by Jim Haynes
I broke the news to Mum and, rather surprisingly, there were no objections. In fact she was more than helpful and gave some good advice.
‘First of all,’ she told me, “when you ride your bike into town, leave it at your mate’s place where it won’t get pinched, and walk up to the railway station.’
I hadn’t even thought of anyone lifting my bike while I was away.
‘Then, when you get to the station, tell the stationmaster that you want a return ticket. That way, you’ll be sure of getting home. Make sure you get a return ticket!’
Mum didn’t bother with any more details. She always assumed that everyone knew what she was talking about.
I thought I knew what she meant but wasn’t a hundred per cent certain; I didn’t let on, though. I couldn’t have her worrying that her son, the great world traveller, didn’t understand the fundamentals of purchasing a ticket for a ride on a train.
I reckoned things would sort themselves out as I went along.
I picked a date for my journey and, when the day arrived, Mum packed a few spare items of clothing in my old school haversack with a couple of fresh mutton and tomato sauce sandwiches wrapped in newspaper, some Anzac biscuits and a couple of apples.
I was ready.
The ride into town was quite exciting; it was my first such trip since leaving school. Now, however, I was heading into town in the late afternoon instead of heading for home at that time, as I had done for so many years.
I left my bike at my mate’s house and walked to the railway station. There I was met by the stationmaster, who was waiting on the ‘five-o-clock’ to come in.
‘And what can I do for you, Sir?’ he asked formally. ‘The train will be in shortly. If you want to buy a ticket you should really have come earlier than this.’
His manner put me a little off my stride.
‘Arrhh,’ I said, ‘I want a return ticket, please!’
‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘Back here,’ I said.
‘You’ve got to go somewhere before you can come back,’ he said, looking at me over his spectacles. ‘Where are you going?’
I felt a little silly by this time and, to add to my dilemma, I didn’t really know the name of my destination.
‘Arrhh . . . Sydney . . .’ I said hesitantly. I just hoped there’d be a station called Sydney.
He sighed and went into the ticket office, directing me to the ticket window on the other side, in the waiting room.
Before I could blink he punched out a ticket, took my fiver and handed me some change and the ticket through the little window. Then he dropped down the window’s heavy wooden security shutter with a bang.
I left the waiting room clutching my ticket and the stationmaster met me again on the platform, where quite a few others were waiting for the train.
There, much to my embarrassment, he explained the workings of the ticket in a voice loud enough to be heard up and down the platform.
‘See this?’ he said pointing to my ticket, which read ‘Bungendore to Central’ on one half and ‘Central to Bungendore’ on the other.
‘Yair.’
‘Well, when you get to Central Station, that’s the big station in Sydney where the line ends, you give your ticket to the ticket collector at the gate and he’ll give you back the half with ‘Central to Bungendore’ on it. Do you understand?’
‘Yair.’
‘Now don’t lose that half, or you’ll be stuck in Sydney. OK?’
‘Yair, I know,’ I lied.
It made sense, but it was all news to me. At least now I knew that ‘Central’ was the name of Sydney’s railway station.
The trip was long and uneventful. Darkness fell shortly before we arrived at Goulburn.
Some passengers got off to buy a hurried meal and a cup of tea, but I refused to budge in case the train moved on without me. Besides, I had the sandwiches that Mum had prepared.
As it turned out I had plenty of time and, when some passengers returned with packaged salads and pies to eat on the train, I had another revelation. It was the first time in my life that I had ever seen a take-away meal.
Goulburn to Sydney in the dark was a bit scary, as the train passed through a number of tunnels along the way. Pulling over on loop lines to allow more important rail traffic through was also a bit of a worry. There was always a chance that someone might sneak onto the train while it was stopped in the dark, people who were ‘up to no good’. I was happier when the train was moving. There was no chance of anybody boarding the train if it was moving.
