They're a Weird Mob

by Nino Culotta

I would have liked to have joined in the singing, but I did not know the songs.

  ‘Do you know these songs, Dennis?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yeah. Tripe.’

  ‘What would you like to sing?’

  ‘’Nough bloody row goin’ on without us joinin’ in.’

  ‘Been thinkin,’ Joe said. ‘Where’d yer get them four rabbits, Den?’

  ‘In the blackberries.’

  ‘Mighta known ut.’

  ‘Shot the bloody lot,’ Pat said. ‘Probably only four there. Us ’angin’ around waitin’, an’ ’im sayin’ nothin’. Know wot you are, Den? Yer a bastard.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m a real drip.’

  ‘You said ut,’ the young man in the T-shirt said.

  Dennis started to get up. ‘I’ve ’ad you,’ he said. ‘I’m gunna drop yer.’

  Joe and Pat pulled him down again.

  ‘Know who this bloke is?’ Joe asked.

  T-shirt didn’t know.

  ‘Go ter the Stadium next week and yer’ll see ’im fightin’ Freddie Dawson.’

  ‘Cripes,’ T-shirt said. ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘That’s orright. Just thought I’d warn yer. I’m ’is trainer.’

  ‘’Ow der yer reckon ’e’ll go?’

  ‘Yer c’n put a quid on ’im.’

  Dennis unexpectedly grinned at Joe. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I work fer you,’ he said, ‘an’ sometimes I know.’

  ‘Woulda been murder, matey. ’E’s only about eighteen.’

  ‘So ut costs ’im a quid instead.’

  ‘Yeah. Cheap at ’alf the price.’

  ‘Yer a bastard, Joe.’

  ‘That’s wot Edie reckons. Gunna be trouble when we get ’ome. She put up ’ardly any fight when we come away last night. That bit of a chip on ’er shoulder’ll be a ten inch log be now.’

  ‘Yer c’n always sleep at our place.’

  ‘Might ’ave ter, matey.’

  But Edie greeted us very pleasantly when we reached Joe’s house. She made coffee and toast for us all. She said she was worried about us when it started raining. And how many rabbits did we get?

  ‘On’y four, love. Dennis got ’em. Don’ know how he did ut, but. They don’t come outa those blackberries until sundown.’

  ‘Cloudy,’ Dennis said. ‘Knew they’d be out.’

  ‘And did you have a good day, Nino?’

  ‘I had a very good day, thank you, Edie.’

  ‘Well, I think you should all have a hot shower now, and go to bed. You’ve got a big day to-morrow. Don’t be too long, Joe. I’ll stay awake till you come in.’ She went into their bedroom.

  ‘Don’ like the sound o’ that,’ Joe said. ‘Round o’ the kitchen comin’ up. Better put cotton wool in yer ears, Nino.’

  ‘Leave yer to ut,’ said Dennis. ‘Grab some shut-eye. Yell if yer want help.’

  ‘She’ll be sweet, matey. Nothin’ I can’t handle.’

  ‘Famous last words. See yer ter-morrer if yer still in one piece.’

  He and Pat went home.

  ‘You c’n ’ave first go at the shower, Nino. I’ll ’ang around fer a while an’ do a bit o’ work on them plans. Man never knows ’is luck. She might go ter sleep.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  You have seen that my first few days amongst Australians gave me a very good introduction to these unusual people, and to their strange language. I do not wish it to be thought that I remembered every word that was said. I remembered much of it, but the rest has come from later knowledge, which gives me the words that must have been used at the time. The people I have been talking about have been my friends for years now, and they still talk and behave in the same way. So do I. Good English, used in conversation, now appears stilted and insincere. My Australian friends say that a man who uses it is not fair dinkum. They say he ‘is bungin’ ut on’. It is not so much the choice of words that is offensive to the Australian’s ear, but the pronunciation and inflexion. For instance, I have a friend named Addo who uses words well and any advanced student of English would understand him perfectly. But the student would know, from his accent and inflexion, that Addo was not an Englishman. And the conversation of most of my other friends would be completely unintelligible to him, as it was to me for so long. It was both irritating and humbling to me to have all my remarks clearly understood, and to be myself unable to understand the replies. And when I did get the hang of the lingo, to be unable to use it in my Italian articles was infuriating. Those first few days gave me sufficient material to keep my articles going for a long time, but I was completely unable to enliven their dialogue. Now I have put it down as it was and is, and I am more contented with myself.

