Alien Son, page 14
Reluctantly moving on past the last market stalls, I reached the wharves on the river. From behind high galvanized-iron fences rose the tops of cranes and the masts of ships. They seemed to touch the black spidery clouds that hung from the grey, hard sky. I stopped to watch from a half-opened gate the unloading of a boat and I screwed up my eyes to read the name on the stern.
I had taken no notice of the policeman strolling round on the wharf until I heard a bystander behind me say that the ship was being worked by scabs. Then I recalled what I had to do. I felt in my pocket for Mr Finnan’s letter and, reassured by the crackle of paper, went off in search of the Union Hall. It was getting late and I had to be home before tea.
At last I stood in front of the hall and stared at the entrance blocked with men all talking animatedly. For a moment or so I wanted to run from these unfamiliar, noisy surroundings but I remembered my duty to Mr Finnan. I slowly edged my way through the crowd into a corridor out of which many rooms opened.
All round me there were men in working clothes. There was a smell of damp cloth and sodden boot leather and stale smoke and a blue haze hung like a cloud over the darkening corridor. An elderly man who held some papers in his hand came towards me. He spoke good-naturedly, ‘Who are you looking for, sonny?’
‘Can you tell me where I can find Mr Tooley?’ I asked.
‘Joe Tooley?’
‘Joe Tooley. That’s him,’ I replied.
‘He was pinched this afternoon,’ he said, watching me with a quizzical expression on his deeply creased face.
‘Pinched,’ I said in a frightened voice.
‘You Joe Tooley’s boy?’ the old man asked gently.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Mr Finnan sent me to give him a letter.’
‘Well, you tell Ned that we’ll get Joe out. He needn’t worry.’
I ran from the Union Hall as if pursued by the police myself. All my mother’s dread of police asserted itself in me and I felt as if I had committed a crime. Never was I so glad to reach my own street. The light that shone in Mr Finnan’s window gave me back a little of that feeling of security that had deserted me through the city’s streets.
There was a homely smell of cooking in the kitchen and there I told Mr Finnan that Joe Tooley was in jail. Straightening his stooped shoulders he leaned back in his chair and said, ‘That’s funny. We were joking about quod only yesterday. Well, I’ll see him tomorrow.’
Mrs Finnan glanced sharply at him from under puffy eyelids.
‘You can’t go anywhere tomorrow. Have some sense, Ned. You’re still sick.’
‘All right, all right, we won’t talk about it now,’ he said and brought the conversation to an end.
A misty rain greeted me the next morning when I came out to the verandah to farewell Father as he drove away in search of bottles and bags. Across the way I saw Mr Finnan with a group of people. All of them faced Mrs Finnan, who was behind the gate.
As I approached them Mr Dickenson was talking.
‘I wish I was as certain as you, Ned,’ he was saying. ‘Things don’t look too good to me.’
Mr Neil interrupted him. ‘You’ll only be getting yourself run in too if you’re not careful.’
He avoided Mr Finnan’s eyes and scowled at the boys who played round the men. Mr Finnan smoked and smiled, but the frown furrowing his forehead stirred heavily. His face was ashen and his long, thin frame was stooped as if a heavy stone rested on his shoulders. An old crumpled hat sat squarely on top of his bandaged head.
‘If I listened to you I’d let my mates down. Anyway, what are you worried about? You’ve got a lot to be thankful for, haven’t you?’ He started to walk away.
‘You’re not well enough to be going out today, Ned,’ Mr Dickenson called solemnly after him.
‘That’s what I said,’ burst out Mrs Finnan, her face smaller and sharper than ever.
Mr Finnan stopped and turned to face us.
‘I’ve never felt better in my life,’ he boasted. ‘I haven’t got any reason for stopping home.’
‘Won’t there be more trouble today?’ Mr Dickenson asked.
Mr Finnan shrugged his shoulders as though astonished at the stupidity of the question. Then he waved to his wife.
‘I’ll walk along with you, Ned,’ said the young grey-haired pensioner. His loose coat held together by one solitary button, hung awkwardly like the broken wing of a bird.
Meanwhile I was boasting to the boys that I knew Mr Finnan was going to get his mate, Joe Tooley, out of jail, I knew how he was going to do it, but I couldn’t let anyone else into that secret. Not to be outdone, they boasted of the things they had done while I was away at the Union Hall. We bickered until Mrs Finnan spoke again to the men who still stood around her gate.
‘I’ve got a donkey for a husband,’ she said bitterly, ‘that’s what I’ve got. A donkey. He won’t take notice of anybody. He should be in bed.’
‘That’s what I think, Mrs Finnan,’ said Mr Dickenson in an ingratiating voice.
She puckered her face and shot a venomous glance at him.
‘So that’s what you think?’ she said angrily. ‘You seem to have a lot to say for yourself. With your tongue, you could be doing something to help them instead of standing there like a frozen statue.’
Casting a haughty glance at the men, with a quick movement she pulled her shawl tightly around herself, sniffed the air with her thin nostrils, stiffened her back and walked hurriedly towards the open door of her house.
