Continued from
Living in a Brunswick 1940 – 1953 terrace Part 1
Living in a Brunswick terrace 1940 – 1953 Part 2
My Mate Joe
After starting work in 1948 I continued hanging out and holidaying with my school mate Joe for some years until the end of my bachelor days. This is Joe and his family I knew.
Joe’s House
Joe lived in Victoria street, East Brunswick with his Dad and Grand Parents in a double fronted timber dwelling. It was a unique property in the area because of its whopping 300 foot depth with a front drive accessing the backyard.
Back in the Past
Once upon a time the property was an urban dairy retailing milk and cream by delivery and direct sale. A butchers hook in the backyard stables revealed stalls, fodder storagg: for the hay burner, harness, delivery cart and a four wheeler carriage. The rest of the yard was grazing for the night working delivery nag.
Direct Sales
Tucked away in the shade of trellis and plants, a small cool room, near the back door, dispenced milk and cream to local customers via a sideway from the front footpath.
“Good Old Collingwood forever”
In the home’s lounge room an easel proudly displayed a large framed photo of the first Collingwood footy team of 1897, Joe’s Grandad was a member of this team.
The Old Board of Works
In 1891 the Board of Works was formed, made up from members of Melbourne’s various Councils. The Board then successfully took on the responsibility for Melbourne’s water and sewerage systems. Joe’s Grandad joined the Board in those early days and acquired a lot of knowledge of the infrastructure after a life time working in the field. In his retirement Joe’s Grandad was often driven by former work mates to various work sites where his knowledge of forgotten, unrecorded pipelines, drains and valves was a god send.
Joe starts work
1941. Joe started work in the City at the office of John Connell & Co’s grocery wharehouse on Bourke street, west of William street. It was a heritage building, 6 floors I think, and built in the 19th century.
In 1897 Connell’s was listed in the Hydraulic Power Co’s brochure as having 4 hydraulic lifts. They were still running when Joe joined Connell’s office staff.
Caves Soft Drink Factory
Remembered only by Seniors, Caves soft drink Company in Collingwood was Joe’s next work place. He was a Jocky on the firm’s Commer 3 ton tray truck. In those days a Jocky assisted the driver with the loading and learnt how to drive the truck.
The Commer Truck
The British Commer truck was flat out at a shuddering 60 k, but quite musical with rattling drink bottles. The gear box was the brutal crash type without syncro mesh and as Joe found out required skill to change the snarling gears.
The Cave Girls
The firm also made snow balls with a production line of chattering ladies rolling them in coconut with bare hands. One day the cry went up – “I’ve lost me wart!” One of the older ladies had a large dry wart on her hand and it was gone,into the coconut. Probab’ly gave a lucky customer that extra crunch to his snowball!
The Next job
I think Joe left Caves possibly because they were closing, like many of Melbournes smaller firms in the post war years as the big corps swallowed up our smaller local firms. Joe started work at a panel beaters learning panel beating and spray painting. This became Joe’s trade and over the years worked at various panel shops.
Joe’s Dad
During World War 2 Joe’s Dad worked for a Civil Construction Group building military roads and air strips in the Darwin area. Post war he worked at Essendon Airport as a cleaner for Trans Australian Airlines. He was on permanent night shift so public transport was a problem. He needed a car.
Buying a car
In the post war recovery period new cars were as scarce as hen’s teeth with eager buyers forking out 5 quid to get on a Dealer’s waiting list. In 1948 only 112 of the first model Holdens drove onto the road so a lot of anxious blokes were waiting for their ships to come in loaded with imported cars packed in boxes.
Second Hand Cars
Second hand car yards were littered with tarted up heritage models that had aged 10 years on blocks during wartime. Urgent buyers scanned the yards for anything drivable, their eagerness jacking up prices.
Joe’s Dad was lucky. He picked up a battlers bargain for only 420 quid. A tired 1926 model “Essex” sedan. At this time new Hoidens were 720 quid, if you could get one. The “Essex” was a tough old rattle trap and got Joe’s Dad to Essendon every night till age caught up with the old girl and she expired.
The Next Car
Mr. Joe’s next car was a black straight 8 Buick sedan. Although a square body design the tear drop headlights and balloon mudgards showed the design trends to come in the next 5 years, the streamline design era. The Buick’s smooth, floating yank tank suspension and its cushy leather seats gave a great feel of luxury.
The Ford Prefect
Eventually the Buick retired to the back yard and was replaced by a nasty little Ford Prefect ute. I drove it for a while but I can’t remember why. It was a bugger of a car and should have been driven to the wreckers for crunching.
Joe leaves Brunswick
With the passing of Joe’s Grandparents and his Dad’s retirement the Brunswick house was sold and they bought a small terrace house in Thornbury. A while later Joe’s Dad passed away in hospital. Joe sold the house and travelled over seas and we drifted apart.
