by Gary Seeary
Going for a ride on a cable tram, will be the first thing Lettie will want to do on Tuesday night.
I felt almost overwhelmed by the stifling heat as I crossed over Flinders Street, happy to see the Yarra River only a short distance ahead. I found myself a shady spot on the dock of the ship turning basin, hidden away between the Spencer Street Bridge and an old wreck of a barge, hoping that one of the quietest parts of the city could provide me with the perfect refuge to ponder my biggest dilemma. How could I possibly help Lettie find work down here?
Lettie walked away from a part-time job in a drapers back home; she may regret that. Down here she would have to become a real grafter, jumping on every opportunity that popped its head up, if she wanted to get to the front of the long queues beside every ‘positions vacant’ sign.
As the wind slowly changed direction, it was too hot to think about work or anything else, except hopping into the round of sandwiches I had made in the morning, and drinking some of the lukewarm water that I thankfully remembered to put in a spare Cottee’s bottle before I left the factory. As I relaxed into my own private picnic, my thoughts drifted back to my family in the country, wondering what turmoil the letter from my folks was hiding.
A couple of cars and motorbikes crossing over the bridge were the only things moving at any pace at the moment. If they had any sense, they would either head east towards the cool of the Dandenong hills or south towards a sandy beach on the bay.
*
After lunch, I reluctantly left my shady spot by the river walking up onto Spencer Street Bridge which was baking under the blazing afternoon sun. From the middle of the bridge, I couldn’t miss the signs of the cool change to come. A long, dark line of cloud spread across the horizon to the west, pushing heavy humid air in front of it. I couldn’t wait for it to get here.
I stopped briefly in the shadow of a huge storage facility; the words ‘Tea House’ were blazoned in large lettering across the top storey of the imposing building.
It made me think about what my friend Arty told me a few days before I moved down to Melbourne, in a poor effort to make me change my mind. “You know the buildings in the city block out the sun, Seb. That’s why city folk always look so pale and sickly.”
Arty really doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he’s only been to Melbourne once.
I stayed in the shadows of as many buildings as I could while heading up the slope towards the main shopping strip of Clarendon Street.
I reached the first canopy of the shopping strip, a little reluctant to wade into the tangled mass of shoppers, who milled in front of shop windows and jammed up doors, as far as the eye could see. After weaving my way through the crowd to one display, it became clear what the fuss was all about.
Bargains!
Almost every shop had a ‘Sale’ sign in the window and every other shop a ‘Prices Reduced’ sign. Several had spruikers out front making outrageous claims about the quality of their goods. One shop, which was doing rather well, was a kitchenware store that had a large array of shiny new pots and pans, at ‘unbelievable’ prices. Lettie won’t go past this shop I could guarantee it.
I couldn’t believe so many people, with so little money, could hand over so much of it. Lenny had hit the nail on the head when he said this was the place for people that loved shopping.
There was a longish queue in front of a grocery store called Carruthers. On the outside, it looked like any other grocers, but after looking past the crowd to the inside, things appeared decidedly different.
In the middle of each aisle, large tins of virtually every foodstuff known to man were stacked precariously high, assistants in pristine white uniforms fussing over each shopper’s smallest request. Personally, I prefer not to be bothered when I shop, which is a rarity in itself, but the customers here didn’t seem to mind the pushy approach because they were buying, and buying a lot. After ten minutes, an elderly male assistant pulled me aside from the crush, telling me I ought to buy something fairly soon or I could get out, and that he would be watching me the whole time I stayed in there. Their friendliness was for paying customers only.
As a ‘Reduced by Half’ sign was placed on a large stack of tins nearby, I was shoved aside by almost rabid shoppers, trying in a mad rush to get their hands on the huge cans of whole beetroots, the stack reduced to half within seconds. This shop has found a way of beating our rotten economy by selling food cheap enough to fill hungry stomachs.
There were a few funny smells coming from the sweaty customers pushing me back and forth, so I thought I would give the old bugger still watching me his wish and leave the premises, as soon as I could push and shove my way out.
A little further down from Carruthers in the busiest section so far of Clarendon Street, I noticed three young people standing behind a small trestle table, perched close to the gutter. A banner behind them, tied between two verandah poles, was sign-written in large red, black and gold lettering, ‘Aid for Spain’. The mention of Spain caught my attention.
Underneath the banner was a poster with ‘MADRID’ written in large black letters. There were other words at the bottom, too small to read from where I stood and an unusual picture in the centre. At first glance, this picture seemed to portray a swarm of mosquitoes flying past a doll with numbers on its dress. It didn’t make sense to me, but due to the fact that their banner had the word ‘Aid’ as part of it, they were probably chasing money.
Recent newspapers had small articles about the rebellion in Spain, but they gave few details, and any news took so long to reach us from Europe, so it was difficult to tell if the war was even still going. I thought about lining up to ask one of the two young women or the young bloke about their cause, and their merchandise, but a few people were already waiting in line and I still had more to see in Emerald Hill, so I decided to keep moving. Up ahead, I noticed a greengrocer’s where I might get a bite to eat for later in the afternoon.