  I wish I could reproduce the accent, and the close lipped rapid enunciation. I have thought of using a tape recorder to capture it. But when an Australian is asked to speak for a specific purpose, everything that makes his conversations the delight they are, disappears. For a man who is such an extrovert in his daily life with his mates, his shy embarrassment before a microphone or an audience, is unbelievable. Even when sitting with his mates at lunchtime, amongst the sandwich wrappings and tea leaves, his embarrassment when asked to tell a story, is very real. He becomes almost inarticulate. His whole speech changes, his phrasing becomes stilted. He rushes through the story to its end, gives a self-deprecating smile, and goes back to conversation happily on politics, horses, cars, football, beer, the boss without any self-consciousness at all. It is very strange. I have heard him make long and impassioned speeches to his friends in argument. Asked to repeat his sentiments before an attentive audience, he can say nothing. His personality withers immediately. . . . Ask him to read a newspaper article aloud, and he adopts a monotonous sing song voice that kills the subject matter dead. Say to him, ‘Never mind readin’ the bloody thing, give us the guts of ut . . . wot does ut say?’ and he’ll tell you, in vivid phrases whose economy of words, and whose pungent analysis are masterpieces. If you can understand them.

  So, you New Australians who think you can speak English, do not be discouraged. Keep listening, and you’ll catch on in time. And if you are ever admitted to an Australian’s friendship, thank your God for one of the finest things that can happen to you in this life. He will talk to anybody and everybody, this Australian, but his real mates are few. For them, he will die. Literally.

  I do not think I will take a tape recorder and try to capture his natural conversations without his knowledge. He might find out, and for this I would probably die. I am not at all sure I will live long, anyway, if this book is ever published.

  There is one other piece of information and advice I will give you. The Australian will endure an incredible amount of abuse from his friends, and none at all from anybody else. So don’t call him a bastard just because you hear somebody else do so.

  You will notice that I have said very little about Australian women. This is because I know very little about Australian women. I have observed that they appear to be independent, and do not sublimate their lives to that of some man, as most of our Italian women do. They keep their friendship for those of their own sex, and appear to be more or less constantly at war with men. The marriages I have observed seem more like armed truces than partnerships. This statement will probably endanger my life, too, but I have not observed many marriages. My own is different. I would be very foolish to say otherwise. But I will justify my father’s confidence in my courage by braving the flying pots and pans to tell you something about it. I like to think that I chose my wife in my own way and in my own time. She assures me this is not so. But one thing is certain. When I met her, I was hunting for a wife.

  I had been in Australia more than two years. I no longer wrote articles for Italian magazines, but Joe had taught me well, and I was earning good money, as a bricklayer. I had applied for n
aturalization as an Australian. I had money in the bank. I still lived with Joe and Edie. It was my third winter here. It was Sunday afternoon, and raining. And it was cold. Joe and Edie were sitting by the fire. Edie was knitting, and Joe had his feet upon the brickwork of the fireplace. He was reading the Sunday papers. The cat was asleep between them. I was restless. I walked in and out of the room several times.

  Edie said, ‘Nino, for goodness sake sit down. You’re making me drop stitches.’

  I sat down, and I made a decision. ‘Joe,’ I said. ‘I am going to get married.’

  ‘Good on yer, mate,’ he said, and went on reading.

  Edie was more interested. ‘Nino,’ she said. ‘I had no idea. Who is it?’

