by Ron Thomas
Dark Angels
© Ron Thomas 2020
First published in Australia by Harbour Publishing House in 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN:978-1-922340-25-2 (Paperback)
978-1-922340-26-9 (eBook)
Cover design by Ryan Perno and Ocean Reeve Publishing
Printed in Australia by Ocean Reeve Publishing
Published by Ron Thomas and Ocean Reeve Publishing
www.oceanreevepublishing.com
www.ronthomasauthor.com
About the Author
Ron Thomas is a lover of writing, a storyteller, a searcher for tales as yet unwritten.
For more than 20 years, Ron was Managing Director of a successful Australian technology company. He is a believer in the power of words and considers that wordsmithing skills are the most empowering tools in his armoury.
It was a big decision to leave a job he loved to indulge in his passion for writing and a long bucket list. His first effort was a musical, Ballaarat, then he turned to historical novels and so began the Solly Trilogy. Unsurprisingly, its key character is a story-telling swagman.
These days much of his time is spent researching suitable subjects for present and future stories. He loves including forgotten scraps of history as the background for his stories.
Ron is a keen and regular participant in various sports including cycling, tennis, golf, surfing and swimming. He is particularly proud of his cycling medals won at the 2011 Adelaide Masters Games. His many and varied other interests include music, cooking and he occasionally paints landscapes for relaxation.
But above all, his greatest interest is his family. He insists on cooking for the family and assorted friends every Thursday evening and he rarely cooks the same thing twice. His wife Margaret, three daughters and two granddaughters keep him on his toes!
Ron resides in Fairlight, in the Northern Beaches area of Sydney and spends time whenever he can at the family holiday house at Narrawallee on the beautiful south coast of NSW.
WEBSITE https://ronthomasauthor.com/
Acknowledgements
The old Darlinghurst and Wooloomooloo are fast being eaten alive by 21st century ‘progress’. Tough and wild as they were, the old days are largely remembered with nostalgia and fondness. In the creation of this work I was assisted by many who had memories, folklore or tall tales from the old days, and some of these have found their way into these pages.
John Pearce grew up in the ‘Loo, and I’m grateful for his interest and support, and his astute observations about the lives and times in working class East Sydney.
As usual, my editing crew have helped to sort out my many errors and omissions, and my love and gratitude knows no bounds.
Many thanks to Gaz and the team at Harbour Publishing House who have believed from the start that my work merits a wider readership.
I am most grateful to the friendly, professional team at Ocean Reeve Publishing, who have stepped in after the untimely passing of my previous publisher, Garry Ev-ans, and the consequent closure of Harbour Publishing House. They have helped me keep the dream alive.
Dedication
For the Legends who think Solly is my
only hero, and specially for Pete.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter 1: On The Waterfront
Chapter 2: Ginger Meggs
Chapter 3: See the Elephant Hear the Owl
Chapter 4: Another Friday Night on Palmer Street
Chapter 5: The Urchin King
Chapter 6: The Doll House
Chapter 7: Benny’s Forbidden Fruit
Chapter 8: A Homicide of Fruit
Chapter 9: Poisoned Chalice
Chapter 10: Getting Edication
Chapter 11: The Truth of It
Chapter 12: The Spectre of Harry Moon
Chapter 13: Indian Summer
Chapter 14: Robbo’s Swy School
Chapter 15: New King of Frog Hollow
Chapter 16: Dancin’ the Charleston
Chapter 17: The Bank of Milano
Chapter 18: Lasagne and Bol
Chapter 19: No Easy Mark
Chapter 20: Legal Representation
Chapter 21: A Visit From Norman
Chapter 22: What Sort of Man?
