Bridge Road Richmond Young Adulthood by Derek Kosbab

Bridge Road was a focal point for my last school years through to when I first worked fulltime after leaving school. My last years at school were spent at Richmond Technical School just a short walk along Church Street from Bridge Road. At Richmond Technical School I was bullied by a tall blonde haired German kid. I have no idea why this kid who was taller, stronger and more popular than me, kept picking on me. I can remember three occasions when we fought physically; always with his team of supporters giving him encouragement. Two of the occasions, I think, were organised. That is, he would approach me between classes and say something like: if you are not the stinking little coward I think you are you will meet me after school at four o’clock near the trees by the oval. Then, he and his supporters would sneer and wait for a response from me. For some reason, I would defiantly respond with something like: alright then. On the first occasion we stood face to face near the trees by the oval. Instead of waiting to see what he might do, I gave him a short sharp right-hand jab to the nose. He seemed surprised and just took one step backwards. So, I stepped forward and repeated the jab to his nose that began to bleed. Once again he seemed unfazed and just took one step backwards. This pattern of me punching and him stepping backwards repeated itself at least ten times. A old man—a stranger observing the fight between the taller stronger boy and me the shorter skinny boy—said to me, good on yer son. His encouragement made me feel really good. But, just as I felt good the German boy lunged at me and grabbed me in some sort of crushing wrestling hold. Then I was thrown to the ground with him grappling me in some manner so that he had one leg over my legs, pinning me down, with his other leg under the middle of my back and both of his arms bending me backwards over his leg. The pain in my back was excruciating. Do you give up? he asked. Yes, I struggled to reply through my pain. He let me go and got to his feet; and, he and his mates walked away sneering at me and animatedly discussing the killer wrestling hold he had applied.

On another occasion we got into a wrestle as we passed each other between classes. In the struggle my jumper got pulled up over my head as he held me tightly in a head-lock. I wriggled frantically out of the head-lock and with my vision obscured by my jumper, threw a wild punch that hit a teacher on the side of the face as he tried to separate us. On the third occasion, he had arranged an after-school meeting behind the Hoyts picture theatre that abutted the school. I am unsure how I managed it, but, I quickly got the German boy into a tight headlock. Then, I took about six very fast paces forward and slammed him head first into the brick wall of the theatre. He crumpled to the ground. I didn’t wait to see what would happen next; but ran, full-belt through his shocked supporters all the way to home. I learned from this last event that when someone attacks do whatever is necessary to win and get it over with. As a consequence, throughout my life I know that many people have felt intimidated by my demanding and forceful manner in settling issues: an approach that has not endeared me to many people as I seem to change from a cooperative and friendly person to the exact opposite: a demanding and aggressive person.

Other events along Bridge Road were more sedate and all involved work. I sold papers on the corner of Bridge Road and Church Street diagonally opposite the Vine Hotel and just along from the Richmond Town Hall and next door the Richmond Police Station. Recently I read in the Herald/Sun newspaper about a man who was called to perform some repairs to the clocks in the tower of the Richmond Town Hall. He reported finding bullet holes in the face of the clock: all facing the side of the Richmond Police Station. Richmond Police Station officers declined to comment on the findings. About 20 shops up Richmond hill towards the city was the greek-owned fish and chip shop where I used to spend tips given by customers buying papers. The man and woman who ran the fish and chip shop wore white aprons and usually smiled as they sweated over the hot frying oil; and, then using a sheet of shiny white paper to envelope the flake fried until completely devoid of moisture and fat chips and potato cakes. Then the entire package was further enveloped in newspaper so that one piece of fish, sixpence worth of chips and one potato cake came in a package about the size of a small suitcase.

