we'd join up with the boys from school and I don't think we really watched very much of the second film
Such a magnificent old block, now replaced by The Crest Hotel; with its Goldfish Bowl Restaurant, the King's Cross Police Station at the rear. No newsagents, fruit shop, arcade, flower shop, dry cleaners .. just a memory.
In 1963 this theatre was transformed into a surfing dance venue, bereft of seats it would be host to hundreds of local and suburban teens ...... all gone forever!!
Words such as ‘musical career’ are tongue-in-cheek as I am a 'shower crooner' and a 'couch guitarist'.
Climbing up on Granma’s pianola stool was the highlight of my day. Peddling away like a little trooper - "We’ll Build A Blue Room" and "Tea For Two". I’d thump out song after song, singing and oft likened to Sophie Tucker, (a popular Jewish singer in the olden days. I think I drove my Grandma crazy. My Grandad however, would have been impressed.
When I had exhausted my pianola repertoire, I’d hop off the chair sort through the sheet music, climb back on and proceed to play a chosen piece with the old Every Good BoyDeserves Fruit and F A C E method. Eventually the tune became recognizable. Proud as punch I’d play the same notes simultaneously (using both hands)!
"Nanny, nanny, look at me I can play with two hands like Mummy."
"Roobbish," she'd retort.
My musical career blossomed and I began writing songs and putting my own musical sheet to it. I loved those musical notes with their black balls and sticks, 'specially the double ones, joined at the top and or bottom!
On rainy days I would sit behind the armchair reading 'The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit' and listen to Eartha Kitt.
Promptly at 4.45 pm I would bolt home. Dinner was served at 5.00 p.m. on the dot. If I had a few minutes spare, I would select a 78 rpm, carefully place it on our you beaut '3-in-one' radiogram. The crackling sound as the needle passed over the grooves made me shiver with delight. Then, "Yellow Rose of Texas", "How Much is that Doggy in the Window?", "Don't Make me Go to Bed and I'll be Good", Rosemary Clooney singing Hank William's "Half As Much", Vic Damone's "Tzena Tzena Tzena", "Goodnight Irene" and the sweetest song I ever did hear "Kisses Sweeter Than Wine" by Jimmy Rogers. I had a soft spot for Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy's "Sweet Mystery of Life", "Rose Maree" and "Indian Love Call" ' ♫♫ When I'm Calling You" oo, oo, oo, oo, oo, ooooo ... ♫♫' The sweetest couple I ever did hear. I think I'm going to be a Canadian Mountie.
Jeanette MacDonald "Indian Love Call"
Sophie Tucker "Some of These Day" original 1911 recording - music only.
Found a 'you beaut' McDonald and Eddy vinyl in the 2nd hand store today .. Jan 11, 09
"Sweet Mystery of Life" is to be added to my Funeral CD
The Community of Brougham Street, Kings Cross distanced themselves from the bohemians and beatniks; poets, artists, actors, witches, the transvestites, drug addicts and prostitutes. The likes of Beattie Miles, Rosaleen Norton, Lee Gordon .. "were not from 'ere" .. ''em what's not right in the 'ed", Dad would mutter.
Little did we know that 'e' was not right in the 'ed'!THE EVIL - far worse than these folks LIVED IN OUR OWN HOME!
Brougham Street houses were referred to by their 'family names' or just simply by their numbers. 82 was the most interesting as the house changed occupants frequently, it was then named after its inhabitants, The Kellys, The Smiths (lovely Maltese family with six children Charlie, George, Mary, Alex, Ronnie and Little Richard). I was very pleased when The Smiths moved out and The Beatniks moved in.
1960 THEN there was 70, (we never mentioned 70 without a sneer on our faces). Here lived a rather large 'family', a strange hoard of bedraggled, zombie like people, referred to as The Basts. Old Mrs Bast, who wore the same dress everyday and had bugs crawling over her. Raising nine plus kids on her own during World War 1and the depression had taken its toll. She never spoke to me. Her children were a frightful lot .. Cecil wasopenly gay, he would toddle around after Dad with his 'cardie' over his shoulder.
Vera, 4 foot 10 inches short looked like Minnie Mouse in her huge white shoes staggering down from the Picadilly Hotel once a month demanding the family endowment money that her mother was given to support her child, this would result in rows. After her drinking session, the remains of her red lipstick would be smeared across her little rat face, her stockings wrapped around her little skinny legs. She would stand outside our house and use naughty words, directing her insults to my father then proceed on down to 70 muttering "you bastard".
