Whole Wild World (16 page)

George was on another social plane. Although only in the early years of high school at De La Salle Marrickville, he was already knee-deep in the world. He spoke to adults respectfully, but did so on his own terms. Relatives would come to Jure, his Croatian name, so he could translate letters they had received from government agencies. I think he did tax returns for his parents and others. When we went with George to see movies and watch cricket at the SCG, he knew where to buy the city's best and cheapest food, in an age before fast food had established a foothold, when first-hand knowledge was valued. He was a wiz on pinball machines and wasn't intimidated in parlours around tough people. He could talk his way out of trouble. At fourteen he wasn't much taller than me, aged ten. But I had no doubt he could protect us all if we were preyed upon. Before Sam was a teenager, charismatic and assured Guru George had schooled us both in wandering, taught us how to read our own resort city, to enjoy it.

Weddings were grand affairs, especially when all the cousins could sit together on a kids' table. I'd missed many receptions because of Teta Danica. She hated loud music and dancing and
would spring an excuse on the day of a wedding about feeling ill. It meant someone, anyone, had to stay home and watch over her. For a few years I did it, grudgingly. I found this bewildering on several levels, not least because I couldn't do anything if she took a turn or had a migraine. But I didn't want Mama to miss out on dressing up and going out with Tata, which became rarer as we got older rather than the other way around.

One of our distant cousins was getting married. There were a lot of weddings in 1974 and the fashion was to have the reception at Cabramatta in Sydney's southwest, an odd choice because it wasn't close to the Croatian church in Summer Hill and a long way from where the guests lived. As soon as you entered the reception hall you'd place your present on a table and get a corsage pinned to you, a sprig of rosemary set on the red-white-blue of the Croatian flag (you dare not pin it upside-down, as blue-white-red was the Yugo flag). Tata placed an offering in cash for the couple in a basket, and then we'd find our table. The parquetry dance floor in the room was as smooth as a ten-pin bowling lane. On a sugar high, we spent the night skidding on our bums and knees in our best clothes. The idea a parent would tell us to stop drinking Coke or Fanta at these celebrations was as radical as a child telling their father to ease back on beer, wine or the rocket fuel of
rakija
.

Saying hello to uncles in the extended family was a bracing experience. You'd take a man's hand, then freeze, as there was always a part missing. Most had had industrial accidents. As a kid you couldn't remember who had lost what bit when. My confirmation sponsor Tomislav, for instance, lost three fingers on his right hand, one on the other. He'd been a cook for Thiess on the Snowy Mountains scheme and was now a factory storeman. I learnt to reach for his left, the meaty hand with more purchase.

After a while you just expected the unexpected. My cousin Marinko, a year younger, had lost the back of his heel when he
got too close to his dad, Stric Miljenko, while he was mowing the backyard; I looked at his wound for years before I had the guts to ask ‘Mitch', one of his aliases, if I could touch the concave curve of smooth skin reshaped by the rotor blade. It felt creepy and exhilarating, well worth the wait. There were uncles with half hands and shortened fingers, recipients of miserable compo payments. My dad worked in a factory but he had beautiful hands. Tata must have freaked out my cousins because he still had all his fingers.

Croatians were amateur lawyers when it came to compo. Someone once suggested to him that if he were short of cash, Joso could drop the tailgate of a truck and lop off the top of a finger. I thought this was a false economy and strongly advised Tata against it in the presence of the expert, two fingers short of a bunch.

Tata winked a ‘Don't worry, son'.

These were the calculations of people with little schooling, only slightly hampered by mere missing parts, hearts bigger than brains.

Croatian dancing started at about 10 pm, when the mandolin player fingerpicked his way into a song, the band coming in behind him to the familiar rhythm of the
kolo
, a circular group dance.

‘Let's go to the snooker hall,' said George.

‘Can I come, too? I'll just watch.' I was about to turn ten and remembered the last wedding at this hall and how I'd missed out on snooker because I was hanging around with Anna and Maria.

‘Okay, but you have to stay with us until we finish.'

I was inclined to get bored during long, slow games, and nag. But I wanted to show I was growing up, especially to George, as the age gap was pushing us apart in some things. We walked several blocks through Cabramatta, then up a narrow set of stairs. Harsh fluorescent lights hung over a dozen green-felt tables,
most of them occupied by tough-looking guys who could be bikies. No women or other children here.

George paid for a game, accepted a box of red and coloured balls. He flicked on the light switch and set up the balls. The boys found cues and started. Sam and I knew the rules because we watched
Pot Black
on Channel Two. I'd often played pool at the Croatian Club, especially when the bar was closed and Tata was at a board meeting. But I had no idea proper snooker tables were so big or how hard it was to sink even two balls in a row.

