Chopper Unchopped (145 page)

Van Gogh shot him a look that told Reeves tomorrow would be far too late. So, trusting in fate, Johnny Reeves, Macka McCall and Milton Van Gogh began walking toward Collingwood’s oldest and darkest part. The trip meant passing by Busy O’Brien’s place in Hoddle Street.

“Do ya mind if I just pop in to see me mate?” said Johnny.

Milton Van Gogh shrugged his shoulders. Johnny darted up the front path, the whole ten feet to O’Brien’s front door. Busy had had the electricity put on since Fran Kinsella had agreed to move in with him and the porch light came on. Busy opened the front door in his slippers and trousers.

He was bare-chested under his red velvet dressing gown. The smell of good rich Irish stew wafted up the hallway and out the front door.

“Hello Busy, we are taking a little stroll over to Calcutta,” said Reeves, using the nickname for that part of Collingwood never entered by normal men.

“Calcutta,” said Busy, surprised. “What on earth for?”

Then Milton Van Gogh stepped into the light from the porch and Busy O’Brien recognised him at once.

“Oh yes, well,” said Busy. “I’m about to have me tea. Come in all of ya. Have tea with me and I’ll get changed and join ya.”

Milton Van Gogh didn’t need a second invitation. He hadn’t eaten since the day before. When Fran saw the three men enter the lounge room she greeted Johnny Reeves and Macka McCall with a big smile and a friendly hello then froze at the sight of Milton Van Gogh.

“Holy mother of God” she exclaimed.

“It’s all right, my darling,” said Busy. “Three more for dinner, no problem at all, hey pet? Plenty for everyone.” Fran nodded in agreement. But she was still in a state of fascination, as if a rat had crawled up out of the drain and come inside to say hello and have tea.

“Well,” she said desperately, trying to sound at ease, “would you boys like to wash up before we eat?”

Johnny Reeves and Macka McCall were spotlessly clean, but Milton Van Gogh’s hands were as black as a mother-in-law’s heart. Fran took them to the laundry, ran cold water into a pan and handed them a block of soap and a clean white towel. Johnny and Macka gave their mitts a lick and a promise, but it was all a novelty to Milton. His lot didn’t get much chance of a tub where he came from, so he set to and washed his face and neck as well as his hands. By the time he had dried himself the white towel looked like a garage grease rag, but Milton looked fresher and cleaner. When he got back to the lounge he saw that the kitchen table had been moved there and five places set on a clean white table cloth with big white china plates full of rich hot Irish stew and two china plates in the centre of the table loaded high with slices of white bread and butter.

Milton couldn’t recall in his whole life seeing such lavish fare. There were five seven-ounce glasses, one in front of each setting, and Fran pulled four bottles of Abbots Lager out of the ice chest and put them at the end of the table. The fire was going and the electric radio was playing quietly in the background. Fran invited everyone to sit. Then Busy asked Johnny to say Grace.

Milton Van Gogh was in a state of shock at such culture and civilisation. “Grace, indeed,” he thought, while Johnny proceeded with head bowed and eyes closed.

“Dear Lord, for what we are about to receive may we be truly thankful. Bless this food and the hands that prepared it, in Thy name. Amen.”

“Amen,” mumbled Milton Van Gogh with the others. He was a quick learner. And with that the meal began. Irish Stew, bread and butter and a cold beer to wash it down. Busy O’Brien had relaxed and was enjoying the role of mine host, inviting Milton to second helpings of stew and more beer which the hungry Van Gogh readily accepted.

Fran heard a tune on the radio and turned it up, telling one and all it was Tommy Dorsey and his Orchestra.

“Do you like music, Milton?” she asked.

Milton Van Gogh was tongue-tied in the presence of such a cultured and wonderful lady and flushed crimson with embarrassment unable to reply.

“I like Bing Crosby,” said Macka McCall.

Fran Kinsella ignored McCall and aimed her eyes and conversation at Milton Van Gogh again.

“Have you ever heard the Harry James Band, Milton? Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t mind me calling you Milton, do you Mr Van Gogh?”

Milton stammered then said “No, no, not at all,” trying to put on his best speaking voice. “Milton’s fine, and no I’ve never heard of Harry Jones.”

“James,” said Fran gently, with a smile.

“Harry James. Oh well, no, I’ve never heard of him neither,” said Milton.

