They're a Weird Mob

by Nino Culotta

‘Sat on me ’at,’ ‘Love’ said. ‘Sat on me good ’at.’

  ‘No, ’e didn’t.’

  ‘Love’ leaned across the aisle and put his giant hand on my knee. ‘It was me good ’at. Wodyer sit on me good ’at for?’

  The small man came back. ‘Move over, love,’ he said. ‘Got yer whisky. Now we’re all set.’

  ‘Give us a swig,’ said the other man. He drank from the bottle. The small man drank from the bottle. ‘Want some, love?’

  ‘No. Bloke over there sat on me good ’at.’

  The small man held the bottle towards me. ‘Care fer a swig, mate?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Wot about you blokes?’

  ‘Never knock it back,’ said Pat and Dennis together.

  ‘Count me out, matey,’ Joe said.

  The train stopped. Dennis looked out the window. ‘Helensburgh,’ he said. ‘Won’ be long now.’

  ‘Where yez goin’?’ said the small man.

  ‘Stanwell Park. Knock over a few rabbits.’

  ‘Wondered wot yez was doin’ with the guns. Finished with me bottle?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. That was good.’

  ‘Belongs ter me mate, but ’e’s ’ad ut.’

  ‘Shouldn’ talk to ’em,’ said ‘Love’. ‘Sat on me good ’at.’

  When we reached Stanwell Park it was still dark. It was also raining. Dennis was disgusted.

  ‘Wouldn’ ut! Just our bloody luck!’

  ‘Good huntin’,’ said the small man.

  ‘Thanks. Be seein’ yer.’

  ‘Yeah. See yer.’

  We got out. So did all the Boy Scouts.

  ‘Gawd,’ said Pat. ‘Hope they’re not goin’ where we’re goin’.’

  Apparently they were. They were all around us as Joe led us down a slippery track. They were very small scouts. It was difficult to avoid treading on them.

  ‘Gunna be a bastard tryin’ to find a dry spot.’

  ‘Hunt up a cow.’

  ‘If we c’n find one.’

  We crossed a bitumen road and climbed through a fence. The scouts went along the road.

  ‘Thank the Lord fer that. Thought they were gunna swarm all over us.’

  ‘Know where yer goin’, Joe?’

  ‘Course I know where I’m bloody goin’. Think a man’s a dill?’

  ‘Aw, yer not a dill all the time, I’ll say that for yer.’

  ‘Know a coupla trees. Just right fer slingin’ the tent.’

  ‘Be daylight soon.’

  ‘Daylight now. Look at ’er gettin’ light in the east.’

  ‘’Ow der yer know where’s east?’

  Dennis began to sing:

  ‘Ship me somewheres east o’ Suez

  Where the best is like the worst.’

  ‘Not a bad song, that. If yer could sing. Sound like an old crow with ’is foot caught in a rabbit trap.’

  Dennis stopped singing.

  ‘Sing some more, Dennis. That is a good song.’

  ‘No. Me feelin’s are ’urt.’

  Joe found his two trees. The tent was suspended on a rope tied to each tree. The side ropes were held down with stones. It was only a small tent, and it was very crowded when we all crawled into it. The ground was stony and wet. It was still raining softly. Our clothes were wet.

  ‘Nice an’ dry in ’ere,’ Joe said.

  I did not agree with him. I was cold and tired.

  ‘Grab a bit o’ shut eye. Dig out the groundsheets, Den.’

  Dennis spread two thin rubber sheets on the ground.

  ‘Wot about some brekker?’ Pat said.

  ‘’Ave ut when we wake up, matey. Snore orf first.’

  We lay on the thin rubber, on the small stones, on the wet ground, and I was surprised later to find that I had fallen asleep almost immediately. I woke to find Joe shaking me.

  ‘Time ter shake a leg,’ he said.

  I sat up, and my body was stiff and sore. I would have liked to sit in a chair or lie on a bed.

  ‘What is the time?’ I said.

  ‘Haven’t a clue, matey. None o’ these drongos brought their watches. Got yours?’

  I had no watch. The rain had stopped, but the sky was heavily clouded.

  ‘Might be afternoon,’ Dennis said. ‘Coulda slept all day.’

  ‘Time fer a feed, anyway,’ said Pat.

