THE FLYER
By Jimmy Brook
A person learns that age is no barrier to a great memory.
CHAPTER ONE
Geoffrey found himself again driving in the gates of Appleside. Not that he came often, but he had been here three or four times this year. It was more out of respect to his mother and family, as well as providing an ageing relative some interaction and sense of belonging. It was an upmarket nursing facility, and he came now to spend a few minutes or so with his uncle George. An elder brother of his late mum, she used to take him and his sister to see George and his wife, when Geoffrey was younger. Over the years the visits waned but now that George was living in a care home, and as a promise to his mother, Geoffrey sometimes dropped in.
George must have been in his early nineties, he thought. With a keen mind and so accurate on detail, Geoffrey was interested to hear about the early times, but also about George’s travels as a young man. No time limit today as not only the young man was between girl friends, he didn’t have to be at The Swan Hotel until his two mates finished their jobs for the day, and that was at least two hours. He wandered inside and along corridors, until he found George sitting in his room in his easy chair, in front of the big open window.
“Hello George.”
The older man slowly turned around and gave a grin. “Just thinking about you the other day. I must be due for a visit from my nephew and here you are.”
“Sorry, I haven’t been around. Things happen.”
“They do indeed. Sit in the other chair and tell me about your life recently.”
They talked. Some how the conversation got onto a steamer trip that George did as a younger man, ending up in Mombasa, Kenya. “Had three days layover as they had done a bearing or something. Hot old town it was, and pretty rough. Me and another passenger, took a train trip up the escarpment to Nairobi. Much better up there. I remember the bridge we crossed where the guard told us that lions kept eating the workers. I like trains.”
Geoffrey perked up his ears. He was a bit of an enthusiast and this was the first time he had ever heard George mention it.
“Yes, used to ride the Sydney trams to work and the trains up the mountains and took the Flyer once to Newcastle.”
Now that was something Geoffrey had seen on film and wished he could have done himself. “George. If I get my little recorder from the car, would you have the time to tell me about those trips?”
“I’m in a nursing home, my lad. What else would I be doing except passing the time. Let me go to the loo first, and when I come back, I’ll see what comes to mind.”
Geoffrey walked back to his car and retrieved the little recorder he used for conferences and such. When he returned, George was already back in his chair, waiting.
CHAPTER TWO
I woke early and then realised I didn’t have to work this Saturday morning. More and more companies were moving to a shorter week. Mine was still every second Saturday morning, but the talk was a 40 hour week would come and no weekends. There was a pounding on my door. It had to be my mother.
“Come on lazy bones. Porridge will go cold, and I need something from the shops.”
Oh well, I thought. Awake now. I washed in the tiny bathroom then into the kitchen. As I sat, my mum also put two sausages and an egg in front of me. I ate quickly. May was not really winter, but it was cool, even down here near the beach. “What do you need , Mum, from the shops? If it was summer, I would already be down on the beach.” I thought how lucky to live so near to Coogee Beach.
“None of your lip. You might be twenty, but whilst you live under my roof, you lend a hand.”
Same old words, I thought. Still, she is a good old stick. I realised dad was already at work. He still had a job that was six days a week, but he got good money. I think he does.
Mum was wiping her hands on the apron, she wore. “Go up to the chemist at Peters Corner, and get me a bottle of my mixture, George. He knows what I have, that brown stuff. Here’s 2/6d.” She gave me the coins and I slipped them into my trouser pocket. I was planning to catch the tram up there anyway, to see Benny. He helped out in the grocery shop on Saturdays, and last week, we had talked about going into the city tonight for some dancing at the Trocadero. He and I also would check out the girls.
“I’m off then,” I said, “should make the 9.30 tram if I get a wiggle on. Back about lunch.” I headed for the back door. “Might go dancing tonight,” I yelled as I disappeared around the back of the house and walked quickly to Havelock Avenue. I could faintly hear the tram coming up the hill, but no problem. I loved the trams. I worked in the city at Griffith Bros. Teas, just off Goulburn Street, and the trip to and from work never failed to interest me.