The station identification signs along the way gave me something to read as well as telling me where I was: Marulan, Moss Vale, Mittagong, Picton, Camden, Liverpool—followed by a bewildering number of suburban station names until, finally, ‘Central’ appeared in all its glory.
Central from the train was a multitude of platforms adorned with lots of lights, huge signs, wooden seats and vending machines, and crowds of people all hurrying in one direction.
I stumbled from the carriage and followed the mob.
Once off the train Central became a noisy maze of tiled walls, stairways and passageways, directional signs and large arrows that meant nothing to me.
I found myself in a huge space filled with people where there was a huge clock and enormous timetables with smaller clocks showing departure and arrival times. There were newspaper stands and shops, and loudspeakers barked directions while motorised trolleys towed multiple trailers piled with ports, suitcases and all sorts of luggage.
People were ripping and tearing in all directions. Everyone appeared to be in one hell of a hurry, all bar me. I didn’t know where I was or what to do next. I thought I was worried on the train, but I was really worried now!
I finally found a sign indicating the way to George Street and, because I’d heard of it before, I reckoned it must be the main street of Sydney, so I headed in that direction.
Things didn’t improve when I left the station; there were huge buildings and busy roads and cars and people and trams and buses going in all directions, and traffic lights!
I negotiated my way across an enormous intersection by following the crowd going the same way as me and went along George Street for a number of blocks till I came to a big old three-storey hotel.
I forget the name of it, ‘Prince’ something or other, I think. I ventured in and hesitantly asked if I could stay for a couple of days.
The bloke in the little office asked my name and wrote it down and took some money and gave me change. Then he told me to go up the stairs to the second floor, turn left and find room number fourteen.
I did.
Inside room fourteen was a single bed with a grey blanket and a pillow, a small wardrobe with a mirror, a chair, a sink and a window from which I could view the city traffic. Rain had just started to fall and it all looked a bit strange and unfriendly.
It was an uneventful night. I slept with my clothes on and my schoolbag in the bed just in case there might have been need for a hasty escape, seeing that there was no key or lock to the door.
The next two days were nice and sunny and I spent them taking in some of the sights. I saw the Harbour Bridge, Hyde Park Fountain and the ‘Fairy Terminal’.
I rode on the ‘Manly Fairy’ across the harbour and back without getting off and then shouted myself a ticket to Taronga Park Zoo where I gazed at animals I’d only ever seen in picture books.
Close to sundown I caught a ferry back to ‘Circular Kway’, where I noticed a large crowd of people boarding another ferry to Luna Park.
I knew Mum wouldn’t be too happy with me staying up after dark, but how the Hell would she know?
Off I went to see the famous great laughing mouth and explore its attractions. I was on my own but that didn’t bother me, it was all new and fascinating. I went on a few rides and even scared myself half to death alone on the ghost train, but I spent most of the evening watching the city slickers having fun and taking in the sights and
sounds.
With the ‘fairy rides’ and a drink and sandwich now and again I’d been spending a ‘zack’ here and a ‘bob’ there and realised that soon the only thing in my pockets would be my two hands.
Besides, it was now over three full days since I’d left home; I was getting homesick. All the excitement of Sydney and my holiday was fading and I thought about making tracks. I decided to have one more walk around next morning with my haversack and then make my way back to Central—and home. As a reluctant Catholic with a pious mother I had one thing to do before I left. I had to look at St Mary’s Cathedral, at least from the outside.
Next morning after looking at St Mary’s Cathedral for a few minutes and then staring at the Archibald Fountain splashing water in all directions for a bit longer, I wandered across the grass and found myself standing on a corner at one end of Hyde Park.
I was trying to figure out exactly where I was when I saw a large double-decker ‘Gov-a-mint’ bus approaching.
‘Struth!’ I thought suddenly, ‘I haven’t had a ride on one of them yet!’
I put my hand in my pocket to see how much money I had left.
I only had a threepence and two pennies—five pence left out of five quid!
