Читать книгу Dare to Dream - Peter Cliff - Страница 6

We were excited. Our father was coming home from the war. My brother Bruce, 18 months, and me, a 3 year old, clung to the front gate of our home in Newport. Dad came into view wearing his uniform and carrying a large drawstring kitbag over his shoulder. He seemed pleased to see us although I was to learn later he had been drinking heavily. So began the saga that changed our blissful domestic life to one of watchful fear.

My grandfather, Emanuel Cliff, and my grandmother Anne, immigrated to Australia from Bradford, England, in 1920 with their children, Stanley, 9, and Majorie, 6. For three years Emanuel ran a small bakery in Kongwak Gippsland after which he moved to Williamstown before returning to England in 1927. Within a year, he returned to Australia and bought his own business, a rundown bakery in a dilapidated weatherboard building in Williamstown. Stanley, as a boy of 16, began work as assistant clerk in a law office but later became an apprentice to his father. Emanuel replaced the wooden bakery with a substantial double story brick building. The expansion was helped by a small legacy from his wife Anne’s family, the Thornton’s of Bradford, England. The shop provided an outlet for his popular pastry products and the bread was delivered in a horse and cart.

1938, Stan was 27. After a brief courtship, he became engaged to Jean Graham, the only daughter of Anne Graham, a divorcee who had a dressmaking business in Spotswood. Anne was a controlling advocate for the engagement of Jean into the Cliff family because of the Cliff success. Jean married Stanley Cliff in Scotts Church Melbourne on the 18^th March, 1939. At 18 and still far from certain about her feelings for him, Jean was a reluctant bride, coerced to marry 27 year old Stanley by her mother.

Following a subdued honeymoon to Healsville, Stan and Jean moved into the pleasant painted weatherboard house owned by Emanuel in Oxford Street, Newport. Stan continued working in the bakery, a bike ride away.

January 1941 was not a propitious time to be born. The Second World War had begun and although my arrival was welcomed by my mother, my father did not share her joy. I was accorded the status of the ‘The Bastard’. This unwarranted slur on my mother was without foundation - my arrival was simply inconvenient to him.

Unfortunately, prior to my birth, the relationship between Stan and his father had deteriorated after a huge argument the result of which saw my mother and her ‘Bastard’ being told to stay away from the bakery. Stan’s response was to join the army without consultation with Jean. It was war time and his movements in the army were vague and unknown beyond references to Brisbane. The anonymity suited Stan for he kept little contact with Mum throughout his service apart from a brief period of leave when he relieved his father who had fallen in the bakery and broken a leg. This was allowed because the bakery was considered an essential wartime service. On my grandfather’s recovery, Stan returned to his army assignment in Brisbane.

The argument between Stan and his father after the marriage evidently arose from lies told by Stan to his father. He suggested that in some way suggested that Mum had stolen cash from the business along with some missing work clothes. The very idea was enough to alienate the Cliffs who consequently only provided minimal support or co-operation to Mum. They were yet to realise that Stan was a habitual liar and the more probable suspect for the irregularity. The office lady, Jean Simmons, who was in a position to know, later maintained the allegation was baseless and cowardly of Stan, who to avoid accepting blame, joined the army.

In 1944, Stan was discharged from the army. He returned to buy the bakery business from Emanuel who had retired to a large bush block in Tecoma, next to the Ferny Creek in the Dandenong Ranges. We moved into the house vacated by my grandparents. Arguments between my parents began. Stan would yell loudly and insist on radical changes to the business. Mum, wishing to be cautious, preferred a ‘wait and see’ approach to which Stan responded by dramatically locking the desk and denying her access to the details of the business. He was going to show everyone how clever he was.

The bakery ceased making cake and pastry products. The shop verandah was removed and the interior space incorporated into the house. Thus a lucrative trade was forfeited in favour of expanding bread supply. By 1947, the number of bread carts had grown from two to six with as many drivers. To accommodate the bread carts, a large shed was built with undercover access to the bakery. To fund the expansion and provide for the additional staff, Stan borrowed money from the flour mills in addition to the debt owed to his father for the business. Consequently, although busy, profitability was marginal.

I recall being terrified by the savagery of the arguments that sometimes became violent. The abuse, which for me had the quality of loud incessant roaring, became indelibly etched in my memory. A common theme of my father’s tirades was that I was not his son and he frequently referred both directly and indirectly to me as the ‘useless fucking bastard’. It was my earliest persistent memory and it confused and upset me. I found it impossible to do anything to please him. He found fault with everything my mother or I did, and yet, to others he maintained an effusive friendliness.

The loud roaring would begin with accusation and progressively became threatening, sometimes followed by thuds and cries of pain. Mum or I were the recipients. I had no idea why. I was frightened, isolated and unable to trust him. Fortunately, Dad worked long hours.

