Four Fires (44 page)

'You hold, my darlink, we check Sarah now.' He pulls back the sheets and presses on Sarah's tummy and finds it is soft and doughlike. Perfect,' he says, then he examines her perineum, 'No sutures needed.' He pulls the sheets back over Sarah, who smiles, drowsy from the stuff Mrs Rika Ray has given her. 'A spontaneous birth, that is wonderful for a first child. Congratulations, my dear. Mazeltovl'

Sarah can't keep her eyes open but smiles. 'Mrs Rika Ray was wonder-' She doesn't complete the sentence before she's asleep again.

Morrie turns at last to Mrs Rika Ray and, moving close to her, embraces her. 'We are grateful more than we can say, you too, Mrs Rika Ray. Now you are also our Australian family. Thank you, thank you, from za bottom of za heart.'

It's been a long time since Mrs Rika Ray has been hugged by someone who loves her and she doesn't know whether to cry or laugh. 'I also, I am happy from my heart's bottom!' she says, tears rolling down her cheeks.

About this time with Sarah's baby asleep in Sophie's arms and Sarah now a mother, the remainder of the Maloney family are on the road to Melbourne. Nancy is driving and refuses to go more than twenty miles an hour, which is twice as fast as she goes when we're collecting the garbage, so, as far as she's concerned, she's practically racing. In some places where the road is narrow, cars are banked up for a mile behind us, some hooting with the driver's arm out the window trying to urge us to go faster. You can almost see the steam coming out of their ears.

We pretend not to hear their angry shouts when they eventually pass us.

Little Colleen's in front with Nancy and the rest of us are in the back with the bed, double mattress and Singer sewing machine and Bitzers One to Five, who have arranged themselves around the perimeter of the back of the Diamond T so that their noses can catch the breeze.

Bozo has given them permission to bark and they're having a real nice time barking at passing cars, cows, sheep and the occasional horse grazing in a paddock.

'Should make it around Christmas,' Mike says with a sigh.

But the good thing is that the old Diamond T hasn't broken down.

'It's a bloody miracle,' Bozo declares. 'Old bugger must be showin' off with its borrowed tyres, don't tell him it's only for the trip to Melbourne.' He's got his tool box with him, a spare radiator hose, spark plugs, a tin of engine oil and a four-gallon can of water. The Diamond T is farting smoke out the exhaust like it's in a chimney-blowing competition, but that's nothing unusual, nor is the clapping of the tappets in the engine, which sound like a kid banging on a tin drum. The only mishap was when some cows decide to cross the road and Nancy slams on the brakes and the Diamond T swerves to the edge of the road and skids on the gravel and then stops with a jerk. The Singer sewing machine, which we've tied to the back with a rope, breaks loose and, because it's on these little metal wheels, it goes sliding across the end of the Diamond T and slams into the opposite side. But when we

examined it, it didn't seem to be any the worse for wear, a scratch on the side that Bozo said he could get out and revarnish when we got home. Otherwise the trip was easy with no other problems.

Seven hours later we arrive with a clank and a snort and a single backfire outside the Carlton terrace. A whole lot of kids are playing in the street and one shouts out, 'Jeez, look at the old bomb!'They all rush over and stand on the pavement with their hands behind their backs staring at us and one little girl says slowly, 'Maloney & Sons - Garbage', reading the side of the truck.

They all giggle.

'G'arn, git!' Mike says and they all run away, yelling 'Maloney & Sons - Garbage! Maloney Garbage!' Bozo gives Bitzers One to Five permission to bark and so everyone in the street
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knows we've arrived.

Suddenly the door opens and there, standing in Sophie's pink dressing gown is Sarah, smiling and holding this little bundle in a blue blanket.

Well, I've never seen Nancy so over the moon! She's grinning and laughing and holding Sarah's baby and kissing its head and making snoofy sounds and touching it on the nose with her finger and swinging around and doing a little dance.

