Four Fires

by Bryce Courtenay

  When all was said and done, Australia did okay in the boxing though, considering they were a very inexperienced team and most of the fighters from Europe and America had over a hundred amateur fights under their belts. Except for Tony Madigan, the rest of our boys didn’t even get near that figure. The flyweight, Rocky Gattellari, who later ranked number five in the world when he turned professional, went to Rome with only twenty-seven amateur bouts behind him. So bronze medals also coming from Madigan and Ollie Taylor in the bantamweight division wasn’t a bad show and the best we’d ever done in Olympic boxing.

  While we didn’t win as many medals in Rome as we’d done in Melbourne, Herb Elliott’s win in the 1500 metres by twenty metres, which is about twelve yards, was one of the greatest 1500 metre races ever! Some people say he may even give up running because he is bored with winning and he’s won everything there is to win anyway. You’d think that sooner or later he’d have an off day, a cold or something, but he hasn’t.

  We also did much better in swimming than in Melbourne. Murray Rose and Dawn Fraser, whom Bozo marched next to in the opening ceremony, both won gold medals, so did John Devitt and John Konrads and David Thiele. I think Rome was where Australian swimming really started to come into its own and look at it now!

  As far as I can gather, Bozo’s fight with the boxer from the Soviet Union was almost a duplicate of his fight in the 1959 Nationals with John Thomas, only this time the other fighter got the decision.

  The Soviet boxer was another headhunter like Thomas, though he knew a fair bit about going for the body as well. He was tough as teak and was prepared to take a few good punches so that he could get in close where he preferred to fight. In the first round Bozo did a lot of backpedalling, keeping his opponent at bay with his left hand and, every once in a while, throwing a beautiful straight right that kept him in contention. Like the Thomas fight, the more aggressive Soviet fighter seemed to take the first round. He’d landed two good right hands of his own, a straight right to Bozo’s head and another right hook when on a rare occasion he had Bozo on the ropes. Both punches hurt Bozo, and his opponent seemed pretty pleased with himself when the bell went, smacking his gloves above his head on his way to his corner. The judges might have given him the first round, they probably did.

  Thinking that Bozo lacked the punch to hurt him, the boxer came in very aggressively, chasing Bozo all over the ring. But it was Bozo who’d worked his opponent out and in the second round Bozo boxed beautifully and scored well, counterpunching when the boxer went on the attack. Bozo took most of his punches on the gloves and, regular as clockwork, planted his signature with a rip to the body, most of his punches going into the same spot under the heart. Bozo was working to his plan, not allowing the Russian to dictate the fight, though to someone who wasn’t an expert, the Soviet fighter’s aggression may have fooled them into thinking he was gaining the ascendancy when just the opposite was true.

  In fact, Mitchell says he thought at the time the fighter from the Soviet Union had lapsed in the second round and that Bozo’s hard and accurate punching had sapped some of his opponent’s strength and he was now fighting in flurries and breathing heavily from the mouth, his punches mostly missing. It became clear from the number of times the Russian threw the same punch that he was hoping he might get a good right cross to Bozo’s jaw and put him down. But towards the end of the round, uncannily like the Thomas fight, Bozo moved laterally after his opponent had thrown a right cross and missed, putting a perfect straight left into the point of the Soviet fighter’s jaw, which dropped him to the canvas as the bell went.

  The Soviet fighter was tough and proud and he took the compulsory count on his pins before going to his corner. There was no doubt that Bozo had hurt him and comfortably taken the round. One round each with one to go.

  In the third round, the superbly conditioned Soviet boxer was ready to fight. He was throwing punches from every direction of the compass and Bozo was tying him up so that the ref warned him on one occasion. Then the Russian was warned for a headbutt, which may or may not have been accidental. But he kept coming and Bozo had to withstand a desperate onslaught. I keep repeating it, I know, but Bozo kept those rips going in, landing them close up, short jabs that went under the heart. They may not have looked much but Bozo was a very strong boxer and the short punches had the full weight of his shoulders and body behind them and each time he landed one, you could hear the Soviet boxer grunt, they were hurting bad. With thirty seconds to go in the final round, Bozo had done enough to win but he wanted to make sure so he hit the boxer with a beautiful left and right that should have put him down. The boy from the Urals was tough as they come, though, and hung onto the ropes for dear life. Bozo went for his heart again and the Soviet fighter grabbed desperately at Bozo, locking his arms and holding on for grim life. The referee didn’t tell them to break and the crowd started yelling, but the other boxer kept hanging onto Bozo’s arms. The few seconds Bozo needed to make the break and then put in the decider, the knock-out punch, was gone. The final bell went.

