Читать книгу Dare to Dream - Peter Cliff - Страница 7

By the late 1940’s, Stan was grooming Bruce and I with the notion that we would be selling the bakery and moving to a farm. He was increasingly debilitated with abscesses and suffering from what he called ‘flour on the lung’. He assured us we would get a pony and painted a picture of an idyllic life in the country that surpassed our wildest dreams. Our occasional family visits to the grandparents in Tecoma and my brief holidays there also reinforced my love of the bush. The drive swept gently up through the tall trees into the garage next to the small white weatherboard painted house. Inside, the smell of kerosene and candles was strong for at first electricity was not connected. The dining table had an ornate lamp in the middle that gave off a soft yellow light which cast shadows in the room. These shadows were enlivened by the flickering of the fire as it warmed the room and added to the charm. My grandfather would greet us warmly and although finding conversation was difficult due to his deafness, he would engage us by playing cribbage, a game he loved.

Another joy was going for the milk. We would walk about a mile further up a track through the bush behind the house to a small property where, if we were early enough, we would see the man milk his cow by hand. When finished, he would fill my tin billy with milk. The pungent smell of the cow and her warm frothy milk was unforgettable.

The sights, the sounds, the smells – the bush was a magical other world. The fact it was always raining only added to the charm. On our many walks in the forest, we were on the alert for a glimpse of the lyre birds and wombats that inhabited the bush. Although eighteen months younger than me, my brother Bruce was similarly enchanted. We were more than ready to believe that life in the country would be wonderful.

Naturally, we were on Dad’s side to go farming. Mum remained unimpressed. She knew this was a recipe for failure. Stan was in fact trying to avoid the reality that although the bakery appeared to be a raging success, he had expanded the business too rapidly and borrowed money from the flour mills. He had no strategy for its survival.

There were many subtle pressures at work in the community at this time. People were becoming more prosperous. An increasing number had cars and shopping habits were changing. Plastic goods were coming onto the market and food and clothing, rationed throughout the war, became available. Larger bread companies like Tip Top appeared, sometimes funded by the flour mills that bought up the smaller bakeries and stopped home delivery to reduce cost. The advent of sliced bread and the saving of distribution costs allowed the consolidated bakeries to undercut prices. The demise of the small bakery business was inevitable.

One day my father was talking to the owner of the local garage, Mr. Carpenter. Stan told him that as a commando during the war he had parachuted from a low flying aircraft into New Guinea. I piped in suggesting that can’t be true as it was not what he had told Uncle Bill. My father was furious and hurried me away before punching into my arms and head. I was at a loss to understand what I had done wrong. I had long detected inconsistencies in his exaggerated stories but this was direct proof of his telling lies. His war records which were released to my mother following his death in 1999, revealed he had never seen action or served beyond Brisbane.

A friend of my father, Hec Neil, owned a stable yard in Newport. Behind the high paling fence was a long stable with a loft above which contained the horse feed for about ten or more big draught horses. I was fascinated by this collection because of the size of the horses which were even bigger than ours. On one occasion I was allowed to go up into the loft. The atmosphere was quaint and dusty. The smell of horses, feed, sweat and manure was pungent and for me, somewhat addictive. I was in awe of that restless horsepower. Each horse in a dray was able to pull a ton or more at a trot for quite a distance. And besides, Hec owned a farm at Rockbank.

Hec invited my father and me to visit his farm. I felt fortunate to be included. Unlike the bush of my dreams, this was sheep country – open and almost treeless. There was an ancient house, the remains of a primitive tractor, a shearing shed and sheep yards. The true purpose of our visit was revealed after rounding up a flock of sheep. I was put to work catching lambs that I dragged to the waiting Hec, who castrated the males with a pocket knife and an emasculator before cutting their tails off. I had to admit to wondering if it hurt. Hec said it didn’t unless you nicked yourself with the knife.

