Sydney (Chapter 10 - Sydney)
Someone who knew Jack Crawford knew someone else who ran a transport business, and who might want a truck driver for a short spell. I hounded after this slender lead and with a great deal of luck ran the boss to ground while he was short-handed. And thus began three months of truck driving, in and around the capital. I learnt more about Sydney in that three months than I ever would have done had we won that £500. It was an education, hard work, but fun, and I was getting paid at the rate of £ I 8 per week. Nita, who industriously read all the small ad. pages in the newspapers, found comfortable lodgings at Brighton-Le Sands, about five miles from the centre of the city, where Kingsford Smith Airport flanked us on one side and Botany Bay on the other. From our window, we could look across the bay to the spot where Captain Cook landed so many years ago.
By the end of the first week, Nita had also found a niche in a fruit-canning factory and, apart from having to stand in running water all day long, found the work congenial and the pay very useful.
We used to cook in secret in our lodgings. Being frugal for a purpose, we had only arranged for bed and breakfast, and we cooked our evening meal camp style, over a tiny methylated stove. What my wife achieved on that midget was truly remarkable. We had fried meals, roasted meals (with the aid of an empty biscuit tin), toasted and boiled meals, and after the first month we began to wonder whether one ever needed more than a half¬
crown stove and a bottle of methylated spirit to produce all but the most complex dishes.
Every Friday night we stowed our earnings carefully away in the wardrobe, along with all the illicit cooking utensils and food stores. At week-ends we did nothing more than read books from the public library, write, or spend the day on Bondi or Manly Beach.
One gets the finest surf-bathing in the world in Bondi breakers, and provided a sharp ear is kept for the shark-warning bell, and a keen eye for the dangers of a 'rip' (a tremendously strong undertow that defies the strongest swimmers at times), water sport at its finest is there for the asking, in a warm sea of white-crested form, where one can laze all day long without feeling cold.
All the citizens of Sydney-Sydneysiders-make a pilgrimage to the coastal bays and inlets during the week-ends. Some to fish (fishing being one of the most popular sports down under; even the women angle); others to race motor-boats or yachts, but most to do the odd bit of surf-riding or simply laze on the golden sands, sun-worshipping. Their evenings are spent energetically on the whole: dancing, playing tennis by floodlight (there are tennis courts in the most lonely corners of the land), barbecueing, or just throwing parties.
The open-air cinemas are very popular. One merely drives in, parks the car, selects a microphone which hooks on to the inside of the window, and provided it is not raining one gets a good view of the giant screen with controllable sound inside the car.
Although very good for comedy films (the dialogue not being drowned in audience reaction), we found these cinemas to be unsuccessful in putting across a film of any depth; the link between viewer and medium is lost. For the managements, however, they are a gimmick that pays off, being particularly popular with courting couples.
About the middle of the second month in Sydney, when we had almost forgotten we were on an expedition, having fallen into the working routine so thoroughly, Jack Crawford 'phoned to say that the Mayor would like to see us. We were given a nice reception, welcomed officially (if somewhat belatedly) to the city and presented with The Book of Sydney, a large imposing volume of high quality which told briefly the life of the city.
The book is presented only to non-Australian visitors who, in the opinion of the authorities, might do something, however small, for the good of Australia. We were both pleased and not a little flattered to receive this exceptional gift. The last man associated with two wheels who had been presented with a copy had been Geoff Duke. I told the Mayor I was hardly likely to make a similar impact, but what we lacked in miles per hour we would make up for by distance covered.
It was during the second month, too, that Nita raised the subject of a sidecar. At first I was dead against the idea. Our one and a half horses had enough work to do without having to drag a chassis and third wheel. But my wife kept prodding, and eventually I was coaxed to 'just make a few enquiries'. Her argument, a very sound one, was that once more we should have to tackle long stretches of desolation-rather like those of the Middle East -and now we should not be able to carry all our equipment (including a whole new batch of cine-film which we were buying piecemeal), and still stay upright in the rough. But how could the little scooter haul a sidecar? On our arrival Jack Crawford had said bluntly that it wouldn't pull the skin off a rice pudding, but that had all been remedied long since. I decided in the Australian vernacular to 'give it a go'.
Jack was receptive to the idea and told us he could fit a chassis and wheel. For the body, which had to be lightweight, yet strong enough to take a constant beating, C. C. Wakefield Ltd. came to our aid and had one hand-built to our specification.
They presented it to us with their compliments, complete with a list of gold-lettered names of the cities we had passed through and a big winged Castrol sign on the front. A seat was fashioned for Nita, who wedged herself in and packed all the gear around her.
