Before I Sleep Page 2

  After the Coffee Palace, Alice found another job with better hours — as a chocolate dipper at the confectionery factory of A. A. Walton in lower Grote Street. A photograph taken at the time shows her to be an attractive young lady of about twenty with dark hair, bright eyes, a tidy figure, regular features and a pleasant smile.

  It was while she was working at Waltons that Alice met my father. He had been christened Walter, but was generally known as “Tim” (from Tiger Tim because he was the smallest by far of his brothers.) At the time, he must have just finished his five-year apprenticeship as a confectioner and was working in the “starch” room at Waltons making boiled sweets and “jubes”.

  My father’s father, Raamiah, an unmarried shoemaker, had migrated from Norfolk in England, in 1871 when he was thirty-two years old. The Whitrod family were long-time residents of the Fen country, having recorded births and marriages there since 1550. They had been mainly country folk, farm labourers, small farmers, yeomen. Village shoemakers were made obsolete by the large output of footwear from city factories that had sprung up during the Industrial Revolution. The shoemakers seem to have dispersed — at least from the small villages in southern England — and at least one, my grandfather, migrated to that far-away land, Australia. Perhaps he was able to do so because he was single.

  His emigration may also have had something to do with George Fife Angas’s campaign to recruit free settlers for South Australia from amongst the Protestant religious fellowships in England. In Adelaide, Raamiah became a committed lay preacher in a Methodist circuit at Thebarton. But he first settled at Mt Barker, which was then a thriving town presenting itself as a possible rival capital city to Adelaide. He probably worked as a shoemaker/repairer. Two years after he arrived in Mt Barker, Raamiah — then aged thirty-four — married Elizabeth James, a girl of sixteen.

  For the next twenty years, the couple lived at Mt Barker, producing nine children at two-yearly intervals, before moving to Thebarton in west Adelaide. Perhaps the move was the result of Raamiah’s ill-health. He died not many years later. I do not know how his much younger widow and her younger children survived. All of Raamiah’s sons secured stable employment, only one following his father’s trade of shoemaker. The others became a driver of horse trams, a driver of brewery wagons, a railway guard, a boilermaker, a jeweller and a confectioner (my father).

  My father, then aged twenty-four years, and mother, aged twenty-two, were married in a Methodist church in Morphett Street in the City on 4 December 1912. It is likely that this would have been, for both of them, their first serious relationship. Their first child, Sidney, was born a year later, and I appeared two years afterwards. Sid died some time during the First World War from diphtheria and I survived as their only son until Frank was born in 1923. There were no other children.

  My earliest memories are of our home at 1 Murrays Lane, in the West End of the City of Adelaide. I must have been about four years old. I can dimly remember walking with my father and mother to King William Street to join an enormous crowd celebrating Armistice Day 1919. We stayed for a while and then, on the way back, my father carried me on his shoulders.

  Murrays Lane is a short dead-end street off Gouger Street near the West Parklands. Number 1 was at the start of a series of terraced, three-roomed cottages. A similar terrace occupied the other side of the lane. I spent my first six years there quite happily. In our house, my parents had the front room. I had the middle room which had a skylight. The small kitchen had a wood stove, and there was an outside copper for boiling the Monday weekly wash. The small backyard was bounded on two sides by the narrow lane which in earlier years had allowed the passage of the night cart. This had been the sole method of sanitation when the houses were built. All the privies were, of course, at the bottom of their respective yards. They were equipped with ten inch squares of old newspaper on a wire loop. I first discovered paper toilet rolls when I was about sixteen. I cannot recall anyone in Murrays Lane having the newspapers delivered, but everyone saved them, both for lavatory use, and for swapping at Turners, the local butchers, for a pound of sausages. The butcher used them to wrap the purchase which had been first wrapped in a small sheet of more expensive greaseproof paper.

