by Peter Twohig
Not only did Aunty Queenie live in South Melbourne, my favourite suburb and the home of the Mighty Swans, but she lived in the same street as Channel Seven, my favourite TV station, so it was always exciting paying her a visit.
Aunty Queenie lived in a large house that was more like some kind of palace, and had the most beautiful interior I had ever seen. Her living room was filled with lounges covered with red cushions with gold tassels at the corners, and there were drapes all over the place. The walls were covered with three kinds of paintings: pictures of flowers, pictures of children standing beside things, and pictures of ladies with leaves in their hair, wearing very long nighties. The floor was covered in thick rugs that almost reached the walls, and everywhere there were plants in brass pots — hundreds of them.
In the hall there were huge photos in polished wooden frames of relatives who had probably died, the sort of photos you’d see in every house. I liked to study them whenever I was there. Some of the wedding pictures had men in them wearing army uniforms. I once asked her if she was in any of the pictures, and she laughed.
‘I am in a few of them, but you’ll never find me. I was just a girl.’
It sounded like a puzzle, but it was one I couldn’t solve. I was collecting more puzzles, I swear, than Bernard’s Magic Shop.
‘Did you know my mum during the war?’ I asked Aunty Queenie, looking at the army uniforms again.
She suddenly became still, and looked at me hard, as if she could see trouble coming: in other words, just like one of my real aunties.
‘Mmm, yes I did —’
I felt her stop herself, as if she’d already said too much.
‘Was she really an army lieutenant?’
‘She was, one of the very first, you know. We were all very proud of her. I know your granddad was. Why do you ask?’
‘I can never get Mum to talk about it. Did she fight the Germans or the Japs?’
I couldn’t see it myself, but you never know. I mean, Mum in a bad mood would have given them a run for their money. Aunty Queenie didn’t laugh at the question; she didn’t even smile, but I could tell she was remembering, because Granddad had told me how to spot that in someone’s look.
‘No, love, she didn’t fight, she did something else. Actually, I’m not sure what it was meself.’
Her face was suddenly pained, as if she was going to cry, so I changed the subject.
‘Never mind. I ’spect she’ll tell me one of these days. So which one of these people in the pictures are you?’ I asked, pointing at a pretty lady.
She just laughed and wagged a finger at me.
Granddad says I have a gift.
Aunty Queenie’s whole house was gorgeous, not just the living room, and I was free to explore as if it was all mine, while Granddad and Aunty Queenie visited upstairs. There was only one thing about going to Aunty Queenie’s that bothered me, and that was the way she would grab me and squash me to her chest every time she saw me — I never knew what to do with my hands. Also, you had to be careful that you didn’t get your eye poked out by a sharp brooch, usually an orange and red one. But I had to admit, Aunty Queenie always smelt like a million bucks.
On this day, I decided to go for a wander around upstairs, forgetting that Aunty Queenie had once told Tom and me not to go up there. I remembered at the top of the stairs, and was just turning to go back down when I heard Aunty Queenie, who always spoke as if the other person was in the next suburb, talking to Granddad about Tom and me, Melbourne’s favourite topic of conversation at the moment.
‘I can’t stand to see him like this, Arch. He looks so lonely and sad. It’s breaking my heart.’
I could tell it was the turps talking, as Aunty Queenie enjoyed a glass or two every five minutes.
‘He’ll get over it. It takes longer with twins, that’s all.’
‘Well I don’t like it. And what’s Jean been doin’ about it? Bugger all — I’m right, aren’t I? I know she’s your daughter, love, but she’s got a real hard streak in ’er —’
‘She got it from the Magees. They were hard bastards. All except Ruthie — and Billy, of course. I still get nervous if I see a Magee coming. They haven’t forgotten, you know. Long memories, the Irish.’
‘Jesus, love, you sound like it happened yesterday, but it must have been thirty years ago.’
‘As far as I’m concerned it did happen yesterday.’
‘You always knew boxing was a mug’s game, Arch, and you’re not a mug. So you were better off out of it.’
