Читать книгу It's Okay You're Not Married - Rosalind Dorrington ( Amelia Williams) - Страница 13

I met Roslyn and Carmen Thompson and started to go out with them. Roslyn was my age and her sister, Carmen, was a year or two older. Roslyn was a nice girl but Carmen had the reputation of being easy, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying their company. I recall going to a party with them and on that occasion, I got my first taste of alcohol in the form of a bottle of Brandivino. In the early part of the evening I vividly remember all the females at the party gathered around the record player to listen to Elvis Presley’s new record Old Shep. There was not a dry eye amongst us. I don’t know if this is what caused me to drown my sorrows, but I gave that bottle of Brandivino a hell of a nudge. I was offered a lift home, which I gratefully accepted. As was my practice in those days, I got out of the car at the top of the hill near the Carmelite Monastery to walk home so that my family didn’t know I’d been in the company of boys. Walking was not on the agenda that evening. I alighted from the car, stood in the gutter and farewelled my friends with all the dignity of a young lady. As the taillights disappeared around the corner, I slowly slunk to the ground. I never had a hope of finding myself in an upright position again, so I manoeuvred my way down our street in the middle of the road, in the most dignified way that I could. I walked on my backside with the aid of my arms as wobbly crutches. I somehow managed to push my legs ahead of me. It was a very slow process. When I finally reached the bottom of our front stairs, I assessed the situation and gradually levered myself up the stairs by crawling on all fours. Somehow, I got to the bathroom and I lit the gas geyser without blowing myself up. I sat under the shower for what seemed like an eternity. I have no idea where the rest of the family was, but I was very thankful that no one was at home. I put my pyjamas on and staggered blindly to my bedroom with the aid of the hallway wall. Just as I reached the door to my bedroom, the front door opened and the hallway light was flicked on. I was pleased to see it was only James arriving home from a drumming engagement and I smiled sweetly at my oldest brother. He took one look at me and said, ‘You’re drunk, Fatso, get to bed, I’m telling Mum in the morning.’

I started to protest my innocence but gave up in disgust. I staggered to bed and flaked out. I had to face the music the following morning but I managed to convince Edith that I was not drunk, ‘I was extremely tired I’d been in bed asleep when I heard a noise and came out into the hallway when James turned the light on me and nearly blinded me.’

Another Saturday night I went to the pictures with Roslyn and Carmen. After the movie a whole mob of us decided to walk to the local school which was at least two kilometres away. There was about twenty of us I guess, we were all laughing and joking and singing and we decided to link arms and spread across the entire width of the street. Some of us had our arms around each other’s waists, others placed their arms around the shoulders of the person next to them. We got about three quarters of the length of the street away from the picture theatre when I placed my arm around a girl by the name of Pat. As she was at least six inches taller than me, my arm rested on her backside. I could feel that she was wearing a corset and I patted her bum and said,

‘Are you wearing a corset?’ She was quite a big girl, certainly a lot thicker set than I was. She shrugged away and snapped very aggressively, ‘No, I most certainly am not.’

She shrugged my arm off her and moved away from me. I being a stirrer caught up with her and patted her again to make sure I did feel a corset and I said, ‘You are so. Hey everybody, Pat’s wearing a corset.’ Everyone laughed and the next thing I felt a surging pain on my face. Pat had punched me with a fist right on my nose. I staggered back and I could feel a stinging, burning sensation all over my cheeks. My eyes were involuntarily streaming with tears. I didn’t stop to think I just dived at her like a front row forward and tackled her to the ground. Legs, arms and fists were being thrust around like violent whirligigs whilst the crowd stood back and encouraged us with advice of where to punch next. I knew I was winning because I had landed the most punches and the crowd was chanting my name. Pat took her stiletto heeled shoes off and was about to hammer one into my head. I somehow managed to knock the shoe from her hand. As she struggled to grab hold of it again, I kicked my own shoes off and proceeded to hammer the two-inch high, thick heel onto her head with several hard blows. Someone grabbed me and pulled me away from her. The crowd congratulated me on a job well done and they said that she deserved everything I had given her and more. It was then that I learnt that she wasn’t very well liked. No one had bothered to tell her to bugger off because she had a very bad habit of turning nasty. I managed to sneak into the house without waking anyone and I slept like a baby even though my entire body felt like a steamroller had hit it.

