by Nino Culotta
‘Knew ut,’ said Jimmy. ‘Just waitin’ fer me ter make ut.’
‘Never mind,’ said Joe. ‘Yer missus c’n make ut ter-morrer night. If she’s not too busy.’
‘They’ll make ut at the pub,’ said Jimmy. ‘Two weeks.’
We ate and drank quietly for a while, then Jimmy said, ‘Gunna put Dennis on the trowel?’
‘Yeah, Pat c’n keep us goin’.’
‘Wot’ll Nino be doin’?’
‘Diggin’ out fer the garage.’
‘Hard yacker.’
‘He’s used to ut. Done ut before, haven’t yer Nino?’ There was a shout from the back. ‘Gees, the kegs. Youse get ’em set up. I’ll go an’ get me strides on.’
‘Work ter do, so ’e ducks out,’ said Jimmy.
The garage was at the back of the house, beyond a wide expanse of concrete, over part of which was a verandah supported on brick piers. There was a truck near the garage, and an elderly man in shorts and shirt and heavy boots was standing near it. He was a big man, with a big stomach, and he wore no hat. He was bald. He said, ‘Where’s Joe?’
‘Getting’ ’is strides on,’ said Jimmy.
‘Wot’s ’e ’ad ’em orf for? Don’t tell me. Where d’yer want these niners?’
‘Bench on the verandah.’
‘Good-o. Give us a hand.’
‘Nino—this is Ned.’
‘How do you do, Ned?’
‘Been worse.’
We struggled with the kegs, and got them set up on the bench.
Jimmy said, ‘Where’s the gear?’
‘Bring ut when I come back. Bout ’alf an hour.’
‘Coulda brought ut with yer.’
‘An’ ’ave you mob guzzlin’ before I get ’ere? Like hell I coulda.’
‘Don’t yer trust us?’
‘No. See yer in ’alf an hour.’
He got into his truck and roared away. Jimmy said, ‘Builder. Hard bugger.’
Joe came out dressed in slacks and shirt. He looked at the kegs. He said, ‘Ah . . . that’s the ticket. Where’s the gear?’
Jimmy said, ‘Ned’s bringin’ ut back later.’
‘Don’t ’e trust us?’
‘No.’
Joe said to me, ‘Builder. Hard bugger.’
Jimmy said, ‘Better set up.’
We followed him inside and carried out an enormous quantity of jugs and glasses, and put them on the bench. We got the dining room table out too. Joe said, ‘Need ut fer the supper.’ Stacks of plates and forks followed, and all the dining room and kitchen chairs. Jimmy brought a lot of boxes from the garage and placed them on the concrete. Joe said, ‘Better check ’em fer nails.’
‘Let ’em check ’em themselves,’ said Jimmy.
Joe got a hammer and knocked in any nails that were sticking out. ‘That’s about the lot,’ he said.
‘Mornin’ after,’ said Jimmy.
‘Gees yes, nearly forgot. Give us a hand, Nino.’
I followed him into the kitchen. There were two cardboard cartons on the floor, each containing a dozen bottles of beer. ‘Grab one o’ them,’ he said. He picked one up. I picked up the other. ‘This way,’ he said. I followed him out the front door and around to the side of the house. He opened a small door which led into the space under the house floor and put
his carton inside. I put mine there too. He locked the little door.
I said, ‘Why do you do that, Joe?’
‘You don’t know these buggers,’ he said. ‘Drink everything about the place if the nines run out. Gotta save some fer ter-morrer. We’ll need ut about lunchtime. Nothin’ worse than the day after a do, an’ no grog left.’
Men began arriving in cars and trucks. Pat and Dennis came over the back fence. I was introduced to everyone, and forgot most of their names. They all seemed to be connected with the building trade. The talk was all of building. There was an ironic cheer when Ned arrived with the gear, which was a pipe and tap combination for drawing beer from the keg. Willing hands fitted it to a keg, and jugs of frothy beer were drawn off and passed around. I could drink very little so soon after the fish and chips and bread and jam and tea. But recent meals did not seem to affect anyone else’s thirst. In addition to the kegs of beer, everybody seemed to have brought bottles of some kind. There was beer in bottles, and gin, and whisky, and sweet sherry. The quiet conversations became louder, and there was much laughter and stories were told. It was a fine warm night. Somebody offered me some whisky—
I drank it. Somebody offered me some gin—I drank it. Somebody offered me some sweet sherry. I declined and drank some more whisky. I began to feel very happy.
