Published: 30 Jun 2022

There was a cricket match scheduled at the Melbourne ground for that afternoon between the colonies of Victoria and New South Wales. It being the first game for the second season of the Sheffield Shield, named in honour of the prize’s founder the Earl of Sheffield, who had toured the previous year with W.G. Grace to promote cricket in the colonies.

Finding himself at a loose end Dev decided to watch the game and thought of asking Jones to join him but after visiting John Luck he discovered Jones had not returned since the previous day. On reaching the ground Dev was in for a further surprise. There was a new man on the gate and a surely bugger at best.

“Where is Sid?” Dev asks.

“Mr. Burrell no longer works here,”

“Oh, is there any chance letting me in?”

“That is why your mate Burrell doesn’t work here, now bugger off or you will get my boot up your arse.”

Dev’s second surprise came when he reached his hole in the fence behind the grandstand. Firstly the fence had been mended and secondly the narrow passage between the grandstand and toilet block had been blocked and topped with barbed wire. “Oh well, that fucks that idea,” Dev mumbles and turns away.

On returning from the ground Dev remembers his conversation with Tobias Nevis, or more accurate Tobias’ naked swim as he went that way previously. Passing Jolimont Street he paused and entered along the wide vistaed avenue, soon coming upon the well pointed grounds of the Nevis family.

‘Should I?’ he thinks.

‘Na, more than likely he wouldn’t remember me, besides,’

‘Besides what?’

‘Besides I should, what have I to loose,’

Dev peered through the ornate iron fencing towards the hedge that excluded the pond from sight but couldn’t see anyone about. Then he recalled being instructed to visit from the lane and small gate beside the property, tradesman entry, Dev also recalled saying but was assured if he came to the house by the front no one would hear him.

On reaching the side gate Dev found it unlocked, ‘should I,’ he again thinks, ‘you have come this far why not, the worse you can receive is told to bugger off.’ Releasing a nervous huff he entered. A low box hedge followed both sides of a crazy-stone path leading to a small door and simple in comparison to the rest of the mansion. At the door there was a bell attached to a metal hanger and a note pinned close to the door handle. The inscription – I’m around the side by the pond. Dev almost about turned and departed but memory of Tobias naked during his previous visit gave him reason to smile. Did he again wish to catch the man undressed? If so why?

“Hello,” Dev called as he turned the corner but instead of finding Tobias naked he was dressed in shirt and working pants while cleaning weed from the pond.

“Hello,” Tobias answered, lifting his hand to his brow to avoid the sun’s glare.

“You most probably don’t remember me,” Dev says.

“I do, it’s Devon and you follow Collingwood in the football and they lost.”

“Most call me Dev,”

“Do they; you never took up on my offer of work.”

“I did come around but you were swimming and I didn’t like to disturb you,” Dev avoided mentioning Tobias’ naked state.

“I’m about to greet the ladies of the Richmond Women’s Church group, that is why the note is at the door for Mrs. Tucker’s manservant who will set up the event.”

Dev gives a cheeky grin.

“No I’m not a member, my mother allows them to use the main hall for their meetings and as she is away overseas, I have to show them the courtesy. Usually Hubbard does the honours but he is away today.”

“Then I should get going,”

“Are you working?”

“No,”

“My offer still stands; it would be mostly helping me around the garden – that sort of thing.”

“I dunno’,”

“What don’t you know?” Tobias says.

“Why would you want with a dumb kid from the slums mucking up the place?”

“Is that what you are?” Tobias asks.

“From the slums yes but possibly not dumb while lacking opportunity to be anything else.”

“That is how I view you.”

“Also I’ve never had anyone offer me anything without some ulterior motive.”

Tobias laughs making Dev feel belittled. On seeing the lad’s disapproval of his humour, Tobias stops his merriment and takes on a solum expression, “Sorry I didn’t mean to make you feel inferior. It was you using ulterior motive in the same sentence as naming yourself dumb. I would say you are far from that.” Tobias puts aside the rake he was using to collect the pond weed, “I tell you what Devon, I will be somewhat busy for the next couple of days, come around midweek of next; let’s say Wednesday afternoon and we can further discuss my offer.”

