1949 and I start my Primary School education. School itself was not too bad, but, after ahile I would get bored. Where I went to school, my school had a strict code of 'hands off'. All the boys were addressed by the Brothers as "Sir" and all the Brothers were referred to by the boys using that title, shortend to Br. (pronounced Brrr!) as in Brrrr Mark, Brrrr. Peter, etc. Any violence, be that physical or other intimidatory behaviour, was quickly and promptly dealt with, either by the Brothers themselves or school Captains or class monitors. Common areas were well supervised and I think that is a failure today. Today I live next to a catholic high school and the lack of playground supervision is evident by the language that emanates from the schoolyard during routine breaks and sports events on the playing field next to our back fence!
Anyway, two buses on the trip each way but I quickly worked out that if I skipped the second bus, walked from Gladesville to Hunters Hill (and return on the home trip) I could save my bus fare for ‘special treats’ – e.g. the movie theatre –“The Flicks” – on Saturday afternoons. Of course, this lead to other knowledge – I discovered Tarban Creek which flowed past St Joseph’s College rowing sheds into the Lane Cove River and also had the fascinating Gladesville Lunatic Asylum on the opposite bank. Gladesville Lunatic Asylum had been constructed in the 1830’s, principally because it was bounded by two rivers – the Lane Cove and the Parramatta - and early access before the iron bridge was built from Drummoyne was controlled by a ferry with ferrymen who had strict instructions on checking the bona fides of any passengers. By 1950 it was largely an ‘open’ asylum with only a few closed wards and its grounds were a delight to explore. The main road to Sydney, Victoria Road, ran right past its gates and high stone walls.
Anyway, two buses on the trip each way but I quickly worked out that if I skipped the second bus, walked from Gladesville to Hunters Hill (and return on the home trip) I could save my bus fare for ‘special treats’ – e.g. the movie theatre –“The Flicks” – on Saturday afternoons. Of course, this lead to other knowledge – I discovered Tarban Creek which flowed past St Joseph’s College rowing sheds into the Lane Cove River and also had the fascinating Gladesville Lunatic Asylum on the opposite bank. Gladesville Lunatic Asylum had been constructed in the 1830’s, principally because it was bounded by two rivers – the Lane Cove and the Parramatta - and early access before the iron bridge was built from Drummoyne was controlled by a ferry with ferrymen who had strict instructions on checking the bona fides of any passengers. By 1950 it was largely an ‘open’ asylum with only a few closed wards and its grounds were a delight to explore. The main road to Sydney, Victoria Road, ran right past its gates and high stone walls.
Wards 17 and 18 at the Gladesville Lunatic Asylum,
overlooking a splendid cricket oval that was situated
on the Parramatta River.
Many a lazy day was spent exploring the grounds, chatting with wandering inmates and even getting friendly with some of the staff. Tarban Creek also had a weir which formed a great swimming hole in summer. This luxury was soon to be cut short, however, as my frequent absences from school ended with my Dad and myself fronting the headmaster at the Montbel Priory for explanations. Tarban Creek and the Gladesville Asylum were declared ‘off-limits’ and a curfew was placed on my arrival home from school each day! Oh well! That merely meant I arrived home earlier, shucked my shoes and socks and took off down the bush, to the quarry and places like that where I joined up with new found friends, Kevin, Michael and Peter where we would ‘ambush’ wandering groups of children coming to play on “our turf”! Real ‘Boys Own’ stuff.
Mum and Dad were struggling to make ends meet in the early 1950’s, so Dad went into the ‘barter/exchange’ market. He had located a few people who lived mostly in the inner city area who wanted fresh fruit, vegetables, eggs and the odd free-range chicken (killed and dressed) in exchange for things like fresh sea food, piano and violin lessons for my talented sister, etc, but the problem was getting our products to them. It was suggested by Dad that since I was such an adventurous lad I could deliver the trade materials to pre-arranged locations on certain dates and time. This meant at least a weekly trip to the Sydney Fish Markets, then located in the Haymarket area of Central Sydney just adjacent to Dixon Street and Chinatown. Mum would pack a portmanteau with ‘goodies’, march me up to the tram stop at 6am and put me on a tram to Sydney. I was given ‘vouchers’ (Transport Dept money tags – Dad worked for the Tramways) to give to the conductor for my fare in and back. I would alight at Haymarket and walk up to the Fish Markets where I met a manager and handed over the portmanteau and I was told to wait a half an hour. This gave me thirty minutes to explore the fruit and vegetable markets and Chinatown and I found this a fascinating place, full of wondrous things – I even exchanged ‘greetings’ with Chinese shop owners, including the sons of Sydney's infamous Quong Tart – then I would return and collect the portmanteau (by then full of varied products from the fish market floor) and catch another tram back to Ryde, arriving back near home about 7.45am. Mum would meet me, take the portmanteau and give me my schoolbag and lunch and send me on my way to school.
