Two Generations

by Anne Connor

  Jock looked up at the priest and nodded his head. ‘When I hear you say these things in our meetings, Fin, it makes sense; but in the day-to-day business of living, the darkness returns.’

  The two men sat in silence until the voice on the overhead speaker announced visiting hours would begin in fifteen minutes.

  ‘How about absolution again?’

  Jock shrugged, but he knelt, clasped his hands in front of his chest and bent his head. Fin rose, pulled out the folded purple stole with gold edging from his back pocket. He kissed it, placed it around his neck and stood in front of Jock. He rested both hands on his friend’s head before making the sign of the cross.

  Pater misericordiárum, qui per mortem et resurrectionem Filii tui, et in Spiritu Sancto et mundum reconcilians tibi in remissiónem peccatorum. Per ministerium Ecclesiae indulgentiam Deus det tibi pacem. Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

  God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of your son, you have reconciled the world to yourself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the church, may God grant you pardon and peace. And I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

  Jock said ‘Amen’ with the priest and made the sign of the cross. ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Finbar helped him up. ‘God bless, son. Let’s go; visiting hours started five minutes ago.’

  When Jock returned home hours later, Bess met him in the kitchen still wearing her best frock, the one she kept for special times as on Christmas Day or the odd occasion they went out. She had long kicked off her shoes and her bare feet made a soft padding sound on the linoleum. Delicate tendrils from her pinned-up hair escaped down the back of her neck.

  I peeked through the crack where the sliding door hadn’t closed against the doorjamb.

  ‘Your place is at home with your family on Christmas Day,’ she said in a hushed voice, thinking no-one could hear, but I saw and heard everything.

  Jock opened a kitchen cupboard door and put two mugs on the bench.

  ‘But Bess, these blokes have no-one. But for the grace of God, love.’

  ‘I know what that means for you, but not Christmas Day, that’s all.’ She walked over to the kitchen sink, turned on the tap and filled the kettle. ‘The kids wanted you here. I wanted you here. The boys got a new cricket set for Christmas and they wanted you to play a game with them.’ She placed the filled kettle on the stove and lit the gas jet. ‘They’re very disappointed. Not Christmas Day, other days, but not today.’ She walked to the fridge and picked up a bottle of milk, then poured small amounts into the mugs. ‘It is not too much to ask. You didn’t have to visit prisoners today. Your family is more important than strangers.’

  ‘Alright, Bess.’ Jock was getting agitated. He poured the hot water into the teapot, swirled it around harder than usual and placed it with a thud on the kitchen bench.

  Bess stopped talking.

  He waited a few minutes then poured out the steaming tea and took the two mugs over to the kitchen table and sat. ‘I’ll ask the blokes without families to visit next year.’

  A Christmas cake covered with a net food protector sat in the middle of the table. Bess cut two slices and placed them on a small plate.

  ‘We’d be happier if you did that. Your family comes before strangers.’

  ‘I hear you, don’t go on.’

  ‘I was just saying.’

  They sat together in silence, drinking tea and eating Christmas cake.

  At times, the controlling, angry father was absent and he enjoyed watching his children’s antics. I remember the times we rode on Melbourne’s old red rattler trains to Flinders Street. He often took the three youngest, Rose, Joseph and me to the football on the train, leaving my mother time to rest. The two older boys were grown-up enough to go off on their own.

  On the way to the railway station, we’d race one another to what had now become a busy crossroad at the end of our street and wait on the edge of the footpath. The traffic controlling device was a tall tower with a large circular disk on top. It reminded me of a clock, but instead of numbers, there were sections of red, green and amber. A moving hand in the middle of the dial indicated who had the right of way, and how long they had left. Even when the moving arm had landed on green, indicating it was safe for pedestrians to walk, we’d remain on the footpath until Dad clapped his hands twice. We knew the drill. He often used this clapping of hands as a form of direction for us: if he wanted us to return to him, as well as when to walk across the road. This wasn’t out of the ordinary for us when we were young. But on reflection, it was a ridiculous way of communicating with children. As I moved into adolescence, I dreaded his clapping in public and even ignored it at times. In time, it stopped. I don’t know why or when.

