Mea Culpa, no, I'm not dead

I know, for the usually voluable me, its been a bit quiet, not because I have run out of things and events to write about, but because at the urging of my better half, perhaps in an effort to keep me quiet and out of his way....to write a book about retiring to Penang!

This will not be the usual Glitz and Glamour of a paid travel log but what its REALLY like to LIVE here,which is nothing like holidaying here, why? Because living here is BETTER! You neve miss a festival, a meal or a Sale.....or dealing with the Bureaucracy, the lack of road rules, and all the other things that keep Dementia and Alpsclimbers at bay ... or makes you dead. But hey, I was never one to back away from a challenge and ANYTHING is better than dying of boredom and Bingo, so living in George Town is ideal, no, really.

So this will be about HOW to live/shop/renovate/drive and survive and LOVE it, and all the things we were not told about when we came so many years ago, simple stuff like where to buy chicken stuffing, or the best curtaining, doctors and hairdressers, or the 100 and 1 other life threatening drama's that can stuff up your day. Seriously, it is still a vivid memory how little things that we desperately needed, now, became major drama's as they may be called something different here, or they were only available in one little hole in the wall place etc. etc.

Dealing with the complex Gov. offices, MM2H, utilities and all the rest of the myriad day to day things that represent daily life here, in Penang, down and dirty...and how you can have fun as you wonder just how did you get into this...

But, I have a problem, I cant think of title...at least not yet.. any idea's, you know my less than techinical style of writing, so all title options would be gratefully accepted...if it ever gets printed, i didnt mention that little hiccup did I, if its your title (I would let you know) you get a book! I might be dead by then, but I will write it in my will...I wonder what I did with that.....

BARS, BUNNIES AND BEYOND...

SO, YOU THINK ITS FUNNY BEING A BUNNY? MAYBE, IF YOU’RE THE PLAYBOY…
THE APPRENTICE SHIP OR THE GOING DOWN WITH….

In my previous, long, working life of about a year, you did read that, right? Which encompassed what I thought was every type of job possible, all came to an end , when at 16 years old , I was removed from the employment market, temporarily, by marriage and motherhood, only separated by a hiccup in time. I won’t go into the joys of this period, even though it would likely only take a paragraph, the only plus being a beautiful 1st son, but was I good at the domestic thing? No, did having my son and the house spotless by 9am every day keep me happy and fulfilled? No, was money plentiful? No.

OK, I know you get it, a short stint ensued at the RAAF base canteen, part-time. The brain was numb in no time dealing with Apprentii and home deprived RAAF personnel, endless milkshakes and hand patting. Other part-time jobs came and went, unrewarding by any standard, time passed…my cure for too much time on my hands? Another son… a big mistake, not my boys, both turned into great young men and later husbands and fathers, but the concept that this was the cure for a doomed marriage, total crap, live and learn, but all that is another story, yah I know, you already read that one too.

But this is more your specialist employment saga, bearing in mind that during that unenlightened age of unequal pay or opportunities in the job market in the ‘60’s, ones options were limited, especially if ‘career fulfillment ’ was not so much the issue as keeping body and soul together X 3! So the obvious choice of females in my position was collectively known as…….bar maiding!

My first crack at this career choice was actually not long after my 2nd son and prior to my 1st divorce and before my 20th birthday, God, all these numbers are making me dizzy.., I was barely old enough to even be in a bar let alone work in one, getting into this line of work was not so easy as every ad stated those well known words.. ’only experienced need apply’. OK, so this meant that I had to get a bit creative again, so what else is new, the other handicap was that I personally, had never had an alcoholic drink in my life, I know, it’s hard to believe that I was stone cold sober during all my various fiasco’s, but it don’t bear thinking about if I hadn’t been eh?

We were living in Canberra now, land of the surreal, politicians and public servants, collectively; they are incapable of original thought and as a herd, kind of like that old movie, Village of the Damned, the only plus is there are a lot of ‘normal’ people who keep things running and in order who are not employed by the Gov. I discussed this lack of opportunity with friends who thought, not for the first time, that I was nuts, but the need for extra income was pressing as my then husband was just newly out of the Forces and into the newly created career of computers, but back then, they were just known as technicians and paid accordingly, Canberra above all over Australian cities, was very expensive, but that was also where all the computers were! Someone or thing, had to do the thinking…… The Government had most of them, in the “Olden Times”, it took a whole basement of climate controlled, smoke free, wardrobe type things lined up like so many incubators in the Bureau of Stats, row upon row, to do the job of a halfway decent laptop of today! But I counted myself lucky to even get to see these new age wonders.

It was decided that I had no choice but to do a ‘cold call’, in other words, just turn up and ask for a job. Anyone with half a wit could see that this was fraught with peril and on the first 3 efforts was greeted with versions of “come back when you grow up/does your mother know you’re here/have dinner with me and we’ll talk about it?” Yeah, right. But I was not to be defeated, necessity is a great motivator and when someone suggested the Kingston Hotel, probably as a joke, I thought, hell, why not, how much worse can it get? I had better mention at this point further to the previously mentioned, that I knew bugger all about hotels in general, and the Kingo as it was ‘affectionately ‘ known, in particular! I was to find out that it had the reputation, diligently acquired, as the roughest pub in town! What? Did I hear you say “great choice” yeah, well…

So I fronted up to the Hotel, asked to see the bar manager as I attempted to yet again, look older, but I had moved on from trying to look 15 to trying to look 21, which I would be…soon... but still being somewhat , short, a bit better in heels and a grudging size 8, or 10, if I ate breakfast, blonde with the bare necessities in the way of curves, it was still a hard sell, marriage and babies didn’t seem to have helped in that department. I was not sure what an experienced bar maid was supposed to look like, but on the arrival of the bar manager, I had obviously got it wrong by the ill concealed twitches of his lips. Luckily for me, he was a very nice, ‘fatherly’ sort of man whom I could now add to the growing list of people who thought I was nuts as he did his best to put me off the whole idea.

“Do you know what it’s like in a working man’s bar, girlie?” I didn’t know you had to be working to go into a bar, “yes, of course” I announced without conviction. “How old did you say you were?” How long do I have to go on answering that question? “Look, I’m married, I have 2 sons, I need a job but I can’t work shop hours because of this and I’m trying to find a full time proper job, as well, so occasional days or nights and weekends or even part time is it!” He screwed up his face, tugged his lip, walked around in a circle stopping to take a drink, scratched his thinning grey hair, looked at me a couple of times whilst I twisted the corner of my twinset cardigan, yeah I know, no ‘bar maid’ on the planet ever wore a twinset, as I waited for the outcome.

He came to a halt in front of me, “well, the thing of it is, I’d have ta put ya in the Public Bar, ‘cause the fella’s aren’t gunna care about your lack of experience with a nice girlie like you.” Hmm, what did that mean? “So, I have the job?” Yes, I was to turn up at 4pm the next day, which was OK as my neighbour would sit in for me for an hour till my husband got home. Wow, I got the job!! But I still wasn’t sure what that meant….. I went straight round to friends who were more ‘experienced’ in this to tell them and ask a few, hopefully helpful questions.

“Stop kidding around, you’re never going in the public bar of the Kingo? You’re not kidding are you? They will eat you alive and that’s only the other bar maids! I’ve been in there”, at this point his wife gave him a ‘oh, have you now?’ look, “as for the drinkers there, if you can imagine a bar frequented by Attila and his cut throats, that’s sort of what its like.” He’s just trying to scare me, it was working but I was not letting on, what was I, a maid or a mouse? I was leaning towards mouse at this point and added to this, what to wear? I had to balance the outfit between looking old enough without giving Attila and his cohorts any ideas, hell, whose idea was this anyway?

PART 2 OF I DON’T KNOW HOW MANY PARTS, YET.

The big day came, luckily I was flat out, doing wifey/mummy things and trying not to think about 4 o’clock drawing closer. I fretted for an hour before hand re. what to wear, opted for the ‘preppy’ look, you know, a full skirt, demure blouse and mid height heels in an effort to look a little taller as I had no idea how high the bar would likely be. Of course this was to be the least of my worries.

My neighbour arrived to take over and fussing about what would become of me, I’m sure I saw a tear in her eye as if I may never been seen above ground again. I galloped off to catch the bus to my fate, hopefully I would be early as I knew, and the boss didn’t, I thought, that I knew absolutely nothing about bar work. Ignorance is bliss…

The boss was summoned when I arrived and he looked more worried than me if that’s possible, that his last hope had just evaporated that I might have come to my senses and not turned up! “OK, Paddy, let’s do it. I’ll introduce ya to the other bar maids, good girls they are, been at it a long time, but likely not too used to the likes of you”, he said as he looked the other way, now what did that mean? “The fella’s that drink ‘ere are a good lot, been drinking here a long time, set in their ways, so don’t try to change ‘em, but don’t let ‘em get away with anything either, if they get outta hand, tell the girls or call for me, ya got that?” Yes, no, what does he mean?

I trotted close on his heels as he continued to explain various things about bar life and work in general, none of it penetrating of course, add to that my inflated ego of thinking I can do anything, that’s the motivation thing kicking in again. At the end of a long hallway with carpet patterned to allow dead bodies to be deposited without being seen and an ever increasing odour which I was to become very familiar with, and till this day, still makes my stomach turn over, of stale beer and cigarette smoke!

It was still just before 4 meaning that the after work swill was still an hour or so away, the theory being that I would have mastered all in time for this trial by fire as we reached the swinging doors with frosted glass panels announcing grandly “Kingston Hotel Public Bar” emblazoned in black. My new boss shoved the doors open to my new work place.. It was like a big green and cream, or maybe it used to be white, barn, with toilet green tiles all around up to and between the windows. These opaque windows were evenly spaced around three walls, not sure if by design or time, and scattered along these same walls were very much the worse for wear, wooden tables and chairs with only a couple occupied.

But the real attention grabber was the bar! It looked like a big timber and tile race track! It was oval, seemed a mile long, timber edged with a lip and battered red linoleum, I assumed to prevent the river of beer that seemed to course it’s length from drenching the patrons, a big brass foot rail at the base and of course, green tiles between it and the counter. Randomly ranged all around this altar were stools of various types and states of decay, I was to learn that one was dicing with death to alter their placement as most of the patrons, who seemed to live there had their own stool and place at the bar, any challenges to this from either staff or other daft patrons was cause for an uprising and occasionally, bloodshed! Again, only about a half dozen of these had a bum on them, literally and in some cases, figuratively! As I said, it was early…

In the centre of this oval was all the necessary paraphernalia of a bar, a long wide counter, below which was fridges for mixers, coke and the like, rarely used, and above, on glass shelves was a huge range of spirits which seemed to be for no other purpose than decoration or for the occasional sustenance of the other bar maids as I was to find out! Under the patrons counter was our counter, with 4 beer pull units of 4 choices each, evenly spaced, and underneath these, were steaming great auto glass washers, endless noisy metal trays of glasses, both clean and unclean, weeny ones (pony’s), tweeny ones (7’s or 7 ouncers) middle size ones (middy’s), big size (schooners), bath size (pint) and drown ya sorrows size, (a jug)! But the smaller versions, for mixed drinks and the 7 ouncers where generally considered to be only for women or those of indeterminate gender and were generally viewed with great suspicion! But I’m getting ahead of meself!

So there I was peering out from behind the boss as he gave a menacing glower at all and sundry to avert any early comments, “I’ve got a new bar maid for ya, you girls teach her the ropes and you fella’s..” at this point he gave a special glare at each and every one, “none of ya smart ass remarks, got it?” With that he grabbed me by the arm propelling me towards the lift up section of the bar, through and slamming down the counter again, now that I was indeed trapped, I turned to face the two ‘girls’. “This is Shirley” indicating a tall slim woman of maybe late 30’s with a imposing nose, a mop of wild curly hair, and an encouraging smile and freckles, we were to get on pretty well. “And this is Marg” as he waved an arm in the direction of the other ‘girl’, squat, dumpy and badly permed, with a fixed glower, attired all in black, 50 something woman who in all my time there, barely spoke a word to me. Hmm, so this was to be my work place. With that and a parting pat on the back and a hearty “Hi Ho Silver” er, “good luck”, he slammed off out of the swinging doors, casting me to the wolves. Plus, I was still to meet the ‘regulars’!

