Thomas, Tommy, Neville Irvine
Without Prejudice
I waited impatiently at the table covered in Alpine Diary requests, dirty beer glasses and sticky fingerprints. I was at Molly Blooms in Port Melbourne, it was Sunday the 15th January 1995. My newest grandson Zachary Rhys had just been born 5 days prior and it was time to celebrate. Mara and I could not put up with one more drippy Sunday with Frank ironing and waiting for the call that would never come. He would play his new Chieftains tape over and over and Mara I had enough. We decided to persuade him to go out, settled on the Marine in Brighton. And on the way there we changed our minds and Mara and Frank decided we needed some Irish Music. Real Irish music. So we headed for The Flower in Port Melbourne.
The place was dead, no entertainment at all and half empty. Frank and Mara had bragged of being patrons of the place, I myself who had never been there thought it was awful. I up to that point had never liked pubs. My parents were tee teetotalers that never drank and only low people hung around in them. So we decided to head off to Molly Blooms and were relieved to find that an authentic Irish band was going to be there at 4pm. It was 1pm. I was the nominated driver and Frank and Mara decided to make the most of this opportunity and drink themselves under the table.
I sat drumming my fingers on the table after wiping down the stool I was sitting on. Mara and Frank were having a ball and there was me, alone and bored. I'd had my 2 standard drinks, lager and lime and now had to sober up to drive this pair of drunks home. They had joined another table by then and waved across to me with lots of thumbs up gestures.
"Bastards", I thought.
The next thing a man plonked himself down next to me, I had seen him dancing on the dance floor by himself earlier. I think Mara had pointed him out guffawing at his antics. I just ignored her and him and began filling out one of the application forms for an Alpine Diary. I was at a Crossroads in my life, 3 grand kids at 42, sharing a house with my foster daughter and friend. Where was I going ???
"Give us a kiss, Blondie", the mans voice next to me said.
I leaned away from him, he reeked of alcohol and I was tempted to grab out my perfume and spray him. But he was undeterred. Frank and Mara were laughing at me from across the way. Mara making circling motion at her forehead. I turned around and kissed him, he was shocked but he was a great kisser, even though drunk as a lord. Mara and Frank's faces were a study, goggle eyed and slack jawed.
"Fuck them", I thought.
They were always having fun, getting drunk and I was like the den Mother all the time, bollocks to that. I was in rebellion. Big time. I was angry, I vibrated with it, nerves stretched to breaking point. It was six years since Lauren had died. Six years, Compassionate Friends, had told me on one of my many desperate phone calls to them, was when you could expect to start living again, not 5 years or ten but six, for some strange reason.
The previous years were a blur of mostly terrible times. Good times too, Jade having been born a pink and white porcelain doll, she was breathtakingly lovely and Zach now. a screwed up angry face with a blue vein pulsing in his head. He had come so quickly, one push and out, Yvette was turning into the baby machine that she is today. She believes her Sister, Lauren wants her to have lots. Lauren always loved a baby or ten.
So when this young Irish boy started talking I realised he was very very drunk and very very intelligent at the same time. A Brendan Behan, who could quote reams of poetry and Gaelic and even second strange languages when blindingly drunk. We watched The Two Scottish comedians, no authentic Irish Music, after all.
"How ironic" I thought.
He asked me if I would give him a lift home, he lived in Caulfield. Turned out he was living with a girl, a very nice girl, who he didn't love. I yawned then. Told Frank and Mara I was off and they waved me away, said they would catch a cab home. Bit pricey from Port Melbourne to Glen Waverley I thought but figured Frank book it up to expenses and when the boss refused would have to fork it out himself. They seemed settled in for a big session.
The Irish boy, first name Thomas, second name Neville, then Irvine, had told me he had returned from Ireland the previous Thursday and hadn't been home yet. To his waiting girlfriend. But as he said he didn't love her. And I believed him. I glanced at him, this young boy, who looked all of 19 and thought
"What the hell was I doing, letting him in the car, he could be an axe murderer for all I knew?"
But he was quiet and polite and even though he had been drinking non stop for 5 days he was still lucid and unbelievably wordy and well spoken, until....
"I have a problem with women", he said, trying to sound sad and sincere.
"Really!", I shot back, "and why would that be?"
I realised this was a well worn pick up line of his, along with the " Give us a kiss Blondie, " but I didn't care, he was nothing to me and I decided to be amused.
