Do You Dare? Tough Times

by Simon Mitchell

  ‘She is,’ grinned Tom. ‘Completely.’ Joan was unlike any other girl he’d met, and he still wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.

  The crowd outside the factory grew larger as Joan passed the halfway mark. ‘Strewth, she’s like a lizard!’ said Jimmy Bucknor, the man who sold skinned rabbits from a cart in the back lanes. ‘I tried doing that chimney when I was a lad, and ended up with my arm in a sling for two months.’

  Just then Joan’s foot slipped, sending a cascade of tiny pebbles down the side of chimney. Her left leg scrambled desperately against the tower, and for one sickening moment, Tom thought she was about to fall. But Joan’s fingers were wedged firmly in a gap, and she quickly pulled herself back into place and used her toes to find a better foothold. ‘All part of the fun,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Frank turned slightly pale. ‘Mum’ll kill me if she falls off,’ he muttered.

  But Joan scaled the last few metres as easily as the first. The crowd cheered her on and whistled wildly as she hoisted herself over the lip at the top of the chimney and stood on its narrow rim. ‘What do you think of that, Frank Moody?’ she called, holding one hand above her eyes to block out the afternoon sun. Her clothes were covered in dust and soot, and even from 80 feet below, Tom could make out a pink tongue in the middle of her grubby face aimed squarely in Frank’s direction.

  ‘I think you’d better get down here quick smart,’ hollered Frank.

  Joan shrugged and clambered down the side of the chimney, where she was immediately surrounded by a dozen adoring fans. Jimmy Bucknor shook his head in disbelief and pushed his cart off towards Smith Street, calling ‘Rabbit-o . . . Rabbit-o!’ as he went.

  Joan smiled widely as her fans plied her with back-slaps and congratulations. She turned to the Daredevils. ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Top show!’ said Samson.

  ‘That was amazing,’ said Tom, and he meant it. He’d never seen anybody do something that impressive before, let alone a girl.

  Frank was silent. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut, then opened it again. ‘Do you . . . do you wanna join our gang?’

  Tom sent out a silent prayer that Joan would say yes, even though it looked as if his own days as a Daredevil were numbered.

  Joan stared at Frank for a minute, then casually brushed some dirt off the front of her pinafore. ‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ she said.

  Frank nodded solemnly and extended his hand. ‘Then welcome to the Daredevils,’ he said.

  Joan grabbed his hand and shook it firmly, then grinned at Tom and Samson and knelt down to scratch Fungus behind the ears. ‘Finally!’ she said. ‘Took you long enough.’

  6

  Things weren’t any better for Tom’s family by the time the weekend came around. For one thing, Mum hadn’t been able to find work at any of the local factories.

  ‘When they find out I’m married they show me straight to the door,’ she said. ‘They say I should be ashamed of myself for trying to steal jobs from the men.’ She clicked her tongue in disgust and busied herself rearranging the mugs on the kitchen sideboard.

  That didn’t make much sense to Tom – now that Dad was out of work surely it was all right for Mum to try for a job of her own? The world seemed really stupid sometimes.

  Dad had so far stuck to his promise to give up drinking. Every morning he put on his suit and hat and left the house, whistling cheerfully, to look for work. After spending the day trudging round the city and down to the docks at Port Melbourne, he would return home after dark, tired and dejected, and spend the evening slumped in a chair smoking cigarettes rolled toothpick-thin.

  Dad had also sheepishly lined up at the Town Hall in the rain for his first lot of susso vouchers, which Mum took around to the butcher, the grocer and the baker to swap for food. It was barely enough to feed two people, let alone five, but at least it was something, even if Tom’s stomach did keep waking him up in the middle of the night with its growling.

  Saturday morning was hot and overcast, with a few spots of rain and the occasional roll of thunder in the distance. Tom wolfed down his skimpy bowl of porridge, making sure to leave a few smears in the bowl for Fungus to clean up. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I’m not gonna let you starve,’ he said, rubbing Fungus under the chin. There were fewer scraps now, and Fungus’s ribs were starting to show between tufts of fur.

