Four Fires (4 page)

Shortly after six-thirty we'd be at the tip a mile out of town for the last time that day, having been out twice already. Unfortunately the Diamond T wasn't a tip-truck and so each trip out the three of us would pull on our broken old gumboots, grab a blunt shovel and shovel the shit that came out of people's bins onto the tip.

Then on the way home we'd stop at the abattoir and hose the back of the truck clean while Mum went in and fetched us a bit of meat for that night and Bozo got half a sack of bones and scrag ends for the dogs. Fridays we'd eat fish, mostly smoked cod in white sauce which us kids hated. Once Bozo caught a fish in the Sawell Dam and it tasted of mud. We all had about a teaspoon each of that fish to comply with God's wish and then filled up on bread and jam. It was the first fresh fish we'd ever eaten and we vowed it would be the last if we had any say in the matter.

Bozo and Nancy had the selfsame thing going for them, they had mates everywhere and the abattoir workers never saw us short, although Nancy would always pay, even if sometimes she'd have to put stuff on tick. Maloneys didn't take charity. 'Nothin' worse than someone feeling very sorry for you,' Nancy would say.

We'd be back at Bell Street by seven-fifteen, just in time for a cold shower out the back shed, winter or summer. The smell of garbage clings on, gets up your nostrils and into the pores of your skin, in your hair, everywhere. So we'd need to scrub real hard, using Velvet soap on our arms, legs, stomach, up the bum crack, between our toes, back of the ears, places you wouldn't normally care much about. Each spot had to be rubbed practically raw with the scrubbing brush. Last of all, you'd

get Mike or Bozo to do your back.

Sometimes, in the winter, it would be below freezing. We'd come home from riding in the back of the truck, breathing frost smoke, and freezing our balls off. Sarah would've put our school clothes in the shed with the towels and straight off we'd have to go into the shower or we'd be late for school and cop the strap.

Often times in the winter we'd have to first knock the ice from the shower rose. We'd dance about on the cement floor, sucking in our breath, the shower sending deadly ice needles raining down on us, piercing us to the very bone. But we still scrubbed till it hurt. We took as much time as we could stand without freezing to death to get rid of the smell of garbage and the shame Sarah said it would bring if people smelt it on us kids.

You'd be standing under the shower, gasping, trying to rinse off your all-over-body soaping with frantic hands, Mike and Bozo waiting,
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eyes closed from the soap dripping down from their hair, both still furiously scrubbing, slapping themselves, yelling out to me to bloody hurry up. Bozo's balls would disappear somewhere up between his legs and they'd only drop down when he was warm again. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'they only came good during the second period at school.'

Sarah said we had our pride and even if we were the town garbos and Tommy was in gaol, so what? Nobody was going to say a Maloney wasn't a clean person. She'd have ironed our school clothes with the creases in our shorts sharp as a knife. Then when we came in from out the back, all dressed for school, there'd be these big enamel plates filled with steaming oatmeal porridge with a ring of melted brown sugar on the top, hot milk, thick wedges of white toast and plum jam as well as tin mugs of hot, sweet tea waiting for us on the kitchen table.

After that we'd wash our mouths and clean our teeth at the sink, grab our jam sandwiches for school lunch, kiss and hug little Colleen and call 'Cheerio!' to Nancy out the back verandah.

'You four stick together, you hear? You tell me if any teacher gives you trouble!' She'd shout the same thing every morning from where she'd settled down in the old cane couch, and she'd already be halfway through a large bottle of milk stout. Her latest layette order, together with her embroidery stuff and the old Singer sewing machine, would be on the work table beside her.

We'd be out the front gate and off to school in a great tearing hurry, Sarah walking along with us, the three of us boys scrubbed properly to her satisfaction. She'd be neat as a pin in her box-pleated tunic and blazer with her prefect's stripe sewn on just below the school badge. If you looked at Sarah, who had this shining red hair, Nancy called it 'titian', and just a sprinkle of speckle freckles around her nose, it would make us proud that at least one Maloney had turned out okay.

Sarah, Mike and Bozo, together with Bozo's dogs, would peel off to the high school and I'd make my way alone to the primary school down the road a bit. I know I'm carrying on a bit about Bozo's dogs but

you've got to understand they were truly amazing. They'd wait at the school gates minding their own business, never giving any trouble, until school came out. They did the same when Bozo and me were in primary school, going crazy with joy when they saw us at the end of the day, you'd think we'd been away on holidays. Which never happened of course. In fact, it was Bozo's dogs waiting at the school gates that was the real reason for him becoming a boxer.