“Yes I could do that,” Dev accedes.

“Alright I’ll walk you to the gate but then I must change to greet the old girls.”

On his way home Dev revisited the Luck house to enquire if Jones had returned, or if John had heard anything but their friend’s whereabouts remained unknown. Dev was beginning to concern remembering their last conversation when Jones appeared at the end of his tether.

“Did he give any clue where he was going?”

“Not a dicky-bird, he simply left early in the morning without saying. He was there one minute and gone the next.”

“Doing the docks?” Dev softly spoke not to be overheard as Luck’s younger sister had ears the size of elephants’ and in the habit of loudly repeated anything she heard regardless of crudity or secrecy.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that was so but he usually doesn’t stay away overnight, or if he does he is back early the next morning.”

Dev remained obviously concerned.

“I wouldn’t worry you know Jones, he’s a free spirit,” Luck assures.

“Of late he’s been somewhat down in mood,” Dev says.

“True but I wouldn’t concern,”

“First thing tomorrow I’ll go down to Port Melbourne and ask about,” Dev suggests.

Bryce heard the tinkling coming from the hall but wasn’t in the mood for conversation as he remained smarting from his last encounter with Hadley, who during an inner circle meeting on the previous day, boldly challenged a decision.

It was only a week previously he had the intrusive instrument installed and it stood on the hall table like a black candlestick, attached to a socket on the wall by a long brown cord. At that time in the development of the telephone it was little more than a gimmick, something to brag about to your friends and associates but by its advertising a timesaver to the busy businessman.

The invention of the telephone was somewhat controversial but as Alex Bell, a Scottish born immigrant in Boston had the first true working model, a certain Italian who came up with the principle and believed to have had an earlier working model was soon forgotten, even after a failed attempt to patent his invention in America and failed before Bell was ready to do so.

Bell patented his model in March, Eighteen Seventy-five and a few days later he made the first ever telephone call. The principle of talking by wire reached Melbourne but two years later and by the time Bryce’s instrument had been installed, there were many hundreds of services across the city of Melbourne.

How was that known? Bryce had read it from the instruction pamphlet that came with the so called candle stick model that now taking pride of place on a specially designed table in his hallway. He was also advised his telephonic number would be 836 and when the instrument’s bell sounded he was to lift the ear piece from the cradle on the side of the candlestick and repeat that number into the mouth piece. Once spoken someone at a manual telephone exchange would advise the name of the caller, or if in reverse ask to whom he wished to speak and their call number before connecting him to his desired contact.

Much too complicated; Bryce had thought believing it was foolhardy waste money on such a device. His reasoning in the first instant was to have quicker ability to contact Tom Hadley, who also had instillation on the following day; Hadley’s call number being 839.

Again the ringing sounded.

This time Bryce made effort to respond. As no other yet knew his call number it had to be Hadley and he did have need to contact his second.

Lifting the earpiece he spoke loudly into the receiver.

“Yes!”

“Is that 836?”

“Yes,” Bryce aggressively agreed.

“Sir you must give an answering expression which is hello then quote your number,”

“Oh – 836 here at this end,” Bryce says not understanding or bothered by protocol.

It was Thomas Edison who coined the greeting of hello while Bell preferred ahoy but some thought that too nautical.

“836, I have a call for you from 839 will you take the call sir,”

“Of course I will, get on with it and stop wasting my time,” Bryce barked loudly into the receiver.

The telephonist made the connection but except for his training for such an important position, would have virtually pulled the plug on Bryce for his rudeness, while declaring the disconnection to be some line fault.

“Hello!” Bryce repeated loudly into the mouthpiece.

“Stan?” the caller questioned.

“Yes, is that you Hadley?”

“It is,”

“You sound different over the wire,”

“You also,”

“So this is our first conversation by wire.”

“It is and I need to meet you about a little problem that is developing in North Melbourne,” Hadley says.

“What would that be?”

As Hadley spoke Bryce was taken by realisation. If he could hear Hadley and Hadley could hear him, therefore the man who made the connection may also hear their conversation? Bryce pulled Hadley up before continuing with their conversation, “Tom leave that for now we’ll meet up at the usual place, in say one hour.”

