My Ten Years in Weston 

Basil Ralston was an author and historical researcher, particularly known for his work on Jenolan Caves and the early days of Maitland Speedway. He wrote books such as "The Men of Jenolan Caves" and "My Ten Years in Weston," providing insights into the history of these locations.

Transcribed for the Weston History and Heritage website by Lynne Kermode.

               I stared in wonder out of the carriage window.  The train had transported me out of Newcastle suburbia, into the open spaces and green fields of Maitland.   I had seen the beauty of Wentworth Swamps and their prolific birdlife.  Now the side-tank steam engine spouted black smoke and cinders on the gum trees of the Australian bush

    “Mum, where are we now?” I cried.

“I don’t know,” answered worried Mum.  “Your father just said we have to look out for Weston station.  I don’t know where it is.”

The train rattled beneath an over-head bridge, past a monumental pile of smelly black ‘chitter’ from the pits, and shuddered to a stop at the magic name of Weston displayed on the station platform.  Out we climbed, over the footbridge through a cloud of smoke and steam from the engine, and down into a different world.

                Walking along Station Street, past Hales Corner and Hills Pub, Hectors Butcher Shop and the Post Office, we had to climb over the heap of sand and bricks ready for Jock Stewarts new shop.  We turned down Third Street, into Kline Street, across the wooden bridge and up the hill to Sixth Street.  We arrived at our new home, ‘over the creek.’ Weston was to be my home for the next ten years.

                In 1856 James Weston from Sussex, England bought 640 acres of land near Chinamans Hollow.  He began to cultivate an orchard and vineyard near Swamp Creek.

                From 1886 onward, the great geologist Edgeworth David made known the location and extent of the South Maitland Coalfield.  At the turn of the century the Australian Agricultural Company gained possession of the land between Tomalpin and the Weston property and opened Hebburn Colliery.  To accommodate the influx of miners from England and from the worked-out mines of the Newcastle District, the Weston family developed their 640 acres into the town of Weston.  As most of the miners were ‘Geordies’ from the mining communities of England, Weston was better known as ‘Geordieland.’

                The first settlers brought their own homes from Minmi and Greta, loaded on timber jinkers pulled by bullock teams in 1902.

                The early industrial towns of NSW were copies of English and Welsh slums, with tiny wall to wall houses lining narrow streets.  Weston and other coalfields town are Australian towns, with generous allotments and wide streets.  Water was laid on from the Walka Waterworks at Maitland in 1905.  The sewer however did not arrive until 1945.

 In Sixth Street we had four big rooms with a hallway, a front and back verandah, a large kitchen and pantry.  Electricity was supplied from Hebburn Colliery.  The kitchen had a big open grate for the coal fire.  A few iron rods across supported the cooking pots over the fire.   A big cast iron boiler was the hot water system.  On bath nights a tin tub was filled from the boiler, in front of the fire, and we bathed in comfort.

                Everyone walked to school.  I went along Sixth Street, down  the steep bank to the creek, over rough stepping stones, up the far bank to school.  It was a good school, a two story brick building with a spacious playground.  The Infants Department was built while I was there.  Miss Watters was a well loved kindly lady who we all respected, the ideal Primary School Teacher.  She came to school from East Maitland in a tiny ‘Baby’ Austin 7 car.

                I did not mix well, but found two mates Bob Robinson and John Doney who I kept all my school years.  A pretty little girl called Ivy lived opposite. 

                I built my own toy car on the back verandah.  The wooden frame from a deck chair formed chassis.  A fruit box was the bonnet to cover the engine.  Add a pillow for the seat, a pram wheel to steer by, a dash board drawn on paper and stuck on the bonnet.  Then a lot of old gas pipes were the exhaust system.  Now we would call it a static display, but in imagination I could drive it anywhere.

                I made a fire engine.  A fruit box,  four wheels, a tin of water and a complicated set of hoses.  One night I made some toffee in a saucepan on the open fire.  The toffee went up in flames.  I did not bother with the hoses, I just picked up the fire engine and threw it on the toffee.  Fortunately it worked.  For my birthday I got a Don Bradman cricket bat, with the great man’s genuine signature on the back.  Didn’t help me play any better.

                The milkman called every day.  Bread was delivered from Henderson’s Bakery in Third Street.  My father was the ‘fruito’.  A fish cart came on Fridays  calling ‘Fisho, fisho’ in a voice we could hear two streets away.  If we did not hear him, we could tell when all the cats went mad.  There were no refrigerators, so a butter cart from the Co-op Store came daily.  A butcher cart delivered meat.  A man called ‘close props’ to prop up the clothes lines.

                We had a 'Coolgardie Safe’.  A wooden frame with bags hanging over it, which dangled in a tin tray full of water.  The bags soaked the water up and the resultant evaporation kept our meat and butter cool.. A canvas bag sewn up to hold water was the well known ‘water bag’.  As water soaked through the canvas it evaporated in the breeze and kept our drinking water cool.  All inventions born of necessity in the bush.  Aeroplanes were a novelty.  When one came along, everyone ran outside to watch it right across the sky.  We could get a good look, they flew so low and so slowly.

                My father came to Weston to work in the Signal Box at the end of Weston railway station.  He gave that up, bought a horse and two wheel cart, and made himself a fruit run.  To bring fruit from the market he bought an old Model T Ford truck.  Everyone has heard of a Model T.  Perhaps not everyone could drive one.

                The ignition came from a magneto, a wondrous machine which produced its own high tension current for  the spark plugs.  There was one catch.  The three litre four cylinder side valve motor had to be hand cranked.   Nobody could crank it fast enough to get any power out of the ‘maggy’.  We had a box full of torch batteries on the floor, connected to a wooden box screwed onto the dashboard.  This box was called a ‘trembler’.  When the ignition key was turned to the left, it trembled away like mad.  ‘Bzzz bzzz bzzz’ and by some marvel of magnetic induction it produced a healthy enough current to fire the spark plugs.

                To start the engine the proud owner would go to the front of the T, put one finger on his left hand in a little wire ring, pull the wire and thus operate the choke.  Hanging on with the left hand he rotated the crank handle with his right hand, to ‘prime her up’.  This was called ‘shaking hands with Lizzie’.  A satisfying gurgle like a cow pulling its foot out of a bog came from the single updraught carburettor.  Well done, now for the controls.  First unhook his finger from the choke.  Set the spark advance on full retard – saves a broken arm if she ‘kicked back’.  Set the throttle lever on full throttle.  Pull the hand brake lever right back to the seat.  Turn the trembler on.  Return to the crank handle and swing it with all his might.  In the event of the engine starting, he had to take a flying leap back to close the hand throttle before the engine leapt out of the frame from vibration.  Advance the spark lever.  Hold the ignition key firmly and switch it quickly from left to right.  There would be a heart-stopping pause until the maggy got the message and did its job.  Ready to go.

                Just in case she would not start (all Ts were Tin Lizzies, therefore female) jack one back wheel up, engage top gear.  When cranking, the free wheel would spin and by kinetic energy, give the motor an extra turn or two after the cranker had given up.  This often did the trick.

                The modern automatic car has an epicyclic gearbox with planetary gears.  Nothing new, so did the model T.  Under the floor were two big drums rolling around inside of external brake bands as the motor idled.  On the floor were three big pedals.  The right one was a foot brake, rear wheels only.  Depress the left one, the brake bands on one of the drums tightened up, the drum stopped rolling and the drive was taken up by the gears inside.  The Model T choofed off in low gear.  For reverse, use the middle pedal.

                To change to top gear, let go of the foot pedal, throw the brake level down to the floor.  This locked everything up in direct drive, top gear.

                No foot throttle, just the hand level on the steering column.  No speedo or idiot lights to watch.  Set the hand throttle and bowl along in comfort.  No chance of exceeding the speed limit, unless it was over 25 miles per hour(40Km).  If she overheated we could tell by the clouds of steam billowing up from the radiator.  If she was overloaded she might jib on a steep hill and refuse to climb it.  No trouble, turn around and go up in reverse, it was a lower gear and would climb anything.

