UNCLE BILL

As a shy lad I steered clear of grownups, to my eternal regret. I'm sure we're all faced with that same regret later in life. Uncle Bill never married but I have a photo of him in 1953 with an attractive girl who lived a few doors along from Gran's home in Chullora. I'm sure there's a story there to which I'm not privy. Bill was a regular golfer who spent a large part of his life on Hudson Park Golf Course. This public course is situated next to the goods line, opposite Rookwood Cemetery. Bill played there most days and was still going strong into his 80s. I'm not sure what part of the services Bill served in during WW2, but he worked in Chullora Railway Workshops for his later working life, along with other members of Mum's family. Bill was ever cheerful and never spoke down to me. He had a memorable voice, what we called a "gravel" voice and could be relied upon in all situations.

MOTORISED RIDES

The photo is a movie clip from 1967 looking south down Sir Joseph Banks Street with Milton Street on the right. Original, single-story homes with a Waltons van parked on the right.

We never owned a car when I was a kid. It was beyond Dad's reach as he was still paying off the house after the war and throughout the 1950s. He worked for Dalgety and Co which in the 1960s was located on Gardener's Road, Mascot. This would have involved at least one change of transport after the war, most likely train and bus. Mum's mum, Gran, lived in a brick house on Hillcrest Avenue, Greenacre, with her second youngest son, Uncle Bill. Bill owned a motorbike with sidecar in the 1950s and I loved riding in the sidecar with Mum, listening to the chug-chug of the old bike as we rattled along Liverpool Road, bump-bumping over the pesky tar strips between concrete blocks. Mum's youngest brother, Jack, married to the lovely Von, lived on Fenwick Street, Condell Park and drove a sporty Singer rag top car. In later years this car was retired to Gran's shed with a promise that it would be restored one day. So far as I know, that day never arrived!

Mum's oldest Sister, Aunty Jane, lived a couple of streets away in Conway Road, Bankstown during the 1950s. The house was located on the north-eastern corner of the northern end of Conway and may still be there. I believe Jane was Bankstown's first female taxi driver while her husband, Uncle Reg, drove a magnificent black Dodge which, legend had it, never left the garage on rainy days. I can't recall actually riding in the Dodge but do remember looking at my young reflection in the shiny Duco. The few family photos I have from the early 1950s probably came from Reg's camera. Taxis were a lucrative business at the time. Reg and Jane retired in the late 1950s to High Street, Harrington, on the North Coast of NSW. Mum and I took the train to Taree in 1958 while Dad remained at home while the sewer was connected. Unfortunately, I can't remember if we caught the bus across to Harrington, or were collected in the Dodge. Most likely it was a bus trip!

SUBURBAN RAILWAY MEMORIES

Sydney underground railway holds numerous mysteries. There are many little used tunnels both public and abandoned. Occasionally we'd explore the pedestrian tunnels which linked stations with shops and city streets. Wynyard Station, linked from several streets, could keep us occupied for many hours, and there was of course the wonderful donut shop on the ramp halfway between the main George Street entrance and the large concourse beneath Wynyard Park. For me though the most interesting mystery was not a tunnel but a man. A well-dressed, distinguished gentleman who wore a tweed sports jacket and carried a large book under his arm.

It was usual for me to catch the train to Bankstown from Wynyard during the 1960s after I'd spent Saturday morning exploring the toy, book and stationery shops in the city. Very rarely I'd do so on weekdays after work. It was on one such occasion that I came face to face with the subject gentleman. Before daylight saving became popular, the station platforms would be jammed wall to platform edge with bodies wanting to escape the city. It was usual for most people to attempt to ride a carriage which would allow one to alight next to the destination platform's steps. For Bankstown this was the second carriage from the front and so I was surprised to step onto an almost deserted car 2, while would be riders attempted to force their way into the cars either side, either directly or through the end exit doors of my car. I sat down next to a window and wondered at my luck. There were perhaps twenty others scattered around the car.

The station master blew his whistle and waved his flag, the guard rang his bell, and the subject of this article stood, opened his book, and began reading the history of "The House of Loder" in a loud but distinguished voice. I was to put it mildly taken aback, while the reaction of others in the carriage was either to leap up and to depart the carriage as fast as possible, or else to ignore him completely. The oratory went on until Central came into view. He then sat and opened a paper and gave no outward sign of his previous performance. I can picture him performing on stage to great acclaim. He departed the train at Belmore. Over the years I've wondered what became of the gentleman. Did he come from a theatrical family, perhaps? On another occasion I saw him strolling along the lower platform of Wynyard, book in hand, his voice ringing the length and breadth of the station.

TELEPHONE PARTY LINE

The phone was something rich folks had in the 1950s. It wasn't until Mum developed cancer at the beginning of the 1960s that the phone was installed. We had a party line of sorts. There was one other house connected, several doors down, and a "ding" indicated when the other party was either starting or finishing a call. The phone itself was black and bakelite. It was also heavy; one didn't carry it around the house. The cord wasn't coiled and it was only long enough to run from the phone table to the wall socket. Our number I can still remember; it was 70 5197. A numerical prefix had just replaced the alphabetical one. It was extremely rare to make "trunk" calls and no doubt the only ones we ever made were to Auntie Jane up north in Harrington.

