Published: 12 May 2022

There was a cricket match scheduled at the ground on Brunton Avenue east of the city and adjoining the borough of Richmond for that afternoon. With the weather fine and somewhat lost for activity as his lot was otherwise missing, Devon decided to view the match but as usual didn’t have the admission fee. In his pocket were two pennies and a trey, being a threepenny bit for his lunch, which would be a steaming hot meat pie at the game.

Also in his pocket was a coin he carried as a good luck symbol, not that Dev believed in the power of luck, as during his short life he had come to realize that one made their own luck. Bad luck was often caused by one’s own stupidity.

The coin had been giving to Dev by an old Chinese kitchen hand in Little Bourke Street’s Chinatown, who promised in his broken English if he kept it safe, no harm would ever come to him. The coin was almost black with strange symbolic writing and appeared to be made from iron while supporting a hole at its centre.

Why the hole? Dev had asked;

To keep safe on a string around your neck was the answer;

Even so it remained in his pocket.

At the main gate Dev tried his usual charm but there was a different official collecting the fees and not Sid Burrell who would allow him passage with a wink and a mind how you go young fellow. It mattered not as he had his way. To the rear of the grandstand there was a break in the fence. Once through the break, then with a tight squeeze between the grandstand and the toilets and a thought if he had more one slice of bread for his breakfast, his belly wouldn’t fit the squeeze.

On one occasion he arrived at the end of the short passage right into the arms of a police officer, who cherished taking him by the scruff and march him out of the ground, with a well aimed boot to his unprotected backside as he went.

Dev found the game boring and before afternoon tea he departed, giving the unobliging gateman a deep bow and cheeky smile as he passed through.

“One day kid,” the gateman growled.

“One day what?” Dev defiantly answers while keeping his distance. He only knew the official as Tony but he was a big man with a mean attitude and quick temper.

“Come on kid, take a step closer,”

Dev took a half step, “what now?” he says.

“One more,” the man suggested and beckoned with his hand.

“In your flaming dreams feller’, I’m not that stupid.”

The gateman took a step forward and dev quickly departed. Once well away Dev turned and gave the signing of up yours mate. In general Dev wasn’t a rude lad but had issued with the man in the past, remembering it was the same Tony who caught young Joseph Clark and lay into him.

On his way home Dev chanced along Jolimont Street with its row of fine terrace houses. Outside of number thirty-one he lingered to view the extensive gardens through the tall iron fence. The house was magnificent with its double story and fancy ironworking around a wide second floor verandah, with heavy shutters on both doors and windows. Its Hawthorn brickwork seemed to shimmer in the late afternoon light.

‘What would it be like living in such a grand house?’ he thinks. Imagining he had a room for himself without sharing a bed with Jack. He imagined his choice of room, being to the top and right, having etched rose-glass double doors that open onto the wide verandah to catch the afternoon breeze. From such an advantage he would be able to view across the river, into the heart of Toorak, beyond if the smog cleared, even to the Dandenong Ranges and the headland of the Yarra where the giant mountain ash grew.

‘One can only dream,’ Dev thinks then with a deep sigh commenced to depart.

“Hey you!”

The call halted Dev’s departure. He returned to the fence, his face protruding between two rails of the ironwork in comical fashion.

A young man past his legal requirements in years approached from behind a tall viburnum hedge carrying a set of garden shears.

Dev removed his face from the gap in the fence expecting abuse and ready to give equal in return, “what?” Dev responded while his hands remained gripping the iron rails of the fence as would a criminal in his cell.

“I’ve seen you here before, what’s your game?”

“Game sir?” Dev says somewhat sarcastically.

“Are you casing the property?”

Dev disregards the suggestion, “are you the gardener?” he questions and takes a half step away from the ironwork.

The young man could have been so, as he was wearing only a dark blue worker’s shirt and long torn trousers with bracers, defiantly not the garb of one who would own such a fine property.

The young man laughs, his deep blue eyes were captivating, his strong chin bristling with blond stubble, ‘most definitely a working man of sorts,’ Dev conjectured while his eyes are drawn to his muscular frame and the strength of his leg through the tear along the inside of his trousers.

“I was only looking, that’s all,” Dev admits to the man’s question on what he was doing.

“Are you from Jolimont?” the man asks.

“No I live in Collingwood,”

“Do you barrack for the Collingwood football team?”

“Yes but they lost their last game.”

