THE DUNNY
“ … the work might be dirty, but the money’s clean … “
Back in the ancient dreamtime of my childhood, all our dunnies (toilets) consisted of a “little house” somewhere in the backyard that contained a small rear door through which “the night man” installed or removed a cumbersome can slopping over with faeces and urine.
The night man’s job was considered the most menial of all occupations but, as one practitioner was heard to say: “The work might be dirty, but the money’s clean.”
To withdraw a loaded can, lift it on to one’s shoulder, and walk unerringly through the darkness to the horse and cart waiting out on the street, was no mean feat, requiring excellent balance, keen eyesight and a steady hand.
If he tripped, mis-judged a step, fell over a dog or a drunk, the night man was well and truly “in the shit,” if you will pardon my French, and was compelled to keep his distance from his fellows until he found an opportunity to wash.
I remember talking one time with an old retired night man about the tricks of his trade.
I was especially interested in the way they handled the pan replacement procedure if the dunny was occupied at the time of his visit.
Did he wait in the darkness until the said dunny was vacated? Did he knock on the wall to announce his presence? Did he call out to ascertain whether or not the dunny had an occupant?
“No,” he said. “We didn’t have time for all that. When we undid the slide lock of the little door, if anyone was inside they could hear us and delay any actions, if they wanted. But, you know, we were pretty skilled operators after a while. I could unlock the door, pull out the full can and quickly replace it with an empty one without missing a beat. It was a quick pull-shove action, and all done in the dark by touch.”
“But surely,” I protested, “there must have been … well, accidents.”
“Sometimes,” he nodded. “One night I wasn’t quick enough and copped a handful.”
When the shire council blokes started putting in underground sewerage pipes to replace the old sanitary pan system, somewhere on the outskirts of their working area was a temporary pan dunny on a sort of wooden platform with wheels, one that could easily be relocated from one site to another, as required.
For us mischievious kids, these workmen’s dunnies were a wonderful resource for amusement.
We used to buy “tuppenny bungers” (fireworks).
When we knew a bloke was inside, we would quietly sneak behind, ease open the rear door, light up the fuse of a bunger, drop it into the can and run.
When the cracker exploded, there was invariably a secondary explosion of profanity from the offended workman as he hurried for the nearest tap to wash off odorous particles adorning his person.
But once the underground sewerage system was functioning, all such pranks were curtailed and became folklore.
Back in those times, too, the old bush pubs often had one backyard dunny (pan system) to cater for all staff and customers.
Two dunnies were, for some unexplained reason, considered ostentatious.
In peak periods of use – say, when the public bar was crowded – of necessity, both sexes had to ultilise the same toilet – frequently nick-named The Throne – so a method of occupancy needed to be organised to prevent unnecessary embarrassment.
It was therefore customary if a male was inside to leave outside on the door handle, or some other conspicuous place, an identifiable item, such as a belt or hat.
If a female ascended The Throne, she left outside a cardigan or some other recognisable article.
In such a manner decorum was maintained under extremely difficult circumstances.
In outback areas of Australia the humble dunny was, and still is, represented in many imaginative forms, often demonstrating amazing ingenuity.
One of the strangest dunnies I ever patronised was a galvanised iron and timber structure on a certain cattle station near the Roper River, in the Northern Territory.
Years ago, the original construction had been strongly secured to a young gumtree.
As the tree grew, the dunny rose with it. and it consequently became necessary to add a rock or two as makeshift steps so users could more easily step up into it, place their feet on a foot board and let the matter drop into a large pit underneath.
Over a lengthy period of time , a rude ladder needed to be built to cope with the ever-elevating toilet.
When last seen, in the early 1970s, it was about three metres above the ground and still rising to the occasion.
The dunny was ultimately abandoned, I hear, when one night after a booze party a young stockman stepped backwards out of the doorway, forgot about the ladder and fell heavily to the ground, broke his leg and collarbone, then rolled into the pit and was embarrassed for the rest of his life.
Here in Alice Springs, in years long gone, we even had a Royal Dunny – a sort of ‘royal flush’, one might say – that was used by Queen Elizabeth during a tour of Central Australia with her hubby, the Duke of Edinburgh.
It was decided to house the royal couple overnight at The Residency, base of the Northern Territory administrator, right in the middle of town opposite the Old Court House.
During planning of the Queen’s visit, it was decided by someone in officialdom that the existing dunny at The Residency had been used by others and was therefore inappropriate. The Queen deserved a brand new dunny all for herself, it was argued.
Finally, it was agreed that a very expensive modern dunny should be ordered at once from the manufacturer, in Germany, the arrangement being that the purchase was “on approval”. In other words, if it didn’t meet the purpose it would be returned post haste.
So the Royal Dunny eventually arrived in Alice Springs, and was duly installed, and tested, and found to be functioning normally.
After Liz and Phil had departed on their way back to Buckingham Palace, the town’s Royal Dunny was uninstalled and returned to its German manufacturer (the reason given is unknown).
The old dunny at The Residency was re-installed, and life continued as normal.
What a valuable opportunity was lost. Had the Royal Dunny been retained, it would certainly be today a major tourist attraction, and visitors might have been charged two dollars to “spend a penny” where the English monarch spent hers.
-C. O’Roie.