It was cool today, and I was glad I wore a jumper. I sort of hoped, being a Saturday, they might put on an ‘R’ Class, with padded seats and a corridor. Mostly, they ran across to Bondi Junction, and we nearly always got the ‘P’ Class. Still they were good fun, despite the wooden benches. Smooth riding and could get up a head of steam when they wanted to. I knew there was no steam involved, but it was a natural expression of mine and most other passengers. Sure enough, a ‘P’ Class came around the bend, all green and yellow, and pulled up at the stop, marked with a red disk on a pole. At least you didn’t have to wave at the thing, like the busses. Trams just pulled up at every stop.
As we accelerated into the cutting just under Brook Street bridge, I glanced up and saw two kids on the bridge drop something. The egg landed on the roof and some bits ran down the side door of the next compartment. Stupid brats was a thought that came to my mind. Then I laughed, as I remembered when I was ten and had done the same thing once. Wasn’t funny in the long run, as someone told my father, and I got a belting.
We climbed the curve on the tram only easement and into The Spot. Only found out two or three years back that the proper name was St. Pauls, but no one ever used that. It did have a good picture theatre though, the Ritz. Soft seats and the girls liked it. Not like that flea house, the Boomerang, down near Coogee Beach. Close to home, but old. Mum thought it was great. Each to their own.
Then before I knew it, we were past the wood yard and the Odeon along the main drag of Belmore Road and up to Peters Corner where Alison Road crossed over. I hopped out and when the cars had gone, walked across the road to the Chemist on the corner. I told the girl what mum wanted, and she talked to the chemist, who told me to come back in fifteen minutes whilst he mixed it up. Then it was down a few doors to the café where Benny would drop in when he got a chance from his job. It was busy, and I sat at a table near the front and ordered a cuppa and finger bun. Working helped pay for those little luxuries.
Whilst getting icing all over my fingers, two soldiers in uniform walked past. I thought of my dad, who was not that long ago, in a similar uniform. He went to New Guinea, and came back with a broken arm. At least he came back. I had just left high school, so it must have been six years ago. This was 1950, guess my arithmetic was still working. I looked up the street but couldn’t see Benny yet, so I had better go find him. As I stood up, I noticed a big poster on the café wall of a steam loco. It was obviously the big Pacific C38 Class they had started building during the war and it took my breath away every time I saw a picture of it. So sleek and powerful. I had to do a trip soon, behind one of these engines. That was after I had been to the Troc, dancing, but had not met a girl, or I would never get a chance, if I did.
I walked down the street to the fruit shop and saw Benny stacking apples onto a shelf. Wandering inside to him, I said “Gooday.” He nervously looked around and smiled.
“The boss is on to us. Can’t get out yet. Too much work.”
“Still on for tonight?” I asked.
“Sure thing. The 6.10 tram from the beach. See you on it.” Then he grabbed an empty fruit carton and moved off.
I went back to the chemist shop, and asked for mum’s medicine. The chemist came over and gave me the bottle. “2/9d.”
I looked at him. “Mum told me it was 2/6d.”
“Costs have gone up. You think the war is still on.”
I gave him the money mum had given me, and an extra 3d of mine. “Any chance you can write the price on the label? My mum won’t believe me.”
He gave his head a shake then gabbed the bottle and scribbled some figures on the label, directly under the words, The Mixture. I smiled with my best young man’s smile and left. I lingered in the door of the shop and looked back, not for him, but to grab a glimpse of the pretty young assistant. Could be worth a try next time. Then I heard the tram coming from the north, and I knew I had better head off home. Big night coming up. I was in luck. It was from Bondi Junction, heading down to Coogee Beach, and was one of the newer R classes. Ah, padded seats and windows. Still, it lacked the panache of the toast racks.
CHAPTER THREE
Mum didn’t seem to be around when I got in, but I heard dad out in the back yard, from his cough. I went to join him. “Hello dad, how was work?”
“As usual. Can you give me a hand to saw this wood up.”
“I can do that. Just let me change my clothes.” I walked back inside to my room and changed into old pants and khaki shirt. My white shirt I had planned to wear tonight, was ironed and hanging on the back of the door. Good old mum. I sawed with dad’s old rip saw, and soon it was all cut up for him. “What is it going to be?”
“Your mum wants a cupboard under the bathroom sink. Want a beer?”