We made several test runs out to the Blue Mountains, climbing some of the steepest gradients we could find in this glorious beauty spot, about forty miles from the capital. Nothing seemed amiss and we found that we could churn over the roughest ground without fear of turning turtle. Our midget machine seemed unperturbed by the extra weight and, if anything, steadier with a third wheel than when grossly overloaded on two. Two wheels or three, New South Wales was perfect for motor-cycling. Good roads, beautiful weather, with a minimum of rain. Despite these attributes, the nucleus of two-wheeled enthusiasts is a very small one. I told Jack Crawford that, given their Australian conditions, our own million-strong army of ardent riders would almost certainly expand, and that in spite of the unfavourable British climate a large percentage of this number would not exchange their two wheels for four-even if motor-bikes were dearer than cars. Why, then, should Australian men-most of whom had the right amount of ginger in their blood-by-pass this zestful, essentially outdoor sport and exhilarating method of personal transport?
'The women get at 'em. That's the trouble,' said Jack in reflective mood. 'Just before the war the motor-cycling movement was developing wonderfully. Plenty of road racing, scrambles, trials, and a great deal of men who rode for the pleasure of it. Nowadays the women are all car-minded and they've forced the men to think the same way. But,' qualified Jack, 'things are gradually improving and there are an increasing number of chaps who are rediscovering the thrill of being on a saddle rather than sitting on a car seat. We do have our enthusiasts, y'know, especially on the sporting side, and the ranks aren't getting any smaller. Boundary riders on some of the Outback stations find that the motor-cycle is just about the perfect replacement for the horse; for the modern machine can go anywhere the horse can, and in a fraction of the time. You'll see plenty of riders in the north who'd put some of our expert scramblers in the shade. Fellows who ride on the rough each and every day, sometimes for a month at a time. But,' concluded our host with a smile, 'I don't think the wives get at the cattle men as much as the city women do.'
We were almost ready to start for the bush. After three months in Sydney our financial state had become satisfactorily stabilized; three months of the bustle of the city, with its free and easy life, its humour, absence of red-tape, modern outlook, and gay atmosphere. We had stayed long enough to think automatically of Hyde Park, Sydney, when anyone mentioned Hyde Park. We began to call dockers 'wharfies' and Teddy Boys and their feminine counterparts' Bodgies and Widgies'. The bright yellow number plates, prefaced with N.S.W., no longer looked faintly strange; neither did the pubs, filled to overflowing; nor the rattling trams that one had to overtake only on the inside. Nita became used to the bright, almost flamboyant fashions of the women, with their preference for vivid colour and enormous bright hats. At the end of those three months we felt that we knew Sydney pretty well. And, as always, when something has become familiar and cosy at the same time, it was difficult to leave. We did stop and look back at the great bridge on the way out of the city, but with a feeling of sadness rather than elation.
Once more we had burnt our boats. There would be no more pay packets for a while, no more comfortable routine. Once again the long black ribbon stretched ahead, and tomorrow we would relish the challenge. On the day we left Sydney we were silent, and just a little depressed.
By the end of the first week, Nita had also found a niche in a fruit-canning factory and, apart from having to stand in running water all day long, found the work congenial and the pay very useful.
We used to cook in secret in our lodgings. Being frugal for a purpose, we had only arranged for bed and breakfast, and we cooked our evening meal camp style, over a tiny methylated stove. What my wife achieved on that midget was truly remarkable. We had fried meals, roasted meals (with the aid of an empty biscuit tin), toasted and boiled meals, and after the first month we began to wonder whether one ever needed more than a half¬
crown stove and a bottle of methylated spirit to produce all but the most complex dishes.
Every Friday night we stowed our earnings carefully away in the wardrobe, along with all the illicit cooking utensils and food stores. At week-ends we did nothing more than read books from the public library, write, or spend the day on Bondi or Manly Beach.
One gets the finest surf-bathing in the world in Bondi breakers, and provided a sharp ear is kept for the shark-warning bell, and a keen eye for the dangers of a 'rip' (a tremendously strong undertow that defies the strongest swimmers at times), water sport at its finest is there for the asking, in a warm sea of white-crested form, where one can laze all day long without feeling cold.
All the citizens of Sydney-Sydneysiders-make a pilgrimage to the coastal bays and inlets during the week-ends. Some to fish (fishing being one of the most popular sports down under; even the women angle); others to race motor-boats or yachts, but most to do the odd bit of surf-riding or simply laze on the golden sands, sun-worshipping. Their evenings are spent energetically on the whole: dancing, playing tennis by floodlight (there are tennis courts in the most lonely corners of the land), barbecueing, or just throwing parties.
The open-air cinemas are very popular. One merely drives in, parks the car, selects a microphone which hooks on to the inside of the window, and provided it is not raining one gets a good view of the giant screen with controllable sound inside the car.
Although very good for comedy films (the dialogue not being drowned in audience reaction), we found these cinemas to be unsuccessful in putting across a film of any depth; the link between viewer and medium is lost. For the managements, however, they are a gimmick that pays off, being particularly popular with courting couples.