‘Yeah. But don’t you worry about the boy. I’ve got my eye on ’im. Anyway, he’s got the Taggerty knack for survival.’
‘Too bad his brother didn’t have it … Oh, I’m sorry, Arch …’
‘No, you’re right, love: Tom never had it. But he wasn’t afraid of anything, that kid. It killed him, though. And every time I see his brother …’
I left, though if I wasn’t feeling so sad I’d have been tempted to stroll in and say: ‘Hey, Granddad, what did happen thirty years ago? Come on, now, don’t be shy.’ I think Aunty Queenie would have laughed at that, because it was just the sort of thing Tom would’ve done. Still, a kid doesn’t like unanswered questions, even though they are the most common kind.
When it was time for us to leave, Aunty Queenie put her arm around me and said to me quietly: ‘If anything ever happens to you, or to Granddad, and you’ve got nowhere to go, just come here.’ It made me wonder what Granddad had been telling her, and I got a fright, but straight after that it made me feel good. None of my real relatives had ever said that to me; I guess they had my number. Still, I made a mental note.
The map was to have protected me from wandering back to the Murder House, but it would have been no good to me when I found Old Man Garnet nearly dead. Then, at least, I had been able to carry out my sworn duty as an explorer. I had done what I could; I had turned off the water and gone for help.
This is what I was thinking as I worked on the map the next day. I added a few streets, and tried to keep them looking okay compared to each other by making my own street the shortest one on the map, and all the others longer and wider or thinner, depending on whether they were roads or lanes. When they were finished, I marked my first journey in blood-red broken lines, and the second in Bedford-green broken lines, in honour of Mr G’s van. I then drew the tannery, the lumber yard, the tramyard and the factories. I was able to make a particularly faithful drawing of Mr Garnet’s Bedford, as there was a picture of one in the paper. On the map I showed the Bedford’s number plate: LL 213 — it always reminded me of Lois Lane. Mr Garnet was hard to draw, because he had had a frightened look on his face. But at least I was spared the pain of drawing a purple face as I’d had to with the woman. That is no way to treat a purple pencil.
Now it was Saturday again, the last one for the September holidays. So I decided to return to my explorations. I reckoned there wasn’t much chance of me getting involved in another murder, so all in all I was feeling optimistic. Besides, I had to find a way to make myself feel better. One of my little tricks for cheering myself up was to have a conversation out loud with Tom, with me doing both voices, but while it always made me feel good for a few seconds, it usually ended up making me sad, so that I’d have to stop. Today I found myself doing it automatically, probably because I needed cheering up so badly.
‘What d’yer feel like doin’, Tommytoes?’
‘Joinin’ the navy, young feller.’
This was one of Tom’s favourite games, mine being one where we joined the army. We never worked it out. It was like ‘Who’s On First?’
‘What, you? What would you be, a cabin boy or somethin’?’
‘I’d be a captain. Of a submarine. The HMAS Biggles. Ha!’
‘You can’t have that. Give me the army any day. I’d be a general.’
‘Then I’d be an admiral.’
‘Then I’d be a field marshal. I’d kill heaps of Japs.’
‘Don’t rave.’
> ‘Don’t you rave.’
‘I could sail away, and not come back.’
‘What, to Tasmania? You might run into Uncle Maury.’
‘I could rescue him.’
‘I don’t think Mum’d like that.’
‘Neither would Dad.’
‘Best you leave him there.’
‘Yeah, bugger ’im. What’s so good about the army, anyway?’
‘Free grub.’
‘We’ve got free grub already.’
‘Yeah. But —’
‘Yeah. I like your new bag — where’d you get it?’
‘It used to be Granddad’s fishin’ bag.’
‘Oh yeah — course.’
Then the rot set in.
So I was off for another wander, like Hume and Hovell. It takes a fair bit to put me off exploring, and now I felt like I had to prove to myself that I could do it alone.