                All fruit and vegetables were bought by auction at the Markets.  In Cessnock it was Leggetts, behind the corner of Vincent Street and Aberdare Road.  In Maitland, Swan Murray and Hain – or simply Swannies, near Maitland Station.  My father bought a new four cylinder Chevrolet truck in Maitland.  One day he had it loaded and ready to go home, when the Manager of the Chev agency jumped in and announced it was re-possessed.  Well, he could not take it all loaded so he obstinately sat in the seat while my dad took it home.  We still had to go back to another Model T.  Who could pay for a new truck with the Depression looming?

                The road through Heddon Greta was the the original ‘horror stretch’.  A driver braked going down into the holes and climbed out in low gear.  We brought some fibro sheets home in the truck.  At home we swept the pulverised fibro off with a broom.

                Motors were such a new idea that few people understood them.  Bill Buller had a Chev 4 car.  It was more sophisticated than the Ford.  It had push-rod operated overhead valves.  Over the rocker gear lay a thick felt pad, soaked with oil.  This attended to lubrication of the valve gear.  The face of the cylinder head was flat.  The pistons stopped short of the top of the bore, thus providing the combustion chamber.  A clutch and three speed gearbox.

               Early in 1930 we moved ‘downtown’ to First Street.  The house was built right on to the street.  There was a big room with a front door and two large windows.  My father immediately converted this into a fruit and lolly shop.

                To carry our goods we had the usual Ford T and an Italian Fiat car.  The Fiat was a disaster.  We traded them in on a new 1934 Chevrolet utility.  A beautiful machine, three litre six cylinder enginewith hemispherical head, overhead valves when competitors persisted with side valves, automatic spark advance with an octane selector.  And the latest thing, ‘knee action’ independent front wheel suspension.  Only one problem, a familiar one, it was repossessed.

                The women of the 1930’s had a different life to today.  My mother was always first up at 6am to rake yesterdays ashes out of the stove.  Then get it going to cook breakfast.  Every morning the same, boiled rolled oats for porridge, followed by eggs on blackened toast.  She did not get a housekeeping allowance, just used the shop, the garden and chook pen to keep us fed.  Still she somehow managed to save a little money, she bought my first racing cycle.

                All cooking was done on the coal stove.  Washing was done on a corrugated washing board the boiled up in a coal-fired copper with chopped up bar soap, then hand rung.  House cleaning was done with a broom.

                On top of that she worked long hours in the shop while Dad was out playing politics.  Sunday trading was illegal.  We had ‘visitors’ coming to the back door when the big stores were closed.

                Her only outing was an occasional visit to her parents in Maitland.  She never knew the terror of being a miner’s wife, but she had the constant threat of bankruptcy in the shop.  My father shrugged it off until next time but she worried.  This severely narrowed her outlook on life.  When weighing a pound of beans she would break a bean rather than give too much away.  When the Deputy Premier visited us she hid in the kitchen.  She made life hard for herself.  Her only life outside of the house and shop was her love for her Church.  She never missed a Sunday.  And she cared for me.

                I completed my Primary schooling at Weston and passed the Qualifying Certificate to go to either Cessnock Intermediate High School or Cessnock Junior Technical School.  I wanted to go to Tech but my parents insisted on High School.  In due course I was presented with an imposing white form for admission to C.I.H.S. (hand written) I carefully doctored it with a pen, filling in and adding loops, to read C.J.T.S. and hopefully presented it to the Tech.  Then I saw that the Tech forms were blue.  An understanding Principal let me get away with it and I went to Tech.

                First Year (now Year 7) classrooms were situated at the Technical College in South Cessnock, where we had the use of metal-work, wood-work and technical drawing facilities.  Our teachers were Dracula, Snakey and Chunda.  Students came from everywhere between Weston and Paxton, some places we had never heard of.  Some came by bus, we travelled by train.

                For second and third year classes we were cast out in wooden portables in the playground.  It was High School, we were only Tech.  Their classes were A B C, we were D E F.  For our technical subjects we had to walk over to ‘Southy’ to the Tech.

                The boys, being sons of miners, soon became disenchanted.  They would line up in the playground and take it in turns to run full pelt and ‘bomb’ the wooden portables.  In a couple of years they demolished them.  Our teachers were never around when this was going on, they understood and hated the portables too.  Our teachers were ‘Pop’ Osborne, ‘Mum’ Hardman and ‘Jack Hulbert’ – after an English comedian of the day.

                Our playing fields were away from the school in Council grounds, we had no proper playground.  Our main game was ‘hockey’ played in the weathershed.  The puck was a rock or a tin, the sticks came off the school fence.  At the start of the game everyone would call out ‘no big sticks’ so we would start out in the shed with little sticks.  As the sticks wore out we would get bigger ones.  After ten minutes, everyone would be out in the yard madly swinging full palings.  It was not safe to be in the shed.

                We caught our train to school at Weston.  There was a substantial station building and signal box, we had a regular service to Cessnock, Maitland and Newcastle.   The railway was also the coal link between the collieries and the industries and coal loader at Newcastle.  No horrifying coal trucks scaring us on the road.  Between Cessnock and Maitland the line was owned by South Maitland Railways, one of the few private lines.  They ran it successfully from 1918.  The engines were all side-tank steam locos.

                Kurri is built on a hill, which the train could not climb.  Long ago there was a branch line with a station at South Kurri, opposite the Station Hotel in Victoria Street.  This closed down and the station was at North Kurri on the main line.  To make up for this the Railways ran a feeder bus up the hill to town.  But a convenience of a bus stop on every corner favoured the buses.

                Barkesby ran a long open bus with a canvas hood known as a charabanc from Maitland to Cessnock with cheap fares.  Sid Fogg ran feeder services from places like Kearsley and Paxton.  It was Rover Motors who grew and gained the monopoly of the bus services.

                To compound the problems of the railway a fire in the sheds at East Greta Junction on 18th March 1930 destroyed all of South Maitland’s carriages.  The NSW Government had to take over the passenger service, until September 1961.  South Maitland had another try with Rolls Royce diesel rail cars until 1967, then Rover Motors had it all to themselves.

                In Weston there was a branch of the Kurri Co-Operative Store in Aberdare Street, near the corner of Kline Street.  Yet in a mining community the main store was Fehrenbachs in Station Street, on the corner of First Street.  Opposite was Embleton and Kirkwood.  George Kirkwood lost a leg on Maitland Speedway in 1925 but it did not slow him down in the store.  The Post Office has not changed.  John Ellis’ cordial factory opposite became a car yard.

                Ellis Cordials were very good.  There is an old time drink called sarsa-parilla,  John called his ‘Sarsparellis’.  Next to Kirkwood was John Turner who sold AWA and Gulbranson wirelesses.  Next to him was the blacksmith shop of Long Jack Dean, said to be the longest man in the A.I.F.  The Dean name was world famous for our champion Paddy Dean on the Speedway.  Perry Newton ran a cycle shop near the station.

                Next to the Post Office was the butcher shop of Fatty Hector, unopposed for many years.  In the thirties Bailey the Butcher opened next to the newsagency in Aberdare Street.  They had a price war between them, sausages were fourpence a pound, rump steak was ninepence.  Les Stevens had a barber shop and sold Standard Cycles.  Harvey’s Paper Shop was away down Aberdare Street until the new shop was built in its present location.  There were other mixed businesses, Mrs Hales, Martins, Harts, Aulds, Ernie Johnson, and of course there was Ralstons.  The town had two good doctors, Smith and Meredith working from a tiny surgery near the theatre.  No million dollar Health Funds taking our money.  We paid the doctor eleven shillings per quarter, we kept our doctors happy and honest, and we were covered for everything.  A system which should never have been interfered with.

                Jock Stewart had a lolly and ice cream shop opposite the theatre.  On the other corner was a small fish shop owned by the Rumleys.  It was quite adequate, run by the battlers.  Jock built a plush new fish shop in opposition.  At the Kurri end of First Street were two service stations, Hyslop and Edwards.  No one brand, they sold Shell, Atlantic, Plume C.O.R. and Texaco.

