The Crate Escape, page 7
“It’s yours for the taking if you want; you can start working there tomorrow?”
Leaving his office, I went back to Dandenong, packed my stuff and saying goodbye to my two friends—who I never saw again—moved back into the hostel, I had sold myself out for a milkshake with extra malt!
Chapter Eleven
Working at Spencer Street Railway Station meant I could walk to work from the hostel and didn’t need as before to catch a train. The first day, I arrived on time, and after finding the required office, I signed on to say I was there. Asking the clerk what I should do, I was told to speak to the foreman, but no one seemed to know where he was or how to find him. So, I just went for a walk around the station.
This was Melbourne’s main interstate terminal and the only place where you could catch a train to travel to other states within Australia. My uniform meant that I could go anywhere within the station and so, taking full advantage, I went on an unorganised tour. I checked out the platforms, having a good look at all the trains, boarded some of the carriages, sat in the first-class sections and generally had a good time.
After a few hours of doing absolutely nothing, I returned to the foreman’s office and found him busy having lunch.
“Hi, I’m Brian,” I said.
“Oh, hi, we’ve been expecting you, have you just arrived?”
“No, I’ve been here since eight this morning.”
“Have you been busy?”
“Pretty much so,” I lied, “what do you want me to do now?”
“Have your lunch first, then just carry on as this morning” was his answer.
I smiled and said okay then, after leaving his office, spent about 90 minutes in the canteen before checking the same platforms out as I had done earlier. Orders were orders and who was I to disagree!
This turned into a regular daily routine; sign on, check the platforms out, check the canteen, do the afternoon round and go home. No one had any idea what I was doing and although it was a complete waste of my time, at least they would be paying me for being there.
That was exactly what happened, at the end of the week, my pay packet was waiting for me in the foreman’s office and, pretending to be overworked I duly collected what was mine. This gave me enough money to look for a place to rent, and so, buying the ‘Melbourne Age’ newspaper and scanning the classifieds I finally found a small room in the suburb of Footscray and moved out of the much-hated hostel.
The room was not exactly a palace, but it was much better than the accommodation supplied by my employer. Fairly small, it had a single bed, a sofa and a small dining table. An alcove leading off the room contained a kitchen counter, cooker, sink and the few kitchen utensils that I would need to prepare exotic meals for myself. The one drawback was that it was located about six miles from the station where I was working which meant that I was unable to do both the early and late shifts as I had no transport and trains were not running at the times, I needed them. Giving it some thought, I applied for a transfer to Footscray Station as from my accommodation, I would then be able to walk to work at all hours of the day and night.
As soon as I settled into my new room, I made myself comfortable by renting a television which was proudly placed in a spot next to the old fireplace in the room. I placed the one single chair in front of the set so after work I could return home, turn the TV on and sit there all evening until time for bed.
Going shopping, I bought basic foodstuffs that didn’t require much cooking mainly because, if the truth were told, I had absolutely no idea of how to cook. My evening meal would always consist of Welsh rarebit (grilled cheese on toast) and, if I do say so myself, I became an expert at preparing it. Nobody ever complained about the quality of my cooking, possibly because I was always there alone!
One day when out shopping for bread and cheese, I picked up a packet of instant cake mixture, and after reading the back of the packet, I was rather pleased to see that I would only need to add a few eggs to have the perfect cake. A tin of carrots looked tempting, and I thought perhaps I would change my diet. I was just about to purchase the bread, cheese, cake mix and carrots when an old lady asked me why I was wasting my money on a tin of carrots and why I didn’t buy fresh ones? The tin, she informed me, was four times the price! I told her that I couldn’t buy fresh as I didn’t know how to cook them. With a laugh, she said, you cook them the same as you would a tin, in a saucepan with some water! I put the carrots back on the shelf and just bought the other bits that I needed.
Back at work, I was finally given a job to do. The foreman noticed me checking the platforms and asked if I was free to help load a train full of mail. Thinking it would pass some time, I readily agreed and slowly made my way to the platform he mentioned. The interstate train was standing there, and on the platform were stacked up many sacks of mail surrounded by maybe eight or ten station assistants none of whom I had met before whilst performing my platform inspections. Taking our time, we slowly, so as not to break into a sweat, loaded the sacks into the guard’s van and after the job was completed, everyone except one other kid and I went back to the canteen to have a break. As they left, I noticed a letter that must have fallen from one of the sacks lying on the platform. I picked it up and asked the kid what I was supposed to do with it. He replied that he didn’t know but maybe look for an open sack and push it back in. We both boarded the train to look for a sack that was open and, as we did so, the train jerked and before we had time to jump off, started picking up speed and left the station. What the hell do we do now, I asked him, stuffing the now-not-so-important letter into my pocket?
The train was travelling quite fast, and after quickly glancing at the bags we had loaded, we realised it was bound for Sydney over six-hundred miles away.
“Do you think it will stop before it gets there?” I asked him.
