4
Red Square
My sore and sorry legs felt like they needed a good stretch, well before I stepped out from the last canopy of the Clarendon Street shopping strip into a sun more forgiving as the cool change rolled in. The cramping in my black-and-blue right leg had increased considerably since the morning, and I could expect to see an unpleasant yellow tinge to it in the next couple of days.
I stopped at the greengrocer’s to buy a Jonathan apple. The proprietor grumbled that it was customary to buy a bagful before I remembered to ask him if he knew of the place in South Melbourne Lenny had jabbered on about this morning, where spruikers get up on an old crate sprouting their plans to save the world. If it was half as good as Lenny claimed, it would be a real lark.
“I don’t think it’s around here, skinflint,” the grocer grudgingly replied. “Port Melbourne sounds more like it, and I’ve heard the name ‘Red Square’ mentioned before.”
Dust and leaves were swirling everywhere as black clouds gathered overhead, ushering in the cool change. I had known full well before this day was done I was going to be soaked to the skin which to my mind would be the perfect relief from the scorching heat.
I stopped for a breather on a long curving street called Ferrars, amazed by the beautiful houses in this part of South Melbourne and also the eerie lack of people on the streets. I was unsure which way to turn when I felt something rub up against my leg. I hoped it was a little luck, but it was just a grey and white moggy looking for a feed. It headed in the direction of the city, so I figured I’d do the same. I had to run into some locals soon.
I had too much time to think, as I tramped along Ferrars Street, unsettled by the vision of that poor girl in Madrid. Do the fascist pilots, safe in their planes out of range of gunfire, think about the families they’re bombing, below in Madrid? If I was in their place I would find it difficult to live with.
Fifty yards down the road, I could see a couple of young lads walking my way. One swung a bat, the other bounced a ball.
Of course! The Test cricket was on today. That would explain why no-one was out and about. Both lads were wearing souvenir baggy-green caps, as they took it in turns to push each other on the shoulder while walking along as happy as Larry. When one of them was pushed near a horse trough, he took the opportunity to cup his hands in the green water and then splash a goodly amount of it over the cap and head of his mate, taking him totally unawares. These blokes looked local enough for me.
“How ya doin’ boys?” I asked. “How did the day’s play end up?” Not that I really cared, but with so many people obsessed with cricket at the moment, because of how good Bradman was, you had to keep a partial interest in it, or they’d think you were from another planet.
“We only got to see the Don make four more runs before he went out, bowled Farnes, but he’d already made 169. Australia is nine for 593. McCabe, Badcock and Gregory all made runs. McCormick and Fleetwood-Smith are still in,” the lad with wet hair summarised with excitement and then had a few practice swings with his bat.
“We’d go back tomorrow, but it’s a rest day. Australia can’t be beaten now, can we? We’ll win the series for sure. Don’t you think?” asked his equally excited mate.
“Sure,” I replied positively.
“One funny thing did happen today, though. Nothing to do with cricket,” the wet-haired lad added.
“During lunch, a crazy bloke climbed onto the corrugated roof of the unfinished stand and unfurled a huge banner that said ‘AID FOR SPAIN’. There were over eighty thousand people at the game and not one of them knew what was going on. Pamphlets began raining down on us from above; more banners appeared on the balconies as a man ran across the oval carrying a sign. It was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen, let alone at a cricket match.”
Gees! These Aid for Spain people really are serious about their cause.
“Look!” the other boy jumped in “I kept a pamphlet. It’s a bit crumpled, but you can read it.” He carefully spread out a folded piece of paper, before handing it to me.
I flattened it out a bit more, thinking initially it might be a cricket score sheet. The message at the top of the page read:
Write your own score and help the Spanish people settle theirs.
On the other side, there was a longer message:
The Final Test
What is Bodyline compared to this?
The message continued on to explain how women and children were being slaughtered in Madrid, and how this was the first stage of a second world war.
“Can I keep the pamphlet?” I asked. “I don’t think people would believe me unless they saw this. It isn’t the sort of thing you expect to see at a sporting event.”
“You can have it if you want. We’d better get going. We’re expected back home pretty soon,” replied the dry-haired lad, keen I think, to get back to talking about cricket.
“Sorry lads, one more thing. Do you blokes know of a place ’round here called the Red Square? It could be in Port.”
The two young blokes looked at each other and then turned to me with strange expressions on their faces.
“Why would you wanna go there for? Too many ruffians and drunks. Just an excuse to talk poppycock, my dad says,” the wet-haired lad stated, a lot less excited. “You’d be better off going to the pictures; there are always lots of girls there.”
“I’ll take a chance, thanks boys. How do I get there from here?” I pressed.
They told me that the coppers had moved the Red Square on from near the South Melbourne Market a month ago, down to an area of wasteland off Coventry Street, which was only about five hundred yards away on the left.
*
I could hear my destination, well before I saw it. Intermittent yelling, booing and even roars of laughter grew louder and louder, the further I went down Coventry Street. I turned right onto a large block of open land, shocked to see well over a thousand people moving around the dusty expanse. A bright light on the fascia of a hall lit up a roughly-built podium, ten yards in front.
How was it possible to entice this many people, so far out of the way?
I slowly mingled through the crowd, taking only sideways glances at the mixed bag of hard-faced men and occasional rough-looking woman that formed the majority; only a sprinkling of well-dressed types and people my own age were game enough to venture into this company. The rumbling storm clouds overhead gave the whole scene an unnatural feel, creating the impression that it was close to dark, when there had to be at least another hour of daylight left.
