They're a Weird Mob

by Nino Culotta

  They both laughed. Joe said, ‘Take ’em orf matey.’

  Pat said, ‘Yeah chuck ’em ter the shouse.’

  I paused to think about this, and Joe said, ‘Come on, Nino, we was only kiddin’ yer. Yer shoes are orright.’

  ‘You are sure Joe? I do not wish to shame you in front of your friends.’

  Pat said, ‘Little gentlemen aren’t we?’

  ‘Not so little, either. Come on. There’ll be worse footgear than yours in there.’

  We went into the bar. It was very crowded and extremely noisy. Joe pushed his way through to the far end, where two young men yelled at him. One said, ‘Gees the boss. ’Owyergoin’ mate orright?’

  ‘Orright mate. Wotta yez drinkin’?’ The other one said, ‘Champagne.’

  Pat said, ‘Well chuck us over a bottle.’

  Joe said, ‘Meet the new kid, Nino, this is Dennis. My brother Jimmy—Nino.’

  They said together, ‘Pleased ter meet yer.’

  ‘He’s an Itie,’ said Joe.

  ‘He’s orright though,’ said Pat. ‘No slingin’ orf.’

  ‘My shout,’ said Joe. ‘I know what these bastards drink. Wot’ll you ’ave Nino?’

  I said carefully, ‘I reckon I could knock over a schooner.’

  They all laughed very much. I felt pleased. I also felt proud that I was accepted into their company. I felt proud of the two pounds ten shillings in my pocket, which I had earned with my sweat. I was very tired, and very happy, and very thirsty.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Here I should describe my new friends, and the small organisation of which I was now a member. Whilst Pat was slim and dark, Dennis was broader and more muscular. He was not tall, but very well formed. His skin was smooth and brown, his hair dark brown and wavy, and his eyes were pale blue. They could become very cold when he was annoyed. Joe said he was a ‘moody bastard’. Joe’s brother Jimmy was totally unlike Joe, except that he was slim and wiry, as Joe was. He was very dark, with straight black hair and large dark eyes. His eyelashes were long, and curled upwards. He always listened to everything that was said, but seldom spoke himself. He had been in the army. Joe said he was a ‘moody bastard’ too. He and Joe were by trade, bricklayers. They were now a partnership, engaged in what is known as ‘Spec. Building’. They bought a block of land, built a house on it, and then sold the house. Occasionally they built for a specific person, at a quoted cost, as in the case of the block on which Pat and I were working. Dennis was a brickie’s labourer. Joe and Jimmy worked together on the brickwork, and Dennis ‘kept ’em going’. Pat sometimes worked as a brickie’s labourer, and sometimes as a general labourer, but he was paid as a brickie’s labourer. I was the general labourer. Joe was the organiser, and there were always at least two jobs ‘going’. Dennis and Pat lived with Dennis’ parents, next door to Joe. Jimmy lived with Joe and his wife, Edie, but they told me he was ‘gettin’ married next Saturdy’.

  When we left Bankstown hotel at six o’clock, we were not very sober. I had drunk five schooners of beer. I was not accustomed to manual labour in that hot sun. I was not accustomed to sandwiches for lunch. And I was not accustomed to drinking five schooners of beer. We were all a little hilarious. We stood in a group, in the street outside the hotel. Dennis and Pat knew a couple of ‘fabulous drops’ that they were going ‘ter take ter the pictures’. In addition to being ‘fabulous drops’ these were also ‘slashing lines’, and ‘One of ’em’s old man owns a pub.’ Jimmy’s fiancée Betty was ‘comin’ up after tea’. Joe said, ‘You look like bein’ out in the cold, Nino. Yer don’ wanner be out in the cold. Come on ’ome ter tea.’

  I said, ‘Joe, I do not think I could drink tea after all those schooners.’

  ‘Well yer don’t ’ave ter. Yer could go a feed, couldn’ yer?’

  This I did not understand. Dennis said, with a very affected English accent, ‘What he means, old cock, is that your stomach requires nourishment. He invited you to share his humble repast: to visit his home and to be regaled with provender. Do you, or do you not, accept?’

  This I did understand. But it was received with much merriment. And when I replied seriously, ‘Thank you, Joe; I accept your kind invitation,’ they put their arms around each others’ shoulders, and were almost helpless with mirth.

  ‘Gees, Nino,’ said Pat. ‘Yer’ll kill me.’