Freda, looked like an old hag, she was only 30, toothless and unwashed ... you see, there was no bathroom or laundry in number 70, Freda couldn't speak, she had been burnt as a child and could only grunt. Elaine never spoke, Renee never spoke, John never spoke.
Most of the other Basts had left 'home', and would trek back and forth over the years. It was the saddest looking house in the street, with bits of cardboard for curtains. Bereft of furniture, newspaper served as a tablecloth.
Naturally, I would sneak down there at every opportunity to play with Peter 'Brown'. Mum caught me coming out of there one day, she burnt my clothes and made me promise never to go there again.
I was, however close to Uncle 'Barwick' and Aunty Glady .. I believe they had not suffered Dad's cruel and blackmailing ways - yet!
Old Mrs Bast, was in fact only 60 years of age and, my paternal grandmother!
“What’s the matter, Lynette". Mum always called me Lynette, I hated Lynette, why wasn't I called a nice boys name. Why wasn't I a boy? They had the best clothes, not ugly dresses and bows. Marbles and books were far more interesting than dolls. And, besides couldn't anyone see I wasn't a girl. When I grow up I'm having 10 children and they are all going to have boy’s names.
"Mrs. Fitzgerald doesn't like me. She's made me Mary in the play, doesn't she see I'm not pretty like Suzanne Cross, I want to be the reeeader". I must have convinced the teacher Suzanne would make a better Mary as I happily stood behind the curtain and directed the nativity play.
"Why couldn't Patricia Craddock be the baby she is sooo tiny…… "
“Lynette, I want to see you after the play," whispered Miss Fitzgerald.
Miss Fitzgerald was the Headmistress and our teacher. I was six and pleased that my reading, and summary of my favourite book, 'John of the Sirius' had been rewarded with a chat to Doris Chadwick, the author! I had come first in the Book Review competition.
Mum says that I was walking and talking by 9 months and would carry around a little suitcase with pencils, rubber, sharpener, paper and paints. Loved the smell of those paints, the colours would speak to me in their different tones.
I was giving lessons by the age of ten. Stapling squares of paper together I would make little booklets for each subject. Standing in front of my blackboard I would begin ‘teaching’ my brother and sister their ‘sums’ and ‘words’. They were reading and writing before they started school ..........
At 5.00 pm sharp, the sounds of screeching mothers echoed off the stone wall behind the terrace houses which were packed together like sardines. Not like those awful houses out in the suburbs with all that horrible space around them.
The Dillons, in 72, had a string of kids. "Alicia, Gaabriel, Ssstanleey, Jim, Kathyyy", yelled Mrs Dillon "time for tea". For some reason all the children's names were called individually. Brougham Street was predominately a 'Catholic' street and we were surrounded by hoards of kids.
The Irish kids; Martina, Paddy, Bernadette, Paul and Michael etc. etc. etc. were similiarly summonsed.
Next door to us in 78 Mrs. Camilleri's bosoms would hang over her front fence, she was always eager to gossip. Waiting, waiting for Mr. Camilleri - late as usual. Mr Camilleri entertained ladies upstairs in their grocery shop in Victoria Street and seldom came home, poor Mrs. Camilleri, now I realize she was just lonely.
"Maaar-tin, Lynnneetete dinner's ready". I hated meal times. I hated food, I hated the controlled environment surrounding this ritual.
"Eat your vegetables Lynette," Mum scolded as she spooned some goo into the baby's mouth. "Why caaan't I have apple like heeer?" I moaned looking at the 'new' baby, happily gutsing her pureed apple.
"Stop whinging Lynette and eat your vegetables!!!"
I never did eat my vegetables and I'd forfeited my sweets every night. Sometimes I'd eat my peas (except if they were frozen). It was a daily battle to get me to eat anything.
"Miss Boswell makes me eat all my food too, Mum." Miss Boswell was my teacher in Kindy. I don't like vegetables and I don't like tapioca. From my standing position at the back of the room, I'd watch as the other kids played, toying with my tapioca. I will never eat tapioca ever, never ever. I don't care if Miss Boswell makes me stand for the rest of my life. AND I don't like sago.
Anyone remember Yes, What? “Good morning boys, good morning Sir, good morning boys" etc. we'd all have a laugh, and then Dad would gallop off to the housie. I'd plant myself in front of the radio, head down, tail up (orange skins with the pips piled up neatly inside), and for a short time I would be Tarzan or Superman, watching as the boarders ascended the stairs to their rooms. A strict no drinking rule was upheld.