  The decision in favour of the Soviet Union boxer was jeered at by the crowd. Afterwards, the trainer of the Soviet Union team came up to Bozo in the Australian dressing room and, in front of all the other Australian boxers, raised his hand above his head, before walking out again without saying a single word. Bozo laughs when people say he could have won a gold if he’d been given a fair go. ‘Nah, the Italian, Nino Benvenuti who won gold was in a class of his own, I couldn’t have taken him,’ he’d say. Bozo’s always been a straightshooter and he was right, Benvenuti went on to become the world professional middleweight champion.

  So Bozo Maloney became an Olympic bronze medallist and he said later it was the happiest day of his life. All the hard work was rewarded and Big Jack Donovan’s faith in him justified.

  Toby Forbes at the Gazette goes wild. He has a special rotogravure colour front page printed in Melbourne on high-quality paper. It shows a picture of Bozo stripped down to his boxing gear with the red singlet and white shorts that are the Yankalillee colours and, of course, his red Tommy Christmas-gift boxing gloves and, as well, his bronze medal big as a side plate with the ribbon trailing across the page with the five Olympic rings across the top of the page. In two-inch letters, in the alliteration Toby Forbes is so fond of using, the headline says:

  SOUVENIR EDITION

  BLOODY

  BEAUTY!

  BOZO’S

  BRILLIANT

  BOXING

  BRONZE!

  In the editorial, after he’s said how fantastic Bozo’s win was and how proud the town of Yankalillee is of him, Forbes gets well and truly stuck into the shire council.

  Every dog has his day and Bozo ‘Dog Boy’ Maloney’s is well overdue. Refused a civic reception when he was chosen to represent Australia, he has now returned from Rome with a bronze medal. A brilliant result for a local lad fighting the world’s best. But, it seems, he can win in the international arena but not in his own backyard unless he brings back the spoils. Now Yankalillee’s shire council and the men who run it must keep their promise and give this upstanding young boxer the civic reception and the honour that goes with it that he so richly deserves!

  He goes on a lot more and quotes the article from Australian Ring Magazine that says Bozo should have got at least a silver and that who knows where he’ll go in the ‘world of fights and fists’ but everyone knows that he is a credit and always has been a credit to Yankalillee and so on.

  So now, of course, the shire council and its president, Philip, with one ‘l’, Templeton, are forced to give Bozo a civic reception. Bozo’s not that keen, but Nancy wants it more than the crown jewels. The town clerk comes to see her and says they’ll have a parade down King Street with all the trimmings. They’ve decided to borrow the Rolls-Royce from the mayor of Albury and Nancy and Bozo will sit in the back seat and the town band will lead them to a reception at the town
hall.

  Nancy won’t have a bar of this. ‘We all go in the parade or nobody, this family does things together,’ she tells him.

  ‘We could get a ute from Mr Templeton’s dealership and you could all stand in the back.’ The silly coot must be away with the fairies or something.

  ‘I’d rather be pushed down King Street in the nightcart than go in a Holden ute belonging to Philip bloody Templeton!’ Nancy protests. Then she has her sudden inspiration. ‘The Diamond T!’ she screams out. ‘We’ll do it in the Diamond T!’

  She goes on to explain that the whole family will be in the back of the Diamond T. Bozo in his Olympic blazer, tie and hat with the special khaki flannels. Sarah in one of Mike’s outfits, me and little Colleen, Morrie and Sophie as well, because as far as us Maloneys are concerned, they’re family as well. Tommy will be the front passenger with Templeton, Sarah’s daughter, on his lap waving to the crowd and reminding everyone who sees her who she is, and Nancy will be there, behind the wheel.

