Eternal Love

by Max Howell

  “Certainly, Faith, it will do you good. You had us worried there for a moment,” her mother said, relieved at the sudden change.

  Mark and Faith left, and their parents watched them walking arm in arm along Church Street. “I have never seen two people so much in love,” her mother said to her father.

  “I agree,” her father replied. “I just hope she will be all right after he leaves. We have protected her over the years, and until she met Mark I had no idea of the extent of her inner feelings and her own determination. When she makes her mind up nothing will shake her. Like Mark, I have the feeling that she can do anything she sets her mind to.”

  “I just do not want her hurt,” her mother said, “she has been an exceptional daughter.”

  Her husband nodded in agreement.

  That evening Mark and Faith had very little time to themselves. There seemed a thousand things that Mark had to do, and as the word spread that he was going away to the United States people flocked to his home, his relatives and friends of his family, his own friends, and reporters he had become acquainted with during his swimming career. Faith stood nearby, feeling sorry for Mark as he fielded much the same questions but never once showed irritation. The way he handled people and was always courteous was a thing she admired, and she noticed that he had gained an assurance and a confidence in the last six months that he never had before. She knew he was still very shy, but few others would have known.

  Mark’s father was as gregarious as Mark was restrained, and he regaled all with stories, a bottle of beer constantly in his hands. He was a great story-teller, one of those people who could command attention by his mannerisms and voice, and Mark felt relieved as many crowded around his father. Occasionally Mark would glance over at him and grin. “The old man loves every minute of this,” Mark said to Faith. “I wish I had the way with people he does when he is sober. He can be a very funny man when he gets going.”

  He could hear his father distinctly. “Yeah,” he said to his audience, “there is no doubt about it, Mark gets his athletic talent from me. Have a look at his Mum, as skinny as a chook that has not had a good feed. She is a good-looking sort even now, my missus, and swam with Fanny Durack and Mina Wylie at Wylie’s baths when she was young, but when it came to competition she could not win a prize in a raffle. No, the kid gets it all from me. Maybe I have a bit of a beer gut now, but when I was young I was a bit of a sprinter. Had to be to get away from the Brothers at Waverley Christian Brothers. Every time I ran away from school none of them could catch me, and they had one of the best in the world on the staff, Jimmy Carlton. He was a bit long in the tooth, then, but still he was no match for me! As for hurdling, I used to go over the school fence with them chasing me better than that Negro world record hurdler Harrison Dillard. No, if I ever ran in competition like I did running away from school I would have been more famous than my kid.” Everyone laughed as he pulled up his trousers over his stomach, and took another swig of beer. He had the dramatic pause of the good story-teller, Mark thought.

  Many of his Dad’s racing and beer drinking friends from the Coach and Horses pub were there. There was the jockey Billy Cook and his father, who ran the barber shop where his father intermittently worked. They were telling stories about his father he had heard hundreds of times, but each time they were enhanced in the telling. The ending was anticipated by all, and additional hyperbole only made the story more compelling. There were other jockeys whose hair his father cut, the notorious Darby Munro, loved and hated by the punters, equally regarded as crook or hero by the masses, and the elegant Jimmy Pike. They were little dandies who dressed like fashion plates, and all seemingly married beautiful wives taller than themselves.

  Each of his father’s friends had followed Mark’s career with interest, and seemed to show more enthusiasm than his own father, Mark reflected. It is funny, he thought, but the family rarely indulge themselves, rarely kiss or emote and yet you know they are concerned about you. They have scarcely mentioned me going away, yet Mum has been ironing and packing and she has tucked little presents among the clothes. I just wish, he thought, they would come out and tell me they love me and will miss me. They will not, however, and I will not either, because it is just not done in our family.

  He could hear his father going on again. “Yeah, don’t worry about Mark. I know, I know, the Yanks hate losing, so he could be in bloody danger. Look what they did to our Les Darcy and Phar Lap. Killed them both, you know.”

  One of his mates intervened. “Come on, Bill, surely you do not believe that?”