On waking the following morning, I could hardly move without wincing in pain, but I managed to get dressed and walk to the breakfast table as if there was nothing wrong. As I sat down, I could feel everyone’s eyes staring at me. I looked around

Amelia ‘What’s wrong?’

James broke the silence, ‘Where did you go to last night?’

Amelia ‘To the pictures.’

Edward (laughing) ‘Pull the other leg it plays jingle bells.’

I was stunned by the fact that they didn’t believe me and I looked around at Edith and she had a disgusted look on her face. James and Edward were smirking and continued to just sit there and stare at me.

Amelia ‘What? What’s wrong with all of you, why are you all looking at me like that for?’

James (laughing) ‘How did you get the black eye, from looking too hard at the screen?’

I jumped up and ran to the bathroom and looked at my face and I nearly fell over in shock when I saw that my right eye was almost as black as the ace of spades. I went back to the kitchen and told them the entire story. Edith shook her head in disgust and was horrified, but James and Edward were in their glory and they encouraged me to tell them every move blow by blow. The more I told, the more they laughed. I loved that Sunday morning, hearing my two brothers laugh made me feel good.

I managed to hide most of the bruising of my eye with make-up and I didn’t miss any time off work. Although my co-workers knew that I was hiding a black eye, none of them bothered to ask. A customer came up to me a few days later and asked if I was Amelia Long, I replied that I was and she introduced herself as being Pat’s Mother. She told me that I had fractured Pat’s skull when I had hit her with my shoe and that she was going to see a solicitor to press charges against me. I was sick with worry and my hands were dripping wet with perspiration, but I very calmly told her that her daughter had attacked me first and that I had to defend myself and that I had about twenty witnesses to prove it. Everyone in the shop heard our discussion, which embarrassed me more than anything, but still no one said a word. About two weeks went by and the Ekka was on. Roslyn, Carmen and I went, and we saw Pat. She had found a couple of new friends to hang around with, and she challenged me to a rematch because she reckoned that I had fought dirty. I was absolutely terrified of her seeing her in daylight as I realised how big she was. She was about five feet six inches tall and weighed at least twelve stone. I was five feet tall and was flat out being eight stone. But I didn’t want to appear to be chicken, so with as much bravado I could muster I said, ‘You name the time and the place and I’ll be there,’ We agreed to meet two weeks from the following Saturday at the little park alongside the Fire Station near where we had fought. I packed death for the next two and a half weeks. I bought myself a big knuckle duster ring from Woolworths. I remember the setting had six small pink stones set in thick chunky silver. I had figured that a large stone could fall out on impact and the claws holding the stone could turn and cut into my hand. I wanted a strong thick metal that could withstand a pounding, as well as add weight to my hand. The ring I bought was wide, thick, solid and ugly. I wore it for about ten days to get used to the feel of it on my hand. Every waking moment I thought about that fight and I would imagine myself blocking her punches and what I could or wouldn’t do if she hit me in certain places. All the while I secretly prayed that she wouldn’t show up and the thought crossed my mind several times that I wouldn’t show up, but deep down I knew that neither of us would want to be called chicken. The big night finally arrived and as I arrived at the little park, I could not believe the size of the crowd that was waiting there. The word had spread the length and breadth of Brisbane, Ipswich and Redcliffe that there was to be a catfight. There were motorbike gangs from just about every area. There were at least two hundred people there to watch me thrash it out with this overgrown Amazon of a girl. We stood there facing each other, if you could call it that. She towered over me and someone instructed us to shake hands and come out fighting. We both refused to shake hands but I noticed that she was wearing a ring with a stone the size of the rock of Gibraltar when she thrust her fist towards me. She missed me by a country mile and I moved to the side and dived into the air as if I was on the springboard at the baths. I grabbed her hair and entwined it around my fingers and kept pulling and pulling as hard as I could. I brought her to her knees and she was screaming top note to let go. There was no way I was going to, I knew if I did, she would’ve overpowered me and that would’ve meant goodnight nurse for me.

