by Ron Thomas
As the relationship between fruiterer and banana thief grew and deepened, they began to fill the times when trade was slow with conversation. As men do, they talked of sport, of cricket and the various forms of football. When Benito and Meggsie began to chat about football however, they quickly found there was an unbridgeable gulf between them. Benito followed a team he called the Marconi Stallions, that Meggsie had never heard of. It quickly became evident that the Stallions were a soccer team, and that Benito had no knowledge or interest at all in rugby of any description. He made it clear that picking the ball up and running with it, in a game called football, seemed ludicrous to him.
Albert Maggs routinely referred to all Italians, Greeks and sundry others as ‘wogs,’ and had instilled in his son a healthy scepticism about all things to do with the influx of European migrants, including their peculiar brand of football. As a consequence, Meggsie knew nothing at all about soccer, which he regarded as a game for sissies. The pair were forced to retreat to something they shared, and that was how Benito taught Meggsie all he knew about the fruit and veg business.
But you can only talk so much about what makes a juicy apple, so, with the passage of time, Benito and Meggsie found time to discuss their families. It was clear that Benito lived for his family and he proudly lauded every achievement of his son, who was at university in Melbourne, and his two beautiful daughters. Though he’d never met them, Meggsie felt that he knew Alessia and Claudia Battaglia.
Meggsie, in turn, found he was becoming more comfortable talking of his dysfunctional beginnings. They joked a lot, laughed a lot, and just occasionally they cried together. For Meggsie, it was all a new experience.
The certainty grew in Meggsie’s mind that Benito would not be in favour of his night-time job playing lookout for Uncle Guido. He was a little surprised that, with the passage of time, Benito failed to discover what was going on. A couple of times, Benito visited unexpectedly, only to find that Meggsie was missing during the night, but it didn’t seem to occur to him that his assistant was in cahoots with his wife’s wayward uncle.
***
‘These bloody roads are slippery,’ Benito said as he pulled the Thornycroft to a stop, some distance behind a tram in George Street. Nobody alighted and nobody boarded. ‘Bloody trams,’ he added. ‘They stop for no reason.’ There was no other traffic about in the half darkness, and Meggsie wondered why Benito didn’t just pull over and pass the tram on the inside. He seemed to have other things on his mind.
‘My wife says-a she wants to meet you,’ Benito announced, glancing at Meggsie. ‘I told her about your family. She says I should be ashamed that I haven’t asked you to our house for a meal so she can meet you. She was the one who made me buy your bed, you know. I told her sacks were very comfortable.’
Meggsie, surprised, didn’t reply for a moment. He had always equated family with confrontation and aggravation. He knew already that Benito’s family couldn’t be like that, but he didn’t really know what to expect, and doubted he’d fit in.
‘She says Saturday,’ Benito added. ‘That all right?’ There was no decision to make.
‘Saturday’s good,’ Meggsie replied.
‘Come after the football. About five o’clock. I’ll pick you up in the truck if you like.’
Chapter 18
Lasagne and Bol
The enticing aroma of baking bread and Italian cooking spilt from the front of the house, tempting the taste buds even before Benito inserted the key into the lock of the ancient-looking panelled front door.
It was a welcome Meggsie couldn’t possibly have expected. Therese Battaglia rushed from the kitchen the moment she heard the door open. In one hand, she held a large wooden spoon covered in some sort of tomato sauce. She held her arms wide as she pushed her way past Benito to a bemused Meggsie.
‘You poor boy!’ she exclaimed, threw her arms around him, and embraced him. Cradled to her ample bosom, Meggsie found it stifling, but he’d endured worse. After a minute of swaying him back and forth and speaking undecipherable words in Italian, she held him at arms-length.
‘You are skinny,’ she pronounced with a shake of her head, leaving no room whatsoever for argument. She cast a dismissive hand to where Benito stood holding the door open. ‘And you smell like-a fruit and veg. This silly old goat thinks a boy can live on fruit! Ha! You will be a beautiful-looking boy when I fatten you up,’ she added.
‘Insults already! I’m going to read my paper,’ Benito declared. He shrugged and disappeared, somehow realising his presence wasn’t required.