At an unknown date the Victoria street house was demolished and units were built on the big site.
Golf Fever
By 1952 I was very Interested in gold prospecting and mining history. A neighbour, also with the same interets; fired me up with stories of the lost reef at Smuggler’s Gully near Yarrambat and the chance of gold at Hurstbridge. He said ‘..At the end of Anzac Avenue, Hurstbridge, there’s a creek alongside Cherry Tree Road. Pan the sands under rocks and the gravels aroue:l rocks. Gold’s heavy and sinks to the lowest point.’
A Golden Weekend
I set off for Hurstbridge, with mate Joe, shouldering packs holding our sleeping bags, ground sheets small tent, 2 panning dishes, short handled shovel and plenty of tucker.
The Way To The Diggins
The Sydney Road tram took us to Flinders Street station and we walked along platform 1 to Princes Bridge station, now Federation Square, to catch our Hurstbridge train. A relic from steam train days the carriages were dog box types with a series of 2 full width seat compartments each with its own swing out door. Before departure the Guard had to make sure all doors were shut. These old timers were not retired till the 1960’s.
My First Visit to Hurstbridge
Arriving at Hurstbridge for the first time I was amazed that in 1952 I travelled in an electric train to an urban area that had no electricity. The street lights were kero lamps.
Meeting the Locals
Entering the main street we headed towards a little weather board shop for a cool drink. The friendly shop owner had a very attractive daughter serving the drinks. On subsequent visits we always had a drink even if we were not thirsty.
The Track To The Golden Creek
As instructed we walked up Anzac Avenue passing “Dorset House”, a large single story weather board building with first floor balcony and a Wine Bar licence. The road shrivelled up to a narrow bush track that dropped down to Cherry Tree road. We crossed over to check out the creek for a camp site.
“Bacchus,” The God of Wine
A small house snuggled in the bush on the creek bank bearing a painted board on its gate reading “Bacchus.” The board was decorated with graphics of glasses bubbling over with plonk. The resident saw us, walked to his gate with a friendly greeting of “Bugger off!” He was our neighbour for the week end.
Our Bush Camp
Out of sight further downstream we pitched our tent. on the creek bank. We dug, scratched, panned and obtained specks of gold that almost blew away before we put them in our small bottles of water.
A Hurstbridge Evening
By late afternoon we were buggered. Using our shovel as a hot plate chops were grilled over the camp fire to a chorus of bird calls. Just before sunset we heard strange noises. Put, put, put. It was the locals starting up a variety of generators for the night.
A Night on The Town
By night fall we had washed our dishes in the creek scrubbing them with gravel and made ready to hit the town’s night spot, the movie theatre, a wooden hall opposite the primary school. The travelling projectionist used a generator to power his 16 mm projector which showed current movies of the day. As we were on holiday we decided to go for the best seats in the house, the back stalls. We settled into lounge chairs that today would be thrown out of an opshop. The more we settled the more we sank into the tattered upholstry. During an extra large fidget I received a sharp stab in the bum from a broken spring.
A Walk in the Moonlight
Walking back to the camp in the moonlight Brunswick seemed a 100 miles away. We easily found our white tent in the bush and I slid into my cosy sleeping bag.
Working on the Sabbath
Sunday morning had us hard at it panning but our haul was still specks. If this had been in the gold rush days the Police would have arrested us for working on the Sabbath. During the Gold Rush mining officially stopped on Sunday.
Other Visits to Hurstbridge
This had been the first of several camps at Hurstbridge. On another trip half asleep in our bags people walking along Cherry Tree road bombarded our tent with stones. We bailed out and responded with river stones and they fled. One wet weekend we woke on Sunday morning to the roar of flood waters flushing our camp site into the creek. Our panning dishes full of soaking gravel were washed away. On one notable trip Joe picked up a piece of gold with his fingers!
Gold Mining at Diamond Creek
During our journeys to Hurstbridge we always caught a glimpse of a mine poppet head on a hill at Diamond Creek. One day we decided to investigate. We walked up a bush track to the site. We were on mine hill, the site of the former ‘Diamond Creek Goldmine`, a big mine over 900 feet deep with 11 levels. The woodstack for the boilers caught fire in 1915 and destroyed the mine. With no winder the blokes below had to ladder it up for 90 floors to escape.
Pumping Water From The “Golden Hind” Shaft
On our visit to the site the mine had been reopened as the “Golden Hind”, a new mining venture with shares sold locally. There was about 450 feet of water in the shaft and we watched the operation. An engine driver was operating an electric winder to bucket bail the water with 2 elongated buckets. One up, one down. The full bucket hit a trip at ground level releasing the weer into the Diamond Creek. The mine was pumped dry some time later but mining never started It was a dodgy, under financed propisition with the suggestion of a big con to sell machinery.
