[AusRace] Tulloch done this and The SP On The Run

[Phil Buckland]

Great Story Tony.

I love these when you put them up

Cheers

Phil

 

From: Racing [mailto:racing-bounces at ausrace.com] On Behalf Of Tony Moffat
Sent: Monday, 8 January 2018 3:43 PM
To: racing at ausrace.com
Subject: [AusRace] Tulloch done this and The SP On The Run

 

3.8 - THE SP ON THE RUN++++++++++++++++++++++++

There was a drycleaning shop on the Main Street next to our yard, the boiler
whistle went off sometimes, overfull you see, and towards the end it was my
job to put the pine crates, apple and orange boxes, into the firebox to keep
steam up for Mr J pressing, and there wasn't a lot, ever, to be pressed. You
got your clothes next morning, he drycleaned and ironed the afternoon before
and they cooled down on hangers in his hallway overnight. They left, that
family of drycleaners, the girls were older and flirty and the son was my
age. Before they went though I learnt all a kid could learn about the
ancient trade of cleaning with spirits, and steam. I got a ten shillings a
week and I was 9.

I had to buy a Chelsea bun for Friday arvos.

The shop sat vacant for a couple of months then a bootmaker and
leatherworker/saddler moved in with his kids and friend. He was a good
bloke, kept budgies, dozens or perhaps hundreds and got a bit of interest
going in keeping birds. I got a job with him, cleaning and repainting show
cages, wooden boxes with cage and door on the front, painted black outside
and white inside, special paint that did not kill the birds and made of gold
apparently because if you dropped a drop it cost a shilling. So I would work
on these show cages and paint 4-5 a day, there was about a hundred or so, I
used to work Saturday too and the shop would be busy.

He was a SP bookie but it took me about a month to realise and in the end
Dad told me what a SP bookie was. One phone, a table and a notebook and a
radio in a room with a fridge. That phone was busy, you heard it inside and
him talking, like this,  Sydney 4, horse 4, say the runners name please,
that's right, a pound, yes I'll take that, thank you. There was an
inordinate amount of front counter traffic too, people who had never worn a
pressed item in their life were there, female and male, the females swapping
roles, just a few bets for my hubbie, and he would say, have one or two for
yourself, and she might have a deener on something, 'whats that horse Mulley
is riding in Melbourne today, I'll have a little'n on that please'. It was
Kingster and it won.

It took some months for mother dear to cotton on, then she allowed me to
stay as, well, I had those cages to finish, and don't you dare go near those
betting persons neither, then Miss G over the road commented on the devils
work taking place in the place and that did it for me, I got yanked, I left
then, I had almost finished the cages. I did not get any budgies. There was
an argument and sometimes a fight on Saturday afternoons, perhaps a drunk
wanting his money. They weren't all drunk, the mining manager and two
engineers were regulars, religious, and teetotallers, although the Brazilian
used to cheat at golf they said, the old two ball routine. He had clear
brown skin and a pony tail and wore shoes with chrome metal lace eyelets,
lovely dancer was Mums opinion, charm oozer was Dads opinion, he may have
caused a few divorces in his time, and he taught me a Portuguese swearword,
oh well Dad laughed until his bottom teeth moved, Mum was not impressed with
me but forgave Senor. He wasn't murdered, could have been but, he was
wrapped in a carpet or rug and left in the bush near an ants nest, one
version, however he managed to unroll himself and got up and got away,
hobbling from the kicking he got, another version, and the only confirmed
action is that he left town, and the consulate came and collected his gear,
the third version. 

 If your bet won you got paid on Monday and not before, and paid by cheque
too which the pub cashed for you, if you bought some of theirs. 

We, me, Mum and Dad went bush one weekend, out to Glenroy where they grew
oranges in the desert, and when we came back on Sunday arvo we saw that our
back gate was open, then saw that the boot making bookmaker house was empty.
Miss G over the road told Dad that he had put everything on a truck early
Sunday and left, leaving his birdcages and his budgies, dozens of them. The
bird club fed and cared for the birds and they were re housed over the next
week without loss. I was hoping for a selection of pied blues but Mum said
no way.