Therese beckoned conspiratorially to Meggsie and he followed her to the kitchen. ‘I got lasagne for you,’ she began, opening the oven door and encouraging the wafting aroma to tease the boy’s taste buds. She kept it open for ten seconds or so, then closed it and turned to the hob. ‘I got bol too.’ Therese lifted the lid and the delicious aroma of bolognaise sauce floated around them. ‘You like bol, giovanotto?’ she asked. Meggsie hadn’t seen much bolognaise in his short life: His father called it ‘wog food’, but judging from the smell of it, it would be very acceptable. Despite not knowing what giovanotto might mean, he nodded vigorously.
Therese dipped the wooden spoon into the sauce and held it out to his mouth. ‘You try,’ she said. ‘Careful; it’s-a bloody hot.’
Meggsie stepped forwards and took a tentative sip from the spoon. He immediately decided he loved bolognese.
‘I got bread baking in the oven outside too: come with-a me,’ she ordered.
Out in the small backyard was a convex, blackened brick oven with an arched portal. Meggsie could see wood burning inside. Therese took a long handled wooden paddle and pulled out a hot loaf.
She waved a dismissive hand to where Benito had taken a seat by the door and was already reading the horse-racing tips. ‘This silly man says your name is Ginger Meggs. He thinks I’m stupido. What is your name? Your real name?’ she asked.
‘Gilbert Maggs,’ Meggsie replied. ‘But I don’t mind being called Meggsie. There are worse names.’
‘Gilberto? I like this name much better. Same as my father.’ She pronounced it ‘Gilbairrto’.
‘It’s really Gilbert. Without an ‘o’ on the end,’ he corrected her.
‘Gilbert? Gilberto? Alla same to me. I call you Gilberto. Anyway, now I got to get that lazy lump to stop wasting time on the horses and cut up the bread. Time to serve up. The children will be home on the six thirty tram. Except for Federico: he’s studying to be a big-time lawyer. In Melbourne. I don’t know why he can’t do that here in Sydney.’ Even a young boy could see that she swelled with pride for her prodigal son.
He heard the front door open, then slam, and the sound of girlish giggling. Almost immediately, two dark-haired girls rushed into the kitchen and threw their arms around their mother. It was a three-way hug.
‘Meet-a my beautiful girls, Alessia and Claudia,’ Therese said proudly. ‘This boy’s name is Gilberto. He’s a nice boy and he’s working for your father at the shop.’ The girls were indeed beautiful, with shining hair and beautiful dark eyes. Alessia was perhaps a year or two older than Meggsie and he guessed that Claudia was somewhat younger. One after the other, at their mother’s bidding, the girls came shyly and shook Meggsie’s hand. He found it impossible to control the reddening of his cheeks, and could think of nothing at all to say, except a curt ‘pleased to meet you.’
‘Dinner is in five minutes,’ Therese said. ‘Come and cut the bread, Benito!’ she called. ‘Better wash up!’ The girls quickly ran off and he could hear them talking excitedly, probably about him, and giggling as they went down the hall.
***
It was the best meal Meggsie had ever eaten. It wasn’t just the food, though it was food beyond imagination. In all his young life, Meggsie hadn’t experienced the obvious love and caring that he found around the Battaglia family table. Conversation never faltered. Therese and Benito joshed and chided each other, but it was obviously all in fun. The girls seem to e
njoy their school, and over lasagne and bol, told their parents all about their day. They seem to all want to draw Meggsie into their conversation, but he found it very difficult to tell them of his miserable past.
‘You like tiramisu?’ Therese asked. Meggsie had never even heard the word. He’d already eaten more than his fill, because Therese had offered him seconds and thirds and he’d been unable to say no. Her offer of dessert was unanticipated. They never had dessert in Palmer Street.
Therese was quick to notice his hesitation. ‘All boys love tiramisu,’ she declared. ‘My Federico always had two helpings. I give you a big one.’