Times Change
Little did I know that 14 years later I would be married and living at the base of Mine Till, Diamond Creek. But thats another story.
Going for a spin
One winter day in 1950 dad said “Would you blokes like to go for a spin in the Harley?” Dad’s recently purchased motor bike. Mates Keith and Joe said, “Too right.”
The Harley Dad’s Harley was a 1926 model Harley Davidson motor bike with big wide handles and a vee twin engine of 1200cc. The side car was a long open wooden box.
Our fake fence In our 16ft wide terrace back yard we bodily lifted our rear fence off its posts and leaned it against our brick toilets outside wall to release the Harley. As tenants we were naughty by making the fence a gate. This was dad’s idea of a hinge less gate that looked like a fence.
Starting the Harley We pushed the Harley out into the paddock at the rear of our terrace group and with a few hard kicks and bullock driver’s endearments from dad the 2 cylinders roared into life. Boy, what a great sound.
All Aboard Because the sidecar had no seats mum gave the boys a cushion each to soften the wooden floor. We all climbed aboard with Kevin on the pillion seat. We thundered down our cobbled back lane and hit the road, hard, heading for the west’s green wedge.
On the road Our sidecar passengers soon got used to its pitching and I could see by their white knuckles they were excited by dad’s aggressive style of driving. But we were lucky. There was not much traffic in dad’s way.
Snug as a bug The cold wind didn’t matter as we wore goggles and leather jackets to keep us warm as the Harley gobbled up the miles on the Calder towards Mt Macedon.
Trouble on the road Without warning the engine stopped and Harley coasted to a stop. Dad checked fuel and electrics and found some part had failed and he didn’t have spare. I can’t recall the name. We would have to come back next weekend.
Country Folk are good people We were near a farm house and dad walked back to see if we could leave the Harley with them. It was OK to park her behind their house, out of sight to tea leaves.
Getting home By this time it was dark and our new friends on checking the local train timetable realised the Melbourne bound steam train was due soon. They rang for the local taxi. When the lady taxi drive arrived she rang the station master who said he would hold the train for a few minutes.
Blocking the crossing When we approached the one platform station we were on the wrong side and the hissing locomotive was across the level crossing blocking off a couple of cars. Passengers at the windows were looking for VIP’s, but it was only us.
Heading for home The guard came to the taxi and said to board from the line and save time. Passengers hauled us on board to the cheering of the on-lookers at the windows. The guard flashed his green lamp, blew his whistle, the loco tooted and we were on the way and so was the conductor selling us tickets and listening to our story.
Home at last In the city we caught our Brunswick tram and 20 minutes later greeted a worried mum who listened to dad’s explanation. “That bloody motor bike!” She said, as she put on the kettle. “What a day!”
Recovering the Harley With his motor bike up the Calder, dad arrange for his life long mater, Billy, to drive us to the farm house.
Billy’s car Billy had a little middle aged English sedan of 4 cylinders and spoke wheels. The boy panels were made of wood, padded with kapok and covered with calico stretched tight and painted.
Lots of rain When Billy drove us to the farm house, we found it had rained daily for the last week and the slightly sloping grassy parking spot was now four wheel drive country.
First attempt Dad fitted the new part and kicked the Harley over and she started first go. Dad let out the clutch, the back wheel spun, the Harley slid side ways and stalled.
Billy’s attempt “Get off, Gordon. I’ll take her out,” said Billy. He kicked her to life, opened the throttle flat out and Harley screamed in agony and stopped! No way would she start. Back to square one of the previous Saturday.
Getting Harley Home “We’ll tow her home,” Billy said. We had rope so Billy backed his car down the farm house drive until the tope reached the Harley.
Harley gets off the grass With dad on his seat, the friendly farmer and I pushed while Billy gently towed Harley onto the drive. We said our thanks and the little sedan crept onto the highway and set off into the night.
Towing It takes skill to be towed. The rope must be kept under tension so it won’t drag on the road. The towed vehicle takes its own position, not always directly behind the tow vehicle.
On the highway The game little tow car was OK on the flat but with a steep hill coming up, Billy changed down and his car slowed to walking pace. Billy yelled out, “Kev, she’s struggling mate. Hop off and jump back on after the crest.” The little battler made it to the crest and started to speed up and so did the jogging passenger who quickly hopped onto the pillion seat.
Back to the terrace The rest of the journey home was slow and so lonely when I think of today’s traffic. Harley was finally pushed into our terrace yard. “What happened this time?” Mum asked. “That bloody motor bike again,” Mum said as she was putting on the kettle.
The post mortem Dad’s p.m. on the engine as it was stripped down revealed thermal shock had caused both pistons to explode reducing them to gravel. Verdict – cold engines and maximum revs do not go together.
