In the summer of 1982, at the age of 14, I was hired to work in the ticket office and kiosk at the Sale Memorial Pool in Victoria’s Gippsland region. The cool girls at school, who did not usually acknowledge me, were seething with jealousy. It was a sought-after job in a time before fast-food outlets and chain supermarkets.
I was anxious because I didn’t look like the girls who usually worked at the pool. The Dolly magazine cover-girl types. They were tanned, used raspberry lip gloss and Impulse body spray, and wore stretchy boob tubes over their crocheted bikini tops.
The night before my first shift, the pool manager called me at home. It was going to be 33C, he said. Be there by eight.
I dressed in a terry-towelling skirt, a Target singlet with a palm tree motif, and Jelly Bean sandals. A new pimple had emerged on the side of my nose for the occasion, and I’d woken up with my period. I was nearly in tears with nerves as my mum drove me in our white Austin 1800 to the pool.
As soon as I saw my co-worker, I knew nobody would be looking at me anyway. She had perfectly straight blond hair, long limbs and told me her fringed aqua dress, with threads of woven silver, was from Bali. Her name was Chris* and she was, without doubt, Dolly material.
By the time one of the lifeguards opened the pool gate at nine, a queue had formed. I sat on a stool and began taking patrons’ coins through the small open window. Kids pushed through the turnstiles to race to claim a space on the lawn. The mums followed, lugging tote bags full of lunchboxes, cans of Aerogard, and Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel novels.
Chris turned out to be a great colleague, although we came from different worlds. I was a high school girl; she went to the grammar. She lived in a brick veneer in the new part of town; I lived in a rented Victorian Railways weatherboard. Her father was an accountant; my dad worked three jobs. I had pimples; she did not.
I settled into the job in the weeks that followed. It was a hot summer marked by drought and bushfires, and it was always busy. We sold big pies, party pies and sausage rolls. Samboy crisps, Twisties and Cheezels. Along with plain Icy Poles, our freezer stocked Glugs, Sunnyboys, Two-in-Ones, Splices (pine-lime only), Golden Gaytimes and Cornettos. One day, a box of exotic Weis bars from Queensland arrived. They sold out within an hour.
The countertop was laden with boxes of individual red and green frogs, big snakes, Choo-Choo Bars, Summer Rolls and Nut Chews.
I loved serving the little kids who gaped up at me and held out 10-cent coins, asking what they could buy.
At first, the job gave me exactly what I thought I wanted. I was visible. I sat behind the counter with the money box, the freezer keys and the power to decide how many freckles went into a bag. For a shy girl who usually tried to disappear, I was feeling gentle waves of confidence.
But the teenage boy customers always brought me back to reality. One trio was Johnno, Stevo and Whack. They had no idea who I was.
Their first visit to the kiosk was exciting. They smiled, nudging each other with a laugh. I couldn’t believe it. Three older boys, looking right at me. Could this be my way into a group? To maybe even get a boyfriend?
Whack leaned across the counter, plucked a red frog from a box and slowly popped it in his mouth. Stevo unwrapped a Choo-Choo Bar. And Johnno pulled a Twisties packet from a hook and tore it open. I froze.
‘You’ll cover it for us, won’t you?’ Stevo said, winking at me.
Sure, I said with a nervous titter. The boys walked off with their food, laughing.
I tried to avoid serving them whenever they returned that summer. They never asked Chris to pay. But they assumed I would, and they were right.
It didn’t take me long to realise they were never interested in me. They were just looking at what they could take from me.
I was working on 8 February 1983. It was hot and busy but, by late afternoon, the winds picked up and patrons packed their bags and headed to the car park.
The counter phone rang. It was Dad, saying there had been an extraordinary dust storm in Melbourne and he was coming to get me as it wouldn’t be safe to ride home.
Moments later, the lifeguards and I stood in silence at the top of the concrete steps and watched as the wind blasted across Lake Guthridge, lifting rubbish and leaves in the air, carrying them over the wire fences, and dumping them into our pools.
Things had changed in a moment, just as they had when the boys stole from me. Like the storm, they made a mess of everything.
As summer ended, so too did my stint. I soon found a job at a new Target in town.
I never saw Chris again; we had shared a counter but moved in different circles.
The next summer, I was spending the day at the pool when the three boys strutted past me, nudging each other as their eyes lingered. But my confidence had changed as much as my body. I didn’t smile back, and I kept walking.
*Names have been changed
