Once a Pommie Swagman

by Thomas, Nick Arden

  When we returned she was standing in the doorway of the shed next to the laundry holding two pairs of blue overalls. Behind her we could see a bath, steam rising from the hot water she had just taken from the copper. “Take off clothes,” she demanded. “Have bath, put these,” and she thrust the overalls into our hands, pushed us inside the bathroom and shut the door. After our bath she insisted on washing everything we owned; or rather, she insisted we wash everything we owned, with the exception of the kit bags and our duffle coats. These she made us beat, turn inside out and shake thoroughly before hanging them on the line to air. Then she disappeared upstairs, reappearing every now and then to see to her washing and other chores.

  Breakfast and cleaning up finished, Mr Molinari now took over and kept us working for two hours, virtually non-stop. We cut the lawn, pulled up the weeds, stacked the empty bottles into cases and generally tidied up the yard. “This put here like this, no there, here, that you do like this. No like that; like this. Si! Si! Now you see it! Now you see it!” Then his daughter poked her heard out the door and smiled at us. “Give them a rest, papa,” she admonished. “Come and have a cup of tea, boys.”

  Francesca and Carlo were really nice, and Francesca in particular put us at ease, sensing we’d been a little overwhelmed by her mother and father. Married for only six months, they lived in a flat above a shop just down the road from the cafe. Carlo was studying to be a chef and three days a week went to college; the rest of the time he worked in the café. “Papa is my capo principale!” He patted the old man on the back, and Mr Molinari grinned proudly. Both Carlo and Francesa had been born in Italy but had done much of their schooling in Queensland, so they spoke perfect English, flavoured with that distinctive Aussie accent that only Italians can achieve. “Ow u doin’ maiti!”

  Mamma joined us for tea, and for an hour we sat together chatting easily, Francesca and Carlo wanting to know all about us, where we’d come from and where we were going. “Gee, hitchhiking to Magnetic Island? That sounds exciting. I’d love to do that,” said Francesca.

  “Exciting, poosh!” her mother interjected. “Where you stay? Where you sleep!” she demanded.

  “It’s an adventure, mamma.”

  “Pish poosh!” exclaimed Mamma. “Errante vagabondo!” and Francesca shook her head and smiled, winking at us.

  “Mama lives in a time warp, don’t you, Mamma?”

  Then the bell in the dining room sounded and Mr Molinari looked at his watch and brought the conversation to an end abruptly. “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  Lunchtime wasn’t quite as hectic as breakfast, and Francesca could manage the dining room on her own. This left Carlo free to help with the cooking and food preparation, the whole time being rebuked and praised in equal amounts by Mr Molinari. “No! No! No! Like this! Like this! Si! Si! Now you see it! Now you see it!” Throughout the meal he also kept Glen and I occupied fetching plates and items from the larder, washing up saucepans, peeling potatoes and bringing firewood in. Then Francesca came in with an order for six meals, all the same, and Mr Molinari threw his hands in the air.

  “Steak chips! Steak chips! Steak chips! Senza fantasia!” he exploded with exasperation. “Australian eat only for here, never here!” And alternately he patted his stomach and his heart. “In Italia cooking is … how you say … like-a the Michael Angelo. Eating is … gioia, gioia, di celebrazione di Cristo!” and he crossed himself and raised his arms to the heavens. “Here always same, steak potato, fry fish potato, roast beef potato, sausage potato. No flavour, no garlic, no herb, no spice, no inspiriatore! But what we do? We no cook like diss we no make a di money!”

  Almost before we knew what was happening we’d been there three days, then four days, then five; sleeping on the couch, which pulled out to make a double bed Mamma made up for us each evening after dinner. At no time were we asked if we wanted to stay, nor was there any talk of payment or how much work we would do. In fact there was no discussion at all. It was as if we’d all just agreed to it; a fait accompli, and before we knew what we were doing, we were doing it. It was obvious they wanted us to stay, making us feel more than welcome in fact. What wasn’t so obvious was why?

  “I feel like Hansel and Gretel,” Glen whispered on the third night when the Molinaris had gone up to bed. “Maybe they’re going to keep us here forever!” So it wasn’t so much with concern as curiosity that we mentioned it to Francesca the next morning.

