by Daley, Paul
Doubt had been consuming her these past weeks. She had won the man whom she thought that she loved. But she also knew that, right now, he really had no time for a wife. Or a baby.
She kept asking herself what he would have done if he’d actually had a genuine choice. There had been no talk at all about marriage when he had signed up. That alone gave her cause for doubt: if he’d loved her that much, then surely he would have proposed instead of volunteering.
And then, by the time he knew about the baby, it was too late, really, for him to change his plans.
‘I can’t get out of it, Louie. I have to go. So many other men with families are already there,’ he’d said.
And then there was Doc—dependable, solid, darling Doc. Doc, who’d been in her life forever; Doc, who’d be going to war alongside Percy; Doc, who’d been the bridge between her and Percy; Doc, who would probably be kneeling here beside her today had Percy not been.
Percy had said, ‘I can’t pull out. You know that. Can you imagine what Doc would think? We signed up together to go and fight. There’s no choice now.’
The war was his world now—that and football. Soon enough he’d be gone, and then she’d be on her own, with a child, until he came back home. In six months or a year? Three years or four? Maybe he wouldn’t come back at all, and she’d be left, alone, to raise the child, to fend off the pitying glances and the gossip of the other women as she pushed a pram along Johnston Street, to deal with the advances of the men who’d stayed behind and who’d read her vulnerability as plain as the great signs outside Foy & Gibson, and who would try and prise advantage from it. No-one else was quite so exposed. Everybody understood that such women had to do whatever it took to survive. But that never stopped anyone from judging them.
She clutched in her white gloves a tiny Bible, not much bigger than a box of safety matches. On the inside cover, in a perfect copperplate hand of blue fountain pen, were the words:
From May to Louie Wishing You every happiness on Her Wedding Day 4/9/15
May. Sweet, generous and loyal May. May, who had been the only one in her family not to judge her.
Her father, old Fred, had been bloody furious as soon as he’d found out. Louie had told her mother, Frances, about the baby first, knowing that if anybody could talk Fred around on Percy and soothe his anger, it would be her. But there’d been so little time for him to get used to the idea. And now, as he sat on the pew behind her, listening to the priest, that which had for weeks been white-hot anger had dissipated into something far worse and far more hurtful to her.
In the full knowledge that a child, no matter how rebellious, seeks nothing more than parental approval, Fred had expressed, on the eve of the wedding, his extreme disappointment with her.
‘Louisa,’ he had said, ‘this is not how we raised you. We’ve been a good family to you Louisa—raised you in the church and given you an education. We expected you to marry better than this. This man—this man Percy, or Paddy—you don’t know anything about him.’
‘Father, I know him. He’s a good man. He’s kind and gentle. He loves me. And he’s funny and charming. He’s …’
‘A football player, Louisa! He’s a football player. And a boxer. That’s all that you know about him. Why hasn’t he introduced you to his family? What is he ashamed of? Now you’re going to marry him and then he’s going to run off to the war, like it’s another game of football, and he’s going to leave you here, here with us, to look after the child. People are talking, Louisa. Everyone expected more of you.’
She had wanted to say that it had all happened so quickly and that there hadn’t been time for any of that—for going out bush and meeting his brothers and his sisters and his mother. But that would only have made it worse with Fred.
Percy hadn’t told the club. Jock and old Wal didn’t really need to know; anyway, the more people down at Vic Park who knew, the more gossip there’d be. All they cared about at the minute was the Grand Final in a fortnight—and whether or not he and Doc would get leave from the camp at Broadmeadows to play against the Lions today in the second Semi-Final. Little did Jock and Wal know that he and Doc had told the Army they needed leave so he could get married, with Doc as best man, ensuring that they’d both be able to play that afternoon if they got away from the church quickly enough.
Two weeks ago, one of the camp’s officers had suddenly cancelled their leave, making sure they didn’t get off the base to play Collingwood’s last home-and-away game against the Bloods. That officer, and perhaps others, too, had wanted the Magpies to lose so that Carlton would finish the year on top of the ladder and, as minor premiers, get the double-chance of winning a premiership. As it turned out, Collingwood had won the hard-fought game by 18 points and finished on top, but before the match, Jock and Wal had been bloody livid when Percy and Doc hadn’t turned up. But what could they do? Bloody officer said they’d be charged if they left the base and they could kiss the rest of the season goodbye—and the wedding. As Percy kneeled, looking up at the windows, he thought that might not have been such a bad thing.
Wal would’ve gone crook, too, if he’d known that one of the boys was getting married before a big match like today’s. Wal, who was so bloody tough on his own boy Dick, keeping him away from the grog and pushing him at training till he broke. Wal always warned his players about the dangers of hooking up with the girls who hung around the club. He said women put the boys off their game. Off their game, alright!
When they had missed the game against South Melbourne a fortnight back, someone started a rumour that Percy had taken the day off so he could get married then. Not bloody likely would he short-change the team to get hitched. Didn’t stop that bugger called ‘Free Kick’ from talking about it in his footy column in Sporting Judge, though.
