Richmond is an island. It is bordered on two sides by the Hawkesbury River, into which flows the Nepean and the Grose Rivers. When these rivers flood the town is isolated. The roads leading to its heart are stopped. They vanish beneath the torrent as if they never existed, even though when they were visible it seemed impossible that the cold water could rise so high.
This is my
town, our place. There has not been a flood deep enough to cover all the roads
since we came to live here six years ago. On the
From the
very beginning Richmond captivated me. It seems to have an identity
all its own, to be a rural oasis in the middle of the sold-out tourist towns.
This place still works, and lives and breathes and sweats. It doesn’t wander
through the week, waiting for the weekend to beg for its living from the hoards
of sight-seers and Sunday drivers. On weekends it rests and parties hard, and
tolerates the few stray visitors who wander around its cemeteries and historic
buildings. It does not advertise for them, and it gives them no particular
welcome. Its charm lies in its unashamed mixing of history with life.
The most popular place in town is the cinema, which declares its own name in permanent lettering above new aluminium doors – “The Regent”. When it rains The Regent smells like an old wardrobe and you can look up in the yellow light and see enormous damp stains on the sagging chipboard ceiling. The seats, the curtains, and the cinema screen are new but the stage is old and creaky, framed by fake balconies with tasselled awnings above them. The proprietor in his rough brown suit and scuffed shoes goes with the sets and scenery. On Saturday nights he stands on the treacherous timber boards and offers a lucky door prize. The place is always packed. $9.00 movie tickets for the latest Hollywood films draw the crowds, despite the cold, the damp, and the funny little bald man who intrudes upon the privacy of your experience.
My acquaintance with Richmond began in the back of a white Holden Torana with brown vinyl seats. It smelt of mould and dogs and belonged to my boyfriend’s mate. Garry always drove flat out with his girlfriend, my friend, perched beside him on the passenger seat, her long blonde hair swinging out on every bend. Tom and I sat behind them. My first trip in the Torana had us on opposite ends of the peeling vinyl, hanging onto the door handles to keep from being thrown together as Garry roared around corners. There was no need for us to talk. The boys kept up a running comedy routine that covered every subject from the Gulf War to the exploits of Garry’s bull terrier, Angus, who was responsible for the smell of the car. Tom had a long-neck between his feet from which he took swigs every now and again. He seemed oblivious to my existence and I sat in silence in the flickering darkness and wondered what I had gotten myself in for. We had clearly been set up. I resolved to check the credentials of the ‘friend’ Garry was bringing along before I agreed to any more outings.
We parked in Richmond at the end of the main street so that we could walk the full length of the town and look for somewhere to eat. The selection was not huge; a seedy Chinese restaurant with lime green curtains in the windows; a take-away pizza and pasta joint next door to a family restaurant that presumably served the same fare; a chicken shop that Garry assured us was “dodgy”; a take-away run by a dour faced Greek man and his silent wife; and KFC. We chose KFC. At least the place was clean and well lit and fairly busy. Also, if we all went down with food poisoning they were most likely to pay up. KFC was right next to the cinema.
I didn’t need to order anything because my conscientious mother had given me dinner before I left home. Apparently, Tom had eaten too but that didn’t stop him devouring two burgers, a large chips, and a cheese cake. Garry and Amanda were having a fight and had stayed outside the restaurant, so I sat opposite Tom at the red laminated table, and watched him and listened in fascination. He did not appear ever to be at a loss for words. In between bites of his hamburgers and chips he regaled me with stories about his mates, his brothers, and his hobbies, which revolved around anything on two wheels. After ten minutes I began to rather like him, and after half an hour I was definitely interested. He was cute and funny and rather surprising. By our third date I was fairly hooked and we had graduated from clinging to the door handles to cuddling up together on the back seat. Although Amanda liked to take most of the credit for his unexpected turn of events she was one of the most surprised when we were married a year or so later. She and Garry had been dating for six years.
The houses in Richmond also charm me. Scattered among the blonde brick monstrosities of the 1980s, or sandwiched between a crumbling rental and a hardware store you can find some truly beautiful home with names like “Rutherglen” and “Josieville”. If they have been faithfully restored they will usually have their date displayed somewhere as well “1835”. They will also probably have another sign beneath this, “Private Residence”. Part of the beauty of these places is that they are still alive. Although some have been made into insurance agencies or doctors’ rooms, most are privately owned. Perhaps the relative affordability of housing here has contributed to this, or the strangely relaxed attitude to all things old. In taking a walk down almost any street, these places surprise you like a sweet cherry hidden in a bland dessert.
Surrounding this mix of history and convenience in large slabs of 1950s suburbia are several housing estates. These were built by the government to house RAAF personnel and their families, or as public housing for the less fortunate. Walk five minutes out of town in almost any direction and you will find yourself among the twisting spaghetti streets of a bygone social idea. Wide straight roads big enough to park cars along either side and still drive two trucks past each other are laid out in a grid pattern across what was once prime farmland or occasional flood plain. Leading off these drag strips are collections of cul-de-sacs, circuits, crescents, and drives. Park a car on either side of these streets and you can barely get the average family sedan through without bumping the mirrors. These streets are for cruising carefully along, while the major road outside is a great place to test the acceleration of your car, or drop the clutch and enjoy the angry wailing and smoke of rubber melting into bitumen.
