‘Ah, civilisation,’ announces the Captain, taking a deep breath.
I look out of the window, but nothing very much seems to have changed. The bush has thinned out a little, a paddock is dotted with dusty sheep, and a herd of cows stands unmoving and uninterested in us passing. I do notice a faint smell on the wind, though.
More houses line the road. Surprisingly, many are crowded together considering there is so much space about. Children stand in their doorways and stare out at the coach as it thunders past. Occasionally, it scatters chooks pecking in the road and scares dogs, which then come running after the coach, barking loudly.
Fremantle, when we arrive late in the afternoon, is nothing like I expected at all. As we reach the bridge over the Swan River, I see off to the left a large tanning factory at the water’s edge. It smells bad, really bad. Even the cesspit at Mr Tosser’s, the butcher near our hotel, smells sweet compared to this horrible, foul pesthole, and Mr Tosser is a famous stinker. We often say the vile smell of his cesspit is enough to kill seagulls in flight.
Miss Boston and Miss Barnett both take handkerchiefs dipped in scent and hold them to their noses, as the coach rumbles its way slowly through the mass of coach and wagon traffic and people crowding the streets. From the look on Miss Boston’s face, I do not think the scent works all that well.
‘I fear the odour gets worse every year,’ she announces, shaking her head in disapproval.
‘Indeed,’ replies the Captain, being polite, but not continuing the conversation.
I try holding my nose, but it does no good, and I nearly pass out from lack of air. I wonder how the locals can live with it.
Small boats ferry passengers upriver towards Perth. Cargo ships are moored against a long, wide jetty, with scores of masts and rigging lost against the buildings and a steep limestone hill. A small steamship spews out thick black smoke from its stack. Just as well the Dragon crew are not here with us, I decide. They all hate steamers. There are even more of the horrible iron ships anchored offshore between the mainland and an island.
The smell soon fades, but the noises of the street grow louder. It could have woken the Devil himself from the very depths of Hell. In all directions the sound of metal wheel hoops on the rough gravel streets rattle, screech and grind along.
The coach rolls towards the central part of town. High on the hill overlooking the town the infamous Fremantle Prison, looking more like a castle from Ivanhoe, looms like a spectre. On the street below the hill, canvas-covered stalls laden with vegetables, fish hanging by their tails and dead rabbits, and carts with clothing, pots, knives and wicker brooms line the street into the town centre. Stall keepers all yell hoarsely as they try to flog their wares.
The coach makes its way along, the horses trotting quickly. The driver yells and people on foot leap out of the way as he is clearly not stopping for anyone who doesn’t move. Ten minutes later, he wheels the horse team away from the outskirts and directly into the town.
A huge town hall and rows of neat shops line a dead straight street leading to an octagonal sandstone building high on a hill near the water’s edge. Flags and a black time-ball waiting for the one o’clock cannon are attached to a ship’s mast in its courtyard. Further on, massive brick wool warehouses, magnificent hotels and really grand buildings line every other street.
I notice a surprising number of beggars slumped miserably in doorways, staring blankly or pleadingly at us as we pass by. In a vacant block between two warehouses, a team of prisoners dressed in drab prison clothes is cutting limestone building blocks without enthusiasm. Further on, by a circular horse trough, a gang of boys is fighting. One has landed in the water, ending the fight with wild laughter.
Three worn-out looking women displaying their legs shout at us as we pass by. Miss Boston and Miss Barnett look particularly shocked and turn their faces away from the window.
The sun is fading, but it seems later than it is as the smoke-filled air from countless chimneys and fires darkens the sky.
Can this really be the Fremantle people have talked so enthusiastically about? I am disappointed, after all the stories I have heard. I had imagined it to be a glittering, wonderful city full of rich and attractive people, but now as far as I can see from the coach window, the place is just a bigger, smellier version of Broome. Where are all the attractive people, especially the pretty girls?
‘Welcome to Fremantle, Red. The most wonderful city on earth.’
‘Sir?’ I ask, screwing my face up in disbelief.
‘As Dr Johnson might have said, a man who is tired of Fremantle is tired of life,’ replies the Captain.
‘Are we talking about the same Fremantle?’ I ask, incredulously. ‘Is this Dr Johnson blind and deaf, or just a complete idiot?’
The Captain laughs, just as the coach slows, turns into a narrow street and begins wheeling through open gates in a high wall and into a large courtyard. ‘The famous doctor had obviously never been here, of course. No, he was actually talking about London.’
I look out the window. One day, when I am older, I plan to travel to London. I sure hope it is more glittering than what I can see outside.
‘The Esplanade Hotel,’ he announces as we halt.
I look about, this time more impressed. The hotel is enormous and modern.
‘Here we must part. Miss Boston, Miss Barnett, I bid you farewell,’ says the Captain, bowing his head as he helps the two women down the coach steps.
The ladies make their way across the yard to a smart looking carriage with a black-coated coach driver. Miss Boston turns and looks back somewhat wistfully, before being whisked away.
Loud noises suddenly came from the hotel as the back door opens and a man stumbles out, obviously on his way to the cesspit.
‘The way he’s reeling about he’ll be lucky not to fall right in,’ laughs the Captain.
‘That wouldn’t be a very dignified way to die either would it, Captain?’ I too laugh at the terrible thought of it. Can you imagine? Falling head first into a foul cesspit. And judging by the smell coming from the Esplanade’s cesspit near the far wall, it would have to be the size of a billabong.
‘That’s the door we want,’ he adds, pointing to where the man just came from.