What the name of a suburb says about that suburb can increase desirability to the uninitiated. Eastwood sounds like a genteel, forested glen in the eastern suburbs. In fact, it’s in the north-west and is nowhere near a forest. Add ‘heights’ to anywhere—for example, next to and above Revesby is Revesby Heights—and it creates the impression of status, as if the residents live in grand castles, and watch protectively over their minions in mere Revesby from the turrets.
The namers of some Sydney suburbs obviously caught onto the fact that giving a suburb a name that suggests height elevates its social status and so some suburbs have dared to be ‘somewhere heights’ without there actually being a ‘somewhere’.
They are:
Dover Heights (no Dover)
Elanora Heights (no Elanora)
Killarney Heights (ditto)
Lucas Heights (ditto)
Wheeler Heights (ditto)
Canley Heights (no Canley, although there is a romantic sounding Canley Vale)
Emu Heights (no Emu, although there is Emu Plains)
Georges Heights (no Georges, but there is a Georges Hall).
I’m not saying that Dover Heights isn’t high. It is, but the name does suggest it’s the high bit of the Dover area, when in actual fact it is the Dover area.
My favourite suburb name is the mystery, the enigma, the paradox that is Valley Heights. Surely it can’t be both. If it’s a valley, it’s got to be surrounded by higher bits, and if it’s surrounded higher bits, how can it call itself ‘heights’? And what are they going to call the surrounding higher bits when people get around to building houses on them? Valley Heights Heights? Valley Heights is just west of Penrith and the Emus and no, there is no suburb called Valley. Or Mountain Lows.
Other descriptions that have been added to plain Sydney suburb names to make them sound better are: Hill (Bass Hill), Hills (Baulkham Hills), Vale, Gardens, Point, Bay, Park, Plateau, Downs and Fields. They all sound rural and rustic but don’t be fooled. Most aren’t. They may have been when they were named but they’re not any more.
Finally, the status of some suburbs is upped by having a fully or partially French name. Two examples are Sans Souci, meaning ‘without care’, and Brighton-le-Sands, meaning ‘Brighton the Sands’.
2. Owning or renting.
The next indicator of the extent to which you have made it in Sydney is whether you own or rent. Renting has negative status unless it’s of a ridiculously expensive inner-city penthouse.
3. Mortgage.
If you own, there is the size of your mortgage to take into account. Traditionally, the smaller the mortgage the greater the status. Now, however, the property fetish has made debt trendy. Huge debt has huge status. Never let slip you have a mortgage under $200,000. People will think you’re gutless. For men, mortgage size is the new penis size. Size is everything.
4. The sort of house.
What sort of house you live in is the next indicator of making it. In ascending order of status: under a bridge, flat, apartment, semi, free-standing house, mansion hidden behind the high walls of a guarded compound.
5. What condition your dwelling is in.
What sort of bridge do you live under and do you have plans to do it up? In ascending order of status, is your home:
• unrenovated/original/shitty
• being renovated
• renovated
• renovated once but about to be renovated again just because you have too much money and you can
• built from scratch after demolishing the old house
• built from scratch after demolishing the old house and about to be renovated again just because you have too much money and you can.
6. What you earn.
7. What you do.
(Some societies believe what you do is more important than what you earn and reverse 6 and 7. Weird, huh?)
8. Where you have holidays.
Overseas has high status, but not as high as ‘at the farm’ or ‘at the shack’. Note: a beach house can only be called a shack if it isn’t one. Shacks are fully done up, luxurious second homes at the beach. If it really is a shack, it should be called ‘the beach house’.
9-114. Lots of other things.
115. How happy you are.
All of which brings me to La Perouse. A La Perouse address doesn’t carry with it nearly as much status as it deserves. In other words, it’s better than it’s perceived to be. It’s a hidden treasure. The French name isn’t pretentious, by the way, it was named after someone, La Perouse, to be precise, whose two ships landed at Botany Bay in 1788 just five days after the First Fleet arrived. La Perouse had spent three years sailing from France around the bottom of South America to Alaska, Hawaii, Japan and then Australia. Next stop was to be the Solomon Islands but both his ships sank on the way. So he deserves at least a suburb named after him.
