‘When I was little and we lived ‘Up North” in the Murchison – car trips happened. The annual migration to Perth – to Rockingham
where we would spend our seaside holiday jammed into the rambling old Palm Beach
family house.
I dream myself back to that house easily – There were big old peppermint trees on the
lawn with gnarled bark – home to lots of birds – and a massive fig tree with oh such
delicious figs.. the dark skinned type .. sweet and juicy – out the back near the outside toilet – the ‘dunny’ in bad language, a sort of wooden lean to that was slightly scary given the cobwebs hanging from all the corners. My Gran and Grandpa lived in the house and nearby there were many aunts who also live in rambling tacked on houses – with names like Lakeside where three lived – spinsters all – one of whom was ‘not quite there’ in the terminology of the time.
Gran’s house was a holiday home for a bunch of families mostly relatives or nearby
including the Mills family. Parents and kids from the bush come for their time by the sea.
Squashed into the various dark small rooms with all the kids in the ‘sleep out’ – the enclosed verandah part with louvre windows and as many beds as possible in the crammed space. Lots of whispered conversations at night – till the adults would thunder at us to be quiet and ‘get to sleep you kids’.
It was swimming every day, and before the days of sunscreen – noses, shoulders and legs got scorched – Mum had a special concoction of strong black tea and cornflour – slopped onto the sunburn with a wad of cotton wool. Leaving us looking like lobsters with a whitewash.
Sometimes on special days, Grandpa would wade out and pull up the heavy metal anchor of one of the green painted wooden rowing boats. Big old clinkers, hired out to the folks who want to row out into the bay to their favourite fishing spot. The oars were kept behind the shop leaned up against the wall and when a customer hired the boat their name was written in the boat book, and the time – and the oars were brought for them to carry down
to the flat water beach.
There were lots of fish at this time – in future all fished out, but I perched on the edge of the jetty where the Garden Island Ferry docked and fished to my hearts content.
Sometimes till late at night.. all on my own. Probably 10 pm was late for me!! The hand
line I used baited with ‘occie’ and tossed with a small lead sinker on it as far as my skinny kid arms could throw. Dangling my sunburned legs over the big jarrah beam that edged the wooden jetty – avoiding the seagull poop and the bits left over from the last fisherman who gutted his catch there. I’d sit still for hours, sometimes getting ‘a bite’. I’d jerk the line with excitement .. ‘I’m getting bites’ I would declare to all and sundry.. or perhaps just to another two or three patient fisher folk scattered along the expanse of the jetty. I knew the difference between the soft nibble of the bane of fisherman’s existence.. the ‘blowie’ –
those little brown nondescript fish that gather with greed around a baited hook. If you do catch one, it lands on the jetty beside you and gasps and ‘drowns’ in the air, its body and white underbelly swelling until it is like a puffball. – the blowie.
I didn’t have much sympathy for them then, and as they flopped on the old grey boards of the jetty, I’d check my bait and throw the line in again.
The sharp bite, a good jerk on my line, and suddenly I’ve got one. The line pulling in my small hands, and the water end of it tightening and being zipped through the water side to side as the fish fights to get off. Not too fast, don’t rush it, let it tire out a little, slowly pull it in till it is flapping on the jetty, all silver scales and tail – a whiting .. a nice little breakfast for someone. It was taken off the hook carefully and plopped into the waiting bucket by my side. I eagerly rebaiting my hook and casting in again … maybe there is a school…
perhaps this is the run I have been waiting for. Sitting on that jetty night after night –
fishing – that was heaven for this little bush kid.
As we grew .. things changed a little in Rockingham. Aunty Daph.. the oldest of the three daughters took over the running of the house and a shop was built in the front on the street.
The Palm Beach General Store .. post office, ice cream shop, paper shop, and collection centre for supplies for the holiday makers on Garden Island which were taken across on the ferry. It always seemed to be a rush to get that delivery together – it needed to be ready on time – and cadging a ride across the bay and back on the ferry was a highlight of my days.
There were lots of exciting things for a bush kid in that shop. Icecreams.. Peters Icecream the brand of the day .. in deep churns that lined up in the fridge under the counter. the lid lifted and a rounded ice cream scoop measured out the single or double cones to be handed to eager small hands over the counter. When the churn was new it had a special grease proof paper coating the top of the can – and the ice cream was especially creamy then.. Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and neopolitan. Later there came a version that had chunks of cherry in it and then hokey pokey with bits of toffee.. but in the early times, nothing that fancy.
There was also an unheard of pressed type of meat called polony! Aunty Daph had a
meat slicer.. that whirled a round blade and you pressed the tube of polony against the
blade to make slices that fell onto the waxed paper on the other side. Weighed on the big scale, and wrapped in a piece of butchers paper .. it made unbelievable sandwiches.. but this kid liked it just as it came – a slice sneaked across to me as the pink meat was readied for a customer. The thin red skin peeled off in a long strip – mmm.
And comics!! Comics spread neatly out on the counter where the Women’s Day and the Women’s Weekly and the Pix magazine – definitely out of bounds that one.. with risque pin up girls on the front cover. But the comics – Archie – Tom and Jerry, The Phantom, Rip Kirby, and Uncle Scrooge. I loved them – but had to be very quiet about my addiction as if my father caught me reading that ‘trash’ I was in big trouble. I think my Aunt colluded with me as I spent lots of time at the comic counter carefully turning pages so as not to damage the new goods.
There were big black and white tiles on the floor of the shop – and a swinging fly screen
door with a small bell on it to warn of customers coming in. The floor was always sandy..
bare feet traipsing in from the beach to spend their 6 pence on an ice cream cone. And there were milk shakes! Made on the spot with milk and your choice of flavouring out of bottles lined up on the shelf – in the metal beaker and pressed up to the machine that whizzed them up and frothed the milk. Then they were poured into big glasses – a straw poked in the top and again handed over to the eager recipient on the other side of the counter.
Between selling the local paper, stamps, ice creams, polony and packing up the post for
the daily collection ..oh and of course bait .. and fishing gear was sold there as well – it
was a very busy little store. We kids loved to be in there but had to keep out from
everyone’s way and not be underfoot when there were crowds of customers. .
But outside of the shop was the beach – heaven for a bush kid. Sand and shells and
seagulls.
And the Palm Beach Jetty .. the fishing spot at night, and the place for high
jumping off into the water – if you were very brave and daring you could stand up on the railing to give an extra 4 foot of height and jump from there. Of course the boys all did ‘bombies’ and the show-offs high dives…the water was clear and deep and you could scramble up onto the lower level of the jetty after your daring leap.
Further up the beach was Rockingham proper and here there was a roller skating rink – and a picture theatre – with deckchairs – that was an exciting place a little later in my nights! But for now – sunburnt noses, blowies on the jetty, lots of kids – unheard of in the bush, sand and seagulls, and sausages for tea – and treats – Passiona – an icecream cone, polony and comics – what more could a kid from the outback want on a holiday albeit once a year.