The outcasts of foolgara.., p.7
The Outcasts of Foolgarah, page 7
The men behind the moat (which consisted of ten thousand flies, one thousand gobs of spit—and the brooding reluctance of the other drinkers to touch them with a ten-foot pole) were, according to the Local Government Manual, Night Soil Labourers, Sewerage Farm Hands and Sanitary Carters, but known not too favourably locally as Sanos or, more precisely, shitties. But if their work was dirty their money was clean, so Honest H. and Mulga M. had no hesitation in accepting the coins which clattered generously into the sacred salvage boxes.
Beyond the moat, a group of taxi drivers (telling each other lies about long jobs they’d got, and women who cut out the fare in the back seat) were the next group favoured by ‘Up the Garbos,’ from Honest H. and ‘All we want is a fair go,’ from Mulga M. and a rattle of the religious receptacles. Then a batch of building workers, true ragged-trouser philanthropists, as it transpired, when asked to part up for the Garbos.
And so into the saloon bar (of the old pub, that is) went the terrifying twosome. Here the clientele reflected a fine step up in class division: men who worked with their wits: surf board riders who built boards, spivs, junior real estate salesmen, SP bookmakers, contract jack-hammer operators and nit-keepers for two-up schools, men who joined no union and now gave small reluctant coins as if buying a raffle ticket from Rotary. (RSL Alf, replete with lapel badge and medals, demurred, fearful that Honest H. might be on the list of Communist subversives being prepared at League Headquarters.)
And so into the spacious yard to witness a spectacle that would rival the koala bear as a tourist attraction, if properly advertised: the women folk sitting in rows of cars (some with children and dogs) drinking the occasional beer carried from the bars by their matey men folk. Mulga M. and Honest H. received little change from the ladies, who, quite apart from their chronic touch of the shorts, could not make such a weighty decision as donating to a strike fund without asking the old man.
No minority could be more depressed and outcast than the birds of Foolgarah? That’s what you think. Take a gander in the yard at the back of the old pub; here the dispossessed in their own land drank, men and women together, at rickety tables and played Slim Dusty records on a juke box. Known as Aboriginals (paternally), Abos (patronizingly), boongs (contemptuously), but in white Foolgarah never as people, they opened their huddled hearts to the Garbos’ collectors; it was such a nice change to give a hand-out to a white fella instead of receiving one, and they felt a rapport with the blind Honest H. and the lame-brained Mulga M.
Of course, the Aboriginals could have drunk in the new Foolgarah Chevron (into which Mulga M. now led Honest H.); there was no law against it: but they knew they shouldn’t and would have been asked to leave because they were unclean, improperly dressed, drunk or just plain bloody black, which latter was Foolgarah’s unlucky colour.
After Honest Hambone had crashed into the automatic door of the foyer because he tried to enter by the exit, Mulga Mumblebrain directed him past the Footwear Rack and Colonel Sanders licking eleven herbs and spices off his fingers into the Pacesetter Bar, where the In set gathered at the cocktail hour to discuss the state of the Stock Market and the status of their symbols. They backed away from Honest H. as if he had leprosy until one of their number, a wag from way back, known as Stock Exchange Roy, opted for the odd bit of the old chiak.
‘Up the Garbos for the rent,’ he said, ginger side-levers bushy, moustache droopy, clothes with it, brains without it. ‘What are you blokes on strike for this time: the right to steal off clothes lines?’
This to gleeful approbation of the fore-gathered junior executives, public relations poltroons, wardlers of mercum, bank clerks, computer programmers, and other assorted believers in industrial peace and the high productivity of other people’s labour.
‘No,’ said Honest H., silly enough to argue with the man, ‘we want the right to sort bottles—inside working hours, and to exercise our democratic rights—outside working hours.’
‘And what about you, Mulga?’ inquired Stock Exchange Roy. ‘What right do you want to exercise? The right not to exercise?’ He tapped an ice-spoon sharply against his whiskey glass and Mulga M. went slightly berserk, tapped his nose, snorted and was about to flatten Roy when five Pacesetters beset him.
Sensing, with that extra-sensory feeling of the blind, that his unseen audience might not be entirely sympathetic to his cause, Honest H. decided to leave, and he and Mulga M. were soon in the Astronauts Bar (mixed) rattling their garbage cans under the noses of the Foolgarah intelligentsia: abstract painters, detective fiction writers, advertising hucksters, folk singers, abortionists, television floor managers, literary merit witnesses with Portnoy’s complaint, architects, wine connoisseurs who drank mainly beer, and divorce lawyers (queers, most of them, according to RSL Alf). They hastened to drop some smaller libral coins into the boxes.