Woolloomooloo Playground
Every Wednesday was the same. "Can I go to the playground dance tonight?" "Ask your father." "But, he aaalways says nooooo"...
Why couldn't I play with the other kids? Why couldn't I go past the front gate? Not allowed to touch it! When I grow up I am going to play with anyone I like and I'm never going to come home.
Ask your father was a favourite saying of Mums. "Dad can I go to the dance, pleeease can I go?" I'd implore.
"I'll see". I would never know if I was going until the last minute. I suspect it depended on his mood, which was controlled by his gambling. My friends would arrive hoping to get me out, but sadly, most of the time he'd say no.
As the minutes slipped by I felt pain. I would imagine the kids dancing, my crying would intensify then turn to a sob as I was overcome by sleep. Miss Straughan, the Council supervisor, had taught us kids The Waltz, The Pride of Erin, the barn dance and as a special treat we'd Rock and Roll and Cha Cha Cha.
Bedtime was 7.00 pm!! Most nights I'd amuse myself making shadow figures on Mrs Merryman's wall across from my bedroom window, I'd listen to the beatnik playing his trumpet in the back lane between Brougham and Victoria Streets. The horn blower dropped me down a note. Dad intercepted it .. .the beatnik disappeared ..
"Do you think I can go to the playground today Mum?"
"Ask your father", began at approximately 7.30 am each day until Jan came to pick me up for school.
Not only did I hate vegetables and tapioca I hated going to bed, someone would wake me up, toothpaste mouth pressed hard down on mine. I hated that house!
That's me 'posing' on the corner of Hourigan Lane and 88 1/2 Brougham Street in my new Annie Oakley outfit - 1954 had been a good year for Father Christmas and he was very generous with my gifts. Mummy had cut my hair very, very, very short because chicken pox had run riot through my scalp.
Hourigan Lane led up to the rear of the Picadilly Hotel and also curved left, down behind the Terrace Houses. At night it was alive with intoxicated people of all sorts of drunks; winos and methos would huddle there slurping their chosen poison, competing with the howling 'tom cats' and screeching 'she cats' for airspace until the 'garbos' arrival chased them all away to sleep it of. During the day it was a 'hang-out' for us kids.
"Come on Peeeter, I'd yell at my cousin, they'll be here soon!"
They'll be here soon was my usual cry to the young 'uns, coaxing them into any mischief I could find. 'Sure as eggs' the garbage truck would come into sight, heralded by a team of gigantic men , leather-gloved and aproned. The huge vehicle would squeeze up the lane and turn left and career down the rear of the houses, clattering tin cans and scattering tin lids. We'd be lined up at the far end waiting for any old toys they would hand us. Mum would have been horrified if we had ever arrived home with them, so we carefully hid our stash behind a brick in the wall hidden from view by pipes. I wonder if they are still there??
The 'garbos', as they were affectionately known were much appreciated by the residents of Brougham Street and a large bottle of beer was 'presented' to the driver by each household - that's a lot of ale!!
Every evening just on dusk, Bill could be seen balancing on the side of the flats at the far corner of Hourigan Lane; supported by a wall one side and a crutch t'other, a stream of liquid would leave him via his trousers leg, winding past us leaving black streaks on the footpath. Mum would hose 'hose off' every evening at 4.50 p.m. leaving it sparling clean ready for Bill's next emission tomorrow.
We took Bill for granted, we were never 'shuffled' away from him. I guessed it was his long ago suit and posh accent that distinguished him from the homeless, metho drinking, blue-faced Norwegians lying up the back lane ?? Drinking methylated spirits gives the face a blue hue. Though I had assumed all Norwegians had blue faces.
Mum recalls that as early as 1939, Bill would straddle the tram line up the centre of William Street, directing the trams with one crutch, supporting himself with the other. The tram bell would ring and traffic would slow down to watch this spectacle.
Bill lived in number 88 with his sister Mrs Partridge, a stately old lady in her 80s. He was always immaculately dressed; he was very tall, as was his sister Mrs. Partridge. She would lean over the railing and gently coax him home, Mrs Partidge never yelled in a 'Woollooloomoo voice'.
Bill's posh accent could be detected even though he made no sense at all in his intoxicated state, one could still hear it slurring through. "Goot evennink, Miss" he'd say an attempt to doff his hat which was no mean feet for a drunk man, on a hill with one leg. I’m not sure whether he became a drunk because of the loss of his leg, or, whether it was because of Mrs Partridge’s daughter who had died tragically after running down the hallway and failing to stop at the railing, skidded off and impaled herself on the fence.