                In 1910 ‘Geordie’ Bill Hindmarsh arrived from Northern England.  He lived on the corner of Hall Street.  Bill played left full-back for Weston up to about 1916, then he carried on as secretary.  ‘Geordie Bill’ was better known for his Chev 6 truck during the depression years, with his sign on the front  ‘Y Worry’.  He carted chitter away from the chitter heap near the railway line but never made any impression on it.  On Saturday night he swept the chitter off the truck, fitted seats and a canvas canopy to take us to Maitland Speedway.

                Another prominent citizen was Bill Varty.  He was Deputy President of Kearsley Shire in 1930 and 1942.  He was Shire President in 1931, 34, 35, 36, 44, 45 and 46.  Bill opened the Shire Chambers in Vincent Street Cessnock in 1937.  Since the amalgamation with Cessnock City the building is used as solicitor’s offices, but they have kept the name Kearsley Chambers, and the plaque with the names of Councillors at the opening is in tact in the foyer.

                Weston now has several disappointments for me.  There was always a nice path along the creek to the Rocky and the Bendy with its pool of deep water.

                Now it is a wilderness.  There is no picture theatre, no School of Arts, no library, no cycle track, no railway station.  For all the new housing areas and increase in population, a lot has been lost.

            His little shop in First Street soon grew.  My bedroom was converted into a grocery shop, and I went on to the front verandah.  When that was assimilated into the shop I went into a tiny room at the end.  When he got great ideas and stocked clothing and hardware I finished up in the dining room.  That was his trouble.  With no capital and hard times ahead, he could have managed a small shop and survived.  He had to go too big and crashed.

            His garden extended into every corner of our spacious yard.  His lettuce were a legend, I would hawk a billy-cart full around the streets and sell them quickly.  His recipe for lettuce – Hang a potato bag full of fresh manure in a forty gallon drum of water until the smell overpowered the stink of the chitter heap.  Water the plants with that brew and they grew like cabbages.

            Cardboard boxes did not exist, all fruit came in wooden boxes.  With a few posts out of the bush, sheets of galvanised iron, and a heap of fruit cases he could build anything.  Our chooks (not chickens, they were baby chooks) had a fruit case palace.  A few sheets of iron, hessian from chaff bags, fruit boxes and a home made door, and we had a separate bathroom.

            He was a Justice of the Peace.  When the Government issued food orders to the unemployed, they had to be counter-signed by a J.P.  There would be a crowd in the shop and along the footpath, everyone getting their orders signed.  Then they took them up the street to Fehrenbach and Kirkwood.  They could not get any service in our shop, it was full of people getting their orders signed.  As the Depression deepened his credit rating, never very good, wore out its welcome.

            The groceries came from R. Hall and Son on a Friday afternoon.  We would ply the grocery man with conversation and cups of tea, waiting for our customers to come in and pay their accounts, so we could pay him.  Often I had to get my bike out and go looking for them.  If we had money over on Saturday morning I would go to the Butter Factory in Cessnock and carry pounds of butter home in the bus.

            We always had a house full of water melons in the summer.  We would get two truck loads at a time from Leggetts market in Cessnock.  They sold for one penny each up to one shilling and three pence (13 cents) for monsters.  Nobody took them home to eat.  The just sat on the footpath and ate them.  The skins were not wasted.

            Where the spoilt child of to-day demands someone build them a bowling alley or skate board ramp or the latest fad, we found our own fun.  Weston came to First Street for the melon skin fights, a social event.  No rules, just sit in the gutter eating melon until the juice ran down their elbows and soaked their shirt.  Then throw the skin at anything that moved.  For a big event on Saturday night they would pick teams, mainly ‘Creekies versus Townies.’

            I don’t quite follow what happened to-day.  In the days of dole queues where there was no money, we could eat a whole melon.  Now in days of plenty we buy a piece and take it home to slice up between the family.  I don’t know if our values have changed or we are being got at..  We always sold fruit by the dozen.  Now we buy three at a time.  We gave plums away, nobody would buy them.  Pumpkins were pig food or dole food.  I did not believe it when I saw tinned pumpkin in the supermarket.

            My Dad became involved in politics.  He mixed with Jack Lang, Jack Baddeley, George Booth and Rowley James.  Men who would not recognise the present lot who mis-manage our State.  Rowley James from Kurri was the Federal Member.  He was never called anything but ‘Old Rowley’.  A horse of that name won the Melbourne Cup of 1940.  A loud mouth in the pub with the same name as the jockey made a commotion.

            ‘Buy me a beer, I rode the winner of the Cup, I’m Andy Knox.’

            Old Rowley quietly said, ‘So what, I won it.’

            Before T.V. and Radio in its infancy, my father spoke on street corners on behalf of the local Labour members.  He served a term on Kearsley Shire Council.  His name is still on the plaque in Kearsley Chambers.  In the thirties he badgered the Government for funds for a swimming pool.  He sent samples of the colliery-contaminated water to the Government Analyst.  Kurri Baths were not built until 1951, but he started it all.

            My father would not fit into our current conception of what a politician or business man looked like.  One day we had a visit from Jack Baddeley, Member for Cessnock and Deputy Premier of the State.  I was about eleven at the time, and even I was impressed with the honour of having the Deputy Premier in our home.  My Dad told me to go to Weston Station and show Mr Baddeley the way.  So I trotted off to the station in my bare feet and faced up to the only person deposited by the train who wore a suit.

            ‘You Mr Baddeley? We go this way’

            Stepping down from the overhead bridge our visitor asked ‘Where is the car?’

            Don’t need one, its only a little way,’ I scoffed.

            So I led the Deputy Premier along Station Street, around behind the Pub and along the dirt lane behind the shops, down First Street to our Shop.  Mr Baddeley was honoured with a lunch, just him and my father in the dining room.  My Mother set hers in the kitchen.  To my mind, sharpened by contact with the children of miners, this appeared to be some kind of class distinction.  So I sat myself at the dining table.  I found we did not have adequate suitable cutlery to provide for distinguished visitors, so I ate with my scout knife.  Mr Baddeley proved himself to be a gentleman, he kept a straight face.

            Next day my dad bought three new knives.

            He was President of Weston Cycling Club and was responsible for the racing track on Pagans Park.  He was at everybody’s call and never refused anyone.  The time he put into politics, Council, J.P. work, and the Cycling Club, all unpaid and unappreciated, contributed to the failure of his business.  We left Weston at the end of 1936.......broke.

            I have said my father was a wanderer.  After leaving Weston in 1936, we settled in Rutherford, where he engaged in labouring jobs.  Then he went back to the country.  He was a skilled Station Hand and worked on large cattle properties in the New England region.  During WW2 he returned to another love.  When I was born he was a Postmaster.  He enlisted in the Army and worked in the Military Post Office in Darwin.  He was there during the first big bomb attack on 22 February 1942.  He took sick and was diagnosed as diabetic, so was returned home and discharged.  Weeks later he was back on the train on the way to Roper River with the Civil Construction Corps.  He only made it as far as Alice Springs where he had a diabetic coma and they sent him back again.  He then worked in Kurri Post Office.

            The diabetics took his sight, he developed osteo-arthritis in the hips and became a T.P.I. pensioner.  Then his kidneys gave up and he died on 20th July 1967, age 74.  His name is engraved on the wall of the Military Section at Beresfield Crem.  My mother, quiet unassuming woman that she was, lived on to age 93.  Her name isn’t engraved anywhere.

            Among other things, I have been a moulder, collector, salesman, guide at Jenolan Caves, ambulance officer, surgical dresser, and enrolled nurse.  Anywhere between Rutherford and Whyalla S.A.  Now back in Rutherford, I ride my 1975 Yamaha and occasionally walk the streets of Weston.