His suburb is at Botany Bay, in the same position relative to the bay as Manly is to the harbour, forming the northern headland that separates the bay from the ocean. It’s a peninsula made up largely of beach and bush, and almost no houses, which is probably why it hasn’t got the attention it deserves. If you can’t buy it, most people couldn’t give a stuff how pretty it is.
No one has yet realised La Perouse is the south side’s Palm Beach (it’s a lot closer to the city than Palm Beach: twenty minutes’ drive compared to an hour) and the few who do live there have the extent to which they have made it severely underestimated. Maybe the fact you have to drive past Sydney’s biggest jail, Long Bay, to get there interferes with the atmosphere a tad, but hell, those walls look big and sturdy to me. There is also the fact that unlike Palm Beach, which is surrounded by pristine water—ocean on one side and Pittwater on the other—La Perouse opens onto Botany Bay, a working port with an airport jutting into it. So it has a slightly less romantic image than that of the Northern beaches.
But don’t be fooled. Between the jail, the port and the airport lies a hidden jewel. The only clue is the name: La Perouse. French. Therefore exotic, romantic and sophisticated sounding. Yes, Palm Beach is a good name but ultimately it’s functional. It tells you there’s a beach, and that there are palms (presumably of the tree variety—you’d be a bit disappointed if it just meant there are lots of people there showing the fronts of their hands). But La Perouse suggests mystery, and once you know the bloke was an explorer, then it’s even more intriguing.
Anyway, that’s what we thought. Our expectations were high. Or at least mine and Lucy’s were. Bibi was asleep in the back.
We drove south along Anzac Parade and soon it had left traffic lights behind and taken us all the way to the shores of Botany Bay. We parked, got out, turned left and descended twenty steps to a beautiful beach you could film scenes for the next remake of Robinson Crusoe on. There was no evidence we were in a city. We might have been 100 miles from the nearest shop. The beach is 150 metres long and faces south to Cronulla. At the far end—east—sand gave way to rocks gave way to bush, and we could see the coast curving away southeast, with bush rising behind it. A track led inland claiming it led to Henry’s Head, 1.5 kilometres. We followed it and once again the bush wove its magic. The fight Lucy and I had had in the car over a big fat phone bill was forgotten. Trees closed in around us, taking the edge off the sun’s heat, and lizards flickered at the edges of the track. Bibi was happy in the backpack and the gradually ascending slope promised a view at the top.
Then:
‘WILL MR ANDREWS, MR WILLIAMS AND PARTY PLEASE MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE FIRST TEE. AT 10.35 MR LOOSEMORE’S PARTY WILL BE ABLE TO TEE OFF. AT 10. 40 THE FIRST TEE WILL BE AVAILABLE FOR MR MATTHEWS AND HIS PARTY.’
The voice boomed and the lizards ran away. It sounded close and yet all we could see was bush. Soon we came to the top of a rise and away to our left was a big cleared space partially filled with golf course and clubhouse. While national park skirts around the shoreline, the New South Wales Golf Club occupies most of the rest of the La Perouse peninsul
a, except for the bits occupied by a pistol range, another golf course, St Michaels, and yet another golf course, The Coast. And as you head up the coast past the golf course, the pistol range and the golf courses, further north is another golf course and a rifle range. All up, an almost continuous 10-kilometre stretch of prime coastal land from Botany Bay to Maroubra, worth tens, maybe hundreds, of millions of dollars, all given over to shooting and hitting. What’s going on?
