Remember Ronald Ryan

by Barry Dickins

  WALKER: We’re free. How’s that feel?

  RYAN: We’re cooking with gas now, boy. You beauty!

  WALKER: Where now?

  RYAN and WALKER quarrel in the car.

  RYAN: Up Bell Street, not down it.

  WALKER: I am up it. You go down it.

  RYAN: Is there any gas in it? I said is there any gas in it? Does it say ‘E’ or what? Why don’t you look at the petrol gauge, Peter? Look at the fucking petrol gauge.

  WALKER: You’re the one who’s empty, mate.

  RYAN: Where we going to go to? Who’s going to look after us?

  WALKER: Not even Saint Christopher would accompany us up Nicholson Street now, mate.

  RYAN: Vanguard, is that a Vanguard? Are they a good vehicle? Can you trust a Vanguard?

  WALKER: Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. You’ve got me in enough strife, you dickhead. Where’d you get it from? Where’d you get it from?

  RYAN: Get what from? What are you talking about?

  WALKER: The plan to get out. How much was it? Whatever it was, you paid too much for it.

  RYAN: The other man got cold feet.

  WALKER: The least you could’ve done is tee up a car. Why didn’t you tee up a bloody car?

  RYAN: Let me think. Let me think. I can’t think.

  WALKER: Fancy paying for a sure-fire plan like this.

  RYAN: My head’s going to burst, it’s gonna break.

  WALKER: There’s half a tank. There is a God.

  RYAN: Does the needle go past ‘E’?

  WALKER: Shut up.

  RYAN: Does it?

  WALKER: Why did I go with you?

  RYAN: It’s not romantic now, is it?

  RYAN bursts into laughter.

  WALKER: Of course it’s not romantic now. Where are we off to? Where are we going to?

  RYAN: Where did we come from? That’s the real question.

  WALKER: What’s that intersection there?

  RYAN: Heaven and Hell.

  WALKER: It’s Newmarket Street, isn’t it?

  RYAN: Definitely.

  WALKER: Right or left to our mate’s place?

  RYAN: His light’s off. Do a yoowee.

  WALKER: What’s this other place? His light’s on, isn’t it? Let’s pull up here. Do you know how to use that rifle or don’t you? How many shells left in it?

  RYAN: It played up earlier; it ejects funny. There should be one or two in it.

  WALKER: Christ, what a day. I need a beer, bad.

  They alight the car to enter Keith Hurley’s.

  RYAN: Kensington, Keith Hurley’s place. His missus likes me. She’ll let us in. Keith’s not much fun. Though we better tee up those bodgie plates soon.

  Sirens wail. Shots ring out. KEITH HURLEY greets RYAN and WALKER at his door.

  HURLEY: How can I help you?

  WALKER: We’re escaped criminals. How do you do? Let us in, Keith, will you!

  HURLEY: You might be a bit too hot. I’ll get done for.

  MRS HURLEY: Come on in, boys, the water’s fine. At last. Company! God, Flemington’s dead.

  They enter the Hurley premises. They relax for the first time since the escape. MRS HURLEY is there.

  You stay here as long as you like. We’re redecorating. It’s only Kensington. But we’ll move up to South Yarra, don’t worry about that.

  RYAN: You’re a lovely person, Mrs Hurley, for taking us in.

  HURLEY: This is harbouring.

  WALKER: A safe harbour. With boats on it. Little boats.

  HURLEY: I could cop time for letting you blokes do this.

  MRS HURLEY: Then cop some time and shut up. Chop us some tomatoes and pull your finger out.

  RYAN: You tell him, Missus Hurley.

  HURLEY: What about the radio reports?

  RYAN: What? Brian Henderson? He can’t sing. He’s no good.

  WALKER: We won’t be here long. I think Jesus said that. It’s so hot. It’s like a cauldron. Cops everywhere. Shut up, all of you!

  HURLEY: Sorry we haven’t got any air conditioning. We’re saving up for a new set of lungs.

  Sirens and garbled news reports.

  RYAN: We did so much time. And now we can do time with friends like Keith and Mrs Keith.

  MRS HURLEY makes cheese and tomato sandwiches.

  I love Keith and Mrs Keith. The sight of cheese and tomato sandwiches getting made. How good is that? A real family.

  WALKER: Only a little thing, Ron.

  RYAN: That’s what joy is made of. You’ve got to bring it over to your side.

  HURLEY: I don’t know how long you’se can prop.