‘Rowan and Seddon, who constitute the second ruck … failed to materialize. The pair are in camp, and the charitably disposed opined they had been refused leave of absence,’ Free Kick had written. The less charitably disposed—or those who knew the truth about Percy and Louie—were, for the most part, sitting behind them. Except for Free Kick, whoever he was.
And so here they found themselves, inside this bloody freezing old church, and him about to get hitched to Doc’s old childhood sweetheart who had his baby inside her, and then run as fast as he could to the Melbourne Cricket Ground, to play against Fitzroy. It dawned on Percy that if stranger bloody things had happened, then he hadn’t heard about them.
Sometimes—times like this—he actually had to pinch himself when he thought about what a catch Louie was. With her wavy brown hair, her dark eyes and with that Fanny Durack figure, he probably was not going to do any better when it came to finding a sweetheart. But it’s not like there weren’t plenty of options. Every time he walked down Smith Street, the girls would stop him. ‘Paddy’ they all called him. ‘Paddy!’ None of them knew who he really was. ‘Paddy, I saw you play last Saturday. You were wonderful, Paddy.’
But it was down at the town hall dances on a Saturday night, after a match, when everyone was on the grog, that the real opportunities arose.
Of course he’d fancied Louie—who wouldn’t? He had from the moment Doc had introduced them a few years ago. That had been after training. Louie always came to training and she never missed a match at Vic Park. But he’d figured that she had to be Doc’s, what with the way she was always following him around, and teasing him and asking him to dance and grabbing his arm and all that. If she wasn’t Doc’s, it sure looked like she wanted to be.
But it was always a bit like Doc was trying to get away from her. He wouldn’t dance with her. But then Doc didn’t dance with anyone. And Louie always just seemed to be waiting for him to ask her.
So Percy had stepped in and danced with her. With his hand on her narrow waist, he had been intoxicated by her fragrance, a combination of the subtlest scent of citrus and perfume—not the rosewater that the
other girls smelt of but real perfume, probably from overseas somewhere, maybe even France. And it had felt good when they had turned and her hand slid ever so momentarily towards that softer place near the back of his armpit, and her bosom, firmly girdled and shaped and strapped up under all that flouncy cotton, had brushed his chest.
Percy asked Doc one night what the story with Louie was: ‘She your girl or what?’
‘Mate,’ said Doc, ‘Louie’s like my sister. I’ve known her for-bloody-ever. Grew up next door almost. She’s my mate, Perc, not my bloody girlfriend.’
‘She’s a good sort, Doc. A real good sort.’
‘Well do me a favour then mate. Stop her bloody following me round, will you?’
‘See what I can do, mate. See what I can do.’
Although it was not that much, what Percy did was enough to win Louie pretty quickly. And he hadn’t lied to her. He told her from the very start that he and Doc were going to sign up.
On one cold, still day, Percy and Louie had been sitting on a wooden bench in Gahan’s Reserve, just across the road from Louie’s house. A sooty, leaden layer of smog and cloud hung like a rough old Army blanket over the tin rooftops. She’d begged him to think again, to consider staying in Collingwood with her instead. But he’d explained that he and Doc had already decided. In any event, he said, football was probably going to be cancelled due to the war for the next season—maybe even a few seasons, until whenever the war ended.
‘What do I want to be hanging round Collingwood for if there’s no footy season?’ he’d asked, baiting her, teasing her.
She’d responded by leaning into him and nestling her head into his shoulder. He breathed her in, as he always did when she was close.
‘It’ll be alright, darlin’. It’ll be alright.’
She’d closed her eyes, leaned in ever closer, and said nothing.
All the while he had kept telling himself that other blokes at the club were doing their bit; even Mr Wren was planning to go off and fight. Now he had no choice at all but to do his. There’d be a white feather in the mail, the gift given to a coward, if he didn’t go.
‘I’ll be back, Louie. I’ll be back for you for sure. Reckon we might end up in France. If we do I’ll bring you back some fancy perfume.’
By the time they knew about the baby he was already in basic training up at Seymour. The blokes in the 29th were all complaining that the training was as tough as hell. But Percy and Doc were both of them used to running miles and miles on the field at full pelt every Saturday and then going through Jock and Wal’s training sessions twice a week. They thought it was all a bit of a bloody doddle. That flippin’ drill sergeant was a hoity-toity prick, though— a Carlton supporter who hated the Magpies. Percy and Doc tried to make it look like they found the training tough because if they didn’t manage to huff and puff enough, that bastard of a DS demanded more push-ups and more miles on the track with full packs.
Besides that, though, Army life agreed with Percy. He always knew how much he was going to be paid, he got three squares a day and a place to sleep. And then there was the uniform—the sheilas really went for the uniform when you walked around the streets in it. He also liked that constant feeling he had in the pit of his stomach, something a bit like what he’d get before stepping into the ring. It was more than just excitement. It was the anticipation of unknown dangers, a stirring, deeply unsettling but not altogether unpleasant knowledge that he would go to the other side of the world and face death before he would be allowed back to Australia.