  Dad had already left for the day’s job hunt, and Tom was absentmindedly drawing aeroplanes on the back of a torn envelope when there was a knock at the front door.

  ‘Can you answer that, Tom?’ called Mum, who was busy getting Dot and Petey dressed. ‘It’s probably one of the Sullivan lads – I promised Ted I’d mend a few bits and pieces for them.’

  Tom dashed down the hallway and pulled open the front door. But instead of one of the burly Sullivan brothers from next door, he found a small man wearing a neat, dark suit, a bowler hat and silver glasses that made his eyes look as beady as a pig’s. He held a briefcase in one hand and a black umbrella in the other. He gave Tom a watery smile and Tom immediately decided that he didn’t like the man very much.

  ‘Good morning, young sir!’ said the man. ‘Is this the Parker residence?’

  ‘It might be,’ said Tom suspiciously.

  ‘Might it indeed?’ said the man. ‘Then might your mother or father be home?’

  Tom moved aside as Mum emerged from the bedroom. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Parker,’ said the man. ‘I’m Harold Botherway, a representative of the First Victorian Capital Bank.’

  Mum turned pale. ‘Y . . . yes. How do you do, Mr Botherway?’ she said.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ said Mr Botherway. ‘As you are no doubt aware, you and your husband had a mortgage payment due this week. A sum of ten pounds, I believe. And as the First Victorian Capital Bank did not receive it, they have entrusted me with the task of collecting it from you.’

  Mum ran her hands up and down the front of her apron. ‘I understand, Mr Botherway. But I’m afraid our family has fallen on tough times. My husband lost his job, you see, and we’ve had to rely on government sustenance just to feed the children.’

  Mr Botherway nodded. ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘These are indeed difficult times we live in. But, alas, you and your husband have a contract with the bank, and I daresay I don’t need to remind you of the consequences of breaking that contract. I’ve just come from supervising an eviction a few streets over, as a matter of fact.’

  Tom felt like evicting a few teeth from Mr Botherway’s mouth with his fist, but he stayed quiet and stood firm beside his mother.

  ‘Is there anyone we can talk to about this?’ Mum asked. ‘Perhaps the bank could just give us a little more time, until my husband gets back on his feet . . .’

  Mr Botherway sucked air in through his teeth and shook his head. ‘Very doubtful, Mrs Parker. You could try making an appointment with someone at the bank, but the managers are rather busy dealing with other foreclosures at the moment.’ He paused. ‘Of course, there’s always a chance I could be persuaded to delay the matter for a while longer.’ His words hung in the air.

  Mum pursed her lips. ‘How much?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, ten shillings should do it,’ said Mr Botherway breezily.

  Tom couldn’t believe it. Mum had just told this dirty rotter they didn’t have enough money for food, and now he had the cheek to ask for a bribe! Tom’s heart started pounding in his ears.

  Mum hesitated, then reached into the front pocket of her apron and pulled out a handful of one- and twopence coins. ‘There’s about three shillings here,’ she said, flicking through them. ‘It’s literally all the money we have left.’

  ‘Then that will have to do for now,’ said Mr Botherway, opening his briefcase slightly so Mum could drop the fistful of change in. ‘But I shall call on you again next week. At around the same time, if that suits?’

  Mum didn’t say anything.

/>   Mr Botherway snapped his briefcase shut and turned to leave. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Parker,’ he said, ‘and to you, young sir.’ He tipped his hat and sauntered up the road, humming to himself like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘Now we don’t even have a penny to our name,’ said Mum. ‘Tell me, Tom, what chance have Dot and Petey got of growing up healthy when we can’t even afford milk for them?’ She shook her head furiously and, without waiting for an answer, turned and stormed back into the house.

  The pawnbroker’s window looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since about 1925. Squinting through the grime, Tom could make out the words ‘LW Daley, Licensed Pawnbroker – All goods bought and sold’. Behind the glass, an odd assortment of items were scattered across the shelves – a dented bugle, a collection of china dogs, a crystal radio set, a pair of binoculars and a stuffed possum that looked like it might have spent its last moments underneath the wheels of a motorcar. A group of shabbily dressed young men were hanging about on the corner nearby, passing round a cigarette and talking loudly about the cricket match that was being played at the MCG.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Tom to Fungus. Judging by the effort Fungus was putting into trying to chew his own tail, the porridge scraps he’d had for breakfast hadn’t even come close to filling him up.

