Published: 5 May 2022

Late September and the southern spring was in full bloom with the scent of the silver wattle heavy on the gentle breeze. Across the Yarra the newly formed botanic gardens were a splash of European colour, with the occasional planting of Pink Heath, to at least appear loyal to the floral emblem of the colony.

With the warmer weather families took advantage by picnicking on the freshly mowed lawn, while women promenaded in their finery, as if it were the Strand or the Champs-Elysees and their fashion was of Europe’s finest. Colourful, a visitor may comment, if not somewhat gaudy but one must admit worn with southern pride while denoting northern aspirations and how inventive a woman could be with a measure of cloth and a few sewing skills.

All about young lads were active, inventing games or playing cricket on the green, aspiring towards being W.G. Grace and dreaming of selection for the long voyage to play England with the next Ashes series.

There was also talk of a second aboriginal team to tour England as had in sixty-eight, to be named the black-ashes.

During the tour of the native cricket team to England, the London Times reported them a travesty upon the cricketing at Lords, while the Daily Telegraph reported nothing of interest came out of Australia, except gold nuggets and black cricketers. The first game was played at The Oval in Kennington with twenty thousand spectators, mostly out of curiosity. The black team remained touring England for six months playing forty-seven games, winning fourteen, losing fourteen and drawing 19.

After the tour the team returned home and dispersed and was soon forgotten.

As the English team was touring the colonies during the year with their financial manager Lord Sheffield and captain W.G. Grace, such thoughts of a second black tour were soon put aside. Besides would there be enough money in the cricketing coffers to pay for two teams to tour England in the following year, as what little money there was would hardly pay the way for one touring team.

Early spring rain in the distant ranges had swollen the river, removing much of the refuse dumped there by the many factories, tanneries and workhouses stretching from the port, past Dights Falls to far off Kew with its fine houses, to Warrendyte and its tunnel. Even so the Yarra was known as the river that flowed upside down as it was brown at the best of times and tidal but once past Dights Falls it was sweet and as fresh as you would find anywhere.

With the warmer weather the air quality was also improving, as there was less need for winter fires trailing smoke to linger above the city for days at a time, to mix with fog creating smog. Some said that Marvellous Melbourne lost its title during the winters and equaled London for smog, magnified by a little known phenomenon called the Spillane Eddy. Melbourne was situated within a semi-circle of mountains which held onto any bad air that instead of clearing, circled around in the Eddy magnifying its effect.

On the river the rowing shells were in full power with young men from Melbourne University and Richmond rowing clubs tested their strength for the approaching regatta, while bringing up the rear was that of the newly formed Brighton Rowing club but all believed in their chances in the regatta and their energy gave a welcome distraction to those gathered on the bank to view their practicing.

Wednesday morning a marvellous spring day and there were three ships in port needing unloading, with another two ready for departure, carrying with them a cargo of wool for the Manchester mills. Even with the downturn there remained need for wool and wheat to satisfy the ever-growing population of Britain. With the incoming cargo there was little to be thankful for, most being high value goods for those still holding to their wealth and fortunate, they being shrewd enough not to have place investment in valueless shares but land and what it produced.

Spring weather brought nothing but squalor to the dock and with each ships arrival was the fear of disease, or those infected with typhoid and cholera, as once ashore sailors soon spread the pestilence through the ale houses and brothels.

So far it had been a year free from outbreaks but the fear was always there just below the humor and frivolity of the dock hands, with those who chanced to live close by the port and those who lived in the ramshackle slum eastward to Collingwood and Fitzroy, being always cautious of a new outbreak of colonial fever, a simple sniffle would be enough to spread panic amongst one’s neighbours.

There was another fear being the occasional outbreak of bubonic plague in Asia. Storybooks told of how the pestilence had more than once taken away the population of Europe and even with Alexandre Yersin’s work on the disease in Hong Kong, what caused the pestilence remained unknown, as his theory of the disease being caused by bacteria had not yet been fully formulated.

Dev had failed to find his friend Douglas Jones and the others of the Smith-street push, although they had agreed to meet at Flagstaff Gardens, being a high advantage point on which a flag would be lifted to advise the arrival of a ship to port and a popular spot to view a panoramic view of the city and bay.

