Dead Men

by Derek Haines

  The fear of change is a normal human reaction. To someone with an inbuilt auto-response to run, it would prove to be a commonly faced fear for David. The clash of his inbuilt need to run away from events, feelings and situations, while not even understanding why, with his quite normal fear of change, would create a confusion he would find difficult to handle. Even more so considering that he also had a deep desire to keep friends and live a settled life.

  In contrast his young wife found an interesting position and was enjoying her new life. Until, one day, just short of six months after their arrival in Adelaide, they returned home one evening from work to their apartment. They found nothing. Nothing except carpets and curtains and an open door. Everything gone. After the initial shock, and a quick check, they did find that their clothes had been left in the wardrobe. The event was traumatic for them both, but especially for David’s young wife. Shortly after the police had left and the eventful evening finally left them alone, she admitted to being homesick, and asked if they could go home to Perth. David agreed instantly. She was warmed by his understanding and care to agree so quickly. She didn’t understand that the events had been fortuitous for David. He had felt the urge to run building in him for some time. The events of the evening enabled him to satisfy the urge now. He could run away again. The perversity of running away to his home town was lost on David at the time.

  Within seven years of marriage, David had fathered two wonderful children, bought a house, left his wife on three separate occasions for periods of time ranging from one week to three months. Notwithstanding the three times he left his wife, he otherwise stabilised his life into a boring routine as an ideal husband and ideal employee. In the last of these seven years, he ended his career as a plumber, and started a new life as a plumbing supplies salesman and shortly after this as a divorcee. He ran for what he thought would be the last time. The divorce cost him some more friends. It also cost him his house and home, most of his possessions, and his cherished role as a father. Leaving his wife did not overly concern David. The loss of his children did. The feeling that he had run away from his children, whom he loved dearly, would grind as a guilt in his very being for years to come. Drinking consoled his loss for short periods.

  With the freedom of a single man at twenty-seven, and a wish to make up for the fun years he perceived he missed by marrying so young, David made new friends quickly. In no time at all he had a whole new social circle, and was enjoying life to the fullest. Life was party time. With his new job, which paid well, and also paid a generous entertainment allowance, David partied very hard. And drank hard to numb his pain of the loss of his children.

  Within a few months he met a young attractive red headed eighteen year old. She was on a working holiday from Sydney. He fell in lust with her, then in love with her.

  Antonio

  Fremantle is a port city twenty miles south of Perth. Full of the smell of salt, rusting cargo and container vessels, all registered in strange far off places for the benefit of cheap insurance and labour. Fremantle is the home, as it was in the late 1950’s, to Greek and Italian immigrants. Many ending up as owners of fish and chip shops, green grocery stores or a corner deli. While prospering in the simpler days of the late 1950’s and 1960’s, all needed the support of the whole family to survive. Normality was father going to the market at four in the morning to buy the produce, and have his family business open for trade at seven. Of course the children worked in the shop as well; when they were tall enough to reach the cash register, they were ready to work. Working before school, and again when they came home from school, they had little time for any other activity. But, they were always the best kids at adding up and subtracting in class. Father taught them very well at the cash register.

  Mother worked out the back, rarely seen in the shop she attended to the accounts, cooked for the family and the customers, and most importantly, held the family together as they all toiled eighteen hours a day to exist in their new homeland.

  It was here that a young boy, Antonio Leonardi Pilletto arrived with his family in 1958. He was two years old when the immigrant ship disgorged him and his family along with six hundred other wogs onto the shores of Fremantle. His father, a stone mason and a master craftsman in his home land, became one of the wog shopkeepers of Fremantle. Nick’s Fish and Chips became home for Antonio. Before he was five years old, Antonio became used to being called Tony by the locals, and a wog, itie and dago by people who didn’t know him. These were days when there was no political correctness, and if you happened to be a wog, an itie, a dago, a chink, or a towel head, well, that’s what you were. This was Fremantle, a southern suburb of Perth. A young short, fat little Italian immigrant had to learn to cop it sweet, and work his heart out with his family to survive in their new country.

  In the days of the late 1950’s Tony was lucky. There were many men like his father working in almost slave like conditions, building a dam to trap the Snowy River. This was on the east coast of Australia, half way between Sydney and Melbourne. It was also cold and isolated. Many, if not most, lived in tents during its construction and suffered enormous hardship during those years. The mentality of that time did not give a single thought to the fact, that this dam was to destroy an icon of Australia. The heart and spirit of Australia lived in A. B. ‘Banjo’ Patterson’s poem, ‘The Man from Snowy River’. When the Snowy River ceased to run, somehow Australia seemed to lose some of its heart and spirit.

  To Tony though, life wasn’t new, this place was all he’d known. Arriving at two years old, his only contact with his home country was in the stories and memories of his parents. And in the learning of two languages. Speaking Italian at home, but thinking in English, he lived in an Italian household and survived in a bigoted racist and isolated Australian society.