When especially busy, Grandfather Cliff would appear to assist and stay the night. He always greeted us warmly but found it difficult to engage in conversation because he was deaf. He spoke with a broad accent and his manner was courteous and engaging. Below wispy eyebrows his brown eyes twinkled with pleasure. I felt close to him and wished fervently he would straighten out his son. Emanuel was more than capable of doing so but he remained unaware and disbelieving of his son’s behavior. This gentle successful man neither drank alcohol nor used foul language. He had attained what he wanted by hard work and perseverance.

In 1946, I started primary school at the North Williamstown State School. Like all kids then, I walked unsupervised to school. I enjoyed the walk because it enlarged my experience of the world. Overhead were formations of military aircraft still flying about. I became adept at identifying Spitfires, Wirraways, Beauforts, Catalinas and other military areoplanes. On the roads were a fascinating variety of early model cars, motor bikes and many horse drawn vehicles.

The atmosphere of the time was uncertain with the emerging issues of the post war period. Some families had lost loved ones and were struggling with the consequences. Many men had been wounded and were now finding it difficult to readjust in society. There were many hotels in Williamstown all doing a roaring trade. The Prince Albert Hotel was on the corner of Albert Street, only yards from the bakery. On Saturdays the bookies and helpers would huddle in doorways and the lanes, ever watchful for police who seemed reluctant to find them. Some food and clothing items still required coupons to buy and many building materials were in short supply. Even our teachers were older since the younger people had been required for the war effort. An air of optimism and hope was building. There was a release of energy as the country confronted a future that needed more of every resource, especially of its people.

The school day started with an assembly presided over by the principal. The National Anthem was sung and announcements were made before we marched off accompanied by boys playing the drums to our classes. In all my primary school classes there were at least forty children and order was maintained by recourse to the strap when necessary. I had great difficulty with the need to be quiet and received frequent reminders of the teacher’s prowess with their chosen instrument. It was not only the male teachers who used the strap. A few of the women could ‘lay it on’ as well. The head mistress, Miss Haminow, the harridan from hell, berated children and parents alike.

We played a variety of marble games, each with a different name, like ‘Bunny Hole’ or ‘Big Ring’. We collected football cards and invented other games that served to identify who the leaders were and how we each fitted into the order of things. After school, we dawdled along, soaking up the myriad details of the changing world around us. There were few cars and the streets seemed wide and largely vacant.

Most people used bikes for transport. Women commonly rode a bike with a basket on the front and a child in a seat behind. Men rode to work or to the hotel. We rode our bikes to explore and discover a variety of factories and projects going on in Williamstown. The whole suburb was our extended backyard.

In contrast to the industrial noise of the working week, Sundays were deathly quiet. It meant checking the horses and later attending church. Occasionally we would visit a family friend or a relative in the afternoon.

In the home there was an anticipatory tension as to when the next outburst of abuse would occur. Misdemeanors, real or imagined, resulted in a torrent of abuse and occasionally a punch or two with a promise of more to come. I was by now a severe asthmatic and missing school on a regular basis. It was a struggle to breathe for long periods. The more severe episodes required injections of adrenaline by a visiting nurse who, despite my attempt to hide, always found me. I still recall days of being confined to bed in a darkened room. There was speculation as to whether the asthma was caused by privet hedges, the pine trees in the Williamstown gardens, horse manure or stress.

In my father’s absence, the home was peaceful. Mum could relax and be herself. Although not able to show affection easily, she was calm. My entreaties for her to sing opera would be met with a high-pitched tuneless ‘Hark Hark the Lark’ which we both thought was hilarious. Attractive and blessed with a lively sense of humour, she was popular with the staff and customers. I suspect this was another source of annoyance to my father.

The family was closely involved with the Methodist Church in John Street a few blocks away. My brother Bruce and I attended Sunday school for years before becoming members of the junior Order of Knights. In fact, our limited social life revolved around our church and the Masonic Lodge.

Stan, like his father, was an avid member of the Masonic Lodge, which served to highlight the hypocrisy of his ranting about other races, Catholics, communists and us. Stan was an enigma – a handsome man with dark hair and brown eyes, about five feet eight inches tall, and of medium build. When dressed for his lodge nights, he was the picture of a successful businessman ready and able to fraternise with anybody. He possessed a lovely tenor voice and sang regularly as a member of the Grand Lodge Choir. Unfortunately, when meeting people, he adopted an exaggerated friendliness. I found this embarrassing and hypocritical as it was a completer contrast to his behavior in private. The foulmouthed, sneering bully given to bragging about his ability to fight was reserved for his wife and oldest child. Looking back, I was unconsciously engaged in a futile effort to win my dad’s approval and affection. The implicit anxiety of constantly failing to do so was, I suspect, the driving force of my asthma and defiant attitude to his authority.