Now this process had some interesting ‘spin-offs’. The conductors were regulars and knew if an Inspector was on their route, so often they would not bother with my travel coupons. I was able to stockpile a heap of coupons which I could use to get myself by government transport to the Sydney beaches – Bondi, Clovelly, Coogee, Maroubra, etc. so that my 'range of absence activities' became extended. One day dad was coming home and spied me at a city tram stop. That night there was hell to pay in our house as explanations were demanded. Afterwards my older sisters wanted to know about the beaches - were they safe, were there sharks, and mostly, were there life guards! As a result they pestered mum and dad to take us to the beach of a weekend, so I started a family tradition - a weekend day trip to Bondi, complete with pre-packed picnic lunches of sandwiches, cakes, fruit and cordial (tea for mum and dad - there were 'free' hot water boilers strategically placed around the beach parkland areas.)
I loved the beaches and quickly took to body surfing and, if I could save up the money, hire and inflatable rubber body surfer to ride the waves on. Long board surfing was just in vogue and we would sit and watch the men on their long boards surfing the waves. It was exciting at times when a shark was spotted and the alarm bell was rung and everyone was called out of the water as the life boat was launched to chase off the intruder. Sometimes some swimmers would get into trouble and we would watch the life guards go through their 'Belt and Line' rescue drill and pull swimmers back on to the beach. Sometimes they needed to have the water pumped out of their lungs and we would struggle for a vantage point in the surrounding crowd of onlookers to watch this marvelous piece of precision resuscitation.
I loved the beaches and quickly took to body surfing and, if I could save up the money, hire and inflatable rubber body surfer to ride the waves on. Long board surfing was just in vogue and we would sit and watch the men on their long boards surfing the waves. It was exciting at times when a shark was spotted and the alarm bell was rung and everyone was called out of the water as the life boat was launched to chase off the intruder. Sometimes some swimmers would get into trouble and we would watch the life guards go through their 'Belt and Line' rescue drill and pull swimmers back on to the beach. Sometimes they needed to have the water pumped out of their lungs and we would struggle for a vantage point in the surrounding crowd of onlookers to watch this marvelous piece of precision resuscitation.
Bondi Beach
Clovelly Beach
Coogee Beach (pronounced “Could Gee”),
view from Dolphin Point at the northern end
Coogee is believed to be derived from and aboriginal word meaning ‘Bad Smell’ caused by decaying seaweed washed up from off-shore weed beds
On my way to the southern beaches, when I was by myself and skipping school, I would pass through the Haymarket and Central Railway and often I would delay for a visit down through the markets to Chinatown.
Paddy’s Markets, Haymarket
Paddy's Markets were an amazing place. The fruit and vegetable markets up the road only operated on some days of the week but Paddy's was open every day bar Sundays. It was a general market in a huge building where stall holders paid for their spot to flog their various wares. I could wander the aisles for hours and marvel at all the stuff on sale.
Dixon Street today – hasn’t changed all that much!
Chinatown was also a colourful and attractive place, more full of Chinese during the day but the Europeans would come down on an evening to dine in the Chinese cafes. In those days, 'Take Away' meant you bought your own containers, a pot or a billycan, in which your order was placed. Australians, at that time, were ultra-conservative and curried chicken or curried prawns and rice were the standard Chinese meals. I got to know the merchants and tasted red pork, smoked duck, steamed dum sums and spring vegetable rolls. I even tried boiled chicken feet - an ugly looking dish but succulent as you sucked off the gelatinous fleshy resin that covered them.
Quong Tart, successful businessman outside
one of his tearooms. Image courtesy of the
City of Sydney and Australian Society of
Genealogists PR6-26-14.
Mei Quong Tart was a leading nineteenth century Sydney merchant from China. He was one of Sydney's most famous and well-loved personalities and made a significant impact on the social and political scene of Sydney at a time of strong anti-Chinese sentiment in Australia.
Quong Tart had two sons and four daughters, who, although Anglican himself, baptised in different denominations to avoid charges of prejudice. Quong Tart and his family lived in his mansion, 'Gallop House', in the Sydney suburb of Ashfield, while his four daughters attended the nearby Presbyterian Ladies College at Croyden, the first Asian students to attend the school. I met his sons when I forayed into Chinatown - like their father they had investments in many businesses, particularly import businesses.
He was well known as a uniquely Victorian character, being a Chinese Australian who adopted the dress and manners of an English gentleman, all while performing Scottish songs on his bagpipe. He is distinguished as the first Chinese person in Australia to be initiated into the Society of Freemasons.
