Читать книгу The Firefighter Blues - Alan Bruce - Страница 14

There was a small park not too far from our hut, although ‘park’ is probably an exaggeration. During our time there, all that remained was a swing, a set of monkey bars and a slippery slide that was so poorly maintained you would cut your legs on the metal protrusions, or in summer, burn your arse and thighs as the rusty, pitted steel ensured your descent was slow and painful.

Friday nights were a treat as a local social worker named Skip would arrive with a van full of soccer balls, rugby balls and odd bits and pieces of sporting equipment. I’m not sure if he was from a local charity or was hired by the hostel manager, but as kids we were just grateful for the games and the chance to meet other children from different areas of the camp.

The layout of the hostel meant that every four to six huts shared a communal toilet/shower block. They were pretty awful by today’s standards. Cold bare concrete; no privacy; poor lighting; and hot water that either scalded you or didn’t work at all. In summer it wasn’t uncommon to share your shower cubicle with a curious huntsman or redback spider or one of the many species of frogs chasing mozzies, flies and colourful Christmas beetles. A laundry building was situated strategically between huts and these contained a handful of tubs and a spin-drier, where sadly, on occasion, an unlucky stray cat would take a joy ride … some of the teenage kids got a little bored from time to time.

There was one large communal canteen block where all the residents ate. Meals were provided as part of your rent and were basic, British and boring. As I didn't like Toad in the Hole, boiled cabbage or beef stew, I lived on potatoes and gravy and not much else. The dessert, or ‘pudding’as we called it, was more suited to filling the belly of an Arctic explorer, rather than a hyperactive, overheated kid galloping about during a sweaty Australian summer. Warm dishes of tapioca, semolina, sago and custard were some of the usual suspects on offer. My friends and I always looked forward to Christmas as the canteen staff would serve up ice cream, a real treat and a cool refreshing alternative during summer. After a while, quite a few residents purchased electric frypans, usually from local retailer, Waltons, where shoppers could buy a variety of household items on credit. This would allow families, mine included, to enjoy something that resembled a Sunday roast, a welcome break from the unappetising Commonwealth cuisine. The 'Waltons man,' probably an unwelcome site for some, would go door to door collecting weekly payments from the local residents.

Like living inside an old black and white photograph, everything about the hostel’s appearance was drab, devoid of colour and imagination. Apart from the faded green recreation building, most of the other structures appeared gloomy, uninteresting and dull. The huts were grey, the paths, gutters, drain covers, canteen, amenities block … all grey. The asbestos rope covering the hot water pipes, the bare concrete shower cubicles, the concrete slabs left bare from previous hut demolitions … grey. There were a few flower gardens near the manager’s office and general store, which, during spring, would fight the drabness to add a touch of colour to the otherwise dull-looking camp.

My parents landed jobs within days of arriving: this was the early sixties and there was an abundance of work in the factories of Sydney. While Mum and Dad worked, my sister and I were looked after by the neighbours who shared our hut, the Langley family. The mother, Nelly, was a very kind woman who would watch over Jenny and me before and after school or whenever Mum and Dad weren’t home. Very few could afford child care back then and everybody relied on each other to get through some of the tougher times.