I stood there, waiting for some sort of direction as all eyes in the cavernous bar stared at me, I felt like a minnow in a shark pond! Shirley came to my rescue, “do you know how to pull a beer?” What was she talking about? Pull a beer where? “No”. At which everyone on both sides of the bar, groaned and rolled their eyes. This was going to be bad wasn’t it? “OK, get over here beside me and ignore all those lay abouts on the bar” as she cast a withering glare around that also encompassed the charming Marg. Shirley proceeded to explain the intricacies of beer pulling..the angle of the dangle of the receptacle, too much ‘head’ (foam), not enough head, wrong/right glass etc. this actually involved chucking out about eight glasses of buggered up beer plus what was in the tray, on me, and on the floor. Everyone except me, oh, and Marg, were laughing fit to bust.

What about all the cocktails and mixed drinks I here you ask? Well, those you can count on the foot of a two toed sloth, Portagaff, a mix of Guinness and lemonade and Shandy, lemonade and beer, only drunk by those who get fired for being sloshed in charge of a train, a bus or a loaded gun or of the suspicious gender sort. Women of course were expected to drink this sort of thing, a sign of a real lady, but of course we didn’t get women in this bar let alone ladies! The odd whiskey or brown rum were dispensed for medicinal purposes, but generally, that was about it, although the other bottles seem to get dusted off after the other bar maids signed off and were entitled to a free tipple or two. In my case of course, I just loved grenadine and lemonade, what a wild child was I!

I was only buggering up about every third beer by 5 o’clock that 1st day but seemed to be providing and endless amount of entertainment, of course what they knew and I didn’t, was that it was only a matter of time before a keg in the basement ran out or I chanced on a beer pull that had just had a new keg connected in the cellar. Yup! Beer from ….. here to there alrighty and everyone rolling in aisles again!! But I knew how to roll with the punches and when that magic 5 flipped over on the clock, it was as if someone had opened a flood gate as men of every age and type seem to pour through the doors.

All, in turn, stopped and stared at the new ‘un, all new comers thought it unique and hysterically funny to ask me for fictitious and/or ludicrous drinks, after about the 15th one, my patience was wearing thin when an older man, sitting beside the escape hatch at the end of the bar, reading his paper, suddenly looked up, slammed a big hand on the bar with what sounded like a rifle crack, and roared “ENOUGH! Ya can see she’s new at this and but a wee girl, and mind ya language, gotta lady here now”! The silence was deafening…the manager was standing at the door with his jaw slack, Marg redoubled her glaring at me with her “what am I? Chopped liver?” look on her face, I was spilling beer everywhere as I forgot to release the pull handle and Shirley winked at me and dug an elbow into my ribs. So, the tone was set for my time there.

My protector at the end of the bar, I was to discover he always sat there, every day, with the same drink that was expected to be in front of him by the time he had his paper out, seemed to have some sort of sway over the trolls that inhabited this place as it was he who pulled those who did not seem to understand the new rules of what was suddenly unacceptable in what was a totally uncensored bar pre. Paddy! The manager thought it amazing that the tone of the public bar had risen a few notches without him having to produce the big stick he kept under the counter for dealing with ‘difficult’ situations, unlike today; awkward customers were dealt with ‘in house’.

These situations did arise occasionally, especially when a regular known as Titch, built like an ex jockey, all 5’1” of him punchy as all get out when he had a few drinks under his belt as he shaped up, dancing around in a wobbly fashion and punching air, to another customer “ya wanna fight, I’ll show ya who’s a man, ya big @#$*@&$”….”Hey, language, a lady present” from the end of the bar without raising his head from the paper. The boss appeared as always as if by magic …”Titch” he roared “ get ya stupid little arse outta me bar!” Titch rounded on him, “Ya wanna fight, do ya, huh? I’ll show ya, come outside ya yella bit a work ya!” as he danced towards the side door.

The boss had had enough, “that’s it, I’m gunna give ya a hidin’ ya won’t forget and then ya barred ya little ankle bitin’ pain in the arse…” as he made his way towards the door that was now being held open by the ankle biter who’s hair by now, was standing stiffly straight up, like a rabid dog, still hurling insults at the boss and all and sundry within hearing as the boss stormed through the door flexing his muscles and shoving up his sleeves, past Titch who was still dancing on the spot, preparing for the final battle……when, as soon as the boss cleared the door, Titch grabbed the handle, leaping back inside and pulled the door shut, slid the big bolt, slapped himself on the chest like a mini Tarzan and yelled over the din of the boss pounding on the door and loudly explaining the fate that awaited Titch, and smiling! The victorious Titch said “give us beer Paddy and make it a biggie” as the whole bar collapsed in gales of laughter as we tried to find someone brave enough to let the boss back in.

Weeks became months etc., with very few dull days, I still only worked part time and indeed, occasionally resigned for periods to sulk full time, I also now had a full time job courtesy of the public service but that’s a different story ,the marriage was now truly on the rocks.

So, there I was leaning on the counter during a quiet few moments talking rubbish with my old ‘friend’ at the end of the bar when he saw me rubbing my wrist, “what’s that matter with your wrist eh?” I showed him the lump that had appeared a week or two before on the outside edge of my wrist, palm up, I now know it to be a ganglion but at the time…… “that’s nothing to worry about, I can fix that for ya in a minute!” I looked at him, really? “Here, rest ya hand on the bar, that’s right, palm up.” I was still looking at my lumpy wrist and did not see him withdraw a book from his work bag, quickly raise it and bring it down, hard on my lump! I won’t even begin to tell you how many swear words I used that I had learned since beginning work at the Kingo as the bar noise, apart from that caused by me, ceased and all rushed to see what had happened, Marg was smiling of course, a first! I was glaring at my ‘friend’ through misty eyes…..”It’s all very well yelling at me but is it better?” I looked at my wrist and sure enough, the lump was gone! “Me mum said you should use a Bible but I only had me “How To Arc Weld” book on me, but it did the job eh?” as I nursed my arm and glared at him re-arranging his paper and now ignoring me.

As anyone who has ever worked in places like this and cafes etc. especially in this era, if it wasn’t for tips, we would have all starved as females were only paid about two thirds of the wage of their male counterparts, why? Because it was accepted that we would get more in tips, how’s that for male rationalizing to their own ends? I was indeed glad of the tips and generally, the majority of the regulars left the few pence change from every drink on the bar for their regular bar maid, each of us had a schooner glass on the centre island where we dumped our pennies, thrupences and sixpences, but heaven help her if she did not pick up the change quick smart as one of the others, like Marg for instance, would, and yes, the regulars had regulars!

On one exceptionally busy Saturday afternoon , there seemed to be a gathering or something going on in the Hotel, I noticed some of ‘my’ tips had mysteriously disappeared off the bar when my customer had left. I had just put up a Pot in my place on the island for my tips as my schooner was nearly full. I slapped the bar for attention and announced that as it was so busy and I appreciated the tips, could my good and worthy customers please just toss the coins into my Pot (about 3ft from the public counter)that I indicated with a flourish and a pointed look at Marg. And so the new most popular game in the Kingo came into being, tossing coins into Paddy’s Pot caught on big time!

The Pot was full in about an hour that 1st day, I even stopped picking up what missed and landed on the floor, they were all remarkably good shots and they quickly discovered, after a few drinks, that if they used bigger, heavier coins, it was easier to hit the target! How conveniently profitable! My income more than doubled overnight! But my popularity with the other ‘girls’, apart from Shirley, did not.
Talking of Shirley, sweet as she was, she was a lost cause when it came to picking men, don’t say it, I was only new at it, and if there was the absolute wrong man to pick, Shirley would hit the bulls eye. Do you other oldies remember one of the terrible songs of the era of terrible songs, I can hear you groaning, well, Shirl came dancing into work one morning singing, bad songs badly, after we had all thrown wet cloths at her, she sidled up to me and whispered, “I’m preggers!” I spun, horrified, “what are you going to do?” I squeaked, “he’ll marry me for sure, I just know it!” as she danced around the bar, wiping as she went as we all stared at her aghast. She was 39 for Christ sake and it was still the time of no Welfare or jobs for pregnant women!

Of course he didn’t, she left it too late to ‘do’ something about it, she had to leave work as soon as she ‘showed’ and none of us ever heard from her again, I still wonder how she fared…… I for one knew what it was like, but I guess I was luckier, but I still think about what may have become of her.

As you can guess, some of the stories one hears over bars are funny, unbelievable, scary and sad and there is no rhyme or reason why some stay with you. Ralph was one of our irregular regulars, an interstate truckie who would come in after dumping a load and truck back to his depot after a run. I was to get his story in 5-10 minute episodes as time went on, bearing in mind that he had a reputation as a bit punchy, un-communicative, not to be messed with if ya get me drift. He was tall, oldish, maybe 30, strong, had a crooked nose that had been re-arranged a number of times, a variety of visible scars, a buzz cut when they were not fashionable and always dressed in his khaki work uniform and for the 1st month I was there, he never spoke to me, only raised one finger as sign he wanted a schooner.

I was surprised when he came in a little early one day, before the rush hour, in answer to my raised eyebrow he offered, “breakdown”. Hmm, guess that’s enough information for one day…..but it wasn’t. I was standing in front of him, drying glasses when he said without looking at me “my dad taught me to drive trucks when I was a kid” I nearly dropped the glass, I turned as he went on, “he said, don’t make any mistakes, do as I tell ya and you’ll be OK. “ well that was it for half an hour, till I returned to drying, “the first mistake I made he punched me in the face and broke my nose and said he would hit me every time I made a mistake. I never made that mistake again, but I didn’t know there was so many others I could make….I got punched a lot.” I guessed that explained the scars and the nose…”how old where you when he started ‘teaching’ you?” I asked “guess I must have been about 12, started taking my turn driving on long runs when I was about 14 and could reach the peddles without me feet slipping off and getting hit again.” The things you don’t know about people……

But that was not the end of his story….over time he told me that his Grandfather used to do the run to Sydney, with a wagon and bullock team, hauling equipment, goods, feed and anything else that he could fit on and that 120 miles or so could take up to 6 weeks to cover! It must have looked like a travelling circus, 10-12 bullocks, plus a few spare, the timber wagon, heavy as all get out, everything from hardware to piano’s loaded on top, plus his own necessities for life, which I was told included a lubra or two (aboriginal women) to cook and keep him warm and bearing in mind the hideous nature of that part of the country and the weather, from snow and frost at the Canberra end to heat at the other, massive hills, wild rivers, mud, stones, no freeways, flyovers, real bridges and McDonalds road stops! Ralph told me that nowadays he often stopped on the highway at the top of a hill on the way to Sydney to look at a huge tree that still stood, with deep rope burns where his Granddad used to winch the team and wagon up the long hill, often with other men also on the road, helping push in bad weather, the picture was so scary in my mind of what it must have been like….how quickly we forget, but I never forgot him or his stories. His dad must have been a bastard, but he never said as much.

My intermittent times at the Kingo was nearly over, as was the marriage, legally, but not this new line of work, as it was even more imperative that I have a double income, my next effort was to be few months and many miles away, geographically. Living so far from work, Tharwa, was no longer an option with kids to pick up and the boss was getting tired of me working when I could, reasonable really! The Public Service was keeping the wolf from the door , but all of that is another story.
Mostly I remember how kind, patient and interesting all those working people were, even the difficult ones and during my time there when the boss suggested I move up in the world to the Ladies Lounge, I refused, I knew I would die of boredom! But as a training ground, there was none better.

Part 3 already!
HEY! YOU RECKON YOU CAN JUST LEAP FROM BEING A RABBIT TO A BUNNY OVERNIGHT? NOOOOO SIREE, ONE HAS TO WORK ONES WAY DOWN THE FOOD CHAIN!

I hear you muttering about the Bunny thing again, I’m getting to that, one cannot just hop into it just like that, it must be worked up to or down to, depending on how one looks at it! But I’m getting there, but not just yet….

