A drongo behind the Black Stump
Because of the huge response to its immigration programme, the Australian government has decided that future applicants for citizenship must be fluent in English. – News report
At last his name was called, though he would have been pleased for any reason to stay out of the rain.
Sydney Harbour Bridge, glimpsed through broken slats in the venetian blinds, appeared two-dimensional behind the deluge. The weather on that day was rather different from what he had expected. Travel brochures, he reflected, were the same the world over.
“Jew-Anne Carlow Pine-toe?” called the bald-headed officer. He was a large man in baggy white shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.
“That is I,” said Juan Carlos Pinto.
“Up here, mate,” the officer said, indicating a moulded chair. There was a delay in which the immigration man found a file, wet his thumb and began paging through it. His mouth worked as he did so.
“Pine-toe,” the bald-headed officer said at length. “What kind of Julia is that?”
“Pardon?” said Juan Carlos.
‘Your bloody handle, jack,” said the officer. “Whassit? Eye-tie? You a bloody ding?”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Juan Carlos. “I do not understand.”
‘Don’t bung it on me, mate,” said the officer. “Where d’ya hail from? What’s ya bloody nationality?”
“I am Spanish,” said Juan Carlos. “From Andalusia.”
“Ah, well,” said the officer. “Seen one dago, seen the lot. Got enough of you jokers already, ask me. Pizzas and bloody pay-ellas coming out of our ears. Bunch of ratbags, mostly. No offence.”
He turned and addressed another officer who was busy at a tea urn across the room. “Hey, Alf!’ he said. “Drop that bloody billy and get yer hump over here!”
Alf strolled over, plastic cup in hand.
“You parly a bit of Spic, donya?” said the bald-headed officer. “Come and yabber to this galah. He’s one of them dago drongos.”
Alf studied Juan Carlos, taking in the immaculate suit and cravat, the calf-length boots.
“Done up like a bloody pox-doctor’s clerk, ain’t he?” said the bald-headed officer. “Laired like a bloody pom. No shortage of Oscar, that’s plain. Bag of fruit musta cost a bit of bloody scratch.”
“Hablo Inglais?” Alf asked.
Juan Carlos nodded. “I am bilingual,” he said. “I have studied at the academy in Madrid. For many years.”
“Pig’s butt!” said the bald-headed officer. “Don’t come the raw prawn with us, mate. Accent like that!”
He returned his attention to the file in front of him. “Means of Entry,” he read aloud. “How’d ya shoot through, blue?”
“He means how did you get here?” said Alf.
“I have come by ship,” said Juan Carlos.
“Thought so,” said the bald-headed officer. “Wet-bloody-backed it through the islands, dinya? One of those Polynesian bangers. Backhander to the skipper, no questions asked. Right?”
“It was the Oceana,” said Juan Carlos. “P and O line. Very nice ship. Very reposeful.”
“Huh!” said the bald-headed officer. He picked up Juan Carlos’s passport, flipped through it, then put it down. “Right, mate,” he said. “So what’s yer bloody lurk?”
“Lurk?”
“Yeah. You a bloody hash artist, or what? Setting up to run the hard stuff from Colombia, are yer? We’re on to that game, mate, tell you now.”
Juan Carlos looked at Alf. “He’s asking why you want to immigrate to Aussie,” said Alf. “What you plan to do here.”
“Ah,” said Juan Carlos, nodding. “It is simple,” he said. “I have read much about the Black Stump, such places. Now I wish to go there, to start a ranch. Somewhere into your interior. With my Spanish bulls.”
“Bloody oath!” said the bald-headed officer. “You got bulls?”
“Many,” said Juan Carlos. “Numerous herds. Always my family has them.”
“Strewth!” said the bald-headed officer. He looked at Juan Carlos as though seeing him for the first time, noticing a cheroot in a manicured hand. “Hey, can I bite ya for a smoke, mate?”
“He wants a cigar,” said Alf.
Juan Carlos handed one over, offering one to Alf, who declined.
“Right,” said the bald-headed officer, lighting up. “One more question, then she’s right. You ever done bird?”
“Bird?”
“Yeah, bird-lime. Y’know. Time.”
“Time?”
“The officer is asking,” said Alf, “do you have a prison record. Have you ever been in jail?”
Juan Carlos looked puzzled. “I thought that was no longer necessary,” he said, “for one to come to Australia.”
Extract from John Ryan’s Spy story (published on Amazon.com, Kindle direct publishing)
Moses removed his football boots and socks, pumped paraffin into the Primus from the ten-gallon tin that also served as a bedside table, lit the stove and lay back on his bed. He would make tea and then wander up to one of the Greek cafes to buy a pie for supper.
When Moses awoke, the cottage was in darkness but for the blue flame of the Primus. Yet something had awoken him. He listened and the noise came again. Someone was trying the door to Mrs Buhl’s kitchen, across the path.
Moses opened his own door. By the partial light of the pressure stove he could see someone on the kitchen steps. The person was carrying what looked like a large book or a parcel.
Alerted by the gushing noise of the Primus, the figure turned and lunged at Moses, propelling him backwards into the cottage. Moses glimpsed a white face under a cloth cap before strong hands grasped him around the throat and he realised with alarm that the man was trying to strangle him.
Moses managed to pull up one knee and lash out with his instep. There was a cry of pain and a fist struck Moses on the side of the face. But by then he was rolling away and scrambling to his feet.
Moses grabbed the stove by its base, below the hissing flame, holding it out in front of him like a torch, hoping the light might force the intruder to turn and run. However, the man lunged at him again, throwing punches, forcing Moses against his makeshift table.
Moses lost his grip on the stove and, as it fell, he heard a gurgling sound behind him. He realised with horror it was the noise of paraffin escaping from the overturned drum.
Moses tried to run for the door but found the intruder blocking his way, his arms outstretched.
Stanley Robertson, the stationmaster, said afterwards he caught sight of the blaze just as the overnight goods train from East London was pulling in. The train was two hours late as always. Stanley said the flames were so high that he thought the town hall was on fire.
The O’Briens felt the heat before they saw any evidence of it. So intense was the fire that it melted the tarmac on that side of Owen Street.
Jack Langton, Howard’s father and the former policeman, was the first person to ring up the manual telephone exchange and tell the operator to get hold of Harry Perry, the town clerk. He told Perry to rally the fire brigade and quickly. Forget about sounding the hooter, Jack said, it’s too late for that.
When Danny ran across the road and saw the source of the fire, it was as though a dark cloud entered his brain and he could not think or speak.
Patrick said to his father, ‘Moses can’t be in there, dad! Can he? He told us he’d be going up to get a pie!’
Digger O’Brien put a hand around the shoulder of both sons. They were standing on the island in Owen Street. The rafters of the cottage had started to collapse, leaving a red imprint on the black sky. Danny stared, fixated, until his father physically turned the boy’s head away.
Jimmy Millar, the wall-eyed Mr Fixit, was in charge of the firemen that night. They broke down the door of the Buhl’s cottage, releasing a blast of hot air and a smell that took Digger O’Brien back to the trenches.
Emerging from the cottage a few minutes later, Jimmy beckoned to Digger.
‘Don’t go in, because it’s a mess, but there’s a corpse,’ he said.
‘Moses?’ Digger asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Jimmy Millar.
Digger O’Brien went in anyway. The body, trapped between the skeleton of the bed and a red-hot paraffin tin, was charred beyond recognition. But the sight of what remained of Moses’s football boots under the bed, burned leather and metal studs, would stay with Digger forever.
John Ryan 