“That they did,”

“Do you work here?” Dev asks.

The young man laughs.

“It’s a fair question, what’s so funny.”

“My parents own the property but they are in England at present, father is Sir Reginald Nevis and is a third cousin to the queen.”

‘Title dropper,’ Dev thinks; “oh!” he says, “should I bow to you sir?” he suggests and takes an exaggerated bow.

“I’ll accept that as humor and not sarcasm,” the man says.

“Sarcasm?” Dev repeats the word.

“Yes sarcasm, you being a smart-arse,”

“So Sir whatever your title may be, you can cuss as well as us commoners,” Dev jovially comments.

“Sir whatever is called Tobias and without title, you can call me Toby.”

“But you are royalty,”

Again the man laughs; “as royal as a horses arse I’m afraid.”

Dev was warming to the man’s character.

“Shouldn’t you be at school,” Toby questions.

“Na, past all that and past eighteen – just,”

“You appear younger, do you have work?” Toby places down his garden shears and approaches.

“I’ve been trying but there isn’t anything in the offering,” Dev honestly admitted.

“I’ve seen you here before.” Toby suggests.

“I like the garden it appears peaceful.”

“Do you like gardening?”

“I’ve never had one to know so,”

“I could offer you a little work helping here within the grounds.”

“Doing what?” Dev cautiously questions.

“As what I said – helping,”

“What is the pay?” Dev cheekily questions.

“Very little,”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Righto lad you do that. I have visitors arriving, so I need to wash and change. If you agree come and see me but if you do, use the small gate off the lane.”

“Trade entrance,” Dev scoffs.

“Not at all, I only use part of the house for my purpose and it is too far from the main door, besides I’d never hear your arrival from the rear.”

On his homeward journey Dev mulls over the young man’s offer and what he meant by payment for working on the property. Besides it was obvious the Nevis family could afford as many laborers as they wished and those with experience. Dev had never as much as trimmed a branch or planted a seedling before, besides he wouldn’t know a petunia from a dandelion and the closest he had ever come to a bouquet of flowers was the weeds he collected from around the storm water drain, as a presentation for his mother’s birthday.

By the time Dev had reached the top end of his street he had all but forgotten the young man’s offer and as he reached the house he spied his mate Douglas arriving from the opposing direction. This day his limp appeared exaggerated.

Dev called and waved, “are you alright?”

“My leg is playing up today,”

“What can you do about it?”

“Live with it I suppose. Is Jack home?” Doug asks as he approaches.

“He should have already left for work, why do you ask?”

“Last time I saw him he threatened to punch my lights out.”

“Don’t concern, Jack’s all wind. Where have you been?”

“Down at Spencer dock,”

“And?”

“And nothing there was a ship in but the crew had already left for the town.”

“So no cartage work,” Dev suggestively says.

“No cartage work – got any coin?”

“Two pennies, I spent a trey on a pie at the cricket,” Dev shoved his hand into his trousers pocket and produced the coins. He offers them up to Doug, “It won’t get you much but it is all I have.”

“Some boiled rice down at the Chows, once you scrape away the bugs.”

“Yuck,”

“Beggar’s can’t be choosers,”

“He cooks cats as chicken and some say the pork dumplings are made from rats,” Dev suggested with a shudder towards the Chinese eatery in Smith Street.

“Then what the eyes don’t see the gut don’t chuck,”

“You better come in. It will be only stew and not much as that.”

“Won’t you mum mind?”

“No, come on you can have half of mine.”

As they entered Jack comes from his bedroom dressed for work. “What have we here?” Jack says.

Neither lad answers.

“Two weeds for the price of one,”

“Don’t listen to Jack you are more than welcome Douglas,” Ilene greets the boys.

“Good evening Mrs. Gooding,”

“The two of you sit yourselves down; it is only stew but for once plenty for all.”

“Payday tomorrow Jack,” Ilene reminds.

“Tis so but they have cut back my hours, it will be less.”

“Never mind love we will make do.”

Jack pauses, throws Dev a menacing glance and a cheeky air kiss to Douglas.

“What was that for?” Doug demands.

Jack gives a suggestive grunt and wishes his mother good night.

“Good night love,” Ilene returns his wishes.

“You don’t appear to be eating Douglas,”

“I’m savoring it Mrs. Gooding,”

“When was your last meal?” Ilene asks.

“Yesterday morning,”

“Eat up there is more. Is your father working?”