Only three worthy of a close-up or likely to act out a role in the battle between the lurk man and the lurk detectors: and they are in a conspiratorial conclave in the congruous corner under the suspicious eye of Neil Armstrong and the other Tank astronauts (no Russians in the mural, needless to say): F. J. Borky, the author, his skinny brown legs like roosters’ shanks under his Bermuda shorts: Commissar (self-styled) McKakie of the People’s Liberation Army and his de facto, Nancy, the Nun. Study them as Oliver Twist studied the Artful Dodger.
A snatch of dialogue will do for now: F. J. Borky saying: ‘I will still set the unpainted lanes against the bright boulevards, the slums against the mansions, the poor against the rich, the black against the white.’
Commissar McKakie, bearded, beaded, long-haired, with a Mao Tse Tung badge on the lapel of his trench coat, saying: ‘You will set them, that is petit-bourgeois individualism. We must fight the bourgeoisie and the imperialists on all fronts, using the from the masses to the masses method of leadership propounded by Chairman Mao and linking arms with our black brothers in Africa and the American ghettoes.’
Nancy, the Nun, with an angelic Ingrid Bergman face and (according to the Establishment and the Vice Squad) the soul of a she devil, saying: ‘And all fronts means all fronts. We are publishing obscenities in Thakunta to challenge the whole puritan hypocrisy of the capitalist class. Eskimo Nell sent them around the bend.’ She favoured them with a quote, ‘She lay for a while with a subtle smile while the grip of her cunt grew keener, then giving a sigh she sucked him dry with the ease of a vacuum cleaner.’ I’m going to wear a nun’s habit to court with “I’ve been fucked by God’s steel prick” written on it.’
The bold Commissar added for emphasis: ‘Fuck is a revolutionary word: we must use it in a revolutionary way.’
Honest H. and his mate happened by at that pregnant moment. Mulga M. protested: ‘Ney, none of that swearing in front of a lady.’
‘She’s no lady, she’s my wife,’ Commissar McKakie equivocated, remembered the little Red Book (the revolutionary swims amongst the masses like a fish in the sea), ‘here’s a donation from the People’s Army,’ proffering the change from a five-dollar bill lying on the table in front of Borky. ‘Our forces are at your disposal.’
‘You’d have to have a haircut first,’ Mulga M. cautioned as they left.
They skipped the Shell Bar (haven for under-aged drinkers and pick-up place for typists on holidays and harlots on the job) and entered the stronghold of the class enemy, the most elegant bar of them all, where capitalists, bureaucrats and high police officials and other aortas gathered. They entered like two criminals going to a consorting squad convention, managing to call out above the refined conversation, ‘Up the Garbos,’ and it sounded like Eskimo Nell being recited in a cathedral when the Pope was saying mass. The bar, inappropriately called the Ned Kelly Tavern (no wonder the old Ned has been doing more than his share of turning in his grave lately, for every drinker here would have given him up to the coppers were he alive today).
Copping a testy refusal from the manager of the Foolgarah Commonwealth Bank, Honest H. argued: ‘If we are defeated, youse blokes will be next: they’ll have you working for the basic wage.’
The argument was somewhat interrupted when Sergeant Averbash, urged on by Shire Clerk Parker, threatened to charge Honest H. with soliciting funds for an organization that was not registered as a charity, so the two Garbos beat a hasty retreat back to the old pub.
There, Little Tich was bringing the meeting to order: ‘You can’t have a strike without electing leaders. We elected three during the garbage strike in London.’ He called for nominations, which came thick and fast until all present had been nominated.
‘There’ll be no rank and file, the way we’re going, there,’ Bottle Ho contended. ‘Why don’t we just elect the driver of each truck.’
