On Cringila Hill

by Noel Beddoe

  The air is cold and damp and hits his lungs and excites his chest into a coughing spasm. He leans forward, struggles a cotton handkerchief from a pocket in his suit trousers, hawks and spits into it, coughs and spits some more. He waits for the spasm to end. He dabs some dry corners of cotton to mop tears from his eyes. When composed, he sips some tea, carefully draws out a cigarette, goes through the ritual of lighting it and drawing smoke over the raw flesh in his throat. He’s laid the handkerchief on the table he sits beside. He doesn’t look into the cotton to see the product of his coughing. He knows what is there. He’s lived these years with the men who’ve worked in the steelyard, breathed the air, smoked the cigarettes. He’s seen what’s happened to them. He knows what’s coming.

  There’s a wind up and it reaches where he’s sitting. He likes it, the wind and the cold. Below him, at the bottom of the hill, the steelworks are illuminated as though for a carnival. The pre-dawn is overcast and the orange glow from the works chimneys reflect off the bottom of clouds. There are few workmen about, down in the yards. He watches the ones who are there moving about. They look like toy figures, that distance away. He smokes his cigarette, drinks his tea.

  Headlight beams shaft along his street. He watches the old, gold-coloured Holden Brougham draw up to the footpath beneath him. He stubs out the cigarette, rises from his chair, takes a final swallow of hot tea. He draws himself erect, standing above the street on his verandah. He takes his time to get down the front stairs.

  The driver’s door opens. A slender young man in jeans and a bomber jacket gets out and stands beside the car.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Valeski.’

  Lupce crosses behind the car, opens the passenger door, gets into the front seat. The driver gets back in.

  ‘Jose,’ Lupce says, ‘sorry it’s so early.’

  ‘Well, I’m early. I’m earlier than you said. I didn’t know you’d be up there, waiting on the verandah. I was going to wait down here, be ready whenever you got up.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s fine, about being early. Better that than the other thing.’

  Lupce can smell the young man’s cologne, see the shape of his carefully barbered hair against the glow from the street lighting.

  ‘Down there near the docks?’ Jose asks him.

  ‘Yeah. Gotta meet two men. Got business.’

  ‘Not gonna lock your front door?’

  Lupce chuckles, sincerely amused.

  ‘Nah,’ he says.

  The car makes a three-point turn in the narrow street, heads back up around the corner and up the Hill, makes it to Cowper Street.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Lupce asks.

  ‘Yeah, good. Happy enough. Well.’

  ‘Good. She’s a fine woman. Your father, he was a fine man.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Sorry to get you up so early.’

  ‘Nah, that’s fine. I’m fine.’

  ‘How’s the new job?’

  ‘Well, it’s very good. Money every week, you know. My mother’s proud. And relieved, I think. It ain’t easy round here now. A job means something. Got a future. I’m very grateful. I mean, thank you. I mean, thank you so much.’

  ‘Don’ thank me. Good kid like you, you should have a good job like that, someone from roun’ here, someone from one of the good old families. And your father, you know, he was always one of the very good men. Reliable, when things weren’t easy.’ Lupce chuckles again. ‘He always knew how to vote.’

  The headlights beam through the darkness. Lupce says, ‘Is good is workin’ out.’

  Lupce again is racked by coughing. He empties the foul-tasting contents of his mouth into a handkerchief, draws cotton across his lips to dry them.

  ‘Don’t sound too good.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  There are already lights on in many of the houses they pass. The steelworkers’ shifts will change in a little while, and there are people who must clean the schools, clean offices before other workers come. There are people who must make coffee and toast sandwiches in the kiosks and stalls.

  They cross the highway at Warrawong and head on up the hill towards Port Kembla. Lupce can see that darkness has started to lift, out over the sea. He checks his watch. He says, ‘Pull over.’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘This is all no stopping.’

  Lupce chuckles again. He likes Jose. Jose makes him laugh.

  ‘Some police come along this time of day,’ Lupce says, ‘I’m gonna tell ’em you crazy. Get you off with a bond.’