Dad said that bookies often run off with their bets, Mr Galvers the
Policeman came and looked over things and said 'Tulloch done this'  and
there were shoes and boots everywhere inside the place, I mean it was a
working bootmaking shop too, and the Police were there a couple of days
sorting out who owned what.

The SP bookie was often in the pub down the road, in effect the building
next to his which was next to ours, although Dad drank at the big pub
further down the street or at the Bowling Club. This afternoon, it was a
Tuesday, I was on the woodheap cutting chips, when I heard arguing from down
the pub, on the footpath. I looked, of course, and the SP bookie was being
shouted at by a man, about the same size. Anyway the man took a swing, I
mean it was so slow, and the SP ducked that and pushed the bloke away, he
staggered backwards off the footpath, went the length of the car parked
there, it was reverse in parking, and fell onto the roadway. He immediately
held his head, his head had not contacted the ground, I mean I saw the lot,
the push, the dance in reverse and the fall onto his backside. If he had a
bad back he would have hurt that but no way did he hit his head, perhaps it
was whiplash, perhaps he was looking for sympathy. The bookie stayed put and
the bloke on the road got up and staggered back to him. He shouted again,
apparently he was not going to pay, whatever he had to pay for and I assume
it was not shoe repairs but his SP bill. The SP bookie walked off and the
head holding man was left there and ignored by the drinkers outside the Pub.
I watched and he came up the street to the front door of the bootmaking shop
and kicked it and it broke, the wood panel broke and his leg went inside and
his cuff got caught and he was swearing and it was entertainment before
there was tv. So he was stuck in the door, the three ply had hold of his leg
and he was hop scotching on the other. Mr Galvers, the Police Sergeant came
in a few minutes, perhaps in response to the first shindig, the dance in
reverse bit, and spoke to the door kicking, broken head, sore tailbone non
paying SP punter, and went and spoke to the drinkers, who nodded and
pointed, both out onto the road and up to where the door kicker was now,
still hop scotching. Mr Galvers kicked in the rest of the door panel and the
door kicker was free. The SP bootmaker walked up, with fish and chips rolled
up in newspaper and spoke to the Police. The result was the door kicker had
to come back and repair the door. I don't know if he paid for whatever he
said he wouldn't, Mr Galvers said hello to me and walked back into the pub.
He walked the main street footpath most days and walked through the pubs and
often the drunks would be removed, left staggering on the footpath, talking
to their car keys and muttering but standing to attention when he walked up
and past them. Sometimes he would be walking with a man, or woman sometimes
too, an arrest maybe or a person who needed to be spoken to or more likely a
person who needed to be displayed as a person who needed Police intervention
in their affairs, either as the perpertrator or the recipient. Mr Galvers
and Dad were a bowling pair and he came to our house in shorts and he and
Dad drank beer in the breeze room, water trickling down the walls out of the
grape vine, big brown bottles, and I never had more than a few greeting
words with him. There were other Police in town, younger men than him, one
of them a very good footballer.

I don't know if the SP bookie got his money as I said, but the door kicking
non-payer was in the shop off and on the next few Saturdays. I was hitting
tennis balls against the brick wall of the garage both days and saw him. The
door got fixed, and painted and life went on.

I saw that SP in another town, some time later, there was a flash of
recognition from him. Dad was bowling and I had been at the pool and came
back to the hotel to change before going to Dad for tea. The SP man was in
the bar, near the side door, and had his book, his raffle tickets, and his
paraphernalia with him. 

There was an SP bookie at school at Bathurst, there had been two, both the
sons of bookies, who ran the show more for notoriety than gain. You got sp
for the win and money back if it placed. He also had dibs on smokes, he was
the Fiesta distributor in the place, 6d each, 3 for a shilling. B&H were
slightly more, 2 shillings for three.

 

Cheers

 

Tony

 

 


 
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