Next door to the Police Station was Hoyts Picture Theatre where I attended Saturday afternoon matinees when I was at school; and evening picture shows for many years after I left school. One of my memories of the theatre was when Chief Little Wolf came to a matinee to promote a film. Chief Little Wolf was a Navajo Indian who had settled in Melbourne and became famous as a wrestler with his Indian Death Lock hold. He was announced in the theatre and a spotlight picked him out as he strode from the back of the theatre, in Indian dress and feathered headdress, down the aisle towards the stage. I stood up in the aisle. Chief Little Wolf stopped and shook my hand—I remember that his hand was warm and extremely puffy and soft—then strode on to the stage. Another strong memory was when I saw Gina Lollobrigida starring in a film with Anthony Quinn as the hunchback of Notre Dame. The strongest memory of the theatre was when I arrived late for the start of the picture. I walked from the light of the lobby into the darkness of the theatre to realise that most of the kids were on their feet dancing in front of their seat or in the aisle. On the screen was a black and white movie of four musicians: Bill Haley and the Comets. The kids in the theatre were responding enthusiastically to a new form of musical entertainment called rock’n’roll. Bill Haley was a big star; and is remembered as being: first band leader to form a Rock ‘n’ Roll group; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to write his own music; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to reach the national charts with music he wrote and recorded; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to own his own music publishing companies; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to own his own record label and recording company; first white artist to be elected as the “Rhythm & Blues Personality of the Year”; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to sell a million records; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to receive a gold record; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to go on a world tour; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to sell a million records in England; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to star in a full length motion picture; first white Rock ‘n’ Roll star to tour with all-black supporting artists; first Rock ‘n’ Roll star to appear on a network television show. Despite this record and for whatever reason, I just didn’t get it, and rock’n’roll and that era—as well as the hippie era, the Beatles and disco—all passed me by with me hardly noticing. And that is a recurring theme in my life: entire episodes passing me by, with me hardly noticing and having no memory of them. Such as my sister Wendy who I think was born in the year I began working fulltime. As a consequence, and sadly, I have no memory of Wendy until she was in her twenties. Even then I remember only some outstanding events: visiting her in hospital after she was involved in a car accident; me letting her use the dance studio for her engagement party to Terry; and, at Brian’s wedding to Carol. Wendy never forgave me for not asking after her kids at that wedding reception. Of course, Wendy had no idea of the strain I was under at the time; and, the fact that my only focus at the time was on me and my problems. Also, I have little memory of Brian except for when he came home from hospital as a baby; and, when I arrived home from driving around Australia some nine years later.

Also, I was a chemist delivery boy for Chandlers Pharmacy near the corner of Coppin Street and Bridge Road. I rode a bicycle—at the beginning, an old heavy girls bicycle provided by Mr Chandler the chemist; and later, my own silver racing bike purchased with earnings from the chemist—to deliver medicines to old people who usually came to the front gate to collect them from me. Also, during school holidays I worked in the shop as a sales assistant. During Christmas holidays I became quite adept at wrapping Potter and Moore toiletries and this became my fulltime job: wrapping Christmas gifts for customers. One Saturday morning I arrived early at the shop and let myself in through the back where Mr Chandler rented the living quarters to a young married couple. Ever helpful, before the other staff arrived I decided to polish the tiled linoleum floor with the huge floor-polisher stored in the cleaning cupboard. From observation I knew that when the handles at the top of the polisher were squeezed the polisher would spin into action. What I did not know was that if I pulled slightly back on the handles the polisher would move gently to the right and if I slightly lifted the handles the polisher would move gently to the left. I squeezed the handles and pulled backwards. The polisher took off at about fifty miles and hour and crashed noisily into a large glass display cabinet. The entire contents—expensive perfumes—of the display cabinet were smashed and the carefully arranged display of toiletry gifts on top of the cabinet were thrown and smashed all over the shop floor. All of this had taken just four seconds. Mr Chandler arrived and asked what happened. I explained. His response was: well, let’s get it cleaned up. The shop opens in a few minutes. The event was never mentioned again.

One day I arrived home from school and mum said something like: don’t pack your bags for school tomorrow, I’m taking you for a job interview. I think that mum had made this decision because of the school bullying. I was taken up Bridge Road to Lennox Street, to Tas Pickett Pty Ltd, a cigarette wholesaler. After a short interview where my mother did all of the talking, I was given a grey cotton work coat and taken to the cigarette storeroom where for the next year or so I was to do stock-taking and filling of cigarette delivery orders. Then, somehow, I was made an office-boy in the accounting section of the upstairs office. Cigarette deliveries were made by salesmen in vans to milk-bar owners and cigarette vendors all across Victoria. The state of Victoria was divided into fifty or so numbered regions; and in each region there were from 30 to 60 vendors. Long before computers were invented and used for storing and searching for information, I found that I possessed a memory for the names of the vendors and their region. This apparently was invaluable since when a telephone enquiry was received, secretaries and other office staff would come to me and say: Papadopoulos of Launching Place. I would respond with: Region 17. They would go the Region 17 filing cabinet drawer and search for Papadopoulos in the alphabetically ordered cards. I would achieve a correct success rate of 90%.

