Читать книгу Divided Houses - Janice Paull - Страница 4

Eddie knew he was luckier than a lot of blokes. Fit and quick, he’d taken the copper’s advice, was hired and trained by the builders until he was a rigger on one of the tall buildings going up in Collins Street. When he and Ida married, they’d be all right, but he wanted more, much more, enough to buy a decent house in one of the suburbs that had mushroomed in the eastern suburbs before the depression. When kids came, he didn’t want them to grow up in this slag heap of a suburb, where oil refineries and chemical plants spewed out smoke, gases and fumes so you were trapped under a yellow, fog-bound sky.

From where he worked, he saw other, cleaner places. To the south was a wide curving bay, flanked by sand that looked gold in some light and white or pink in others. On the sea that changed colour from hour to hour, sailing ships, tugboats and oil tankers looked like painted toys.

To the east were mansions set in gardens splashed in some seasons with gold and red and in others with pinks and blues and white. In all seasons, he saw green hills and the clefts between where trees grew tall and free.

Some of his mates grew up in places like disused shops some landlord partitioned so he could cram in a few families who’d pay rent, put up with rats, rotten floors, walls made of Hessian or paper—grateful just to have any bloody roof.

At twenty years old and five foot ten in his socks, Eddie trained as a middleweight at Arnie’s gym, skipping, running, belting a punch bag, sparring with the trainers, going a few rounds with the professionals. When he’d knocked out a contender for the club championship, Joe “Tar Brush” Morrison, he caused quite a stir.

One night after training, Arnie called him into his office where photos of famous boxers were pinned at odd angles on the walls. Most of the photos were signed, and some had messages of thanks scrawled on them. He motioned Eddie to take a seat.

‘You’re lookin’ a bit flabby, Ed. Been hittin’ the booze?

‘Nah, Arnie. Too many of me Gran’s jam tarts.’

‘Is that all?’ Arnie chortled. ‘You’re just a big kid.’

‘Gran puts on a real good spread. Anyway, what’s it to you, Arnie?

‘Tar Brush wants to get even. He reckons you flattened him with a lucky punch.’

‘Bullshit. That wasn’t luck. I could take him any time.’

‘You’d need to be a lot fitter. Give up your Gran’s tarts, turn fat into muscle.’

‘Does he wanna have another go in the gym?’

‘A bit more than that. How’d you like a bout at the stadium?’

‘Too right.’

‘It’ll be a preliminary for the lightweight champion later.’

‘I’ll take ‘im easy.’

‘Don’t be too cocky; he’s never lost a fight. I reckon you could win, but ...’

‘What’s the but?’

‘It’d mean laying off booze and fags.’

‘Easy.’

‘You got a girl?’

Eddie was quiet. Ida would really do her block. She’d cut up a bit rough when she found out he was learning to box. Why, Ed.? Yer nose’ll go crooked, yer’ll get yer face smashed in and start dribblin’. He’d talked her round, but she always set her mouth in a straight line if he mentioned boxing. He’d never seen her so dead set against anything. They were going to the pictures later, a box of chocolates and she’d be real happy, but that’d only last until he told her about his big chance. Better wait until they’d cuddled for a while by the front gate.

‘Ed?’ Arnie prompted.

‘Yeah, Ida’s her name.’

Arnie tipped his chair back and lit a cigar. ‘You’d be training every spare minute. How’d Ida feel about that?’

‘She wouldn’t like it, but I reckon she’ll cop it sweet.’

‘There’s something else—your name.’

‘I learned to fight because of me name. Fought tougher blokes than Tar Brush because of bloody name callin’.’

‘It’d go down well with the punters if you had an Aussie name, seein’ as how Tar Brush is more than a bit on the dark side.’

Eddie decided. He’d change his name, win the bout, and start a new life. ‘I come out fightin’ when the bell rings. What about Bell?’

‘That’ll do.’

Eddie trained two hours before a shift and two hours after. He trained six hours on Sunday. Arnie ran with him on the beach, sparred with him in the ring. He timed his responses, massaged his muscles and egged him on with the promise of winning.

‘You’re still a bit green, Ed. Plenty of others with the right build and strength like you, but I reckon you’ve got bloody brains as well, so use them. Good boxers never lose their heads. Timing, watching, thinking. That’s what makes Tar Brush so good.’

‘I’m gunna win, Arnie. You’ll see. I’ll do you proud.’

Eddie dreamed. Beating Tar Brush would be just the beginning. He’d win the club championship, the state title, the national and then the world title. He’d travel. He’d be in the money.