  ‘Nothin’ ter wot ’e’ll do to Edie,’ said Joe. ‘Come on let’s get crackin’.’

  We all fell into the truck, Pat and I in the back and the other three in the front. Jimmy drove. When we reached Joe’s place, Pat and I got over the tailboard, but the other three were still in the truck arguing. I heard Joe say, ‘Ut’s the carburettor, matey.’

  Jimmy said, ‘Manifold, more like.’

  Dennis said, ‘Ut’s the whole bloody truck if y’ask me.’

  ‘Nothin’ wrong with the truck mate,’ said Joe. ‘She goes.’

  ‘Only to the boneyard.’

  ‘Wot’s wrong with ’er? She does the work, don’ she? She gets us there, don’ she?’

  ‘Only just.’

  ‘Don’ matter if it is only just, long as she gets us there.’

  ‘One day she won’t.’

  ‘Orright one day she won’t. One day you won’t either. We all gotta wear out matey. When she wears out I’ll get a new one.’

  ‘She’s worn out.’

  ‘Pigs she is. There’s a lot of life in ’er yet.’

  Jimmy said, ‘Ut’s the manifold.’

  Joe said, ‘Carburettor more like.’

  Pat interrupted, ‘Yez gonna argue all night? Come on Den. We gotta meet those sheilas.’

  Dennis got out. ‘See yer ter-morrer, Joe. You be here ter-morrer, Jimmy?’

  ‘Yeah, have a look at that manifold.’

  ‘Carburettor, matey,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll start on the carby.’

  Jimmy didn’t answer, and they got out. Pat and Dennis went into their place, saying ‘See yer Mondy, Nino.’

  I said, ‘Goodbye Dennis. Goodbye Pat.’

  Joe, Jimmy and I then went into Joe’s place. Joe’s living room was what I came to recognise later as typical for a suburban brick cottage. There was a central fireplace; a fawn patterned carpet, a sofa with two matching upholstered chairs, also fawn; heavy green curtains; a radio; and plenty of ash trays. Joe indicated one of the chairs, ‘Sit down, Nino. Take a load orf yer feet.’ Then he raised his voice. ‘Yer there, Edie?’ A woman’s voice answered from somewhere out the back. He said, ‘Come ’ere. We got a visitor for tea.’

  The voice shouted, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You don’ know ’im. Come ’ere an’ meet ’im.’

  She appeared. A slim woman of about Joe’s age and colouring. I rose to my feet.

  Joe said, ‘Nino, this is my wife Edie. Edie, this is Nino. He’s just started with us. He’s an Italian. He’s orright, though.’

  Edie said, ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  I said, ‘How do you do, Mrs. Joe.’

  ‘Don’ call ’er Mrs. Joe. Call ’er Edie. Wot’s fer tea, Ede?’

  ‘I got some fish. And there’s some beans and potatoes.’

  ‘Fair enough. How long will ut be?’

  ‘It’s cooked now.’

  ‘Good on yer, Ede. Enough ter go round?’

  ‘I always have enough on Fridays. I never know how many there’ll be.’

  ‘Just the four of us. ’Ave a drink with us before tea?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind.’

  She sat on the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. Jimmy sat beside her, and began rolling a cigarette. Joe went out, and I also sat down. There was silence.

  Then Edie said, ‘Is Betty coming over, Jimmy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How is
she?’

  ‘Orright.’

  There was another silence.

  Edie said, ‘How long have you been in Australia, Nino?’

  ‘I arrived in Sydney yesterday.’

  ‘Is that all? Do you like Australia?’

  ‘I think I am going to like it. Yes.’

  ‘I suppose it’s a bit too soon to tell, yet.’

  Not quite understanding this, I did not answer. Then Joe came in with two bottles. There was a very wide doorway between the living room and the dining room, and Joe placed the bottles on the dining room table, and opened them. He got four glasses from a cabinet, and began to fill them. When I saw it was beer, I said, ‘Joe, I do not think I could drink any more beer.’

  ‘Aw, course yer could.’ He brought me a full glass.

  ‘Get that inter yer. Ut’ll do yer good.’

  ‘Very well. I will try.’

  He gave a full glass to Edie, and one to Jimmy, then taking the other he sat in the chair opposite me. He raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’ We all said, ‘Cheers,’ and drank some of the beer. Joe put his glass on the arm of the chair and took off his shoes. His feet were very dirty. He said to me, ‘Get yer shoes orf, Nino. Give yer feet a rest.’

