Mundane, mundane and all to a plan
For life, for life oh heck, the public servant blues
Oh no, oh yes, you’ve got the public servant blues
File some cards, type out those forms (send them out)
Drink your lunch down at the bar, the beer so cool (oh yes)
But don’t be late or it’ll go down on your slate
Hold that class, he’s failed to make the grade (late)
Oh it’s the public, public servant blues
Oh heck, I’ve got the public servant blues.
You have a girl, you face the marriage blues
You make a life, a couple of kids and a mortgage
To the end of your days, the public servant blues
Oh no, oh yes, the public servant blues.
Balga had found his home state of Western Australia intolerant. Melbourne in contrast seemed to offer a richness of life which he had to experience, but first of all he needed to have some cash and he didn’t want to go along the way he had been heading or for that matter did he really want to be an office jockey. He would have liked to be a mechanic with the opportunity to drive fast cars; but he left any idea of work change to the future when he knew the city.
After his interview with Mr. Rogers of the Public Service employment section and happy to be employed, the very next morning clad in his square suit and tie, he hopped off the tram at the stop at the top of Collins Street and walked down to Exhibition Street, turned right and went along the rather dowdy street which had none of the flash of Collins Street to the corner of Bourke Street. Collin’s Book Store was on the diagonal away from him and across the street was Thomson’s Record Shop. He slowed to glance at the covers of the records on display: classical and jazz records, no rock’n’roll at all. Walking on he crossed Lonsdale then Latrobe and after Victoria Street entered the green expanse of a park laid out nicely with trees, paths, flower beds and he came across a big fountain beyond which lay a long low building with ornate doorways and cupolas. He guessed this was his goal; but where was the Motor Registration Branch? He went to the left and around the flank of the main building to find a wing which extended away from him. Here the park gave way to the tar and cement of a vast parking space and close to the building was a caged enclosure in which was a vehicle weighting machine. Balga checked the watch which Stand the Man had insisted on giving him. It was quarter to nine. He reached a wide doorway to find the doors locked. Still too early for business and he continued along to come to a small and open door through which men (and women) that were obviously public servants were entering. He followed them. They stopped at a rack and pulled out a card which they inserted into a machine which went clunk then put the card in another rack before going on. Balga stood and watched them doing this until a bloke returned his glance and commented “just clocking on,” before pushing through double glass doors. Balga looked after him and into what must be the public area. It was empty of people except for the man who had spoken to him. The bloke disappeared through a single door. Balga went to it and pushed through into a large hall filled with filing cabinets and people meandering among them to reach alcoves and rooms filled with desks. He followed a small dark woman who for some reason seemed familiar and when she happened to glance back, he asked her where the staff office might be.
‘You’re going to be one of us,’ she replied with mock amazement and an almost welcoming smile. ‘I’m Nancy, welcome aboard; you go through that door over there and follow the passageway to the end. It’s there and you can’t miss it. I’ll see you around.’
Balga thanked her and easily found the office. A sandy-haired bloke checked his watch as he entered, nodded and asked him to be seated in front of his desk. He asked him his name and picked up the file to begin to check the lad’s details. Mr. Rogers had done a good job and there wasn’t much he had to say or do except to eventually provide him with a copy of his birth certificate.
‘I’m from West Aussie,’ Balga said, ‘how do I go about that?’
‘Write to the registrar of births and deaths in Perth,’ he was told. ‘Now come with me and we’ll get you settled. I’ll introduce you to Tom Jones the in-charge of your section. He’s a fairly reasonable chap,’ and with that he got up.
They went into that large hall filled with filing cabinets about which in alcoves and nooks and crannies were desks at which people sat. Among them were a few typists who looked up and then bent back over their machines to rattle the keys with a clickety clack. Through a wide doorway he saw another room filled with half a dozen rows of desks at which women and girls sat typing with a massed clickety clack. One of these was the woman who had introduced herself as “Nancy”. She glanced up towards him, pulled a face, ripped a form out of her machine, screwed it up and flung it into an overfilled waste paper basket. There were more desks alongside the partition beyond which lay the public space now sounding with voices. At one end of the partition were a few offices with glass walls towards which the man was walking. Balga hurried to catch up with him.