When she hears the story of the delivery, suddenly Mrs Rika Ray and she are blood sisters forever. All is forgiven in the instant. Nancy, as the grandmother, promptly pronounces Mrs Rika Ray one of the godmothers on the spot. Sophie and Morrie are like proud parents and Sarah, who has slept practically the whole morning, gives us all a hug and I must say, I know she's my sister, but her hair is brushed and the sun is catching it and it's shining like a sort of blaze and she is beautiful. Even someone like me can see that.

Sophie's been baking all morning and there's something she calls cholent, which is sort of like a stew with meat and beans and Jewish stuff that she explains is cooked real slow. It's been in a low oven all Friday night and all day until dinner at noon, because Jews aren't supposed to light a fire on a Saturday. She calls Saturday 'Shabbat'. Only, she says, she and Morrie are not kosher and they can light a fire if they want but cholent is a tradition. I don't know about a tradition, but I'm telling you, it's the best stew I've tasted in the history of the world! Then there's latkes, which are fried potato cakes, sort of made very

light, but they taste better even than chips and she's made this apple strudel with fresh cream and we all decide that perhaps we ought to stay forever. All except Bozo, because he's et hardly anything and says he's not hungry. Sophie is a bit upset, but Bozo explains it ain't the food, it's just he's not hungry.

Nancy, who's tucking in a treat, says, 'If you're sick, you'll have to have castor oil!'

Mrs Rika Ray says castor oil isn't good for him, she'll give him something. But Bozo says, no, he's fine, just not hungry, that he'll be hungry tonight for sure.

That's good,' Sophie says. 'Tonight we eat chicken soup and geroicherte flaysh mit kroit (I only learned how to say that later, but it's stew with cabbage) and honig lekach, which turns out to be honey cake. Mrs Rika Ray is cooking something special too.

After we've had our tea, Bozo comes up to me, real casual like. 'Hey, Mole, Big Jack Donovan's telephoned Kevin Flanagan so I can visit the Russell Street police gym. Wanna come with me?'

He looks at me and I can see he wants me to come. 'We could go in a tram?' he offers, bribing me.

I'd been sort of hoping him and me and Mike could have a look around Melbourne in the afternoon. Go walkabout in Collins Street and those other places we've only heard about, the Myers shop that's got the biggest toy department in the Southern Hemisphere. We've never been in the city proper, just the showgrounds. Though, I have to admit, riding in a tram would be something else. 'We haven't got any money for the tram,' I say.

'Yeah, got plenty,' he replies and puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out two bob. 'Wanna come?' He must have sold something he's fixed up before we come down.

Then I see he's brought his boxing gloves, the ones Tommy give him for Christmas. It don't take too many brains to work out what he's got in mind. He's hardly eaten any of Sophie's champion grub, which means he's going to try to have a spar with the featherweight who's in the running to go to the Olympics. The bloke who's seventeen and Kevin Flanagan said would be much too good for him.

chapter thirteen

I don't know how Bozo does things, I mean he's only been to Melbourne twice, once to the Show and the next time to tune the Austin 7 ready for Sarah's getaway, but he knows exactly what trams to catch to get us to the Russell Street gym. We walk to Nicholson Street, where we
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catch the tram to the city and Bozo asks the conductor to put us off at Russell Street. Sounds simple enough but the thing is he took the trouble to find out before.

Bozo thinks about things more than me or Mike, even Sarah. Right from when we were small he's always had a bob in his pocket. Nancy says she doesn't know where he gets the nous from, no Maloney ever had a shilling to spare, money always burns a hole in our pockets. It was him thought about fixing junk up and selling it, he's a natural trader.

To give you an example, there's the time in January when Toby Forbes wanted a special weekday delivery of the Gazette. He had six clearing sales advertised for the coming weekend and came to see us about an early-morning drop when we did the garbage. He always pays on the nail, not a fortune, but there's usually five bob in it for each of us. Bozo's got three lawnmowers he's fixed and painted and then re-varnished the wooden handles but hasn't managed to sell to the second-hand shop in Wangaratta, so he says to Toby Forbes that we'll do his drop for nothing if he gives us two advertisements in the Gazette.