That was a turn up for the books. Well, not really. It was dad who gave me my first beer when I was 18 or so. Down at the beer garden at the Oceanic. He poured some of his into my empty lemonade glass, checking to see no one was looking. Not being 21, I had to have the soft drink. It tasted tarty but nice. From behind his chair in the back yard, he produced a bottle of Toohey’s and a glass. I got a good helping and he just upended the long neck into his mouth.
“Thanks dad.”
Shortly afterwards, I changed back into cleaner clothes, and walked down past the Oceanic and the Boomerang, towards the beach. I could hear the kids screaming inside the theatre. Glad I was grown up. There was a footy match on in the oval and I watched for a while, then walked over to the beach at the north end. A ‘P’ Class was coming through the park on its way to Circular Quay. It was nifty the way they made this big balloon loop, to save reversing in Dolphin Street. There were a few fishing boats drawn up on the beach. No one was around so the fishermen had been back a while. Mum would sometimes get a fresh bream off them, if she was there at the right time.
I thought of going into the Aquarium indoor pool, opposite the tram terminus, just to get a glimpse of the girls in their bathing costumes, but if dragon lady was on the door, I probably wouldn’t get past her. When the young bloke was on, he would just wave me through and tell me to hide in the men’s dressing room, if she appeared.
Not today though. I was going out tonight to the city, and I needed to wash and be ready before tea. Benny would be a bit sour if I missed the tram. All went to plan, almost. Mum had put a tomato on the table to go with the potatoes and beans, and it triggered a memory, as I was cleaning my teeth and combing the wavy locks. I was about ten years old and mum and I had gone around to the Italian greengrocers in Havelock to get a tomato. It was ten years back now, but I remember mum grabbing me close to her skirt, when a car pulled up and two policemen got out and came into the shop and spoke to the owner in a loud voice. Can’t remember his name but I do remember his big black moustache. Then they escorted him out into the car and drove up the street.
“What is happening mummy? Where is he going?”
All she said was, that it was the war. She selected a tomato and putting some coins on to the counter, hauled me out of there quick smart. Even today, I still don’t understand it fully. It was whilst thinking about this past incident, that I realised the tram wasn’t going to wait for me, and I legged it out and down to the stop, just as it pulled up. Close.
It was now dark, and we shot along past Centennial Park on the embankment, at a good rate. Benny didn’t have a tie on, so I felt a bit self conscious wearing mine, and decided to stick it into my back pocket. Stupid things anyway. Girls liked your face, not what was around your neck.
‘You’re a know all, George,” said Benny, as we branched off towards Cleveland Street and Central Railway. “Do these trams just use the street power off the poles, or what?”
“No. See those thick wires with black rubber insulation that run alongside on their own poles,” I said. “Well, you would if it wasn’t dark, anyway. They carry the tram electricity which is 600 volts DC. Our street power is 240 volts AC. And you can see that the tram cables are very thick.” I looked at him but he seemed to have lost interest. “It needs thick cables as it loses it’s power quickly.” Then I gave up, and just watched the passing traffic and buildings until we turned into Elizabeth Street, then along Chalmers Street and into Eddy Avenue, where we got off. A bit of a walk down to the Trocadero, but the air was crisp and fine.
The night went well. We both picked up a girl, and danced the night away. Benny talked the bar attendant into selling him some fancy drinks, and about eleven o’clock, I wasn’t sure what was going to transpire. Mum and dad would kill me if I didn’t come home, and certainly would if I came home with a girl. It sorted itself out though. Benny whispered to me that he was on a good thing, and I was on my own. After they disappeared, my girl said she was being picked up by her father, and thanked me for the night, before also disappearing. It had to get better sometime, I thought. Anyway, better walk to Eddy Avenue and get a tram before they even went home.
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday and it was back to work. And this was a 5½ day week for me, as well as dad. Tram was a couple of minutes late, but I wasn’t worried. She would make up for it alongside Anzac Parade, on the right of way. I had to make sure it was the Elizabeth Street and Circular Quay tram, for the shorter walk down from my stop to work. I get off at College Street, on what mum calls Brache’s Corner, but I never got around to asking her why it was called that. Today I had a busy morning, lugging boxes and mail around to the various departments and outside to some other places. Just around the corner was Hexham House, and not only was the receptionist nice looking, upstairs, but there was usually a sporty tourer car parked down in the garage beneath. This was worth a look each visit, as well.
