1954 John of the Serious

1954 Darlinghurst Public School

1959 6A Still there!

“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!

Hank Williams "Hey Good Lookin"