by Judy Nunn
Jim Sharman’s boxers, despite their ludicrous claims to fame, were indeed professionals adept at choreographing a fight. They knew how to prolong the action and how to take a dive, and they always obeyed their instructions, the principal one being that no punter was to be badly hurt. Jim couldn’t afford to lose his licence.
Pietro, Lucky and the Italians were among the first to enter the tent and took ringside spots beside the makeshift roped-off square in the centre. Erik’s friends, keen to spur on their mate, quickly jostled their way to the front on the opposite side.
The tent was packed. Money rapidly changed hands as men laid bets on whether Erik would last three rounds. The other professional boxers, now clad in robes and doubling as bouncers, wandered the periphery of the ring keeping the crowd several feet from the ropes, while Jim stood in the centre bawling instructions.
‘Stand back, give them air, don’t crowd the ring.’ Then finally, as the mob settled, came the dramatic announcement: ‘And now let’s hear it for … Patrick Murphy! Two-time All Ireland Champion!’ The Italians and the Irish vociferously applauded Patrick Murphy as he stepped into the ring and danced about, gloved hands delivering forceful air-punches. The others reserved their applause for the local contender.
‘And here he is! Will he make the three rounds? Has he got the stamina? Let’s hear it for our latest contender … Erik! The new Max Schmeling! All the way from Germany!’
Along with the Germans, the majority of men cheered their fellow Snowy worker as he climbed into the ring, but Luigi and his mates voiced their disapproval at the top of their lungs and, as the applause died down and the men went to their corners, the Italians continued to boo loudly.
‘Enough! Enough!’ Jim eventually roared. ‘Give it a rest, give the boy a break, and let’s commence …’ A dramatic pause … ‘Round One!’ He delivered the signal. The bell rang. The men came out of their corners and the fight was on.
Erik was fit and strong. Two years’ heavy physical labour on the Snowy had brought him to peak condition and, having won a number of amateur boxing championships in his home country, he was not altogether inexperienced.
None of this went unnoticed by Colin ‘Patrick Murphy’ Jenkins. The kid was an amateur, sure, he thought, but not your regular mug. In fact, Erik was just the sort of bloke who could land a lucky punch. Col blocked and sparred, buying time, watching the young man like a hawk and, when he sensed the audience needed a bit more action, he landed a right to the face. A glancing blow, not too hard, just enough to urge the kid and the crowd on.
The Italians cheered Patrick Murphy’s punch even louder than the Irish, and Erik’s friends countered by roaring encouragement to him in German. Then the other men gave voice to their fellow Snowy worker and the cheers of Patrick Murphy’s supporters were all but drowned out. ‘Give it to him, Erik!’ the men yelled. ‘Go on, mate, you can do it!’ And, fired up by the crowd, Erik did.
It was just what Col wanted: the kid was suddenly behaving like a mug, giving it all he had. Col could read him easily and he feinted twice before allowing one of the blows to glance him. The kid was going wild, the Germans were cheering, the Italians booing, and if the kid didn’t watch it, Col thought, he’d run out of steam well before round three. He held him in a clinch so that the kid could get his breath back, and the bell rang end of round one.
During the next round, Jim Sharman, refereeing in the centre of the ring, kept his eyes and ears open to the mood of the crowd, as he always did. The Germans and Italians were yelling abuse at each other now, but Jim didn’t mind. It was what he loved most about the Cooma Show. Everywhere else, from the big Royal Shows of the cities, to the smallest of rural community fairs, everyone rooted for the local boy. Here in Cooma there was the added excitement of faction against faction – it was a good crowd-pleaser. He gave the secret hand signal to Col to cop a couple more punches. The mob could do with an extra thrill – Erik was fired up and they were loving it. Col dutifully copped two more punches and the bell rang end of round two.
Halfway into round three Erik had tired himself out to such an extent that even Col’s clinches, designed not only to give the kid air, but to signal to the crowd that he, too, was tiring, weren’t really doing the trick. The kid was supposed to make it through, and if something didn’t happen soon, Col thought, the crowd would sense a sham.