  On the way to the train station we walked past the old smelly tannery, the last in a number of similar factories built in the shire in the late 1800s. The calfskins arrived at the mill stiff and dirty, caked in blood and gore. If the wind blew a particular way, the pong of rotting flesh wafted up to our house. Hot days with a northerly wind were the worst. Windows and doors were kept closed. My father was often withdrawn on these days and it was best to keep out of his way. I wonder whether the odour of decaying meat could have triggered memories of the stink of death in Darwin and Lae.

  Everyone was pleased when the processing plant was demolished and replaced with a petrol station, shopping centre and large car park. Across the road was a timber mill and next to that a vast stretch of vacant land with a dilapidated fence made from sheets of corrugated iron nailed to wooden posts. This became the site of the now bustling Preston Market.

  As we waited on the station platform, we vied for a train compartment to ourselves in an old boxed-carriage red train. This meant we could use Victorian Rail as a playground. I remember my father being relaxed on these train trips. Under his watchful gaze, we slipped into a world with fewer rules. Maybe, moving from one place to another took him back to the new-found freedom he first experienced in shipboard life. Eight weeks on a ship on his own, not being accountable to anyone, must have been such a relief to him. He only had himself to please. He could do whatever he wanted when he wanted for the first time in his life. He too had the added luxury of a warm place to sleep and plenty of food. In this liminal space on the train travelling between home and Flinders Street, I wonder whether the freedom experienced on the ship resonated within him and he relaxed.

  My siblings and I made the most of this carefree father as we travelled into the city. In each train compartment, two lines of leather handles hung from the ceiling. They were for commuters to hold on to when the seats had been taken. For us, these were perfect for swinging from handle to handle to see who could make it first to the other side of the carriage. I was the youngest, smallest and weakest and always last in the swing-on-the-handle race, or I lost my grip and fell onto the grimy floor littered with discarded chewing gum, spilled drink and ground-in food. My favourite pastime on the train was to stick my legs out the window. Opening a window on these old trains was difficult for many adults, near impossible for a youngster. There was a lever on either side of the top of the window. Dad stood at his full five foot ten inches and pulled both handles inwards at the same time. He released the window in one movement, so it slipped into the wall cavity. The timber-framed glass panels rattling within the hollow space helped christen these trains – the red rattlers.

  I tucked my socks into my shoes and placed them under the seat. Then I’d sit sideways on the green leather seats, shimmy over on my bottom so I was pressed hard against the wall cavity and stick my legs out the open window. The cool breeze on my bare legs and feet was freedom. It didn’t matter how brisk the weather. This was a time of breaking rules and a burst of fresh winter air wasn’t going to dampen the fun. When the train whizzed by a steel pole or tree, I pulled my legs in as I thought my
feet would be squashed.

  It was thrilling and I laughed and squealed with delight, kicking my naked legs in the breeze. At times, Dad lowered whatever he was reading, leaned his head against the headrest and smiled, amused. Other times, he sat reading his newspaper or the Readers’ Digest. When the train approached a station, Dad said without lifting his eyes, ‘Station coming up.’ We assumed the position of good children sitting on a train, hoping like hell that no-one spoilt the day’s gymnastics by entering our compartment. When the train slid out of each station, we resumed our antics.

  If we caught a new blue train, the stakes got higher. These trains weren’t limited to tiny compartments; they were open plan and had numerous handrails to swing from. It was tremendous fun. If passengers boarded, we knew what to do. We sat like model youngsters, smiled and talked to one another, or sat and stared out the window. My father nodded to people and often started up a conversation or read The Sun newspaper from cover to cover before starting the crossword. Strangers on the train often commented to our father about his well-behaved children.

  I could tell this made him proud.