  ‘Good idea, matey. Scrounge around an’ see if yer c’n dig up some dry wood. You c’n go down the creek, Den, and fill the billy.’

  ‘Wot’re you gunna do?’

  ‘I’ll stay with Nino and dig out the tucker.’

  ‘Don’ bust yerself.’

  Dennis and Pat went away, and Joe began spreading the contents of the pack on the groundsheets.

  ‘Bread, butter, knife—glad they thought o’ the knife; last time we went shootin’ no bugger ’ad one—meat, salt, forks, coupla tins o’ stew—that’ll do us fer now. Heat up the stew in the billy and then make the tea. Stew an’ dodger. Suit yer, Nino?’

  ‘Yes, Joe.’

  ‘Good-o. Make a place fer the fire.’

  He made a small circular enclosure with stones. Dennis came back with a can of water. Pat brought strips of bark and an armful of sticks.

  ‘Dry?’ said Joe.

  ‘Dry enough.’

  They started a fire. The smell of the burning bark and sticks was very pleasant. They removed the labels from the tins of stew, and put the tins in the can of water. When the water boiled they removed the tins and made tea. We ate the stew from tin plates, and washed it down with hot black tea.

  ‘Beats all yer bloody spaghetti,’ Pat said.

  ‘Grilled steak fer tea.’

  ‘’Ow der yer know we’re not ’avin’ tea now? Can’t see the sun. Could be afternoon.’

  ‘Go over ter the shop later,’ Joe said. ‘Find out.’

  The meal was refreshing. I felt much better. I looked at the country around us. We were on the side of a hill on which a few trees grew, together with hard brown grass. We could see the sea. Inland were forest-covered hills. At the bottom of the hill a stream flowed towards the sea. After our meal we crossed this stream, and Joe led us to a small shop near many tents. A woman was sweeping its floor. She came to the door as we approached.

  ‘Gooday,’ Joe said.

  ‘Day.’

  ‘Any idea o’ the time?’

  ‘Ut’s early yet.’

  ‘Oh.’ To us he whispered, ‘Can’t ask ’er if ut’s mornin’ or afternoon. She’ll think we’re a bunch o’ dills.’ Aloud he said, ‘Wot time does that bus go?’

  ‘In about ’arf an hour.’

  ‘Oh. (Not gettin’ anywhere, are we?) Wot time do yer close up?’

  ‘Aw, when ut gets dark.’

  We looked at her. She looked at us.

  ‘Got any Minties?’ Dennis said.

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Give us a zac’s worth.’

  We entered the shop.

  ‘Don’t be lousy,’ said Pat. ‘Buy a bob’s worth.’

  ‘Orright. Give us a bob’s worth.’

  She weighed the Minties.

  ‘Got any matches?’ Joe asked her.

  ‘Yes. How many yer want?’

  ‘One’ll do. Got ours wet last night.’

  ‘Yes, it rained a lot last night.’

  ‘Rain much this mornin’?’

  ‘Yes. Where were youse this mornin’?’

  ‘Snorin’ orf.’

  ‘Where yez camped?’

  ‘Up on the hill.’

  ‘No one there yesterdy.’

  ‘No. Come in on the paper tra
in.’

  ‘Lotta Boy Scouts come on that. Camped up the other side there.’

  ‘Yeah. We saw ’em.’

  They paid for the Minties and matches.

  ‘Anything else yez want?’

  ‘Got any torch batteries?’ Pat asked. ‘Mine’s on the blink. Might be dark when we get back.’

  ‘Wot size?’

  Pat indicated the size with his hands.

  ‘Yeah. I got some o’ them. Where yez goin’?’

  ‘Shootin’,’ Pat said. ‘Up the hills.’

  ‘Won’t shoot nothin’ up there. Some rabbits down the blackberries. Might get some of them if yer wait till sunset fer ’em ter come out. Yer c’n put in the day doin’ somethin’ else.’

  ‘Nothin’ up there, eh?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘Orright. Forget about the torch batteries. We’ll ’ave a crack at the rabbits later before we go ’ome. Be seein’ yer.’

  ‘Ta-ta,’ she said.

  We left the shop.

  ‘Go this way,’ Dennis said. ‘’Ave a look at the surf.’

  We walked along the beach. The sea was rough. I said, ‘I did not understand all that conversation in the shop. Did you find out what is the time?’

