A Member Down In Walsh Street

A family of sparrows twitter in the soft chill, early day.
The leafy, brick walled street is silent.
Waiting. Quiet.
While the dawn is breaking. Grey.
A white car centred in the road to lure the quarry near.
Deathly quiet. Invites not dread nor fear.

Concealed, in dark, ranged about.'
Rat tailed assassins lie.
Muttering, Whispering obscenity. Cursing those about to die.
Thin and sickly, they snigger,
With their knowledge that the deed will anon,
Be quickly done.
To a proud and valiant breed.

The street now waits in silence.
Silent as the grave.
Dawn breaks. Grey as angels wings.
And ushers in the brave.

The cowards hearts are pounding.
Their mouths are dry and taut.
Sweaty palms to thin flanks pressed
To discourage waiver from the thought.

The van turns slowly into the street
Headlights pick out the car.
Standing. Inviting.
With the Driver's door ajar.

They stop the van, a little distance off.
Two blue victims then alight.
Victor Charlie Kilo soundtracks a message.
To the late departed night.
The blue boys then with athletic step,
Stride towards their doom.
One reaches the car, and peers inside
Outlined by the dawning's soft illume.

Suddenly, swift and sure.
Rattails break their cover
Shouting, laughing weapons raised.
The deed is quickly over.
All is done.
And quickly done.
The flurry soon subsides.
Bitter fumes waft on the morning breeze.
And calm again abides.

They left them, where they killed them
And mixed.
Like water does with wine.
Slunk away,
The night beasts,
Left the street to become a shrine.

"There's a member down. In Walsh Street"
Heartbreaking from the sight
Of the slaughter he saw before him.
Now harsh in the stark daylight.
The ominous turning lights alternate, now blue, now red.
The City looked on in numb struck grief
While the blue family claimed their dead.


Blossom draped they are borne aloft.
By those who knew and loved them.
Muffled drum, and wailing pipe.
And anthems sung above them.

There is a memory down in Walsh Street,
Brings hot and shameless tears.
The bitter thoughts of a cowards deed,
Will last a thousand years.
For the memory of the bravest men is writ in letters bright.
In a special place for those in blue.
Who are foresworn to uphold the right.

Copyright, Michael Grelis 1990.

Remembrance

We sailed into Sunda Straight
In the golden purple twilight of the day.
The scything bow of "Derwent" sent flying fish
Leaping from her way.
The green black hills of Java
Crowded the horizon on our beam
The inky, silky, velvet night,
Enfolded us in our dream.
A waxy, tropic, orange moon
Lit the phosphor in our wake,
Tracked the veiled and secret journey,
Our pilgrimage to make.


In time we reached the hidden, holy place
That is marked upon the chart.
Where "Perth" is fixed in dreamless sleep
And in Australia's heart.
Our ship hoved to, above her,we gathered on the deck
To await the Old Man's arrival,
To speak above the wreck.
Skipper came now from the Bridge, and bade us gather near.
We Company fored about him, hushed and silent
his solemn words to hear.


He told us how the battle raged, the clamour, the fire,
The  shell.
How "Perth" with guns exhausted
Dipped beneath the boiling swell.
In silence then, we thought of life, now in our golden days
To never end.
And how our wars all fought in foreign lands
Left hearts refused to mend.

When death came into that iron ship,
Who thought of their Southern land?
Did older help younger greet Eternity,
And shake it by the hand.
Did brave hearts help the less courageous, Strong ones help the weak.
Shouts of damn defiance,
Did anybody speak?

The Captain prayed then for their souls,
And for those who go to sea.
In that inky, tropic blackness,
We were proud that he meant "Me."
When the Captain had departed
We made ready to be gone.
We gathered speed "Derwent" turned about
Her respectful duty done.

Thirty years, and more, have passed the bar
Since the night in Sunda Strait.
How the memory of it haunts me,
As the tale I now relate.
Now, each year, when called to ponder on Anzac Day,
And what it holds for me.
I do not think of The Somme, Vungtau,
Tobruk,or even Gallipoli.
No. I save my prayers, and fond remembrance
For Iron men, in Iron ships
And those who go down to sea.

Copyright. Michael Grelis 1991.

Belinda In Brazil- My latest unsuccessful entry in Age Short Story Competition 2012

        The bows of sixteen warships barely lifted on the swell as they came through Sydney Heads on a clear winter’s morning. The pale sky, the white ships and the silvery sea glittered in the bright sunlight. A full throated cheer rose up from thousands gathered on the rocky foreshore, as the first gun of the deafening salute crashed and reverberated around the harbour. Men swept their hats above their heads, and children jumped up and down and pointed, as they bade their mothers look at the majestic sight before them. All about cheered and chattered excitedly, just as had happened in South America and New Zealand.

        Thomas Archambeau was one of the sailors who lined the decks of the flagship USS Connecticut, smart in his dress blue uniform, and white Dixie cup hat. He looked out from the guardrails hoping to see a kangaroo, but alas, no fabled creature was apparent. Just scrubby trees, houses, people.

        The ships crept up to their appointed moorings, Connecticut to where a collier waited to replenish fuel for the boilers. Archambeau was detailed as one of the coaling party, and changed his blues for dungarees and chambray shirt, ready for hours of shovelling, lifting, and raking. Soon shirts were hanging on pegs as the party worked, stripped to the waist in a haze of coal dust, flying shovels and rakes, while the business of the ship went on above them. Liberty men were preparing to go ashore, but today, this group would not include Archambeau or his duty watch. After coaling, the upper decks and superstructure  would have to be cleaned of coal dust, and left pristine. He could not understand why they scrubbed and polished everything soon after sunup, knowing that the job of coaling was coming later. One of the many things he did not understand.

      Tomorrow, Thomas would go ashore with Billy Warren and take a train trip to the Blue Mountains. He planned the excursion because he missed his home in Baker City, which sat in a corner of  Oregon, nearby it’s own Blue Mountains, and wondered if  Australian mountains looked the same. He hoped so, but in any case, a chance to see something green and growing would be welcome.  He might  ride horseback, but understood the sight of a sailor aboard a horse would be a ridiculous sight, thus it might not happen.

       In the early evening, Thomas sat in the deserted Mess deck, shooting the breeze with little Billy Warren, who had also been detailed for the coaling party, both feeling the after effects of  hard physical labour. They massaged and prodded different muscles as they chatted over their coffee.  Thomas fared better than Billy because he was bigger and stronger, and did it more often. Nevertheless both had gone at it with a will, deriving pleasure from effort, knowing the result showed in their hard bodies. They spoke about the coming train trip, and wondered how it might unfold.

        Thomas had often spoken about Baker City, and the green mountains all about. He was a country boy who, in his mind, had never left home. Billy hailed from the streets around the Brooklyn Navy Yard, and had stevedoring and Navy in his blood. He felt more at ease in big cities, but looked forward to the trip with Thomas, although he did not know much about trees or pasture, and would no more have got astride a horse than fly in the air.

        “Cities were all the same.” he said. “You know what to expect, and it’s all there for you.”  He could identify nothing with tooth and claw, neither slithery nor vicious. Only housetrained cats and dogs on four legs,  nothing fanged and eight legged, nothing slimy and legless. Danger walked on two legs in cities. If it did not creep up behind, unexpected, you had a fighting chance. In the countryside, who knew?  Streetwise Warren and countrified Archambeau. Their shipmates could not see what they had in common. Still, unlikely friendships struck up all over.

       When the evening inspection had been done by the Officer of the Deck, they slung their hammocks and turned in, because it had been a long day and they were beat.