  POLICE RADIO: Ringwood Maroondah Highway. Bacchus Marsh Western Highway. Kilmore Hume Highway. Woodend Calder Highway. Interrupt broadcast. Stolen car PA2 002 located and eliminated. Country roadblocks at the following places: Geelong, Princes Highway and Bacchus Marsh intersection. Ballarat, Ballarat and Ararat Roads. Seymour Benalla Nagambie intersection. Heathcote Elmore Bendigo. Castlemaine Maryborough Road. Portland Tyrandarra turn-off. Hamilton St Arnaud Dimboola Kaniva Beulah Ouyen Mildura Echuca Deniliquin Cobram Shepparton Wangaratta Warragul Morwell Sommerville Korumburra South Gippsland Highway Bairnsdale on Mitchell’s Bridge Cann River on River Bridge. From Swan Hill on roadblocks at Nyah and one at Toolibuc.

  RYAN: Why do you like me, Mrs Hurley? If that’s not a rude question.

  MRS HURLEY: You give life.

  RYAN: I’ll remember you said that.

  The mates awake in the middle of the night. They are sweating.

  POLICE RADIO: To cancel these roadblocks ring Swan Hill 21180. 1868 hours to all regional stations. To press liaison office for publicity, body at City Mortuary. Notice to all suburban trains. Message from man (hung up) Ryan may go to 3 Hunter Street Hawthorn. 1534 hours check address of George Gardiner of 14 Raglan Street Port Melbourne. Check address of Mr X and Mr X had a telephone call to the effect that he has informed on Ryan. I have arranged to guard his present address. I believe escapees may be at 38 Dryer Street South Melbourne.

  RYAN: Fuck, it’s hotter than one with the lot.

  WALKER: Let’s bail out. It might be a trap.

  RYAN: Back on the frog.

  WALKER: Back on the frog.

  RYAN: You are my load. My lovely load.

  They crash to sleep in their makeshift home. They talk to one another as if boys.

  What would you like to be remembered for, Peter?

  WALKER: That I won the Stawell Gift. On one leg.

  RYAN: Do you know how I’d like to be remembered?

  WALKER: No.

  RYAN: The Man who Loved his Wife and Family.

  POLICE RADIO: To Victoria Dock check Princess of Tasmania. Walker friendly with a man at Cobram. 1618 hours Walker possible in second-last car on train due at Malvern. Smithfield Road near abattoirs men seen changing clothes in a Vanguard. No sign of Vanguard. No sign in Smithfield Road when we passed there. Checking racecourse area. 1637 hours interstate message to Sydney and Adelaide from Civic Taxi driver got it from an interstate truck driver who saw the Vanguard twenty minutes ago. Check Footscray Flemington area. A-1 and A-2 both have gas and carbines on board.

  RYAN and WALKER excitedly chat about their past lives, trying to settle down for the night.

  WALKER: Are you awake?

  RYAN: Awake-up to you.

  WALKER: What are you thinking about?

  RYAN: The mighty Murrumbidgee.

  WALKER: You’re kidding.

  RYAN: I lived there after the Boys Home. It’s funny how things come back.

  WALKER: When you never expect them to.

  RYAN: Everything’s been so hectic lately.

  WALKER: You’re not wrong, Ron.

  RYAN: We’ve both crossed over the line.

  WALKER: It was inevitable, what happened.

  RYAN: I suppose we’ll both hang.

  RYAN: Three years I lived there, on the banks of the Mighty Murrumbidgee. Balranald, funny name. When I politely vanished from the Boys Ho
me I met Mr Smith, of Balranald.

  WALKER: Anyone else would believe you, Ron.

  RYAN: I heard there was work.

  WALKER: That’s not like you.

  They laugh.

  RYAN: Work cutting sleepers for the New South railways. Ron and George Smith took me in, for a time. I boarded with old Sam. Good people they are, probably still living up there. Sleeping among the red gums like kids. George showed me how to hit the wedges in. You had to split them in two. You looked at a tree to see how many you could get out of it. We ate bunnies and sipped a single shandy—at the end of the week. I suppose there was something noble in slave labour like that. I got around with Wingy.

  WALKER: Who was Wingy?

  RYAN: My half-brother with half a body. He lost an arm, run over by a tram as a child. Christ, he was strong though, he worked harder than most of them, good with the axe was Wingy, he used to sip grog like this.

  He shows the drinking style of Wingy.

  I used to take their pay from them after work. Poker. Aces from the bottom of the deck. Like taking milk off a baby.

  WALKER: You’ll have me crying in a minute.