Down the laneway from Tas Pickett Pty Ltd., in Bridge Road, almost opposite the National Picture Theatre was a milk bar owned by Tom Hafey. Tom Hafey was a famous figure in Richmond since he had played for Richmond in the Victorian Football League. In the Richmond Football Club’ golden era in the late 1960s to mid-1970s, Tom coached the Richmond Tigers to four premierships and five grand finals. At morning teatime, Tas Pickett staff would stroll down the laneway to Hafey’s milk bar to purchase a coffee scroll or fruit juice. In 2008, I went to a business lunch where the guest speaker was Tom Hafey. After his very entertaining and interesting speech I introduced myself to Tom and told him that I used to go to his milk bar in Bridge Road Richmond. ‘That’s interesting that you should say that,’ said Tom, ‘you know, over the years, if I had counted the number of people who told me that they went to my milk bar, I reckon that I would have had 300,000 customers through the door. Interestingly though, one bloke met a girl in my shop when he was buying his lunch and they went on and got married. He came up to me recently, 30 years after he met her, and they’re still together with three grown up kids. By the way, did you know George Irish and Bill Smith at Tas Pickett? they were good mates of mine.’

The last influence on my life in Bridge Road was Abingers Auctions. Since we were a relatively poor migrant family from post-war Britain, trying to build a new family future in Australia, most of the furniture that filled our first home purchase in Australia was purchased at auction, at Abingers. My recollection is that the Bridge Road street front of Abingers was two large glass windows separated by two large glass doors. One could stand outside and see the items for auction through the glass windows and doors. On one occasion mum and dad bought a job-lot; that is, the couch and armchairs they wanted together with some other items they really didn’t want, but came as part of the job-lot package. One of the items they didn’t want was a large locked tin trunk without a key; and, neither the purchasers—mum and dad—or the auctioneers knew what was in the trunk except that things inside clunked around when the tin trunk was moved; and, was heavy.

On a Saturday morning after the job-lot was delivered, dad set-about with a chisel and hammer to open the trunk. I was with him as he struggled to ease the trunk open and I felt faintly apprehensive about what we might find. The trunk was finally opened and revealed the following contents: a four feet long length of chain with very thick links, an eight feet long length of rope with a circumference of about a foot, a six foot square oiled tarpaulin and a car jack. It was the car jack that became central to our moving up in life in Australia in, I think, a most unusual manner.

Two pieces of information are needed to understand how the car jack became central to our moving up in life in Australia. First, the house first purchased by my parents was in Alban Street Richmond. Alban Street was really a service lane behind Bridge Road shops. It was the only house in the short street; and, the house was small, old and in a dreadfully run-down condition. The timber foundation stumps of the house had long since rotted away and most of the house sat on the uneven soil of the area. The second piece of information needed is that both mum and dad worked at Pelaco: a firm that manufactured shirts and pyjamas. Mum worked in the canteen on the sixth floor and dad in the storeroom on the ground floor. Because mum worked in the canteen she left work earlier in the day than dad. Dad, walking home by himself, took to taking a different route each night on his fifteen minute walk from Pelaco to home.

In his meandering walks from Pelaco to home, Dad took to collecting detritus left in the streets and laneways and bringing it home. Sometimes he would arrive home with a length of timber, or several house-bricks, a lump of concrete or, once, he arrived with a wooden pallet that someone had discarded. Each Saturday morning, dad would take the aforementioned car-jack and, after digging a hole under the house, would wedge the car-jack into the hole and jack a little portion of the house a few inches upwards. Then, he would hammer a piece of found detritus—a brick or a slab of timber—into the gap. I think that it took Dad about two years of this walking around the streets of Richmond collecting discards and then using the car-jack to lift the house a little to replace worn-away stumps with timber and bricks. What I do remember clearly is that when the house was sold, the entire edifice was about two feet off the ground supported by all manner of detritus; but, cleverly concealed with timber planks around the perimeter of the house; and, at the front of the house a verandah built entirely from Pelaco’ wooden pallets. The verandah had two steps from the front door down into the street. Truly, the Kosbabs had come up in the world.

Acrylic on canvas: 1015mm x 1015mm