        In the morning after breakfast, which they ate clad only in undershorts and Tee shirts, they completed dressing in their smart blue uniforms and white Dixie hats and lined up on the Quarterdeck, to be inspected. To Archambeau’s horror, Lieutenant Swain halted in front of him, and said as he had traces of coal dust upon his hands; he better fix that before going shoreside. Archambeau fell out as the others filed down the

ladder into the waiting steam cutter. Billy looked back and gave a shrug of resignation and shuffled along the line into the boat.

        “You know I first have to go find the Post Office.” he said.

                Thomas raced for the Mess deck, found his shower bag, and scrubbed his hands again, although he knew it was unnecessary.  Just Swain picking someone out for attention, was all. By the time he returned to the gangway, the cutter had left

“The next one will be leaving in thirty minutes, Archambeau” said Swain, smiling up at the taller man, smacking the palm of his left hand with the telescope he held in his right. “Tough luck, sailor” He tucked the brass under his left arm and sauntered away, with his big rear end  rolling.

        Thomas could do nothing but wait, resentful, resigned. His shipmates, who had the duty, teased him tentatively, because Thomas could fly off the handle. He walked with the springy step of a boxer. Meanwhile he made sure he had the directions to the railway station. Time was slipping away, but he should make it.

       Time came to line up again, the cutter swayed alongside. This occasion, Swain directed his attention elsewhere, and someone else missed out. Thomas presently found himself among a press of men, chugging over the placid water of the harbour, to Circular Quay.

         The Quay was a teeming mass of humanity. Sailors and Marines from all the ships of the fleet. Men from other Navies, merchantmen from all over, dragoons, soldiers.

Motor vehicles, horse drawn conveyances, wagons, electric tram cars. A great jostling throng  possessed of one singular smile, one wave of good humour and bonhomie. The city opened before him, in a startling sweep of  bright, sun drenched colour.

        Archambeau sought directions to the tram car bound for Central Station. A large fellow, with trouser legs flapping around his shins, possessed of massive gut, and toothless grin, directed Archambeau to where the tram turned for the up town journey.

        The tramcar clanged and clattered through thoroughfares bustling with humanity and traffic. Past shops, pubs, markets and cafes, thronging with rambunctious and thirsty customers. The conductor swung along the outside running boards, leaping in and out of the seats; collecting fares; helping passengers on and off; shouting advice to any cart, wagon or motor vehicle, daring to impede progress of the car. At each intersection the car slowed to a crawl, and seemed to take an age to recover travelling speed. The conductor cajoled and urged the traffic to make way. For the first time, Archambeau began to fear that he might miss the train.

          Soon enough, he quickly made his way through the arched colonnades of the Station, found the platform, and to his dismay, discovered the train had left.  Maybe Billy had gone on alone? A frisson of anger against Swain passed over him. He slumped onto a bench and wondered what he should do, oblivious the looks of admiration directed toward him, a handsome American sailor alone at the edge of  Empire, alone in his thoughts.

          He became aware of someone sitting beside him, and stole a quick sideways glance at a slight form. A pile of auburn hair, beneath an unseasonal black straw hat pierced through with a swoop of green and purple feathers. Belonging to no bird, Thomas thought, ever lit on no tree. The face beneath was obscured by a mass of spotted veiling.  Under the face was a jabot and stock of creamy Irish lace, atop a blouse of the same stuff.   A black Eton jacket. A gored skirt of grey tweed, leather gloves, handbag and boots of a soft supple blackness completed the look of  chaste and dependable womanhood.

        “You have missed your train” said a whisper quiet voice, devoid of any accent he could decipher. Not American, not Irish. Not the Australian drawl he expected, but a softer, lighter sound. An accent, perhaps not of a first language, but practiced with effort, determined to be perfect. “I saw you come away from the platform, looking quite disappointed.”

        “I was to take a trip to the mountains with my friend.” Thomas looked down with a smile. “He seems to have disappeared.”

        “Perhaps there is another train; I can try to find out, if you want?” Looking around at the heaving mass about them, unsure of where such information might be found.

        “No” said Thomas. “No need for that. It can wait. Mountains don’t move. Still be there I reckon. Say, let’s have lunch. Do you have plans?”

        “My day has not gone as I expected, either” was the shy answer. “I was thinking of going home. I should not remain in Sydney, alone”

        “Probably a good idea.” Thomas absorbed this information for a moment, and then said. “You’re not alone now.” Then. “Where is home?”

        “Oh, out there” with a vague sweep of a gloved hand. “You would not be any wiser if I told you”

        “You’re right about that, Miss. I know where my ship is, and not much else. It is “Miss”, I guess?

“Does it matter?”  With an implication that marital status was of no moment in their conversation, and unlikely to have any bearing, should it continue.

        “No. It don’t matter. But knowing your name might.”

       

        “Isobel.”  A  pause and a cast about, as if unsure of how much to disclose, what was proper, in this society, to divulge to a stranger, but wanting to hear him say “Isobel.” Then, after a moment. “Isobel Birchgrove.”

        The answers came in tones, Thomas thought, of a “no nonsense” school Marm. He liked the idea, it somehow suited the look.

        “Ah…. Isobel. That is a very pretty name.”  Said Thomas, with a smile. “A pretty name for a pretty lady”

         “Pretty lady, is it?” said Isobel. “I’ve heard about American men. American sailors especially. Let’s not play that game.” The answer came rather tersely, but Thomas saw the glitter in the eyes behind the veiling was not that of offence taken, but of a gentle amusement.

        “Sorry, M’am. Message received loud and clear.” Thomas stood and towered over the seated form, and offered his arm. “Can we find somewhere to have lunch?”

        “There is a park across the way.” Said Isobel. “Perhaps we could buy sandwiches, something to drink.  I have pounds, in the event they won’t take American dollars.”

        Thomas purchased corned beef and pickle sandwiches,  bright red apples and Sarsaparilla soda, offering the brightly coloured pound note Isobel had thrust into his hands, quickly waved away by the smiling vendor, Thomas’s smart uniform being entree to the generosity of the City.  Armed with their meal, they sought a table under a large Moreton Bay fig tree, where they shared the food.  Thomas assisted Isobel to pin back her veil, tucking in a wayward auburn curl as he did so.

        “What can you tell me about Sydney?”  He asked, as he took a draught of the sarsaparilla.

        “Not very much at all” said Isobel. “I probably know as much about it you do.” Smiling at him. “Sydney is not my home, but I can tell you it is busy, dirty, clogged

with people, noisy. Like cities everywhere. People rush about, and don’t take much notice of anyone. Everyone seems to come from somewhere else.”

        They sat, oblivious to the city around them. The late winter sun warmed them. Thomas unbuttoned the cuffs of his blue jacket, showing ropey veins in his muscular forearms. They smiled at each other often.

         When they had finished eating, they strolled together out of the small park. They wandered into Elizabeth Street, and found themselves at the entrance to Hyde Park, which was bedecked with American flags,  Union flags, bunting, lanterns, and gas lamps, which would be lit at dusk to celebrate the Fleet.

        “Let’s not go in there” said Isobel, pressing gently on his arm. “There are so many people, so much noise. So many sailors.”

        “Sure thing, if that’s what you want.” Said Thomas. “I see enough sailors any day of the week; I don’t need to see no more.”

      They spent the afternoon lost in the maze of narrow streets, tumbledown cottages, and fine sandstone public buildings. In their wanderings they found a small café and drank good coffee. They went as far as where a finger of the Harbour poked into the backstreets which they learned was Cockleshell Harbour, where wharves carried mountains of produce coming in, and going out of Sydney, the wharf labourers and workers ignoring them. As the short winter day drew on, they wandered back to Central Station,  both of them knowing the day must end where it began. Isobel took leave of Thomas and disappeared into the colonnaded entrance.

