They're a Weird Mob

by Nino Culotta

  Jimmy took Bill’s place at the head of the table. There was silence again. Jimmy looked down at the table. He looked up, and appeared about to speak, but closed his mouth, and looked down again.

  ‘Come on Jimmy.’

  ‘I . . . er . . . er. I dunno wot ter say,’ he said.

  ‘Come on Jimmy. Give ut a go.’

  ‘Yeah. Say anything.’

  ‘I . . . er . . . she’s a good tape measure. Er . . . thanks fer oilin’ ’er. This trowel. She’s . . . er . . . she’s a good trowel. Betty’ll think of yez too. I mean . . . er . . . aw . . . bugger ut. Thanks.’ He moved away, embarrassed, amidst cheers and laughter.

  Joe said, ‘Well that’s that. Now we’ll get stuck inter that other keg.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  I do not remember much about the remainder of that night.

  I remember much singing, and Jimmy saying goodnight, because as Joe explained, he had to be ‘Lookin’ good in the mornin’!’ The only thing clear in my mind is Joe waking me the next morning. I was on the sofa, still dressed as I had been for the party. I felt awful. Joe did not look so good, either. He held a cup of tea in his hand, which was not very steady. He said, when he saw I was awake, ‘How yer feelin’?’

  ‘Terrible,’ I said.

  ‘Me too, if ut’s any consolation ter yer. Yer got good an’ drunk last night.’

  ‘Oh. Was I disgraceful, Joe?’

  ‘No, matey. Yer a good drunk. Singin’ all the time. Get this inter yer, an’ ’ave a cold shower. Come good in no time. We gotta go ter the weddin’.’

  ‘I also?’

  ‘Course. Don’ think we’d leave yer be’ind do yer? Come on, matey. On yer feet.’

  I got up. I felt worse. I said, ‘Joe, I do not think I am able to attend this wedding. I am too sick.’

  ‘Drink yer tea.’

  I drank it.

  ‘Now inter the shower, an’ then come an’ ’ave some brekker. You’ll be right.’

  I did feel a little better after the shower and a shave, and more tea and toast. I said, ‘Where’s Jimmy?’

  ‘Went while you was in the shower. Down at the church waitin’ fer ’is missus. Come on, we gotta get crackin’.’

  We got cracking in Joe’s old truck. He said, ‘They ’ave Nuptial Mass in your country, Nino?’

  ‘Oh yes. This is a Nuptial Mass wedding?’

  ‘Course. Gotta do ut right.’

  ‘If I had known, I would not have had some breakfast.’

  ‘Forget ut. If yer ’adn’t ’ad breakfast yer wouldn’ be ’ere.’

  This was probably right. We went into the church just in front of the bride. The priest was old. He was very slow. The church was hot. It was difficult trying to remain awake. Jimmy was assisted by Dennis. They looked very nice in dark suits, with grey ties. Betty was a small, well-formed girl with dark hair and large brown eyes. I wondered if she was Italian. I whispered to Joe, ‘Is Betty Italian?’ He looked shocked. ‘Course not. Wodda yer take Jimmy for?’

  What do I take Jimmy for? I take him for a walk. I take him for better or for worse. I take him outside. I take him away. I brought my thoughts back to the ceremony. The priest droned on. So also did a blowfly. I watched it. It landed on Dennis’ neck. He brushed it with his hand. It came back. He brushed it again. It came back again. He covered the back of his neck with his hand. It landed on his hand. He removed his hand very slowly. The fly remained on it. There was a sharp smack and the fly was dead. Somebody giggled. Somebody else said, ‘Sh . . . h . . . h!’ Then they were taking Communion. Jimmy and Betty, and then Dennis and the bridesmaids. Then several people. I wished I had not had breakfast. Suddenly I became awake. I thought, ‘Un momento. Che cosa?’ Dennis takes Communion. I was remembering our discussion on God at Bill’s place. Truly a strange man, this Dennis. I do not understand him. He argues that everything is nothing. Then he takes Communion. He kills the blowfly. One day God will kill him. One day God will kill me. I should not have had breakfast. I will not have breakfast to-morrow. I will take Communion to-morrow. With Dennis, perhaps with Joe. I glanced at Joe kneeling beside me. He was asleep. Or he was praying. His eyes were shut. I tried to imagine Joe praying. How would he pray? Would he use the language that was so hard for me to understand? God would understand it, of course. He would even understand Meridionali. Did God love Meridionali? God loved everybody. Even Meridionali? Even Meridionali. I should love Meridionali. Did God want me to? I said an ‘Ave’ for Meridionali. Perhaps if everybody said ‘Aves’ for them, they would improve. No, this was wrong. I should love them as they were, ‘Love your enemies.’ I said another ‘Ave’. It was no use. I could not love them. I should not have had breakfast.

  People were standing up. The Last Gospel. ‘In the beginning was the Word.’ What word? I had always wondered what that word was. As a child, I had asked myself, ‘Che parola?’ I had asked my father. ‘The word of God,’ he said. I still did not know that word. One of Joe’s words, perhaps? Indeed no. I caught myself smiling. I must not smile. The word of God. I must listen to the old priest droning the old words. Our ancient language. The language of my ancestors. No, not my ancestors. My ancestors were the tribes of ancient Gaul. The ancestors of the Meridionali. How have the mighty fallen? I must not think that. I must love Meridionali. This was the language of their ancestors. The ancient sonorous Latin. I was hearing it in a strange country, on the other side of the world. A country that had never known Caesar. Who lived in this country when the Romans were conquering the world? The Romans had never heard of this part of the world. It was there, but they did not know. Centuries later, I came to it. I was a descendant of the tribes of Gaul, whom Caesar had subdued. Perhaps of Vercingetorix. Where are you now, Vercingetorix my ancestor? Do you see me here in this strange land where the short sword of the Romans was never known? Who were these Romans? Meridionali.

  ‘Dominus vobiscum.’ The language of Caesar. ‘Ite, Missa est.’ How would Joe say it? ‘That’s the lot mate.’ We sat down, and I said an ‘Ave’ for Vercingetorix. And one for Caesar. And one for all the people who have died since man was made man. And one for myself, because I had eaten breakfast. The Mass was over. The bridal party were in the Sacristy ... the people were whispering. Joe’s eyes were open. They looked tired. He saw me look at him, he said, ‘Come on,’ and got up. I got up too. We bent our knees to the altar, and went outside. We stood in the shade of the church entrance, and rolled cigarettes. We did not talk.

  The bridal party came out. Everyone was smiling and talking and offering congratulations. People were throwing rice over Betty and Jimmy. How ancient was that custom? That ancient tongue again. Women kissed Betty. We shook hands with Jimmy. He and Betty got into a car. There were white ribbons on it. Dennis and the bridesmaids got into another one. Dennis was between the two girls. He took their arms. He winked at me. A strange man. Joe and I got into his old truck. A crowd of laughing people climbed into the back. We drove off. Joe said, ‘Well, that’s that. He’s done ut now.’

  We went to Ashfield. The wedding reception was held there, in an old house converted for such events. There were waiters in white coats. We were offered sherry and whisky. The thought of whisky made me feel ill. I drank some sherry to be polite. The bride was late. She and Jimmy were being photographed. We stood around in groups and did not say much. Everyone was very polite. None of our building friends of the night before looked very happy. This I could understand. They did not look comfortable in their best suits. They should have been wearing shorts and heavy boots. Then Joe’s wife Edie told me how happy she was that I would be living in their house. She said, ‘I suppose it’s a mess, this morning?’

  Joe said, ‘Don’ worry about ut, love. Nino an’ me’ll clean ut up after this do’s over. You comin’ ’ome?’

  ‘I have to help Betty’s mother, first.’

 
‘Good-o. Give us time ter clean the joint up. See yer this arvo.’

  When Jimmy and Betty arrived, we all sat down, and waiters brought us plates of things to eat. We held them on our knees. Old Ned made a speech. He was very polite, and most unhappy. I thought, ‘Betty is the only one who looks really happy.’ When Jimmy was asked to speak he got up and said belligerently, ‘I can’t make a speech, so I’m not goin’ ter try. Betty an’ me are just gunna say thanks. Thanks.’ He sat down, to much applause. The priest spoke also. He said what fine people Betty and Jimmy were. He said the bridesmaids were beautiful. When Dennis’ turn came, he thanked the priest for saying the bridesmaids were beautiful. He said also, ‘One of them knows this already.’ She glared at him. I assumed that she and Dennis had had some sort of argument in the car.

  Jimmy and Betty drove away. Everyone was very polite. I asked Joe if it was Jimmy’s car. He said, ‘No, mate. Belongs ter one o’ the mob.’ He and I and Dennis and Pat drove home in his truck. He said, ‘Weddin’s an’ funerals. Can’t stand ’em.’

  ‘That bloody bridesmaid,’ said Dennis.

  ‘Wot ’appened?’ said Pat, who was sitting on Dennis’ knees.

  ‘Ain’t sayin’. Gees, I could go a beer.’

  ‘Know where there is one,’ said Joe.

  We got it out from under the house. ‘Coupla coldies in the fridge,’ he said. He got them out, and put some of the others in. We drank them, they were beautiful.

  The house was not very untidy inside, but outside it was awful. We washed the dishes, and brought in the furniture. Joe swept up the mess of broken glass and cigarette ends, and then hosed down the concrete. ‘Gotta bury the bloody doin’s, too,’ he said. ‘She won’t last till Mondy.’

  ‘The doin’s’ was the contents of the lavatory pan. He buried it in the back garden.

  ‘Wot say we crack another coupla bottles?’ said Pat.

  We did. I was feeling much better.

  Then we all went to sleep on the floor of the lounge, and woke up late in the afternoon, feeling irritable.

  ‘Wot we need’s another hair o’ the dog,’ Joe said, ‘then a feed an’ a shower an’ we’ll be right as rain.’

  There was a note from Edie on the dining room table, saying she had been home and was going out again. She said, ‘Won’t be home to tea—you drunks can look after yourselves.’

  ‘Wonder where she’s gone,’ said Joe. ‘Not that ut matters. She’s over twenty-one.’ He was busy opening bottles. ‘Bung on a feed, Pat. Plenty tucker in the fridge.’

  ‘Bung ut on yerself,’ Pat said.

  ‘Give Nino a go,’ said Dennis. ‘Heard about this Italian cookin’. Wouldn’ mind ’avin’ a bash at ut.’

  Joe didn’t like the idea. ‘Fair go, matey. ’E’s only just come ’ere. Can’t ’ave ’im cookin’ on ’is first day.’

  ‘Why can’t we? Might be ’e likes cookin’. Can you cook, Nino?’

  ‘Yes, Dennis. I cook spaghetti very well.’

  ‘Spaghetti! Any bugger c’n cook spaghetti. Just bung the tin in a pot o’ hot water. Do ut meself.’

  ‘Oughta be half a dozen tins o’ spaghetti in the cupboard,’ Joe said. ‘Dig ’em out, Den. I’ll slice up the dodger. No hurry, but. Knock these bottles off first.’

  ‘Have you any spaghetti, Joe?’ I asked.

  ‘Just said so, matey. ’Alf a dozen tins in the cupboard.’

  ‘Not tins, Joe. Long spaghetti.’ I demonstrated the length with my hands.

  ‘Aw, them broom straws? Yeah, Edie cooks that sometimes. Oughta be a coupla packets somewhere, if they ain’t full o’ weevils. ’Ave a look in a minute.’

  ‘Spaghetti,’ said Pat scornfully. ‘Gees, ’aven’t yer got any decent chunks o’ steak? Who wants that muck?’

  ‘If yer don’t like ut yer needn’t eat ut. Besides, we mightn’t ’ave any.’

  ‘When will yer know?’ said Dennis.

  ‘When I ’ave a look.’

  ‘When will y’ave a look?’

  ‘When I’m good an’ bloody ready.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘When I’ve ’ad me beer.’

  ‘How much beer?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Enough? Looks like we’ll be waitin’ all night, then. Come on, Nino, we’ll go an’ find this spaghetti.’

  ‘Right in the back o’ the cupboard, if there’s any. Wot’s yer hurry?’

  ‘Hungry,’ Dennis said.

  We found two packets. There were no weevils in them.

  ‘What gear do yer want?’

  ‘Gear? Gear is for getting beer out of kegs. I met this gear last night. We do not need it.’

  ‘Gear is anything. Wotta yer gunna cook ut in?’

  ‘We will need a large saucepan and some salt.’

  ‘Comin’ up,’ Dennis said. ‘Wot else?’

  ‘That is all we need for the spaghetti. But the most important thing with spaghetti is the sauce. You should cut up onions and tomatoes very small, and cook them for a long time, until they become like a cream. This needs about three days. Then you should have some minced steak, and fry it very quickly until it is brown. Then cook it for twenty minutes in the onion and tomato cream. This is the best sauce.’

  ‘Don’t mind the twenty minutes, but I’m not waitin’ three bloody days. A man’s gut would be floggin’ his back. Can’t yer knock up somethin’ quicker? Wot about chuckin’ a tin o’ stew on ut? Tin o’ steak and veg, ’ere.’

  He put a tin on the table. I read the label. I said, ‘I do not know this, but perhaps it will be all right.’

  ‘Good-o. I’ll leave yer to ut. You do the cookin’ an’ I’ll keep feedin’ yer grog. How long yer reckon yer’ll be?’

  ‘How long will I be?’

  ‘Yeah. How long?’

  ‘About six feet. But I do not see why you should ask that question.’

  ‘Strewth! I don’ wanta know the height o’ yer manly frame. When will the feed be ready?’

  ‘Oh. The cooking will be finished in about half an hour.’

  ‘Thank you, maestro. I will so inform the gentlemen within.’

  ‘Dennis, there is a remark I wish to make before you go.’

  ‘Make on, maestro.’

  ‘I saw you take Communion this morning.’

  ‘Woulda been blind if yer hadn’t.’

  ‘I thought you did not believe in God.’

  ‘Now don’t start that again. You get on with yer cookin’.’

  He went away and returned with a glass of beer which he put on the table.

  ‘Scream when ut’s empty,’ he said. ‘I’m gunna ’ave a shower.’

  So I cooked, and sipped my beer, and thought about Dennis. And I thought about the others, and how I would like to take them all home to Italy to show my people how strange were these Australians. Strangely profane and cynical and abusive, but basically such good men, delighting in simple pleasures. But I thought I would wait a little longer before sending home a general impression of their character for publication. It is not wise to make quick decisions about people, and perhaps disillusion would come later. I hoped not. I liked them, and wanted to continue to like them.

  I was washing the cooked spaghetti with cold water when Joe came out to the kitchen.

  ‘’Owyagoin’, Nino?’

  ‘Orrightmate.’

  ‘’Ow’s the scran?’

  ‘The scran?’

  ‘Yeah. Ready fer the nosebags?’

  ‘I hear you talking, Joe, but I do not understand what you say.’

  ‘Can’t blame yer fer that. Don’t understand ut meself ’alf the time. When do we eat?’

  ‘The food is ready now. But I must apologise for the sauce. There is only something
from a tin.’

  ‘If yer got ut from a tin ut ain’t sauce, matey. Anybody wants sauce there’s plenty o’ tomato an’ ’Olbrooks there, but smells good. Dish ’er up an’ I’ll get the dodger.’

  He cut and buttered thick slices of bread. We carried the food to the dining room table.

  ‘Come an’ get ut,’ Joe said. ‘Anybody want a cuppa tea?’

  ‘Stick ter beer,’ said Pat. ‘Wonder ’ow Jimmy’s gettin’ on?’

  ‘Wot’s Jimmy got ter do with beer?’

  ‘Nothin’. I was just thinkin’ ’ow ’e likes tea.’

  ‘Yer want a cut out that thinkin’, matey. Yer’ll ’urt yerself.’

  ‘Don’t ’urt as much as listenin’ ter you bein’ sarcastic. ’Ow d’yer eat this stuff?’

  ‘Watch Nino. ’E’s an expert.’

  He watched me. ‘Looks easy,’ he said. The first forkful fell back on his plate. ‘But ut ain’t.’ He got some into his mouth. ‘Gees,’ he said, ‘tastes just like stew with worms in ut.’

  ‘Never tried that meself,’ Joe said. ‘D’yer have it often at your place?’

  ‘Only when we got visitors.’

  ‘Thanks fer remindin’ me. I won’t come ter tea.’

  ‘Wait till yer asked. ’Ow d’yer know we’d ’ave yer?’

  Dennis was saying nothing. I said, ‘You’re very quiet, Dennis.’

  ‘Same ter you, mate. Good stuff, this.’

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘Yeah. Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Bloody crook doctor,’ Pat said.

  ‘If yer don’t like the boardin’ ’ouse, go to another one,’ Joe told him.

  ‘Can’t afford ut. I work fer a builder. You know the lousy sorta wages they pay.’

  ‘Yeah. Hard buggers.’

  ‘Good pitcher on ter-night,’ Dennis said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Local flea house.’

  ‘Wot is ut?’

  ‘Men from Mars.’

  ‘Kook-kook-kook-kook-kook,’ said Pat.

  ‘Wodda yer tryin’ ter do? Lay an egg?’