of the car and a very good description of the fellow and he drove away in hot pursuit. We sat there waiting, and a couple of the boys who were regulars at The Hub came along. When we told them what had happened, they were absolutely ropeable. They wanted to go and sort the fellow out there and then and they reprimanded us for not ringing them instead of the cops. I knew that if we had’ve rung them instead of ringing the cops the guy would’ve needed an ambulance. We told them that the cop would be back at any time and that they’d better bugger off. The cops never needed an excuse to pull up any teenager to question what they were doing and why they were there, even if they were only waiting for a tram. They didn’t need to be told a second time, especially when they saw the cop car approaching.
The young cop said, ‘The number you gave, doesn’t correspond with a Volkswagen, so I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done.’
Fortunately, two of us had a brain and one wasn’t the cop. Leone and I asked to see what number he had written down and he had written the wrong number down. He phoned through to headquarters and they got the fellow. Apparently, he pleaded guilty in court a couple of days later and went for a three-month holiday at Her Majesty’s Prison at Boggo Road.
Chapter 12
Tolerance is not my Virtue
I didn’t stay at Johnston’s Cake Shop for more than six months or so but I associated with Leone and The Hub crowd for about twelve months, before moving on to meet other friends. Apart from my friendship with Leone, the memories that stick in my mind of my time at Johnston’s were two customers who came in at separate times during the day. Stink Bomb as we had so eloquently named him was a poor old alcoholic derelict who wandered the streets of Fortitude Valley by day and slept in the cattle trains at night. He would come in to the shop to buy a pie with peas every midmorning, usually when there was a shop full of customers. Of course, he would always be served first otherwise the other customers would exit faster than a speeding bullet. He absolutely reeked of stale grog, dung and vomit. As much as I felt sorry for the poor bastard, I couldn’t serve him because I would dry retch as soon as I got a whiff of him. He got a bit obstreperous one morning and Ethel ordered him out of the shop. In a well-spoken, obviously well-educated voice he said, ‘I will take my business elsewhere and I shall not return.’ But he did return a month or so later but Ethel chased him out of the shop with the millet broom.
The other customer was old mother Scot, so named because she had a strong Scottish accent. She wore an old petticoat with an unbuttoned lightweight coat over the top of it and a pair of old, scuffed, slippers on her feet. She would come in and say, ‘I want thruppence worth of meat for me carts.’ (In English, ‘I want threepence worth of meat for my cats.’)
We’d all take it in turns to serve her and every day we’d say, ‘Sorry we don’t sell sausage meat try the butcher shop down the road.’
She would shuffle out the door and down the street out of sight, until the following day. I said to Ethel one day, ‘I feel sorry for the poor old bugger, don’t you?’
Ethel looked at me in disbelief and said, ‘Poor bugger be blowed, she’s one of the wealthiest women in Brisbane. She owns at least six homes in the Fortitude Valley and South Brisbane areas and is collecting more money in weekly rent than what you’d earn in six month’s wage.’
Flabbergasted, I said, ‘But look at the way she’s dressed.’
Ethel replied, ‘That’s nothing, you should see where she lives. In a dirty back room of one of the block of flats that she owns. She’s got no bathroom or toilet facilities and she keeps at least six cats in the room with her.’
The next time she came in, Marilyn said to old mother Scot, ‘I’m sorry we don’t have any sausage meat but we’ve got sausage rolls and they’re fourfpence.’
The old lady bought the sausage roll and when she left, I said to Marilyn, ‘You’re a nut, what did you do that for?’ She replied, ‘I’m sick of the silly old bag coming in and asking for sausage meat.’ I said, ‘Smart thinking, brainstorm, she’ll probably come in to complain tomorrow.’ Three days went by and we never saw hide nor hair of old mother Scot. When she finally came in, Marilyn went up to her and said, ‘Hello, may I help you?’ The old girl put the familiar paper bag with the Johnston’s Cake Shop writing on it, onto the counter and said, ‘I bought this here sorsage roll for me carts and they dinner lark it, so I want me money bark.’ I was the only one who was game enough to tell the old girl to P.O.Q. but I didn’t. We all hid in the back room absolutely pissing ourselves with laughter, whilst Marilyn tried desperately for about ten minutes explaining why she couldn’t give the old girl her money back.
I was quite keen on a blonde-haired, blue-eyed fellow by the name of Rodney Grainger who lived at Chermside. We didn’t go together in the true sense of the word. My idea of going with a boy was to have him pick you up at your front door or at the very least arranging to meet you at a particular time. Rodney and I never had that understanding. A whole mob of us would arrange to be at The Hub to go to the movies or a party and we’d pair off. This arrangement went on for about three months, until Rodney announced that he was going to Sydney to live.
I was really upset, but I managed not to show it, it was against my nature to allow anyone to see me cry. I was made of tougher stuff than that. I was quite shocked when he pleaded with me to go with him. Considering that we’d never been intimate, I considered that to be his way of saying that he really cared. I was very tempted to go with him and I gave the matter a considerable amount of thought before declining. I came to the conclusion that my family meant more to me than to run away from them. Besides, I thought Rodney might change his mind if I didn’t go with him. He had made up his mind and left for Sydney leaving me broken-hearted.
Such a heart wrenching tragedy and I hadn’t yet turned sixteen.
Chapter 13
Sweet Sixteen
I’ve often wondered why I bring out the worst in people. Is it because I’m short that people think that they can treat me like shit and get away with it? Or is it because I’m so brutally honest in my comments and they can’t handle the truth? (I know that honesty is not the best policy, because I’ve proved time and time again that when someone asks for an honest opinion they are really saying, tell me what I want to hear.) Perhaps I’ve got the type of face that only a mother would love. I’ve never thought I was good-looking and I still get a sixth sense about some people and I know they don’t like me just by the way they look at me. Some may call this paranoia I call it gut instinct.
I don’t know what it was that turned a party I went to into a near riot. We were having a BBQ on a secluded block of land out Stafford way when another girl called Pat took a sudden dislike to me. (What is it about these girls called Pat?) She had been making snide comments about me for the best part of an hour and I was getting very pissed off with her. But I thought, keep your trap shut, Amelia, or you’ll end up getting your head kicked in or at the very least walking home on your own.
I would’ve kept my trap shut too, except Pat came up to me and told me that she hated my guts because I was so bloody ugly. I replied only too readily, ‘You’re no oil painting yourself and you’re a fat slob.’
That was it we got stuck into each other, no holds barred. I made sure she threw the first punch, because there was no way in the wide world that I wanted to be accused of starting the blue. She was a big lump of a girl with long blonde hair, which was a distinct advantage for me. I didn’t hesitate to get a good grip on her hair and twisted many strands around my fingers and pulled as hard as I could. She punched me several times in the stomach and breasts and I knew I was losing the fight
