Stand Up and Cheer

by Loretta Re

  ‘I’d teach you,’ he says. ‘I promise. If we buy one now we can get a Minerva.’

  ‘Isn’t that a luxury car? That’d cost a small fortune, Arnold,’ Mum says.

  Dad chuckles. ‘No, the Minerva company has hit hard times, like everyone else. They’re selling old models cheap to scrape up money. What do you say, Louise?’ He sounds excited.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ says Mum. ‘It would spend all our money. I’d like to buy something we can all use. A camera maybe.’

  ‘A camera? We don’t need a camera,’ Dad says. ‘Do you want pictures of the boys? I can get the reporter from the Border Morning Mail to take some shots. Expert photos.’

  ‘It’s not just the boys,’ Mum says. ‘There’s a big world out there. I’ve always wanted to be able to take photos.’

  ‘You’ll never regret it if we have a car, Lou. All sorts of good things will come of it.’

  His voice takes on a different tone, as though he’s dreaming of a marvellous future. ‘There’s all sorts of possibilities … new things happen that you don’t think of, at first.’ He pauses a moment, then he speaks quickly as if he’s had a bright idea. ‘And it’d be wonderful for Arnie. He’d love to tinker with it. He’ll make a good mechanic one day, I reckon. He enjoys doing things with his hands.’

  ‘He would learn all about motors with a car,’ Mum agrees slowly.

  Dad gives a delighted little laugh. ‘The two of us can work on it together.’

  I’m starting to get excited, even though Dad only wants to work on the car with Arnie, and not me. It would be amazing fun to have a car. If only Mum’s been talked into it.

  Chapter

  FOUR

  ‘Boys, I have a surprise for you,’ Dad says. He stops to hang his hat on the hook near the front door.

  He’s home from work, and his step is springy. He’s glad, I can tell, that he isn’t working back later than our bedtime; past our chance to see him. I rush up to him, and he gives me a pat on the shoulder, but his thoughts are on his big news.

  ‘We’re off to Melbourne,’ he announces.

  ‘Melbourne!’ I cry in delight. ‘Why are we going to Melbourne?’

  ‘To buy the car.’ He gives a huge smile. He looks the way I feel at Christmas.

  ‘Wow, we’ll really have a car!’ Arnie says, looking tickled.

  ‘That’s almost all Uncle Joe’s money,’ Mum says. ‘I hope we can afford the trip to Melbourne, it’s a very long way.’

  ‘Course we can afford it!’ I sing out at the same time as Dad and Arnie, like a musical trio. All singing the same song.

  ***

  ‘You’re so lucky you’re off to Melbourne, tomorrow,’ Ricky says. He’s dropped in with a fistful of aviator cards to swap. He was born in New Zealand so some of his words sound different. He calls me ‘Jeck’ and says his favourite meal is ‘fush ’nd chups’.

  ‘And going on the train! I’ve always wanted to go into the station.’

  His usually cheery, freckled face is a picture of envy.

  Ricky’s my next door neighbour. He’s over here half the time, not quite family but more than a friend. We play at being Captain Biggles, the air ace, all the time and we trade swap cards almost every day. He’s got nearly as many aviator cards as I have. We even used to sit next to each other in class, until we got split up. We threw too many paper planes.

  Mum’s sewing me a blue shirt so I can join the Australian Air League. The first meeting is only six days away! She looks up from her stitching. ‘Ricky, go and ask your mum if you can see us off at the station,’ she says, smiling. ‘I’ll give you the ha’penny for a platform ticket.’

  She stands and reaches for the big jar of coins on the mantelpiece above the fireplace where she saves her change after she’s been to the shops. Not the big money like threepences. Mostly ha’pennies.

  That jam jar’s like part of the furniture. It’s as at home on the shelf as the children’s encyclopedia next to it. Or the big wireless in the corner of the room with its picture of a dog that peeps into a trumpet. The coins jingle as Mum takes out a ha’penny.

  Mum saves up for special occasions, like the sales once a year at Mate’s department store. She saved up for the encyclopedia set sitting on the shelf in a neat row of red and gold books. All lined up like old-fashioned army officers.