  “Oh, they can be a bit funny sometimes,” she agreed. “But they are lovely people really. If you want to go, just say so, but I know they like having you here. They just want to help you get on your feet again before you set off.” Comforting as that was to know, it still left us wondering why!

  Every day except Saturday, when he only served breakfast, and Sunday when the cafe was shut all day, the routine was the same. After lunch, when the cleaning and washing up was done and if he didn’t have any more chores for us, Mr Molinari would retire upstairs for a nap and Francesca and Carlo would go home. Mamma now took over in the kitchen, making bread, cakes, pastry and preparing the evening meal. Glen and I sat about playing cards and draughts and leaping up whenever Mamma wanted us to do little tasks. At about half past five Mr Molinari would come down, put on a Mantovani record, pour himself a glass of sherry and light a strange-looking, pungent-smelling cigarette wrapped in dark brown paper. Half an hour later Carlo and Francesca would come back, and while she helped Mamma prepare the meal, Carlo and Mr Molinari played dominoes, slapping the tiles down with great glee to win points.

  The evening meal was more like an event than a meal and consisted of three, sometimes four courses, spread over two or three hours. All the dishes were small in quantity but different in taste and flavour. They were tastes, flavours and food Glen and I had never seen or experienced before. Exotic fish soup, olives, garlic, sundried tomatoes, lamb pastas with basil, lovely cheeses and fantastic little sweet things like doughnuts without a hole, only much nicer, and they just melted in your mouth. Mamma was not the beaming sort, but she did as she watched Glen and I devour those delicious things. All the dishes were washed down with small glasses of Italian wine, liberally dispensed by Mr Molinari who kept up a steady stream of disparaging comments about Australian diets and eating habits, Mamma constantly admonishing him for giving us too much wine. When Glen and I went to bed each night the room might have been spinning, but we were as happy and content as we had ever been. It felt like we’d become members of another family.

  At 4am two mornings a week Mr Molinari set off for the Roma street markets in Brisbane, taking the wet and dry garbage with him and returning with the pick-up laden with fresh vegetables, meat, fish, eggs and cheese, all in time to lay out the tables for breakfast when the day’s routine would begin. On the second morning we did get a clue as to why he in particular seemed so keen to keep us there. The last three days of the week Carlo attended college, and although Francesca and Mr Molinari could have handled the work on their own, two extra pairs of hands were very useful. Then on our fourth night, towards the end of the meal, the true reason for their hospitality emerged.

  Carlo wasn’t there as he had night classes at college, and Francesca and Mamma were beginning to clear up when Mr Molinari turned the radio on for the news. The first headline was about the construction of the Berlin Wall, the second the meeting between Kennedy and Khrushchev in Vienna. Then the announcer began giving details about the trial of Adolf Eichmann, and as soon as his name was mentioned all three Molinaris stopped what they were doing and stared at the radio as if mesmerised. When the reader began to describe a particularly nasty incident involving Eichmann and the Gestapo in a Polish village, it seemed to catch Mr Molinari out and before he could get to the radio to turn it off most of the gory details had been relayed. Mamma let out a little cry of anguish, dropped the plate she was rinsing in the sink, lifted her apron to her face and disappeared upstairs, clearly distressed. The silence that followed was difficult to listen to, with Mr Molin
ari sitting dejectedly in his chair, his head in his hands. We could only sit, glancing anxiously at each other while Francesca put a comforting arm round his shoulders, giving us a little smile of reassurance as she did. “Okay if I tell them, Papa?” she asked gently, and slowly the distraught man nodded his agreement.

  “One day in 1943, near our village in Italy, the resistance blew up a German truck towing an artillery gun,” Francesca began, her voice calm and measured as she rubbed her father’s neck. “That night, at about midnight, a dozen or so shells landed on the village, straight out of the blue, no warning, nothing. We never really discovered where the shells came from or who fired them, but the next day the Gestapo came to the village and told us if any more vehicles were blown up the entire village would be wiped off the map. The Germans did things like that a lot during the war,” she grimaced.

  “Nine people were killed, including Mamma’s sister, her husband and my cousin. I was only a baby so I don’t remember anything, and fortunately our house wasn’t hit, but my aunt’s house was completely destroyed. When Mamma and Papa got there my aunt and uncle were already dead, but my cousin was still alive. He died shortly afterwards in Mamma’s arms.” And then Francesca looked at me and smiled gently. “He was fourteen, and according to Papa you look exactly like him. In fact, when he first saw you he thought you were him.”