"Oh, I have really small genitalia", he shamefully admitted.
I nearly laughed out loud at his faux sincerity, so I decided to give it to him with both barrels.
"Show me", I said.
he hesitated, this was not the way it was supposed to go, but more than willingly got out the aforesaid genitalia, I peeked across, one eye squinting to my peripheral vision, couldn't see much,
"They look fine to me" I answered and drove him home to his unit.
He got a black eye from the girlfriend that night and who could blame her ? He walked in and poured himself into bed, leaving his pants on the floor with my filled out application for the Alpine Diary. With my name address, phone number, and mobile number. She freaked and dragged him back out of bed and hit him, he fended her off and said it was a work contact. She wasn't stupid, he'd been gone for 5 days, not even coming home from the airport. I knew later he would have left his suitcase at The Windsor Castle, where they often kept his bike chained up, outside, so he wouldn't ride home.
So the next day the phone started ringing off the hook, home and mobile. It was him, the Irish boy, who was actually 30 and he would not give up calling. I had cleaning jobs I was doing with Mara, homes, factories, offices. And the following day I was going off to mind my daughters and boyfriends unit for a week. They were heading off to Port Augusta for Andrews grandmothers 100th birthday. Just before they left I asked Debbie to bring me back a photo of Jamie's grave. I needed to know what it looked like for some reason. At that time the girls were negotiating with me to give up Laurens ashes. So they could have a memorial, and I wanted to be on my own to do that, make that decision.
So I received phone calls all day from this mad Irishman, sometimes getting strangers to put in a plea on his behalf. I just laughed at him. I didn't need the drama, he had a girlfriend, what was he chasing me for?? I gave him no answer and ended up pulling the phone out of the wall. It was starting to get tedious and I had all this important "stuff" to do. I packed up went to Debbie and Andrews unit and breathed a sigh of relief and the phone started ringing. He had rung up Frank and got him to reveal Debbie's number. I was livid and turned the phone down. he rang 42 times.
And left 42 messages. I erased them.
Five days later I returned to Glen Waverley and Frank and Mara, no more phone calls, thank God! Debbie had returned with photos of Jamie's grave and I burst into tears as soon as I saw them. Jamie's grave had been hard to find, resting in an old graveyard not the main one. An old caretaker had tried to help and Debbie had looked at the hundreds of grass covered grave stones he pointed her to. She stood in the middle and wondered which way to turn and for some reason she turned around and there he was, right behind her. The name barely discernible, black texta graffitied on the front "RIP Jamie" of a rusted iron cross. It broke my heart that photo and I said, crying,
Is this the best we can do for my brother?"
I was sobbing, almost 40 years on and all the memories came flooding back and I was ashamed of my parents for not giving him something beautiful. So I copied the picture and sent a copy to all my brothers and sisters and said,
"Is this the best we can do for our beautiful brother?"
And they responded straight away. asking how to help, organising a memorial to be built. My sister was the powerhouse behind it, and it was done, and at the same time something very weird happened but I will leave that story for another time.
Back to Neville. No more phone calls, good!
Then one spectacularly hot day Mara and I arrived home and decided to have a few cold beers. We were exhausted and hot after doing "The Factory" that morning. we had a weekly contract to do a factory in Caulfield, a food factory and the place was the filthiest thing you had ever seen, It was totally disgusting but we did it as the money was excellent. The dutch lady that owned it giving us her house to clean and her Mothers in Brighton. So we proceeded to get as drunk as lords, weaving around the lounge room to Counting Crows, "Round here" full blaring on the stereo.
I picked up the phone and asked for an Irvine in Caulfield, the operator gave it to me and I left a message on the phone, even though the tape had a woman's voice on it, saying She and Nev were not home. I felt awful after I left it and wished I could have rung back and erased it. Frank arrived home shortly after and made us drink coffee till it was coming out of our ears. It was a bit of a change in the household, Frank sobering us up instead of the other way round. the phone rang and it was Neville, out of breath from running to the phone box at the end of his street.
"Don't ever do that again". he said seriously pissed off at me leaving a message.
"OK", I said and went to hang up.
"Wait, wait, I'm delighted you did" he said
"Lunch tomorrow," He asked.
"OK", I said and we made arrangements for me to pick him up the next day from work at lunchtime and talk.
