by Haynes, Jim
‘It was then that I knew where the ice had come from.’
A FAIR GO FOR NEW AUSTRALIANS
CHRIS HOLLEY
After completing the Intermediate Certificate, I left school and applied to join the New South Wales Government Railways. Like hundreds of other hopefuls, I was sent to Sydney to sit for the entrance examination at the Personnel Centre in Pitt Street.
At that time, there were thousands of new immigrants to this country also endeavouring to obtain employment. It was fascinating for me to observe and be a part of the integration of these ‘new Australians’ into the Australian lifestyle and way of doing things.
The written examination for entry to a railway career was really a little farcical. The arithmetic and English papers that needed to be taken required a level of knowledge somewhere between the kindergarten and second-class standard of the education system as it was then. Knowing how to manage simple addition and spell basic words seemed to be an indication of superior intelligence in a railway examination.
The system, however, completely discriminated against the poor immigrants. Unable to speak a word of our language, they just sat there totally bewildered.
If they learned nothing else from the exam, the immigrant candidates present when I sat the papers at least learned something about the average Aussie’s belief in a ‘fair go’. Seeing that I had finished my set papers and noting that I had everything correct, the supervising officer asked me if I would mind ‘lending’ my answers to a table of Italian lads sitting nearby. This I did, and the ‘new Australian’ boys copied diligently for over an hour and joined the railways along with me and many other Australians, all with 100 per cent passes. The supervisor was obviously aware that the lingo would come later on.
THE PUB WITH NO RAILWAY
RUSSELL HANNAH/JIM HAYNES
A lot of towns still have a Railway Hotel, though there hasn’t been a train for years, but there’s one town that’s got a Railway Hotel and it’s never had a railway line through it, let alone a station.
The place is called Wolumla. I ran across it when I was down the NSW coast fishing a couple of years ago. I was driving between Bega and Merimbula and there it was, out in the middle of nowhere—the Railway Junction Hotel, Wolumla.
There’s not a railway line to be seen. There never was a line at Wolumla or anywhere else on the south coast for that matter. The nearest railway lines stopped a couple of hundred kilometres to the north at Bombaderry, and a hundred kilometres up the range at Bombala.
The publican’s a decent sort of bloke and he told me the story. It seems that back in the late 1800s, when old Henry Parkes was Premier, he came down the coast campaigning. In those days you didn’t promise tax cuts or border security to get votes. What you promised were public buildings and railways.
You couldn’t bribe the voters by getting them drunk either, because they used to shut the pubs on election day.
Anyway, old Henry promised a lunatic asylum and a railway to Eden. The line was to come down the mountain from Bombala, and Wolumla was to be the junction where the line would shoot off north to Bega.
So, some enterprising developer decided to beat the crowd, get in first and build a Railway Hotel. The only problem was that the line was never built. So, right there at Wolumla is the only Railway Hotel ever built without a railway. It’s a good pub, though.
And the lunatic asylum? Well they never built that either, evidently there weren’t enough mad characters down there to warrant one.
BREAKFAST ON THE BANJO
RUSSELL HANNAH/JIM HAYNES
‘Banjo’ was a common term for a coal shovel used in both coal mining and railways. The name derives from the shape, which facilitated faster unloading of the shovel when the coal had to be thrown a distance. Shovels were classified by size—a number 5 banjo, etc. These shovels made perfect hotplates.
My father always cooked his own meals in the old steam days. One time, Dad and his fireman were working a ‘goods’ up near Garah on the North West line. The night was terrible cold, as nights are on the Western Plains in winter and this old fellow, a bit down on his luck, asked if he could get a ride with them. There were still swaggies around then, though they’d given up jumping into billabongs, and trains were still their favourite form of transportation.
Now, the night being so cold, my old dad felt a bit sorry for him. So, rather than let him ride back on one of the flat cars where he might catch pneumonia, he invited him into the cabin.