         Archambeau sat on a bench observing as the vehicular traffic disgorged the rushing populace, eager to catch  trains into the suburbs, after their day at ledger, counter,

office, factory or market. Not a day like mine, Thomas mused.  He studied the open faces of the city folk. Bet they did not have a day like mine. Not many people do.

        He was lost in his thoughts as dusk settled over the city. Weak rays of the wintry sun filtered through banks of stormy clouds, scudding in the breeze. He was so absorbed in his observations; Billy Warren was almost upon him before he noticed.

         “We didn’t get to see your Blue Mountains” Billy said with a grin. “Swain ruined that, good and proper.”

        “ Ol’ fat ass.” Thomas said, grinning. “Don’t matter much. The mountains ain’t goin’ nowhere. We’ll get there, still got a few days left” Thomas said. “For now, we’d better find our way back on board. Soon be dark, and liberty will be up, I guess”

          Finding the Tramcar going to the Quay, they sat beside each other, as the thronged streets, now softly lit with street lamps passed by, still festive and with an air of celebration, which the chill evening air would not dampen. Thomas finally grinned at Billy.

       “It was Wilma in New Zealand, Belinda in Brazil. Where did Isobel come from?”

       “Got a cousin lives on Maple, in Brooklyn” Billy said. “ Name of Isobel. Tomboy sort of girl. Called herself Billy. When she got older she spelled it Billee, thinking maybe  it was more feminine or somethin’; so I just sort of changed it ‘round. Like it?

         “Yeah. Whatever you call yourself is OK by me. You’re still Billy, no matter what, an’ that’s all that matters” said Thomas. “And you had to get at least one more wear out of that rig.”

       “I sent the parcel to Melbourne, it will be waiting next week, when we get there. If Swain don’t poke his nose in.” Billy said.

        “Officers gotta have their fun.” Thomas said, and shrugged.

         At the Quay waiting for the cutter, in the throng of returning sailors waiting to get back  to the moorings, and anchorages, out in the great harbour. It’s surface twinkling with the lights of  ferries and all water borne traffic, echoing with hooting sirens and clanging bells, craft darting around, beyond the forest of masts, past Fort Dennison, over to the north side, in and among the coves and bays now lost in darkness.

        Archambeau and Warren, two among the hundreds of blue jackets and Dixie cup hats,  after a day abroad in a new city. They said “Hiya” to some; waved or nodded to others; and waited. Some of their number were the worse for drink, and stumbled and mumbled around, hoping to avoid the eagle eyes of the Shore Patrol, who could lay about you with a nightstick if they had a mind to. There were pretty girls who came with some to say goodbye, kissed them on their mouths, and promised to see them again.

              Archambeau and Warren stood about with their hands scrunched down in their pockets, hunched against the cold wind coming off the harbour. The ability to touch  in public, was the important part, knowing it cannot, and must not happen. The whole thing would break down. They had walked about and touched each other in a familiar way, aware of the approbation that would come their way if discovered. And punishment.

       

        In the meanwhile, life would go on in a familiar, unchanging pattern. Keeping watches, scrubbing decks, washing, cleaning and repairing. Obeying the call of a piped order, a  ringing bell or a  barked command. Blue seas, calm and translucent, green and grey seas, heaving aboard in tumbling avalanches of rolling foam. Holding on to the feelings of normalcy against their urge to be alone in a secret world of their own making, where no one knew them, no one cared.

        As the cutter returned the sailors around the fleet,  Archambeau and Warren again did not meet each others eyes, did not acknowledge their shared moments, kept their eyes down, disguising any untoward  emotions, doused by the knowledge that any awareness of what was afoot would be met with such an implacable and fierce disapproval, that the life they had would be ruined.

        But, the future lay ahead, as yet unsullied. The task was to keep it that way.

Look Back in Mystification to 2010

Look Back in Mystification-2010 Style.

By Michael Grelis.

“May you live in interesting times" So goes the old Chinese curse, which may indicate why Australia last week had its metaphorical brow blessed with a particularly Confucian swipe. Apparently though, as the freshest polls disclose, the news is not all bad for the Government. Not bad at all.

Possibly, just possibly, this is news they were waiting for, allowing quite a few of their supporters  to retrieve their vote from the carpark marked "Green"; slip behind the wheel  and get in out of the weather and home by the fire.

 It had been coming of course for quite some time, not that the Commentariat saw it. The distaff side of that game still bang on about nice girls not carrying knives, and things girlish and twee, frissons of UST, and other silliness. This will not do. Not for Australia, not for the 21st Century, and particularly not for women.

Witness the unedifying sight on Friday, of a screeching chorine, microphone at the slope, tottering on clacking footwear, in pursuit of a pouting pneumatodon named Pamela Anderson. "Have you got any advice for Juli...." and that's as far as she got before the target skedaddled into the night, thoroughly, and understandably, more confused and gormless than usual. Yep, you heard correctly. Pamela Anderson, if you can believe it? Advice, for cryin’ out loud.  Cripes ladies, if one adds that cameo to the already sexist and pettifogging angles some women journos are running, regarding the Gillard ascendancy, one can surmise not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, that women are their own worst enemies

.

 My last immediate supervisor was a woman, a Filipina in fact, and her boss was female also, I believe of Dutch heritage, in an organization whose senior management was largely female, and the Capa di Capa was also a woman, ironically now, for me at least, of Welsh persuasion. We all got along famously, despite their thinly disguised refusal to promote me because I was too old.  The only thing I was, and am, too old for, is bearing grudges. Bless.

 The drift to women in charge has been on for some time, if you haven't noticed. Interestingly, a drift the other way has not. Not yet anyway. If more and more women are seeking, and obtaining the stratosphere of Management, Executive Office, and Alpha Female status, then who is filling the positions that traditionally went to women? Nursing, Teaching, Social Welfare, that sort of thing. My local Catholic primary school has a staff of some 30 odd teachers, of whom only one is male. If men aren’t filling the void, and women have got the itch to wear the big hat, where will it end?  My hunch is that it will divide on class lines, not a consideration that previously has had much truck in Godsown.

A definite upper middle class will emerge, mainly women, who will do to glass ceilings, what Whelan the Wrecker did to Collins Street in the sixties. Those who want children will have them earlier than is the case now, early twentyish probably, as soon after graduating from University as possible, leaving them in the care of Stay At Home Dad or amenable Grandparent, and, in their thirties and forties, get on with the business of running the country, building empires, driving companies and making decisions, legislating, judging, and banking. All the important stuff. And one can have it all.

 Hopefully, they will be identified by not kissing men, or allowing themselves to be kissed by men they have just met. You don’t see blokes doing that, a simple handshake suffices. One noticed that neither the Governor General nor the Prime Minister offered their cheeks or lips to each other after each had contributed to the swearing in ceremony. All very right and proper, and that should be de rigueur in all professional dealings. In these days of equality one hopes never to see Clive Palmer and say, Barnaby Joyce, engaging in anything more than a quick reassurance that neither is going equipped to do harm, echoing the origins of the handshake.

One would also hope never to be confronted with a Mark Latham/John Howard style greeting involving two women either. Imagine, Bronwyn Bishop meeting, say, Crown Princess Mary in such a fashion. A diplomatic incident surely, which would result in Ambassadors being called in, and, at minimum, a dislocated AC joint for the Royal poppet.

Less ambitious women and gentler men will nurse, teach, drive trams and trains, make hats and manicure nails. The Nurturing class, if you will. Poor male Window Dressers and female Boilermakers will always be with us, so opportunities to express oneself through work, will, ahem, straddle class lines, and remain in place.