There had been much police activity during the early morning as a riot had broken out on a Yarraside dock closest to the city, ending in one of the stevedores receiving a nasty knife wound. As Dev hadn’t made his connection with the push and on hearing about the bother at the docks, he thought he would satisfy his youthful curiosity.

Before reaching the dock he was approached by a member of the constabulary who was returning from the disturbance. Seeing Dev he demanded the lad approach from across the street.

“Hey you – kid get over here!” the officer bellowed across Flinders Street to where Dev was making progress towards the river.

“Who me?” Dev cheekily questioned while pointing a finger amusingly at his chest.

“Yes you.”

Dev cautiously approached avoiding a number of buggies and piles of steaming horseshit across the cobbled street, while keeping enough distance not to receive a fist or boot from the officer, as was often the outcome of a chanced meeting between kid and cop.

“Where are you going lad?” The officer softened his tone a little, yet loathing for the cities errant youth remained obvious.

“Nowhere sir,”

“Somewhere sir!” the officer mocked.

“I was going to go to the dock and see if I could find work,” Dev believed by mentioning work the policeman would think less adversely of him.

“Don’t I know you?” the officer asks while searching his memory for a name to suit the face, then again most street kids looked similar, same shabby attire, unwashed and in need of a good feed but this one appeared familiar as he had an air of confidence about him.

“I don’t think so sir.”

“What’s your name kid?”

“Devon Gooding sir,” Dev truthfully answers.

“Yes, I questioned you a good month back for loitering with intent around the coffee houses in Spring Street?”

“I don’t think so sir,”

“I do think so sir,” the policeman again mocked and by his stance had half a mind to strike as Devon’s continual use of sir was becoming annoying.

Dev remained silent believing in such encounters subserviency was considered the better part of valor.

“Get yourself off the street kid, or I’ll have you for loitering.”

Without further dialogue Dev about faced and walked away being fortunate the officer was otherwise occupied, or he may have run him in for loitering with intent. Loitering in itself was not a crime but that with intent was. Therefore not having work to attend, or some valid reason to be about in public, could be considered loitering with intent and impossible to defend if challenged in court.

With the office gone from his sight, Dev about turned again and continued on his original way to the dock, which was now quiet and almost cleared of activity. Most of the larger ships birthed further down the river or Port Melbourne and away from the city, as the river wasn’t deep or wide enough for the metal giants taking over from sail to turn about. Even so there were still many ships of sail and Clipper’s conveying wheat and wool but they mostly came into Geelong further down the western sweep of the bay.

Dev sometimes found work offered at the docks, mostly a few pennies to run an errand being proposed more out of sympathy than from necessity. These river ships were in general costal traders, bringing passengers from Sydney or further north from the newly found settlements along the northern coast as far as Thursday Island in Torres Strait. Others brought product to the city, sugar from Queensland, brown coal from Gippsland to fuel the furnaces of the ironworks or for home heating, also bringing timber from the eastern forests where the giant Mountain Ash grew in abundance.

What fed Dev’s imagination were the larger ships that birthed away from the city. He would often sit aside as the activity intensified, listing to the calls from deck to dock and dock to deck, as sailors enquired for the best place to get a beer or a woman, the locals asking for information on England and news of a county where they may have come from. Sometimes the news was good but often related to a new outbreak of hostilities, as peace was a rare commodity in the modern world.

Dev would marvel at the gantries, like giant mantis as they craned goods to the dock, with men calling contents and destination. The customs officers with their watchful eye were ever present; assuring the government received its due, the dockhand with equaled sharpness looking for a chance to pilfer, while damaged in transit was a common call.

There was always graft, some subtle, some not so subtle and on the occasion Dev would be paid to keep watch as crime was in progress. Hey kid here’s threepence you keep cocky would be offered, a cocky being a cockatoo parrot that shrieks aloud its warning, not to be confused with the same title disparagingly given to small scale farmers, who like cockatoos farmed small parcels of land and moved on, declared to be similar to a flock of parrots always arriving when crops were almost ready for harvest.

