The Sparrow Garden

by Peter Skrzynecki

  I start to reply. I want to explain. I want to help my father. Again the blonde cuts me short. She says, He must answer himself. That’s the rule. Now, we’ll try again. How — many — chickens — do — you — get — when — your — rooster — and — hens — breed?

  And what you have for breakfast last week? Tell me! My mother has whipped around from her interview and her voice cleaves the room’s atmosphere like an axe. She fixes her eyes to the blonde’s and will not release them until she has humiliated her. I know that tone of voice. I have seen that look many times. Well, can you not talk? she asks.

  Madame, I am only doing my job.

  No, you are making fun of my husband. That is not your job … I work for professional people, business man and doctor in Strathfield. I see how people do job properly. Shame on you! She shakes her finger at the blonde.

  The man who was interviewing my mother leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. He winks at me. Smiles. My palms are wet, drenched in sweat.

  He must answer the question, the woman says.

  Must not must, my mother shoots back. She has stood up and approaches her. Must go to toilet when must.

  Sit down, please.

  He has one rooster and twelve chooks. Sometimes we have ten chickens, sometimes twenty. We have plenty fresh eggs. Would you like some?

  No, thank you. I’d like you to sit down and mind your own business.

  He is my business. My son is my business. You make fun of a good man who works hard because you think you are clever. Come to Poland when you are forty-four and see how quickly you learn language.

  That’s my mother’s trump card, her parting bullet. She makes her point irrefutably. The blonde knows she doesn’t have a legitimate answer. She says nothing but doesn’t lower her eyes. There’s a lump in her throat. She swallows hard.

  Okay, says the man, that’ll do. Thank you, Mr and Mrs Skrzynecki — he mispronounces the name — thank you very much for coming in. You, too, sonny, you did splendidly for your father. He stands up, smiles at me, comes over and pats me on the head. My, you’re a fine boy …

  As long ago in time as that encounter was, it remained fresh in my mother’s memory until the end of her life. We spoke about it, she never without bitterness at the mockery that was made of her husband — and my father — by someone she referred to as a little bitch.

  There is nothing more to browse through among the papers in the two wallets, nothing that I haven’t seen before, nothing that interests me at the moment.

  The recollection of the incident with the interviewing woman reminds me of stories my parents told about the Displaced Persons’ camps in Germany, stories of the numerous queues and interviews they were subjected to before having their application for emigration to Australia approved.

  When they were moved around Germany by the Allies after the war, when they lived in transit — on trucks, buses, trains, a ship that was nothing more than a converted troop carrier — did my parents ever dream of the house and street they would move to one day?

  I doubt that what I learnt in later years of Regents Park and its history would have been of great interest to them, though they would have listened to the facts. Despite its regal name there has never been anything high-class about Regents Park. It always was, and still is, a working-class suburb. The suburb’s name originated from a property built by a Mr Peck and a Mr Jackson in 1897. They chose the name from that part of the north-west of London which had once been a favourite area of the Prince Regent, who was later to become George VI. Various subdivisions of land were made earlier in the 1800s and at first the suburb was called Sefton Park, but the arrival of the railway in 1914, to what is still a junction, connected Sef-ton and Chester Hill on the Liverpool side, and Birrong and Yagoona on the Bankstown side. In May 1929 the suburb finally became Regents Park.

  Neither our family nor any of those arriving with us in the early 1950s were aware of our suburb’s association with London or the Prince Regent. Nobody knew anything of local history. It was a suburb overgrown with bushland. However, it was well situated for transport, for buses to Auburn and Lidcombe, for trains to and from the city, to and from other suburbs where other homes were being built. There was work in factories, in warehouses, on the railways, in shops, for the Water Board. You could buy meat from a butcher called Jock in Amy Street, a big man with black curly hair who waved to all the kids who walked past his shop on the way to and from school. A baker from Lidcombe called with bread once a week, or it could be bought in one of the many corner shops. A milkman brought milk in a cart drawn by a Clydesdale. He would click his tongue and the horse would follow him up the street, stopping exactly outside the house where the milkman was. The toilet can was emptied by the “dunny man”, who drove a “night cart” that smelt offensively when it was parked out in the street in summer. Land was cheap. Demand for manual labour was strong. Men, women and children bonded in an environment that was raw, unsophisticated, unsullied, that challenged their expectations of themselves and their future.