The men avoided each others’ eyes. It was only then they seemed to realize that it was a raw, bleak morning. Silently they disappeared from the street. A misty rain began to fall from the grey-yellow sky. We boys continued to bicker and argue.
Making A Living
Another journey. But this time we went on holidays. Well, not exactly holidays, but something near enough.
It was the summer after I had my thirteenth birthday and Father said, ‘If we don’t get out of the city for a while we’ll starve like dogs in an orphanage.’
Father’s affairs were going badly again; bottle dealing was worse than bad, nobody bought bottles and no one had any to sell. Times were hard.
So Father had become a horse-dealer. He bought a few horses and all the would-be buyers yawned, scratched themselves, looked sideways and said, ‘Things are bad. We’ll do with the horses we’ve got.’
And those buyers who could afford more horses as soon as they set eyes on Father’s decided to go in for motorcars instead. When Father took up horse-dealing motor-cars were becoming popular. Honestly, evil fortune followed Father like a faithful hound.
Father sat about the house for days and puzzled the whole matter out. He had an idea. He would take several of his horses to the outskirts of the city and let them loose—they would finish up in a municipal pound. But his two best-looking horses could still be put to some use. He would take them to a holiday resort where he would hire them out as riding hacks to timid holiday-makers.
The more Father thought of his plan the more intoxicated he became with it and he was convinced that the timid holiday-makers were waiting for just these two horses. And of course there were many other things Father could do at the holiday resort.
Thus was born a second idea to Father. He would drive his cart round the hills buying rabbit skins and hides and tallow and what-not, while I would be responsible for the two horses, hiring them out at the guest-houses, the hotels, and in the street. After all, why shouldn’t I help in making a living for the family? I was no longer a child. I had a tongue and a pair of hands. What harm would it do my mind? Father asked with passion.
Without looking at him Mother replied, ‘I always said our son would have to struggle here just as I did back home. I knew it from the first day we landed in this golden kingdom.’
But despite Mother’s words I was elated that it fell to me to help the family in such hard times. I could see no reason for her unhappy reflections. I felt like the other boys in the street and all of them had to do something for their families. Some of them had begun to work years ago.
Father’s plan mapped out, every detail well cared for, off we went to Berrigullen, the fashionable holiday place in the hills. In such a resort Father said even if we only ate dry bread it would still be a holiday for all of us. Why, even the air in Berrigullen was noted for its wonders—it was said that the old became young, the sick healthy, and more besides. That was why so many important people in our community were beginning to go there for their holidays.
We locked up our house and loaded the spring-cart with blankets, pots and pans, saddles, spare sets of harness, three black hens, a white rooster, and a part fox-terrier that, properly speaking, belonged to the whole street. The two horses that for a change were going to help feed us were tied by halters to the back of the cart.
The street turned out to see us off. Friends, acquaintances, neighbours came out of their houses as though to watch a funeral or a brawl. Some of them stood on their verandahs and waved to us. And as there were many men out of work at the time, a large crowd of people of all ages stood round the cart, laughing, gossiping, giving friendly advice, and wishing us good fortune.
It was a warm send-off, but Father was filled with gloom and his pale-blue eyes were dull and sad as though with pain. He had hardly spoken a word. He nodded his head absent-mindedly and stared unseeingly at the neighbourly men and women and barefooted children.
‘Ah, these accursed journeys,’ he suddenly whispered to me, ‘and for what?’
His voice was filled with such sorrow that it seemed to me Father had suddenly seen through all his dreams and schemes and his heart had emptied at the prospect before him at the end of this new journey. I understood then how much Father had always hated moving.
I felt with him and I was fretful at leaving the neighbourhood. As we drove off and I waved to my companions I envied each and every one of them. There were Tom and Joe and Benny, and I thought of everything they would do this day—the stories they would tell each other, the games they would play, the walks through city lanes and streets.
My peevishness grew as we jogged through miles and miles of suburbs. Everywhere bystanders gazed in our direction. What was it they were looking at? Was it that the harness on the chestnut drawing our cart was threadbare and held together with wire and string, and that tufts of yellow straw stuck out of the collar? Or was it because one wheel of the cart wobbled alarmingly?
I knew it was neither. The people were looking at us. That was nothing new, for we were frequently stared at when we drove through suburban streets. But now it was different. Everything affronted me—the handsome respectable houses, the broad clean streets, the complacent, healthy faces of the people so different from those we had left behind. My irritation grew into anger when a group of men and women looked at us a little too long. There was something ironical about their gaze and one woman pointed with amusement to the two horses jogging resignedly behind the cart.
‘What are you staring at?’ I shouted at them. Then I picked up an empty bottle from the floor of the cart and I threw it at the group where it crashed into splinters at their feet.
Mother, startled out of her reverie, glanced in the direction of the people gesticulating at us. Then she looked at me angrily.
‘Why did you behave like a hooligan?’ she demanded.
I was stubbornly silent and she repeated her question. I refused to speak, it would have been impossible to explain why I had thrown the bottle. If I could have done so she might have understood and perhaps she would have ceased her bitter and ironical musings.
