Читать книгу The Five Walking Sticks - Henry R Lew - Страница 15

When a newly arrived ship disembarked at Sandridge, it was customary to offer passengers one extra night on board. For the Challenge this was not possible. The crew of the Sussex was sent to the Sailor’s home. A family, in transit for Brisbane, was given accommodation at the Latrobe Street Immigrant’s Depot. Morris Abrahams was sent to the Police Station in Little Collins Street to be locked up for his own protection. The rest of us met with Mr. Siddeley, the local agent for the Money Wigram Line, who offered us a berth on the Suffolk, a fellow ship, currently in dock at Railway Pier. I left for Melbourne secure in the knowledge that I could spend my day exploring the city and still return to the port at night if I found nowhere to stay.

Later that same afternoon I was walking north up Queen Street, all alone and scantily clad. The only garments draping my body were a nightshirt and a pair of trousers. The sun had already sunk towards the west but the stone pavement was still warm. I thought about my bare feet and wondered whether they would blister that night. On reaching Bourke Street West my eyes gazed right. ‘Allegro Con Brio!’ It was New Years Day and the street was full of life. I turned into it and walked down the hill. My stomach was hungering for food, when, passing a chemist’s shop, I sighted, alongside it, a simple restaurant. A sign on the window read All meals sixpence. I put my hand into my right trouser pocket and pulled out some coins. They added up to three shillings. I was amazed that they were still there. They should have been at the bottom of Bass Strait. I entered the shop and asked for a meal. The proprietor eyed me carefully. “Got any money?” he demanded. “Yes”, I replied. He bade me sit down and sent me a waitress. “What is your selection of sixpenny meals please?” I asked. “Chops, steak, sausages, and colonial goose,” she rattled back. I ordered colonial goose. It was a good serve - plenty to eat - a right square meal. I turned and spoke to a man sitting opposite me. “Australian goose certainly tastes different from English goose. Are geese plentiful here?” “Hundreds of millions of them,” he answered, “but they have wool instead of feathers.” “That is most interesting,” I responded moronically, too intellectually dulled with fatigue to comprehend his joke. “You are a stranger?” he then enquired. “Yes I am an immigrant in search of a bed.” “You look every inch an immigrant,” he remarked with a wry chuckle. “The Immigrant’s Home is the best place for you.” I asked where it was and he gave me directions. He told me to continue down Bourke Street to Swanston Street, turn right, and then walk as far as the bridge. “There is always a policeman there,” he said, ” who can advise you further.”

Following the instructions, I soon found myself outside the Immigrant’s Home on St. Kilda Road. I rang a bell on the gate. An elderly man came. He looked amiable enough until he saw me. Then staring me straight in the eye, he blurted aggressively, “What the hell do you want?” I replied that I was an immigrant, a passenger from the wreck of the Sussex, who had been directed here for the night. “You bloody liar, there’s no wreck of the Sussex.” “Whether you believe me or not is immaterial,” I argued, “I want a bed for the night and have the money to pay for it.” “Ah, so now you’ve got money!” I produced my two and sixpence but this only riled him further. He hissed at me. “The likes of bloody you coming here at this hour and with money. Get out of here!” and he slammed the gate in my face.

I was dazed from lack of sleep and couldn’t think clearly. The old man’s behaviour perplexed me. I couldn’t understand why he had reacted in such a way. I even remember wondering why the possession of two shillings and sixpence had deprived me of my immigrant’s status. That I was dirty, dishevelled, and looked like a drunken derelict, or a mental case, never occurred to me.

I remembered the way I had come and retraced my steps across the bridge into the city. I followed the stream of shoppers and holidaymakers back to Bourke Street. It now dawned on me that my undistinguished appearance was attracting attention. My brain, it seems, was starting to get its second wind. The meal, which had initially diverted blood from my brain to my stomach, was now starting to nourish my neurones. I suddenly realised that I knew nobody in Melbourne and that nobody knew me. I needed to formulate a plan. The logical thing for a Jew to do was to go to the synagogue. Unbeknown to me I had walked straight past it on my way to the Immigrant’s Home. But before I had an opportunity to ask someone its location a stranger tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and found myself face to face with a tall, bearded man, about forty-five years of age, who looked Jewish. He asked if I was Frenchy from the Sussex and I nodded. “Where’s my brother?” He was obviously overwrought with emotion. I denied any knowledge of his brother. “Oh, yes,” he pleaded, “you do know him. My name is Lewis Abrahams. I hadn’t heard of the wreck until I returned home from the races. I went straight to the wharf and questioned some of the shipwrecked people camping there. They told me you were good to him, you had cared for him during the voyage. They thought you had taken him to town.” “Morris Abrahams,” I said, “you’re Morris Abrahams’s brother. The police have taken him.”

“Come with me,” Lewis motioned, and he hailed a cab. We drove in it to Little Collins Street and entered the Police Station. The officer on duty, Sergeant Pewtress, knew him well. “What can I do for you Mr. Abrahams?” he enquired in the friendliest of manners. “Is my brother in the lock-up?” He was there all right, a near naked, pitiful, human wreck sitting cross-legged on a slimy stone floor in the dark corner of a filthy cell. Lewis failed to recognise him. It was twenty-five years since he had seen him. He shuddered, then he spoke gently as to a child. “Are you my brother Morris? Is your name Morris Abrahams?” Morris gave no response, not even a hint of recognition. “You know me, don’t you Morris?” I interposed, and Morris smiled. The ice was broken. I confirmed for Lewis that this was Morris Abrahams, the man who a young Jewish widow had brought aboard the Sussex at Gravesend and requested that I care for during the voyage. We couldn’t take him home that evening. Certain legal formalities had to be enacted before a Bench of Magistrates in the morning before he could be restored to his family.

Lewis Abrahams took me home. He was obviously a man of means. His grand house was set in a large garden that was beautifully manicured. Its contents were exquisite and demonstrated fine taste. The family had delayed the evening meal so that we could all dine together and we were treated to a most sumptuous supper. The youngest daughter, a sweet little thing, pleaded to be allowed to stay up to listen to my adventures on the Sussex.

After dinner Lewis showed me to a room and bade me good night. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow and remained in that somniferous state for sixteen hours. When I awoke the next afternoon, a brand new outfit from Cantor and Loel’s was laid out on my bedside chair. On dressing I found ten sovereigns in the pocket of the waistcoat. I questioned Lewis about this; he had already returned home with Morris; but he just laughed it off. “You can always pay me back when you make lots of money. In the meantime go and see the town.”

Lewis also filled me in on the lovely Miriam Green. Morris Abrahams had worked for her father, a wealthy manufacturer. The young couple had fallen in love and wanted to marry, but a match had been made for her with a wealthy older man instead. Morris lost his bride, his job and then his mind as well. Within four years Miriam’s father and husband had both died and she had inherited great wealth. She sought out her first love, only to find him in the Colney Hatch Asylum for the insane. Faced with his condition she decided that the best thing was to send him to his older brother in Melbourne. This story, however, was not destined to end happily. Morris Abrahams eventually wandered off into the Australian bush and perished. But I learned a lesson from having made his acquaintance: that an act of kindness to a perfect stranger is like bread sent upon the water.