“I’ve got no idea,” he answered, giving me a worried frown.
“It had better, or we’ll be stuck here all night,” I shot back at him.
“You think that they’ll pay us overtime for that?” We both laughed.
I was about to write a letter to my new home address leaving my newly-rented television set to my landlord for safekeeping when, to our relief, the train’s brakes came on and it gradually stopped at a station. We both jumped off before it had completely stopped moving and then, after having to wait about half an hour for the next train, we caught a train back to Melbourne.
It was dark when we reached Spencer Street, so we both signed out and left the station to go home. As we left, now laughing and relieved that we had survived this tremendous ordeal, I discovered that the boy lived quite close to me, and so I invited him back for tea. He accepted my offer, and we made our way to my humble abode.
Taking off my uniform jacket and inviting him to do the same I discovered the letter that I had found earlier. I threw it on the table and we both went into the kitchen, I to prepare the food and he, to watch a chef at work and to learn the art of cooking.
Remembering the cake mix that I had bought a few days earlier I suggested that we have Welsh rarebit followed by some nice homemade cake. This seemed agreeable to both of us and so, after reading the cake instructions, I looked for the two eggs needed to add to the mix and show off my cooking skills. Unfortunately, I could only find one and being a much knowledgeable and by-now-experienced cook, I decided to go ahead with the cake anyway.
I mixed the egg and some milk with the powder till it formed a cream and then cleverly put it in a shallow baking tin before popping it into the oven.
Whilst it was baking, I made the rarebit and we sat down to eat. As we finished the cheese on toast, I could tell by the smell from the oven that baking was complete, and I gleefully invited my guest into the kitchen to view the result! The cake looked perfect, and I took it out of the baking tin and put it onto a plate. Picking up a large knife, I held it above the cake, with its pointed end about two inches from the top, and then, with a flourish, I stabbed the knife down.
Much to the surprise of both myself and my guest, the knife hit the surface of my newly-baked masterpiece and with a sound like a ‘bong’ bounced back up leaving the cake completely unmarked. As hard as I tried, I just could not cut into the sodding thing! It was as solid as a block of cement. We didn’t eat cake that evening, and I began to understand that it’s always a good idea if you want to cook something to follow all the instructions on the packet!
Chapter Twelve
Melbourne got quite cold in the winter months and sitting in my room during the evenings was quite chilly. Looking at the empty fireplace, I could imagine a blazing fire glowing and lighting up the room. It’s surprising how, by letting your imagination run away with you, you can begin to feel warmer. I had no idea where to buy coal accept perhaps to write a letter home asking them to send me part of a slag heap, but as it would take at least six weeks for a letter to get there, I ruled that idea out.
A few days later, on my way home from work, I called into a local shop and discovered that although they didn’t sell coal, they did sell charcoal to be used in garden barbequing. That would do the trick I thought and purchased a bag that weighed a few kilos.
As soon as I arrived back at my room, I went into the garden, and after using the outside toilet and taking a quick shower whilst the weather was still warm, I hunted around to find a few sticks that would help me make the fire go with a roar. Finding a small quantity of wood, I returned to the room with it.
Now I just needed some paper! I searched around but found nothing and was just about to give up when I came across the letter that I had picked up on the platform of Spencer Street Station the day we took our train journey and explored the state of Victoria. I ripped it open and was surprised that it contained a cheque book. Oh well, it was too late to return it now, so I ripped a few cheques out and after writing a few of them out for a million pounds each, I crumpled them up complete with the envelope that the book came in. I then decided that as money had no meaning, I place each in the fireplace and laid a few wooden sticks on top. Next, I opened the charcoal and gently placed some of it on top of the sticks. I lit the cheques, and very soon I had a roaring fire going, giving a new meaning to the phrase ‘to burn money!’ It was great, a warm room, television on and two rounds of cheese on toast, and I was set for the night. I even topped up the fire before I went to sleep that night but by the time I woke up in the morning, it had gone out and the room was as chilly as ever. Never mind, at least, with the fire going out, I had saved some of the charcoal to use the next time I needed a fire.
That cheque book and the million-pound cheques seemed to fascinate me; it was too late to return the book and the cheques had proved useful for lighting fires. It could prove useful for other things, and so carefully placing it in my inside pocket, I took it almost everywhere I went. It seemed to give me some security, maybe I didn’t have much money, but I had more than most people had. I had my own cheque book and with it a status symbol.
By now, living in Australia had become a bit of a game! I took nothing seriously, didn’t care about anything and all my spare time was spent pretending I was back in Cardiff. I still had Saturday and Sunday as holidays from work, but it was unlikely that I would make many friends as the Aussies were sports mad and the weekends were filled with sporting activities arranged for them. All sport was something that I avoided like the plague. Even back in my school days, I would write my own sick notes to get myself excused from participating in those activities. I didn’t really drink much in those days, but pubs would have been a place to meet people except for the fact that they still closed at 6 o’clock in the evening and by the time I returned from work, it was too late. A bit of window shopping was generally okay as all the shops were open on Saturday mornings until twelve lunchtime and then they closed until Monday morning. Mind you, shopping or window shopping was not usually considered to be a good way to make friends or meet people.