“Right-o,”

Bryce returned the earpiece to its cradle and gave a weak smile, ‘I suppose it will come in use,’ he thinks, ‘but care will be needed in what is spoken.’

Constable Turner gently knocked on the office door and by his expression he had something of importance to reveal.

“Come in, did you have any success?” O’Keefe asks.

“Some yes, I have the names of a number of Mr. Bryce’s associates but I believe there is at least a half dozen more,” Turner then offers up his list.

“Tom Hadley,” O’Keefe reads aloud, “I’ve heard Hadley’s name spoken on a number of occasions,”

“Lennard Worth, I don’t know him.”

“Joseph Bolt – nor him,” O’Keefe continues.

“Why have you placed a mark against Tom Hadley?”

“It has been suggested he is Mr. Bryce’s second and confidant and what I hear is somewhat aggressive and ambitious.”

“Umm,” O’Keefe again reads the list and memorises the names.

“I’ve also discover more, firstly both Bryce and Hadley have recently subscribed to having a telephone installed at their dwellings. Secondly your belief Mr. Bryce has contacts in this building is becoming somewhat obvious.” Turner admits.

“Corruption in the ranks,” O’Keefe says, “that I understand but have you been able to ascertain who?”

“No not even a hint.”

“As for the telephone service; I am associated with Henry More at the Mercantile Building and his exchange, I’ll have a word with Henry and possibly he can have the telephonist listen in to conversation between them both.”

“Will you require a warrant to do so?”

“Officially yes but I think we can dispense with such a procedure on this occasion. I could get a general warrant with an open time of employment and that will cover most things.” O’Keefe gives a sly chuckle, he wasn’t a dishonest man but when it came to apprehension, he was most creative in using any methods available to solve a crime, which were sometimes a whisker beyond the law.

“A thought, if there are rats in the ranks, do you think it is wise to advertise your interests in Mr. Bryce by the issue of a warrant?”

“That is a valid point William.” O’Keefe appreciates.

It was now the second day since anyone had seen Douglas Jones and after once again visiting the Luck residence Dev decided to go down to Port Melbourne and ask about. Before doing so he called on Brian Fisk but as was the news from John Luck, Fisk hadn’t heard from Jones either.

“What should we do?” Fisk asks.

“I’m going down to Port Melbourne; I know a few of his mates there, possibly they have seen him.”

“I’d come with you but I can’t this morning, can it wait until tomorrow?”

“It’s best to get in early as you never know what bother he’s been into.”

“Righto but let me know when you find him.”

During the morning rush, Dev jumped a train service from Flinders Street station to Port Melbourne, doing so early believing with crowded carriages the inspectors would not be about. On reaching the port he made his way along the warehouses leading up to the two main docks. It was a quiet morning with only one of the larger ships in port as many of the smaller vessels would be at the docks along the river and the Yarra Docks.

As Dev knew Ernie Climpson the harbour master he went directly to his office. “Good morning Mr. Climpson, he called through the office door. He smiled on seeing a damaged case of imported wine half hidden in one corner.

“Good morning young fellow,”

Dev gives a nod towards the wine, “it looks like a nice drop Mr. Climpson,” he cheekily says

“Damaged in transit,” Climpson defends.

“I didn’t see anything,”

“Then keep it that way lad, I hope you aren’t looking for work.”

“No never on the docks Mr. Climpson.”

“I guess so, you’re not built for lifting and that’s a certainty. What can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Doug Jones about?”

“Not for a day or so, there was a ship in on Monday and he was sniffing about hoping to earn by carrying bags for new arrivals.”

Dev released a rye smile knowing well Doug’s interpretation of cartage was a little more personal than carrying luggage.

“I did see him talking to someone and they left together towards the end of the wharf towards the storage houses but that was early yesterday,” Climpson admitted while pointing in that direction, “You could ask Bill Chambers he should be in his office, possibly he’s seen young Douglas.”