He still saw Ida on Sunday nights, but getting horny didn’t help him sleep, so he told her he wouldn’t see her until after the fight. ‘I’ll be flat out trainin’ for our big chance. Just a few weeks, Ida.’ She was sore all right, but she’d get over it when he won.

The blokes at the building site chiacked him, but Lofty was the worst. Always needling, taking the piss. Trouble was he and Lofty were the best riggers and often pulled the same shift. A few days before the fight, Lofty tried to trip him when they were clocking off. Eddie sidestepped, but Lofty moved in front of him and poked him in the chest. Eddie caught a whiff of alcohol. Spittle hit his face when Lofty snarled, ‘Bloody loud-mouthed liar. You couldn’t knock the skin off a rice puddin’.’

Eddie knocked Lofty’s arm away. ‘Back off.’

‘Reckon you’re so bloody good, ‘ave a go. Come on.’ Lofty started bobbing about and punching air.

Eddie tried to push past. ‘Get out of me way.’

‘Make me.’ Lofty moved in closer.

Eddie stepped back. ‘I wouldn’t waste me time.’

‘Changin’ your name doesn’t fool anyone. You’re still a bloody dago.’

Eddie flushed. He sensed the other blokes getting interested. ‘You’re pissed, you stupid bastard. Now move.’

He was itching to plant one on Lofty’s nose, but shoved him aside and walked off. A bit of sniggering. He’d show them.

When news of the bout did the rounds, the odds against his winning were fifteen to one. Eddie bet everything he had on himself. Word spread that Eddie looked good and the odds shortened down to three to one on the day of the fight. His dad fished out three bob and told him to put two on Tar Brush and the rest on himself. ‘Just hedgin’ me bets,’ he sneered. Gran gave him a bob to place on himself, grinning like a chimpanzee. He’d find a bookie at the pub after work. Being pay day, the bloody place’d be packed.

Eddie washed and packed his Gladstone bag, smoothing his new red and blue satin dressing gown on top. Sweat streamed off him as he pushed his way through the crowded bar where wreaths of cigarette smoke hung over the heads of the poor buggers who’d been digging ditches, carrying bricks or haunting factories looking for work. He elbowed his way through the crowd and shouted over the babble and clatter of glasses to barman Alf.

Eddie pushed his bag across the bar. ‘Keep this for me while I place some bets.’

‘Barney’s takin’ ‘em down the other end. Yer want a cold one?’

A cold beer would hit the spot, wash away the dust and soothe his dry throat. ‘Make it a squash.’ Eddie edged his way down the bar to where he could see Barney taking cash and scribbling tickets as some of the blokes from work called out their bets. Most of them seemed to be backing him, but Lofty placed a fair wack on Tar Brush. He’d be sorry. He placed Gran’s bet then called his dad’s. ‘Two bob on Tar Brush.’

While Barney was scribbling the slips, Lofty jeered. ‘Hear that you blokes? It’s the dago bullshit artist bettin’ on Tar Brush.’

Eddie ignored him.

‘Knows he’s got Buckley’s ‘imself. Lousy swine.’

Some of the others joined in the taunting: ‘What’s up, Ed? Lost your nerve?’ ‘Where’s your guts?’ ‘Bloody bragger.’ ‘Piker.’

Eddie kept his mind on the betting slips. Only three hours to go. He choked on the smoke and the crowd, hostile now, was pressing him against the bar. Alf slid the squash along the bar. As he raised it to his mouth, Lofty knocked it out of his hand and hemmed him in, swaying and mean. Eddie itched to floor the drunken sod, get out quick and clean with the blokes back on side.

Lofty stuck his ugly mug up close. ‘Slimy dago ... drinking lolly water ... using your mates to drive up the odds ... tight-arsed bastard ... when was the last time you shouted a bloke a drink?’

Eddie sneered. ‘Fuck off.’

‘Make me. Stinkin’ dago.’

Eddie grabbed him by the shirt collar, gave him the bum’s rush through the crowd and pitched him out the door. A cheer went up; he was in good with everyone. Alf stuck a cold beer in his hand, but he passed it to the bloke next to him before shouting the bar. When a bloke came round selling prawns and crayfish, he bought them all the biggest feed some of them must have had in months.

Alf cleared the bar at six, handed Eddie his bag and wished him luck. He went to the stadium, stood under a cold shower until his skin wrinkled and his head cleared.

In the packed stadium, the smell of sweat, cigar smoke and alcohol mingled with the hot breath of fans waiting for the title fight later. Eddie looked up at the tiers of folding seats and the way the aisles radiated from the floodlit centre. A few of the blokes from work were in the first two rows. Beyond the circle of light and smoke haze were vague shapes and the pinpoint glow of cigarettes.