CORNER SHOP

Frank was one of those wonderful blokes long-remembered by everyone who met him. Forever cheerful and kind-hearted, he treated all of his customers as friends. Although I believe he originally lived over the shop, he later built a house further along the highway towards Chapel Road. The shop still sits on the corner of Jacob Street, remembered by older locals for its fearsome hill and hump about a third of the way to Rickard Road in Bankstown proper. In the days before Liverpool Road access was closed, and a parking area formed off the highway, cars, bikes and all manner of vehicles would descend Jacob Street with various results and sounds. The biggest thrill, or scare, was obtained when descending Jacob Street while sitting at the front upstairs window of a Macvicar's double-decker bus.

BUILDING CONCRETE WALLS

Smee and Company supplied sand regularly by the ton to our front driveway entrance. Throughout my childhood, Dad was always building concrete and brick walls, and concrete paths. The block we lived on was fully organised by the 1950s. Although the chook yard and building had gone, there were nine garden beds which held crops in rotation. All had beautifully constructed paths and walls, and there was of course, situated next to the chook yard, the obligatory concrete sand pit in which I spent many happy childhood hours.

The sides of this were high enough to roof over with sheets of tin in hot weather. Dad would plug the drain hole and part fill with water. I could lay there, part in the water, and build roads with my toy Moko bulldozer. Even on the hottest days, it would be comfortable, as Dad would occasionally spray the tin sheeting with water, during smoke or tea breaks while working in the garden.

BONFIRE NIGHT

Bonfire Night, May the 24th, was always a high point of 1950s life. Saving pocket money for fire crackers and bungers was top of the list of priorities. I never found bungers very interesting; it was the multi-coloured fireworks which thrilled me, fortunate perhaps for the neighbours if they weren't similarly occupied. As the magic night approached, Dad would bring out the heavy duty hardwood post, which had a couple of metal loops and a nail, to hold either skyrockets or catherine wheels. The rest of the equipment consisted of a sturdy metal bucket, filled with river sand, supplied by Smee and Company. This was used to position all fireworks.

Dad was a stickler for safety, a man before his time. However, there was one time when all failed us. The fireworks were regularly stored in an Arnotts' biscuit tin, the ancient type with tight-fitting, hinged lid. The magnificent sum of 5 pounds ($10 - a fortune at the time) had been expended on dozens of spectacular goodies. For some reason, perhaps my clamouring for it, he set up a skyrocket and lit the blue torchpaper. The tin should have been well away but it wasn't. The top should have been closed but it wasn't. We lifted our eyes to the sky as the rocket blasted off, to be brought back to earth as the tin full of fireworks started sparking, then ran for our lives as the entire tin lit up with a spectacular display of colours, sparks and flames!

FAMILY BACKGROUND

No one ever suggested that I was born to write. One needs a photographic memory, something I sadly lack. There's one advantage though in forgetting things quickly. You can read a book today, note within that the story was a good read, then pick it up same time next year and enjoy it once again!

The basic facts of my family though come easily to mind. My Dad was born in Sutton Coldfield outside of Birmingham, England in 1916, and came to Australia in the late 1920s by himself, at the age of 12 or so. My grandad had come out earlier, his wife having disappeared off the scene sometime during or after WW1 while he was serving in the British Navy. I was an only child and I assumed Dad was the same. However, in the 1990s a birth certificate came from a PI friend in London, which revealed that my Dad's mother had given birth to a daughter some years later. That remains a mystery. Mum's ancestry is better known as I quickly discovered online. She was born in the middle of seven siblings and spent her early life in Narrabri before returning to the Bankstown area.

At the time of their marriage in 1944, my Dad was serving in the CMF, an earlier knee injury preventing his employment in the army proper. Mum was serving behind the counter in a Bankstown milkbar on South Terrace, alternating that day job with war work at Chullora. This possibly related to aircraft construction. I came along in 1948.

THE ROYAL VISIT in 1954

Born in Bankstown in the late 1940s, it never occurred to this kid that there was anywhere else outside of "Banky". In the days before television, the only invasion by foreign forces, as we kids regarded it at the time, was the Queen on her tour of NSW. Bankstown North, the public school which put up with me for seven years, hasn't changed much in the intervening 50-plus years. Liverpool Road (Hume Highway on most maps) still runs past the old 2-story brick school plus assorted outbuildings. We students if I remember rightly were assembled on the central median strip. Assorted adults, teachers, parents and local shopkeepers took up the prime position almost on the city-bound lanes as the motorcade paraded by. There was no worry in those days about barriers, tapes or any form of Health and Safety regulations! In reality Her Majesty raced by due most likely to being held up by people more important to Those Running Things than us Westies. For years later, hundreds of locals told how beautiful the Queen looked, how she waved specially at them; all I remembered at the time was the beautiful black limo. Someone must have spent hours with sweat, cloth and polish, ensuring it would look the part.

The shopkeepers, by the way, made a killing that day, feeding the audience who were all feeling cheerful after seeing our reigning monarch. The jars of lollies in Frank Smythe's corner store were soon emptying into paper bags, or directly down eager throats.

WRITING THE STORY

When do you get your best ideas? Mine materialise during the night, generally when sleep refuses to grant me a good night's rest. A pal keeps a notebook handy and writes down her thoughts. "Great idea!", said I, while thinking to myself that writing notes wouldn't work in my case. I can't read my own notes, even if they were written only yesterday.

Back in 1995 I contributed a couple of articles to Bankstown The Book, published by the Bankstown Regional Fellowship of Australian Writers NSW Inc., in celebration of Bankstown's bicentenary. That effort gave me a taste for local history-based recollections. What follows is an attempt to recollect some of the memorable characters and events encountered in my life. The people and events are more important than the dates and order thereof.