by Arnold Zable
‘Mum, poor girl,’ says Henry.
He does not deviate. He will always talk of her good nature. He will insist that the four brothers and sister remained loyal, protective of themselves and of each other, subscribers to an unspoken pact—a collective response to a common peril.
‘Mum, poor girl. She taught us compassion. She made us grow up quickly. And made us able to take on the world.’
18
Some streets away from the house at 212 a woman sat on a veranda holding a jar of boiled lollies. From time to time she rose to her feet and stepped up to the fence to make her offering. She held the lollies in her upturned palm to passing children. She did not speak, but she sat in the chair with a shy smile, and an expression of childish wonder. The children accepted the sweets gladly. They called her the lolly woman.
She was middle aged but looked older. She was short and wiry, her hair prematurely white, her nose and chin sharp and angular. In winter she was rugged up in a wool coat that made her appear even smaller.
On summer days she wore short-sleeved dresses. The children were struck by the tattooed numbers on her forearm. The dark-blue ink stood out against the white skin. The ugly asymmetry of the six figures spoke of a world they had glimpsed in reruns of wartime newsreels. The tattoo haunted them.
Her husband was never seen, but he could be heard, for hours on end, playing the violin. Music emanated from the depths of the terrace, fragments of sonatas, symphonies and concertos.
The playing seemed to move about the terrace, from the ground floor to the second storey, from the kitchen to the front rooms, and the room behind the balcony. It erupted in strident bursts and endured in longer passages. And was so distant at times, it seemed to come from the backyard.
There were only the two of them, husband and wife, one barely an implied presence, and the other visible, yet ethereal. Through the open doorway the children could see a dark passage and a flight of wooden stairs that disappeared towards the upper storey. Somewhere up there, the children assumed, lived the mysterious violin player.
The lolly woman was there to soundlessly greet the children as they walked to school. And she was there mid-afternoon as they returned, as if she had not moved all day. Always with the jar of boiled lollies, and her smile deepening each time she stepped up to the fence and a child accepted her offering. Over the months she became a trusted presence. In time, the neighbourhood children called her Mother.
She was one of many mothers—mothers who had enough love for their own children, and for the children of others. Mothers who lived in homes where the doors were always open.
When they enter, Leon and Henry are cheerful, polite. Respectful. They understand that he who is well behaved may be liked and accepted. In return they receive the gift of maternal affection. The gift of Blossom, Eileen, Colin’s mum, Mrs Mac, Mrs McDonald. The twins called her Bloss.
Bloss lived several doors from the Reads’, in a single-fronted brick cottage, with her husband Bob and their only son, Colin. The front window was so close to the pavement, a passer-by could reach in and touch it.
She now lives a two-hour drive south, in a brick-veneer unit, a ten-minute stroll from the ocean. The unit is modestly furnished, and the beige carpet perfectly vacuumed. The walls are expanses of white, save for several photos of the grandchildren. Out the front is a well-tended garden, and in the air is the scent of sea breezes.
Bloss is ninety. She is tiny, with wisps of white-hair receding. Her keen blue eyes are magnified by silver-rimmed glasses. She reaches up to embrace Henry and holds on tightly. She releases her grip, keeps him at arms length, and surveys his face, laughing. They hold each other’s gaze until finally she steps back and invites him into the lounge room.
She ushers him to an armchair, and seats herself on a brocade sofa. When Bloss settles back, the rounded armrests enfold her and she all but vanishes. But her presence is commanding. Her booming voice is at odds with her modest surroundings. She is a no-nonsense monarch on a padded throne surveying her white-walled kingdom. There is a lot of living yet to be done, and a long life behind her. Like Henry, Bloss exudes vigour.
‘I couldn’t pick you boys apart,’ she says. ‘You’d lift up your shirt and point to a scar on your stomach, just above the navel. Remember? You showed me the scar to convince me it was you I was talking to. I eventually got to know the differences between the two of you, but I still can’t tell you apart on the telephone.’
