Wallingford Berks Line

Charles loved music. As a boy he learnt to play the violin during his school holidays from a Mr Favell who lived in the "Triangle" (where the branch line to the Irrigation Area began) at Junee North. Charles continued his music lessons at Junee Convent where his sister Maud was a nun. About 1900 and when Charles was about 21 years of age he played lead cornet in the Junee band.

Later as a married man his wife accompanied him on a button accordion while the family joined in the singing of songs old and new. His wife Ida sang harmony to family songs and also played the banjo. As his son Lionel grew he learnt to play harmonica and banjo and gained many prizes over the years at the Sydney Eisteddford and other concerts for his harmonica playing.

At about 16 years Charles, together with his brother Reg, joined a building gang constructing the Union Bank at Broadway, Junee. Also together with his brother Reg, he later joined the state railway, receiving a first class medal on his retirement for services rendered. (His brother Reg of course sadly dying well before his own retirement from double pneumonia caused by a leaky engine.)

As told by Lionel Lovelock:

Charles Alexander Wright Lovelock, eldest son of Charles Wright Lovelock, often used to visit the Hewlett family at Terip Terip for fishing and shooting holidays. (Charles' father was in partnership with John Hewlett in the butchering business at Alexandra.) When he had a family of his own, he used to take them as well.

Charles would travel by train from Junee to Albury where he had to change trains because of the differing line gauges between NSW and Victoria. He used to stay at a hotel in Albury overnight. The next morning he would catch the train to Euroa in Victoria, where he was met at the station by the Hewlett sulky. The adults rode, the children probably had to walk to the Hewlett farm, which was called "Longford".

Charles was an ardent sportsman, owning two retriever dogs. At the time he owned a bull nose Oxford car and took the dogs with him fishing and duck shooting at Lake Cargellico.

Buried Albury Cemetery Section AF Row F Grave 7.

Charles' obituary states that he received the Imperial Service Medal. 'A son of the late Charles Lovelock, he went to school in Junee. In his early teens he joined the railway service at Junee as a cleaner, and rose step by step to the position of first-class driver. Most of his long service was spent in Junee. Mr Lionel Lovelock and Mrs H Lidden, both of Junee are son and daughter. Mrs William Gardner and Mrs Frank Gardner, of Junee, are sisters.'

«b»Father's Iron Horse and the Other One By Max Lovelock

«/b»Father's rather trusting negotiations with the local horse trader resulted in the transfer of hard-earned cash for a big strong-looking chestnut gelding. Mother enthusiastically named him Dillon, for what reason nobody knew. But if it was meant to denote speed and stamina, then she too had misread the signs. Just as father did when he ran expert hands over the horse's legs and peered into its mouth.

In reality and in modern terms Dillon was a 'lemon'. His impressive looking chassis concealed faulty suspension, poor acceleration and a high fuel consumption, all of which became evident by degrees.

As always however father's sense of disappointment took refuge in a kind of baffled calm. A calm that in turn baffled mother who characteristically reacted to life's machinations very vocally.

'Your father' she often complained, 'is too soft,' even as he would go quietly around drowning unwanted kittens, beheading fowls and putting down terminally ill dogs.

It was possible that his working life engendered that kind of mute fatalism, for where his fellow citizens took undisturbed slumber as a matter of course, father's lot very often would be a rude awakening perhaps at two a.m. on a cold frosty morning by a railway call boy. His rather grievous response usually woke us up. That would be followed by muted sounds of preparation with mother packing his metal tucker box with cold fare. Lastly the closing of the front gate and the familiar thump, thump, thump of the tucker box bouncing on his back as he started the frosty two mile walk to the railway depot. A sound gradually receding into distance and time as we went back to sleep.

His return would be as uncertain as his going.

Father was a locomotive engine driver then attached to an emergency roster. A Russian roulette kind of arrangement wherein he expected constantly to be called but never knew when. His job took him over long dreary miles of the outback rail network, hauling loads of important but uninteresting content. Sometimes broken by nights spent in barracks superheated or freezing according to the season.