I quickly checked all my other pockets but all I could come up with was half a railway ticket with the words ‘Central to Bungendore’ printed on it. I put that safely back into my pocket. I was more than pleased that I still had it.
I ran to where the bus was heading and when it stopped I called to the conductor who was perched on the little platform at the back, casually holding onto the metal pole that helped you get on board.
‘Hey mate!’ I called out, ‘How much is it from here to Central Station?’
‘Sixpence,’ he replied expressionlessly.
Blow! I only had five pence and I needed a zack.
I really wanted a ride on that bus, and then I had an idea.
So, I ran behind the bus, keeping pace with it for five or six blocks. It was hard going with all the crowds and my haversack and I lost touch for a bit, but I managed to keep it in sight and put on a bit of a spurt and finally caught up again when it stopped at a big intersection, many blocks further along the road.
‘Hey mate!’ I panted at the conductor, ‘how much is it from here to Central Station?’
‘Eight pence,’ he replied laconically, without even appearing to look at me. ‘You’re running the wrong way.’
The bus moved off and left me standing there.
It was a long walk back to Central.
THE DOWNFALL OF
MULLIGAN’S
BANJO PATERSON
THE SPORTING MEN OF Mulligan’s were an exceedingly knowing lot; in fact, they had obtained the name amongst their neighbours of being a little bit too knowing. They had ‘taken down’ the adjoining town in a variety of ways. They were always winning maiden plates with horses which were shrewdly suspected to be old and well-tried performers in disguise.
When the sports of Paddy’s Flat unearthed a phenomenal runner in the shape of a blackfellow called Frying-pan Joe, the Mulligan contingent immediately took the trouble to discover a blackfellow of their own, and they made a match and won all the Paddy’s Flat money with ridiculous ease; then their blackfellow turned out to be a well-known Sydney performer. They had a man who could fight, a man who could be backed to jump five-feet-ten, a man who could kill eight pigeons out of nine at thirty yards, a man who could make a break of fifty or so at billiards if he tried; they could all drink, and they all had that indefinite look of infinite wisdom and conscious superiority which belongs only to those who know something about horseflesh.
They knew a great many things never learnt at Sunday school. They were experts at cards and dice. They would go to immense trouble to work off any small swindle in the sporting line. In short the general consensus of opinion was that they were a very ‘fly’ crowd at Mulligan’s, and if you went there you wanted to ‘keep your eyes skinned’ or they’d ‘have’ you over a threepenny-bit.
There were races at Sydney one Christmas, and a select band of the Mulligan sportsmen were going down to them. They were in high feather, having just won a lot of money from a young Englishman at pigeon-shooting, by the simple method of slipping blank cartridges into his gun when he wasn’t looking, and then backing the bird.
They intended to make a fortune out of the Sydney people, and admirers who came to see them off only asked them as a favour to leave money enough in Sydney to make it worthwhile for another detachment to go down later on. Just as the train was departing a priest came running onto the platform, and was bundled into the carriage where our Mulligan friends were; the door was slammed to, and away they went. His Reverence was hot and perspiring, and for a few minutes mopped himself with a handkerchief, while the silence was unbroken except by the rattle of the train.
After a while one of the Mulligan fraternity got out a pack of cards and proposed a game to while away the time. There was a young squatter in the carriage who looked as if he might be induced to lose a few pounds, and the sportsmen thought they would be neglecting their opportunities if they did not try to ‘get a bit to go on with’ from him. He agreed to play, and, just as a matter of courtesy, they asked the priest whether he would take a hand.
‘What game d’ye play?’ he asked, in a melodious brogue.
They explained that any game was equally acceptable to them, but they thought it right to add that they generally played for money.
‘Sure an’ it don’t matter for wanst in a way,’ said he, ‘Oi’ll take a hand bedad. Oi’m only going about fifty miles, so Oi can’t lose a fortune.’
They lifted a light portmanteau onto their knees to make a table, and five of them—three of the Mulligan crowd and the two strangers—started to have a little game of poker. Things looked rosy for the Mulligan boys, who chuckled as they thought how soon they were making a beginning, and what a magnificent yarn they would have to tell about how they rooked a priest on the way down.