  “Do not believe it? What do you mean I do not bloody-well believe it. Of course I bloody-well believe it. Les Darcy jumped on a ship because of bloody conscription, he ran away from the country he loved. Why not? He was our champion, and a beauty at that. By the time he was twenty he had beaten four bloody world boxing champions. Never saw him meself, but my old man did, at Rushcutter’s Bay Stadium. He said he was a bloody marvel, and ten thousand would come down by train from the coal fields to watch him go at it. Did you mugs know that he was the Australian middleweight, light-heavy weight and heavyweight bloody champion. He was something. But he was from a poor Irish family, and there was no way he wanted to get involved in an Englishman’s war. So he left Australia, and they branded him a coward in Australia, gave him the old white feather treatment.

  “Anyhow, he shot off to America. Tex Rickard promised him fights at the famous Madison Square Garden, which he built. But the bloody New York Boxing Commission or whatever they call themselves reneged on his bloody licence, and so did most of the other states. He finally got a fight at Memphis, Tennessee, but died, at twenty years of age, a few days before the fight. Now you can take it from me, the bloody Yanks killed him. Why? Simple. He was gonna beat their best and they knew it and the Yanks cannot stand losing. Take it from me, the Yanks killed our Les Darcy.”

  “And what about Phar Lap, Bill?” he was asked.

  “Same bloody thing, mate. He and Carbine are the greatest horses that ever lived. Phar Lap ran out of competition here. What a beauty he bloody-well was. So we sent him to America. He ran one bloody race in Mexico and beat all the best America had to offer. So they took him to San Francisco, and a few days before the next race he died. Same bloody thing, the Yanks killed him! They cannot stand losing, you know, it is a known bloody fact.”

  “What about Mark, then?” one of his mates asked.

  “Mark, oh he will be all bloody right. They will want to do him in over there, that’s for sure, but he’ll knock the pants off ‘em. But you see, you mugs, he is my bloody son. Like his old man, he has the constitution of a bloody horse. I have been drinking that poison they give out at the bloody Coach and Horses, and I am still all right. My son can handle any bloody poison the Yanks hit him with. He has the same bloody constitution as his old man, that is his bloody secret.”

  All his mates laughed, and Mark smiled. His father loved the stage.

  There were Mark’s friends in attendance as well, and friends of Faith. Above all there was Frank, who Mark had not seen as much of as he used to. Frank was taking physical education at Sydney Teachers’ College and was telling Mark how much he enjoyed it, and he brought along his friend Max Wiechman, who had swum and played rugby against Mark, a character almost as funny as Frank. Frank had been nick-named ‘Flash’ at the College because he was so slow on the rugby field, and Max was called ‘Wallaby’ because his testicles looked like a stuffed Wallaby in the College biology department. Australians loved nick-names: ‘Bluey’ was a redhead, ‘Mick’ a Catholic, and so on. Frank was genuinely upset at Mark leaving Australia, because they had been friends for so long, and promised Mark he would write once a month to give him the latest ‘gen’, as he called information.

  One of Faith’s school friends was a tall and humorous girl, Betsy Donnison, and she came with an unexpected present. Her father, Don, drove up to Mark’s place with a cabin trunk that had been in his family for years. “I will never use
it,” he said, “and you can return it when you come back. We cannot have Australia’s Olympic champion looking like he has never been on an ocean liner before.”

  Mark was pleased at the loan, for the cabin trunk folded out, had drawers, and you could hang your clothes in it. It also had ageing stickers over it: ‘London’, ‘Paris’, ‘Rome’ and so on, which gave him the appearance of an experienced traveller.

  A number of reporters also appeared: the dapper Frank Tierney, the elegant Ginty Lush, the restrained and scholarly Tom Goodman, a young former school-friend of Mark’s, Phil Tressider, and the rotund and kindly Eddie Kann. Each wanted to get an exclusive story on Mark’s decision to go to the USA, and Mark was surprised at how genuinely sorry they were to see him go.

  The evening passed all-too-quickly, a party atmosphere pervading the home. There were a few excursions to the local shops at Peter’s Corner, and various ones came back with fish and chips, sausages, hamburgers and pounds of prawns, which were devoured with what seemed a never-ending supply of Toohey’s beer. The party just kept going, a core of his father’s friends obviously not keen on departing until the beer was completely exhausted. At 11 pm Mark walked Faith home, a hundred yards away.