Rehab for Harley Dad brought Harley back to life with a second engine which had come with Harley’s purchase. I took a photo of him at work in the backyard and a copy is now in the State Library’s collection. With Harley back on the road, dad made a suggestion. “It’s about time you learnt to ride Harley.
Learning to ride the 1926 Harley After our Calder Highway adventures, Dad gave me the run through of driving Harley with its left hand operated gear stick and left side foot clutch. The big swept back handle bars were fitted with a throttle on the right and ignition controller on the left.
Hand controlled ignition The rider advanced or retarded the ignition to suit road conditions, a job later taken over by improvements to the distributor. Cars of the period also used hand ignition controlled by a lever in the centre of the steering wheel. A second lever was a hand throttle.
The dicey left turn For my practical on road tuition, I had two instructors. Dad and his mater Tommy, both in the side car, both gave dire warnings about the dangers of the tricky left turns with a side car which will lift up if the bike turns too fast.
Kev revs up After a few thundering runs up and down our street I was ready for my first lefty. Throttle happy, I twirled around the corner too fast and the side car took off like a Cessna piloted by two shouting tutors.
Coming back to earth With all wheels back on the ground and handles still jammed left, Harley slid across to the opposite side of the road where the throttle handle smashed into a wooden power pole, just missing my hand and chipping a piece off the pole.
Harley straightened up and still moving, bounded onto the footpath and stopped alongside a residential front fence. There were no spectators.
Back on the road My brave tutors pushed Harley back onto the road and told me to start up and drive back to base so I would not lose my nerve. I never went for a bike licence although I did go solo a few times. In 1955 I bought a car.
Minties moments
During my terrace days, I had some Minties moments that are stuck in my mind.
Fire at the window I was 8 years old and below the window in my powerless pantry bedroom I was melting candle grease to firm the new candle in its holder.
Mum to the rescue The wind blew the curtains over the flame and whoosh – the curtains caught fire. I screamed for mum. She came fast, pulled the curtains down with her bare hands and stamped them out. What a Mum!
Power surge One night, fumbling around in a dark room, I put my finger into a live 240 volt light socket. I never got any magic powers, only a fright and a sore finger. Ait felt like my finger was being chopped off.
The unloaded gun One day in 1940, on a country holiday, dad was showing a group of lads his ‘unloaded’ .22 rifle. He was pointing it straight at me from about 15ft. away when it discharged – it missed!
A tangle on Sydney Road Dad was dinking me on his push bike along Sydney Road as a horse and jinker passed close to us. We wobbled and went down in a tangle of hooves, bike and bodies into the gutter. No injuries but a scolding from dad for causing the wobble.
Damaging a street tree My school mate Joe was dinking me once during our school days and casually said “I can’t steer. The handle bars have disconnected.” The street tree we hit head on lost some bark. Luckily we didn’t lose any skin.
Collision in Royal Parade During a Saturday morning run into town on a packed tram, a truck did a right hand turn in front of our tram. After running down Royal Parade at full speed our tram braked hard but we still slammed into the last 10 feet of the trucks tray. Our packed bodies absorbed the impact and no passengers were injured. Our driver suffered severe shock. His hand was frozen on the brake handle. The tram was a workshop job.
Calling the fire brigade I smashed the glass in the pedestal fire alarm on the corner of Donald and Barrow Streets and pressed the button. I heard the alarm go off n the fire station four streets away. In 3 minutes the big engine arrived and a crew member opened the door and said, “Hop in son and tell us where to go.”
A ride in a fire engine Boy, Oh Boy! A night ride in a fire engine. Flashing red lights, dinging bells and a crew of blokes wearing shiny roman helmets. No wonder I can remember it.
The brigade in action We bounced up our cobbled lane and into our back paddock, now lit up with the glare from our neighbour’s burning motor bike and side car. The roman brigade hit the dirt and quickly doused the fire saving our wooden fences and my previous wooden bungalow a mere 16 feet from the inferno. In all the excitement, no body saw me take off for the alarm or getting out of the fire engine. How it started It had all started when Charlie’s mum burst into our kitchen and shouted to dad, “Help us Gordon, Charlie’s motor bike is on fire.” Charlie’s flaming bike was 16ft from my bungalow! I took off to the pedestal fire alarm. They don’t have street fire alarms any more in these mobile days. They don’t have ambulance pedestal alarms in the city either although one ambulance alarm lingered on at a Swanston Street corner in recent times. The only one I’ve ever seen was dark green.
After the fire and Charlie on the war path The butt from a fag in the upholstery of the side car kicked off the blaze. A couple of week’s later mum told me Charlie was on the war path looking for the person who called the brigade. He’d been hit for the ten quid call out fee. He thought this wasn’t fair as he had the fire under control. That person was never found. Forty five years later, I told mum who that person was.
Continue to Living in a Brunswick terrace 1940 – 1953 – Part 4
Mr Kevin Patterson