I don’t think it was my good looks, but on Wednesday, the boss called me in and asked could I go to Newcastle next day, and take some important papers to a client, they were hoping to sign up for distribution of the bulk tea chests, in that area. My heart leaped. “On the Newcastle Flyer, Mr. Williams?”
“Oh yes, it needs to be there by tomorrow, so take the Flyer, but 2nd class mind you. We are not made of money.”
A certain phrase came to mind, but I kept my mouth shut.
“And George, I want you to keep a sharp eye open the whole way for our signs along the track. The Railways charge us for these to be erected and we want to make sure we are getting our money’s worth.”
“Yes sir.” The signs were oblong enamel things with a standard message on them, which I had always noticed when I travelled out of the city. ‘25 miles to Griffith Bros. Teas’, or whatever the distance was, in royal blue background with white lettering. I used to like comparing them with the official mile posts, the railways had for the drivers.
I went and got some petty cash and hopped it down to Central station to book my ticket. It had to be the afternoon train, which was still suitable, as I would be able to deliver the package, before knock off time. This also meant that I would have to stay overnight in an hotel, and come back on the morning train. Wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Williams had a winge about that, and tell me to pick the cheapest I could find. Worse still, tell me to take a blanket and sleep in the waiting room.
Luckily it was the first option. “Make sure you bring me the docket for the hotel.” The words still rung in my ears as I headed home. Mum was pleased but, in her way, didn’t outwardly show it. After tea, a knock at the door, which dad said was for me. It was Benny.
“G’day. Want to come in?”
“No, haven’t got time. Just wanted to know how Saturday night ended up.”
He had lowered his voice for this question.
“Oh, good,” I said, “her father was coming to pick her up, so perhaps not so good. Anyway, a great girl. Forgot to get her address, though. And you?”
He smiled and just gave me a thumbs up. Lucky son of a gun, I thought. Then I told him about my trip to Newcastle tomorrow, and he gave me another thumbs up. “Could be your lucky trip. Anyway, I have to go. See you whenever,” and he turned tail and disappeared down the street.
I had a quick thought of how I could fit any expenses for a ‘lucky’ trip, into my petty cash allowance, and decided to forget it. There would be no lucky expenses so no petty cash problem.
CHAPTER FIVE
I grabbed my sister’s old suitcase from behind the laundry door, and dropped in a pair of pyjamas, tooth brush and a small cake of soap wrapped in greaseproof paper. There was an apple on the kitchen table, and it disappeared into my coat pocket as I said good bye, and headed for the tram. Lucky I wore a sleeveless pullover, as the morning was chilly, and I knew winter was on the way. The usual ‘P’ Class heading for the Quay, pulled up and I jumped in and shut the concertina door. It was almost immediately opened as the tram headed into the cutting, going up to Carr Street. It was the conductor, and I dug out the coins for the trip to the city.
“Cold day,” I said.
“Brass monkey weather,” he said. “How far?”
“Goulburn Street.” I had the right change and he tore off a ticket from his folder for me, before disappearing out on to the running board. He shut the door as he swung out. I thought that job must be both, the most dangerous and difficult one I could imagine, for a trammy. Walking along a narrow running board, hanging on as the tram rolled and bounced at speed, and opening doors to collect fares. Not to mention issuing tickets with one hand always on a grab rail. I noticed many would sort of wedge themselves inside the opening with their feet apart, to make use of both hands. Wet days would be twice as bad. I hadn’t seen any accidents reported in the paper for a long while, though. Driving a tram, was a far better option.
As we rounded Taylor Square, I glanced up at the little plate above the opposite seat. I had seen it often. It was stamped with ‘Meadowbank Manufacturing’, the builders. Today I would go past where the factory used to be, at Meadowbank, in the Flyer. I was pretty sure that it was now the site for a high school, or one to be built soon.
