The Fighter (12 page)

‘I can't say I ever saw her laugh. She didn't visit anybody. She locked herself inside the house. You wouldn't see her for days, or weeks, sometimes longer. When she finally came out, she walked
slowly. When she saw me she'd turn, cross the road and walk on the other side.

‘Even then she wouldn't hurry. She had her own pace and she stuck to it. She was her own person, but the few times she talked to me it was never a proper conversation. She wasn't there. She was a distant lady.'

For a moment Bloss falls silent.

‘She was not the only lost person on Amess Street, mind you,' she resumes. ‘Not by a long shot, Henry. You remember? You'd see them after the six o'clock closing, coming home from the Great Northern. Familiar faces. Drunk. They were nice most of the time, wished you a good day and all that, but horrid when the drink got to them.

‘Mr B was one of the worst of 'em. Perhaps he was a bit before your time, Henry. No, it was the same time come to think of it. He'd walk home from the pub, a bottle in each hand. He tripped over the gutter one night, and fell into the drain and got stuck. Served him right if you ask me—he was still clinging to his precious bottles. We had to pull him out. Even as we dragged him up he wouldn't let go of the bottles. Rather die than go without the drink, poor devil.'

‘I know a lot of people like that,' says Henry.

‘Yes, you would,' says Bloss, ‘in your line of work. I knew all about it. I've always known. Can I put it this way: my father was a wonderful dad from Monday to Saturday. You couldn't fault him, Henry, but on the weekend he'd go to the pub. When he came home, you could tell from his red nose it was best to hide. He'd come home an angry man.

‘Everyone outside thought the world of him. They only saw the good side. He was a Jekyll and Hyde. You had to get out of his way. You had to watch what you said. He'd give you a whack if you talked back, and I talked back. I've always talked back. I still do. Don't get me started.

‘He gave me a whack when I sang a drinking song,' she says, in her forthright voice. ‘I learnt it from the wireless. I couldn't help it. I still can't help it. I just let it out when he came home drunk. I thought the song was funny. He saw it as taking the micky. So he slapped me in the face for my troubles, a hard slap. Vicious. That's the way it was back then. How does the song go? Once I get the first line I can still sing it.

And when I die

Don't bury me at all

Just pickle my bones

In alcohol

Place a bottle of beer

At my head and feet

Cause when I die

My bones will keep.'

She chuckles, and hums a second verse.

‘I can hold a tune, Henry. Before I married I was a chorus girl at the Princess Theatre. I don't think you know that. I danced high kicks and all and I did tap dances. I was in the chorus of
The Little Drummer Boy
. I was so tiny they had me dancing on the drum, tapping and singing.

‘One night the skin of the drum broke and I fell through it.
I just stepped out and kept singing. The audience thought it was part of the show. I always get on with the show, Henry. When my father slapped me I kept singing. I loved the singing. I loved the dancing. I loved my job as a chorus girl. But I gave it all away when I got married.'

She puts her hands on the armrests and, again, shifts herself forward. Her voice softens.

‘Can I put it this way, Henry. I class myself as your second mother. I always knew from the expression on your face when something was up. I knew as soon as you came through the back gate. You'd pull up a chair to the table. I never asked any questions. I knew you wanted affection. You'd get up and play with Colin. You had the run of the house. You raided the ice chest. You raided the fridge. Toys and food, what else could a young boy want?'

‘I loved that ice chest,' says Henry.

‘You certainty did. Colin and you were best mates. He wouldn't go see you fight, certainly not the big ones, the title fights. He couldn't bear seeing you get hurt. You'd come round late at night after a fight. Colin would be sitting in the lounge room, waiting. He'd get the door. He was there to help you wind down.

‘You'd come in holding your latest trophy. It could be hours after the fight. It could be past midnight. It didn't matter. Colin had a plate of cream cakes ready for you, and you wolfed them down. You loved the sweet stuff. You loved eating. You sure had an appetite, especially on fight nights. You must have been ravenous, after starving yourself to get down to the weight.'

‘I always had trouble getting down to the weight,' says Henry.