           I was never a miner, so possible I should not write about them.  I did live amongst them for ten years, but all I have is childhood memories from a long time ago.  I did work in the steel industry for many years.  While working in industry during the War I was often confronted with people’s attitudes to the miner’s strikes.  They just could not understand what was going on in the coalfields.  I could, Harold Wells said: ‘The price coal owners and governments were paying for the Lock-Out and Rothbury was heavy.’ Jim Comerford said at Rothbury, ‘The hurt is there for all time.’

            I will just write of what I saw and remember.

            Many stories and newspaper articles have been written about the miner.  City people were unable to understand the continuous ferment in the mining areas.  They said the Coal Miner was Different.

            In those days the miner was either a British immigrant or of British stock, the same as the rest of the population.  He was an industrial worker the same as anyone else in industry.  He was an Australian, same as anyone else.  How was he different?

            In the City, there were multitudes of places to work, places to go, transport to get about.  Friends may come from the next suburb, or the next.  Neighbours may work in different worlds.  They may have different friends, different interests.

            On the coalfields, there was the Pit, nothing else.  If the Pit worked, there was money.  If it did not work, there was none.  Your neighbour was the same.  The whole town, all the towns around, were the same.  There was no area of life that was not dominated by the Pit.  Because they were forced to work in close contact in a highly dangerous environment under the ground, they grew to depend on each other.  There is no other occupation on earth where the worker is so isolated from the world.  No other occupation where the worker is so dependent on his workmates for his well-being and personal safety, for help or rescue when anything goes wrong.  There grew up between the coalfields people a bond of mateship and independence which had no equal.  Which carried into the Australian Seventh Division and became a legend in history.

            Miners’s sons did not enlist because they were more patriotic than anyone else.  They enlisted because the Army gave them clothes, shelter, food and the first pay day they had ever seen.  The economic system had denied them a decent living and independence when they needed it in their formative years.  Now it could miraculously find unlimited money to pay them to wage war.

            Much publicity was given to miners’ strikes during the war.  If the miner cared so much for his fellow men, for his own sons at the Front, why did he deny the country the coal it so badly needed to produce munitions?  I heard an American soldier say ‘Say Guy, why all this strike?’  The war against Hitler only began in 1939.  The war between the Worker and the Boss, the Coal Baron, the Capitalist, began in England in the sweatshops and the murderous mining practices of the Industrial

Revolution.  It would continue after Hitler was defeated.  Far from caring, the miner had to fight right through the war to retain hard won safety and other conditions which the Boss tried to whittle away in the name of the war effort.  The miner at home feared the scorn of returning soldiers, if they came home to find conditions had been sacrificed.  ‘While we were away fighting, the battle had been lost at home.  Where is the promised land fit for heroes?’

            Miners could remember that promise in 1918 and what they got for it.

            The Coalfields became Home to thousands of people.  To some was measured out a grudging sense of security.  To all they gave hard, dirty, dangerous work.  To many they gave grinding poverty.  To many, stark tragedy in the form of rock falls, black damp, poison gas, fire explosions and phthisis, pneumoconiosis and other associated lung diseases.  I don’t think they ever made anyone rich.

            With monotonous regularity there would be a little notice in one corner of a newspaper – ‘Miner killed in fall of coal.’  -  ‘Miner killed in mine accident.’  The tragedy was not told in the corner of a newspaper.  It was told by a silent, whitefaced woman standing at the pithead, waiting for the body of her man to be brought out of the bowels of the earth.

            Newspaper headlines were reserved for ‘Miners strike again.’  If the readers looked closely enough at the small print they might find that the strike was over gas in the mine, inadequate ventilation, an unsafe roof or insufficient timber to hold it.  Discussions in the Board Room of the colliery proprietors were reserved for ‘How can we cut the miner’s wages?.

            Say the word ‘Bellbird’ and his intestines would contract into a knot.  One mine death, the shattering of the whole life of one family, was only a small news item.  When death became wholesale it became a ‘Disaster,’  The story of the Bellbird fire has been told too often to repeat.

            I just want to quote a little from the Annual Report of the N. S. W. Mine Department in 1923:

            ‘When they got a little below No.  4 West, they discovered four bodies lying one behind the other near the right hand rib.  They were lying at an angle, their heads being towards the rib facing outbye.  Noble and McCluskey then went on. When they reached No. 8 West,  McCluskey could go no further  -  Noble continued alone – When he got to No. 9 West he found nine men and three horses.  -  they were all dead  - He travelled up the main haulage tunnel to no. 8 East where he found a man and a horse dead. – He was found by rescuers and assisted to the surface.’

            A quote from Jim Comerford:

            ‘Fred Moodie, true to the best tradition of the mineworker, left his fellow deputies to go even deeper into the mine.  He sought to warn the men in his charge and lead them out of danger.  It was his last act.  He died in the attempt.’

            No front page news for people like Noble and Moodie

            Was the miner different?  We all begin life as a product of our heredity.  This product, this person, is then re-acted upon by our environment.  Nobody can deny that the environment of the miner was different.

          In January 1929 the following notice appeared at the pits and in the local papers:

After full consideration of all the issues involved and with very grave concern for the importance of the steps considered to be absolutely essential, all Associated Northern Colliery Proprietors have agreed that it will be possible to carry on coal production only if the Unions associated with the industry are prepared to voluntarily accept, on behalf of their members and our employees, a reduction of twelve and a half per-cent on all wage scales.

Unless such agreement is reached, all Associated Northern Colliery Proprietors will be compelled to terminate the employment of all workmen, of all classifications at present engaged.

Thus began the infamous ‘Lockout.’  A speaker at the miner’s meeting said,

‘This is one time there is no need to worry.  The Law is on our side.  The Owners, the Government and even the Press, have always demanded that we should abide by arbitration instead of using direct action.  The owners aren’t using arbitration.  They are using direct action.  The Government and the Press and the Courts will have to make them open the pits.’

            The immoral, illegal Lockout lasted for fifteen months.  So much for the honesty of the Government,  the Press and the Courts.

            You can call a miner a bastard and he will laugh.  You can even kick him, he is used to being kicked by everyone else.  But call him a ‘scab’ and he will fight.  A scab is someone who will work outside the Law, outside the Union rules.   Who will take the job of men who are ‘on strike’ and thus help the boss to gain income and starve the strikers into  submission.  You do not call a man a scab unless you mean it.

            By the end of 1929 the State was desperately short of coal.  Railways and Industries were grinding to a halt.  The State Government promised at last to take charge and ‘do something’.  The miners cheered.  ‘The Government will make the Company open the pits.’   The Government announced that they would open Rothbury mine with ‘free labour’.  The dreaded ‘scabs’ would take over.  The miners were shocked, then infuriated.

            There had been a precedent for this action on 30th September 1890.  During a strike of that period a crafty person, T. S. Huntley, bought coal lying at Greta pit at 7/6 per ton.  He brought eighteen non-unionists from Newcastle with an escort of two constables, to load the coal during the Sunday night by moonlight.  They were met by up to eighty unionists who showered the scabs with blue metal stones from the railway track and struck Huntley in the arm.  Shots were fired by the ‘scabs’ who  eventually retreated in confusion.

            Huntley came back later with an army of armed men who took 1500 tons of coal without incident.  Bought at 7/6 per ton, it was sold at 28/- per ton, a profit of 2500 pound less costs.

            So a new generation of scabs arrived at Rothbury on 15th December 1929.

            What happened at Rothbury has been widely mis-understood and mis-represented.  I can vividly remember seeing miners, singly, and in pairs and in groups, silently walking  down our street.  No conversation, every face set in a grim mask.  On they came, disappearing from sight into the bush.  Men from Weston and Kurri camped overnight at Greta, then onto Rothbury in the morning.  Cessnock men went direct to Rothbury.

            Jim Comerford was present at Rothbury at the age of sixteen.  In an article written by him in 1956, he told what he saw.

            Miners had marched to the pit in an orderly fashion.  A few police tried to stop them.  The miners  leader Sheridan explained, ‘We only want to talk to the scabs to ask them to leave here, so there won’t be any trouble.’

