by Nino Culotta
I told the girl who came to my table that I was hungry, and I wanted plenty to eat, and it did not matter what it was. She brought me hamburger steak with bacon and onions and eggs and tomatoes. Apparently at this place they had much trouble with people who eat and do not pay, because she insisted that I paid before I ate. This I did. The coffee was the way it smelled, but the food was all right.
At the Town Hall I memorised the names of all the stations to Punchbowl, and then watched them through the window of the train. When I got out at Punchbowl, I did not know which side of the line Joe would be, so I waited in the middle of the overhead bridge. It was not yet seven o’clock. Indeed it was twenty past seven, and I was getting irritable, when I heard a voice say, ‘You Nino?’ Saying ‘Yes,’ I turned, and saw quite a young man, very slim, who wore heavy unpolished boots, dirty khaki shorts, an old blue shirt, and a very dirty old felt hat. He was holding out his hand. I took it, and said, ‘You are Mr. Joe?’
‘Cut the mister, matey. ’Ow yer goin’ mate orright?’
This last word I did not know. I said, ‘I am delighted to know you.’
He said, ‘Okay. Let’s get crackin’. The truck’s over ’ere.’
I followed him down the steps to a very battered old utility truck, in the back of which there appeared to be many tools for digging. We drove around two or three corners, and Joe showed me where he lived. He said, ‘The job’s up the hill,’ and a little later, ‘This is it.’ ‘This is it’ was a block of land about fifteen metres wide and about fifty metres long, all covered with long grass which I learned later was called ‘bloody paspalum’, except for a cleared place where there were a lot of short flat boards on two sticks, with strings running between them. The boards on sticks looked like small benches for sitting. A thin, dark young man, wearing old boots, was sitting on one of them rolling a cigarette. He did not get up when we approached. He just said, in a very flat slow voice, ‘Where yer been?’
Joe said, ‘Had ter pick up yer new mate, mate. ’Ow yer goin’ mate orright?’
‘Yeah mate. ’Ow yer goin’ orright?’
‘Orright mate. Nino, this is Pat. Pat—Nino.’
Pat extended a hand, and said, ‘Pleased ter meet yer.’
I shook hands with him and said, ‘How do you do?’
He said, ‘Orright mate.’
Joe said, ‘I gotta go an’ see about that metal an’ stuff, an’ tee up the mixer. How long yer reckon, Pat? Coupla days?’
‘You gunna help?’
‘No matey, gotta finish up that other job.’
Pat said, ‘Three days.’
‘Orright. Ter-day’s Friday. We’ll pour on Wensdy. Okay?’
‘Okay mate.’
‘Come an’ get the gear outa the truck. Where’s yer togs, Nino?’
I said, ‘Togs?’
‘Yer workin’ clothes? Like me an’ Pat?’
‘Oh. I do not have any.’
They both looked at me, so I said, ‘I could take off my coat.’
Joe said, ‘That might be an idea. Wodda yer reckon, Pat?’
‘N-o-o . . . No can’t ’ave ’im taking orf ’is tie. The neighbours’d think yer was a lot o’ common workmen.’
‘Could ’e take orf ’is hat?’
‘Yeah. Yeah ’e could take orf ’is ’at. Look matey, I gotta go. See if there’s some old togs in that bag o’ Dennis’s next door. I’ll leave ut ter you. I’ll try an’ drop back this arvo an’ see how yer goin’.’
‘Yer better.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’ we get paid this week?’
‘Gees, that’s right mate. Orright, I’ll be back at lunchtime. D’yer bring yer lunch, Nino?’
‘I am sorry, Joe, no. I did not know . . .’
‘Orright. Give us a few bob an’ I’ll bring some sandwiches when I come back.’
‘You want some money, Joe?’
‘Yeah, give us a coupla bob.’
I held out some money, and he took three shillings. Pat said, ‘Wot a bastard you turned out ter be.’
Joe said, ‘Give ’im a go, mate. ’E ’asn’t done any before, but ’e’ll be orright. Give ’im a go.’
‘Why didn’t yer get me Mr. Menzies?’
‘’E was too busy, mate. See yer later.’
