by Arnold Zable
In one of the corners, wooden doors shut off a tiny closet—with a sink, the bare basics. The toilets are communal, outside, off the corridors.
The window is the saving grace. Open the curtains and there is light—light creates space. Light offers hope.
‘Got the willpower,’ R says. A smile breaks out on his face. He sheds years in an instant. ‘Henry, I’m gonna get through it.’
The smile deepens. He is safe, a child again. Someone is looking out for him. All his problems are momentarily forgotten—the days and nights in search of dealers, body wracked by craving, the search for that beautiful feeling.
He’d do anything for the rush, and anything to lay his hands on the cash. He will withstand the rip-offs, the dealers’ threats and the dark laneways; the beatings as the debts climb higher. And the beatings he in turn will inflict on others to get the money. His body speaks a language of its own, a dialect of defiance that flouts his efforts to kick the habit.
Maybe, just maybe, the methadone will do it. Maybe.
‘Got the willpower,’ R says. As if repeating the words will do it.
The smile deepens, in childlike wonder.
Rapture.
‘Henry, I’m gonna get through it. You can bet on it.
‘Gonna get through it.’
Night is falling. The arched entrance is lit up. Henry runs down the steps. He is hit by the cold and dashes to the Hyundai. He heads back to the city. He is still caught up in R’s battle. He knows that his chances of making it are wafer-thin. He knows he is a breath away from faltering.
He knows it all: the rooming house, the corridors lined with despair, the desolate communal kitchens, the accumulating refuse. And the outbursts of drunken rage: men clutching flagons of cheap wine in the dead of the night, charging up and down the stairs, banging on doors. Tearing apart dreams and peaceful slumber.
‘Let me back in, you fuck’n bitch. Let me back in.’ The shatter of glass, fists thudding into walls, the whip-like crack of slamming doors. And the chant of the threatened: ‘Fuck off you bastard.’
He knows the brutal truth that, despite it all, they are better off here than out on the streets. At least there is a community of sorts, a rundown homeliness, a brotherhood and sisterhood of outcasts.
And Henry knows he has to let it go. Over the years he has acquired the art, first practised in that one-minute interval between rounds, the fight paused, and poised, another round gone, the next about to come. Slumped back in the corner, sucking in air. No point worrying.
He passes the Seafarers’ Mission. He is rounding the corner, driving by the white eaglehawk. He is back on Footscray Road and the docks are approaching. The ferris wheel is moving, one half-hour for a full rotation—ample time to take in the view of the port, the bay beyond, and the river.
The breeze has fallen and the night sky is as transparent as mountain water. He passes the Port Diner, dusty and shabby, and all the more welcoming. A road train is turning into the parking lot. The lights of the mobile notice board, in front of the diner, are enticing.
It will have to keep till morning. Henry has received a call. The ship is in. It has made its stately way through the heads, up the bay, and to its berth upriver. It’s a world unto itself, 263 metres in length, with multiple-storey hatches. The largest ro-ro in the world, boast the seamen. The ship towers over the wharf, and runs the full extent of it. The hold is open. The ramp is down. The cargo is waiting.
Henry turns left off Footscray Road and drives towards Appleton Dock. He draws up to the workers’ parking lot. Again, the car boot is his locker. It’s a cold night. He pulls on overalls over his jeans, a fluoro jacket over his jumper, and makes his way to the security turnstile.
His fellow workers are stepping out of their cars with their kit bags. They are in no hurry. They walk the slow measured pace of those who have a night of labour ahead. They fall into an easy rhythm and drift in and out of conversation. Their jackets glow in the darkness, but on the wharf the ship-lights are blazing.
Henry returns to the Hyundai at sunrise. Winter fog hangs low over the river. The early traffic moves over the Bolte Bridge. The red lights are fading to pink, giving way to daylight. Henry barely registers it.