Toby Forbes agrees and Mike does up this little advertisement which is clever as anything and which says:

Bozo

'THE BoY BOXER'

BARGAINS!

THREE KNOCKOUT

LAWNMOWERS

Fort SALE

ONLY 40/- EACH.

Hurry

DON'T LET THE GRASS

GROW UNDER YOUR

//////feet//////

Before you can say 'Jack Robinson!', the lawnmowers are sold and we don't even need the second advertisement, which Bozo can now use for something else he wants to sell. He reckons Joe Turkey, who has the second-hand shop and junkyard in Wang, would have given him fifteen shillings each, at the most a quid.

Bozo gives Mike ten bob because he did the advertisement, Nancy the same because he couldn't give her less than Mike, and me seven and sixpence, which is more than the pound Toby Forbes would have paid us altogether for dropping off the Gazette, so we're happy as Larry
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and he's still made an extra one pound, twelve and sixpence more than he would have made if he'd sold them to Joe Turkey. Not bad, eh?

Nancy says Bozo's the only one of us she'll never have to worry about because he's got his head screwed on right. Although she always says after, 'That is, if he doesn't get his brains mashed in the boxing ring!'

The tram ride was beaut, it sort of clanks and rattles but is also smooth at times and everything has to get out of the way. The tram is boss of the road and it feels pretty important trundling along with it swaying and clickety-clacking, coasting along and then suddenly surging. You could stay on it all day and not get tired of riding in it. I've still got to go in a train so I can't compare the experience, but it would have to be pretty good to beat the tram and we got to see a fair bit of the city as we went along.

We arrive at the Russell Street Police Headquarters and ask a cop coming out of the building to direct us to the gym. When we get there, we can hardly believe our eyes. There's five boxing rings, and boxing

bags and speedballs and weight-lifting gear and stuff we've never seen before. The gym is full of boxers working out on the equipment, skipping, shadow-boxing in front of this big mirror, -knocking the crap out of the heavy punching bags and blurring the speedball. Every ring is occupied. There's a helluva racket. It's not just boxers hitting punching bags and the skipping rope whipping the jarrah floor, but instructors are yelling at their boxers in the ring and there's a smell of liniment, sweat and physical exertion.

Bozo and me just stand there with our mouths half-open. We've never seen anything like this before. Bozo's got his gloves hanging around his neck and the rest of his clobber, his boxing boots and trunks together with his jockstrap, mouthpiece and a small towel, in an old sports bag he's carrying.

'Jesus, Mole, have a decko at that!' he says, almost under his breath.

'This is the big time, Bozo,' I reply. 'I suppose they're all going to the Olympics, hey.')'

We're both a bit, you know, intimidated. Where to go? What to do next? It's like walking into a sort of cathedral, only with noise. Nobody's taking any notice of us, we're just a couple of kids standing at the door gawking. Then I see Mr Flanagan come out of a door at the far end and move to the ring furthest from us, where there's two young boxers sparring with another trainer in charge.

'That's him!' I say. Bozo nods and we start to walk towards the far
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ring, careful not to get in the way of any of the boxers, of which there must have been about thirty altogether. We get to where Kevin Flanagan is standing with his arms folded, he's got his back to us concentrating on the boxers in the ring and doesn't even see us. We know we'll have to wait until he's got a moment. Bozo's watching one of the boxers, who seems the better of the two, and he's the one Flanagan's mostly yelling instructions at.

'Box him, Johnny, go in fast, come out fast, don't mix it, move, lad!' Kevin Flanagan shouts up at the ring.

That's him,' Bozo says, almost as though he's speaking to himself.

'Who?'

'The flyweight.'

I can see this bloke's a flyweight, 'So?'

The one Mr Flanagan says will be too good for me.'

Just then Kevin Flanagan sees us. 'Hello there, Bozo, thought you might show up today, got a bell from Big Jack Donovan about you coming.'

'Afternoon, Mr Flanagan,' Bozo says and I say the same.

'Afternoon, lads. He shouts to the two boxers sparring, 'That'll do for a moment, take five, stay warm.'

