Lulu was a rather sad old girl. She sat all alone at the back of the crowd in Thompson’s used car yard, just off the main street in Manji. Buyers always passed her by, preferring better, shiny, newer models. That was until one day when Laurie walked in. Laurie was a local footy player of note who ran a successful retail business. After checking over the selection in Thompson’s yard, he eyed Lulu up and down, walked around her a few times, kicked the tyres and finally said to the salesman, “G’day Fred, how much do you want for her, mate?”
“Oh, g’day Laurie, I’ll let you have her for fifty quid mate. Tell you the truth Laurie, I’ll be glad to let her go. Not much demand for an old ’38 Chevy these days. She’s pretty good though. I reckon you’ll get a good run out of her mate. You want her for the coast?”
In tiny West Aussie settlements like this small timber town of Manjimup, located around 190 miles south of early 1960’s Perth, everyone knew everyone else, and their business. Fred knew that Laurie and his new wife Grace had recently bought a shack at Peaceful Bay, which they’d quaintly named “Sootz Us”. He knew also that their shoe shop was doing good business and so he suspected, correctly as it turned out, that Laurie wanted Lulu for fishing on the south coast at Peaceful Bay.
“Yes, mate, need an old banger like this to go fishing across the dunes to the back beaches. I reckon she’s a beaut for what I want, just the ticket. I’ll take her.”
Licensing and insurance arrangements were pretty laissez-faire in those days, and after Fred and Laurie had completed the deal, Laurie jumped straight in to the old Chevy and turned the key which immediately fired the cranky old ’38 Chevy 6 cylinder into life. He then drove her carefully through the yard, between the lines of newer, models and out onto Giblett Street. A quick wave and he was away; it was just a few hundred yards along Giblett, up Brockman and then around “the Rec” to where he lived.
“She’ll be ideal,” pronounced Grace when Laurie arrived home. “Certainly stand out. I love the bright yellow. Reckon she’s a real lulu. Actually, that’d be a good name for her. Lulu! Just the thing for us all to pile into, to go fishing.”
So that was how the old yellow ’38 Chevy acquired her new name, job and character. A “new” car to get Laurie, Grace and all their eventual family across the sand dunes to their favourite fishing spots on the south coast near Peaceful Bay. But how to get it there? That was the question. No license, in poor nick, hardly roadworthy as such and their beach cottage some 100 ks away through the dense karri forest.
“OK,” suggested Laurie. “Now here’s what we’re going to have to do. The only cops between here and the cottage are at Walpole, right? But they don’t start work until 8 in the morning. do they?”
“I think that’s right,” replied Grace.
“So, if we make an early start with Lulu, we could be past Walpole and on the home run to Peaceful Bay before the cops even start work. That way: no nasty questions; no problems. Once we get her there, she’ll never need to go on the road again as such.”
“That’s a good idea, Laurie. But we’d need to be away by 6:30 I think to be sure we’re clear of Walpole by 8 ish.”
So that was the means by which Lulu found her way from the inland timber town of Manjimup down to Peaceful Bay on the remote south coast of Western Australia in those early days of 1960. And what fun the family ended up having with her on their regular long weekend and holiday visits. At dusk, when the fish “bite”, into the bright yellowness of their ’38 Chevy they would all pile for a lumbering ride across the sandy tracks that lead from the little settlement at Peaceful Bay to the back beaches and their favourite fishing spots. On arriving for each night’s fishing, out would come all the paraphernalia: tilly lamps, fishing lines and hooks and knives, buckets for the catch and burley to attract the fish, not to mention thermos flasks full of hot tea to keep away the cold.
Lulu was their pride and joy for many years and gave reliable and faithful, family service. But like everything, even her time in this twilight role had to end. She had started to break down and needed more and more attention. Bits had fallen off and she’d even lost her windscreen when, during a vicious winter squall, a large branch fell off the tree she was parked under and smashed the windscreen to bits.
About that time in the late 60s, a band of fisherman had taken up seasonal residence in some tin shacks they’d built right on the first line of sand hills, not far from the main swimming beach there at Peaceful Bay. One day, one of the fishermen noticed Laurie having trouble with old Lulu and said to him, “Mate, I can see that old heap is giving you a lot of trouble. I’m looking for a shelter for meself where I can sit to spot the salmon schools that come in and run along the shore here. If you want to get rid of her, I’ll give you a tenner to take her off your hands.”
Laurie was sad but it seemed inevitable; Lulu’s days as the family’s fishing companion were done. So the deal was struck. Lulu was driven to near her final resting place where several willing hands then heaved her into position there, atop the low sand dunes, right next to the beach. A somewhat mournful sight for Laurie; no windscreen, windows that would hardly wind up any more, bench seats worn through with springs sticking out here and there and rust everywhere; that bright yellow duco had long ago faded. Lulu had given loyal service, but although her day was nearly done, she had one last role to play.
Stan the fisherman would come out at first light each morning armed with a cuppa, an esky full of stubbies for later on, a sandwich for lunch, a powerful set of binoculars and a 303. It was a tedious job watching for the big schools of salmon that would occasionally come in close to shore. His tiresome job was to be the lookout, to spot the salmon, and then use the 303 to herd the fish along the beach to their demise.
So Lulu, that faithful fisherman’s helper to Laurie and Grace, that yellow ’38 Chevy had one last fishing task to perform. As a platform for Stan the fisherman, a kind of lookout tower, Lulu would feel the weight of the World War 1 Lee Enfield 303 that Stan would lay through the missing windshield and across her rusty bonnet before firing at the salmon.
Now the years have rolled on. It’s 2011 and I pay a visit once more to renew my acquaintance with beautiful Peaceful Bay. Lulu’s days have long since passed. But the old car lives on only in the memory of her friends and those who marvelled at her exploits long ago there on the windswept coast of the far south west of Western Australia. I go searching for her. Laurie told me recently that she was still there, although mostly buried under the white beach sand. I thrill to find evidence of her at the spot I remember, near the fishermen’s huts. However, I find only a rusty exhaust pipe and the rusty remains of a door panel lying there in the sand; all that’s left now of old Lulu, but there still amongst the sand dunes, overseeing that old beach at Peaceful Bay where long ago Stan sat in her, watching for the schools of salmon and shattering the calm of the day with the sounds of rifle fire.