By the time we got to Mt Gravatt it was dark and far too late to think about going to Brisbane. The shops would be shut anyway, so we took refuge under the picnic shelter and reviewed our sorry situation. Our last lift had been with an old man in a Ford half truck almost as old as him. Just outside Sunnybank he had a flat tyre, and it had taken us nearly two hours to change it. The back of his truck was full of old engines and axles and we’d had to move them all to get at the spare. Then the jack slipped and we had to chock the vehicle up on wooden blocks. Fortunately he gave us a couple of bob each for helping him, and with that we were able to buy two packs of Smith’s chips, two Cherry Ripes, a bag of Jaffas and a large bottle of Shelley’s lemonade. We sat on the picnic bench devouring our dinner, looking at the last of the night’s trams rattling by in the rain. Watching them, I was cheered by one thing; it wasn’t going to cost us anything to get to Brisbane the next day.
Most school holidays and weekends in the summer, a crowd of kids would head either for Bondi or Manly, although Glen rarely came because he wasn’t allowed. We liked Manly better, but it wasn’t as easy to sneak on a ferry without paying, especially when there were eight or nine of us. Trams, on the other hand, were a doddle as there was always a steady flow of them to Bondi, often one right behind the other, and they were dead easy to jump on and off, or dart around the aptly named running board on the outside avoiding the conductor. The idea was to stay on each tram as long as possible. The first goal was to get from Circular Quay to Bondi on the fewest number of trams. Doing the entire trip on the same tram was the ultimate prize. Not paying for public transport was a challenge, an exciting game and very few of us ever paid a fare or had a problem, apart from ‘two knees’ Bruce, that was.
Dear old ‘two knees’, was a really nice, gentle boy but he wasn’t the sharpest. Only once did he manage to elude the conductor for the entire trip; the trouble was, he was on the wrong tram and ended up in La Perouse. He’d been given his nick-name by Miss Guy, our form teacher in our second year at high school; the year we were just beginning to get interested in girl’s legs and things, although being an all-boys school we didn’t get the chance to look at many. How ridiculous is it to have single sex schools? Surely if there is one thing we should all learn at school it is about each other! Anyway, Miss Guy, being only twenty-three, was not only beautiful but had lovely legs. In fact she was a lovely person and a great teacher.
She taught geography and always started her lessons with what she called ‘brain warmers’. These were a series of simple, rapid-fire questions, with each child in the class being asked at least one. So fast was she there was no time to think; instant answers were the essence. Hesitate even for a fraction and Miss Guy would be asking the next question, leaving you feeling stupid and inadequate and the butt of much sniggering and finger pointing. We loved it, though. It was great fun, especially when someone got it wrong or couldn’t think fast enough, and she tried to make sure we were all caught out eventually. By the end we were left breathless with excitement.
“Barry: what colour is chocolate? Doug: how many eggs in a dozen? Eric: what is your desk made of? Warren: what noise do ducks make? Ray: how old are you? Martin: what school do you go to? John: what day is it? Bruce: how many knees do you have?” It was only for a millisecond, but we all saw it and the class erupted: “He looked! He looked! He looked!” Miss Guy simply smiled indulgently. She was my first love.
In fact, if it hadn’t been for Miss Guy, I might not have gone to school at all as it was throughout the second and third years I wagged as many days as I could, becoming quite adept at signing my father’s signature. It was the excuses that let me down. “Dear Headmaster. Nicholas had scarlet fever so couldn’t come to school yesterday”. My ability to recover from serious contagious diseases overnight was never fully appreciated, especially by Mr Unwin, the deputy head, who had a very long cane and very strong arms.
