STORYTREVOR HAYSome desolate shadeI REMEMmTHE n" ' mmnuE went roundWoodville High that Leon's dad was coming to sortout one of the teachers after a particularly brutalcaning. A stupid idea, really- Leon needed no one todefend him, and would rather have had his handsshredded than create any impression that some gutlessteacher bad the power to make him acknowledgepain. Leon always stared unflinchingly, menacingly,into the eyes of his lictor, no matter how many cutshe got, while the rest of us held our brea th and eventhe room next door fell silent to count the strokes.Still, it was an exciting rumour, full of impotenthope for all of us, that one of these sadists would gettheir com e-uppance. Leon's dad was reputed to beabout six foot four and sixteen stone, with many grea tscars of h
as an actor, and h e had a way of carrying himself, evenwhen h e was barely thirteen.We were in Ma cbeth together once. H e wasMacduff, I was Malcolm and w e had a sort of pact, a'clare', solemnisecl over a bottle of Southwark on theoval, that we'd only learn our lines to a certain pointand then extemporize. The theory was that an audiencewould accept anything if it was delivered withenough conviction. 'Let us seek out some desolateshade and there weep our sad bosoms empty', it allbegan, authentically enough. I think w e might havepulled it off if only the prompter hadn't become desperateand tried to make himself beard above us.On Saturday mornings, after staying over at hisplace, and being stuffed to vomit-point with some kindof fat-marbled sausage, giant pickles and boiled cabbageby his mother ('Eat' Eat m y boy! Empty stom ach no good for that, Australia best place in world forfood! ') and having vodka surreptitiously pressed uponme by his father, (' You reckon for Aussie boy orangejuice better for brea kfast time, eh l O.K. Sure, I knowtruefor that maybe, but orange juice and vodka just flike this country-put together, little of this, little of ·that, everybody he-ppy!') I always felt terribly relieved :to escape the clutches of the exotic and go hom e tomy familiar world of the Port Adelaide Football Club,N orwood Town Hall dance, pie floaters at Cowley'sPi e Cart and an es ky of ice-coated beer. Leon's Saturdayworld, by sharp contrast, was the local soccer club,the Polish Club dance and an csky of beerin Pukhala's shed.F oR YEARS WE MET OCCASIONALLY at the Strathmore.Once I wrote a poem, which I called 'Blowin' in theWind', aft er Dylan. I showed it to Leon during one ofthese Friday sessions. He crumpled it savagely in hisfingers, flung it to the fl oor and snarled 'Is this youridea of som e sm art fuckin' jokel' I was bewildered,but then the penny dropped. He thought it was abouthim, although it was supposed to be a mildly satirical,self-deprecating thing about m yself and theromantic poses and gestures he wa s forever scourgingme fo r. Of course I couldn't retreat or deny, oreven explain. I could only try to stand m y ground. Sobegan the custom ary joust, in which Leon would usehis audience as a favourite weapon. After about thirtyseconds of glowering sideways at me and flicking h iseyes up and down m y b ee as if issuing a public challengeto a schoolyard fight, he bent down and retrievedthe piece of paper from the aluminium m oat than ranround the foot of the bar. He passed it to Kaspersky,Pukhala and the others, who shrugged their shouldersinnocently and said'What's all this about? ''Ask the poet here', said Leon, with one of histerrible, corrosive sneers. 'I am only poor Ukrainianboy from Croy-don Park, English no good, idiot-bastard-cunt-rubbishN ew Australian English! Ask thiseducated teacher's college Aussie boy.'The others joined in with a ch orus of CroydonPark pidgin. I steeled myself to act as if nothing hadhappened, as way down the end of the bar, someonein a blue singlet yelled out 'Hey, what the fuck's thisall about? Who wrote this shitl'Later that night, in Pukhala's shed, I told Leonangrily it was about m e not about him. He just said'Are we really fri ends?' and I have never been quitesure just what he meant.Leon was conscripted in 1967. I had a letterdescribing the Tet offensive of 1968 when I was atPuckapunyal m y elf,undergoing 'all that kindergartenstuff' as he calledrecruit training (all verywell for him, it frightenedthe tripe out of m e) .Around the middle of 1968he w as discharged withsom e kind of w ound.Again the rumours fl ew.He'd been 'stitched up' byCong, h e'd been in a'shit-hot' bar-room brawlwith a pack of Yanks ... Infact, he'd cut himselfsom eh ow while on ' hygiene'duty in the Officers'Mess, and spen t a fe wweeks in the base h ospital at Vung Tau, before beingsent back to Keswick Barracks in Adelaide.We continued to meet on and off for m any yea rswhile I was teaching in Adelaide. He go t to knowJenny and we would occasionally m eet him and Larrieafter work in the Strathmore- in the Lounge, ofcourse. They spent some weekends with us at Po rtN oarlunga, which h e loved, and he gave me a realtongue-lashing about my perverted priorities when wemoved to Melbourne in 1972. A few years later wewent to his w edding. There must have been a wagonof vodka for every man, wom an and child in the receptionhall that night; there w ere fa ces fit to burst,like shiny red balloons, and everywhere people singing,dancing and shouting.Naturally there were incidents, quarrels, recriminations,dark historical enmities, and a near-riot atthe end when a certain traditionally-distrusted familywas accused of liberating vodka intended for drinksback at Croydon Parle Leon saved the day. He mounteda table, sending the glasses and jugs fl ying, andmade an impassioned speech in his native tongue. Suddenlythere wasn 't a dry eye to be seen in the hallnoteven mine, although I had n o idea what h e wassaying. Then he folded his arms imperi ously, droppedto his knees and whirled on one leg like a cossack,until the hall itself was spinning with joy.He and Larrie stayed with us in Melbourne for afew clays of the honeymoon and he made Jenny laughV o LUME 5 N uMBER 8 • EUREKA STREET 43
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