The others at the table smiled at Fran’s conversation with the legendary Collingwood monster from the black hole of Calcutta. It reminded Busy of the story of the frog and the princess. Van Gogh was transforming into a civilised human being before their very eyes all because someone he thought was a beautiful princess had bothered to talk to him. Yes, indeed. Busy was glad they had all dropped in for tea. This was worth its weight in gold.

“Well,” said Fran, when the meal was nearly over. “Plum Duff for seconds. Who’s for pudding and cream?” Milton Van Gogh couldn’t answer. He simply held up his hand like a schoolboy.

Fran got up and went into the kitchen, and a little while later was back with bowls of hot plum pudding covered in cream and icing sugar.

“God,” thought Milton. “No wonder they called Johnny Reeves the King of Collingwood. His gang live like kings.” It was luxury beyond Van Gogh’s wildest imagination. Totally unbelievable. And what of this princess of a lady serving this magnificent meal. What an angel. Milton Van Gogh was indeed seeing how the other half of Collingwood lived. That it was even flasher just across the Yarra was a concept he didn’t really understand. There was no television in those days, and people only knew what they saw with their own eyes.

Conversation over plum pudding turned to politics. Joe Lyons was still Prime Minister at the time. There was talk that either Earl Page or Bob Menzies would win in 1939 because that’s when the next election was due. Van Gogh had heard of none of these blokes but felt he should contribute to the conversation.

“What happened to Billy Hughes?” said Milton.

“He got turfed out in 1923,” said Macka McCall. “Labour lost and Stanley Bruce and the Nationalist Party took over till 1929, then Scullin and Labour again till 1932. Now we have Lyons and the United Party.”

Milton didn’t need a history lesson. He shot McCall a savage look.

“Are you trying to take the piss?” he said.

“No, of course Macka wasn’t doing that, Milton,” said Fran with a heart-warming smile and with that Van Gogh’s mood mellowed at once.

“Sorry, McCall,” said Milton. “I misunderstood.”

“That’s fine,” said Macka, greatly relieved that Fran had smoothed that little lot over. After tea the things were cleared away and the table put back into the kitchen. Fran turned the radio up because the news was coming on. Busy broke out Scotch whisky and glasses and Milton was sat down in a soft leather chair with a glass of Scotch and offered an after dinner cigar. He would have thought he was in the Melbourne Club, if he’d known what the Melbourne Club was.

The news came on. Joe Lyons was telling the nation that Adolf Hitler was no problem whatsoever. It was all a storm in a tea cup and the British Government and the German Government were more allies than enemies. Not a problem in the world. Rumours of war with England and Germany were total nonsense.

“I told ya so,” said Busy to Johnny.

“Who’s Hitler?” said Milton.

It was quite obvious by now that Milton neither owned a radio nor read newspapers.

“He’s the Chancellor of Germany,” said Fran.

“Oh,” said Milton. “What happened to Kaiser Bill?”

The conversation was now taking a ridiculous turn. Johnny broke in, trying to play the diplomat.

“Well, it’s getting late,” he said. “We best be off. Fran, can we borrow Busy for a while?”

“Certainly” said Fran. “Bernard, you had best wear your top coat.”

All the men looked at Busy without actually laughing out loud, but you could see what they were thinking. “Bernard” said Johnny slowly, almost smiling. “Bernard, indeed.”

Busy blushed red and Fran added to the flame of embarrassment by kissing him on the cheek and brushing his overcoat down with her hand as if he was a little boy. Fran was in fact some inches taller than the little thickset man. The whole sight was quite comic.

The four men set off across Hoddle Street waving Fran goodbye as she stood under the porch light, then they turned down Collingwood Lane and on into the blackness and filth of Milton Van Gogh’s home turf.

“By the way,” said Busy to Johnny. “What’s this all about?”

Johnny patted Busy on the shoulder as they walked through the unlit street. It was as dark as the inside of a cow, but smelt worse. “I have absolutely no bloody idea,” he said as they turned a corner. They passed a narrow house with a dim light coming from a window and the sound of a woman crying. The street was about ten to twelve feet wide and cobblestoned and her crying, although soft, was clear.

“Smell that,” said Busy in a whisper.

Johnny knew what the smell was, as did Busy. The 1914–18 war taught them plenty about the smell of death.

“Someone’s dead in that house,” whispered Busy.

“Keep walking,” said Johnny.