‘That wouldn’t be democratic,’ said Little Tich, who fancied himself as a logical contender. ‘The leaders must be elected.’ So Honest H. supplied raffle tickets for ballot papers and his hat for a ballot box and, when the votes were counted, the five most experienced men headed the list: Chilla topped the poll on account of being the main cause of the trouble and a veteran of the Mt. Isa lead bonus strike before he came to Sydney, followed by Cargo Collins, Speck Simpson, elected in absentia, as a noted exponent of the lightning strike in the building trades before he emancipated himself, Bottle Ho, who had been involved in a go-slow regulation strike when he worked in the Railways (kept up his usual pace), and Little Tich, on his own admission a leading activist in the London dirty jobs strike, just scrambled in by the skin of the teeth in his hip pocket, and suggested they ring the Union office.
‘And what bloody use would it be getting in touch with that scabby turnout?’ Chilla said.
‘Oh, I dunno, Chilla,’ Cargo Collins replied, torn between Chilla’s he-who-is-not-with-us-is-against-us ideas and the tactics he learned on the waterfront, ‘it is always wise to look to the Union for leadership.’
‘What?’ Chilla persisted, shaking his head and making a sealy noise, ‘leadership from that scabby turnout, like from Call-me-Jack Wrorter?’ If you omitted the popularly-elected, corruption-ridden, two-bob capitalists down at the Council Chambers, then Chilla’s pet aversion would be the democratically-elected-for-life-bosses’-men at the Union office. You’re in more trouble than a pygmy washing down a double decker bus, Chilla had told himself during the morning, after a heated quarrel with Florrie, who had become more than usually edgy in the overcrowded house. Brown Tongue has got us up the well-known creek this time, we couldn’t win a second appeal, he had thought, further behind than Walla Walla over the last blue and never even got our back pay. Fifteen dollars a month for the TV on the never-never, have a TV in your house tonight without obligation, no deposit, blah-blah, a man would fall for the three card trick, it’ll have to go, and the kids’ll miss it, not to mention the fridge on the sweet-by-and-by and the two-wheeler bike for young Charlie on the strap, a bit behind with the tradespeople, and only thirty bob in the kitty.
‘Don’t worry about the bitta trouble at the Council meeting,’ Florrie had said at last. ‘They owe us the money—and that’s all there is to it.’
‘A man’s too hot-headed, that’s the trouble,’ Chilla had admitted.
‘Hot-headed, me foot!’ Florrie had replied, ‘If ever I go down there they’ll really have somethin’ to worry about …’
Would they ever? But meanwhile men would go without wages for God knows how long because he had done his block. He was the cause of it all, and he felt kind of guilty, but the mention of the Union fixed all that; only one thing to do now, son, come the pay out, jab the finger of scorn on the chest of every scabby tool of the master class who says an honest, hardworking Garbo hasn’t the right to sort bottles—inside working hours, and exercise his right to freedom of speech—outside working hours, without being victimized, frigged around, manhandled by the coppers and sacked. And pretty soon you’ll convince yourself and everyone else that the Garbos can’t be crapped on from a great height, or sold down the drain by a bosses’ Union.
Chilla had the old finger of scorn working fifteen to the dozen, ‘Haven’t we rang ’em up a thousand times on genuine grievances? About the conditions at the dump, about the lack of wet weather clothing, about wages and overtime? Fight? And what have they ever done for us? Nothing, that’s what they haven’t done. Nothing, except stall, and quote the award and the rule book as if they was written for the Council, and tell us to leave it to them, to stay on the job, to consult Burglar Bill or Brown Tongue. Ah, no, mates, our limited funds won’t permit the luxury of unnecessary phone calls.’
Little Tich was on the point of asking why pay union dues if you don’t get some service when Speck Simpson came in, taking time off as a Mr. Hyde capitalist to become a Dr. Jekyll fighter for the workers: ‘Seen the local rag? Chilla and Tich all over the front page.’ Several hands snatched at the fresh-off-the-press copy of the Foolgarah Distorter (with which is incorporated the Foolgarah Standard—Guardian of the People—Support our Advertisers), nominally owned by a public company of nonentities but controlled under the lap by the Right Honourable Mr. Darcy Meanswell, himself, local Member of the House of Representatives at Canberra. INCIDENT AT COUNCIL MEETING! POLICE CALLED! TWO GARBAGE WORKERS DISMISSED! ‘And look at the stop press,’ Speck advised, as they all gathered to read the first shot of the ruling class in the battle of the garbage bins. GARBAGE WORKERS ON ILLEGAL STRIKE ORDERED BACK TO WORK.
‘The capitalist press is always against the working class,’ Cargo Collins consoled.
‘Illegal!’ Chilla exclaimed. ‘Who says it’s illegal? We got the right to strike in this country.’
