Four Fires (16 page)

'Mr Templeton, I love Murray and he loves me, he told me so! Can't I just talk to him, even on the phone?' Sarah pleads.

Philip Templeton's lips draw tight. Tm afraid that's not possible, Sarah.'

'But I know he loves me, he does, he's told me lots of times! Isn't it his decision also? Hasn't he got a right as well?'

'Murray's only eighteen, when he turns twenty-one he can make up his own mind. Besides, he's set his heart on joining the army, going to Duntroon. Mrs Templeton and I have discussed it at length with him and he's in full agreement. He doesn't want to marry you, Sarah.'

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'I'd like him to tell me face to face,' Sarah sobs, 'I don't believe you.'

'I believe he's writing you a letter,' Philip Templeton says,

'explaining his position.'

'Starting off his military career as a coward should make him a great officer' Mike says.

'You've got a big mouth, son!' Templeton suddenly roars. 'You'll keep!' He turns back to Nancy, trying to stay calm, but Mike's remark has throw him. You can see he suddenly decides he's had enough.

'You've heard my offer, Mrs Maloney, and it's not going to change. If you want your daughter out of harm's way, we'll pay for her to go away.

A boarding house, we know of a good one in Melbourne, St Kilda.

Think about it and let me know your decision.'

'A boarding house? Away from her family?' You can see Nancy is shocked out of her tree. 'You've got a bloody nerve, Mr Templeton.'

'Well, it's up to you, we're not made of money, you know. Your daughter Would be comfortable enough, full board and lodging and it's a sixpenny tram ride into the city.'

'And ora her own at her age and away from us. No! I won't have a bar of it. We want to talk to the boy, you have no right to keep him from us. After all, it's him who's knocked her up.'

'That's it, that's bloody it!' Philip Templeton roars. 'Oh, yes, I bloody have! Legally, we're in the clear. We're his legal guardians until he's twenty-one. What's more, my son didn't exactly rape your daughter. It was mutual consent, they carry equal blame in the eyes of the law.' He takes a breath, 'Mrs Templeton and I have made you a generous offer May I remind you we don't have to do anything.'

'Oh, yes, you do! You have to make my daughter respectable. She has to marry your son! She's far too good for him, but she's carrying his child.'

Templeton gives a little smile, 'I don't think you heard me, Mrs Maloney. my son is not going to marry your daughter. Now, just what do you propose you can do to make him, Mrs Maloney?'

'You'll see soon enough,' Nancy shoots back.

But now he's finally lost all patience. 'Look at you!' he yells, 'you're on the bores of your arse, you're nobody and, if you're not bloody careful, you'll be less than nobody with the garbage contract taken away from you. And don't think I won't do it, lady, it would give me a
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great deal of pleasure after tonight!' Philip Templeton has got his dander up, he's decided to go for the jugular and he's going at a Four FIRES

thousand revs a minute. 'You bloody tykes are all the same, always shitting on your own doorstep and expecting somebody else to clean up after you. Well, I don't pick up other people's shit like you do. This time it isn't going to work. The boy isn't going to marry the girl, you understand? It's not going to happen. There's been a Templeton here for four generations and there's been Maloneys just as long and, may I remind you, madam, your lot has never been anything but drunks and layabouts. Useless bastards.'

'There must have been one of you, but I've never heard of a Templeton that turned up to fight a bushfire,' Nancy shoots back.

'I've got better things to do with my time than go out on the bloody fire truck in a pair of overalls!' Templeton shouts. 'Your miserable lot wouldn't know a day's work if you stumbled into it!' He stabs a finger at Nancy, 'I remember you, Nancy Maloney, high heels and skirt hoicked up to your arse, not exactly the Virgin Mary either, were you.') First a wog and then half the bloody US Army!'

'And I remember you, Philip Templeton! You were around like a bad smell when all the other men were at the war,' Nancy snaps.

'I had flat feet.'

'Funny how most yellow bellies end up with flat feet!'

Templeton ignores the insult. 'Do you really think this town is going to take your side against us? Because if you do, think again.

you are the dirt collectors. I've been shire president three times. Did you imagine for one moment we'd fall into your trap, sending your pretty little daughter to seduce my son? I dare say you put her up to it, didn't ya? "Good catch, go for it, get a bun in the oven, then he'll have to marry you." That's what happened, wasn't it?' Templeton sweeps the back of his hand in the direction of the front door, 'G'arn, scram, vamoose, take your ugly kids and get out of my house, you stupid, fat bitch!'