Despite the virulent anti-Chinese agitation in Australia at the time, Quong Tart was "as well known as the Governor himself" and "quite as popular among all classes" in NSW (Daily Telegraph, 10 October 1897).
I always had a dog. Dad bought me a little fox terrier but sadly he got ran over by a car. We got a black 'bitser' from a litter that one of the Brett family's bitches threw. It lasted a few years but the paralysis ticks got to it. Dad said no more dogs. Dad was a 'punter', he loved his horse races and most Saturdays he (and often mum) would go to the races at Randwick or Rosehill. This meant he always needed the 'latest form guide', so every Friday and again on Saturday mornings I was sent up the road early to buy the Daily Telegraph with its form guide. It was a mile to the paper shop so in the warmer month it was a pleasant stroll and I found diversions - much to dad's ire who was waiting for his paper - and in the cooler months I would run the two mile trip. One day I came across this rather hungry looking yellow dog and "He followed me home!" I prevailed on Dad to let me keep him. Dad reckoned he was half dingo and a perfect match for me, so 'Yella' became my dog and went everywhere I went in the district. We were instantly recognised ' "That bugger of a kid .... and his mangy dog!" I kept "Yella" for about 5 years, then one day he just decided to move on, so he left.
Around this time I was also becoming quite enterprising. My bush ventures frequently resulted in the capture of many rabbits, These I skinned and dressed the carcasses. What Mum didn't need for the larder I sold door-to-door in the neighbourhood and I got a penny a skin for the hides from the local Produce and Grain store. I saved up enough money to be able to buy a second hand .22 calibre Lithgow Small Arms single action bolt rifle with fixed sights. I drilled three holes in the top of the stock in which I could locate extra rounds for ease of repeat shooting. I became a crack shot with this rifle and was the envy of all the boys around the district.
We had a policeman, Senior Constable harry paddock back then, who rode around on a motor cycle and sidecar outfit. He was about six foot six and wore size 12 boots and was not past applying those to the backsides of errant boys. I never had much trouble with him. I got a warning once for playing in the local park with my mates on a Sunday - not allowed in those days of a strict Anglican council who did not allow 'sport' on a Sunday - but I reckon that was only because the cranky old resident caretaker complained to him about 'kids in the park'. Anyway, I was walking down Cressy Road one day with my .22 rifle across my shoulders when up he rode and stopped me. He proceeded to ask me about the rifle and where I got it. I told him I bought it secondhand of 'my uncle, Jack Brett', whom he knew. He wanted to know all sorts of questions about it, what i used it for, where did I use it, did I shoot at buildings with it, etc. I told him I used it for shooting rabbits and was on my way to the quarry to shoot some. He took the rifle and said he would meet me at the quarry and rode off. I was really peeved at that, so ran after him to the quarry.
When I arrived he was waiting, examining the rifle and looking at the three cartridges inserted into the top of the stock. He asked me why I had done that. I said it made it easier to reload without shifting position. There were rabbits around so he told me to try and shoot some. I lay down in cover and waited:
Bang!, reload, bang!,reload, bang! reload, bang! I had four rabbits in less than a minute.
I walked down and brought them back and he looked at them, all head shots. He asked me what I was going to do with them? I said 'skin them, sell the pelts to the Produce store and the carcasses to neighbours'. He hopped on his motor cycle, kicked started it, lowered his goggles off his soft cap, said 'Be careful with that!" put it into gear and roared off. Itold mum and dad about it when I got home. Dad knew harry Paddock and just laughed. Mum said I shouldn't just walk around with a rifle, it would frighten people. A few days later Mum presented me with an oilskin pouch she had made out of an old tram conductor's raincoat. It was perfect for the .22 and it even had a sling to go over my shoulder. She echoed Harry Paddock's words in my ears - "Be careful with that thing!"
He never bothered me again. Years later I went for my driving test - aged 15 years and 10 months you were eligible for a licence and did the test at the local police station. I turned up in my borrowed car and walked in and in front of me was Sergeant Harry paddock. He looked me in the eye and said "What do you want John?" I told him. He walked over to the window and looked out at the car and asked "How did you get here?" I told him I drove over from North Ryde. He said I shouldn't do that, paused, and said, "Drive around the block, pull up where you are and reverse park it down the hill." I did that and when I came back the ink was already dry on my licence. He really wasn't that bad a cop!
Quong Tart had two sons and four daughters, who, although Anglican himself, baptised in different denominations to avoid charges of prejudice. Quong Tart and his family lived in his mansion, 'Gallop House', in the Sydney suburb of Ashfield, while his four daughters attended the nearby Presbyterian Ladies College at Croyden, the first Asian students to attend the school. I met his sons when I forayed into Chinatown - like their father they had investments in many businesses, particularly import businesses.