I took extra care with what I wore that day, something colourful and he remembered the outfit forever. I wore a pretty soft pastel green dress, waisted, square cut neckline, tight around the bust, flowing over hips in a full skirt, no jewellery, and a short sleeved white bolero in a lacy pattern. I was 42, divorced, and about to go on a date with a 30 year old.
Was I crazy?? A few days before I met him I had cut off all my hair and had it blonded and Simon said at Zach's birth he loved it and I looked like the girl out of Roxette. Yeah Right ! But I felt good and he was waiting for me at the carpark of where he worked. He kissed me as if he had known me forever and I didn't react. We went to the Notting Hill Pub, for lunch.
He was intelligent, very intelligent and so terribly damaged, his hands shook with what looked like the DT's. I told him off and told him he better get his drinking under control, he was too young to be shaking and sweating as he was. He was better after he had 2 beers and was going to try and skive off work for the afternoon but I would not let him and feeling like his Mother dropped him back to work. And 3 weeks later we were still seeing each other, he said later he knew he was in love then, when he would cycle to our house in Glen Waverley, up and down the steep hills and riding a bike with one pedal.
And he would arrive to visit, always with a gift of alcohol or squashed flowers and I treated him like dirt. Like I didn't want him there or he was an idiot. He arrived one day at lunchtime at the house, out of breath and wanted to waltz me around the lounge room and I was livid. Telling him to go back to work and not be so silly, I had vacuuming to do and his fervour scared me a little, tell the truth.
But other times we would sit and watch David and Margaret "At the Movies" and he was interesting and well read, had strong opinions about everything. He took me to art house movies at the Trak and The George, we wondered down hot streets in St Kilda and Windsor, totally immersed in a conversation. We knew very quickly what the other was thinking and knew the attraction was growing. So I put my foot down and insisted he tell his girlfriend and move out from her.
He did. he had to get himself mightily drunk to do it and it was not nice, not nice at all. His Girlfriend went nuts, she was his age, I was an old granny, and I think she had hung out for 7-8 years hoping to get married and have kids. Neville was not one to pull punches either, he had always told her he was never getting married or having kids. I knew that was true he had told me that straight away when I had first met him. And it was one of those statements that you knew a man really means. Even as a young man Neville had never wanted children, nor marriage. he was a drunk and he liked it. he reasoned he could barely be responsible for himself, never mind others, wife, child.
I received a hate letter, which Nev didn't even want to acknowledge came from her. He was a very honourable man in that way, Neville, He had the greatest respect for his former girlfriend, only ever spoke of her in good ways and said he was the bad one and had broken her heart. I liked that about him. He didn't believe in running other women down to make himself feel good. Frank was the same, I liked that about both of them. They both never abused women, verbally. liking women and trusting them.
Neville introduced me to meet all the crowd at the Windsor Castle in Windsor. Most of them were members of the South Yarra Soccer Club, based at Fawkner Park. The people were incredible, English, Irish, Scottish, some Aussies. All welcoming, all tolerant of the drunken Irishman, photos of his genitalia decorated the pin board in the pool room. told you he was an old hand at it!
The publican locked Neville's bike up with a chain if he was too drunk. Everyone at the Windsor drank heaps, smoked heaps, sang heaps and loved each other like long lost friends. The banter and bonhomie in that Pub was the best ever to me. And I fell in love with the life, the outgoing, funny, self deprecating and witty people so dedicated to their club. The standard they played not high but good enough.
Neville had won player of the year in the reserves and his best friend Declan in the firsts. Ironically both of the "winners" had both been thrown out of the presentation for being too drunk. Neville had laid down on a bench and two men approached him and proceeded to try and rape him. he took off like a hare and he might have been a drunk but he was fit. Really fit. He scaled the fence of the park and impaled himself on the pointed fence post, He gouged out most of the muscle at the top of his leg, bore a horrible scar.
Luckily the taxi driver who picked him up off the road, bleeding horribly, believed him and took him straight to the hospital and he was there for weeks, received criminal compensation and that money is what he had used for his recent trip to Dublin. Where he had just returned from when I met him. The scar no longer hurt and never affected his ability to play soccer, but he ate well and exercised all the time. He LOVED his game of soccer, kicking left footed and he was left handed as well.