  There were no shrubs or trees to make our backyard green, and the topsoil was hard brown clay. The only tap was outside the kitchen door near the dividing fence. This fence, like the others in the lane, was only five feet high. Any pair of neighbours using their taps could freely exchange gossip. Our neighbours were Mr and Mrs Bill Boushall and their three children, Millie, Winnie and Fred, who had migrated from England a few years earlier.

  During the First World War and the years of the Depression — 1919-39 — confectionery firms had a difficult time for money was scarce and unemployment high. Lollies were not one of life’s essentials, and my father had long periods of work at half-time. This meant that the family had to exist on half-wages, which in practice meant a weekly income of thirty shillings. My mother took in washing and ironing whenever it was available, and I remember how tired she became on occasions from scrubbing floors. On Mondays, the rentman would appear at our front door, and so would another collector, Mr Gooch. Mr Gooch called to collect the weekly payment of two shillings for the hire-purchase of our Singer sewing machine. We always had the latest model. It was the only item of any value in our little three-roomed house. I used to wonder why we could afford it until I worked out that when our doctor’s bill became too pressing, my mother would trade in her current machine for the latest model. For this she would incur a much higher debt but would also receive a small cash refund. The refund would be used to pay the bill. This trade-in transaction was the only access to extra cash that my mother had. Mr Gooch called for years and years and I got to know him well. He was a kindly man who was just as much caught up in the system as we were.

  I can remember how all of the front doorsteps in Murrays Lane were polished, and how “the fronts”, which included the adjoining strips of the street, were swept each morning. The curtains in the front windows (in our house, they were only the ones we had) were always immaculate. The wives may have been poor but they kept their homes spotless and if they could afford linoleum it was polished to a high sheen. I never saw flowers in vases to brighten the dull interiors while I lived in Murrays Lane, nor were there any creepers disguising the bleakness of the exteriors. No vines, trellises or fruit trees grew in the small backyards — indeed, there were no garden plants of any kind. Perhaps nothing was planted because this would have indicated an outlook of permanency. Gauging by those living nearby, everyone saw their stay in the lane as temporary — it was a place to live until they could afford a better address.

  My mother and Maude (Mrs Boushall) became firm friends and remained so for the rest of their lives. They were about the same age, and from comments I overheard, I gathered that Mrs Boushall deeply missed her English family of six sisters and parents. The Boushalls never returned for a visit to London, and the only news they had was an occasional letter which Maude would share with my mother over the fence. Bill Boushall was a dark, good-looking man with something of a temper. He too missed London, especially the evening pub life. In Adelaide he was denied this by the six o’clock closing custom. He kept his little family and wife well controlled and I suspect he thought that I was a spoilt only child. In this he was right. I never got smacked, even when it was well deserved. My punishment was to be sent to my room, and since this was almost empty, it was very boring. Once, feeling that this banishment had been particularly unjust, I took my revenge. In our house there was one large box containing the family’s valuables — the wedding certificate, birth certificates and some large photos of my father’s football team. I pushed a nail through the eyes of the footballers. My father took the vandalism philosophically and didn’t punish me.

  Maude Boushall was a lovely lady with a rosy complexion, most attractive in appearance. She liked me. I was nearly a year older than her Fred, whom I played and chattere
d with. Our house had a front verandah, which finished just a foot or so from the front fence, and in this space Fred and I talked about the things that interest small boys. I remember him telling me that girls were not like us. They had only a slit between their legs. I asked him how he knew this and he said that he had peeked during the family bath night on Saturdays. At the time I was only mildly interested in this bit of biology. It didn’t make any sense to me. We soon passed on to something far more pressing. Just what had happened to my guinea pig which had vanished from its small cage in our backyard? Fred and I considered the possibilities from the joint store of our four-year-olds’ knowledge. (I later suspected that my father had returned the guinea pig to its donor at work because my mother might have protested against the animal being kept so closely confined.) Pets were unknown in Murrays Lane, despite the many recent arrivals from animal-loving England. Pet food cost money and nobody had any money to spare — even for a canary.

