‘You seem to forget people needed jobs, urgently. The factories, Mort Dock, coaling ships, the power station – they were jobs for the workers,’ Half Dunn argued.
‘Sure, that’s why we have the lowest per capita income of any suburb in Sydney. They brought all the lowly paid shit jobs to Balmain. All the fucking misery! Child abuse and wife abuse are bloody endemic. If it wasn’t for the “Shut up and put up, you’re from Balmain” ethos, I’d have the battered wives and kids of Balmain queuing at the front door every Monday morning all the way to Rozelle.’
‘C’mon, Danny. We run a pub. You know that kind of thing happens everywhere. Balmain doesn’t have an exclusive on wife-bashing.’
‘You’re right, but low pay, unemployment and drink go hand in hand with abuse and violence. During the Great Depression and right up to the start of the war we had the highest rate of unemployment in metropolitan Sydney.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Half Dunn said. ‘Your mother and I took over the Hero at the worst possible time. It’s down to her hard work and brains that we survived.’
‘Well, you’ll be happy to know we’re still bottom of the list. Yet we still vote Labor. As far as the Labor Party goes, we grant them permission to shit on their own doorstep! We’re taken for granted and exploited and we cheer every time we get kicked in the teeth! Up the fucking toothless Tigers!’
Half Dunn grinned. ‘Son, I wouldn’t be calling them that in the main bar; the mighty Tigers are struggling a bit this season.’
But Danny would not be distracted. ‘Now they’re dumping the wretched of the earth in Brokendown Street and getting a kickback from a slum-landlord syndicate, and once again we’re letting the bastards get away with it.’
‘You sound like someone who’s preparing to go into politics, Danny. You planning to take on the Tommy O’Hearns of this world, eh?’
‘Nah, bullshit, Dad. I’m a criminal lawyer. But I tell you what, mate, I’ve defended some of the truly bad boys in the last few years, and yet the real crims are in state parliament in Macquarie Street and at police headquarters – the sycophantic bastards that follow the flash money from the so-called respectable families and city syndicates that have the real power in this city.’
‘I don’t disagree with you, son, but what would you do to change things? Finding fault is easy – we’re all experts at pot and kettle calling.’
The days when Half Dunn, fuelled by eight or ten schooners, had a theory about everything that amounted to bugger all of nothing were long gone. His native intelligence had surfaced, once his brain wasn’t addled with drink, and these days his opinions were usually worth careful consideration. His reformation had started with the war, when he began to listen to war news on the radio and traced its progress on a map of the world. He’d always read Danny’s university essays, a habit he continued throughout Danny’s law degree, acquiring an education of sorts.
Half Dunn, unlike Danny, loved to listen to Helen talk about Ancient Egypt and seemed never to get enough of her stories. He recycled them in his own pub yarns until half the drinkers in Balmain had a nodding acquaintance with at least one pharaoh. Half Dunn could draw a crowd in the pub when he talked about the dwarfs that were buried close to the pharaoh and the role they had played in life and in court. The sex lives of the Egyptian nobles was another favourite topic. Half Dunn had an excellent ear and he’d spent so many years propped at the bar that he’d become a bit of a chameleon, shaping his stories to his audience. When he told stories to the twins, who learned much more from him on the subject than they did from Helen, he spoke simply, in language small children could understand and enjoy, but when he regaled the drinkers in the pub, he used their idiom. Danny, dropping by the pub to visit his parents, once heard him tell an entire story in the voice of one of the regulars at the Hero. ‘Lemme tell ya, those pharaohs didn’t fuck around, mate. They shacked up with their sisters and daughters, even married them, the dirty bastards,’ Half Dunn began.
‘Yer jokin’. That for real?’ Davo, one of the regulars, asked.
‘Yeah, fair dinkum,’ Half Dunn said, adding, ‘They also had as many wives as they wanted in their harem, kids everywhere, wives and concubines, plottin’, even killin’ each other and havin’ a go at the old man himself when they got half a chance. Tell yer what, it weren’t no friendly atmosphere – it was on fer one an’ all in them royal harems.’
‘What’s a concubine?’ Bullnose asked.
