sometimes the postie did not walk down our lane because he had no mail for any of the twelve families. If a letter did arrive, it was usually from a government or corporation department. Few, if any, of us kept weekly or monthly accounts, paying by cash daily for our milk and bread, the money under the front doormat. Everyone knew of this practice. The money was never stolen and the amounts were never queried by the tradesfolk.
Life in Murrays Lane was quiet. Musical instruments were not heard (radios had not yet arrived) unless the Salvation Army Band from Whitmore Square was playing outside our nearest licensed premises, the Angel Inn, a short distance away in Gouger Street. Sometimes we heard the Boys Brigadeâs bugle band marching along West Terrace from its headquarters in Light Square. On windless nights, we could hear the GPO clock in its tower half a mile away chime the quarter hours and we could count the hour strikes. It was especially quiet at night in winter. As soon as the kitchen stove fire had died down, we all went to bed because of the cold.
My bed was only covered by two ex-army blankets and often my mother would make a hot water bottle for me from the kettle on the stove. The bottle was an empty Woodrofeâs lemonade container with a reusable stopper. If the hot water was poured into it too quickly the glass would shatter. This was disaster. At any time we only had the one bottle as they were returnable for a penny each. We rarely drank Woodrofeâs or Hallâs products because of the cost, and finding a discarded empty was exciting. Even at Sunday school picnics, bottled drinks were a luxury and I canât recall ever being given one.
Gouger Street was an interesting place for small boys and it provided almost all the necessities of life. On the next corner to us was the Angel Inn, which was really just a small bar. Then there was Turners abattoirs on the corner of Lowe Street. I can remember small flocks of sheep being driven along Gouger Street to the abattoirs where they were met by a scapegoat. The goat was well trained and would lead the sheep into the abbatoirs where they were all killed â except for the goat who lived to lead the next small flock to their doom. There was also a corner store near us that was run by my future wifeâs grandmother and her family. The store sold small boxes of chalk and I would sometimes buy one for a penny. When I was about seven, I was served there by Mavisâs auntie. Further down Gouger Street was a Chinese laundry that starched collars â which all men wore on formal occasions in those days. I remember that the place had a distinct smell, of starch and steam. The Gouger Street markets were not as extensive as they are now and the stallholders were mainly English and Australian. On Friday nights there would be Cheapjack Stalls. These were temporary stands in front of an array of prizes. The stall holder held a bundle of tickets in his hands and for threepence you could select a ticket. If your ticket carried the right number, you won a doll or similar prize.
On a few occasions in the summer while it was still light, I can remember two of my motherâs sisters playing cards â euchre â with my parents in our kitchen. But we never possessed a full pack; it was always a couple of cards short. I would mislay cards while playing with them after kindergarten on a rainy afternoon. But in those days the main form of entertainment was simply talk, perhaps over a cup of tea. Richer folk than us might have had a piano, in which case the talking would sometimes turn to singing. We had no radio and no morning paper. I would have gone to the cinema about twice a year.
As twilight came, the gaslighter would arrive on his bicycle and with a long pole light the sole lamp in the street. Luckily this was right opposite our front room and provided enough light for my parents to go to bed. We did have one kerosene lamp and I went to bed with
Lindsay Paige, Mary Smith