In my previous two blogs I have ‘walked’ around my town. Maybe by the time I’ve finished this one today the series will be complete. Then of course there is the potential to depict other country towns I have known. There’s something wholesome and rich about the social and parochial aspects of a village.
On the corner of the street that led down to our school was Steicke’s Cafe. We were given two shillings every Monday to buy our lunch. I think the baker delivered bread to our house on a Monday afternoon and by the following Monday it had either all been eaten or was too stale for sandwiches. You would think we all would have bought our lunch from this cute little nearby cafe but we didn’t. We considered everything about it old-fashioned. It was one of the earliest of Tanunda’s buildings. Built of stone, walls two feet thick, you stepped down into it. A small brass bell on a springy bracket tinkled as you opened the door. Mr. Steicke was old and deaf as a post. His hearing aid screeched and crackled incessantly. Must have driven him mad. He took the orders and served. Mrs. Steicke, who looked like someone out of a fairytale, cooked. She was tidy and compact – petite. Permed grey hair, wire gold-rimmed glasses, full apron over a clean floral frock. The sweetest person you could ever wish to meet. She made pies and pasties, sandwiches, devonshire teas. Mr. Steicke in his clean white shirt, striped satin-backed waistcoat, black trousers and ever polished shoes presented the meals to mostly travellers – called tourists today. There were several wooden country tables for four. Clean table-cloths, fresh flowers on each table, glass salt and pepper shakers. Lace curtains completed the whole fifties country tearooms look.
Why didn’t we buy our lunch from there? Two reasons. The first was that one of the kids had found a fly in his pasty. The word spread through the school like wildfire. I know today that at certain times of the year, (around September – October) blowflys are rife here and hard to keep out of the house. Certainly easy to understand how one could have found its way into an uncooked and uncovered pasty mixture. The second reason we didn’t buy our lunches from there was that there was a more modern cafe down the street. Stoll’s was run by another husband and wife team. Bigger windows, laminex tables with chrome and vinyl chairs, milk-shakes, icecreams, and a lolly cabinet like something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Later, when I was thirteen or fourteen, my sister and I would sometimes walk into town on a Sunday afternoon. I was developing an interest in boys and there was often a gathering of them out the front of this cafe on the weekends. They were a lovely lot. Handsome as hell most of them. Influenced by the American singers and movie stars of the time in their manner of dressing. Slicked back hair, white shirts, black stove-pipe pants, pointy toed shoes, skinny ties. Most of them smoking. Their MGA’s and ‘B’s, Austin Healeys, Triumphs, EH Holdens, Ford Customlines parked out front. Walking along the footpath under the big shady carob trees, we’d see them up ahead. While our excitement built at the sight of them, we never had the courage to walk through the cluster, so we’d cross to the other side of the road. Dressed in our latest outfits, we’d be aware of the silence that befell the assemblage as we passed. Too polite for wolf-whistles, the lads would just quietly assess. Years later, one of them told me his interest in me was sparked on one of those walk bys – to the point that he married me seven years later.
Wally Clarkson’s shoe store was across the road from Steicke’s cafe. Mr. Clarkson was the father of one of my best friends – Jill. Our two pairs of shoes a year were bought from here – one pair for school and one pair for best. Best shoes were worn to the pictures, to Sunday School, or for Sunday visits to relatives in the city. I think my sister inherited mine as I grew out of them. On weekends we played mostly in bare feet.
The shoe shop had been updated with modern cabinetry – blondewood curved cupboards and shelves. In today’s terms, Retro. It emitted that wonderful smell of new leather. Vinyl did not exist. There were men’s work boots, rubber boots, men’s best shoes, canvas sandshoes (worn for sport or crabbing). Kids’ school shoes were standard – Clarke’s – important to be fitted correctly. I still remember the feel of my bare foot on the cold metal, sliding measuring device. And, not surprisingly, the shoes that held me most in awe were the beautiful ladies’ shoes.
Mr. Clarkson was a gentleman – always impeccably dressed in suit and tie, shoes polished to near mirror finish. His buying prowess when it came to ladies’ shoes was beyond country town standards. Being taken in to the shop to purchase my first pair of (modest) high heels had me in a state of euphoria.
Then suede desert boots made an entrance into the fashion world. The beatnik era was approaching. I reckon Mr. Clarkson would have considered them a notch below his usual classy array but every kid needed a pair. So of course he conceded, stocked them and they marched out the door by the hundreds. Thongs came later. He would have thought ugh! about them.
This gives me a warm feeling of nostalgia writing about my town through this era. Gone forever but of course we can always revisit by watching some of the movies set in these times. Going to the movies as a kid (‘pictures’ in mid- century speak) is another whole story.
I really would like to put some more of my poetry up here but as I’ve run out of time this month I will endeavour to put some up soon.
If you’re old, draw on your best memories. If you’re young, create some for later. Get every bit of meat off of the bones of life.
Warmly,
Sue