About the middle of the second month in Sydney, when we had almost forgotten we were on an expedition, having fallen into the working routine so thoroughly, Jack Crawford 'phoned to say that the Mayor would like to see us. We were given a nice reception, welcomed officially (if somewhat belatedly) to the city and presented with The Book of Sydney, a large imposing volume of high quality which told briefly the life of the city.
The book is presented only to non-Australian visitors who, in the opinion of the authorities, might do something, however small, for the good of Australia. We were both pleased and not a little flattered to receive this exceptional gift. The last man associated with two wheels who had been presented with a copy had been Geoff Duke. I told the Mayor I was hardly likely to make a similar impact, but what we lacked in miles per hour we would make up for by distance covered.
It was during the second month, too, that Nita raised the subject of a sidecar. At first I was dead against the idea. Our one and a half horses had enough work to do without having to drag a chassis and third wheel. But my wife kept prodding, and eventually I was coaxed to 'just make a few enquiries'. Her argument, a very sound one, was that once more we should have to tackle long stretches of desolation-rather like those of the Middle East -and now we should not be able to carry all our equipment (including a whole new batch of cine-film which we were buying piecemeal), and still stay upright in the rough. But how could the little scooter haul a sidecar? On our arrival Jack Crawford had said bluntly that it wouldn't pull the skin off a rice pudding, but that had all been remedied long since. I decided in the Australian vernacular to 'give it a go'.
Jack was receptive to the idea and told us he could fit a chassis and wheel. For the body, which had to be lightweight, yet strong enough to take a constant beating, C. C. Wakefield Ltd. came to our aid and had one hand-built to our specification.
They presented it to us with their compliments, complete with a list of gold-lettered names of the cities we had passed through and a big winged Castrol sign on the front. A seat was fashioned for Nita, who wedged herself in and packed all the gear around her.
We made several test runs out to the Blue Mountains, climbing some of the steepest gradients we could find in this glorious beauty spot, about forty miles from the capital. Nothing seemed amiss and we found that we could churn over the roughest ground without fear of turning turtle. Our midget machine seemed unperturbed by the extra weight and, if anything, steadier with a third wheel than when grossly overloaded on two. Two wheels or three, New South Wales was perfect for motor-cycling. Good roads, beautiful weather, with a minimum of rain. Despite these attributes, the nucleus of two-wheeled enthusiasts is a very small one. I told Jack Crawford that, given their Australian conditions, our own million-strong army of ardent riders would almost certainly expand, and that in spite of the unfavourable British climate a large percentage of this number would not exchange their two wheels for four-even if motor-bikes were dearer than cars. Why, then, should Australian men-most of whom had the right amount of ginger in their blood-by-pass this zestful, essentially outdoor sport and exhilarating method of personal transport?
'The women get at 'em. That's the trouble,' said Jack in reflective mood. 'Just before the war the motor-cycling movement was developing wonderfully. Plenty of road racing, scrambles, trials, and a great deal of men who rode for the pleasure of it. Nowadays the women are all car-minded and they've forced the men to think the same way. But,' qualified Jack, 'things are gradually improving and there are an increasing number of chaps who are rediscovering the thrill of being on a saddle rather than sitting on a car seat. We do have our enthusiasts, y'know, especially on the sporting side, and the ranks aren't getting any smaller. Boundary riders on some of the Outback stations find that the motor-cycle is just about the perfect replacement for the horse; for the modern machine can go anywhere the horse can, and in a fraction of the time. You'll see plenty of riders in the north who'd put some of our expert scramblers in the shade. Fellows who ride on the rough each and every day, sometimes for a month at a time. But,' concluded our host with a smile, 'I don't think the wives get at the cattle men as much as the city women do.'
We were almost ready to start for the bush. After three months in Sydney our financial state had become satisfactorily stabilized; three months of the bustle of the city, with its free and easy life, its humour, absence of red-tape, modern outlook, and gay atmosphere. We had stayed long enough to think automatically of Hyde Park, Sydney, when anyone mentioned Hyde Park. We began to call dockers 'wharfies' and Teddy Boys and their feminine counterparts' Bodgies and Widgies'. The bright yellow number plates, prefaced with N.S.W., no longer looked faintly strange; neither did the pubs, filled to overflowing; nor the rattling trams that one had to overtake only on the inside. Nita became used to the bright, almost flamboyant fashions of the women, with their preference for vivid colour and enormous bright hats. At the end of those three months we felt that we knew Sydney pretty well. And, as always, when something has become familiar and cosy at the same time, it was difficult to leave. We did stop and look back at the great bridge on the way out of the city, but with a feeling of sadness rather than elation.
Once more we had burnt our boats. There would be no more pay packets for a while, no more comfortable routine. Once again the long black ribbon stretched ahead, and tomorrow we would relish the challenge. On the day we left Sydney we were silent, and just a little depressed.
posted by Michael Marriott (c/o P McIntosh) at
14:30
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