The incessant up and down of the foot plate too put its stamp on driver and firemen alike; a kind of rolling gait not unlike that of a seaman. Sometimes those long night vigils watching the track ahead resulted in badly inflamed eyes. Yet overall, perhaps having the guiding hand on the throttle of that steel leviathan had its compensations. If so none of the glory ever emerged in father's conversations. Nevertheless, to us children he was a figure of immense grandeur on those occasions when we saw him roaring along in a magnificent presentation of steam, smoke noise and movement.

But back at home the scenario underwent a downgrading. The genie of steam appeared only out of the kettle. Instead of a multiplicity of horsepower poor father was reduced to just one end that embedded in the reluctant musculature of the horse Dillon. Yet he managed to straddle that persistent dichotomy with no apparent displacement of the outlook.

Dillon of course was lucky that one of the more endearing qualities of our family was that any new acquisition, however imperfect, was accorded loyal membership. So overly fecund cats, useless dogs, and eggless chooks provided the friendly environment in which he found himself. He settled readily into a life that involved a good deal of resting, most of it spent leaning against the side fence of our large backyard gazing philosophically into the street beyond. The very embodiment of a horse that the Roman Emperor Caligula might have nominated for consul. It was such a statuesque and long-lasting pose that neighbours and passersby were convinced that he slept with his eyes open. The butcher however shattered that hypothesis. He operated a 'cutting cart' or mobile butchery. One day when passing by with a basket of orders, he idly waved a piece of rump steak under the old horse's nose. To his regret and astonishment, a profusion of yellow teeth snatched the meat. Up went the head and after a few juicy chomps the steak like vintage hay, went down the long chute into the stomach. He then looked to see if there was any more.

Occasionally after that, for the benefit of spectators, that butcher would re-enact the offering using a cheaper cut of meat. Although partial to such entrees, Dillon was a solid muncher on a variety of fodders, including any of father's vegetables within reach of his long neck. Between rests he would snort his way through large helpings of oats and chaff, setting in motion a chain of events at his rear end that kept father busy making a ferocious brew called liquid manure. It's tendency to bubble, hiss, spit and smell earned mother's undying hatred, and it therefore performed its grisly reactions in a remote part of the garden.

When after maturity it was fed to the plants it never seemed to promote any furious bursts of growth. Rather the reverse. It was possible though never mentioned that Dillon's aversion to sustained movement had somehow been incorporated into the tonic.

On this particular day off from work father was deflected from some pressing domestic chores by mother's desire to be taken to visit a friend some miles from town. That was why he appeared in the back yard rather self-consciously clad since mother always insisted on presentable dress standards when going out.

His appearance penetrated Dillon's reverie. From his position on the side fence the old horse swung his head around and gave his master a meaningful look. For his part father took a jaundiced look at his prime mover and permitted himself a brief soliloquy. 'Bloomin' coot!' he said and disappeared into one of the sheds. Dillon moved to the outermost section of the yard believing perhaps that there he was invisible.

When father reappeared with a bridle, he knew the game was up and consequently gave every indication of a strenuous resistance. But as always, he ended up backing himself into a corner. As a last desperate resort, he tried to hold the bit in his teeth, but he was up against one whose patience was monumental. The struggle was brief end Dillon was led over to the harness shed.

At that important point in the proceedings, I who had unwisely lingered too long, was commanded to hold the old villain's head while father fetched the various pieces of harness. I detested the job, for I feared horses in general and Dillon in particular. He would sometimes, while I stood holding the bridle in fear and trembling, suddenly plonk a heavy hoof on my bare big toe. He would then remove it before my cries of anguish and accusation could bring father's eye on the scene. He never really believed me.