  The boy parks. Lupce looks again at his watch.

  ‘We early,’ he says. ‘Can’t be early. Gotta be a little bit late – explain to you why, sometime.’

  He looks about. They are directly beneath street lighting, harshly exposed.

  ‘Go on up a bit,’ Lupce says. ‘Up to Keira Street. Turn left, then next right. Park there.’

  Jose parks, switches off the lighting, cuts the engine. They sit in the gloom, hearing wind rock over the Brougham.

  ‘If you come early,’ Lupce says, ‘if you there waitin’ for ’em at a meeting, the others, the other side, when they come, “Hmm,” they say, “Lupce’s waitin’, Lupce’s eager, Lupce’s worryin’.” See? Maybe they think that if you come early. Better they come, you ain’t there, you a bit late, they think, “Well, is Lupce gonna come? Maybe is off, maybe he’s doin’ business somebody else.” Come a little bit late. Worry them a little bit.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Jose leans forward, looks past Lupce at a big shape that stands beside them, a dark building tall up under the lightening sky.

  ‘Mr Valeski, where are we? That big building there. What is that?’

  Lupce looks at the thick mass.

  ‘That’s St Kristen of Ohrid Macedonian Orthodox Church. You don’ know that? You don’ get up this way?’

  ‘No, never been here. The only time I come east of Warrawong is to go to Port Kembla beach. Not even that, these days. I go into Wollongong, into North Beach.’

  ‘Ah, North Beach. Not Port Kembla no more. North Beach! Very high class. Very high class you got to be.’

  ‘Well, no. Don’t make me feel I’m any better. I just like it in there. What, you go to this church?’

  ‘Nah, not a long time. I go to them all, you know? Go to every church roun’ here. Go to the weddings. Go to the christenings. Went to your christening, there you was, wrigglin’ and bawlin’. There was your parents, all dressed up an’ proud.’

  ‘You gave us an envelope. You gave us an envelope filled with money.’

  Lupce smiles. ‘What – you remember that?’

  ‘Of course not. They told me, later, that’s what you did.’

  ‘Well, you know, a little baby startin’ out – a family got all new expenses – a bit of help, it don’ do no harm. So, that was in your cathedral. I been to all the churches, the mosque. Go to the weddings. Go to the funerals.’

  He sits, thinking.

  ‘Not been back here to this one, quite a while. Lotsa things happened in there an’ I saw them. Lotsa things. Gave me strong feelin’s, you know?’

  He sits a little longer, then reaches for a handle, opens the car door. Jose says, ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. Just goin’ in. Just goin’ in for a minute.’

  ‘Mr Valeski, the church will be locked.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  He looks up at the metal Orthodox cross on the façade, passes through the fence, walks slowly beside the tall bulk of the building. At its rear he turns a corner, comes to an old wooden door. He turns the handle slowly, swings the door open.

  The windows of the church are of plain glass and he can just make out their shapes. He feels his way slowly along, holds the edge of wooden pews, sits. He leans his back against the strong su
pport, closes his eyes, sniffs up the smell of still, dusty air, remembering the hush of earlier congregations, the joy of the weddings and baptisms, the shrieking grief of those there to bury people they’d loved.

  The door behind him creaks and he blinks open his eyes. He can discern a shadowy form near the altar. There’s the snap of a switch. At once there’s a stab of lighting and Lupce can see a plump young man in a priest’s double cassock. Lupce remains still and quiet. The young man turns, starts to realise that he’s not alone.

  ‘Ah!’ The priest grasps his hands to the front of his chest. ‘Bless me!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

  ‘What a start!’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be coming. I’d have warned you, made a little sound when first you come in. Not nice, that, suddenly someone’s there and you didn’t expect it.’

  The young man blinks. ‘Lupce! Lupce Valeski! Is that you?’

  Lupce can see no point in acknowledging the obvious. The young man comes along the aisle, stops at the pew Lupce occupies, comes one pace along it, sits there on one buttock with an arm leant onto the back of the pew before them.