When Eddie stepped into the ring, clasping his hands above his head, the crowd rose to its feet and bellowed. He stretched his arms high and wide; pivoted to face each side in turn. The loudspeakers blared. ‘In the blue corner weighing eleven stone ten pounds wearing red shorts, the battler from Footscray, Eddie “Baby Face” Bell.’ Buoyed by the chant of Eddie, Eddie, Eddieeee, the stamping, bellowing and finger whistling, he was ready.

‘In the red corner weighing eleven stone seven pounds wearing purple shorts, Joe “Tar Brush” Morrison.’ Screaming, whistling and stamping—barracking louder for him.

Eddie touched gloves with Tar Brush, nodded at the referee’s instructions then, back in his corner, listened to Arnie’s hoarse whisper. ‘Stay out of his way. Tire him out. Don’t take him till the third.’ The bell rang.

Eddie came out of his corner on the balls of his feet. Fleet-footed and nimble, Eddie danced out of reach, weaving, ducking a fast right, a left jab. Cocky now, he grinned at Tar Brush. Bugger sneered. Hadn’t raised a sweat, muscles taut, gritty bugger broke through Eddie’s guard, slammed a left into his face, split an eyelid. Eddie staggered, shook his head. Tar Brush closed in, drove a strong right then another hard left into Eddie’s jaw. His head snapped back, he tried to dodge punches, but the bastard followed every move with a left, a right, right again, a left to the body a right jab to the head until Eddie was on the ropes. Egged on by pain and rage, Eddie pushed himself back into the ring and managed to shuffle on the spot. He had to win. He’d kill the mongrel. He rushed in, threw a weak left, missed. Groggy now, blood-blinded, unsteady, he was on the ropes again. Had another go. Tangled his right arm in the top rope. He swayed, sagged then pushed himself clear. The crowd screamed as Tar Brush moved in. Enraged, blood pounding behind his eyes, Eddie threw wild punches at Tar Brush, now just a bouncing blur. Roaring, he went after the blur swinging left, right, connecting nowhere. Cool-headed and steady, Tar Brush knocked him out.

Arnie climbed into the ring, pulled Eddie’s head back by his hair, prised an eyelid open, hauled him to his feet and dragged him to his corner.

Eddie came to in the dressing room with Arnie slapping his face, yelling at him, ‘You’re a drongo, a prize galah, you lost your flamin’ temper. I thought you had more bloody brains. Jesus, Ed, you could’ve won.’

Eddie’s guts were sore, his head felt as if someone had parted it with a pickaxe, his eyes were swollen shut and his nose gushed blood.

Except for an old wino in the corner nursing a bottle of plonk, the train carriage was empty. He’d been a bloody fool. When rage hit, he couldn’t think, never could. He’d been on top of the world when he treated the blokes in the pub, watched them drown their pots and heard them shout, ‘Good on yer, Ed.’ Made him feel like he was somebody that did, belonged somewhere; he’d blown any chance with Arnie.

Early next morning as he waited for his roster, a couple of blokes slapped him on the back and offered a bit of cold comfort, but most of them looked seedy, down in the mouth and turned away. He drew a shift with Lofty.

The girder they straddled swayed as it was hoisted to the top. Eddie looked across at Lofty, at the smirk on his stupid face. He’d have won a bundle last night. The crazy, cocky bastard couldn’t keep his lip buttoned.

‘Reckon Tar Brush got the shortest fight ‘e ever ‘ad.’

‘Leave off.’

‘Thirty seconds an’ you’re out like a light.’

‘Shut your fuckin’ mouth.’

They climbed onto a platform between concrete pillars and settled in for the shift, but it wasn’t long before Lofty sneered. ‘You still trackin’ with Ida Murray?’

‘None of your flamin’ business.’

The bastard leered. ‘I reckon she’s everybody’s business.’

Sweat broke out on Eddie’s palms. ‘What are you gettin’ at?’

‘Got ‘er pants orf yet?’

He tried to ignore Lofty, but his head began to pound. His gut tightened as he waited for the next taunt.

‘If you don’t stick your dick in ‘er soon, some other bugger’ll do it for you.’

‘Button your filthy gob.’

‘Maybe you don’t know ‘ow.’

Eddie hurled his hammer. It missed. Arms hanging at his sides, fingers curled, Lofty faced him. Eddie charged, tackled then straddled him, gripped the bastard’s ears and bashed his head on the planks. On the shuddering platform Lofty kicked, twisted and bucked until with one decent right to the jaw Eddie flattened him.