“I may do that, thank you,”

Dev found Chambers arranging working teams for the arrival of a steamer out of Liverpool due to dock that afternoon. He waited until the man had finished and approached.

“What can I do for you this fine day young Dev?”

“For me naught Mr. Chambers, have you seen Douglas about?”

“Not since yesterday you could try some of the bond stores, he often hangs around there for hand-outs.”

Dev thanked the man and followed his advice advancing towards the store houses that lined along Beach Street.

‘Where to next?’ Dev thinks on reaching Beach Street. His hopes towards discovering information on his friend was low but he must at least try. At the top of the street he met up with one of the Dockers known both to himself and Jones.

“Good morning Dev, are looking for work?” The Docker asked.

“No Jock, I’m looking for Doug Jones, as no one has seen him for a couple of days.”

“I did yesterday morning but only for a moment,”

“Did you see where he went?” Dev asks.

“No I was busy, have you asked at the office?”

“Yes but both Mr Climpson and Mr. Chambers said the same as you,”

“Sorry son I can’t help you.”

Dev continued on and paused at the intersection of Beach and Stokes before doubling back towards the older warehouses and the intersection of Beach and Princes Street, knowing the dark lanes and passages between the many store sheds and warehouses was Jones’ favourite hide to take his tricks. He knew so because that was where he had his one and only experience at tricking with crew.

‘Why am I searching here?’ he thinks.

‘I guess only to rule it out,’ he offered answer to that thought.

Richardson Wholesalers was possibly the largest holding shed on Princes and closest to Beach Street, while beside Richardson’s and a rambling of holdalls attached to a high brick wall that remained from a long ago fire, could be found the longest and darkest walkway in that area. The lane was not only narrow and dark but cluttered with discarded wooden crates and spoiled goods from the warehouse and strongly scented with cat urine.

The smell of a dead animal came on a slight breeze that tunnelled along the dark space. A number of paces in Dev discovered the source of the stink, almost standing on a dead and decaying cat; its crazed eyes appeared to stare towards him, while its mouth gaped wide in horrid expression. He paused while thinking better of advancing deeper into the lane.

Why Dev chanced to glance further down the lane he could not say but some distance along there was what appeared to be a bundle of clothing crumpled against a scattering of broken wooden crates. As he took the next step to depart the bundle moved. ‘A drunk,’ he surmises, ‘taking shelter from the weather,’ even so he investigated further.

Coming closer the bundle again moved and released a low groan.

Closer still and realisation became apparent, it was Jones.

Dev hurried to his side.

“Doug,” he loudly spoke giving the crumpled mess a gentle shaking.

Jones attempted to right himself to a sitting position but didn’t have enough strength.

“What happened?”

“Bashed,” Jones answered, his voice low and weak, his body feeble from lack of nourishment and lengthy exposure to the elements.

“Come on let’s get you out of here.”

“Leave me here I’m a goner,” Jones moaned as he fell back to the dirt.

While attempting to lift Jones to his feet, Dev noticed his trousers were undone and below his buttocks. Dev quickly arranged them to decency.

“Can you walk?”

Jones attempted but fell back to his knees, “I hurt,” he whispered.

“Where?”

“Everywhere,”

“How long have you been here?”

“Dunno’.”

Dev lifted his friend. He was light and mostly skin and bones. If Jones had been thin before his incident, he would now be considered emasculated.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Dev says.

“Don’t bother, I have no where to go, leave me here to die with the rest of the rubbish.”

“That I won’t, I’ll take you back to our house if I have to carry you all of the way.”

Dev mostly dragged Jones from the lane and onto Beach Street where there were a number of carts and Hansom cabs passing. Dev hailed an empty cab who flicked his horse on without response.

A second hurried past with equal disinterest.

A third, its driver paused long enough to loudly denigrate Jones’ condition as being drunk; or worse being infected with some contagious illness.

Dev’s strength was failing and could carry his friend no more but would not dessert him. The two fell to the road as another cab came by. This time the driver stopped. “Is he drunk or sick with the flu?” the driver asks.

“No, not flu sir he has been attacked,”

“Does he need a doctor?”

“More a feed and a bed, he has been laying unconscious for more than a day.”