Chapter 23: A Case of Arson
Chapter 24: On Leila’s Beat
Chapter 25: Sojourn at Guido’s
Chapter 26: The Gentle Art of Gingering
Chapter 27: Cathedral Street Beat
Chapter 28: Death Wish
Chapter 29: The Green MG
Chapter 30: The Miracle of Tawny Cough
Chapter 31: The Meanest Bear
Chapter 32: Old Thorny
Chapter 33: Cup Day
Chapter 34: Phoenix Rising
Chapter 35: Comes the Blizzard
Chapter 36: Dark Angels
Chapter 37: The Road Back
Chapter 38: A Fruit and Veg Executive
Chapter 39: Full Circle
Chapter 40: On Seven Mile Beach
Epilogue
Chapter 1
On The Waterfront
It had been a long day on the trolleys. Guthrie, Maiwara and Malabar, all Burns Philp ships, had discharged their cargoes then been reloaded at Woolloomooloo wharves. The thirsty wharfies, to a man, were ready and raring for their weekend. With their week’s work done, their thoughts and conversations were both turning to the football semi-finals and the pub, not necessarily in that order.
Many of the old lags had, with uncanny foresight, anticipated the blast of the hooter that signalled the end of the working week, and were first to line up for their pay packets. They would surely be the first at the pub and quite likely last to leave. There was no shortage of hard drinkers on the wharves.
Being closest to the iron gates, the Wooloomooloo Bay Hotel was the favoured watering hole for most of the wharfies, but Albert Maggs wouldn’t be going there tonight. A month earlier, he’d started a fight over a bet on the Souths–Easts game and when old Grinham, the publican, had attempted to intervene, he’d laid old Grinham out on the boards of the public bar, then scarpered before the bouncers arrived. Now, he was forced to keep a low profile at the Tradesman’s Arms, which was a long walk for a thirsty man. That meant less drinking time before the six o’clock close, and what was worse, ‘Tradies’ was usually full of South Sydney supporters. That didn’t suit Albert at all.
Albert knew that his troubles wouldn’t convince either of his mates to come with him and drink at Tradies. Habit, mateship, and Toohey’s beer would keep Dobbsie and Eric at the ‘Loo. No, the Wooloomooloo was their pub, and that’s where they would do their drinking. Although it remained unsaid, Albert had the distinct impression that both his mates were secretly pleased with the outcome. Without a word of criticism passing their lips, it was obvious, even to Albert, who wasn’t known for his sensitivity, that his penchant for picking fights after he’d had a few was wearing thin. That was particularly so with old Eric, who had tried to intervene recently, and copped a nasty black eye and a fat lip for his trouble. He’d had to take the shiner home to his missus and try to explain it away. She’d apparently compounded Eric’s problems with a rolling pin.
As the three men approached the bright lights of the Wooloomooloo, Albert pulled his hat down, not just to ward off the drizzle, but to hide his face as he passed
the newly-installed heavy-duty bouncer at the door of the public bar. Albert didn’t recognise the fellow, but that didn’t necessarily mean the bruiser wouldn’t know him. Albert considered asking his mates to come with him to Tradies but, on reflection, he didn’t want to strain the friendship any further. He decided he would just slink by the bouncer and drown his sorrows in the dubious embrace of the Tradesman’s Arms.
‘See you Monday, boys,’ Albert mumbled as the trio reached the ‘Loo’.
‘See you, Albert,’ Eric replied. Dobbsie, never at the best of times the sharpest tool in the shed, wasn’t content with a low-key parting, and spoke more loudly, grinning.
‘Cheers, Albert. I hope the Berries give Easts shit tomorrow. The bastards deserve it. Enjoy that Tooth’s crap at the Tradies, while we’re drinking the top drop. See you ‘round, Albert.’
Albert couldn’t resist a glance at the bouncer, who looked much larger at close range. He half expected to find himself in the middle of a blue before he’d even had one beer. Realising that a rejoinder would only increase the risk of a confrontation with the immense doorman, he mumbled a reply and slouched his way ahead, putting distance between him and Grinham’s heavyweight enforcer. Albert wasn’t one to pick a fight when he was sober, and his sober self recognised the blind stupidity that drove him into a rage at the slightest provocation once he was full of firewater.
The further Albert walked, the more the cold rain penetrated down the back of his shirt, the more the injustice of it irked him, and the greater his misery, the greater his anger.