She said, ‘You remain silent. I think I understand why. We hardly speak a common language any more. You belong to one world, I belong to another. With your new ways you have almost become a stranger to me.’ And then she asked in her gentlest voice, ‘Please tell me one thing—where did you acquire the cultured habit of throwing bottles at strangers?’
She went on and on but Father said nothing. He was absorbed in his own thoughts but for some reason I felt that he secretly understood my behaviour. Perhaps I had in some way expressed his feelings, too.
We were all silent when we drove into the main street of Berrigullen. We were all too moody and far away to take in the beauty of the surroundings. The township was like a garden with its rows of poplars and elms and the fruit-trees that hung over fences and hedges. On all sides in the distance tier upon tier of hills rent the fading blue sky and walled in Berrigullen.
It was not in the main street or on the heights that we lived. We had a furnished cottage in a hollow below the township where seldom any traffic passed; the sound of voices in that neighbourhood almost created a sensation.
There was an unfriendly look about our new house and at night the paper pasted over the chinks of the windows sounded in the breeze like the patter of frightened feet. It was the last cottage on the road and the bush came right up to the side fence and the back-yard was overgrown with bracken. Half a mile down the road a row of cottages similar to ours stood close to each other. There were no holiday-makers in those dwellings. There lived old-age pensioners, rabbit trappers, and fruit pickers.
I had no time to explore round the houses on our road, I had work to do. The day after we arrived in Berrigullen I was to take the two horses into the township, stand near the hotel or one of the guest-houses, preferably the biggest and best and get clients, the timid holiday-makers who were waiting for our two mounts. Father explained everything, what I was to say and how I was to say it. Apparently satisfied that I should be successful, he drove away into the hills.
Saddled and ready to be ridden, the horses ambled behind me up the steep track towards the main street. From a distance some boys called to me but I ignored them. How were they to know that I was on a most important mission? It was the first time I had taken any part in the making of a living for the family and nothing would divert me. I dreamt of the money I would bring home. In my mind I counted my earnings over and over again. I could see the coins stacked on the kitchen table so that even Mother would have to admit that she was wrong and that Father was not foolish in sending me to hire out the horses. I was filled with pride and everything round me quickened my elated feelings—the summer morning, the sweet scent of gums, the hum of insects, the cries of birds, the hot, still air. How wonderful everything seemed just then!
But as soon as I was in the main street my elation began to ebb and I saw my task in a more sombre light. Slyly fear and shame had crept into me. Where would I start? I looked round at the large houses with trees and flower bushes hiding from sight the doors and windows, and I wondered if they were the guest-houses from which I should get my customers. To make matters worse, all the words Father had carefully impressed on me vanished from my mind. I had forgotten what to say and what to do.
In despair I walked the horses up the street and then back again. The two steeds were resigned to their fate and their heads drooped in philosophical contemplation, like wise parrots in a cage.
I stopped when children’s voices floated towards me from the lawn of a long, rambling house that I rightly believed must be a fashionable guest-house. In a moment I made up my mind, walked over to the gate and tied the horses to a telegraph post. Behind the low fence boys and girls played, while well-dressed men and women sat on garden benches under trees, some reading, others just chatting.
I scanned the faces of the men and women and I recognized Mr Frumkin and his wife. They were well known to me, particularly Mr Frumkin, with whom Father had for so long dealt. He was now the leading dealer in the bottle business while his wife was a notable in various ladies’ societies in our community. They sat stiffly and silently and neither of them smiled or waved back to me when I shouted cheerfully, ‘Hullo, Mr and Mrs Frumkin!’
And, imagining that they might be interested in my doings, I called again, ‘I’ve got two horses here I want to hire out.’
They shifted their gaze and stared down at their feet.
For a moment I was bewildered, but the snub from the Frumkins in some unexpected way gave me strength and entirely restored my faded confidence. I thought of how I could increase their discomfiture and then I remembered the purpose for which I was outside the gate of the guest-house.
Swaggering slightly I called to the guests on the garden seats, ‘Who wants to hire a good horse? Only a bob an hour.’
Nobody rose from his seat. Here and there an amused smile, a haughty stare; even the children went on with their playing. Several boys made as though to come over to me but they were stopped by the grown-ups.
I continued to call my wares as though at the market. Even there one had to shout and shout to attract customers—sooner or later someone must come over.
Without a glance in my direction the Frumkin couple left their seats and made for the veranda of the guesthouse. I called insolently to Mr Frumkin. ‘What about you, Mr Frumkin? The horse’s back is wide enough for your behind.’
There were a few sniggers and, needing little encouragement, I continued to shout at the Frumkin couple until they disappeared into the house. Then I went on again with my business cries. Soon a man came up to the gate and he stared at me severely.
I looked him up and down and said, ‘You can have your pick. Only a bob an hour.’
His face went crimson.
‘Clear out,’ he said angrily. ‘Nobody wants your horses. Get!’ he added furiously.
I edged back slowly towards the horses.
‘What if I don’t get?’ I said.
‘I’ll see that you do,’ he said menacingly.
‘Well, I’m not going for you, anyway,’ I said and turned to the guests, who had risen from their seats at the commotion.