I said to myself, ‘Nino you must not get drunk. You are in a stranger’s house in a foreign land, and you must not get drunk.’
Joe said, ‘’Owyergoin’mate, orright?’
I said, ‘Orrightmate,’ and slapped him on the back.
He said, ‘Good on yer.’
It was a fine warm night. The conversations and the laughter and the cigarette smoke and the friendly faces were wonderful. The green grass beyond the concrete, where one went to eliminate surplus liquid, was wonderful. The big softly shining stars and the small fluttering moths were wonderful. Boldly I said to a man standing on the grass beside me, ‘How yer goin’ mate, orright?’
He said, ‘Never better. She’s a great night isn’t she?’
‘She’s perfect,’ I said. ‘She’s wonderful.’
‘Yeah, them stars are right on top o’ yer. Proper place ter have a party. Out under the stars. Better than bein’ all jammed up in a stuffy room.’
I said, ‘Yeah . . . how yer goin’mate, orright?’
‘Never better,’ he said.
Back on the concrete amongst the gathering of Australian men, I said to myself, ‘How yer goin’ Nino, orright?’ And I answered myself, ‘Never better.’ I got a jug of beer, and I carried it around, filling up glasses. Everyone said, ‘Thanks, mate,’ or ‘Good on yer,’ or ‘Wot about yer own?’ I liked them all.
I said to Jimmy, ‘I like all these Australians.’
‘They’re not a bad mob,’ he said.
I said, ‘They are a wonderful mob.’ I went out to the bench and poured myself a whisky. I said to myself, ‘Take it easy, Nino, or you’ll conk out.’ I made it a small whisky. Then I suddenly realised what I had said to myself. It was a shock. I stood still and thought about it. I had to tell somebody. I told Joe. ‘Joe,’ I said, ‘it is wonderful. I am thinking in Australian.’
‘Tough,’ said Joe. ‘Don’t bust a boiler.’
‘It is true,’ I said.
‘Good on yer,’ he said.
I told Dennis, ‘I just said to myself, take it easy Nino or you’ll conk out. Not in Italian and not in English. But like that. In Australian.’
‘No,’ said Dennis, exaggeratedly, his eyes going wide with wonder. ‘Not really. How marvellous old chap.’
‘It is marvellous. I have never thought in Australian before.’
‘In that case, old chap, we shall drink to this never to be forgotten occasion. Bottoms up.’
‘Bottoms up,’ I said.
We emptied our glasses.
I said, ‘Let me refill your glass Dennis.’
‘Not at all, old chap. Let me refill yours. What are you drinking?’
‘Whisky.’
‘Gawd.’ He smelt my glass. ‘Whisky all right. How many of these ’ave yer had?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Yer advice ter yerself was right. I’ll get y’ a beer.’
I waited for him, and thought that we needed music. We Italians love music. It combines so well with alcohol. In Italy, when there is wine there is song. There is much wine in Italy, so there is also mu
ch song. Most of us sing very well. I do not sing very well, but I do not sing badly. When Dennis brought a beer for me, I held it in my hand and sang. I sang, ‘Viva Il Vino Spumagiante’. Not all of it, but some of it. Because I became aware that everybody was listening, and I thought, ‘I am not a good singer and I am being foolish. I must stop.’ So I stopped, everybody clapped, and there were cries of, ‘Don’t stop Nino,’ and, ‘Give us another one.’
I said, ‘No, I am not a good singer.’
Somebody said, ‘Better than anybody in this mob.’
Joe said, ‘Good as anybody y’d get.’
Ned said, ‘I’ll sing “Old Man River”.’
They abused him. They said, ‘You’re always singin’ that. Give Nino a go.’
‘Get yer mouth organ, Dennis,’ said someone else.
‘Right,’ said Dennis. ‘Hold ’im till I get back.’