Nancy rises slowly, her eyes locked onto Philip Templeton's. He stands his ground as she advances towards him, you can see he's not backing away from a sheila. Bozo starts to push past me to go to
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Nancy's aid. Philip Templeton is a big bloke. Not as big as her admittedly, but big enough. There's his great gut sticking out, heaving up and down, not knowing quite what to expect. That's where she'll go, biff him in the bread basket, take the wind right out of the bastard's sails.

I don't know where Nancy learned it, but she feints to the right and Philip Templeton brings both his arms up to ward off the blow. You can see the shock on his face as Nancy throws a left that catches him under the jaw and lifts him clean off his feet. His top false teeth loop in the air and land yards away as he crashes to the ground like a wall of demolition bricks. Philip Templeton is sprawled on the carpet knocked out stone cold.

'Jesus, Mum, where'd you learn that?' Bozo yells out in admiration.

'Sergeant Bozonik, welterweight champion of the US Marines,'

Nancy says. Then, cool as a cucumber, she leans down and grabs Philip Templeton by his shirt front and pulls him up onto his knees and holds him so he's looking up at her. He's just coming around and she waits until his eyes are clear. 'Two words you should never forget, Mr Templeton, "Maloney payback".' She drops him back to the carpet.

'C'mon, you lot, let's leave this shithole. Sarah, stop crying at once!

That little shit who screwed you isn't worth a single Maloney tear.'

But, I must say, I don't like our chances. Mr Templeton's right, they're the ones got the power and we're the shit-kickers. That's how this town works, Templetons on top, Maloneys at the bottom. Maloney payback is one thing, real life is another. You can't get to mongrels like Philip Templeton, they've always got their arses covered.

But, as it turned out, I should have known better than to underestimate Nancy Maloney, who doesn't make threats lightly nor take too kindly to anyone having a go at her kids.

CHAPTER FIVE

I need to say something about the Bonegilla Migrant Camp reffos, because a lot is about to happen to us that's got to do with them. We didn't think that this bunch of strangers down the road a bit were having much influence on us, but they were.

For a start, they were taking the jobs nobody else wanted, which made everyone who was here already feel better about themselves.

Their women started working, not just at fruit-picking time like us, but doing office-cleaning jobs and lots of things women weren't supposed to do now the war was over. For instance, working in small factories and the fruit cannery and meat-packing plants in Albury and Wangaratta. Our women had done some of those jobs in the war but
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we'd pulled them out and back into the kitchen quick-smart when peace arrived.

The migrant women wanted a new life and were prepared to work for it although they didn't always get the life they wanted. It turned out things weren't easy for them, many of their men were brought out to work on the Snowy Mountains Scheme, Greeks, Italians, Yugoslavs and other nations, they weren't educated and didn't want to change things from how they'd been where they came from. They thought of their wives as being heir slaves, and their daughters as well. The men ruled the roost and it wasn't like us where the wife has a say in how things are done. The women couldn't speak English, had to do all the dirty work and then give all their money to the men. They had no personal freedom, so you really had to feel sorry for them. Although, of course, not all the reffos were like that, some of them were educated and treated their wives better than we treated ours. Not that our men were to be held up as shining examples, Nancy said.

Sarah had read all this stuff about reffo women in some magazine and told us about it and said thank God she was Australian and she'd never let a man persecute her. I could have pointed out to her that she and Nancy did the bossing around and us boys were the persecuted ones, but you can't win that sort of argument with them two.

Then the very next day Sarah came home from school furious, banging pots around and being generally huffy. At tea she sat down and ate her food in silence.

'Cat got your tongue?' Nancy eventually asks.

'Bloody men!' Sarah says and goes on eating.

'You have a fight with that Templeton boy?'

'Nah, the careers counsellor came to school today. He said, I quote:

"Sarah, one day you'll make a beautiful wife and mother and until you get married to some lucky boy, I would advise you to be a florist or a hairdresser."'

Then Sarah tells us how the careers counsellor has been to their classroom and all the Sixth Form students have been given an.

interview.

'He looked at my term marks and said they were very good. He had all my exam results from Form Three on in front of him.'

'That's nice, dear,' Nancy says.

'Yeah, but then he says, "Look at this!" He's really excited, turning back to one of my old reports. "Domestic Science! These marks are
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excellent, Sarah."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir, but you're looking at my Fourth Form marks, I gave up Domestic Science two years ago!" I say to him.' Sarah looks around the table, 'As I've been cooking, baking and doing needlework around here since I was practically a baby, it's hardly

surprising that I've topped Fourth Form in Domestic Science. Then right off he says that's not important, they're not skills I will have lost in two years, but my marks show I've got a solid background in Domestic Science, that I should become a hairdresser or a florist until I get married.'