I suppose you could argue that if the land was all national park and picnic grounds, only bushwalkers and picnickers could use it, and the minority groups of golfers and shooters have just as much right to some land for their hobbies as the minority groups of bushwalkers and picnickers. That, however, would ignore the fact that a lot more people picnic and bushwalk than shoot and hit. And it would ignore the fact that a lot more people should bushwalk and picnic than shoot and hit. Trying to get something small to arrive accurately somewhere else, as both golf and shooting do, is not inherently useful. In fact, getting good at shooting can be a bad thing.
Conversely, picnicking and bushwalking are useful. They either bring people together in a relaxing atmosphere and encourage meaningful bonding and contact, or if they are done alone they create an ideal opportunity to think about one’s life (and other things) peacefully, calmly and with perspective. So there.
The New South Wales Golf Club has been there since 1925 and leases this choice piece of land from us, via the state government. You’d think they’d be so grateful to have it that they’d welcome any of us legal owners on for a hit. Not so: ‘As a private members only golf club we do not offer 7 day a week public access times. Subject to special events, we do, however, allow limited public access during weekdays only. No weekend times are available unless invited by a member.’
And if you do jump through those hoops and make it on to the course, you’d better make sure you behave: ‘Golfers are expected to arrive at least 15 minutes before their allotted tee time and must report to the Professional Shop before tee off. Names must be entered in the visitor’s book and identification passes will be issued for all players . . . No Metal Spikes. Strict Dress Code.’
Yes, sir! Golf ’s dress code is designed to make those playing it look as if they are not actually playing a sport at all but are instead accountants on their way to a barbecue. The dress code is proof that golf is not a real sport because real sports do not have dress codes. Weddings have dress codes, visiting the Governer-General has a dress code, but sports do not. One of the great things about sport is that it gives us all an opportunity to wear our daggy Adidas, Mitre 10 and Dire Straits Brothers in Arms Tour t-shirts that would never otherwise see the light of day. No one has ever been turned away for a game of squash, touch football or netball because their shorts didn’t have a belt. It’s stupid and pretentious.
So we didn’t pop in for a game of golf.
Eventually, after what seemed to be at least 2 kilometres, we reached the top of the hill, only to find it was still 700 metres to Henry’s Head. We were only at about Henry’s stomach. We walked along the ridge for a few minutes then stopped at a lookout. We could see for miles: Botany Bay, Cronulla and the ocean. Magnificent, head-clearing stuff. It seemed impossible Henry could provide a view that was any better so, after soaking up as much of it as we could, we turned around.
On the way back we passed a fiftyish couple.
‘Lovely day,’ I beamed.
‘Would be it if it were downhill,’ said the man in a thick English accent. I’ve said before that I hate stereotyping, I think it’s wrong, but he was a whingeing Pom.
We returned to the beach and sat at the west end, nearest to, but invisible from, the road with our back to the rocks. A beach is a beautiful thing. One so close to home surrounded by bush rather than carparks and buildings is even better.
Bibi and I had a paddle and made friends with another dad and daughter. Both girls squealed in delight as they were swung about and dipped in the sea and both were so totally absorbed in the exhilaration of it that it made me wonder why we seem to get worse at enjoying the moment as we get older. People study yoga and meditation for years to learn how to be ‘in the moment’, to focus on the present rather than the past or the future, but all they are really trying to do is reclaim a lost skill, because at age one we were all expert at it.
I pulled Bibi up to eye level. ‘What’s your secret?’
She just giggled.
Next to us, three-quarters of a New Zealand family had stripped down to swimmers and run into the water while Mum checked the sleeves of her long-sleeved shirt were buttoned down and covered any exposed flesh with sunscreen. There was role reversal going on in the water. While the two kids, about ten and eight, lazed belly-down in the shallows, Dad ran madly about, throwing a frisbee into the sky then charging off through the waves to dive after it.
