I remember the clink of milk bottles before dawn, left by the milko in neat rows on our front step. We’d bring them in quickly before the heat got to them, the cream rising to the top, thick and rich. Nothing was wasted. We rinsed the bottles, left them out again. Everything had its rhythm.
We lived in a modest red-brick terrace near Leichhardt. Life was simpler, but full. I caught the tram most days—green, rattling, and always running just behind schedule. Arthur would wave me off with a half-toasted slice in one hand and a kiss on the cheek. The city felt big then. Department stores with lift attendants, dress gloves for Saturday shopping, and the thrill of a vanilla malted milk at the David Jones café.
I had my knees sunburnt more times than I can count. No sunscreen back then—just zinc on your nose and a hat if your mum insisted. We swam at Coogee, stretched out on beach towels that never quite shook off the sand. The summers were long, and so were the queues for ice blocks.
People looked out for each other. We borrowed sugar from neighbours, shared recipes over the fence, and gathered around the wireless for the cricket or the King’s speech. No one had much, but we had enough—and we had each other.
Sometimes I miss the hush of a tram rolling into the street, or the sound of a wooden clothesline creaking under the weight of fresh-washed sheets. They were small things, everyday things—but to me, they were everything.
And when I sit quietly now, eyes closed, I can still feel it: the warmth of the sun on my knees, the rattle of the tram, and the soft clink of milk bottles at dawn.
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