Some little time later, another change of circumstances and States and I found that yet again, it seemed evening work was needed at least until the kids had settled into some sort of new school routine, plus again, I was looking for a suitable daytime job. Like, who needs hobbies? I scoured the papers, discounted those with pay that a street sweeper would knock back and those wanting ‘over 30’ , I guess the ‘male’ ones were out, and of course, I had to be able to get there, yup, no car! I had school stuff and child minding to pay for, far more pressing! It was still the 60’s remember.

“Wanted, cocktail waitress, experienced, Richmond, nights only, 20-30, good pay” Hey, 6 out of 6 !! I had a short, make that a very short stint as a cocktail bar attendant in the Lobby Restaurant opposite the old Parliament house back in Canberra, very up market, full of Pollies and lawyers. It was an expensive ‘saloon’, but the tips were excellent! But, there is that word again, the snooty chef, who purported to be French, the accent seemed to drift in and out depending on who he was yelling at and he was always doing that, he was an absolute bastard to the kitchen staff! Most could not speak English, were terrified of him as violence was not unknown behind those swinging doors.

I on the other hand, lead a serene life in control of my little kingdom, the cocktail bar (it’s OK, I had a little flip card thing with all the drink recipes on it, courtesy of a friend) where I had control of my life and to a certain extent, that of my customers, for the first 2 weeks, during which, as was common then, I was on probation as they called it. Not full pay, but I was to get the difference and full pay if I was to be kept on by the next week, I had no fear on that account as I suffered from egoitis. The customers were not a problem as then, they were expected to behave reasonably in public, but we won’t go into that here, wrong story.

I went outside for my lunch break to get away from the bull shit in my workplace for 15 minutes only to come on one of the kitchen women crying! Her English was almost none existent, she seemed to be from Somethingstan, a Russian country that was well outside my radar at the time, but somehow she managed to explain to me that the chef would hit them, often with kitchen implements, threaten them with dismissal and dropping them into Immigration and only paying them what HE thought they were worth if they would not work whatever hours he told them! I asked around amongst some of the other kitchen staff to see if this was true or an isolated case, the terror in the kitchen was palpable! I was shocked, the idea that anyone would try it on me was beyond the pale and to see these poor buggers working under this fat bully was too much.

I was never then, since or now, a Union girl, never really felt the need and for the better part of my life, I was my own boss, but, I knew this was the way to go in this case, they needed help. I phoned the Union that day, explained my call and their terror of Immigration, explained that no, I did not belong to the Union, yes, I would join so as to legitimize my complaint. They sent someone to my bar surreptitiously to sign me up and collect my fee within the hour.

Half an hour later, the Union guys came through the doors like Storm Troopers, locked the doors behind them as did their other guys who had gone around to the back doors! No one was to leave. I sat on my high stool and observed the screaming and shouting don’t panic, that was the chef and the boss!

They had even thought to bring a translator with them and an Immigration man who was there for no other purpose than to explain to them that they only had to fill in a form and all would be well, which it was, as the Union saw to it that they would all get real jobs. The boss had to pay all their back pay including overtime, holiday, sick pay etc. give them all references and then the subject turned to who had dropped them in, it did not take them long to figure it out as I sat atop my stool very pleased with the outcome and talking to the Union boss. My soon to be ex boss started yelling at me that I was fired, I mentioned that he owed me back pay as technically, the withholding thing was not in the rules, he stuck his hand in his pocket and threw the contents at me! The Union fella’s jumped to my defence, mention of court (remember the place was still full of lawyers) etc. I said don’t bother, I was about to move on and I would be satisfied if it took the Union etc. a LONG time to go through the books, inspect the health and working conditions and charge those involved with everything possible and a promise that the Union would be visiting at least once a week for the foreseeable future. That was done and so was I! But I digress…. Here I am in Melbourne….

Now where was I, oh, yes, on a tram, off to Richmond with an appointment to see the manager of the Riverside Inn, never heard of it! I asked the Connie (that’s a tram conductor to those of you not Australian) when I should get off and in which direction I should walk to get there. He looked at me, bemused, “Why?” I explained I was going for a job, he laughed, like, how rude is that? He indicated my stop and the direction I should walk in, he was still shaking his head as the tram pulled away.

I walked the block or so to the Yarra River, the building was on the corner with a concrete parking lot in front or was it behind?, it was not really clear but it sure as hell wasn’t inspiring! I found the door and was greeted with the familiar odour of stale smoke and beer droppings, some things never change. The manager turned out to be nothing like my fatherly old Kingo boss, at best, he was a human clone of his establishment. He said nothing for a minute as he looked at me as if deciding between ham and chicken. “You ever worked a night club before huh?” Well, he could talk, sort off, I gave him a truncated and slightly fanciful version of my work experience, leaving out the Union thing, “you ever wear a costume huh?” Um, what did he mean, a uniform, a suit…“ My last job I had to wear a white blouse and black skirt” I offered hopefully, remember the thing about the pay being good? “No, I mean an outfit, you know the sort of thing, with stocking and heels, bloody girls…….” He mumbled on as I tried to work out if it was his Greek accent that was causing me trouble. “No” seemed the only response.

He called for one of the ‘girls’ to show me the outfit, a rather….large, jiggily older (by about 30 years) ‘girl’ with two tone hair with a home perm and a collection of clothes apparently selected at random from a linen basket who said not a word, just looked me up and down, I obviously failed the test by the heavenwards cast of the eyes and twitch of the head that made it seem likely that she might overbalance from the wobbling of the chins. She indicated by mental telepathy that I should follow her down an unknown number of ever narrowing corridors, I knew I was still in the building as that smell still permeated everything along the way.

Wobble Woman flung open a door which caused the handle to fall off, which she kicked to teach it a lesson, the door I mean, I took a step back just in case I was supposed to have learned any lessons on the way. We were in a dingy room, even in daylight, every bar/hotel/nightclub in the universe is dingy. It looked as if a bomb had gone off and exploded material all over the room, no one garment was discernable as being wearable, I guess that accounted for her couture. She fell to rummaging in a large pile with occasional glances over her shoulder at me, I assume she was deciding if I was a size equating to the pile she was checking. With a flourish something black was stuffed under her armpit as she used two chairs to get to her feet, which I noted were tiny as is often the case with such upper measurements so that she appeared that if she put them together, she would look like a spinning top, this picture caused me to smile. “What the f--- are you laughing at?” I think it was the last time I smiled in her presence.

She threw the black thing at me and a couple dead mice or something. “You will have to try it on without the stocking, them ya gotta get yourself and you gotta have high heels, black, and I mean HIGH!” she opened her beady eyes wide to emphasize this point, very scary. “I’ve got stockings on!” I pointed out. “Bloody girls, FISHNET STOCKINGS!” she did the chin thing again as she muttered unflattering things .“Don’t just stand there, get into em, the boss has to check that you’ll do.” Do what??

I was still pondering the fishnet stocking item as I hid behind a precarious curtain held up with coat hangers, staples and safety pins. Firstly, I had to decide what it was I was supposed to get into! Yes, it was a black shiny…swimsuit? I turned it around a few times, found a crinkly zipper that went from one end to the other, not any great distance I might add and that looked like it was meant for someone with far more enviable dimensions than mine. Think of the transport, the hours, the pay and the school bills, I undressed down to my white Cottontail knickers and white cotton bra (we used to iron them into points back then). I pulled on the ‘swimsuit’ …..there was something badly wrong, the leg holes came up to above my hip bones, my cotton knickers stick out like frills, most of my bra was on show and I had to hold the top up or it would have fallen off me.

I stepped out from behind the curtain, the things you see when you don’t have a camera, her face went from red to purple and back again as she spluttered nothing intelligible. Without a word, she spun me around, unzipped the swimsuit, whipped off my bra,(to my horror) reached in and yanked my knickers up till I squeaked, zipped it all up again and tucked in the rest of the offending knickers. It was still falling off.

“God save us, give us it ‘ere.” As she again unzipped it, yanked it down around my ankles as I tried to preserve some dignity as I stepped out of it and I hid in the curtain. She marched to the big Singer sewing machine and muttering did things to it here and there. “Put it back on, why in the hell would he want you working ‘ere, we’ll be a laughing stock….” I stepped back into it, this time tucking up my knickers meself as she grabbed me out from my hiding place, zipped it up again, surveyed me from all directions, “looks like crap on a kitten” more rummaging, she came up with what looked like old nylon stockings which she proceeded to stuff under where my mythical cleavage was supposed to be. “Hah, that’s better, get in these heels, should fit near as dammit, and let me see.” She stepped back, the chins wobbled, a little more agreeably this time but her bulk blocked my view of the mirror.

She handed me what looked like a wire Alice band, with white cat ears on it, what? And a….tail? “You have to pin that on at night but take it off when it goes to the cleaners, don’t forget, better take you up to the boss to see, don’t know what he’s going to make of it, I can’t perform miracles….” I felt naked as I tottered in the high heels that were too big, I bent down, a mistake, took of the shoes, tucked bits of my anatomy and nylon back in as I muttered, I’ll put them back on when we get to the door” Wobbles flung open the boss’s door, “best I could do”. There was a silence; I thought well, there are other jobs, who cares… “OK, a change from all the fat broads around here, make sure she get’s the stockings, be here at 6 and be sure you have a few quid in change…for change, sign this, you get paid on Fridays, the roster is on the wall, you keep the tips, the punters are not allowed to touch you or give you a hard time, tell Barney the bouncer if they do. Good luck.” He went back to polishing his gold chains.

I headed back down the hall with Wobbles as I removed the shoes again. I only had a few hours to get the stocking and shoes, tell the kids I was working and make sure my neighbour (a Uni. student who could now study while getting paid). “Come and see me before you get started, I’ll check ya gear and ya can meet the girls” Scared? Who me? Terrified!

Part 4, I’m going as fast as I can……

I raced for the tram after turning back into a pumpkin, in other words, the normal me, headed back into Melbourne proper in search of ‘fishnet stockings’, like, where does one get these? We are still in the unenlightened ‘60’s remember, sporting goods store? Myers hosiery perhaps, our biggest dept. store, that sounds like a plan and I only have a few hours to do it all. “Do you have any black fishnet stockings, er, tights. In small please?” I asked politely.

The snotty looking shop girl stared at me like I had asked for grilled baby on toast. She looked down her nose, a considerable distance I might add, “this is Myers Departmental Store, the Ladies Hosiery section. WE do not cater for …….. that kind of… thing here.” Said she, dripping acid with emphasis on the ‘Ladies’. “Perhaps you could try one of those shops with the blacked out windows in Elizabeth St” I stared right back. “Perhaps you could give me directions to your favourite one, I can see that you would need some help with company.” I countered, stuck up cow. I vaguely knew what she meant but had no intention of visiting such a place….I had heard stories……. In the Kingo…

I have to think, fast, the clock is ticking, I needed help. I know, brain food! Woolworths cafeteria…..”1 jam and cream sandwich please and a spearmint milkshake.” This always worked for me! Damn the expense! Eat, drink, think.. I had it, the dance shops, you remember I’m sure about my very short sojourn in the ballet shop? They had all sorts of tights and things that I was not even sure what one did with them or how they went on, off and running….

“Black fishnet tights, do you have any?” I asked hopefully, “sure, small I guess, you want the good ones or the cheap ones?” Hell, well you guessed it, finances won, “the cheap ones please, what’s the difference anyway? They both look like an ounce of tangled fishing equipment.” The woman looked at me knowingly, although I wasn’t sure what she thought she knew, but I was sure she was wrong. Another giant step forward in ignorance. I added another item, mascara of the industrial kind and new nail polish, the one and only one I had was lump of Barbie pink plastic now. High heels!!! Money!!! I did have a pair but they were not quite as high as Wobbles suggested I wear, they will have to do till pay day or till I get fired, whichever comes first.