  Across the narrow street lived Mr and Mrs Jackson, another English couple, with their adopted daughter, Edna. Everyone knew them as Mr and Mrs Jackson — I later discovered this to be a standard English working-class monicker. Mr Jackson had been at Mons where he had been gassed. This qualified him for a full pension. Mrs Jackson was an eternal optimist and she became a lifelong friend of my mother’s. The Jacksons’ adopted daughter was older than I was and we didn’t talk much to each other. Mrs Jackson became an ardent ALP worker and was soon well known in Adelaide.

  Next to the Jacksons were Mr George and Mrs May Hardy, a childless Australian couple. They were new arrivals in Murrays Lane, having come from the coppertown of The Burra. George worked at the Mile End goods yard as a railway cleaner and set off on his cycle each weekday morning in black coat, black shirt and black trousers. His cycle was the only one in the street of twelve families. He was proud of that bicycle and kept it spotlessly cleaned and polished. He would carry a large black wooden box slung across his shoulders by a strap. In it was his “crib” — food for his meal break. If I remember rightly, the box was for sitting on while he ate.

  Occasionally, I was invited to go inside the Hardy home. Their front room was indeed a “front room” maintained for visitors. It had a sofa and a highly polished sideboard, from the cupboards of which Mrs Hardy would produce a large tin marked with a “Signal” brand, filled with Griffiths Bros tea. And for me there would be a small Griffiths Bros chocolate. I think the sofa and the sideboard were legacies of the Hardys’ Burra background. As far as I knew, nobody else had a “front room” in our lane (Griffiths Bros have long left their Hindmarsh Square offices.)

  George Hardy was the first to introduce me to Stephen Potter’s concept of oneupmanship, although of course I did not then recognise it as a social strategy. It seemed to me that Mr Hardy always managed to encounter my father on his way home from work on a Thursday evening. By Thursday, my father would have run out of smokes despite his intention to ration his supply until Friday night. My father was addicted to cigarettes, which he had smoked since his youth. Out of his weekly wage my mother would allow him a ration of one two ounce tin of Capstan Navy fine cut, together with two packets of Rizlah papers. These were bought when my parents shopped on paynights at the market. My father would then happily fashion his first smoke by attaching one Rizlah paper to his lower lip, leaving both hands free to rub the tobacco into something resembling a tailor-made. He would try to make the tin last a whole week but he never succeeded, and by Thursday would always be a little grumpy.

  When George Hardy met him in the street, George would produce a well-filled tobacco pouch and necessary papers with a grand flourish, and invite my father to have some. My father would always hesitate and then give way, knowing that he could not return the favour. Whereupon George would produce a small silvery cylinder, put in a paper, then tobacco, close it, revolve it a few times and then, with another flourish, produce an almost perfect tailor-made, which he would smoke with gusto.

  My father was an unselfish man with a slight speech impediment. He was a little timid, being the last and smallest of a family of burlier brothers. But he had managed to get himself into the finals of the Bay Sheffield footrace without the advantages of a shrewd trainer, and he had been awarded a medal by the South Adelaide Football Club for his play. With him, his wife always came first, then his family, and last himself.

  In my career I have only met a few men like my father: quiet, unselfish people, competent enough at their jobs, unaggressive, very neighbourly, law-abiding and accepting of their lot in life. But I have come across a number of George Hardys. One of the worst was a deputy commissioner of my own choosing, a man I appointed in the 1960s who had many fine qualities, but who lacked loyalty. Whenever I went on my annual four weeks’ leave, he would use the opportunity to introduce departmental changes. These were ones that I had not approved when he had recommended them earlier in the year. On my return I then had to somehow retrieve the situation, which was not always possible. You can’t very well rescind someone’s promotion because you wouldn’t have approved it yourself. Perhaps my early exposure to George Hardy’s social game-play-ing had made me ultra-sensitive to these sorts of tactics. But whatever the reason, to this day I remember my deputy’s antics with considerable annoyance.