  I said, ‘My feet and socks are covered with soil, Joe. They are very dirty.’

  ‘Don’ worry about that. Get ’em orf.’

  Edie said, ‘We’re used to dirty socks and feet in this house. Joe doesn’t have his bath till after tea.’

  ‘Take too long ’avin’ a bath before tea,’ said Joe. ‘Sooner ’ave a beer.’

  I said, ‘Do you drink much beer, Joe?’

  Edie said, ‘Yes, he does.’

  Joe said, ‘No I don’t. A few schooners after knock orf time, an’ a couple o’ glasses before tea. That’s not drinkin’ much beer.’

  ‘Only about ten shillings a day,’ said Edie. ‘Only about three pounds a week.’

  ‘Well wot’s three quid a week? I got no other vices ’ave I?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Edie.

  Jimmy looked at me and winked.

  I said, ‘Do all Australians drink beer?’

  ‘No, not all mate,’ Joe said. ‘There’s a few wowsers about.’

  ‘What are wowsers?’

  ‘Blokes that don’ drink. Mind yer, I got nothin’ against ’em. ’Ad a bloke workin’ for me once, who didn’t drink. Did ’is work orright. Good as anybody y’d get.’

  Edie said, ‘Do you drink much, Nino?’

  ‘In Italy we do not drink beer.’

  ‘Wodda yer drink?’ said Joe. ‘Plonk?’

  ‘What is plonk?’

  ‘Wine. All-round-the-world-fer-a-zac steam.’

  ‘We drink wine, yes.’

  ‘Beer’s the only drink fer a workin’ man. Whisky makes yer silly. An’ plonk’ll rot yer boots.’

  He got up and emptied the other bottle into our glasses, despite my protests. We all said ‘Cheers’ again.

  ‘Mind yer though,’ he said, ‘I won’t stand fer a bloke drinkin’ on the job. Never drink meself when I’m workin’. When yer knock orf. That’s the time.’

  Edie said, ‘Are you married, Nino?’

  ‘No, I am not married.’

  ‘Never get married, mate,’ said Joe. ‘Yer life’s not yer own when yer married.’

  ‘You do all right,’ said Edie.

  ‘Jimmy’s gettin’ married next Saturdy. Wants ’is ’ead read.’

  ‘Leave Jimmy alone. Betty’s a nice girl, isn’t she Jimmy?’

  ‘’E’d have ter say she was, whether she was or not.’

  ‘When do we eat?’ said Jimmy.

  Edie got up, ‘Come on Joe, set the table.’

  ‘You set ut love. I gotta talk ter me guest.’

  ‘He’s my guest, too.’

  ‘No. No, love. I invited him. I gotta talk to ’im.’

  ‘I’ll talk to ’im,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘My brother,’ said Joe in a disgusted voice. He went out with Edie.

  I said, ‘You wish to talk with me, Jimmy?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘There is no particular subject you wish to discuss?’

  ‘No.’

  He turned the radio on, and rolled himself another cigarette. We sat in silence. Then Joe came in.

  ‘All set. Wanna wash yer ’ands, Nino?’

  ‘Thank you, Joe.’ I got up and followed him out the back door. He pointed to another door. ‘In there mate.’

  I went in. There was no place for washing hands. But the convenience that was there was very welcome. When I returned, Joe said, ‘Bathroom’s in ’ere.’ I went into the bathroom, and washed my hands. Then we sat down to an enormous meal, which was washed down by numerous cups of tea. There was no conversation except what was necessary for eating, such as ‘Pass the salt,’ ‘Pass the butter,’ and ‘Pass the sugar.’ Only one phrase I did not understand. Joe said to Jimmy, ‘Smack us in the eye with another hunk o’ dodger, matey.’ Jimmy gave him some bread, but I was unable to see the connection between the request and the reply.

  After the meal I felt tired and sleepy. I requested permission to return to my hotel. Joe said, ‘Know just ’ow yer feel, matey. First day of ’ard yacker knocks yer. I’ll run yer down ter the station before I ’ave me bath.’

  I was too tired to protest much. Jimmy said, ‘So long,’ and at the door Edie said, ‘Come again Nino. It’s nice to have a gentleman in the house for a change.’

  Joe said, ‘Wanna watch out, mate. She’s takin’ a shine ter yer.’