‘A whore, only exclusive! The palace was crawlin’ with real good-lookin’ sorts.’
‘So what’s the dirty bugger doin’ screwin’ his sister and his daughter, then?’
Half Dunn ignored this. ‘Mind you, when the old bloke died, not that he was always that old – they had boy kings, too – but when they’d catch a bad cold or somethin’ we wouldn’t take no notice of, they’d cark it, ’cause they were ratshit from all the in-breedin’ that come from their old man shaggin’ his rellos.’
‘Serves the buggers right,’ said Simmo, another regular.
Half Dunn wasn’t going to let his story turn into a discussion on Ancient Egyptian morality, so he pressed on. ‘Anyway, once they died, they’d turn the bastards into mummies, wrapping bandages, layer after layer like you’ve seen ’em in pictures.’ He stopped, pausing for effect, his look taking in each of them in turn. ‘But what you ain’t seen is what they done to his fuckin’ brain.’ The speaker paused again for the effect this would have on his audience.
‘Yeah, what?’ several of the group cried. It was obvious that Half Dunn now had his audience by the short and curlies. Most of the blokes standing around him hadn’t taken a swig from their schooners for several minutes.
‘Nuthin’ trivial, I gotta tell yer.’
‘What? They reckoned like . . . the brain was sacred?’ Davo suggested.
‘Nah, just the flamin’ opposite, mate. They reckoned it weren’t no use in the afterlife so they had to get rid of all that grey mush and shit in the pharaoh’s skull.’
‘Yeah, that’d be right,’ Bluey volunteered. ‘I mean, human brains look the same as sheep’s brains. If yer didn’t know what they were for, you wouldn’t put much store by havin’ ’em with you in heaven, would ya?’
‘Not heaven, mate, the afterlife! They didn’t have no Jesus,’ Half Dunn said in a spectacular demonstration of the mindset of the group.
‘So go on, tell us . . . what’d they do?’ another one of the group asked impatiently.
‘Do? What, to the brain?’
‘Yeah.’
‘They pulled it out through the poor bastard’s nose.’
‘Jesus, that’d hurt!’ someone exclaimed, getting a cheap laugh.
‘They got this dirty great metal pick sort of . . . well, not so big, I suppose, but evil lookin’, and they broke the bone with it, then they jiggled it around in the cavity until the brains run out.’
‘How’d they know when it was all out?’ Simmo asked.
‘Jesus, Simmo, how the fuck would I know!’ Half Dunn exclaimed.
A voice from the back of the group said, ‘They could’a weighed it; the male brain always weighs about the same.’
‘Yer kiddin’? London to a brick my brain weighs more than Simmo’s,’ said Half Dunn with conviction.
‘Y’d lose the bet, it’s the same.’
‘There yer go – they weighed the fucker. Easy,’ Half Dunn said. Several of the group took the opportunity to take a swig of beer. ‘But that weren’t all,’ he volunteered, then paused until he had the group’s attention once again.
Danny, who’d taken up a cloth and was pretending to polish beer glasses, strained to hear every word so that he could retell it, blow by blow, to Helen in bed that night. He knew Half Dunn was good, but this was masterful.
‘Bluey here was sayin’ about sheep brains,’ Half Dunn continued at last. ‘Well, you ain’t heard nothi
n’ yet, mate. They sliced open the pharaoh’s left side. Don’t ask me why the left. Then they pulled out the liver, lungs, stomach and the intestines.’
‘What about the heart?’ Davo asked.
‘Yeah, good point, glad you asked. The Ancient Egyptians believed the heart was the business end, the real McCoy. Where they got their intelligence, memory, reason, all the good stuff. They left it in so it could be used in the afterlife.’
‘Yeah, stands to reason, don’t it?’ Flossy, who hadn’t hitherto said a word, remarked.
‘How’s that then?’ said the bloke who’d volunteered the information about the brain’s weight.
‘Yeah, what’s yer point, Flossy?’ Half Dunn added.