  At school Tony wasn’t an exceptional student, but as with all dagoes who had the advantage of working six hours a day at a cash register, he was always top of his class in arithmetic. This acumen with adding up and subtracting didn’t however do him a lot of good in his other subjects. Nor did the fact that he had worked three hours before school preparing fish for the day's trade, and had another six hours to work once he’d finished school. The family’s combined labour paid dividends. Nick’s Fish and Chip shop prospered. Within ten years Tony’s father and mother had joined the elite of home owners. It wasn’t far from the shop. Such a luxury after all the years of living in the back of the shop. This was their dream when they decided to come to Australia for a new start. To settle. To own their own business and their own house. Now they had achieved their aim. All they had to do was to continue to work to secure their children’s future, and their own old age. To these new goals the family worked. Just as hard as they had done before, but at least now in the comfort of their own home, away from the smell of fish.

  High school for Tony was where he really discovered he was Italian. Closeted from the broader society at primary school, he was now in a melting pot of kids from a far wider area than his little patch of South Fremantle. This is where he wasn’t protected by mothering teachers. He was on his own. And just as other kids who were different, he had to find his own ways to survive. Young children can be cruel with their honesty. ‘Where did that man’s legs go Mummy?’ can be difficult and embarrassing for a mother of a verbose four year old to answer in a busy and crowded green grocery store, but teenagers take this child like honesty to a new level of cruelty.

  Tony was immediately targeted for simply being a dago, a wog, fat and having a moustache. His parents must’ve arrived in Fremantle by sliding on the grease of previous ities who made their way to Australia from Italy. Busy defending himself, he didn’t really notice how the abo kids, bought down from a remote Aboriginal tribal community in the north west by some do gooders in the local Catholic Church parish, were called chocolate drops, niggers or bungs. The white kids loved the funny story their dad’s told them about how abos got called bungs. ‘Because that’s the sound they make when the
y get hit by the roo bar on the front of a car son.’

  It didn’t really matter what you were. An itie or an abo or a fatty or a mummy’s boy. Teacher’s pet, cry baby. Any small difference was going to be targeted by the other kids. Tony soon learned that almost all kids got targeted one way or another. So he just took it as it came, and as he understood how this peer put down worked, he gave as good as he got. He had his share of fights. Won a few, lost a few, same as all the other kids. He also learned by experience a valuable lesson to take through life. If you are going to pick a fight with someone, pick it with someone smaller than yourself. And if it looks like any possibility of a fight with someone bigger than yourself, hit them before the fight has started, and hit them hard, because it might be the only punch you get in. Then run for your life.

  It wasn’t unusual in 1971 for a boy to leave school at fifteen. After three years at high school, and passing the Junior School Certificate, the only point in carrying on for a further two years was to gain university entrance. As Tony wasn’t breaking any scholastic records, and as the cost of a university education was seen as only affordable by the very wealthy, Tony’s parents wondered if it might be time for him to find a job. As working was nothing new to Tony, it was a simple and easy choice for him to make.

  Fremantle was alive with work for a keen young man. Within two days of leaving school, Tony started work for Simpson’s Transport Company. His job title was storeman, but in practice he was the young shitkicker and tea maker. It didn’t matter to Tony. He thrived on working with men. No more schoolyard humour and pranks. The men he worked with were real Aussie men and punctuated every sentence with the words fuck and cunt at least three times, and it wasn’t to shock, it was just the way they communicated. What wasn’t fucked, or a little cunt of a thing, was bloody good, or not worth a pinch of shit. As with all groups in society there are rules. It took Tony a little while to grasp these rules, but with looking, listening, and the odd clip around the ear from his older workmates he learned quick smart. When Bob the truckie asked Tony to get him a cup of fucking tea, because he was as dry as a nun’s cunt, Tony found out the hard way what not to do. He made the tea just fine, but in delivering it to Bob who was sitting having smoko with a few mates, he handed the cup to Bob and said, ‘Here you are Bob, your cup of fucking tea.’

  Within a millisecond of uttering the last word of what Tony thought was what he should say to become one of the men he was hit across the back of his head with a huge open handed clout by the warehouse foreman. ‘Hey, watch your fuckin’ language,’ echoed in Tony’s ears as his head recoiled from the blow. Tony discovered by trial and error where he was to fit into this group of men. He knew for sure he was at the bottom of the pecking order. This was easy because he got all the shit jobs, and always made the tea for smoko. But he gradually found his place, and accepted it without complaint. And it was easier to conform than get clouted by the warehouse foreman.

  The work ethic Tony had as habit from all his years in the fish and chip shop did him no harm. After two years with Simpson’s Transport, almost to the day, the warehouse foreman craned his neck out of his office and yelled, ‘Hey Tony, get your arse over here!’ Tony came running over as usual. But this wasn’t usual. Instead of being asked to make tea, sweep the back of a truck that had been loaded with incontinent sheep, or run down the Post Office, he was asked to take a seat. Tony’s pulse raced. He could taste bile in the back of his throat. ‘Shit’, he thought as his mind raced, ‘I’m going to get sacked.’