Tom Jones was a large dark haired man with a round bald patch to go with his round face with round blood shot eyes to go with a rosebud pink mouth. His heavy body was covered by a double breasted navy blue suit which was not unlike the one Balga had been given when being released from prison and which he had ditched after a single wearing. This was colour coordinated with a blue on blue striped tie, a white shirt and brown shoes. All in all, the man was the office type, though his cheeks were pinkish as if he had been exercising as was his nose and those blood shot eyes were sleepy looking when he stared up at the Noongar and then glanced at the staff officer who nodded and left.
Mr. Jones got up and said: ‘Come, we’ll get you started. You do much office work before?’
‘No, I’m a mechanic really,’ Balga answered.
‘No hot rods here, but you get your pay once a fortnight. The job is easy enough, but when you get too bored with it take the p.s. exam, get permanent and you’ll start to rise. So stick at it and one day you’ll have my job.’ He grimaced as if in pain and Balga nodded.
The sad bloke took Balga through the maze of filing cabinets to a niche holding four desks, one of which was unoccupied. He gestured at it and said: ‘that’ll be yours.’ He then turned his attention to one of the men, a light-haired bloke with a huge round red face. ‘This is Mr. Bogaars. He’ll give you a quick rundown on what to do. Simple filing, but any problems that might crop up he’ll set you straight.’ And with that Mr. Jones lurched off.
Mr. Bogaars stopped peering down at his work, scratched his pink scalp lightly covered by sandy hair, then stared up at Balga with faded blue eyes. He put a smile on his face and grunted: ‘Call me Malcolm, sit down a moment and I’ll get you a bundle of renewal certificates. I’ll start you on those and once you get the hang of it, I’ll put you on the vehicle transfers. It’s more of the same thing, but the sequence has to be checked.’
Balga squeezed through to his indicated desk, sat and checked out the drawers. There were only a few paper clips and a pad on which someone had been playing hang man. The Noongar scowled then smiled as Malcolm tossed over a couple of bundles of renewal certificates. ‘Sort that lot out into car registration number sequence, from the old single numbers up through the alphabet and to the doubles and triples.’ Balga went blank as the man added: ‘It’s what you see on vehicles. The certificates have to be sorted out so that you can file them without wandering about the whole room and taking all day. Okay!’
‘Sure,’ Balga replied, taking the rubber bands off one of the piles and spreading them out on the desk. It wasn’t at all difficult and when he had finished with that lot, he did the other and inter-sorted it with the first. By then it was 10-30 by the wall clock and there was a general slackening off. A young bloke in the desk behind him said: ‘Tea break!’
The Noongar wondered how to go about getting a cup of tea, but didn’t have to wonder long because the young bloke got up, stopped beside his desk and said: ‘There’s a caravan at the front where you can get a cup of coffee or tea and snacks and things like that. I usually go out for a bit of fresh air, want to come along?’
Balga nodded. They went out a side door and crossed the parking lot towards the road where a caravan was parked. ‘He’ll give you credit when you’re broke too,’ his fellow worker informed him, ‘it helps towards the end of the fortnight.’
‘Is it a long way to that,’ Balga queried.
‘Next week it so happens so be stingy with your cash or you might have to walk to work.’
‘I’ll remember that, so I have to hang on to next Thursday?’
‘Yeah, but you started in time to get most of your money.’
The two ordered cups of tea and sipped on them as they watched the traffic zipping past.
‘I could do with one of them,’ Balga nodded at the cars.
‘Start saving,’ his companion grunted as the man behind the counter began talking cricket to which Balga half listened and learnt that there was a test about to begin which Australia naturally would win. The Noongar recalled that Melbourne was famous for its cricket ground and decided that he might go along to see it.
‘Do you think it’ll be a good game,’ he asked the caravan man.
‘It might be,’ he replied, ‘though maybe you should take along some snacks and drinks as the Pommies are said to have a strong batting lineup and we have weak bowlers.’
‘Yeah, I’ll remember that,’ Balga answered and turned his attention back to his companion. Strangely, like the woman, there was something familiar about the young bloke and then it struck him that he was almost a dead ringer for Tommy Cooper, his dear old mate who had been lost along the way. The memory made him sad and then he remembered his old mother and was sadder. He should have sought her out before he left Perth, but then everything had happened so fast. ‘Maybe this bloke might be a replacement for Tommy,’ he thought and putting action to the idea, stuck out a hand out and introduced himself. The young bloke thrust out a hand and Balga clutched a rough red-skinned mitt which was exactly as he remembered Tommy’s hand to have been just as he stared into a face which was as freckled as that of his old mate.
