Remember Ronald Ryan

by Barry Dickins

  RYAN: Yes, sir.

  OPAS: Halfway to Canberra?

  RYAN: I’m not sure about Canberra. We were definitely up in the air.

  OPAS: Why did you circle Essendon Airport?

  RYAN: I wasn’t aware we circled Essendon Airport.

  OPAS: You circled it several times, but you put down at Laverton.

  RYAN: We put down at Laverton.

  OPAS: Tell me how you escaped.

  RYAN: [reliving the escape] I was stuck in boob for yonks. The end of ’64 this was, like I’d had enough. Some can do more or less can. I found it impossible for me to rot. The wife had divorce proceedings dished up to me in H. Now I happen to love the family. It was one thing or another. It came to me… [Whispering] Liberty.

  OPAS: Let us now speak of the trajectory of the bullet.

  RYAN: You’re wasting your time.

  OPAS: You’d have to be nine feet tall to shoot him, wouldn’t you? [Out to the audience] If Ryan did not fire the shot, who did? One starts with the evidence of Dr McNamara, the pathologist. This evidence cannot be contravened and shows that the bullet entered Hodson’s body one inch above the right clavicle. It travelled from right to left, from front to back, and emerged seven inches to the left of the point of entry at a point one inch lower (measured from the soles of the feet) than the point of entry. If Hodson were standing upright at an angle of ninety degrees to the roadway, as some witnesses deposed, then it was mathematically demonstrable that Ryan, being inches shorter than Hodson, could not have fired a shot that travelled downward through Hodson’s body, as the pathologist’s evidence disclosed that the bullet had not deviated between entry and exit but had followed a straight path in the body.

  RYAN: Nobody will ever listen to you. You’re a voice in the wilderness.

  OPAS starts to exit.

  OPAS: [going past a GUARD upstairs] Then I shall have a nervous breakdown.

  GUARD: [reading a telegram] Telegram for you, Ron. A. Rylah, Attorney General, 205 William Street, Melbourne. We wish, as Law teachers, to support Monash Law teachers’ view that new evidence in Ryan case should be referred to a judicial tribunal for evaluation and that pending such evaluation the hanging should be stayed.

  Loud Pentridge bells and prison gates.

  The Governor’s office. FATHER JOHN BROSNAN, the Catholic priest at Pentridge, and GOVERNOR GRINDLAY.

  GRINDLAY: Ryan wants to revert, Father Brosnan. Can you see to it? Wants to go back to being a Catholic.

  FATHER JOHN: Can’t say as I blame him, Mr Grindlay.

  GRINDLAY: On his marriage certificate he’s C of E.

  FATHER JOHN: Is he?

  GRINDLAY: Well, he wants to be a Pat again.

  FATHER JOHN: Then he is a Pat, isn’t he? It’s only a wish.

  GRINDLAY: What’s involved?

  FATHER JOHN: It’s just like re-registering a car.

  GRINDLAY: You know, Father. Some of the worst murderers in here are Baptist.

  FATHER JOHN: I wonder why that is?

  GRINDLAY: It’s their music. It depresses them.

  FATHER JOHN: Obviously.

  GRINDLAY: Ryan’s wife was Church of England, wasn’t she? What was her name?

  FATHER JOHN: Mrs Ryan.

  GRINDLAY: Yes, I know that. What’s her first name? Her Christian name? Why doesn’t she come in to see him?

  FATHER JOHN: They’re divorced.

  GRINDLAY: Of course. That accounts for it.

  FATHER JOHN: If Ryan had married a Mick from Preston he wouldn’t be in here. He married out of his class, didn’t he?

  GRINDLAY: There may be something in that. But the way he was going, it was impossible for him to marry beneath him. He would’ve had to marry a dead greyhound.

  FATHER JOHN: Once a Catholic always a Catholic.

  GRINDLAY: Who said that?

  FATHER JOHN: Me! Just then!

  GRINDLAY: You can revert him or convert him today, Father John, if you like.

  FATHER JOHN: What’s he like? Ryan? Nobody knows much about him, do they?

  GRINDLAY: Staunch. Amusing. Funny. Funny peculiar. But not violent. Unpredictable. A fool and a pupil of philosophy. He’s probably had too much boys home. Permanent brain damage.

  FATHER JOHN is let into Ryan’s cell in H Division.

  GUARD: He’s in here, Father.

  The GUARD unlocks the cell door with a gigantic set of keys, FATHER JOHN goes inside.