  As they stood at the corner of Church Street and Alison Road, at the disused horse trough where they had met so often, he took her in his arms.

  “I am sorry, Faith, it is not how I intended our second last night to be. But I sort of feel an obligation to Mum and Dad, and I was amazed how many others turned up.”

  “It is all right, Mark, you had to stay, it would have been rude otherwise. But to-morrow night, no matter what happens, please meet me here one last time, let us say at 9 o’clock. We can go for a walk. I could not bear it if we did not have our own private farewell.” She sighed as she said it. “After all, I doubt if I will see you for four years.”

  “Four years, I just cannot believe it. Four years? It is hard to believe. No matter what happens, Faith, we will meet here at 9 pm to-morrow.” He drew her in his arms and embraced her, and then watched her until she went up the steps of her flat. She turned and waved, and then disappeared.

  She immediately hurried up to the verandah room, where when she was younger she would wait for a glimpse of him. She watched him slowly walking home. He opened the gate at 47 Church Street, turned and looked back to where she lived, and then was gone. She burst into tears, but finally fell to sleep, her pillow wet from all the emotion.

  The headlines next day told the story to the sport-crazy Australian public.

  Sydney Sun

  ANOTHER SWIM STAR ACCEPTS AMERICAN SCHOLARSHIP

  by Eddie Kann

  Swimming sensation Mark Jamieson shocked the swimming world last night when he announced to the press that he has accepted a swimming scholarship to the University of California at Berkeley. He leaves to-morrow on the S.S. Lakemba for the United States.

  Rumours had been rife for some time that he was interested in an American scholarship, but no-one took the reports seriously.

  A dual gold medallist and world record holder in the 100 metres, Mark said: ‘I am sorry to be leaving Australia, but it will only be for four years. I see it as a unique opportunity to continue swimming and obtain an education. What attracted me to Berkeley was its strong academic program.’

  The son of a Randwick barber, Bill Jamieson, Mark says he was eligible to go to University in Australia, but he would not have been able to work and would have been a further drain on his family’s finances. ‘My parents have sacrificed enough for me,’ the young sportsman said. ‘This is a chance for me to look after myself for a change. I am honoured to have won gold medals for my country, but they do not put bread on the table. I am doing what I think is the best for my own future.’

  Mark’s father agreed with his son’s decision. ‘Mark’s got a head on his shoulders,’ he said. ‘He is a very determined young bloke, and if this is what he thinks is right it is all right with his mother and me. We wish him the very best.’

  Swimming officials were mourning the loss of their swim star. Syd Grange, a leading swim official, said, ‘Mark will be sorely missed. He has been a role model for Australian youth, his sportsmanship being of a quality scarcely excelled in Australian sporting history. He has had an exemplary career and I consider him to be an exceptional Australian.’

  Terry Somerville, his long-time coach, said: ‘Mark has made the right decision. It is what we both set our minds to. Now he has another challenge to meet, and in my experience I have never seen an athlete with such dedication and inner resolve. He will apply himself to his studies just like he did to his swimming. He is the finest I have ever coached and he is a great credit to his mother and father.’

  Mark’s stunning announcement followed the departure of another golden boy, Murray Rose, who left by plane for the University of Southern California at Los Angeles just three days ago to pursue a career in acting.

  The exodus of Australia’s swimming greats is viewed with alarm by swimming officials, and rumour has it that many others may follow the action of Jamieson and Rose.

  Within hours of the press release, hundreds of telegrams poured into Mark’s home. Swim club members, parents and school friends he knew constituted about one-third of the messages, while the rest came from ordinary citizens all over Australia. It was an amazing outpouring of support, all wishing him well and thanking for his contribution to Australian sport. There were at least twenty job offers for him from leading firms in the hope that he would stay in Australia.

  Faith took the day off school and stayed at Mark’s place, helping him and his mother. People kept dropping in all day, his auntie Ethel and his cousins Reg, Peter and David, his auntie Rita and her husband Fred, as well as neighbours and friends. It was a continuation of the previous day, and in between what they were doing they read the telegrams that came from all over the country.