  At Flinders Street, we walked to St Francis’ Church in Lonsdale Street where we attended Mass or confession or both.

  I loved entering the side altar and lighting a candle. This altar was a magical place and I often spoke to God after dropping my sixpence into the metal honesty box. When my candle was lit, I’d walk to the back of a line of pews and sit on my own. I was confident I was the chosen one. God was all ears now, whereas other times my pleas to Him were ignored. Like the time I prayed very hard for a baby sparrow to survive. It didn’t. I had found it in the doorway of a shop in High Street on my way home from school. Its mother was close by and I knew I should have left it. But my schoolgirl-self was compelled to pick up the fluffy chick and carry it home cupped in both hands. Even though I supplied the fledgling with worms from the garden and made it a nest out of twigs and strands of wool from Mum’s knitting basket, it was dead in the morning. I buried it under the lemon tree in the back garden and made a cross out of two icy pole sticks I had found in the rubbish bin.

  Then there was the time I prayed to be given a pony. My litanies weren’t answered then either.

  My father often stayed in the central part of the church after Mass had finished. He’d kneel, place both elbows on the back of the seat in front of him and rest his forehead on the top of his clasped hands. When he looked up, he had a red mark on his brow. We knew not to interrupt him unless it was urgent. When the time came, he’d gather us up from the side altar, where by now we were bored and hungry and sometimes hovering around the candles, blowing them out and lighting them again. Once, I picked up the honesty box chained to the top of a long, heavy candle-holder and noticed dents around the padlock and the slit on top. I turned it upside down and tried to shake out a few coins, but it made too much noise so I placed it back as quietly as I could.

  My father appeared peaceful after these church visits and cracked jokes, making us laugh on our way to the next stop – to buy lunch.

  There was a shop in Swanston Street with a state-of-the-art doughnut-making machine. I’d press my face against the glass panel and watch a silver arm drop blobs of dough into boiling oil. When the pale yellow circles turned to golden brown, another mechanical arm flipped them into a tray of sugar and cinnamon. At the end of the machine a man in a white coat buttoned on one side used tongs to place them into brown paper bags ready for sale, leaving the top open so the steam could escape. Watching the cooking method was hypnotic. I liked to pick out a particular one as it dropped into the hot oil and watch its journey until it landed in the paper container. I wanted my father to buy the bag with my particular doughnut in it. This didn’t happen as there were people in line before us who scored the one I had dibs on. Dad bought four doughnuts and four Four‘n Twenty pies in separate brown paper bags. Each had a picture of black birds flying out of the top of an open red pie. This too was a treat, your own pie in your own paper bag.

  At home, we didn’t get a pie each, Mum bought a family-sized meat pie and cut it into triangles. To make the meal stretch to feed seven, she boiled up a big pot of potatoes then mashed them into oblivion with a fork, slopped in leftover cream and a big dollop of butter. I liked to plop extra butter onto the creamy white mound and watch it melt and trickle down the sides.

  With our hot pies and doughnuts, we walked to the Yarra River, sat on the grass and ate our lunch. When we had our fill, we shook our paper bags upside down. This sent flocks of scavenging seagulls into a frenzy as they dive-bombed and fought one another for the scraps. Years later whenever I walked past that spot by the Yarra, I could taste those Four‘n Twenty pies.

  It was a thirty-minute walk to the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Rose, Joseph and I ran along the Yarra, throwing stones into the water or racing one another to the next tree or seat. My father strolled behind deep in thought.

  One day, when the football ground came into view, I said, ‘Dad, can I buy a Footy Record? It’s my turn.’

  The Football Record was a mandatory accessory when watching a game of Australian Rules Football. It contained the latest news on the players and a section where you could keep track of the goals and points scored.

  ‘Too right,’ he said. ‘But not now.’

  I held his hand and we walked among the elm trees past big boys selling the programs in the best positions near the railway station. Rose and Joseph ran ahead throwing piles of dried leaves at one another. In the distance stood a skinny boy who looked to be around ten, with a canvas bag overflowing with Records. It was obvious his sales were small. By the time the football crowd had reached him they had bought their books.