‘Well, if yer didn’t know that the grey mushy stuff was your brain and yer intelligence and reason, you’d reckon it was yer heart them things come from, wouldn’t ya?’ Flossy explained. ‘I mean, stands to reason, don’t it? Pumpin’ blood every which way over yer body, it makes sense it could carry messages down all them arteries and little veins and stuff.’
‘Shit, Flossy’s right, yer know! I reckon we’d do the same if we didn’t already know about the brain,’ said Bluey.
Everyone nodded. Flossy’s point was valid, but Danny saw that Half Dunn didn’t want to be distracted. ‘So, now they got the brains and the liver and lights out, they have to dry the bugger so he don’t rot.’ He chuckled. ‘Bloody clever, them Gypos. They done the same as yer do with fish – they got this special salt from some lake and they packed the empty body in it for forty days exactly.’
‘Why forty days?’ a new voice asked. ‘Fish don’t need forty days.’
‘How the fuck would I know why forty days, Neilo? Maybe that’s how long it takes fer all the mummy juices t’ run out, for the fucker to dry, because what they do next is rinse it in piss.’
This got a laugh all round and the mercurial Half Dunn, quick to correct himself, went on, ‘No, mate, I don’t mean piss-piss. I meant piss that you drink!’ He pointed to his untouched middy.
‘Beer? They rinse it in beer,’ Bluey asked, clearly impressed.
‘No, ya drongo, not beer. They’ve got this palm wine they use for rinsing the dried-out body and then they fill all the cavities with spices and bandages soaked in this resin stuff.’
‘Cavities? Ya mean the arsehole and the gob?’
‘Jesus, Froggy, what other cavities do yiz reckon we got? Except for yer personal flippin’ brain box, of course!’
‘What about where they took the brains outa the nose and the hole they made to get the liver and all that – them’s cavities,’ Froggy protested.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Half Dunn said, wanting to press on. ‘All them bandages and the other shit they pack into the cavities was so the body would look the right shape. Once they’ve got it lookin’ fair dinkum again they’d anoint it with heated resin and this perfumed oil.’
‘Frankincense,’ said a voice from the back.
‘Eh?’ Several heads turned to look at him. ‘What the fuck’s frankenwhatchamacallit?’ Simmo asked.
‘Like in the Bible, where it says they anointed him in frankincense and myrrh. Didn’t yer learn that in Sunday school, Simmo?’
‘Mate, I’m Greek Orthodox.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Half Dunn said, trying not to laugh. ‘Anyway, then they wrapped them in these special bandages like ya see at the movies,’ he paused, ‘but before that they put false eyes in and did the hair fancy like, sort of poofter style.’
‘Eyes, there ya go, they’s cavities,’ Froggy protested again.
Half Dunn, the supreme actor, sighed. ‘I just said they put false bloody eyes in ’em!’ He gazed around at his audience, and paused before adding, ‘So, there you go – Bob’s yer uncle – the pharaoh’s ready for resurrection and eternal bliss.’ Half Dunn brought his long-neglected middy to his lips, hesitated, examined the glass then said, ‘Fuckin’ piss’s gone flat. Whose shout?’
People no longer left the Hero shaking their heads, thinking Half Dunn was a bullshit merchant, all hot air and hype. Instead, these days they listened or asked questions and took his answers seriously, frequently asking his advice as well. He’d discovered he had a mind that could grasp a difficult concept and render it easy to understand. He’d cut his grog consumption to four middies a day and had taken to walking twice a day down Darling Street to the ferry terminal and back for exercise. It was as if the weight he’d lost had been composed of foolishness disguised as fat. Now, stripped down to thirteen stone, what intellectual flesh was left was well worth considering.
Danny, too, knew that Half Dunn had a point when he suggested that every dog had its day, and that Danny should perhaps wait before taking the council to court over breaches of the Landlord and Tenant Act. Now, intrigued, Half Dunn asked his son, ‘Well, how do you see the future of Balmain? More of the same?’
Danny, put on the spot, decided to share some of the ideas he and Helen often talked about. ‘This suburb is like a can of sardines: we’re sealed off – with the fish packed in tight, all the same size and appearance. We look the same, think the same, behave the same, vote the same, with the result that very little that makes a difference to people generally happens to us. We’re stuck in a time warp and led by the nose by corrupt politicians. Worst of all, we believe our own bullshit. It’s a big year if the Tigers win the premiership because that confirms our superior status.
