With thanks to Gerald Murnane, Christopher Wilkinson and Dr John Webber
Part One 1932 – 1942
Chapter One
Eddie Melbourne 1932
From the wings of the stage of the Footscray Town Hall, Eddie Bertoli waited as other contestants in the fancy dress competition shuffled, meandered or sauntered along the catwalk. Arab sheiks, tired Bo Beeps, Little Boy Blues in crumpled velvet and a Cinderella in grubby net bowed or curtsied to the audience before ambling away to the feeble sound of polite clapping.
Eddie stepped into the spotlight. The slanted brim of his hat cast a shadow over the left side of his face and, with his hands thrust deep into the trouser pockets of his grey, pin-striped suit, his back straight and head held high, he whistled in tune and in key Me and My Shadow. One clap at a time, applause grew until the windows rattled; when he finished his performance by singing the last line, the spectators rose to their feet.
The hall was lit by dazzling chandeliers, the gallery festooned by garlands of spring flowers. Tall, vibrant-green potted palms lined the spaces between paintings of councillors and mayors, past and present. The crowd was mixed, some men in dinner suits, their wives with fancy hairdos, and ordinary blokes like Eddie, with or without families in tow.
After the mayor handed him a gold sovereign and pinned him with a blue ribbon, a photographer took some snaps, asked a few questions then moved on to other competitors standing with friends or family. Eddie wished there was someone he could say g’day to, but his mates would be at the dog track or down at the stadium watching some would-be boxer cop a hammering. Nobody wanted to think about the depression on a Saturday night.
Outside he pulled his collar up against the drizzling spring rain and clutched his winnings in his fist. Now he had ten quid—another ten and he’d marry Ida. They’d rent a place of their own on the other side of the Yarra, somewhere her old woman couldn’t interfere. Ida should have come tonight, but she couldn’t stand up to her mother or wouldn’t.
He let himself in the back door and tiptoed up the hall. His old man was snoring fit to raise the roof, but Gran’s light was on. Her bed creaked; then she peered around the doorway and snapped, ‘You’re early. You gave me quite a turn.’
‘I made a couple of bob. Have a gander.’ He handed her the sovereign.
She bit it. ‘It’s real, all right. What you been up to?’
‘Came first in the fancy dress competition. Why do you always think the worst?’
‘At my age, you expect it.’
‘You never get it from me.’ He handed her the blue ribbon. ‘I’ll get you to mind the sovereign after I’ve shown it to Ida.’
Too restless to sleep, Eddie stood in the back doorway from where he could see the vegetable garden, chook pen and, in the further distance, the woodshed where his dad used to give him a hiding if he reckoned Eddie deserved it. One night, Gran noticed he winced when he sat. She pulled his trousers down, saw the bruises and gave the old bastard an earful. ‘I’m ashamed to call you my son. You cruel, wretched bully!’ That sent him scurrying out of the house, but if Gran wasn’t around, he didn’t miss the chance to knock Eddie sideways.
Eddie was proud of the shed now; he’d lined it with sheets of plywood, given it a proper roof, a door with a padlock and put in a window—made it his place where no other bugger could go.
The earlier rain had stopped and he walked down the crazy-paved path and climbed the ladder to the roof of the shed. In the distance, the beam of the Gellibrand Lighthouse was a steady beacon against a sky lit by a pale sliver of moonlight, its daily pall of smoke and haze scattered by a slight breeze.
He imagined Ida smiling at him, proud-like, when he showed her the sovereign after tea tomorrow. Even her mother might lift the corners of her mouth for once. Eddie was allowed to go for tea on Sundays, but the old girl looked as if she were sucking on a lemon whenever he opened his mouth. No wonder Ida’s dad had scarpered, leaving them to take in boarders.
With her long red hair caught in a ribbon at the back, Ida always looked neat and pretty. He liked to imagine her hair flowing freely over her shoulders and trailing across her breasts. Her skin was pale and slightly freckled, her nose a bit flat, but her eyes were large and grey-blue; when she looked up at him all soft and yielding, he knew she was willing, but he wanted to get hitched the right way. They’d have a proper wedding and a decent honeymoon, not have to get married and put up with the neighbours’ jeers and Gran’s disappointment.
Eddie smiled as he remembered Leggett’s dance classes where they’d met when Ida was seventeen and he’d just turned nineteen and how they’d stumbled through the first lesson. By the third dance, they had the hang of it. One night, the instructor decided they should ‘go formal’ and lined up the girls and boys facing each other. The instructor called, ‘Choose your partner, gentlemen, and bow before you invite her to dance.’ He added, ‘Don’t forget to curtsey to your gent, young ladies.’ Eddie bowed to Ida and although she curtsied, she couldn’t hide her cheeky grin. Soon they were the best dancers in the class.
He had her name tattooed on his upper right arm after they came second in a dance marathon and won second prize of two quid. They’d stumbled around for thirty-six flaming hours trying to win a car. He’d have kept going, but he couldn’t do that to Ida, so tired she was blubbering, blood leaking through the sides of her shoes. You couldn’t really blame Ida’s mum for trying stop Ida dancing for a week or two, but Eddie reckoned she’d been trying to break them up ever since. Maybe Ida told her how he’d paid for his dance lessons. There’d been a bit of talk about the missing pickets from the church fence. He’d carved them into twenty-first birthday keys, painted them gold and flogged them down the market. Some bugger had talked, but not before he’d cleaned up.
His eighth-grade teacher, Miss Williams, told him he could be anything he wanted, even arranged for him to sit for a scholarship to a private school. When she came to congratulate him and his family on Eddie winning, his dad put the kibosh on that. Miss Williams pleaded, but he wouldn’t budge. It didn’t matter what she said, he sat with his arms folded across his chest. All he could say was, ‘The boy has to work.’ Eddie knew if he said anything he’d pay for it later, but he’d enjoyed the trip with Miss Williams to the big school, changing from the train to a tram where he could look through the windows at brick houses set high above gardens with winding paths and lawns. He’d imagined rolling down the sloping grassy slopes.
When she saw it was useless talking, Miss Williams left the house looking as if she were ready to cry and his dad sneered at him. ‘As for you, a man’s got to know his place. It ain’t goin’ to no posh school.’
‘Be like you? Humpin’ sacks of sugar all day for fuck all.’
His dad turned red, pulled off his belt and swung it.
Eddie dodged, then wrenched the belt out of the bastard’s hand.
‘If I’m fuckin’ old enough to work, I’m too old to cop any more hidings.’
Sizzling like a firecracker, Gran was out of her chair holding them apart, shouting, ‘You’ve just spoiled your own son’s chances.’
‘You mean forgettin’ who he is, like you did with old Crighton.’
‘You should be grateful. It’s thanks to him we’ve got a decent place to live.’
‘Grateful? All that time I had to pretend I was the son of the bloody cleaner.’
‘I looked after you and yours. Still do. Always will.’
‘You’ll never let me forget it, will you?’
Eddie joined in. ‘Who’s Old Crighton?’
Gran turned on him. ‘Never you mind.’ Then she was back at his old man. ‘That poor slip of a girl you married. No wonder she got the consumption, living the way you did.’
For years, Eddie had begged Gran for stories about his mother