He was well known as a uniquely Victorian character, being a Chinese Australian who adopted the dress and manners of an English gentleman, all while performing Scottish songs on his bagpipe. He is distinguished as the first Chinese person in Australia to be initiated into the Society of Freemasons.
Despite the virulent anti-Chinese agitation in Australia at the time, Quong Tart was "as well known as the Governor himself" and "quite as popular among all classes" in NSW (Daily Telegraph, 10 October 1897).
I always had a dog. Dad bought me a little fox terrier but sadly he got ran over by a car. We got a black 'bitser' from a litter that one of the Brett family's bitches threw. It lasted a few years but the paralysis ticks got to it. Dad said no more dogs. Dad was a 'punter', he loved his horse races and most Saturdays he (and often mum) would go to the races at Randwick or Rosehill. This meant he always needed the 'latest form guide', so every Friday and again on Saturday mornings I was sent up the road early to buy the Daily Telegraph with its form guide. It was a mile to the paper shop so in the warmer month it was a pleasant stroll and I found diversions - much to dad's ire who was waiting for his paper - and in the cooler months I would run the two mile trip. One day I came across this rather hungry looking yellow dog and "He followed me home!" I prevailed on Dad to let me keep him. Dad reckoned he was half dingo and a perfect match for me, so 'Yella' became my dog and went everywhere I went in the district. We were instantly recognised ' "That bugger of a kid .... and his mangy dog!" I kept "Yella" for about 5 years, then one day he just decided to move on, so he left.
Around this time I was also becoming quite enterprising. My bush ventures frequently resulted in the capture of many rabbits, These I skinned and dressed the carcasses. What Mum didn't need for the larder I sold door-to-door in the neighbourhood and I got a penny a skin for the hides from the local Produce and Grain store. I saved up enough money to be able to buy a second hand .22 calibre Lithgow Small Arms single action bolt rifle with fixed sights. I drilled three holes in the top of the stock in which I could locate extra rounds for ease of repeat shooting. I became a crack shot with this rifle and was the envy of all the boys around the district.
We had a policeman, Senior Constable harry paddock back then, who rode around on a motor cycle and sidecar outfit. He was about six foot six and wore size 12 boots and was not past applying those to the backsides of errant boys. I never had much trouble with him. I got a warning once for playing in the local park with my mates on a Sunday - not allowed in those days of a strict Anglican council who did not allow 'sport' on a Sunday - but I reckon that was only because the cranky old resident caretaker complained to him about 'kids in the park'. Anyway, I was walking down Cressy Road one day with my .22 rifle across my shoulders when up he rode and stopped me. He proceeded to ask me about the rifle and where I got it. I told him I bought it secondhand of 'my uncle, Jack Brett', whom he knew. He wanted to know all sorts of questions about it, what i used it for, where did I use it, did I shoot at buildings with it, etc. I told him I used it for shooting rabbits and was on my way to the quarry to shoot some. He took the rifle and said he would meet me at the quarry and rode off. I was really peeved at that, so ran after him to the quarry.
When I arrived he was waiting, examining the rifle and looking at the three cartridges inserted into the top of the stock. He asked me why I had done that. I said it made it easier to reload without shifting position. There were rabbits around so he told me to try and shoot some. I lay down in cover and waited:
Bang!, reload, bang!,reload, bang! reload, bang! I had four rabbits in less than a minute.
I walked down and brought them back and he looked at them, all head shots. He asked me what I was going to do with them? I said 'skin them, sell the pelts to the Produce store and the carcasses to neighbours'. He hopped on his motor cycle, kicked started it, lowered his goggles off his soft cap, said 'Be careful with that!" put it into gear and roared off. Itold mum and dad about it when I got home. Dad knew harry Paddock and just laughed. Mum said I shouldn't just walk around with a rifle, it would frighten people. A few days later Mum presented me with an oilskin pouch she had made out of an old tram conductor's raincoat. It was perfect for the .22 and it even had a sling to go over my shoulder. She echoed Harry Paddock's words in my ears - "Be careful with that thing!"
He never bothered me again. Years later I went for my driving test - aged 15 years and 10 months you were eligible for a licence and did the test at the local police station. I turned up in my borrowed car and walked in and in front of me was Sergeant Harry paddock. He looked me in the eye and said "What do you want John?" I told him. He walked over to the window and looked out at the car and asked "How did you get here?" I told him I drove over from North Ryde. He said I shouldn't do that, paused, and said, "Drive around the block, pull up where you are and reverse park it down the hill." I did that and when I came back the ink was already dry on my licence. He really wasn't that bad a cop!
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