I managed to punch her with my left fist but that would have had the impact of a dab of melted butter. She twisted herself around and lifted her hands to claw at my face and eyes. I felt her nails go down my cheeks and just as I had done a few years earlier with my dentist, I opened my mouth and sunk my fangs onto her thumb. I held onto her hair and my teeth clasped her thumb as tight as a grey nurse shark. She was screaming and the crowd was cheering. The next thing, I felt more than heard, a large cracking noise. I was biting with such ferocity that my false teeth snapped in half. I let go of her thumb and yelled, ‘I’ve busted my false teeth,’ Someone yelled above the roar of the crowd, ‘Spit them out.’ But I wouldn’t and I said, No one sees me without my teeth, I’m giving up.’ The crowd went wild telling me not to give up because I was winning. They tried their hardest to make me spit my teeth out with promises of, ‘No one will laugh at you.’

But I was adamant, I’d had enough taunts when I was younger and I’d made a secret vow to myself that no one would ever see me without my teeth ever again. I said to Pat, ‘I’m giving up and you can claim victory, okay?’ She agreed only too readily. I let go of the grip on her hair and it took five minutes to untangle it from my fingers. The crowd roared its disapproval at my decision because most of them had backed me to win. Pat and I shook hands and she said, ‘You are one hell of a fighter for such a little person.’

Her thumb was in a sore and sorry state and we both apologised to each other and went our ways and never saw each other from that night onwards.

Carmen visited me one Sunday arvo a week or so later and after she had left I discovered my beautiful gold watch Mum had bought me had gone as well.

It wasn’t long after the second fight that I received a visit from my father. He walked up to the counter and said, ‘Hello, little darlin’ how’s my princess today?’ I was still very angry with him for the way he’d treated Edith and I wanted nothing whatsoever to do with him. I just glared at him and said, ‘What can I do for you, little man?’ I knew that remark would hurt his feelings more than anything and I enjoyed humiliating him. A few days later, Edith told me that Dad had been in touch with her. He told her that he had seen me and that he was coming back to live because he believed I was becoming too wild and out of control, he had said that I needed to be disciplined more. Neither James, Edward or I wanted him back, but we had no say in the matter.

Not long after that, I had arrived at work and was busy arranging the stock and getting the order ready for the disposable cups. I had my back to the counter and I became aware of someone standing in front of the counter. I turned to see the store manager standing in front of the counter. I smiled sweetly but he was stony faced and held up a canvas bag and said, ‘What’s this doing here?’

I blinked in disbelief as I recognised the cash register float bag. I had completely forgotten to put it in the register. The following pay day I was dismissed. It had been the longest drama packed five months of my life.

I went through a number of jobs in rapid succession after that, I was a slave in a laundry for three weeks. I had to start at six in the morning and work like a slave until three o’clock with only half an hour for lunch. I was dismissed for yawning too much. The woman who owned the business was a fair dinkum slave driver. I reckon if she had’ve had her way, we three girls who worked for her would’ve been chained by the ankles to the presses and only given bread and water once a day.

Then I worked for a corner store at Ironside for about a month, but the woman who owned the shop didn’t like the way I swept the floor. It wasn’t that I left the floor dirty she wanted me to hold the broom the same way she did. I didn’t realise that there was a law preventing people from holding the handle of a broom differently to others. But apparently there was, because I got swept out the door with the rest of the rubbish.

I worked at a milk/sandwich bar in Adelaide Street for a while. I can’t remember why I didn’t stay there for any length of time, but I do remember the man who owned the shop wanted desperately to take my co-worker into the back room. She was a very beautiful girl with olive skin and jet-black hair. She was nineteen, which in my opinion then, ranked her as being a sophisticated woman of the world. She goes down in my history book as having made the quote of the twentieth century. I can still here her saying to me about our boss, ‘He’s got no chance, the greasy old bastard. Christ it would be like putting a marshmallow into a money box.’

I finally landed a job making sandwiches and milkshakes and selling cigarettes and lollies. You didn’t have to be Einstein to figure out that the family who owned this business was not Mr and Mrs Average. They were far from being a normal, healthy, wholesome family. There was Mr and Mrs Grady and their two adult sons, one daughter-in-law with a three-month old baby girl and the Grady’s daughter who was in her early twenties. Nothing wrong with that, but this family was decidedly odd, to say the least.