He was wearing an old straw hat, upside down, and a pair of shorts. Nothing else. He slipped whilst climbing over the fence and crashed into the shrubs on the other side. There was a frightful shrieking and yowling. His head appeared over the fence and he looked very startled. There was a cat clawing its way to the top of his head. He was hitting at it. It leapt from his head to the ground on the outer edge of the concrete. It stopped suddenly and turned around and spat three times in Dennis’ direction. Then it continued its flight, and leapt over the other fence and disappeared. Dennis, said, very violently, ‘One of these days I’ll murder you, you bastard.’ Then he disappeared. Everybody was laughing mightily. Jimmy was rolling helpless on the concrete. I was fascinated. I had never seen Jimmy even smile before. He said, ‘Funniest thing I ever seen in all me born days,’ and rolled around some more. They picked him up, but he collapsed in their arms, holding his stomach. Somebody tried to get him to drink some beer. He couldn’t. Joe said to him, ‘Wot’s wrong mate? Ut wasn’t that funny.’ They sat him on a box and hit his back, tears were running from his eyes. ‘That cat,’ he said, and bent in the middle again. ‘Dennis’ face.’ He couldn’t stop laughing. Bill, the man whose house we had wrecked, threw a bucket of water on him. Jimmy sat very still for a moment, then he stood up. We all watched him silently. He said, in a slow, quiet voice, ‘Who did that?’
‘I did,’ said Bill.
‘Did yer? Why?’
‘Thought yer was gunna ’ave a fit.’
‘Did yer? Well, I wasn’t.’
He walked silently and with dignity, leaving a trail of water behind him, to the keg. Dennis came over the fence. He saw us all looking at Jimmy. His upside down hat was on his head again. His forehead and cheek were bleeding a little from the scratches of the cat. He said, ‘Wot’s wrong?’
A little man with glasses said, ‘Bill threw a bucket of water over Jimmy.’
Dennis turned to Bill. His eyes were cold, under the ridiculous hat. He said, ‘Jimmy’s me mate.’
‘We’re all mates,’ said Bill. ‘Had ter straighten
’im up. He couldn’t stop laughin’. Woulda busted
something.’
‘Wot was ’e laughin’ at?’
‘You.’
Dennis looked at him, unwinking. Bill looked back. Dennis walked over to Jimmy. He said, ‘Wot was yer laughin’ at me fer?’
Jimmy turned around with a glass of beer in his hand.
He wasn’t even smiling. He said, ‘Because yer
was funny.’
Dennis said, after a moment, ‘Well that’s orright, then.’
He got himself a glass of beer.
Old Ned said, ‘Get yer mouth organ?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well give us a chune.’
‘Go ter buggery,’ said Dennis.
He and Jimmy walked silently through the crowd and sat on a box on the edge of the concrete. They sat side by side in silence, sipping their beer.
‘Moody bastards,’ said Joe. ‘They’ll come good in a minute. Wodda yez all holdin’ empty glasses for?’
There was a general movement towards the kegs. Conversation commenced again. All about building. I no longer wanted to sing. Picking up the whisky bottle and a glass I went over to Jimmy and Dennis. I dragged a box up to them and sat down. I poured some whisky into the glass. Dennis said, ‘Good on yer. Tip some in there.’ He held out his glass of beer. I poured whisky into it. Jimmy held his glass out. I poured whisky into his also. We drank.
Dennis said, ‘Reckon that business o’ me an’ the cat was funny, Nino?’
‘Yes, it was funny.’
‘Gees I got a shock when I landed on ’im. Thought all me birthdays ’ad come at once.’
‘Never laughed so much in me life,’ said Jimmy solemnly.
Dennis chuckled, ‘Musta been funny orright.’ He took his mouth organ from his pocket, and began to play softly. I did not know the tune. Jimmy beat time gently with his glass, on his knee. Dennis stopped playing to drink.
I said, ‘I thought there would be a fight.’
‘Coulda been,’ said Dennis.
‘Yeah,’ said Jimmy, ‘coulda been.’
‘Know Santa Lucia?’ said Dennis.
‘Bloody Meridionali,’ I said.
‘Bloody who?’
‘Meridionali. I do not like them.’
‘Your privilege. Know the words?’ He began to play.
‘Yes. I know the words.’
‘Come in, spinner.’ He commenced again. I sang softly:
‘Sul mare luccica, l’astro d’argento
Placida e l’ondi, prospera e il vento.’
Dennis stopped, ‘Dat’s good in Italian. Give us the words.’
He played a flourish loudly and began the song again. This time I sang loudly. Jimmy beat time with his glass. The others gathered around, and joined in, some singing words in English, some whistling, some just making noises. We were cheered at the end.
Someone called out, ‘Wot about “Tiritomba”?’