  ‘Tony,’ the foreman started, ‘You’ve been with us now two years, and soon you’ll be turning seventeen. It’s time we had a look at what you do around here.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Tony thought. ‘This is it. I’m in for the chop.

  ‘Tony, I’ve made arrangements for you to take driving lessons. Normally the company’d ask you to do this in your own time and at your own expense, but I’ve discussed your future role with the manager. You know you can’t be tea maker forever,’ he said with a chuckle.

  Tony wore a smile, but the shock of just sitting in the foreman’s office hadn’t entirely worn off yet. But it was slowly sinking into his head that he wasn’t getting sacked. The bile started to obey gravity and head back down his throat.

  ‘We need a driver for small local deliveries. Deliveries too small really for a truck. We believe you’ve shown a great deal of commitment to your job Tony. Do you realise you haven’t had one day off sick since you started with us?’

  Tony didn’t answer, as he knew somehow that this was a statement and not a question.

  ‘Tomorrow morning Tony, I’ll have Bob start giving you driving lessons in the company ute. One hour each morning starting at seven. I’ve booked you in for a driving test at the police station in Fremantle for tomorrow fortnight. Any questions Tony?’

  ‘No sir, thank you very much sir,’ was all Tony could mutter. His head was spinning. ‘Ok son, get your arse out of here, there’s work to be done.’

  This was the first step towards Tony achieving his ultimate qualification. An articulated vehicle licence. Tony didn’t know it then, but his die had been cast. Tony was to be a truck driver.

  With Bob’s patience and swearing, Tony learned how to drive. He passed his test first time. Tony didn’t know that the sergeant at the Fremantle police station was a friend of the warehouse foreman, and unless he had run over a pedestrian or side swiped five cars, he was guaranteed to pass anyway. All that mattered was that he could now drive. He could work with and along side the other drivers. To Tony, working for a transport company meant driving. So, he could see his days of sweeping, unloading and making tea were coming to an end.

  If there was an official end to being the company shitkicker, it came a few weeks after Tony had gained his driver’s licence. He had just finished a delivery to Kwinana, about ten miles south of Fremantle, and was heading for the tea urn, when he heard a familiar shrill.

  ‘Hey Tony, get your arse over here!’ came the bellow from the foreman’s office. Tony walked over to the open office door. He had stopped running to this command since a young lad was hired to take over his shitkicker duties ten days before.

  ‘Tony this is Bill Hodges. He’s the local union rep for the Transport Worker’s Union. You’ll have to join the union now that you’re a driver.’

  ‘Hello Mr Hodges,’ Tony said as he reached out to shake his hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you Tony. Do you know much about the union Tony?’

  ‘Yes sir, some sir. The other men here have told me a little.’

  ‘Well, the union’ll look after you son. I just need to take a few details from you, and have you sign up, and you’ll need to come to our next meeting at Trades Hall. Ok with you?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Tony knew that the transport industry was a closed shop, so he simply had to be in the union. He’d also gleaned in conversations with his workmates that the Union was there to look after workers. So it must be good. And, there was no choice in the matter anyway. Tony was now a driver and a union man. And bloody proud to be just that.

  One of Tony’s regular deliveries was to a ceramic tile wholesaler in Spearwood, an industrial suburb near Fremantle. The palettes of tiles came by ship from overseas, and on semi from the east. Most were small consignments so Tony delivered these in his ute nearly every week. He got to know most of the staff at the warehouse, and one member of the staff really caught his attention. She was a little blonde girl. He thought she was about sixteen, but it’s always a difficult task for a seventeen year old boy to know how old a young lady is. He exchanged glances with her for weeks before he finally summoned up the courage to actually say hello. He finally did, and to his relief she said, ‘Hello, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he struggled to say in his excitement.

  Over the next few weeks, Tony became a little more at ease with the little blonde. At first he had to cut his conversations short, because he was sure she and everyone else within a mil
e would notice him getting a hard on. It was just as well it was a fifteen minute drive back to the depot. He needed all this time just to be able to stand up straight without embarrassment. It took Tony two months before he summoned up the courage to ask her a question he’d been practising in his mind ever since he had first seen her.

  ‘Would you like to go to the drive-in or something on Saturday night?’ he asked with all the surety of someone asking a beggar for a thousand dollars. She seemed to take a fortnight to answer, and Tony thought he’d blown it. But finally she replied in what was really only a second or two. ‘Yeah sure, that’d be great. What’s on?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Tony replied.

  He realised then that he hadn’t planned this too well.

  Tony didn’t know where this innocent beginning was going to lead. He’d just met his future wife.

  Steven

  In the middle of a wet winter in 1971, a P&O liner full of ten pound tourists arrived and berthed at the passenger terminal in Fremantle Harbour. They were immigrants from the United Kingdom, and were called this because it only cost them ten pounds for a one way passage to Australia. The Australian government of the day was keen to have white English stock as migrants. In 1971, England was still referred to as the Mother country or simply home by many Australians. Most had never been there. It was just that the ties of a colony had yet to be fully broken. It was still a time when English accents were needed to get a job with the ABC as a newsreader or announcer.