A new dimension was introduced into my life when my grandmother, Anne, took Bruce and me to see the film ‘The Wizard of Oz’. I had seen many films with my mother but this was different. I fell in love with Dorothy. I had never seen such an exquisitely beautiful girl before. My life had been about boy’s things. Even Margaret Freath, my good friend in Princes Street around the next corner, had been accepted in our games as another boy. This new emotion would have to be factored into my limited life experience. Dorothy’s voice, her femininity, her beauty – it was overwhelming.

In 1951 the Cliff Quality Bakery business was sold to a bigger baking group in Footscray. It had become a victim of the consolidation process that was irrevocably eroding the old way of life. I returned from school to find the horses and the carts gone, and the bakery empty of all machinery. Stan had sold the business but retained the freehold. I was sad that this pulsating business had been terminated without ceremony of any kind. There had been no time to say goodbye to the men or horses who had been part of my life since I was a 3 year old. I was openly resentful. How could such a busy business disappear overnight? The extended infrastructure of my life was gone, the familiar faces, the friendly greetings and a sense of being an important essential service to a grateful community gone. The bread carts, which carried the logo ‘Cliff’s Quality Bread’ would no longer feature on the streets of Williamstown. The empty bakery was a silent reminder to me of our once important link to the bigger world.

Mum began work for the Tutt Bryant Company in Spotswood which sold and serviced earthmoving equipment where the West Gate Freeway now crosses Melbourne Road. For a time, family life approached what I had imagined was ’normal.’. Stan seemed to be relieved and happy in his new position as a trades assistant at the Naval Dockyards. The arguments were fewer, perhaps because he was relieved to be employed and unlike my relationship with him in the bakery where I was constantly berated, I was now invisible. This suited us both.

In 1951, Stan bought a new grey Wolsley 6/80 car. Mum bought a Hoover washing machine and a Frigidair refrigerator replaced the ice chest. Things were looking up – despite the arguments about whether or not to buy a farm. Mum maintained that buying a farm would be a disaster given my father’s lack of experience and aptitude. Although an excellent baker, he was not a handyman.

The purchase of the car was an exciting milestone in our lives. The car had to be ordered some time before delivery. In the meantime the driving lessons began. There were endless discussions about how to start the car on a hill and how to park by reversing into the curb. To a generation who had never driven a car before, it was rocket science. Stan failed his first test for his driving license which was humiliating because Mum obtained hers the first time.

Cars were a big topic at school as many families were buying one. We knew the horsepower of each make and argued endlessly about the virtues and deficiencies of them all. My friend Geoffrey Dean defended his father’s choice of a Ford Pilot V8 while others chose Standard Vanguards, Vauxhalls, Ford Prefects, and the ugliest of all, the Mayflower, which looked like a motorised coffin.

The Methodist Church announced a new initiative where children from country regions could reciprocate holidays with those in the city. It began for us when a lad, Max Major, came to stay and we all went to a church run camp for boys at Ocean Grove. We had a great time swimming, walking, playing games and enjoying the organised entertainment each night. Max and I became firm friends. He stayed on in our home after the camp, enjoying the sights and sounds of Williamstown, and further inflamed our passion for the country by telling us tales of his life on their family dairy farm at Leitchville on the Murray River.

Sometime later, our family was invited to stay with the Majors on their dairy farm. During a school holiday we drove up to the farm on Gunbower Island. We were introduced to Ernie and Dorrie Major, who immediately overwhelmed us with their generous hospitality. We were enchanted. They had a pony that we rode in turn until it was exhausted and we were made by the parents to give it a rest. The milking of the cows and the feeding of their pigs fascinated us beyond words – this was the life Bruce and I wanted. Uncle Ernie, as he had become, shot and butchered a pig while we were there, so our passion for country living rose even higher. This informal meeting of the two families was the beginning of a lifetime association between us. Dorrie Major befriended my mother that week, intuitively realising that my father was a threat to her. Max and I became lifetime friends.

My mates and I became keen fishermen for a time. We fished on the Gellibrand Pier using pilchards for bait. Although we only caught an occasional flathead or puffer-fish, we were kept occupied by watching the loading and unloading of the ships. For a few days in 1951 we were rewarded by watching a consignment of R-class British steam engines being unloaded and placed on the rails for removal to the Newport Railway Workshops.

