by Nino Culotta
‘Bloody gettin’ ours on, too,’ said Dennis. ‘Be with yer in a minute, Nino.’
They went into their house. I carried the beer into Joe’s place. He and Jimmy were busy filling glasses.
‘Stack ’em in the kitchen matey,’ Joe said. ‘The sheilas will be out in a minute.’
I did so, and returned to the lounge. Joe said, ‘Wait fer Dennis an’ Pat.’
We did not have to wait long. They also had changed into old clothes. Dennis wore his old straw hat, upside down. He carried his mouth organ, and put it on the mantelpiece. Joe presented each of us with a full glass.
‘Sorry about the bloody afternoon tea,’ he said. ‘Edie’s idea.’
‘Gotta give ’em their ’eads,’ Pat said. ‘Nino’s idea’s better.’
‘Here’s ter the bride,’ said Joe.
We drank to the bride. Joe refilled the glasses.
Pat said, ‘Wot I can’t get over is ’im findin’ ’er without any help from us.’
Dennis objected, ‘Wodda yer mean no help from us? We told ’im where ter look, didn’ we?’
‘Didn’ reckon ’e’d do any good, but. Didn’ even reckon ’e was fair dinkum.’
‘Slashin’ line.’
‘Yeah. We shoulda gone with ’im.’
‘We’re doin’ orright.’
‘Not right now, we ain’t.’
‘Soon fix that. Use yer phone, Joe?’
‘Go ahead matey.’
Dennis went to the phone. The girls came in.
Joe said, ‘Wodda youse been up to?’
‘Fixing our faces,’ Edie said.
‘Didn’ make ’em look any better. Have a beer.’
They accepted. Pat led Kay to the centre of the room, and walked slowly around her, inspecting her carefully.
‘Not real bad,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll ’ave a go at takin’ ’er orf yer, Nino.’
‘Nino might object,’ Kay said.
‘’Im? Couldn’ fight ’is way out of a paper bag.’
Dennis came in. ‘All fixed. Be here in ’alf an hour.’
‘Who?’ said Edie.
‘Coupla dames.’
‘More the merrier,’ Joe said.
Dennis said to Pat, ‘Wodda you doin’ there with Kay? That’s my possie. Have a beer, Kay.’
‘I have one, thanks.’
‘Well, yer got two hands. Have another one.’ She laughed and accepted it. ‘That’s wot I like ter see. A dame with a beer in each hand. Now tell us the story of yer life.’
‘I was born. I went to school. I left school. I went to work. I met Nino.’
‘That all?’
‘That’s all so far.’
‘Far enough too. Can yer cook?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can yer sew?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know yer gunna live in a tent?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’ll be flies an’ ants an’ fleas an’ beetles an’ spiders an’ scorpions an’ lizards.’
‘Don’t forget the possums,’ Pat said.
‘Yeah, an’ possums. They’ll pinch yer bread an’ sugar an’ pull yer hair.’
‘I love possums.’
‘There y’are Nino. Two timin’ yer already. She loves possums.’
‘Not the right girl fer you at all, mate. More my type.’
‘Your type? Only find your type in the Zoo.’
Kay said, ‘Don’t you like faithful women, Pat?’
‘Dunno. Never seen one.’
‘You’re seeing one now.’
‘Take yer word for ut. Mean ter say yer gunna stick to old Nino?’
‘For the rest of my life, if he’ll put up with me.’
‘Not much fun fer us in that.’
Dennis said, ‘Reckon we’re wastin’ our time, Pat?’
‘Looks like ut.’
‘Reckon we better stick ter beer?’
‘Until them other two skirts turn up.’
‘Yeah.’ He held Kay’s arm in his hand. ‘Take her other arm.’
Pat did so. They led her over to me.
‘Nino, we’d like yer ter meet Kay.’
‘How do you do, Kay.’
‘How do you do, Nino.’
‘She’s all yours mate.’
‘Thank you gentlemen.’
‘Don’t thank us. Ut was her idea. Never met a woman with any sense yet.’