“Yes he is still night watchman at the foundry but may have a fulltime day job soon,” Doug answered without sounding hopeful.

Truthfully the opposite was more accurate and his father could soon lose the night watchman position as the foundry may have to close altogether, or merge with another more prosperous foundry in Richmond, becoming but a storage yard, yet that was still undecided.

“Bad times for us all I’m afraid Douglas;” Ilene confessed while bringing to mind Millie Jones, Douglas’ mother and her lengthy demise when Douglas was but a child. Consumption the doctor named her plight but by any name it was dreadful to behold and no amount of wishing or care could have reversed her agony. Get her out of the city, it was suggested. Good clean country air may help but how could it be with little money and nowhere to go.

During the worst of Millie’s struggle, Ilene had offered to bed her down in the boy’s room and sleep her two in the kitchen, if only to give Millie’s husband some respite but Alf Jones would have none of it as he had a distrusting nature, considering charity a way to take away his rights and independence. After Millie’s extended suffering and finally her demise Alf Jones’ already troubled mind became more so and at any opportunity would take his frustrations out on young Douglas.

Ilene released a deep sigh, ‘bad times for all,’ she thinks while relating the sigh to the family at number seventeen, it was only the previous day she had watched from the gate as a family of five were evicted for failing to pay the rent, having their few belongings left on the footpath and the doors and windows firmly boarded.

Ilene had watched in sympathy as the woman cried in vein pleading with their landlord for a little more time, while her husband stood by without a word, his face haggard and beyond care, her three children clinging to her skirt, the girl holding a broken doll to her breast. Ilene would have helped but could not and she also cried as the pitiful family collected what they could carry from their belongings then simply walked away. Ilene also felt shame as neighbors clambered over what was left, even before the family had gone from sight.

“Yes bad times for all,” Ilene repeated, “come on Douglas eat up, get some meat on those bones of yours,” she said in an attempt to be cheerful.

Marcus Finn had been waiting on the steps of the State library in the shadows of a row of Roman Corinthian pillars, his gaze upwards into its portico where doves cooed and found comfort from the building heat.

“Where are they?” he edgily growled and looked about. He had arranged for the push to meet there at late morning and by the shadows cast from the buildings it was past midday.

“You can’t sit there,” the library’s doorman quietly spoke, coming up behind the lad and giving him a start by touching his back with the toe of his boot as encouragement for him to depart.

Marcus sharply turned and sneered.

“Move along now, that’s a good lad,” The doorman quietly suggested with a wave of his hand towards the street.

“Why should I, it’s a free country,” Marcus retorted.

“Yes it is a free country, as long as you do what you are told,” The doorman pointed to the street corner, “do you want me to call that officer over and see what he has to say about your free country?”

“Aw fuck ya’,” Marcus growled and obliged only as far as the expanse of lawn sloping down to Swanston Street. The doorman appeared satisfied as he gave directions to a well attired gentleman and a woman with a blue parasol, the couple accepted his information then continued on towards the double doors of the library building.

“You took your time,” Marcus criticized as John Luck approached and lowers his backside to the grass beside Marcus.

“I’ve been busy,”

“Where are the others?”

“Dunno’, I haven’t seen Jonesy’ all week and Dev is on an errand for his mother.”

Moments later Brian Fisk came swaggering along as if he owned the town.

“Hey Fisky’,” Marcus calls.

“Hey yourself – what’s doing?”

“I’ve had an idea,” Marcus says in such a manner one could almost see a flashing of light behind his weak blue eyes, being the only respite he had from his plain, somewhat ugly features.

“What would that be?” asks Fisk concerningly, knowing any idea from Finn ended in strife.

“How we can get back at Stan Bryce,”

“Do we want to?” Fisk asks.

“I do, we can’t let him get away with his threatening,” Finn assures but was light with detail.

“I don’t think so,” Fisk says as the three slowly advance down Swanston towards Flinders Street station and the river.

There was to be a regatta that afternoon and already a crowd was gathering along the new Princes Bridge for advantage. With such a gathering would come opportunity to pick a few pockets and the bar at Young and Jackson was already near capacity, assuring the more the punters drank the less likely to realize their pocks had been violated and nimble hands could remove a man’s watch and chain in an instant.