And I grew to love the man. We walked hand in hand down hot Windsor streets, falling down together in front yards in the dark and kissing. We were drunk on love and a lot of beer. he taught me to drink quickly and not be too drunk. He could easily drink 15 pots an hour. He was a legend to the others and a buffoon, a figure of fun, when he was out of control and started taking off all his clothes. Which everyone encouraged. Not to be mean, he loved the outrageousness of himself. And the rest of the time he was as quiet as a mouse, nerdy almost and acting amazed at his drunken antics.
He was a conundrum, this "Nifty Nev" as the girls started calling him or just Nifty. he took me everywhere, always, announcing me as "The Darling"
"The darling is here"
He hung off my every word like golden honey flowed from my lips, it didn't but it was sweet of him to think so. We went everywhere together, the city, the Art Gallery, Out to dinner at Munroes and Dips and places in the country and the beach. We went to Queenscliff for holidays and all the while we talked and talked and talked. He could match me and we had a meeting of the minds type of relationship. We went to raucous parties in St Kilda and the nights would always end the same with someone in tears singing,
The Fields Of Athenrye"
Jimmy, the butcher, and The big gorgeous Scottish Dave Chapman ( Chappy) and Lenny the fey and funny Scot, who was always out of his gourd on something, Neville called him Trainspotter. Lenny died of a drug overdose, dying in his flat with his girlfriend stepping over his inert body the next morning, before realising he was quite dead. We mourned Lenny for a long time and bought Andrea Bocelli's Romanza and played it for him, Lenny, on beautiful Sunday Evenings, beautiful music for a beautiful man.
I met them all , the South Yarra Soccer Club social club and coaches and trainers and was surrounded by love and acceptance, they were happy to see Neville happy as he was one of theirs and he often said if it hadn't been for Soccer he would have been dead a long time before. He had to stay sober for training and games and respected his club to be able to do that. he bought me books from the old bookshops in St Kilda and South Melbourne market. The books he knew I loved. Sue Grafton and the alphabet mysteries. Writing in the fly leaf, to my darling. When we first met I was wearing Dune by Christain Dior, and that is the fragrance he always made me wear from then on.
When we finally moved in together I was terrified. he had wanted me to move in with him as soon as he split from Vicky but I thought he needed some time out. He asked me in early Feb 1996, but didn't move in together until The October. In the mean time he shared with Declan his childhood friend, A gorgeous human being. He had the deepest voice and would sound almost like a mafioso when I rang to speak to Neville. It sounded like harsh treacle if that makes sense, dark and menacing at first then funny, then sweet. He was our go between Me and Neville for a while, I would ring him he would ring Neville and he would ring me from the call box, while he packed his things to move out from Vicky's.
She didn't seem to be that bothered that they had split up, she bought a unit In Parkdale and met a new man all in very quick succession after parting from Neville. He was quite happy too and we saw a lot of each other and then moved in together. Dec was off around Australia with Sue his girlfriend and we could rent his flat out, together, All by ourselves. So on the first day I stood in the middle of the kitchen and cried. Neville was upset, he'd bought champagne and a full bottle of Cougar Bourbon for me. He kissed me and hugged me and asked me what was wrong
"What are we going to talk about ", I wailed
I was used to a big family and here it was just him and me and he had no kids, and mine were grown. And of course we never stopped talking from then on. We had "An Old Bitch" of a sort of landlady, a tall rangy country woman, who was 90 if she was a day. She kept an eye on the flats for the Owner, but was mainly a self appointed upholder of "all the things people might do while living in flats, especially little Irish Bastards like Nev and Decco". Nev loathed her but was always polite, she less so.
One time we were trying to wrestle a fridge up the stairs, huffing and puffing, and she appeared, Mrs Mangle as we called her. We both were red in the face and panting from our exertions, Mrs Mangles head appeared from below us.
You lot had better not be moving someone else in", she bellowed.
We cracked up, Nev wedged between the wall and the door, trapped,
"No", he yelled, " just moving in a new fridge in "
and he stuck out his tongue at her and we continued on our merry way, sputtering with hysteria that always overcame us at the most inconvenient times. we were so happy in that flat In Scott Grove in Glen Iris. I was well away from my grown girls and Nev thought this was great. He had no idea how to get on with kids, anyway, and made it plain. But he best thing he did for me was restore my faith in Men, he was loving, non demanding, cooked, he worshiped me and for that I can't thank him enough. he healed me, he healed my hurt and would let me cry about Lauren, just hold me until I was sensible again.