It was into one of these estates that Tom and I found ourselves being led by a real estate agent one warm Saturday afternoon as we went through the discouraging process of trying to buy a house. It was June, and the wedding was four months away. With the most important items for the day booked, ordered, and being made, we decided the next most pressing thing was to find a place to live. We wanted to buy, as everyone does, but after three weekends of inspecting houses that should have been put out of their misery, our expectations had slid to rock bottom. Almost. As we pulled into the driveway of the neat 1950s brick veneer with the shaggy lawn and the aqua blue front door my frustration spilled over; “I will never live in a place like this. Never.” This was said through gritted teeth to my silent fiancé, who was keeping his thoughts to himself as he climbed out of the car. I followed him to the concrete front steps, still boiling with indignation. The real estate agent smiled encouragingly as he opened the front door and ushered us inside.
The house was everything the romantic in me abhorred. It was plain, it was suburban, it was mediocre, and worst of all it was predictable. My imagination had seen us signing the contract on a quaint two-bedroom cottage in the mountains that needed a lick of paint but was otherwise sound. It would be in a quiet street, backing onto the bush, and in walking distance to the railway station. In short, it would be similar to the houses I had grown up in and grown to love. They had idiosyncrasies, they had charm, they had character. This place had nothing.
But as we drove away Tom said unexpectedly to the back of my head, “I think we should make an offer.”
“Of course,” I said bitterly, glaring out the window, “you grew up in a place just like it, so you’d love to live there.”
“And you grew up in an old shitter that your dad had to spend every weekend repairing.”
“At least I’ve got some originality.”
“At least I’ve got some sense.”
Tom was right. Grudgingly I called the real estate agent that afternoon and made an offer. It was accepted. By the end of the week we were destined to be the proud owners of a brown brick veneer home with cream carpet, pale chalk blue walls, and the obligatory Hills Hoist in the back yard.
The people in Richmond are of a particular type. Like the town, they are working class. Tradesmen and their families mostly own the small cheap homes, or entrepreneurs just starting up their own businesses. The main sources of entertainment for those over 18 are the three pubs in the centre of town. The Richmond Inn is the newest and is located at the intersection of two major roads. It has a bar, a bistro, and some billiard tables. At any time of day you will see a group of men sitting together on the rough wooden benches on the front balcony talking, laughing, and making comments about the passers by. The Richmond Inn is right across the road from MacDonalds. As the sun goes down, the car park out the front of the restaurant becomes a meeting place for anyone under 18 with a car and a loud exhaust. Groups of high-schoolers cruise the parked cars, which stand with engines running and bonnets up. At intervals the spectators will pile into these vehicles and leave the car park in a cloud of smoke and noise. They will complete a ten minute lap of the nearby streets, return and park. The bonnet will be popped again and the owner of the car will have the opportunity to enjoy the spectators’ awe and adoration until something larger and louder comes along.
Just up the road from MacDonalds is one of three barber shops in Richmond. It is run by a couple of old men. It must have been opened in the days before sexual harassment became an issue. The walls still carry pictures of buxom women in high-cut red swim suits, draped over large Harley motorcycles or original Ford GTs. In a strangely polite way, these pictures declare the shop for men only. Although there are always two old men in the shop, there is only one barber, and one barber chair. The second old man sits perched on a stool next to the door, greeting the customers by name and offering short, witty remarks to anyone who is listening. Both men are dressed in brown trousers, brown shoes, and open necked checked shirts. In winter they wear cardigans. They have the same hair cut, a version of Elvis Presley’s Brylcreemed wave, and if you enter this shop you will leave it with the same style; the low price probably reflecting the lack of choice.
After our wedding day, we moved into our house. Our first regular place to visit became the Richmond Inn. We started going to the bistro on weekends because the meals were cheap. We would buy a drink and sit together, and then go home. Not long after this Tom met some friends he knew from work and we graduated to standing around the bar with them until our meal turned up. We learned that the place was called the Ricky Inn or the Ricko by the locals, and we made friends with the pub dog who sauntered among the patrons’ legs or lay in a bored fashion on the carpet near the bar.
Then we met our new neighbours. They were a young couple like us who had just moved in, but they were locals. We got invited to a BBQ at their place. They came to dinner at ours. They told us the latest gossip on high profile members of the community. We found out from them which tradesmen could be trusted, which barber was the best, and where to buy the cheapest fruit and veg. Their friends became our acquaintances, and we would stop to chat to members of their family in the supermarket.
Then we started going to church. People we met at church moved in up the road from us. I stopped work and had a baby. Now these friends mind my daughter while I go to uni, and in the holidays we go to the baby health clinic together and meet other mums. Tom and I can tell other people who does the cheapest hair cut, where to buy the best fruit and veg, which restaurants are good, and which aren’t. We get mates’ rates at the mechanic’s and when we walk down the road on a Saturday morning we always meet someone we know. Richmond is comfortable with us, and we are in love with Richmond.
Now even the brown brick veneer feels like home, and I have come to appreciate the capacity of a Hills Hoist and the convenience of cheap cream carpet.