  ‘What are you saving for now?’ I ask her.

  ‘For a rainy day. You never know what that might bring,’ Mum says.

  Ricky turns the brown coin over in his fingers. Then glances at me with a worried look. He’s not sure if he should take Mum’s savings. Even though he really wants to come to the station with us.

  ‘It’s all right Ricky,’ Mum nods. ‘It’s your ha’penny. We’d love you to come and see us off. I’ll let your mum know we asked you.’

  Chapter

  FIVE

  The railway station’s the grandest building in Albury. I’ve often raced past the huge yellow and red building with Ricky in our billy carts but I’ve never been inside before.

  I feel very grown-up as we arrive, dressed in our best clothes. Mum has a new dress and a grey hat with red feathers. She looks like a film star, and she smells like flowers.

  As soon as we enter, I gasp in wonder at the amazing, giant platform. It goes on and on under arches that grow smaller and smaller until they disappear in the distance. The platform seems as long as Dean Street but without the bikes or cars. Or maybe it’s as long as a runway at an aerodrome without the aeroplanes. Ricky starts to take giant strides, to measure it.

  One of the longest platforms in the southern hemisphere, Mum tells us. One of the longest in the world.

  Mum likes to teach us things, even stuff we don’t need for school. She was a teacher until I was eight. That’s when the school rules changed and she got the sack because she has Dad. No married lady could be a teacher anymore.

  That’s the only time I’ve seen her cry. It’s two years ago now, but I still remember how awful it was to see her so sad. Her face was all red and blotchy. And Dad was saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get a job at the new radio station. The ABC. I can afford to keep you.’ But that only made her cry harder.

  Today she explains everything. ‘We need a gigantic platform at Albury because we’re right on the border of New South Wales and Victoria,’ she tells us.

  But I don’t quite understand until we feel a warm, sooty breeze and seconds later the train from Sydney comes into view. There’s a long hiss and sshh-awww of steam as the smoking black train slows down with a squeal.

  ‘Here’s our train, Mum!’ I cry, with a little jump of delight.

  ‘No, it’s not ours.’ She touches my arm. ‘That train can’t go any further. Its wheels don’t fit on the Victorian rail tracks.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of silly rules and regulations,’ Dad cuts in, ‘and silly men in charge. When they were building the railway, nobody could agree on using the same tracks for New South Wales and Victoria so the Sydney passengers all have to get out here in New South Wales and get on another train with us.’

  And sure enough, the train chugs to a noisy stop with a long, smoky sigh. And every one of the passengers, all in their best clothes, steps off and crowds onto the long, lo-o-o-ng platform. The ladies laugh and chatter and twitch at the seams in their stockings while the men pause for a smoke.

  Porters in uniform clatter on and off the train with trolleys lugging suitcases and hatboxes and lumpy bags of mail. The railway men heave them onto the goods van of the Melbourne-bound train.

  ‘All aboard,’ cries the guard as he hangs out of the train.

  We clamber on and the guard blows a shrill whistle. We’re away! I lean forward to stick my head out of the window. I want to watch Ricky wave goodbye. See him on the incredible runway-platform fading into a speck.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Mum warns. ‘You’ll get smuts on your face.’

  But I have to do it. I lean out to wave a last farewel
l to Ricky, right into a blast of speckled soot-fall and smoke.

  My eyes sting and I draw back into the carriage, coughing and spluttering.

  ‘Pooh,’ I gasp. Black grit sticks to my lips.

  ‘You’ve got smuts all over your face,’ Arnie cries in delight.

  Dad and Arnie burst out laughing, but Mum only shakes her head and gets out her hanky to scrub my sooty cheeks and chin.

  Two inspectors in uniform come into our carriage. One is the guard. He checks all our tickets.

  ‘Any fruit?’ the other asks. ‘Not allowed to take it into Victoria. Have to keep the fruit fly out.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ says Mum. She reaches up for a brown paper bag on the luggage rack. ‘Here are a couple of apples I brought for the boys.’

  So off we go, further than I’ve ever been before. We flash past lots of towns; big ones like Wangaratta where we stop and watch dented silver milk cans being taken on board; little towns like Violet Town.

