by Alan Collins
Well, that did it, I turned to bolt back up the hall but there was no getting past Arthur's bulk, and the nearer we got to the kitchen, the more the pangs of hunger knotted my stomach until we stood together, a plump Jewish man and a very skinny Jewboy with a big nose now being assailed by the most delicious smells I had ever known.
Finally, Clara put down her dishcloth and turned around. I looked at her open-mouthed. I could not believe it: she was a mirror image of Arthur, like peas in a pod! She hugged him and kissed him, wished him good Shabbes, then, wiping the cooking steam from her glasses, stuck out a very moist hand for me to shake. Bending down, she said, 'And a good Shabbes to you, young man 'whoever you are.'
I stiffened and waited for the inevitable. Arthur said, 'You'll never guess, Clara, this is Alva's boy.' Well, at least I was not poor Alva's boy. Clara put her hands on my shoulders, turned me around and said almost to herself, 'Alva Davis, one of the three sisters. There was Beryl, a softie, then Enid - quick with a smart answer - and then there was poor Alva, married Sam Collins. Is that right, Arthur?' He nodded. 'My second cousin, Flash Sam, we called him.'
Clara turned back to her cooking. 'Now, no more in front of the boy. Get washed up and I'll be there in a minute for you to make Kiddush.' Arthur led me into the biggest bathroom I had ever seen, shut the door behind me and left me to stare at my reflection in the huge mirror. I turned this way and that. Come to think of it, my nose wasn't that big really. There was a knock on the bathroom door. Arthur strode in, took no notice of me and had a pee and washed his hands. 'Dinner's ready, sonny Jim, but first we make Kiddush for Shabbes, f'shteyst?' Shades of my father and his pathetic knowledge of the Yiddish patois. Yes, I said to myself, I do understand, but Kiddush? Then it came flooding back to me: Friday night at Uncle Harry's while Cissy stood by impatiently, hovering over the few flaccid pieces of fried fish while Harry made a blessing over the plaited loaf of bread.
Now here we were, the two of us, the big and the small, the homely one and the scared 'Alva's boy' entering the dining room as though joined at the hip. Two tall candles stood like sentries guarding the three cups of wine placed between them. Brusquely, Arthur pronounced, in quick order, the blessings for the wine and the bread, all under Clara's watchful eye. I sat on his left staring like an idiot at the array of cutlery, glasses and plates while the little silver wine goblet remained untouched in front of me until Arthur winked at me. 'Don't you drink, Alan?' I put the little goblet to my lips and the sweet wine trickled down my throat. He smiled approvingly. 'Now you can have lemonade, Alan, but wait until after the chicken soup.'
And so it went: dish after dish and, to my amazement and Clara's delight, I ate the bloody lot! For the first time ever, I experienced the waist of my Paddy's Market pants pressing hard against my stomach. When the dishes stopped coming, I saw Arthur's head drop to his chest; Clara had retreated to her kitchen. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece - nearly half past ten. I slid down from the dining chair and in my rubber- soled sandals silently made for the front door. On the hallstand was my moneybag, next to a bowl of fruit. I sneaked an apple, stuffed it into my pants pocket (already as tight as a drum) and made it to the front door. It must have been a wonderful example of joinery, it swung open without so much as a squeak. I laboured up the steep drive to the street, looked around like the sneak thief I now was and headed down the hill, taking any road that led towards the beach. It never entered my head to go to 48 Francis Street.
I continued down the hill. The curve of the beach was bathed in moonlight. Stoked with the fuel from Clara's cooking, I kept up a steady pace and sprinted the full length of the concrete promenade. Where it ended, the rocks took over. With familiar agility, I hopped from one to the next until I rounded Ben Buckler where the waves broke over them. The salt spray seemed to wash away the new experience of the night. I reached my crevice in the cliff and tucked myself into it. The apple bulged into my thigh. Bugger it, I would leave it there, it could be breakfast or something, anything. I fell asleep. Whatever tomorrow might bring, 48 Francis Street, I dreamed, was not going to be a part of it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author's untimely death prevented him from being involved in the editing of his final work. It therefore falls to me to acknowledge those who have helped so much in bringing this memoir to publication.
I would like to thank Loris Alexander, who read the manuscript with me and made many valuable suggestions; Danielle Charak, for her advice regarding Yiddish words and phrases; Louis de Vries, publisher, for believing that Alan had something important to contribute to Australian Jewish literature; Anna Rosner Blay, managing editor with Hybrid Publishers, for her empathetic response to the book and her meticulous editing; Alex Skovron, for his editorial input, advice and friendship, so generously given; Nigel Clements, for the beautiful portrait of Alan, which I also used to illustrate the obituaries; Jody Jane Stitt, for her help with the concept for the cover design; Mark Harper, for his skilful remastering of the photographs of young Alan and Alva; and of course Daniel, Peter and Toby Collins, our three sons, who have been 'sounding boards' throughout the editing process, for their support, encouragement and love.
Ros Collins
.... ....
The short story 'A Thousand Nights at the Ritz', published in The Phoenix Review (No. 1, Summer 1986/7) and subsequently in Melbourne Chronicle (No. 61, October 1991), formed the basis for part of chapter 11. The newspaper report in chapter 13 was quoted in Chronicle of the 20th Century (Penguin Books, 1990). Passages in chapters 9 and 10 concerning the beliefs and practices of the Seventh-day Adventist Church were adapted from several sources, including Time magazine (August 1926 and June 1930).
The Scarba and Ashfield children's homes feature in Alva's Boy, but Alan also spent part of his youth in a third institution, the Isabella Lazarus home at Hunters Hill. He lived there during the early 1940s and has written about this period in his autobiographical novel The Boys from Bondi.
Praise for other works by Alan Collins
Troubles (highly commended in the Alan Marshall Award)
'Alan Collins's stories indicate the presence of a sharp-eyed social observer, a keen-eared listener, a writer with a lively grasp of the physical world, and a rich sense of humour. A writer with a sense of the theatrical and the absurdity of human behaviour.'
Fay Zwicky
The Boys from Bondi
'Collins brings to life a period when our changing society, while sheltering the dispossessed, allowed much ignorance and prejudice to flourish.'
Agnes Nieuwenhuizen, The Age
Going Home
'Alan Collins with his acute observations establishes scenes and characters quickly, using wellchosen details. Sydney in the 1940s comes alive.'
Vivienne Ulman, Australian Jewish News
A Promised Land?
' . . . the easy narrative, engaging style and chronicle of migrant experience in Australia's history from the Great Depression until the end of the Vietnam War offers a plethora of empathy, humour and enough intertwined subplots to keep most Australian readers occupied and interested . . . As an Australian text, it resonates with simplicity and heart, and is really the story of us all.
Jason Jewell, Victorian Association for the Teaching of English
'Its vivid recreation of the many-layered Jewish experience in Australia makes it a required reader.'
Margaret Dunkle, Australian Bookseller & Publisher
'Few authors have imposed the Australian Jewish historical experience on their narrative as strongly as Alan Collins in his triptych, A Promised Land?'
Rodney Gouttman, Australian Jewish Historical Society Journal
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