Revisiting the Railway Hotel

Dusty Springfield summed it all up with these words:

I think I’m going back
To the things
I learned so well
In my youth

Kristy and I took my Mum back to the Railway Hotel at Bathurst. Mum’s grandmother, Lily Adlam, leased the hotel in the 1950′s and to cut a long story short, Mum, her youngest brother and Mum’s mother, lived and worked there for a couple of years. The family often hears stories of the times that were spent at the hotel. Some stories make Mum angry, some make her sad, some of them have us laughing.

It was a difficult part of Mum’s life in many ways, but also a part that shaped her for her future. Over the past 60 years, she has never stepped foot in it again – until last Thursday. We surprised her with the stopover after carefully crafting our schedule to ensure we just happened to be near it when lunch time came around. We had also just happened to have found out they serve a lunch menu. As we pulled up in front of it, Mum went very quiet and sat in the car for some long moments just staring at it. We don’t know what was going through her head and we didn’t want to break the moment by asking questions. We knew it would all spill out in time.

As we walked across the road towards the front steps I also felt a bit of a catch in my throat. It was a strange sensation to put my hand on the door handle that led to family legends. Upon entering, Mum led the way. She stood for a moment and stared up at the walls and the ceilings and listened to the echoes of her mind. The eating area was just to our left so we went in there and sat at a table. Mum said that it had once been called The Snakepit, the family’s name for the Ladies Lounge. She started talking about how the fireplace had been moved and what things had been added.

I went to the bar to order a drink and quietly spoke to the owner and told him what we were doing. He was fabulous and said we were welcome to walk all over it and just let her see everything she needed to see. He also said he had some papers that we may be interested in and went upstairs to get them. On going back to Mum and telling her we had free reign to revisit every room she wanted to, she then got a bit excited and there were a lot of “oh dear's" and “my god” ‘s and more than one dig into the handbag to pull out a hanky to wipe away a small tear.

We ordered lunch and she started to talk. She kept turning this way and that and looking at things here and there as she recounted stories of the days spent there. There was the story of the night she and her adopted aunty tidied up the bar after closing by drinking the dregs of everything there and then falling down the stairs in a drunken stupor. There was the story of how her grandmother, who was never a church goer, kept in good with the locals by allowing the priests to have a little room to themselves before church services every Sunday… and yes, they got the good drinks. There was the story of how her grandmother would retire upstairs to bed each night before closing time and then rap her walking cane on the floor to tell the patrons to keep quiet. They’d then say “That’s the old bag again” but they’d be quiet for a while until they forgot about her and raised their voices again. There was the story of how her grandmother had done a favour for a local by telling them that their son, the town drunk, could take Mum to the dance if he sobered up for the night. Unfortunately for Mum, he did sober up and bought her a corsage of marigolds that at least covered up his smell but made her sick as well. There was the story of how Lily had actually come to lease this pub, by organising a road trip to every establishment for sale at that time as a prospective buyer, and “allowing” the owners to put her, her husband and Mum up for the night for free with all meals paid for. Lily would then say the same speech the next morning that she said to every owner they met – “Well I really think this is the one for me but we have one more to see so I will get back to you later.” Of course, they laughed their Bonnie and Clyde style laugh as they motored off in the old Vauxhall to the next town on their well “planned” holiday.

In the midst of all of these reminiscences the owner came back and brought with him a handful of documents – the old leases of the hotel. The researchers in Kristy and I came to the fore and we almost squealed with delight. We read through them and found Lily’s lease. Kristy, ever ready with the mobile phone camera, took photos of it and it’s a fantastic addition to our research. Then it was time for the self guided tour of nostalgia. We let Mum lead the way and she talked us through every step and turn. We walked up the legendary staircase and we held the bannister that my great grandmother (who I never knew) held time and time again as she went up and down from her rooms to the public area. We peered in doorways and walked on the verandahs and listened to the memories come back from 60 years ago. We went down the fire escape that we have photos of from last century.

I think the ultimate moment for me though was to find Mum’s old bedroom and photograph her in it. I must have asked her 4 times was she sure this was the room and she was adamant it was. There is something about a space that was your bedroom. Those were the walls that listened to your every move, protected your every dream, enclosed your most private moments. A childhood bedroom is a very special place and this was no exception. Of course, now it’s not a bedroom, but I just felt something very precious to be there with her in that space.

It was hard to leave the building, the memories, the connection with the past. We went when Mum was ready to leave. She said her goodbyes to it in her mind, and aloud, and I think it helped her in some way to feel all of those she has lost. There’s a saying that you should never go back. Things change, nothing stays the same, disappointment is bound to eventuate, but that’s not what happened here. It was good. It was very good.

It is something that everyone should do if there is the slightest possibility of doing it. Family history is not just about what has gone, it’s about how what has gone has shaped us and what we have left reminds us. It’s living and it’s breathing and we need to hold it for as long as we can.