  As the train slows to stop we can see into backyards where old tractors and drays have been left to rust. And in one there’s a blue heeler in a wire pen. The cattle dog races around, barking madly.

  Once the country here was wild. Bushrangers lurked behind rocks ready to bail up travellers, or even dig up the railway line. But there’s nobody hiding behind the rocks now, and the paddocks are peaceful. Only haystacks and brown cows with black faces.

  I read out the signs as they speed by. ‘One hundred and forty-five miles to Griffiths Teas.’

  Mum leads us in a long song: ‘Ten green bottles hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle should accidentally fall, there’ll be nine green bottles …’ Even Dad sings along in a play-acting holiday voice. Arnie pulls funny faces and crosses his eyes.

  Right then the busy guard pokes his head in our carriage again. I expect he might tell us to shush, like a teacher. But he only smiles. ‘The dining carriage will open soon,’ he says. ‘Sounds like you folk are enjoying yourselves.’

  Chapter

  SIX

  Melbourne’s a huge city, a hundred times bigger than Albury. A million people, Mum tells us. I can hardly imagine such a gigantic number. I feel even smaller than usual walking along the wide, bustling streets surrounded by solemn grey offices. It’s all so different from Albury’s sunny red and yellow buildings.

  But the streets are bright and colourful in a different way. Brilliant with streamers and posters and ribbons of red, white and blue that dance in the breeze. They’re to celebrate Melbourne’s centenary.

  Daffodils and rich, red roses decorate most of the shop windows for the hundredth anniversary. We climb aboard a big green tram that clangs all the way up Bourke Street and on the side of the tram there’s a long banner that boasts, Melbourne, the Queen City of the South.

  When we go to buy our gleaming new car, the salesman says, ‘I’ll give you a special Centenary price on that.’

  The car has a sleek, black body and a long bonnet. I can see my face in its shine. I step up on the car’s running board, becoming as tall as the grown-ups as they talk about the deal. But Dad makes a quick, impatient jerk of his thumb to tell me to hop off and he smiles at the salesman, giving a little shake of his head as if saying, ‘Youngsters!’ I can tell Dad wants to make sure the salesman likes us. So he can get the best price.

  The car salesman is keen for us to like him too. ‘There’s another Centenary deal,’ he goes on. His voice is like satin. ‘For only an extra ten pounds you can get the Minerva mascot to put on the bonnet. It gives the car that extra bit of dash and style.’

  He takes a big silver badge out of the glove box. On the badge is a proud-looking lady from the olden days. She wears a helmet against a red background.

  ‘We don’t need that,’ says Mum.

  ‘But it will be an ornament to the car,’ Dad says. He strokes the shiny bonnet, and looks at Mum with a heart full of hope. I can see he’s fallen in love with the car, wants it to have only the best. ‘Without it, the car will be like a house without a chimney,’ he pleads.

  ‘And Minerva was the goddess of wisdom. In ancient Rome,’ Dad informs us, as if this will clinch it for Mum. He knows how much Mum loves anything to do with learning.

  Mum gives a teeny smile. ‘But it will use up the last of Uncle Joe’s money. I wanted to buy a box brownie.’

  The salesman wants Mum to long for the mascot too. ‘It’s a lovely stylish badge,’ he tells her, ‘and you won’t see many cars with it.’

  He puts his head on one side and looks proudly at the fine silver face in his hand. Almost as if he’d made it himself. But his eyes droop a little, too. ‘I can guarantee there won’t be many more on the market,’ he adds, and now his voice sounds wistful. ‘We won’t be here much longer. This might be the last Minerva we sell before the company closes down.’

  ‘Another reason for us to get the badge,’ Dad tells Mum. ‘It’s a rare mascot. To have the last one will be special.’

  ‘That’s why I’d love it to go to folk like you,’ the salesman says in a low voice. ‘A family who will really love it.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I say. ‘We need to give it a home.’

  Mum raises both hands a bit and gives her head a tiny shake. But she leaves it there, and stays quiet as Dad buys the little ornament. Maybe she doesn’t want to say any more in front of the salesman with the sad eyes and the voice like satin.

