They're a Weird Mob

by Nino Culotta

  ‘Men from Mars. That’s wot they say. Kook-kook-kook-kook-kook.’

  ‘Don’ make sense,’ Joe said.

  ‘Reckon wot you say wouldn’ make sense to them, either.’

  ‘Yer goin’, Den?’

  ‘You bet. Space men. Roll their eyes an’ shoot yer dead with invisible rays. Thrilling. Super-colossal. Adults only. Four bob upstairs.’

  ‘That dame goin’?’

  ‘Wot dame?’

  ‘That black-haired one you had last Sat’dy night.’

  ‘Could be. Wot’s ut to yer?’

  ‘Nothin’. Just wonderin’.’

  ‘Well, quit wonderin’. Anybody comin’?’

  ‘Not if yer goin’ with ’er.’

  ‘Who says I’m goin’ with her? Did I say I’m goin’ with her?’

  ‘Orright. Orright. Don’t fall orf.’

  ‘Who’s fallin’ orf? Just askin’ is anybody comin’.’ He took another piece of buttered bread. ‘Wot about you, Nino?’

  ‘No thank you, Dennis. I have had sufficient, thank you.’

  This simple answer provoked very loud laughter. I was surprised. I said: ‘It is not funny. I was hungry, and now I have had enough.’

  ‘I’ve had more than e-bloody-nough,’ said Pat. ‘Yer all bats.’

  ‘Nino,’ said Dennis very sweetly.

  ‘Yes, Dennis?’

  ‘It is my intention to visit the local picture palace this evening, to view therein a show entitled Men from Mars. Wouldst care to accompany me?’

  ‘Thank you, Dennis. I will be very pleased to accompany you.’

  ‘One sucker in,’ Pat said.

  Joe appeared interested. ‘You shoutin’?’

  ‘Yankee shout,’ said Dennis.

  ‘If there is to be shouting,’ I said, ‘perhaps I had better not go. I have had sufficient beer.’

  ‘That’ll be the day when you get beer at the pitchers.’

  ‘Better than ice cream an’ chocolates.’

  ‘Ever notice,’ Joe said, ‘whenever yer take yer missus ter the pitchers, she wants an ice cream? Never thinks of ut any other time.’

  ‘How would we notice that? We ain’t married.’

  ‘Aw, tha’s right. Keep fergettin’. Yez look married.’

  ‘That comes from workin’ fer you. Wot time’s Edie comin’ home?’

  ‘How would I know? Don’t even know where she is.’

  ‘Well, wot about comin’ ter the flicks?’

  ‘Might as well. Be in ut, Nino?’

  ‘Whatever it is I will be in it, Joe.’

  ‘Good-o. We’ll wash up an’ scrape off the whiskers an’ knock over a few more bottles before we go, eh? Best part of a dozen still left. Decent feed, Nino. Yer c’d get a job as a shearers’ cook any time.’

  ‘They’d all go on strike,’ Pat said.

  ‘I hate sheep,’ Dennis said. ‘Stupid bastards.’

  ‘You was a jackeroo once, wasn’t you, Den?’

  ‘Yeah. Walgett. Nothin’ worse.’

  ‘Worse than layin’ bricks?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Must a bin crook, then.’

  ‘Sheep! Worse than bloody turkeys.’

  Pat said, ‘Seen a mob o’ turkeys tryin’ ter get out through a nail hole in a tin shed once. Killed ’emselves.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dennis, ‘a hawk c’n come an’ pinch all their young uns, an’ they take no notice. Bit o’ paper blows along the ground an’ they get the tom tits an’ fly into a fence an’ knock ’emselves cold. They have turkeys in Italy, Nino?’

  ‘Yes, Dennis.’

  ‘Y’ain’t sayin’ much. Wot’s the matter, mate? Tired?’

  ‘No. I am not tired.’

  ‘Keepin’ awful quiet.’

  ‘I am sure the conversation is very interesting, but unfortunately I cannot understand it.’

  ‘Y’ain’t missed much,’ Joe said. ‘Come on. Let’s wash up.’

  We washed the dishes and bathed and shaved, and I listened to Joe’s radio while he and the others drank more beer. I could not drink more beer. Then we went down to the picture show. Dennis and Pat made noises of ironic appreciation throughout the show, and many people told them to keep quiet. We walked back in the moonlight and they came into Joe’s house for some supper. This was a loaf of bread made into toast, and coffee made with milk instead of water. I had not previously tasted this, and found it very good. Edie was home. She had some supper with us, talking about the people she had visited. Joe said they were a ‘lot o’ dills’. Edie resented this remark and they had an argument. She said they were nicer people than his friends, and he said did she mean present company? She said ‘present company excepted’, and Joe said ‘just as bloody well’. She objected to his swearing, and Joe said ‘bloody’ was not swearing, and I said a policeman had told me that ‘bloody’ was not a nice word. Joe said the policeman was a ‘dill’ and Pat and Dennis supported him, and Edie said she was glad I had a policeman friend, because the New South Wales police were the best in the world. Joe wanted to know how she knew this when she had never seen any other kind and she said she had read it in a magazine, and Joe said ‘bloody read ut in the Women’s Weekly, I s’pose’. Edie again objected to his use of the word ‘bloody’, and Joe said he was sick of bloody women tryin’ ter teach him how ter talk, and Edie asked why couldn’t he learn to speak nicely like Nino. Dennis and Pat began to imitate my speech in an exaggerated manner.

  ‘I say, old chap, would you mind passing me another slice of that excellent toast?’

  ‘Not at all, old man. I always think that toast refreshes one, do not you?’

  ‘Indubitably. Indubitably. But I must say the coffee is superb.’

  ‘Superb, my dear fellow, is an understatement. It is elegant. Only the sublime technique of our kindly host could produce such a delectable beverage.’

  ‘No doubt he acquired the knowledge from his charming spouse.’

  ‘No doubt whatsoever. No doubt at all. Isn’t the weather shocking?’

  ‘Appalling, my dear chap, appalling. I was only saying to Cholmondeley the other day—the weather is appalling. He agreed with me. Good chap Cholmondeley.’

  ‘Wasn’t his father one of the Cholmondeleys of—?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. Yes, indeed. Married Felicia Fetherstonhaugh, you know.’

  ‘Charming girl, charming.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Dennis,’ I said, ‘why do you not speak good English always?’

  ‘Man’d feel a prawn. Got another cuppa mud, Joe?’

  ‘Sure,’ Joe said. ‘Chuck us yer empty.’

  Edie said, ‘I’m going to bed. You’re all mad. It’s impossible to get any sense out of you. Goodnight, Nino.’

  ‘Goodnight, Edie.’

  ‘Hey,’ Joe said, ‘wot about goodnight ter yer old man?’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Goodnight, you bloody fool,’ she said. ‘’Night, Dennis. ’Night, Pat.’

  ‘’Night,’ they said.

  ‘That’s me missus,’ Joe said, ‘never a cross word.’

  ‘Wodda we doin’ ter-morrer?’ said Pat.

  ‘It’s ter-morrer now,’ Dennis told him.

  ‘Orright, wodda we doin’ ter-day?’

  ‘Know wot I’d like ter do?’ Joe said.

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘Go shootin’.’

  ‘I’ll be in that,’ said Pat. ‘Where’ll we go?’

  ‘Got an idea,’ Dennis said. ‘Use yer phone, Joe?’

  ‘Go ahead, matey.’

  Dennis went to the phone in the small hall near the front door, and Joe told me of the joys of shooting. I understood the theme but not the details. Dennis came back.

 
‘I did real good,’ he said. ‘Stanwell Park. Paper train leaves in a coupla hours. We c’n do ut easy.’

  ‘Pick ut up at Sydenham,’ said Joe.

  ‘Got time ter go right into Central. Get a seat.’

  ‘Yeah. Still got that japara tent o’ yours, Dennis?’

  ‘Course I still got ut. Think I’d give ut away?’

  ‘Then ’ow we orf for ammo?’

  ‘I got fifty,’ said Dennis.

  ‘Me too,’ said Pat.

  ‘We’re jake, then. Chuck some tucker into a pack an’ get crackin’, eh?’

  ‘Tucker’s on us,’ Dennis said. ‘You bin turnin’ ut on long enough.’

  ‘Won’t argue,’ Joe said. ‘You get organised an’ I’ll go an’ square orf with Edie.’

  ‘Might be asleep.’

  ‘Wake ’er up.’

  ‘Might be dangerous.’

  ‘Couldn’t care less, matey. Wait there, Nino. We’re goin’ shootin’. Show yer a bit o’ bush.’

  Dennis and Pat went out the back door. Joe went into the front bedroom. I listened to popular music from station 2UW, not at all certain of what was intended. Joe was the first to come back.

  ‘All set, matey. She went a bit crook, but she’ll be sweet.’

  ‘Joe,’ I said. ‘I do not fully understand what is it exactly that we are going to do. And please, do not speak Australian.’

  ‘Wot else c’n a bloke speak? All right, I’ll make it simple. We’re goin’ down to a place called Stanwell Park and we’ve got rifles an’ ammunition, an’ we’re goin’ shootin’.’

  ‘What do we shoot?’

  ‘Rabbits mostly. Maybe pigeons. She’ll be a good day!’

  ‘We do not go to bed?’

  ‘Sleep in the train. We’ll get there before daylight. Sleep a coupla hours in the tent if we want. She’ll be a good day. Wodda yer like with a rifle? Can yer shoot?’

  ‘I do not know much about this shooting.’

  ‘You’ll learn matey. You’ll learn. Nothin’ to ut. Wot about another cuppa coffee?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Edie came out wearing a dressing gown.

  ‘I think you’re all mad,’ she said. ‘And what about that grass? You were going to cut the grass to-morrow.’

  ‘She’ll keep fer another week,’ Joe told her.

  ‘It’s nearly up to my knees now. I won’t be able to find the clothes line soon.’

  ‘Lend y’a compass. Don’t worry about ut, mate. Cut ut next week-end fer sure.’

  ‘That’s what you said last week-end.’

  ‘Orright, orright. Didn’t know we’d be havin’ Nino. Gotta look after ’im. Next week-end fer sure, mate.’

  ‘That’s right, blame it on Nino.’

  ‘Gotta blame ut on somebody. Can’t blame ut on meself.’

  ‘Of course, you don’t want to go shooting, do you?’

  ‘Not perticlerly. Sooner cut the grass. Can’t let Nino go by himself, but. ’E’d get lorst.’

  ‘What about Pat and Dennis?’

  ‘They’d get lorst quicker’n Nino. No, mate, gotta go and look after ’em. Why’n’t yer come with us?’

  ‘I’m not that stupid,’ said Edie. ‘Paper train! If you must go, why don’t you take the truck?’

  ‘Can’t take the risk o’ bein’ held up. She’s about due ter conk out.’

  Edie went back to bed and Joe grinned, saying: ‘Joys o’ married life. Come on. Get inta our old workin’ togs.’

  We were ready when Dennis and Pat came in, with a rolled-up tent, two rifles and a well-filled pack.

  ‘Gees,’ said Joe, ‘is that all tucker?’

  ‘Yer get hungry when yer shootin’.’

  ‘Wot’s wrong with cookin’ a few rabbits?’

  ‘Mightn’t get any.’

  ‘That’s wot I like about you, matey. Always cheerful. Wot time’s the next train ter Central?’

  ‘Ain’t a clue.’

  ‘Well, ring up an’ find out.’

  ‘Buggers down there wouldn’ ’ave a clue either. Yez ready?’

  ‘Yeah. Just get me rifle.’

  Pat said: ‘You’re the biggest, Nino. You c’n carry the pack.’

  The man in the ticket office at the station said we were mad too, and Dennis said ‘Kook-kook-kook-kook-kook’ to him. He and Pat played Men from Mars all the way to Central.

  The paper train was crowded with men and Boy Scouts. We found seats at the end of a carriage. Many of the men were drunk. Joe said they were ‘coal miners arrivin’ back from a spree’. Most of them were singing mournfully and did not appear to be very happy. The train stopped for long periods at small stations while men shouted at each other, doors banged, bundles of papers thudded onto the platform and Boy Scouts, curled up like pups, slept peacefully. Joe and Dennis and Pat, with their hats over their eyes and their legs stretched out in front of them, also slept. But I was wakeful, listening to the noises of the night, to the wailing songs, and watching the singers. Two men in a seat across the aisle snored loudly on each other’s shoulders. An argument started at the other end of the carriage.

  ‘I tell y’ it’s ’ere somewhere.’

  ‘Well, hurry up. I can’t wait all night.’

  ‘’Ad ut in me pocket. Know I did. Put ut in with me ’alf a quid.’

  ‘Why isn’t it there now?’

  ‘’Ow do I know? Ut was there.’

  ‘You’ll have to pay excess fare.’

  ‘Aw, use yer skull. ’Ow c’n I pay excess fare when I on’y got ’alf a quid? ’Ow can I, eh?’

  ‘I’ll have to take your name and address.’

  ‘Now don’ be ’ard ter get on with. ’Ang on till I ’ave another look. Ut’s ’ere somewhere. Know ut is.’

  One of the sleeping men opposite me woke up.

  ‘Gees,’ he said, ‘ut’s me mate.’

  He stood up and lurched along the aisle. He was a small man who badly needed a shave. I heard his voice say, ‘Wot’s the matter, love?’

  ‘Can’t find me bloody ticket.’

  ‘Well, never mind, love. Yer got ut somewhere. Where’d yer put ut?’

  ‘In with me ’alf a quid.’

  ‘Sure yer didn’ put ut in yer ’at?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. Put ut in with me ’alf a quid.’

  ‘Where’s yer ’at, love?’

  ‘’Ow do I know? It’s not in me ’at.’

  ‘Where’s ’is ’at?’

  Another voice said, ‘He’s sittin’ on ut.’

  ‘Stand up, love. Come on, I’ll ’old yer. Tha’s right. Now let’s ’ave a dekko at yer ’at.’

  ‘Hey! That’s me good ’at. Who sat on ut? Hey, you! Did you sit on me ’at?’

  ‘Yer sat on ut yerself.’

  ‘Don’ gimme that. Ut’s me good ’at. Think I’d sit on me good ’at? Man oughta crown yer.’

  ‘Don’ worry about ut, love. Yer c’n get a new one Mondy. ’Ere’s yer ticket.’

  ‘Where was ut?’

  ‘In yer ’at.’

  ‘Couldna been. Put ut in with me ’alf a quid.’

  ‘No, yer couldna put ut in with yer ’alf a quid, love, because ut was in yer ’at. Now you just lie down an’ go ter sleep.’

  ‘No. Don’ like the blokes up ’ere. One of ’em sat on me ’at.’

  ‘Well, you come down an’ sleep with us, love. We’ll find room for yer.’

  ‘Me good ’at. Some bloke sat on me good ’at.’

  The small man’s voice was coming closer. ‘Just lean on me shoulder, love. Yer won’t fall over. Come on, ut’s not far.’

  I was interested to see this man called ‘Love’. It was a stra
nge name. He was enormous. His big hand covered the small man’s shoulder.

  ‘Hang on tight, now.’ The small man kicked his sleeping companion’s leg. ‘Hey, wake up. Come on, wake up.’

  The man woke up. ‘Wassa matter? We there?’

  ‘No, we ain’t there. Got a long way ter go yet. Got company.’

  ‘Gee, where’d yer find ’im?’

  ‘Up the other end. Move over an’ we’ll put ’im in the middle. There y’are, love. You sit down between us. We’ll look after yer.’

  ‘Love’ sat down. He left very little room for the other two. He sat completely upright. He had a broad, pleasant face which wore an expression of faint worry.

  ‘Where’s me ’at?’ he said.

  ‘On yer ’ead, love. Now go to sleep.’

  An official came along calling ‘Tickets, please.’ The two men produced their tickets.

  ‘Love’ said, ‘Ut’s ’ere somewhere. Put ut in with me ’alf a quid.’

  The official ignored him and turned to us. ‘Tickets, please.’

  He grasped Joe’s shoulder and shook him. ‘Tickets, please.’ Joe sat up and pushed his hat back from his eyes.

  ‘Wot? Aw, why d’you blokes always come round when a bloke’s asleep? Pat. Dennis. Fork out yer tickets. The vulture’s ’ere.’

  Pat and Dennis woke grumbling. We surrendered our tickets.

  ‘Where are we?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Dunno. Can’t be far orf, but. ’Ave a look at the next stop. ’Owyagoin’, Nino?’

  ‘Orright, Joe.’

  ‘That’s the ticket.’

  ‘Love’ said, ‘Ut’s ’ere somewhere. Put ut in with me ’alf a quid.’

  The small man said, ‘Aw, change the record, will yer, love?’

  ‘Bloke over there wants me ticket. Ut’s ’ere somewhere.’

  ‘’E doesn’t want yer ticket. The snapper’s got yer ticket.’

  ‘Bloke over there said ’e wanted me ticket.’

  ‘No ’e didn’t. Where’s yer whisky?’

  ‘’Ow do I know? Ut’s ’ere somewhere.’

  ‘Yer musta left ut up the other end. I’ll get ut.’

  ‘Love’ spread into the vacant space. He looked long and solemnly at me. He pointed at me. He said, ‘Who’s that bloke?’

  The other man said, ‘Dunno. ’E’s not one of our mob.’