‘Wot’s ’e got that we haven’t got?’
‘Kay.’
‘Yeah. Know wot’ll happen, Kay, if you don’t play straight with Nino?’
‘He’ll bump me on the head.’
‘Yeah, he would too. But after that . . . after that, mind yer . . . we’ll chuck you into a concrete mixer.’
‘Oo lovely,’ Kay said. ‘They go round and round.’
Dennis made circles at the side of his head, with his finger. ‘Bats,’ he said.
‘Nutty as a fruit cake,’ said Pat.
‘We’re sorry for yer, Nino, old boy. Yer’ve drawn a ning nong.’
‘Loves possums.’
‘An’ concrete mixers.’
‘Gone in the scone.’
‘Nothing there, man. Absolutely nothing there.’
‘Very sad, poor Nino.’
Kay said, ‘May I have my arms now? I want to drink my beer.’
‘Whacko!’ said Dennis. ‘Ut was only temporary. She’s sane again.’
‘Sane as you an’ me.’
‘Now yer got me worried.’
The visit was a success. They liked Kay. Kay liked them. She still does. The party was still going when we left to go back to Manly. It was still going when I returned at one o’clock in the morning. And Kay didn’t see our land until the next week-end.
Each week-end until we were married, we worked on it. Sometimes she and I worked alone, but more often our friends helped us. We met our neighbours, who were very friendly, and gave us tea and advice. Australians like giving people tea and advice. The tea is always very good, and sometimes the advice too. But it is difficult to know when an Australian is giving you serious advice or pulling your leg. This latter term is used to describe foolish advice given in a serious manner. All Australians are very fond of this pastime, and our neighbours were not exceptions. But Kay was usually able to detect it. We cleared the land, fenced it, and built a fibro store shed. Joe drew the plan of the house for me, and submitted it to the local council, who raised no objection. And I bought the tent. I also bought a second-hand utility truck. This did not leave much money in the bank.
We were married at Manly in September. My father sent his blessing, and my mother wrote to say that the picture of Kay reminded her of that little Maria who went away from our village to marry that awful shopkeeper in Firenze with the big ears and the gold teeth. They had five children, now, and she looked terrible last time she was home. My father said that Italy was going to the dogs. There were three Meridionali in the village now, and they refused to go away, even in the winter. And Signor Cuccu had joined the Communista. My father had beaten him with his stick, and members of the Communista had broken three of my father’s windows, and poisoned the black cat. He was still mayor, but the Polizia were no good, and he suspected them of Communist sympathies. My mother said her rheumatism had been much better lately, but my father was becoming difficult in his old age. He had had a terrible fight with that nice Signor Cuccu, because Signor Cuccu had been seen talking to a Communist from Milano who was visiting our old church. The house was in need of repairs, but father was too mean to have it done. Three of the windows had been broken in a storm, and were still broken. And the cat had died of old age and was buried under the oleander tree nea
r the lavatory. My father said I should stay in Australia, where the only enemies were snakes and kangaroos and savages. He supposed my intended wife was an English girl, and she must be very brave. But the English were always being very brave, and going off to strange places. I was very brave, too, and he was proud of me, because I had lived up to my name. I must be very careful not to allow any of my children to be eaten by kangaroos, and the first boy must be named Giovanni. If I was short of weapons I must write and tell him, because Signor Guareschi’s double barrelled shotgun was for sale, and he could get it cheap because Signor Guareschi had bought a Vespa, and was in debt.
I translated the letters for Kay, and she asked me hadn’t I told my parents what life in Sydney was really like? I said I had, but they probably thought I was exaggerating, so as not to cause them worry. But she said surely they had read my articles in the magazines? This was undoubtedly true, but my father probably considered that the Press was controlled by the Communista, and these articles had not been written by me at all, but were propaganda to entice all the brave Italians to go to Australia so that the Communista could take over the country without having to fight. Kay thought that this was most unlikely, but I have since learned from my mother that I was right.