Surprise, Surprise a bow !! I swear that woman could pin a bow on a fly.
The local fair at Tuggerah where we'd 'docey do' at the barndances
"Have a banana luvvy", old Ted Kelly whispereds he passed the piece of fruit through the fence.
"May I go to Uncle Ted's, Mummy?"
I loved to explore Ted and and his wife Mary's home.
In the pantry, located under the stairs hung Christmas puddings and cakes resembling white Christmas lights; bottles of Passionabeckoned me when I ventured there.
The kitchen had many strange contraptions; I delighted in my role as Mrs. Kelly's assistant.
Passing the sheep's tongues to her as she placed them into an 'offal press' and squashed them into shape I wondered whether the hapless piece of meat felt any pain.
Mrs.Kelly also prepared her own mince meat from scraps of discarded beef , the 'cast iron mincer' was attached to the table and I handed her the bite size scraps as I watched the red and white strips exit from underneath, elongating with each turn of the handle..
"May I have a go, Mrs Kelly?" I said, anxious to be upgraded to handle turner.
If I wasn't underfoot in the house, I was out in the dog kennel with Uncle Ted pedigree fox terriers. They were groomed and paraded each year at the Easter Show (The Royal Agricultural Show). They all had fancy names, my favourite being Duke someone or other, I simply called him Gookie.
Edward (Ted) and his brother Bernard worked in a gambling establishment in Kellet Street (brought to our attention in the Robert G Barrett collection). Everyday after school Uncle Ted would drive me to Centennial Park to feed the ducks, detouring at Kellet Street, he disappeared into a doorway and returned carrying a box of stale bread.
In the mid 50's The Kelly's purchased land at Toowoon Bay in Tuggerah. Ted went there regularly to supervise the building of their new home. On these occasions my mother would pass me throught our front window at dawn and Ted would bundle me into the old Ford. How I loved this huge old leather seated car with running boards.
Tuggerah Lakes soon became our regular holiday destination. I was not impressed with the chooks running around the yard without their heads - 'they' -the heads, were in the garbage, squawking! I did not like the 'smelly' toilets. Idid, however, love the huge garage 'chocker block' with old furniture and clothes from yesteryear. 'Dressing up' was the day's order. .
Tuggerah Lakes was an ideal spot for prawning. The beach ran either side of a length of sand. One side was 'people friendly', the other was dark, foreboding and looked like 'shark territory'. A stroll in yet another direction took one into deep bushland.
The Kelly's new neighbours owned the first theatre in Gosford so I was treated to many a Superman movie.
"What's that, Uncle Ted?" I'd asked, pointing to the gadget on the dashboard.
"A wigwam for a gooses bridle," would come the swift reply. The 'wigwam' I later learned was a match box holder!
Eva Catherine Hoffman (Mum's elder sister) was born in Liverpool, England. In 1925 she travelled to Australia arriving in Geelong, Melbourne with my Nan and grandad's brother's wife Elizabeth 'Bessie'.
Catherine, James and Eva Hoffman
Grandad 'Jim the Jew' James Martin Hoffman was enlisted in the merchant navy and boasted the position of head chef on a coal ship. The destinations of these coal ships changed quite frequently and his family moved accordingly.
By the late 20s they resided in Newtown with Aunt Bessie who had purchased a corner store - when Mum and her sister Betty were born they relocated to Mayfield East, Newcastle.
Eventually returning to Sydney in 1940 once again to live with Aunt Bessie who by now had bought into the Yellow Taxi Restaurant on the corner of Bourke Street. Before too long they purchased a house in Thompson Street, Darlinghurst ... before finally buying and settling into number 84 Brougham Street, King's Cross.
Aunty Eva or 'Aunty Hoover' , as I chose to name her, always had the vacuum cleaner attached to her person. She travelled to the United States of America in the '60s, working her passage over as a stewardess on the Orsova with her husband Willem.
Here's me with Aunty Hoover outside number 84
I was so proud of Aunty Hoover who worked as a maid for Pia Isadora, Sabrina, Debbie Reynolds. Barbara Striesand and Dean Martin! Eva regularly sent me many personal trinkets:- Sabrina's belt, Debbie Reynolds shoes, as tiny as can be, pictures of Dean Martin's home and autographs. Sadly, Aunty Eva died of cancer in the early 1990s and I miss her.
Wagging her finger at me Eva would say "always look after your health Lynette".
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