  FATHER JOHN: Ronald Ryan?

  RYAN: Spencer Tracy?

  They laugh and shake hands.

  FATHER JOHN: The Governor tells me you want to revert back to being a Pat. Is that right, Ron? You want to be a Catholic again, my boy? It’s the only decision!

  RYAN: In my present predicament I think it’s a step in the right direction. I was reared a Pat. Married Church of England. I thought I might die with some pageantry.

  FATHER JOHN: Die with dignity.

  RYAN: Never mind the dignity.

  FATHER JOHN: Where are you from, Ron?

  RYAN: Richmond.

  FATHER JOHN: What street?

  RYAN: Cotter Street, fifteen. It’s demolished. Used to be a weatherboard. I had a yard once, like everyone else, except I never paid for it.

  FATHER JOHN: You may not die. The death sentence may be commuted.

  RYAN: Better off you are in heaven than this loveless environment.

  FATHER JOHN: It hasn’t got much going for it, has it, Pentridge? We should call in Whelan the Wrecker. Put the ball through it!

  RYAN: Do you reckon you can get me something to read?

  FATHER JOHN: What would you like?

  RYAN: Something uplifting.

  FATHER JOHN: How about Home Beautiful?

  RYAN: I’ve been in H Division a year. All this talk about stays and appeals appals me, I tell you. I don’t want to live here. Lost the wife and children. She wouldn’t let me see them. What’s the point of anything?

  FATHER JOHN: Don’t hate her, Ryan. She’s a good person. She’s just frightened.

  RYAN: She wasn’t loyal. What do you do about these beautiful Hawthorn sheilas? Rich girls look better, don’t they? Better doctors. Perfect delivery. I don’t know, something. They always look better.

  FATHER JOHN: Just come to Mass. There’s nothing to fill in.

  RYAN: That’s how I feel. Like a hole. I got a quarry inside me.

  FATHER JOHN: Have my Bible. Keep it. You know it. Read it again.

  RYAN: What’s that you’ve got marking your place? A bit of newspaper.

  FATHER JOHN: Race results at Caulfield. Last night’s Herald.

  RYAN: Apparently there’s a horse called Son of Man running tomorrow. Can you put a unit each way on him for me, Father? Good name for a horse, isn’t it? Don’t you reckon?

  FATHER JOHN: Son of Man.

  They chuckle. FATHER JOHN exits the cell. RYAN sits.

  RYAN: [to GUARD] What do you see when you get to heaven, screw?

  GUARD: D Division.

  The condemned cell.

  GUARD: The Governor Mr Grindlay to see you, Ron.

  GRINDLAY: It’s a bit of bad news, I’m afraid, Ronald. The Cabinet.

  RYAN: The Cabinet.

  GRINDLAY: The Cabinet have decided to hang you.

  RYAN: I am sorry it’s got to be you, Mr Grindlay. I am sorry I got you into this trouble.

  Light up in a convent. Three little old SISTERS are reading a letter from RYAN, spoken by him upstage. They read the little note by blue candlelight. Soft light up on RYAN in his condemned cell. RYAN reads aloud as the three SISTERS patiently stare at the letter.

  RYAN: I cannot lay claim to my mother’s unswerving faith and devotion, hence I would appreciate your intercession on my behalf through your prayers. I have a fairly resilient nature which enables me to remain in reasonable spirits and make the best of any bad situation. I employ my time by reading, playing chess and a little quiet prayer.

  He undoes a Christmas parcel.

  Thanks for the fruit
cake.

  He eats a piece of it.

  GUARD: Are you interested in politics, Ron?

  RYAN: I am now.

  GUARD: I think power is fascinating, don’t you?

  RYAN: I suppose it can be abused. You’d have to use it wisely.

  GUARD: Look what happened to you.

  RYAN: Look what happened to me.

  GUARD: I happen to be a Marxist-Leninist.

  RYAN: I assumed you were a Liberal.

  GUARD: It’s a shame about you.

  RYAN: Is it?

  GUARD: You’ll be getting your breakfast shortly. Bacon and eggs. That’s something to look forward to.

  RYAN: I wouldn’t mind a walk.

  They chuckle.

  GUARD: Your wife, Ron. Dorothy.

  DOROTHY stands opposite RYAN.

  RYAN: I never thought I’d see you again.

  DOROTHY: Me either.

  RYAN: Why didn’t you write to me? I wrote to you.