I soon started school at Footscray Junior Technical School on Ballarat Road. The school was attended by more than 1000 boys, all destined to be tradesmen if the teacher’s efforts prevailed. There were many rough kids and corporal punishment was used to enforce the boundaries. There were the usual bullies to be stood up to. It was survival of the fittest, a language well understood in a post war environment. We received instruction in wood work, metal work, clay modeling, solid geometry, music, mathematics and English. I still recall Basil Cronin teaching us a song called ‘Travelling the King’s Highway’, which seemed distinctly unlikely to me. In retrospect, I am amazed how much of this education I managed to absorb and feel it is about time our present community recognised the value of technical school teaching, particularly if provided to the right students soon enough.

Our physical education teacher was Mr. Croft - an ex-soldier not to be trifled with. One day while talking to a group of us, an apprentice, a big young chap with a surly countenance, was giving him cheek. He was called over by Mr. Croft and told to watch his mouth. The young man gave some smart arse reply, to which Mr. Croft responded with a punch that knocked him out. Unperturbed, our teacher went on talking to us as though nothing had happened while the apprentice lay in front of us. We understood. It is the only language some fellows learn by and often lasts a lifetime. We listened attentively.

My childhood so far had been a time of chores and interesting involvement with the routines of the bakery, occasional holidays with my grandparents, school, church activities, and a remarkable freedom to explore Williamstown. In the home, things had improved. There were fewer episodes of verbal and physical assault but the relationship with my father remained the same. I was wary of him, embarrassed by his behavior with others and despaired of ever pleasing him. The boys I played with were familiar with his language and abuse. I was not afraid of him and that seemed to infuriate him. I refused to cry when he hit me. Almost every confrontation in private resulted in belittling criticism if not of me then of my mother or someone else. The incident of his lying to Mr. Carpenter and others about his war experiences served to erode any sense of respect I might have had for him. These were not isolated incidents. He would regale people with his bragging and exaggerated stories, seeming to have no regard for the truth or his own veracity.

Late one afternoon, as the pubs closed, he was on the footpath in front of the house with my mother. I was further away in front of the butcher’s on the corner of Albert Street. My father called, ‘Come on, you useless fucking bastard, get a move on or I’ll give you a fucking hiding.’ A man who had just left the hotel and walking past said, ‘That’s no way to talk to the boy. Pick on someone your own size.’ Stan told him to mind his own business so the man ran toward him, whereupon Stan shot through the side gate and locked it. The man had a few words with Mum, who was grateful for the intervention. So was I. That man was the only person I ever saw tackle him directly.

Mum and I went to the movies regularly. We each had a keen sense of humour and found a lot to laugh at. She seemed to regard me like a brother or the man about the house. This was understandable perhaps because she was an only child and frequently expressed her regret at not having siblings. Mum’s intention was to have a large family. Intelligent, articulate and possessing a quiet determination, she insisted on good manners and frequently stated she had no intention of creating a problem for some other woman. Her boys, she said, were going to be self sufficient around the house. Beyond that, she was remarkably tolerant of where I was or what I was doing, seeming to believe I could look after myself. It was not entirely my choice. In many ways I was accorded the freedom of a young adult without the luxury of being a child.

In August, three years after the birth of my youngest brother, Ross Stuart, my sister Pamela was born. This was very exciting as Pam was the only girl in our generation of the Cliff family. Mum was pleased she had attained the family she wanted.

We soon sold the bakery and house. Stan began the search for a farm with a visit to Albury and Yarrawonga after which he turned to Alexandria where a property there became the subject of heated discussion. A little later, having inspected farms at Ripplebrook and Glen Forbes in Gippsland, it was announced he bought the 150 acre dairy farm at Glen Forbes, on the railway line to Wonthaggi. We would take possession at Easter.

An irony was to occur in the 1960s when No 2 Albert Street Williamstown, the former Cliff bakery, became the Williamstown Little Theatre. I can think of no better way to enshrine the scene of the Cliff family post war life. Structurally, in 2015, it is largely unchanged from its former life.