Going down the Darkie

The darkie was our name for the stormwater drain that ran under Fehon Street Yarraville, exiting at the waste ground on the southern side of Francis Street. The waste ground today is a golf course but in 1964 it was overgrown with aniseed bushes, scotch thistle and grass that seemed perpetually brown.

It was only natural that such a wilderness attracted us. Stony creek ran through it and there was (and still is) an impressive railway bridge made of red brick and bluestone. We used to stand on the bridge support column, 40 or so feet above the creek but just below the level of the tracks, waiting for a train to pass. When it did we'd shy yonnies (rocks) at the windows. Breaking a window was a score! What vile delinquents we were!

So one afternoon after school we (Carl, myself, Cliff, Bill and Peter) decided it was time to explore the darkie. On the other side of the railway line there were some factories and between the factories and the railway line itself a tipping area. They'd throw out all sorts of rubbish but what we wanted were wire handled brushes used to clean up oil. If you lit the oily rag it'd burn for half an hour or more.

Armed with a dozen or so of these crude torches we entered the darkie. I don't know if you've ever walked through a storm water drain but let me tell you, they're not designed for the casual stroller. We're talking mud, deep pools and deeper discomfort. But when you're ten years old you don't give a bugger about such considerations. Mud washes out. It was quite the thrill to enter with the torch held high and feel like an intrepid explorer. Even more a thrill to peer upward at the street we knew so well through the grilles placed over the drains!

There's something else a ten year old lacks and that something is foresight. None of us thought to check the weather forecast. And, naturally, it rained. Not a particularly heavy rain as I remember it but it was enough to raise the water level in the drain by about a foot. Combine that with the mud and our total unfamiliarity with the drain and it added up to a complete soaking as we slipped and fell into the water. Which, in turn, meant that our torches were doused and our matches soaked.

So there we were, a few hundred yards into the darkie, late afternoon, rain pouring down and lost. No light and unsure of which way was out. We hadn't even done that much planning! So we plunged on, slipping over the muddy stones and came to a junction. None of us remembered having passed it on the way in. Aha! If we didn't remember it then maybe if we retraced our steps we'd escape.

We got lucky. That logic worked. We emerged into a rain soaked world well after sunset. A longish (for a 10 year old) trudge home soaked and muddy. I can still remember both the trouncing I got for it and the lamb chops with mashed spuds that followed the trouncing. These days the dinner makes up for the trouncing but at the time I felt ill used.