  DOROTHY: I don’t enjoy writing. I’ve remarried. He’s dead. Had a heart attack having a cup of tea in his chair. How are you?

  RYAN: That’s a shame. It’s the only thing I believe in in here, I tell you. Reading. Not even a friendly word, any word helps. Not a word from you. And you wouldn’t let me see the kids, would you? Or let ’em write to me. You tried to put me in. I thought you cared about me.

  DOROTHY: It was getting out of hand. It’s all a bit much, really. There’s a big difference between knocking over a butcher shop and killing someone.

  RYAN: You should’ve answered my letters, that was heartless.

  DOROTHY: Killing a person isn’t heartless? Oh, let’s not argue. There’s not much time. Let me look at you. You’ve got lice. What are they feeding you on? So pale?

  She examines his hair.

  So pale, Ronnie!

  RYAN: [to the GUARD sitting by the cell] What are you looking so down in the mouth about, pal? You don’t have to hang. Why don’t you cheer up?

  DOROTHY: Are you going to talk to me? Do you forgive me?

  RYAN: Oh, Girlie. I keep thinking of the girls. How are they? I bet they get stirred at school. They call them daughters of the devil! Jan’s good at basketball, isn’t she? She likes her teacher, doesn’t she, that Phys Ed bloke. I keep seeing them, you know, seeing them and smelling their hair. [He is crying.] Sorry, sorry. I didn’t know you were coming in. Haven’t seen anything good in here since a sunset I saw once in H Division. I’ve been reading the Bible every day. I thought I’d make peace with my Maker. You’re my maker, Dorothy! You made me happy for the first time in my life.

  DOROTHY: Eight thousand seven hundred pounds worth of ham, Ron. Why?

  RYAN: Oh, the Huttons job, that was a bit of a fizzer, wasn’t it? Jesus, was it worth that much? Oh, what a mess tears make. I haven’t even got a hankie.

  DOROTHY: No-one steals that amount of ham, darling, do they? What did you do with it all? Circulate it around the pubs, did you?

  RYAN: I masterminded it getting circulated round pubs. Took 87,000 weeks. Maybe I’m not a professional burglar. Hey, I’m a bungler. Don’t hate me.

  DOROTHY exits.

  You find them in you. The ones you worship are in you. You front the Almighty by seeing them in you. You’re a part of all of them. A world family it is. I’m sorry, George, I just couldn’t do any more can. Listen, you can hear the Coburg City Council hosing the roads down. What I’d give to look at it. Just ordinary things. Homes. Road machines. Parks. God, what I’d give to walk through a park!

  He gazes at the stars through the condemned cell window. Crickets and distant droning cars. Early morning Sydney Road trucks growl and are overtaken by a Christian group outside Pentridge singing ‘Silent Night’. The song concludes.

  [At the window, staring out] Whingers!

  Blackout.

  Lights slowly fade up as RYAN stares at DOROTHY as if a dream.

  RYAN: It’s on tomorrow. They really are going to do it. I’ll never see my family again. I’d better pray harder than ever.

  He relives working as a timber cutter.

  When I worked for you, Mr Johnson, logging and timber cutting, you were good, you stuck up for me. Money you paid me was good. You stood out. Decent fellow.

  The GUARD provides JOHNSON’S VOICE.

  JOHNSON’S VOICE: Thirty-five pound a week. Even forty. You were a good worker, Ron. Good home man.

  RYAN: Every second weekend there for a while I went to the kids. And Girlie. She got on the other end of the saw with me. She had her kids in the bush. I always got her to a hospital in time. I did my best by her!

  JOHNSON’S VOICE: Ryan’s a cut above most of these fellows. I can’t bring back any of their names. But you remain. I’ll remember you, Ryan.

  RYAN: Thanks, Keith.

  JOHNSON’S VOICE: You organised the blokes good. You kept an accurate record of moneys due to each of them. You kept yourself clean and tidy and all your tools in very good order.

  RYAN: You’ll have me crying in a minute. And what about you, Mr Harding, of the Police Company Squad? What do you reckon about me?

  BRIAN HARDING appears.

  HARDING: I had the honour to first arrest you.

  RYAN: That’ll get you a beer.

  HARDING: I wouldn’t drink it, Ron. We called you Homing Pigeon, you were just so obviously going back to your nest.

  RYAN: Yeah. Forgery. What a joke. The Michelangelo of Warrnambool racetrack.

  HARDING: The cheques weren’t very good, Ron. You’ll have to do better than that in the Warrnambool-Port Fairy-Koroit area.

