Chapter Twenty-Five

I was living in an old inner city suburb called Freemans Bay. This was a famous area in Auckland; similar to, say, Stepney in London, the Gorbals in Glasgow, or, perhaps the Bootle and Scotland Road in Liverpool. A tough working class area populated by people who didn’t care much for authority, minded their own business, cared for each other and never grassed. That’s how it was in the Bay. I had a very early lesson in that, which was hugely to my benefit.

One Wednesday evening I was sitting in my friend Joey’s rented house in Froude Street, just off Napier Street in Freemans Bay. I was listening to some music; I can clearly remember it was a Louis Prima record and he was singing a favourite of mine Just a Gigolo. I was looking forward to enjoying some ‘me’ time. It was a typical Auckland house, a single storey weatherboard dwelling. The living room was connected to the front door by a long passage off which there were several bedrooms. I was sitting at a table from where I could see right up the passage to the front door. I heard a car door slam outside. It sounded just a bit too determined. I felt uneasy. Living as I was, an illegal immigrant, your sense of danger is heightened. I was particularly alert as Dinger had been caught and was being held pending deportation. I stood up watching the front door. It was a patterned glass door; you could just see through it. I heard footsteps and then I saw the silhouette of a uniformed policeman and another burly man wearing a trilby hat. Though I couldn’t see through the glass clearly, I instantly and instinctively knew who it was. This was the famous Detective Dickie Bird. I had heard stories of ‘Birdie’ even before joining ships bound for NZ. He was legendary amongst young Brit seamen. I had seen him two times before, when he did his sweeps through the downtown bars. He was an ogre and the sworn enemy of British seaman, whether they had jumped ship or not. It was his sole responsibility and job, to pursue and harass us. He didn’t like us and we didn’t like him, probably because he was good at his job. He was reputed to have a sixth sense when it came to spotting ship jumpers. He called us young Pommie snots. I have to say he had run up an incredible record against us.

In old Freemans Bay, the houses were all jammed together on very narrow plots of land. Sometimes the house would completely cover the land frontage and access was only through the front door, or a very narrow passage down the side of the house that was often permanently gated off. It was a downtrodden working class area. This, however, had bred a fantastic community identity. To be from the Bay was a thing to be proud of. So there I was, living in the Bay, sitting there minding my own business, thinking of how I would approach that pretty girl I had seen coming and going from the house on the corner, when the calm was replaced by the realisation: “Christ, it’s Birdie”. I almost yelled it out, even though I was on my own. They started banging on the door and yelling. It had been a fine day; the sun was still warming us with evening rays. Fortunately I had showered and was dressed. I was in light cotton trousers, singlet and boat shoes. As I could see their image through the glass door, so I knew that they must also have seen mine. I had to run for it. I turned and sprinted out the back door. I ran across the small garden and scrambled over the high back fence.

The house, behind us was occupied by an Island family just arrived from Samoa. You learnt early in Auckland, you don’t mess with Samoans. My only way out was through their house. Their side path was blocked. I heard shouting behind me. I had no choice. Their back door was open; they were sitting around the kitchen table having dinner. I went straight through and I called out, “sorry, very sorry”, as I ran round their table. It’s amazing the detail that the mind can record, under such circumstances. I was even aware of what they were eating. I vividly remember the smell of boiled pork. I just kept running up the long passage to the open front door and out onto the road. They were so surprised they didn’t offer so much as a word or a yelp as I crossed the room. The dad didn’t even have time to get out of his chair and he was so shocked he didn’t say anything until I was halfway up the passage. Then he let out a roar you could have heard back in the Islands. I would have been in real trouble if he had caught me; he had a knife and fork in his hand and those Samoans weren’t into ‘Marquis of Queensbury’ rules. “What a mad Palangi,” [white man] he must have thought, “I’ll get him,” but by then I was gone. It must have looked like an old Keystone Cops movie. I have often chuckled to myself over that incident, the memory of the Samoan dad coming out of his shock, then charging up his hall, knife in his hand, roaring anger and abuse at the skinny Palangi who had appeared out of nowhere and run right through his house. I should imagine he kept his back door shut after that. To him or his children, please accept my belated apology; it surely was a case of ‘needs must’.