  ‘We’re sweet,’ Joe said. ‘Still mornin’.’

  ‘Where were all those men going, who were on the train?’

  ‘Wollongong, probably.’

  ‘That Mr. Love was the biggest man I’ve seen in Australia.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr. Love.’

  They laughed. ‘Not Mr. Love,’ Joe said, ‘just love. ’E was the little bloke’s mate.’

  ‘Oh. Then why was he called love instead of mate?’

  ‘I dunno. Don’ know much about coal miners.’

  ‘If yer thinkin’ ’e was a queer,’ Pat said, ‘I got a quid ter say ’e wasn’t.’

  ‘I got five quid,’ said Dennis.

  We climbed the hill to the tent.

  ‘There is one other question I wish to ask,’ I said.

  ‘Ask on, matey.’

  ‘What sort of an animal is a lagoon?’

  ‘A goon?’

  ‘No. A lagoon.’

  ‘’Aven’t a clue.’

  ‘Wodda yer talkin’ about?’ Dennis said.

  ‘At the end of the beach was a notice on which was written “Do Not Let the Lagoon Out”.’

  They stopped walking, and held on to each other, and laughed very much.

  Joe finally said, ‘Can’t beat ’im, can yer? Good as a tonic, ’e is. Glad we brought ’im.’

  ‘You have not answered my question, Joe. What is a lagoon?’

  ‘Kind of a platypus,’ Pat said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dennis. ‘With radar instead of ears. Kook-kook-kook-kook-kook.’

  I looked it up in my dictionary the next week, and understood their laughter.

  At the tent they busied themselves wiping and oiling their rifles. Dennis put his over his shoulder and said, ‘Be seein’ yer.’ He left the tent.

  ‘Where is Dennis going, Joe?’

  ‘Always goes orf on ’is own when we go shootin’. Moody bastard.’

  Pat said, ‘Up the creek, eh?’

  ‘Yeah. Good a place as any.’

  They finished playing with their rifles, and we went out and crossed the road, and went under a railway bridge, and along the banks of the stream into the hills. We climbed cliffs and steep slopes, and reached a flat rock on top of the range, from which there was a wonderful view of coast and ocean. We had seen nothing at which to shoot.

  ‘Old dame was right,’ Pat said. ‘Nothin’ up ’ere.’

  ‘Yeah. Good place ter teach Nino ter shoot, but. Fix up a target, Pat.’

  ‘Wot with?’

  ‘Anything yer like.’

  ‘Wot about yer ’ead?’

  ‘No. Need ut ter nut out jobs fer you blokes. Use yer own if yer like.’

  ‘Don’t believe in cruelty to bullets.’ He put a cigarette paper in the bark of a tree. ‘’Ow will that be?’

  ‘Good enough. ’Ave a crack at ut, Nino.’

  I hit it with my third shot.

  ‘Fair enough. Now stick one further away an’ give an expert a go.’

  Pat put a cigarette paper in another tree. He came back as Joe was aiming at it.

  ‘Hey! Wodda yer think you’re doin’! There’s only one expert around here.’

  ‘Know that, matey. Stand aside.’

  They fired many shots, and the target was destroyed. The clouds had thinned, and the sun was trying to shine.

  ‘Good place ter snore orf,’ Joe said.

  We lay on the warm rock. Pat and Joe went to sleep. I looked at the sky and thought of Sundays in Italy—the church bells and the best clothes and the visiting and the enormous meals. I had not been to Mass. But God is close when a man is on a mountain, and I did not feel very guilty. My family was a long way away, and I was in the hands of these two Australians asleep on a rock. I felt that the hands were strong and kind. The nails were broken, and not very clean, but they were capable hands. With a rifle, a shovel, a mattock or a trowel. With a woman? Yes. Would an Italian wife permit her husband to leave her in the middle of the night as Joe had left his wife? On what were Australian marriages based? Sex? Friendship? Mutual dependence? This would be a subject for me to investigate for my writing. Were Joe and Edie typical of Australian marriage? I had much to learn. About courtship, too. Was Dennis’ and Pat’s attitude towards girls typical? Could Italians of their age spend a day happily without feminine company? Could I, if I were home? Girls with their chatter and their demands for attention would spoil the peace of this day, this rock, this quiet sky, these trees. Without them, a man in a city was a lonely nothing. Without them, a man on a mountain was content. Perhaps there was something to write about in this also. I would think about it. Thinking about it, I also went to sleep, and woke perspiring to find the clouds gone, the sun shining from a clear sky, and the rock uncomfortably hot. Joe and Pat were sitting in the shade with their backs to a tree. I sat up.