  Nancy knows that this way everyone in town will know that she’s sticking it up Philip Templeton good and proper and that doing the parade in the Diamond T, the town’s clapped-out old garbage truck, shows the Maloneys are not stuck-up and are proud of who they are. Which isn’t exactly one hundred per cent true, but we’re getting prouder by the year, with Sarah nearly a doctor, and now Bozo, and no doubt Mike will come good. Of course, there’s always Tommy to remind us not to get too cocky.

  The shire council are not too pleased with the arrangement, but there’s not a lot they can do. With the band, led by George Fisch playing ‘Waltzing Matilda’, ‘Colonel Bogey’, ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’, as well as other things, the parade goes down King Street. The Diamond T is decked in gold and green crinkle-paper streamers and the council gives those beaut long-throwing streamers to the crowd, which is most of the town. By the time we reach the town hall, we’re all covered in streamers and you can hardly see us, and Tommy’s lettering on the side, ‘Maloney & Sons – Garbage’, is obscured by the streamers.

  The reception is on the steps of the town hall so everyone can see and Nancy, Tommy and Bozo are seated in a row of chairs on the top step along with all the councillors and their wives. Philip Templeton, with his chain of office round his neck, is in the middle. There’s a microphone standing in front of him but placed on the first step down.

  Nancy is wearing her yellow-daisy dress and a big white hat and white gloves. Mike has begged to make her a new frock instead of what he calls ‘the garden tent’, but she won’t hear of it. ‘This is how folks know me and they know it’s clean and neat. Besides I’ll wear that hat Mrs Barrington-Stone give me and gloves and stockings.’ Mrs Barrington-Stone is seated next to Nancy with her husband, Peter, who is back on the shire council. Big Jack Donovan sits on Tommy’s left.

  It’s Templeton that’s the dolled-up one. She’s four years old and she’s wearing this Suckfizzle little-girl outfit that makes her look like she could be Alice in Wonderland in Australian colours, with yellow socks and little-girl shoes, with the one cross-strap and button, a green dress and little yellow pinafore with a green ribbon in her hair, which is the exact same shade of copper as Sarah’s. The green suits her hair colour and she looks beaut because she’s a really pretty little girl anyway. What’s more, she’s seated on Nancy’s lap for all the world to see though Mike says the daisy-dress garden-tent is the worst backdrop possible for Templeton’s outfit, but what can you do.

  All the councillors are wearing suits and ties, Big Jack is in civilian clothes, a tweed sports coat and his South Melbourne club tie, but Tommy has on a white shortsleeved open-necked shirt and brown daks, though his shoes are polished. That’s because they’re my school shoes, he only wears workman’s steel-cap boots. I’m the one wearing his boots, which is a bit of an embarrassment, but I’m in the crowd and I don’t think too many notice.

  Tommy’s probably never been in such distinguished company in his life and, with what’s left of his hair glued to his head with Brylcreem, one eye closed and his dented cheek and crook arm, he looks bloody miserable. I reckon he’ll be in the pub right off afterwards to wash away his embarrassment with a dozen or so cleansing ales and probably stay at it for a week. Nancy’s insisted he be with her on the podium for her hour of triumph over Philip Templeton, but I can tell you he’s not a happy man sitting there among the nobs. Sitting next to Big Jack Donovan, if you sort of squiff your eyes up a bit, Tommy looks like one of those ventriloquist dolls with Big Jack about to make him say something.

  I’ve got to say this for Philip Templeton, who some people thought might not even show up on the day, he did a very good speech. He said how proud Yankalillee was of its favourite son, Bozo Maloney, an outstanding young man who had earned the respect of the community even before he was chosen for the Olympic Games. He lays it on really thick so nobody can say he hasn’t done the right thing by us, though, of course, he doesn’t mention Sarah or any of us. He ends up by saying he’s sure that whatever Bozo does in life he will be successful. Nancy’s mouth is pulled down to the left and her nose is in the air like she’d been forced to sit through a bad smell. The crowd claps when Philip Templeton announces that the shire council has agreed to honour Bozo with the keys to the city, which has only been done twice before, both times to the men returning from the world wars.

  But, trust the shire council, the key to the city doesn’t turn out to be a key at all, but a bottoms-wiping certificate with a cut-out picture of a key in gold foil stuck on it. At least this time it’s framed. Philip Templeton then calls upon Bozo to accept the freedom of Yankalillee and to make a speech.