He unlocks the boot, exchanges his work-shoes for runners and his jacket for a second jumper. He tosses his hardhat onto his discarded gear, backs out, and drives alongside the stacks of shipping containers. The cabins of the ferris wheel are glinting eyes on the city. The wheel is still. It will start its rotations mid-morning. Henry turns left onto Footscray Road, and within minutes he is back in the Port Diner.
23
We meet as arranged at the usual table. The sun warms the dusty perspex, a welcome antidote to the cool winter’s morning. Out in the car park a truck driver sits in his high cabin, like an eagle perched in its eyrie.
As always, Henry requires little encouragement. He jumps up from his breakfast to demonstrate his boxing moves. He ducks and feints, sidesteps to the left, back to the right, in an abrupt acceleration of speed and movement, all the while punching. He’s been on the move for many hours, but his ferocious will counteracts his exhaustion. He still has it in him, he insists. On the docks he can outwork men decades younger, he says.
He takes a sip of water, continues his routine, and quickly regains the rhythm. He weaves and bobs, mindful of his defences. Head down in concentration, body balanced, he leads with left jabs, followed by fierce rips and hooks at an imagined opponent. He twists his fists at the end of each blow. ‘This is how you get maximum impact,’ he says, ‘and how you protect your knuckles.’
At sixty-seven his combinations are fast, and his footwork nimble. Despite his age and weight, he appears tight and compact. ‘You’ve got to catch your opponent off guard. Keep him missing, keep him guessing,’ he says, all the while moving. He inhales short sharp breaths through funnelled lips, followed by sharp exhalations. He is pushing himself to his limits.
He comes to an abrupt halt, drops his arms and smiles in relief. He catches his breath. He’s not done yet, he assures me. Yes. He still has it in him. He is about to launch into another drill, but he takes a call on his mobile.
He leaves his breakfast unfinished, pays the bill, and hurries out into the car park. He is re-energised by a sense of purpose. This is what he lives for: the call to action. Usefulness. Within minutes his yellow Hyundai is in front of me. He drives fast. He is on a mission.
I struggle to keep him in my sights. He darts in and out of traffic, and whips around corners. He takes a shortcut through Docklands. The city high-rises are quickly on him. The clarity of a winter’s day has washed them clean. Upper-storey windows blaze in the sunlight. Cranes rise from construction sites. Henry all but vanishes in the windy canyons.
Just as I am about to lose him he pulls up at a kerb, indicator flashing. He waits till I catch up, then takes off and is soon well ahead again. He is impatient. He weaves through the morning traffic and parks at the edge of the legal district. I join him outside the Magistrates’ Court entrance, and we walk round the corner into Williams Street.
M is relieved to see him. He has been waiting for him. M is twenty-eight years old, but he appears far younger. Henry first met him when he was a boy of ten roaming the grounds of the housing estate in South Melbourne, Dorcas Street. His father had died of an overdose. M moved from dope to barbiturates—Valium and Xanax, then ice and heroin, and to burglaries and assaults to feed his habit.
He served time. Reoffended. Returned to prison. And was recently released after an eighteen-month stint for credit-card fraud—he’d used the card to steal jewellery. ‘Gold mate, a stash of gold: rings and necklaces, bracelets, watches, there for the taking. Enough gold to keep me high for ages.’
He is outside the roller door, waiting for his girlfriend. She is scheduled for release, and is down in the holding cells, about to sign off on her bail conditions. There’s no knowing how long it will take. M knows the cells well. ‘No windows,’ he says, �
�just a hole for the screws to keep an eye on you.’
Henry waits with him. The morning sun hits the pale green dome of the Supreme Court on the corner diagonally opposite. The sandstone facades are gilded by sunlight. Gold, mate, there for the taking.
Solicitors, barristers, magistrates and caseworkers hurry by, clutching briefcases and folders thick with notes and case histories, transcripts of proceedings, police interviews, witness statements—records of criminal pasts and uncertain futures. They are heading to the courts or their offices, or down below to the cells to see clients.
They stop when they see Henry. They are beaming, grateful for this unexpected interlude in their frantic schedules. A crowd is building. Conversations are breaking out on the footpath; work is momentarily suspended.