He challenged everything about me. He was a strong unionist, he was a hard and willing worker but when he didn't want to work, he wouldn't. He made sure I was not a doormat to my kids, which I wanted to be, not them, me. I needed to be needed, he got me through all that. He had no time for pretentiousness or bull shit. he hated the Corrs, Riverdance, anything that was too "twee" Irish. We went to movies twice a week, or a market, out to dinner as everything in Glen Iris was within train, tram, walking distance. We dined at Dips Tavern and it soon became our most favourite place except for the Windsor on a Saturday afternoon after a Match, and then again on Sunday for dinner and more drinks, until we would wind our way back to the flat arm in arm.
He was fastidious unless he was drunk, which was often. He would take me to places he loved and people he loved and they loved him. many of his friends he had grown up with in Palmerstown, Dublin, some like Decco from the same street. He was a good and loyal friend, well liked and respected and tolerated. He was always interested in other people, curious and people thought he was the most intelligent man they had ever met and one of the most troubled.
Everyone who knew him from childhood knew that he had a terrible one. His Father a loud, bullish man who was jealous of his intelligent son and beat him savagely. One time Decco and Decco's Da, seeing the shadow of the father beating Nev, shadowed on the blind, the image forever in Decco's mind and wanting to break in and help him. But that was not done then, the Father a well respected man, who worked for Aer Lingus all his life and dropped dead at 55, fit and well but had retired early. Nev's Dad died when my Dad was in his last grand battle for life. Nev didn't shed a tear, ever, for his father. I did and I lit a candle. He didn't care, not at all,
"Just because he's dead, Janette, doesn't make him any less of a bastard to me", he said
and I shut up after that. He didn't fly to the funeral as it would have been too late, anyway. The death was sudden, his Mother in full mourning with his 3 sisters, he being the eldest and the big disappointment to the family, well he always felt like that. I am not sure how they did feel about him, exasperated mostly. They all had careers and partners and didn't drink like Nev. They hated his drinking and I think his Mum said many a rosary for him, but nothing worked. They adored him however with all his faults, and he adored them and was faintly jealous of their triumphs and also immensely proud.
We survived 15 years before we parted. I had taken him to counselling, AA, doctors endlessly, trying to "Fix" him, Save Him, I made him get his licence, buy a car, get a steady job and I wanted the fine Man that was under the alcoholic to be whole. I had no frame for this serious an addiction and was helpless. I went to Al Anon, with Yvette as she was struggling with Simon, same thing, alcohol. We hated alcohol and I stopped drinking with Nev, I smashed bottles, I pleaded, ignored and finally one day he said,
"Janette, don't ever ask me to stop drinking"
He had been on Antabuse, a 10 week stay in a psychiatric hospital and he still wanted to drink.
I was glad for his honesty and we parted amicably and well. We split the money from the last house in Noble Park and he bought me a brand new washing machine as a goodbye present. He let me keep the engagement ring he had bought me. I had the roses and the perfume, I cried the day we signed the documents to sell the house and he was drunk and laughing.
I met someone else around a year later and shockingly my son in laws brother died at 31. My son in law and daughter took it on themselves to pay for his funeral themselves. They were a struggling couple with a mortgage and 4 kids and were doing it tough. Nev had come to the funeral to pay his respects and disappeared. I heard later he had gone to the Old Dandy in Dandenong, met my new fella, the Public bar Manager, wished him well and left. A few days later my son in law answered the door to a knock and standing there was Nev. He handed over an envelope of money.
Dean my son in law waved the money away.
Nev persisted.
"its for the funeral. I had a good week, please let me help"
Dean reluctantly took the envelope, inside $500 in cash. He never got over this small kindness and neither did Alena. Alena thinks i should get back with him, as she loved him the most. He also promised me all his super when he dies, unless I remarried. As my ex husband had left me with nothing and he thought that unmanly. Aww, love you Nev. You and I know you happy where you are, wherever you are. Wending your "Lonely way back Home" with a six pack under one arm and a quarter chicken and chips under the other. Your feet tripping you up and one goal and one goal in mind. Home. And " The Bill", if it's Saturday night or the soccer on any other. Hope Man City wins for you "darling heart" and here is your favourite Kris Kristoffersen song that I said resembled you.