‘No one can,’ laughs Henry.
‘I loved having you boys around. I loved having kids around. We had plenty of kids come through the house: Colin’s friends, Amess Street children. Their mums worked, so we looked after ’em. You came in through the front door and by the back door from the laneway.
‘Whatever way you came, you’d go straight to the ice chest out on the back veranda. My Bob had put shelves in the chest and converted it into a cupboard. It was packed with toys. You and Leon would open the door and the toys spilt out everywhere. You pounced on them. It was mayhem.’
Bloss leans forward.
‘Of course we knew what was going on,’ she says, a tone lower. ‘No one could hide like they do nowadays. I’d see your mum go by. It was obvious she was a sick lady, I hope you don’t mind me saying. One day she’d be lovely, and the next day angry. I can still see her. She was short, slim. Sort of petite. Well presented, as though she was ready to go out. When she walked by the house, she looked frightened.
‘I can’t say I ever saw her laugh. She didn’t visit anybody. She locked herself inside the house. You wouldn’t see her for days, or weeks, sometimes longer. When she finally came out, she walked slowly. When she saw me she’d turn, cross the road and walk on the other side.
‘Even then she wouldn’t hurry. She had her own pace and she stuck to it. She was her own person, but the few times she talked to me it was never a proper conversation. She wasn’t there. She was a distant lady.’
For a moment Bloss falls silent.
‘She was not the only lost person on Amess Street, mind you,’ she resumes. ‘Not by a long shot, Henry. You remember? You’d see them after the six o’clock closing, coming home from the Great Northern. Familiar faces. Drunk. They were nice most of the time, wished you a good day and all that, but horrid when the drink got to them.
‘Mr B was one of the worst of ’em. Perhaps he was a bit before your time, Henry. No, it was the same time come to think of it. He’d walk home from the pub, a bottle in each hand. He tripped over the gutter one night, and fell into the drain and got stuck. Served him right if you ask me—he was still clinging to his precious bottles. We had to pull him out. Even as we dragged him up he wouldn’t let go of the bottles. Rather die than go without the drink, poor devil.’
‘I know a lot of people like that,’ says Henry.
‘Yes, you would,’ says Bloss, ‘in your line of work. I knew all about it. I’ve always known. Can I put it this way: my father was a wonderful dad from Monday to Saturday. You couldn’t fault him, Henry, but on the weekend he’d go to the pub. When he came home, you could tell from his red nose it was best to hide. He’d come home an angry man.
‘Everyone outside thought the world of him. They only saw the good side. He was a Jekyll and Hyde. You had to get out of his way. You had to watch what you said. He’d give you a whack if you talked back, and I talked back. I’ve always talked back. I still do. Don’t get me started.
‘He gave me a whack when I sang a drinking song,’ she says, in her forthright voice. ‘I learnt it from the wireless. I couldn’t help it. I still can’t help it. I just let it out when he came home drunk. I thought the song was funny. He saw it as taking the micky. So he slapped me in the face for my troubles, a hard slap. Vicious. That’s the way it was back then. How does the song go? Once I get the first line I can still sing it.
And when I die
Don’t bury me at all
Just pickle my bones
In alcohol
Place a bottle of beer
At my head and feet
Cause when I die
My bones will keep.’
She chuckles, and hums a second verse.
‘I can hold a tune, Henry. Before I married I was a chorus girl at the Princess Theatre. I don’t think you know that. I danced high kicks and all and I did tap dances. I was in the chorus of The Little Drummer Boy. I was so tiny they had me dancing on the drum, tapping and singing.
‘One night the skin of the drum broke and I fell through it. I just stepped out and kept singing. The audience thought it was part of the show. I always get on with the show, Henry. When my father slapped me I kept singing. I loved the singing. I loved the dancing. I loved my job as a chorus girl. But I gave it all away when I got married.’
She puts her hands on the armrests and, again, shifts herself forward. Her voice softens.