There must always be a Working class who will labour in the trenches, barrack for Collingwood, lose their teeth in bar room fights, and generally provide salt of the earth. If society has a working class, the other end of the spectrum has to be a polar opposite-Bludging class, for want of a better description. What they will do, or what they are for, will not be readily apparent, but was it ever thus?  One supposes they’ll just carry on, doing pretty much what they do now. Bugger all really. Fail Philosophy, Arts/Commerce or Engineering, go ski-ing and spend Daddy’s money.

The old order is changing all right, and some of us who have fought the good fight and reached the autumn of our years have no problem with it, no problem at all.

But I'll betcha Friar Antoine has.

The aforementioned Greens also must be ruing how the week panned out. The vacancy of Lindsay Tanner’s seat caused a glint in their eyes when all polls earlier in the saga had Rudd freefalling into opposition.  At the same time Abbott boasted that he had a grasp on power, a thoroughly undeserved Prime Ministership his for the taking. The light went out as quickly as it came, and a Hayden/Hawke scenario did for the mad monk what it did for Fraser all those years ago. More tears before bedtime.

Disappointment will always reign when one depends on disgruntlement and failure elsewhere, to coat tail into office without exposing a policy, or assuming the electorate has a short memory.

Does the Coalition really intend to go to the people with the opposition front bench made up of Mesdames Bishop, Bronwyn and Julie, Phillip Ruddock, Kevin Anderson, Christopher Pyne, Barnaby Joyce etc, after having subjected them to the rigors of a nasty campaign, where more than one of them, not to mention their leader, is bound to crack?

Do the Greens really think that an albeit now marginal, Labor constituency, will send more of their number into the lower house in the full knowledge such a result will do nothing for them, and probably only serve to irritate the Government?

With a majority now on the cards for Gillard’s Government come August or October, Greens would be better off being a burr under the Senate saddle, rather than celebrating the capture of a lower house seat and becoming irrelevant.

Better, too, to be on the cross benches with the despised likes of Family First honcho Steve Fielding, than be at the mercy of whiplash and razor tongue in the more boisterous rough and tumble of the snake pit. An arena which  very soon would make going to work a trial, and the rising of Parliament for Winter and Summer, a refuge devoutly to be wished. How much more preferable and soothing would it be to sink into the carmine leather of the other place and be flogged by wet lettuce, accompanied by all the acrimony and viciousness of Sister Mary Hypocritica’s confession.

The Victorian Government will go to the electorate after the 150^th Anniversary of the running of the Melbourne Cup, after John Brumby has played host to Her Gracious Majesty the Queen of Australia, who, half way here already for the Commonwealth Games, and rendered stultified by the drenching humidity of Delhi, will probably act on her express wish to be in the stands to watch the great race. After numerous photo opportunities for both Royalty and Aristocracy, Meritocracy and the Hoi Polloi, all will be well with the world for another four years.  Her Gracious Maj. will depart, leaving her southern realm safe in the redoubtable hands of the other Alpha females, Vice Regal and Parliamentary. (This prognostication proved wrong, wrong, wrong. Tired Ted rules by a whisker.)

All will be well, indeed. Saving and except another night of the long knives. To Parliamentarians, such evenings are an occupational hazard anyway, unavoidable, and taken in stride like mesothelioma in an asbestos pit. Ms.Gillard has a more finely tuned ability to sniff the wind than Rudd ever did.  Like Brutus, Lady Macbeth, and the last Plantagenet, those who wield a mean axe develop a bit of a sixth sense about these things. No midnight thief will catch her napping. After all, the sword of Damocles is but Christmas tinsel to that lot.

The Plutocracy will have to hang up the budgie smugglers for another day, because by the time we sit down to our Christmas dinners 2010; and reflect on all that has gone before, we will grudgingly acknowledge that, never mind the Speedos, what Julia and her cohort brought to the table would have the comparatively capacious confines of a Clydesdale’s Chaff bag bursting at the seams.

 

And the Commentariat?  Dennis, Piers, Michelle et al;   Oh they’ll still be essaying on about all the signs they saw way back when.  Pretending they knew it all along, having one believe they have the ears of the great and the good when plainly they do not. Look to your laurels ladies and gentlemen of the press. You could start by asking closed questions in the Gallery. Insisting upon a Yes, or No answer, refusing to be mollified and not giving up until you get either. You might not get them before you as often as you might like, but I’ll guarantee they’ll run when they see you coming if they have previously fed you a line of flannel.

Nose to the grindstone ear to the ground, shoulder to the wheel, finger on the pulse, eye to the keyhole. Those are your hallmarks, your stock in trade, and when whispers, Chinese or otherwise start up, will not let you down. As Ms Gillard has said “Time to get back on track.”  Listen to the lady; you’ve got weeks, not months.

c. Michael Grelis 27/06/2010.

Michael Grelis is a Melbourne writer and humorist who usually confines himself to the art of the short story, and poetry. He is preparing his first novel for publication.

Something Clicked

James Magnussen

I was an watching an installment of "The Project" a while ago where Hughsie, Charlie, and Carrie commented on reports that British pop singer Robbie Williams was regarded as one of the sexiest men alive. The trio were roundly condemning that assessment, and to assist their point, conducted an interview with the latest swimming god, James Magnussen, who, "Had the goods, no worries." as brayed by gaptoothed, homely Dave. James, Natacionneur Noblesse, easily put your slightly pudgy, sexually ambiguous, ex "Take That" popster, to flight and to shame. The camera which, until that moment, had been fixed on a photograph, head and brawny shoulders only, of the beauteous James, then pulled back to reveal him, from classic head to muscly little toe, dressed only in a pair of Speedos filled to bursting with all of nature's gifts.. He had the goods alright. And a killer smile, and electric blue eyes, shining out of a perfect face.I hated him, and wished he would die. "I could get pregnant just looking at him" screeched another female reporter.

Resentment welled in my breast, the tremulous bat squeak of unworthiness bit at my soul. I wondered how his mates dealt with the drop dead gorgeous sexual allure of their compatriot, knowing that his entrance into a room, any room, will be accompanied by the sound of elastic snapping around ankles, and a whispered sigh of released pheromones. Every female, and not a few males, from Adolescence to Alzheimers, would want him or want to be like him. Many men would offer the silent prayer of us, not thus blessed. "Lord I don't much care if it is not me, but just for once, don't let it be him. It always is him, of course. Probably not his fault really. He can't help being catnip to your sexual adventuress. But I wonder how he reacts to adoration, adulation, greed and unabashed want, as displayed by the ever prowling cougar, the seasoned campaigner, or the freewheeling slut with a permanent itch demanding to be scratched.

These days, and indeed in those days, many of such stripe have been unleashed by the sexual "free for all" that is today's congress between humans in western civilisation. All well and good, for some, but it takes no prisoners. I used to know someone, said he was my friend, but patently proved not to be so, who was one of those men thus gifted. He seemed to choose his companions to the end that he was always the "Alpha Male" in any surrounding.

Looking at those times through the long lens of a life lived, he never appeared to spend time with anyone he considered either physically or intellectually superior. Anyway, unknown to me at the time,but ultimately disclosed, his modus operandi was to remain in the background, waiting and watching as ice was broken, names learned, and availability discerned, of any likely conquest brought into his orbit, by his unsuspecting friends, his unaware forward scouting party, if you will. He never did his own trawling, never tasted the bitter draught of rejection, never faced the possibility that his lethal charm might fail. At the appropriate moment he would flash the kilowatt smile, whisper furtive conversation, make a clandestine assignation, and leave his "friend" deserted and wondering how it happened. At their next encounter he would offer a matey grin, shrug his shoulders as though to say, "We both know, I'm going to kick you in the teeth, you can't compete, so what's the problem. I'm better than you, and deserve first pickings."

