Scraps of Heaven Read online

  ‘That’s Maxie Carlos, the Great White Hope,’ says Shanahan. ‘And that blackfella is George Bracken, his arch rival, the Australian lightweight champ.’ Shanahan sees the world as a hierarchy. He is a reader of union pamphlets, the Tribune and a vast assortment of secondhand books. His worldview has been fashioned by socialist thinkers, union pamphlets, soapbox orators and hours of discussion at roadside stops. And in Josh he has a willing listener, a boy charmed by his attention.

  ‘Blackfellas make great fighters,’ adds Shanahan. ‘Boxing is a way out, a way up. They’ll fight anytime, anywhere. This one here is one of their best, Elley Bennett the Australian featherweight champ. He won the title in 1951.’

  Teenagers and young men mill around. They are dressed in shorts and stripped to the waist. Unlike the boxers depicted upon the wall, they are a ragged lot. One stands at a wooden platform and punches a speedball. Thwack. Thwack. Others thud their fists into punching bags. Sweat flies from their bodies with each thwack. In the middle of the room stands a boxing ring, its corners staked by wooden posts. A sheet of canvas upon a layer of worn carpet softens the boards. Two teenage boys, shadowed by a trainer, spar in the ring.

  ‘Terry Logan,’ says Shanahan, gesturing towards the trainer. ‘He’s one of the best. “My job,” he likes to say, “is to turn louts into gentlemen.” It’s his motto. He lives by it. He knows how to make champions like a tailor knows how to fashion suits.’

  The sparring boys step sideways and back. As one dodges, the other pursues and attacks. Logan watches intently. He intervenes when the boxers clinch and pulls them apart. Logan wears a white singlet, grey slacks and canvas runners. He is middle-aged, greying at the temples, a well-built man, stocky and tight. Yet his body is lithe. He moves about on the balls of his feet, with his body in a crouch. When the bout is over, he approaches the ropes, and ducks out.

  ‘Who’ve you brought me today?’ he asks Shanahan.

  ‘My mate, Josh. He needs a bit of conditioning. He’s a skinny runt.’

  ‘That’s obvious,’ says Logan.

  ‘You’re a bit too young for this caper,’ he says, turning to Josh. ‘But if you’re keen, I’ll give you a go.’

  Logan speaks with clipped certainty. He is the master of his bare-floored space, a solid presence, focused and alert. Josh is taken aback by his vigour, and all he can do is nod yes in reply.

  ‘I’ve seen all kinds,’ Logan adds. ‘They come straight to me, from the streets. Yeah. They want to become champions overnight. My first job is to teach ’em patience. An’ to make gentlemen out of louts.’

  Shanahan winks at Josh.

  ‘No use wasting time,’ says Logan. ‘We’ll throw you in off the deep end. Give you a taste of what it’s all about.’

  ‘I’ll leave him to you,’ says Shanahan. ‘I’ve got to get going.’ He slaps Josh on the shoulder and makes his way to the trapdoor.

  Josh is fitted with boxing gloves.

  ‘Just lay into the bag,’ says Logan. ‘That’ll be enough for a start.’

  Logan ducks back into the ring to supervise another practice bout. Josh has been left to fend for himself. He touches glove upon glove in imitation of the boxers around him. He is uncertain of his movements, and feels clumsy on his feet. The punching bag is an obstinate opponent, harder to move with each punch. Perspiration flows from Josh’s forehead. It stings his eyes. His arms are tiring. ‘Slow down,’ shouts Logan from the ring. ‘There’s enough sweat on you to fill a bath.’ Josh continues his wild charge; he is surprised at the anger that fuels his assault. The punching bag is an obstacle, a dead-end. There is no way out.

  He pauses. A sense of madness pervades the gym, a chaos of frenetic skipping and punching, pounding and ducking, weaving and chasing, a fusion of perspiration and phlegm. He sees a ballet of fixed moves, body-rips, back-pedals, counterattacks. Josh resumes his charge. The bag is a visible target, and he is thankful for that. With each successive punch the bag seems heavier; but Josh does not cease pounding until he is empty, fully spent.

  Zofia sings so often and for so long, the echoes seem to remain after she has stopped. When Josh returns to the house he can sense them. The song is always about to break loose. Perhaps this is how ghosts are born, thinks Josh. Perhaps they reside in the sunrays that have sneaked through the windows into the dining room. Perhaps melodies endure in the specks of dust that whirl in those shafts of light.