‘Can I put it this way, Henry. I class myself as your second mother. I always knew from the expression on your face when something was up. I knew as soon as you came through the back gate. You’d pull up a chair to the table. I never asked any questions. I knew you wanted affection. You’d get up and play with Colin. You had the run of the house. You raided the ice chest. You raided the fridge. Toys and food, what else could a young boy want?’
‘I loved that ice chest,’ says Henry.
‘You certainty did. Colin and you were best mates. He wouldn’t go see you fight, certainly not the big ones, the title fights. He couldn’t bear seeing you get hurt. You’d come round late at night after a fight. Colin would be sitting in the lounge room, waiting. He’d get the door. He was there to help you wind down.
‘You’d come in holding your latest trophy. It could be hours after the fight. It could be past midnight. It didn’t matter. Colin had a plate of cream cakes ready for you, and you wolfed them down. You loved the sweet stuff. You loved eating. You sure had an appetite, especially on fight nights. You must have been ravenous, after starving yourself to get down to the weight.’
‘I always had trouble getting down to the weight,’ says Henry.
‘It doesn’t surprise me. You were always a big eater.
‘Well, the two of you walked up and down, up and down the passage. I could hear you from the bedroom. You talked about the fight. Colin listened. You went out and walked up and down Amess Street. Up and down you went. Up and down, rattling on about the fight, all excited, and Colin still listening.
‘First you walked him to your place. Then he’d walk you back to ours. Just a minute’s walk between the two houses, and you’d go like this for hours. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but you’d be out for a long time. You’d walk all over the place. One time when you were finally done it was three in the morning.’
‘I’d forgotten that,’ says Henry.
‘I remember it all,’ says Bloss. ‘I’d hear you come in, still talking.’ She leans back and chuckles.
‘Your dad was different to your mum,’ she says, changing tack again. ‘Sam was happy go lucky. He liked to joke around. He was not bad looking either. He’d be over here sometimes looking for you and Leon, and he’d stop for a chat. He liked a game of cards.
‘One day your mother came over. She came through the door and she brought along her shadow. She had that angry look, a look of “don’t come close”. As soon as she came in I could see she was hurting. Your mum never sat out the front on a summer night like the other neighbours.
‘There were so many people sitting in chairs on the footpath,’ says Bloss, back with the memory. ‘It would take an hour to get to the shop. “Here, sit down. How have you been? Have a drink. Have another.” The Italians shared the grappa. My husband couldn’t stomach the stuff. He stuck to beer. He never drank anything else. He was a man of habit, and nothing could change that.
‘There was some nasty goings on, mind you, Henry. You probably don’t know this. There was one couple—one day the missus came round and said she was frightened to ring her doorbell. She was locked out of her house. Her husband had been rotten drunk the night before. She was trembling.
‘I got in through the window and opened the front door for her. Her husband had been inside all that time, brooding. When she came in, he came straight at her. He beat her up dreadful. He was a nasty little man. I would never stand for it. I’d had enough of it with my father. I made it clear to Bob before we got married. We were on the way to the cinema when he proposed. “I’d love to,” I said, “but if you ever lay a hand on me, you’re gone.”
‘I needn’t have worried, Henry. He came back from his stint in New Guinea with a bad wound on the back of the leg. For the rest of his life the scar looked shocking. He walked with a slight limp. He never talked about the war, but it came back in his bouts of malaria. He’d be raving “Look out! Watch those trees. Someone is moving. Someone is hiding there!”’
‘I had no idea,’ says Henry.
‘Well, we didn’t know then about the atrocities,’ says Bloss, ‘and what had happened to your mum and dad, but we sensed something. I knew it from Bob. Because of what happened to him, I was alert to it.
‘Come to think of it, the war never really ended. Not for Bob, not for your mum; and not for Mr and Mrs L. The husband was a pig of a man, another wife beater. In those days it was hard to get a divorce. Where could you go? You got stuck with your man. You had to grin and bear it.’
She leans further forward, and drops her voice.
