There he was. Standing smack back right in the middle of
Rowntree Street, Balmain at 3am on Sunday morning. He was dressed for the
occasion, all in his best checked flannelette pyjamas and felt slippers. My
dad. Oh no, was all I could say.
But maybe it would be a good idea to go back in time, not
too far. It all started on the Saturday afternoon when a girlfriend from work
said we should go out dancing to the Albert Palais in Leichhardt, the best
dance in Sydney on a Saturday night. They had a great band playing, the best
swing dance songs with the coolest singers. I was always a bit nervous going
out with someone new but Pat was older than me. I always thought she was a nice
Catholic girl so I was excited and looking forward to the dance.
In case my reader doesn’t know how the dance hall operated
in the 1950s let me set the scene. Not many went with partners because we all
hoped we would meet the boy of our dreams. It was a strange set up as all the
girls would stand or sit at one end of the hall and all the boys would be on
the opposite side. When the music started the boys would make their way across
the floor and us girls would wait and hope one would ask us to dance.
Of course, the regulars knew each other so they would get
asked first. The rest of us would get the leftovers. It was very nerve-racking
and also embarrassing for the odd ones left without a partner. Well, let’s get
on with our story.
I’m not too bad looking and I usually ended up with a
reasonable partner. One extremely good-looking guy came over to me and I
couldn’t believe my luck. But my luck was soon changed when he said to me,
“Would you like to dance?” Of course I said yes, and he answered, “Well maybe
someone will ask you” and walked away.
I was so embarrassed. I felt everyone there had seen and
heard but of course, they hadn’t. I could have just sunk into the floor. The
music was loud and great, and luckily another boy, not as good looking or as
cool as the first one, but very nice, saved the day. He asked me to dance and
said not to worry as he would love to dance with me.
11pm: we had a great night at the Albert Palais. Great music
from the big band playing the top tunes of Glen Miller, Benny Goodman and Artie
Shaw with lots of dances like jiving and the dance of the time, the “Albert
Crawl”. As we all left the dance in our
assorted groups, some with the boys they had met that night and others, like my
girlfriend and me, alone but in a happy mood.
We headed for the taxi rank and joined the queue. Pat said,
“We’ll be here all night. Let’s walk down the street a bit and try there.” As
we left the throng of people on Parramatta Road and headed across Balmain Road,
a couple of nice looking boys approached Pat and I and said they could give us
a lift to Balmain in their car. I hesitated but Pat said they looked nice
enough, why not?
“Don’t ever get into a stranger’s car.” The words were ingrained into my brain by my dad since I was a small child. But where does common sense go when it’s needed most? I was with Patricia, wasn’t I? She was older than me and a good Catholic girl. She wouldn’t lead me astray, would she? How wrong could I be as things progressed at a rapid pace.
“Yes, we would love a lift, thank you,” said Pat.
So we headed around the corner into Balmain Road to their
little Volkswagen car. We would be home in fifteen minutes, what could go wrong?
Pat hopped into the front with the two boys and I jumped into the back only to
find myself net to another fellow who was half asleep.
“Oh no,” I said, “Let me out.” But the car only had two
doors so there was no way I could get out. After introductions like, this is
Tom, Dick and Harry (Ha!), we headed along Balmain Road towards home. So far so
good. I started to relax. It was still only a quarter to twelve and I’d be home
by midnight, great.
We were at Rozelle, about five minutes from home. To my
surprise Pat in the front of the car was smooching and kissing with Tom, who we
had only just met. Then it was suggested that we stop somewhere and have a
coffee or hamburger.
“No way,” I said. “I have to be home by twelve.”
“Oh come on, don’t be a nerd.”
“Well ok," I said tentatively, "but where will we find somewhere open at this time
of night?” I just thought he meant local.
“We’ll get coffee at Kings Cross, let’s go there.”
Hell no, I would never get home. I couldn’t get out and what
could I do? By this time, Harry in the back was waking up and starting to make
advances. He was at least nineteen or twenty and I was only sixteen, and
starting to get scared. While all of this was going on, we were headed to Kings
Cross and beyond, down to the beach at Rushcutters Bay which is down behind the
movie theatre. Why are we here?
It’s now 1am. I’ll get killed when I get home, if I ever get
home! We pulled into the park and parked. Pat said, “I won’t be long,” and got
out and headed along the beach wrapped in the arms of Tom.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked. “I want to go home.”
“Shut up, they won’t be long…why don’t we fill in some time together?”
said Harry, as he kissed me and put his hand up my skirt.
I started to panic and I pushed the front seat forward and
got out of the car. I walked up to the main road but didn’t have a clue where I
was. I was standing there crying, not knowing which way to go. I don’t know how
long I was standing there when the car drove up to me.
Pat was back in the car and said, get in we’re going home. By
this time I was so distressed I was ready to go home. I got in and hunched into
the corner of the car and sobbed all the way to Balmain. I was told not to be a
sook and to shut up.
As we came to Patricia’s house they dropped her off first
and continued down the street to where I lived. As we came down the street I
saw my father in his pyjamas standing looking up the road. I said stop and
jumped out as fast as I could, grateful to be home but terrified of my father’s
anger.
To my surprise he just walked up to the boys in the car and
said something, I don’t know what to this day. But he turned to me with tears
in his eyes and said, “Don’t say a word.”
He never mentioned it again.
That was 1953. Now my dad has gone and I have my own teenage daughter. It’s
only now I know how hurt and worried he must have been and what I put him through
in just one night of terror for me and for him.