Occasionally Dev would be approached by sailors for information, sometime given a coin, often the coin would be from some distant land with unknown value or inscription. There was one time he was offered more, he had turned sixteen, that anniversary but the week previous. Dev had watched as men departed the gangway of a British merchantman, its name Birkenhead fading from the bow. Dev liked the ship’s name and wondered where it was from and what it would be like to sail for weeks, or months on end to foreign shores, to feel the salt spray on his face and experience those exotic lands he learned about in school books.

Most came away from the Birkenhead towards the town and beerhouses but one fellow came Dev’s way. The man had a rough appearance, unshaven but having fair hair his bristled chin was hardly noticeable. His features scoured by many years of salt spray and prevailing wind but still holding a measure of youthfulness, his arms were sinewy yet showed strength. The sailor carried a duffel bag over one shoulder while his free hand was deep in his pocket.

The man approached.

“Hey kid,” he says in gentle persuasion.

Dev doesn’t answer but steps down from his advantage on a stacking of boxes at the back of the dock.

“What’s your name?” the sailor asks.

“Devon,” Dev answers as he had not yet shortened it to Dev.

“Have you been there?” the sailor asks.

“No my granddad was from Devon,”

“Do you know where Devon is?”

“I do,” then he corrected his assurance with uncertainty; “Sorta’,”

“Where can a bloke get a woman at this time of the day?” the sailor asks as he approaches a little too close for Dev’s liking, his blue eyes are piercing deeply into Devon as if searching for the lad’s inner character.

Dev breaks eye contact and takes a slight backwards step but doesn’t depart, “Bridge Street just of the dock I should think,” he says, “but watch out for Ma. Ferguson near the telegraph office or you will get the clap.”

The stranger softly laughs; “so you know all about the clap?”

“One hears things,” Dev answers.

“How about you?” the sailor asks.

“What do you mean?”

“How much to rent your arse?”

Dev well knew what the sailor was inferring, as some of the boys of the push took money for such favors but he had never done so himself.

“I don’t do that,” he strongly protests as the stranger removed his hand from pocket while holding up a coin.

“I was watching you from the deck,” the sailor says as he further waits for Dev’s response.

The lad was well attempted as at the time his brother had lost his position working for a carting business and not yet commenced employment at the brickworks and his mother had lost her best washing customer.

“It’s an English shilling,” the stranger says.

“I can see that,”

“Not enough?”

Dev remained silent but a shilling would put food on the table and Dev knew well his mothers plight to do so.

The stranger doubled his offer.

Dev’s lack of response gave the stranger confidence with the lad leading the way towards the many dark alleys and bolt-holes adjoining the dock.

Once they were in private Dev held out his hand receiving the offered coins. He thought of legging it before the transaction was finalized but the stranger blocked his way. Without ceremony the stranger took control. Turning Dev into the damp soot covered wall of the lane he roughly lowered Dev’s trousers while holding his arm behind his back in such a way he could do nothing but endure what was to come.

With a single violent thrush the stranger was within Dev and breathing heavily close to his ear.

Dev felt the fire and smelt foul breath as nervous lips kissed at his neck, his cheek and moved towards his mouth, while the roughness of the stranger’s bristled chin scratched at youthful skin.

Dev pulled away and almost vomited.

But half a minute;

Even less;

It was over;

Dev remained facing the stark bluestone wall along the lane and so close he could taste the soot and grime from the damp surface.

The stranger pushed him to the ground as he buckled his trousers, “you weren’t worth the bother you little sod,” the stranger growls and without further walked away. Dev opened his hand to view the coins and wondered if it had been worth the hurt and humiliation. He thought not then while rising to his feet he decided starvation would be preferred over further violation of his person.

There were other ships and offerings but never again did Dev allow himself to be violated in such a manor. He would hear from some in the push how much could be earned if you held your ground and didn’t go for the first offer. His mate Douglas Jones encouraged him to participate, calling such an act doing the crew but Dev held firm, he would rather go hungry.