‘Don’ know ut,’ said Dennis.
I said, ‘I know it.’
I stood on the box and sang it. Stamping feet beat out the time on the concrete.
‘More,’ they said.
I said, ‘I will sing you a song that was becoming very popular when I left Italy. You will not know it. It is called “Vola Colomba”.’ I sang it. It is a simple tune, and Dennis was soon accompanying me. We had to repeat it. Then he and Jimmy stood up on their box, and with their arms around each other’s shoulders, sang a song about a man at a dance whose trousers kept falling down. The song was a parody on ‘Jerusalem’, which I knew. It was called ‘You’re Losin’ ’em’. It was very successful. They sang about a man with a big cigar, and a girl who went to Heaven, and ‘Flip Flop She Flied’. He went to hell, and he ‘Frizzled and Fried’. Ned tried to sing ‘Old Man River’, but was not permitted.
The concert was ended by the arrival of four grinning Chinese carrying cardboard boxes of food. They were greeted with loud cheers. It was Chinese food, and very hot. It was chop-suey and chow min and curried chicken and rice. Joe and Jimmy and Bill filled plates, while others tried to fill the Chinese with beer. We stood around the table and ate with forks. It was very good. We ate it all. Joe said, ‘Now fill yer glasses. There’s a coupla speeches comin’ up. An’ while yez are fillin’ up, Bill’s goin’ round collectin’ subs. Ten deaners a head.’ Everybody gave Bill ‘ten deaners’. Then Joe called for silence. We all stood around with glasses in our hands, and Bill came to the head of the table. He had a brown paper parcel. He said, ‘Yer all know why we’re gathered here ter-night. We’re gathered here ter-night because Jimmy’s gettin’ married ter-morrer. Goin’ orf the deep end, ’e is.’
Cries of, ‘Good on yer Jimmy.’ ‘You’ll be sorry.’
Bill continued, ‘Most of us ’ere have done ut. Some of us are g
lad, an’ some of us wish we ’adn’t. Ask old Wong there. He’ll tell yer.’ The four Chinese giggled and drank their beer. ‘But we hope ut’ll work out all right fer Jimmy. In fact we know ut will. They don’t come any better than Betty.’
Cries of, ‘Hear . . . hear.’
‘So this time ter-morrer, he’ll be an old married man. Worried lookin’. Yer c’n tell ’em anywhere. We hate ter see ut happen, Jimmy, but we wish yer the best o’ luck.’
Everybody clapped their hands.
‘Now just ter show yer wot yer mates think o’ yer, we’ve all chucked in an’ bought yer somethin’. Ut’s not much, but ut’s ter let yer know we’re thinkin’ of yer. An’ we think yer a pretty good bloke.’
More ‘hear, hears’, and cries of, ‘Open ut up.’ ‘Let ’im see wot ut is.’
‘Yes, all right. We’ll cut the cackle an’ open ’er up.’
There was silence as he untied the string. He took out two objects. He held one up. ‘This tape measure’s a fifty footer. Solid leather case. We ’ad ter chase all over town ter get ut.’
A voice said, ‘She’s been oiled too, Jimmy. We run ’er out an’ oiled ’er for yer.’
‘She’s a good measure,’ said Bill. ‘Never let yer down, so they tell me. I’m a grocer meself, so I wouldn’t know.’ He held up the other object, ‘An’ this trowel is . . . a . . . a . . . wot’s this trowel Joe?’
‘Weston,’ said Joe. ‘Thirteen inch.’
‘Yeah. This trowel’s a Weston. Thirteen inch. They reckon ut’s the best yer c’n buy. I wouldn’ know, but that’s wot they reckon.’
‘That’s right,’ said a big man with tattooed arms. ‘Best yer c’n get.’ He reached over and took the
trowel. He bounced it up and down in his hand. ‘Got a good lift on ’er. Pass ut ter Jimmy. Try ut Jimmy.’ The trowel was passed to Jimmy. ‘Try the lift, ain’t she got a good lift?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jimmy. ‘Good lift.’
‘Well, that’s about the lot,’ said Bill. ‘Except ter say that we’re all thinkin’ of yer, Jimmy, an’ we wish yer the best o’ luck.’
Cheers and handclaps, and they sang a song called ‘Freeze a Jolly Good Fellow’. Then they called, ‘Speech. Speech. Come on, Jimmy.’