‘Ray Drew,’ the lad as young as Balga said and with that they became at least work mates.
They finished their tea and went back to their desks. Now he was to learn the next step in sorting. Malcolm took him into the maze of filing cabinets and showed him where they began with the plain numbers and extended into the HHHs. He slid open a drawer and pulled out an envelope holding the registration paper and told him to put the new renewal one on top after checking that everything was in order as to name and address. This was all there was to it, or almost as some of the envelopes had been taken away for summons to be sent out for parking offences or even to be held if the car had been stolen. Balga smiled at this; but Malcolm took him wandering about the branch looking for a missing envelope to put the registration slip in and then passed him over to Ray or the third member of their group, George a Greek from Egypt with the usual Popadopalous type of surname. He was typical Greek with a black moustache and olive skin. Balga got on well with him, though he was older with a wife and kids.
Balga had no problems with the blokes he worked with and even Bogaars proved to be friendly. When lunchtime came Call Me Malcolm (as the Noongar nicknamed him) jerked his watermelon shaped head and grunted: ‘How about a counter lunch?’
Balga was hungry by then and replied: ‘Yeah, lead on.’
They walked across a busy thoroughfare which Call Me Malcolm told him was Rathdowne Street, went down Pelham to come out on the shopping street of Lygon. There was a pub on the corner, the Albion. Balga hung back, but Malcolm merely said: ‘This is it,’ and they went into the saloon bar and studied the blackboard displaying the counter lunches.
The barman came to them without a hard glance at Balga asked: ‘What will it be gentlemen?’
Malcolm looked at Balga and the Noongar boldly said: ‘Two beers.’
When the barman came and put them down they were ready to order. Balga had the rissoles at 2/6 and Malcolm had Beef stew at 3/6. These were the cheapest dishes on the menu; but they were substantial and apart from the main dish came with chips, mashed potatoes and peas. Balga’s trepidation fled as he filled his stomach. He finished and sipped his beer as Malcolm asked how were the rissoles and then ordered a plate. Malcolm had a big appetite as he declared. Balga had another beer to keep him company
On the way back Malcolm told him that he came from Ceylon and was a European, a Dutch Burger, and thus qualified for entry into Australia. He didn’t say much about Ceylon except once or twice he mentioned odd things such as how peddlers boiled oranges to increase their size and how hot the curries were. He sneered at the curry flavoured stews of Australia and said that they were not in the comparison with the tasty ones from his island home.
Balga agreed with everything he said. The beer had put him in a mellow mood and he was pleased and happy that he had been treated at the hotel as just another customer.
Seeking out purloined files sent him roaming and he got on first name terms with quite a few people including two typists that struck his fancy though in different ways. One was Nancy, the woman he had spoken to on his first day. She was a thin neat woman in her late twenties or early thirties who modeled herself on Audrey Hepburn, not the female of Roman Holiday but the one his first girl had copied in Perth, the Audrey of Sabrina (1954 and onwards) in which the unsophisticated princess was replaced by the professional actress wearing garments fashioned by Hubert de Givenchy as Nancy informed me with a deprecating smile as she added: ‘I may look and be as slim as Audrey, but I’ll never be able to afford her clothes and thus must do with these facsimiles.’ She got up to show him her high necked costume as well as the slimness of her figure. She was skinny and seemed to be sickly with it, but this didn’t stop Balga from digging her. He told her in a few terse sentences about his lost “Audrey” and she replied with a giggle that now he had found a replacement. He replied with a laugh and then went on with his work. She was a bit too old for his nineteen; but then he needed a bit after those months in prison.
He would have tried to get his wick in there as with her short hair she did look a bit like a Widgie; but Malcolm found him talking to her and gave him a bit of office gossip. It seemed that she was getting it off with their boss, Tom Jones who was an alcoholic with a vicious temper and held a grudge against those he didn’t like.
So passed the first day for Balga at the Motor Registration Branch. The people were relaxed and the work simple enough that he decided to hang on in there.