The Story of Danny Dunn (20 page)

‘By the way, what the hell is an American atom bomb suit?' Danny asked.

Brenda laughed. ‘When your letter arrived from the Rangoon hospital, your father was having a fitting for a new pair of trousers. He told Pineapple Joe the good news about your liberation, and then he said something about how the Americans dropping the atom bomb had forced the Japanese to surrender, which, like you said in your letter, probably saved your life. That's when Pineapple Joe said, “For him I am makink zat Danny boy American atom bomb suit for comink home alive!”'

Half Dunn, sensing a story, had once asked Pineapple Joe how he'd come by his nickname, as his real name was Maurice Ruberwitz. The little tailor had replied, ‘I am comink off zat boat from imma-gra-tion nineteen turty-one and dat imma-gra-tion man, he's stamp my peppers, then is saying, “Righto, off you go, Joe.” Now I have mine first new names for mine new contree. Next is by za dock's fruit barrow. I am liking already very much dis place – za sun is shinink and dat man, he is shouting, “Apples, gripes, fresh fruit, juicy pineapple!” Apple, gripes, dis I know already, but what is dis pineapple? I am looking at dat pineapple. “Pliss, what I must do wid dis fruits?” I am asking, very polite. I don't tink dat man, he like foreigner comink to Australia, because he says to me, “As long as ya buys one, ya can stick it up yer dago arse fer all I care, it's a bloody pineapple, mate!” Pineapple Joe chuckled, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands. ‘So now I am gettink already mine second new names.'

Pineapple Joe had become as much a part of Balmain as anyone born on the peninsula. He became a Tigers fanatic early on, never missing a game. At the beginning of every season he outfitted each member of the entire first-grade team with a free grey worsted suit and two shirts, making them the best-dressed team in the premiership. ‘Goot for advertisemint; mit de goot bodies, already dey makink mein suits look vunderful.' Moreover, he made his business terms very plain and very simple, as many Balmain kids soon learned. Any of them fortunate enough to get a city office job went to Pineapple Joe for their first suit, dubbed a Pineapple Special. So did every worker getting married. Each new gainfully employed lad was required to pay it off himself at sixpence or a shilling a week, depending on his starting wage, regardless of whether his parents could afford to pay cash for it, which was highly unlikely, anyway. ‘Zat boy, he must be learnink money is not growink on za trees like za lifs and flowers,' Pineapple Joe would insist. While a Pineapple Special, run up in a single afternoon on his pre-war industrial Singer sewing machine (‘Mine American sew-machine'), was far from a sartorial triumph and paid absolutely no heed to current fashion, it was well made and the recipient usually outgrew it or did well enough in his job to be able to afford something more stylish. Young blokes paying off their Pineapple Specials wouldn't have dreamed of welshing on the deal, and sufficient shillings and sixpences continued to roll into the tailor's shop to keep the wolf from the door and allow him to put a little aside.

In the mid-fifties, Maurice Ruberwitz opened a Pineapple Joe tailors shop in the city, producing cheap but well-made suits. A sign outside his shop read,
American Cut, Double or Single Breast – Only the Best! Cash Only.
Eventually he became, by Balmain standards, a wealthy man. He drove a chocolate-brown Dodge sedan on which he replaced the chrome charging-ram emblem on the top of the radiator with a small silver pineapple, made for him by young Ian Buchanan who was doing his apprenticeship as a silversmith, and welded into place by Harry Bezett, who worked in the maintenance section for buoys and beacons at the Maritime Services Board. While it was said to be solid silver and very valuable (it was in fact nickel-plated brass), nobody in Balmain would have dreamed of nicking it, even if it had been solid gold. Pineapple Joe was inordinately proud of what he referred to as ‘Mine American Dodge car', and he would spend Saturday and Sunday afternoons in the summer driving slowly up and down Darling Street. As he knew everyone in Balmain, he would stop if he saw a housewife carrying her shopping and call gallantly, ‘You are hoppink aboard, Mrs Selkirks, and ve are takink you verever you wish, compliments Pineapple Joe. Put za begs in za beck seat and now you come sit in za front mine American Dodge car.' With a hearty chortle he'd add, ‘Maybe already you are seeink somebody and are makink vaves.' When he was duly thanked for the lift he'd say, ‘Acht! I am sharink already mine goot fortune for comink to Balmain. Cheerio. Up za Tigers!'