Joe went away in the truck, and Pat said, ‘Come on.’ We went next door. Pat said, ‘The old chook here owns the block. We change in the laundry. She makes us a cuppa tea, we bring our own lunch.’
‘I will remember. I will bring my lunch next time.’
‘That’s if yer still ’ere.’
‘Yes, you think I might be no good?’
‘Yer look a bit posh ter me for this game. Where der yer come from?’
‘Italy.’
‘Gees, a bloody dago. Last bloke we ’ad was a Jugo-Slav.’
‘Was he any good?’
‘No.’ Pat dug into a canvas bag, and produced an old pair of khaki shorts, and a cement-covered and very torn shirt. He said, ‘Get inter them. ’Aven’t got any boots. Yer’ll ruin yer shoes.’
‘I will get some boots and bring them next time.’
‘See ’ow yer go ter-day, first.’
He did not seem to have much confidence in me, so I determined I would work very hard. As I put the old clothes on, he said, ‘’Aven’t ’ad much sun, ’ave yer?’
‘No. I had to stay in my cabin during the trip.’
‘Why?’
‘It was the order of the captain.’
‘Wot did yer do?’
‘I stayed in my cabin.’
‘Serves me right for askin’. Better take ut easy. This sun’ll burn holes in yer. Wear yer shirt while yer workin’. Yer c’n take ut orf at lunchtime. Better wear this lid.’
He offered me a very battered and shapeless old straw hat. I put it on. I said, ‘How do I look?’
‘I don’ give a bugger ’ow yer look. We better get started. One diggin’ an’ one shovellin’. Wot’ll y’ave first, mattock or the shovel?’
I did not know these words, so I said, ‘I will do whatever you say.’
Pat said, ‘Coo, look at me. I’m a boss.’
We went back to the block, and he said, ‘I’ll start diggin’. You come be’ind me an’ shovel ut out.’
He commenced digging between the strings, the butt of his cigarette hanging from his lower lip. He was burnt nearly black by the sun, and I stood behind him admiring the play of muscles on his lean back. He wielded the heavy mattock effortlessly, moving his feet forward only when necessary, and without breaking the rhythm of his steady strokes. The soil was light in colour, and appeared to me to be very hard. I let him get two or three metres ahead of me, then began shovelling it out as fast as I could. I soon caught up with him, and had to wait again. So we went along this row of strings, Pat swinging steadily, and I alternately shovelling furiously, and waiting. At the end of the row he stopped, straightened up and looked back. I was close behind him, waiting. He looked at the trench, at the soil I had thrown out and at me. He took out a box of matches and re-lit his cigarette. Then he stepped aside and pointed without words at his last digging. Knowing he was watching me, I worked very hard and fast, and was soon finished. I turned to him and he took out a battered old tobacco tin, and threw it to me.
‘Roll yerself a smoke matey.’
‘I am sorry. I am unable to make cigarettes.’
‘Smoke tailor mades do yer?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Tailor mades. Bought cigarettes. D’yer smoke them?’
‘Yes I smoke them. Would you like one? I have some in my coat.’
‘Not fer me, matey. Go an’ get ’em an’ have one yerself.’
‘Thank you. It will be all rig
ht? If Joe comes back would he?’
‘Bugger Joe. Have a smoke.’
I got my cigarettes, and returned. Pat was squatting on his heels. I sat on the ground. He appeared to be my boss for the day, so I would do as he did. He nodded his head towards the cottage behind us, and said, ‘Bloke next door’s a Chinaman.’
‘A Chinese man?’
‘Yeah. He don’t like dirt in ’is backyard.’
‘He does not?’
‘No. So don’t chuck ut so bloody far.’
‘Chuck it?’
‘Save yer strength. Yer don’t wanter go chuckin’ dirt all over the block. Pile ut up near the trench.’
‘Near the trench. Here?’
‘About there.’
‘How deep must be this trench?’
‘About a foot.’
‘We do the trenches where all the strings are?’
‘Yeah. Bloody clay.’
‘Clay?’
‘Yeah, she’s a bastard when ut rains.’