‘If Dawnie wins gold again at the Rome Olympics this year, then we all win; she’s the proof that we’re especially talented and unique. But what about the suburbs that spawned John and Ilsa Konrads or Murray Rose, who’ll all most likely win gold, Rose possibly more than once? People in those suburbs don’t carry on as if they’re personally responsible for their athletes’ success. Hoo-bloody-ray for our Dawnie! Poor bloody kid. It’s not the weight of Australia she carries on her shoulders, but the expectations of bloody Balmain. A mongrel like Tommy O’Hearn couldn’t get elected to run a fiddlestick competition in any other Sydney suburb – he’s well on his way to becoming a lush, the twins have a canary with a higher IQ, but simply because he was born in Balmain we allow the Labor Party to use him as their glove puppet.’
‘Okay, mate, so get on with it. What do you propose we do?’ Half Dunn asked, a little impatiently.
‘Rip the top off the sardine can and let in some fresh air. This is potentially one of the most beautiful suburbs in Sydney. If you imagine looking down on Balmain from the air, the peninsula has three fingers running out into the harbour: Louisa Road, Wharf Road and Darling Street. More people have harbour views here than just about any suburb in Sydney. We have more harbour-front land than Point Piper; the only difference is that we use it for factories that pollute the harbour and the really rich use Point Piper for palatial homes and yacht moorings.’ Danny looked up at Half Dunn. ‘Our real estate, unlike the Eastern Suburbs or the North Shore, is cheap as chips.’ He paused. Half Dunn could see he was genuinely excited. ‘Okay, so as Lachlan would say, here’s the advertising pitch: cheap real estate; water views; potential harbour-front dwellings; a short ferry ride to the city; parks; schools; and the potential for restaurants and cafés and a complete cosmopolitan culture; young people coming in with talent, education, drive and different values.’
‘And the people who have always been here, what about them? What if they don’t want to leave?’ Half Dunn asked.
‘They will.’
‘Now wait on, mate! Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute! You’re the one always defending the common people. Now you want them to sell their prime real estate to a bunch of wealthy wankers! Why is that?’
‘Christ, Dad, we’re selling harbour-front houses to slum landlords who are partitioning them into plywood cubicles to house an influx of the hopeless and the hapless, as Franz calls them, because nobody wants them. People who own their houses in Balmain are forced to stay because the sem
i-slum they live in is unsaleable!’
‘Whoa, Danny. Most Balmain people maintain their homes well. It’s their home – in most cases it has been for several generations. They may not want to up stakes and go any more than you do!’
Danny, taken aback somewhat, searched for a reply. ‘Just because a house is cared for and the front lawn is clipped doesn’t mean it isn’t in a depressed area and therefore worthless as real estate.’
‘Yeah, sure, but real estate isn’t everything. I daresay there’s unhappy people in Point Piper.’
‘Not if you believe Franz.’ Danny laughed, pleased to lighten the tone. ‘Of course! It’s a free country. People can stay if they wish – nothing to stop them. My point is that right now they can’t sell the only asset they’ve got. Open Balmain up to young professionals and the houses people own will triple in value and still be a bargain for the new owners. It will allow the older people to get out and retire down the coast, or up north, to Queensland, allow the sardines to jump out of the can.’
‘And you think this can be done?’
Danny nodded. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I think it can. The world is changing. If John F. Kennedy is elected to the White House, even Australia is going to have to change. But not as long as state Labor uses Balmain as a dumping ground for unwanted industry and as housing for the underclass in return for feathering their nests. I doubt very much that they can be made to see the grand vision.’
Half Dunn laughed. ‘Never mind the state – I’m having trouble seeing the grand vision, as you call it, myself. I admit, things could be a damn sight better, but why can’t we make them better for the folk who live here, not for a bunch of whackers who commute to work in the city in suits and ties?’
Danny had to laugh despite himself. ‘That, in a nutshell, describes me, Dad.’
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 38
