‘I’m going to show you all around Perth and the beaches,’ he said.
We caught the train from the dockside and got out at the beach-side suburb of Cottesloe. With towels borrowed from the shipping company we headed to the beach for that great Aussie experience, a surf. The sand underfoot was as hot as live coals, but that did not deter the locals from frolicking and lying about exposed to the sun.
Now, a 20-year-old and in a new country, I loved every moment of it and recalled the tales told by the young Australian woman who had found me the berth on the Moreton Bay. If Bondi Beach is anything like this, I thought, I have made the right choice.
‘Watch out for sharks,’ Ian said. ‘If you see a fin sticking out of the water beyond the breakers, swim like hell!’
He also put me wise to picking a rip, a dangerous current of water that often swept bathers out to sea.
It was a delightful way to spend a hot summer’s day. We retreated to a kiosk nearby and Ian introduced me to the other Aussie favourites – a pie, a lamington and a milkshake.
‘Great national food, mate.’
We boarded the train for Perth. I liked the city. There were no high-rise buildings. If anything, it looked like a large provincial town. True to form, our little group ended up in one of the city’s pubs.
‘Geez, it’s good to drink local brew,’ they said.
‘But surely, beer is beer. I think you chaps would enjoy any fluid that resembled it, no matter where it originated.’
‘Give us a break, McPhedran. It’s holy water, mate.’
The following day I kept more or less to myself and wandered about the Port of Fremantle. There was not much to see. The buildings resembled large sheds and most of them were piled high with bales of wool.
Back on board, I chatted to a group of wharfies who seemed quite relaxed, unloading cargo. Occasionally, a box would fall in the ship’s hold and the contents would scatter. The wharfies were none too shy in helping themselves to an odd tin of biscuits or a bottle of spirits.
I loved Adelaide. Once again we berthed with temperatures over the century. A middle-aged couple, who had travelled from England, were due to disembark there. They were well-to-do and had sometimes chatted to me about their sheep property out in the Adelaide hills.
One day, the man had asked me what my plans were on arrival. ‘My wife and I have noticed that you’re a non-drinker. You seem bent on keeping your friends sober. Now there’s a task!’ We laughed.
‘Not all Australians carry on the way these fellows do,’ he had said. I had been relieved to hear it.
When we docked in Adelaide he sought me out to say goodbye and handed me his address.
‘I’d be happy to give you a job if ever you choose life on a farm,’ he said.
‘Thank you very much, sir. I’ll keep it in mind.’
The ship stayed in Adelaide for two days. We mustered a cricket team and challenged the mostly Irish crew to a match on one of the public ovals. We scrounged around for a set of cricket gear and had a great day on a bitumen wicket. The heat of the day had almost melted the surface and every time a ball was bowled, it almost remained embedded in the tar.
The stop in Melbourne was a memorable one. As soon as the ship docked at Port Phillip I was singled out by some news reporters as one of a handful of new arrivals for an interview. My Australian friends insisted on getting in on the act.
‘He’s our protégé. We’ll screen your questions.’
The young reporter, I could see, was a bit embarrassed by their boisterous intrusion but continued to ask me a few questions.
‘Can you tell me about your first impressions of Australia?’
‘I haven’t yet had the opportunity to see much of this beautiful land.’
I added that if this mob alongside me was any indication, what my father had warned me of the people was spot-on.
‘That is, that most Australians indulge heavily in alcohol, gamble a lot and don’t care two hoots for anybody in authority,’ I said.
The young fellow kept writing.
‘Ask him what he thinks about Australian women,’ Madge said knowingly. ‘He’s already had an intimate relationship with an Australian blonde!’
I managed to brush that aside and went on to tell the newsman,
‘I’m arriving in this country with nothing to offer but myself. I’ll take up the first job offer that comes my way!’
‘What brings you to Australia?’
‘Oh, I just got the opportunity to get a berth on the ship,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask about the war.
