Mr Webb was the landlord while we were at Clitheroe flats. He looked like a character from a Dickensian novel. He was shortish and had an extraordinarily scrawny neck which protruded from a collar that was much too large. His suits were shiny with age and baggy with pockets so large that they could hold his double cheque books. He was balding and what hair he had hung greasily to his collar and his shoulders were liberally adorned with dandruff. He gave me the creeps. My mother always had the rent money ready in the hope that he would give her the receipt and leave, but he always hung around making her feel uncomfortable as well. If I came home and he was there smarmily smiling with his sparse yellow teeth and chatting up my mother by the back door, I would be naughty and stand behind him pulling faces which Mutti would pretend not to notice, but we would laugh about it afterwards.
Mr Webb owned something like 80 properties all over Sydney, mainly in places like Darlinghurst and Kings Cross and even though he looked like a pathetic beggar we often speculated about how rich he must be. He certainly didn't like spending money and in the years we were at Clitheroe the place deteriorated to such an extent that it would be considered slum conditions nowadays. If something needed fixing he would send his 'handyman'. This handyman was a frail ancient person who never had any new materials to fix whatever problem he was faced with. If he needed nails, he would pull old nails out of a plank of wood, straighten them and then hammer them into whatever it was he was repairing! He had a truck that was filled with old bits and pieces that had obviously come from demolition sites and he usually had something that was able to patch up whatever problem there was.
Mr Webb told us about his family. I think there were lots of children but they had mainly left home and because his wife was sad that they had gone he was taking her on a first class trip by boat around the world. We wondered what he would wear seeing he and his wife were going to be at the captain's table. I think the 'handyman' collected the rent while the Webbs were sailing on the high seas.
Mr Webb drove a green Jaguar which had seen better days. There wasn't one bit of shine left on the paintwork. It was completely matt with the odd bit of rust. The passenger door was wired shut and most of the windows were frozen up or down. It suited the man perfectly!
Now to the rope petticoat. In the 50's skirts were wide. Particularly dancers of rock and roll wanted their skirts to flow out as they whirled to the music. The really flash petticoats were made of net and multicoloured. There were, however, rope petticoats as well. Imagine a cotton fabric petticoat that was a full circle. To keep that petticoat stiff, rather than starching it, it had actual cotton rope sewn into the hem. Worn under a wide skirt the rope petticoat would hold the skirt out which was the fashion of the day.
I really, really wanted a rope petticoat and much to my absolute delight I got one for my 8th or 9th birthday. I immediately put it on and swished around the flats showing everyone and they were as complimentary as could be. My friends Libby and John weren't there that day so I swished down the little road outside Clitheroe making up stories and having a generally good time all by myself.
Half way down the road was our climbing tree, a camphor laurel which we kids used to climb and play Tarzan and Jane or just sit on the branches squashing the leaves and smelling the spicy scent. I saw Mr Webb's Jaguar parked just outside the gate of Clitheroe. He always backed up the road because he had to clutch start the car. I saw him get in and had a brilliant idea.
I thought I would shimmy up the tree and swing out on the branch, my new rope petticoat would whoosh out and he would be terrifically impressed. I could absolutely imagine his look of amazement.
The car started moving down the hill coughing and spluttering while I got ready to do my spectacular act. I sat on one branch, reached out to the next branch from which I was to swing, prepared myself, launched into the air, let my hands go and.........my feet didn't touch the ground as I expected. Horror of horrors, the petticoat had become hooked on the branch I had been sitting on and the rope securely hung on leaving me to dangle in mid air as the cotton fabric started tearing ever so slowly.
Mr Webb stopped his car, got out and unhooked me from the tree. I put my head down and ran away not stopping to thank him. I arrived home red faced and crying feeling absolutely humiliated. Then I got into terrible trouble for tearing my brand new petticoat. What a horrible birthday. I don't think I ever thanked Mr Webb because I was just too embarrassed. I hid when he came and certainly never made faces behind his back again.
A few days later Mrs Brose (upstairs neighbour) presented me with the most beautiful frothy lace and tulle petticoat. My mother didn't approve as she thought it unsuitable for a child, but I loved it even though it was too long. If I folded the waistband over and over I could shorten it to a more reasonable length. I kept that petticoat for ages because I was actually able to grow into it. The rope petticoat I wore as well but it did bear some very painful scars.
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