Meggsie had just about reached his limit, but he didn’t want to insult his generous hostess. ‘No, no, please; just a very small helping,’ he pleaded, holding his belly, as the girls opposite him giggled, bringing blood rushing to his cheeks again.
‘How am I gonna fatten you up if you won’t have a decent helping?’ Therese complained, waving her arms in the air.
The tiramisu proved to be a slab of sponge cake and chocolate interspersed with cream and topped with shaved chocolate. It was almost Meggsie’s undoing, but with the two girls watching, he wasn’t about to give up.
‘You want more? Perhaps another little slice?’ Therese asked. Meggsie couldn’t even say no. He could barely shake his head.
‘Go and sit in the lounge with my Benito so he can have a smoke,’ Therese said. ‘He’s only allowed one smoke a day. You don’t smoke, do you? It will just make you a cough your guts up.’
‘No,’ Meggsie responded.
She grabbed a fold of his cheek flesh between her thumb and forefinger and shook it. ‘Then don’t a-you start, Gilberto. It’s bad for you. Go and talk football. The girls will help me in the kitchen, like good Italian children.’
Meggsie glanced over his shoulder to see Claudia pulling a face at her mother, who just smiled, rolled her eyes, and held a tea towel at arm’s length in her direction.
Meggsie, with time on his hands during the long evenings had begun to read the newspapers and had found a passing interest in the results of soccer games, particularly those of the Marconi Stallions. However, the newspaper coverage of this foreign game was quite limited, so his understanding was patchy at best. It seemed like a good time to air his limited knowledge.
‘I see the Stallions play Sydney Olympic tomorrow,’ Meggsie began. Benito looked up from his paper
‘Yes. It should be a close match. They beat us three-one last time we played.’
‘Rossi’s out. That won’t help, no striker.’
‘No, it won’t. You’ve been reading about the football. I’m impressed.’
Meggsie grinned. ‘I thought I’d better try and keep in with the boss.’
It was Benito’s turn to grin. ‘Souths are playing Easts at the Cricket Ground next week and Paddy Maher’s out after the Newtown game. We both got troubles, Meggsie.’
‘So, you’ve been reading about the football too,’ Meggsie said. ‘I thought we’d have more to talk about. Did you enjoy dinner, Gilberto? What do you think about my girls? Aren’t they beautiful?’
Meggsie nodded. He noted Benito’s use of the name Therese had given him, and hesitated. Benito was quick to notice the hesitation.
‘Mamma says I got to use your proper name,’ he explained, shrugging with his palms upmost. ‘What can I do? I just gotta keep the peace. Gilberto here, Meggsie there. That’s how it’s gotta be.’
‘I don’t mind Gilberto. Meggsie, Gilberto, Benito, Benny. It’s alla same to me,’ Meggsie replied, aping Benito’s voice and gesturing dramatically.
‘That’s a-good,’ Benito replied, unfazed. ‘And do you like my Mamma’s cooking?’
‘Yes. It’s the best food I’ve ever eaten.’
‘Then you’d better come next Saturday. Mamma will insist on it, and she don’t take no for an answer. I’m getting in before she asks.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ Meggsie declared. ‘And your girls are beautiful, just like you told me.’ Benito gave him a sharp look, and Meggsie felt a tinge of regret that he’d said anything. It was the look of a protective father and Meggsie vowed to be careful what he said in future.
It was Meggsie’s first exposure to a raucous but loving family environment and as he walked back up the hill to Darlinghurst Road he couldn’t help comparing it to his own fractured upbringing. It was going to be a long week between now and his next helping of bolognaise.
Chapter 19
No Easy Mark
Guido and his mark reeled out of the bar, right on cue. Practised in the game by now, Meggsie turned and walked briskly down to his nit-keeping position on the corner of Macleay Street. As an alert cockatoo should, he kept a sharp watch up and down Darlinghurst Road. By now, he was on waving terms with Beryl, the friendly neighbourhood streetwalker he’d met the first time he’d played cockatoo for Guido’s nefarious activities. He had no sooner turned up than she gave him a friendly little wave from the opposite corner. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Guido and his latest new-found friend approached. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat and moleskins, but to Meggsie’s practiced eye, he didn’t seem nearly as drunk as Guido’s previous victims. In fact, Guido seemed marginally more under the weather than his companion. They meandered their way, arms around each other’s shoulders, down to the dark entrance of Penny Lane as Meggsie watched the street, but took furtive glances after them.