  ‘Dark horse, the old Nino,’ said Joe.

  I said, ‘It is no one yet. I have just decided.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed. ‘I thought you meant soon.’

  ‘It will be soon. I am going to look for a girl, and I am going to marry her.’

  Edie looked thoughtful.

  Joe said, ‘Now don’t go thinkin’ up any o’ your scrawny mates. Where’ll yer look, Nino?’

  ‘I do not know yet,’ I said.

  Joe said to Edie, ‘Where der the sheilas go these days when they’re on the prowl?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Well if you wouldn’t, who would?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Ask Dennis an’ Pat, matey. They know all the lurks.’ He returned to his papers.

  I went next door. Dennis and Pat were playing darts on the back verandah.

  ‘Want a game?’ Pat said.

  ‘No, thank you Pat,’ I said. ‘I want to find a sheila.’

  ‘Wot sheila?’

  ‘Any sheila. I want to get married.’

  Dennis said, ‘Gees yer don’t just marry any sheila.’

  ‘Yer wanter shop around,’ said Pat.

  ‘Where is a good place to shop around?’ I said.

  Dennis sat down and began to roll a cigarette. ‘A knotty problem. A very knotty problem. Wodda yer reckon Pat?’

  ‘Yeah, a knotty problem.’ He sat down and began to roll a cigarette also. ‘Wot sorta sheila yer have in mind?’

  ‘No particular sort.’

  ‘Blondes are easy on the eye,’ Dennis said. ‘But they get dirty quick.’

  ‘Redheads are too quick on the trigger,’ Pat said. ‘Bite yer ’ead orf. Remember that one I ’ad last year in Sans Souci?’

  ‘Gees yes,’ said Dennis. ‘Better make ut a brunette. They’re nice an’ faithful.’

  ‘Generally got hairy legs, but,’ Pat said.

  ‘Yer can’t ’ave everything. Most of ’em are put together right.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll say that for ’em.’

  ‘Wot about ...? No. She wouldn’t do.’

  ‘Know who yer mean. Agree with yer.’

  ‘Got any clues?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘When der yer wanter get married?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Wet Sundy,’ said Pat.

  ‘Yeah. See wot yer mean,’ said Dennis.

  They sat and smoked thoughtfully. I waited.

  ‘Wot about Bondi?’ said Pat.

  ‘Too wet.’

  ‘Manly?’

  ‘The Corso. Could be yeah. ’Bout the best bet.’

  ‘Want us ter come with yer?’

  ‘Thank you, but I would rather go alone.’

  ‘Probably safer. Line up somethin’ good an’ she’s likely ter latch onter me or Pat.’

  I said, ‘Manly, do you think?’

  ‘Yeah. Manly, we think. Goin’ now?’

  ‘I think I will go now. Yes.’

  ‘Good huntin’.’

  They went back to the game. As I left I heard Pat say, ‘Reckon he’s fair dinkum?’

  ‘No,’ Dennis said. ‘Weather’s got ’im.’

  It was very late in the afternoon when I reached Manly. I had been there before. The wind and the rain made the ferry trip unpleasant. The Corso was practically deserted. Between the ferry and the beach I saw only one interesting looking girl. I smiled at her. A freckled face with most of its front teeth missing, who was walking behind her, smiled back. I walked up the other side, and back to the ferry.

  Then I started again. This time I did not see one interesting looking girl. And I began to feel hungry. Also I was wet and cold. I went into a café near the beach, and sat down. There were only a few people there. Two of them were girls sitting together. They were working out a crossword puzzle. The Saturday Herald one, which is very difficult. This showed that they were intelligent, and I observed them more closely. One had fair skin and light brown hair, and the other had olive skin and was a brunette. I liked the one with the brown hair. She noticed that I was watching her and said something to the brunette. This one looked directly at me in a most severe manner. She did not appear to approve of my interest in her friend.