Dev was out of territory, he had delivered a load of washing for his mother to a woman on the boundary of Collingwood and Fitzroy in Peel Street, if he was to cross the street he would be in Bryce’s territory and with a grin he did so. It wasn’t his intention to provoke the Fitzroy mob but he had alternate plans. There was a family with a large yard who had many chickens and in his belief there would not be anyone at home. They had a dog but over the previous weeks while delivering washing Dev had befriended the animal with future intention in mind.

Once in the night-cart service lane behind the property, Dev searched for the dog, which he soon spied resting on some old matting close by the house’s rear door.

“Hey mutt;” he called and releases a low whistle. “Come here boy,” he softly coaxes.

It was a large scary animal with mad eyes but unfortunately for the property owner had the temperament of a rabbit.

On recognizing Dev’s voice the dog quickly came to the fence at the rear gate.

“How’s mutt today?” Dev quietly asks and ruffles the shaggy hair on the animal’s head.

The dog’s tail wagged with excited abandon while releasing a low and happy growl.

“You like that don’t you mutt, it’s probably the only kindness you get from the cranky old bugger.”

“You’re a right ugly mutt,” Dev says while continuing his patting through the gate, giving a broad grin as he noticed the animal’s huge balls, “they sure missed you with the knife,” he says, “as well for my intentions.

The dog licks the back of Dev’s hand and releases a low rumbling sound in recognition of a friendly touch.

Dev quietly opened the gate.

It squeaks loudly on its hinges.

“Shit,” Dev whispers but no one appeared to be around to hear it sound.

“There you go mutt,” he says as the dog leaves captivity, then with a sniff towards Dev’s crotch it bound away towards a bitch Dev knew to be in heat at the corner of the street.

He had planned his escapade for such a time and had brought a bag with him for his purpose.

Once inside the yard Dev again assured he was alone.

It appeared so but stealth should still be observed, as he eyed the small flock of chooks as they went about pecking interesting bugs and such from about the yard.

His eyes fell on a plump bird with speckled plumage.

Slowly he moved in.

The cackling increased from the dozen or more hens as they realized a stranger was within their territory, lifting to raucous as Dev cornered the speckled hen. Then he pounced and with one swift action he rung its neck and bagged it while quickly heading for the gate.

“Hey!” The cry came from the side yard, as a man with a long gray beard showed himself.

Dev’s heart began to race as he bolted from the property.

“Hey you!” but Dev was much too quick for the old man who hobbled towards the open rear gate waving his walking stick high, while wheezing heavily his displeasure, reaching the gate in time to see the back of Dev as he turned the street corner but no sighting of his useless guard dog.

As Dev turned the corner his heart still pumping and with the sack across his shoulder, he literally ran into Stan Bryce. Bryce grabbed Dev by the shirt and held him fast.

“So kid you didn’t heed my warning,” Bryce sneered.

Fight or flee became apparent.

Bryce was much too big and strong to fight and fleeing was restricted, therefore civility was the lad’s only option.

“I was delivering washing for my mother,” Dev softly admitted, keeping his tone as civil as possible.

“Where are your mates?”

“I dunno’ down at the regatta I would think.”

“You know kid we could use you, you’re not like the others.”

“In what way would that be Mr. Bryce?” Dev cautiously asks.

“Another time, you tell Marcus Finn I’ll have his nuts when I see him, I’ve heard he’s been mouthing off about me,” Bryce growls and releases his hold of Dev’s shirt. Bryce also had knowledge of Finn’s activity in his area from one of his minions and as he had already warned the kid, on their next encounter it would be at least a bruising.

“I will Mr. Bryce,”

“What have you in the sack?” Bryce questions as he feels the softness of the bird through the sacking.

“It is for my mother,”

“Have you been working my territory?”

“No sir I wouldn’t do so,”

“Why do you mix with that dozy lot, you seem like a smart kid?”

“Dunno’ they have been mates for most of my life.”

“You must have a death wish?”

“No sir,”

“Go on get out of here,” Bryce says then goes on his way with a smile as he was warming towards the lad.

“What have you there?” Ilene says as Dev dumps his toe-sack onto the kitchen table.

“Dinner,”

Ilene peeps into the bag, “a chook, where did you get it?”

“Ask no questions then you will be told no lies,” Dev answers.

“You are the worry of my life Devon, one of these days you will be caught.”

Dev simply laughs as he removes the speckled hen from the sack, “would you like me to pluck it?” he says.

“It won’t pluck itself,” Ilene agrees.

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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