Box Office Browning

by Peter Corris

  Here, I was lucky. The dinner was a heavy affair - soup, roast and pudding – the sort of thing Elizabeth loved and which was guaranteed to bring out the glutton in her. The travelling had sharpened her appetite and, as I was keyed up and not hungry, she managed to score food from my plates as well as her own. We had a bottle of claret and there again I was abstemious and let her do the work. After brandy and the sort of weak, milky coffee which was standard in Australia in those days, Elizabeth was ready to continue her sleep.

  We didn't talk much during the meal; the dining room was about half full which contributed noise and smoke to the air. I was smoking furiously and Elizabeth had a couple of cigarettes too, which I suppose she felt safe to do so far from home. It all helped to lower Elizabeth's eyelids. She was practically asleep when we got back to the room but I had to fight off an amorous advance before I could get her settled into the bed, pillows plumped and the lights down low.

  'Don't be long, Richard,' she murmured.

  'No, my love, I won't be long.' And I wasn't, not if you measure time on the generous scale appropriate to human history.

  I hadn't meant to go within a mile of the place. I was bound for the docks which I knew like a prisoner knows his cell. I'd spent untold hours playing around the wharves when I was kid, by myself and in company. I knew ways in and out, up and down, hiding places, storage sheds – the works. But something happened as I turned into the road that ran up behind the beach. I felt a pull, and a counter pull, and mixed feelings that I couldn't get rid of in any other way than by turning down another street and driving along the dark road that I'd travelled so many times before.

  The family home was a sprawling colonial-style house set in generous grounds overlooking Newcastle beach. The house was bought for prestige not practicality. I was the only one of the children who ever lived in it, really. My two sets of twin sisters were married and away early and my brother Tom lobbed in only occasionally to dry out and touch Mother for some money to start on his next binge. My parents and I, along with a cook and a maid, rattled around in the house. There were a couple of small cottages in the grounds, quite fit for humans, which the dogs slept in.

  I pulled up a hundred yards from the gate and, moving like an automaton, I got down and walked towards the house. I don't know what I expected – my father, lying on his deathbed near a window so that I could peer in at his waxen face? My mother, sitting by a lamp, sobbing over her bible? Did I see myself as the prodigal son, forgiven, understood, restored to my proper place in the world? I don't know, all I can say is that the experience was nothing like that.

  I walked up the gravel drive. Suddenly there was a howling and baying and the sound of rattling chains and gnashing teeth. I had forgotten the dogs; my father always kept several packs of them chained up at points around the house. When he was sober he'd rush out when the dogs barked, slip them and let them chase the intruder (if the damn things weren't barking at a rat or possum). When drunk he'd stagger out onto the verandah and discharge a shotgun into the night. Very disruptive, either way. This night he was very drunk: I froze as I saw the door open. A wild figure, fully dressed but with his collar askew and his shirt hanging from his trousers, lurched out of the door. Framed against the light as he was, I could see that he'd put on more flesh; he almost filled the doorway.

  'Bastards!' he bellowed. 'Be off!'

  Boom! Boom! Two barrels out into the still night air – I told you he was very drunk. The dogs screamed and pulled on their chains.

  'Wild Bill' Browning put his hand into his pocket; he broke open the shotgun and re-loaded. I moved off the path; perhaps a mistake, perhaps the movement caught his eye.

  Boom! Boom! I felt and heard the shot whistle past me, inches away. I dropped to the ground but I still stared up at the house.

  'William, William, come in. There's nothing there.'

  My mother's tiny figure appeared in the doorway. She tugged at his sleeve and drew him back into the house. The dogs let go a few more howls and then fell silent. The door closed. A light which had come on around the side of the house, possibly in the maid's room, went out. I slithered back on the grass a few yards, got up cautiously and crept away towards the gate, staying off the gravel.

  Nothing had changed in six years. My mother was still lying to herself and everyone else as the only strategy for survival she knew. My father, at fifty odd, looked to have at least that long ahead of him. Had I gone to the door he would have greeted me with the butt of the shotgun, if not the barrels.