See him wasted on the sidewalk in his jacket and his jeans,
Wearin' yesterday's misfortunes like a smile
Once he had a future full of money, love, and dreams,
Which he spent like they was goin' outa style
And he keeps right on a'changin' for the better or the worse,
Searchin' for a shrine he's never found
Never knowin' if believin' is a blessin' or a curse,
Or if the goin' up was worth the comin' down
CHORUS:
He's a poet, he's a picker
He's a prophet, he's a pusher
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's stoned
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.
He has tasted good and evil in your bedrooms and your bars,
And he's traded in tomorrow for today
Runnin' from his devils, Lord, and reachin' for the stars,
And losin' all he's loved along the way
But if this world keeps right on turnin' for the better or the worse,
And all he ever gets is older and around
From the rockin' of the cradle to the rollin' of the hearse,
The goin' up was worth the comin' down
CHORUS:
He's a poet, he's a picker
He's a prophet, he's a pusher
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's stoned
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.
There's a lotta wrong directions on that lonely way back home.
May you always find your way home, safely, Nev xoxo ---- The Darling
I waited impatiently at the table covered in Alpine Diary requests, dirty beer glasses and sticky fingerprints. I was at Molly Blooms in Port Melbourne, it was Sunday the 15th January 1995. My newest grandson Zachary Rhys had just been born 5 days prior and it was time to celebrate. Mara and I could not put up with one more drippy Sunday with Frank ironing and waiting for the call that would never come. He would play his new Chieftains tape over and over and Mara I had enough. We decided to persuade him to go out, settled on the Marine in Brighton. And on the way there we changed our minds and Mara and Frank decided we needed some Irish Music. Real Irish music. So we headed for The Flower in Port Melbourne.
The place was dead, no entertainment at all and half empty. Frank and Mara had bragged of being patrons of the place, I myself who had never been there thought it was awful. I up to that point had never liked pubs. My parents were tee teetotalers that never drank and only low people hung around in them. So we decided to head off to Molly Blooms and were relieved to find that an authentic Irish band was going to be there at 4pm. It was 1pm. I was the nominated driver and Frank and Mara decided to make the most of this opportunity and drink themselves under the table.
I sat drumming my fingers on the table after wiping down the stool I was sitting on. Mara and Frank were having a ball and there was me, alone and bored. I'd had my 2 standard drinks, lager and lime and now had to sober up to drive this pair of drunks home. They had joined another table by then and waved across to me with lots of thumbs up gestures.
"Bastards", I thought.
The next thing a man plonked himself down next to me, I had seen him dancing on the dance floor by himself earlier. I think Mara had pointed him out guffawing at his antics. I just ignored her and him and began filling out one of the application forms for an Alpine Diary. I was at a Crossroads in my life, 3 grand kids at 42, sharing a house with my foster daughter and friend. Where was I going ???
"Give us a kiss, Blondie", the mans voice next to me said.
I leaned away from him, he reeked of alcohol and I was tempted to grab out my perfume and spray him. But he was undeterred. Frank and Mara were laughing at me from across the way. Mara making circling motion at her forehead. I turned around and kissed him, he was shocked but he was a great kisser, even though drunk as a lord. Mara and Frank's faces were a study, goggle eyed and slack jawed.
"Fuck them", I thought.
They were always having fun, getting drunk and I was like the den Mother all the time, bollocks to that. I was in rebellion. Big time. I was angry, I vibrated with it, nerves stretched to breaking point. It was six years since Lauren had died. Six years, Compassionate Friends, had told me on one of my many desperate phone calls to them, was when you could expect to start living again, not 5 years or ten but six, for some strange reason.
The previous years were a blur of mostly terrible times. Good times too, Jade having been born a pink and white porcelain doll, she was breathtakingly lovely and Zach now. a screwed up angry face with a blue vein pulsing in his head. He had come so quickly, one push and out, Yvette was turning into the baby machine that she is today. She believes her Sister, Lauren wants her to have lots. Lauren always loved a baby or ten.
So when this young Irish boy started talking I realised he was very very drunk and very very intelligent at the same time. A Brendan Behan, who could quote reams of poetry and Gaelic and even second strange languages when blindingly drunk. We watched The Two Scottish comedians, no authentic Irish Music, after all.
"How ironic" I thought.
