CHAPTER 26

Boring Melbourne

The Yanks were incredulous that everything closed on Sundays. ‘Boring Melbourne’ they called our city. No sporting fixtures, cafes, movies or theatres … even the hotels were closed. There wasn’t even a Sunday newspaper. Thousands of troops sat around in parks and street corners with nothing to do except get drunk on sly grog and grapple with any girls they could get their hands on. The only other choices they had were the beach, the zoo, or if it was raining, the museum, where they could see our famous racehorse, Phar Lap, in a glass case.

Summer had struck early and it was going to be a stinker with a hot northerly wind. One day Mum said we could escape to the beach to get away from it. I could take my little fishing rod that Grandpa made me for Christmas and I could catch a fish for dinner.

At Brunswick station, we caught the electric train into the city; the train doors and windows were open and a small gale blew through the train as it clattered and rocked into town. Mum let me sit by the open door even though my hair would get messed up. She didn’t worry about me falling out.

At Flinders Street, we’d barely left our train when Jeb or Joe or Hal came over and caught Mum around the waist and twirled her round, kissing her with everyone looking. ‘Hi, Petey,’ he said to me. I’ve hated the name ‘Petey’ ever since.

‘You didn’t tell me anyone else was coming,’ I whined. For me, the excursion was in ruins. Mum had the perfect answer. She leant down and whispered in my ear, ‘Stop your whinging or I’ll belt you black and blue.’ Back to the trains we went. Now three, instead of two, but at least the Yank paid for the tickets, which I knew would make Mum happy.

When a train pulled into our platform, there was a man sitting in the open doorway jiggling a two-shilling piece. I looked at the silver florin glinting between his fingers and saw double-headed ice creams, hot meat pies, milkshakes, fish ’n’ chips and a ticket to the pictures. Two shillings was a lot of money. The bloke was probably thinking three or four cold beers, or even a small bet on the horses.

The coin suddenly slipped through his fingers, bounced on the railway carriage floor and rolled out the door. It fell on the tracks between the train and the platform. The man looked shattered. He might have cried or beat his breast, but we’ll never know because as the florin dropped, the train drew out, revealing it shining up at us.

Without hesitation our Yank dropped lightly to the track, picked up the two-bob piece and just as quickly vaulted back on to the platform. Then, oh wonder of wonders, he gave it to me. The onlookers should have clapped this wonderful response to the situation. Whereas the Five Pound Fine for being on the rail track might have daunted an Australian, the American seized the moment. I knew we were safe with the Yanks on our side, the dirty Japs didn’t stand a chance.

The temperature reached 100 degrees that day. I sat under a tree dangling my fishing line unsuccessfully into a little canal while Mum and her Yank drank beer in the pub. When it shut at six, we eventually went to the beach and watched a huge sunset while eating fish ’n’ chips with beer and soft drink. Eventually, it cooled off and we dropped our Yank off in the city. When we arrived home and opened our front door, it was like an oven inside. While Mum opened the doors and windows, I sprayed the red-hot tin roof with our hose, but it was still too hot to stay indoors. So, we dragged a couple of blankets outside and slept on the grass until we woke in the middle of the night, stiff and sore but cool, and went back inside.

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One winter Sunday, Aunty Roma took me to the zoo. She was wearing a leopard skin coat. It wasn’t made of real leopards but looked authentic. I don’t think Aunty Roma expected the response her coat would get. She was deluged by Yanks, inundated by them. They whistled. They winked. They proposed. Wherever we went in the zoo, Aunty Roma and her coat attracted an enthusiastic audience. ‘Look what’s on the loose?’ ‘A leopard’s out on the prowl.’ ‘Wow, look at that beautiful cat,’ came the razzing.

Ultimately, the attention proved too much even for my foxy aunt. In a confusion of blushes and smiles, we returned to the camouflage of our native habitat – West Brunswick, an unfashionable, suburban backwater where an imitation leopard skin coat was just an imitation leopard skin coat and there was not a Yank to be seen.