            Miners went over the fence on to the mine property.  Police came out of the bush and attached them with batons.  The unarmed miners fought back.   Police came mounted on horses, swinging batons.  Still the miners came on.  The Police opened fire with revolvers.  There were no miners carrying arms, so they turned and ran.  The Police pursued them over the fence and up the hill, still firing.

            Then there was a silence.

            Comerford wrote:  ‘A long drawn out shout goes up, and the crowd gives full cry to its hatred of the police and their work.  There is frenzy, frustration and grief in that cry.  It is fed by the sight of the men lying on the ground.  -  All over the field and the road men are shouting out their collective and individual hatreds.  It is no mere passing emotion.  It is deep.  It is there for all time.  The same intensity and grief lies over this field that comes with disaster underground.’

            Returned soldiers among the miners screamed   ‘Guns, give us guns.’  Newspapers tried to claim that the miners were armed.  It was a lie.  The feelings of the miners were so outraged seeing their mates shot down, that if they had guns, the finish to the story of Rothbury would have been different.  It would have made Eureka look like a picnic.

            It may sound silly to compare Rothbury with Eureka.  At Eureka, a community of miners, goaded beyond endurance by a callous ruling class, took up arms to defend their way of life.  They were viciously put down by an out-of-touch Government, using all the force at their disposal.  The miners were victims of a situation we had hoped never to see again.  Take out ‘took up arms’ and I have just described Rothbury.

            The Government had no funds to give a subsidy to coal production.  They could provide unlimited funds for police protection of scabs.  The City Press reported, ‘The trouble on the Northern Coalfields of N.S.W. reached a climax on Monday morning when mob rioting of a very serious nature took place.  One miner was shot dead, two were critically injured, five  others were hurt.’  Twenty five others were not counted as ‘hurt,’ they suffered from a ‘baton attack’.

            The Prime Minister had appealed to the State Premier Bavin to defer opening the mine for a time.  The latter had refused.  So we are told the real culprit.  Too late for martyr Norman Brown, shot down.

            In the middle of 1930 the miners accepted the reduction of 12.5% and went back to work, if it could be called that.  The world wide Depression, imported from America, ruled coal owner and miner alike.

            I can remember a hunger march.  Several hundred miners held a meeting in the street outside Weston Police Station.  They flew the Red Flag on the station fence and sang the communist theme song ’We’ll keep the Red Flag flying here.’  I suppose they chose the Police Station as an affront to Authority.  The local Sergeant defused it a bit by coming out to join in.  Sergeant Gillies was an ornament to the Force, well respected by all.  The men then marched onto Abermain for more meetings.  Later there were marches all over the state to Parliament House.

            Every afternoon  children played about the street corners in the town.  There were no playgrounds.  As six o’clock approached there would be a gradual slowing down of activity.  At  six only a deathly hush.  At six the Pit whistle would tell the world if there would be work tomorrow or not.  Then we would hear ‘Only two days pay for this fortnight.’  Life would resume.  No matter how young, each pinched little face knew what it meant in their home.

            When miners could not pay the rent to their landlord he got an eviction order.  The police were then forced to move the unfortunate family out of the house.  The whitewash and bag humpies on Hebburn Estate grew into a township where nobody paid rent.  The empty house was then declared ‘black.’  As long as it stood nobody would ever live in it again – ever.

            The electricity for Weston came from Hebburn Colliery.  Therefore all power produced by the colliery during the Lockout was black.  If any house was seen with electricity on, it soon had a rock through the window as a gentle reminder.  Some people who knew no better would wrap brown paper around the light globe to disguise its use.  But   not  for long.  Kerosine lamps and candles became a way of life again.  We did not miss TV, washing machine or refrigerator, we had none.

            Policing the black ban was not vandalism as we know it today.  It was an act of a desperate people trying to protect their way of life.  Fighting  for their ideals of Unionism and Comradeship.  Sometimes ideals were all they had to live on.

            So the Depression wore on.  Sir Otto Niemeyer came from the Bank of England in 1930 to help us out.  His answer - Australians would have to lower their too high standard of living, reduce their wages and pay higher taxation, so they could make full payments of interest to English bondholders and the Bank of England on loans taken to build our railways.  Good news to the Bag Humpy Set on Hebburn Estate.  The Bavin Government agreed and said ‘sacrifices must be made all round.’  Jack Lang opposed him and became Premier in 1930.  Lang thundered ‘Go to hell.  I won’t do it, I’d sooner make you wait for your interest.  You share the sufferings you so coldly inflict on the people.’   State Governor Sir Phillip Game sacked him.  John Kerr was forty three years behind in that infamy.

            In 1939 England declared war on Germany.  Suddenly, magically, there was plenty of money for the war.  Now England pleaded not for interest, but for the bodies of Australian Soldiers.  Our Governments pleaded for coal.  The wheel had turned full circle.  Who could blame the miners?

          Mining was hard work.  Miners were generally content to stop at the Pub after work for the ‘black pint’ to wash the coal dust out, then go home.  There was no pressure for an active night life.  They had a wonderful Library at the School of Arts and it was well used.  I learned of A G Hales and his legendary hero McGluskey.  I read every book of Ion L. Idriess.

            The ‘wireless’ was new not every home had one.  A massive outdoor aerial was necessary to get a good reception.  It was not long before it took over as home entertainment and the days of the singalong and the tin whistle were forgotten.  A newcomer ‘Bing Crosby’ and old hand Al Jolson were the idols of the ages.  It was easier to listen on the wireless than hand crank the old gramophone.  ‘Dad and Dave’ began as a serial in 1936 and ran for 15 years.  Everyone followed the Test Match descriptions.  I could ride my bike around the streets and follow the game all day, every wireless was on.  When Jardine and Larwood came with their infamous bodyline Weston was as mad as any about it.

            Friday night was late shopping.  Crowds would walk around the streets yarning and meeting friends.  The men would spend extra time at the Pub, despite 6 o’clock closing.  There was a small Department Store where the children could read ‘True Confessions’ and other magazines on display on the shelves.  Nobody ever bought one.  Late night shopping was for socialising more than shopping.  Kurri was unique, with its wide Lang Street.  The footpaths were empty.  Hundreds of residents paraded up and down the roadway meeting friends, walking with the girlfriend or just walking.  If any traffic came along it had to squeeze through the best it could.

            Saturday afternoon was more serious.  Some would be content to lean on the bar at Hill’s Pub or the Denman, staring at the only pint they could afford to buy.  Others with money would make the trade more profitable, might even ‘shout’ less fortunates.  Starting Price Bookmaking flourished.

            ‘Pincher’ had his regular office at the bar of Hill’s Pub.  No hassles from the Police Station.  Occasionally the ‘Flying Squad’ from Newcastle would make a raid.  Somehow word seemed to get around before they arrived.  The Firm would not be inconvenienced.  ‘Pincher’ would put a stooge in the Bar taking bets, making a copy himself.  The Squad would rush in, take the stooge away and charge him, ‘Pincher’ would produce his copy and carry on regardless.  One time the Squad burst in unexpected.  ‘Pincher’ pushed his book over the edge of the bar, the barmaid kicked it underneath and no evidence could be found.

            Two rival commercial radio stations gave live race descriptions.  Not as easy as today though.  Race Clubs would not allow an on-course commentator.  The Stations build great towers outside overlooking the course.  The race callers perched high in these in all weathers and gave their descriptions.  They were every bit as good as today, under infinitely worse conditions.  Cyril Angles and Harry Solomons were as well known as film stars.

            Solomons was a character.  He worked for a weekly race paper called the 2UE Form Guide.  Each week contained a code.  A half hour before a chosen race Harry would use the code to give his 2UE Code Special.  In three consecutive weeks, Cloudy won at 4/1, Canegrass at 12/1, Turbine at 15/1.  To get a bet on the Code Special you needed to join a queue down the footpath.  The S. P. bookie took a terrible beating.  But they got it all back with interest.  The Code Special never won again.  Of course, there were allegations about that.