I got home, running, shower, do nails badly, tie up hair into a sort of tangly mess on top, what was a ‘Cat’ supposed to look like? Make up, hmm, a bit more of that mascara, I still looked like I was heading for a school play. Time to tackle the fishnets. Problem number one, knickers?? I asked the baby sitter, I hadn’t told her where I was working, just given her the phone number. She looked at me suspiciously with a major helping of curiosity, “bikini knickers bunched up” she suggested. Good one, I had some, well, 2 pair, better add that to the ‘to do’ list. Pulled on the fishnets…

Anyone out there of my venerable age ever done this? No? Well, when one tries to roll them down into ‘putting on’ position, ones fingers go through the netty holes making it impossible get untangled or drag them into place, and they go all peculiar over heels and knees, even worse, they had seams which of course needed to be straight, time was passing and I was getting nowhere. Threw the stockings into the bag with the shoes, on with a skirt, flat shoes, a coat, and headed for the door. “Wish me luck kids, be good, you have my number.”

Everything looked different at night, the building looked less decrepit but the neon lights did not do much to steady my nerves or the looks I was getting from the few prospective customers leaning on their cars in the parking lot. It was winter so it was dark as headed through the door just before 6, the noise level inside could lead one to think a fire drill was in progress as I stared around looking for the right corridor, just then, Wobbles appeared. “’B’out bloody time, just gunna tell the boss ya was a no show, why aren’t ya dressed? Bloody new girls, be the death of me, hurry up, still gotta get ya inta the gear and teach ya what to do, I don’t get paid enough….” I lost most of the rest as I ran following the billowing progress of her body heading down the hall nearing the main cause of the noise. She flung open the door, causing the door handle to fall off again, a common problem it seemed. The room seemed full of females of various heights but all of ample dimensions, all in the black swimsuit things, with their tights in place, mostly with straight seams, ears on heads, tails pinned a little haphazardly to their derriere’s, all tall in 4 inch heels and all now quiet as they stared at me.

“This is Paddy, new girl, you have to show her the ropes and for Gods sake, get her dressed!” She stormed out still muttering, kicking the recalcitrant door handle down the hall. A ‘comfortably’ covered girl, with flesh, not clothing, came over and asked if I had ever worked in this ‘sort’ of night club before. But without my answering a voice came from the back, “that’s a joke Paddy, we know the answer” as they all fell about laughing..”Never mind them, they’re OK, why haven’t you got your fishies on?” I explained, more laughing, but she was right, the girls were all nice as they commenced to show me how it was all done.

I felt like a puppet as they yanked my bikini’s into a painful position (thongs were still a figment of someone’s lurid imagination) they stared at where my bosom was supposed to be and I mentioned about the nylons, they all laughed and said they can do better than that, not all of them were actually as good as they looked. That brought some comfort to me. I was first to learn about ‘good or cheap’ in the way of fishies.

Cheap ones are made of black barbed wire held together with cobwebs! When one puts them on, holes appear as if some sort of internal starburst grenade let’s loose plus it’s like sticking your foot into sandpaper lined high heeled shoes that one is then expected to totter around in, at speed, with a smile on ones face for 6 hours and it must never falter. The good ones on the other hand, are not made of the aforementioned or suitable to be used as an insidious form of torture and can be worn by persons other than those with wooden legs. What do you think is now on top of my Friday shopping list? Thank God I was only to work two nights before Friday else I would have been in plaster.

That little learning experience was over and they had me stuffed, literally into my black cat swimming suit, with tail pinned on, my ears in place on an Alice band, my hair re-fluffed, my face made up, to my mind, like a 10 year old who’d fallen face first into her mother’s make up drawer but I was assured it was ‘perfect’ and last but not least, the nylon boosters were chucked in the bin and replaced below my lacking bosom with a handful each, of cotton balls with admonitions not, under any circumstances, to bend over, ONLY bend at the knees! Oh, and then my high heels, which brought forth many head shakes and “tch, tch’s”. Ok already, I will buy new ones on Friday, how much did he say he was paying me? I hope the tips are as good as they say, but looking at them and then at me, well…… here goes. The hallway loomed ahead of me as the girls laughed around me like so many fussing mothers.

I felt and doubtless looked liked I was walking the Green Mile to the gas chamber, I’d been stuffed, tucked, straightened, primped and pinned into my gear, my high heels were secured over the barbed wire stockings, my lippy was pink, my cheeks matched, the mascara weighed a ton and my hair was almost under control via my cat ears. “Smile” I was admonished by the girls, “here’s your tray, put the change on it and leave it on except when you get folding money, that you tuck down the front and never be in a hurry to give change, just keep smiling…when you get an order, don’t forget any of it, go straight to the bar at the back, Jack will give you the drinks, you pay him, run back to the table, tell them how much, dump the drinks, don’t spill any and mostly they will let you keep the change, especially if you smile and say, I’m so sorry, I’ll have to go back to the bar , I don’t have enough change, oh, and more smiling!” Well, that was it for training, 5 minutes.

I came to a halt behind the girls in front of me who were already into ‘work’ mode, smiles in place, a good sashay going, saying hello to their regular customers.
I was stunned at the number of people in the place, every table and chair seemed occupied, all lined up in neat rows running up towards a small stage where an indifferent band seem to play nothing recognizable to me. One of the girls ran back to me, “forgot to tell you, we each have a row of tables, you have the one along this wall because it’s closest to the hall and bar till you get the hang of it. DON’T take orders anywhere else!! If they insist, you just pass it to the right girl or else you will be in trouble, but it’s OK if you are asked to cover but you still have to hand over any tips and don’t you forget it!” OK I’ll add it to the other things I’m forgetting already.

I watched the other girls, then I started walking down ‘my’ aisle, again with that naked feeling that I was getting familiar with as all the eyes seemed follow me as they all knew I was new and I never felt newer in my life, but not for long as orders started coming my way, fast and furious. I smiled till my face ached, I dodged hands, and smiled, I countered questions and suggestions, at least in this field, I was an old hand and continued to smile……Everything seemed to be done at a run, dodging, something that is a talent in 4 inch heels and should be included in the Olympics, whilst not spilling drinks or change and of course, smiling.

The night was passing quickly and I was patting myself on the back at having no disasters, the folding money tips were bolstering my ‘itsy bitsy bosom’, my row of customers were not too bad a lot and had got the drift of the house rules of ‘no touchee’ really did apply and were happy enough with giving me a good natured verbal hard time, when suddenly, the boss got on the packing pallet of a stage and I noticed the other girls gradually coming to a halt then moving towards the stage, I wondered if this some sort of Zombie power produced by Greeks wearing gold chains as one of them signaled to me to get my cats tail over there as well! What the hell was this about?? Wait for it……

I was nudged to the middle of the lineup facing the rabid gallery, the usual ‘I’m smallest so…” but why? The girls on either side were laughing and one took pity on me, “just do what we do”. What they did? What were they going to do? I didn’t know how to do anything, at least not in cat ears, a swimsuit and 4 inch heels! I tried asking as the band started and drowned me out as the girls on either side dropped their trays behind them, so did I, then linked arms trapping me securely in the middle as I think they knew there was a chance I might bolt, they were right, I would have…

The boss was finishing up doing his toady act and had now apparently finished as the band changed tunes to something vaguely familiar…as…the girls….started to …….sing?? I might have the odd talent but I definitely, positively and undoubtedly, cannot sing….not a note…not even Happy Birthday and now I was expected to join in singing……”I left my little brown eyed girl, down by the RIVERSIDE!!!” With me in the line up, it turned into a comedy routine, I opted for a quick tap dance instead, still linked, not easy in heels, but it worked! Everyone was laughing…. And the tips rolled in.

Once the terror wore off and the realization that no one really gave a damn if I sang or not, my working life actually became enjoyable. New ‘fishies’ were bought on pay day and I was able to walk and smile at the same time at last. In those days, the customers seemed to still understand the now complicated meaning of the word of “no”, and never pushed their luck as our ever present and protective Barney bouncer took his job and his charges seriously, walking us all to our cars or in my case, the tram. So all those knowing looks I used to get if anyone knew where I worked were without foundation, indeed, I had none of the trouble I had experienced in some of the office jobs I had had or was still to have and man, was the money good!!!

I’d only been there about 5-6 weeks, just getting my tap steps perfected and my side stepping organized to Ginger Rogers class, I was up to date with my bills, kids were happy, I had a day job as well and……..I was head hunted! Or should that be tail or ear hunted?

WOW, ME A BUNNY? NOW THAT IS REALLY FUNNY, I THINK

One night at the Riverside Inn, sitting alone, in my row, in an up market suit and looking entirely out of place which was rather peculiar in light of the following conversation. I stopped at his table as he held up an empty glass, the world wide SOS, “another Scotch and Dry sir?” says I, smiling of course, “Just Coke and a minute of your time.” I immediately launched into the well practiced speech of how we cannot pass time with our patrons, lovely as they are etc. etc. when he held up a hand a la Policeman, hmm, was he a policeman? “Do you have a break? If so, I can meet you outside or after work? I have a proposition for you!” Oh my, how unusual, how original, God save me from wankers, even well dressed non drunk wankers were not acceptable. I started to repeat myself slowly in case he was a bit slow or deaf when I was treated to ‘halt, do not proceed’ thing again which was now really getting on my wick and I had other customers…. Without any preamble I said, “I’ll get your coke, SIR or the bouncer?”…..”Coke would be fine”

But an hour later he was still there as I only spent the minimum of time as required, but with a smile and politely! He had another try or two to organize ‘talk time’ which I side stepped, he stood as I drew level, well, I was level with his pocket hanky but he effectively blocked the aisle. “Miss, I am not here to pick you up or make a date, I am here to offer you a job!” with this he looked around as if looking for an “off” carcass “rather better than….this! Here is my card, please call me tomorrow and my secretary will set up an appointment. Good night.” With that, he turned on his heel and left as I stared at the card. Something in the name rang a bell, then I saw the tiny emblem in the corner, in gold, I was being head hunted by a bunny hunter!!

I ummed and ahhed about the whole thing as I was thinking of a finite date to just do the day job, but, no harm in going to see what’s what and it was likely to be my one and only chance to see inside Australia’s 1st Playboy club, in South Yarra. I had the day job so 6pm, after work was the appointed hour. I was in my prim office outfit, but, just in case, I had on THE heels. I was shown into the well outfitted fella’s office by a blonde who was doomed to turn to into a chubby bubby producer who tried her best to rattle me by looking like she knew something I didn’t, in actual fact I don’t think she knew anything more, or maybe even less, than my cat!
“How do you like working at … that place?” Mr. Zoot Suit said with a twitch of his finely sculptured nostrils. “Actually, I like it very well, the patrons are polite and generous, the boss runs a tight ship and the bouncer is big, what more could one want, except perhaps being able to wear socks instead of ‘fishies’.” He stared at me with his mouth open, “That was a joke.” My, my, this was going well. He seemed to recover and I noticed, not for the first time, that he bore a stunning resemblance to a fish, maybe that was why he took offence…….and I think he was perhaps a little…artistic….probably a good thing in his job.

The pay structure was explained, nothing very radical there, I was taken to the dressing rooms to see the costumes, unlike the Inn, they came in a variety of colours and the ‘dresser’ had none of the flair of our old one, this bag was a carefully coiffed, grey haired pouter pigeon who mistakenly thought she was at the Old Vic. She stared at me with one beady eye, giving credence to the pigeon idea….”Hmmm, yes, quite a challenge wouldn’t you say? I don’t think I have anything in the wardrobe that……small.” Yeah well, fluff your feathers all you like, I’ll make more money with a powder puff attached than feathers. The Mr. Boss cut in “I think pink perhaps, send her up when she is ready.” What, did he think I was a piece of toast?

The same rigmarole was gone through re. the fitting, the fishies, which they had on hand, the hair fluffy thing, the ridiculous ears and worse still, the stupid little collar and bow tie, like, who’s idea was that? Anyway, my outfit was fitted, I was encased, there seemed rather ‘less’ of it and still not more of me, so the pigeon had to get even more creative, with foam rubber this time, oh the shame of it all! But all was done, I looked in the mirror and… laughed, I looked like one of those washing machine/fridge ads in the Women’s Weekly magazine, with the make up and flippy blonde hairdo, I had this burning urge to go into a “My, I love my new fridge, just feel how smooth and shiny it is, and now I have more time to dress up for my darling generous husband.” Or something like that.