Both men were clutching the revolvers in their coat pockets. At the end of the street was a house with a porch light on. Jangly piano music was leaking out from somewhere behind the front door. Three men stood in front of the house – big, mean, savage looking brutes. As Johnny, Macka and Busy got closer the three bruisers looked as if they were about to attack. That’s until they spotted Milton Van Gogh in the group. Then the three thugs smiled.

“How’s it going, Milt?” said the bigger of the three men.

The front door opened and a girl, no more than 14 or 15 years old, stood in the open door way totally naked with her hands combing her hair. She had hair the colour of golden honey and the body of a well-developed woman, but her face betrayed her years. She had the face of a child. A tough, corrupted child with sad eyes that were soon going to be bad or mad eyes.

“Ya wanna have a go, boys?” she called, and rubbed her fingers between her legs suggestively “Come on fellas, wanna go, two bob a time?”

Johnny and his crew kept walking, but one of the three thugs called out. “She’ll do it for a shilling.” Johnny Reeves stopped and said “hang on”.

Then he walked back and spoke to the three evil bastards.

“My name is Johnny Reeves, heard of me?”

“Yeah,” said the biggest of the three men. Johnny pulled out a pound note. “Here ya go, buy that poor cow something to eat and give her the night off.”

Johnny turned to the young girl. “What’s your name kid?”

The girl quickly grabbed a dressing gown and covered herself. Poor people’s old fashioned respect for “a gentleman” was ingrained and the teenage whore knew at once Johnny Reeves was someone of some importance.

“Brown,” she said. “Betty Brown.”

“Ya know the Kitten Club in Cromwell Street?” said Johnny.

“Nah,” said the girl. “Heard of it but I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s open from 6 o’clock at night till 2 or 3 in the morning Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. A good girl can pull ten bob a night in tips. The boss lady is a lady called Shirley Phillips. Tell her Johnny Reeves sent ya.”

As he spoke he rolled and wrapped a ten bob note around a two bob coin then tossed it at the young girl. She caught the money and Johnny turned to the three men.

“Is that all right with you chaps?”

“No problem,” said one of the men. “Thanks Mr Reeves.”

Johnny, Macka, Busy and Milton walked on.

“Who are those blokes?” asked Johnny.

Milton kept walking. “One’s her brother. The other two are cousins,” he said. “Her dad hung himself three years ago. Her mum stuck her head in the gas oven a month ago.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Johnny. “Yeah, well,” said Milton “it’s hard times all round, Mister Reeves.”

Johnny was a bit taken back at Van Gogh’s use of the words Mister Reeves.

The group turned into a street even narrower and darker than the one they’d left. There was some light coming from a few houses and the sounds of Bing Crosby coming out of another. Another group of rough-looking men stood in front of another house smoking cigarettes.

“How’s it going, Milt?” said one man.

Van Gogh’s only reply was a grunt and Johnny and his group walked on past.

“Who are they?” asked Busy.

Van Gogh grunted again. “Teagarden and his crew”.

“Oh,” said Macka McCall, “I’m related to the Teagardens.”

“Yeah, well maybe we can stop in for tea on the way back,” Van Gogh sneered.

“I don’t think we’ll bother,” said McCall.

The group of men they had just passed made the other crew look like pansies. Bloody hell, thought Johnny, without Milton as a guide a bloke could get his throat cut and vanish forever in this part of town after dark.

They turned into yet another narrow street and then reached a small house which, to everyone’s amazement and relief, had an electric porch light on.

“Ahh, home at last,” said Van Gogh. “Good old Blood Street”.

The whole street smelt like an open toilet to the visitors, but it was home to Milton Van Gogh, and they weren’t going to say anything out of order.

Milton pulled out a big key and opened the front door and everyone walked in. The whole house was lit with electric light, much to Johnny’s surprise, but apart from that the squalor and poverty was clear to see. In the lounge room, sitting around an open fireplace, sat three other younger Van Gogh brothers. It looked like the mentally insane gathering for a chat. In one chair sat a quite obviously dead policeman in full uniform minus his boots. Johnny shot a sneaky glance at the new boots Milton was wearing, and didn’t need to ask any silly questions re footwear.

“These are me brothers Harold, Herbert and Hector,” said Milton. “Olly and Fletcher are in Pentridge and we lost Rolly and Nifty in the war. Dad’s in Mont Park. We won’t see him no more. Mum necked herself in 1926, so this is it. Oh, except for the kids. There is twelve of them, but they all live with their mothers, not with us.”