Terrace Houses - The Pitchas

Terrace Houses - Numbers

The Community of Brougham Street, Kings Cross distanced themselves from the bohemians and beatniks; poets, artists, actors, witches, the transvestites, drug addicts and prostitutes. The likes of Beattie Miles, Rosaleen Norton, Lee Gordon were .. 'not from 'ere, muttered my father.

Little did we know that 'e' was not right in the 'ed'! The evil lived in our home.

Brougham Street houses were referred to by either the family surname or by their numbers. Eighty-two (82) was the most interesting, the house changed occupants frequently. The Kellys who I have mentioned earlier, were followed by the The Smiths. Mr and Mrs Smith were from Malta, their children soon found a niche in Brougham Street. Charlie, George, Mary were at a working age. Coming in at age ten and eleven, Alex and Ronnie became my companions. Little Richard teamed up with my sister Kristine aged four.). I was not pleased when The Smiths moved out, however when the Beatniks moved in I was most impressed.

Brianna

Just received a comment from Diane .. so I had better get cracking.

Brianna prior to the 'incident'

just about the sweetest little girl

I'll go back in time for a moment ....

“Could you get up to Brisbane Hospital immediately", asked Glen.

Nikala, who was expecting her fourth child was diagnosed with ’placenta previa’ she was bleeding and had been transferred from Lismore Base to Brisbane Hospital. “She can stay in a nearby residence until the baby is born if she has a ‘carer’." (The baby was due in August – it was April!”) I arrived at the hospital to find Niki looking quite well, but, agitated at having to stay alone so far from family.

Everything will be okay, Mum’s here now, 

Our stay in this House (named withheld due to legal proceedings) was marred from the start  the mothers-to-be with toddlers found it difficult to cook with children-in-toe. The playroom had a blind spot (the lift.)

Crash! "Mum, Mum, come quick it’s Brianna. I rushed to the toy-room, Brianna was lying lifeless in Nik’s arms, books and toys scattered.

Rushing to the phone I dialed 000, zilch, apparently the number I should have rang was 555. I ran up three flights to asked for a lift to the main hospital. Time stood still .. "Mum, Mum hurry she’s not breathing!" Time started moving again .. what to do what to do?

Nik carried Brianna into the lounge area, her jaw was contorted, she was turning blue. We couldn’t give mouth to mouth, where was the staff? How long would the ambulance take? Would it get here in time. My grand-daughter was dying before our eyes.

It was surreal – 10 people standing around offering support but, unable to do a thing. The Emergency Ward was ready for her and tubes were inserted, one in her mouth for breathing I particularly noticed, as it was huge and her little over-bite was showing. Niki was beside herself, I was dazed.

“She’s not regaining concsiouness and we don’t know why. We are going to give her an injection to paralyze her while we scan her head. She has fractured her skull 1mm away from a main vein."

They wanted to do a second scan, but thought it would be too dangerous. Bri had still not regained consciousness, the details of her drugs and procedures have faded and I cannot recall at this stage. I mainly remember the numbness that came over my whole body.

We were escorted out by a Social Worker who was preparing us for the worst. No words came, we couldn't speak. Bri was leaving us. Nooooooo, not Bri God, take anyone but Bri. Not yet God Bri is not to leave yet! Brianna is the third of my grand-children, the first girl after 10 years to my daughter and her partner. She was bright as a button and at age two spoke fluently.

Sorry that’s it again for now

1954 Hopalong 'Bill' Partridge

Cnr Hourigan Lane and Brougham Street

Hourigan Lane led up to the rear of the Piccadilly Hotel and ran to the left (behind the terrace houses along Brougham Street). 

At night the lane was frequented by left-over inebriates from the 'Pica-lilly' and  'methos' their maudlin was accompanied by the screeching of alley cats. Facing west, a lone trumpeter stood, baying at the moon.  I awoke to the clatter of  tin bins on asphalt.

The garbage truck was heralded by a team leather-gloved giants! 

Squeezing its way up Hourigan Lane to empty the bins from the back gates of the folk from Victoria Street. Occasionally they handed us discarded toys. I never took these items home, but instead, hid them behind some bricks in the Winton Flats wall.  I wonder if they are still there??  The residents showed their appreciation by handing the 'garbos' a bottle of beer come Christmas time. 

Bill straddled the tram line up the centre of William Street, directing the traffic with one crutch waving. The tram clanging its bell as she crawled up behind him.

He reached the crest on Brougham Street, Hourigan Lane, on dusk and settled up against the front of #90, using the wall and crutch as support. A stream of liquid exited via his trouser leg, wound past us leaving black streaks in its wake. My mother hosed down the footpath every evening at 4.50 p.m. in the ready for Bill's next emission. Bill's posh accent could be detected as he dogged his hat and remarked,  'Goot evennink, Miss'

Bill lived in #88 with his sister Mrs. Partridge, a rangy lady well into her 80s. Mrs. Partridge never yelled in a 'Woolloomooloo voice', but leant over the railing and gently coaxed him home. My mother never shuffled me away from Old Bill. I guessed it was his long ago suit and posh accent that distinguished him from the metho swilling Norwegians whose blue faces attested to their preference. I assumed all Norwegians had blue faces.

When Bill and Bella died in the mud 60s, we purchased their terrace for 2000 pounds. I never did hear what happened to his other leg.

Kettle Whistle

"Hurry up Martin and Michael, it's 'harpast four', he'll be here soon, take up your positions!"

We'd all stand around the front gate nonchalantly chatting to each other, eagerly awaiting for the man who Mum said, invented the Kettle Whistle ???!

As sure as eggs, an elderly man would appear over the crest of the hill like clockwork. His little derby hat perched, and his suit from a lost time always appealed to me.

"Let's see what I've got here," he would smile and say, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, his watch dangling. He'd palm a handful of coins and pick through the brown money and give the big kids a penny (that was me) and the little kids half pennies, 'haypnees' we called them. I'd often wonder if he had any farthings that he kept for babies. ??

"Oh gee, thanks Mr. McKnight", we would all chorus angelically and looking everso grateful whilst eyeing off our icecream money. We'd then watch as he continued down to Aunty Billy's. Was he searching for more coins along the way? Mr McKnight's face was always very close to the ground as he struggled along with cane in hand, Mr McKnight was bent over double from curvature of the spine. What a lovely old gentleman he was.