            The wily Solomons had a new line.  He spread his mates around the S. P. Pubs in city and country.  He would give a long winded description of how the start of the race was delayed by horse X playing up at the barrier.  His mates would put their money on horse X, it was just going past the post.  Solomons would then give a complete description by memory.

            Weston Cycling Club ran a race every Saturday afternoon, always from one of the Pubs in the district.  Customers could see the start and finish of the bike race from the Pub doorway.  Weston Soccer Club played at the Homestead ground alternate Saturdays and drew good crowds.  For the children there was a matinee at the School of Arts picture theatre.  It was a good theatre with front stalls, back stalls and even ‘upstairs’.  I sat with a lovely redhead from Abermain, wonder where she is now?.  Shirley Temple was a great favourite.  There was often a free lolly or a badge for each child as and added attraction.

            The old black and white film had less frames per second than modern films, so the pictures flickered.  So we went to the ‘flicks’.   A really expensive night out ran to an upstairs seat and a threepenny ice cream at Jock Stewart’s shop opposite.  Then we walked home, there was no other way.   The first ‘Talkie’ shown in Weston was Daddy Long Legs with Charles Farrell and Janet Gaynor.  Bing Crosby and Al Jolson were the stars, sometimes extravaganzas with Paul Whiteman and his Big Band.  We were well entertained.

            The Churches took a big part in community life.  Every Sunday morning would see a line of worshippers walking up to the Catholic Church at Abermain.  The Methodist Church was well attended.  The Presbyterians near the Co-Op Store in Aberdare Street (now Cessnock Road) had a magnificent choir, we could hear them two streets away.

            I went to St Marys Church of England.  We had a choir of twenty boys trained by ‘Pop’ Holland.  A local signwriter, Mr Williams was the organist, Ted Minchell Rector’s Warden.  There was one very dear old man, Mr Emanuel, he must have been ninety, he never missed a Sunday.  In the prayers he was always half a lap behind, we always waited for him to catch up.   He was a Lay Reader and continued to take evening services.  He was well loved.

            My Rector was Rev James Smith.  Every Sunday morning he would be at Neath for service at six a. m. back to Weston at seven, up to Abermain for eight, then back to Weston for a full Choir Service at nine.  I know, I was with him.  He had an old Whippet car which he drove at forty miles per hour, that was top speed.  The church was always full, so was the collection plate-full of tray bits, worth two cents.  The tray bit was known as ‘church money’.  Not adequate to maintain a Rector and his family.  There was always someone ‘down on his luck’ at the Rectory door for a handout.  His wife hid his clothes so he could not give them away.

            Next came Rev. Alf Clint from the Bush Brotherhood.  Always known as Brother Alf.  A really wonderful, unique man.  The miners did not come to church to talk with him, so he went to the pub on Saturdays to talk with them.  Jim Comerford still honours his memory.  For his sermon he held up a two shilling piece.  Must have borrowed it, he never had one of his own.  He said:  ‘What is money to a Christian?  Someone had to spend their flesh and blood to earn this money.  This is two shillings worth of flesh and blood.  Money to a Christian is sacred.

            When he left Weston he went to Portland where he organised a strike of the town because a girl was sacked from the Chemist Shop.  Later he went north and initiated Co-operatives for Aboriginals.  He claimed they already had a co-operative culture.  He must have been right, he became a world figure.  When he died at age 73 a booklet was produced in his honour, full of tributes from many prominent citizens.  It is a treasured possession.

            Two men came to our Church to hold a Mission.  Fr. Cassidy and Fr. James Benson.  Wonderful men, the church was packed every night for two weeks.  During the War in New Guinea Benson ran a Mission with a hospital and school.  With the Japs advancing he chose to stay with his flock.  In 1942 stories came out of New Guinea that all missionaries and nurses had been slaughtered by the Japanese.  For three years we mourned the loss of Father James Benson and his faithful staff.  A surprised Australian Major found him in September 1945, living with other prisoners in tunnels dug in a hill at Kopoko near Rabaul.  Major Ross gave him the terrible news that his nurses, teachers, priests and other staff had been butchered by the Japanese in 1942.  The amazed Major cried, ‘But you are dead too.’  Father James recovered from his ordeal, to live until 1955.

            Jim Smith, Alf Clint, James Benson, what a wonderful privilege to have known them. 

            The Church Hall in second street was the centre of social life.  A monthly social with dancing and supper.  The Sunday School was full.  A branch of the Church Of England Boys Society, the main social activity seemed to be doing speedway slides around the polished dance floor, to the disgust of the dancers.  They had to shred candles around the floor to get the shine back.  The out-of-use tennis court was another speedway track.

            Sunday afternoon there were dog trials at Abermain.  Trials only, did not stop the bookies from operating.  Hundreds of people went, not that they cared about the dogs, it was the thing to do.  Later the cycling track on the Pagans Park provided a counter attraction.  Only the dogs were free, they objected to paying admission to the bikes.

            The annual Sunday School Picnic was eagerly awaited.  We would hire two or three of Sid Fogg’s old white buses, cram them full of kids and set sail for Wangi.  There were always two kerosene tins with wire handles in the front of the bus.  Freemans Waterholes was first stop.  After climbing up the Gap, the old Whites were boiled dry.  We would wait at Freemans until the motors cooled down, then out with the tins to fill the radiators.  Next stop Wangi.

            Every Christmas the Pits closed down for holidays.  The Coalfields towns closed down as well, the place was deserted.  Tent cities sprung up all over Lake Macquarie for a glorious escape from the tyranny of the Pits. 

 While I was at Weston Primary School, officials of the Soccer Club came with tickets for game on Saturday.  Out of curiosity I bought a ticket and went to the game.  It was at the old Homestead ground on 9th May 1931.  I remember that Weston played Speers Point, who wore blue and yellow stripe jumpers.  Weston won four goals to one and I was sold.  When Weston played at home, I was there.  When they played away, I walked to Gould Park near North Kurri station to watch Kurri.

           The great Jim McNabb was my hero, I saw most games from behind his goal.  The game was different then.  Modern critics may consider it to have been ‘kick and rush’.  It was certainly played in a robust manner, but we had plenty of clever players too.  The goalkeeper had no number, so players were numbered one to ten.  Shorts were nearly down to the knee. They wore real football boots which laced up around the ankle, which gave support without falling off.  Bars of leather across the sole gave grip instead of round stops.

            Each man had his job.  The two fullbacks were there to defend the goal.  If the ball was in our half, the goal was at risk.  So when the fullback had the ball, he did not play little games with the goalkeeper, he belted it up the other end of the field.  There were five forwards.  The key man was the centre forward, he was there to score the goals.  So he stayed up field where the goal was.  He was supported by two inside forwards, these three were the ‘strikers’. Inside forward was rated as the hardest position on the field.  In emergencies, they could not loaf up field like the centre, they were expected to fall back and defend.  Yet when the ball was cleared they were expected to be up there scoring goals.

            The two wingers were much the same as to-day, running the ball up the touch line then crossing it to the centre’s feet.  The three halves were the mid-field players.  A good centre half could rule mid-field play and dictate the course of the game.

            In defence, every player had an opposition player to line.  If he didn’t he was soon reminded by the strident voice of Mrs Wilkinson from the grandstand: ‘Take a man, Weston.’  She was as much a part of the team as any man on the ground.

            From Max Lomas I have a copy of a photograph of the 1931 team which won the Northern Premiership then beat Annandale 4/2 in the State Final.

            Jim McNabb joined Weston from the juniors as a fullback in 1926.  He first represented the State against Queensland in 1930.  Because of a leg injury, he dropped back to goalkeeper in 1931.  How fortunate that was.  Jim’s uncle fought Les Darcy.  I am sure Jim could have too.  There were no rules to protect keepers like there are to-day.  If a goalie had the ball, it would finish up with the centre forward, goalkeeper, ball and all bundled into the back of the net..  ‘Nabby’ would stand there laughing while opposing forwards bounced off him.  He loved a corner kick.  No need to fill the goalmouth with supporters.  He stood right back and used the far post as a springboard.  When the ball came high he took off.  Those two big fists, held tightly together, would rise above the heads and meet the ball.  It would come down on the halfway line.

