http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2009/12/27/2781111.htm?section=justin

Here a bit of light relief for those that are queueing up to get those bargains.  Did anyone see the news, those young people rushing the stores, trampling over each other for another blue tooth or items with buttons?  Did you see that woman pensively holding a handbag as if it was the very last one on earth? She put it back on the pile though. Iron woman.

The ‘old biddies from hell’ milk-bar was just around the corner from where the primary school was situated in East Balmain. It dated from pre-war, either the first 1914-1918 or the second 1940-1945. It would not have mattered, the service was the same as that Sunday arrival at Fremantle 1956, when all those dapper migrants in suits and white shirts sauntered off-board to get their first taste of Australia after the long five week ship journey from Europe. To be seen as helpful was grovelling to the Gov’nr and those old shop’s milk-bar traditions such as the one my dad tried to buy lamingtons from in Fremantle 1956 had passed on their sullen services across the Nullarbor and survived well into the 1980’s at East Balmain. To enter the shop for a packet of ciggies was risky and such a downer, that the only rightful response was to immediately light up in the shop and blow the first lungful towards the old hags and make a run for it.

The kids who had no option but to sometimes order the school lunch there soon also learnt to give as much as they were receiving. The shop and its owners showed their contempt for kids and adults by selling the minimum of goods and with such vehement reluctance, that only the foolhardy and the most determined would enter. They refused to display what they were selling. The shopwindow’s only items on display were a yellowed packet of Bex powders and a Camel cigarettes poster with goggled US fighter pilots lighting up, stuck on a piece of ancient vitrage hanging there to obscure any view into the shop… The flies were old and spiders spun webs to keep a balance between the different species but would prefer only the freshest and largest.  Inside the glass counter with chrome edges and sloping menacingly towards the customer, there were live flies (but no webs) zooming in onto lamingtons and custard tarts sprinkled with cinnamon. One of the old girls was doubled over with osteoporosis; the other one in charge of sandwich making,  had a permanent dripping nose which she kept on wiping on her left arm which was inside a raglan sleeved cardigan, while taking the Edgell pre-sliced beetroot out of its tin and placing it with gnarled fingers onto the pre-buttered Tiptop.

The relationship between schoolkids, customers and shop owners was symbiotic but that’s all, nothing more, nothing less. This is why the business was stagnant and had been for many, many years. They each accepted the exchange of money for the goods as an almost necessary evil. Our neighbours’ daughter told the old ladies to get fucked and was hence banned. There were standards to uphold. The owners of the shop were totally unconcerned though. Sick as!

This game, this life.

If any more proof was needed to show the abundance of Australia, of course shown already on the day after arrival at Scheyville camp with all those oranges on trees, it would have to be the provisions in that huge communal dining room during breakfast, lunch and dinner of huge gallon drums of very chunky IXL melon and pineapple jam, with no control on how much one ladled out.

Real fruit jam in Holland was expensive and mother just used to give our sandwiches not much more than a slight hint of jam in order to save for our future. Imagine our joy with being able, and totally unshackled from any restrictions, to scoop unlimited ladles of jam out of those huge drums of fruit laden conserve on top of mountains of pre-sliced white bread. It was totally out of dad’s control but he managed to accept it for what it was.

A few days later our perception in all that abundance of goodness and sweetness was somewhat dented and damaged. We often just used to ladle our food on plates and walk to our hut, eat in private, away from the swills and spills of the food hall where everyone just used to eat sitting on large benches and wooden tables.  Well, eating was a bit of a euphemism, more as if the whole of Europe were on a trough and had been waiting for a good feed. Some of those hungry souls used to straddle the wooden seats horselike and eat with the food plate tucked between their legs. Perhaps they felt is was a more secure way of remaining in possession of the food.

It was when we had just arrived back to our hut with plates full, got seated and ready to fork into the lamb chops, when a man on a pushbike was riding fast from hut to hut shouting,  ” there are maggots in the meat.”  Now, we had experienced war and famine, head lice, tobacco shortages and indeed food shortages but no way would it have been even remotely possible to have had the experience of ‘maggots in meat’. There simply never was any meat during the 1940-45 second world war.

Peering onto our plates and deep into the crevices of the chops in particular, it only took a second to see what the pushbike man had heralded a minute earlier. Maggots indeed. This of course took the edge of our sojourn into this new country somewhat, if not those chops as well, but what the heck; we were told Australia needed people with pioneering spirit.

The tubbing started with the eldest and then worked itself down to the youngest, all in the same water.  The water had to be reasonably hot for it to last for the five of us. This meant that for the eldest brother Frank it would have been too hot which meant jumping around outside the tub and testing with toe till it was safe to go in without scalding. I was next, usually by then the water was getting perfect in temperature and I would linger as much as possible.Of course mother would not tolerate that as the next three still had to have their tubbing. Adrian, the youngest had the worst of worlds, a water temperature close to being cold and a layer of scum from the previous job lots. Not much use being the Benjamin here!

tubbing 2009

Whatever the history of Oosterman bathing, it is my opinion that the claim by the Van Dijks having their own bathroom in Aussie-land  was what finally decided my parents to go to the Australian Embassy to apply for Emigration to Australia.  There was going to be an information evening with film and questions and answers type of thing. The event was very nice, informative and the colour film was a knock over if not knock- out as well. The unforgettable freedom of the delivery of the newspaper, thrown from a driving car, all rolled up and smack bang in front of the occupier of a glorious sun kissed house under biscuit coloured roof tiled pergolas, who in morning coat and smiling broadly picked up the paper from front verdant lawn, with one hand and a wave to the deliverer of good tidings with the other hand. A friendly toot on the horn from the 1952 Holden in answer, made it all just perfect.

The house that received the thrown news-paper was bathing in Southern Hemispheric sunlight and a dazzling halo of white painted fence at the front almost replicated the toothy smile of the man in morning coat picking up the Sydney Morning Herald paper. The next bit of film was a slight repeat. This time it was the postman delivering the good tidings, leaping over similar white painted picket fences, friendly chat with a female house owner this time, before his next leap. I remember worrying a little about all this chucking and leaping. Was it a cultural habit in Australia to do things by driving, chucking and leaping so much?  Anyway, I decided to do as much practise jumping and running as possible, certainly wanted to make a good impression in case we would be accepted as possible immigrants.

The move to Australia was looked upon with some consternation by my school friends. Why Australia?  The opinion uttered by some of my parent’s friends was in the order, that they heard   “it is a boring country, no life,  ” everything is shut on Sunday”. “There are no cafes where you can get together for a glass of beer”.

Not very helpful comments, hardly made it any easier dealing with a permanent separation from all those friends and family members, uncles, aunties.  It installed some trepidation and up till this day, some fifty years later, I must admit there was more than a tinge of truth in what they were telling me at the time. I don’t think I will ever lose the memory of arriving in Australia’s Fremantle WA on a Sunday back in 1956.

To be continued.