OK, get serious, this was serious, I was led back up the yellow brick road, past the business section, namely the bar and restaurant area ,it could have been a million others, except it was new, but I knew that within a week of opening, it would smell the same as all the others. Mr. Zoot eyed me up and down, but at least I knew there was nothing personal in it. “Yes, very good, you will make a nice change from….the usual.” As he glanced at the Chubby Bubby, “You will act with decorum whilst inside the premises, otherwise, we do not actually have any control over what you do. We will see you at 6 sharp on Thursday.”

Hmm, now that’s interesting, OK, I’ll be there, curiosity was indeed one of my failings, but I didn’t need to have a cricket score IQ to know this job was going no where and quick. But I was there at 6, and boy oh boy, where the girls snotty! Not a bit like the friendly Inn, I struggled into the outfit, they made them so tight that if one was serious about this a career then having ones lowest ribs removed would be a ‘must do’. The other girls all seemed to be about 6ft tall, especially in heels, I know I had on 4 inch heels as well but that only made 5’4” and plus, I reckon I could have honed my knife on most of these gal’s. The general attitude seemed to be of naked ambition and everyone was competition.

The tip money was staggering, as were the offers, I killed these by saying my children would love to meet them! But as an experience, it was without equal, the competition was like ice mist, and a lot of it was directed at me. They actually tried to trip/bump/elbow me, but they made the mistake of confusing small with helpless. Having tipped one of my main antagonists into the aisle, I ‘fell’, on top of her, tipping my tray of drinks down her ears and cleavage and put on my best ‘poor liddle ‘ol me’ look which brought a multitude of help which I monopolized, leaving the big, wet, buxom lump trying to get her heels back under her without losing her wet costume and trying to get one floppy pink ear out of her eyes.

Job satisfaction? Zero, it sucked , but money wise, fantastic, but to me, the cost was too great and it was only a matter of time before one of the vampires got me. The whole place seemed to be nothing but a marriage bureau but with only one side knowing it. One month, that was it, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, could I have married that old guy with the yacht etc? Sure I could, if I was hog tied and drugged, no, there was a queue for him and others of his ilk and you still see vampires in their Mercedes, beige hair, driving gloves, what do they all have in common? They all look miserable.

Just as a footnote to those thinking they ‘know’ about those sort of jobs and the people who do them, I applied at one time, not long after that, for a position of Customers Relations Personnel for one of the biggest car rental companies, world wide. I liked the nifty little suits, and the chance to drive cars I couldn’t afford and hopefully, meet interesting people and not be bored. I arrived for my interview, all went well, until….”It is very important that our loyal clientele are kept happy, that is why we pay so well,” a big phony smile as he patted his carefully waved hair, “sometimes our visiting customers like a little company, you know, dinner, that sort of thing and our regular customers are all very nice and often…generous…but of course, it’s up to you..I suppose.” Another leer. I looked at him, trying not to show my fury, “I’m sure you must be kept busy with the not so choosy ladies, but I was under the impression that procuring was against the law you over tanned sleaze bag, I’ll call you when I need a hire car, cheap!”

I’ve had an abhorrence of ‘suits’ ever since, but that reminds me when I got that job at………………

HI HO, HI HO, IT'S OFF TO WORK I GO

Pat Jones
HI HO, HI HO, ITS OFF TO WORK WE GO, OR, HERE TODAY AND FIRED TOMORROW!

Everyone loves to compete as to who has had the most/least/best/worst jobs, am I right? Of course I am, not only that, I’m an expert, of course I got an early start, back in the days of zilch unemployment when no one asked questions, or very few, they were just grateful that someone applied for the advertised position, even if, in my case the applicant was 14! Oh yeah, Australia in the ‘60’s, what a different world it was then……

Generally it was the done thing to kind of makeup ones C.V., at the interview, as one went along, using complicated psychological profiling by guess work, of one’s maybe prospective employer. In other words, what were they looking for in a new employee, and then just…. be Miss Perfect! So easy!!

Technically, I was still pursuing my great training stint to face the world as a useful and dedicated soon to be, member of the workforce, doing a 3 months course (I figured that would be enough for a cutting edge know-it-all like me), which establishment of higher education did I select and why, to fulfill this aim? The Evelyn Ashby School of Business (it was the cheapest) on the 2nd floor of the Block Arcade in Melbourne city ,one reached the 2nd floor via a lift in a black wrought iron cage, operated by a big brass and black enamel lever that looked like something from a horror movie as it rattled, jerked and swayed on it’s way aloft, where upon we had to wrestle the gates open to make our way down a brown hall, with pretend marble patterned brown linoleum, to sit in a cramped cream and brown room at long tables all lined up with the instruments of torture, to be taught by the epitome of officialdom, a permed, blue rinsed, twin set and pearled on the top half with a pencil slim skirt of a demure length over the stockings and sensibly heeled court shoes, oh, and specs, that when annoyed, were removed tapped against her teeth, which meant of course that all conversation with me was interrupted by tapping.

What had I selected to be my new vocation, I know you are just dying to know.
typing and comptometry, that one got ya? Never heard of the word? Nor will you ever again, we are nearly all dead. Any remaining machines are in museums, I think they were invented about the late 1800’s and basically never changed much. The other marvelous machine, that’s a joke, known as a typewriter…yes….the ones with the carriage and the roller that one had to feed paper in all by one’s self, a lever to slam sideways to make the carriage go back to the beginning of the next line and big keys that one had to hammer to get the desired effect through an inky cloth ribbon on two spools that needed frequent changing, a feat impossible to accomplish without getting ink from a—hole to breakfast time! And, one was expected to churn out reams of copies, using carbon paper, letters and stencils for the Roneo machine and, expected to do all this without making mistakes. Delete buttons, spell checks or back spacer, oh no, just an eraser that showed up when one made a correction and generally meant that one would be told to go back and do the whole bl--dy thing again! The stencils on the other hand, where long, multi layered, waxy things that could only be corrected by using a kind of pink wax clag, also outstanding, to ensure your marks would be in the toilet. No, no little box that came up on screen asking you politely how many copies you wanted. Oh God, it was truly ‘orrible and I was truly ‘orrible at it and I hated the whole thing! Just imagine if I had decided to add shorthand to this!

This furthering of my education had to be paid for in some way, I was only recently returned from Ireland, like, a few weeks, so I was still living with my Mommy dearest, who was just as unhappy with the arrangement as me, although she was very relieved that I had decided on becoming self sufficient as she had no intention of delving into her wages for my upkeep, and the idea of my going back to school on my return was never raised. So, I needed something, immediately, that brought in some money, however meagre, added to the problem , it could not be a regular day job as I was at good ol’ Evelyn’s Monday to Thursday and as this was way before 24/7 shopping, the options were limited. Even I could see that the usual recourse of desperate females in need of part time work in this age of the Dinosaurs, hotel/waitressing etc. no McDonalds even, was not an option, so that left ….. retail.
There was a Coles Variety Store as they were then called, in Box Hill, where mother still lived, and they notoriously were not too picky, in those days, there was no option, staff were in short supply! I asked to see the ‘employment ‘lady’; I had dressed especially grown-up, a pleated grey skirt, white blouse, white socks and my trusty old t-bar school shoes. Cool man … I was eventually shown into a dingy room with a couple of little sort of school desks and a bigger desk where I supposed the grown–up would sit. I was surprised to see a few other girls, all older than me, already seated, so I was forced into the front row. I think I was the youngest there by years!

In marched the ‘employment lady’ who turned out to be a man, which is always good I had already discovered. He gave a small lecture about the joys of working for Coles to a totally silent and disbelieving audience; we might have been young but not sheltered workshop material, just desperate. He trailed off and gave up on the hard sell, passed out a couple of sheets of printed paper and a pencil each. A quick scan showed it to be an exam, of sorts, could we count past the number of fingers and toes we had and if we took away one foots worth, how many would be left and if we added someone else’s hand to it, what’s the total. If you were given X amount of money and you had to give change from a 5 pound note for an item costing 2 pound…..you get it eh? Plus another sheet on English comprehension……………. This must be what it’s like for your working life if you have an I.Q. akin to the average golf handicap, not my golf handicap, which would mean genius level. I got the job, yeah! Part time, Friday all day and Saturday till 12.30pm. I think I was paid something like 10 shillings, less tax, that made it necessary to do a little creative calculating and change giving to make ends meet. Where did the Coles Emporium choose to place their newest and youngest employee? Hell, that’s where, in other words, Haberdashery.

Now 14 year olds are, in general, not all that good with old people, at this stage, anyone over the age of 30 fell into that category, and you may be amazed to know that no one, hardly ever, comes to the Haberdashery counter unless they are Zimmer frame licensed….”girlie, give me a foot of that red ribbon…..no, no, the narra one….no ya stupid girl, not THAT narra! No, better make a foot and a half, better give me 6 of dem shirt buttons, the PEARL ones, ah, the young ones…” Noise of teeth grinding on my part. “one shilling and tuppence Madam” Look of shock on old bags face…”Daylight robbery! Put the buttons back…” and so on like that, but I did manage to add the odd penny or shilling here and there and sometimes my change counting into the waiting hand would be a little creative, but I wasn’t much of a Robbing Hood, I did only ‘make mistakes’ while counting to those who could obviously afford it, or if it was some boy running an errand for Gran and not paying attention, let him take the rap!

But Mr. Coles did see me through Evelyn Ashby’s, with what I had left of the pocket money me Gran sent back with me to Aus, I just made it, if I only ate once a day! The big exam day came, now this was serious stuff, because I needed that piece of paper that said I would be a God send to the boss or something and if the marks were right up there, it might mean a couple of more shillings in the pay packet!
After 3 months, no one, even me, thought I would make the grade to enter the ranks of the early cybertrons…. as a Copy Typist! For this, one needed to be fast, not make mistakes, do what one is told without question, no matter how stupid by someone who is likely wielding a whip and has little lightning bolts on their collars. You didn’t have to be Einstein to figure that boat was never going to float. So that left me and the vintage machine to do battle, and I had devoted the last 6 weeks to conquering this thing of numbers. Miss Ashby, there was no Ms. In those days and it seemed inconceivable that she would ever be a Mrs. was very particular how one attacked the Comptometer. One must always sit ramrod straight, no ergonomically c
orrect chairs here ya softies, and ones fingers, all 8 must be poised above the keys, with the wrists just so…..whilst at the same time clutching a sharpened pencil in ones right hand thumb, ready to jot down the results of the many little boxes that whizzed and rattled as one hit the keys with the magic eight finger stab, all working at once with the little finger doing double duty if one had a 10 or more keys across machine.

I know you will be utterly shocked at this, I was, but I was good at it, I didn’t like it but it beat typing, actually, ditch digging beat typing, and lo and behold, I topped the class. Hallelujah Lord, I had me bit of paper and I was free to inflict myself on some unsuspecting employer!

Bought the Age newspaper, the biggest and still is, when it comes to classifieds, put circles around everything that said “Good Pay”, then went back through to knock out all of those that said “Experience essential” and “Must have shorthand” or “Copy Typing” or over 18! OK, now I had about 15 possibles left. No, that one’s no good, it’s the other side of town, work Saturdays! Ya gotta be kidding, shift work, nah, trial period, uh ah, no, decision time….. Let’s try this one, you have to remember, I was still 14, trying hard to look at least 3 years older, weighed in on today’s scale, 38 kilo’s and no, no anorexia for this little black duck, just no money! I was also not too into makeup, or clothing, the money thing again, and I had none of the necessary ‘bumps’ to improve the looks of blouses/dresses, my hair still had remnants of frizz from that failed perm in Ireland. So you can see, this might be considered a bit of a challenge to accomplish the acquisition of a good paying job!
The Modern Printing Co. up the far end of Elizabeth St in Melbourne, just near Victoria Markets, on the tramline, vital if I was to get there, close to cheap food, as for the rest, guess I would find out when I went for my 1st real interview, I wasn’t counting Coles. These were the days of ‘walk-in interviews’, so I dressed as appropriately as my means allowed, attempted to tame the hair in some sort of business-like do, even put on some make up (me mums) to try and back up my claim to being ‘nearly 16’ and headed off to try my luck. I must have looked terrible, but I was not above playing the ‘pathetic waif’ card if needed.
THIS OUTFIT WAS THE STUFF OF DREAMS ALONG WITH 'WHISPIE' SHOES, I DID GET'EM EVENTUALLY!

