The street of my early childhood

January 14th 2011

341 King Street Newtown, Sydney

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Photo: George Michael at the Reno Café in Newtown circa 1950 (Source: MG Michael Family Archives)

It had been a long time since I last walked down the street of my early childhood, King Street, Newtown,[1] where ‘the shoppe’ in its latest incarnation lives on. The Reno Café is presently Linda’s On King Street “giving classic dishes a modern twist”. I remembered many things, both good and bad. Mostly the memories which rushed back at me, one wave after the other, were good. I closed my eyes, if only for a few moments, and found myself transported back to that ancient place. Our ‘shoppe’. The unforgettable ‘cathedral’ of my early childhood. A place alive with readings as if from the Book of Acts. The haunted faces of the ‘congregants’, otherwise known as customers, send a lovely shiver up and down my back: Leo the ‘Cookie’, Mr Ted, Jack, Mr Bill, Molly, Uncle Charlie, Mr Bruce, Les, Ronnie, Mr Williams, Big Bob, Cecil, Mrs Pat, Harry the Boxer, Curly, Mrs Peters, Mustapha ‘the one-legged’, Mr Taylor, Bunny (he was the ‘Rabbit’ on one of those afternoon children’s shows on TV). There was the lady from Playschool, too, she was dressed in furs. Even now, I see her clearly, sitting at her favourite table, a lovely face with big dark eyes, oodles of jewellery. Lots of other famous people, as well, some were more infamous then famous. And many others from every walk of life, in this ‘diaconate’ of serving tables which lasted over half a century, and where sixty cents [the weekly “Special”] would get you a three-course meal and a cuppa. I can’t help thinking that Newtown attracted writers, Henry Lawson, Martin Johnston, John Forbes, David Malouf, Nadia Wheatley, to mention only a few. One of the local institutions Gould’s Bookshop is still there further up the street towards Missenden Road. With each succeeding generation, Greek, Turkish, Lebanese, Yugoslav, the names might change, sound a little different, but the stories were not too dissimilar and ultimately, they too, those faces, would become “ghosts” in their appointed time. As it has also been determined for us in our own allotted hour, to become the support players in someone else’s story.

My father now old and sick, approaching the ninetieth year of his life, holding the hand of his seven-year-old grand-child, George [they share the same name], points to the shop front with his bent arthritic finger. It is much changed now, ‘the shoppe’, gone are the old steel food counters, the faux wood seating. Linoleum flooring replaced by expensive tiles with fancy sketches. I do however, note in great dismay, that the white drop ceiling from the last refurbishment is still the same. The old man’s forearms are scarred by the scalding oils which burnt ‘stigmata’ into his flesh after five decades of hand-to-hand combat in the kitchen: “The shoppe… look, Georgie. Look, it is still here”, he says with the delight of a long-awaited revelation. I wonder what he was thinking on the inside. How much and what of those fifty-years would he have changed, if given the chance? I ask him. He tells me: none of it. I do not believe him. Maybe I do not want to believe him. I know my mother would have changed a lot. She never really did like the Reno Café. At least not as much as Dad and I did. It is right, isn’t it, memories similarly to truth, are oftentimes what we wish for them to be? Before we moved on, to the other ‘chapters’ down the street,[2] the other ageless ‘shoppies’, I look across the busy road, to where my first school used to be. Father would run over to throw me over his sturdy shoulder, when it was time to go home.

Ah, yes, and how could I forget Vic! An important person from Qantas who bore an uncanny resemblance to John Newcombe [handlebar moustache besides]. He was a friend of Buzz Aldrin’s he would tell us. I would listen to his stories with awe and wonder. It was as close as I would ever get to the Moon.

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newtown,_New_South_Wales

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Street,_Newtown,_Sydney

The Reno Café, Newtown

Kiama, NSW

Not long after his arrival in Australia in 1948, my Father realized his dream. Working three jobs and “saving the pennies” as he would say, in 1952 together with one off his compatriots he bought into the milk-bar business. After some ill-fated partnerships George became the sole owner and for almost half a century -day-in and day-out- this would be his life’s work. Only once after a double-hernia he took a few days off to be put back together again. It was not a prison as many had tried to convince him. He loved what he did and with a passion. My dad, like so many other dads of that generation, was a Superman. His cape was his white apron stained with the lifeblood of bulls which he would brush to one side and leap from the back of the kitchen to the front of the counter. Afterwards dad would share his secret powers with Mother and she too would learn to defy nature and fly about from one table to the next. The milk-bar (in truth more of a restaurant) which was to rule our lives and to later become a permanent fixture in our shared memories was the Reno Café on 341 King Street, Newtown.[1] The shop or ‘shoppe’ as we would call it underwent a number of face-lifts during those five decades, but it was always George and Helen’s. The Reno became a legendary ‘refectory’ patronised by the widest spectrum of the community: actors, writers, politicians, gigolos, sports people, gamblers, prostitutes, musicians, preachers, addicts, con artists, lawyers, corrupt cops, and others in weird and wonderful clothing who would sit and stare and talk to themselves. It was as well the meeting place for the deaf-mute, for my Father could also speak with his fingers by curling them into different shapes. This beautiful language which would dance in the air and make the telling of lies a terrible waste of time, George would later teach his little boy. And the regulars who smoked like old English chimneys possessed their own swag of marvellous stories which they would carry on their backs like homeless Father Christmases.

Before moving in the mid-60’s when the dreams would first begin, we lived on top this big heap of seething humanity. It was a ‘theme-park’ of magical proportions where I would not only play and chase soap bubbles the size of small balloons from giant sinks but also learn to study faces and pick up on the secret of how to read people. In other ways, too, I would grow up too soon and often frustrate my parents and my teachers with the kinds of questions they would prefer to leave well enough alone: “Is Lionel an alcoholic?” Or “Why does Peter’s daddy smack his mummy?” Or “Why did Fatty Franco hang himself?” Or “How do angels slip and fall?” Much later I would grow to understand that to some things there will be no answers.

[1] http://www.sydneyarchives.info/about-newtown