I found myself out on a back street. I heard a car start from the direction of Froude Street. I turned and cut back through the Napier Street School. I knew a car couldn’t follow me that way. I kept running and doubling around most of the roads in the Bay. Eventually I finished up in Franklin Road. The car was circling the surrounding roads. There were two constables with Birdie; one must have stayed in the car when they burst in. From a hidden position I saw the car stop. They must have decided on a new strategy. The young constables got out while Birdie took the wheel. They took off their hats. They were preparing for a chase. Those young Auckland cops were all fit as buck rabbits; they were all rugby players, or sportsmen of one kind or another. This was mighty serious.

For Birdie, this was a hunt and I was the prey. Make no mistake about it; Birdie was a determined man and he wasn’t going to give up easily. Seamen’s scuttlebutt had it that Birdie’s frustrations had steadily built up. He had been the target for lots of abuse; his reputation was common knowledge to the entire collection of young British seamen, whether they were ship jumpers or not. He was discussed in dockside pubs all over the world. To us he was public enemy number one. The dreams he had harboured as a young constable, of chasing and arresting major criminals were no more. He had become the permanent occupant of a demeaning little police hut on the wharf. The hut was dedicated to catching young ship jumpers and nuisance seamen. Its main arsenal being the rows of miscreants’ photos pinned up on its walls and a thick file of corresponding names. Birdie’s frustrations were increased by the level of his own success. The better he had become at catching us, the more he consigned himself to seeing out the remainder of his career in that little hut. His skill in catching us, coupled with his natural dislike of his quarry, had him, ‘hoisted with his own petard’.

I slipped into the bottom end of Napier Street, hugging the left hand pathway. I couldn’t see them, so I hoped they couldn’t see me. I was beginning to tire, the adrenalin was wearing off. I had to keep moving, but I had to rest. My singlet was sticking to me; the sweat was running into my eyes, the light cotton trousers I was wearing were ripped down one side. For me it wasn’t just a police chase; it was a fight for survival; a fight to stay in this country. I trotted down behind Gadsdens, the tin can manufacturer’s factory. I only needed a quick breather, a pause and the nervous energy would return. I cautiously made my way up the side alleyway of the factory. I couldn’t afford to be caught here, as it was a dead end. I had to round the corner of the factory not knowing if they were close by or maybe cruising Napier Street. It was a hair-raising moment, but I had to chance it. I came round the corner and breathed a sigh of relief. It was all clear. I started trotting up the hill of Napier Street; getting close to the junction with Union Street. I had to pass four tough looking young guys leaning over the veranda of the corner house. I’d seen them around, they were locals. I noticed that they all sported tattoos. A voice penetrated my heavy breathing.
“Cops chasing you mate?”

I nodded. I guessed they must have seen a bit of it from their position.
“Quick, get yourself up here.”
Why not? I thought. There weren’t many options and they seemed friendly. I stepped up onto the veranda. One of them said:
“In here.”

I followed him into the house and he ordered me to get under the bed.

Then he turned and went back out onto the veranda with the others. A short while later, I heard a car pull up and a voice called out:
“Hey, Garry, you seen a skinny Pom snot running around?”

“Nah, nobody round here.”

“I’ll catch the Pom snot,” the irritated voice shot back. I knew it was Birdie. The car revved up and pulled away. I breathed sigh of relief. I felt overwhelmed with tiredness. It catches up on you when the pressure comes off. Birdie never got me, but that wasn’t the last time he came close.
“Okay come out now, they’ve gone.”
This was the big guy of the group. I hauled myself up and we all sat down in the small lounge. We introduced ourselves and I thanked them for helping me.
“No worries mate.”

A very welcome, cold beer was thrust into my hands.

“Swallow that, you look fucked.”

I find out that the corner house, number one Napier Street, belongs to the McGlynns; an old respected Bay family. The big guy doing most of the talking is Gary Duffty, the youngest son of the Duffty family another well-known Bay entity. The other guys were Rocky McGlynn, a great guy, who became my brother-in-law, Allan McGoon, nicknamed ‘High Noon McGoon’ and Georgie Hogg, a Maori guy. All real Bay boys and proud of it.