But little did Chilla know, the head with hair bleached white that’s peeping round the bar door belongs to his son, Charlie, all bones and brown skin, and he’s holding two telegrams in his hand. ‘These telegrams just arrived, Dad, and Mum says to come home straight away.’
‘You get back home, I’ll be there in a minute,’ said Chilla, opening the first telegram. ‘“YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO RESUME NORMAL DUTIES FORTHWITH (STOP) ATTEND COMPULSORY CONCILIATION CONFERENCE WITH FOOLGARAH SHIRE COUNCIL (STOP) FAILURE RETURN WORK RENDERS YOU LIABLE PENALTIES SET OUT INDUSTRIAL ARBITRATION ACT—SIGNED SETTLUM, J.
‘And who the hell is this here Settlum character?’ Chilla inquired.
‘A snivelling legal-eagle from the bosses’ court,’ Cargo Collins replied and, knowing the power of court orders over backward elements, he struck before the fear could enter their souls. ‘Hang those telegrams in the lavatory. There’s nothing to worry about: they send telegrams like that every time there’s a strike. We’ll all get one, it’s just a bluff.’
‘We’ll have to take a vote,’ Little Tich said, impressionable when it came to legal documents. ‘All in favour of going back to work …’
‘All in favour of staying on strike, you ape,’ Cargo said. ‘You can’t ask a meeting to confirm a negative.’
So Tich put it the other way round and hands were raised slowly, hesitantly in some cases, because courts, as the old saying goes, are got up for judges, lawyers and coppers, not for Garbos who want to be alone.
‘Aye,’ shouted the Old Digger, entering, hand raised high, a copy of the Distorter jutting from his hip pocket, building up in his cunning mind a scheme for alternative accommodation to the old men’s home. ‘Put ’em up high to heaven, lads; me and Moss come out in sympathy as soon as we heard of the illegal sackings. I said to Brown Tongue, I told him: “Shove yer job up your bureaucratic arse,” I said, didn’t I, Moss? I said sacking two fine, upstanding, hard-working men, who are practically my own flesh and blood by marriage, two schooners, luv.’
‘Don’t give me that, you old bullshit artist, you never ever been a member of a union in all your life,’ Chilla know-you-of-old, opening his second telegram: ‘“HEREWITH INSTRUCT STRIKING GARBAGE WORKERS RETURN WORK FORTHWITH AS PER ORDER CONCILIATION COMMISSIONER SETTLUM J. ISSUED THIS MORNING (STOP) FAILURE TO DO SO RENDER YOU AND ELECTED OFFICIALS LIABLE FINES, JAIL (STOP) CALL MASS MEETING STRIKERS FOOLGARAH OVAL TOMORROW NOON WILL ADDRESS PERSONALLY. FRATERNALLY WRORTER”.’
The game was on for young and old.
And who was that steering the big Yankee car through the gate of the Foolgarah Sports Oval, gold sleeve links clicking on the steering wheel? Whose fat bum shining in the sun as he leans into the back seat to get his brief case? Maybe a director of the BHP. No? Well, maybe a waddling walrus disguised as a human being in a $200 suit? No? Well, third time lucky then, a man of moderate policies, a skilled industrial advocate, a much-travelled delegate to the ILO, a man dutiful to his religious beliefs, a shrewd negotiator, an efficient administrator, a modernizer of the trade unions, a good mixer, a faithful friend, a practised orator, a good husband and father—but in all other respects a human monstrosity? Are we getting warm?
He and none other than Call-me-Jack Wrorter himself: Federal President and State Secretary of the Garbage, Sewerage and General Municipal Workers’ Union, delegate to the Trades and Labour Council, honorary member of the Parliamentary Water and Sewerage Committee (the two thousand a year honorarium a well-earned perk for long and devoted service to the Labour Movement), a member of the Central City Council until they found out about the back-hander he got over the Wattle Hotel lease. Once a humble Garbo himself, but now on first name terms with every Shire President so long as they didn’t forget to sling when back-handers came in from oil companies, contractors, and estate agents. Friend and confidant of the rank and file so long as they stayed at work and didn’t upset the office routine with unnecessary complaints. Too valuable a man to be risked in a union ballot, so appointed for life by a properly constituted general meeting of the membership (forty-one present) to prevent the dead hand of Communist control eating the vitals out of the union’s mixed metaphors.