  RYAN: What was I like?

  HARDING: Tough. Impossible to question. Drooping left eye permanently damaged by severe ulceration in childhood. Intelligent. Hobbies: fitness and warehouses. An unusual criminal. Thirty-one before you committed your first offence. Got your Leaving and Matric in jail, didn’t you?

  RYAN: Leaving and Matric. They’ve stood me in good stead. Where would I be without them? Jail’s given me a lot when I think about it.

  HARDING: You were a mug.

  RYAN: Thanks, Brian. [Desperate] I like letters. I like talk. I need it! They’re like voices! They are voices! Everyone is a part of the family. It’s true.

  A young woman, GLORIA RYAN, Ryan’s sister, sits in a plain chair downstage and reads this letter, slowly unfolding it from her purse.

  GLORIA: [reading] Mr Secretary General,

  Dear Sir,

  My purpose in writing this letter on behalf of my brother and family is to plead clemency for my brother, Ronald Ryan, who is at the moment under the sentence of death.

  We find it impossible to believe our brother could kill any human being in cold blood. My brother is a man, who, at the age of sixteen, by sheer hard work and self denial, made it possible for my sister and myself to leave the Good Shepherd Convent in Abbotsford where we spent almost six years.

  Even to this day I can now recall how Ron returned exhausted after weeks spent in the bush, cutting sleepers, so that his mother and sisters could have a simple, decent home, food, clothing and the chance for my sister and myself to finish our education in less formidable surroundings.

  Our brother took upon himself this great responsibility of father, son and brother, when our invalid father could no longer support us. Surely that shows him to be a very warm and unselfish human being, not a cold-blooded killer. We can all attest to Ron’s love and deep family affections, leaving it impossible to accept the fact that Mother’s son, and our dearest brother, might hang.

  In closing I can only say, we live in hope, and pray the powers that be see fit to grant my brother clemency.

  We, his loving family, and numerous friends, are still deeply distressed over the grave doubts which arose over his actual part in the unfortunate incident.

  Yours faithfully,

  Gloria Ryan.

  She very carefully folds the letter up once more and deposits it in her purse. Lights out on her chair.

  RYAN: Yes. I did tr
y to better myself. Thank you, Gloria.

  GUARD: Your English teacher is here, Ron. Neville Drummond.

  RYAN: Really? Isn’t that amazing. How’d he do that?

  NEVILLE DRUMMOND, a very cheerful Christian English teacher, enters the condemned cell and sits opposite a silent RYAN. He sits a foot away.

  MR DRUMMOND: [very cheerful] Ron Ryan sat for the External Exam, Leaving Certificate, at the end of 1962. He passed it. He sat for it at Bendigo Training Prison. All the mail came in weekly. I sorted out the students’ work. There were a variety of pupils. From tots to criminals. Ex-servicemen and women. Certain disabled pupils at Yoralla and Turana. Each year I had a record book with every single student written down. If a person was in prison I made four vertical lines next to them to indicate prison bars. For my own reference. I suppose it was a kind of code. I did a blue wave if they were in the navy. A red cross if they were overseas. A fawn patch if they were in the army and so on.

  Ron was my age. His writing was very neatly presented. Right-handed. His grammar was excellent. His essays were always well-paragraphed. That’s how we knew each other. It was in the letters and he responded to encouragement. He passed. He must have read about it in the Herald.

  If we got eighty-five per cent success rate, the Board of Inspectors were happy. The very first thing he wrote fell under the title ‘Myself and My Environment’. He wrote of his love of his three daughters.

  He sees RYAN. His voice softens; he smiles at him.

  By no means do I think of you only as a name. Your vocation. I’m sure you’re a very interesting person to know. I tried to help you. I always recommended to all correspondence students they use a little well-chosen lightheartedness. And now your sentences are more detailed. Well done, Ronald! Some dropped out. Futility, I suppose. He didn’t whitewash himself. No attempt to. He readily admitted he was a petty criminal. The hanging touched me emotionally. He was so perceptive, the potential. I used to look forward to marking his papers. I gave him eighty-eight once. But mostly he was in the high seventies. He passed the External Exam Form Five English from inside Bendigo. I walked to work the day you died. Through the Treasury Gardens. I loved that. The possums and the trees. About ten of us teachers sat silently at a big desk and listened to the radio. I sat with my head in my hands and I kept sobbing.

  They stare at each other. Blackout.