A few snapshots and away he went.
The port workers in Melbourne were on strike and we were told our stop could be extended for a few days. The English cricket team was on tour and my friend Ian had a good idea.
‘How would you like to come with me to the match at the MCG?’
‘The famous Melbourne Cricket Ground? I’d love to!’
We had a memorable day, watching a great cricket match on a typical Australian summer’s day on one of the finest cricket ovals in the world.
I was looking forward to a hot bath on board and a dinner to top off the day. When we arrived at the wharf we were surprised to see a vacant space where our ship had berthed. I turned to my friend, who was now in a state of panic, and said, ‘The ship’s gone to Sydney without us!’
He was mortified. ‘Geez, Madge’ll kill me!’
She had stayed on board and I remembered her earlier attempts to dissuade us from attending the match. She had been none too pleased to see us traipsing off that morning. Ian was in trouble and he knew it.
We looked out into the grey bay as the sun began to set and saw the Moreton Bay anchored about a mile offshore. Ian rushed to the nearest phone and contacted the ship’s agents.
He came back disappointed.
‘They said there’s nothing we can do but wait till the morning when we can catch a ferry out to the ship. What are we going to do?’
The poor fellow was nearly out of his mind as he contemplated facing a hostile spouse who would tear strips off him in front of the other passengers. Our more immediate worry was the total lack of funds to pay for a bed in a lodging house.
‘A milkshake and a lamington is about our limit,’ I said when we had turned out our pockets.
We sat down on a wooden bench on the wharf.
Ian was disconsolate. ‘How are we going to fill in 12 hours doing nothing?’
‘We could just curl up on the bench and sleep. That’s what the natives do in India.’
My friend did not take kindly to this suggestion. ‘I’m not a bloody blackfella!’
‘Maybe not,’ I said, ‘but we are two whitefellas in the same boat as those blackfellas on the streets of Bombay.’
‘Bloody port workers, they would pull a strike. The agents should have put on a ferry to get us on board.’
‘Look, Ian, there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it. We should make the best of it.’
‘What is there to make the best of?’
‘Well, if you’re so desperate to get on board, why don’t you swim out to it?’
That kept him quiet for a while.
Night was closing in. The city of Melbourne was lit up. Ian cheered up a little, and, pointing to a strip of light some distance away said, ‘That’s St Kilda, let’s get over and mingle with the people.’
‘Great idea.’
We set off in that direction and when we got there we entered a brightly lit milk bar and ordered a milkshake apiece.
I was not to know that this part of the city was renowned for its fun parlours and brothels. Some attractive women approached us.
‘Hey, good looking. Want to have fun with us?’
I was embarrassed. Ian turned to me and said, ‘Why don’t you take up the offer? If they like you we might just score a bed for the night.’
‘Sure, and get beaten up for not paying for the privilege – not on your life!’ We wandered about like a pair of
tourists out for a bit of fun. It was past midnight and the crowds thinned out. I felt weary.
‘Let’s make tracks to the pier and rest until sunrise.’
Back to the bench on the pier we went, and sat and looked out at the Moreton Bay on the water, lit up from bow to stern. It was the middle of summer but the night was cold. Ian went around the nearby rubbish bins and returned with some newspapers.
‘Tuck them into your shirt and they’ll keep you warm,’ he said. He was right. I awoke just as the grey turned into light. Stiff and sore from the wooden battens on the bench, I got up and walked to a tap and splashed my face with cold water. I felt awake.
We were joined by a few people from other vessels that stood anchored out in the bay. Our ship’s doctor too joined us. He had been on the town all night and looked it. At the ship’s side we had to climb aboard on a rope ladder. The poor doctor made heavy work of it, almost falling off a couple of times. A few passengers lined the rails and cheered us aboard.
Up there was Madge, and I had guessed right. Ian received a right royal welcome the moment he set foot on deck. I copped a bit of her tongue-lashing too, but laughed it off.