The two boxers stop and the bloke who's been in the ring with them puts a towel around each of their shoulders. The boxers climb down through the ropes. 'Let me introduce you,' Kevin Flanagan says. 'Bozo Maloney, Johnny Thomas and Eddie Blake.' He points to the coach still standing in the ring, 'And Mr Jones.'

'Gidday,' they both say, not too interested. Johnny Thomas doesn't even look up. Mr Jones nods his head.

And Mole Maloney.'

'Gidday,' we say to the two boxers, then 'Good afternoon' to Mr Jones.

Thomas now looks up, 'Bozo and Mole, they your real names, that what yer was christened?'

'Yup,' says Bozo. 'What's it to you?'

I can't believe my ears, Bozo's not the sort to pick a fight, not outside the ring anyway. Besides we wasn't christened those names.

Johnny Thomas laughs. 'Bozo's a clown's name, mate. You a bit of a clown then^' He's got his head to one side and this little smile, you just know he's a real smart-arse.

Bozo looks him in the eyes. 'And a mole is a rodent.' He turns to me, 'What d'ya reckon, Mole, think we've got stupid names?'

'Whoa there, lads!' Mr Flanagan interjects. 'Steady on, Johnny, you too, Bozo.'

'Sure,'Thomas says, 'but they've still got bloody stupid names.'

'That's enough,-boys,' Mr Flanagan says and turns to Bozo and me. 'Come, I'll show you around.

There's everything here you could wish for, all mod cons, no expense spared, reckon we'd have got bugger-all from the government, wasn't for the Olympics. Now we just have to ask.'

Bozo looks down at his boots then up at Johnny Thomas. Td rather spar with him, Mr Flanagan,' he says, pointing to Thomas.

'Now then, Bozo, Johnny here is three or four years older than you, don't be impatient, mate.'

'Who's he think he is?'Thomas says, pushing his glove out so it touches Bozo's chest.

Bozo knocks Thomas's arm away, not even looking at him, addressing himself to Mr Flanagan.

'It's only sparring, sir,' Bozo says quickly, 'If I get taught a lesson, that's why I came.'

Kevin Flanagan shakes his head, 'I dunno, Bozo, some lessons ought to wait a bit.

'Please, Mr Flanagan, we've driven seven hours, special to get here.' He looks up at Johnny Thomas and grins. I'll never get another chance to get into the ring with someone like John
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Thomas, who's gunna be in the Olympics and who is named after a big prick.'

I can't believe I'm hearing this, Bozo taking the piss. Thomas is going to slaughterate him.

(Maloney word.)

'Shit, who the fuck do you think you are? Cheeky sod!' Thomas says. You can see now he's really cranky. Tm ready, Bozo the clown, any time, mate! How about right now?' He makes as if to climb back into the ring, turning and grabbing the bottom rope.

'Please, Mr Flanagan, just give me three sparring rounds. I want to see what it's like to spar with someone who's really good.'The way Bozo says it you can't tell whether he's being sarcastic or means it. I think he means it, because Bozo isn't like Mike and doesn't come on all sarcastic at the drop of a hat. But you can see Thomas thinks Bozo's mocking him again.

Flanagan laughs, 'Jimmy Black was really good, Bozo.'

Bozo indicates Thomas with a nod of his chin, 'Yeah, but you said he's better.'

Okay, Bozo, we'll put you through your paces, see how you go, but I'm stopping it at any time I think, you understand?'

Bozo shakes his head. I've never seen him like this. 'Give me one round first please, Mr Flanagan? One round where whatever happens you don't stop us. After that, whatever you say, sir.'

Eddie Blake, the other boxer, hasn't said a word up to this point. Now he looks at Bozo, his head to one side, and he sort of smiles like Thomas did previously. 'You'll be bloody lucky to get through it, mate.' Now he's taken his mouthpiece out, I can see he's got two front teeth missing, 'Johnny's gunna eat yiz for breakfast.'

'Breakfast's already over, it's after lunch,' I say, which is real dumb, you'd expect a little kid to say a thing like that.