Henry is the centre, the still point. He is at ease, in his element. He has inexhaustible patience—he will remain at his post for as long as it takes, fully attentive to M’s needs, and welcoming of whoever approaches.
The wind is rising and the skies are darkening. Rain is imminent. The change is sudden. M zips up his jacket. He stamps his feet against the cold. Off drugs he is mild mannered. Polite. Boyish. He is going to go clean, he says. He’s been clean for two months now. There’s a chance, he says, a real chance. It’s different this time. His girlfriend is six months’ pregnant. He’s going to be a father, he says, in awe at the thought, determined.
‘Henry’s a top bloke, grouse bloke,’ he says, digging his hands into his pockets. ‘He hangs out with you. You don’t see him for months, but when you do, you take up where you left off.’
He stops. Then minutes later, another burst: ‘He’s always been good to me, respectful.’ He mulls it over. ‘Like. He’s a friend. Henry’s a friend. He looks out for you.’
The roller door is rising. M’s girlfriend ducks beneath it and steps out. She wears an ankle-length blue skirt, a white hoodie and white runners. She is elated. Through the open doors, down an incline, can be glimpsed the holding cells, a netherworld. For now, she is free of it.
She glances about her, like a hare released from a trap, not quite believing in its unexpected freedom. Not knowing what to do next, momentarily frozen. Suspended. She embraces M and holds on tight, takes in his presence. She is twenty-four, but like her partner she appears far younger than her years: part child, part street-wise adult.
The storm has broken. The rain is bucketing down; the gutters are rising with water. Henry hurries alongside M and his girlfriend to the Hyundai. He drives them back to the suburb where they had first met years earlier. He drops them off at the doctor’s and, an hour later, he meets me at the Seafarers’ Mission.
The mission building is a stone’s throw from the Yarra. The abandoned shipping sheds in the yard behind it are scrawled with graffiti. The wharves that were once here have shifted downstream. The apartment blocks of Docklands tower over it. Cranes rise from scrapers-in-progress. Wurundjeri Way cuts within metres of the entrance. The green-hulled schooner weathervane has been dwarfed into insignificance. Yet the mission complex holds its ground, as it has for close on a century.
Henry occasionally brings seamen here from the port. He meets them by their ships and drives them in the Hyundai or in one of the mission buses. He takes them through the entrance beneath the flying angel—protector of seamen on land and the oceans—her hands outstretched, and her eyes looking downwards.
Inside it’s quiet, the traffic noise muffled. The inner courtyard and chapel are a haven. The garden, with its beds of carnations and lilies, geraniums, orchids, provides tranquility. On the clubroom walls there are photos of crews and gatherings of sailors with sea-hardened faces, their expressions lightened by camaraderie. There are paintings of ships anchored in mist-laden ports, and steamers on wild seas, defying the elements—reflecting the seafarer’s craft, its beauties and perils.
Men come and go. They sit at computers, play pool, table tennis, while away the hours. The wall above the bar is covered with coins and notes, an impromptu gallery of global currency. The built-in cupboards and wardrobes and the wood panelling evoke a ship’s cabin.
‘The men on the ships are isolated,’ says Henry. ‘I’ve met them working on the wharves, and I’ve been bringing them here for ages. They are at home here.’
His arms rest on the red formica tabletop. His black-framed glasses perch high on his nose and his brow is furrowed. He is leaning forward, confiding. His good cheer has given way to reflection.
‘They are like refugees,’ he says, ‘in each port they spend time in. Like M and his girlfriend—they’re refugees from life, and refugees from themselves. It’s not a matter of hope, but of urging them on, and reminding them not to cut corners. It’s about the long haul.
‘M has a chance,’ he says, ‘because he’s trying to help his missus. He’s showing concern for someone else. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll make it.’
Henry knows the odds, figures they’re about thirty per cent for, seventy against. All it takes is one falling out, one rejection, or money worries, and they’ll be back on the streets, enslaved to dealers and creditors.