Douglas Jones was a strange fellow who had a personality that could change within an instant, one moment he would be servile and smiling, in the next severe in character and opinion. Jones had been Dev’s mate since their school days, both leaving after sixty grade although with Jones it was through being expelled for bad behavior. Jones had lashed out at their teacher, knocking him to the schoolroom floor but with good reason, as he was being cruelly thrashed for something he didn’t do. In sympathy towards his friend’s expulsion, Dev also forwent further education. Both lads were without opportunity to advance further than the street but if Dev lived in poverty, Jones even more so and resided with his father in a shed behind the Richmond Iron foundry, where his father was watchman at night and local drunk by day.

Dev had met Doug’s father many times and if he believed Doug to be somewhat weird, it was thought the father bordered on insanity. He would mumble constantly, never look you in the eyes while conversing and he swore like a trooper. Although Doug never admitted so, it was obvious he was maltreated by his father, the abuse clearly physical upon his body, possibly even invasive into the lad’s person. Jones also had an affected gait believed to have come from a thrashing he received from his father when he was young although he would never admit it, yet when the need arose he could run as fast as the next lad without showing his infliction. Jones’ mother had passed on when Doug was quite young, therefore he lacked the empathy that a woman could give during his developing years and often appeared somewhat cold to any advance of friendship.

Dev and Douglas Jones were as close as two friends could be, sharing secrets and fears as well as the good time, of which there were few. Doug often admitted he wasn’t inclined towards men but appreciated their money, considering the act no different than taking a daily dump. During the lads earlier years it was true they had explored their sexuality together but when Doug suggested weird physical experimentation Dev closed down further contact. Even so Dev retained a spark of interest but it was well suppressed, while refusing to give it any of the titles that were bandied about amongst his friends.

On reaching the Yarra dock Dev found all was quiet and the only ship along that stretch was about to leave dockside bound for Adelaide with a cargo of Gippsland vegetables. Outside the dock, carts had commenced gathering to collect goods from the many bond stores and warehouses along Siddeley Street, to deliver to the city shops and the market. Stacked besides the dock’s office, being well guarded by the overseer of the docks were a number of wooden crates labeled Bowmore Scotlands finest. One of the crates was obviously broken and by appearance a number of bottles missing.

As Dev passed he noticed one bottle on a bench inside the overseer’s office. He smiled and paused giving a light cough and a head nod towards the bottle.

“Good morning Mr. Winters, a nice day for a drop,” Dev says.

“Mind what you see lad,”

“I saw nothing Mr. Winters, as there is nothing to be seen.”

The overseer put his hand deeply inside his pocket and withdrew a shilling.

“There you go lad,” he says with a wink.

“Now I see even less,” Dev broadly grins and quickly pockets the coin.

“Good lad, I haven’t seen your mate Jones for a while.”

“He’s been busy down at Port Melbourne Mr. Winters.”

“Carting?”

“Yes I guess you can call it that,”

“Right you are, now I’ve work to do.”

“I’ll be off then Mr. Winters.”

The man returns to his office and closes the door.

Outside the dock Dev spies a cart loaded with bags of onions. Remembering his mother’s simple wish for onions for the pot he lingered close to the cart, while the cart driver is in conversation with a colleague. Hiding behind the cart Dev commenced to pick at the stitching on the closest bag until there was enough space to reach in and remove a number of onions. With his pockets filled he commenced to move away. As he did the bag toppled and the twine unwound, spilling its contents onto the cobbling of the road bringing the carter to action. “Hey kid!” he shouts as some of the onions roll away towards the drain.

“What!” Dev answers and continues on his way, his expression marked by guilt.

“Get back here you little -.” The merchant cuts short as he and his associate quickly collect the spillage before it could be ruined by the foul water in the gutter.

“I didn’t do nothing – honest,” Dev calls back and scurries away. As he does he notices a number of the Smith-street gang in conference further along the street.

“Marcus,” Dev shouts drawing the attention of a ginger head lad, bringing his attention away from the small group.

Dev slowly approaches, “what’s going on?” he asks.

“Got any chewing ‘bacca?” Marcus Finn asks as he had become addicted to the habit, which was most obvious from the staining to his teeth.