The routine of working in the bakery was relentless and interesting. I was given many tasks, each year of growing complexity, thus increasing my usefulness. I ran errands to the harness maker or bank, opened flour bags and removed the tickets and string. I stacked wood, picked up horse manure and swept the yards and cart shed. Domestic jobs included polishing brass taps, dusting, table laying and dish washing. Everyone was busy so the work ethic was ingrained in us from the outset.

Stan was proud of his horses. They were rarely unfit for work. Many customers were fond of the horses and would greet them with tit bits from the garden. Almost everyone knew their delivery horse by name. The drivers loved their horses and would give them treats they brought from home. I suspect the drivers shared a friendly familiar companionship with the horses and their customers that later generations could only dream about.

My father spent most of his time working in the bakery. He came in at meal times but was unconcerned with the dynamics of the family and certainly had no time for what I was doing. Sadly, I cannot recall ever having a constructive conversation with him. I was at the periphery of his concerns and there to perform tasks, but beyond that, of no intrinsic value. This afforded me a remarkable freedom. After chores, I was free to play or extend my knowledge of Williamstown.

I often rode my bike to visit the docks, the wheat stacks, the beach, the rifle range, the abattoirs and the Newport Railway Workshops. I have vivid memories of the steam engines, perhaps 20 or more, all quietly dozing after a day’s work – all just waiting for my mates and me to climb into and imagine we were the drivers. The guards had a different view and one day I was almost caught. It was all part of the fun. We also knew which fruit trees were ripe throughout Williamstown. The game was called ‘Raiding fruit’. We would ride our bikes up back lanes and help ourselves to the fruit by climbing over fences and onto garage roofs. To be caught or threatened simply encouraged us.

At school, children I knew contracted a disease called polio. It was spoken about with dread as it caused paralysis and was sometimes fatal. When my school friend Sidney Sutton died from the disease I was deeply disturbed. How could this pleasant, well dressed gentle boy who bothered no-one just die? Apparently he had simply not woken up one morning. It was my first encounter with death. I would miss Sidney Sutton.

Listening to the serials on the radio after dinner was a regular part of our day. My favourites were, ‘The Air Adventures of Biggles’, ‘Gould League of Bird Watchers’, and ‘Ovalteen Club’. Reading when I went to bed was encouraged and became a habit that has endured for life. My frequent periods of illness, mainly asthma, and the hundreds of boils I experienced meant I was often confined to bed, sometimes with the blinds drawn. I discovered the beauty of books and associated them with the peace of isolation. The periods of illness cut heavily into my time at school, as noted in my school reports. It was made worse by Stan’s growing habit of keeping me home to help him deliver bread whenever a bread carter was unable to work.

To begin with, I thought this would be good fun - until his foul temper and indifference to me had him laughing. I was frightened of the dogs that bailed me up when I entered a property to deliver bread. Being small, and having no experience with dogs, this was a big problem but he insisted I deliver the bread anyway. I would often have to run and catch up with him because he kept moving on into the next street or beyond. He was unmoved by the occasional dog bites I received.

Each year, our church used to celebrate the Sunday School Anniversary. The children of the church would sit on raised benches at one end of the hall facing the adult congregation. On one occasion, the visiting minister was well into a story when he paused and asked the seated children if anyone knew where Jesus Christ lives. My brother Bruce put up his hand. ‘Yes, the little boy up the back,’ the minister said. ‘Where does Jesus Christ live?’ Bruce replied, ‘Next to my father’s horse paddock!’ The congregation broke up with laughter and the poor minister, a visitor, was the only person who didn’t understand why.

I enjoyed my involvement with the church, apart from the boring admonitions of the minister about the many sins that might befall us, or the repetitive hymns that droned on and on. Some sins, from my limited experience, held a tantalising attraction and would need to be tested. The Church Boys Club was run by Mr. Keith Miller who donated a lot of time to making us into decent citizens. At first it was gymnastics and ball games one night a week after which we graduated to the Junior Order of Knights with its rituals, secret codes and regalia.

Bruce and I had been adopted as ‘helpers’ by two of the longest serving ‘carters’ (our name for the drivers of the horse drawn carts). Bruce was adopted by Bert Harris, whose horse was Jack, an ex trotter while I was the favourite of George Neil, who drove Tiny, a 17.5 hand ex-hunter. George called me ‘Picolo Pete’ and treated me to a ride on the cart with him at every opportunity. I was very fond and proud of Tiny. He was so big even George, who was six feet tall, had difficulty putting Tiny’s headstall on. One day when I was about nine, Tiny was kicked in the shoulder by another horse and had to be put down.

I remember his execution clearly. The man put the captive bolt to Tiny’s lovely head and tapped it with a small hammer. ‘Pop.’ It was done. His lifeless body was hauled by a winch into the truck and it departed. But my memory of that day did not. Some images are never forgotten.