In between serving customers and making sandwiches I was required to tend to the baby, which included feeding and bathing her. Every morning without fail I was made to put a suppository in the baby’s bottom. Now keep in mind that I had just turned fifteen and I had no knowledge about babies whatsoever. Every Wednesday like clockwork, Mr and Mrs Grady and their two sons, daughter-in-law and granddaughter would go out leaving Sonia (their daughter) and me to look after the shop, but not for long. About half an hour after the Grady’s left, Sonia’s ‘boyfriend’ would arrive and they would disappear into the back of the shop to her bedroom and they didn’t emerge until lunchtime. He would leave after having a passionate farewell with her in the doorway of the shop, she telling him that she wished he could stay longer, and he telling her that he didn’t want to go. She’d watch him walk away until he had disappeared out of sight then she’d hurry through to the back of the shop and emerge twenty minutes later with her long blonde hair still wet from the shower.

Ten minutes later at twelve thirty on the dot, her second ‘boyfriend’ would arrive. She greeted him with as much passion as she had farewelled the first ‘boyfriend’ and they would go to the back of the shop and wouldn’t surface for air until three o’clock. She would again go through the process bidding this poor sap a fond farewell. Then she’d go back to the shower and alight as fresh as a daisy. A few minutes later, her parents, brothers and sister-in-law would arrive home.

Whoever said the fifties were the innocent years were sadly mistaken.

I would’ve beaten a hasty retreat from that job within the first week but for one reason. The second day I was there a handsome familiar face came in and I was transfixed as I observed from afar, how friendly and at ease he was with all the members of the Grady family. Mrs Grady told him that they had employed a new girl and called me over to meet Tony. He was more handsome than what I remembered him from our first meeting eighteen months or so previously, when he had introduced himself as Constable Potlick. He didn’t show any signs of recognising me but he gave me a beautiful smile and a wink of approval as if he liked what he saw. I knew I looked older than what I was but I secretly wished I was at least two years older. I was given strict instructions by the Grady’s that Tony was a good friend and that I had to make sure that I didn’t muck up his lunch order. I had no intentions of mucking up his lunch order, he was going to get Rolls Royce treatment from me full stop. After he had gone, I asked if his last name was Potlick. They all laughed and told me his name was Tom Ermiston, but that everyone calls him Tony, but why did you think his name was Potlick?’ I told them the story about our encounter with him at Anzac Park and they laughed and told me that Tony probably would’ve joined in and had a smoke with us if you had invited him. He’s a really lovely bloke, and everyone around here thinks the world of him.’

Later in the day Tony came back into the shop to get another of his favourite malted milks and Jim Grady said, ‘That’ll be one shilling and six pence (fifteen cents) to you, Constable Potlick.’ I could have willingly choked him on the spot. Tony looked at him and said, ‘What made you call me that?’ Jim pointed to me and said, ‘Amelia thought that was your name.’

I was totally embarrassed and I knew he would know that I wasn’t as old as what I looked when he realised that I was one of the kids he’d spoken to in Anzac Park. He looked at me with a very approving eye

Constable Potlick ‘You sure have grown I wouldn’t have recognised you in a million years.’

Amelia (cheekily) ‘You’ll never be a detective then, will you?’

Constable Potlick ‘God I hope not.’

Amelia (Feeling more at ease with him) ‘You should be a criminal instead of a cop, giving people false names.’

Constable Potlick (laughing) ‘I knew you were all up to no good and I figured if you could tell me fibs, I was entitled to tell you fibs too.’

From that day, I made it my business to have lunch with Tony at the police station every day he was on duty. Except on Wednesdays when Sonia entertained her ‘boyfriends’ because I never got a lunch break on those days. Tony was a truly lovely young bloke and I enjoyed his company and our lengthy conversations. I would have given my eyeteeth (if I had any) to go out with him and I always had the feeling that he would’ve liked to ask me out too. If only I had been another two years older. All good things must come to an end though, and after I’d been with the Grady’s about six months, I felt enough was enough. When they tried to get me to do all their housework as well, I figured that before too long they’d expect me to jump into bed with them all. So, I left whilst the going was good.