Nothing sensational resulted from the first few deals, and the priest began to ask questions.
‘Be ye going to the races?’
They said they were.
‘Ah! And Oi suppose ye’ll be betting wid thim bookmakers, betting on the horses, will yez? They do be terrible knowing men, thim bookmakers, they tell me. I wouldn’t bet much if Oi was ye,’ he said, with an affable smile. ‘If ye go bettin’ ye will be took in wid thim bookmakers.’
The boys listened with a bored air and reckoned that by the time they parted the priest would have learnt that they were well able to look after themselves. They went steadily on with the game, and the priest and the young squatter won slightly; this was part of the plan to lead them on to plunge. They neared the station where the priest was to get out. He had won rather more than they liked, so the signal was passed round to ‘put the cross on’. Poker is a game at which a man need not risk much unless he feels inclined, and on this deal the priest stood out. Consequently, when they drew up at his station he was still a few pounds in.
‘Bedad,’ he said, ‘Oi don’t loike goin’ away wid yer money. Oi’ll go on to the next station so as ye can have revinge.’ Then he sat down again, and play went on in earnest.
The man of religion seemed to have the Devil’s own luck. When he was dealt a good hand he invariably backed it well, and if he had a bad one he would not risk anything. The sports grew painfully anxious as they saw him getting further and further ahead of them, prattling away all the time like a big schoolboy. The squatter was the biggest loser so far, but the priest was the only winner. All the others were out of pocket. His Reverence played with great dash, and seemed to know a lot about the game, so that on arrival at the second station he was a good round sum in pocket.
He rose to leave them with many expressions of regret, and laughingly promised full revenge next time. Just as he was opening the carriage door, one of the Mulligan fraternity said in a stage-whisper: ‘He’s a blanky sink
-pocket. If he can come this far, let him come on to Sydney and play for double the stakes.’ Like a shot the priest turned on him.
‘Bedad, an’ if that’s yer talk, Oi’ll play ye fer double stakes from here to the other side of glory. Do yez think men are mice because they eat cheese? It isn’t one of the Ryans would be fearing to give any man his revinge!’
He snorted defiance at them, grabbed his cards and waded in. The others felt that a crisis was at hand and settled down to play in a dead silence. But the priest kept on winning steadily, and the ‘old man’ of the Mulligan push saw that something decisive must be done, and decided on a big plunge to get all the money back on one hand. By a dexterous manipulation of the cards he dealt himself four kings, almost the best hand at poker. Then he began with assumed hesitation to bet on his hand, raising the stake little by little.
‘Sure ye’re trying to bluff, so ye are!’ said the priest, and immediately raised it.
The others had dropped out of the game and watched with painful interest the stake grow and grow. The Mulligan fraternity felt a cheerful certainty that the ‘old man’ had made things safe, and regarded themselves as mercifully delivered from an unpleasant situation.
The priest went on doggedly raising the stake in response to his antagonist’s challenges until it had attained huge dimensions.
‘Sure that’s high enough,’ said he, putting into the pool sufficient to entitle him to see his opponent’s hand.
The ‘old man’ with great gravity laid down his four kings, whereat the Mulligan boys let a big sigh of relief escape them.
Then the priest laid down four aces and scooped the pool.
The sportsmen of Mulligan’s never quite knew how they got out to Randwick. They borrowed a bit of money in Sydney, and found themselves in the saddling-paddock in a half-dazed condition, trying to realise what had happened to them. During the afternoon they were up at the end of the lawn near the Leger stand and could hear the babel of tongues, small bookmakers, thimble riggers, confidence men, and so on, plying their trades outside. In the tumult of voices they heard one that sounded familiar. Soon suspicion grew into certainty, and they knew that it was the voice of ‘Father’ Ryan. They walked to the fence and looked over. This is what he was saying:
