Razor (Underbelly)

by Writer, Larry

  ‘Been?’ snorted Jim. ‘You know where I've been. With the new woman I'm living with. My future wife. I intended to bring her here.’

  ‘You bastard!’ said Tilly, deeply humiliated in front of her guests. ‘Don't you mention that woman's name in my house.’

  At that, she later told the divorce court judge, ‘Jim hauled off and hit me over the head with a bottle. He cracked my skull wide open and I had to be taken to St Vincent's Hospital. They put five stitches in my head and fourteen in my right hand. I always try to protect my face and he nearly cut my fingers off with the broken bottle. I was in bed for three weeks. My nerves have been bad ever since.’

  Tilly Devine's divorce application was heard in late March 1943, and she dressed for the event. She wore an expensive designer dress, a heavy fur and a wide-brimmed black hat. Her lips were a bright-red bow and her fingers flashed with many diamond rings. Her yellow-dyed hair was an elaborate array of sausage rolls. She announced she was seeking to end her marriage to James Devine because of the ‘cruel beatings’ she had suffered at his hands over the previous twelve months. And when the details of the domestic hell she had endured with Jim were aired in court, even those who could not abide her sympathised.

  Tilly detailed Jim's assaults that had laid her low in pubs, on the street and at her home, most spectacularly at the silver wedding anniversary party. Her lawyers called a number of her friends, who swore they had seen Jim beat Tilly. One, Olive Rodman of Kings Cross, told the court she had often seen Jim Devine knock Tilly unconscious, and had inspected the bruises and cuts Jim's fists and boots had tattooed on his wife's body. Having delivered her testimony, and overcome with emotion, Rodman collapsed in the dock. Tilly's doctor, Henry Crowe, told the court that he had treated Tilly for more than a decade, and that never had he seen her so nervous and upset as now. He surmised that her condition had been caused by ‘strain and battery’.

  At this point, Mr Justice Edwards demanded to see the Devines’ marriage certificate, to satisfy himself that they were indeed man and wife. Neither could produce the document. Tilly explained that she had given it to Australian military officials in the early 1920s, and they had never returned it to her. The judge ordered her to procure a copy of the original from the Department of Births, Deaths and Marriages in London, and adjourned proceedings until the document could be produced.

  If Tilly needed something to take her mind off the impending return bout in the divorce court, she found it when she was arrested on three separate counts in June of 1943. It was a vintage Devine performance when she fronted Mr Justice Street at Central Police Court to face a number of charges: that her home, 191 Palmer Street, and a brothel that she owned in the same street, were disorderly houses where soldiers were robbed; that her home was a haven where thieves consorted; and that she had maliciously wounded one of her prostitutes, an alcoholic cocaine addict named Ellen Grimson, at that address. The judge produced Devine's record, dating back to 1921. It covered eight closely typed foolscap sheets.

  The police evidence in the Grimson matter served as a chilling reminder that while Tilly Devine may have been the victim of her husband's savagery, and may no longer have been the powerful criminal she had been in the ′20s and ′30s, she was still a tigress. A police officer appeared as a witness for the prosecution, and the court stenographer recorded his evidence this way: ‘I heard Ellen Grimson calling out in the yard of 191 Palmer Street, “Let me go! Don't hold me while she cuts me up.” Tilly Devine then said, “I'll cut her ---- guts out, the ---- . Put the ---- in there until I get my ---- gat [gun]. I'll put a hole through her.” ‘ When the police arrested Tilly, Grimson was bleeding profusely from the face. She said Tilly's friends had held her while Tilly had cut her lip with a knife. It took eleven stitches to seal the wound. Tilly explained to the officer why she turned on her employee: ‘The bitch would get drunk and go out and leave the lights on. It started over that. If you hadn't come, I would have killed her.’ She denied slashing Grimson with a razor or knife, but admitted hitting her in the face with her ring-studded fists.

  Tilly was found guilty of the disorderly house and consorting charges. She was ordered to stand trial in August for wounding Grimson.

  In late July, out on bail awaiting an appeal, Tilly was back before Mr Justice Edwards in the divorce court. She handed him the marriage certificate and confirmed that the details on it were correct, except her age. The certificate gave her age as twenty-one, but she had been just sixteen when she and Jim had married at Sacred Heart Church, Camberwell Green, almost twenty-six years before.

  The judge examined the certificate but was still not ready to grant Tilly her divorce. He said he wanted to hear further evidence corroborating her claim that Jim had ‘habitually and cruelly’ beaten her. Tilly's lawyer Harold Munro warned the judge that such information might be difficult to come by, for witnesses might be too frightened of Jim Devine to speak against him. Justice Edwards, whose jurisdiction had obviously never extended to trying criminals, was incredulous. ‘Surely you don't suggest the stage has been reached in our community when persons can be intimidated against giving evidence in the courts?’

  ‘There are many,’ retorted Munro, ‘who would rather travel to the back of Bourke than go into the witness box and say one word against certain notorious individuals.’

  The judge was not swayed. ‘I think, Mr Munro, you had better get corroboration. Marriages are not dissolved without complete proof of matrimonial offences having been committed when the evidence is such that corroboration is readily available.’

  Tilly now told Munro to fetch a friend named Mary Singer. It has never been divulged what incentive Tilly offered Singer to persuade her to risk incurring Jim Devine's wrath, but several hours later, a tremulous Singer was in the witness box. Yes, she told Justice Edwards, she had seen Jim hit Tilly with a bottle at the anniversary party, and seen him blacken her eyes and try to kick down her door. She had harboured Tilly when Jim was like a wild beast when drunk. Singer's evidence satisfied the judge, who granted Tilly Devine her decree. In six months’ time, in January 1944, the divorce would be final.

  After her divorce Tilly partied hard, but her celebrations were curtailed when she stood trial for her attack on Ellen Grimson. She was found guilty and sentenced to six concurrent months’ gaol on that count and the other two June offences of which she had already been convicted.

  When she was released from prison, a new man entered the recently divorced Tilly Devine's life. She became enamoured of a big, bluff seaman named Eric Parsons, who worked as a part-time barman at the Tradesman's Arms Hotel.

  Parsons, born in 1905, had been a steward on board the former ferry Kuttabul, which was torpedoed by one of three Japanese midget submarines that sneaked into Sydney Harbour on 1 June 1942. The two-man submarines’ target had been the USS Chicago. Their presence was discovered when they were just 500 metres from the Chicago and preparing to fire their torpedoes. One submarine became enmeshed in torpedo nets strung across the Harbour, and the two occupants blew it, and themselves, sky-high rather than be captured. The second sub also destroyed itself when cornered by Australian warships. The third loosed a torpedo at the Chicago, but it missed and exploded under the hull of the Kuttabul, blowing it apart. Nineteen sailors died. Eric Parsons was fond of regaling customers at the Arms with tales of how he had rescued many of the drowning seamen. The spellbound tipplers repaid him with beer.

  Tilly and Eric drank and caroused together, and soon became lovers. When she invited him to live with her, he left his wife Mary and moved into 191 Palmer Street, just a stagger from the Tradesman's Arms. He loved her, and humoured her, and no doubt lent support when in October 1944 she was arrested for beating up a Fijian twice her size named Vatavata, after a misunderstanding at one of her brothels.

  Eric Parsons was also a victim of Tilly's cyclonic temper. On 19 February 1945, Darlinghurst Police Station received a call from a woman who would not give her name. She told them there had been a shootin
g at Tilly Devine's house ‘and you'd better get down there quicksmart.’ Tilly opened the door when the police arrived at around 7 p.m. Her face a study in puzzled innocence, she said she knew of no shooting, and invited the officers in to look around. In a bedroom they found Eric, lying still, eyes closed, under a blanket on a bunk. Tilly, finger to her lips, whispered that Eric was snoozing. A Sergeant Gilmour shook Eric, who opened his eyes. ‘What's your name, sir? Have you been shot?’ Gilmour wanted to know.

  ‘I'm Eric Parsons,’ replied Eric woozily. ‘And no, I haven't been shot. I'm just sleeping off the booze. Are you having a joke with me?’

  ‘Tilly, what can you tell us?’ asked Gilmour.

  ‘Me? Nothing,’ protested Tilly. ‘I have no idea what happened. I got on the booze today. The taxation mob had me down, and they took £900 out of the £1500 I had in the bank. So I got on the booze and do not care what happens.’

  Gilmour and his men returned to Darlinghurst to file a false-alarm call, but then were surprised to hear on the police wireless that a man named Parsons was being treated at St Vincent's Hospital for a gunshot wound in his left leg. When Gilmour went to the hospital, Parsons told him a different story. He had been shot, he conceded, but had no idea who pulled the trigger. He had been standing in Palmer Street, minding his business, when he felt a sting on his thigh and looked down and saw blood. When Gilmour was sceptical, the flustered Parsons again changed his tune and this time betrayed Tilly, stammering that she had shot him when a drinking spree turned ugly. When the police went to arrest her, Tilly denied she'd shot her lover, though she did admit they'd had ‘a bit of a yike over his missus’. According to Tilly, when Eric told police he'd been shot by a mystery gunman in Palmer Street he had been telling the truth. Though completely confused by now, police charged Tilly with attempted murder.

  ‘My client has an answer to the charge: she is completely innocent,’ said solicitor Munro in Central Court in February 1945, when seeking bail on Tilly's behalf. The prosecution asserted that Tilly and Eric got drunk, quarrelled over Eric's wife Mary and the jealous Tilly shot him. Tilly stuck to her story that Eric had been wounded by a person or persons unknown. She was remanded till 6 March on £400 bail. But at her trial the case was dismissed when Eric refused to testify against her. Three months later, on 19 May, they married.

  More than seventy guests crammed into Tilly's Palmer Street terrace, now decorated with her expensive furniture and art from Torrington Road, for the reception. Aged forty-four and decidedly plump, Tilly wore a powderblue dress and a matching ribbon in her hair. Her hard face was coated in make-up and her lips were painted blood-red. Parsons, his receding sandy hair slicked back, wore a sober suit with a white carnation in the buttonhole. Guests drank beer, wine, champagne and spirits, and ate lobster, poultry and pork. There was a two-tier wedding cake with bride and groom dolls on top and a horseshoe emblazoned with ‘Good luck!’ Many present mused that Eric was going to need it.

  To the sentimental sobs of the newlyweds and several guests, the songs ‘Sympathy’ and ‘Because’ were trilled by a slim young man wearing, for no doubt a good reason, a black tunic and furs. The party raged all night and into the next day. Just as the newlyweds collapsed into bed about midday, Tilly wearing silk pyjamas and five rings (including her new wedding band), five fire engines and an undertaker arrived at the premises. They had been summoned by a mystery practical joker. The culprit may or may not have been Kate Leigh.

  ‘Eric was, in Australian slang, a bit of a Flash Harry,’ George Parsons laughs. ‘He was my father's second eldest brother. My grandparents’ eldest child was Emma, then Sid, who fought at Gallipoli when he was sixteen, then Eric. My uncle liked the good things in life and moved in circles that were a bit dicey. Stolen property, receiving. He was married to my Aunt Mary, but he was lured away by Tilly. Most of my uncles and aunts decided Eric was persona non grata when he left Mary. Not my father, who thought Eric was wonderful. Dad was the youngest sibling and he had been looked after by his brothers. Eric was good to Dad. One time Dad did something silly at work and I remember him telling Mum he was in trouble and her getting all worried. They rang Tilly and Eric, who came over and listened to Dad's story and told him, “Don't worry, we'll take care of the problem.” They sorted it, like that. Eric was a big, strong man who could look after himself with his hands.’

  Eric Parsons, says George, ceased to be his own man when he married Tilly. ‘It was sad. He traded his independence for a flash lifestyle. He was a classic larrikin. He liked moving in dangerous circles, and there was always danger around Til. Violence was a daily occurrence. Reciprocal paybacks, medieval honour. To be taken seriously you had to be able to show you could and would defend what you had. If you didn't defend your turf in those days you'd be eaten alive.’

  Eric Parsons taught young George to box. ‘He said to me once, if ever you get into a fight at school, there's only one rule: you don't let him up when he's down. That involved kicking and anything else you needed to do. Eric was hard, but not nasty. He was generous and friendly, a ladies’ man and a man's man. He told a good story.’ Of Tilly's first husband, George Parsons is less complimentary: ‘Eric was a great improvement on Jim, who was a total thug. I never once heard Tilly mention Jim Devine.’

  ‘To me,’ Parsons says, ‘Tilly was like a ship in full sail. She wore lots of ornate jewellery, rings on her fingers and rings on her toes. No one ever taught her to dress, she went for the overstatement. In a way it was her saying: “This is me, I'm important, I'm also wealthy. Take notice.” She was like one of those big Victorian houses, so stuffed with furniture that the clutter becomes interesting. She was still a good-looking woman in her forties and fifties, but heavily overweight. She'd grab you and kiss you, and be very physical. There was a great amount of Aunty Tilly when I knew her, and she'd squash you in a big hug.’

  George Parsons never saw his aunt's nasty side, never heard her mention sex, swear (‘apart from “bloody” and “bugger” ‘) nor saw her assault anyone. The Tilly she allowed him to see was loving and lovable. ‘She was very kind to us. She allowed us to do things our parents wouldn't. She was always interceding on our behalf if we were playing up or making noise. She'd say, “Oh the kids are all right. Kids are kids.” I remember once asking her for something that my parents refused to give me, and she slipped £5 into my pocket and said, “Go and get it, and don't tell a soul.”

  ‘When she came to our house she would give us £5 each, knowing we would pass it on to Mum. It was her way of giving my mother money, because Dad, though a lovely man, was rather feckless and spent most of his time at the pub with his union mates. She knew Mum would never accept money from her but would take it from us kids. One day when Tilly gave my sister Robyn a £5 note, Robyn held it up to the light and asked if it was counterfeit. Everyone in the room froze, wondering how Tilly would respond. To our immense relief, Til thought it was hilarious.’ After initial reluctance to have anything to do with her notorious new in-law, Parsons's mother and Devine warmed to each other, ‘especially as they grew older,’ says Parsons. ‘But I had aunts who were extremely critical that my mother would even have Tilly in our house.’

  Occasionally, after Tilly moved back there with Eric, Parsons was invited to his aunt's home in Maroubra. ‘It was full of furniture, some of it very good quality, some bric-a-brac. Often the girls who worked for her would be there. The first time I saw all these young women at the house I asked Tilly, “Are these your daughters?” and she thought that was terribly funny. The girls made a fuss of me, cuddled me and sat me on their laps.’

  But the young Parsons did recognise, he says, ‘the threat, a hint of violence that was always around Tilly’. He believes it was this frisson of danger that his uncle Eric found irresistible. ‘The blokes that came to the house with her, such as Skinny the bodyguard, were like neighbours, uncles. They seemed like ordinary working-class blokes and were friendly to us. They were at Tilly's beck and call. Skinny carried a gun in a shoul
der holster, and one day we said, “Can we have a play with your gun?” and he said, “No.” Then Tilly said, “For heaven's sake, Skinny, take the bullets out and let the kids play with the gun.” Mum was appalled. Skinny took the slugs out of his .38 revolver and we rushed around the house with it. After ten minutes, Tilly said, “you'd better give Skinny his gun back.” Both of her bodyguards were armed. She must have feared an attack.’

  Jim Devine seemed unconcerned by the demise of his marriage and returned to his lovers and his drinking. Not long after, he moved to Melbourne, where he had grown up, and found work as a warehouse storeman. He was only fifty-two but looked seventy. His days as a major criminal were behind him.

  As far as is known, he had no contact with his ex-wife again, except on New Year's Eve, 1950, when he appeared at a party in Ramsgate Avenue, Bondi, where Tilly was a guest. Taking up where they had left off at their silver wedding anniversary bash some seven years before, they argued; he punched her on the jaw, dislocating it. An ambulance and the police were called. A Sergeant Ware arrived first to find Tilly on a bed, her damaged jaw hanging loose. This infirmity, however awkward and painful, did not prevent Tilly from foully abusing the hapless policeman. She was still in hospital when the charge of using indecent language to a police officer was heard and she was fined £3 in absentia. Tilly refused to press charges against Jim, who returned to Melbourne after the assault — ‘All I want from that bastard is that he get out of my life forever.’