I was invited to go out to the movies with a fellow whose name escapes me. I had nothing better to do, so we went to the local pictures. I wasn’t particularly interested in the fellow or the movie for that matter. So, at interval when I met up with two friends whom I hadn’t seen for a while, I was only too pleased to stay with them and talk. We walked up the hill towards the cemetery away from the pictures on the other side of the road. We recognised a car, which belonged to another local bloke whom we all knew fairly well. The car was unlocked and one of us suggested that we should sit in it and talk in comfort. We saw no reason why we shouldn’t have been there we weren’t doing any harm just sitting and having a chat.

We were there for about twenty minutes or so when another fellow, Paul, whom we all knew, came staggering up the hill. It was obvious he’d been drinking but he was harmless enough and in good humour. He came over to the car and started talking to us. All of a sudden, the fellow I’d come to the pictures with, came up and accused me of two timing him with Paul. There was a lot of yelling and swearing and Paul threw an empty beer bottle, which hit the car smashing the window.

The old lady in the house nearest where the car was parked called out that she was calling the police. Everyone scattered and ran to the milk bar opposite the theatre. The police car arrived and of course no one knew anything about the car up the road being broken into. I hid behind the majority of the crowd but it didn’t do me any good. I heard Tony’s voice say, ‘The young lady standing in the back there, I’d like to have a talk to you, would you step this way please.’

Very sheepishly I walked out onto the footpath and Tony said in a hushed tone, ‘Righto, Amelia, what’s the story?’

Out of fear, I stammered, ‘I don’t know, Tony. Honest to God I don’t.

‘Don’t give me that, love. I can’t help you unless you help me.’

I confessed that I had been sitting in the car but I wouldn’t say who else was there other than that two guys started to fight and one of them threw a bottle.

He said, ‘Baby face is in charge of this, I’ll give him the information and I’ll get you home, away from all of this.’

I didn’t know if to cry with relief or cry with fear because I was relieved to be out of the mess. Being driven home in a cop car was going to be a bit difficult to explain to Edith and Dad. Tony drove me to the top of our street and as he pulled up, he said, ‘I could lose my job for doing this, Amelia, by rights I should take you directly home and speak to your parents.’

I promised him faithfully that I’d never tell anyone and I kept that promise. The following morning, I was walking past the local taxi rank on my way to meet a friend when a car full of demons (detectives) pulled up alongside me. One door flew open and the biggest Bull cop I’ve ever seen, growled,

‘Are you Amelia Long?’

Amelia ‘Y … y … yes,’

Bull cop ‘Get in the car.’

Perhaps I had seen too many Edward G Robinson films

Amelia ‘I don’t even know who you are. You could be gangsters for all I know.’

Bull cop ‘Don’t be a little smart arse.’

He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the big black car. They drove me home, and on the way, they told me that Sgt Neilson’ (Baby face) had found my diary which had fallen out of my handbag in the back of the car. I had also left a beautiful black cardigan with silver lurex thread through it, which I’d borrowed from Edith. Neither of which, was ever returned. I’ll bet London to a brick, that the Bull’s wife wore that for a long time.

I found out later that Tony had tried to stop Baby Face from contacting the Demons but to no avail. His co-workers hated Baby Face, as much as the teenagers who lived in the area hated him. Because I wouldn’t name names, the Demons wanted to charge me with wilful destruction of property, which of course would have resulted in me being sent into a girl’s home, if I was found guilty. That was a big possibility. The only thing that stopped them was the little old lady who had rung the police. She had told Tony that I had tried to break up the fight. It didn’t matter a hill of beans that I was innocent, or that I was a victim of circumstances, my mother and father judged me guilty, and that alone was punishment enough.

Years later I rang police headquarters and found out that Tony was still in the force and had been promoted to sergeant. I went to the station where he worked, and we had a good long chinwag over old times. He hadn’t changed one iota he was still a lovely bloke. He even confessed that he had been interested in me and would have loved to have taken me out. But as I had suspected, my age had been a big deterrent. He also told me that Baby Face had had heart surgery and that the doctor had replaced his heart valve with a pig’s valve. We both pissed ourselves with laughter when I exclaimed, ‘How appropriate.’ I thought at the time what a pity the Queensland Police Force couldn’t clone Constable Potlick. In the last twelve months I ‘tracked down’ Tony and I was given his mobile phone number. I rang him and we had a lengthy chat. He had become an Inspector and had retired many years previously. I asked him why he had chosen the alias Potlick and he replied that was my wife’s maiden name. He had given me enough information about his life that I was able to work out that he was twenty-eight years old when I was fifteen! My lifetime of wondering what my life would have been like if I’d married him was shattered in that lengthy phone call as I realised how close I came to a possible predator!