 The wisest thing to do of course, is to take yourself out of the picture. Which I did. And from a particular Sunday night, late in May, in the year 1974,  the complete circle, begun by a bullying, cruel tongued, dismissive mother, aided and abetted by censorious, judgemental Nuns, exacerbated by any number of selfish, vain, needy family and other women, the last of whom was the venal slut who used me badly, was complete. I became a committed and practising misanthrope, all faith in friendship destroyed, unquenched by the milk of human kindness. On that night, after crawling into some space where I hoped no living thing could find me; out of my deepest soul, came a howl of humanity brought low, so visceral, so pain filled, that astronauts circling the earth in whatever Apollo it was(10?-11?) in those days, must have looked at each other in alarm and whispered, "What the fuck was that?"

Kulgera

 Stripped of self esteem, full of self hatred and loathing, with a sound of smug laughter at my departing back, after having been advised that the initial one night stand was to immediately become a more permanent arrangement,and my own accommodation was a matter for me alone, I set out, practically penniless, for home. This involved a sojourn through the deserts of central Australia, through a landscape as desolate and arid as my own dead soul. For many days and hours of bitter reflection, tears, thirst, and heartache. I knew then that for the rest of my life I would be totally, absolutely and irreversibly alone.

Port Augusta

 Eventually I arrived in Melbourne in the first stages of a mental breakdown, suicidal, last vestige of sanity hanging by cobwebby thread. I sank into a deep, dark, chasm of despair and non reality, a state I thought lasted only for a few months, but apparently, until I sought psychological help in 2010, by which time the interior self devouring me gave up, was so deeply seared into my being, that it's manifestation was the only self I could lay claim to. A massive over reaction, you say. Probably. But I didn't think so then, and I do not now. Consider this: I had joined the Royal Australian Navy at seventeen years of age, and after an initial engagement of nine years, signed on for another three.There was, I suppose some half formed plan, as by then I was in my middle twenties, to fashion a career, and stay before the mast, until pension time. I certainly enjoyed the life, good at it, and suited to it.

My first seagoing assignment after re-engagement was to a ship, which at the time was an unhappy vessel, with a weak chain of command and poor morale. Many of the crew were the most disobedient, insolent and disruptive I had ever encountered. Imbued as they were with the usual arrogance of callow youth, they were certainly a handful. Those on board charged with handling them, in the main, did not. I was one, and to my shame, gave up. In short, the ship sailed to San Francisco, spent many months alongside, where quickly, and with enthusiasm I became a drunk. My downward spiral, I count from that time. I made a couple of friends, of which, one, to make a long alcohol drenched story short, about a year after the ship returned to Australia, made true his intention to desert from the Navy, and asked me to shelter him in my mothers home. I readily agreed, and from January to March 1974 he hid out. I was posted ashore to Flinders, and he and I spent hours drinking, drinking, drinking. In the end, I agreed to join him, on the lam, and we set out, much to my mother's fury, for his suggested destination: Cairns.

 We arrived there and were met by another friend, who had completed his service in the orthodox fashion. The fact that he met us at the bus station, did not really register with me until later, when I realized that my companion must have been communicating with him as we travelled up the eastern seaboard. He certainly had not advised me of this, which should have sounded a warning bell, but as usual, confused by hangover, and committed to a course of action, did not.

 We travelled to Mount Isa by road, the three of us, to where a cousin of mine lived with her husband who was something of a Hire'em Fire'em in the copper mines. We thought we might find work- but were soon disabused of this plan, by a phone call from a family member to my cousin, from Melbourne, advising her of my absence from the Navy.

We moved on to Darwin. I got us a couple of days work unloading superphosphate from railway trucks. The work was hard, too hard in fact, and I was sent to collect our wages for the time spent, and after a bollocking from the agent, that was that. I hocked my camera, typewriter and anything else of value to get us to Darwin. I then spoke for we three, to get more suitable jobs as builders labourers. Two positions for one foreman, one position for another. A look passed between my companions, and they were the two. I was the one. Another warning bell ignored.

Winnellie NT

We found a caravan to live in, we shared costs, and so it went. Drink. Weekends were spent at the Berrimah Hotel. Drink. From where I was, my contribution to our situation, consisted of being sociable to the opposite sex, but this did notresult in any noticeable success until the last Saturday night when I approached a short woman with curly red blonde hair and asked her to dance, she readily agreed while the woman she was with, sat alone.My two companions remained at our table, seemingly uninterested. We danced, and chatted. Friendly enough it seemed. We returned to our respective tables. I was importuned to ask the women to join us, which I did, and they agreed . We chatted, I asked the women to visit our caravan and they did. Long story short, somewhere between that moment and the next night when we all met up again, my so called friends and the two women had formed a liason with each other, with the result that I was required to make way and get lost.

 The next day or so it was made plain to me that the living arrangements were going to change, and I was required to get lost.I did. Literally. I stumbled away, into a morass of loneliness, humbled and duped. I realised with a deep,deep shame that I was thousands of miles from home, I'd run away from my job, badly offended my family, and thrown my lot in with a bloke, who at the core of his being, finally showed himself as an unfeeling, opportunistic user, a shameless pretender who, in the guise of friendship, took from me what he wanted, hammered me into the ground and walked away.

Coober Pedy

 So, the journey through the desert into the rest of my life commenced. I hitchhiked from Darwin to Melbourne, and walked through my mother's back door, exhausted, half starved, and as near to a compete breakdown as anyone could ever be.I made my amends to the Navy, obtained a discharge when my time was up, and went on to find some sort of a life. That is another story.

Getting It On Paper - Prevaricating- and Aaron Eckhart, Blind To the Reefs.

I've been trying to write this novel for oh, I dunno, about twenty years now. Not actually writing it all that time, but thinking about the characters, the times, the mores, the places. Getting some of it down, rethinking, rewriting, starting again. Coming at it from another angle. Daydreaming in fact . Mostly daydreaming, and being spooked by the unforgiving minute. Damn you to hell, Catholic guilt complex! Lately I've been casting the film of my novel, which, as you are no doubt aware, has been translated into fifteen languages, has topped every best seller list in the free world, won the Man Booker, The Miles Franklin and to date, has sold upwards of twenty million copies. I've become the darling of the chat shows, literary festivals and book signings. And I've done it without a skerrick of a grant. Eat your hearts out you literatti bitches!! I need never work again. Now if only Steven Spielberg and Harvey Weinstein would stop pestering me, life would be bearable.

                                            "Blind To The Reefs" by Michael Grelis

Old Prince's Bridge and St Paul's by moonlight by Ludwig  Becker 1857. Cowan Gallery.

Proposed Jacket cover design for "Blind to the Reefs"

This daydreaming jag has got to stop.  All this running before your horse to market. Get the words on paper, that's all you have to do. It's Easter Monday morning, early. Well, early for me anyway. I've taken the dog out for her morning constitutional, which, by the by, has lately taken on the proportions of the weekly bag of grocery shopping- damn near did a disc, bending down to shovel the stuff into a plastic bag. Yep, shovellin' dog poo. That's life in a nutshell. But I digress. As I said, it's Monday mornin' and  the last person I spoke to, fleshwise, was sometime last Thursday in Benalla, I've spent the Easter weekend alone,  in complete silence. Not bitchin' mind, just sayin'.It's by no means an uncommon occurence.

 I did spend a lot of time in front of the screen trying to get this story moving along, which, as I'm inferring, is easier said than done. For me, an untrained, unqualified "Writer" that task  is akin to reaching down (or up- I don't know the physiognominy of it) into your own bowels, to wrestle a tape worm out into the light of day. So I trot down the path of make believe. That's part of the deal anyway-and isn't writing novels make believe?