My parents divorced when I was four, and my mother went to live in New Guinea. A year later my father married again, and together with my sister and me we moved into the house in Epping. As we had known our stepmother for some time, the transition was quite smooth and I never recall being unhappy, rejected or unloved. Then, when I was about seven, my father was struck down by some sort of paralysis of the legs. The cause was never properly diagnosed, but for the next six years his condition progressively deteriorated. He developed stomach ulcers and huge bed sores, one on each buttock, the result of being left sitting bolt upright in a hospital bed for twenty hours having a blood transfusion. It was felt by some doctors that his paralysis was caused by a defect in his blood, so he just sat there while eight pints dripped intro his arm, at less than half a pint an hour. Just before I turned thirteen he was confined to a wheelchair, and from then until he died three years later he was really quite ill.
Our stepmother was very much younger than my father, who was fifty when I was born. Involvement in one World War can seriously interrupt life, never mind two! So, my stepmother not only had to go out to work part-time to feed us, but spent the rest of her time nursing and looking after him, a task she did with great love and devotion. This meant that although I was loved and well looked after, from the age of twelve neither of them really had the time or the energy to properly supervise and discipline me, and it is easy to be naughty when no-one is looking. Not that I blame them or anything; that was just the situation. Yet it is interesting to observe that Glen, who was severely disciplined and reprimanded at home, passed his intermediate certificate. I, on the other hand, able to do more or less as I pleased, did not; but this was not the only difference between us.
One of the mysteries of life is how much of our character and personality we are born with and how much we pick up as we go along. When the two of us were alone, Glen was often as boisterous and loud as me; yet in company he was very reserved and wary. His parents were relatively well off — his father was an accountant and his mother worked in the head office of Qantas — so money had never been a problem. Our sense of humour was similar and we got on really well most of the time, yet when it came to self-confidence and socialising with strangers, especially adults, Glen was often hesitant and unsure. No doubt psychologists would say this was a result of a childhood stunted by anger and violence, but how much of it came naturally?
I, on the other hand, was cocky, loud and cheeky, irritatingly so no doubt. With so much freedom in my early teens I was more streetwise than Glen, more cunning, more cynical. Apart from eleven years in the Army — six in the first war, five in the second — my father had been a freelance writer all his life; not the most secure of incomes at the best of times and when he became ill there was very little money coming in. My childhood was happy and calm, yet by thirteen I had begun stealing money from clothes on the beaches, locker rooms, out of cars or handbags left unattended. It was never much; enough to go to the pictures, or buy some chips and a milkshake. In contrast, Glen had never stolen a thing in his life before we set out, much less wagged school. No doubt psychologists would say such behaviour was the result of a boy left too much to his own devices, a lack of discipline or a cry for attention; but how much of it came naturally? A bit simplistic, maybe, but whatever the answer, the reality was that Glen and I did not have much in common other than our age and, of course, being born Poms.
Now sitting in the dark in this Mt Gravatt park, cold, no food or money, we were at least sharing the same emotion as the precariousness of our situation dawned on us, although we didn’t speak of it, or even understand it particularly. Homesickness is a difficult enough state for adults to comprehend, never mind verbalise. Not that either of us actually wanted to go home, although our reasons, like our personalities, were very different. I didn’t want to go home because no-one was there; Glen because someone was there. It’s strange how sometimes depressing moments can make us see the positive side of things, and we decided we did have one thing going for us; each other. And we held a little ceremony confirming our friendship. Clas
ping each other’s wrists with our hands crossed over like we’d seen Red Indians do in the pictures when they were swearing ‘blood brother’ allegiances to one another, we made solemn vows to share everything and never part, no matter what happened, devising a plan whereby if we ever got separated we would go to the next town and wait at the police station. It was a pity it was dark as it must have made a touching scene. This decided, we felt much better and fell asleep on the table, snuggled as close together as we could get, as much in friendship as for warmth.
FOUR
Molinari’s Cafe
Well before dawn we were woken by council workmen emptying bins. If anything it was even colder, and during the night the rain had been relentless, although it was now bright and clear. Virtually everything was at best damp, so we spread our things out around the other tables to dry. It was the first time since we’d set out that we’d been completely broke — not a biscuit or a tin of food left, and our last packet of cigarettes was a soggy mess. Brisbane and shopping for rucksacks seemed a long way away. We sat shivering under our duffle coats waiting for the sun to come up so we could at least dry out a bit before setting off. And we were trying not to think too much about food.
