In 1944, Stan was discharged from the army. He returned to buy the bakery business from Emanuel who had retired to a large bush block in Tecoma, next to the Ferny Creek in the Dandenong Ranges. We moved into the house vacated by my grandparents. Arguments between my parents began. Stan would yell loudly and insist on radical changes to the business. Mum, wishing to be cautious, preferred a ‘wait and see’ approach to which Stan responded by dramatically locking the desk and denying her access to the details of the business. He was going to show everyone how clever he was.
The bakery ceased making cake and pastry products. The shop verandah was removed and the interior space incorporated into the house. Thus a lucrative trade was forfeited in favour of expanding bread supply. By 1947, the number of bread carts had grown from two to six with as many drivers. To accommodate the bread carts, a large shed was built with undercover access to the bakery. To fund the expansion and provide for the additional staff, Stan borrowed money from the flour mills in addition to the debt owed to his father for the business. Consequently, although busy, profitability was marginal.
I recall being terrified by the savagery of the arguments that sometimes became violent. The abuse, which for me had the quality of loud incessant roaring, became indelibly etched in my memory. A common theme of my father’s tirades was that I was not his son and he frequently referred both directly and indirectly to me as the ‘useless fucking bastard’. It was my earliest persistent memory and it confused and upset me. I found it impossible to do anything to please him. He found fault with everything my mother or I did, and yet, to others he maintained an effusive friendliness.
The loud roaring would begin with accusation and progressively became threatening, sometimes followed by thuds and cries of pain. Mum or I were the recipients. I had no idea why. I was frightened, isolated and unable to trust him. Fortunately, Dad worked long hours.
When especially busy, Grandfather Cliff would appear to assist and stay the night. He always greeted us warmly but found it difficult to engage in conversation because he was deaf. He spoke with a broad accent and his manner was courteous and engaging. Below wispy eyebrows his brown eyes twinkled with pleasure. I felt close to him and wished fervently he would straighten out his son. Emanuel was more than capable of doing so but he remained unaware and disbelieving of his son’s behavior. This gentle successful man neither drank alcohol nor used foul language. He had attained what he wanted by hard work and perseverance.
In 1946, I started primary school at the North Williamstown State School. Like all kids then, I walked unsupervised to school. I enjoyed the walk because it enlarged my experience of the world. Overhead were formations of military aircraft still flying about. I became adept at identifying Spitfires, Wirraways, Beauforts, Catalinas and other military areoplanes. On the roads were a fascinating variety of early model cars, motor bikes and many horse drawn vehicles.
The atmosphere of the time was uncertain with the emerging issues of the post war period. Some families had lost loved ones and were struggling with the consequences. Many men had been wounded and were now finding it difficult to readjust in society. There were many hotels in Williamstown all doing a roaring trade. The Prince Albert Hotel was on the corner of Albert Street, only yards from the bakery. On Saturdays the bookies and helpers would huddle in doorways and the lanes, ever watchful for police who seemed reluctant to find them. Some food and clothing items still required coupons to buy and many building materials were in short supply. Even our teachers were older since the younger people had been required for the war effort. An air of optimism and hope was building. There was a release of energy as the country confronted a future that needed more of every resource, especially of its people.
The school day started with an assembly presided over by the principal. The National Anthem was sung and announcements were made before we marched off accompanied by boys playing the drums to our classes. In all my primary school classes there were at least forty children and order was maintained by recourse to the strap when necessary. I had great difficulty with the need to be quiet and received frequent reminders of the teacher’s prowess with their chosen instrument. It was not only the male teachers who used the strap. A few of the women could ‘lay it on’ as well. The head mistress, Miss Haminow, the harridan from hell, berated children and parents alike.
We played a variety of marble games, each with a different name, like ‘Bunny Hole’ or ‘Big Ring’. We collected football cards and invented other games that served to identify who the leaders were and how we each fitted into the order of things. After school, we dawdled along, soaking up the myriad details of the changing world around us. There were few cars and the streets seemed wide and largely vacant.
Most people used bikes for transport. Women commonly rode a bike with a basket on the front and a child in a seat behind. Men rode to work or to the hotel. We rode our bikes to explore and discover a variety of factories and projects going on in Williamstown. The whole suburb was our extended backyard.
In contrast to the industrial noise of the working week, Sundays were deathly quiet. It meant checking the horses and later attending church. Occasionally we would visit a family friend or a relative in the afternoon.
In the home there was an anticipatory tension as to when the next outburst of abuse would occur. Misdemeanors, real or imagined, resulted in a torrent of abuse and occasionally a punch or two with a promise of more to come. I was by now a severe asthmatic and missing school on a regular basis. It was a struggle to breathe for long periods. The more severe episodes required injections of adrenaline by a visiting nurse who, despite my attempt to hide, always found me. I still recall days of being confined to bed in a darkened room. There was speculation as to whether the asthma was caused by privet hedges, the pine trees in the Williamstown gardens, horse manure or stress.
In my father’s absence, the home was peaceful. Mum could relax and be herself. Although not able to show affection easily, she was calm. My entreaties for her to sing opera would be met with a high-pitched tuneless ‘Hark Hark the Lark’ which we both thought was hilarious. Attractive and blessed with a lively sense of humour, she was popular with the staff and customers. I suspect this was another source of annoyance to my father.
The family was closely involved with the Methodist Church in John Street a few blocks away. My brother Bruce and I attended Sunday school for years before becoming members of the junior Order of Knights. In fact, our limited social life revolved around our church and the Masonic Lodge.
Stan, like his father, was an avid member of the Masonic Lodge, which served to highlight the hypocrisy of his ranting about other races, Catholics, communists and us. Stan was an enigma – a handsome man with dark hair and brown eyes, about five feet eight inches tall, and of medium build. When dressed for his lodge nights, he was the picture of a successful businessman ready and able to fraternise with anybody. He possessed a lovely tenor voice and sang regularly as a member of the Grand Lodge Choir. Unfortunately, when meeting people, he adopted an exaggerated friendliness. I found this embarrassing and hypocritical as it was a completer contrast to his behavior in private. The foulmouthed, sneering bully given to bragging about his ability to fight was reserved for his wife and oldest child. Looking back, I was unconsciously engaged in a futile effort to win my dad’s approval and affection. The implicit anxiety of constantly failing to do so was, I suspect, the driving force of my asthma and defiant attitude to his authority.
The routine of working in the bakery was relentless and interesting. I was given many tasks, each year of growing complexity, thus increasing my usefulness. I ran errands to the harness maker or bank, opened flour bags and removed the tickets and string. I stacked wood, picked up horse manure and swept the yards and cart shed. Domestic jobs included polishing brass taps, dusting, table laying and dish washing. Everyone was busy so the work ethic was ingrained in us from the outset.
Stan was proud of his horses. They were rarely unfit for work. Many customers were fond of the horses and would greet them with tit bits from the