  I went back to my car and drove to the docks.

  Port Hunter was a complex arrangement of channels and lights and docking places; vessels of different tonnage were piloted to different berths and there was a variety of tying-up places according to cargo: coal, grain, fruit, everything that could be sucked from the earth was exported.

  The Sternwood's cargo was wool so I knew where the ship would be docked. I left the Austin in a dark lane a mile or so from the docks and walked through the streets carrying my valise and with my heart pounding hard. It was a very risky enterprise, you see. You don't see? Well, neither did I until I thought it out on that one mile walk. If I'd thought it out clearly before I might have looked for another plan. If I got clean away, that is, went undiscovered until I was out to sea, all would be well. The general rule in such cases was: work your passage or pay for it and be landed at the first port of call. I had enough gold with me to pay my way and a valid passport that should get me ashore without trouble in the US.

  But, if I were caught before the ship sailed there'd be hell to pay. Elizabeth would blow the whistle on me; my assault on Henderson would come to light. Christ! I stopped dead in my tracks as a terrible thought struck me. They might send me to Long Bay where there might be some old lag with a long memory stretching back to the Farnol episode. Old Barton's evil face came towards me in the gloom and I could smell his breath, foul with tooth decay. I considered going back but the prospect there was grim – Elizabeth and a meeting with my father. Not to be endured. I squared my shoulders and tramped on.

  The dockyard was surrounded by a high fence but there were poorly mounted gates, badly mended holes, drains running underneath and a hundred other ways to get inside. The Sternwood, as a wool carrier, would be at Queen's Wharf and I knew a spot adjacent where a gate that appeared to be rusted solidly into place would open a foot or more if you knew how to push it.

  A near-full moon emerged from behind clouds as I skirted around the fence to locate the gate. By its light I could see that the perimeter had had little maintenance since the days of my youth. A new post here and a strand or two of wire there, but nothing extensive. I moved cautiously, keeping to the shadows thrown by piles of timber, bond stores and other buildings inside and outside the docks. I was close now, close enough to hear the water slapping the wharves and the creaking of planks and hawsers. I could smell the salt water and that's a smell I've always rated highly, up there with good brandy, Havana cigars and French perfume.

  The gate was in the same condition as when I'd last seen it. I crouched down and looked for signs of activity within. Nothing. The wool ships, unlike general cargo vessels, were safe from pilferers and if dock routine hadn't changed there would be a midnight and dawn patrol, nothing more. I went through the gate and scuttled across some railway tracks which would have been a hazard in the uncertain light had I not known exactly where they were, and gained the cover of a shed. It was a strange feeling, like being thrown back into the schoolyard. I remembered games and companions – Robert Armstrong, swarming up anchor chains like a monkey, Ben Stafford with catlike eyes, killing rats with a slingshot, Kevin Kearney falling from the wharf and coming up covered in oil, slick and black as a nigger.

  I worked my way closer to the dock; there were four ships tied up opposite the long, low sheds where the wool was stored. My luck was in. The Sternwood was fourth in line, furthest from the dim lights that burned along the dock between the sheds and the ships. There would be a wat
ch for'rard or aft but not both and, at this time of a quiet night, asleep or close to it. Along behind the sheds to the ship. She was a medium-sized, rather grubby looking vessel, riding high at the wharf as the tide rose but not too high, as she was fully loaded. I had an hour before the crew would turn out for the early departure.

  The moon was obscured. I waited for it to shine clear again and when it did I caught a glint on metal and saw a slight movement in the stern. The watchman tipped dregs from a tin cup over the side, stretched and yawned. His head fell back into shadow. I could see an iron ladder at the bow of the ship which ran down to within a few feet of the wharf. Now was the time. I ran a strap through the handle of the valise and slung it over my back. I moved forward.

  'Stay where you are!' The voice was thin and old but strong and clear. 'And put yer bloody hands in the air!'

  28

  The words chilled me of course; I got the cramp in my leg and other associated infirmities, but I recovered fast because I recognised the voice.

  'Paddy,' I croaked, 'it's me – Dick Browning.'