I found the forbidding looking red brick Vic. Building with grills on the windows, looking for all the world like a prison, something I am very familiar with, thanks Dad, or a home for wayward girls, not promising. Swallowed hard and marched in, clutching my 1st place pass, “I have come to see about the job advertised” I announced with as much confidence as I could muster. The room I was in, having passed through the glass door that said ‘Office’, had an assortment of what looked like office furniture rejects as nothing matched like it did in the magazines, the walls painted that good old favourite, dirty cream, about 8-9 ‘girls’ sat at the said desks, all sneaking a look at me with what look suspiciously like pity. Along the back wall were little cubicles, bottom half brown plywood and for 2 foot above that, frosted glass, no doors and a glassed in office at the end with the door firmly shut which I took to be the big boss. One girl at the nearest desk said, “stay there, I will get her”, hmm, I wondered what “her” was like, they all looked like deer caught in spot lights, as the girl went to one of the cubicles, muttered and pointed and scurried back to her coal face.

I continued to stand there hoping from one foot to the other, trying not to look like I did not belong, except I didn’t know what ‘belong’ looked like as I waited, and waited and just as I had decided to run, with perfect timing, out marched a woman straight out of Hitchcock, grey suit from 2 decades ago, shirt, lisle stockings, lace up lumpy heeled shoes, graying hair in a tight bun and, poor woman, a mass of scars all down the left side of her face.“You the girl applying for the job? You look a bit young, you had any experience? Where do you live? Can you type? What about figures? Can you do what you’re told? I don’t allow any slacking here. You would have to do the rounds of the factory, are you scared of working men? Well, answer me girl, you haven’t even told me your name, are you dumb or what?” She managed all of this in one breath, so how she had expected me to answer was beyond me, what should I answer ”yes, no, Box Hill, yes, yes, no, no and no”? I decided to try diplomacy, “Paddy, here’s my references from Business School” I offered, trying to sound older….She studied the paper, handed it back and said “I’ll give you a try, be here tomorrow morning, 8 o’clock sharp, if your late, don’t bother coming. How old did you say you were?” I got it! Yeah!! I think…

On the strength of it, I treated myself to a fish and chips wrapped in good old newspaper, man, did they taste good, it probably meant that I would not eat till pay day but hell, PAY DAY, didn’t that sound good, and what was the pay? 2 pound 5 shillings a week. I could hardly sleep for terror, how long would it take me to get to work? What if I was late? So I was off at the crack of dawn, well, almost, and was standing at the door by 7.45. The other girls dribbled up to door, it was freezing and no shelter to stand in and hardly anyone spoke, especially to me, so I tried, “what is she like to work for?” “You’ll find out, how old did you tell her you were?”, the conversation lapsed as I neglected to answer the question as just then the Fraulein arrived with neither a look nor a word to any of us as she unlocked the door via a large set of keys on a chain, probably attached by a hook to her 3rd rib. I was looking forward to getting inside with still 5 minutes to go but as soon as she cleared the door, it was slammed and re-locked behind her as the girls smirked knowingly at my disbelieving face. It was re-opened dead on the stroke of 8.

My first day of actual real work not comprised of measuring ribbon and counting buttons, was a nightmare! They say you never forget your first one, but I don’t think this was what they meant. ‘Miss.’ that was the only acceptable form of address to our keeper I discovered, she indicated the most battered desk and chair on the floor, in the one and only draw was a pencil, a pen, one step up from a quill, a ruler and an eraser. No typewriter, that’s a plus, or comptometer even, so what was I supposed to do? “Come with me” as she spun on her sensible heels, turning the scarred part of her face from me, I was shown a row of wire baskets at least a 100 years old in which resided various coloured folders, on the baskets were labels of what were apparently departments throughout the factory, which lay behind the office and now, for the first time, I heard and felt, the machinery that was the means by which we were able to be paid.

“But the 1st job you do EVERY morning is dust your desk thoroughly, and where all your filing baskets are kept, with this!” Like a conjuror, she turned from me and spun back wielding a big feather duster that must have belonged Dickens housekeeper! “Don’t just stand there girl, do it! Then I will introduce you to your predecessor to show you your job.” Dusting was not something I had been trained in, so I sort of flung it around a bit and made dust bunnies everywhere behind the back of the ‘Miss’.

“This is Jimmy, he’s leaving us, been late twice, you will be taking his place, he will show you where and when you have to deliver these important job orders and other vital paperwork to the Dept’s and they MUST be handed to the foreman of every one or it will be the worse for you, they will also give you papers to return here, to be sorted by department into the baskets outside my office, don’t drop them, don’t lose them, and don’t mix them up. Remember what is to happen to Jimmy!” She said as her eyes bored into me. Jimmy meanwhile, was grinning from ear to ear behind her back. Although she made it sound like he was to be drawn and quartered.
Jimmy crooked a finger at me and headed off having grabbed the handful of papers and files from the baskets, “how old did you say you are?”, “I’m nearly 16” I said with conviction, he just laughed, I hate boys….”Come on, if we don’t get this done and you taught the ropes, I will have to stay days longer with the Warden.” He was still laughing as we headed down a hall, out a door, across a manky yard as the noise level rose with every step. We made it through a steel door and it reminded me horribly of visiting my father in prison when they slammed the series of doors and gates behind me on visiting days, making a ripple of goose bumps head to foot, that was when the noise really hit me!

It was truly like entering hell, I knew Jimmy was talking to me but I could only see his lips moving, not hear a word he said, it was like being bombarded by concussion grenades! Jimmy leaned over, cupping a hand to my ear ”you’ll get used to it”, I suppose that was a joke as we made it to the first station of the cross which was a massive area with massive machines all grinding, clanging, whirring and banging. A huge man in overalls ambled over to us, all the while giving me the once over with his beady little pig eyes, this guy was never going to be on my Christmas card list, “what ya got for me Jimmy and who this little bit ya got with ya?” “I told you, I’m escaping, this is Paddy, she is taking my place, you be nice Bert.”

The concept of Bert being nice seemed to be beyond human imagination, Jimmy handed me some files pointing out Bert’s name on them and then pointing to two baskets, IN and OUT, OK, got that, and so it went throughout the factory with various versions of the same hell and other versions of Bert except for the Storeroom keeper, a sweet old fella who always had an encouraging word for me, plus it felt like one had gone deaf on entering his almost silent enclave after the noise of printers, guillotines, forklifts and other nameless noisy machines. On thinking back, I do not recall seeing a single pair of ear muffs or anything of the sort, so I assume they were all stone deaf within a week of starting the job. But in my very short time there, one of those who task it was to tend to these hideous machines lost a couple of fingers in their service. Hell!

So my working life began, dusting, doing the rounds, filing what I brought back, half hour for lunch, doing the rounds again etc. then knock off. I don’t recall ever speaking directly to Bert, I got used to the cat calls, whistles and chiaking from the harmless factory hands, a smile and wave kept them cheerful and they kept the not so harmless in line for me. Does it sound like my career was on the up and up? No, wrong, I lasted 4 days, the Fraulein said that Bert had made a complaint about me being ‘rude’ to him. “You mean because I wouldn’t let him within a foot of me?” …. “You had better remember he is above you girl!” …. “Only if he was hanging in a tree…” That was as far as I got before 4 days pay was handed to me and the door opened…. ah well, at least I could now say I had experience, I wonder if she would give me a reference? Hmmm, maybe not…..

PART 2

Moving right along….I was in no position to lallygag…I needed a job by day’s end so as I walked through one of the arcades in Melbourne considering my next move, I happened to pass a tiny shop at the skinny end of the arcade with a sign in the window “Girl Wanted” Hey, I’m perfect! I then looked to see what kind of shop it was..a…Ballet?? Shop? Oh well, how hard can it be? “Hello, I saw the sign in the window”….”What do you know about ballet?”…..”I’ve been to the Ballet with my Gran, and I always wanted to learn but couldn’t afford it” I put on my best waif look, the rest was all a lie. “Guess we could give you a try, at least you are skinny so you look the part”

OK, I was in, an endless stream of stage mothers with lumpy daughters and few peculiar sons came and went wanting ballet slippers/toe shoes/leotards/tutu’s…the boys generally did not get tutu’s, but they looked longingly at them. They had a storeroom in an attic above the shop that was reached by a ladder leading through a hole in the ceiling next door and I reckon that was why I was hired, I was the only one that would fit through the hole! So I ran up and down ladders, fitted skinny pink and black kid dance slippers on fat little feet of children with snotty mothers. My creative version of sales meant that I thought the pink slippers looked great on me and my couple of pairs were to last me a couple of years as…slippers! I bought the Age newspaper the day after.

On the 3rd day during my lunch break, I went for an interview at T.M.Burkes, Real Estate Agent, on the corner of Collins and Elizabeth Streets; I think they were on about the 8th floor of one of the older buildings. I had a new dress that I had ‘found’ in a fitting room in Myers bargain basement, in the children’s wear section, yup, still no figure to fill grown up dresses. I was learning about interviews, smile a lot, sound like this was your dream job, say yes to everything even though you knew they did not believe you and gloss over why you had no references, they didn’t really want to know anyway. “You said your 16, really?” I’m sure that was a rhetorical question don’t you? The pay was better, nearly 3 pounds!! Headed back to the Ballet shop, said thanks and goodbye, picked up my 3 days of wages at the end of the day and prepared to start the new phase in the morning!

Another day, another job, was this how it was for everyone I wondered for a minute or two? But on arrival and the usual running of the gauntlet, the males weighing up my age, the females weighing the competition, that one only took a second, bitches! I had a desk, I was in charge of the petty cash, how crazy are these people? I was also the gopher; I was to run any errands, things to the Post Office, to Lawyers offices, ads to newspapers, plans to Architects etc. I loved being able to get out of the office and I would literally run everywhere, that way I still had time to window shop and I would still be back within a ‘normal’ period. I had of course met Alan by now, and he was working at the Herald newspaper on the other side of the city, but by judicious use of company phones we often found we were running messages to similar areas and found time for the occasional milk shake or sandwich, as both of us never had any money, it was usually by the good graces of one or others petty cash which would then have to be replaced on payday.

A few weeks into this job, hey, what a record! There I was daydreaming and looking out the office window at the new construction site across from our office on the opposite corner where a huge (to my eyes in the early 60’s) building was going up. It was to be much, much taller than ‘mine’, but at this stage, it was just a skeleton, all girders and beams with concrete just being poured on lower floors with enormous cranes in it’s centre lifting ever more steel girders now way above the level of where I was standing on the 8th floor, workers were everywhere, walking along beams, shinning up corner columns, lifting, fetching, carrying, all like an army of ants. The crane many floors above was lifting and swinging more steel girders towards the men waiting on the edge.

I remember thinking that they could not pay me enough to even go up there let alone stand on the edge or work on the beams like they did, I thought them all to be amazing that they could do this, when all of a sudden I could hear a sound, a noise like grinding metal, I pressed my face against the glass to try to see or hear better what it was, as others around me gradually stopped what they were doing, the chatter and typewriters falling silent…I looked up at the crane, and like a huge metal Triffid, it seemed to turn and twist, looming over the workers with the steel beams hanging from its ‘tongue’, it gradually folded as if to lay down, then everything sped up, it collapsed with an earsplitting roar onto the building as it folded around it, beams, concrete, girders, barrows and worst of all, men…..falling off and through the building… It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds but I doubt anyone drew a breath as it all became silent again…then the sirens and the screaming started….we just stood there, horrified, most of us crying, one woman fainted, others were phoning for ambulances, Police, anything…they seemed to arrive in an instant. Astoundingly, only 3 were killed but so many injured, I doubt anyone forgot the scene and the dreadful feeling of uselessness…

I thought I was going along in this job famously, I had managed not to get in any fights, I stayed out of the way of those likely to trigger the above, I made sure the petty cash balanced again on pay day, and I was the fastest gopher they ever had. The only unease was the continued silent attention of the Real Estate salesmen, but you girls will know what I mean when I say I felt a shower would be nice after walking the length of the typists viper pit. I made sure I avoided all eye contact and anything else that could be misconstrued as encouragement. Until….one day, I was leaning over my desk trying to work out how come there was only a couple of coins in the petty cash, did I really spend that much? I blame this problem solving concentration as the reason I did not hear the footsteps approach from behind.

