STREET MYSTERIES

Sir Joseph Banks Street held a number of mysteries for us kids back in the 1950s and later. The big Engisch family (publisher of the local "Torch" independent newspaper) home among trees on the western side, midway to Stacey Street, and the deserted and abandoned home several blocks up from Rickard Road on the western side (north of where Macca's was later built), had us intrigued. The latter was eventually demolished in preparation for the first high density home construction in the area. It was this area which became infamous when the BLF imposed a green ban on it during the late 1960s. This was (possibly) the first green ban imposed outside of Sydney proper (?).

LEARNING TO DRIVE in the mid-1960s

  
My pal Ted who I've known since infants school taught me to drive in his recently purchased FC model Holden back in 1965. This had a 3-on-the-tree gear change, meaning it had a 3-speed manual gearbox with the gear change attached to the steering column, the lever falling nicely to hand under the steering wheel. He soon tired of the Holden and acquired a Wolseley 1500 as it had a 4-speed shift in the usual spot; between the bucket seats. Meantime Dad suggested I go through a driving school as the DMT (Department of Motor Transport, later absorbed by the RTA) looked more favourably on learners who took lessons from a professional. I was lucky to have a lovely lady in a VW Beetle as my instructor. The most embarrassing event during my term of lessons was grabbing her knee rather than the gearshift in heavy traffic! Judging by her amused reaction, I later guessed it wasn't unusual. But at the time my face was probably the shade of a stop light. I passed without any problems and began looking for a cheap car. That's another story.

PETS

We only had two pets in my childhood. First came Soot, a rather nondescript black cat. He was more attracted to Mum and I don't have any memories of him, apart from his usually being locked in the laundry during Empire Day, described elsewhere. Naughty kids had a nasty habit of tying crackers to cats' and dogs' tails at the time, so it was usual to keep animals confined and out of harm's way.

Our one and only dog was a haughty Pekinese, Ching. He was nothing like the memorable Tricky Woo seen in 'All Creatures Great and Small'. Ching was brown and white, and looked like a pig during hot summers. The folks felt sorry for him sweating in heat waves and would have him shorn, somewhat like a sheep, by the local vet. He took to Dad and I was only an also ran. He once escaped out of the yard and I had to save him from one of the neighbours' much bigger dogs. By way of thanks he turned on me and sunk his teeth into my thumb. Ouch! The other dog took off and a neighbour came running out, to accuse me of mistreating Ching. She thought Ching was howling whereas the loud screams were coming from yours truly!

FIRST CAR - MAZDA R360 Coupe

My first car was a tiny Mazda which I spotted in a car yard on Canterbury Road, Lakemba in 1966. It was love at first sight! Dark red in colour, a 2-door with bucket seats, it seemed to wag its rear bumper like some lonely dog looking for a home. The bloke at Ideal Cars, later one of Sydney's biggest Mazda dealers of the 1970s, didn't have to do any fast talking. In fact he may have tried to talk me out of it but I had stars in my eyes. Dad I should mention only obtained his licence after I obtained mine, and he cheerfully built a mini garage down the side of the house. This just fitted the cheeky little beast which eventually cost me a lot of money when I blew a cylinder.

Someone asked, possibly the dealer, if I'd read the handbook. "Handbook?", I queried. Yes, there was a handbook in the glove compartment which revealed that my Mazda had a recommended cruising speed of 19 mph and a maximum speed of 25 mph! I'd been driving it at close to 60mph (just under 100kph) on trips outside the city. The dealer told me the car had been designed for use on Pacific islands where speeds were low. The car in fact was over-engineered in other respects with superb construction and a brilliant suspension system which I'd certainly tested to its limits. The 360cc 2-cylinder aluminium motor was another matter entirely. I ended up selling the R360 back to the dealer when I blew the other cylinder. Unfortunately I didn't photograph my car but I've found an online image.

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.