HMAS Perth

Australian Prisoner of War.WW2

In my story set in 1956, Olympic Year in Melbourne there are two coppers, one older, wiser and a whole lot sadder, one younger, smarter,  somewhat feckless and driven. Both ex prisoners of war, having survived the sinking of HMAS Perth,
one (probably Redge, the elder) a survivor of the Burma railway, the other (Finbar, the younger) I think will have been a slave in Tokyo, on the wharves, I reckon.
Haven't decided yet. Both men, like all those who lived through that, are haunted by memories that won't stop, by their feelings of guilt at having survived the horror, when so many of their mates did not, and by their feelings of inadequacy as husbands, sons  and fathers, who can't communicate their anger, despair and misery.  If they do, they will have to put a name to it, it's more than an elephant in the room, it's a satanic beast.  They won't have to confront as long as it remains locked in their minds. Let it out, and everyone will suffer. But it is there. Always.

Victoria Police Shoulder Flash 1950's

 They came back from hell into a world that asked them to "get on with it" and to "put it behind you". Some chance. They can't. It's in their every waking day, it's waiting for them when they close their eyes. Faces, faces, faces, death, starvation, disease. Of men they knew and loved. Heartbreaking, and a heartbroken generation. How could anyone put behind them Batavia, Changi, Japanese prisoner of war ships, Hellfire pass.

Hellfire Pass

All that after having a ship they loved blown from under them in a mire of blood, brains, and limbs torn asunder. Then there was dysentery, starvation, tropical ulcers, beatings and executions and unspeakable cruelty waiting for them. But they are expected to do so. And be on time for work each day thereafter, go home on the tram at 6pm, prune the roses on Sunday, eat  cold lamb chops and salad for dinner, and read bedtime stories to their children a; the time hiding a heart as heavy as an anvil. While their memories and nightmares destroyed them from within.

  They investigate a murder disguised as a suicide, then a missing person, then a murder. Enter Lorelie Sunday. I haven't decided what to do with her yet, but she is the most beautiful,most bewitching female anyone has ever seen. She is also a whore, and has the filthiest mouth in all of literature. Teresa Palmer

Teresa Palmer

will play her of course, I don't know how she would feel about the dialogue, but she is certainly beautiful enough, ethereal enough, and you could understand how Finbar would risk everything, given his state of mind, to possess her. Stupid, stupid man. One more regret, something else to torture yourself over. There are a lot of other characters also , Migrants, post war refugees, nuns, a surly, snobbish Irish priest, Australian "Battlers" all trying to make sense of the time in which they find themselves, post war Melbourne in the 1950's, in the wasteland  to the west of the city.

For those who have read "The Harp in The South" (I think it was the first "grown up" book I read, I was probably 11 or 12 at the time- but I digress. Again) Ruth Park's wonderful story published in, I think, about 1948. (I wasn't 12 in 1948-fair go!) You will probably say that  story is about Roie, and you would be mostly correct.. But, the lynchpin is Mumma. So it is with my yarn. Although it is essentially Finbar's story, Redge holds the key to everything. His story is the backbone to it all. In some respect Finbar is a conduit to Redge.
I was cogitating on this, trying to give my characters some physical appearance. Ms Palmer fills the bill, beauty wise, and she'd have the acting chops, no doubt. Finbar-Hmmm, Rupert Reid, maybe. That sort of look. Does he act anymore I wonder- Got a great singing voice I know, and runner up at Tropfest. I wonder if the budget will stretch to him these days, after that sort of adulation? Redge? What does Redge look like?

John Hargreaves

Aaron Eckhart

 In the beginning I always imagined John Hargreaves. Damn it all, why did he have to die?  For all sorts of reasons he is missed, only one of which is for all the great roles he had yet to play. My character Redge is/was right up his alley. I'm flicking through the Sunday paper, and there's Redge. Of course it's Redge. Aaron Eckhart.
He is in Melbourne at the minute, filming. In the photograph he's at some function for the Melbourne Grand Prix.  I wonder what he'd do with the role of a tortured Australian Copper. He looks the part. Strong face. a lot hidden, but a lot going on behind the eyes. Yair, he'd be good. I wonder how he's go with the accent.(And Actors Equity-but that's not my problem- anyway Meryl Streep got over that so there's precedent..)  He'd manage ok, I reckon. So will my literary agent-she's a maneating tiger, she'll bring him onboard.  (I haven't got an agent of any sort-that's another daydream-but in my world, she'd take your balls home in her purse.) I've written a few
hundred words where Finbar and Redge reach some sort of denoument, after all that has gone before. It's late spring, early summer, they sit on Redge's front verandah, beside the railway viaduct in Richmond. The trains rattle overhead, kids play in the street. A roar comes from the MCG, as the Olympic games athletics carry on.   A sort of golden twilight. a cold bottle of Melbourne Bitter between them, I have given Redge a fairly long monologue, wherein a lot of things at last,  make sense. Tears glinting in the late sunshine. Awkward mateship-a goodbye. There's your Oscar moment, right there Aaron, old son.

Miriam Margoyles

 So the struggle goes on. Thankfully at least I've finished with Sister Una Connell (Miriam Margoyles in my dream-a cameo that sets the screen alight) I find that this written exercise this morning (A dull damp gloomy morning in Violet Town it is, too) has at least been a little bit cathartic-although I'm obsessing about the spelling of Physio-whatsit (I never use spellcheck or look anything up- I won every Spelling Bee I entered at primary school, and it's a matter of vanity and form that I do not check-arrogance some would say, but I could care less, it's what I do.)

I'm going to stay in front of this computer for a while now, and DO something creative. But first......hmmm maybe Abbie Cornish for Lorelie if Teresa's booked up, (Now I'm thinking of Abbie in Candy, with Heath Ledger-Man, she was awesome) if Rupe doesn't want to play, I wonder if Damien Walshe-Howling would be interested? Bit boyish perhaps.  Brett Clymo? Probably not-it might be one copper to many in the CV.  Geez, I dunno, it's a worry.  But definitely Aaron for Redge. Yep, I'm going to borrow Mr Eckhart for a while, to get Redge into being, to give him some skin and bone.  Rest in Peace Johnny, you'd have been bonzer, but Aaron and I will do you proud.

Rupert Reid

Seymour And Weep

From where I am in the great sweep of the Universe, to get from Point A to anywhere else requires a voyage a la trein  if you are sans un voiture, as I am these days.
One boards at the tiny halt at the bottom of Cowslip Street, which I hastily did, along with a chap who asked, rhetorically I assumed, as I would clearly have no idea, and could care even less; " I wonder if it's the "City of Morwell" or the "City of Wangaratta",  indicating the locomotive engine, as it  thrummed into the station. "Its always one or the other." It turned out to be the former, causing a smirk of satisfaction from my co-entrainer. "Correct, again ." the smirk said.  These are the things one worries about, if one stays too long in one small town in the countryside, from innocent childhood, through an uninquisitive middlehood, to budding querellous senility .Little victories.

Seymour Railway Station

There seemed to be an air of impatience attending the large basso profundo humming machine, having to pause in it's throb through the Northeast, so one was encouraged to be quick about boarding. We were soon away. I intended to go to Melbourne to attend some business and a spot of "must have" shopping, but a last minute change saw me detrain at the small town of Seymour, some one hundred k's shy of my original destination.

 Although I had never before actually set foot in the town, I was reasonably confident of being able to obtain what I needed, as the place, from the train window,  seemed to be of a fair size, and  very few places in a first world country like Australia Felix, have escaped the tentacles of marketing and free enterprise in the global village. You can be mistaken, you know.

As I walked out of the station, through a shallow, brick lined tunnel that passed under the railway lines, I observed, with a slight tremor of consternation , a large round person of the feminine pursuasion, lumbering towards me at a pace which, although not  FloJo velocity, was swift enough to cause we convocation of detrainers to part like the Red Sea, in fear of being flattened like proverbial tacks. Her only connection with the athletic exploits of said,  late FloJo, was a probable injestion of some chemical substance which enabled her to break into a pace other than an elephantine plod.