  Regents Park became my home suburb until I moved away in 1967 to my first job, a teaching position in a one-teacher school at Jeogla in north-western New South Wales. Strangely, the names of streets have stayed with me, stayed alive, imprinted with an ink that all the rain fallen since 1967 hasn’t been able to wash away.

  The Streets of Regents Park

  The streets of Regents Park

  run in the same direction

  that they did when I was a child —

  when I played in them

  and the suburb was a bushland

  of wattles and paperbarks.

  Amy Street still joins

  the suburb, running from east to west.

  On the Sefton side, where I lived,

  Clapham Road joins Park

  at the top of the pipeline bridge

  and continues to Chester Hill.

  Those were streets of dust and gravel

  from where I got my bearings

  no matter where I had to go —

  school, play, swimming at Banky Baths,

  the pictures at Lidcombe:

  leading away but also bringing me home.

  I belonged to a “gang” of children

  who played alongside Duck Creek

  and its paddocks of paspalum —

  in those long golden summer afternoons

  that were always never-ending.

  We built bonfires that burnt past midnight.

  Houses, shops, factories,

  an influx of new immigrants

  now lay claim to the streets —

  witnesses to the lives of my parents

  and the generations before them

  who made the suburb what it is today.

  The streets of Regents Park

  still run through my blood

  even though I don’t live there anymore —

  leaving was like walking into another room

  and discovering, afterwards,

  there was no lock on the door.

  Eels

  Let’s go down to New Africa, says Leon. Let’s explore.

  Okay, says Stefan.

  Yeah, says Ziggy.

  The girls, Veronica and Rhonda, agree.

  “New Africa” is our place of mystery, of discovery, set deep in the bushland, beyond our homes. We go there to spend time together even if we only search through rubbish that’s been dumped along the banks of Duck Creek or we shoot arrows at a rabbit we might startle, or someone might even see a snake or a blue-tongue lizard that goes aaahhh when it tries to frighten us with its fat blue tongue.

  Six little bodies run on twelve legs like those belonging to ferrets or corgis, short and swift, until they run out of breath and must slow down or stop, not caring who sees them or how far they’ve come from their homes. It’s still daylight. Maybe it’s the school holidays or maybe it’s the weekend. Who remembers or cares? They are all caught up in the delirium of the moment, this special time t
ogether, when they are all brothers and sisters. Sometimes they quarrel and fight, they “gang up” in twos and threes, but in the end they will make up and share their lollies, their fish and chips, their chewing gum, their bottles of Pepsi or GI lime. In their own minds they know there is nothing they cannot do — even though they don’t know the meaning of the word “heroes”. They don’t know whether they’ll become carpenters, doctors, prostitutes, electricians, school teachers or receptionists. They haven’t learnt about heart attacks that kill, about madness or the distress of broken marriages, about venereal disease or the ravages of alcohol on the body.

  They point bows and arrows at one another. Those that don’t have cap guns or pop guns cock their thumbs and point their forefingers, taking aim at each other.

  You’re dead!

  No, I got you first. Bang! Bang!

  Quick, get down. Here comes another arrow!

  They slow down, breathless.

  There’s someone coming towards them.

  Mrs Daphne Cutler and her horse. Her old nag Dolly.