  Joe said, ‘Good on yer, Nino. Yer won me a dollar. I bet Pat yer’d wake up before the shade o’ this tree hit yer.’

  ‘Take ut outa me wages,’ said Pat. ‘Ready ter start down?’

  ‘Yeah. Been up ’ere long enough. Come on, Nino. Back ter camp.’

  ‘Dennis oughta be back by now,’ Pat said. ‘Bet y’ another dollar ’e’s got a rabbit.’

  ‘Yer on, mate.’

  We climbed down to the stream. A deep pool was tempting. We took off our clothes and got into it. It was cold and clean.

  At the tent, Dennis was sitting under one of the trees watching a new fire licking at the billy.

  ‘Wot’s cookin’?’ said Joe.

  ‘Rabbit stew.’

  ‘How many d’yer get?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Makes ten bob y’ owe me, Pat.’

  ‘No ut don’t.’

  ‘Why don’t ut?’

  ‘You bet me Dennis would get a rabbit. ’E got four rabbits. That’s not a rabbit. We’re all square.’

  ‘Gees, you shoulda been a lawyer. Save the skins, Den?’

  ‘Summer skins. Not worth savin’.’

  ‘Ain’t yer gunna ask us ’ow many we got?’

  ‘No need ter. Y’ain’t carryin’ any.’

  ‘How near is ut ter bein’ cooked, matey?’

  ‘’Bout five minutes.’

  ‘Good-o. We c’d go a bit o’ that. Ever tasted rabbit stew before, Nino?’

  ‘No, Joe.’

  ‘Got a treat comin’ ter yer, matey. She’s an extra good brew.’

  So ‘she�
�� was. There was none left when we’d finished.

  ‘Wot now?’ said Pat.

  ‘Wash up, pack up an’ go ’ome,’ Joe said.

  ‘Wot about all this tucker we got left? Take ut with us?’

  ‘Give ut ter the dear little Boy Scouts,’ said Dennis. ‘We c’n go past ’em on the way up.’

  We did this, and the Scout Master thanked us most profusely. The sun was low over the hills when we left him.

  Dennis was curious. ‘Wot makes a bloke become one o’ those blokes? Mob o’ kids like that’d drive yer mad.’

  ‘Takes all sorts, matey,’ Joe said. ‘Probably gets a kick outa bossin’ ’em around.’

  ‘I’d wanta kick all their little arses.’

  ‘Oo, you cruel man,’ said Pat. ‘Wot about tryin’ fer a coupla rabbits in them blackberries? We got tons o’ time.’

  ‘Good-o, matey. ’Ave ter sneak up on ’em, but.’

  We lay in the long grass and waited until the sun disappeared behind the hills, but no rabbits appeared.

  ‘Give ut away,’ Joe said. ‘Get the next train.’

  We were not alone going up the hill to the station. There were numerous young men and girls, carrying packs and baskets, and pushing and pummelling each other, shouting and laughing. Dennis disapproved.

  ‘Dunno which is worse—the dear little Boy Scouts or this slap an’ tickle mob.’

  ‘Garn, yer was young yerself once.’

  ‘Not that young.’

  ‘One thing,’ Joe said, ‘plenty trains this time of a Sunday night. Won’t ’ave ter wait long.’

  ‘Lucky if we get a seat.’

  There were no vacant seats. Every seat in the train that arrived half an hour later was occupied. We sat on the tent and pack in the corridor, crushed in a crowd of young people who flirted and giggled and sang songs all the way to Sydney. I enjoyed it very much. Dennis became more and more irritable.

  ‘Next bugger treads on me foot I’ll land ’im one,’ he said in a loud voice to no particular person.

  A red-haired young man in a white T-shirt said, ‘Referrin’ ter me?’

  ‘Referrin’ to anyone who treads on me foot.’

  ‘Why don’t yer shift yer foot?’

  ‘Where the hell c’n I shift ut to? Why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘Where the hell c’n I sit down? Try landin’ me one an’ yer’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Tread on me foot. Go on, tread on me foot.’