“You know I don’t use tobacco,”

“Luck has a plan,” the ginger youth says while squinting. The narrow slits that were his eyes became but a thin dark line each side of his squat nose, making his usual common features even less appealing.

“Like what?”

“He’ll tell ya’,”

They rejoin the others.

“Has anyone seen Jones? We were supposed to meet up at Flagstaff.” Dev looks about but found his friend absent.

“He is down at Spencer Dock,” Finn says as he throws an arm around John Luck’s neck applying pressure, while giggling delightfully at his friend’s discomfort, “you like that don’t ya’?” he whispers close to Luck’s ear.

The lad wriggles free but doesn’t verbal his displeasure.

“Yea and I can guess what he’s up to,” Dev says with a suggestive smile.

“Upta his balls in it,” Finn crudely offers and again reaches towards Luck, who quickly backs away from further contact, “come here Johnny, I’m not gunna’ hurt you,” Finn demands.

“Not bloody likely,” Luck retorts.

“More like taking it up the arse like a chook;” another of the group, Brian Fisk comments loudly.

“Have to make a quid somehow,” Marcus Finn confesses without showing any measure of abhorrence towards their associate’s money making practice.

“Have you ever rented your arse Marcus?” Luck asks in retaliation to having his neck squeezed.

“That would be telling wouldn’t it but I will say if sex is a pain in the arse you’re doing it the wrong way,” Finn laughs loudly at his attempt to humor.

“Come on Marcus you can trust us,” Luck teases but Finn keeps to his quiet on the matter.

Dev joins the group of four sidling up beside John Luck, “So Johnny what’s your plan?” he asks.

“Do you know the old Jew who has the jewelry shop in Elizabeth Street next to that button maker and lives on Albert Street near the gardens?” Luck whispers the words close to Dev’s ear as if it was the world’s best kept secret, while holding his mud brown hair away from his brow, until its unwashed state allows it to comically stand on its own accord.

“You’ve got dumb hair Johnny Luck,” Dev laughs.

Luck pats it back down, “is that more to your liking?”

“At least it is flat,”

“Well do you know the old geezer?” Luck again enforces.

“Yes I know him,”

“I hear he goes home each evening on the tram and brings the day’s takings with him.”

“I wouldn’t think so, he has a large safe. I’ve seen it through his shop window, besides Jacob Ancker isn’t Jewish, he is German,” Dev forcefully discredits.

“Anyway Gooding how do you know he isn’t a Jew?” Luck questions.

“You should know as we were all at school with Ancker’s sons, Karl and Gunter.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Fisk asks.

“We would wag school and go swimming up at Yarra Bend.” Dev recollects.

“You’re dragging the shit out,” Luck grows.

“You’ve seen their pricks?”

“Yea – so?” Luck says.

“Jews cut the end off their kid’s prick when they are a baby and the Ancker boys haven’t lost theirs,” Dev informs with a cheeky grin.

“Ouch! what they cut their knobs off!” Luck says.

“No you goose the skin over your knob,” Fisk corrects as the other’s laugh towards Luck’s ignorance.

“German or Jew what’s the dif’ and Fat Tony said he doesn’t trust his staff, that’s why he brings the money home each night.”

“So?”

“We should roll him when he gets of the tram.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Dev disagrees.

“And why not?” Luck challenges.

“He knows me and mum does their washing.”

“Trust you to have some weak excuse,” Luck says.

Finn’s face distorts in anger as he cuts into the conversation, “then fuck you Gooding, you can miss out on a pocket full of cash – pots and pots of gold,” Finn’s eyes broaden from their slits with the thought.

“More to point end up in Pentridge prison and breaking rocks as a past time.”

“Come on Dev, you can wear a mask or something,” Brian Fisk urges with questioned vigor.

“It would be easy picking,” Joseph Clark the youngest in the group added to the persuasion, as the gathering was approached by a young man wearing his hat low shading his eyes and a large coat hiding most of his existence. Clark immediately recognized the man and melted into the background leaving Finn to the front.

“The Smith-street lot I perceive,” the stranger says and takes Marcus Finn by the hair, pulling his head forcefully into his chest.