I started to push my way back into the crowd, when a female voice called out to me from behind. “Excuse me … young man?”
I turned around to see if the owner of this voice was calling me, which was unlikely, or someone else near me in the crowd.
“Yes you, young man.”
A pretty, brunette girl, one of the helpers behind the Aid for Spain stand was calling and waving at me to come back to the trestle table.
I hesitated for a second, as a few shoppers stopped, waiting to see if I would go back to her stand or not. I did want to find out more about the poster, and how they could possibly do much good for Spain from so far away, although I was a little annoyed at being singled out in front of a street full of nosey shoppers. Surely by the look of me, this girl must know I wouldn’t make much of a dent in their coffers. As I began to walk back towards the girl, a tiny smile appeared on her face.
“Thanks for coming back. I’m sorry for yelling at you like that, but I noticed you were looking at our ‘Madrid’ poster. I thought you might have had some questions about it.”
I couldn’t think of what to say for a second, pleasantly surprised at being spoken to like an adult for a change, and not merely as a worker or a kid.
“No, that’s all right. I was curious about the poster.”
“My name is Elaine. I’m a volunteer for the Spanish Aid Committee. We are highlighting the plight of the Spanish people, and trying to raise funds for the civilian victims of the rebel aggression. What would you like to know about the poster?” the pretty assistant asked, stepping to the side, so I had the full view.
“I was just too far back to see it clearly, that’s all,” I explained, now realising it wasn’t a doll at all, but a young girl with dozens of warplanes passing diagonally over her head, the words on the poster calling this ‘The Military practice of the Rebels’.
“What happened to this girl?” I asked, now finding the poster hard to look at.
“This girl is one of the victims of the fascist planes bombing Madrid. The rebels are being aided by G
erman aviators in their attempt to terrorise the population of the capital. This girl was one of thirty-six children killed during an air raid. An Italian-manufactured bomb made a direct hit on her school.” The young woman’s eyes were beginning to well up with tears.
I felt sorry for this child as well, and all the other victims, and if I had money to burn I would give it to them, but at the moment I was nearly skint.
“I thought it was a doll.” The words were already out of my mouth before I realised how cold they sounded.
The young man with messy black hair to the left of Elaine, turned from the couple he was talking to and leaned across the trestle table towards me; he had anger in his eyes, the likes of which I had seen only a few days ago during my run-in with the Pom in the grounds of the university.
“Doll!” he yelled. “That doll is someone’s child, murdered by a fascist army, hell-bent on sending Spain back into the Dark Ages. Think before you speak!”
Once he had finished his tirade, he turned to face the street, away from the gaze of the people in earshot of the stand.
Elaine grabbed the young man by the arm and led him off to the side, his arms flailing about in the air, no doubt in an attempt to explain his over-reaction to my remark. I knew I had said the wrong thing, but his response didn’t match my innocent slip of the tongue. I thought about waiting for him to come back, but unless I wanted to prove some silly point, the best thing I could do would be to move quietly along.
Elaine returned quickly to the stand, leaving her fellow assistant to cool off on his own. One positive outcome from our minor confrontation was that it attracted a small crowd to the trestle table, who were now keenly flicking through pamphlets, wanting to know more about the Spanish conflict.
“Sorry. I’d better go before I upset anybody else,” I said, apologetically to Elaine while slowly stepping away.
“There is one way you could help if you like before you go. We have items for sale to raise money specifically for food to go to an Australian-run orphanage in Spain and to purchase an ambulance for use by an Australian team of nurses already on the frontline. We have stamps, buttons, pamphlets and lots of other merchandise, but clearly this is a donation to help innocent people in need.”
“Did you say buttons?” I asked, louder than I should have, turning my head sharply to look at the young man who had yelled at me.
Was it him? Was he the same bloke that helped me at the University?
“Do you mind if I have a look at the buttons?”
“Of course you can,” the young brunette said, glancing at me sideways for the briefest second.
“We also have several pamphlets that have just arrived from Spain. They contain the latest developments.”
I acknowledged the young lady with a small nod, picking up a pamphlet called ‘From the battlefields of Spain’, which claimed progress by the Republican Government, but it was the buttons I was interested in. In a small tray there were only two types of buttons and one was the same as I had in my pocket.
Looking over at him, I was certain now that he was the same man that had helped me at the uni.
But why would he leave a button in my pocket?
“I know a lot of workers wear those buttons with pride, and hardly any of them lose their breeches,” the pretty brunette joked with a cheeky grin on her face.
“Righto, you’ve won me,” I returned, smiling back at her. “I’ll get somethin’.”
I bought the pamphlet and a block of stamps, just two small things to show that I wasn’t as insensitive as I sounded. Elaine nodded her thanks, as I handed over my sixpence contribution to their cause.
I looked again at the still agitated young man who I was sure saved me on Wednesday night, now facing toward the stand with his hands on his hips. I owed him a lot more than a ‘thanks’ for what he did at the university, but after his snarling performance at the trestle table it was probably best to call things quits.