I started out by wandering off up Church Street, feeling the thudding under the footpath as the ponderous trams whined and banged against the gaps in the rails, and noticing that the shadows were growing shorter — that would go into the map. The bottom end of Church Street had no churches, but it did have its own kind of buildings. Apart from the cardboard factory, and a factory that made cream biscuits, and another that made false arms and legs, I saw a gloomy doorway that led to a set of dark, red-carpeted stairs beside a brass plaque that said ‘Dr Abraham Berlin, Dental Surgeon’ — that would go on the map. I saw a shop that sold haberdashery, and smelt like the inside of Mum’s wardrobe. I saw a dark garage for khaki trucks that smelt of grease. I stepped inside and went for a walk around this place, and spoke to a mechanic wearing khaki overalls. He was sitting on the footplate of the truck, having a cuppa.
‘Are you in the army?’ I asked, wondering if soldiers fixed trucks.
‘What does it look like?’
He had me there.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ I asked, having a critical look at the truck, which had shed lots of panels and black bits.
‘Buggered if I know, mate,’ said the mechanic. ‘It was goin’ all right yesterday.’
I noticed that the truck had a plate on the back with a picture of a yellow rising sun and two crossed swords, the same as the one Dad wore on his army hat. That was definitely going on the map.
As I still hadn’t been thrown out, I went for another walk around the workshop, trying to look as if I was used to being there, and examined the parts that had been removed from the truck. When I reached the far end of the place, I saw in the floor something that was worth half a dozen trucks: a trapdoor. I couldn’t see the soldier, so I pulled on the brass-ring handle, and lifted it up.
‘Careful you don’t fall in, mate,’ I heard him say from under the truck.
I could see right away what was down there. It was the canal, as we called it, though its real name was Dynon Creek. This was one of those creeks that they had just forgotten about and gone ahead and built roads and buildings right on top of, so it was still down there somewhere, sloshing along in the dark like the Lazy River in the song:
Up a lazy river, how happy we could be
Up a lazy river with me …
The canal was full of old car parts and rags. It was a long way down, and I had to grip the handle tightly to stop my fright.
‘What’s all that junk down there?’ I asked.
‘What d’yer mean junk? That’s where we keep our spare parts,’ said the soldier, emerging from behind the truck with a straight face. ‘And you better close it before the sergeant comes in and chucks the both of us down there.’
‘Yeah, righto,’ I said, thinking hard. I had no idea the buildings around here were so interesting.
Next, I went past a business that made signs, and had a sign in the window of the glass front door that said: ‘Sign-writer wanted. Apply within.’ It would have been far more interesting if it had said: ‘Sign-writer wanted. Reward, £100.’ I reckoned Blarney Barney would have been right onto that. On the other hand, the Lone Ranger would have caught him for free. I wasn’t so sure about Tonto — nobody was.
I went past the Prince of Wales Hotel and saw a few familiar faces in the public bar, which smelt like beery burps. Then I went past the Miners’ Institute, which Dad told me had nothing to do with miners, the Mechanics’ Institute, which he said had nothing to do with mechanics, and the Temperance Institute, which he said had nothing much to do with temperance. I could see that unless you were particularly careful, people might laugh at your sign. I resolved, right there, outside the Temperance Institute, that my map would tell the truth, no matter what people thought. It would be no laughing matter.
As I walked I looked up the hill in the direction of Bridge Road and tried to find the twin red domes of the Gala Theatre, my favourite place on earth. The Gala had red carpet that smelt like Luna Park, and dim red lights in the foyer, like the lights of a spaceship caught in a space fog. Inside the Gala, your footsteps made no sound, and when you spoke, you could hardly hear the words. The usherette who took your ticket wore the same colours as the outside of the place, maroon and gold. And if you came in late, she used her torch to find you a seat in the dark, even if you were only a kid. The last time I was there I found a zac on the floor, which meant extra lollies at interval. That was the first time I’d ever been paid to go to the flicks. The picture was Old Yeller, ‘the story of a boy and his dog’, it said in the trailer. And it was. A lot of kids cried when Old Yeller died, and I cried too. I knew everyone would think I was crying over Old Yeller, but I was really crying about Tom … and me.