It happened like this. We were in the playground and this kid, Brent Middleton, bigger than Bozo by a good head and surrounded by nine of his mates, comes up to us and says, 'Hey, Bozo, is it true your auntie escaped from the loony bin and went starkers down King Street?' He's got this half-smile on his face and the others with him are
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all grinning their gobs off.

Bozo's got no option, has he? So he smacks the bastard, only it's with his fist and the perpetrator drops like a stone. Well, he knocks him down anyway. Brent Middleton is one grade above Bozo and the school bully and the leader of a gang and, before you know it, there's four or

five of them having a go at my brother.

I get stuck in, but at the time I'm too little to do much damage, but they've got Bozo down and they're kicking the daylights out of him.

He manages somehow to get up and he clocks a couple of them in the mouth and eye. Old Bozo's going at them like a threshing machine but now there's nine of them and only the two of us. He's taking a hiding and I'm getting an unwelcome slap or two as well.

And that's when the cavalry arrive. Bitzers One to Five get stuck in and suddenly there's mayhem, kids scattering every which way, dogs yapping and snapping at ankles, jumping up and grabbing a hold of the hems of khaki shorts, biting at bums, everyone's yelling, teachers come running and there's blood and torn uniforms everywhere you look.

Bozo gets up off the deck, calls the dogs to heel and makes them sit at his feet. You can see they're not too happy neither, wanting to finish off what they've started, but they do as they're told. My brother's nose is bleeding and he's missing a tooth and has a split lip and a torn left ear. I'm okay, having just been pushed aside with a couple of stiff belts to the ear, and only copped a thick lip. Bozo's the worst wounded of all by far, but he still has the presence of mind to send the dogs home, knowing they're going to be in deep shit caninewise.

Because of the dog attack, the teachers all blame Bozo for what's happened and he's hauled off to the headmaster's office while the rest of us, Brent Middleton and his cohorts and me, are herded into the spare classroom next door.

Brent Middleton has been bit good and proper and has a black eye and a bloody nose where my brother's punched him first and second time around. Several of the others have something to show for their trouble, Bitzer bites, and a bloody nose or thick lip as well, compliments of Bozo's whirring fists.

Mr Flint, the headmaster, doesn't even listen to Bozo's side of the story before he phones Hamish Middleton, who has the jewellery shop in Fitzroy Street, 'Jonah Middleton & Sons, Est. 1872', and tells Mr Middleton what's happened and asks him to come over to the school.

Nancy later says that Flint's a real crawler and it's obvious he was more interested in damage control than whether or not Bozo was hurt.

Anyway, the headmaster calls several of the other parents to come over.

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Then he phones Dr Wallis at his surgery and arranges for him to come to the school to give all those who've been Bitzer-bit a tetanus shot.

Last of all, he phones Sergeant Donovan and Nancy. He turns to Bozo.

'Maloney, you'll probably be expelled for this, what you've done cannot be overlooked, I'll deal with you later. Now get next door with the others!'

The long and the short of it is that Nancy goes in to bat for me, Bozo and the dogs. But the various parents who've made it to the school want the dogs put down and Bozo severely punished. I guess I'm too little for them to bother about. Hamish Middleton assumes the leadership and mumbles out loud that he'll gladly do the job on the dogs himself and, looking directly at Nancy, he barks, 'That boy of yours is way out of line and should be sent to the boys' home!'

'What did you say, Mr Middleton?' Nancy says, real slow and soft, her blue eyes narrowed down to chips of ice. What Bozo's done to his son, Brent, ain't nothing to what's coming to him if he decides to repeat what he's just said. Nancy's dressed in one of her floral dresses that's big as a circus tent which she's made herself, all of them the exact same pattern and design - white daisies on a yellow background. With her great ham arms sticking out the sides larger than Hamish Middleton's thighs, the poor bastard is no match in the intimidation stakes and the look from Nancy sends the town jeweller and council member two paces backwards.

'Your lad has to be punished, Mrs Maloney,' Middleton senior repeats, though this time his voice is way downwind.