Kevin Flanagan grins and puts his hand on Bozo's shoulder. 'Big Jack says you're a stubborn little bugger, more guts than is spilled on an abattoir floor. It's not always enough, son. Better think about it, eh? Johnny here is a very good boxer.'

'Then let me find that out for myself, sir,' Bozo pleads. Kevin Flanagan shakes his head and sighs. 'G'arn then, get your gear on.' He points to the change room. There's headgear in the big box, wear it.' He looks up at Thomas, 'You too, Johnny, put your headguard back on when you go back in the ring and, in the meantime, stay warm.'Then he calls to Bozo again, 'When you've got your clobber on, get onto the speedball, then five minutes on the skipping rope, I don't want you going into the ring cold. Have you got a jockstrap and a mouthpiece?' Bozo nods and we go into the dressing room.

'Shit, Bozo, what the fuck are you doing?' I yell at him. That bastard is going to the Olympics.

You heard Mr Flanagan, he's a class act and he's three years older than you.' 'So?'Bozo says.

'So he's had three years more experience!'

Bozo looks at me and laughs, 'Mostly with his mouth I'd say. Did you see his build? He's not had my experience lifting rubbish bins. I don't suppose I'll beat him, but I reckon I've got the strength to stay in there with him. Just hope I've got the speed to hit him back. Be a bit embarrassin otherwise. I guess that's what I'm here to find out.' 'And have him give you a bloody good hiding in the process?' Bozo grins again. 'Mole, everyone gets to take a licking somewhere along the way. We've been fighting in Yankalillee and all the country hires since I was twelve and I ain't been beat yet, how am I gunna know if I'm any good unless I get whupped by someone I can respect? What if I've been fighting mug lairs all the way? Country bumpkins like us who don't know diddly-squat?'

'Jimmy Black wasn't a mug! You heard Mr Flanagan say so

yourself.'

Bozo shrugs, then starts to pull on his boxing boots, concentrating on doing up the laces. 'Jimmy Black hadn't trained in six weeks, his timing was out, he smokes like a chimney. Someone said they saw him pissed, fallin' about outside a pub in Albury a couple of nights before the fight.

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Truth is, Jimmy Black ran out of puff halfway through the second round. Kevin Flanagan knew that, he just didn't say. I'm a big hero in Yankalillee for fighting an Abo bloke who was way out of condition and who beat me in the first round when he still had some puff left.'

'So now you have to show you're an even bigger hero by fighting a white bloke who's in tiptop shape and is probably going to the Olympics?' I wish Mike was here, Mike would give Bozo a real tongue-lashing.

Bozo ties the lace of the second boot and then sits up and looks at me. 'I'll be eighteen when the next Olympics comes around. If I'm going to make it, I'm gunna have to fight in the city where the real boxing talent is, where I can be seen. You know what that means, Mole?'

'No, what? You mean you'll have to leave Yankalillee? Leave us?' I can't imagine life without my brothers, Bozo in particular. There's a sort of hole in me since Sarah's gone.

'Nah, it means catching the train to Melbourne every weekend, sleeping over at Sarah's and coming back the next day. It means using all the money I can make fixing things for my boxing career, it's two pounds, sixteen shillings and threepence there and back every week.'

It's just like Bozo to have worked it all out already. To have done the sums. Now he looks at me, he's got this real serious expression on his race. 'Look, mate, now's my chance to find out whether it's gunna be worth it. Whether I've got what it takes? Find out what my chances are if I work my arse off to go to the Olympics in four years. If this bloke gives me a real good belting today and if I don't reckon I can reach his standard, then perhaps I'll be able to make up me mind, see.' He grins, 'One way or t'other, I'll know if Bozo Maloney is good enough to go all the way.'

Like I said earlier, Bozo doesn't do nothing without thinking about it first. He's the original spoon-out-of-the-sink boy. On the other hand, just going into the ring with Thomas is, in my opinion, a whole drawer full of cutlery left lying in the bottom of the sink. If he's thought this whole thing out, like he suggests, and if getting a boxing lesson is part of his plan, my only hope is that my brother doesn't get the boxing lesson of his life and gets himself hurt bad in the process.