  Tom pushed open the glass door of the shop and stepped through. A tinny bell announced his arrival, but Mr Daley didn’t even look up from the gold ring he was polishing with a rag. The shop smelled like mothballs and furniture varnish, and was so full of people’s old possessions that Tom could barely move – everywhere he turned were clocks, floral plate sets, typewriters, vases and silverware. The glass case in front of Mr Daley had so many watches and bits of jewellery in it that it might as well have come out of Aladdin’s Cave. Tom spotted a beautiful model aeroplane hanging from the ceiling and quickly looked away – he knew there was no way he was getting anything like that for Christmas now.

  He tiptoed up to the counter and cleared his throat. Mr Daley stopped shining the ring and peered at Tom. He looked like he might have been using the rag to polish his bald head as well.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked the pawnbroker.

  Tom took a deep breath and pulled the old cigarette tin out of his pocket. He opened it to show Mr Daley his prize collection of cricket cards. ‘I’d like to sell these,’ he said.

  ‘Give us a look, then,’ said Mr Daley, putting down his rag. He took the tin, licked his finger and started flicking through the cards. Tom cringed as the pawnbroker left a damp fingerprint right in the middle of Don Bradman’s baggy green cap. ‘How much do you want for them?’ asked Mr Daley.

  ‘I really need ten pounds,’ said Tom. ‘But I know that’s far too much. How about five bob?’

  Mr Daley let out a ‘Ha!’ so loud that the shelf of candleholders behind him actually wobbled. ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you threepence for the lot, and even that’s being generous.’

  Surely Mr Daley was the one joking? After Tom had spent all year scrimping money, swapping cards with his classmates and stuffing his face with MacRobertson’s sweets (not that the last part was particularly hard work), his precious collection was only worth threepence?

  ‘Well?’ asked Mr Daley.

  ‘Please, Mr Daley,’ said Tom. ‘Surely you can give me at least a few bob? My dad’s lost his job, and we’ll have to move out unless we can raise some money fast.’

  Mr Daley shook his head. ‘D’you know how many people I get in here every day with the same story?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, son, but you don’t even have a full set here. Threepence – take it or leave it.’ He snapped the cigarette tin shut and slid it back across the counter towards Tom.

  Threepence! A fat lot of good that was going to do when they needed ten quid. Still, with threepence Tom could at least buy a pint of milk so Dot and Petey wouldn’t have to go without. He opened the tin for one last look at his card collection and sighed. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Good on you, son,’ said Mr Daley, reaching into his drawer and flicking a threepence coin across the counter to Tom. ‘And I’ll tell you what – if you change your mind, you can come and buy them back any time. With interest, of course.’ He picked up his filthy rag and went back to polishing the wedding ring.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Tom drily, pocketing the coin and wondering how many pints of milk the owners of the wedding ring had got for pawning their most treasured possession.

  Fungus barked from outside the shop, and Tom turned to catch the outline of a box-shaped head peering through the window. Fungus woofed again, louder this time, and the figure retreated quickly and hurried off along the street. The glass was far too dusty for Tom to see clearly, but he could have sworn the bulky silhouette belonged to Razor McGee.

  7

  It was Samson who came up with the bright idea of collecting glass bottles. ‘It’s easy money!’ he said as the Daredevils wandered down Smith Street on Sunday afternoon. ‘We just go around asking people for their old beer bottles, then sell them to the bottle yard for a penny each. We’ll have the ten quid quicker than you can say “elephantiasis”.’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Joan, scratching her head. ‘I reckon the rag-and-bone men have probably got them all.’ The inner suburbs were full of these down-and-out fellows who scraped a living together by collecting bottles, scrap metal and other unwanted junk.