  “Ritratto! Ritratto!” Mr Molinari exclaimed, and reaching out, he cupped my face in his hands, tears welling up in his eyes. Even if I’d been able to speak, I wouldn’t have known what to say. I still don’t.

  Mr Molinari got up to go upstairs a few minutes later. “You good boys,” he said. “Good boys.” Sombre as the mood was, it seemed the right moment.

  “I think maybe we should go tomorrow.”

  “Si, si, I understand,” he smiled. “But maybe you stay till Monday, eh? After lunch, okay? Francesca and Carlo no come on Monday. You be good help. I give you money, you no worry.”

  On Sunday, after Mamma came back from church, we went to Indooroopilly for a picnic on the banks of the Brisbane River. We hired a rowing boat for an hour or so, kicked a football about with Carlo and demolished the fantastic picnic Mamma and Francesca had made that morning. No mention was made of the previous evening, but there was a noticeable difference about Mamma. She seemed calmer, gentler and not quite so intimidating. When we got back from the picnic everybody fussed over us a bit and had ideas about our trip; Francesca and Carlo brought out a map of Queensland and we sat at the table poring over it.

  “It’s the chance of a lifetime to see the country,” Francesca enthused. “You’ve got to stop and see things, not just drive past,” and she rattled off places along the coast where we should go: the Glasshouse Mountains, Noosa Heads, the turtles at Mon Repos beach, “… and the islands!” she squealed excitedly. “You simply have to go to the Whitsundays!”

  Francesca’s infectious enthusiasm got us thinking differently about our journey, or at least thinking about it, and our moves for the next few days were decided as much by the Molinaris as us. On Monday after lunch the plan was that we would go to Brisbane to look for rucksacks.

  “There’s a disposal store in the Valley,” Carlo told us, “ just over the Story Bridge.”

  “Salvation Army hostel there too,” interjected Mamma. “Good place stay, cheap, nice bed.”

  “Oh Mamma!” cried Francesca. “You worry too much!”

  “Ah!” Mamma yelped, as if her daughter had reminded her of something, and she went purposefully over to Glen. “Come,” she said, pulling him out of his chair and leading him across the room.

  Just inside the doorway that led upstairs was a telephone, and she pointed to it. “You ring your mamma. Now!” she demanded. “All mamma worry about their children. I know, I mamma!” Glen had no choice.

  Although we all pretended not to listen, it was obvious the call was an ordeal for Glen. “I’m sorry, Mum … I know … I just wanted to get … awe, gee, Mum! What did he do that for? No Mum, I’m not coming home yet but we are alright … honest we will … we’re heading for Magnetic Island … near Townsville … yes, we’ve got money. We’re working in a café … Mum … I know, Mum … we’ll be alright Mum, I promise … love you too.”

  “Is good you call, yes?” Mamma told him rather than asked, but Glen didn’t look too sure.

  “Me dad rang the police,” he looked at me, grimacing. “Told them we were missing.”

  “Shit! So what’s happening?”

  “Nothing. Mum said she’d sort it and she’ll ring your sister.”

  “All mamma worry, all the time, sister too,” Mamma scowled at me. “Children no understand,” and Francesca gave us a sympathetic smile.

  After lunch on Monday we were ready to set off. Mamma had ironed all our clothes and wrapped us some sandwiches, cold pizza and a few of the sweet doughnut-type things in greaseproof paper. Francesca presented us with the map of Queensland, having marked all the places she thought we should visit on the way up to Magnetic Island.

  “I’d love to be coming with you!”

  Then Mr Molinari gave us £4 each and a small canvas-covered bag, like a wash bag. “Put cigarettes and money,” he told us with a wink. “No get wet.”

  When we looked inside the bag, we found six packets of cigarettes. Cheeks were kissed all round, and Francesca and Mamma hugged us both. “You good boys, good boys,” said Mr Molinari, shaking our hands. Tears were not far away from all our eyes. Ten minutes later we were on the tram into the city, and for the first time in my life I paid my fare. It didn’t seem right not to, somehow.