We were only about fifty yards away from the high street. Early morning trams and commuter traffic was beginning to build. On the other side of the road there was a row of shops, still shuttered and closed but with the lights on. We saw movement inside one, and a moment later an elderly man emerged wearing an apron and carrying a bucket and mop. He leaned the mop up against the wall and proceeded to let down a large red and green awning over the pavement, across which in large black letters was written Molinari’s Cafe. Having tied down the awning rope, the man began mopping the pavement, obviously in preparation for laying out the tables and chairs that were stacked up inside.
I’m not sure where the thought came from, but it came in a flash and without a word I was on my feet, running across the park and darting over the road. “Morning, Mr Molinari,” I gulped, catching my breath and praying that it was him. To my relief he looked up briefly to acknowledge me, and then did a sort of double-take and peered at me more closely.
“What you name?” he demanded.
“Nick,” I replied, slightly taken aback by such immediate interest.
“Nick who?”
“Nick Thomas. Why?” For a moment he stared at me intently and then, just as abruptly, he seemed to lose all interest and waved me away, saying, “No open yet.”
“No, no, I know, I’m sorry to trouble you, it’s just that … well, could me and my friend do that for some breakfast?” and sheepishly I pointed at the mop. “We’ll do whatever else you want, too,” I added hurriedly. “Bring the tables and chairs out, wash up, clean inside … anything, we’re starving …”
At this he did stop mopping and stood erect, staring at me again for several seconds and then over my shoulder to the park where Glen was standing in the shelter watching us.
“Where you from?”
“Sydney. We’re on our way to Magnetic Island but we ran out of money and couldn’t get a lift.”
“You sleep park!”
“Yes.” He gave a little shake of his head.
“How old you?”
Shaking his head again when I told him, he completely surprised me by agreeing to my request but immediately held up his hand in warning and waved his finger sternly. “But you must work, okay? No bullshit, I donna want no bullshit.”
My smile of relief and satisfaction that my plan had worked must have been a mile wide. “No bullshit, Mr Molinari, I promise,” and I dashed back across the road to get Glen.
For an hour we worked solidly, mopping, sweeping, moving tables and chairs, Mr Molinari hovering over us all the while with a sense of urgency. “Take this, put there. That you put here — no, no there, here! This you do like this. No! No! No! Like that, like this. Si! Si! That better, now you see it, now you see it.” There was a sign in the window that stated simply: Breakfast 7am to 9am. Lunch 12pm to 2pm. No Dinner, and Mr. Molinari kept one eye on the clock on the wall as he hurried us along. At 6.45am he went to the front door and moved the little bell above it so that it would ring when the door was opened, and then disappeared into the room at the back, leaving us to finish the last few tables. Moments later he emerged with an armful of red and white check tablecloths and napkins, and proceeded to show us how to spread them out. “Now you see it, now you see it!” he enthused, and happy we were doing it correctly, he left us again, saying, “Soon you finish, come through.”
The back room was warm and cosy, although it must have been suffocatingly hot in the summer. Panelled in dark wood, with a large wood-burning stove, it was twice the size of the dining room. Half of it was given over to cooking with the stove, wooden worktops, sinks and plate racks. The other half was a living area, with a dining table and half a dozen chairs, a couple of comfy armchairs and a couch in one corner. There were pictures, plates and maps on the wall, little mementos and figurines dotted about on shelves, and a crucifix in pride of place looking down on the table.
Mr Molinari was at the stove, busy frying eggs and bacon, and he nodded at the table when we came in. “Sit, sit,” he commanded. “You like egg, bacon, sausage, fry bread maybe?”