The morning went quick as I thought of the upcoming trip. Then giving myself plenty of time, I said goodbye to my boss, and with suitcase and coat, headed off to Mark Foys building, and down the steps to the underground station on the suburban line. I liked the twisting tunnels you walked along, done out in cream and brown tiles, and then suddenly you were on the platform. Museum station was different to the other underground stations, as both lines ran along side of each other and the platforms sat on each side of the two lines. It is like a big underground cavern with a curved ceiling made out of reinforced concrete. I was only going one stop to Central, but it was still a great trip. You could just see the south entrance of the tunnel, where we would emerge. Then the noise of the approaching train caught my attention. It was coming from St. James, the next train stop north, where the trains terminated, before returning to here and Central, and on to the Illawarra Line. One day, I heard that they might run the trains across Circular Quay, joining St. James to Wynyard. The wind being pushed in front was like a breeze, and one lady lost her hat, just before it emerged from the tunnel and slowed down.
Three minutes later we pulled into Central, and I moved quickly down the steps to the underground concourse used for the suburban trains, then up the labouring old escalator at the end, to climb to the main booking hall and the terminus for the country trains. You could smell the smoke from the locomotives. The huge indicator board, showing all the departures, was thronged by people trying to identify which platform they would head to. There are 15 platforms for country trains. I thought, for the middle of the day, it was very busy, but it was just as busy last time we went up the mountains, so it must be like that all the time. As more people got cars, that could change.
The Flyer was due to leave in 30 minutes, from Platform 3, so I better not waste time queuing for a bite for lunch. The train might have a buffet car, but there was always the RRR at Gosford, if you could get served. Showing my ticket to the attendant at the platform entrance, I walked along the train until I saw my carriage number, and hopped in. Seats were numbered so I sat down and looked out the window, just as a loco with a country train was pulling in alongside. You get a good view as there is a set of tracks between for the locomotive to reverse out.
An inspector came and checked my ticket, then moved on. At exactly two minutes before the due time to leave, the train gave a small shudder and started to move. Country trains seemed to always leave two minutes early. A fellow at work told me this. The Newcastle Flyer would be running the Short North, as the journey was known by. A term going way back to the days when the bridge over the Hawkesbury River was not built, and passengers took a boat or something to cross over. I was looking forward to the bridge. Speeding across would be great.
We ran out to Strathfield, along the country tracks which lay alongside the suburban ones. They were electrified for the red suburban trains, but ours were not, nor did we have any platforms at the stations. At Strathfield we stopped briefly to pick up, and then moved on leaving the western line to head north to Hornsby. There was a Railway Refreshment Room at Strathfield but only for people getting off from their country journeys. So enthralled by the steam and smoke and the speed, I forgot about looking for a buffet car, and stayed glued to the window. We crossed the Parramatta River on the old iron lace bridge which reverberated with the weight and speed. I saw, briefly, a swimming enclosure but no one in it. May was getting too cold to swim. Then the climb started. The clipped exhaust roar was evident, and I missed the Meadowbank Engineering site, as I was on the left hand side.
I was looking for the old electrical distribution building at West Ryde, as it used to supply power to the trams that ran down from Top Ryde to West Ryde. The trams had stopped soon after I was born, and an old man I spoke to in the butcher’s shop one day, said he used to take a train to Ryde, which they had now changed to West Ryde. Things were always changing. The old building was still there, rusting corrugated sheets on the walls, next to the signal box. This itself was elevated, and used to manage both the goods yard and the little branch that ran into the Water Board pumping station. This time I saw not only the pumping station, on my right, but the little steam loco they used to bring in coal and take out the ash. It was a quick swing of my head as that structure was on my right, and just before the signal box and electrical shed, on my left.
Now the climb started in earnest up the Eastwood Bank, a steepish climb out of West Ryde, passing through Denistone Station, with its modernish but plain architecture. I knew from reading, it was built much later, by a property developer to serve new housing, and not by the Railways in the 1800s. There was a lot of smoke and noise, but we sailed over the top and through Eastwood and kept climbing at a good rate, to finally pull into Hornsby station. This was only a quick pick up point, and no time to seek out the refreshment room on the other platform, before we were off again.