  The morning is almost over, and Zofia sits by the sewing machine. She is a loyal guard who can be relied upon to stay at her post, but Josh feels uneasy. There is a shadow at the machine, hunched over, lost in work. Its presence is palpable throughout the house.

  Josh pauses in the doorway of the dining room. His gaze extends through the kitchen to the back room. He observes the deft movements of Zofia’s hands. He discerns the lilt in her voice; the melody takes shape against the drone of the machine. On the kitchen table stands a bowl of peaches, cherries, grapes— crimsons, purples and reds, the colours of ripeness, the bloated fruit of a sun-drenched earth.

  Josh feels stranded. He controls his breath. He does not want to be heard. He had intended to go to the bathroom to wash off his boxer’s sweat, but he cannot move. Her isolation is tangible. It encases her, and keeps him rooted to the spot.

  Only when she looks up is the spell broken. Zofia glances around her with an animal keenness. She senses his presence, but cannot quite place it. The air is tightening. The curtains are drawn, the house is closing in. Josh backs away before she can see him. He steals away to the front door, steps onto the verandah, and descends the stone steps, back into the streets.

  He calls himself a hosiery specialist, and gilds his fate with fancy words. He has inscribed them on a business card, printed in elegant script:

  Romek Swerdlow

  Hosiery Specialist

  Queen Victoria Market

  Queen Street

  It is a grand name for a market and it appeals to his poetic tastes. As for the business, he detests it. Observe him at noon by his pavement stall. He is a short man, just five feet three. He wears a sleeveless grey pullover over a flannel shirt. His goods are piled upon trestle tables. Seconds. Damaged stock culled from the hosiery mills of Brunswick, seamed stockings and socks that Zofia had darned back to life.

  By noon the stall is in a mess, the socks and stockings are in disarray beside the biscuit tin Romek uses for small change. Customers have inspected them, held them up to the light, eager to detect the slightest fault, before rejecting them with distaste.

  ‘How much?’ one customer asks.

  ‘Three shillings a pair.’

  ‘We can get them for two and six in Coles.’

  ‘So, why don’t you go to Coles?’ Romek snaps.

  Romek listens to the words as they fall from his mouth. He is a man who speaks seven languages, but English is the last, accented with the six tongues of his past. When he speaks English he feels like a child. He would rather remain silent. His eyes are fixed elsewhere. He observes his surroundings with a poet’s eyes. This is his saving grace, and this morning has provided rich pickings.

  At seven o’clock, a squabble had broken out between neighbouring stallholders over the metre of space between their tables. They had both laid claim to the same sliver of real estate, a breathing place for their reserve stock. They had exchanged insults and curses, their arms poised on the verge of blows. A market inspector had to be summoned to calm them down.

  Mid-morning, a chicken had escaped from a string bag and its master had given chase. His Sunday dinner had led him on an erratic sprint from the pavement, via Ferguson the nut vendor’s stall, into the market sheds. Romek had imagined them careering between the aisles, under the tin-roofed sheds, through the loading bays, the meat and fish markets and the dairy produce hall. Ten minutes later the chicken dashed back into sight. Past Ferguson’s the chicken scurried, from shadows to sunlight, across Queen Street, dodging slow-moving cars and trucks until it disappeared, leaving its vanquished m
aster cursing.

  By midday the pavement is a confusion of cabbage leaves, fruit rinds, juice stains and watermelon pips. A fleet of sparrows pick through the garbage. A pigeon pecks at a stale chip. A dog trots by with a fishbone in its mouth. Closing time is within reach; the cries of vendors are a chorus of pleas. They are desperate for one last flurry of sales. Better to offload their stock cheap than allow it to rot over the weekend.

  ‘Come on, girls, pick out the rump,’ jests a butcher.

  ‘Ripe bana-na-nas,’ bellows a fruit vendor.

  ‘Buy bulk. And laugh all the way to the bank,’ cries his neighbour.

  ‘Hot Kingaroy peanuts,’ joins in Ferguson, glass of beer in hand. ‘Fresh from Queensland,’ he adds, and chuckles at a private thought.

  ‘Jeans! Skivvies! Special chip!’ proclaims Spitalnik from an adjoining stall.