“Where is his home?” the driver asks.

“He has none sir but he could come to my house,”

“And where would that be?”

“Little Victoria Street in Collingwood,”

“Have you any money?” the driver asks.

“Less than a shilling,”

The cabby takes a deep breath, his nature would not leave a man to fail by the roadside and it had been a slow day. Fortunately his own home and stables were not far from Collingwood and he was about to return after dropping a fare at the docks.

“How much is less than a shilling?” he asks.

“Sixpence,”

“Then for sixpence I will take you and your friend home,” the cab driver kindly agreed.

Ilene heard the commotion at the door, believing it to be the rag-and-bone man making his rounds but was most surprised as the door opened and both Dev and Jones but stumbled through. Seeing Jones Ilene thought the worse.

“What happened,” she gasped believing both lads had been in some bother with a gang.

“Doug has been attacked,”

“How?”

“Down at the docks,” Dev says.

“Does he need a doctor?” She knew Doctor Cloak in the next street would make a house call without charge in an emergency.

“I think not, mostly a feed and a bed.”

“I’ll have to make one up in the shed,” Ilene says as she inspects Doug for breakages. There appeared to be none, “he is but skin and bones,” she observes, “and in desperate need of a wash.”

“I stink,” Jones attempted humour.

“That you do,” Ilene agreed.

After Ilene had made Douglas as comfortable as her meagre resources allowed, she returned with food. Doug ate some but was having difficult in swallowing because of the injuries to his face. Both eyes were blackened and his nose swollen, possibly broken. Across his thin body there was more bruising and lacerations and a bruise across his shoulders as big as a saucer.

“Thank you Mrs. Gooding, you are most kind,” Jones whispers.

“How did it happen Douglas?” Ilene questioned as she finished with his bedding.

“I was attacked,” was all Jones would admit to.

“Come on eat some more,” Ilene encourages.

“It hurts to eat,” Jones admits but does his best to swallow a little more.

Once his friend had taking nourishment, Dev returned with a dish of warm water, “bath time,” he says with a cheeky grin.

“Jones attempted to laugh, doing so hurt too much so he groaned.

“Firstly remove your clothes,”

“You will need to do it; I don’t think I have the strength.”

Slowly Dev washed away the grime, “I’ve never bathed another,” he admitted.

“You hands feel soothing; you are a good friend Dev.”

“I said before, I would always be,”

“What will your mother say about me being here?”

“She has already said you can stay as long as you want. We don’t have much but I’m sure we can stretch it to accommodate you.”

“What about Jack?”

“Jack will do what mum asks. You know under his harsh exterior he has a good heart.” Dev says as he washes his friend abdomen. “I’ll go no further but I will have to remove those soiled trousers and mum will wash them.”

With the bathing finished Dev put aside his dish of water, “you will have to give up the game, or next time it could be the end of you.”

“I suppose so,” Jones agreed but knew he wouldn’t.” Once spoken he fell into a deep sleep and Dev returned his bowl to the kitchen with the soiled clothing.

Ilene inspects the clothing, “they need dumping more than washing,” she admits.

“They are all he has,”

“Leave them in the washhouse and I’ll look out something I got from when Meg Wilson’s son passed on. Mark was about Doug’s size,”

“And he was not much more than twelve.” Dev recollects.

“How is Doug?” Ilene asks.

“Sleeping,”

“How did it happen?”

“He was trying to get carting work on the docks and was attacked,” Dev lied.

“The docks aren’t the place for a child,”

“Child mum, Doug is eighteen and but a week younger than I am.”

“I think of you all as boys, even Jack. I suppose it is a mother’s way,”

“Having Doug here will stretch things,” Dev says

“We will manage, he has to live somewhere and as his father was taken away someone has to look out for him but Devon I concern for you every day you are out and about.”

Dev releases a gentle laugh.

“What’s your funny?”

“Mum there is a difference between Doug and me, that being I don’t take risks and I calculate before doing anything.”

“Even so, a mother worries and the times are becoming more desperate by the day.”

“It will eventually improve mum – it has to,”

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

18,709 views