Our cries of delight were cut short when a young couple came bursting through the back door. “Sorry I’m late, papa,” the women said, kissing her father and taking down an apron from behind the door, as did the man.
“These boys help today,” Mr Molinari said, pointing his egg flip at us, and they both smiled a greeting, but there was no time for further introductions as suddenly the bell sounded. “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Mr Molinari shouted, and the couple disappeared into the dining room.
For forty minutes the bell must have rung every minute or so, and the daughter and the man were constantly running back and forth with the orders and taking meals, which Mr Molinari made with rapid efficiency, belying his looks. Most of his customers were men on their way to work. “Dey know dey getta the good food ’ere,” he told us proudly. “Some men come every day.” In between orders he managed to serve us a huge breakfast as well, and we were halfway through it when a woman emerged from the stairs that came out in the corner of the room near the stove. She was dressed entirely in black, with thick black stockings, her greying hair tied up neatly in a bun.
“Ah! Bello vederti mamma!” Mr Molinari greeted her. Having been taught to stand up whenever a lady entered the room, we would have done so anyway, but there was something about this woman that made us not just stand up, but jump up. “These boys help this morning,” he informed her, waving his egg flip at us again. She hadn’t realised we were there, and when she saw us her hand went straight to her chest. “Oh, mio dio!”she gasped, as if she’d had the shock of her life, and immediately she and Mr Molinari launched into a heated discussion in Italian, with much waving of arms, repeatedly pointing at Glen and myself.
Eventually the woman seemed to recover her composure, and I said “hello” as politely as I could. “I’m sorry if we gave you a shock.”
“Oh, no you, no you, no you,” she said quickly, obviously slightly embarrassed by her outburst.
“Mamma not so happy,” said Mr Molinari with a chuckle. “No win lottery.” At this mamma again waved her hand dismissively, this time at her husband. “Poosh!” she mocked, and went to the door and took down an apron.
Relieved the uncomfortable moment was over, I was about to sit down to finish breakfast but was stopped, sort of frozen halfway, when mamma suddenly came over, grabbed my shirt front and sniffed it disapprovingly, screwing up her nose as she released me.
“How long you wear dis?”
“Well … I don’t know … I … we did some work …” I pointed lamely to the dining room.
“This no today smell. This old smell. How long you wear?”
“Well … a couple of days, I guess.”
“And you!” She turned accusingly
to Glen, causing him to leap to his feet again.
“Um … I don’t know … the same, I guess.”
“You guess, you guess! Where you mamma?” she turned back to me.
“Which one?”
“You have more than one mamma!”
“Yes.”
“More than one mamma and still you smell! Come!” She instructed over her shoulder, and without another word went out the back door. Mr Molinari turned and gave a little smile and shrug, holding his hands out as if to say, “Best-a do as she say, boys.”
The backyard wasn’t very big, but it was made even smaller by the stack of firewood and piles of cartons, crates, boxes and hundreds of old soft drink bottles. In a row down one side were three or four small brick sheds, and at the end a toilet. Beyond that was a patch of grass about five yards square, with a hills hoist in the middle. The grass was about two feet long, and weeds the same height ran all the way down the wooden fence at the side and along the back. The other side of the yard was a dirt driveway leading out to double wooden gates that opened into a lane at the back of the row of shops. Parked in the driveway was a 1938 Chevrolet pick-up with two garbage cans on the back, and the words ‘wet’ and ‘dry’ crudely painted on them.
The first shed was the laundry, and we found Mamma inside sorting out a pile of dirty red and white check tablecloths. There was a large gas-fired copper with steam coming from under the wooden lid, and two concrete sinks, one with an old wooden wringer clamped to it.
“Where you clothes?” she demanded.
“Over in the park.”
“Go get.”
“What! All of them?”
“Yes, yes. All, all!”
“No this way! This way!” she pointed at the back gates, seeing we were about to go charging off through the cafe.
Once a Pommie Swagman Page 4