Louie had come to Seymour on a surprise visit one Sunday morning, having caught the train up from Flinders Street with May. May and Doc were old mates, too. They disappeared on a walk around the base while Louie took Percy aside so she could tell him.
Louie might have been his sweetheart, but he just hadn’t counted on this. He couldn’t have a kid. He was going away to war.
‘Marry you?’
A few days later the heavens opened, transforming the camp at Seymour into a lake as big as Wendouree. Doc became distant and even quieter than usual as he helped to pack the motor lorries with tents and stretchers, crates of food and ammunition, pots and pans. And toilet paper—hundreds of boxes, each containing dozens of rolls of bog paper. As it turned out, Doc was also one of the few blokes who knew how to drive and so off he went, guiding one of the Army vehicles in the long chain that snaked its way along the bumpy, axle-bending roads north of Melbourne to the battalion’s new camp at Broadmeadows.
Perc and Doc were properly separated for about the first time since they’d met five years earlier. Doc would have too much time to think.
The thing that struck Percy was that Doc seemed even more thrown than he was by Louie’s news. ‘Fair enough,’ Percy thought, ‘fair enough. I guess that’s how you react if your best pal knocks up your sister and then gets married to her.’
Except that Doc wasn’t Louie’s brother. It had always been something more. Louie’s female sensibility had always rendered her much more open to acknowledging it. Doc had always done his best to keep it buried, as was his way.
And now here they were, the four of them—he and Louie, Doc and May—standing in a little square at the altar, Doc handing him the ring and watching he and Louie watch each other.
‘I, Percy Edward Rowe …’
Percy thought only of the match that afternoon: win or lose today, they’d be in the Grand Final. He and Doc would win the flag together. It would be a good omen. Because then they’d go to war together.
From time to time over the years, Doc had let himself imagine that he and Louie might one day make a go of it and that he might end up standing at the altar opposite her. Instead, he had gotten to be best man, while Perc was the main attraction—as was the way on and off the field.
Old Fred mainly looked to the heavens while he sat through the service. Occasionally he twisted the long ends of his moustache and then alternately scrunched his eyes closed and placed his head in his hands. Frances held his hand as he stood up unsteadily before walking over to the register.
Louie signed: spinster of Park Street, Abbotsford—‘boot trade’.
Percy signed: bachelor of Broadmeadows & Park Street, Abbotsford —‘labourer’.
Fred’s hand shook as he drew the pen across the certificate.
The signature of the second witness sealed the official coupling of Louie and Percy.
Malcolm Seddon.
Magpie stencil on the red brick exterior walls of Victoria Park, 2010. Mike Bowers
10
The Black and Gold
As the 1915 VFL Grand Final approached, the terrible human cost of the ongoing Gallipoli campaign was everywhere evident on Collingwood’s streets. In the many pubs, men with pieces of themselves missing—eyes, ears, noses, fingers, arms, feet, minds—spent their days wallowing in drink, shouting profanities at the nicotine-stained walls and sawdust-covered floors, crying out for mates who’d been blown to bits, and cursing the bastards who’d sent them into the breaches of hell.
As well as the public pain, the torment was being played out inside the rows of dark, little, semidetached houses scattered around Victoria Park, Clifton Hill and Abbotsford. More and more front doors were being kept shut these days as the families of veterans withdrew from the commune of the street. The anguish was kept indoors wherever possible, along with the smashed crockery, the untouched dinners, the beaten wives and the terrified children.
Then, as in more recent times, the armed services were mercilessly quick to medically discharge a man rather than attempt to rehabilitate him or find him a place where he might continue to serve in the spirit in which he volunteered. Across Melbourne, the men who had been chewed up and spat out by the Australian war machine wandered listlessly, trying to make sense of it all. Many killed themselves. Some went bush. Others ended up in asylums, their medical files marked ‘NYD’ or
‘Not Yet Diagnosed’, thus sowing the seeds of a decades- long denialism within the military, if not the medical establishment, about shell shock and its even more perplexing kin, post-traumatic stress disorder. Those who died at Gallipoli were considered lucky by some survivors, such was the suffering they endured behind a veil of community stoicism that shrouded their maladies. Most families either contained or lived close to someone so afflicted.
Men like Percy and Doc who signed up well into the Gallipoli campaign probably couldn’t help but look beyond the jingoistic patriotism spouted by the recruiters, to the mounting human toll of the war. The Collingwood Football Club had, in spirit anyway, supported the recruitment effort. It had arranged small financial testimonials for the players who enlisted. Eventually, the club would also lend significant financial support to the families—especially the widows with children—of dead soldiers who had had links to the club. Regardless, when recruiters came to spruik for new volunteers at Victoria Park on match days, male and female fans alike shouted them down and booed them in energetic displays of contempt that might even have alarmed the Carlton or Fitzroy teams who were accustomed to such hostile welcomes down at Collingwood.
Most communities rallied to do what little they could for the war-injured. But the Hughes federal government was far more preoccupied with sending more and more physically able men into the breach than it was with dealing with the growing legion of damaged ones arriving home. And despite what were by now very obvious personal risks, Australian men continued to volunteer in their thousands.