  RYAN: My first job was at Balranald. I cased the Commercial Bank. Hit the boss over the noggin with my rifle and broke it in half and he never even fell over. They fired at me.

  WALKER: That’s a bit rude.

  RYAN: I took off.

  WALKER: Can’t say as I blame you.

  RYAN: Swam the Murrumbidgee and burnt my clothes in someone’s incinerator.

  WALKER: How scientific.

  RYAN: I got into my bed at home with my underpants on.

  WALKER: Good thinking.

  RYAN: When the jacks called, Mum said I’d been asleep all night. How could they prove otherwise?

  WALKER: You could’ve got three years for that.

  RYAN: Yes, I’ve always been tinny, haven’t I?

  WALKER: I’m English. I came over by boat.

  RYAN: Then you’re a practising masochist.

  WALKER: All the world’s a prison.

  RYAN: And all the prisoners merely dickheads.

  They light smokes.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. People help me and I betray them. I don’t think anyone in Balranald will cry for me. But if I was up there they’d take me in. And you. That’s how it is in the bush. My old lady and old man used to be cupboard drinkers. They’d prop me up all night sipping ten-bob horror. I suppose it was like TV. I think of them. I suppose I love them.

  WALKER: I think Wingy was the best of the lot. We’re all Wingy, aren’t we?

  RYAN: The Murrumbidgee. Clean, faithful. Like Dorothy. Before we got greedy. I fucking wished I’d married a tram conductress.

  WALKER: Sleep, mate. It’s late. In the morning I’ll shout you a root.

  RYAN: Goodnight, mate. Are we in trouble…?

  Slow fade to black.

  POLICE RADIO: Possibly Walker will head to Footscray area re a Bobby Coleman of 11 Primrose Street Essendon who he threatened when he gets out. Woodend Road block. Seen nothing. No luck on train.

  RYAN: What a lot of fuss.

  Musical bridge—Mozart music interlude fades to Sunday tea at Dorothy’s parents’ mansion, Mr Harold George’s residence. Posh. Mozart. MRS GEORGE. MR GEORGE. DOROTHY sipping broth at 7:00 p.m. Seven gongs. Then GOUGH, the butler, presents beef broth for three. All politely sip soup.

  DOROTHY: What would occur if broth arrived at one minute past seven?

  MRS GEORGE: [sipping her broth] That would be the end.

  MR GEORGE: What did you do after work, my love?

  MRS GEORGE: I don’t have to work. You’re a Mason.

  MR GEORGE: I mean what did Dorothy do, darling?

  DOROTHY: Well, I work with you. I don’t know what you mean, Father.

  MR GEORGE: How is your young man going. Ron, is that it?

  MRS GEORGE: How common Ron is. Who ever heard of Ron? It sounds incorrect.

  DOROTHY: He makes wheels for Olympic Tyres, Mother.

  MR GEORGE: We need wheels. You can’t roll anywhere without them. I immensely like Ron.

  DOROTHY: [kissing her father] Good on you, Dad.

  MR GEORGE: [feeling the kiss from his happy daughter] Good on me, Dad.

  MRS GEORGE rings GOUGH for broth removal.

  MRS GEORGE: Off broth, Gough!

  GOUGH picks up broth cups, exits silently.

  MR GEORGE: [staring after GOUGH] I like Gough.

  MRS GEORGE: Where does Ron abide, dear?

  DOROTHY: In heaven, Mother.

  MR GEORGE: Our darling Dorothy is certainly smitten, Mother.

  MRS GEORGE: Olympic Wheels and walking back to Footscray. I have the gravest doubts about this human. Darling, why couldn’t you obtain a sweet and suitable young accountant named Ian? I have always trusted Ians. They are as reliable as rain.

  MR GEORGE: And equally depressing. I loathe Ians. Ians aren’t much chop at building hearses. I have let go several Ians.

  Lights go out, Mozart up, DOROTHY out. MR and MRS GEORGE stare at each other.

  [To himself] It’s hard to know what to say when you live like us.

  Courtship scene with RYAN and DOROTHY. They are strolling along the Yarra Bank. Yarra Bank birds are heard splashing of the water.

  DOROTHY: Mother thinks you’re a larrikin.

  RYAN: I honestly do not know how she has formed that opinion. I have always liked her.

  DOROTHY: The clothes don’t matter.

  RYAN: Oh, yes they do.

  DOROTHY: My family are straitlaced, Ron.

  RYAN: Your old man’s the Mayor of Hawthorn, isn’t he?

  DOROTHY: A man has to do something with his time.

  RYAN: My love for you is something of my time.

  DOROTHY: Do you love me?