I had my seat and the one opposite me, empty until now, but a young girl and two adults sat down. I smiled at them, and took a quick look at the girl. She was about in her late teens and had strong perfume on. Lovely hair. Then I looked out the window and took in the trip. The electric trains didn’t go past Hornsby and the running was fairly flat, with just a small rise. She was a beaut train, just as I imagined. Then we started our descent to the Hawkesbury River, negotiating gullies and ridges, with all it’s tunnels. I think there were about five or six this side of the river. They were called the Boronia Tunnels and were dug out wide enough for a double track, although only a single track line at the time. We went past one entrance that was no longer used, and skirted a hill. The lights were left on, but sometimes they didn’t worry in the day time on the country runs. On a sharp bend, a grimy black locomotive emerged, pulling a train of old American end loading carriages. The loco was a C36, as I noted on its buffer, before it shot past us. The 36s were known as ‘Pigs’, not for their looks, but because they were coal hungry. Our loco was a big improvement.
Finally we flew down the Cowan Bank, as the grade was called, and thundered through the Hawkesbury River station and across the causeway to Long Island before a short tunnel and then on to the new rail bridge. The scenery is spectacular. A big wide river and boats and small houses along some parts of the shore. Did that bridge reverberate. The sandstone piers of the old bridge were still there. The new bridge had not long been built and only opened about two or three years back. I read about the difficulty of putting down the piers due to the depth to the river bottom and the loads of silt they had to dig through to reach bed rock.
An apple was suddenly in front of me, and held by the girl. I shook my head and said I had one, but thanks anyway. However not to be too rude, I asked where they were going.
“Maitland,” the girl replied. “My grandparents live at Morpeth. We have to change trains at Broadmeadow.”
I really thought her reddish hair was catching, but our time together would be short lived. I was staying on to Newcastle. I started to tell her about my trip but the new tunnel on the northern side was passed through with some noise and then it was river scenery. We both sort of looked out the window and conversation waned. Mullet Creek seemed to come up to the tracks at some points, as we weaved along its shore, the driver laying down some smoke, that wafted about the carriages for a very short time. Then we started to climb, and leaving the water, entered the Woy Woy Tunnel. This is where the train showed its speed. The tunnel is straight and I think the longest in New South Wales, or Australia even. We poured out of the entrance on a slight down hill grade and made a spectacular show as we flew through Woy Woy Station , then alongside the Brisbane Waters.
Very scenic with lots of small cottages and a few cars on the road that ran parallel to us. I pointed out a sleek motor launch to the girl and she smiled. Then we were leaving the bay and pulling into Gosford. They should be taking on water here, and so time to try the refreshment room, and if lucky, a look at the locomotive from the platform. I excused myself, and hoping my suitcase would be secure under the seat, quickly alighted and followed the growing crowd into the Railway Refreshment Room. It was already too long for my liking, so I went back outside to a cart where a lady sold sandwiches and buns. Only a couple of travellers in front. And then I asked for a cheese and tomato, paid my shilling, and started eating as I walked to the front of the train. They had used dripping, instead of butter but the cheese was tarty and the small piece of tomato, passable. The C38 was an impressive bit of engineering. Well oiled and the green livery kept clean. They had already taken on the water, and the driver was walking alongside the big driving wheels, with an oil can, putting in a few drops here and there. I said hello and he gave me a wave, but went back to his inspection. As he headed back to the cab, I took my cue and headed back down the platform. Once on board, I felt the need to use the toilet, but then remembered you had to wait until the train left the platform. Maybe this train, being newer, had a tank or something, but the older carriages just had a pipe going down through the floor, where you could see the sleepers and ballast flying past. I would wait.
My travelling companions were there, and also to my relief, the suitcase. Then we started on the rest of our journey. It was a fast trip, and soon we climbed into the Kotara tunnel and I wished I could open the window and take in the smell of smoke that would sail past the windows in these enclosed confines. Maybe not, the experiences of cinders in the eyes was not always pleasant. Then we pulled into Broadmeadow Station. Here, the northern trains, like the mail trains and the Brisbane Express, turned left and headed up the Hunter Valley, flanked by coal lines and industry. The girl rose and said good bye, and her accidental knocking of my side as she stood up, didn’t go unnoticed by me. They left.
Shortly afterwards, we pulled out and into the short section to Newcastle. Lots of industry and houses, and the built up areas of the city were passing quickly, before we finally pulled into the big sandstone and brick railway station. It is an enormous affair, but then Newcastle is the second largest city in the state. Even as I walked past the front of the train, they had uncoupled the locomotive, and would soon run it around the carriages, ready for the return trip, next morning. I would be on that trip as well.