Kids on the Ridge

by Jean Hibberd OAM

The train chugged its way up from the plains, the pace slower now as it started the climb. It was time to move inside.

As usual the Friday night train to Mount Victoria was crowded. We had boarded at Strathfield and knowing there would be no seats, we had taken our rucksacks to the outside platform which was at the end of the carriage. Sitting there on that warm summer evening there was the feeling of closeness, and yet we might have been the only people in the world. 'Me steady chug chug of the wheels and the smell of smoke from the engine had become so familiar to us over the past months.

As newly weds, living with parents whilst trying to find a home of our own, life could be quite difficult. Each week peaked toward Friday night when with our rucksacks on our backs we would catch the Mountains train. As we alighted at Blaxland, Frank's utility would be parked on the highway near the steps.

Frank owned the general store right opposite the railway station. Actually it was a wide covered-in veranda that went across the front and down the right side of his house. Inside was a wide conglomeration. Anything could be bought in Frank's store, from a toothpick to a gold pan, from a box of matches to a hurricane lamp as well as a wide range of food items.

On a Friday night Frank's utility became a local taxi truck for the couples who were clearing land out at Mount Riverview.

The land we were clearing was not our own, it belonged to my husband's brother. Because of work commitments he was unable to spend much time clearing it himself, so we had been doing it for him. We enjoyed every minute of it. It gave us time on our own that was not possible during the week. The land was fairly well wooded and we worked hard. We got to know other couples well and spent many an evening gathered around a campfire, singing and talking. We would even make believe that we were clearing our own land. There was little hope of that happening for quite some years, we thought, but there was no harm dreaming. We had fallen in love with Blaxland and ... maybe ... one day.

On the Sunday afternoon, Frank's truck would arrive to return us to the station for our trip home. As there were so many would-be settlers to transport, Frank and his truck would make several trips. We didn't mind a bit being on the first trip, though this usually meant a wait of about one and a half-hours in Blaxland before train time. It gave us time to have a cool drink or an ice cream at the paper shop owned by Mr. & Mrs. H.

The tiny post office on the same circular driveway was run by their daughter and son-in-law, Reg and Joan. We came to know them all quite well and enjoyed our weekend chats.

On the odd occasion when we had a little money to spare, we would walk some distance up the road to Cheppies. This was a very small cafe owned by two elderly ladies who loved nothing better than to chat with people from "The Big Smoke". There were only four small tables with neat little gingham cloths. One could order an assortment of snacks, but it was their wonderful Devonshire teas that would draw us, we have never tasted better.

One Sunday afternoon early in 1953 when Frank dropped us at the paper shop, we were a little sad. The land was cleared, there was no need now for our weekend trips to Blaxland. Mrs. H, a real motherly type was quick to pick that something was wrong. She took us into their lounge as had often been the case, and gave us cups of tea and homemade cake. She insisted that we tell her why we looked so sad. As we explained, Mr. H entered into the conversation.

"Why not buy a block of your own?" he asked.

"We just don't have that kind of money," we explained.

"A friend of mine has three blocks of good land for sale on Rusden Road going for a really reasonable price. How about missing this train and catching the next. I could phone him and I'm sure he would take you out to look at it. You never know, you may just find that you can afford it."

He was so nice, we just couldn't tell him that we had no money to speak of, that we had just found out that a baby was on the way and so by Easter at the latest, I would have to leave my job. Anyway, it would be exciting just looking at the land, so we agreed.

Mr. A duly arrived to pick us up in his land Rover. He was a jovial grey haired poultry farmer. He told us that he had three blocks of land for sale in Rusden Road, they were each 66’x200’ and although fairly well wooded, were good flat blocks.

As soon as we walked onto it we knew that this centre block just had to be ours. I finally plucked up enough courage to ask the price, just knowing that it would be out of our reach.

£150 a block, but you won't find better at that Price," he told us.

We agreed with him but explained that we only had about £20.00 in the bank. We told him about the baby and how much we would love to get a place of our own or even to rent, before the baby was due.

"Tell you what," he said, "if you are really that keen, I will hold this block for a month. You make that £20 into £50 as a deposit and you can pay the rest off. Think about it and let me know by next weekend what you decide."

We were stunned. We never expected an offer like that. Mr. A. took us back to the station in time for the late train. I think that we were both in a daze; when we spoke it was limply trying to work out how we could raise the required deposit for the land, for we had made up our minds that it just had to be ours.

Back home with parents we talked about all that had happened. Then, to our great surprise Dad said, "We could lend you the £50 for the deposit and you could pay us back with interest when you have finished paying for the land."