            I saw an opposing forward fire a shot from close range.  ‘Nabby’ did not bother to catch the ball, he drew back one fist and punched it straight back with a laugh.  In a melee in the goalmouth, i saw him reach for the ball.  A boot came up and dislocated his thumb.  He took the ball, booted it out at half way, then called for attention.  He stood in the goal while his thumb was pulled back into place, then he went off.

            Adamstown supporters made claims for Billy Morgan, he was spectacular, diving from one post to the other.  McNabb did not need to, he could read the game so well that he was there already.  I saw Jim at a second rate ground one day, the cross bar was distinctly saggy.  The ball came high towards the centre of the bar.  Jim jumped up and sprung the bar down with one hand so the ball passed over it.

            He was Australia’s goalkeeper from 1933 to 1939, representing on seventeen occasions.  In 1937 he played against Bernard Joy’s touring team and saved a penalty from their top forward Eastham.  Yet for most of his career he fought a nagging ankle injury which caused his retirement in 1940.

            The right fullback was ‘Tolda’ Whitelaw, who came from Cessnock in 1921 and played until 1933.  His clearances were a legend, from one goal line to the other.  In contrast to his fiery partner Tom ‘Pincher’ Harris, ‘Tolda’ was quiet and unassuming.  I saw an opposing forward holding ‘Tolda’ in a headlock.  ‘Pincher’ ran across the field, belted the man off ‘Tolda’ and sent the ball to the other end of the field, all without breaking stride.  Nobody took any liberties with ‘Pincher’.  When McNabb went off with his dislocated thumb, there were no rules to allow replacements.  The team just did without.

            So ‘Pincher’ donned that famous yellow jumper with Weston one goal ahead.  The opposition fired a shot into the bottom right hand corner of the net.  ‘Pincher’ dived and just put it around the corner of the post.  That save won the game.  Harris played for Weston for nine years and for Australia on three occasions.

            The halves were Billy Victor, Charlie Thompson and Jim ‘Ni**er’ Kemp.  Victor played from 1928 to 1933.  Thompson had English experience, and served the team from 1927 until 1933.  The tall dark figure of ‘Ni**er’ Kemp dominated mid field play.  Yet while playing inside forward he scored twenty goals in a season.  He retired in 1942, after thirteen years, scoring 158 goals, with never a bad game.

           [Ellis] ‘Du**y’ Williams was deaf and dumb, but not on the field.  He played from 1927 to 1937, scoring 210 goals, 45 in one season of 1929, from the centre forward position.  Jack Manion was a classy player from 1925 to 1933.  Young Ernie Kemp performed well in the forwards, in the Kemp tradition.

            When the team was sadly depleted in 1943, Jim Wilkinson and Ernie Kemp were the only survivors from the 1931 team, carrying on the magnificent Club spirit, a feature of Weston soccer.

            In 1931 Charlie Thompson asked a stripling winger with 22 junior goals to his credit, to play first grade for Weston.   The boy’s mother objected, but Charlie promised to look after him and keep him out of trouble.

            Jim ‘Skeeta’ Wilkinson first played on the right wing in 1931 at the age of seventeen.  He was and immediate success.  Figures will only tell part of the story, but they are imposing enough.  In 1934 he scored seventeen goals from the wing, in 1937 it was 19.  He first represented the state in 1932 and completed his State career in 1941.  He was a member of an Australian team sixteen times and scored ten international goals.  He retired in 1954 after playing a record 552 (or 574?) first class games with a total of 167 goals.  What a record.

            ‘Skeeta’s’ ball control was a sight to see.  He trained by kicking a tennis ball suspended in a stocking from the clothes line.  He said if he could kick the little ball accurately he could not miss the big one.  When he kicked the soccer ball, he did not just aim at the ball.  He hit the exact spot on the ball which would produce a ‘carpet burner’, a lofted ball or a swerve to left or right.  He seemed to exert magnetic field around the ball.  When he took a corner kick, the keeper would confidently wait for the ball coming towards him, only to see it curl around the near post and into the net.  We kids were practicing on the Homestead ground when he came to show us how it was done.

            ‘Skeeta’ Wilkinson was one of the all time greats of Australian soccer.  Both him and Jim McNabb were offered places in English professional teams but they would not leave their homes.  Yet he would take time to train schoolkids and retained his loyalty to his club for 23 years.  In the 1940’s Weston was forced to close down for a time.  Jim did not consider going elsewhere.

            His home needed new roofing iron.  Mayfield Club were able to get this from Lysaghts for him.  That was the price for a time with Mayfield.  He was still a force on the field at forty years of age.  After being away from Weston from many years, I was privileged to talk to him only three months before he passed away in July 1984.  In 1995 he was inducted into the Hunter Region Sporting Hall of Fame.  The presentation was accepted by his wife Hilda, bursting with pride.

            Other great players were Aub Teece who followed the big money and played in Sydney, and for Australia in 1937.  ‘Dixie’ Biggers scored 107 goals.  Jack Leddon was a champion on the  left wing.  Tom Shakespeare – ‘Big Shakey’ – was a master at midfield.  ‘Crabby’ McCroary played from 1922 and was Captain of the Cup winning team of 1934.

            Northern Soccer took a beating in 1936 with the emergence of big money professional teams in Sydney, sponsored by trade houses such as Metters, Goodyear and Grace Brothers.  They plundered the northern teams of all the best players they could buy.  The depressed economy of the Coalfields was their ally.  They could provide jobs.  One thing they could not provide was the mateship and loyalty to the town built up in the mines since 1902.

            Weston, with a team held together with Club spirit, had their best year.  With ‘Crabby’McCroary as Captain, they won the statewide premiership.  They won the Sheahan Cup by defeating Goodyear by 2/0 in the final. In the final of the state cup they beat the expensive Metters side by 3/2, including two goals from the wing by ‘Skeeta’ Wilkinson.

            I left Weston in 1936.  What memories I took with me of ‘Nabby’, ‘Skeeta’, ‘Pincher’, ‘Tolda’, ‘Ni**er’,  ‘Ernie’, ‘Du**y’, ‘Crabby’.  Heroes all.

            Bill Glynn had a cycle shop in Vincent Street Cessnock where he made Standard Cycles.  In 1935 he made two cheap racing cycles at nine pounds ten shillings each, which was cheap even then.  My mother bought one for me.  It had an ordinary steel tapered frame, 28 inch flat sided rims with Dunlop ribbed tyres.  All parts were of steel and it had a narrow Whippet racing seat.  It was fitted with spring steel toeclips and good straps on the rat trap pedals.  There was one calliper brake.  The frame was finished on cream with red markings, chrome rims and it looked rather good.  I cleaned the rims with Brasso, which took all the chrome off.  I painted them red and they looked awful.  There were no variable gears and all racing bikes had fixed wheels, no free wheels.  The gear could be varied by changing the back sprocket or the chain wheel.

            A comparatively heavy bike coupled to my age of fourteen dictated a relatively low gear of 80, if you know what I mean.  I found I could push this gear all day, up and down hill.  Only it was too slow in a sprint at the finish.  In search of weight reduction I replaced the heavy ‘diamond’ outrigger with a lightweight one piece outrigger and handles.  Then I threw the brake away.

            I wore lightweight racing shoes with a leather bar on the sole, which fitted inside the pedals.  When I pulled the strap up tight my feet were locked on the pedals.  I pushed down with one pedal and pulled up with the other.  To brake I reversed the order.  For an emergency stop I lifted both feet in the straps, thus lifting the back wheel off the ground.  Then thump the wheel down with everything stationary.  More effective than any brake.  A bit hard on the tyres, stretched the chain a bit too.

            BMX bikes were not invented, nobody did wheelies.  Still, I could jerk on the handles and the straps at the same time and lift both wheels off the ground together.