  Mrs Cutler lived directly across the road from us, with her husband, cranky Bill, and a boarder, kind, red-faced Charley White. Once I visited their house with my mother and saw that Charley’s quarters were an old tin-and-fibro shed. Just one big room with a bed, a wardrobe, a dresser, a chair and a table. Between the shed and the house was the laundry. Further up the yard were chooks and geese and ducks. There was also an enclosure for Dolly. Like my father, Charley would “roll his own” and he told us he liked to be left alone. In Dolly’s yard was an open shed with a tin roof. There, Mrs Cutler brought her food and water. People complained about the smell that came from the yard and the council promised it would be cleaned out; but as long as they lived there, nothing was ever done about it.

  We were frightened of Mrs Cutler because she disliked us. Not just us but our parents and all migrants, even though there were more “New Australians” than “other Australians” living in Mary Street. She would wave angrily at us, call us names like wogs and dagoes and threaten us with extermination because we were stealing her country.

  Stick together, says Ziggy.

  Get out of her way, says Leon.

  We know how much she loves that horse and would never let anything happen to her — even though grownups said Dolly should be put down. Dolly’s eyes weep. Her hindquarters are scrawny and stick out like they are carved from wood. She walks with her head lowered. Her mane is matted with grass.

  Get outta my way, you kids — go on, all of yers.

  Get out of her way? What else could we do? We stood aside, watching her pass. It was as if Queen Elizabeth II had arrived in New Africa.

  Mrs Cutler carries a bucket and shovel. We can see the horse manure in the bucket as she walks past.

  Let’s go down to Granville, Stefan calls out.

  Or Parramatta.

  Or Sydney Harbour.

  But whenever we start our explorations, something always happens that stops us from reaching Granville and we never really go further than to the back of Auburn.

  I reckon we might meet a bogeyman, Ziggy says.

  A bogeyman wouldn’t scare me, replies Stefan. I’d get my dog Blackie to bite him.

  Your dog’s not here, I say.

  She’d come if I whistled.

  Go on, taunts Veronica.

  So Stefan whistles until he’s blue in the face and saliva stops running out of his mouth. She must be asleep, he says. Don’t matter. She’d bite him if she was here.

  By now we are deep into New Africa, approaching one of the tunnels that lead into the tangled undergrowth.

  It’s like being in a Tarzan movie, says Ziggy.

  That feeling of being in total darkness comes over me, that hint of the memory of first being alive. I am not scared but I start to feel nervous about going on. I slow down and drop back.

  Hey, what’s wrong with him? asks Leon.

  Nothing, says Rhonda. She skips over and takes me by the hand. Follow me and you’ll be safe. She’s the only girl in our group who is not from a migrant background. She and her parents were already living in Mary Street when the rest of us moved in. Like another Australian family, the McAlpines who live in Clapham Road, the Brandy family has welcomed us.

  I’m not scared, I say.

  Then what’s wrong? asks Leon. You’re acting pretty strange.

  Nothing! I call back. Disengaging myself from Rhonda’s hand, I run on.

  Ziggy sprints ahead and outdistances us all. I’ll kill ’em! I’ll save the world from all the mad people!

  There’s a light in the distance, small patches of sky shining through the tops of trees where their branches criss-cross like stitching on a blanket. Birdsongs are coming through more clearly, and that means we’re getting to the end of the track. Ahead lies Duck Creek and the pipeline it flows under.

  Where’ll we go? asks Leon.

  Straight ahead, says Stefan. Follow me.

  We made it! Ziggy screams. Told you I’d kill all the enemies along the way. They were mad but I was madder! He leaps into the air and crosses his legs in a scissors motion, hitting the ground and falling over from the effort. We ignore him. Sometimes we tell him that he’s mad because he thinks there are people in the world who want to hurt him. I have seen him under a table in his house and refusing to come out when his mother calls him. Nothing will coax him out of a hiding place and he cries and begs people to go away or he will kill them. We play and pretend when we are “killing baddies”, but for Ziggy it is real. He swears that one day he will own a real gun and then no one will threaten him. I’ll get them first, he says.

  I wish I had an ice block, says Rhonda.

  Me too, says Veronica.

