Lifestyle

Those special days with one of a kind friends

Apr 11, 2017

The way we lived 50 odd years ago was free and fun. This story of how I made friends with my neighbourhood buddies proves it!

My family moved to Brentwood in the summer of 1955. It was a lawless time, and you couldn’t be too careful. Having satisfied myself that all was secure at the rented property; I decided to reconnoitre the new neighbourhood. I strapped on the holster containing the Smith & Wesson six-cylinder revolver; made sure I had adequate ammunition and set out cautiously down the dusty unpaved street. The sun beat down relentlessly in the noonday heat. I saw faces peer out from half-opened curtains and just as quickly disappear as I turned to confront them. I drew my weapon in a show of defiance. It was necessary to establish who now was boss around here! I re-holstered my weapon; took off my wide-brimmed hat and wiped my face with a handkerchief before continuing ever more cautiously down the street.

When I came to the junction of Brentwood and Bell, I was surprised to find there was a vacant allotment across the street, dominated by a huge radiata pine. From the opposite side of the road, I surveyed my immediate surroundings. Across from Bell Street on the opposite corner was an unprepossessing, weatherboard cottage. But…standing in the shade of the pine was a slight figure watching me apprehensively. I felt a constriction in my throat; I knew instinctively that this was my possible nemesis. I decided in a split second that I must take firm, decisive action to establish my superiority in the pecking order. I drew my weapon and brusquely called out a warning to my quarry; little knowing that what I said would have ramifications right down to the present day….

“This gun can shoot right over to that tree!” I boasted, and to prove it I fired and the cap-gun made a satisfyingly loud bang.

“No, it can’t!” Warren cried. He bent down, picked up a stone and threw it in my general direction. “I’m going to tell my mother on you!” With that stinging retort, tears flowing, he took to his heels across the street, “Mum, Muum…”.
Not to be outdone, I fired at his retreating back. Unfortunately, the hammer of the gun jammed on the spool of spent caps coming out the top. “Peeyow, peeyow!” I called out in my best imitation of the noise that cowboys’ six-shooters were supposed to make. I probably heard it listening to ‘Hopalong Cassidy’ on the radio.

Unbeknownst to me, Warren’s brother Doug was also in the shadows. He began throwing stones in my direction as well. I beat a hasty retreat in the direction of my house. My cap-gun was spent, and my ‘peeyows’ were running out also. Time for a ‘strategic withdrawal’; they would wait another day for their comeuppance! I was around five and a half years old, Warren was about five, and Doug was perhaps three or four. This inauspicious event was the beginning of a friendship that continues almost 60 years later.

The following day I made another foray down to Bell Street, and this time there was no confrontation – we became fast friends. I even let him hold my gun! And it wasn’t just Cowboys and Indians with us either. Over the years we also became pirates complete with wooden cutlasses and swords; Robin Hood and his merry men; Cops and Robbers; intrepid explorers – you name it! When my family became one of the first in the street to have a television set, all the children in the neighbourhood (much to the consternation of my father!) would gather in our front room to watch the ‘Mickey Mouse Club’. Before long we had our own version in the back shed of Warren’s father; only ours was the ‘Cowboy Club.’

We were little tearaways at times as we ran wild through the bushland that surrounded our houses. We stole fruit from one or two small orchards, and of course, we always got caught. We let off fireworks, carved our initials on trees and irregularly fought like cats and dogs. From time to time we hurt each other rather severely – mentally and physically. On one occasion whilst we burying ‘pirate treasure’ in the back allotment, Warren struck me in the back of the head with a mattock. I suppose I got my own back some years later at high school. He was lying on a grassy area, and I was pushed by another friend. I tripped over his feet and landed heavily on top of him, breaking his collarbone. These were both accidents of course, but they fuelled fierce antipathy at the time. We can laugh about it now, but in truth, kids can be vindictive and dangerous!

In time fantasy games gave way to more prosaic pursuits such as cricket, tennis, soccer and golf. We even had our own little golf course set through the yard and along the nature strips. Needless to say, a few windows were broken over the years when errant golf and cricket balls went astray. Moreover, we rode scooters, trikes and billy carts and collected our fair share of spills, thrills and occasional doctor’s bills. Later on, we graduated to two-wheeler bicycles, but this was well before the days of BMX. I always had more of a leaning towards the arts, and as we passed from children to adolescents, I could feel the lure of fantasy once more.

When the Beatles came to prominence around 1963 in Australia, it triggered a response in me to become a musician – one that haunts and beguiles me to this day. Accordingly, Warren, Doug and I, plus another friend John, formed a band and blithely overlooked the fact that firstly – we couldn’t play, and secondly – we had no instruments. The second problem was solved first when Warren’s father, Alf (a clever and resourceful fellow who could turn his hand to anything) constructed some crude imitations of guitars (flat square wooden boxes with necks strung with piano wire) and a drum kit utilising large paint and storage tins; a section from a 44 gallon drum for a bass and hubcaps for cymbals. Of particular note was the ingenious way that he utilised the mechanism from an old pedal-bin for the bass drum pedal. The ‘Spartans’ were born! Of course, we sounded atrocious, but we still managed to play at a few church socials. Either the good parishioners were tone deaf or incredibly generous – probably both I suspect. Over time the others stopped as interest waned. But I doggedly kept on – still awaiting the phone call from Paul McCartney…

High school was rather a blur and an unhappy time as far as I was concerned. Warren and I still retained our friendship. However, we were starting to move in different circles. I left school earlier than I should have but managed to land a job on the local council. Warren joined the council for a short time as well when he finally left school but found that he couldn’t stand it. Mind you, part of his job involved checking the service register for the sanitary service contractors. These books were maintained by the truck drivers and labourers. Regrettably, cleanliness was of secondary consideration. Warren found he had to wash his hands several times every day. He became understandably tired of looking after the ‘shit books’ as they were commonly known. He left eventually to join the Commonwealth Bank, and later he moved to Telstra.

We still got together from time to time and sometimes played a round or two of golf. He was always a far better player than I was; a natural you might say, whereas I was a natural duffer whose speciality was the 19th hole. When I got married for the first time in 1975, Warren was one of my groomsmen. Eventually, Warren moved to Perth with his family to set up and run the fax exchange for Telstra. He lived and worked there for several years and ultimately was also responsible for dismantling the service due to the decline of fax and the increasing use of the internet. Warren now lives in Queensland with his second wife and recently became a grandfather. He returned for my 2nd wedding in 2006, and it was great to see him.

I, in turn, attended his second marriage in Queensland recently and I mingled with Warren’s brothers and sister and their families and friends – most of whom I hardly knew. It was a strange feeling. Of course, we talked about the old days and invoked the old greeting: “This gun can shoot right over to that tree!” But in some way…I now agree with my old mate; I don’t think it can. A whole raft of clichés comes to mind, i.e. you can’t turn back the clock! The old camaraderie was missing somehow, and I felt a definite wistfulness for our golden years; for our innocence and (at times) our reckless foolishness. Those little warriors from the battle at Bell and Brentwood are long gone.