As the pair reached the laneway, Meggsie watched as Guido whipped out a razor and put his arm around the victim’s neck. Some victim!
Without hesitation, the man slammed an elbow into Guido’s ribs, grabbed the hand holding the razor and twisted, hard. As the razor clattered to the ground, the intended victim splayed his feet, grabbed Guido’s coat collar and hurled him over his shoulder in a high arc to the ground. Meggsie heard a great whoosh of air, compressed from Guido’s lungs as he landed. But Guido Caletti was tough. He struggled to his feet and stared wildly around, searching for the spilt razor. With surprising speed, he took a couple of steps and bent to pick up the blade, but the stranger was quicker. The heel of his boot came down on the back of Guido’s hand, then he twisted back and forth as Guido screamed in pain. Guido found himself suddenly pinned in a stifling bear hug, before the stranger picked him up bodily and bashed his head against the wall a couple of times. Before Guido could react, the stranger slammed him with his back against the wall and let fly with a flurry of heavy punches. Guido went down for the count, insensible in the same Macleay Street gutter many of his earlier victims had experienced.
The stranger stood with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath; he gave Guido a boot to the abdomen for good measure, then retrieved the razor, wiped it on Guido’s suit and put it in his jacket pocket. With seeming ease, he hauled the heavily dazed and bleeding Guido unceremoniously to his feet.
Meggsie’s ‘edication’ didn’t include instructions for handling the scene he’d just witnessed and, having seen the stranger in action, he wasn’t about take the fellow on. Nor was he foolish enough to give any indication he was an accomplice. Remembering Benito’s advice that he wasn’t responsible for Guido’s welfare, he pretended to be taking an interest in Beryl’s wares.
The stranger held Guido firmly by the collar and the seat of his pants, and hauled him back to Darlinghurst Road, then promptly headed in the direction of the police station. Meggsie followed at a discreet distance and watched as the stranger marched Guido straight up the steps and into more trouble.
It was a hot night, and the sash windows of the charge room were all open. Meggsie sidled up to the wall and stood below the window. He found he could hear every word that was said.
‘What have we here?’ the desk sergeant asked. ‘A regular customer! Guido Caletti, no less! What have you been up to this time, Guido? It looks like you’ve come off second best for a change.’ Guido mumbled something through busted lips, but Meggsie couldn’t make out what it was. The stranger’s voice, however,
was loud and clear.
‘This man assaulted me. He befriended me in a bar and then assaulted me in a laneway off Macleay Street. He threatened to slash my face with this razor,’ he declared.
‘Careful with that thing, or you’ll take his ear off,’ the policeman’s panicky voice replied. Meggsie, of course, couldn’t see what was going on, but imagination told him all he needed to know.
‘And you intend to press charges?’
‘Of course! My word I do!’
‘You say he befriended you in a bar? It must have been a sly grog shop at this time of night. You do realise all the gory details will have to come out in court?’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s so.’
‘And it doesn’t worry you? Your wife might not like it much.’
‘Don’t have one. And I don’t care about all that. I just want this bastard to get what’s coming to him.’
‘Well, mister. You’ve come to the right place for that. I’ll just put Mr Caletti in the cells and I’ll be back to take all the details.’
By now, Meggsie had heard enough. He turned and hurried back down Darlinghurst Road, uncertain of his next move.
‘Hello handsome,’ Beryl said as he approached her. ‘Looks like your friend got his comeuppance.’ Meggsie hadn’t thought that the streetwalker was so observant. Until that moment, he thought Guido’s activities were a secret shared by only the two of them. Beryl was smarter than she looked!
‘I suppose you’ll have to find someone who can go bail for him,’ she said.
Meggsie didn’t know much about bail, but he knew that Guido would expect him to do something. He decided that, despite everything, he would have to tell Benito. He dreaded that, but could see no alternative.