  One thing that had disturbed Mark was that he had very little money to take to the USA in case of an emergency, and he talked to his father about it.

  “I am sorry, Mark, I would do what I could but I have had a tough run at the races, and I seem to owe every mug in Randwick. There’s no-one I can touch up for a little money. Your mother and I have enough trouble making ends meet. The only one in the family with any dough is your Uncle Les. I will give him a call. He will help us out for sure.”

  He went next door to ring up, as they did not have a ‘phone, and came back with a big smile on his face. “Your Uncle Les said he’d meet you this afternoon at three o’clock at City Tattersall’s. I did not tell him what it was about, but believe me everything will be all right.”

  “Gee, Dad, I do not know. I have never asked anyone for anything before. I just do not like doing it,” said Mark earnestly.

  “Look, you’re only asking for a loan, not taking his arm and his leg. Your Uncle Les is worth a fortune. He is a bit of a strange bird but he is a syndicate bettor, one of Sydney’s biggest punters. It is just a drop in the bucket for him. There is no need to be embarrassed. If the family cannot help one another, who can!”

  “All right, Dad, but I hate doing it. I do not like to be beholden to anybody. I have never owed anybody in my life.”

  His father burst out laughing. “I owe half of Sydney, son, and the other half I have borrowed off one time or another. Your old man is one of Australia’s great borrowers. But when I have it, son, I loan it to others who do not have it, and most pay me back. Borrowing, me boy, is fundamental to Australia’s economy.”

  “I do not even know Uncle Les, Dad. I cannot ever remember meeting him.”

  “You have, you just do not remember. He has more money than sense. Do not worry about it. Just meet him at three o’clock at City Tatts. You will be all right.”

  Mark and Faith caught a tram from Randwick that afternoon and got out at Elizabeth Street and Market Street, then walked down to City Tattersall’s, an exclusive men’s club frequented and supported by the gambling elite of Sydney.
/>
  A doorman stood outside the club, and as Faith and Mark endeavoured to enter he politely barred their way. “Can I help you, sir?” the doorman enquired.

  “Yes, I have to meet Les Jamieson here at three o’clock.”

  “Oh, you must be Mark Jamieson,” grinned the doorman. “I have followed your swimming career with great interest. Best of luck in America, Mark, I hear you are going over to Yankee-land.”

  “Yes, to-morrow,” said Mark, “and thanks for your best wishes.”

  “No problem, Mark. Your uncle is in room 30, just go straight in. But sorry, Miss, you will have to wait outside. It is a men’s club, you see.”

  “Oh,” exclaimed Faith, “I will just look in the shops. Take your time, Mark, and best of luck.”

  Mark took a deep breath, and walked in. Perhaps because of his father, he had resolved that he would never owe anybody anything, and he felt uneasy as he walked towards room 30 and knocked on the door.

  The door opened and Mark looked at a spare, ascetic man of about 60, impeccably attired, as most betting men were. The rough set were often judged by the clothes they wore. His uncle’s shirt was starched, the shoes highly polished, the creases clearly visible on his trousers. A bit different from my old man, thought Mark.

  Mark searched his uncle’s face, hoping for some recognition, but there was none.

  His Uncle Les beckoned him to sit down, and then sat facing him. “So you are Mark,” he said. “I have seen your photograph in the papers, but you are bigger than I thought. I have not seen you since you were a kid. I have always been meaning to come and visit your Mum and Dad, but I am pretty busy with the horses and the Club, and I just seem to get tied up. Betting is a very serious business, son, and it takes full-time study. You have to know the jockeys and the trainers and the horses. Breeding is everything, son. There are a few flukes, but quality tells with horses. But in the wrong hands they can be ruined. It is full-time work. People like your father, God bless him, will always finish up broke. They are not serious students of the game. It requires memory. I could tell you the starters, jockeys, present odds, trainers and colours of every horse at Randwick next Saturday. I could also tell you how each horse did in his last ten starts, and over what distances they raced. It is a full-time study if you want to make money. Otherwise you are a mug, and you will lose your shirt.”