fastened to the buttonhole in the middle and the ends, one in each pocket, were attached to two fascinating portable treasures: a gold pocket-watch and a gold sovereign case. I never ceased to be enthralled by the way my grandfather would check the time, fishing the watch out of his pocket without looking for it, somehow flicking the cover open and then glancing at the dial, all in one smooth seamless gesture. The more intriguing item in my grandfatherâs fob pockets was, however, the sovereign case, smaller in diameter than the watch but a little thicker and which, with a mere gesture from my grandfather, would open and show a shiny gold sovereign sitting snugly inside ⦠and then with another gesture would close, reopen ⦠and the coin had disappeared! It took me some time to understand that the case could store several sovereigns, one on top of the other, and that the mechanism enabled my grandfather to leave all his coins stored behind the front panel, giving the impression that the case was empty, or to bring one sovereign into sight in the access panel.
My grandfather had an obsession with keeping things organised, neat and tidy. His workshop (actually the garage of his home in Bendigo: he never owned a car) was an extraordinary sight. On one wall he had hooks for all the rakes, brooms, saws and so on that could be hung up ⦠an early âshadow boardâ, I suppose. The other walls were lined with shelves on which were ranged dozens of glass jars which had once probably contained jam but which he used to store nails, screws, tacks, drawing pins, fasteners and hinges etc., all graded by size and neatly labelled. In the middle of the old garage was a massive workbench, with a vice and a lathe on top at one end and row upon row of neatly labelled drawers underneath, drawers containing sheets of sandpaper, tracing paper, plans and diagrams, instruction booklets etc. ⦠and in one drawer, a collection of empty cigarette tins and cigar boxes saved rather than thrown out âjust in case they could prove useful one dayâ. My grandfather did not smoke so I suppose these items had come from his sons, all of whom did smoke, and from the shop (SMS) 22 ⦠just like the many biscuit tins also stored there and displaying faded and sometimes fantastical labels for âSwallow and Arielâ, âGuests Biscuitsâ, âBrockhoffsâ and so on. The cigar boxes boldly labelled âHavanaâ probably first introduced me to dreaming about faraway places, and the biscuit tins with their brightly coloured swallows and parrots and Art Deco geometrical designs added to the wonder of the garage. This place seemed to be a real Aladdinâs cave full of treasures and I was allowed to play there on condition that I replaced everything I touched and left the workshop exactly as I found it. These always seemed sensible rules to me, although twenty-first century children, and even adults, tend to roll their eyes at the mere suggestion of this being correct behaviour!
Bendigo is an inland city with a dry climate. It is hot in summer and cold in winter. With its thick brick and stone walls, my grandparentsâ house was always wonderfully cool in summer but in winter it was very cold. On the other hand, the kitchen was always cosy in winter because the wood-fired stove would be used instead of the gas one standing beside it. A fire was lit in the dining room in the morning, and after the evening meal (dinner was always in the middle of the day there) my aunt Nell, who lived at home with her parents, would scoop the coals and burning wood up on to a shovel and carry the smoking, flickering load up the hallway to the front room, tip it all into the grate and lo, instant fire! We would then add more wood, eventually a small Mallee root, and be cosy through the winter evenings.
The Millanes were inclined to be night owls, and sometimes we would listen to records such as âThe Barber of
My grandfather had an obsession with keeping things organised, neat and tidy. His workshop (actually the garage of his home in Bendigo: he never owned a car) was an extraordinary sight. On one wall he had hooks for all the rakes, brooms, saws and so on that could be hung up ⦠an early âshadow boardâ, I suppose. The other walls were lined with shelves on which were ranged dozens of glass jars which had once probably contained jam but which he used to store nails, screws, tacks, drawing pins, fasteners and hinges etc., all graded by size and neatly labelled. In the middle of the old garage was a massive workbench, with a vice and a lathe on top at one end and row upon row of neatly labelled drawers underneath, drawers containing sheets of sandpaper, tracing paper, plans and diagrams, instruction booklets etc. ⦠and in one drawer, a collection of empty cigarette tins and cigar boxes saved rather than thrown out âjust in case they could prove useful one dayâ. My grandfather did not smoke so I suppose these items had come from his sons, all of whom did smoke, and from the shop (SMS) 22 ⦠just like the many biscuit tins also stored there and displaying faded and sometimes fantastical labels for âSwallow and Arielâ, âGuests Biscuitsâ, âBrockhoffsâ and so on. The cigar boxes boldly labelled âHavanaâ probably first introduced me to dreaming about faraway places, and the biscuit tins with their brightly coloured swallows and parrots and Art Deco geometrical designs added to the wonder of the garage. This place seemed to be a real Aladdinâs cave full of treasures and I was allowed to play there on condition that I replaced everything I touched and left the workshop exactly as I found it. These always seemed sensible rules to me, although twenty-first century children, and even adults, tend to roll their eyes at the mere suggestion of this being correct behaviour!
Bendigo is an inland city with a dry climate. It is hot in summer and cold in winter. With its thick brick and stone walls, my grandparentsâ house was always wonderfully cool in summer but in winter it was very cold. On the other hand, the kitchen was always cosy in winter because the wood-fired stove would be used instead of the gas one standing beside it. A fire was lit in the dining room in the morning, and after the evening meal (dinner was always in the middle of the day there) my aunt Nell, who lived at home with her parents, would scoop the coals and burning wood up on to a shovel and carry the smoking, flickering load up the hallway to the front room, tip it all into the grate and lo, instant fire! We would then add more wood, eventually a small Mallee root, and be cosy through the winter evenings.
The Millanes were inclined to be night owls, and sometimes we would listen to records such as âThe Barber of
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