by Ron Thomas
Meggsie looked from one to the other ‘Well, that’s right by me. Why wouldn’t it be?’ His mother seemed noticeably relieved.
‘I didn’t know what you’d think,’ she said. ‘Eric and I have known each other since he and your dad started at the docks together. Eric was always around here when your father and I first moved in.’
Eric chimed in. ‘I was sweet on her. Oh, she was a swanky looker, but she chose Albert, and that was the end of that. About a year later, I married my Dorothy.’
By now, Meggsie was seeing an altogether different scene before him. He peered into Eric’s face, dissecting it feature by feature, looking for similarities with himself. He turned his gaze to Eric’s hair, and thought he detected a tinge of auburn amongst the grey. Wilhelmina seemed about to say something, but Meggsie cut her short.
‘Mum, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re happy. You are entitled to that after what you’ve been through.’ He looked up to see that there were tears streaming down his mother’s face again. He went to her and put his arm around her shoulder. She’d not had very much to be happy about.
Wilhelmina sniffed. ‘I’m pleased you like Eric,’ she said, then sniffed again.
***
The streets were wet with the showers that had passed over earlier, leaving the full moon peeking out from behind threatening banks of dark cloud. He didn’t hurry. They had talked and drank tea and talked again. They had talked more than he could ever remember doing before around that old, scarred table. A desperate, pent-up need to communicate had spilt from his mother. A number of times, she said in different ways that she regretted not being able to do better for him. Both of them knew that he believed Eric Woodmore could be his father. Judging by what he’d seen and heard, Eric might have made a better father than Albert Maggs. He wondered why his mother had chosen Albert over Eric in the first place, but that line of thought led nowhere, and he quickly concluded it would have to remain a mystery.
‘Evening love,’ a girlish voice said.
He glanced up, realising he’d been alone with his thoughts. He vaguely remembered her face and recalled they’d met at the Doll House.
‘Evening, er, Adelaide isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I’m Dulcie now. That’s my real name. Dulcie Markham. Meggsie, isn’t it? That’s not your real name either, is it?’
‘No, but it will do,’ he replied, without breaking stride.
‘Can I show you a good time, Meggsie? Special price for friends!’ He looked more closely at her. She was very pretty, but not fresh like Claudia.
‘I’m sure that would be exciting, but I’ve had enough excitement for one night, thanks. Well, nice to see you again, Dulcie.’
***
The Battaglia house was silent as Meggsie opened the front door slowly, trying to be quiet. It was almost midnight and he presumed that everyone was asleep. But the door had no sooner clicked closed than he heard a stirring on the lounge, then the standard lamp came on.
‘Gilberto?’ Therese said, her voice sounding sleepy. She was wearing her dressing gown and fluffy slippers.
‘Yes. You didn’t need to stay up,’ Meggsie said.
‘I couldn’t sleep. I kept finding myself wondering how you’re getting along, and how your father reacted when he saw you. I was tossing and turning, and Benito told me to go and get a hot chocolate.’
‘Well, I got on just fine. My dad’s skipped town and gone shearing. They think he’s killed a bloke down at the docks. My mum is moving in with another bloke this week. Apparently, she knew him before I was born.’
Therese looked confused. ‘Your father has left … permanently?’
‘Yes, and Mum’s well rid of him. This new fellow’s name is Eric. He seems a friendly enough man. Hopefully, he won’t hurt her, anyway.’
‘How do you feel about it? You don’t seem very happy about it,’ Therese said. Meggsie realised that she could read his moods very readily.
‘It was a bit of a shock, Therese, that’s all. She was off starting a new life, and I didn’t know anything about it.’ Meggsie searched for words to explain his feelings. ‘I’m not sure, but it is possible that this Eric is actually my real father.’
‘Did your mother say something about that?’ she asked.
‘She said I wasn’t a bastard, I suppose I should just believe that.’
‘You poor, poor boy,’ Therese exclaimed suddenly. She patted the cushion next to her. ‘Come here,’ she added more quietly. Her arms encircled his shoulders and she pulled his head to her bosom. Meggsie was close to tears, and neither spoke for a long period. He began to think she was drifting off to sleep.
‘You know that doesn’t matter, don’t you?’ she said, her voice quiet and reassuring. ‘All that bastard stuff, I mean. You see, none of us have any say in how we’re born. What we make of ourselves is much more important. That’s all that matters. You’re doing pretty well in that regard, Gilberto, and you’ve only just begun. You can do anything you want with your life.’
‘Anyway, I hope Mum finds happiness with this Eric bloke,’ Meggsie mused.
‘Gilberto, everyone is entitled to a little love in their life. A little while ago, your mother had nothing of that. It was very brave of her to send you away, because it meant she had no one to love her. I’m glad you went back. I think you are better off, knowing that she’s got a chance to be loved now. She’ll be glad, because she’s got you too, as well as this Eric fellow. That’s the most important thing for a mother. Perhaps she’s too afraid to show it, but she loves you, Gilberto, you can be sure of that.’
Gilbert snuggled into Therese. Her love was like a blanket of calm that warmed him, comforted him, and enveloped him. He knew she was right. Therese always seemed to be right.
Chapter 40
On Seven Mile Beach
The roaring of high performance engines along the seven-mile beach shattered the peace of the few local residents along its length. Most of them stayed home. They had a pretty close view of the action from their front verandahs, anyway. For the most part, they welcomed the brief influx of rowdy visitors, for the trade they brought to the town, but they’d be glad to get their beach back, too.