Her progress was accompained by those particular screeches which females of a certain age, say from thirteen to about twenty years, these days utter when approaching their compatriots, and as I turned to see her likely quarry, I was assured  this was indeed the case.
She fell upon a pair of  her fellows, a rather lumpy bloke, ardently clinging to his highschool girl companion, he in dusty stained black tracky dacks and a T shirt of indeterminate hue, greasy dark hair and a fair crop of acne. His paramour wore a blue check school uniform summer dress, of a length I believe these days is called Hornsby; that is to say, just below The Entrance. She  topped this with  a "Windcheater", school logo imprinted thereon. I did not manage to read said logo, to ascertain which particular seat of learning she hailed from. As she and the screeching farago clashed in the middle of the tunnel, there was a cry from the student along the lines of " Ya don't havta barrell me ya fuckin' moll-get fuckin' off!" followed by more screeches from both. The black clad moron stood about, akimbo, with a stupid look. Probably deaf, I thought, with a twinge of envy.

 I gathered that she was not numbered among the alumnus of Gennazzano or Melbourne Girls Grammar School, although the language used would not necessarily have been an indicator. I thought rather,  her choice of beau was a more reliable sign. Although the stupidity quotient might have been on par, the ladies of Gen and MCCEGGS usually only permit themselves to be handled by chaps with much better teeth, and with personal hygeine, supervised by their Mumsies. A rather interesting welcome to the town, I thought. It is probably a good thing to be so uninhibited in such public demonstrations of affection. I would not know.

My first duty was to find a branch of my bank, and I wandered about more or less in search of same. It was only a little after nine o'clock, and a steady rain washed the rather glum looking streets. I assumed that there would be a part of the town given over to all the merchant activity we have come to think we need, in this day and age.  So I meandered around the few shops, expecting that eventually the whole bustling metropolis would appear. As I have mentioned, you can be mistaken, No such vista offered itself, which I thought unusual.
Euroa, a smaller town further north, where I have shopped and explored the excellent book shop, is a case in point. Still with covered verandahs down each side of the main drag, most things one wants are there. An added attraction to visiting the town is it's brace of quite beautiful Victorian buildings, an old bank now a private house, some fine public buildings, particularly  the decommisioned court house and another bank, which claim connection to Ned Kelly, are architecturally interesting and speak of an earlier epoch, pre Federation, when towns like these prospered and thrived, mostly on the sheep's back.
 Ned and his gang; a group of bank robbers/police killers/horse thieves/ thugs/colonial heroes/transvestite nee'r do well bounders, inhabit the social history of many towns up, down and across the Strathbogie Ranges, from Donnybrook to Glenrowan, and into New South Wales, to Jerilderie at least.
Benalla is another. Again with courthouse, bank and colonial lockup now a butchershop, again  with connection to the Gang. Excellent shopping each side of a wide shady thoroughfare. Rowses, Rowses everywhere, a lake complete with fountain and boatsheds. The streets have a solid, dependable country look that bespeaks a town which has not forgotten it's halcyon times, and indeed might still be expecting them to re-appear any day now. Open faced, happy looking people inhabit both these places, and upon leaving the train earlier, I was supposing that Seymour would be much the same. Nah.
 I searched among the couple of thoroughfares around the railway station for a branch of my bank, but no such luck.
 I spied a few matronly women setting up a fund raising initiative in a small piazza between some shops of the sort which trade in men's and women's clothing, kitchen implements, and a gift shop or two, offering the sorts of gimcrackery that find it's way into your local Opshop, a year or two after purchase.The women set up card tables, home baked goods, raffle tickets, and an old tartan biscuit tin or two for small change, raffle books and biros.  With collapsible chairs, travelling rugs and knitting, they seemed set for a day's fund raising and gossip.

An approach to one likely mesdame,  punctilious about a mannerly opening gambit, aware that a certain generation are sticklers for these things, I wondered aloud if she might be able to advise me of the whereabouts of X bank?
"Cripes, I dunno" she said, not looking up from her purling and plaining. None of her companions seemed to know either. Well if they did, they were going to keep it to themselves. Faced with such implacable silence, I did not feel the need to embark on any formal farewell. I walked on. Nothing to see here.

At around 9.30am I encountered my first drunk of the day. A thin bloke sprawled on a bench in the street, he held a bottle of something, still in it's brown bag, held up to his lips with one shaking hand, the other holding a thin cigarette which I knew as a 'racehorse" in my youth. This was held in black nicotine stained fingers, which were a common sight once, but not so much now in these more health conscious days. Health was not a priority for this bloke obviously, as each swig was accompained by a hacking cough that shook his thin frame, causing his feet to leave the ground and his body to double up. He kept a firm grip on both booze and fag, however, and at the cessation of his mild fit, he continued on imbibing and inhaling.  Not much point asking him for directions. The other street traffic went about their lives oblivious, so when in Rome.

 My second drunk  leaned against a motor vehicle parked outside the Liquor barn of one of the chain supermarkets. I had wandered about some more, realising that my break in journey  had all the hallmarks of one of my usual impetuous blunders, and had fetched up  in a small arcade leading to either Coles or Woollies, which was exactly where I  did not want to be.
Drunk Number two was a tall loutish looking chap, probably somewhere between twenty and forty. There is a particular sort of Australian male, a subspecies within the Genus HomoErectus Australis, I name for want of a better-Crassus Ignoramus Moronicus. He (or She) is visually distinct from another subspecies found on the streets, (equally best avoided.) Dentus Absentus Docket headicus Junkycus.
D#2(C-I-M) nursed his can of either Bundy and Coke or Southern Comfort and whatever, making it last. He was, as I mentioned, tall and solid. with a huge gut hanging over tight legged jeans that ended in a pair of scuffed and dirty Blundstones, which had never been cleaned since the day he put them on.
Any sign of pride in personal appearance in this subspecies is looked upon as having poofterish tendencies, and clean footwear, which by the way, always  consist of either the aforementioned  boots or an equally dirty pair of sneakers, will earn you the scorn of your mates, who won't want it known that they even know a poofter, let alone have a mate who dresses like one. This, along with unironed clothes, the non wearing of a suit and tie (even at weddings, funerals, or court appearances)  is inculcated at about 12 years of age, so D#2 had many years of conforming to type. He had also a florid complexion under a scaly unshaven four day growth, bleary bloodshot eyes, rimed with a hoar frost of sleep. All true to the breed.
The usual truculent expression, I assumed, was on this occasion exacerbated by the fact that the liquor barn could not commence trading until eleven am, which was some 30 minutes in the future, requiring him to nurse his can a while longer before he could get a replenishing slab, I supposed, to get him through the day. I offered a silent prayer that he was not driving a car, in the hope he would not cause the death of some innocent abroad. He himself? Well, fuck him, and all his breed, I thought. A single vehicle crash on a deserted back road would be one less.
A sense of frustration is begining to assail me. I ask at the cigarette counter of the Supermarket for directions: "X Bank? No, there is no X Bank here If you go to the end of the carpark, go under the bridge at the roundabout, on the other side of the railway, there might be a branch there, but I couldn't really say "

At least she was being helpful. Unhelpfully helpfull, but she displayed a willingness to communicate and that, in itself was, a leap forward.
"How about X Store?"
"There used to be one here a while ago, but it closed."
Right. So my sojourn in this dump has proved to be totally pointless. I am reluctant to set off on a search that might, probably will be fruitless. The train back home doesn't leave until well after midday and it wants little for eleven am. Never mind, I'm going back to the railway station, and will wait in high dudgeon for it's saving hoot to carry me away, never to return. Which I do.
Seymour Station is a pretty building. Pointed and tucked brickwork of an unusual (for Victoria) purply red colour with lots of quoining. Not the usual bluestone, so prevalent in the north in places like Woodend,  Kyneton, Malmsbury, Carlsruhe. Bluestone is the Victorian signature. Bridges, viaducts, churches, farmhouses from Rupert Clark's fifedom  to the great squatocracies in the Western district, Camperdown, Hamilton, Mortlake. Back when the railway was king. The stone lends itself to stolidity. Expensive to quarry, cart and build, which told the tale of the emergence of the land owning gentry. If you could afford that, you were on your way.
If your family seat was one of the bluestone variety, tucked with a pale mortar to highlight the dark heavy stone,  reached by a long winding carriageway, planted about with fir or cypress windbreaks, the house overhung with a Rambling Rector over the portico and around the square paned windows, you were made. You were someone. Not  Crassus Ignoramus Moronicus anyway.  Countryparticus Borntoruleicus probably. Equally repellent, but is another kettle of fish entirely.