  The waiter brought them bowls of spaghetti, and then came to my table. I ordered spaghetti also. The two girls removed their Herald, and began to eat their spaghetti. They used a spoon. They had much difficulty. The fair one was laughing over this difficulty, but the brunette appeared to me to be swearing. She seemed to be a very bad tempered girl. I thought I would help them, so I got up and went to their table.

  I said, ‘Excuse me, but it is not possible to eat spaghetti with a spoon.’

  The brunette said, ‘Mind your own business.’

  The fair one smiled and said, ‘How do you eat the damn stuff?’

  ‘With a fork,’ I said. ‘You hold the fork upright, and twirl it around. The spaghetti winds itself on. Then you eat it.’

  The waiter passed, going to my table.

  The fair one said, ‘Are you having spaghetti?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Well, bring it over here, an’ show us how.’

  This I did. I sat down opposite to them. The fair one soon managed very well. The brunette continued to use the spoon.

  I said to her, ‘Please try it with the fork. It’s much easier.’

  She said again, ‘Mind your own business.’

  I said, ‘I am trying to help you. I will introduce myself. I am Nino Culotta.’

  She said, ‘I won’t tell anybody.’

  She appeared to be very irritable and really was swearing at this spaghetti. But she continued trying to make it stay on the spoon.

  The fair one said, ‘They call me Dixie, this is Kay.’

  I said, ‘How do you do Dixie? How do you do Kay?’

  They did not answer.

  Dixie said, ‘What are you doing out on an evening like this?’

  ‘I am looking for a wife.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Nobody’s. I mean, I wish to get married, and I am looking for someone who is my type, and whom I can marry.’

  The brunette looked up at me. She had large blue eyes. They were very cold. She said, ‘Have you tried the Zoo?’

  I said, ‘You do not appear to like me very much.’

  ‘Give me three reasons why I should.’

  ‘I am strong. I am not married. I have money in the bank.’

  ‘Think up three other reasons,’ she said, and took up her spoon again.

  Dixie said, ‘That last reason’s very interesting. How much?’

  ‘Are you interested in getting married?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Kay said, ‘Charlie’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dixie. ‘Charlie!’

  I said, ‘Who is Charlie?’

  ‘The man I’m going to marry.’

 
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You are engaged?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Oh, I s’pose I’ll marry him someday.’

  ‘You’d better,’ Kay said. ‘He’ll break your neck if you don’t.’

  ‘Yeah. He might too.’

  ‘Are you engaged?’ I asked Kay.

  Dixie said, ‘No she’s free . . . at the moment.’

  Kay kicked her under the table. Dixie said, ‘Ouch. What was that for?’

  ‘I think you are a very bad tempered young lady,’ I said.

  ‘And I think you ought to mind your own business.’

  ‘Now children!’ Dixie said. ‘No fighting in public.’

  ‘You are bad tempered, but you have very beautiful eyes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And I like your hair. It is very clean.’

  She looked at me for a long moment. Then she put her leg out to the side of the table.

  ‘What do you think of my foot?’ she said.

  I looked at it. ‘It appears to be a very nice foot. You should not kick people with it.’

  ‘I know somebody I’m going to kick very soon.’

  Dixie said, ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Nino Culotta.’

  ‘Italian?’

  ‘Yes. But I will be an Australian soon.’

  ‘Alas my country,’ Kay said.

  ‘Are you always so serious Nino?’ Dixie said. ‘Or are you just having us on?’

  ‘Courting is a serious matter.’

  ‘I thought that word died with Queen Victoria,’ Kay said.

  Dixie became coy. ‘Are you courting, Nino?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Little me?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You are engaged. I am courting Kay.’

  ‘Great suffering cats,’ said Kay. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

  ‘Perhaps courting is not the correct word,’ I said. ‘I am still learning English as it is spoken in Australia. But I think it is time for me to get married. To do this, I must meet girls, and talk with them, and maybe I will find one whom I like, and who likes me, and then perhaps we will get married. I call this process courting. Is there a better word?’