After I had moved back into the crowd along Clarendon Street, I turned around briefly to look back at the Aid for Spain stand and its young volunteers, especially my fiery wild-haired friend who had returned to the fold. He was pointing out some feature of the ‘Madrid’ poster to a young couple, when Elaine came up beside him and put her arm around his shoulder.
At least, they could never be accused of not believing in their cause, the young people behind the Aid for Spain stand.
4
* * *
Red Square
My sore and sorry legs felt like they needed a good stretch, well before I stepped out from the last canopy of the Clarendon Street shopping strip into a sun more forgiving as the cool change rolled in. The cramping in my black-and-blue right leg had increased considerably since the morning, and I could expect to see an unpleasant yellow tinge to it in the next couple of days.
I stopped at the greengrocer’s to buy a Jonathan apple. The proprietor grumbled that it was customary to buy a bagful before I remembered to ask him if he knew of the place in South Melbourne Lenny had jabbered on about this morning, where spruikers get up on an old crate sprouting their plans to save the world. If it was half as good as Lenny claimed, it would be a real lark.
“I don’t think it’s around here, skinflint,” the grocer grudgingly replied. “Port Melbourne sounds more like it, and I’ve heard the name ‘Red Square’ mentioned before.”
Dust and leaves were swirling everywhere as black clouds gathered overhead, ushering in the cool change. I had known full well before this day was done I was going to be soaked to the skin which to my mind would be the perfect relief from the scorching heat.
I stopped for a breather on a long curving street called Ferrars, amazed by the beautiful houses in this part of South Melbourne and also the eerie lack of people on the streets. I was unsure which way to turn when I felt something rub up against my leg. I hoped it was a little luck, but it was just a grey and white moggy looking for a feed. It headed in the direction of the city, so I figured I’d do the same. I had to run into some locals soon.
I had too much time to think, as I tramped along Ferrars Street, unsettled by the vision of that poor girl in Madrid. Do the fascist pilots, safe in their planes out of range of gunfire, think about the families they’re bombing, below in Madrid? If I was in their place I would find it difficult to live with.
Fifty yards down the road, I could see a couple of young lads walking my way. One swung a bat, the other bounced a ball.
Of course! The Test cricket was on today. That would explain why no-one was out and about. Both lads were wearing souvenir baggy-green caps, as they took it in turns to push each other on the shoulder while walking along as happy as Larry. When one of them was pushed near a horse trough, he took the opportunity to cup his hands in the green water and then splash a goodly amount of it over the cap and head of his mate, taking him totally unawares. These blokes looked local enough for me.
“How ya doin’ boys?” I asked. “How did the day’s play end up?” Not that I really cared, but with so many people obsessed with cricket at the moment, because of how good Bradman was, you had to keep a partial interest in it, or they’d think you were from another planet.
“We only got to see the Don make four more runs before he went out, bowled Farnes, but he’d already made 169. Australia is nine for 593. McCabe, Badcock and Gregory all made runs. McCormick and Fleetwood-Smith are still in,” the lad with wet hair summarised with excitement and then had a few practice swings with his bat.
“We’d go back tomorrow, but it’s a rest day. Australia can’t be beaten now, can we? We’ll win the series for sure. Don’t you think?” asked his equally excited mate.
“Sure,” I replied positively.
“One funny thing did happen today, though. Nothing to do with cricket,” the wet-haired lad added.
“During lunch, a crazy bloke climbed onto the corrugated roof of the unfinished stand and unfurled a huge banner that said ‘AID FOR SPAIN’. There were over eighty thousand peo
ple at the game and not one of them knew what was going on. Pamphlets began raining down on us from above; more banners appeared on the balconies as a man ran across the oval carrying a sign. It was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen, let alone at a cricket match.”
Gees! These Aid for Spain people really are serious about their cause.
“Look!” the other boy jumped in “I kept a pamphlet. It’s a bit crumpled, but you can read it.” He carefully spread out a folded piece of paper, before handing it to me.
I flattened it out a bit more, thinking initially it might be a cricket score sheet. The message at the top of the page read:
Write your own score and help the Spanish people settle theirs.
On the other side, there was a longer message:
The Final Test
What is Bodyline compared to this?
The message continued on to explain how women and children were being slaughtered in Madrid, and how this was the first stage of a second world war.
“Can I keep the pamphlet?” I asked. “I don’t think people would believe me unless they saw this. It isn’t the sort of thing you expect to see at a sporting event.”
“You can have it if you want. We’d better get going. We’re expected back home pretty soon,” replied the dry-haired lad, keen I think, to get back to talking about cricket.
“Sorry lads, one more thing. Do you blokes know of a place ’round here called the Red Square? It could be in Port.”
The two young blokes looked at each other and then turned to me with strange expressions on their faces.
“Why would you wanna go there for? Too many ruffians and drunks. Just an excuse to talk poppycock, my dad says,” the wet-haired lad stated, a lot less excited. “You’d be better off going to the pictures; there are always lots of girls there.”
“I’ll take a chance, thanks boys. How do I get there from here?” I pressed.
They told me that the coppers had moved the Red Square on from near the South Melbourne Market a month ago, down to an area of wasteland off Coventry Street, which was only about five hundred yards away on the left.