  ‘Good morning, Father.’

  ‘No! You can’t call me Father! I can’t allow this! I am Riste. Always I’ve been Riste to you!’

  Lupce shrugs, and now will not address the priest by any title.

  ‘You always called me Riste. I remember the first time. I was crossing a road, many years ago, a road up on the Hill. You called out, “Good morning, Riste.” I had no idea that you knew my name. My heart filled up my chest, I was so moved! Proud! Mr Lupce Valeski knew my name, greeted me! Unforgettable.’

  ‘Well, you was a nice little boy, always polite. And people like it, when you remember what they’re called.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Lupce is uncomfortable. The priest blocks the way he would go to leave. Lupce waits for something to happen.

  ‘Lupce Valeski,’ the priest says. ‘I see you here. I see you in your church. Lupce, are you returning? Can I take it you have made an approach to your mother church?’

  ‘Nah. I was just passin’. Goin’ on business. Saw where I was. I remember times I was in here, in here for differen’ things. Just thought I’d come in for a while, remember some times.’

  Coughing racks the old man again. He struggles with the desperation of it, gropes for his handkerchief, coughs, spits into it, gasping for breath. The priest is looking at the handkerchief, from concern or vulgar curiosity, to know what’s contained in its folds. Lupce crumples it into a ball of cotton, turns his body to hide it from the young man’s view, struggles the handkerchief back into a pocket.

  The priest says, ‘Lupce Valeski … you’re dying.’

  Lupce scowls ahead, raises his eyes to see the forms of the Saviour, his blessed Mother. ‘Who says?’

  ‘People on Cringila Hill believe it. It’s said on Cringila Hill.’

  ‘People on Cringila Hill talk too much. People talk things they don’ know nothin’ about.’

  The old man stands, moves towards the priest, waits for a way to be made for him to pass.

  ‘Lupce, please … look, if you wish I’ll go, and leave you. I’ve disturbed you, which I should not have done. I want you here! I want you to be comfortable here. I want you to come.’

  ‘Nah. Goin’ now. Just dropped in, passin’.’

  The younger man gets to his feet, moves back into the aisle.

  ‘Goodbye, Father Riste,’ Lupce says.

  The priest calls to Lupce’s back as he walks from the church. ‘Lupce, please … come again. We could talk. You could feel the services.’

  Once Lupce is out on the footpath, Jose gets out of the car to hold the door open.

  ‘Jose, let’s move. There’s a priest in there.’

  ‘I saw him go in. Figured you’d be okay.’

  ‘Sure. But move on. Pull up to the next corner, turn right, park. Park up there.’

  Having repositioned the car the two sit for a while. Jose says, ‘What’s the name of that church you said?’

  ‘St Kristen of Ohrid Macedonian Orthodox.’

  ‘Ah. St Kristen. A Macedonian saint?’

  ‘Yeah. Very holy. Very learned. From hundreds of years ago. More than a thousand.’

  ‘Ohrid. What’s that, a place?’

  ‘Sure. Very beautiful town. Beside a very lovely lake. Got a hill. Got a castle.’

  ‘What, you’re from there, Ohrid?’

  ‘Nah. I was a shepherd in mountains west of there. I saw Ohrid twice. I had a job there, for a few days, on a boat. Took English people out on the lake, people who was visitin’.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yeah. Heard them talk English that first time. I thought tha’s a good thing to know, how to talk English, lots of people in the world talk English. We had a priest back in the village we lived near, he could talk English. And he taught me little bits, when I said I was interested. Same priest taught me to read.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yeah. Big help to me when we came out here, talkin’ a bit of English. The works got me to tell other Macedonians what they was wanted to do. People would gather roun’ me, you know, listen to me, rely on me. That was the start of it. There’s power in somethin’ like that. Come as a big surprise to me when I realised that, I got a bit of power.’

  ‘Sure. So, when you came and there was to be a church, that’s what it was called.’

