by Nan Hutton
From The Age, 19 May 1977

Beyond its beautiful façade, Clarendon Terrace may be a mouldering wreck today. But it was a sound and gracious building when my grandmother lived in it. In the comparatively short history of our city, this was a long time ago.

It was 1909 when my grandmother moved to town, and it was drought which drove her from the country life to which she was born. The terrible drought which began in 1902 went on too long for my grandfather to hold out. First he had to let Colantet, south of Cobden, go, and this was a family tragedy which I know about only from the stories of uncles and aunts. Colantet was a place of wide paddocks and a house with honeysuckle and wistaria growing on the pillars of its long verandahs with a rose garden beyond and an orchard beside it. And when you were cantering home, my uncle Frank said the horses’ hooves sang “Colantet, Colantet” and it was a happy song.

After Colantet went, grandfather moved to Bournefield Park at Epping. But as time and the drought went on, there was not much hope of an inheritance for the boys from there, and no hope of sending the children away for schooling. My mother, fourth in the family, was the only one safe for learning, training in Geelong to become a teacher. The hard decision my grandparents made was that since Epping was not too far from Melbourne, grandfather would stay on the property with Ivy, the eldest daughter, to look after him. Grandmother with the other children would set up house in Melbourne, not too far out for grandpa and Ivy to visit easily.

East Melbourne was the choice, and the central house of Clarendon Terrace was the place they found. None of the children wanted to go. They were country bred. City lights had no fascination for them. Pavements were hard on the feet, and the streets looked like narrow lanes lined with trim little houses huddled close with hardly a place to keep a dog, much less to stable horses. There was no alternative.

So with eight of her 10 children, three horses, two Shetland ponies, and one dog, my grandmother arrived in Clarendon Street, and a great deal of paraphernalia arrived with her. The piano, a butter churn, the sewing machine and most of the china. A hoard of preserves and jams, a wooden box of horseshoes, and horse liniment. Harnesses and bridles, cast iron cooking pots and pans, the family Bible and pictures to hang on the wall to remind them of picnic races. Stretcher beds and extra blankets came as well because my grandfather, accustomed to putting up the stock and 6 station agent or any visitor for the night, felt they were essential.

As it turned out, the narrow two-storied house in Clarendon Terrace was spacious enough to put up visitors and its kitchen was almost as big as a farm-house kitchen. At that time, even so close to the city centre, there was plenty of stabling space for the horses nearby.

Another lucky chance was that the Fitzroy Gardens were so close. Kitty and Jack, the twins who were the youngest, took advantage of that green space at once. Before they unpacked their belongings, they took their Shetlands into the gardens for exercise. They rode there on the first day, the next, and then on the third they were in disgrace.

They were apprehended by a policeman. Their sin was to ride ponies in a public park. My grandmother was aghast. Kit, who was frail, wept. Jack said he would rather become a convict than send his pony back to Epping. Gran came to her senses and went to see the police sergeant. Nobody knows what conversation went on between them, but later, the twins were allowed to ride the trails in Fitzroy Gardens, if they kept off the grass.

Much later in her life, Aunt Kitty said it was really good at school in the city. Entertainment was different from the country. For instance, from Clarendon Street you could walk into town and visit Coles Arcade, and see the old gentleman himself. There were theatres. They could all go together in the cheap seats at the Princess and Theatre Royal. There were concerts, and a highlight was when grandmother went to hear Melba sing.

The Clarendon Terrace episode was a good introduction to the city, but its story became chaotic in 1914, when the three boys who were old enough enlisted. After that, for some years the family history most carefully kept was a collection of letters from Gallipoli and Flanders. But all the time after, Clarendon Terrace has been a beautiful landmark, a place to point out to our children and say “that’s where your great grandmother lived.”

It is not merely sentiment or nostalgia which moves people to insist that good old buildings should be preserved. The sense of security and continuity confirmed by old buildings which remain as they are in European cities is important to young people. They are not merely brick and mortar, bluestone and a grand façade. They are outward and visible reminders of our forebears – evidence that we spring from some plan or other, that we are not alone.

If a building as good as Clarendon Terrace can be destroyed for profit, what will we leave our grandchildren? Only immense, inhuman towers with draughty corridors between and no place to remember anyone or anything.