‘It is not raining.’
‘Yer sure?’
‘Of course . . . the sun is shining and . . . You make fun with me, I think.’
‘Only kiddin’ yer. How about havin’ a go on the mattock?’
‘You wish me to dig?’
‘Yeah. I wish you ter dig.’
‘Okay.’
‘Anywhere yer like. Just foller the lines.’
‘Okay I start here.’
I put the butt of my cigarette under my foot, and took the mattock. Very soon my shoes were filled with dirt, and I was perspiring heavily. It was hard work. My back began to get tired. I had to wipe the perspiration from my eyes frequently. But I did not like to stop. So I kept on digging, and I began to get very worried, because I did not think I could continue to do this all day. My arms were losing all feeling. Then I heard Pat say, ‘Righto, matey. That’s enough.’
I was very grateful, I straightened my back slowly, and said, ‘Is enough?’
‘Yeah. Come an’ ’ave a cuppa tea.’
He had some tea things on a tin tray, and was sitting in the shade of the fence. I saw that he had done no work. This did not seem right. I said to him, very stonily, ‘You have not been shovelling the soil.’
‘Plenty of time, mate. Have a cuppa. Take milk an’ sugar?’
‘I will have some milk and sugar, please. But I think you should have shovelled the soil.’
‘Aw, stop laughin’, it’ll keep. Here, get this inter yer.’
He handed me a cup of tea. It was hot, and sweet, and very very good. I was so thirsty.
‘Have another.’
‘Thank you, yes.’
I sat down and drank this one more slowly. ‘Have a biscuit?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Know wot I reckon?’
‘What do you reckon?’
‘I reckon you’ll conk out about lunchtime.’
‘Conk out?’
‘Yeah, bust a gut. By lunchtime yer’ll ’ave ’ad ut.’
‘I see. I am not good?’
‘Wouldn’ say that, matey. Yer wanner take ut easy. No use goin’ like a rat up a rope. Know how much I’d a done by now if I was you?’
‘Much more?’
‘Much bloody less. The shot’s just keep pluggin’ along. No sense in bustin’ yerself.’
‘I work too fast?’
‘Yeah, take ut easy. Give us one o’ yer tailor mades.’
I gave him a cigarette. I was feeling better now, and pleased with myself. He said I worked too fast. That was good. I said, ‘The shovelling is easier than the mattocking.’
‘Yeah, I’ll get out that lot, an’ then you can take the shovel till lunchtime.’
‘It is all right, Pat. I can do the mattock.’
‘I know!’
‘I will go more slowly.’
‘You take the shovel.’
‘Very well.’
‘Better get this tray back ter the old duck. Now take ut easy.’
I took up the mattock again, but worked more slowly. I thought maybe if I worked like this, I could go all day. I began to like the feel of the sun on my back, and there was not so much of the perspiration in my eyes. I would get myself some boots, too. These shoes were no good. I would write about Pat and Joe when I got to know them better. I liked the way it was between them. Joe was the boss, but Pat was no servant. Could it be that in Australia there were no masters and servants as we knew them? Or was this case unusual? I would observe and find out. I would ask questions. This was an aspect of employer and employee relations which would be very interesting back home.
When I reached the end of the row, I paused for a moment to observe Pat. He used the shovel as he used the mattock, steadily and smoothly, with what seemed no effort. He did not throw the soil with the shovel, as I did. He let it turn in his hands, and the soil seemed to build itself into a row alongside the trench. He saw me watching him, and stopped. He said, ‘Okay she’s all yours.’ He came over and took the mattock. ‘Just stay behind me an’ don’ bust yerself.’
This I did, it was not too hard. Although when we got into the lumpy red soil that Pat said was called clay, it was harder. With an occasional pause for a smoke, he worked steadily, and I was able to keep up with him. Then the old truck appeared, and Joe stepped out. He carried a brown paper bag. He called out, ‘Lunchtime, matey. Gunna work all day?’
Pat said, in his slow flat voice, ‘I was gettin’ so interested in me work I never noticed the time.’
‘I’ll bet yer was,’ said Joe. ‘How’s ut goin’? Orright. How’s the kid goin’?’