He asked me if I would give him a lift home, he lived in Caulfield. Turned out he was living with a girl, a very nice girl, who he didn't love. I yawned then. Told Frank and Mara I was off and they waved me away, said they would catch a cab home. Bit pricey from Port Melbourne to Glen Waverley I thought but figured Frank book it up to expenses and when the boss refused would have to fork it out himself. They seemed settled in for a big session.
The Irish boy, first name Thomas, second name Neville, then Irvine, had told me he had returned from Ireland the previous Thursday and hadn't been home yet. To his waiting girlfriend. But as he said he didn't love her. And I believed him. I glanced at him, this young boy, who looked all of 19 and thought
"What the hell was I doing, letting him in the car, he could be an axe murderer for all I knew?"
But he was quiet and polite and even though he had been drinking non stop for 5 days he was still lucid and unbelievably wordy and well spoken, until....
"I have a problem with women", he said, trying to sound sad and sincere.
"Really!", I shot back, "and why would that be?"
I realised this was a well worn pick up line of his, along with the " Give us a kiss Blondie, " but I didn't care, he was nothing to me and I decided to be amused.
"Oh, I have really small genitalia", he shamefully admitted.
I nearly laughed out loud at his faux sincerity, so I decided to give it to him with both barrels.
"Show me", I said.
he hesitated, this was not the way it was supposed to go, but more than willingly got out the aforesaid genitalia, I peeked across, one eye squinting to my peripheral vision, couldn't see much,
"They look fine to me" I answered and drove him home to his unit.
He got a black eye from the girlfriend that night and who could blame her ? He walked in and poured himself into bed, leaving his pants on the floor with my filled out application for the Alpine Diary. With my name address, phone number, and mobile number. She freaked and dragged him back out of bed and hit him, he fended her off and said it was a work contact. She wasn't stupid, he'd been gone for 5 days, not even coming home from the airport. I knew later he would have left his suitcase at The Windsor Castle, where they often kept his bike chained up, outside, so he wouldn't ride home.
So the next day the phone started ringing off the hook, home and mobile. It was him, the Irish boy, who was actually 30 and he would not give up calling. I had cleaning jobs I was doing with Mara, homes, factories, offices. And the following day I was going off to mind my daughters and boyfriends unit for a week. They were heading off to Port Augusta for Andrews grandmothers 100th birthday. Just before they left I asked Debbie to bring me back a photo of Jamie's grave. I needed to know what it looked like for some reason. At that time the girls were negotiating with me to give up Laurens ashes. So they could have a memorial, and I wanted to be on my own to do that, make that decision.
So I received phone calls all day from this mad Irishman, sometimes getting strangers to put in a plea on his behalf. I just laughed at him. I didn't need the drama, he had a girlfriend, what was he chasing me for?? I gave him no answer and ended up pulling the phone out of the wall. It was starting to get tedious and I had all this important "stuff" to do. I packed up went to Debbie and Andrews unit and breathed a sigh of relief and the phone started ringing. He had rung up Frank and got him to reveal Debbie's number. I was livid and turned the phone down. he rang 42 times.
And left 42 messages. I erased them.
Five days later I returned to Glen Waverley and Frank and Mara, no more phone calls, thank God! Debbie had returned with photos of Jamie's grave and I burst into tears as soon as I saw them. Jamie's grave had been hard to find, resting in an old graveyard not the main one. An old caretaker had tried to help and Debbie had looked at the hundreds of grass covered grave stones he pointed her to. She stood in the middle and wondered which way to turn and for some reason she turned around and there he was, right behind her. The name barely discernible, black texta graffitied on the front "RIP Jamie" of a rusted iron cross. It broke my heart that photo and I said, crying,
Is this the best we can do for my brother?"
I was sobbing, almost 40 years on and all the memories came flooding back and I was ashamed of my parents for not giving him something beautiful. So I copied the picture and sent a copy to all my brothers and sisters and said,
"Is this the best we can do for our beautiful brother?"
And they responded straight away. asking how to help, organising a memorial to be built. My sister was the powerhouse behind it, and it was done, and at the same time something very weird happened but I will leave that story for another time.
Back to Neville. No more phone calls, good!
Then one spectacularly hot day Mara and I arrived home and decided to have a few cold beers. We were exhausted and hot after doing "The Factory" that morning. we had a weekly contract to do a factory in Caulfield, a food factory and the place was the filthiest thing you had ever seen, It was totally disgusting but we did it as the money was excellent. The dutch lady that owned it giving us her house to clean and her Mothers in Brighton. So we proceeded to get as drunk as lords, weaving around the lounge room to Counting Crows, "Round here" full blaring on the stereo.