“Fuck you Stan Bryce that hurts,” Finn squeals as he attempts to pull away but Bryce holds him firmly, almost tearing the lad’s hair from his head.

“Hurt? You haven’t felt the most of it yet.” Bryce clips the back of Finns head a number of times with his free hand before releasing his hold. “Shit kid what you got in your hair it’s full of grease. Don’t you ever wash?”

Finn gives a displeasing growl, “course I do, what’s it to you Stan Bryce?”

Bryce wipes his hand clean on Finn’s shirt, “do you want some more of the same, kid?”

“Fuck off,” Finn rumbles from deep down in his gut as he backs away from Bryce’s reach.

“What are you lot up to. Rolling drunks and old ladies would be my guess?” Bryce suggests and takes a step towards the group while eyeing young Clark, “what’s your name kid, I haven’t seen you with this useless lot before?”

“Joseph,” Clark answers.

“Shouldn’t you be home sucking on your mother’s tit?” Bryce turns back to Finn who moves even further away while rubbing the hurt to his head with his hand.

“What’s it to you, Finn bravely challenges.

“If you want my opinion its protection that gets the dough, scare the shit out of them, then come in and offer protection against your own,” Bryce’s eyes narrowed, “but I’ll tell you one thing Finn and it goes for the rest of you scrawny scrotums, if I see you around Fitzroy again I’ll slice your ears off,” Bryce pauses, “or if I’m in the mood it will be your balls and I’ll have your ball bag as for a tobacco pouch.” As quick as a flash Bryce reaches out and takes hold of Finn’s crotch and squeezes so hard it brings tears to the lad’s eyes. “Judging what I’ve got hold of there isn’t enough to make a coin purse never mind a tobacco pouch.”

Finn buckles in pain as Bryce pushes him into Clark sending them both to the ground.

“Fuck off,” Finn again squeals, this time lacking in conviction.

“I’ll fuck that tight little arse of yours if I see you around Fitzroy again and that’s a promise.” Bryce then turns to Dev and winks away his displeasure with the band of petty thieves and continues on his way.

Marcus Finn quietly growls but makes no response.

“He would do it as well,” Luck assures.

“Is he one of them,” the youthful Clark asks his eyes opening wide to the suggestion.

“One of them – what?” Finn cruelly laughs while attempting to breathe away the fire in the pit of his gut, “he could have ruined me for life.”

“You don’t use them anyway,” Luck suggests.

“You know what I mean,” Clark continues without furthering his previous description.

“A shirt-lifter, I reckon so,” Fisk agrees.

“Should introduce him to Jones,” Finn mockingly says as they move along the street and away from Stan Bryce’s influence.

Marcus Finn wasn’t happy, he had been shown wanting in front of his own and that would eventually need addressing but for now he would tag the incident as unfortunate and plan his revenge. There would be revenge but executed in secrecy, possibly even too subtle for Bryce to realize.

“Right then who is with me for rolling the old Jew?” Marcus Finn questions, his sight remained focused on Bryce, who had paused to converse with one of the dock workers but occasionally casts his gaze back towards the group.

Finn notices Bryce’s continuing attention, “I’ll get you he quietly growls.”

“Give it up Finn,” Luck says.

“I’ll get him – I promise you that.”

“I’m in for rolling the Jew,” Brian Fisk weakly agreed.

Luck keeps his silence although originally his idea, as because of Dev’s resistance he was losing faith it it’s worth.

“Also me,” says young Clark who would agree to anything the other’s suggested.

They all turn to Dev,

“No, count me out and what about the others don’t they get a say, I thought we worked on democratic principles, you know sons of Eureka and all.”

“Eureka was long ago and they lost their chance, we’re smarter than that.” Finn informs while still feeling Bryce’s hold upon his person but unwilling to allow it to show to the others.

There were another three in the Smith-street push but absent on the day.

“They will do what I tell them,” Marcus Finn assures.

Without reaching any decision the small group broke up with Fisk departing with Dev.

“What did you think of Luck’s idea?”

“As I said Mr. Ancker knows me,”

“Anyway I wasn’t all that interested either – want to come home?”