I became a bottle blonde and quite a few people commented that I looked like Doris Day. I tried to pretend that they were exaggerating, but I secretly thought I did too and every time she changed her hairstyle, I’d try and copy her. My only wish was that I could sing as good as she could and have the money she was earning. Bridget Bardot, Marilyn Monroe, Diana Dors and Jayne Mansfield were enjoying the limelight as sex

sirens. Two girlfriends, Lesley and Veronica, who lived around the corner from my grandmother’s home, talked me into allowing them to dye my hair ash blonde like Jayne Mansfield. It didn’t matter that I didn’t look like Jayne Mansfield or for that matter I didn’t even have long hair. Veronica honestly believed that she looked like Bridget Bardot and would tell people to call her Midget Bridget. Midget was about as much like Bridget Bardot as Jerry Lewis looked like Elvis Presley. Anyhow she and Lesley, equipped with the correct blonding emulsion, fervently went to work to perform a miraculous transformation of my crowning glory. They added the precious purple drops to the liquid, as the instructions stated. Carefully wiping the mixture on my head almost strand by strand, they chatted away animatedly telling me how good it was going to look, and then the chatter became muttered whispers. I heard Lesley issue instructions to try some water and Midget whispered back, ‘No that’s not right.’ A bit more whispered muttering and I eventually asked, ‘How’s it looking does it look okay?’ More mutterings and Lesley exclaimed, ‘Shit, Amelia, its purple.’

I laughed and said, ‘Don’t bullshit. Is it looking alright?’ Midget said, with urgency in her voice, ‘This is no bullshit, mate, your hair has turned purple.

‘Quick get me a mirror.

Lesley took the little mirror off her bathroom wall and handed it to me. I stared hard into the mirror and blinked hard, as I tried to focus in the dimly lit room. My hands poured with perspiration as I witnessed my crowning glory in the deepest shade of mauve I have ever seen. I cried out not caring who heard me, ‘Oh shit, one of you race down to the shop and get a bottle of peroxide quick.’ Midget said, ‘It’s after eight o’clock, they’ll be closed,’ I said, ‘I don’t give a stuff if they’re in bed fast asleep, you just get me the bottle of peroxide or you’re going to be bald.’ Lesley took off and was back within five minutes with two bottles of peroxide and we poured the contents of one over my head and kept rubbing it through my hair until all the purple turned yellow.

Two days later my grandmother took me into an exclusive hairdresser on the fourth floor of the Penny’s building and instructed the owner, ‘I don’t care how much it costs, please get that dreadful peroxide out of her hair the best way you can.’

I came out with Henna coloured locks. I must say it suited it me very much, I learnt my lesson from that experience, and I have never put a colour through my hair since.

I believe I can claim the infamy of being the first person to ever have purple hair.

Of course, it became popular with the elderly many years later and with the punks in the eighties. But I would’ve been locked up if I had walked out in public with purple hair in 1959.

It wasn’t too long before I found another job. This time it was Johnston’s cake shop in Fortitude Valley. Apart from the two brothers who owned the shop, there were a couple of bakers and the head woman, Ethel (who was having an affair with one of the brothers,) and three other shop assistants. Thelma came from a poor background and although I felt sorry for her, she lost all the compassion I had for her the day she used my brush and comb and gave me a head full of nits. Edith wasn’t overly impressed either because she caught them from me. We spent a great deal of quality time de lousing each other.

Marilyn was a bit of a twit. She was a nice enough person, but she tried so hard to be everyone’s friend that it was sickening. I used to be highly amused every time I heard her tell a customer that sausage rolls cost fourfpence (four pence, approximately three cents).

Leone was a lovely girl and I liked her from the moment I met her. She was an attractive looking girl and would have won a Sophia Loren look-alike competition hands down. Leone lived on the northside and had many friends who lived in the area. All the teenagers of that surrounding area would congregate in The Hub Cafe at the tram terminus. It was such a great place with a fantastic atmosphere and it became my regular haunting place too. I used to enjoy every moment I ever spent at The Hub. Though on reflection, there were two occasions that come to mind that I wouldn’t want to relive in a hurry.