  ‘Well. We soon enough saw what we was out here, we was the shit, got the jobs no one else wanted to do. We was the lowest ones. So we named our church. See, we was sayin’, “We ain’t like this. We ain’t these low people. We from a beautiful place, where there’s culture, great ancient learning. We from Ohrid!”’

  ‘But you weren’t.’

  ‘Well, I weren’t. But it was still mine, you know. It was still about me.’ Lupce looks again at his watch.

  Jose says, ‘ready?’

  ‘Not yet. Few more minutes.’ After a pause Lupce says, ‘I hear your uncle’s president of the Spanish Club.’

  ‘Yeah, he is.’

  ‘Big honour.’

  ‘Maybe. Lots of pressure, just the same. Is there enough money to run the club, can they pay its debts? Have they got more staff than they need, or can afford? Someone got to be put off, everyone hates Uncle Manuel, though he’s just doing what’s got to be done, not what he’d prefer.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Lupce turns his face to the window to hide from Jose a smile he can’t resist. He says, ‘There’s the Portugese Club too. Those two little clubs, people from the same part of the world. Maybe you two should combine, make one club.’

  He hears Jose’s laughter. ‘Oh, you naughty man. Big chance of that, the Spanish and the Portuguese make one club together, cooperate. More chance a war than there just be one club. Better chance there be one club for the Macedonians and the Greeks.’

  They both laugh. ‘Yeah, not in my lifetime,’ Lupce says, ‘will the Macedonians do anythin’ with the Greeks.’

  ‘That thing with Bolkus. That was a bad scene.’

  ‘Yeah, it was, how it turned out in the end.’

  ‘People say you made it happen.’

  ‘Ah, I went down there, you know, down to Canberra. I had some things to ask for, talked to some kid. He says, “Yeah, we’ll get Bolkus to come, make an announcement. He’s ethnic, you know, make us look good about the ethnics.” And I said, “He’s Greek. Lotsa people on Cringila Hill is Macedonian. Send a Greek, there’ll be trouble.” But they didn’t listen to old Lupce, sent Bolkus, and I’d said there’d be trouble, there’s gotta be some. So there was a bit of a scene, when he come.’

  ‘There was a riot.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘People threw bits of housebrick at him.’


  ‘Yeah, they did. Got a bit excited, you know. Went too far. Made me embarrassed.’

  ‘Could have hit him in the head.’

  ‘Well, yeah, they could of, but they didn’. Anyway, now old Lupce says, “Don’ do that,” they don’ do it. That’s a thing to learn. It’s hard to make ’em do things, but easier make ’em not do things.’

  The darkness has softened. ‘It’s time,’ Lupce says. ‘Let’s go.’

  Again he’s racked by coughing. When he’s drawn himself together, Jose says, ‘My dad coughed like you do, before he got that last of the sickness.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yeah. Is there anything else?’

  ‘There’s else.’

  ‘Throwin’ up?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Gonna see about it?’

  ‘Seen.’

  They reach Wentworth Street, Port Kembla, head down, take turns into narrow alleyways.

  ‘Pull up, up there,’ Lupce says. ‘That’s them.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  A head is rising out of the sea. Jimmy is excited and afraid – he knows that it’s his father’s head. Sunlight shines onto the point of the ocean where the skull is emerging. Soon, he’ll be able to see his father’s face. But when the head is clear of salt water, there is no face, no flesh, just a skeleton, water rushing from sockets where eyes should be. Then behind the head another rises, old Lupce, with his eyes narrowed, watching. He gives a little smile, winks, and Jimmy can hear shrieking, hears someone scream, ‘No!’ Then when he wakes he knows that the screaming is coming from him. He lies awhile, sweating. He presses the palms of his hands over his eyes.

  The door opens and his mother enters. He hears her say, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nah,’ Jimmy says. ‘Nah, nothin’, Mama. Bad dream is all.’

  The air in the bedroom is heavy with cold. Jimmy rubs his face, looks at the tall woman who stands in the doorway. Drawn over her pyjamas is a thin cotton wrap.

  ‘Dreamin’,’ she says.