            I really enjoyed my bike.  On Fridays I would ride from Weston to School at Cessnock.  In winter I would start off with hands in pockets to keep them warm and ride ‘no hands’ to Cessnock, including over Neath Hill.  Later I doubled Dot Clarkson over Neath Hill, then raced when we got to Cessnock.

            No riding to races in cars.  On the way home from school I would meet the train at Neath Station and ride beside it to Abermain.  I didn’t say it was a fast train.

            One day Bill Richardson suggested that I join the Cycling Club and take up racing.  Well, I could not play cricket.  I loved soccer so much, it was a tragedy I was no good at it.  I had to be good at something so I took up bike racing.  My first event started from the Denman Hotel, down through Weston to present Cliftleigh, then return to the Denman.  There were no junior races so I rode senior.  I started on ‘limit’ first off at the start with ‘Nutty’ McNeill.  At the turn at Cliftleigh I lost ‘Nutty’ so rode home by myself, riding happily along at my own pace.  It all caught up with me going up the long hill from Chinamans Hollow to the Denman.  I looked around to see pursuing cyclists coming.  I plugged along to just beat Billy Shone  by a wheel in my first race, for a prize of twelve shillings.

            The club kept no money.  Each race attracted a publicans donation and entry fee was on shilling.  The total pot was divided up, 60% for first, 20% for second,  10% for third and fastest time.  Club meetings were held on the grass opposite Mrs Hales Shop.  The only official was the handicapper, who also collected entries, acted as judge and starter, then paid the prize money.

            There was also racing on a Sunday afternoon at Stanford Merthyr.  No donation, entry fee of sixpence, so it was only for fun.  They had a girl’s race, Dot Clarkson was Champion.  The course was either along a dirt track which is now John Renshaw Drive, or through the bush to Maitland Road and Heddon Greta.  We had a local handicapper, so they were different from Weston.

            Then the Handicapper resigned and the Weston man took over.  We were told that we would run on Weston handicaps, but not be penalised for winning.  (At Weston a winner was penalised 20 seconds on his handicap.)  That suited me, I won three weeks running at Stanford on the same handicap.  They woke up to me then, we were told we would be penalised on our Weston handicap for winning at Stanford.  Well, who would incur a twenty second penalty for winning three shillings? Not likely.

            Away we went to Heddon Greta.  Coming home through the bush the whole field was in one  bunch, arguing because nobody would consent to win.  When we came out of the bush in sight of the finish two riders who were ‘foxing’ sprinted off while we rode behind laughing.

            As a  novelty we had slow races.  Wally Lomax would stand on his bike until everyone else had fallen off or finished, then sprint to the finish.  We threatened to disqualify him because he had not started.  So he would sprint half way, then stand absolutely still until everyone else was finished.  While he was waiting he would turn his front wheel at right angles, put a hand each side of the tyre and roll the bike around in circles.

            In 1936 members from Cessnock League Cycling Club met us and suggested we amalgamate. We were an amateur club but rode for money anyway.  The advantages would be better competition and bigger fields, thus more prize money.  We turned professional and amalgamated.  Despite the knockers it was a success.  We rode alternatively from Cessnock and Weston.

            We rode from Bonominis Hotel at Cessnock one Saturday.  Bob Shone stood on the footpath, each of us came up to him with money, and he wrote it down in a little black book.  The police constable arrested Bob for making an S.P. book on the footpath.  He was only taking our entries.

            In 1936 our famous speedway rider Paddy Dean and his father Long Jack took over the Wine Saloon at Wollombi.  Long Jack organised a ‘Back to Wollombi Celebration’.  There was a cycle race from Cessnock to Wollombi for the Paddy Dean Cup by Cessnock Amateur Club.  Bill Glynn, Secretary of the amateur club, organised a race for the league club, and gave a ‘quid’ as first prize.  Someone gave half a quid for second and a jeweller gave two silver cups.  I decided to win the race. 

            I had never been to Wollombi so I rode out to investigate.  I found most of the course to be only a bush track, so I carefully plotted the best way through the bad bits.  Approaching Wollombi was a good distance of level road, then a sharp turn uphill.  The finishing line was just over the crest.

            On the big day I arranged to work with George Burrell, sharing the pace.  It worked very well, by Bellbird there were five of us in front.  One rider wanted to loaf, so George threw his back wheel across and took half of Bills spokes.  That problem cured.  When we hit the bad road I used my knowledge gained on the Monday.  When other riders were jarring along in the corrugations or ploughing away in the loose dirt, I was riding in the good tracks I had picked out, saving a lot of energy.  Approaching Wollombi I took my share of the pace on the level part, then sat behind for a rest.  Around the last turn I wound up past everyone, shouted to George as I went past, and was over the finishing line before the others knew about it.  George was second, Perry Newton was third.  I still have the cup, minus one handle, but I spent the quid.  I still have the Centenary title.

            We also rode on Maitland Showground as a filler for the speedway.  The speedway had a poor year, we were really the main event.  However, I was a road rider not quick enough for the track.

            We rode a few times to North Carrington.  They had a track 220 yards around with a banking of fourteen feet and a tar surface.  The Champion was Jim Beath from Newcastle.  A few of us tried it but the competition was fierce.  The only coalfields rider to hold his own was Wally Lomax.

            On a Saturday afternoon Wally would ride from Cessnock to Weston, ride in the road race then home to Cessnock.  He had a pair of track racing wheels known as singles.  A cane rim with the tyre and tube all in one, running at high pressure not fit for road use.  Wally made two brackets, one to go each side of his front axle.  To each bracket he bolted a racing wheel so it was clear of the ground.  After dinner on Saturday he rode with his three front wheels to Maitland Speedway.  Changed to racing wheels, won a few races, changed wheels to ride home by midnight.  Dawn would find him with his three front wheels on the way to Carrington.  He often won races there too, then rode home again.  Now we see pampered bikes and riders, travelling in cars.

            The park at Weston is now Varty park.  No disrespect to Bill but its name is Pagans Park.  A priest on his rounds left his horse and sulky there.  When he had returned someone had re-harnessed the horse around a tree.  He called them a lot of Pagans, and that is its name.

            In 1936 my father prevailed on the Council to build a cycling track on the Park.  I complained that the radius used on the turns was too big.  Where the turns met the straights they made four corners.  They said no, the Engineer that laid it out built the track on Newcastle Sports Ground.   I had no argument, I did not see the Sports Ground until years later.  It was a horror with four corners too.  Our track had no banking, so local carrier Doug Parker carted tons of antbed – for free – to build them up.  The antbed was supposed to roll into a hard surface.  It did too. But there was always a supply of those tiny red pebbles on the surface like ball bearings rolling under our tyres and dropping us.  We bought brooms and had all hands out sweeping.  All we did was sweep the track away and still the pebbles came through.

            I rode in the first race on the track.  Four of us started.  On the first turn two of us followed the radius, over the bank and down to the creek.  We learned to handle the corners, then started sliding down on the pebbles.  I lost a large area of skin.  Next week I had a patch of leather sewn on my racing shorts.  We always had an ambulance and two nurses in attendance, our worst injury was a broken collarbone.

            We needed more organisation to run a track meeting.  My father appointed himself President and did most of the work.  We rented a public address system which we paid for commercials begged from business men.  We erected a fence and tried to charge admission so we could pay prize money.  It was free at the dogs, so nobody would pay to watch us.  There were junior and girl’s races.  Silvia Smith was girls champion.

            In August Perry Newton donated a pair of racing shoes for the three quarter mile, and an open order on his bike shop for the half mile.  I won the half mile.  In the three quarter with one lap to go I came inside the leader to pass.  His left pedal came down and chipped my front tyre in half.  Down I came on my leather patch.  The open order bought a new tyre and tube so I finished up square on the day. 

            Yes, the track was bad, we raced for nothing, we lost skin and we bent bikes.  But it was fun, we enjoyed the thrill of the slips and slides and pile-ups.  We wouldn’t have it any other way.  I was so sorry to see the track go to ruin.

Transcribed for the Weston History and Heritage website by Lynne Kermode.