Brenda's fussing was so remote from Danny's experience in captivity that he found himself growing nervous, almost afraid. While he knew she was demonstrating her love for him, her fussing made him feel vulnerable. It was as if he were somehow not entitled to or worthy of her caring or attention. Now she came and stood behind his chair as he ate, brushing her fingers lightly through his hair. ‘I think I'd better go downstairs and see what your father's up to. When those two get together they talk both hind legs off a donkey,' she said.

After she'd gone he remembered that her great love had been to cut and shape his hair with comb and scissors and Danny decided to ask her to do so again. He'd allow it to grow long – nothing like the army's short back and sides, or the shaved heads of the camp inmates. Despite the prevailing fashion, it had been his unique style since he'd been a child, and it would be the one thing he'd retain from the old Danny; from now on people might say what they liked – it would be his single defiance. Seen from the front he would always be a dreadful fright; seen from the back – provided he wasn't in the nuddy, and with his mother's help – he would look like his old self, with his hair eventually resting just above his shoulders.

He had just buttered a couple of slices of toast, poured himself another cuppa and was reaching for the marmalade jar when he heard Brenda calling from the foot of the stairs, ‘Someone here to see you, Danny!'

Danny froze. It must be Helen, a conspiracy, she and Brenda had worked out a sneaky arrangement to trap him. He wasn't ready. He hadn't worked out in his head precisely what he wanted . . . what he was going to say to her. He felt the anger rising in his chest. Bloody hell, fair go, it was almost five years ago! ‘Who is it, Mum?' he called back, struggling to control his voice.

‘Young lad, says he met you yesterday near Circular Quay. You asked him to come and see you this morning.'

‘Oh, yes,' he cried. The boy! He'd completely forgotten that he'd arranged to meet him. Danny's sense of relief was palpable. Now he walked to the head of the stairs from where he could see Brenda and called down to her. ‘He's Lachlan Brannan. He tells me his old man is a regular here.'

‘Brannan?' Brenda called back. ‘His sister must be Doreen. She's married to Tommy O'Hearn, who wasn't very nice to your father over the water-polo thing. He's been climbing the union ranks while everyone else has been away fighting. He's supposed to have flat feet . . . the only flat he's got is
flat out
taking advantage! Doreen's much too good for him.'

‘Lachlan's a good kid, Mum. Can you send him up please?'

Danny, back at the kitchen table munching toast, heard Lachlan coming up the stairs and called out, ‘Turn right, first door on the right. Come in, mate.'

Moments later young Lachlan appeared smiling at the kitchen door in a suit that suggested its owner, or perhaps several owners, had taken a fair old belting from life. Danny couldn't believe his eyes. The lapels were frayed and stained and the baggy trousers were cut in some fashion from the distant past. It was a suit that had never seen the interior of a dry-cleaning shop but had been the recipient of a thousand soapy sponges and countless hot flat irons applied through a sheet of brown paper, which was intended to prevent the fabric singeing or developing a shine. Or perhaps not, because Lachlan's borrowed finery was a perfect example of the damage a hot iron can do if applied directly to ageing grey serge. The jacket was too big by half and fell almost to his knees, and the sleeves were rolled back a good six inches to reveal a mattress-ticking lining brown with age. The lapels, jacket front and two sagging pockets were stained with all manner of indelible substances that testified to the desperate though futile efforts of somebody's wife to remove them. The trousers, equally frayed and stained, billowed in a distinctly Chaplinesque manner then pooled over his shoes, their length, Danny estimated, at least eight to ten inches longer than the wearer's legs. Lachlan wore a white school shirt and an ancient, brown, moth-eaten knitted tie. In his hand he carried a battered brown felt hat, the crown resting against his knees so that Danny could see that it had been stuffed with newspaper to fit Lachlan's head.

‘Come on in,' Danny called. ‘Piece of toast?'

‘No, thanks, I already et,' Lachlan replied, stepping towards the kitchen table.

‘Couple'a slices of toast can't hurt, eh?' Danny said, feeding two slices of white bread into the toaster. ‘Peanut butter? Vegemite?'