‘I’ve never told you this, Henry, but one day I went to their house. I walked in and saw these photos on the mantelpiece, one of L as a young man. It took pride of place. It stood there right in the centre. He was wearing a black jacket with the SS insignia.
‘You couldn’t miss it. It was on display. He made no effort to hide it. He was proud of it, but his kids were different. They got on well with the other kids. They came round to our place. We asked them, “Would you like to have some lunch?” They didn’t even know how to hold a knife and fork. I thought “You poor darlings.”
‘Yes, you couldn’t hide back then. We all knew what was going on. It was out in the open. First you’d hear it, and sooner or later you’d see it: the black eyes, the bruises, and the look of misery. In just a couple of families, but a couple too many, if you ask me. We knew everything. It was all out there on Amess Street.’
She leans back and pauses. Henry reflexively leans forward.
‘Peter and Mick were out there too,’ she says. ‘You’d see them often. This is how it was long before you and Leon met them. They were always together. If you saw one you’d see the other. There was a lot of affection between them. The way they talked together.
‘Mick’s wife wasn’t around. I once saw her standing on the balcony. Another time I saw her on the veranda. She turned her head and I caught a glimpse of her. She was a very attractive lady. Then she was gone. Who knows what happened? Marriages break down, they don’t come easy. Not for anyone.
‘Mick took on Peter. He brought him up. And the two of them took on you and Leon. They got you off the streets. I’d see you coming by our house on the way to training. You couldn’t wait to get there. I saw that look on your faces, determination. Whatever it was that the Reads had, the two of you wanted it. I’d see you running there, all excited.
‘Come to think of it,’ says Bloss. ‘Peter and Mick, they were mother and father rolled into one. They adopted you. They treated you and Leon as their own. That’s the way I remember it. Their door was always open. That’s the secret to it. The door was always open.’
19
Henry helps Bloss up from the sofa. Once on her feet, she is steady. Resolute. She walks him to the door. They pause at the entrance to the lounge room, and talk some more. They stop in the hallway and start up again like old soldiers on Anzac Day. It’s been a long time between drinks and they take their time parting. They stand by the front door and remain there together for a long time, embracing.
They have a bond that cannot be broken—one of many forged between those who had lived in th
e neighbourhood for generations and the children of post-war newcomers, fresh off the boats, who moved in alongside them. The suburb was convenient. Close to work. Close to the factories of Brunswick, and close enough to Flinders Lane, the garment district—close to the notices on factory walls and doors: ‘Positions Vacant. Apply Within.’
The newcomers walked in off the streets, and filled the vacancies. They made up the labour shortages. They swept the floors and cleaned the offices. They sorted and packed, and took care of the rubbish. They manned the machines, and learnt how to maintain them. They hauled dustbins into the back lanes and kept the wheels of industry turning. Then clocked off late in the afternoon and set out homewards, Simche Nissenbaum among them. Called Sam for local consumption. And, in time, Sam Nissen—by deed poll. As stated on the document, the original ‘renounced and abandoned as aforesaid’. The deal signed, sealed and delivered. Official.
Sam Nissen: pigeon bellied, a short man who could not ride a horse. He steps off the tram, suitcase in hand, and walks three blocks east along Pigdon Street. It is dusk. The street lamps are turning on, casting pools of light on the footpaths and gutters.
He walks by double-storey terraces and workers’ cottages. He crosses Rathdowne Street to the corner hotel. Nearing Amess Street, he passes a brick fence, which, on Saturday evenings, after the matinee at the Palace Cinema, the young local boys straddle and ride-em cowboy.
The top of the wall is smooth and rounded, and the height perfect for mounting. They settle in the saddle, kick the flanks, and hurtle across deserts and prairies. Their upper bodies rock to a galloping motion. One hand grips the rounded top, while the other is cocked as a pistol. They take out enemies with bullseye precision.
They rearrange their hands. One grips the reins, the other twirls lassos. They rope in cattle and wild stallions, and charge on, howling and hollering. They withstand the bucking of the wildest horses.