The flag-bedecked ropes delineating the rutted course stretched off into the distance, where another large crowd was gathered. The entire course was lined with groups of cheering spectators as far as the eye could see. There was no grandstand or seating, just cheering, jostling fans, ignoring the danger, only a couple of yards from the speeding cars. They were mainly racing enthusiasts from out of town, and many of them alternated between excited barracking for their favourite drivers and cooling dips in the clear surf, just a few steps away.
The loud hailer blared. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! The next competitor to the start line is the ‘flying doctor’, Paul Jarvis, driving number seventeen, his hot Standard Avon. Paul came second in the April event here, and he’s determined to better that today! Come on, folks, give him a cheer.’
‘Good luck, Doc,’ Meggsie said, then stooped to the crank handle. The electric starter had been removed, along with other unnecessary weight, to save the few tenths of a second improvement Paul Jarvis would need for victory. Even though the Avon engine was much smaller than the Thornycroft’s, its high compression made it an equally hard start.
Meggsie heaved upwards, using leg-power as Benito had taught him so long ago.
The Avon roared into life, the open-throated Weber double-venturi carburettors flicking in unison, as Jarvis worked the throttle amid a cloud of blue smoke. The noise was deafening through the unmuffled exhaust, and the whiff of combusting alcohol-enhanced petrol filled the air. Meggsie, loving it, grinned and gave a thumbs-up as he stepped out of the way and watched the Avon as it slowly rolled away to the starting line.
The flag fell, and the Avon accelerated with a sandy roostertail from the spinning back wheels, the rear end bucking and swaying as Jarvis tried to find elusive traction. Meggsie, Benito and Federico s
tood side by side, watching their friend disappear into the distance.
Unsurprisingly, Therese had chosen to stay home. ‘No way,’ she’d said when the boys invited her. Since the triumph of the school formal, Meggsie and Claudia had grown very close, and Meggsie suspected that was the reason Therese had vetoed the suggestion that her daughter come car racing. ‘It’s no place for girls,’ she had said. Benito too had been talked into it, and his two index fingers were plugged firmly in his ears.
‘That should be a fast time. You’re next. Good luck, chum,’ Federico said, passing Meggsie the leather helmet and goggles. Just an hour earlier, they’d tossed a coin to determine who would be in the driver’s seat.
‘Good luck,’ Benito added nervously. ‘Remember you haven’t had your licence long. Be careful and stay safe.’
The MG was still green, but almost everything else had changed. Four carburettors wouldn’t fit under the bonnet, and they now sat proud and chromium plated in the driver’s eyeline. The race number, seventy-six, in black on a white circle adorned each door. Therese must have grown fond of the MG, because she declared that the changes ‘defaced an expensive car’.
Meggsie pulled the leather helmet down tightly and fastened the strap.
‘Paul Jarvis has driven the best time of the day, folks,’ the announcer bellowed. ‘Two minutes twenty-seven point one. That’s going to be hard to beat! It’s eleven seconds better than his time last meet, and best today by nine seconds. The next competitor coming to the line is number seventy-six, a Battaglia MG special, driven by Gil Maggs! He’s a novice, so give him a welcoming hand!’
‘Remember what Paul said. Gentle on the wheel and hard on the accelerator,’ Federico said. ‘Wind the gears right out. Good luck.’ Meggsie pressed the starter. They hadn’t considered the refinement of removing the starter motor. The MG sprang into life and rolled away. Federico tapped the top of Meggsie’s helmet as he passed. Meggsie pulled his goggles down and focussed his gaze on the distant finishing banner, then nodded his readiness. The starting line beckoned.
Epilogue
Jimmy Bancks, extraordinarily gifted cartoonist, passed away on 1 July 1952, from a heart attack at his home in Point Piper, New South Wales. Ginger Meggs lives on and might well live forever.
Nellie Cameron remained ‘on the game’. Her marriage to Guido Caletti didn’t last, to nobody’s surprise at all. Her dark angels remained, however, and in November 1953, by then married to William Donohue, wharf labourer, she took her own life by putting her head into the gas oven and turning on the jets.
Guido Caletti continued his pimping, assaults and standover tactics. Finally, he hooked up with Dulcie Markham, by then widely known as the ‘angel of death’ because of the unfortunate fate of so many of her lovers and pimps. Under Dulcie’s urging, Guido tried to take over the SP bookmaking industry, and was shot down and killed in the ensuing turf war. In gangland tradition, he refused to identify his murderer in his last moments.
Tilly Devine survived the gang wars, gun battles, explosives and razors, only to have the taxation department finally force her out of business. She died of cancer in November 1970, an embittered, vitriolic old woman.
Razor Jack Hayes survived his first shooting, but the lesson hadn’t been learned. He continued to offend and was badly wounded again. Finally, he disappeared amid rumours he’d gone to Germany to start a new life.
Frank Green was stabbed to death while on a bender, by his live-in lover, a woman named Beatrice Haggart, after accusing her of having an affair with his brother.
Ray Blissett provided the muscle that swung the odds back in the favour of the embattled police force. Eventually he became leader of ‘the consortos’ and had a stellar career in policing. Blissett survived it all and saw a ripe old age.
The Tradesman’s Arms remains, but is now a trendy pub called the East Village Hotel. There are no signs of the bloodhouse it once was, but perhaps the ghosts still linger in its dark corners.
The Haymarket. The produce market is gone now, moved to the suburbs, but the building has become arty, crafty Paddy’s Market, a retail complex where you’ll find everything from souvenirs to sporting goods, clothes to cosmetics, footwear to fruit and vegetables, hot food to heavy metal CD’s, sheepskins to seafood, plants to pendants, crafts and lots more. It’s worth a visit.
Darlinghurst itself is changing rapidly, driven by the need for near-city high-density housing. Better get down there and see it before it’s too late!