Chapter 2
Ginger Meggs
Jimmy worked quickly. He had drawn Meggsie tearing down Dead Man’s Hill in his ill-fated billycart a thousand times before. He hesitated over the punchline, then quickly printed it in, pushed his high stool away from the sloping drawing board and tilted his head first to one side, then the other. Leaning forward, with sure strokes, he made a few subtle additions to the figure of Tiger Kelly, added an oversized exclamation mark, and signed in his characteristic vertical fashion. Satisfied, he sat back again, unpinned the worksheet and began to rock his stool gently as he stared out the window at the rain, seeking inspiration for the next Meggsie cartoon.
Cartooning had been kind to Jimmy Bancks. He was making a better living from it than he could have imagined when he began drawing caricatures for The Comic Australian. Then, The Bulletin had offered the princely sum of £8 per week and the lure of permanent employment. He liked it very much better than trolleying luggage on the railway and living in outer-suburban Hornsby, as his dad had done for much of his working life. When the editor of The Sydney Sun and Sun News-Pictorial topped the offer, it was time to move on again. So here he was, considering an offer of overseas syndication, contemplating marriage to the beautiful Jessie, and moving house to ritzy Point Piper. Life was proving very kind to Jimmy Bancks and his carrot-topped alter-ego.
After five years of cartooning together, Ginger Meggs’ persona had become a part of Jimmy’s consciousness. He found himself creating cartoon after cartoon in his mind and, by the time he arrived at the office and picked up his pencils, he could easily rattle off six or eight cartoons at a session. Yes, for Bancks, Meggsie was a very satisfactory way to earn a crust.
‘Mr Bancks, the boss wants a word.’ Jimmy snapped out of his daydream. He took off his dark-rimmed spectacles and turned to the pretty young thing who’d spoken timidly.
‘Oh, hello Eileen. I was just contemplating the meaning of life,’ Jimmy said. ‘Do you read the cartoons?’
‘Oh, my word yes. I wouldn’t miss them for the world,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I do like Meggsie,’ she added.
‘You’re just saying that,’ he joshed, ‘to cheer up an old scribbler.’
‘No, Mr Bancks, I’m really not. I do like Meggsie. He reminds me of my little brother.’
‘Oh, well, I’m pleased to hear that. He reminds me of my little brother too.’ Jimmy didn’t have a little brother, but he supposed Ginger was the closest thing he had to one.
‘The boss wants a word, Mr Bancks,’ Eileen repeated.
‘Does he now?’ he asked, getting to his feet. ‘Do you know what it’s about?’
‘No.’
He put a friendly arm around Eileen’s shoulders as they walked. ‘Come on, love. You can tell me,’ he cajoled.
‘I really don’t know, Mr Bancks.’
***
As usual, Edward Thackeray’s door was ajar.
‘G’day, boss,’ Jimmy said as he knocked on the door and saw the editor glance up from under his ever-present eyeshade.
‘Morning, Jim. Come in. Have a seat,’ Thackeray said. ‘I’ve already asked Eileen to get you a cup of coffee.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ Jimmy replied, thinking that whatever the reason for his summons, Thackeray must be thinking it would take a while.
‘How’s it all going?’ Thackeray asked.
‘Pretty well,’ Jimmy answered cautiously. He didn’t like to admit that he could churn out more of Meggsie if he needed to, expecting that any such admission might create new demands. Jimmy liked to set his own cruisy pace, and he was mindful of over-supplying the market.
‘Tell me this, Jimmy. How far ahead are you … with Meggs, I mean?’
Jimmy knew very well that he was almost three months ahead, but he chose to obfuscate. ‘I’ve got a few weeks in the can, boss,’ he answered. ‘I’m keeping up,’ realising at once that the suspicious tone of his voice was giving him away.
‘There’s a suggestion at board level that we publish an annual Ginger Meggs comic. It would be, say, twenty or so pages, and have a single story flowing through, not short jabs like the Sun cartoons. An adventure story of some sort: Is that something you could manage? I thought I’d run it by you before we got too excited.’