She was implacable.
‘You two have been painting the town red with the city’s whores!’ ‘We should be so lucky,’ I said and wandered away to my cabin. Day after day, we awaited news of the ship’s movements. The passengers were getting restless and some decided to catch the train to Sydney.
Then, one afternoon, the ship was tugged alongside the pier again. Cargo was loaded and we sailed off on our last leg to Sydney.
It was a glorious summer’s day when we entered the Sydney Heads. We moved slowly up the harbour and sailed under the magnificent Harbour Bridge and tied up at Dalgety’s wharf in Walsh Bay.
We assembled in the Customs hall. I lifted my meagre possessions of one small zip bag on to the table.
‘Is this all you have?’ asked the Customs officer, showing very little interest. ‘Please open your bag.’
As I did, the zipper broke off. The officer felt sorry for me. ‘That’s bad luck. Wait here, I’ll get some string.’
He helped me wrap it around the canvas case and wished me luck. All my shipmates had gone. I stood on the footpath and counted the cash I had left. Five pounds and a few silver coins was all I could find.
Chapter 28
Another Hill Station
A taxi pulled up alongside. I spoke to the driver. ‘Are there any cheap lodging houses nearby?’
‘Get in, mate. I’ll drive you to one.’
‘How much is the fare?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he muttered, and off we went. It seemed rather a long drive when we finally pulled up in front of a cottage.
‘Where are we?’
‘Bondi Junction.’
‘Is that near Bondi Beach?’
He looked at me.
‘Yeah, it’s just down the road.’
We entered the place together and he spoke to the landlady, who was obviously a friend.
‘Have you got a spot where you can put this bloke up?’
‘I certainly have.’
She was a kind person and showed me to a room I would share with four others.
‘This is a bed-and-breakfast. It will cost two pounds 10 shillings for the week.’ I paid her in advance.
‘I’m going to look for a job tomorrow. Would you mind if I paid you the second week’s lodgings when I find one?’
‘That will be fine,’ she said. I was relieved.
The next few days were taken up with the search for a job. There was a slowdown in employment in the early 1950s and any job was hard to come by. I walked the miles into the city and returned to the dock area.
Across the harbour at Pyrmont, I noticed some construction work going on. I entered the site and asked the foreman for any position going.
‘Can you rig?’
‘I’ve had some experience in the timber industry in Scotland.’ ‘Okay then, I’ll take you on for three months. You’ll be working with an Irish crew building the chimney stacks for the Pyrmont power station.’
The wages were relatively good.
‘There’s a component of danger-money because of the height.’
I took the job.
The next day I snatched an early breakfast and caught the tram into the city to the building site. I did as I was told and got on with the task. My co-workers were good to me and showed me the ropes.
‘Mind you don’t kill yourself working too hard,’ said one of them with a wink.
During the lunch break all the workers headed for the pub across the road for lunch. I had to conserve my money, so I found a hot food stall down the street and lunched on a pie. My finances were dwin-dling and I became quite concerned. The tram fare was not expensive but any penny saved would go towards a pie or a milkshake during the lunch break.
At the end of the day I walked home to Bondi Junction. It was much further than I had expected. I asked the landlady for an early breakfast the next morning. She obliged and so I fell into the pattern of rising at 4 am, grabbing some breakfast and taking off on the long walk to my job at Pyrmont.
The daily routine was getting to me. The long walk to my digs was becoming wearisome. I was constantly hungry and the smell of food cooking in the cafes along Oxford Street brought on pangs of hunger.
One night as I strolled along Moore Park a car stopped beside me. A group of young people in the car asked me for directions.
‘I’m sorry, I’m new to the area.’
Two of them got out of the car and set about me. I heard some women’s voices from the car and another chap got out. They hit me about the head but I got an opportunity to retaliate, so I raised my boot and kicked one of the assailants in the groin. He screamed and fell to the ground. His mates went to his assistance and bundled him into the car and took off.