The two of them danced clumsily in the ring, locked together, and Col looked over Erik’s heaving shoulder for Jim’s hand signal. A lucky punch, it said. He’d thought as much. It irked him, it always did, but this time more so than ever. He pushed the kid away, got in three sharp jabs, none of which, he knew, would do any harm, before leaving himself open for the uppercut. He pulled his head up and to the left, going with the punch so that it would do little damage. Then he dropped.
The fight was over, and Patrick Murphy lay on his back attempting to struggle to his feet while Jim counted to ten. Then, when he stood, seemingly unsteady on his feet, conceding defeat, the crowd went wild. The Italians jeered at the All Irish Champion, and the Germans and the others cheered Erik as Jim held his arm high, announcing the winner.
With jeers and cheers ringing around the tent, Col leaned against the corner post, pretending a fatigue he didn’t feel. Bugger it, he thought. The kid’d earn an extra quid for winning the fight instead of just seeing out the three rounds, and he’d be a hero to his mates. Col wondered what his own mates in Sydney would say if he told them he’d thrown a fight to a bloody Kraut. They wouldn’t understand, he didn’t himself, it only ever happened in Cooma. But shit, that was part of his job, he’d had half a dozen fights already today, and there’d be more to go, so no point dwelling on it.
As the mob poured out of the tent fifteen minutes later, two of the Germans hoisted Erik onto their shoulders, unintentionally barging into the Italians as they did so, which annoyed Luigi.
‘It was set up,’ he said to his mates, very loudly and in English, so that the Germans could hear. ‘The fight, it was rigged.’
There was a tense moment, as Erik signalled his friends to put him down and the Germans squared up to the Italians.
‘You are a bad loser,’ one of Erik’s mates said.
Luigi was about to come back with a further retort – he was in the mood for trouble – but Elvio interrupted. ‘It was a good fight,’ he said. And then Lucky stepped forward.
‘Ja. Das war ein gute Kampf, mein Freund,’ he said to the Germans and he offered his hand to Erik. ‘Sehr gut, Erik.’
‘Danke schön.’ Erik returned the handshake and the moment passed, the Germans agreeing with Lucky that it had been an excellent fight, chatting to him in their mother tongue, patting their hero on the back and eventually dragging Erik off to ply him with beer.
Luigi was left scowling, and his workmates looked even grimmer, casting openly antagonistic glares at Lucky, whom they’d not met before.
Lucky decided, diplomatically, that it was time to part company. ‘I am going to see Peggy,’ he said in Italian to Pietro and Elvio. ‘I promised I would – she is working in the Agricultural Hall.’
Pietro nodded. He would far rather go with Lucky than remain with the brothers’ friends, but Peggy was Lucky’s girlfriend and he didn’t wish to intrude.
‘I will see you at Dodds?’ Elvio asked, and Lucky responded with a smile of recognition. Of the many pubs in Cooma, Elvio knew that Dodds Family Hotel was Lucky’s favourite hangout, just as Lucky himself knew that the brothers usually drank with their mates at the Railway or the Cooma. The offer to meet at Dodds was Elvio’s unspoken apology for his workmates’ unfriendliness.
‘Of course,’ Lucky replied. ‘I will be there in an hour.’
When he’d gone, Luigi announced that he and the others were off to the Railway, but Elvio declined to join them. He would wander around the showgrounds until it was time to meet Lucky, he replied pointedly. ‘What do you say, Pietro? Shall I challenge you to a shooting contest?’ Pietro thankfully agreed.
> The Capelli brothers parted a little coldly. Luigi knew that Elvio was cross with him for his perceived rudeness to Lucky, but he’d intended no insult to Lucky at all. Lucky was their friend. Lucky was different. It was those other German bastardos he couldn’t abide.
‘What was that about?’ Pietro asked, as he and Elvio headed off for the shooting gallery.
‘Italians and Germans,’ Elvio shrugged. ‘They do not mix.’
‘Here they do, don’t they?’ Pietro queried. He had not encountered any such friction at Spring Hill. ‘Here we are all Snowy men.’ He glanced back at the tent where Jim Sharman was once again touting through the loudhailer, his boxers lined up on the platform, Patrick Murphy having made a remarkable recovery. ‘We should have been backing the Snowy man in the fight.’