  RYAN: I do.

  DOROTHY: Even though you work at Olympic Tyres in Footscray?

  RYAN: Especially because.

  DOROTHY: I love you, Ron, I really do. You’re peculiar.

  RYAN: I will keep you in the furs that you are expected.

  DOROTHY: God bless you, Ron.

  RYAN: Someone has to.

  They walk off, arm in arm. RYAN looks at his cigarette and stamps it out.

  One day they won’t be Turf.

  It is Sunday tea at Mr and Mrs George’s palatial residence in Brighton. GOUGH serves Hermitage, chilled Riesling. Those present at table include MR GEORGE, MRS GEORGE, DOROTHY george and RYAN, in his best threads. The atmospherics are not exactly George Formby. It is boiling hot. A fan twirls deliriously.

  GOUGH: Riesling, Ron?

  RYAN: How do you pronounce it? Riesling or Rhysling?

  GOUGH: With a hard ‘e’.

  RYAN: Riesling. Alright, I’ll partake of a white Riesling, Gough.

  GOUGH: It’s Riesling or Reez-ling.

  RYAN: Make it Hock. [To everyone] It’s all the same to yours truly.

  MRS GEORGE: A superb cut of garment, Ronald dear.

  RYAN: Not a bad bag of fruit.

  MR GEORGE: And how are your chums at Olympic Tyres?

  RYAN: For black men they are white men.

  RYAN laughs, sips his wine. DOROTHY holds RYAN’s hand as he sips his wine.

  MRS GEORGE: And what exactly do you do with your Olympic Wheels?

  RYAN: I’m a moulder.

  MRS GEORGE: I beg your pardon?

  RYAN: I mould.

  MRS GEORGE: You are a moulder?

  RYAN: We mould the shapes. Ever heard of recaps?

  DOROTHY: Recaps, Mother.

  MRS GEORGE: I assumed that was a dental term.

  DOROTHY: I think this conversation is becoming a trifle strained.

  RYAN: Give us a hoy, Mr George, and I’ll get you some recaps for one of your hearses. Winter treads. You’ll be able to do a wheelie in them.

  MR GEORGE: We import our tyres. From Bendigo.

  RYAN: Dorothy reckons you knock up a top hearse, Mr George. Maybe I’ll get a ride in o
ne one day.

  DOROTHY: Don’t say such things, dear. We have only just met.

  RYAN: That’s right. Lovely, isn’t she? You are! What a pearl, Girlie.

  MRS GEORGE: Minted lamb.

  RYAN: How do you get ’em to eat the mint? Force it down ’em, do you?

  MR GEORGE: Do you long to improve your station?

  RYAN: As long as I can get on the train I’ll be right.

  DOROTHY: [whispering] Don’t try so hard. Why are you?

  RYAN: They make you try hard. Jesus, this Bonox stuff is corker. Oi. Gough. Sling us up another bowl of it.

  They consume their minted lamb with Mozart.

  MR GEORGE: Do you like Mozart, Ron?

  RYAN: He’s alright, for an Abo.

  MRS GEORGE: How many work at Olympic Mould?

  RYAN: Not many. They’re all bludgers.

  DOROTHY: Ron is saving for a car.

  RYAN: [whispering to DOROTHY] A getaway one. Let’s get away!

  MR GEORGE: And how are things at your boarding house?

  RYAN: I was first at the family pie last night and got eleven forks in the back of the hand.

  DOROTHY and RYAN laugh like anything.

  MR GEORGE: It’s competitive then.

  RYAN: You might say that, Mr George. Gee, isn’t it hot in here? Can we open the windows?

  DOROTHY: Yeah.

  MRS GEORGE: [correcting her daughter] Yes.

  MR GEORGE: Don’t pick on her.

  MRS GEORGE: Are you of a rural origin?

  RYAN: Dad’s a timber cutter when he hasn’t got the horrors.

  MRS GEORGE: How fascinating.

  RYAN: Not really. He hates it when he sobers up. Been doing it too long.

  MRS GEORGE: Work is such a bore.

  RYAN: He taught me to do anything. Tree felling. Charcoal burning. Timber cutting. Fox skinning. Hob nobbing.

  MRS GEORGE: Is there much demand for fox skinning?

  RYAN: [whispering to DOROTHY] It’s getting a bit tense, isn’t it?

  MR GEORGE: Do you take coffee, Ronald?

  RYAN: Where do I take it? Back to the boarding house. God, I’m dying to tell you.

  RYAN and DOROTHY collapse in an attack of the giggles.