Birdie had addressed Gary by name. He knew he wouldn’t get any change from them, that’s why he didn’t bother to get out of the car. He knew the rules. We had a few beers and then they said they had to go to “footie training”. Rocky and George went on to play senior rugby league and could have gone further into representative level; but they enjoyed the social life too much. There was a brief discussion. They knew I couldn’t go back to Froude Street so they decided I should stay there till they got back from training and it was agreed I could sleep there that night. While we were talking, Rocky’s older brother, Johnny McGlynn, came in and joined the discussion. It was all-okay with him. You have to admire them. They hardly knew me and Poms were not that popular in NZ at the time. Things changed later on, but that was the prevailing attitude then. But they had a code and they lived by it. If you were offside with the law, you were probably onside with them.

I stayed at number one that night as arranged. The McGlynn’s house was always referred to as number one, as in, “see you at number one” or “the guys are at number one having a few beers”. It was small and basic, but it reflected the openness and warmth of its occupants. The front door was accessed from the veranda that ran along the front of the house. The elevated veranda was butted straight up against the footpath. It served as another room. The family or friends always happily sat or leaned there, observing and chatting with people passing by, the majority of whom they knew. The front door, which was used as the main point of entry, opened directly into a small lounge. There were two bedrooms straight off the lounge; privacy was a luxury that was simply not available. But it wasn’t something that troubled these contented folk. The walls were painted a flat yellow, over layer upon layer of years old wallpaper. There were coloured family photos on the walls; one of them I noted was of the pretty girl I had been targeting. One of them was of Johnny in his army uniform, taken when he was serving in Japan and South Korea, as part of New Zealand’s artillery contribution to the Commonwealth Force. This photo competed with a medium sized and glass framed colour print of King George VI in full military regalia. It said so much about this race and their loyalties. I believe that New Zealand was amongst the first Commonwealth countries to declare war on Germany, in support of Britain.

Number One seemed to function as a friendly neighbourhood drop in centre. As I got to know them it seemed to me that all friends and family were welcome anytime. It was rare for the veranda to be unoccupied. Mary, the lovely mother of the family, was always sitting there on that veranda. She met everybody with a cheery wave and a smile, a cup of tea and a chat. She was a person who loved people and accepted them as they were. In all the years I knew her I can’t recall her having a bad word to say about anyone. She lived an uncomplicated life and gave more than she ever got. She loved her Freemans Bay as Freemans Bay loved her and along with her family she invited me into the very heart of it.

On the day after the Birdie incident I left Number One early in the morning. Rocky had been round and scouted outside my house for cops. There were none. Birdie would have known it was a waste of time. I had a problem now and I had to move on. It was a pity as I had been settled in and was happy there. I went in and quickly packed my gear. There wasn’t much. I deliberately travelled light, never knowing when circumstances like these could arise. The word stress didn’t exist in the vernacular as it does today, so I suppose I never thought of myself suffering from it. But this life of living on the edge, while it may sound adventurous or romantic, was certainly nerve wracking. Dad’s hold all was well worn and even more well travelled by now, but it seemed its capacity for good luck was holding fast. Joey had offered me a lift and had dropped me off in town. I headed for a café I knew in Lorne Street, just off Queen Street. I sat there and ate a great Kiwi breakfast of fried potatoes, lamb chops, a sausage and two eggs; I must have been considering myself a condemned man. The café always tempted its customers with complimentary copies of New Zealand Herald. I reached for one and turned to the classified section. I looked at ‘Rooms to Let’ and there it was. The heavy type heading caught my eye immediately. I spotted an advert that would suit me; it was for a boarding house in a nearby suburb called St Mary’s Bay just off Ponsonby Road. It was only a ten-minute walk into town from there. I went there straight away and secured a room. It was a nice old two-storey villa set right on the road with a big garden at the back. My room was large and airy. It had a big bay window that looked out over the harbour and the marina. It was a superb location and I was very pleased with myself. I felt that I was settled again. The boarding house I had chosen belonged to a family called the Claphams who had just arrived from Wellington. Bert, the eldest son of the family was an extremely high profile bookmaker, which as you will no doubt know was an illegal profession, which provided an efficient and lower priced alternative to the government owned betting agency the TAB. In all societies, in all times, it is illegal to compete with the taxman. You will hear more of the Claphams and I have to say that, as often as not, when I am in Auckland, I pay a sentimental visit to Freemans Bay and to that boarding house in St. Mary’s Bay where I met the Clapham family.