He’d become rather fond of two-hour lunches. Jimmy was wondering if someone had noticed that he wasn’t flat out like the newsroom boys, and was suggesting a way to fill his day. Though the idea appealed to him, he replied cautiously, not wanting to have to create a comic unless the price would be right.
‘It sounds like a fair bit of work, boss. I’m used to short, punchy cartoons. You don’t have to consider continuity with them.’
‘It sounded like a bonzer idea to me. I won’t do anything about it unless you agree, though. We’d have to work out how we compensate you for the work, but there’s not much point if you think it’s a rotten idea in the first place, Jimmy. Perhaps you should think about it and get back to me.’
‘I’ll do that, boss,’ Jimmy said. With the business of the day concluded, they both sat back and sipped at their coffee.
‘If we’re going to do it, now seems like the ideal time,’ Thackeray said, simply making conversation. ‘Ginger’s quite a craze, isn’t he? You must be happy with it all. Almost every ginger-headed kid in Australia’s nickname is either Ginge or Meggsie, no matter what their mum christened them, and it’s all your doing! You’re creating a household name, single-handedly.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ Jimmy said, chuckling. ‘You could have a bunch of irate mothers mobbing the place with complaints. They could be lurking outside to string me up!’
‘I reckon a red-haired mischief-maker from an inner suburban working-class household strikes a chord with people, Jim. You’ve hit on a great formula there. It won’t go out of style. It could go on for years.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘Unless you manage to get yourself lynched, that is.’
‘Perhaps you should move my office up here to the safety of the top floor, boss. To a big office with deep carpet and a view over Darling Harbour.’
‘Perhaps not. Let me know what you think once you’ve thought it over, and we’ll take it from there.’
‘Tomorrow do?’
‘Tomorrow will do just fine, Jimmy.’
Chapter 3
See the Elephant Hear the Owl
Harold Pongrass had come to King’s Cross with a view to indulgence. He
was out for a walk on the wild side, dressed to kill, in his brown moleskins, tweed jacket, and brand new wide-brimmed Akubra Coolibah. He’d come down to ‘The Smoke’ on the train, and it had been a long, slow trip. His journey had been a miserable experience. Harold had only finally arrived in ‘The Cross’ two hours before, but already, in his moleskins and elastic-sided boots, he felt like a fish out of water among the city slickers. The bar was crowded and, after four drinks, Harold seemed to be the only lone drinker, and imbibing alone wasn’t the wild time he’d envisaged when he’d boarded the train at Dubbo. He was wondering how one went about finding some real King’s Cross action.
‘G’day, mate.’ The voice was friendly enough. The accent was vaguely Italian. ‘Out for a fun time, friend?’
Harold turned to the owner of the voice. ‘Yes, cobber.’
‘Are you down from the bush, mate?’
‘I just arrived this afternoon. I came down overnight from Dubbo on the milk train. I’m staying at the Tradesman’s Arms. My old man usually stays at the Metropole, but I didn’t want to stay there. It’s full of old fogeys.’
‘I guessed you might be from the bush. It’s the hat. We don’t see many brims that wide around here.’
‘Ha! We don’t see many brims so narrow as yours up at Dubbo.’ The stranger grinned. Harold looked more closely at him. He’d of course been warned of the dangers posed by flash city-slicking con-men. Was this one of them, he wondered. Perhaps the fellow was going to try to sell him Bondi Beach. Anyway, Harold had heard of that old trick.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Harold asked, presuming that was the done thing.
‘Yes, please mate. I’ll have rum. Make it a double.’ Harold raised an eyebrow, thinking the stranger was being cheeky.
‘It’s six o’clock soon,’ the stranger explained. ‘The grog goes off. After that, you won’t get another drink here.’ They also had six o’clock closing in Dubbo, but out there, the police sergeant turned a blind eye as long as there wasn’t any trouble and you came and went by the back door.