  Spitalnik annoys Romek. He has no shame. He sings the praises of his wares like a spruiker at a country fair. Chip or cheap. Shit or sheet. Spitalnik does not care how the words are pronounced. He is made of a thicker hide. He follows the fashions with a knowing eye. If skivvies are the flavour of the month, he sells skivvies. If it is hip-hugging jeans à la Elvis, let it be jeans. If the colour of the season is blue, then why not blue? What harm can it do? ‘After all, the colour of money remains the same,’ he says. And, of course, he has done well.

  Romek places himself above the fray. He cannot bring himself to join in. He is not a salesman. He is only doing what he must. He longs for his afternoon siesta, and his bedroom retreat. He yearns for an end to the working week. Bloomfield converses with all that moves or stands still. He knows every house, each edifice that surrounds Curtain Square. He counts each building and tree as companions. He has his favourites: the eight double-storey terraces. Each one bulges with bay windows and intricate patterns of iron lace. ‘You are all individuals,’ he says as he walks by. ‘Yet forever bound side by side.’

  He pauses outside the cotton mill. The red brick building is eighty-eight years old, its birthdate is marked in worn black paint: ‘Moton Moss. 1870. Manufacturers.’ Six windows reflect the sun from the upper floor. Bloomfield observes the way the rays fall upon each window, each facade. There is a hierarchy in the streets, governed by house design and the movement of light. The eastern boundary has moved out of the shadows and is fully exposed to the afternoon sun. The cottages are furnaces; they are too small to resist the heat. In contrast, the facades of the eight two-storey terraces are radiant. Their upper windows burn with reflected light.

  The ginger cat is back. She runs along the parapet that links the eight roofs, and disappears through a gap. The old man sits, as usual, on an upper balcony, fingering the string of beads in his left hand. The cat reappears and Bloomfield watches her movements intently. She licks her flanks and stretches out. She sleeps on the parapet with her chin curled on her paws, her face bent towards the sun.

  The cat will vanish as inconspicuously as she had arrived, the old man will disappear at nightfall, the radiance will fade from the roofs and walls, and Bloomfield will feel their absence. He will avert his gaze from the vacant balconies and verandahs. He will curse the failing light. He shudders at the thought. It is beyond noon on a summer day yet, despite the overcoat, he must keep moving to stay warm.

  The doors of the corner pub swing open and shut. Glimpsed from the pavement, the bar appears dark. A scattering of men lean over their drinks and racing guides. The proprietor stands at the counter with his hat tilted back. His arms are spread wide, his hands firmly planted on the bar. He drinks with every customer. Ever ready by his side stands a liqueur tumbler. For every beer he serves, he pours himself a tumbler full. He rations himself through his shift and is able to drink to the health of each guest. He gets tipsy on the instalment plan, but never so drunk as to lose his wits.

  The doors swing open and shut, and the smell of stale carpet sneaks out. With the next swing open, a drinker steps out. He wears an open-necked shirt and grey flannel trousers, wide enough at the waist to contain a bulging gut. He rubs his eyes to ward off the light. As they adjust he sees Josh walking past.

  ‘You wanna make a few bob?’ he asks.

  Josh is more than willing.

  ‘Well, this is all y’have to do. Just deliver this slip of paper to the back lane. There’s a group of men there. You can’t miss ’em. Ask the cocky to point the way. Tell ’im you have a present for the bookie. He’ll pay you when you deliver the goods.’

  He points to a lane diagonally opposite and returns to the pub. Josh sets off in search of the cocky. Is it white, sulphur-crested? Is it caged or perched upon its owner’s shoulder? Does it speak or is it mute? All Josh can see is a man loitering by the lane.

  ‘Have you seen a cocky?’ Josh asks.

  ‘I am the Cocky,’ he laughs.

  The Cocky escorts Josh to an alcove in the middle of the lane. Within the alcove there are punters dressed in worn suits, or short-sleeved jumpers over open-necked shirts. Some pace anxiously, or huddle over newspapers pared down to their racing guides. Several have exercise books in which they are scribbling notes. Others lean on the back fences, arms folded, lost in thought.

  Josh hands the list to the bookie. He scans the list and quotes figures as the men gather round. ‘The prices for the Juvenile Stakes,’ the bookie announces. ‘Fresh from the course. They’re close enough to starting price.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ says one of the crowd. ‘The race is almost over.’

