Life in Kennedy Terrace

They tell us that in the other flat upstairs are an English couple and a Scottish lad. They are not home yet.

Across the street from our flats is a corner store which is very handy.

Two of the girls come with us across the street to the shop. They introduce us to Mr Cook calling him ‘Cookie’ behind his back. We buy a few necessities such as butter, jam, sugar, coffee and bread. The bread is square and packed in plastic already sliced. Very strange.  We also buy some tins of food. A tin of sauerkraut and a tin of some sort of sausages and a tin of mixed vegetables and a tin of small potatoes, we’re going to live like kings.

From our army days we know that if you stand tins in boiling water the content cooks. Trouble is opening the tins. You can’t do it indoors as the pressure sprays the liquid some feet in the air so we carry the hot tins to the back of the flats and squeeze the tin opener. The hot liquid squirts into the garden, but we eventually have a nice meal. No peas, no mashed potatoes and no dry meat.

We have to eat like that for a few week, neither Ben nor I know how to cook properly.

On Saturday we take some towels to the lower part of the block of flats and enjoy the sun while reading some books. The girls come down and join us. Jennifer tells me her boyfriend will be coming to see her today and he has a car. Michael her boyfriend arrives and we all go for a drive through the suburbs of Red Hill, Paddington and Milton. Ben and I are a novelty to them and they are laughing and cackling as we try to communicate in English. When we make mistakes, they point them out.

Michael, also a teacher student’s father is a solicitor so he has funds. He tells us that tomorrow morning, he’ll pick us up to go to a local football club where they sell beer on a Sunday. The pubs are shut on Sundays. Alcohol is bad for Queenslanders they can’t handle it so the government won’t allow the sale in pubs, but the local football club sells beer under the counter to people he knows.

Sunday morning, we hear Michael’s car pull into the front of the block of flats. We’re having breakfast, bread out of a paper bag, butter that tastes salty and jam that doesn’t taste sweet and some liquid that poses as coffee.

We’re all climbing into his old Holden and take off to the local football club. There Michael points out that we’re not supposed to be drinking beer, so if we see anybody, especially cops to hide the cans and pretend we’re drinking soft drinks. It sounds very strange to us. Why aren’t you allowed to drink beer on a Sunday. It doesn’t make sense to us. We discover that the beer in Australia is much stronger than the beer in Switzerland and after lunch, back in the flat have a long snooze.