  FIVE

  Milk bar days and wayward ways

  Rock ‘n’ roll came out of the blue, like a huge musical earthquake. One minute we were listening to the soothing voices of Janette McDonald and Slim Whitman, the gentle tea dances of the big bands, the mighty cadenza of Mario Lanza and the honeyed tones of Guy Lombardo. Suddenly they were gone, wiped away in a flash of Elvis’s gyrating hips, the frenetic energy of Little Richard, the decadence of Jerry Lee Lewis, the fantastic tunes of Buddy Holly and the throbbing beat of Rock Around the Clock. When we first heard that song, that beat, that rhythm, it was mind -blowing, one of those moments in life where you always remember where you were. It felt like we were involved in some sort of spectacular revolution or coup. Overnight the young had taken control of music. Go, Bill!

  “One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock,

  Five, six, seven o’clock, eight o’clock rock,

  Nine, ten, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock rock.

  We’re gonna rock — around — the clock tonight.

  Oh put your glad rags on …”

  We never had a television at home. My father thought he would spend too much time watching it. Not that he was an old fogey or anything. In fact he was quite modern and tolerant; it was just television that he didn’t like. I don’t recall missing it all that much apart from not being able to see Bandstand, and that I did miss because just about everything in our young lives revolved round that programme. From conversation, clothes and hairstyles, to dance moves, and turning up at the Epping Youth Centre — more widely known as Theo’s milk bar — without knowing all the words to the latest Number One was social suicide, something the infuriating Brian Watterson understood all too well. Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice enough boy, it was just that he was so good-looking it wasn’t fair. The rest of us didn’t stand a chance, even if we did know the words. Always stylishly dressed with a Frankie Avalon hairstyle and Cary Grant smile, open-necked Mitchell blue shirt, fleck stovepipes and Presley purple socks showing above his ripple soles, Brian knew exactly which buttons to push on the jukebox to push the buttons of the girls, even though I knew he hated most of the songs they liked.

  Debra Jackson almost passed out when he sauntered across the floor to her booth, nonchalantly swirling his milkshake as he mouthed the words of Paul Anka, Victor Mature eyebrows working overtime.

  “And they call it Puppy Love
,

  Oh I guess they’ll never know,

  How a young heart really feels and why I love her so!”

  “Oh, Brian!”

  “Oh, Debra!”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake!

  Not that I didn’t try, or wasn’t with it. I listened to Bob Rogers religiously every week, owned a pair of blue suede ripple soles, walked like Crash Craddock and used more Brylcreem than Fabian. I got on with most of the girls; I made them laugh, and I know many of them liked me as a friend, but apart from being hugged and kissed on the cheeks a lot that was as close as I got. My penis was convinced my pillow was a girl.

  For the vast majority of young teenagers at the time — and for many today too, I suspect — virtually all sex education came from our peers, and in Theo’s milk bar the tutors were Barry Wiley and Denise Phillips. Barry was several years older than the rest of us, and nobody liked or trusted him much. He had piggy eyes, and Bronwyn Wilson, who’d gone to the pictures with him once, said he smelt like used underpants. When it came to sex, however, he was listened to with some awe by us boys. Barry had a job and a car and he shaved every day, so obviously he knew what he was talking about, and his much bandied story about him and Christine Martinson ‘doing it’ on the town’s bowling green was the stuff of wet dreams. I suppose the main reason we didn’t like or trust him was because we couldn’t understand why he hung around with us younger ones, although being credulous and enthusiastic listeners to his sexual exploits was probably one reason.

  Christine, of course, strenuously denied ever having anything to do with him, but Allison Silverwater said it was true because everybody knew Christine was a nympho and the town’s bike. The cats could be quite vicious at Theo’s.

  Denise Phillips was also a year or so older than us but she was gorgeous, long legs and a beautiful face. Theo, the Greek owner of the milk bar, was a particular fan, and would always put an extra dollop of ice-cream or a double spoonful of flavouring in her milkshake — if his wife wasn’t looking, that was. Then one day I was mortified when I overheard Denise boasting to some of her friends that she and Theo were lovers, and that he was going to leave his wife and take her on a world tour. I don’t know if her friends believed it or not, but I did; nobody as beautiful as Denise Phillips could possibly tell a lie. It was my first taste of jealousy.