OUR STREET

One of the diversions we had was to follow Mr.Roach, who owned a fruit and vegetable cart drawn by a horse. Whether he had an injury from the Great War or suffered the bladder incontinence that afflicts certain of our older citizens, I never discovered. But he found it necessary to GO while doing his rounds. Rather than embarrass his customers by asking to use their toilets, he must have rigged up a rubber tube from waterworks to shoe, possibly tied to his ankle, under his long trousers. We walked after him for miles waiting for the stream, and then ran away feeling that our day was complete. Such are the interests of small boys.

Spann`s Bakery was located just a few doors away from my house and when we had nothing else to do, my mates and I would wander into there to watch the men at work and savour the mouth-watering smells of fresh bread. The deep wooden troughs holding the rising dough were passed by and a bee-line made to the brick ovens where the bakers removed or inserted loaves on wide, flat wooden ladles. Fred Spann, the proprietor`s son, would load up one of their delivery trucks, an A-model or Chev utility with a wooden canopy, and set out on his delivery run. With luck, we would receive a hot, yeasty-smelling loaf to devour without butter or spread.

We had an exciting afternoon one day. At the top of our street was a large warehouse where the Courier-Mail or Telegraph stored great rolls of paper for their newspaper. Regularly, a truck with five of these huge rolls would crawl up the hill and turn into the shed. On this occasion, the rope securing the paper snapped and, one by one, these rolls, which must have weighed more than a ton each, tumbled down the hill, demolishing fences and spinning into front yards. No one was killed, but the trail of destruction the length of our street was a sight to behold.

 The Exhibition Speedway was in full fling during these years, with a varied mix of bicycles, motor-bikes and speedcars on the programme. It was a standard thing to go there every Saturday night as a family, complete with newspapers which were held up each time the motor-bikes or speedcars came around, as a flying wall of dirt was thrown from track to you by the spinning back wheels. We all had our favourite riders or drivers and our trolleys (more coming up) were painted in the same colours as our idols` cars and the same number adorned the sides of our carts.

Go-carts, or as we called them ‘trolleys’ were the centre of our life. When cricket palled, we towed our trolleys to the top of Anderson Street, near the old Museum, and raced each other to the bottom, some 500-600 yards, where a T-intersection meant a broadside to pull up, or an all-mighty whack into the opposite kerb.  No brakes, you see. We raced on cast-iron wheels, and they disintegrated if you hit a kerb, so great care was taken to master the slide. My sister pestered me for ages for a ride so, one day, in a moment of weakness (or it may have involved a trade of some lollies), I let her take Number 3 for a spin. After picking up the pieces of my cast-iron wheels from the gutter, I loudly vowed never to let girls on my machine again. My weekly pocket-money ran to two shillings, and I think wheels were about three shillings each, so it was a constant juggle of finances to stay mobile. We followed the style of our Ekka heroes and built service pits under Colin Spann`s house where a judicious splash of oil on axles completed the pit check. We made up a programme with heats and finals, just like the pros. Trophies included the Golden Helmet (an old WW2 dispatch riders helmet we painted gold), the Ruby Belt (a red bike reflector bolted on an old Scout belt) and a silver cup with one handle missing purloined from someone`s parents and celebrating the 100^th anniversary of Bendigo or such. No grand prize was ever competed for more fiercely than our trophies. Normally we had a standing or running start at the top of the hill, but we faced stiff competition from Gary Lynch whose folks ran the Kookaburra Café in Wickham Street near the Rex Theatre. Gary ‘acquired’ a kid`s pedal car and overcame the inertia of a standing start by pedaling furiously. Unfortunately the pedals were fixed to the wheels, so when he got up speed, he had to ride with his feet outside the body to avoid the rapidly whirring pedals. This gave us a chance to overtake him. So much for his modern technology.

Cricket was the main sport indulged in by our street. None of this elitist backyard stuff. We blocked the traffic (which was minor at worst) till the ball was bowled. The wicket was a tomato case and the length of the pitch determined by tradition. Bitumen was hard on both bat and ball, but Santa or birthdays usually intervened when either was approaching retirement status. Bumpers were regarded as poor form, the object of the game being to bowl out with skill, or catch the batsman by guile. Invariably, lunch or dinner call put the innings on hold till later. Late summer evenings saw neighbours leaning over their verandah rails watching the battle of the Ashes. Having a downward tilt in the road added speed to the fast bowler, though bare feet, calloused by years of walking to school, tended to pick a path around larger stones, and slowed the action. The only drawback with playing cricket on a narrow street was a tendency to straight-drive to avoid confrontations with neighbours. Especially their windows. A tendency cured by play on an oval at school.

The brick wall of Lamson and Paragon, stationery manufacturers, at the foot of Anderson Street, was my favourite practice area, and many cricket and hockey strokes were perfected by hitting a rebounding ball. Let`s not dwell on the occasional crack in the reinforced wire glass on the windows high up on the wall.