Dev agreed but remained concerned towards what they may do to Jacob Ancker the jeweler. Picking a man’s pocket or stealing from a store while the proprietor’s back was turned he considered fair game but to roll a man of some social standing in the community, possibly causing injury was not part of his reckoning. Even so he didn’t put much credence in Finn’s support for such a ploy, as Finn was somewhat erratic with ideas and like Melbourne’s weather could change in an instant while allowing others to carry through while he reaped the benefits.

Dev arrived home towards evening as Jack was leaving for his work, they met at the gate.

Jack blocks his brother’s passage.

“Get out of the way,” Dev demands.

“Why should I?”

“Cos,”

“What is the magic word?” Jack says.

“Please,”

“Please what?”

“Please Jack, would you let me pass,”

“Where have you been weed?” Jack asks and commences to shadowbox at Dev, while pulling any physical connection. One punch grazes the lad’s shoulder.

Dev faked being hurt, “I’ve been out,” he answers as he rubs at his shoulder.

“Out where?” Jack asks.

“Just out,”

“Mum was looking for you weed,” Jack places a fist firmly against Dev’s jaw, “one right hook just there, it wouldn’t take much and your lights would go out permanently.”

“You have to sleep sometime,” Dev quietly replies.

“What does that mean weed?”

“It means I’d get you while you were snoring your ugly head off.”

“You can dream kid,”

“Anyway what does mum want?”

“She wanted you to go to the store.”

“I’ll go now,”

“Too late weed, I went.”

The commotion between the brothers at the gate brought out the neighbours dog. Firstly it barked then seeing Jack it went mental. Jack kicked the fence as the neighbour Meg Fraser arrived, “Sally,” she called for the animal to come away but it was much too interested in Jack, its snout protruding through a gap between the palings as it snapped savagely at Jack’s boot, its eyes wide and wild.

Seeing Meg Fraser at the door Jack broke away from teasing the animal and departed.

“Jack Osmond, leave the dog alone!” the woman demands as Jack innocently strolls away towards the corner. She then turns her displeasure towards Dev.

“It wasn’t me Mrs. Fraser,” Dev protests as the woman takes the dog inside without further discussion.

Dev enters and proudly places a number of small onions on the table as he looked towards his mother for gratitude.

“Where did you get those?” Ilene asks as she pushes her long hair away from her face. Her hair was once almost black but now graying through a lifetime of worry and hardship and her youthful beauty was fading with the passing of the years. “Or shouldn’t I ask?” she attaches with a concerned tone.

“I got them,” Dev guardedly answers and places the shilling onto the table next to the onions, given to him by the overseer at the dock.

“A shilling,” he says.

“Should I not ask about that either?”

“No mum it was given fairly, Roger Winters at the docks gave it to me to keep quiet and for playing cocky.”

Ilene gives a light head shaking.

“Nothing illegal mum, well not on my part anyway, they were breaking into a large crate of whisky.”

“You do realize the city runs on theft and corruption and I don’t know where it will end.”

“I guess eventually it will have to end one way or another,” Dev flippantly comments.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“I had a feed over at John Fisk’s place. We raided the icebox while his mother was at the shops.”

“There is a little stew left but Jack had the most of it.”

“No, I’ll leave it for Jack’s breakfast.”

“What was that commotion at the door?” Ilene asks.

“Jack giving curry to Sally; that dog’s spastic.”

“It will get him one of these days,” Ilene sighs.

“Mrs. Fraser threatened to let it loose onto him.”

“Yes only yesterday she was in here complaining about Jack’s teasing of the animal. I promised I would say something but knowing Jack it wouldn’t be of much use.”

“Jack said you were looking for me?”

“I wanted you to go to the shop, we were out of salt and I own Henry Lark but Jack went.”

Dev sat at the table peeling away the flakey skins from the onions. We should try growing them,” he says.

“Grow what dear?”

“I don’t know, spuds, onions cabbages that sort of thing,”

“Where?”

“I reckon there’s enough room for a small patch out the back between the shed and the dunny, we could use the crap from the pan to fertilize the garden, besides the dunny-man spills more in the lane than he takes away with him.”

