I need to talk with my brother to confirm memories of that long-ago excursion. Could Mum and Dad have actually allowed it? I still have my doubts, have considered the backstory from several angles, trying to make sense of our parent’s decision to let us loose, unescorted into Sydney.
It was in 1962. I must have been 12 years old, my brother 16 months older, and there we were, several shillings burning a hole in each of our pockets – the payoff for successful whinging-extremis, and Luna Park within our sights.
The family had driven up from Melbourne, ostensibly to put our elder sister on a cargo steamer bound for Europe – the start of her own adventures, and for us, an exotic, interstate holiday. The ship departed, we staying on at a Manly motel, John and I walking down the road to the ferry terminal.
I have no idea whether or not we had caught the wrong ferry or if John, albeit quite a mature thirteen-year-old, was just keen to taste the seedier side of Sydney. My memory has failed on some details but replays a clear storyboard of others. We were on Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross, neon-lit night, crowds jostling along the pavements, nobody paying any particular attention to the two youngish urchins, wonderment writ large, making their way through the throng.
Touts and spivs, chic femmes, smooth dudes, laughter, alcohol, a vague, pervading smell of vomit, cars cruising the Strip, horns honking and appreciative whistles melding into the noisy hubbub. I have a vivid memory of John suggesting we take up the offer from one of the doorway gents to “… come in and see the show!” Down we went, a steep, dark stairwell, canned music, coloured, Neapolitan lighting pulsing, choking smoke, small round tables, mostly singularly occupied, a stage and a near-naked lady prancing thereon.
Surreal disbelief, emotions still active across these sixty-odd years. Did this really happen? John ordered beers – a blowsy blonde delivered two, full-size bottles – youth an apparent irrelevancy. Tasselled titties were bouncing above a gyrating G-string, high heels close to our front-row faces. I don’t have a memory of any excitement at the spectacle, rather a memory, real or imagined, of protective comfort drawn from my elder brother’s proximity.
Inebriated, I remember arriving at Circular Quay to find that the last ferry back to Manly had departed. Tears spilled, no doubt embarrassing John. We were spotted by a policeman who, given some possibly plausible explanation, arranged for a taxi back to the Manly motel.
Memories survive, but the contextual explanations remain a mystery. My sister has written about what “a little shit” I was, never far from an asthma attack, ever ready to play for sympathy. Was my behaviour behind parental decisions to temporarily abandon us? I bet it was Dad who was putting the reassurances forward, brow-beating Mum into a reluctant agreement. One can only wonder about the pillow talk when the taxi delivered us back to the motel!