share accommodation, shacking up sometimes ten to a room.
Fortunately for Rose, there was a strong code of honour among the longer-standing residents of the Block whoâd settled in to their city life. Rose was family to them now and Eddie had done the wrong thing in deserting her.
âYou stay here with us, sister, weâll look after you,â Jimmy Gunnamurra and his wife, Bib, promised. And they stood by their promise, finding odd jobs for her via their many contacts and providing her with support. Roseâs Redfern brothers and sisters were the only reason she survived.
Â
Music continued to be the one pleasure in her life. She haunted the pubs around Redfern and Surry Hills where live bands were playing, standing out in the street if she didnât have enough money to buy a beer, ignoring disapproving glances from passers-by as she swayed to themusic or tapped to the beat, sometimes whispering along with a harmony of her own.
Her favourite venue was the Labor Club. She wasnât looked down on there the way she was in some of the pubs. She was eighteen now, just, legal age, but in a couple of the pubs they still treated her as if she shouldnât be there. They didnât do that at the Labor Club.
The club was in Bourke Street, and had been established several years previously by the Surry Hills Branch of the Australian Labor Party. Ostensibly a venue where members could socialise and talk politics, in reality it served a far greater purpose opening its doors to the local constituents as it did. Surry Hills and the areaâs neighbouring suburbs were home to traditional, working-class, inner-city communities that suffered from overcrowding, poor housing, unemployment and in some cases sheer poverty. The Labor Club offered the locals a popular and affordable venue, a home away from home with good cheap meals and a live show on Saturday nights. You could drop in to the bar after work and have a game of billiards or play the poker machines or simply listen to the jukebox.
Rose didnât play billiards and she didnât play the pokies; she just stood in the corner by the jukebox, soaking up the music and singing along under her breath. She didnât even need to waste her precious coins â others did it for her. The jukebox was always playing.
Not as good as live music though, she thought wistfully, looking around at the posters on the walls. How she wished she could come to the concerts. They had real beaut entertainers at the Labor Club on a Saturday night, the very best. Crikey, Johnny OâKeefe had performed there just a while back! What Rose would have given to be in a room where JOK was performing. But live concerts cost money. So she just stuck to her corner by the jukebox.
That was where Toby met her, in the corner of the Labor Club right by the jukebox. It was a Friday, early afternoon,not many around as yet, and heâd arrived to set up for his gig the following night. Heâd only been in the country for a year, but heâd quickly found his feet. There were a lot of live performance venues around Sydney and he did quite a bit of work for the Labor Club. Good space, good gigs, good performers â he enjoyed his jobs there.
Toby himself was as yet unaware, but it was through the musicians and entertainers at the Labor Club that word was spreading fast. The Irishman was a bloody good sound engineer, they all agreed.
He saw the Aboriginal girl the moment he entered the club. She was standing all alone by the juke box grooving to âThe Green, Green Grass of Homeâ and singing along with Tom Jones. Not loudly, in fact he couldnât hear her at all, but she was clearly mouthing the words. Her head was back, her eyes closed and she was pulsing to the rhythm of the song. Some might have presumed she was drunk, but Toby knew better. She was in another place altogether, giving herself up to the music.
He put down his gear and quietly crossed to her. Lost
Fortunately for Rose, there was a strong code of honour among the longer-standing residents of the Block whoâd settled in to their city life. Rose was family to them now and Eddie had done the wrong thing in deserting her.
âYou stay here with us, sister, weâll look after you,â Jimmy Gunnamurra and his wife, Bib, promised. And they stood by their promise, finding odd jobs for her via their many contacts and providing her with support. Roseâs Redfern brothers and sisters were the only reason she survived.
Â
Music continued to be the one pleasure in her life. She haunted the pubs around Redfern and Surry Hills where live bands were playing, standing out in the street if she didnât have enough money to buy a beer, ignoring disapproving glances from passers-by as she swayed to themusic or tapped to the beat, sometimes whispering along with a harmony of her own.
Her favourite venue was the Labor Club. She wasnât looked down on there the way she was in some of the pubs. She was eighteen now, just, legal age, but in a couple of the pubs they still treated her as if she shouldnât be there. They didnât do that at the Labor Club.
The club was in Bourke Street, and had been established several years previously by the Surry Hills Branch of the Australian Labor Party. Ostensibly a venue where members could socialise and talk politics, in reality it served a far greater purpose opening its doors to the local constituents as it did. Surry Hills and the areaâs neighbouring suburbs were home to traditional, working-class, inner-city communities that suffered from overcrowding, poor housing, unemployment and in some cases sheer poverty. The Labor Club offered the locals a popular and affordable venue, a home away from home with good cheap meals and a live show on Saturday nights. You could drop in to the bar after work and have a game of billiards or play the poker machines or simply listen to the jukebox.
Rose didnât play billiards and she didnât play the pokies; she just stood in the corner by the jukebox, soaking up the music and singing along under her breath. She didnât even need to waste her precious coins â others did it for her. The jukebox was always playing.
Not as good as live music though, she thought wistfully, looking around at the posters on the walls. How she wished she could come to the concerts. They had real beaut entertainers at the Labor Club on a Saturday night, the very best. Crikey, Johnny OâKeefe had performed there just a while back! What Rose would have given to be in a room where JOK was performing. But live concerts cost money. So she just stuck to her corner by the jukebox.
That was where Toby met her, in the corner of the Labor Club right by the jukebox. It was a Friday, early afternoon,not many around as yet, and heâd arrived to set up for his gig the following night. Heâd only been in the country for a year, but heâd quickly found his feet. There were a lot of live performance venues around Sydney and he did quite a bit of work for the Labor Club. Good space, good gigs, good performers â he enjoyed his jobs there.
Toby himself was as yet unaware, but it was through the musicians and entertainers at the Labor Club that word was spreading fast. The Irishman was a bloody good sound engineer, they all agreed.
He saw the Aboriginal girl the moment he entered the club. She was standing all alone by the juke box grooving to âThe Green, Green Grass of Homeâ and singing along with Tom Jones. Not loudly, in fact he couldnât hear her at all, but she was clearly mouthing the words. Her head was back, her eyes closed and she was pulsing to the rhythm of the song. Some might have presumed she was drunk, but Toby knew better. She was in another place altogether, giving herself up to the music.
He put down his gear and quietly crossed to her. Lost
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