The foreman bellowed, ‘Get out of here you dago bastard. Do your killin’ on your own fuckin’ time.’

Eddie headed for Ida’s house. He’d talk the boss round; get his job back. There weren’t many blokes could work like him. He’d marry Ida and they’d manage. She should’ve been pleased when she opened the door, but she backed into the hallway, hesitated before letting him in. He followed her into the kitchen where she busied herself at the sink and avoided looking at him.

‘It’s good to see you, Ida.’

‘I heard about the match.’

‘I s’pose you’re crook on me for keepin’ away.’

Ida didn’t answer and went on clattering dishes. Eddie walked up behind her and kissed her on the back of her neck. She shrugged him off. ‘Stop it, Ed. Don’t touch me.’

‘Come on Ida. I know I’ve been a mug, but I’m packin’ it in. I just did it so we could get a place of our own.’

Ida faced him. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘We can still get spliced. We could live with Gran. You’ll like her when you get to know her.’

Ida turned and faced him. ‘It’s not that, Ed.’

Eddie tensed, stepped away, the room silent and still. He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘What is it then?’

‘I can’t marry yer. I’m gunna ... I’m gunna ‘ave a baby.’

Baffled, he shook his head. ‘But I never touched yer.’

‘Maybe you should’ve. You’d get me all stirred up and then I’d come inside and Mr Cameron, him that rents the front room, used to sit and talk to me. And then a few weeks ago, it just happened. You were trainin’ and ... I’m gunna marry Mr Cameron.’

‘Jesus!’ Eddie swayed and stared at Ida.

She hid her face in her hands and rocked, moaning. ‘I’m sorry, Ed. I’m sorry.’

‘But you’re my girl, Ida. I wanted us to do it right. I never did the wrong thing by yer. Treated yer right, didn’t I? Didn’t I?’

Ida reached out and touched Eddie’s arm. He shrank back. He was seeing Ida naked with that fat bastard’s hands on her body. Sticking his dick in her. Fucking her. Ida, Ida, Ida. She’d cheated on him. Taken him for a fool. He clenched his fists and took a step towards her, but froze then turned away when she cowered like a whipped dog.

Eddie slammed out of the house, ran faster and further than he had ever run. He crossed roads and heard himself cursed; he knocked over a peddler’s cart and heard himself damned. He ran until he reached the Maribyrnong River where he collapsed on the bank and cried in great sobs that wrenched his body and tore at his throat. He’d been a stupid, bloody fool. How many others had there been? How many bloody others? Why couldn’t he be like his mates? They just took what they wanted from sheilas.

He sat up and looked across the river to the other bank. His breathing had slowed and although he still shuddered a bit, he’d cried himself out. He wandered along the bank of the river, watching the water lapping at the edges, a mother duck sailing along followed by her three ducklings paddling fast and furious in her wake. He sat and watched the oil-slicked river flowing towards a clean open sea where the slime and filth would mingle with deep, green depths.

‘It’s a fair cow, ain’t it mate? ‘Ave a drink.’

Eddie turned, saw and smelled a bloke offering him a bottle wrapped in newspaper. ‘Go on, son. It’s a good drop.’

‘Ta.’

Eddie took the bottle, wiped the top with his sleeve and drank. He spluttered as the cheap booze burned his throat, but drank again and again until the pictures in his mind blurred.

‘Go easy, mate.’

He handed the bottle back. The other bloke was thin and wiry with a few days’ growth on his face. He was wearing a battered hat and a worn coat and he stuck out a grimy hand. ‘Tom’s the name. Tom Rogers.’

‘Eddie. Eddie Be ... Eddie Bertoli.’

‘Dago?’

‘Nah. Me gran’s an aussie and she married a dago.’

‘Yer live round ‘ere?’

‘Yeah. On the vag?’

‘Nah. Been rabbitin’. Gunna get cleaned up; get some togs and a feed. I’ll doss down somewhere fer a day or two. Then I’m headin’ back. Pannin’s the go, they reckon.’

Eddie had seen men, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, walking out of the city carrying everything they owned in blanket swags. Thin, their shoulders slumped; they seemed beaten before they began their trek in search of work. Any work.

He’d also seen rabbiters driving their horses and carts round the streets calling ‘rabbit-oh, rabbit-oh,’ the skinned red bodies strung from the carts.

Last night’s catcalls were still in his head. Lofty’s ugly mug. Ida. Oh, Ida. Jesus Christ. The pain seared his gut.

‘Could yer do with some company on the road, Tom?’