‘It doesn't surprise me. You were always a big eater.

‘Well, the two of you walked up and down, up and down the passage. I could hear you from the bedroom. You talked about the fight. Colin listened. You went out and walked up and down Amess Street. Up and down you went. Up and down, rattling on about the fight, all excited, and Colin still listening.

‘First you walked him to your place. Then he'd walk you back to ours. Just a minute's walk between the two houses, and you'd go like this for hours. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but you'd be out for a long time. You'd walk all over the place. One time when you were finally done it was three in the morning.'

‘I'd forgotten that,' says Henry.

‘I remember it all,' says Bloss. ‘I'd hear you come in, still talking.' She leans back and chuckles.

‘Your dad was different to your mum,' she says, changing tack again. ‘Sam was happy go lucky. He liked to joke around. He was not bad looking either. He'd be over here sometimes looking for you and Leon, and he'd stop for a chat. He liked a game of cards.

‘One day your mother came over. She came through the door and she brought along her shadow. She had that angry look, a look of “don't come close”. As soon as she came in I could see she was hurting. Your mum never sat out the front on a summer night like the other neighbours.

‘There were so many people sitting in chairs on the footpath,' says Bloss, back with the memory. ‘It would take an hour
to get to the shop. “Here, sit down. How have you been? Have a drink. Have another.” The Italians shared the grappa. My husband couldn't stomach the stuff. He stuck to beer. He never drank anything else. He was a man of habit, and nothing could change that.

‘There was some nasty goings on, mind you, Henry. You probably don't know this. There was one couple—one day the missus came round and said she was frightened to ring her doorbell. She was locked out of her house. Her husband had been rotten drunk the night before. She was trembling.

‘I got in through the window and opened the front door for her. Her husband had been inside all that time, brooding. When she came in, he came straight at her. He beat her up dreadful. He was a nasty little man. I would never stand for it. I'd had enough of it with my father. I made it clear to Bob before we got married. We were on the way to the cinema when he proposed. “I'd love to,” I said, “but if you ever lay a hand on me, you're gone.”

‘I needn't have worried, Henry. He came back from his stint in New Guinea with a bad wound on the back of the leg. For the rest of his life the scar looked shocking. He walked with a slight limp. He never talked about the war, but it came back in his bouts of malaria. He'd be raving “Look out! Watch those trees. Someone is moving. Someone is hiding there!”'

‘I had no idea,' says Henry.

‘Well, we didn't know then about the atrocities,' says Bloss, ‘and what had happened to your mum and dad, but we sensed something. I knew it from Bob. Because of what happened to him, I was alert to it.

‘Come to think of it, the war never really ended. Not for Bob, not for your mum; and not for Mr and Mrs L. The husband was a pig of a man, another wife beater. In those days it was hard to get a divorce. Where could you go? You got stuck with your man. You had to grin and bear it.'

She leans further forward, and drops her voice.

‘I've never told you this, Henry, but one day I went to their house. I walked in and saw these photos on the mantelpiece, one of L as a young man. It took pride of place. It stood there right in the centre. He was wearing a black jacket with the SS insignia.

‘You couldn't miss it. It was on display. He made no effort to hide it. He was proud of it, but his kids were different. They got on well with the other kids. They came round to our place. We asked them, “Would you like to have some lunch?” They didn't even know how to hold a knife and fork. I thought “You poor darlings.”

‘Yes, you couldn't hide back then. We all knew what was going on. It was out in the open. First you'd hear it, and sooner or later you'd see it: the black eyes, the bruises, and the look of misery. In just a couple of families, but a couple too many, if you ask me. We knew everything. It was all out there on Amess Street.'

She leans back and pauses. Henry reflexively leans forward.

‘Peter and Mick were out there too,' she says. ‘You'd see them often. This is how it was long before you and Leon met them. They were always together. If you saw one you'd see the other. There was a lot of affection between them. The way they talked together.