Elvio smiled. At times Pietro seemed bordering on simple, he thought, which was not surprising given the boy’s sheltered upbringing, but his simplicity was refreshing in its innocence.
‘You are right, Pietro,’ he said, ‘but people cannot change overnight. Some find it difficult to leave their hatred behind. I, too, have no liking for Germans,’ he admitted, ‘but it does not mean I wish to pick fights as Luigi does. That is an unfortunate part of his nature.’
‘But you and Luigi both like Lucky,’ Pietro persisted, genuinely puzzled. ‘And Lucky is a German.’
‘Lucky is different.’
‘Why?’
‘Lucky is a Jew.’
‘Oh. Is he?’ Pietro had never met a Jew. Not that he was aware of. There had certainly been no Jews at the orphanage throughout his schooling, nor during the four years he’d stayed on at the Convent of the Sacred Heart as a gardener. And during his twelve months at the building site in Milano, there had been no Jews. But then perhaps there had been, he thought; how would he have known? And then it occurred to him that there must be many Jews working on the Snowy and that he’d probably met lots of them, it was just that nobody had ever bothered pointing them out to him.
‘Does that mean that Lucky is not a real German then?’ he asked as they arrived at the shooting gallery, and Elvio laughed as he dug some coins out of his pocket.
‘You ask too many questions, Pietro,’ he said, giving the money to the man behind the counter, who passed him two rifles. ‘Questions too complicated for me to answer.’ He handed one of the rifles to Pietro. ‘Here,’ he said in English, ‘my shout.’
In the Agricultural Hall, Lucky pushed through the crowds that meandered about the exhibits and flower displays, weaving his way as best he could towards the kitchen where he knew Peggy would be working hard with the team of ladies serving refreshments.
The vast hall had seen better days but was still impressive. Upon its official opening in 1887, the pavilion had been described as ‘the finest in the Colony south of Sydney’ and over the years it had served Cooma well. Now known as the Agricultural Hall, it was not only a showground pavilion but a regular venue for balls and all other manner of social events. It was currently even serving as a temporary school. The influx of Snowy children had rendered the town’s only public school sadly inadequate, and the new school was still under construction, so, on weekdays, canvas partitions were erected in the hall to form makeshift classrooms. Draughty in the cold, stuffy in the heat, they had earned the title ‘Tent City’ from teachers and students alike. But, uncomfortable as the conditions were, it was evident to all that the ever-versatile pavilion was once again proving itself invaluable to the people of Cooma.
Peggy was at the far end of a queue of several women working at the large kitchen bench. She was carving a leg of mutton, and the dexterity with which she handled the huge knife seemed at odds with the neat, sharp-featured little woman that she was. Standing there in her neat apron and her tidy floral dress, her tidy brown hair secured in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, her butcher-like expertise with the carving knife was most incongruous.
Peggy Minchin, upon first impression, was not unattractive; rather, she was unapproachable. To most, she appeared a mixture of frosty and fragile, when, in truth, she was neither. She was feisty, outspoken, and above all efficient. Peggy Minchin was efficient at everything she tackled, which today included carving mutton. Shaving away at the leg, she was nearly down to the bone, and a pile of meat lay neatly stacked on the cutting board beside her.
The women were making sandwiches in conveyor-belt fashion, one slicing the loaves of bread, another buttering the slices and adding homemade chutney, the third in the line inserting Peggy’s freshly sliced mutton and cutting the thick sandwiches in two. The final member of the group, the young daughter of one of the women, ran to and fro with fresh supplies and, when there was a substantial pile of sandwiches, she collected them on a platter for sale at the counter, where another team of ladies was making and serving tea from a large urn in the corner.
‘G’day, Lucky love.’ The big woman slicing the bread didn’t halt in her actions, but gave him a breezy grin and a jerk of the head. ‘She’s up the end there.’
‘Thank you, Edna. Good afternoon, ladies.’ Lucky nodded politely to each of them, receiving tight smiles of recognition from Mavis and Vera. It wasn’t that they disapproved of Lucky himself. Lucky was well respected among the locals. He’d been working for the Snowy for years now and was one of the better assimilated foreigners. Extremely so, in fact: his English was perfect. But Mavis and Vera could not condone the relationship that appeared to have developed between Lucky and Peggy Minchin over the past several months.