  Apart from my mother, who “took in” washing and ironing, none of the wives in Murrays Lane had jobs to go to. So they had time to exchange news and personal information when out cleaning the front of their houses. Since we lived at the start of the lane, we always had a good idea of the comings and goings. Our door was always unlocked — it might deter a potential visitor if it was locked — and often ajar. I played out in the front, taking in the activities in the lane.

  I still remember being fascinated by the weekly visit of the corporation dray. I would sit on our doorstep and watch its progression down our lane from Gouger Street. In front would come two middle-aged men, sweeping the dirt and especially horse manure into small heaps. Slowly walking behind and alongside the horse would come the driver, who shovelled the heaps into the dray. The horse, a great half draught, with jingling brightly polished brasses and harness, needed no instruction. He would stop at each heap, wait and then patiently plod on to the next. I liked those horses. I saw that the same thing happened with the horses of the baker’s cart, and the milkie’s. Hot, windy or cold, these gentle animals were an essential part of the procedure, but as far as I could tell they never got a chance to roam free. Some were released into the Parklands on Saturday afternoons and Sundays, but only because it helped with their conditioning. They were truly slaves to their human masters.

  I vividly remember the dreadful summer of 1921-22 when some demented soul obtained perverted satisfaction on Sunday nights in the west Parklands not far from our house by tethering one of the grazing horses to a tree and then cutting its throat. This horrible, gory story was repeated Sunday after Sunday. As far as I know, the offender was never caught. It was a matter of concern to the residents of Murrays Lane with their unlocked front doors, and especially to us children. We talked about it endlessly and I could visualise the scene in the Parklands: the evening twilight, the large, friendly horse walking confidently up to its killer’s outstretched hand, expecting a small titbit but finding a halter around its neck. Then being led to a nearby tree, a cut-throat razor slicing its throat. The poor animal left to die in a growing pool of red blood.

  Some years later I was expected to join in the singing of church hymns which promised salvation by being washed in The Blood. I could see in my mind’s eye a bath filled with tepid blood in which I was supposed to wash myself! Perhaps somewhere in my unconscious there were memories of those murdered horses. Anyway, the idea revolted me. At first I was appalled at the enthusiasm with which my fellow Baptists sang the words. Then I excused them on the grounds that they had been brainwashed by their spiritual leaders. It has become increasingly clear to me over years of worshipping in various churches that emotion is given precedence over reason. I hav
e never heard a single sermon on “how to think”. I have often asked pastors not to choose hymns with inappropriate words, but their response has always been: “But people enjoy singing those wonderful old tunes.” The underlying message, it seemed to me, was an appeal not to rock the boat: “Members are comfortable with these hymns.” But those who were most vocal about the therapeutic benefits of immersion in blood were clearly those who had never attended a fatal road collision, or attempted to lift a dying mate from a damaged aircraft. For some reason, I used to place them in the category of “shoddy-dropper” — those fast-talking salesmen who tried to sell their inferior woollen suit-lengths door to door by saying: “Don’t worry about feeling the thickness — look at the width.” The shoddy-droppers were a common sight around Murrays Lane; they normally wore a seaman’s cap and jacket and carried their suit-lengths in a dirty brown paper parcel. Their claim was that they had just jumped ship and had intended to have a civilian suit made, but were short of cash; the suit-length could be yours for half the normal price.

  But, to return to the horses, I think my early difficulty with the Christian dogma — that God made animals subservient to men — began with my observations of those large, gentle beasts. At the time, I was unaware that for centuries Christians had had no moral difficulty applying the same dogma to black people. As I grew older, I also wondered about the prevailing view that it was necessary to “break a horse’s spirit” in order to get the animal to accept its “slave’s role”. (I noted recently that the Queen’s horse trainer demonstrated to a surprised audience that this procedure was unnecessary.) For a similar reason, I also have had misgivings about the fervent evangelists who require potential converts “to be broken in spirit” before becoming acceptable to God.