‘Mick's wife wasn't around. I once saw her standing on the balcony. Another time I saw her on the veranda. She turned her head and I caught a glimpse of her. She was a very attractive lady. Then she was gone. Who knows what happened? Marriages break down, they don't come easy. Not for anyone.

‘Mick took on Peter. He brought him up. And the two of them took on you and Leon. They got you off the streets. I'd see you coming by our house on the way to training. You couldn't wait to get there. I saw that look on your faces, determination. Whatever it was that the Reads had, the two of you wanted it. I'd see you running there, all excited.

‘Come to think of it,' says Bloss. ‘Peter and Mick, they were mother and father rolled into one. They adopted you. They treated you and Leon as their own. That's the way I remember it. Their door was always open. That's the secret to it. The door was always open.'

19

Henry helps Bloss up from the sofa. Once on her feet, she is steady. Resolute. She walks him to the door. They pause at the entrance to the lounge room, and talk some more. They stop in the hallway and start up again like old soldiers on Anzac Day. It's been a long time between drinks and they take their time parting. They stand by the front door and remain there together for a long time, embracing.

They have a bond that cannot be broken—one of many forged between those who had lived in the neighbourhood for generations and the children of post-war newcomers, fresh off the boats, who moved in alongside them. The suburb was convenient. Close to work. Close to the factories of Brunswick, and close enough to
Flinders Lane, the garment district—close to the notices on factory walls and doors: ‘Positions Vacant. Apply Within.'

The newcomers walked in off the streets, and filled the vacancies. They made up the labour shortages. They swept the floors and cleaned the offices. They sorted and packed, and took care of the rubbish. They manned the machines, and learnt how to maintain them. They hauled dustbins into the back lanes and kept the wheels of industry turning. Then clocked off late in the afternoon and set out homewards, Simche Nissenbaum among them. Called Sam for local consumption. And, in time, Sam Nissen—by deed poll. As stated on the document, the original ‘renounced and abandoned as aforesaid'. The deal signed, sealed and delivered. Official.

Sam Nissen: pigeon bellied, a short man who could not ride a horse. He steps off the tram, suitcase in hand, and walks three blocks east along Pigdon Street. It is dusk. The street lamps are turning on, casting pools of light on the footpaths and gutters.

He walks by double-storey terraces and workers' cottages. He crosses Rathdowne Street to the corner hotel. Nearing Amess Street, he passes a brick fence, which, on Saturday evenings, after the matinee at the Palace Cinema, the young local boys straddle and ride-em cowboy.

The top of the wall is smooth and rounded, and the height perfect for mounting. They settle in the saddle, kick the flanks, and hurtle across deserts and prairies. Their upper bodies rock to a galloping motion. One hand grips the rounded top, while the other is cocked as a pistol. They take out enemies with bullseye precision.

They rearrange their hands. One grips the reins, the other twirls lassos. They rope in cattle and wild stallions, and charge on, howling and hollering. They withstand the bucking of the wildest horses.

Several houses further on stands the corner shop. Two storeys and solid brick, it's a substantial presence. One of the rear upper rooms overlooks Amess Street, directly opposite 212. From there the Nissen home appears ever more tiny.

Sam opens the front gate and steps onto the veranda. He unlocks the door and enters the passage. His suitcase is packed with the piecework that will keep him occupied long after nightfall. The house is empty. Sonia is in hospital. The children have been farmed out. It could be weeks, even months, before the family is reunited. There is no knowing.

He leans in and switches on the lights as he passes the three bedrooms, and the living room, on his way to the kitchen. The house is cold. The lights create a sense of company. He makes himself a quick meal and, after he has eaten, adds the plate to the piled-up dishes.

He goes to the front bedroom, lights a cigarette and sets to work. His mind is focused on the task. He cannot allow dark thoughts. He cuts the cloth with practised precision. He moves between cutting table and sewing machine. And he works fast. Time is money. He lights another cigarette and dismisses his troubles.

He chain smokes late into the night, and is still at work in the early hours. Through a gap in the curtains he can see the corner shop. The grey stucco glows under the street lamps. If
someone were standing by the window on the upper floor, they would look down on the light in the front bedroom.