At one point he turned to the rest of the family and yelled fiercely,‘Come on! Make the most of it!’Even without the accent, it was obvious that this family was on a proper holiday, not just stealing a morning away from routine. While the rest of us were just grateful not to be working or doing chores at home, the Kiwi adults had the grim look of those under pressure to enjoy every single minute of their expensive holiday. They were going to have fun, dammit, whether they liked it or not.
Eventually, we picked ourselves up to move on. After an hour on the beach, standing was like weightlifting. On the way up to the road we passed a young guy carrying a boombox on his shoulder, blaring out the same radio station the builders listened to. He had the speakers facing away from his ear.
‘Hey, did you ever think that maybe some people don’t want your radio shoved down their ears? ’Cos if you haven’t ever thought that, then maybe you should. Now.’
Luckily he didn’t hear me because the radio was loud and I was speaking very softly (actually, you’d probably call it whispering) with my hand in front of my mouth as if I was coughing. Luckily for him, I mean.
Up the stairs from the beach and across the road (west) is a park overlooking Botany Bay. In the middle of it is what looks like the top 6 metres of a castle sticking through the grass. A perfect stone square with turrets on top. A bit of Medieval Europe in the south is how the real estate agents would describe it. From the top you would get a view of the whole entrance to Botany Bay. Presumably it was used to keep watch for intruders. But who? Russians, refugees, Kiwis, Japanese, sharks, communists, terrorists or one of the other groups we have been paranoid about in the past. In fact, it’s a monument to the priest Louis Receveur, a member of La Perouse’s expedition, who died and was buried there.
Bare Island lies a hundred metres south into Botany Bay, connected to the mainland by a wooden bridge. People were fishing on the little island, and there was an old fortress cut into one side. Apparently it was built in 1885 to guard Australia from possible attacks by Russia, but strangely the fortress faces not out to sea but back to land, as if they were expecting the attack to come from Sydney. Perhaps even back then they thought there were Russian spies within.
On our way back to our car we passed a car parked across the road from the park. Next to it was our friend with the boombox and another man. They weren’t talking and indeed there would have been no point, because next to the car, set down in the middle of the road, was the boombox, speakers facing away from the car and blaring even louder than before. Perhaps he was employed by the council to provide noise. Maybe he job-shares with someone with a leafblower.
eleven
sticking our necks out
‘Lucy?’
‘Mm?’
‘You know how you said we could stay at your parents’ house when they went away in October?’
‘Mm.’
‘Have you actually asked them yet?’
‘Not yet. But it’ll be fine.’
‘Right.’
. . .
‘But, Lucy, do you think you could ask them?’
‘I’ll ask them.’
‘’Cos then we’d know, and it’d be good just to know.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you feel awkward about asking them?’
‘No. I just haven’t got round to it yet.’
‘Because if you do I could ask them.’
‘I don’t feel awkward.’
‘Why don’t you give them a call and ask them now then,
just so we know, you know.’
‘Because it’s midnight.’
‘Right.’
. . .
‘Have you asked your parents about us staying at their place yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have? What did they say?’
‘They said it should be fine.’
‘Great. Oh, that’s great. Thanks.’
. . .
‘Lucy?’
‘You know when you said you’d asked your parents about us staying when they’re away?’
‘Mmm.’
‘And you said they said that “it should be fine”?’
‘Mmm.’
‘What did they mean? Like, what does it depend on?’
‘Nothing. Mum said it should be fine.’
‘Yeah, but “should be fine”. That doesn’t sound like definitely fine. That sounds like probably but maybe not fine. Maybe we should just make sure?’
‘Do you want me to ring her now?’
‘Yeah, that’d be great.’
‘I’m not going to.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Um . . . why not?’
‘Because it’s half-past midnight.
‘Right.’
. . .
‘Lucy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you check about the house?’
‘Yes, it’s fine.’
‘Definitely fine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘No should bes? Definitely?’
‘Yes! Definitely! Okay!’
‘Okay. I was just asking.’
. . .
‘Have you got a key for your parents’ place?’
A Month of Sundays Page 10