The funny thing about Old Yeller was that Fess Parker was in it, and he had been in my favourite movie of all time, Davy Crockett, which I had also seen at the Gala. All the best things happen at the Gala. I saw Macka McGuire get thrown out for pulling some girl’s hair and then swearing — it was the swearing that did it, I reckon. He’d been asking for that for ages. That was a lovely arvo.
In the time it took me to walk to the next corner I had that Saturday afternoon all over again, including the movie and half of the walk home — and I met myself right at the spot I had arrived at, if you see what I mean.
A few yards around the corner, where you can see down into the open part of the canal, I leaned over the rail and sang, loud enough to hear the echo, a bit of the Old Yeller song.
Old Yeller was a mongrel, an ugly lop-eared mongrel
Fancy-free without a family tree …
Reminded me of me.
I was just about to shoot down Hastings Street, which was nothing more than a lane with a narrow footpath on one side, when I heard someone shout my name, and I turned around and saw, hanging out of a tram that was stuck behind a turning beer truck, Johnno Johnson, my fellow Commando, and the only boy in my class who could eat three sticks of chalk and still spit. Change of plan. I dodged a blue Bedford ute full of highchairs then stepped onto the tram’s running board and grabbed the handrail.
‘G’day. Where’re you off to?’
‘Home,’ says Johnno, unnecessarily loud.
‘Strewth, I’m not deaf or anything. Hey, you don’t live down here.’
‘Shh. I told the clippie I haven’t got enough money to get home.’
I could see the sense in that. We were always pulling clippies’ legs to get free rides. I once told a clippie I was the driver’s kid. She said: ‘All right then, say something in Italian.’ So I say ‘Buon Natale’, which I’d picked up at Luigi’s. Then I explained: ‘It means “Merry Christmas”.’
‘Yeah, pull the other leg. It could mean bloody anything,’ she says.
‘You ask my dad then,’ I say.
So she goes down to the front and opens the driver’s door and sticks her head in, and I can see her asking the driver, who’s probably called something ending in ‘o’, how to say Merry Christmas in Italian, so I pull the cord, forcing him to stop at the next corner, and jump off. The clippie gives me one of those looks that could kill, and as the tram gets
going I wave to the driver’s mirror and yell ‘Ciao, Papa’, just the way Luigi does when I’m over at his place.
That fixed her.
‘So where’re you off to?’ says Johnno.
‘I dunno. Where’s this thing going?’
‘Buggered if I know.’
‘Well, here’s my stop,’ I say, even though we’ve only gone a few hundred yards. ‘Pull that cord for us, will ya?’
Just before the tram stopped I swung out in front of the traffic with my trademark getting-off movement and dropped to the road. Looking back, it might have been better if I’d stuck with Johnno and helped him brighten up the clippie’s day.
I had arrived at the next street down towards the river from my own street, the street where Douggie Quirk lived. I walked right past his house, as he was staying with his cousin in Dromana for a few days. Lucky bugger. A few houses further down was a narrow footpath between two side fences. Through here I went, expecting to come to yet another lane or street, but instead coming out in the front yard of the worst-looking house I had ever seen. Its owner had made no attempt to keep up appearances, because no one could see it anyway, and the yard, which was huge by local standards, was full of rubbish and junk. Normally I would’ve congratulated myself on finding a place like this, but for one thing: it smelt awful, the kind of smell that only people can make.
In the centre of the yard was a large tangled black tree with drooping leaves, a kind of wattle. It was the only natural thing in sight. The house was weatherboard, and if there had ever been paint on it, it had flaked off long ago to reveal sad, curling grey timbers. The front entrance had no door at all, I discovered, and the windows were broken. There were some rough curtains crookedly hung, and on the porch there were a few faded toys. Inside, I could hear Kay Starr singing ‘Side by Side’ on the wireless somewhere towards the back of the house. I peeked around the side and crossed the yard and peeked down the other side. I was looking for signs of a dog; you know: bones, kennel … dog. But the coast was clear. So I peeked in the door, because the place seemed to be deserted apart from Kay Starr lazily doing her thing.