No one paid attention to us. We'd handed over our money. Sam was methodical, George prepared to take risks. I was self-conscious as the youngest there and because we were wearing our best clothes next to blokes with tattoos, dressed in leather and denim vests. Others wore singlets, shorts and thongs. It was a hot night, the place drenched in sweat and cigarette smoke.

It took more than an hour to sink all the balls and we missed the toasting of the bride and groom. A nip of
rakija
was sunk by a procession of men, one at a time, with someone from the bridal party, which ushers in another deposit to the cash kitty, whose proud total would be announced at the end of the night.

We got back in time for the family photograph, the five Dušević strands of Joso, Zvonko, Veseljko, Dado and Šimeško, their wives and kids, plus our adult cousin Maro, a new migrant who drove a big-as-a-boat Valiant. George, Sam and I got in the single men's line to snag the bride's garter – caught by six-foot tall Maro.

On that merry occasion we had gone to the wedding as a family of four. But the fallout from leaving Teta by herself until well after midnight was so awful for Mama – a weeks-long tirade by her older sister – that from that moment she took the road of least angst. I was miserable for my dad, going to functions on his own, as well as for my mum, who missed out on great evenings. I resented having to dance around the truth in explaining to
relatives why Mama – always carrying the Danica burden – wasn't with us.

Mr Castagnet's class had a biological lifecycle, like butterflies, but in reverse. We'd start off lovely and end up ugly. Over the course of the year, 5 Blue was designated the worst class in the school by Egor. Even top principal Brother Luke and the MoD had noted our slide, as our behaviour was out of control at line-up, sports carnivals, school Masses and excursions. It was a combustible cocktail: an above-average number of scoundrels at the start of the alphabet plus an eccentric teacher.

The micro-cycle went like this: after a morning's gambling we would settle down. Sir, in a good mood, would grant us free time so he could attend to personal business. We would abuse the privilege. Havoc. Sir would brutally, indiscriminately regain the upper hand. Peace–liberty–chaos–terror. Reset.

In late October, Mr Castagnet promised us if we behaved, he'd let us watch the Ali versus Foreman ‘Rumble in the Jungle'. It was on after lunch, live from Kinshasa, Zaire, so there was scope for several resets before the matinee. Whoever mucked up would be sacrificed and forced to stand outside as a lookout for Egor, missing the world title fight.

We squeezed in at the front, sitting three or four to a desk: a gala atmosphere, Sir a study in concentration. Ali was leaning on the ropes and Foreman was punching him at will. Ali put his elbows and gloves out but was only throwing the odd jab back at a much bigger opponent.

‘Ali is losing, Sir.'

‘Sir, only the ropes are holding him up.'

‘Just wait and see, boys.'

It didn't seem like much of a rumble because Ali was passive,
napping, caught on the ropes. Where was the stinging bee? This went on for several rounds, a fizzer of a fight. Then, late in the bout, Ali came to life, hitting Foreman with rapid-fire punches. Big George went down. The fight was over, the ring invaded. Ali was the champ again. We threw wild ‘around the world' punches and danced on our toes like Ali. We were floating backwards like butterflies. Sir could not contain his glee either, skipping around the classroom.

‘Ali was too smart for Foreman,' he said, still sweet on his feet. ‘He made Foreman tired and angry, then knocked him out.'

I'd watched it all but couldn't understand how Ali had done it. Wouldn't he be too stuffed to throw a knockout punch? By the time school was over every kid had heard the news. I suspect some of the older boys had watched the fight, too. The daily charge to the exit was a parade of floating Alis, cocky shadow-boxing, stinging like bees.

Egor was coach of the Under-10 rugby league team. Although his approach to footy alternated between tough and tender, Egor never shouted at us. He may have been a diminished figure in his footy jersey and shorts and, at season's start, terry-towelling hat. But you could never take it for granted the severe part of Brother Gregory would not resurface.

St John's was a rugby league farm, supplying players to Canterbury for two decades, some making it to first grade. There was a mysterious man who lived in the Brothers' house. Brother Brendan had written the coaching Bible
High Speed Rugby League
but was no longer involved with teaching or footy; aged in his seventies, he appeared to spend all his time on the bowling green at the club that was attached to the school. Legend had it he'd drop-kicked an 85-yard field goal to win a match. Brother's
footy axiom was ‘position is condition and condition is position'. Backing up was the secret to league. Paradoxically, the manual was filled with static pictures of Eagles' players, still-life demonstrations of tackling and passing – nothing high speed about it. But it was emblematic of the way I played: flat-footed, tackle-shy, a clean jersey.

Before games on cold mornings we sat in the dressing room and Egor rubbed liniment into our legs to protect them from the cold and improve circulation; he insisted on doing it for us, using both his hands to rub the oil deeply into our thighs all the way up and under shorts to the edge of our underpants. I didn't want this attention but, given he was the principal and my coach, I didn't feel like I could do much about it. Conditioned to my position. My parents never watched me play but some of the fathers applied the liniment for their sons.