The pub was continuing to show a healthy profit and she had plans to incorporate a restaurant into the popular summer beer garden. The success of Billy and Dallas’s poker machines had surpassed their expectations, and combined with the steady sale of the renovated houses, Helen was making money hand over fist. The HBH Agency and Brokendown Street Property Investment Pty Ltd had paid off the bank loans they’d needed to finance the purchase and renovation of the Brokendown Street houses and the poker-machine business. The time would soon arrive when they would have to look around for a new investment. Helen was starting to think about opening two or three boutique hotels in the CBD, with good luncheon restaurants and superior accommodation for overseas business executives who wanted a quiet and relaxing stay.
Brenda, now finally free of the responsibility of running the pub, blossomed into an increasingly devoted grandmother, looking after the busy routines of the twins, who at thirteen were becoming more and more independent. Where once their lives had been almost as identical as their faces, now their activities diverged more and more, and often the girls’ only chance to enjoy their old intimacy came in their shared bedroom each night.
With time on her hands, Brenda became responsible for the Willy Billy duB machines, which she referred to as her ‘naughty job’. She’d spend the mornings and early afternoons touring the clubs that ran HBH machines, talking to the managers or ‘troubleshooting’, as she called it. She’d always put a couple of pounds through the pokies she so dearly loved, then do a bit of shopping as she went from one to another of the five or six clubs she’d visit most weekdays. She would then race to pick Sam up from school, drive her to the Drummoyne pool for training, and get back home moments before Gabby arrived by ferry from the Con. Danny would pick up Sam, or she’d get a lift or take the tram home. Life free of the polished bar and the smell of hops was sweet for Brenda. She’d also discovered while troubleshooting in the pubs that she was an excellent saleswoman; club committees and managers loved the tough little Irish redhead who understood their concerns, having been in the hospitality business all her life.
Eighteen of the twenty-eight houses in Brokendown Street had been renovated, and Danny now indicated them with a sweep of his champagne glass. ‘Sweetheart, it’s been your year. Really, you’ve got your side of the street looking wonderful. Let’s hope next year I’ll win, and I can start clearing up the dirt and pollution at the water’s edge so that the children who will inevitably live in your houses will be able to play in clean harbour water.’
‘Darling, perhaps it’s time. I can’t help feeling things are beginning to change. Maybe it’s because I’m mixing with a broader range of people than I was —’
‘Publican, builder, sales agent for poker machines . . . it doesn’t get much broader,’ said Danny.
Helen smiled and continued. ‘I’m starting to see things differently. You can . . . well, feel it in the air. Things are changing.’
‘What – in Balmain or the whole country?’
Helen thought for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose I can speak for the whole country. But don’t you agree that things feel different? It’s as though people’s thinking has shifted up a gear. I’m not sure I can put my finger on it, but . . . well, as I said, it’s in the air.’
‘Yeah, perhaps. Things don’t change a lot in the law – same villains, same transactions for Franz – and Sam’s morning training sessions don’t differ much. Weekdays I’m in a bit of a rut.’ Danny laughed. ‘I’ve been that busy knocking on doors every weekend, spreading the message of change, I probably haven’t had time to notice any of it happening. That’s the trouble with life – you get so caught up with the detail you miss the big picture.’
‘I guess you’re right, but I’m still at heart an anthropologist and the young people I see around . . . well, they seem to me to be jumping out of their skins, expecting a different world from the one we live in now,’ Helen reflected.
‘Hmm, maybe . . . I’m not so sure. Humans don’t change fundamentally, do they? Isn’t that your field? Civilisations die because they can’t adapt?’
‘Probably because the elders of the tribe took no heed of what the young were saying,’ Helen said. ‘When you look at the big picture, you realise that the past two years have been different, not only for me, but I think for Australia, even the world. Maybe it’s television; there are no more dark corners to hide in.’
‘Television is going to change the way we live,’ Danny said.
But Helen hadn’t finished. ‘Even the small things . . . when I started taking over the soirees from Brenda just on two years ago, it was still a shandy-and-gossip session, while the women did their knitting, or shelled peas or peeled potatoes. Most opinions about anything beyond what happened in the kitchen or with the kids were
introduced by the words, “My husband says . . .”. Now that’s seldom the case; they talk about change, their hopes, the future, more or less on their own terms.’