There were at least thirty teenagers who regularly went to The Hub and probably just as many who called in occasionally. I knew most of them reasonably well and I like to think that I was fairly popular with most of them. It was a big shock to the system, (to say the least) when one of the occasional regulars came in one night whilst I was talking to a group. He had obviously been drinking and he said very loudly, ‘What are you talking to that bitch for?’ Someone said, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ He replied, ‘That Amelia, she’s nothing but a moll.’

He went on and on what a low-class slut I was. Quite a few people tried to shut him up, but he kept up the abuse until I walked over to him and said, ‘I don’t know what’s eating you, mate, but I think you’ve got a kind and likeable face, --the kind I’d like to throw shit at. The entire cafe went absolutely wild with applause and laughter and someone said, ‘Mate I think you’d better apologise to Amelia, she’s a good kid. The Amelia you’re thinking of comes from northside and this Amelia lives near the southside.’ The fellow came up to me and apologised profusely to me and offered to buy me a coke or a malted milk or anything I wanted. I declined his offer and he put his arm around me and said, ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I was completely in the wrong, but Jesus that was the best line I’ve ever heard, you really put me in my place. I thought you were complimenting me and you made me feel like a real mongrel.’ I patted him on his face and with a smirk a mile wide I said, ‘That’s because you’ve got a head like a robber’s dog.’ Every time he saw me after that night, he’d come up and give me a cuddle and tell me what a good sport I was.

The second incident happened on Boxing Day. Leone and I were walking along the footpath towards The Hub when a fellow whom we’d never seen before pulled up alongside of us and asked us if we wanted a lift. We both said, ‘No thanks.’

We kept walking and talking and trying to ignore the fellow who kept his car in motion at the same pace as what we were walking at. He kept calling out questions such as where we were going, if we were meeting someone and we kept ignoring him. He then started to yell at top note, ‘Who the hell do you think you are, ya stuck up bitches?’

I replied, in my best-spoken voice, ‘She’s Sophia Loren and I’m Doris Day.’

We kept walking and talking and we were just so pleased that we’d gotten rid of him. We finally reached The Hub but it was closed, so we sat down on the tram seat outside and were deep in conversation when the fellow in the V.W. came up alongside of us again and yelled, ‘You pair of bitches have got tickets on yourselves haven’t you?’

I had had about as much of this fellow as I could stand. I knew if we ignored him, he wasn’t going away so I said in an exasperated tone, ‘Look, mate, go and take a running jump at yourself will you, you’re too bloody ugly to be bothered with.’

He jumped out of the car grabbed me by the throat and shoved my head several times against the brick wall. I thought I was going to lose consciousness and could feel my head starting to spin and I could hear Leone’s voice screeching at top note telling him to let go of me. He jumped back into the car and took off towards the city as fast as he could move. Leone memorised the first three numbers of his number plate and as groggy as I was, I managed to remember the last three numbers. Leone rang the police and one young cop turned up about twenty minutes later.

We gave him the number of the car, the make and colour of the car and a very good description of the fellow and he drove away in hot pursuit. We sat there waiting, and a couple of the boys who were regulars at The Hub came along. When we told them what had happened, they were absolutely ropeable. They wanted to go and sort the fellow out there and then and they reprimanded us for not ringing them instead of the cops. I knew that if we had’ve rung them instead of ringing the cops the guy would’ve needed an ambulance. We told them that the cop would be back at any time and that they’d better bugger off. The cops never needed an excuse to pull up any teenager to question what they were doing and why they were there, even if they were only waiting for a tram. They didn’t need to be told a second time, especially when they saw the cop car approaching.

The young cop said, ‘The number you gave, doesn’t correspond with a Volkswagen, so I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done.’

Fortunately, two of us had a brain and one wasn’t the cop. Leone and I asked to see what number he had written down and he had written the wrong number down. He phoned through to headquarters and they got the fellow. Apparently, he pleaded guilty in court a couple of days later and went for a three-month holiday at Her Majesty’s Prison at Boggo Road.