I wandered around the Station. In the days of rail, it had a Refreshment Room of some note. It is still there, but in straightened circumstances. Still a large space, with attractive crown mouldings, Victorian overhead lighting,and some panelling remain, as does the long wooden counter which runs for most of it's twenty or thirty feet length. The kitchen is still there, but only produces snack food, the inevitable pies, chips and mundane sandwiches. Mine host, a slight little bloke is in black tracksuit pants and boots, which I have decided must be regional costume  in these parts, as every second person I have seen this day, is thus attired. Much like Lederhosen in Munich, or the woollen cap of a Basque cheesemaker, the blacktracksuit pants of your Seymourian is a readily identifiable cultural garb.
I'm sure,  in the sometime, never, when I do my long planned trip to Fromelles, via Turkey then ferry to Brindisi,  if I come across les touristes queueing up outside the Ufizzi; or"The Madonna of the Rocks" in the Louvre; or even waiting to take the ferry across to the Asian side in Istanbul; if any of them are clad in black trackies,  feet shod in dirty blunnies, I'll be able to shout out "Hey Seymour, get a dog up ya!" and he/she will immediately feel not so far from home.

Far from home is probably what the subjects were feeling,  as they had their photographs taken, while they sat down to a meal in the Refreshment Rooms more than half a century ago These subjects were part of the great wave of immigration to Australia that took place in the late 1940's and 50's. They would have arrived in Port Melbourne, aboard the Angelino Lauro, Fairstar or Fairsky, Orcades or Orontes, or perhaps the magnificently named Johann Van Oldenbarneveldt, and quickly loaded onto trains on Station Pier, hissing and steaming, waiting for the trip to Bonegilla Migrant Camp, out of Albury on the Victorian-New South Wales border. To begin a new life in a new country, where most likely their first Antipodean meal would have been in Seymour.

These photographs line the walls of the Rooms. Black and White of course, they are so sharp in their detail, and so completely encapsulate their moment, suddenly I'm glad that for all the frustration of the day, I'm able to see these wonderful images, not only of a time long gone, but of a very important record of the social change impacting not only on the Immigrants but on their heretofore predominantly Anglo Saxon, hosts.

My eyes are drawn to the waitresses, what they wore.  Starched pinafores, over the uniforms, what colour? Pale green I'm thinking. The pale green of servitude.They wear sturdy shoes, some have socks on. Maybe they are lesbians. Is it a sign?  Perhaps like the bunch of violets the daughters of Sappho wore in the 30's Bloomsbury set.  Oh well, a random thought.  Covered cakestands, electroplate jugs,coffeepots and teapots. Solid white crockery, it would have VR stamped in blue. The coffee would have been good, Railway coffee in those days was excellent. Well, that is to say good as far as your rail travelling  Australian was concerned. It certainly did not have the harsh reputation of British Railways tea.The migrants might have had better coffee in their native villages, but six weeks on a British liner would have dulled those memories.

Look at them. They look tired. There are only women and children at the tables Wearing war time clothes, ill fitting. Overcoats and pullovers. Of Course!! the socks. It's winter time and the constantly opening doors from the station outside would bring icy draughts whistling around your legs. Your finely turned heterosexual, womanly Australian legs.Sorry OK?  A young mother is offering a cup to a small child, who looks fractious and weary. An uneaten meal sits before her. Big thick sausages, and an ice cream scoop of something pale and unappetising, probably mashed potato.What a meal for a child. A first meal on Australian soil. In Seymour of all places. Welcome to the great southern land of stodge. To recoil from a Railway Cafeteria meal is one thing, wait a few more hours until you get a smell of the fumes of mutton overhanging the Nissan huts of Bonegilla, and you'll wish you were back in the Bay of Biscay.

In the photographs all the men sit at one long table at the back of the room. I imagine that most of them will go to the Snowy Mountains Hydro Electrical scheme. The biggest infrastructure undertaking in Australia up until that time. Where are our big schemes now I wonder? We need tunnels, bridges, railways, water. We need manufacturing, we need our own cars, ships, shoes, Television stets for Goodness sake. I wander about the photographs. Europe has gone to hell in a handcart once again, I'm thinking. Same handcart, same hell as these people were escaping , not because of Hitler this time round,  but another monster. He doesn't live in Bertchesgarten, but Wall Street.
In the end I'm paraphrasing Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard.
 In Australia it's not the schemes that got small, its the politicians. Too scared to take a big idea to the people. To timid and poll driven to voice a plan for the future. The future seems to be only as far as the next By-Election. Tony Abbott says "Election now"  "Election now." not because he wants to DO anything, but because he knows he can win without doing anything. Julia won't  deal with Craig Whosit because her majority will be paper thin if she does.

I fish out a book from the old Gladstone bag, and wait for the train. "Venice" Peter Ackroyd. I love his use of language, and I'm losing myself in it. A youngish chap lurches through the door and stares blankly at the sparse chalked menu at the counter. He carries a plastic bag that clinks when he puts it at his feet. Either he can't decipher the menu, as he sways before it, or there is nothing he wants to buy.  He apparently decides that he is no longer hungry or in any event his mind wanders, as he fixes his stare on the bag at his feet for some moments. As though he suddenly remembers that it is his, he gathers it up and stumbles back through the door. A moment or so later there is a glassy crash from somewhere on the platform, and a yeasty smell permeates the room. Drunk Number Three, I muse. The whole town seems full of them, and it's only midday. On a Tuesday.

I can hear a conversation between two young girls sitting on the platform.
"You know Hughesie" one of them is saying. "Well did you see the interview on The Project he did with the Pope?"
Nah. I didn't know he met the Pope, was Hughsie, like you know, in Rome or  like somewhere?"
"Yeah,no he wasn't in Rome or nothin', He was like here."
"Like here, ya mean. Like in- you know, Seymour"
"Don't be fuckin' stupid. Nah- like in Melbourne."
"I reckon the Pope hasn't been to Melbourne"
"He was in Melbourne, he like- was in that place in Braybrook where they all go"
"Where who go?"
"Like all those people, like you know, that wear those red and orange robes that like, shave their heads and stuff"
"That wasn't the Pope, that was the Dalai Lama"
"What the fuck's a Dalai Lama?"
"He's like an Asian guy, he's sort of good to people, and he, like, laughs a lot an' that, He said Hughsie had funny eyes."
"Not the Pope"
"Nah the Pope's like  the boss of like,  Catholics. He's not Asian. I heard he was, like a Nazi during the war or somethin'
"What's a Nazi?"

I put the book away. Peter Ackroyd cannot compete.

Please Lord, send the train. Like now, if you want. Like, you know, soon. Please.