'You sure he wasn't joking?' Nancy questions. 'You know, taking the mickey?'

'Mum, he was deadly serious! "You're artistic and good with your hands, either of these vocations will be ideal for you, Sarah." That's what he bloody said.'

'Christ on a crutch!' Nancy protests.

'So I told him, "But I want to be a doctor, sir."

'He looks at me as if I'm mad. "A doctor? Are you sure? It's a profession and..." he spread his hands, "not really suitable for a girl.

You'd need to get a matriculation with first-class honours in Science and Maths, in fact in most subjects."

'So I lean over and turned the page in front of him and put my finger first on my October exams, my trial-matric Maths mark and then on the Biology and Chemistry. All are over ninety-five per cent.'

'Good on ya,'I say to Sarah.

'He looks down at where I'm pointing and then up at me and he's gone all huffy, "Yes... that's all very well, but I'm not convinced."

He rubs his chin, "There's a lot more to becoming a doctor than good marks. Medicine is a science, you know, and women are not good at the sciences."

'Christ, Mum, I've just shown him I got ninety-five per cent in Science!'

Nancy shakes her head and Bozo says this bloke must be a real fuckwit.

Sarah continues. '"There's also the temperament," he says, "A medical career is better suited to the male temperament. I'm not at all sure women are suited to the profession. What happens when you marry, eh? You have to give it all up. Then, of course, there's the
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question of money. Are your parents well off, Sarah? A medical degree costs a lot of money, you know."

'"If I get a university pass in my Matriculation Certificate, I can get a Commonwealth Scholarship, sir."

'"A scholarship?" he says. I can see he's astonished. "Well, I never!"

Suddenly he's lost for words and after a while takes a deep breath. "Of course I can't stop you, Sarah, but you must understand, scholarships to university go to the brightest of the bright, the creme de la creme."

He chuckles, "The migrant boys seem to be winning them all these days, hah, hah. Some people are not too happy about that, can't say I disagree, we pay to bring them out and then they get all the perks." You can see what he's trying to tell me is that I'm a country kid and a girl and there's no way I'm going to get one!

'"Sir, all I need is a good university entrance pass to get a Commonwealth Scholarship," I tell him again.

'"That's all very well, Sarah, but how will you compete? Only the best students are accepted for Medicine."'

'The gall of the man!' Nancy shouts.

'Then he removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, "I don't want to discourage you, Sarah, but I want you to understand, in all my twenty years' experience as Victorian Country Schools Careers Officer, I've heard of several young country girls winning scholarships but never of one who went on to study Medicine. Don't you think you may have ideas above your station?"'

'You should've belted him, Sarah,' Bozo says, 'Bastard has no right.'

Sarah's well into her stride by now and can't stop, her voice has grown shrill she's that angry. 'Then he tells me, "You could always be a nurse? I can see you're bright enough. Why, you might even end up as a double-certificate sister or even the matron of a small hospital."'

Sarah looks around at us, wanting to see our reaction to this statement. But we're all just as gobsmacked as she is. 'Then, Mum, get this, he says to me, "Take my advice, Sarah, in my opinion that would be a terrible waste for a girl like you." He smiles and flicks the page back to my Domestic Science report, "Look at this, it's positively outstanding!" He reads Mrs Evans's comment at the bottom of the page, Sarah's sponge cake is the envy of the school. You'll make someone a wonderful wife one day and be a beautiful little mother when the time comes. We all gasp and Nancy says, 'I'm going to call the headmaster!

What a bloody cheek! Careers counsellor, my bum! Did he touch you, put his hand on you? Sounds like a pervert to me!' She gets up and goes
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into the kitchen to fetch a Bex.

That just about sums things up for Yankalillee and I dare say lots of other country towns. A woman's life was seen as a dutiful servitude to a husband who usually drank too much but remained the boss even if he was a total no-hoper.

There was only one criterion, a wife and mother was what good girls should aspire to. They could also be a kindergarten teacher or even a teacher, but once the babies started to arrive that was that. This bloke at the school was no different to Tommy, the idea of a woman being a doctor was unthinkable.

In fact, the idea of a woman challenging a man in anything was seen as both unladylike and somewhat ridiculous. It wasn't that a woman was less than a man, she simply wasn't one, and that was enough, no further questions asked.