  ‘It could be worth a try,’ said Tom. He was willing to do anything short of selling his right arm that might keep his family in Fitzroy, especially with Mr Botherway coming back in a few days time.

  ‘My oath it is,’ said Frank. ‘We can use the Brown Bullet.’

  The Brown Bullet was Frank’s billycart – a remarkable contraption made from a wooden soap box and old pram wheels that was a source of much of the Daredevils’ fun, as well as most of their scratches and bruises. On weekends they sometimes took it up to Rucker’s Hill to hurtle down the slope at top speed, zooming along so fast that they overtook horses and even the odd motorcar. Tom liked to close his eyes against the rushing wind and pretend he was in the cockpit of a Gipsy Moth, flying above the rooftops of the city, past the scaffold-covered spire of St Paul’s Cathedral and out over the bay.

  So with the Brown Bullet in tow, the Daredevils began scouring the streets of Fitzroy. They started out well enough, finding three empty beer bottles next to a sleeping drunk, followed by two wine bottles donated by the couple who owned the butchery.

  But as the day wore on they realised that Joan was right – most of the area had already been cleaned out by rag-and-bone men. Door after door was slammed in their face by overworked housewives, while the blokes hanging about on street corners simply shrugged and shook their heads.

  Still, the Daredevils trudged on, taking it in turns to yell ‘Bottle-o! Bottle-o!’ as they pulled the cart along, eyes flicking from side to side for the glint of green or brown that could reveal another glassy treasure. It was a warm afternoon, and Tom was sweating like a polar bear in the outback by the time the sun began sinking behind the dome of the Exhibition Building.

  ‘Seven . . . eight . . . nine,’ said Samson, counting the bottles in the cart. ‘Four hours work and we’ve only got nine bottles!’

  ‘It’s hopeless,’ said Tom. ‘I might as well start packing for my grandparents’ place tonight.’

  ‘Oh no you bloomin’ won’t,’ said Frank. ‘The Daredevils never say die.’

  And so the Daredevils spent the next few afternoons after school covering every square inch of Fitzroy and knocking on hundreds of doors. They even waded into Merri Creek to grope around on the muddy floor with their feet, but the only thing they uncovered there was a startled yabby, who took a quick nip at Samson’s big toe before vanishing into the murky water.

  Just before sundown on Tuesday, Tom led the group into a promising laneway behind the Tankerville Arms. But as they turned the corner he spotted mad old Mr Codling shuffling along ahead of them in a moth-
eaten dressing gown and walking his monstrous goat on a leash. Not even game to speak in case the lunatic heard them, Tom frantically signalled for the others to roll the Brown Bullet backwards to safer grounds. As desperate as they were, the chance to add a few more bottles to their collection wasn’t worth being eaten alive for.

  By Wednesday afternoon they had a grand total of 37 bottles – about three shillings worth, which wasn’t even a quarter of a pound. Tom’s heart sank to the bottom of his feet – it would take them years to come up with ten pounds at this rate.

  The final straw came when they circled the Brown Bullet round for another trip up Napier Street and the back left-hand wheel fell off.

  ‘Ah, hell!’ swore Frank, as the edge of the cart hit the footpath and dragged along the cobblestones. He turned and kicked the Brown Bullet as hard as he could, then hopped around in pain like a wounded kangaroo, swearing even louder. A pair of nuns passing by on the other side of the street stopped and crossed themselves, and even Fungus looked shocked.

  ‘Sorry, sisters!’ Frank called sheepishly to the nuns, reaching down to rub his toes.

  Tom slumped to the ground beside the crippled billycart. He felt completely deflated, like a bicycle tyre with a four-inch nail through it. ‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘There’s no way we’re getting that ten quid. It’s impossible.’

  ‘We’ll think of something,’ said Frank, but Tom could tell that he didn’t really believe it.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tom,’ said Joan, taking a seat on the edge of the cart. ‘The Mallee isn’t that far away, you know. We’ll come and visit you in the holidays. Promise!’

  ‘Too right,’ said Samson.

  But Tom knew they wouldn’t – even if they could afford the train fare, there was no way his child-hating grandparents would ever let any of the Daredevils past the front gate.