‘It is all about being there,’ Henry says. ‘That’s what the people of the streets—those who have nothing—respond to. To be of any use, you must be there.
‘You can’t push it. You can’t apply too much pressure, because if you do, they will explode, and they’re coming at you, striking out, drawing you into the ring, where it’s hit or be hit, punch or be punished, re-enactments of the scenes they have known since childhood, and the loss of trust that drove them onto the streets in the first place.’
Henry’s speech is slowed by weariness. His thoughts are fractured by an encroaching forgetfulness, a legacy, his brothers say, of the poundings he received in the ring decades ago.
‘No, you can’t hurry them,’ he says. ‘All you’ll do is make them react. Make them angry. Before you know it, you’re in a fight with them, being told to fuck off. Or they’re arguing with you: “Slow down mate. I can’t do it.”’
The afternoon sun streams in through the arched windows. It falls on Henry’s face and accentuates his exhaustion. Except for a few naps, he’s been on the go for almost two days now. But he doesn’t let go. This is the pattern, the way time works for him: an ongoing interplay between restlessness and patience, weariness and renewed energy.
‘You have to ignore time,’ he says, ‘and enter their space. Earn their confidence. Make them know you care for them. Make them feel you’re on their side, ready to stick up for them. And then, when you’re done, you have to let go of it.’
Henry pauses. He rests his elbows on the table, and clutches his hands to his shoulders, as if protecting himself. It’s a reflexive stance, and for a moment the burden is visible—the years of being out there, responding to calls, keeping at it, the relentless activity.
‘And you have to be in good spirits,’ he says, his arms still wrapped around him. ‘It gives the kids confidence, and it helps me defuse their anger and confusion. It makes them feel comfortable.’
Henry is a thinker, but on the streets he thinks lightly. If he thought too hard he would lose what he has to offer: his good cheer. He is wrapped in it, layer on layer of cheerfulness. It protects him so that, in turn, he can protect others. It is a shield fashioned over decades of application. Training.
His good cheer is an antidote to an intensity that would have long ago overwhelmed him. And good cheer is what sustains him in his own addiction to the streets, and his need to be out and about and heading to the next appointment, yet another encounter.
It’s a trait Henry has nurtured over a lifetime—good cheer in the face of chaos and confusion. Despair. Violence. It’s the art of the peacemaker. Good cheer put to the service of defusing.
It’s a trait forged in dormitories of bunk beds, adjusting to yet another group of strangers, the interminable months waiting for a mother’s return, and the drawn-out weeks waiting for a father’s Sunday visits. Shaped in a single-fron
ted cottage, standing by, watching a mother and father locked in battle. Begging them to stop.
It’s a trait that extends beyond his homilies about life and love and caring, and beyond Henry’s craving to be known, and to be praised and feted, beyond his love of the limelight and the simple storyline by which he defines himself—the script he repeats again and again with the barest prompting, of the child who fought his way up, overcame the odds and triumphed.
And there is something deeper than his good cheer. The steel at the core, the unbroken spirit. The pugnacious wisdom of the stayer, the long distance athlete—the creed of the fighter.
24
The mantra resurfaces. Mum, poor girl. It catches Henry unawares, even now, in the Seafarers’ Mission. His gaze is turned inwards. His elbows remain propped on the red formica. He tightens his grip on his shoulders.
Mum, poor girl. It will always be there. It cannot be otherwise. Yet something is incomplete. She must be seen again, restored. Revisited.
She cannot venture outside. She is in fear of open spaces, afraid of people, but afraid also of the suffocating rooms, the passage, and in fear of the day as it makes its slow way through the hours.
The house is given over to stillness, leached of noise, of the hum of daily living. Her husband and children are out in a world she is not part of.
She clings to the routines, and performs her chores. She goes from the kitchen to the tiny backyard to attend to the washing. She lights the wood-fired copper in the outhouse, and turns on the taps. She slaps and beats the sheets and pillowslips, towels and tablecloths, the clothes of a family of six. And she is pregnant with the fifth child.