‘Gawd, that’s going a bit far – Balmain housewives thinking for themselves!’ Danny exclaimed.
‘Don’t be rude, Danny Dunn! If you’re going to be elected, they’re going to be the ones to do it,’ Helen chided.
‘You’re right, darling, I take that back. I’ll wash my mouth out with soap later. In truth, the women have always been the backbone of Balmain, keeping it together. Left to the blokes, gawd knows what would have happened.’
Helen laughed. ‘In the case of Balmain I think you’re wrong. They did leave it to the men, and look at the mess they’ve made!’
‘If you’re talking about politics, you’re probably right. Few women were politically involved. They never questioned their loyalty to Labor. Balmain is Labor, always has been, always will be. But I have to say, I’m getting a slightly better reception when I door-knock these days. We still get the odd bloke in blue singlet and thongs, with a dent in his lower lip where the roll-yer-own sits permanently, telling us to bugger off, but it’s less often. Did I tell you Lachlan’s got the agency – or rather, their young research bloke, Hugh Mackay – to do a ‘How will you vote?’ questionnaire for us? The Tiger 13 team are taking it around as soon as the men go back to work mid-January.’
‘What – you’re writing off the men completely?’
‘Not completely, but I think women will respond more honestly without the old man standing behind them scratching his crotch. We’ll see the men when they’re on the job.’
‘But isn’t that risky? What about peer-group pressure? And they work locally in the docks and workshops, so it’s harder for them to see how cleaning up Balmain will benefit them,’ Helen said.
‘Yeah, but it’s better than going into the pubs. I think we have to accept that we’ve lost the majority of the male vote. “Jobs for Workers” is a slogan they imbibed with mother’s milk. Smoke stacks, noise and soap factories pouring shit into the harbour are what put bread on the table – they can’t see beyond that. Some of the younger guys may see it differently and vote Tiger 13, but the rest of the Balmain boys won’t change.’
‘Well, if the soiree girls are any indication, you’ve got the women’s vote sewn up. One of them asked me the other day how many “free cases” you’ve done, standing up for beaten wives and children. When I said I didn’t know exactly but it was well over two hundred, she said, “Never mind him talking about changes to the harbour and getting rid of the stink; far as I’m concerned he’s okay. I haven’t been beat up in two years. Danny sent Norm Cross, our neighbour, to Long Bay for beating his wife, Elsie, and the kids, and that scared the livin’ shit outta Bill, me husband. That’ll do me. Danny’s got me vote.” Then one of the others piped up and said that when a husband on the peninsula comes home aggro from the pub and wants to take it out on her and the kids, the standard line is “You touch us and you’re done, mate, Danny Dunn!”’
‘That’s nice,’ Danny said, laughing. ‘But it probably won’t
help with the male vote. As Billy du Bois would say, Tommy O’Hearn is going to kick arse this election, pull in all the favours he reckons he’s owed. I’m told he was out among the Christmas shoppers in Darling Street, wearing a Santa cap and giving away Labor’s new T-shirts.’
Helen laughed too. ‘That reminds me, the twins saw him. Samantha put it rather well. She said, “Mum, it was disgusting! He’s repulsive. He walks like Godzilla and he’s so fat he looks like he’s about to give birth to triplets!” She said he was sweating like a pig so the white T-shirt was soaked and clung to his stomach and chest, and all his black stomach and chest hairs were showing through. And the words on the front of the T-shirt said, “100% Genuine Balmain Boy, Vote Labor.” “Yuck!” as Sam said. Then Gabby said, “It was truly revolting, Mum. Is Dad going to beat Tommy O’Hearn in the election?”’
‘It’s curious that they’ve changed the original T-shirt message; I thought it was spot on for the local voter,’ Danny observed.
‘You mean “Jobs for workers, not homes for wankers”?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then you would have thought wrong,’ Helen remarked.
‘Oh? And why’s that?’ Danny asked, surprised.