  At the station, I thanked him for his hospitality, and he said, ‘Think nothin’ of ut. See yer Mondy matey. Arf past seven.’

  I took a seat in the train, which was almost full. The people appeared to be wearing their best suits and dresses. I thought they were probably going to theatres and dances. I was sitting near the doorway of a carriage, with another seat opposite me. Sitting there was a man in a shabby grey suit. He was a lean man. He was staring at me rudely. I stared back, and soon saw that although his eyes were concentrated fiercely on me, his brain did not appear to be turning in his head. I decided he was drunk. I decided I would ignore him. Suddenly he leaned across the aisle, and shouted, ‘Why don’t yer go back to yer own bloody country? We don’t want yer out here. This is our country. We don’t want yer out here. Come out here takin’ jobs an’ think yer own the joint. Bloody dagoes. Why don’t yer go back ter yer own bloody country?’

  I looked over and saw a family of Meridionali. Two men who appeared to be brothers, a woman who could be their mother, one who could be the wife of one of them, and three small children. I thought they did not understand what was being said, but the tone of the man’s voice would undoubtedly tell them that they were being insulted. They looked embarrassed, and pretended to ignore him.

  ‘Don’t understand me, eh? Don’t know wot I’m talkin’ about, do yer? Why don’t yer? Why don’t yer learn English? King’s English. It’s good enough fer me, ain’t it?’

  He sat back and fumbled in a trouser pocket, taking out a very battered cigarette. Then he leaned towards me, and said in a very normal conversational tone, ‘Give us a light fer me pipe, mate.’

  I lit his cigarette for him, which appeared to be what he wanted. He inhaled twice, then offered the cigarette to me. ‘’Ave a draw, mate.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Trouble with this country there’s too many dagoes in it. Takin’ the bread an’ butter outa the mouths of our wives an’ children. Can’t even speak English. Don’ wanna speak English. Yabber, yabber, yabber. That’s all they do. Yabber, yabber, yabber. This is our country. We fought fer this country, didn’ we? Wot do we wanna let that mob in fer?’

  The M
eridionali were talking softly amongst themselves. He stood up abruptly and shouted fiercely at them. ‘Yabber, yabber, yabber. Wot are yer talkin’ about? Nobody knows. Bloody spies the whole lot o’ yer. White Australia! Bloody dago spies. Mussolini. Castor oil. Who won the war? We did, didn’ we? Dagoes. Pinheads.’ He sat down suddenly and again said normally, ‘Give us a light fer me pipe, mate.’

  Again I lit his cigarette.

  ‘Take you, f’rinstance. You gunna let ’em take the bread an’ butter outa the mouths of your wives an’ kids? You gunna let them dagoes run this country? Yabber, yabber, yabber? You gunna let ’em talk that stuff out here? Dagoes an’ Jerries an’ Balts an’ Poles an’ Lithu-bloody-wanians? Wodda you gunna do about it? Wot’s the Gov’ment gunna do about it? Give us a light fer me pipe, mate.’

  I gave him my box of matches; after much fumbling he struck one. The cigarette was about one inch long. He held the match out six inches . . . he became cross-eyed. He puffed vigorously on the unlit cigarette and threw the match away. He handed me the box.

  ‘Take you, f’rinstance. You’re an Australian. You fought fer this country. Do you yabber, yabber, all the time? Are you a bloody dago spy? Am I? When you get into a blue do yer pull knives? Knives all bloody over ’em. Pull knives. Australians don’t pull knives. We fight with our fists, don’t we? We don’t pull knives, do we? Chuck ’em out. Chuck ’em out o’ the country, chuck ’em out of the train.’ He stood up again and yelled, ‘Get outa the bloody train. It’s not your train. This is our train. We bought our tickets didn’t we? Whose taxes paid fer this train? I’ll tell yer whose taxes. Our taxes, that’s whose. Get out of our bloody train.’ He stood swaying and glaring at them.

  I said to them in clear slow Italian, ‘Do not be alarmed. The man is drunk. He will not harm you. If necessary I myself will put him off the train.’

  They smiled and nodded their heads, and gave me many expressions of thanks, and proceeded to talk animatedly amongst themselves, surprised and pleased to hear me speaking Italian to them. The moment I started to speak, the man turned quickly and stared hard at me. Then he sat down slowly, not taking his eyes from mine. For five minutes, unwinking, he stared at me in silence. I kept my face free of expression. Then he said, experimentally, ‘Give us a light for me pipe, mate.’