‘He’s courting her!’ Vera had said disbelievingly when the two had been spotted around town several weekends in a row, dancing to the band at the Snowy Mountains Inn, or gathered around the piano at Dodds, Peggy leading the singalong.
‘She’s courting him, you mean,’ Mavis had retorted, outraged. ‘Brazen, I call it. She’s a schoolteacher! It’s shameful.’
‘And he’s a German, what’s more.’
They both agreed that made it far worse.
Mavis and Vera were not the only ones who disapproved. Several parents of local children had complained to the school. ‘Teachers are expected to set a good example,’ they maintained, and the principal had been reluctantly forced to suggest to Peggy, with all the tact he could muster, that she be a little more ‘discreet’ in her private life. Peggy had asked no questions, she knew just what he was talking about and her response had been simple. If she couldn’t keep company with whoever she wished, she said, then she would seek employment elsewhere. The principal, who’d had no argument with the situation in the first place, hastily backed down. Cooma was desperately in need of teachers. They couldn’t afford to lose one, and certainly not the best they had. From that day on, he’d turned a deaf ear to any further complaints about Peggy Minchin and ‘that German’ and most of the outrage had died down. But there were still some like Mavis and Vera who whispered disapprovingly among themselves and on occasion made sure it was loud enough for others to hear.
Today was no such occasion, however, because Edna was there.
‘Go on, Lucky,’ Edna called over the babble of noise, ‘get her out of here, she hasn’t had a break for four hours.’
Edna had seen Peggy’s face light up. When Peggy had stopped attacking the mutton for a brief second and flashed Lucky a smile, she’d looked downright beautiful, Edna thought. God but that girl was in love. ‘Besides, she’s way ahead up her end. Just look at it, will you. I’ve never seen anyone carve a leg better.’
Having noticed the pile of sliced mutton, Edna stopped working and looked at her own stack of sliced bread. ‘You’re slowing up again, Mavis,’ she said. Then she scowled at the fine veil of chutney Mavis was carefully wiping over each slice. ‘And you’re spreading it miles too thin.’
‘Just trying not to waste it, that’s all,’ Mavis replied through pursed lips. This particular jar of chutney was from her own batch, and she always spread it this thin at home.
‘The men like it thick – you’ve got to pile it on. I
told you that before.’
Edna could see that Mavis was miffed, but she didn’t care, Mavis was always miffed about something, and, returning her attention to the end of the counter, she noticed Peggy’s hesitance as Lucky whispered in her ear. The girl felt guilty about leaving her post, Edna realised.
‘Oh go on, love,’ she urged, ‘you two get out of here. We’ll have to be packing it in soon anyway.’
Young Tess arrived with the platter to collect the sandwiches. ‘That was the last leg, Mum,’ she said, ‘we’re out of mutton.’
‘There you are, you see.’ Edna shrugged in an I-told-you-so way, and Peggy laughed.
‘All right, it’s meant to be. I’m off.’ She quickly untied her apron, threw it on a packing case in the corner and grabbed Lucky’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Goodbye, ladies.’ Lucky rolled his eyes, the bloodhound one looking particularly alarmed as he pretended to be physically dragged away. Tess laughed and Vera was about to do the same until she caught Mavis’s eye. She quelled her laughter and joined Mavis in another tightly polite smile.
‘Are you bringing him to the ball tonight, Peg?’ Edna called just before the couple disappeared through the door.
‘You bet I am, Edna,’ Peggy called back. ‘You bet I am.’
The polite smiles vanished as Mavis and Vera exchanged looks of amazement. Surely she wasn’t going to bring her German boyfriend to the P & A ball! But they didn’t dare say anything in front of Edna. Edna was a force to be reckoned with, and one who approved of change. It was Edna who had suggested that the Pastoral and Agricultural Association should consider including European food stalls at the show. ‘Something different – we need to change with the times,’ she’d said. As usual, few had chosen to disagree with Edna, and Mavis and Vera certainly weren’t about to start now, so they returned to their sandwiches. But they would talk about the matter in depth later on, Mavis would make sure of that. Peggy Minchin really was going too far.