Travel by train (3/3)

Often, when I travel by train, I am one of very few in a carriage. I know I travel early in the day. I know, serendipitiously, I often get on at the beginning of a route. I rarely travel in peak hour, when trains and buses are loaded to the gunnels. I get scared in crowds, and the pressures inside my head beome intolerable. On a Saturday, if I am late returning from Gosford, and the train has four carriages instead of eight, we are packed in like sardines. To make matters worse, a large proportion of these travellers seem to have travel suitcases with them. Large travel suitcases. But, primarily, what you see here is how my journeys begin.

Travel by train (2)

When I visit my brother - my "big" bro'- I make tne outward journey from Sydney Central without change, to Gosford. The entire outward journey - walk, bus, train, taxi - takes three hours. The outward journey is via Strathfield, and Hornsby. The return journey is different. I take one train from Gosford to Hornsby, and then change trains to go down the North Shore line rather than the Main Western line. I shop in Chatswood, and then catch the 267 bus home with a 20 minute walk. It is a long day that starts at 6:30 am. The photo shows my connection waiting at the platform at Hornsby, as soon as my train from Gosford pulled in. It takes a while for me to shake off the movement of vehicular travel. Things are still moving, and the ground still swaying for about 10 minutes. And that is even when I bury myself in the single seat on the lower level of the carriage immediately adjacent to the stairs.

Rear View Mirror: Hornsby 5/5

Final look back at Hornsby. When we left Hornsby in the December of 1956, the eastern side of the railway line was all private housing, with just the odd corner shop scattered here and there, like the one my Grandma ran. On the western side of the railway line there was a triangle of retail outlets along the Pacific Highway, Coronation St, and Station St. However, that triangle is now a decomposing embarrassment. Once Westfield came along in 1961 and overwhelmed the eastside, the west was a goner.

Two nowadays shots here showing what is left of our magical walk to school. Barry and I walked across the old pedestrian railway crossing - now replaced by an abomination albeit more functional - either around or through the shops on the triangle (around on the way TO school and THROUGH an arcade on the way HOME). We never had money to spend, but we had a lot of imaginative fun, with sticks, and baddies, and shortcuts. But that has all gone. There is no way I would let my grand-daughters walk that route to and from school.

No need to worry about that anyway, because the school that I went to (Hornsby Infants showing me front row second from left) was burnt down one Saturday in November 1957 when a raging bushfire stormed up the valley at the back of the school. The mixed Infants school was cinders, the girls primary school was cinders, and the girls 'home economics' high school (up to 3rd form only) was cinders. On the eastern side of the highway the boys primary, and the boys high school was each saved. My father had gone to both of those from 1931, and Barry was in Grade 5 before we left for our incredibly great/foolhardy adventure in the country.

Rear View Mirror: Hornsby 4/5

The Salvation Army Hall was right on that corner, beneath all those ugly signs. You can just see the back of our house on the RHS. It was fun living beside the Sallies. Every Sunday evening - I think Sunday but I could be mistaken - they would march down the centre of Hunter Street behind their brass band with the bloke in front twirling his doohickey. It was great to watch, and they appreciated our pleasure. We would stand on the brick ledge wall on the front verandah, swinging around the post when it was our turn, politely clapping. No cheering, jeering or whistling in those days. We would not have thought of it, and our parents would never, ever have sanctioned it! Obviously, this building has been demolished for the greater good, as well. The Sallies moved to premises further down Burdett St.

Rear view mirror: Hornsby (2/5)

This was my home from the age of 1 until I was just over 8. The sale notice recorded with Hornsby Shire Council, indicates that my father sold it to a poultry farmer from Galston for £3,360 having paid less than £1,000 for it 7 years earlier. I say 'less than' because my notes indicate that Mum reckons they paid £300, whereas Dad reckons they paid £1,000. That was there level of agreement on most things, I hasten to add. This house stood upon land 50' wide and 165' deep (about 766 m2) with vehicular access via a rear laneway. The lane also provided a quick and safe getaway up to Grandma's shop. And look at the block of land now. Bloody Westfield.

Rear view mirror - Hornsby (1/5)

At least through Hitchcock's "Rear Window" one is observing reality, because through my rear-view mirror, I am only observing a representation of reality.

This old photograph was taken in 1920 which was ten years before my grandmother bought the goodwill for 70 pounds, only managing to scrape together the wherewithall for the property during the late thirties when the two older boys could contribute. My grandparents lived in Florence Street, Hornsby from 1931 until August 1956. I loved this old place, with its massive camphorlaurels in the front, that gave it a most Boo Radley aire, although I would not have had that thought at the time.

So, what happened when Mr Westfield gave the place any number of makeovers from 1961 onwards? Here is a close approximation of that same view just two weeks ago. My, what 93 years can wrought!

An ode to verandah posts

Along Oakville Road, Willoughby stands this wonderfully preserved example of late Victorian shop frontage, now housing a private studio. Originally designed to sell stock feed, the verandahed shop was attached to the building next door (separated by a U-shaped internal courtyard) which was the main shop with private residence at rear. This is just how I remember my grandmother's shop in Florence Street Hornsby, which she owned from 1931 until 1956, even down to the stock feed, which she sold from massive hessian (or jute) sacks along the wall with their tops rolled down, and a metal scoop lying on the inside.

Theme Thursday - The mystery of the human brain

Vascular dementia is a mystifying ailment.

This afternoon I showed my father the 1942 photograph of him astride a motorcycle in his backyard in Florence Street, Hornsby . He could remember it was a Panther and that its headlight had a blackout cover. He told me the story of remoulding the exhaust pipe to ride lower to avoid it burning his younger brother’s leg. He told me the story of riding a BSA through the mud and slush of New Guinea in 1943 as a Signalman riding despatch between command posts. He linked this to his love of bicycles, walking from Hornsby to Pennant Hills in 1935 to buy his first pushbike for 10/- and how he wished, upon his demob in November 1945, he had set up his own cycle shop.


Then, without so much as a pause, he turned to me and asked me about a specific photo on his wall.

Who is she?
She is Olwen.

Why did I have her photo on the table in my tent in New Guinea?
You were engaged to her.

Who is she?
She was your wife.

Did you know her?
She was my mother.

(Pause) So, am I your father? Yes, Dad. You are my father.
(Pause) That was a good bike that Panther ...

Then I really made his afternoon by producing his Army Driver’s Licence which showed he was licensed to drive a range of vehicle types (1A, 1B, 2A, 3B and 5B) but not tanks.

He chuckled.


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