This all sounds absurd today, in this era of protectionism, but then, it was everyman for himself and all the cattle, that’s us, were theirs, if they could just corral them. I suddenly and without warning, found myself pinned against the hard edge of my desk with one of the salesmen doing the pinning, he had one hand on the desk and the other around my..upper torso…full body contact if you get me drift ”let go and get off me, NOW”…. “Aw, don’t be like that, I’m just being friendly!”…as he became…more friendly…I picked up the heavy glass ashtray of my desk that I used as a paper weight, hefted it and slammed it down as hard as I could, given the constraints I was under, on the hand that he was using to brace himself on the desk.

The result was instant, on a number of levels, he started screaming at me, the typists varied from shock/horror to falling about laughing, the other bull elephants all rushed to their injured herd member whilst I stood my ground with my righteous, mulish look in place and feeling entirely justified in my actions, as I rearranged my attire and dignity. The call came almost immediately, one of the typing tarts rushed up “”The Boss wants to see you, NOW”, good, I will be able to tell him what an A—hole his salesman is and then he will really be in trouble. Yeah, you know it don’t you? I marched towards the sacred sanctum of the Boss, “You cannot go around assaulting our sales executives with a weapon!” What? Me? Who Assaulted who? .. “Hey, he assaulted me!!”…. “Don’t be ridiculous, you are just the junior office girl.” I tell ya, if I’d had that ashtray in my hand, I think I would have been done for murder…great..I was fired of course.. but this was different, this was a lesson I never forgot and one of my Gran’s favourite sayings, “Vengeance is meal best eaten cold” in future, sneaky would be my by-word. But it would not be the last time I ‘left’ a job for similar reasons.

I was financially driven to take a series of equally doomed efforts at gainful employment, although I had now learned that it was much more beneficial for me to jump rather than be pushed, that way, one walked straight into another job, with a reference! I always thought 9-5 was supposed to be boring…….so…..what now?

PART 3

I took yet another mind numbing retail job in the interim, I hated it but the pay was good as I thought about the ‘what now’ question. I was still living at home, I use the word advisedly, that is, with my mother and by now, we had moved to Sth. Melbourne. A one bedroom hovel, so that meant that I was sleeping on the couch, which I shared with a cat that was so fond of me that it often brought me ‘presents’ in the night. I would wake to the Claw Dance being performed on my chest (anyone with cats will know what I’m talking about) and making “look what I brought you!” noises, I would try keeping my eyes shut in the hope that it was a bad dream and that it would all go away……but no, the present was always a mouse or worse… whereupon I would leap to my feet in one move in the hope that this would be accomplished without the Great Tabby Hunter dropping it’s present on me. But I digress, in other words, this was not working at all well, even though I handed over a small portion of my meager earnings, even though I was unsure what for, as there was never any food, she couldn’t cook or clean, I did my own washing of course and I tried very hard never to be there except to sleep. So I really had to make an effort to bite my tongue, get a good job, KEEP it and get out!

To this end, I was scouring the paper with diligence and only looking for jobs that I might have a chance of keeping and of the job keeping me, at least well enough to enable me to move out, I really hadn’t thought about the technicalities of this idea. My motto…have idea…do it…! I never thought that there might be problems that could prove ‘difficult’, at least at my age.

Circle, circle, no, needs experience, over 18…maybe?? Look in mirror…nah. Only boy need apply, look in mirror…maybe? Minimum wage….no, door to door sales, oh yeah sure, needs a drivers license, and on and on. Some likely starters were listed, phoned and I even went to some interviews, but this time, instead of just grabbing the 1st one that said “OK, you’ll do”, I actually asked questions, looked at who I would be working for and what I would have to do. After a week of this, I had been offered 5 jobs which I had rejected, I had not even waited for an answer on 7 others…and then… I phoned for an interview at the Australian Wool Board in St. Kilda Rd. when it was still one of the most beautiful streets in Melbourne.

I took a ‘sickie’ from my current method of keeping body and soul together to go for the interview. Clutching the address, the name of the person who was to conduct the interview, who sounded somewhat reluctant, in my hand as I boarded the tram. I had lashed out and bought a pair of stockings, not pantyhose, they were yet to come, that also meant one needed a suspender belt! Now I know what you’re thinking, ravishing items of lace, elastic, leopard skin print and dangling contraptions with dinky bows on which to hook black silk stockings….well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this scenario could not be further from that one! My financial restraints were such that the only one I could afford was a basic piece of elastic, with hooks for the doing up of, with four dangling bits of elastic with the business ends attached to enable yours truly to hook her new, just above the quality of socks, nylon stockings! The price of these decorative items was closely related to the fineness of same, thick and serviceable = cheap, fine and delectable = expensive. But I felt I was making a more adult statement, new stockings teamed up with my ‘found’ first padded bra, easy to acquire when one went into a big store without one on to begin with, but the stockings and holder upperer’s meant no eating for two days, and that dress.

“Hey, you there little girl, that’s the place your looking for, next to the Blind school, get a move on” OK, that’s the place, but it looks like a block of flats (apartments) about 4 stories high, is this the right place? I was panicking now as it was 5 mins. to my appointment time, I galloped up the drive way to the entrance to the building, very un-adult like, inside was a row of letter boxes…..Yes, Yes…The Australian Wool Board! Up the stairs, there was the door with the name I was looking for, why was I so anxious about this interview? I really don’t know, but for some reason, I knew this was important to get right.

I knocked on the door, drawing myself up to my full 5ft height, I could hear me Gran “stand up straight ya wee gibbet”. “Come in” I heard from inside….OK, you’re on Paddy, I entered and there on the left of the door was a big desk in front of the window, covered in mountains of orderly stacks of files, In and Out trays, pots of pencils and pens and the Holy Grail of typewriters, that I had heard about but had never dreamt of seeing, an IBM Golf Ball Typewriter! I was still staring, open mouthed, at this wonder of modern technology right there in front of me! “When you’ve finished gawking, are you Paddy?” What an auspicious start! I shut my mouth
in preparation to launch into my hard sell..”Yes, that’s me” If I’d had gun, I’d of shot myself elsewhere than in foot, which I was sure I’d already done, as I looked towards where the voice had come from.

A carefully coifed dark steel grey haired lady, in the mandatory lavender twin set, (did I explain that this fashion essential comprises a short sleeved, high necked fine knitted top with a long sleeved matching cardigan with small pearl buttons) though not tall, she was a formidable looking woman, handsome rather than pretty, I thought her old of course, she may have been 40, but I could be wrong, and she was standing there, lips clamped shut but twitching, looking like she was trying not to laugh. “I am Mrs. Pitman, Mrs. Judith Pitman, I am the secretary here and run this office, now tell me about you.”

I went into my usual mixture of truth and fantasy, leaving out facts about family, home, my past in general, I thought it better not tell her me Dad was just out of jail in Aus. then been deported to Ireland (what, you haven’t read those? God save us, me readers are lazy!) we had been on the run for my first 6-7 years of life and that I had not long been back from Ireland where I had been ‘transported’ etc. and my Mother’s the pin-up girl for Blonde jokes, so the only real bit of information I had to offer was that bit of paper saying I was whizz bang on the comptometer and a few references, in fact a few more than anyone of my age would have expected to have! “How old did you say you are?” That question again…”16” I announced…”Really, my, my, hmm.” Said Mrs. Pitman, ‘coughing’ into here hanky…yeah, that went well. “Well, Paddy, I will talk to my boss later today and then I will phone you with the decision.” Oh no, she isn’t going to tell me right away, that’s not a good sign, plus..”I don’t have a phone!”…..”Your parents don’t have a phone? Oh well, you had better phone me tomorrow. Goodbye, Paddy.” I was so dejected, I prepared to go back to circling job ads in the paper for ever and working at new jobs ever week for the rest of my life…… 3 weeks seemed to have passed as I waited till the next morning to phone.

“Hello, it’s Paddy” I announced trying to think of something smart and failed that might mean a last minute clincher for the job when I phoned at 9.05am. “Oh, I just got in the door! You had better come in tomorrow morning at 9, we will see how you go, can you do that?” What was I to say? If I do that then it means ditching the job I have and it all starts again if I stuff this up….here goes…….. ”I can, but I will have to tell my boss here that I’m not coming in and I might lose this job.” I held my breath…”I see, how thoughtful” yeah! “well in that case………” Had I pushed too hard? I was buggered, I wouldn’t get it, I don’t care, I will get another one, a better one…but I want this one…”Do you think you can do the job, even though you don’t know what the job is?”…..”Yes, yes, of course.” ….”Ok, be here at 9, don’t let me down Miss Paddy” was her parting shot.

I went through the now familiar routine of telling the boss I was leaving, listening to a tirade and getting handed my pay. I celebrated by going to my favourite store, Myers Bargain Basement and buying another pair of stockings, I looked at the twinsets in all the pastel colours and promised myself I would have one of those soon, in the meantime, I had better ‘find’ something else to bolster my limited wardrobe until I could actually afford to buy something!

I was on the tram…and at the door of the Wool Board at 8.50, but I wasn’t the first, Mrs. Pitman was already there. I was dressed in a brown and white checked Pelaco blouse (1st of the ‘no iron’!) a corduroy skirt with straps over the shoulders that wouldn’t stay up, my new stockings and I was being strangled midway by my elastic suspenders which seemed to roll themselves into a sort of garrote around ones waist, brown mid heeled shoes and a little brown handbag, I was still not into makeup, money again, but my hair!!.... I had taken to setting it in rollers at night in an effort to control it. The end result being that it often stuck out in wild curls looking like I had a broken innerspring mattress on my head, in blonde! I thought I looked every inch the professional office girl, apart from the hair! Mrs. Pitman looked me up and down, smiled and let me in.

I was shown to my desk, it was high! It was in the opposite corner from Mrs. Pitman but facing the window and the Blind school, the Boss’s office, whom I had yet to meet was on the other side of the hall, away from us scum, I sat on a high stool and on this desk was a large metal card file with so many little one inch deep drawers of a type that I was not familiar with, all the cards lay flat like a big flat flip fan (say that when you’ve had a few) and there seemed to be hundreds of them, probably because, there were. In fact, one for every wool producer in Australia! Also on my desk was the latest thing in….not a comptometer, but….an electric adding machine!! I was stunned! It takes a bit to make me speechless, a lifelong challenge, but that did it…”have you ever used one of those Paddy?” Is that a
joke? “I’ve never even seen one before!” She laughed as I mentally kicked myself, how cool was I? It turned out that my job was to open tons of mail form wool growers all over Australia, who were obliged to fill in forms every 3 months with their output and a host of other figures, it was up to me to transfer these figures to the cards in a legible fashion, then tally them in a cross checking process so that it would all come out right in the end, if you get my drift.

There were a number of options as to why that may not necessarily happen, like, in the transfer process, that would be my fault, in the adding up on the cards, might also be my fault, or, preferably, a mistake made by the wool grower! But one way or the other, every three months these figures had to tally exactly, or else. I quickly learned that there was a system to mistakes, I explained this to Mrs. Pitman, she looked at me, amazed, that I had come up with formulae that enabled the cause of the mistake to be picked up much quicker by only having to look for a particular sequence of numbers rather than scrutinizing thousands of them. Weird but true! She even brought this to the phantom boss’s attention and I was flavor of the month for a while and I got a raise!! I was making the undreamed of wage of 4 pound 10 shillings after only 6 weeks! Time to look for somewhere to live….

PART 4

I know this rambling recollection is supposed to be about ‘work’ but this sort of has to do with that, kind of…. So after a month or so, I decided it looked like I might hold on to this job for a while, I liked the work, strange but true, it was a sort of challenge to get it right on the first try at the end of each month in a sort of running trial leading up to the biggie, I liked the machines, and I liked Mrs. Pitman, even though she acted very stern, most of the time she seemed to be stifling a laugh, as after most conversations, she seemed to have to leave the room! I did get to meet the Boss, he turned out to nice if a little offhand, but if you have ever dealt with the majority of farmers, especially those who days are occupied communing with sheep, as I was to do in later life, then you would know it’s a slow road to murder or suicide, though he seemed a little perplexed as to why I had been selected to grace his kingdom even if I could get the figures to add up, most of the time !