Of course, having unauthorised people in the loco cabin was a breach of several regulations and could lead to all sorts of punishment, including the sack. But they were pretty certain that they wouldn’t run into any inspectors—it was a Sunday night and a bit too cold for inspectors to be out and about.
The old fellow was very happy to sit unobtrusively in a corner where he could get very warm. He was still there a few hours later when morning came on and the train was parked in a siding to wait for a ‘down goods’ to pass, it being a single line.
‘Time for breakfast,’ says Dad, and the fireman gets the tucker out.
‘You’d better join us,’ he said to the old fellow. The swaggie was very thankful and said that it was very kind of them to share their sandwiches with him.
‘Sandwiches,’ laughed my dad, ‘no one eats sandwiches for breakfast in my cabin. It’s always a good solid Australian feed: sausages, bacon and eggs, toast, and a spot of Worcestershire sauce for a bit of flavour.’
Well, the old swaggie was delighted. He was amazed to hear that he was about to get some real tucker. Swaggies often had to make do with a ‘swaggie’s breakfast’—drink of water, a smoke and a pee. He was a bit puzzled, however, and asked Dad how he planned to cook this feast. He didn’t see any cooking facilities in the cabin.
The fireman just chuckled and produced his shovel, which, though well used, was as clean and shiny on the action side as the day it was new. The constant scraping of the coal on the surface of a fireman’s shovel always kept it clean. ‘Instant hotplate!’ said the fireman. ‘Breakfast on the banjo!’
Dad cracked a few eggs onto the shovel and threw on a bit of bacon and a couple of sausages; then the fireman held the shovel in the firebox and, before long, the three men were tucking into a great breakfast.
‘Best breakfast I’ve had since the ones me old mum cooked before I left home thirty years ago!’ said the old swaggie.
By now they were taking the train along at the usual pace that goods trains go and the old fellow settled back in the corner of the cabin out of everyone’s way. Before long, he fell asleep as the train chuffed along.
When the train started to pile on speed a couple of hours later, the swaggie woke up. It seems my dad had to make up time to get into the next passing loop and let a passenger train through. It’s important that passenger trains aren’t late. If they’re held up, people are likely to complain, so Dad was in a bit of a hurry and he couldn’t stop anywhere.
When the old fellow woke up, he started to squirm a bit. He had a funny look on his face and Dad twigged to the problem at once. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
Well, the old bloke told Dad there was a bit of urgency about him finding a place where he could answer a very severe call of nature.
‘Just hang on tight and pee off the back of the engine,’ said Dad.
‘It’s not a pee I need,’ said the swaggie, doubling up. His condition was probably due to the first decent feed of rich tucker he’d had in ages.
‘Does this loco have a dunny?’ he asked.
‘Of course we’ve got a dunny, mate,’ my dad says with a grin, ‘its a kind of portable one. You use it and we dispose of the results as we steam along, fertilises the bush. Pass him the dunny, Bill.’
At this, the fireman stopped leaning on the banjo and passed it to the old bloke.
‘Go for your life,’ said Dad, ‘but try to make it quick. It’s nearly time for crib and I want to cook a couple of pancakes.’
‘My dad
had no idea how that swaggie managed to hang on till he left them when they parked in the passing loop. ‘He didn’t even thank us for breakfast,’ Dad said.
1174
ANONYMOUS
Railwaymen tell stories about certain engines they loved, ones that always ran well, like the famous 3801, and those they hated. Although all engines in the one class were supposedly identical, some just never seemed to be any good. The most famous of these back in the 1930s was the 1174 (‘eleven-seventyfour’).
When you’re signing on at Enfield and they meet you at the door
And they tell you that your engine is 1174,
You can hear the driver grumble; you can hear the fireman roar—
Why? Just look in the repair book of 1174.
‘Faulty valves and pistons’, ‘burnt-off smoke box door’,
‘Engine steaming badly’—that’s 1174.
God knows why they run her, but the bosses know what’s best,
She’ll be hours late any time they run her to the west.