Ilene simply laughs as she puts the water to boil for the night’s dishes, “you can give me a hand with the dishes.”

“Why not grow stuff?”

“There would never be enough sun in the back yard and the ground is so sour even the weeds won’t grow.”

“Was life always like this?” Dev asks.

“Not always, during the seventies when your father was alive we had a fine house in North Melbourne with three bedrooms, you and Jack had your own room and we had a fancy parlor.”

“I sort of remember the house but most of all I remember the garden.”

“Do you love?” Ilene questions as Dev was very young when his father was killed at his work on the docks.

“I remember there was a creeper growing over the back fence with yellow flowers and I cried when dad cut it down,” Dev recollects.

“You remember that?” Ilene was most surprised.

“We also had a dog,”

Ilene gives a chortle of memory, “you couldn’t say dog and would say doof, so we called it Doofy.”

“Yes now I remember he was called Doofy.” Dev gives a wide grin, “what happened to Doofy?”

“When your father was killed we couldn’t afford to keep him. We gave him to a neighbour before leaving.”

“What was Jack’s father like?”

“Jack is the image of his father Jim Osmond, in body and nature. He was a most handsome man but secretive and restless.”

“Why did he leave?”

“Dev that was all a long time ago and if he didn’t leave I wouldn’t have met your father or had you.”

“Did you love Jack’s father?”

“You do ask difficult questions at times young man,”

“I suppose I was thinking of Doug, he said he doesn’t know what love is.”

“Yes Douglas is a most unfortunate young man.” Ilene admits but knowing his father’s character she didn’t wish to dwell on the matter, “what about you Dev have you a sweetheart?” she gives Dev a mischievous wink.

“That would be telling,”

“I hope you are being careful, I’m too young to be a granny and I don’t want to have to bring up another child.”

“Mum!”

“It does happen you know, look at Mrs. Walker from number seven, she has to feed her daughter’s mistake and I believe Roslyn is expecting again.”

“Roslyn is married,” Dev says of the daughter.

“You may as well say not, her Ted left soon after the first was born, only to return long enough to start the procedure all over again.”

“Procedure, huh is that what it is called these days,” Dev softly tutted.

“It suits the situation, come on the water has boiled, grab a cloth and help me with the dishes.”

“Mum did dad accept bringing up Jack?” Dev’s question came from the thought of the situation with the Wilsons at number seven and the mother having to bring up her granddaughter and soon another.

“Your dad loved Jack as much as he did you, so don’t you ever question that; your father was a good honest hardworking man and would have done anything for you both.”

“I wasn’t but it must be difficult bringing up a child when it isn’t yours, watching it grow while knowing it isn’t your character within its head, not your blood within its body.”

“Your character mostly comes from how you are brought up, not from who fathered you.”

“Possibly so but Jack and I are so different.”

“Not as much as you may think Devon but it takes a mother to understand the subtleties. True, Jack is pensive and often abrasive, while you are sensitive but you both have other qualities that are similar.”

“Me! Sensitive?” Dev loudly protests.

“You can’t see your own qualities therefore it is up to others to point them out.”

“One day I’ll be as tall as Jack,” Dev says and stretches upon his heels to acquire his full height and a little more.

“There are some things you do inherit from your father.” Ilene is teasing her son.

“Like what?”

“Jack’s father was tall, your father was little more than you are now.”

“But sensitive,” Dev repeats believing being considered as such was a sign of weakness.

“Yes dear sensitive,”

“Huh,”

“There isn’t anything wrong with being sensitive as girls love that in a man.”

“Girls,” Dev says.

“Don’t you like girls?” Ilene asks as she passes the last plate for Dev to dry.

“It’s not a matter of liking but who would want to marry and have kids and bring them up in a slum and poverty.”

“You are now sounding like Jack, so you do have more in common than you realize.”

Although there appeared to be little love between brothers there was a deeper bond, a bond of half-blood and respect for their shared mother. Jack would tease Dev about his father’s soft attitude towards most things, while Dev would do likewise to Jack about his Yankee father who lacked staying power, although if either were in trouble then the other would soon be on their merit and more than one occasion Jack backed his brother with his fists.

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

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