A woman's role in life was to bring up boys who followed in their fathers' footsteps, a path that usually led directly into the pub. On the other hand, everyone knew that girls followed in their mothers' footsteps and the first thing to be instilled in a daughter was the mortal

fear that if she wasn't married in her late teens or early twenties, she'd end up on the shelf as an old maid, shorthand for 'a total disgrace and burden to the family'.

Many of the town's daughters complied with their mothers' wishes by getting up the duff while still at school or shortly after leaving at the age of fourteen. A shotgun marriage was fairly hastily arranged, so that Yankalillee was famous for the number of premature births among its population. In the eyes of the town the problem had been rectified and

. respectability restored. After all, life goes on.

This rather hasty nuptial binding, between a girl only barely past the giggling stage and a boy whose major interest in life was tuning his Holden or Ford or Austin and getting pissed of a Saturday night and then going for a burn with his mates, was almost inevitably the beginning of a disaster. Unless his folk had a few quid or were on the land, he had few if any prospects and was totally unprepared for the responsibilities of fatherhood. Increasingly he escaped to the pub to drown his sorrows. This invariably meant he would return home and take his frustration out on his teenage missus who was nursing the baby that had ruined both of their lives by arriving about five years too early.

Marriage was everything, because respectability was the only thing that counted. Much better having a drunk who beat you than being an old maid, which was considered a fate worse than death except for one
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other thing, the ultimate disgrace Sarah no; faced. If she kept the baby she would be an unmarried mother. For this last sin there was no forgiveness. You were a slut when you did it and you remained one for the remainder of your life.

The correct procedure towards marriage for a young woman in Yankalillee went like this. You worked as a typist in the front office of the soft-drink factory or as a waitress in the Parthenon care, a hairdresser in Kells Beauty Parlour or learned the florist trade with Florence's Fabulous Flowers or worked as a secretary for the Forestry

Commission. During this period you assembled your glory box. In your early twenties, if not before, you became engaged, had a party, which consisted mainly of oohs and aahs and exclamations at the largeness of your very small diamond ring by all your girlfriends. This was followed by your kitchen tea, whereupon you resigned your job and got a set of double-bed sheets or a nice tablecloth from the management and staff, and finally the marriage took place, the full extravaganza in vestal gown and veil to the pealing of church bells and your picture in the local rag.

From this moment on, your husband was the breadwinner and you were his wife, more an animated and useful possession than an equal partner. If he turned out to be a poor provider with an unquenchable thirst and a tendency towards violence, well, that was sad, but not a reason for splitting up. You were no better or worse off than most. Your husband wasn't a bad bloke really, he got drunk on a Friday and again on the Saturday night after which he demanded a legover without precautions. If you were Catholic or unlucky with the diaphragm, or stupid, the kids just kept on coming until brewer's droop finally killed your husband's potency and snoring took over from grunt, push and

burp. In the meantime you'd put on weight, lost your looks and were trapped with nowhere to go. What you endured was the female role found in many a typical bush-town marriage.

Mr Baloney and Grandmother Charlotte were the classic pattern in unequal partnership set long before their own misbegotten marriage and this was a tragedy to be repeated in the bush unto the next generation and the one after. Had it not been for the advent of television in 1956 and the new perceptions it brought into Australia, this state of male/female disparity and constant disharmony in marriage might well have continued until today. In some places it's still like that, though I'm sure Australia isn't alone in this.

However, Australia was a backwater at that time and the small towns within it were stagnant pools of disaffection between husband and wife. I suppose there must have been lots of good marriages and happy couples but it would be wrong to say that females had a fair go in the bush.

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Nancy, for instance, had never considered divorcing Tommy, not only because she was a Catholic but also because she was a country girl. Her reputation was permanently sullied from having had four children out of wedlock but the one thing that redeemed her slightly in the eyes of Yankalillee was that she'd eventually married a local boy who had fought in the war and, despite his unfortunate ability with a glass-cutter and a pinch bar, she had kept her marriage to him intact.

It was not only the migrant women but also their men who

changed the established work patterns in our small town. The reffos, who mostly couldn't speak English, put in a hard day's yakka and seldom complained, even when they got ripped off and were paid too little for their non-unionised skills.

The difference between them and us was this. Most of our blokes spent all their spare time in the pub and quite a lot of what shouldn't have been spare time there as well. A beer at lunchtime would often enough spill over into the afternoon and then on to six o'clock closing.