And if they put her on a north job, you can always safely bet
That she’ll end up in a siding somewhere up near Morisset.
Try to take her ’cross the mountains where she really has to climb!
By the time you get to Glenbrook, you’re an hour behind time!
I have struggled, sworn and sweated, I have tried to get her through,
But I always feel like quitting when I get to Warrimoo!
’Cos we’re facing those Blue Mountains and we’ll do the best we can,
But to make that engine steam well is a task beyond a man!
I take up that damn shovel, off come my overalls,
And I know that I’ll be buggered when we get to Wentworth Falls.
As we struggle on to Lithgow, we swear and curse our fate,
And 1174 is just exactly three hours late.
It’s a number that will haunt me and haunt me evermore,
For it doesn’t matter what I do—it’s 1174.
One night my dear wife said to me, ‘Your hands are burnt and sore!’
I said, ‘Yes, I’ve been to Lithgow on 1174.’
She gave me perfumed soap for them, the best she could procure,
It’s called ‘4711’—just like 1174!
I bought a ticket in the lottery, thought my luck would change for sure,
The winner was 1175—I had 1174!
Disgusted, I enlisted and went off to the war
And my regimental number was 1174.
And when the war was ended, I came back to work once more
And they sent me off to Lithgow on 1174!
STARGAZER JONES AND THE CAT
RUSSELL HANNAH
One of the most famous drivers on the New South Wales railways was a chap called Stargazer Jones. He was not known as Stargazer because of any great interest in astronomy, but because he had a certain vagueness and forgetfulness about him. He was often in receipt of ‘blueys’, or ‘please explain’ directives that led to official reprimands and fines, for running signals, exceeding speed limits and other such misdemeanours. Still, he was a good-hearted fellow, and though he was often the victim of practical jokes, he rarely held a grudge.
For some time in the early ’50s, the other member of Stargazer’s crew was a fireman named Paul O’Brien. Paul was a competent amateur ventriloquist and entertainer. He had, in fact, appeared on the very popular Amateur Hour radio show hosted by Terry Dear, winning the first prize one night with an act that consisted of imitating bird and animal noises. There weren’t many birds or animals Paul couldn’t imitate and workmates often heard kookaburras laughing or horses neighing or even lions roaring in the shower block when Paul was in overnight railway barracks.
Paul also had a wicked sense of humour.
One Saturday night, Stargazer and Paul were working the Honeymoon Express. After several best men from the wedding parties had crossed Stargazer’s palm with the appropriate silver coins to ensure the whistle was blown, he was approached by another well-dressed fellow carrying a sugar bag.
‘Look,’ said the man. ‘In this bag is my wife’s cat. I am not fond of cats, but I can normally tolerate them, particularly if it keeps my wife happy.
‘She loves this cat, but I find it obnoxious, especially when I am eating my dinner, as it has a disturbing habit of jumping on the table and trying to steal whatever I am eating. No matter how well fed the cat is, it persists in this behaviour. I can stand it no longer and I have decided to rid myself of this cat once and for all.’
Though Stargazer Jones and his fireman listened intently, they wondered what all this had to do with them.
‘I cannot,’ the man continued, ‘bring myself to drown the cat or do anything else that may lead to its death. Firstly, I am a bit soft-hearted and, secondly, I would have to lie to my wife.
‘Unfortunately my wife always knows when I am lying and my life would be extremely miserable if she knew I had killed her cat. I just want it to disappear, and this is where you can help.’
‘What can we do?’ asked the bemused Stargazer Jones.
‘What I would like you to do,’ the man replied, ‘is to release the cat from the bag as you are passing through the national park. That way, the cat can have a good life roaming free and I can truthfully say to my wife that I have not harmed the cat in any way.
‘Of course, I would like you to take this five shillings as a token of my appreciation for all your help.’