‘The reason is staring you in the face, Daniel Corrib Dunn; it’s Brokendown Street!’
‘Eh? I’m still not with you.’
‘When that slogan first came out it probably was spot on,’ Helen explained. ‘Brenda was the laughing stock of the peninsula, but now nobody’s laughing. Now one side of the street is neat and fresh with the beginnings of nice gardens, and eighteen crisp new bungalows that were snapped up by, if you like, the “wankers” on the Labor T-shirts. Of the ten homes remaining I’ve got deposits on five. Harry Farmer is begging us to borrow money. He’s hit the jackpot – he got a performance bonus last year and is hoping for one again this year. And everyone in Balmain is starting to wonder what their place is worth.’
‘I suppose so, although it’s pretty hard to fathom. The dirt and the pollution remain for all to see across the street, so why on earth is everyone going crazy for them? It isn’t logical.’
‘It’s perfectly logical. Young couples buying in are convinced it’s only a matter of time. We tell them we honestly don’t know when, if ever, the front will be cleaned up and they nod and say, “It will happen, just you watch. Nifty Dunn will get in.” The confidence is there and, like I said, the young are on the move.’
‘Jeez, I hope it’s justified.’
‘It will be,’ Helen said confidently. ‘Change is in the air.’
‘Yeah, I’m yet to be convinced,’ Danny growled. ‘You know, even if I’m elected, it won’t be easy for me to get the harbour front and the other industrial areas rezoned. If Labor gets back, I’ve got Buckley’s, and if Askin wins with a big majority, it might be just as hard.’
Helen smiled lovingly at Danny. ‘It won’t be as hard as persuading Colonel Mori not to kill one of your men in the camp. Like Bob Dylan says, “The times they are a-changin’”, and the Labor Party isn’t stupid to be changing their slogan. They realise you’ve got a damn good chance of winning.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Although, I actually think they’re making just as big a mistake with their “100% Genuine Balmain Boy, Vote Labor” slogan; it’s playing right into our hands.’
‘How’s that?’ Danny asked. ‘The Balmain Boy thing has always worked before. It’s a cliché but it’s effective.’
Helen grinned. ‘It didn’t even occur to them to do a T-shirt that says, “100% Genuine Balmain Girl, Vote Labor”! And, by the way, that’s not me making an astute observation; it comes straight from last week’s soiree – the ladies shelling peas and peeling potatoes got the message loud and clear that their votes were simply taken for granted.’
‘Shit! I never thought of that.’
‘That’s because you’re a man,’ Helen said, adding, ‘You probably haven’t noticed that women are beginning to see themselves in a different light. There’s a long way to go, but at least it’s started.’
‘What’s started?’
‘Women thinking for themselves – not letting their husbands decide what’s good for them.’
‘So, tell me, why did I have to end up with the original trailblazer?’ Danny laughed.
‘Ha ha. But, Danny, you must have noticed. The signs are there for all to see, and it’s not just women and girls. Look at Erin’s shop! Saturday mornings are a near riot, with kids swarming in from everywhere, and Billy has offered to finance her expansion into Las Vegas. Pineapple Joe’s happy as a sand boy with his investment.’
‘Yeah, Joe’s bought the whole change package, I have to admit. I saw him the other day while I was getting petrol. Now, instead of wearing a suit, he’s wearing one of his exclusive Pineapple-brand T-shirts . . . not a pretty sight, I might add. The T-shirt was covered with Campbell’s soup cans. “Gone into the soup business, Joe?” I said. “What you talkink about, Danny?” he replied, stabbing at a soup can on his chest. “This soups can’s genuine Andy Wall Hole, American pops artist!” Then he gave me the drill. “Suits, finish, finito! Now I am sellink four suits, maybe, in vun month! Danny, lissen to me. Mister Bobs Dylan, he is sayink everythink that was before now is blowink in za wind and zat za times zey are a-changin – you heard zat song maybe on ze radio? Last week I’m sellink tree hundred T-shirt, bit a cotton, some paint, one pound five shilling, thank you, very much oblige, sir.” He stuck his forefinger in the air. “One T-shirt I am makink on silk screen in mine special paint, no crack, can stretch, wash like a baby bottom, ten minutes!” Then he tapped me on the chest. “One suit five pounds ten shilling, tree days I am workink finger to bones, and wool material for makink cost two pounds already. You know what is costing me T-shirt raw materials?”’ Danny chuckled, wagging his finger in imitation of his old friend. ‘“Let me tell you, sonny boy . . . five shilling, paint include.”’