How wonderful, our dream really could come true. We promised that we would work hard to pay back the loan and the interest as quickly as possible.

The weekend couldn't come quickly enough. The train journey seemed much slower than usual, or was it just that we were in a bigger hurry than usual to get there? Mr. A met us at the station. During our phone conversation he had offered us the use of their guest flat for the weekend and this we had gladly accepted.

Talking over a cup of tea, we discussed our plans. When we finished paying for the land we would clear enough to build a garage and live in that, building our dream home bit by bit as we could afford it.

Mr. and Mrs. A thought that we had the right idea apart from one small detail. Why wait until we had paid the land off, why not start clearing the very next day? What a wonderful surprise! Tears of happiness made it almost impossible to see as I hugged them both. 'We've never been blessed with children of our own, so it will be lovely having you near," said Mrs.A. "You can be our family."

From that moment on, we became known as "Me Kids Of the Ridge".

Using borrowed tools we started clearing what was to become our driveway. Many times Mr. A would arrive with a stump jack to help with the removal of the more stubborn trees. Mrs. A was like a mother hen, making sure that her new chicks didn't forget to eat whilst working toward their goal. Down she would come through the bush with her basket of goodies.

We were deliriously happy. Each Friday night Mr. A would meet us and drive us to our block. We could have used the flat but we wanted to spend every moment on our land.

The first night that we pitched our tent it was almost dark. Our choice of site could have been better. After a rather uncomfortable itchy night, first light and the red bumps on arms and legs showed that we had camped almost on top of a bull ants' nest. First job ... move the tent.

Easter was approaching and our goal was to move into our garage during that long weekend. Our land was paid for and the £50 loan repaid. We had heard of a small local company selling pre-cut garages on a small deposit. We paid our deposit, the frame would be delivered the following week. The concrete slab had been laid with the help of friends. No mean task with water having to be carried in four-gallon drums from the farm and the concrete being mixed by hand.

The next weekend, again with the help of friends, the frame went up. On the Sunday, arrangements were made to meet the supplier and pay for the fibro and the roof tiles so that these could be delivered by mid-week, for the following weekend was Easter.

My job had finished and so it was that late on the Thursday afternoon in a utility borrowed from my husband's work, we carried our meagre possessions to our new home. As we turned into the driveway, the headlights picked out the framework of our garage but no materials to complete the work.

We hurried up to the farm. Mr. A had been trying to phone the company but there had been no reply. Next morning early, Mr. A took us to the office. The place was deserted. It was easy to see that we had lost our money.

Mr. A once more came to the rescue. He took us to see a building supplier friend. Being Good Friday the store was closed, however on hearing of our plight Mr. I. agreed to deliver immediately the amount of fibro required plus a roll of malthoid. All of this went on our friends' account for we had no money left.

With the help of Mr. A the malthoid was cut and fixed as a roof cover. It looked like rain, so the furniture was placed under cover of the roof and the walls were built up around it. By dark, the only things missing were the two louvered windows and the door that we were to pick up next morning.

By lunchtime Saturday, we had arranged the furniture. That night by the light of a hurricane lamp, we ate our first meal and slept our first sleep in our own home.

The months that followed were happy, busy times. The vegetable garden was doing well. There was now corrugated iron sheets and guttering on our roof that carried rain water to the hundred gallon tank lent to us by our adopted parents until we could afford one of our own. A bush kitchen had been constructed using bush timber and Hussein for the walls and flat roof. Inside were bush work benches on which to prepare the meals that I cooked on our two burner, blue thermal stove.

My time was near, the baby due in August. Plans had to be made in case I was alone and in need of help. Mr. A lent me a seven shot repeater rifle which was kept loaded near the door. When it was time, I was to stand at the door firing shots into the bush till all seven shots had been discharged. This was to be the signal for Mrs.A to come down to me while Mr. A phoned the ambulance, hospital, Doctor and my husband. I am sure it would have worked but it didn't happen that way.

In the very early hours of the morning of 24th August, the ambulance made its slow descent down Mitchell's Pass to the plains on its way to Crown Street Women's Hospital. We didn't make it. As soon as I could see street lights, I notified my husband and the driver that our baby was becoming impatient. The ambulance stopped and - without help, our son was born. A very special moment for the three of us.

When the news reached Blaxland, there was great excitement. Michael was the first boy ever to be born on the ridge. Mr. and Mrs. A were over the moon, maybe not exactly a grandson but certainly a godson. Now they really did have a family.