Well, Stargazer always had a soft spot for animals, especially when there was five bob involved. He thought this was a humane way of solving the problem and took the bag with the cat in it and placed it in the cabin. (This was, of course, in a less environmentally friendly time, when many people thought it was quite all right to let cats loose in national parks, much kinder, in fact, than drowning them.)
Stargazer had quite warmed to the Catman and they were passing the time of day chatting about cats and wives and life in general before the train departed. Meanwhile, Paul O’Brien, who had heard the entire conversation, moved the sugar bag to the other side of the cab, undid the string and released the cat on the other side of the train. In its place, he stuffed a large lump of coal into the bag.
Soon the time came for the train to depart Port Kembla and, to the usual accompaniment of whistles, singing, waving and shouting, the honeymooners were left to hold hands in the carriages and contemplate their future lives as the train puffed towards Sydney via Wollongong.
Up in the cabin all was normal until the train approached Lysaghts. At that point, Paul used his twin talents of ventriloquism and animal noise imitation, and Stargazer believed he heard a plaintive cry come from the bag. The immediate response from the fireman was to give the bag a thorough kick, upon which Stargazer heard an even louder wail.
Stargazer was shocked at what he thought was a wanton act of cruelty to a dumb animal and admonished his fireman. ‘Leave that cat alone,’ he said. ‘Even if it is making a bit of noise, it’s not hurting anyone; I’ll let it out when we get through Helensburgh.’
Another mile or so up the track, however, the same thing happened again, and the normally easygoing Stargazer was starting to get a bit annoyed with his fireman’s apparent cruelty.
‘I said, leave that cat alone,’ he repeated. ‘It’ll be gone when we get into the park.’
The final act of the charade occurred as the train was pulling into Wollongong Station. Stargazer again heard a piteous meowing, and this time Paul O’Brien shouted ‘I hate bloody cats!’, picked up the sugar bag and hurled it into the blazing firebox. As he did so there was one last terrible scream of pain and then the fireman slammed the firebox door shut.
Well, Stargazer was absolutely mortified by Paul’s behaviour, so much so that he overshot Wollongong Station and consequently earned himself another bluey. After an initial burst of angry shouting at his fireman, he subsided into a sullen silence.
Apart from the cruelty to the cat, Stargazer fel
t that he had betrayed the trust of the bloke at Port Kembla Station. After all, he had promised him that no harm would come to the cat and it would be released to live a free life in the Royal National Park.
Paul O’Brien managed to control himself and keep from laughing even though he had to put up with a stony silence from Stargazer all the way to Central Station. It was such a good story that it wasn’t long before every driver and fireman in the depot knew about it.
Everyone decided it was such a good story, in fact, that there was no one who would tell Stargazer about the hoax. Instead they milked it for all it was worth. Men would sidle up to him and tell him stories about cat skins being found outside Chinese restaurants, and they’d wonder what roast cat would smell and taste like. Others talked incessantly about cats having nine lives and some wondered aloud if the Port Kembla cat had used up eight of his lives somewhere else.
All this only encouraged Stargazer to hold firm to his one act of retribution: he refused to talk to his fireman. All ensuing journeys were undertaken in deathly silence and any talk was confined to the absolute bare essentials needed to run the train.
It was nearly killing Paul O’Brien not to confess, and the silence at work wasn’t very pleasant, but so many people were getting mileage out of the story that he managed to endure the silence until the joke finally ran its course. And soon enough, it did run its course.
Two weeks after the incident, Stargazer and Paul were again at the head of the Honeymoon Express, about to pull out of Port Kembla Station, when Stargazer spotted the Catman striding down towards the loco. It was too late for Stargazer to hide; he had been spotted and he could see that the fellow was not at all happy as he approached.
‘You know, I trusted you,’ the cranky Catman exclaimed. ‘In good faith, I gave you five shillings to get rid of the cat. You promised to let him out at the national park.
‘Instead, what happens? I call in at the Commercial for a couple of schooners to celebrate at last being able to eat my tea in peace, and when I get home, what do I find? The bloody cat sitting on the table waiting for me!’