Helen laughed. ‘You do know he financed Erin Walsh and owns half of her Brokendown label, don’t you? Remember, he’s donating a thousand Tiger 13 T-shirts to your election team to wear and give away during election week.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I think it’s conscience money. He said not to tell you until closer to the election because, “I got to see a mans about a dogs, because I can make new Labor T-shirt more cheaps and colourfast zen za schmuck they got makink now, who is robbink and cheatink zem mitout sight.” I think he meant robbing them blind, but, anyway, he’s supplying the enemy, the old scoundrel.’
‘Maybe you’re right about change,’ Danny mused. ‘But who was it said the more things change, the more they stay the same?’
‘Oh, Danny, even the twins are aware of it,’ Helen said. ‘Gabby and Sam are mad about the Beatles – they were so excited about the tour. And Gabby’s been a Bob Dylan fan since Dallas taught her that song of his. And his latest album’s called The Times They Are a-Changin’!’
‘Hmph,’ Danny grunted. ‘I agree, it’s certainly not Frank Sinatra and Duke Ellington. But nothing’s changed in sport, although I can’t see why they awarded the bloody Japs the Olympics —’
‘You were saying?’ Helen prompted gently.
‘Well, Dawnie won the 100-metres – Sam nearly burst, she was so excited – and Betty Cuthbert won the 400-metres; Emerson won Wimbledon and we won the Ashes, which only goes to prove the things that really matter haven’t changed much in Australia. Elsewhere? Hard to say. Kennedy’s assassination is bound to bring change, and Bob Menzies reintroducing national service looks ominous. You can be sure it won’t just be military advisers he sends off to Vietnam next year. You mark my words, darling, that silly bastard’s going to involve us in this stoush, along with America. It’s all very well for him to say national service is character-building, good for the youth of the nation, that sort of thing, but what does he know about war? I don’t remember too many men coming out of the Burma Railway better men than they went in.
Character-building, my arse. More like shitting yourself in the jungle wondering how the hell someone got you into this mess in the first place! We’ve been fighting the communists in Malaya for how long? Ever since World War Two ended. Now we’re fighting them in Borneo, even if it’s on the quiet against that lunatic Sukarno. Next thing, Sir Robert Fucking Gordon Menzies will want us to start some character-building against Ho Chi Minh!’
‘Good thing you didn’t take Askin’s offer and stand as a Liberal, darling,’ Helen said. ‘Mr Menzies would call you a communist for talking like that!’
‘How’d we get onto all this, anyway?’ Danny asked, irritated. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be remembering our year, the highs and lows?’
Helen pointed to his glass. ‘You’ve hardly touched your champagne, darling. It’ll go flat.’ She held out her empty one. ‘I think I need another, please, for a toast to the new year. We’re about to enter 1965, the Year of the Independent!’ She rose, set her champagne glass down, then sat on Danny’s lap and put her arms around him. ‘I love you, Daniel Corrib Dunn!’
‘I love you, too, darling,’ Danny replied softly. ‘We’ve been married nearly twenty years, and you’re still as gorgeous as the first day I set eyes on you.’
‘I know how we can welcome in the new year,’ she giggled mischievously, standing up and wriggling out of her panties.
‘Let me guess – the twins are out for another half hour at least – Scrabble?’
Helen kissed him. ‘No, darling,’ she said, working away at his belt and zipper, their kiss deepening as she pulled his trousers down over the spontaneous erection struggling to be free of his underpants.
‘I thought you said women were only beginning to be assertive?’ he gasped. ‘So it looks like Scrabble’s out, then?’
‘’Fraid so,’ Helen said, straddling him and lowering herself slowly, enticingly, as she kissed him again.
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 56