  Bozo’s a pretty shy sort of bloke when it comes to that sort of thing but he surprises us all with his speech. He must have learned something in Rome, because he speaks quietly but well and you can hear every word on the microphone. He turns around to acknowledge Big Jack Donovan and then turns back to the microphone, thanking him for everything he’s done. He also mentions Bobby Devlin and gets a bit of a laugh when he says he was also one of Yankalillee’s citizens, although he didn’t enjoy the freedom of the city all that much as he was doing a stretch up the hill. This brings a real big laugh. Bozo also thanks Mrs Barrington-Stone for all her help and all of us in his family, even Tommy, mentioning that it was Tommy gave him his first pair of boxing gloves. He thanks the crowd for supporting him and says the medal really belongs to all of them because if it wasn’t for all the garbage bins he’d had to lift since he was nine years old he probably wouldn’t have been strong enough to box at the Olympics. ‘So, thank you everyone for putting out so much garbage!’ he says, grinning. The crowd claps and whistles and he’s won them forever.

  Bozo shakes the hands of all the councillors and their wives and I wonder what’s going to happen when he gets to Dora Templeton. But he shakes her hand and to my astonishment seems to be talking to our mortal enemy, saying something more than thank you before he smiles and moves on.

  Later, when we’re home and all having tea, Nancy has a go at Bozo. ‘You should’ve given Dora Templeton a snub, Bozo, ’stead of stopping to talk to her like you were grateful or something.’

  Bozo smiles. ‘I simply thanked her politely for staying sober for the occasion,’ he says.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It’s been some time since I’ve talked about fires and the bush. While there have been a few fires in the district and we’ve even been out as far as the Snowy Mountains for two of them, they were scrub fires, not the sort of big blaze that you’d hear about in the news. Anyway, you’d probably be a bit bored reading about them, fighting a fire is different for a firefighter, who knows that no two fires are the same, but to people who don’t know, a fire is flames and bush and more of the same, scary if you’re in one or if lives and houses are threatened, but otherwise it’s ho-hum.

  Over the years and since I attended my first fire with Tommy, I’ve learned a bit about
the behaviour of bushfires. The first thing to learn is that you may think you know all there is about the nature of a particular fire, and then it will spring a surprise on you. If you’re arrogant, you’re going to get yourself burned and your pride dented, there’s many a silly coot who thought all was going well and so he’d take a bit of a short cut in procedure and the next thing he’s in the deepest kind of trouble.

  A bushfire, even a small one, is not something you can take for granted. Most of the smaller district bushfires are started by farmers who reckon they’ll do a bit of burning off, get rid of the rubbish and get some green grass growing when the autumn rains come. A bit of burning to keep the grass down late summer can’t do too much harm. Next thing the house is threatened, or a couple of thousand acres goes up in smoke and with it his neighbour’s haystack, or you’re piling up burned dead sheep and pouring a tin of kero over them and having a second fire to mark the stupidity that caused them to die in the first place.

  The Yankalillee Bushfire Brigade is a bit of a Dad’s Army, with a fair amount of quarrelling going on amongst some of the old-timers and some of the younger blokes who want to introduce new methods. As far as I can see, the aggro’s been there for a while and Tommy says it goes way back to just after the war when the Country Fire Authority was formed after the Royal Commission into the January 1939 fires in Victoria where seventy-one lives were lost. The war got in the way and the CFA only really got going just before the war ended.

  From day one there was resistance to change, the ‘landed gentry’, that is the big graziers, had always been the boss cockies in the bushfire brigade and they reckoned they knew how to fight a fire. They learned it from their fathers and their fathers learned it from their fathers since time out of mind. They reckoned the government couldn’t teach them nothing.

  They were wrong, of course. Just because your family has been on the land for a hundred years doesn’t make every generation an expert firefighter. But you couldn’t tell them that. Besides, it was sort of prestigious to be the big boss in the bushfire brigade, you’d go to meetings dressed in your moleskins, tweed jacket, old school tie and big hat and people would say ‘There goes the bushfire boss.’ So when one of the recommendations of the Royal Commission was to appoint a salaried fire chief, to be called a regional officer, the cow cockies and the graziers didn’t like it one bit. Losing control over firefighting operations meant, in their eyes anyway, that they were losing their power and influence in the community.