'He'll be punished if it's his fault, but that hasn't been clearly established yet,' Nancy says coldly. She's a dab hand at court procedure and adds, 'Would you mind if we waited until all the evidence has come in, Mr Middleton? Or is this going to be some sort of kangaroo court? Parents of Yankalillee Primary School versus Maloney?'

Vera Forbes from the Gazette, who's already sniffed out the story and has come running, has a second go at Nancy. 'Well,' she says all hoity-toity, 'those vicious brutes will have to be put down before they attack and kill someone!'

'Are you referring to the boys who attacked my son, or the dogs?'

Nancy says, quick as a flash.

'That's enough from all of you!' Sergeant Donovan says, trying to conceal his smile at Nancy's crack back at Big Mouth Saggy Tits. 'Why don't we start at the beginning and try to get to the bottom of this mess, hey? Maybe the headmaster here can get someone to make you all a cup
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of tea and I'll go next door and see if the doctor's completed the tetanus injections and then I'll question the boys involved in the fracas.'

Big Jack Donovan is a country cop from his boots to the point of his cap, well over six feet with a barrel chest and stomach to match, an untidy-looking sort of chap who will dominate any room he steps into.

In his heyday he was a famous ruckman for South Melbourne and played at the MCG in the Grand Final against Richmond. He's known to be even-handed and doesn't take any crap from anyone. Because he wasn't allowed to join up, being classified as Essential Services, he's been in Yankalillee more than twenty years. Him, not Oliver Twist, is the real voice of the law in this town. Not everyone loves him, though, he's got his fair share of enemies in high places. Nancy says he's in the know on just about everyone in town and the word, even among the bigwigs, has long been out that it doesn't pay to mess around with Big Jack Donovan. But all the lags know he'll give a battler a break if there's family and hardship involved and if some misdemeanour they've perpetrated can be patched up without too much fuss. Now he nods his head and smiles again, backing away towards the door. 'Righto then, excuse me, ladies.., gentlemen, be back soon enough.'

'Shouldn't we be with you, Sergeant?' Hamish Middleton calls out.

He's plainly miffed at the way things are turning out, with him not playing an important role in the proceedings and what with Nancy getting the better of him and Vera Saggy Tits Forbes. 'After all, they're our children!' he protests. Two of the parents nod their heads, agreeing.

'No, I don't think so, Mr Middleton.' Big Jack is firm. 'You know how it is with young fellas? I'd best see them on my own.' Then he turns and goes out and comes into the classroom next door where the doctor is just finishing up sticking a needle in the bums of those who got bit, and the young nurse's aide he's brought with him from the local bush-nursing hospital is busy patching us up with Mercurochrome and long strips of sticking plaster she's tearing off a big roll with her teeth because she forgot to bring the scissors.

Sergeant Donovan stoops as he enters the classroom and takes off his cap and puts it on the teacher's desk. 'Afternoon, Doctor, Nurse.

Afternoon, boys!' he says cheerfully.

We all chorus 'afternoon' back at him, though ours doesn't sound that cheerful. There's twelve of us in the classroom, ten from Brent Middleton's mob and Bozo and me.

'Right then, I'll just make myself comfortable while the doctor and the nurse finish up dressing your wounds. How's it goin', Doc?'

Big Jack Donovan asks as he pulls the teacher's chair way back and sits down and puts his big policeman's boots up on the desk and starts to look at each of us in turn. When he reaches me, I try to look back
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but it's impossible and, like everyone else, I look down at the desk.

Suddenly I'm guilty as sin and I don't even know why.

'Won't be much longer, Sergeant,' Dr Wallis says, then he points to Bozo, whose nose and lip have stopped bleeding but who is holding a wad f cotton wool to his left ear. 'Lad here needs a couple of stitches to his ear, that's about it. You can send them all home after you're through with them.' You can see the blood that's soaked the cotton wool pad peeping through Bozo's three fingers. I'll send my report on to you later,' Dr Wallis adds.

'Good on ya, Doc,' Sergeant Donovan replies.

Doctors in those days were really somebody and even though I'm shitting myself at Sergeant Donovan's presence in the classroom, I'm still pretty impressed at the easy way he handles Dr Wallis. Nancy's always said Sergeant Donovan was a good bloke and a good Catholic, if we ever got into trouble, to tell him 'The truth and nothing but the truth so help me God'. It was years before we found out where she'd got that expression from.