‘He’s goin’ orright.’
‘Good-o. Here’s yer lunch Nino.’ He threw the paper bag to me. I caught it.
‘Thank you, Joe.’
‘Think nothin’ of ut, matey. Spondooliks, Pat.’ He handed Pat an envelope. Pat put it in his hip pocket. ‘Don’ buy too many elephants. Give yer yours this arvo, Nino.’
Pat said, ‘You comin’ back this arvo?’
‘Yeah. See yer about four.’
‘Checkin’ up on us, eh?’
‘Der yez want a ride down in the truck, or don’t yez?’
‘Yeah, we do.’
‘Well quit slingin’ orf about checkin’ up, or yez c’n bloody walk.’
‘We’ll be really pleased ter see yer. Yer such a nice man.’
‘That’s wot me girl says. Be seein’ yer, matey.’
‘See yer.’
Joe drove away, and we went to the laundry next door, and washed our hands. Pat went into the house, and came out with more tea. Then we sat in the shade to eat our lunch. Afterwards I took off my shirt, and lay down in the sun. I went to sleep. Pat woke me when it was time to start work again. I didn’t want to start. I was sleepy and tired, and my hands were sore, but after half an hour I felt better, and we worked steadily all the afternoon, except for one bad moment when I thought I was going to faint. It was the sun which was very hot, and the constant stooping. Pat noticed me, and said, ‘Yer gettin’ too much sun on the back o’ yer neck, matey. Go an’ stick yer ’ead under the tap.’
I went into the laundry, and let the lovely cool water run all over my head and neck. It also ran all over my back and down my legs. When I came back, Pat said, ‘Gees yer look like a drowned rat.’ But I felt much better.
We were still digging and shovelling when Joe arrived to say, ‘Knock off time matey.’ He looked at the work and said, ‘Gees yer’ll finish that Mondy, Pat.’
Pat said, ‘We might, but we’re not pourin’ concrete ’til Wensdy.’
‘Why ain’t we?’
‘’Cause we gotta tie the bloody steel, that’s why.’
‘Won’t ta
ke all day tyin’ steel.’
‘If we finish this Mondy, ut will.’
‘Yeah. S’pose ut will. Wilson’s bringin’ the metal on Mondy with the sand. I’ll get ’im to bring the cement at arf past seven Wensdy. The mixer’ll be ’ere then.’ He walked over to me. ‘Here’s a couple and a ’alf fiddley dids, matey. Yer goin’ orright. Put y’on first class award next week.’ He gave me two pound notes and a ten shilling note.
I took them and said, ‘I am all right, Joe?’
‘Good as anybody y’d get, don’t worry about that. Clean up an’ I’ll run yez down.’
We cleaned up in the laundry, and put the tools in the back of Joe’s truck. We got in the front with him. Pat said, ‘Yer goin’ down the Bloodhouse?’
‘Wouldn’ drink there if yer paid me, mate. They got the worst beer in Sydney.’
‘Yeah, ut’s crook orright. Wot about the Belmore?’
‘No matey. Too far. We’ll go up ter the Bankstown. Wot about you Nino? Yer gunna pin one on?’
‘What is this pin one on, Joe?’
‘Knock one back. Gunna ’ave a drink?’
‘I would like a drink yes.’
‘Good-o. We’ll go ter Bankstown.’
Pat said, ‘Where’s Dennis an’ Jimmy?’
‘They’re up there already.’
‘Well why didn’ yer bloody say so?’
Joe did not reply, and we drove into this Bankstown. There was much traffic, and there were many people. Pat said, ‘Where they at, the Cumberland or the Bankstown?’
‘The Bankstown matey.’ He turned right.
Then Pat said, ‘Yer’ll be at the North Bankstown in a minute. Where der yer think yer goin’?’
‘Gotta find a place ter park matey.’
‘Well let us out an’ we’ll wait fer yer.’
‘Like hell I will.’
He parked the truck, and we walked back. I was ashamed of my very dirty shoes. Joe and Pat were now wearing clean trousers and shirts. I said, ‘I am ashamed of my shoes.’