One Saturday morning, bored and with nothing to do, I caught the train into the centre of the city and spent some time listlessly wandering around. I ended up in the lobby of a large hotel and started to look at all the expensive shops that one would expect to find even today in lobbies of such large places. One shop caught my eye and I casually strolled in to look around. It was a souvenir shop selling many products that were either made in Australia or made perhaps in Malaysia—as that country was the exporter of many consumer goods made in Asia at that time. The products seemed to be of good quality and the asking price reflected either that or the shop thought that all consumers were rich and a little crazy.
I spoke to the lady working in the shop and asked if the goods were made in Australia, and she, assuring me that they were, went off to deal with another customer. I started browsing the shelves and within a short time had selected about twenty or so items. Seeing that I might be a big customer she came over to help me both select the products and in taking them to the cash desk. I was not sure that I was going to buy them or if I was just wasting time and would tell her that I would come and collect them later the next day, but before I had a chance to say anything, she was ringing the goods up on the cash register; the total cost came to about thirty pounds.
Thirty pounds was quite a large sum of money in those days and as I only had about three pounds ten shillings in my pocket, the method of paying for them became a slight problem. My not having anywhere near enough money to pay the bill, I was suddenly hit with an inspiration. “Will you take a cheque?” I asked her. with a smile.
“Certainly, sir,” she answered.
I quickly wrote out a worthless piece of paper and after she had put my purchases into three carrier bags, I slowly left the shop wishing her an exceptionally good day.
To say the least, I was both excited and elated over what I had just done and as I continued to walk the streets looking into shop windows I wondered if I could buy an air ticket home using the same method. I soon forgot that idea when I remembered that even if I could buy a ticket, I still didn’t have a passport and as sure as hell was hot, no government would accept a worthless piece of paper!
After arriving back in my room, I placed my purchases on the bed and after deciding that I should gift-wrap them, I went to my local shop and bought some gift-wrapping paper. I managed to scrounge an old cardboard box from the shop owner before returning home, wrapping each one and placing the soon-to-become gifts inside the box. Later, I would post them to the UK.
Monday morning arrived, and I took the now-sealed-and-addressed box with me to work. I signed on and after going to the post office I sent the box off. On the way back, I bumped into the station foreman.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
“I’ve been really busy today,” I replied with my sweetest smile.
“Well, your dream job’s been confirmed, as from tomorrow you’re transferred to Footscray Station!”
“Thanks!” I said with a genuine smile, beginning to wonder if I was going to miss the platforms and canteen of Spencer Street.
Chapter Thirteen
Footscray Station was located barely ten minutes’ walk from where I was living making it quite easy for me to get to work. I guessed that would probably be the only benefit that would go with the position and that the job would be as tedious and boring as any other station on the Victorian Railway.
Footscray was a four-platform station which meant it served not only as a stopping-off point for those who lived in the area but also as a junction where the rail lines split, so it handled trains that travelled along two different lines on both outward and inward directions and with the inward line terminating at Flinders Street. All trains travelling north out of the city would stop there to pick up and drop passengers off. The place was much bigger than the two-platform station where I had worked and so should have other people working there. At least, I would get the chance to meet someone.
With a feeling of complete disinterest, I arrived on time for work and reported to the station manager in his office. After sitting down with him, he asked where else I had been working and, although I thought it none of his business, I mumbled Spencer Street. He went on about that station handling interstate traffic, whereas this one handled local traffic. I tried to look happy and interested in what he was saying, but in my mind, I was wondering what time would be good to clock-out!
I had learnt by now to virtually ignore what any so-called manager said, as if truth be told, they knew about as much as I did, which was extraordinarily little. I also wondered why he needed to tell me about Spencer Street as I had already worked at the place and if I didn’t know what happened there by now then I never would. After he had finished babbling on about nothing, I was sent to help the station assistants who were supposedly working on platform number two.
Doing a soft-shoe shuffle by dragging my feet and stopping every few yards to look at and study the advertisements, I slowly, very slowly, made my way to the platform. All the platforms were located on a second level and so I climbed a flight of stairs imitating the steps of an incredibly old man and finally reaching the top of the second platform.
Whilst I was walking, a train pulled in and stopped. Doing what a good station assistant was taught to do, I completely ignored it continuing with my stroll. After a minute or so, the guard on the train waved his green flag and the train started to move. Drawing level with me, the guard glared in my direction and at my complete lack of action in directing the train and I offered a sweet smile back at him. It was just my way of saying stuff-off without the need to raise my voice, blow my whistle or wave my flag.
I had reached the platform announcement box—it was a wooden shed with glass windows and a microphone located inside. The idea was that a station assistant would look at the timetable hanging up inside and, in a voice containing a smile, announce the arrival or departure of all trains.