‘Can I have peanut butter please?' Lachlan asked, obviously glad that Danny had insisted, then grinning he said, ‘Whaddaya reckon, Danny? Good, eh?' He was obviously referring to his suit.

‘Oh . . . yeah . . . Your brother's?'

‘Nah, Mum took his to the pawnshop. We'll get it back when he comes home with his wages from the ship.'

‘So?'

‘We got real lucky. Old Mr Foster three doors down died last week and they was going to bury him in it . . .'

‘What? In the suit?'

‘Yeah, but luckily old Mrs Foster said, “Waste not want not, maybe it could do some good to the living. And Herb would be more comfortable in his red nightshirt that Shirley, his daughter, give him last Christmas.”' Lachlan shrugged, causing almost no observable movement in the overlarge jacket. ‘So that's what happened. She give it to me mum last night.'

Danny, unable to contain himself, started to chuckle and Lachlan joined him, both of them soon convulsed with laughter. He couldn't remember when he'd last laughed – simply, deliciously laughed, unable to restrain his giggling. They didn't hear the toaster popping or Brenda coming up the stairs and into the kitchen. ‘What's so funny?' she asked.

‘Nothing, Mum,' Danny chortled, ‘it's just that (giggle) Lachlan's suit was rescued from a dead man!' Both boys burst into fresh laughter.

‘What? Taken off a corpse?' Brenda asked, aghast.

This caused fresh guffaws. ‘No, Mrs Dunn, luckily for me he liked his red nightshirt best,' Lachlan said, milking another laugh.

‘Well, I'm glad to hear that,' Brenda answered, mystified. From her expression, it was clear to Danny that she thought the suit belonged in the same wooden box occupied by its last owner. ‘Pineapple Joe's arrived for your fitting, Danny. The saloon bar is empty – why not do it there?' she suggested.

‘Your toast!' Danny exclaimed, remembering.

‘That's okay,' Lachlan said. ‘I already et, like I said.'

‘Toast? Honestly, you men!' Brenda said in feigned disgust. ‘When Danny was your age he ate like a horse. I expect you're the same. How about a couple of fried eggs and bacon
with
the toast, eh?' It was an offer simply too good for the boy to refuse. Not knowing quite what to say he grinned and nodded. ‘In the meantime, a cup of tea? Sugar?' Brenda asked, fetching a cup and the sugar bowl and nodding to Danny with a jerk of her chin. ‘Go on downstairs, I'll take care of Lachlan.'

‘Velcome! Velcome!' Pineapple Joe spread his arms as Danny entered the saloon bar. ‘Za atom bomb kid, already! Mein Gott, you looks terrible, terrible, Danny,' he said, patting Danny all over, squeezing his thin arms and shoulders.

Danny laughed. It was obvious that Pineapple Joe wasn't referring to his face but to his general condition. ‘Yeah, lost a fair bit of weight since you last saw me.'

‘Nineteen turty-nine Tigers, ve are vinning za premiership zat day! Mein Gott, I vas so proud of you Danny, za youngest and also lock forward, strong like za bull! Zat night I am dronk, first time mein life. Stonkered! Mudderliss! Up za Tigers!'

‘As I remember we were all motherless by the end of the night.'

Pineapple Joe removed the tape measure from around his neck and whipped it expertly around Danny's waist, reading the measurement then tut-tutting. ‘Skins and bones, skins and bones,' he repeated, shaking his head in dismay. ‘Pliss, so tell me, Danny, how I am making American atom bomb double-breast hunnert per cent merino vool from before za war on zis body? Zat bastard Japanese, zey are makink you like za bean sticks!'

‘Beanpole?' Danny suggested.

‘Ja, zat also,' Pineapple Joe said.

‘What say we wait six months, eh? I've already put on twenty pounds. In six months I should be right as rain.'

Pineapple Joe paused to consider, then shook his head. ‘I am making already shoulder pads for za jacket and zen I am leaving plenty material for za hems. Later I take out za pads and za hems and zen we havink perfek number vun atom bomb result, no?'

Pineapple Joe only answered to three forms of address: Pineapple Joe as a business name, Pineapple as a personal name, and Mr Joe for formal occasions. Danny opted for formality. ‘Mr Joe, I wonder if you could do me a favour?'