The Glass Door (2)

Taken from Don Hauser's book "Printers of the Streets and Lanes of Melbourne" this is the story of Don's lifetime career in print from 1949 to the present day. Don't forget you can always print this story using the "Print this page" button. More extracts from Don's book, describing several Melbourne printing firms, can be found here.

Archie Campbell was a fine compositor and linotype operator. On my first day, he advised me to leave my lunch high on a shelf to avoid having it mauled by rats — on the same shelf as the weeks old milk in glass bottles. From that day to this, my tea has remained black.

Subsequently, I became an indentured apprentice, bound to Exchange Press at 263 Spencer Street, Melbourne. On 31 October, 1952, J. H. (Alan) Eaton, managing director, John Bennett, company secretary, my mother Isobel and I were in attendance to sign my indentures. The term was six years and at the age of fourteen and a half, this seemed to me like the term of my natural life. I had become an apprentice hand and machine (linotype) compositor.

From day one it was abundantly clear to me that the junior apprentice (or worse, the provisional junior apprentice), got the "shit jobs" until such time that one was replaced by someone who was more junior.

Sweeping the composing room floor, cleaning the two pot-bellied stoves and setting their fires in the winter, getting the lunches, making the tea in a grubby aluminium teapot; this was all first year apprentice work. We were told that this work was "character building".

Linotype metal was recycled by melting the used lead in a gas fired "metal pot" in a grubby corrugated iron shed in the backyard. The metal was then ladled into ingot shaped moulds. During a downpour, rain leaked through holes in the roof into the molten lead filled crucible spattering lead over my dustcoat and face if I wasn't careful. I felt akin to 500 years of printers' devils.

Any chance to learn was always interrupted by being sent on messages all over town. Pick up some type, run down to Hudson's Stores in Bourke Street for a tube of glue, deliver a proof to the always dapper Alf Cheel at the Claude Mooney Advertising agency in the Temple Court building in Collins Street.

Once a month, I was given the union dues in a bag and sixpence for tram fares to take to the Printing and Allied Trades Employees Union in the Trades Hall. Of course I pocketed the fare and ran like fury through the Flagstaff Gardens and down Franklin Street to Lygon Street, up the stairs to the first floor almost collapsing from exhaustion. The kindly Ernie Heintz (father of Alby Heintz) sat me down with a cup of black tea before the return sprint.

Getting the lunches involved crossing Spencer Street and taking a deep breath passing the smelly hide and skin store on the corner of Spencer and Little Lon. (now the site of the Age editorial department) and walking the block to the lunch shop in King Street. My senior colleague John Grainger quite enjoyed a midday walk in the fresh air and agreed to share the task on alternate days.

As time progressed I became more proficient at hand setting lead type from dusty typecases or drawers into a composing "stick" or hand-held tray; handsetting matrices and casting lines of lead display type in a Ludlow Typograph. Later, I was let loose on Ottmar Mergcnthaler's previously mentioned amazing Linotype machine. Invented in 1884, this machine completely revolutionised the typesetting of newspapers, books and journals. A fast operator could keyboard ten newspaper ten em column lines per minute. Never having had time to practise on only one available machine, I suppose that I achieved no more than about four lines a minute.

The personnel at Exchange Press were a good crew. They consisted mainly of journeymen printers, compositors and an assortment of bindery ladies, travellers and office workers. To a young apprentice, they were a source of learning and fun.

Henry Cole, white-haired, quiet and stooped from years working a paper cutter, taught me about paper types and sizes and showed me how to fan-out and count sheets by fives.

Production manager Norm Hillard once played Australian Football for Fitzroy when they were called the Maroons. Les (Wacker) Wells ran the despatch department. A Fitzroy stallwart, Wacker served the oranges at quarter and three-quarter time every Saturday.

Eddie Wittenberg, an immigrant from war torn Hungary, joined the firm briefly as a hand compositor/linotype operator. Eddie later bought into and developed a small printery called Abaris Printing. Today Abaris is the last of Melbourne's large printers and will soon move to the western suburbs.

Bertie Bridgeland set up his chair next to his Kelly printing press to provide lunchtime haircuts for "a bob" (a shilling or ten cents). The managing director was a regular customer.

During the composing apprenticeship, we worked with lead type, lead and wood spacing covered in lead dust and stereotypes made of lead. Whether the long term ingestion of lead is attributable to my average state of health will never be known. However it was never my plan to remain "on the bench" as a journeyman compositor. I moved on to a new position the day after my indentures expired. A little thoughtless I considered in retrospect.

Gold bronzing meant dusting powdered bronze powder to sheets printed with a tacky slow drying ink. The dust drifted everywhere into eyes, clothes and ingested into lungs. One would be given money to buy a half pint of milk apparently to absorb the dreaded dust and line ones stomach and gut.

Learning a trade always involved observing, listening, trying out new skills, studying and having the manual and mental dexterity to skilfully handle materials, equipment, machinery and respect raw and sometimes dangerous materials.

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