'Ah don't be silly. It was an accident. How could a horse ever think of a thing like that? Now do as I say and hold him steady.' But today Dillon did not transgress. He stood in majestic resignation while pieces of leather were added to his equine person. Collar, girth strap, winkers, etc., until he began to look like a lady in her basics. Then he was ready to be added to the sulky. But when father went to get that vehicle from an adjoining shed, an altercation broke out. Father's old, faithful retriever dog, Laddie was in aggressive possession of that part of the sulky where passengers' feet normally rest. Father was in no mood for negotiation and Laddie refused to budge. He had got wind of the outing and considered it his divine right to go. He was situated where mother's feet would rest and that was bad enough, but in addition he was prone to break wind with unpleasant results and mother would have none of that.

Father therefore rode roughshod over any divinity rights and menacing growls, by drugging Laddie out by the scruff of his neck and planting a boot on his retreating rear. Laddie too had never lived up to expectations. His role had been to retrieve ducks shot down by father in watery places. But alas! Laddie turned out to be hydrophobic. The sulky was a two-wheeled vehicle. Large wheels with wooden spokes and iron tyres, each wheel covered with a protecting mudguard. The seat was mounted transversely between the wheels, and could accommodate two fat people or three thin ones. Attached to each side of the passenger compartment were two long projecting arms called shafts. These connected the sulky to the means of propulsion.

They were long enough to ensure that the horse's rear with its sometimes-embarrassing performance did not intrude into the passenger section. To make doubly sure an upright panel called a dashboard was between horse and passengers. Underneath the seat was a tray with modest room for small items.

Having attached Dillon to the sulky father checked the fastenings. If it happened to part company with Dillon in transit, there would be trouble with mother. At that moment she was lingering over toilet much to father's dissatisfaction. Then Laddie returned with a look of entreaty and was harshly dismissed.

Finally, mother appeared, bestowed a few kind words on Dillon and helped by father took her seat. He climbed up after her. I opened the gate and Dillon pranced out like a charger.

Out on the road the controls that father was using in some way resembled those on the locomotive. The reins perhaps were a bit in advance of railway technology, since they combined a guiding system, a throttle, a reverse and a brake. If more speed was required, the command landed on Dillon's rump via the reins. If, however, speed in excess of the norm was required, there was a supercharger in the form of a whip holstered on the dashboard. Varying tensions on the reins could slow the horse or make him stop. They drove to the outskirts of the town at a leisurely pace. Then out on the open road father built up Dillon's speed by a quick series of flicks on the rump. Then having programmed him to a reasonable pace, he left him on automatic pilot as it were, and gave undivided attention to mother's conversation of which there was an abundance.

As they conversed the old horse, calculating their degree of engrossment to a nicety would gradually slow down. Then mesmerised by the slowness of the pace he would stumble bringing father back to earth with a jolt. 'Blasted coot!' he would yell and half standing would snatch the whip from its holster and give the somnambulistic horse a hearty lash on the rump.

The result of that would be a galvanic leap hurling father back into his seat and mother nearly overboard. That would be followed by a disarticulated kind of a gallop that threatened to dismember the sulky. In the midst of such chaos father would struggle for equilibrium like a captain on a ship where fore and aft moved independently. Mother helpless with indignation would hang onto her hat. For some time after that father would prod the old horse along, but a repeat performance was inevitable once concentration faltered. Always the sight of father's horse doing a gallop with both ends out of kilter never failed to fascinate the locals.

Dillon had other faults too, but there was one quality he possessed signally lacking in his pedigreed and flashy brothers. When father had occasion to visit a local tavern, he could drink secure in the knowledge that his old horse would wait patiently in the pub yard. When the session was over and father had some difficulty in making a connection with the sulky, Dillon would never stir until his master had floundered aboard complete with reins. Then the old horse would do what no modern computerised motor car could ever do. He would head for home with such unobtrusive skill that bystanders would think father was in complete control. What was more, in deference to mother's feelings, he never carried his master to the front of the house. A1ways he plodded discreetly up the back lane.