  ‘Gay Tabri is a good bet at two to one,’ claims the bookie, unaffected by the remark. He scrutinises the list. ‘Astounding is worth a try at evens,’ he says. ‘She is the only nag who won at her last start. Lauriston Bay is a fair bet at five to one. Regal Dream is a good long shot at fifty to one. After all, it’s his first start. And Elder, with Bill Williamson in the saddle, now there’s a safe gamble at ten to one.’

  The bookie collects the bets, and places the cash in a leather bag. He scribbles the names of those who deal in credit. ‘This is none of your business,’ he snaps, when he realises Josh is still standing by.

  ‘I was told I’d get paid,’ says Josh. He has plans for the money, and is anxious to get away. The bookie tosses him a two shilling coin.

  ‘Now scram. And don’t tell anyone what you’ve seen or done.’

  Josh makes his way back to the end of the lane. ‘Polly want a peanut?’ croaks the Cocky who has remained at his post. ‘Never seen a cocky that can talk as much as this one,’ he says, with a belly laugh. But Josh does not mind. He has a florin firmly in hand. He walks via Fenwick to Canning Street, skirts the median strip and approaches the corner store.

  A tin-roofed verandah sprouts from the shop to the kerb. The building is low and squat. From a distance the roof is a broad-brimmed hat. Secondhand goods lean against the dirt-encrusted windows. Magazines, picture cards, jars of marbles and hard-boiled sweets, lie in disarray. The flywire door is ajar. Josh prises it open and ventures inside. The room smells of mouldering floorboards and stale breath. Beige wallpaper curls in the corners. Flies buzz against the wire, and in the darkness of the back room someone is stirring.

  An ashen face sprinkled with warts materialises from the gloom. Magnified eyes peer from thickly rimmed glasses. Mrs Boucher’s slack jaw gives way to a succession of rolling chins. Her mane of white hair is curled into two tiers of disorderly buns. She is an apparition who dwells in the netherworlds. She watches warily as Josh rummages though her stacks of comics. Her hands shake as she handles the goods. Each movement is accompanied by her rasping breath. Mrs Boucher is beyond small talk or polite exchange. She conducts her business in silence. Flies continue to buzz against the flywire in a vain attempt to escape. Josh is relieved when his transactions are over.

  As he regains the footpath he sees Zofia walking towards the median strip. Her back is straight, there is a firmness in her stride. She wears a pastel yellow summer frock she herself has designed and sewn. She is beautiful, thinks Josh, as if di
scovering it for the first time. Yet despite her fashionable dress and purposeful steps, she looks out of place. She is not fully present. She does not register or acknowledge those who walk past. She moves on her own private path.

  Zofia glances about her. Perhaps she senses she is being watched. As he observes her, Josh is surprised at his detachment. She is a stranger, a woman from another world exposed by the harsh light, and Josh is on the outside, moving apart. He takes care to remain in the verandah shadows, just out of sight. He is beginning to see the woman who happens to be his mother, as a separate being. The thought excites him, but also fills him with dread.

  Zofia turns left from Canning, past the corner milk bar into Fenwick Street. It is a two-block walk to the Nicholson Street tram. The neighbourhood is girdled by many exits, a grid of bus routes and trams. The Fenwick Street houses are tiny cottages, tightly packed. Their doors are set one metre from the footpath, drab and dark. Zofia’s eyes are intent upon their task. She has an appointment with her dentist. He has fitted her into his busy schedule, on a Saturday afternoon, when most of his colleagues have long ceased work.

  Zofia is on her way to her operation, alone. She prefers to be alone. She does not like to be escorted, or comforted. She shies away from physical touch, and keeps her own counsel. She is a world unto herself, elusive and proud. Josh stands beneath Boucher’s verandah and watches her until she walks beyond sight. It is over. For the next day and a half he is done with the charade that barely keeps his family finances alive. Romek has packed away the laddered stockings and socks, the price tags, the string bags. He has dismantled the tables and folded the trestles. His goods lie in their storage trolley, which he has wheeled to its resting place. Romek leaves as he had arrived, a small man with a heavy load compressed into a tchemodan. He clutches it in his right hand; the biscuit tin jingles with coins as he walks from the market sheds.

  The air smells of rot and ferment, the odour of a dying market week. Romek crosses Elizabeth Street. Its spaciousness disarms him. He feels lost within a congestion of trams and trucks. When he reaches the footpath, he glances at the bluestone brewery that occupies a block of its own. He detects the smell of burnt tyres and malt. He walks the final incline towards the tram shelter with a lighter step.