  ***

  We settle back into the Minerva with its wonderful new-car leathery smell. Dad knows how to drive it straightaway. He used to drive during the war. You can tell he was once a great pilot.

  It’s so exciting in the new car. I can’t wait to take Ricky out in it. People in the street stare at it and hurry out of our path as we drive along. After we head a little way from the flurry of the city we wind through a maze of narrow cobble-stone streets. I’m beginning to think we’ll never find our way out again.

  ‘Where are we going, Dad?’

  Dad hums to himself as he changes gear. ‘Wherever Minerva takes us,’ he replies with a little laugh.

  And then, just when I think we’re completely lost, we arrive at a huge space with whitewashed buildings that take up a whole block. Great White City, it’s called.

  The famous MacRobertson’s factory where Cherry Ripes and Freddo Frogs are made. A chocolate factory! Everywhere you look you see enormous white buildings with white doors that gleam and white chimneys. Everything is a dazzling white.

  ‘And look,’ says Dad. He points to some workers on ladders. They’re slapping whitewash on the side wall. ‘The place is so spick and span. It must be a year-round job.’

  ‘That’s the job for me,’ Arnie marvels. His eyes seem to grow large and bright. ‘Painting a chocolate factory.’

  ‘Can we go in, Dad?’ I beg.

  And I can’t believe the heaven that lies inside. We’re met with a swirling scent of chocolate that makes us drool with chocolate-hunger. In the foyer the first thing we see is a giant picture of Mac Robertson dressed in white, looking at a special model of Great White City. All his own factory buildings are made small, and most amazing of all, they’re made out of pure white sugar.

  From the foyer we can hear the noise of machines as they clank and grind. When we go through another door onto the vast factory floor I can see what these noisy, frantic machines are doing: they’re chocolate-makers.

  ‘Even an automatic chocolate coater!’ Dad shakes his head in amazement.

  A guide in a white suit with a black tie explains every step while we stand behind a railing. It all makes my head spin with wonder. Cocoa and sugar is poured down big chutes, then stirred by other machines in giant vats. Ripe red cherries come tumbling down, adding to the mix.

  ‘In a moment,’ says the guide, ‘you’ll see the cherry and coconut mixture riding along the con-veyor belt.’ And sure enough, a yummy-looking mixture of red and white flecks starts to spurt out of another chute. A machine with heavy silver blades cuts the mixture into bars.


  ‘What an extraordinary place!’ ex claims Dad. ‘So modern. I never imagined this in my wildest dreams.’

  I lean over the railing for a better look. ‘Hold back,’ Mum says, hauling on my arm. ‘Remember the smuts on the train.’

  ‘I don’t mind chocolate smuts!’ I reply.

  ‘Chocolate smuts?’ Arnie says and elbows me aside to have a better look. ‘I want some of those, too.’

  Over in the next building it seems as if we’ve stumbled onto a colony of busy ants. Three ladies stand at every bench packing Fairy Floss, all looking as neat and careful as nurses in their snowy white dresses, aprons and caps. They gather spun sugar with sticks. With quick movements they seize the swirling pink mists. It’s as if they’re catching fluffy pink clouds.

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  When we leave the factory I can see a crowd beginning to gather in the street outside. Mostly men, but some mums and kids too. There’s an excited hum in the air. Heads turn and people press together as they peer down the street. Everyone seems to be waiting.

  Soon we can hear the clop clop of horses along the stony street and a shiny white cart pulled by two white horses comes into view.

  ‘Oh, look, boys,’ Mum says. ‘Look who’s driving.’ She points to the driver who holds the reins with one hand. He turns from side to side, waving wildly and beaming to the crowd. ‘It’s Mac Robertson himself.’

  He’s really old, yet he steps down lightly from the cart. He doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen before. He’s dressed all in white and has a snowy beard, like a South Pole Santa. Or more like the Easter Bunny because he starts handing out chocolates. He reaches into his billowing white sack while people mill around with their hands out.

  But Dad has another name for him. ‘Folk call Mac the Chocolate King,’ he says. ‘And what a showman,’ he adds, admiringly. ‘Everything white.’

  Mac Robertson gets up on a dais with skinny white ropes running around it, and speaks into a microphone.