Our wedding was like Jimmy and Betty’s wedding, which I have already described, except that this time I was the bunny, instead of being just a guest. I expected to be very proud of Kay, and very tender towards her, and to make a good speech and say these things gracefully. But when the time came, my mind seemed to have received an anaesthetic, and refused to function. This anaesthetic also affected my memory, because very few of the details are clear to me now. I can remember only Kay’s eyelashes resting on her cheeks as we knelt at the altar, and a small shaving cut on the priest’s chin, and somebody sneezing behind us. Then there is a picture of photographers’ flash bulbs, and too many people in Kay’s parents’ house, and myself standing up and speaking in Italian. I do not remember what I said, but Kay says everyone was very surprised, and that just before I sat down, I said in English. ‘There’s Joe. He hates weddings. Howyergoin’mateorright?’
I remember wondering what happened to Kay’s white dress, because I suddenly saw her coming towards me in a grey one. I remember her mother crying and myself telling her that my mother was probably crying too, because she was very fond of the cat. I remember her father’s wide grin as he slapped me on the back and gave me a whisky. I do not remember drinking the whisky, but I do remember wondering why we were crossing the harbour bridge in a car, instead of being down there on the blue water in a ferry. We were in an aeroplane when my mind cleared and I really saw Kay for the first time that day. Then I was proud and felt very tender towards her, but it was a bit late. However, she didn’t seem to mind, and told me that it had been a lovely wedding, and that I was quite mad. This I knew. She said we must not appear to be a honeymoon couple, so I looked out the window with interest at a part of Australia I had not previously seen. And the hostess brought us a parcel containing chocolates and cigarettes and a card which read: ‘To the newlyweds from the Captain and Crew’. Kay said that she supposed it was no use trying to hide the fact that we were just married, so we might as well enjoy it.
We spent two weeks in a rented cottage at Coff’s Harbour, and I finally learned to crack a wave, and was very proud of myself. Then we returned to our tent, and my bricklaying, and our week-end building. The neighbours had put flowers in the tent, and food in the ice chest, and came over to wish us ‘welcome home’. Kay cried a little because she said they were so kind. They are still so kind, and I am glad that I have been able to repay their kindness a little by helping them with their building problems. Because now I am no longer a bricklayer, but a true builder in partnership with Kay’s father. I look after the work on this side of the harbour, and he looks after the north side. He has taught me much, and I am very grateful to him. We are good friends.
Now it is Sunday morning again, and the summer is nearly finished. So is this story, my first in English. It has been written mostly at week-ends, since I finished building my home. And to-day the sun is shining again after weeks of much rain, as it was shining when I started to write early in the summer. I have just returned from our little church, and Kay is up there now, and I am supposed to be minding young Nino. He is inside the house somewhere. He toddles around and gets into much mischief, and falls over often, but if anything happens he will yell, and I know. He is good at yelling. We hope his sister Maria will be with us in June. I wanted her named Kay, but my wife says if she is a girl she is to be named Maria. So she will be named Maria.
It seems to me that in this story I have frequently deserted my subject, which was to have been the Australian language. But writing is like that. All kinds of thoughts come into your head, and find themselves on paper. For example, now I find myself thinking of young Nino, and how fortunate he is to have been born in this country. Probably he will never learn to speak Italian. Probably I will forget it myself, and will have difficulty conversing with my parents when we go to visit them. But there is one thing I know. I do not think that in this country he will ever be hungry. I have read and heard men speak of the time known as the ‘Depression’, when I was only a small boy in Italy. But I have not read or heard of any Australian actually dying of hunger. This cannot be said of Europe. It is a terrible thing to see people dying of hunger. I cannot imagine what must be the feelings of a parent to see his child dying of hunger. I think hunger is the most powerful motive force that can affect humans. In spite of my religion, I am not at all sure that I would not steal and kill if my children were starving. It is good to know that there is at least one country in the world where he who works will eat. And there is room for so many more people to come here to work and eat. I put the map of Italy on the map of Australia, and I think of the millions of people who live in little Italy, and I do not know how many millions could live in Australia. But it is very many millions. I am very fortunate that five years ago my boss sent me here, and if God is good, here I will remain.