I returned to the boarding house bleeding from my ear. I was greeted by my room-mates who appeared unconcerned.
‘What’ve you been doing? Got in a shindig at the pub, didja?’ At the end of the week I lined up at the paymaster’s office.
‘I’m sorry, you won’t get any pay until next Friday. We hold a week’s wages in hand.’
I was mortified. I had been banking on some money to carry me through for the rest of the week. I was in a predicament.
I asked the landlady to carry me for another week, which she did quite happily. But I still had to eat. During my walks home from work I had seen a pawnbroker’s shop along Oxford Street. There was not much I could pawn save a suit I had purchased in London from the 50 Shilling Tailors, the working men’s mercers.
It was Saturday, my day off, when I set off to find the pawn shop. I wrapped the suit in brown paper and entered. The man at the counter was not overly impressed with doing a deal.
‘I really need the money, because I’ve just started working and I need to get by until next payday.’
‘All right then,’ he said, grumbling, handing me one pound and 10 shillings.
‘I’ll be back next week to retrieve the suit,’ I said. I never did. With some money in my pocket I sat down in a park and mapped out my finances for the next six days. I budgeted for six Sargent’s pies and an occasional lamington.
I began to feel that I had blundered in choosing this country to escape to. During my working hours atop the building at Pyrmont I had a grandstand view of the overseas ships pulling into the terminal.
Looking down on to the decks I felt an urge to stow away on one of the liners and head away to some other land.
But when Friday came around I felt good. I picked up my wages, had a quick shower in the toilet block and headed for a restaurant for a feast. I walked along George Street and noticed a sign advertising a Chinese restaurant called the Golden Hind.
I walked down into the basement, sat at a clean table and called the Chinese waiter over. As I scoured the menu, I asked for a glass of sauterne. I ordered more than I could possibly pu
t away and left the restaurant feeling on top of the world.
I hailed a taxi and drove back to Bondi Junction in style.
With my debt to my landlady paid off and some money in my pocket, I was set to take on anything. I grew in confidence. Down the road from my lodgings I discovered a cheap eating-house run by a dear old lady who dished up home-made food for the workers in and around the area.
As the weeks rolled by and the money kept coming in, I spent the weekends exploring the city. Yet every night I would return to the old lady’s cafe and eat a home-made meal. We became good friends and there was always that bit extra set aside for me.
‘You’re my favourite customer,’ she would say as she ladled an extra slice of meat on to my plate. God bless her.
Some time later when the job was completed I went along and told my dear old friend that I would be moving on.
‘That’s a terrible shame, dearie. I’ll miss you. Mind you come and visit whenever you’re in the area. You can have a meal on the house.’
My friends at the lodging house invited me down to the local pub for a farewell drink. I thanked them but declined the offer.
‘I’ve already spent more than a month on board a ship with hard-drinking Australians! If I keep doing it, I just might fall into the trap of alcohol dependency myself!’
They laughed uproariously and wished me luck.
My wandering spirit lured me to the railway station. I wanted to visit the national capital, Canberra, but I looked about the platforms at Central station with an open mind, to see if any other destination caught my eye.
In the end, I bought a return ticket to Canberra, intending to come back to Sydney at a later date to look for some more work. I was relatively flush with money and I intended to have a good time. Nothing was mapped out and I was prepared to take each day as it came along. I was a free agent and the wanderlust had reignited after my forced stay in Sydney.
Another train ride. In a moment I was clacketing along the outer suburbs of Sydney and heading for the highlands. How did I guess that? The train was called the Highlands Express. My travelling companions in the strange carriage were not very talkative. I was reminded of commuters in the suburban trains in London, who always preferred the newspaper to conversation. I thought, too, of my many travels on the Indian rail system which were exactly the opposite. There, I had sometimes wished for peace from an inquisitive and talkative group of fellow travellers.
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