  ‘Buy it from him,’ Dad said as he handed me a two-shilling piece and pointed to the kid. I went up to the boy, he took the money and smiled. I noticed his decayed teeth. He handed me the change and a Football Record; I passed both to my father. Dad did something then I hadn’t seen him do before. He handed the change back to the boy.

  ‘There you go, son.’

  My father shoved the book into his back pocket and we walked together hand in hand. Out of the blue, he said, ‘Those big brutes take all the good spots.’

  ‘What brutes?’ I asked. ‘Those ones close to the railway station. It’s not fair that little lad misses out.’

  As we moved closer to the football stadium, I saw Rose and Joseph standing by the turnstiles, and asked, ‘Dad, can I hold the Footy Record?’

  As he whipped it out of his back pocket and passed it to me, he said, ‘We’ll keep it, and use it to start the fire sometime.’

  Jock often reached out to the disenfranchised at other times, too. The day after the football match, he brought home a dinner guest, Roy Reeney, to share the family’s traditional Sunday roast and watch television with us. Mr Reeney was a member of the St Vincent de Paul Society. A short, rotund man he lived in a boarding house near the church. He had a crimson complexion, thin greasy hair, a turned-up nose and little piggy eyes. He wore slippers and smelly socks. He laughed and made corny jokes while we ate our roast lamb and vegetables. We hadn’t met anyone like him and we were fascinated – for a while.

  After dinner, everyone moved into the lounge room to watch the Sunday night TV shows: Disneyland and Father Knows Best. As the evening progressed, the stink from Roy’s feet made us ill, and we tried to hold our noses and breathe through our mouths. Rose left the room and soaked her handkerchief in Tabu perfume. She took a big sniff then handed it over and I did the same and passed it back. We took turns passing the scent-soaked handkerchief between the two of us until the heavy fragrance overpowered me, leaving me with a headache. One by one, we slipped off to bed. By the end of the night, it was just Jock and his guest left watching television. The following day, we grumbled about Roy’s smelly feet and Jock responded by telling us we were selfish and uncharitable. Bess agreed with us, but she left the complaining to her children.

  Roy wasn’t invited back a
gain.

  Another time Jock offered a leg-up to one of his St Vincent de Paul’s colleagues was when he invited Mr Comervich to paint the laundry and toilet. Jock’s friend had six children, was a mechanic and a handyman of sorts, but found it difficult to keep a job. Mr Comervich had a speech impediment caused by being born with a hole in the roof of his mouth. At first meeting, he was difficult to understand, but in time your ear became familiar with his speech and conversing with him wasn’t difficult. He reminded me of someone who had fallen into a ragbag and came out wearing whatever clothes had stuck to him. Mr Comervich was one of those people who had the ability to sail through criticisms and jokes at his expense. It was as if life’s slings and arrows didn’t touch him. He lived with much ridicule yet always had a sunny disposition and was kind and loyal to Jock, driving him where he wanted to go. In Jock’s ailing months he was a regular visitor. He told him the latest news or just sat in silence with him. His eldest daughter Janine was in my class at primary school. She had the sharpest mind, always came top of the class and was the first to ask a well-thought-out question. She too was kind, had many friends and oozed confidence. I heard later she studied medicine at the University of Melbourne.

  Mr Comervich was earnest in the task and painted everything in front of him. Instead of moving an old umbrella left hanging behind the laundry door, he painted around it, leaving an umbrella-shaped-silhouette. An empty, washed jam jar left on the laundry windowsill was painted, but underneath wasn’t.

  On one of the days Mr Comervich was working at our house, Bess had bought a jam sponge roll from the local cake shop for morning tea. She cut a few slices and left a large piece uncut. When she offered the cake plate to Mr Comervich, he picked up the large uncut section and took a bite out of it. Jock, Bess and I sat in silence drinking our tea and eating dainty slices of cake.