  The girls are very close friends. Veronica has dark brown hair and says that one day she’s going to marry Stefan and live in Hollywood where the film stars live. Rhonda has blonde hair and says she’s going to marry a rich man and live in Kings Cross, wherever that is.

  Ziggy blurts out, Let’s go back. I’m going home.

  I’m not going back, says Stefan.

  Me neither, I say.

  Me neither, says Leon.

  I am, Veronica and Rhonda reply together.

  See you all later, Ziggy says, lingering to see if anyone else will follow. When there is no response, he whips back to the track and disappears.

  The two girls hesitate, look at each other, and follow him.

  We’ve got ice blocks at home, Rhonda calls back.

  And we’ve got cordial, calls Veronica.

  Let them go, says Stefan.

  Yeah, adds Leon. That Ziggy’s always been a sissy.

  Stefan, Leon and I walk slowly. Not much else is said because we’re all thinking the same thing: should we go back or go further? And how far? The further the better, because later we can boast about our exploits, however small.

  Gee, I’m thirsty, says Stefan.

  Me too, I say.

  We can drink creek water, says Leon. Like the Indians do.

  You’ll get sick, I say. There’s taddies in there — and guppies. They live in that kind of slime.

  Nah, says Leon. I’ll go where the water’s clean. He jumps down the creek bank and approaches a spot where there’s a recess in the clay. Confidently, as if he’s been doing it every day of his life, he bends down and scoops up water in cupped hands. See, it’s clear. He throws back his head and drinks. As he does, he is screwing up his face, closing his mouth, and letting water run down his chin. Ah, that was good, he lies. You should both try it!

  Bull! yells Stefan. You spat it out.

  Did not!

  Stefan and I climb down. We lie on our stomachs and splash water over our faces and necks, down our arms. Let’s get into the shade, I suggest.

  The day has become hotter. We glisten with sweat and creek water.

  I wonder if Rhonda and Veronica are eating their ice blocks yet? asks Leon.

  Who cares? I say, throwing a stone across the
creek and watching it disappear into tall grass.

  We continue lying in the shadow of a paperbark, a large tree whose roots have grown towards the edge of the creek bank and right through it; they are black and protrude like the gnarled limbs of a subterranean creature trying to break out from the earth. Some of the roots are thick, others thin, almost wispy. They are struggling towards water and light.

  Above us, in the tree’s crown, birds are fluttering turtledoves, with that unmistakable soft “coo”. One, then another, flies off. I shield my eyes, trying to locate their platform nest of twigs.

  There’s a dove’s nest, I say, pointing into the tree.

  Let’s find it and break the eggs, says Stefan.

  Nah, says Leon, that’s boring. We’ve done that before.

  Why don’t we fall asleep and when we wake up the world might have changed. Like Rip van Winkle did, I suggest.

  That’s stupid, says Stefan. Always the rational one, he sees no point in dreaming, in wasting time on illusions. Some day he might become a scientist or a doctor.

  The three of us lie there, lost in the space of trees and water, bulrushes, cobwebs, hearing birds and insect sounds in the grasses and branches. We have no concept of time passing or purpose. We are neither grass nor stone, soil nor water, yet we might be existing as all of them, in a suspended state, in a kind of dream world.

  What was that? Leon calls out. Sshh, listen!

  We lie there, unmoving.

  I can’t hear anything, says Stefan.

  That’s a peewit, I say.

  Not that, says Leon … Listen. In the creek.

  From the creek comes a soft but rapid splashing sound, again, again. A sliding sound from out in the middle, where the water is deepest, and it’s getting closer. It begins to rush backwards and forwards, then towards the bank, becoming lost among water cress and bulrushes.

  What’s that? I ask.

  It’s like a small submarine — look how it cuts through the water. Stefan points and we stare at the movement. There are several of these things rushing, whipping about, almost like a game’s being played.

  Eels! Leon calls out. This must be where the eels live.