I have been told by Australians who have what is known as ‘itchy feet’, that a man who decides to build a house on a piece of land and live there for the remainder of his life, is no better than a cabbage. But this is not true. A cabbage has no alternative, and I have. A cabbage is imprisoned in its plot of ground by the man who owns it, but I am free to leave mine, if I wish. That is the only true freedom. The freedom to go away, it is something that so many people in Europe and Asia do not have. If I were forced to remain here, and forbidden to go to Queensland, I would probably be violent in my efforts to go there. But because I am free to go there, I have never been, and am content to remain here. Human beings are very perverse. Shackle them and you have trouble. Leave them free, and they will shackle themselves. I can imagine the violent reactions from a pair of these Australian itchy feet if they were forbidden to return home. Anyone who tried to put fetters on the feet of Joe, Dennis or Pat would have real trouble. And these are not unusual men. They are typical. We have them in this suburb, too. Here I know Aub and Tony, Bob and Jacko, Addo, Simmo, Peto and Old Vic, and I would not like to be the man who tried to restrict their physical freedom. Nor would I like to try to bump on the head little Bertie with the big piano accordion, or Big Jim with the tiny ukulele. These were here at our home last Friday night. We did not invite them, but they were here.
They were here because in New South Wales now the hotels do not close until ten o’clock. This does not make sense, but it’s true. We have a hotel in our suburb. There is only one, but it is a very nice little hotel. The proprietor’s name is Micky. This always amuses me, because a man named Micky should be a little man with bright eyes like Bertie, and this Micky is a big man who is very expert at chucking people out if they become obnoxious. Of course, the only people who become obnoxious are visitors. None of our people ever become obnoxious. This is probably because they know how good Micky is at chucking out. O
ur hotel does not become crowded with too many people, as some hotels do, and it is very pleasant after a hot day’s work. Sometimes one of our neighbours offers to mind young Nino so that Kay and I can go out. Usually this is when some picture show is on, which we wish to see. But sometimes we are told that we are staying home too much, and we are ordered to go out. One of our neighbours is an elderly lady who gives orders very firmly and objecting to them is useless. So last Friday evening, which was very hot, we received an order, and went out.
We did not wish to see the picture show, and it was too hot to go into the City to see one there, so Kay asked me to take her to the local pub ‘for a couple of quiet beers’. She is well known there, because she often goes in for a quiet beer after she has done her shopping. She and Micky are good friends. So we went in for these quiet beers, and sat at one of the little tables amongst the cool ferns and flowers. And Aub and Tony came in and joined us, and we talked and sipped our beer, and it was very pleasant. Bob and his wife appeared, and Jacko and his wife, and other small tables were brought up to ours, and Bertie and Big Jim arrived. They all said they came out because it was too hot to stay home. So we had music, and quiet songs, and everybody else in the hotel joined with us. Until we heard Micky’s voice announcing that bed and breakfast cost nineteen and six, and we knew it was nearly ten o’clock. And Aub suggested that we go up to the club, and I thought Kay would be too tired, but she said she wasn’t.
So we went up to the club, ‘just for a little while’, and Addo and Peto and Simmo and Old Vic were there. It was getting late, and Kay and I said we had to go, because our neighbour was ‘minding the monster’ and she would be wanting to go to bed. And Addo said that in that case they would all come down to my place, and I could make coffee. So about twenty people got into cars and came to our place, and I made coffee for all, and Bertie and Big Jim played music, and the elderly lady was so excited she stayed and had coffee also. And Peto paid her a lot of attention with exaggerated gallantry, and gave her whisky and beer, of which there was plenty because everybody had brought something from the club. There were not enough chairs, but most of these were unoccupied anyway, as they seemed to prefer to sit on the floor. There were not enough coffee cups either, but they drank from glasses.