  'Turn around, bloody slow.'

  I did so. The old man was holding a long barrelled revolver the weight of which threatened to break his skinny wrist. He looked smaller than when I'd last seen him, which must have been eight years back. More shrivelled, less hair, more smelly. Paddy Sullivan was a dock watchman, long past retiring age even when I first met him and almost self-appointed. He'd worked at Port Hunter in one capacity or another for over seventy years and the dock authority provided him with a shack and rations and let him patrol the area because they knew there would be a massive strike among the wharfies if Paddy were expelled.

  'Paddy, you know me, don't you?'

  I stepped closer. He tried to raise the gun but couldn't manage it. He peered at me through pebble glasses.

  'Christ and the saints, I believe it is Dick Browning. Where's the girl?'

  I laughed. This was a reference to my last escapade here when I'd brought a girl down to launch a ship. We were both more than a little drunk at the time. Paddy had discovered us, helped us drink the bottle and escorted us out of the shipyard. There was nothing wrong with his memory. 'No girl, Paddy. I'm glad to see you. Still at work, eh?'

  'And why not?'

  He was touchy on this subject. 'No reason, no reason.' I looked anxiously to the east but the sky was still dark.

  'What brings you down here, Dick boy?'

  'Trouble, Paddy.'

  'Your middle name. Has your father disowned you yet? Or shot your mother or burned the bloody house down?'

  He knew the Brownings, you see. I put my hand out and lowered the pistol so that it was pointing to the ground. 'Nothing like that, Paddy. But I have to get away – from Australia. For a time.'

  'A woman?'

  I nodded. 'And the police.'

  He scowled and for a second I was afraid he'd hawk and spit which would have certainly woken the watch on the ship. Women and the police were Paddy's sworn enemies; he'd do anything to spike their guns. I realised then that I should have sought him out for help in stowing away. Don't know why I didn't; I suppose I thought he'd be dead. He must have been well over eighty. Perhaps he'd given up spitting. Anyway, he just scowled and stuffed the pistol into a deep inside pocket of his pea jacket.

  'Can you help me, Paddy?' I unbuttoned my coat and shirt, put my hand inside and undid one of the flaps on the money belt. My fingers slid out a couple of sovereigns. 'I can pay you.'

  'For what?'

  'Help me get on board the Sternwood. Get me safely stowed away. Two sovs.'

  'Five.'

  'All right.'

  'You're on.'

  I gave him the two coins. 'The rest when I'm aboard.'

  He nodded and peered up at the ship. The moonlight flooded his glasses. 'That lazy bastard's deaf and blind. I know the ship, she's been docking here since before the war. Ah . . .'

  'What?'

  'The war. Christ. I wish I could've been in it.'

  Another lunatic. I shuffled him forward. 'I was, you didn't miss anything, believe me.'

  'Were you now! You must tell me all . . .'

  'Shh, not now. Do you know a place, a safe place?'

  'I know ten. It'll be easy. Come on. In the war, you say. I'd not have thought you the type . . .'

  I had to practically push him across the dock to the iron ladder. He went up it, spry as a ten year old and I followed with my cramped leg and knocking knees. Paddy climbed over the rail and I had to hiss at him to stop. He was about to step out across the deck as if it was an empty dance floor. It was littered with objects I could hardly see, much less identify.

  'Take it easy, Paddy. This is like a bloody minefield. Where are we headed?'

  'By the hatch over there.' He pointed into the murk. 'Just stay close, I'll steer you.'

  He did – across the deck, between bits of equipment and fittings to a structure about the size of a small tent. There was a funnel sticking up near it and a powerful stench of greasy cooking and cockroaches. Paddy flashed his torch once and crouched to ease open a small door.

  'What's this?' I whispered.

  'Sail locker. She's been diesel for years. They'll never find you here. Let's have the money, Dick.'

  I gave him three more coins and added a fourth.

  'For luck,' I said.

  Thank you, boyo. I always said you was never as bad as you was painted.'

  'I'm relying on you, Paddy.'

  'You can.' He pushed me suddenly. 'Get in there. Someone's comin'.'