The hunt was on, in secret, for a place of my own. I thought this would be easy, I was employed, I could get references, I was clean, didn’t smoke or drink and was not into riotous living, I had figured out that cost money, in fact, I never did develop a taste for that! So it was out with the Age newspaper and the red pencil…too far….too expensive…share with 18 year old girl…hmm…which is worse, that ….or share with 2 nice young men, oh yeah, no such thing!...OK, I have a short list, it’s Saturday, armed with what I thought I would need and wondering how to choose…ignorance is bliss!

Saturday afternoon, I had looked, no, actually I didn’t do much looking, 4 of the 6 places shut the door in my face within the first 5 minutes of my query, actually, at 3 of those I didn’t even get to utter my name! The reason? “How old did you say your were?” One of the remaining two was an elderly gent who spoke to my chest and asked me to come. I didn’t. The last one opened the door with a fag in one hand and a beer in the other, he didn’t speak other than to say “It’s a bit noisy, boys ya know, and some a them girls, squealers I call em!” Thanks but no thanks. That was it for that weekend, man, was I depressed, especially as it was about this time that Alan and I broke up…..it was 32 years (you want the whole story? Then go to Love Stories)till we were together again!!

Saturday again, same result for a few, with the exception of one asking to see my parents and another wanting to call the welfare dept. I was down to the bottom of a long and less choosy list than the week before. Last one, in Grey St, St. Kilda, now if anyone out there is familiar with Melbourne, then it’s possible you may know or know of, Grey St. I know it won’t be anything good, indeed, I had never even been up Grey St and believe me, if I had of had another option, I wouldn’t have been there then! I still looked 13 even though I had just turned 15, so that did not help.
I found the house number; just a few doors up Grey St. from the main drag of St. Kilda, Fitzroy St. In the evenings it was pretty much the Red Light district, different now of course. The house was once a grand, big old Victorian red brick mansion, now fallen on hard times and into the wrong hands, I squeaked open the timber gate with the peeling paint, walked up the cracked concrete path to an ornate, once beautiful door on the covered verandah. It had a big, brass Lion door knocker that I could barely reach let alone raise it and slam down, more like squeak! “OK, ok, shud de f--- up, I’m comink..” this is not exactly accurate, the wording is but it was in a very strange accent, I was to find out that it was Polish.
The door opened after much unlocking and chain sliding etc. the opening was just a crack, I could see lipstick ‘bleeding’ lips with the mandatory ciggie dangling, a hand came around the door jamb with big false nails attached, in red of course, I remember thinking it looked like a man’s hand, but who was I to be picky? She looked over my head, then lowered her gaze, her eyes widened, no mean feat with the false eyelashes and half a pint of mascara, “Vot you vant?”…..”You had an ad, for accommodation?”The door opened a bit wider………

I still could see nothing past Madam Lash’s except darkness and….a smell…..?? It was years before I had a name for it, but that’s in the next story of jobs ad infinitum. “Who for vont room?” …. “Me”. The eyes did their thing again which was even more interesting this time as I could see the whole picture, a dressing gown, very pink, a bit of pink and purple leg, no, not stockings, I think they were veins, red slippers and red hair to match…the eyes came down level with mine and stared at me….”how olt you are?” how bloody long before people stop asking me that! “16, nearly 17” …The eyes blinked slowly like one of those scary puppets that ventriloquists use, the weight you know, she laughed, “Vi you vant room, you pleggie, you runway?” What? I thought hard and fast..pleggie, hmm, pregnant!!! “No, no of course not and no, not running away, just no room where I live, but I vork..ah, work.” The blink again, I waited till she had finished the manoeuvre, “Ah, your mama got de man ha? She no like you der ha?” Umm, guess she does know a thing or two, but I didn’t answer, just stood there …………I waited ….”I no rent to gers, I got 8 nice place, got 7men’s in, all have to share batroom and cook. Come I show.” Well, she didn’t shut the door in my face and I was getting desperate, but how desperate was this going to be? We walked, I walked and she shuffled, around the outside to the back. Ranged around the perimeter starting at the left were 2 fibro ‘boxes’, each with a door and a window, across the back was 5 boxes, then one more to the right that butted up to the house. There were 2 open doors in the house annex which she was leading me towards, the first was the ‘kitchen’, imagine where a homeless person might cook if they couldn’t cook…..you got it…..next to this was the communal bathroom…a very old bath with a shower over it that was likely new when they built the house, a basin that might once have been white but was now the same uniform streaked and chipped rusty brown as the bath and the indescribable toilet. I looked at her aghast, she caught my look through the 29-31st eyelash, “you gotta keep batroom clean. I show de bunglow”.

Bunglow?? No one would even call them bungalows! They were boxes, about 8 X 10, maybe, she opened the door of the 2nd on the left, inside was a single bed straight from the Op. Shop, a wardrobe that matched something else and an Edwardian 2 drawer dressing table with a foxed mirror that in another 20 years might be worth selling but I doubt it would survive that long,(I was later to break a bottle of Black Rose, 2 shilling Perfume in one of the drawers, the smell never left and for years after, if I smelled it, I felt sick) a bare bulb hung from a cord…. and that was it. “Nice huh. New mattris, no extra.” What, did the last victim die on the old one? “OK, you want, where else you gunna stay, you jail bait” What? What the hell is she talking about? God, I knew nothing, but what choice did I have…..”How much?” ….”2 pount 10 shillink” More than half my wages, and I still have to, eat, and pay tram fare, no room for cinemas and there goes the twin set…7 blokes that I had yet to see, filthy ‘batroom’, a kitchen that I swore, even starving, I would never enter, and I didn’t know it then, but the big house…was one of….ill repute…. “I got kid, I feel sorry for you, any trouble, you out. Give me the rent now, you late, you out. Here de key. My name Lily. You got name?” … “Paddy” It was a done deal, I wondered what it might have been like if she didn’t ‘feel sorry me’.

I went home in a daze, I packed my one suitcase, stole a set of linen, 2 towels, a mug, one set of cutlery and crockery that as it turned out, I would never use, I was not expecting company, and stuffed all into the case and waited till morning. I woke my mother, mornings are not her best time, she does not actually have a best time, “I’m leaving now, you can have the place to yourself, tell Alec (the boyfriend, who was too nice for her) I said goodbye, don’t forget to feed the cat.” “OK, where is the food for the cat, I can’t afford it.”….Good grief…”Ask Alec, he will get some, you want to know where I’m going?” There was no answer, which was the expected answer. I only returned to her place twice in the next year, once when I was desperately broke and I asked to borrow 10 shillings as I needed to see a Dr. and the last time when I was to be married a week after my 16th birthday and I needed her to be at the church to sign. (Yes, you have to go read the other stories). She never saw or asked where I lived.

I tried desperately not meet the other tenants, I would sneak to the bathroom in the dead of night and early morning, I would endure cat calls and remarks to and from, never the less, I did find them to be harmless and most seemed to speak no English. I hung my unmentionables on the one clothes line, once! But then the following week I had to suffer..”you got the red ones on?”…..”Yum, de white one my favourite” and so on. After that, they either dried in my room or on me! I would buy a tuppeny packet of chewy a day for breakfast, I would have a sandwich for lunch when I could, would only go out on rare ‘dates’ if it included food and then usually only in a group, on payday, I would sometimes buy fish and chips and share them with a Greek guy named George, who I’d met from the next door flats who had no legs, only artificial ones, who fancied himself as my protector “you blink your lights, I come help, but if I fall down, I no much help!” I continued to shop lift when desperate; I had an image to maintain!

Alan found out, and even though we were still not really talking, he brought over a 410 shotgun, with shells, how sweet was that? He was worried, and he was right, I did end up using it of necessity, as I sat in my little bed, in my flannelette nightie, in curlers, I can understand why someone, nuts, might think me just too desirable, broke in and did not understand “NO”. When it’s them or me, me wins every time, I didn’t kill him, but it hurt, hopefully, his pride for a long time,it could have been worse, I missed what I was aiming for! The police didn’t come, it was St. Kilda after all and shots were not unusual, no one checked to see if I was dead….just another day…. “Hey Al, ya got any more of them shell thingies?”
THIS NOW BEAUTIFUL HOUSE DID NOT LOOK LIKE THIS WHEN I LIVED IN ITS BACK YARD!

It was a few months before Mrs. Pitman found out about the move, she was horrified! “I must inspect this place, now. What is your mother thinking…” What was I to do? She would be even more horrified if she saw it! “No, it makes no difference what it’s like, I couldn’t get any other.” “What did your mother say?” She didn’t believe me when I told her, she had children a bit younger than me as it turned out and so she was just staggered. She had never met anyone like me and mine, I don’t think she even knew such people existed! She did eventually wear me down and came over to look, her face said it all. Some of my ‘neighbours’ were there and the guys acted like naughty boys but they were instantly cowed with a look from her.
An event from that time that still makes me cringe, happened early one morning……as I said, the office’s in this building were originally flats, so they did all still have a full bathroom and kitchen. You already know what my ‘home’ bathroom was like and as I now had my own key to the office, I very often came in early, clutching a bag with a towel etc. and a change of clothing and I would have a shower before anyone else got into work, there were only the 2 of us as the boss was only in about once a week or so, and never this early. But as it was an office, there seemed no need for homely niceties like curtains or even shower curtains, but as we were not on the ground floor and it faced the Blind school??? No problem, right?

So there I was, enjoying the clean, hot water, washing my hair with gay abandon, As I grabbed the towel to wipe soap out of my eyes…my vision cleared to the sight of a window cleaner smiling at me through the window, elbows resting comfortably on the sill ! I cannot repeat what followed…suffice to say, I checked more carefully in the future. I am sure Mrs. P. knew of my ‘secret’ ablutions but she never said a word, I was often surprised to find some Lavender soap left in the bathroom…… Do you think I was more embarrassed by what he saw or by what wasn’t there to see? Oh well…..
I didn’t seem to manage to look much older during that year, a figure was just trying me on for size. Unknown to me, my boss had directed Mrs. Pitman, but at her instigation, to feed me, at his expense, so lunches became a regular thing although she would say she had just bought too much or some such fiction. Occasionally if it was thought I might faint onto the calculator or off my stool, I would also get a dinner. When I became pregnant and did faint at work, my boss drove me home in his Rover, he was most upset as was Mrs. Pitman, they both offered so many suggestions, but I was adamant, this was my problem, I had to deal with it. In those days, once you were pregnant, you had to leave work, which I did, 2 weeks before my 16th birthday and 3 weeks before I was to take up my only option, to be married. I never cried so much in my life I think, at least, up till then.

But if you read the earlier stories, you will know that the end result of being young, ill informed and lonely is a bad combination, I guess I was lucky in a way.
There is an extraordinary footnote to this, about 10 years ago, when Alan and I owned a Motel in Camperdown, Victoria, a very pleasant women walked into our reception office to check in, passing through on a trip down the Great Ocean Road. “Hi, can you fill in the registration please?” I asked the friendly middle aged lady, I looked at the completed form… Ms. Pittman… I looked up “I knew a lovely lady when I was about 14-15, I worked for her. She had the same name.” as I continued doing the paperwork….”Did you work for the Wool Board?” Our faces would have been worth a picture….yes, you guessed it, Mrs. Pitman was her mother! We exchanged information filling in the years, she said she knew so little of her Mothers working life, kids are never interested in this stuff at the time and she was so keen to fill in the gaps with my version of her mother although she remembered hearing her mum talk about Paddy but of course, without interest as kids do. I told her that when I worked for her Mother, I envied her, the woman before me, so much, and wished I was her so badly. We were both teary as we remembered this woman who had made a difference in both our lives. I wished she had lived long enough to know that I did end up OK. Can you beat that?

Remember me going on about the smell in that house in St. Kilda? Well, that sort of leads us to the next phase to come, a year, a marriage and a baby and the need for work….that smell? Welcome to the new world of working behind a bar….