What a year! Don Bradman scored 334 runs in the Third Test against England, the half-arches of the Sydney Harbour Bridge finally met in the middle, Phar Lap won the Melbourne Cup, and Harry and I went into the egg business together. Harry’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember. We catch the train every Friday after school to Uncle George’s chook farm to pick up two boxes of eggs – that’s twenty dozen or 240 eggs. We get them at cost price for a shilling a dozen and sell them for two shillings. Not bad for a couple of Glebe boys on the wrong side of thirteen. There are no overheads – even the train fare’s free. We’re not breaking the law because there’s never anyone to collect our tickets at Rooty Hill station.
Harry and I have food rationing to thank for our thriving business. Eggs are as scarce as hen’s teeth. You line up for hours with your food voucher and by the time you get to the top of the line, there are none left. Good old Uncle George!
‘Selling eggs shouldn’t be a crime,’ Dad says, ‘and if you don’t get caught, it won’t be.’
Dad really knows his stuff. He bought and sold Uncle George’s eggs until his illegal bookmaking business started taking off. It might be the Depression, but there are plenty of opportunities to make money. The world is my oyster! Dad hasn’t looked back and neither will I. Friends, neighbours and total strangers come to our house at 51 Abbey Road every Saturday morning to buy ‘Joe and Harry’s Extra Large Farm Fresh Eggs’. That’s what we painted on the back fence. And ‘Home deliveries free of charge’. You’ve got to have the edge over your competitors to stay ahead of the game.
Climbing the side fence into Old Billy McCarthy’s yard to deliver his usual dozen eggs, I heard someone screech, ‘Shameful, just shameful!’ The voice was human but bird-like, a cross between a kookaburra and a cockatoo. Old Billy stopped pruning the hydrangeas with his rusty shears. I looked around, half-expecting to find a strangled chook hanging upside down from Old Billy’s clothes line, but instead saw Miss Ruxton peering over her front fence. She’s a scary old lady who moved across the road a couple of months ago.
‘Who are all those men coming and going like dogs on heat through the Rileys’ back fence? I’ve been watching them every Saturday since I moved here. It’s shameful, just shameful!’ she called out to Old Billy. Miss Ruxton’s glasses magnified her brown eyes, making them look really big and too close together.
I tried to look invisible, but I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
‘Good morning, Sybil,’ Old Billy replied. ‘What a glorious day! You’re looking very beautiful.’
What’s wrong with that man’s eyesight? I thought. I nearly choked trying not to laugh, then I started coughing and couldn’t stop. The eggs were bumping together inside the newspaper parcel, so I quickly handed them to Old Billy. My face was burning and my eyes felt like they were ready to pop.
Miss Ruxton was pointing at my house. ‘I know what goes on in there. I wasn’t born yesterday!’ She smoothed back her feathery wisps of grey hair to reveal cheeks almost as crimson as the lipstick that was smudged around her beak-like mouth.
‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, my dear,’ Old Billy replied, patting me on the back to help ease the coughing. ‘The Rileys are a good Catholic family, except for Arthur, of course, he’s Church of England. Young Joe here’s an altar boy.’ Old Billy pointed his rusty shears at me, nearly poking me in the eye, and then put them down to unwrap the eggs. ‘Look at these beauties! Joe sells eggs for his Uncle George. Has a farm out west somewhere. Why don’t you order some? Guaranteed double-yolkers in every dozen!’
Miss Ruxton crossed the road, looking at me with those piercing eyes, sizing me up. ‘Eggs? All those men come through your back fence to buy eggs? What’s that wireless for, then? It blasts away all day, every Saturday. Eggs, you say? You can’t fool me.’
I didn’t know what to say, then Old Billy came to the rescue. ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at, my dear. Arthur and Betty are keen as mustard on the races and they’ve got the best and clearest wireless in Abbey Road.’
‘Tell me about it!’ Miss Ruxton opened Old Billy’s gate, staring at me the whole time. I started walking backwards but I couldn’t get away from those eyes.
‘Stand still, boy, I’m not going to bite, I just want to look at you. Tell me the truth. Do all those men come to your place every Saturday to buy eggs and listen to the horse races on your wireless?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, Miss Ruxton.’ True, of course, but only half the story.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, Sybil. I have to pay a boy for some eggs,’ Old Billy said, tipping his hat – he’s a true gentleman. Reaching into the pocket of his overalls, he then handed me two shiny new shillings. I rubbed them together. Cash in my hand always gives me confidence.
‘Let me know when you want some eggs, Miss Ruxton,’ I said. ‘Special delivery for the prettiest lady in the street!’ Old Billy winked at me before going inside.
‘You’re quite a salesman, young man. Put me down for half a dozen. No broken ones, mind.’
‘You bet! I’ll deliver them to you free of charge every Saturday morning. Total cost, one shilling.’ Another happy customer, I thought as I watched her cross the road back to her house. But I’d better stop throwing stones on her roof – bad for business.
I’m saving up to buy Mum a cottage by the sea. She’s been talking about it for as long as I can remember. She wants to hear the ocean roar and look out her kitchen window to see the waves rolling in, just like she used to. Mum grew up in a fishing village on the south coast, and hasn’t been back since she ran away with Dad sixteen years ago.
The wireless blaring isn’t the only noise coming from our house. There’s lots of shouting and arguing most days. Old Billy used to break up the arguments between Mum and Dad until last year when I took over the job. I’m nearly as tall as Dad, and not nearly as scared of him as I used to be. I’m the second tallest boy in my school but not for too much longer. I’m off to high school in a few weeks.