  I stumbled forward into darkness and heard the door click softly shut behind me. The smell of damp, ancient canvas almost made me vomit. I moved into the locker and my foot went through the stuff, packed tight but rotten. I sat down on a clump that was as cold and hard as iron. I could hear voices on the deck.

  What're you doing here, Paddy, you bloody nuisance?'

  'Keep a civil tongue in yer head,' Paddy snapped. 'I thought I saw somethin' movin' up here.'

  I cursed him silently – he was going to turn me in.

  'You're seeing things. Clear off. I've been on watch and there's been nothing up here.'

  Their feet moved away on the deck.

  'Could be a stowaway,' Paddy said.

  I cursed him again.

  'Stowaway!' the watchman sneered. Who'd be stowing away from here?'

  'Les Darcy did,' says Paddy.

  They were well away from the locker now. I let out a strained, wheezing breath.

  'Yes, he did,' I heard the watchman say, 'and look what happened to him.'21

  APPENDIX

  THE ANTECEDENTS OF RICHARD BROWNING

  Research in Australian historical records has revealed that Richard Browning was the great-grandson of Henry Browning (7-1848) who was transported to New South Wales for life in 1801. Henry Browning's crime was murder; he was tried at the Middlesex assizes and escaped the hangman because evidence was given that he 'was woefully far gone in drink at the time and his victim likewise'.

  For twenty years after his arrival in the colony Browning was continually in trouble with the authorities; he was twice sentenced to death for robbery with menaces and reprieved for reasons which are not clear. One reference in the Sydney Gazette suggests that he owed his second reprieve to the pleas of his employer, a Mrs Kilpatrick, who insisted that there was 'as yet un-tapped, much good in him'.

  Browning lost the use of one arm in a shooting accident in 1821 and soon after married Ellen O'Rourke, formerly a convict and at that time an innkeeper, of Parramatta. Browning appears to have settled down as a married man. He acquired a reputation as a pistol shot and was said to be able to hit the markings on a playing card at fifty paces 'when sober'.

  The union between Browning and Ellen O'Rourke produced two daughters, Sarah and Dora, and a son, Phillip. Phillip Browning (1836-93) was the antithesis of his father. A quiet, retiring man, small in stature and inclined to be dreamy, he worked as a clerk in the same shipping firm
for almost fifty years. He seems to have been dominated by his wife, Mary Little, who, belying her name, was a large woman with a loud voice and a commanding manner. Mention is made of the Brownings in a police report of 1867 when their home was invaded by 'violent inebriates'. 'Mrs Browning', the report says, 'valiantly defended her infant son against the intruders and succeeded in felling one with a broom and propelling another through a window. Mr Browning took shelter behind his wife and manifested no physical courage at all.'

  The infant son mentioned, the only issue of the marriage, was William Browning. Scanty records confirm Richard Browning's account of him: he evidently inherited his mother's stature and his grandfather's weakness for drink. He came to the notice of 'the Fancy' as a bare knuckle boxer when still in his teens and won several gruelling fights against older, heavier opponents. He also lost several, on one occasion because the brandy he drank between rounds 'overcame him'.

  Bell's Life for 1884 quotes Browning as saying that 'glove fighting is for women; my Ma would have done well at it'. The sporting paper reported that Browning was leaving the city to work on the land, evidently the beginning of the career Richard Browning sketches.

  William Browning married Colleen Kelly in 1885 and had six children – two sets of twins (girls), born in 1885 and 1887, a son, Thomas, born in 1889 and Richard Kelly Browning, born in 1895. Colleen Kelly was also of convict stock, possibly related to the family of the famous outlaw, although no direct connection has been established.

  NOTES

  1. James Leslie (Les) Dairy, 1897-1917, was middleweight and heavyweight boxing champion of Australia. He beat a number of imported American fighters and had a claim to the world middleweight title. Darcy, wishing to postpone military service until he had earned enough money to make his family secure, left Australia illegally in 1916. He was branded a slacker' (draft dodger) in the US and was unable to secure fights.