The focus of the crowd quickly shifted towards the makeshift podium, where a tall skinny man was striding confidently towards a rostrum, hastily lifted into position by two burly men. The skinny man wore a thick shapeless brown jacket, completely inappropriate for the heat at present, and sported a salt-and-pepper beard that came to a point in front of his green tartan tie, giving him more the appearance of an aristocrat, than the dungaree clad type I expected to front a crowd like this.
The glaring light behind the rostrum also gave the man the unexpected allure of a fire and brimstone preacher, ready to bring the wrath of God down on the unfaithful below.
The crowd roared with laughter as insults began being hurled by several rowdy groups, unwilling to wait for the speaker to commence before taking up their sport. A lot of these same blokes poured beer down their throats and then swore with a crudeness that would make wharfies blush.
“Shut up you morons! Listen to what I have to say,” the thin man yelled in a broad Scottish accent.
“This country has been bled dry by greedy bloody bosses for too long. They have no respect for what the average worker does for them. They want to send us to an early grave, while they count their profits. We need to unite, to stand up to the capitalists. And we need to do it now!” his voice rose to near breaking point.
“Ya look like ya never worked a day in ya bloody life, ya scrawny, pansy bastard,” shouted a thickset bloke wearing an army slouch hat, his mates giving him huge pats on the back as they took long swigs from their beer bottles.
This was great!
I moved a little closer to the front.
“I will have you know that I was wounded on the Western Front in 1918, and how much compensation did I get?… Nothing!” the skinny man yelled again, stretching out his arms like he’d been crucified.
“I got shot in the Dardanelles, mate,” another old digger shouted.
“That hurts more!” The crowd roared as the large man in the slouch hat held his crutch, digging up an old joke he knew would be a winner.
“I think he’s right!” protested a young man standing behind me, silencing the loud-mouths for a second, everybody nearby taking a step back to reveal the audacious upstart.
Well! If it wasn’t the angry young man from the Aid for Spain stand, without his girlfriend, Elaine, to keep him in line. He strode to within five yards of the big-mouthed interjector, pointing to the platform.
“Why don’t you get up there and tell us your great plan, King Kong, instead of hiding behind your drunken mates … Well, imbecile?”
“You’d better be careful what you say, you smart little shit. We were fighting the Hun when you were still sucking on your mother,” the Digger shouted in response, his mates moving as one towards the over-confident young man.
The thin man on the podium, who everyone had temporarily forgotten about, threw in his two bobs’ worth in a vain attempt to save the smart-arse. “What the young man is trying to say is that …” he searched for the right words, “the government can change things to suit themselves. They can send you to a government doctor, and they’ll stitch you up for good.”
A lot of people in the crowd nodded in agreement, but I didn’t think it would be enough to stop this young bloke getting a hiding he would never forget.
“The trouble with you old army rejects is, you were fighting the wrong enemy. Your commanders were puppets of their capitalist overlords, who profited from the death and misery of your mates,” mocked the Aid for Spain worker, holding his ground as the large Anzac ran at him, his face as red as a beetroot.
I moved forward myself, to try and help this smart-aleck, for no other reasons than to return a favour and minimise the pummelling he was going to get from the rampaging bull almost on him, but I was blocked by a surging mass desperate to see some blood flow.
Through the bobbing heads of a crowd at fever pitch, many of whom had swiftly taken sides, I could make out two large figures which stepped beside and then ahead of the young man.
“Whoa!” the crowd groaned as a huge blow was landed on the army veteran, just before he reached his objective. The king hit delivered by a massive assailant made blood spray from the Digger’s mouth as he fell back into his mate’s arms, who then managed to prop him up against the woodwork of the podium. I stood mouth agape, not only at the ease of the victory, but by the fact that there were two pugilists of equally humungous size. These two near identical twins stood either side of the unflinching antagonist, their arms crossed like the boxers you might find in front of a take-on-all-comers tent at a country show, waiting to beat up a local cocky.
I thought this little kerfuffle would have satisfied the bloodlust of the crowd, but the mood only got uglier as scuffles broke out in every quarter. I decided this place was too hot for me, and it might be better to make a dignified exit without any further ado. When more mates of the Digger turned up, and started to throw bottles in the direction of the twins and their handler, I moved right out to the periphery.
Just then, a woman’s shrill voice eclipsed all others.
“Gun!”
Everybody froze on the spot, eyes darting all around, trying to locate the person who could put them into the next world. No-one was sure what to do next; someone needed to take the lead.
Bang!
A loud clap of thunder cracked from directly above, making me and everyone else around me jump out of our collective skins.
I knew running wasn’t the right thing to do, and something I promised myself never to do again, but I ran as fast as I could back into the shadows of Coventry Street and then as far away from the Red Square as my legs would carry me, only slowing to a walk once I had crossed over the Yarra at the Spencer Street Bridge.
*
A cold drizzly rain began to fall as I crossed over Swanston Street along Latrobe, in an almost deserted city. A shiver ran down my spine as I tried to put my long day in Emerald Hill into perspective. I was glad I had taken Lenny’s advice and gone there, it really was an interesting place, and never mind some of the strange and scary incidents that occurred. It was well worth the trip but I may have to think twice about taking my sister there.
Before I turned into the quiet lane off Drummond Street that led to the rear of Aunty May’s boarding house, the woman from the university sprang to mind. There was something about her that I should have noticed right from the start, and I had completely missed it. She was certainly not a professor or teacher, so how could she manage to have a small house of her own in the grounds of a university college? An ordinary worker would live outside the grounds, so there was a slim chance she was a manager of sorts.
I made up my mind that in the morning I would go back to the college to see the woman. It was the longest of all shots that she would know of work for Lettie, but it was all I had to go on at the moment. Besides, I needed to talk to her.