I picked up the phone and asked for an Irvine in Caulfield, the operator gave it to me and I left a message on the phone, even though the tape had a woman's voice on it, saying She and Nev were not home. I felt awful after I left it and wished I could have rung back and erased it. Frank arrived home shortly after and made us drink coffee till it was coming out of our ears. It was a bit of a change in the household, Frank sobering us up instead of the other way round. the phone rang and it was Neville, out of breath from running to the phone box at the end of his street.
"Don't ever do that again". he said seriously pissed off at me leaving a message.
"OK", I said and went to hang up.
"Wait, wait, I'm delighted you did" he said
"Lunch tomorrow," He asked.
"OK", I said and we made arrangements for me to pick him up the next day from work at lunchtime and talk.
I took extra care with what I wore that day, something colourful and he remembered the outfit forever. I wore a pretty soft pastel green dress, waisted, square cut neckline, tight around the bust, flowing over hips in a full skirt, no jewellery, and a short sleeved white bolero in a lacy pattern. I was 42, divorced, and about to go on a date with a 30 year old.
Was I crazy?? A few days before I met him I had cut off all my hair and had it blonded and Simon said at Zach's birth he loved it and I looked like the girl out of Roxette. Yeah Right ! But I felt good and he was waiting for me at the carpark of where he worked. He kissed me as if he had known me forever and I didn't react. We went to the Notting Hill Pub, for lunch.
He was intelligent, very intelligent and so terribly damaged, his hands shook with what looked like the DT's. I told him off and told him he better get his drinking under control, he was too young to be shaking and sweating as he was. He was better after he had 2 beers and was going to try and skive off work for the afternoon but I would not let him and feeling like his Mother dropped him back to work. And 3 weeks later we were still seeing each other, he said later he knew he was in love then, when he would cycle to our house in Glen Waverley, up and down the steep hills and riding a bike with one pedal.
And he would arrive to visit, always with a gift of alcohol or squashed flowers and I treated him like dirt. Like I didn't want him there or he was an idiot. He arrived one day at lunchtime at the house, out of breath and wanted to waltz me around the lounge room and I was livid. Telling him to go back to work and not be so silly, I had vacuuming to do and his fervour scared me a little, tell the truth.
But other times we would sit and watch David and Margaret "At the Movies" and he was interesting and well read, had strong opinions about everything. He took me to art house movies at the Trak and The George, we wondered down hot streets in St Kilda and Windsor, totally immersed in a conversation. We knew very quickly what the other was thinking and knew the attraction was growing. So I put my foot down and insisted he tell his girlfriend and move out from her.
He did. he had to get himself mightily drunk to do it and it was not nice, not nice at all. His Girlfriend went nuts, she was his age, I was an old granny, and I think she had hung out for 7-8 years hoping to get married and have kids. Neville was not one to pull punches either, he had always told her he was never getting married or having kids. I knew that was true he had told me that straight away when I had first met him. And it was one of those statements that you knew a man really means. Even as a young man Neville had never wanted children, nor marriage. he was a drunk and he liked it. he reasoned he could barely be responsible for himself, never mind others, wife, child.
I received a hate letter, which Nev didn't even want to acknowledge came from her. He was a very honourable man in that way, Neville, He had the greatest respect for his former girlfriend, only ever spoke of her in good ways and said he was the bad one and had broken her heart. I liked that about him. He didn't believe in running other women down to make himself feel good. Frank was the same, I liked that about both of them. They both never abused women, verbally. liking women and trusting them.
Neville introduced me to meet all the crowd at the Windsor Castle in Windsor. Most of them were members of the South Yarra Soccer Club, based at Fawkner Park. The people were incredible, English, Irish, Scottish, some Aussies. All welcoming, all tolerant of the drunken Irishman, photos of his genitalia decorated the pin board in the pool room. told you he was an old hand at it!
The publican locked Neville's bike up with a chain if he was too drunk. Everyone at the Windsor drank heaps, smoked heaps, sang heaps and loved each other like long lost friends. The banter and bonhomie in that Pub was the best ever to me. And I fell in love with the life, the outgoing, funny, self deprecating and witty people so dedicated to their club. The standard they played not high but good enough.
Neville had won player of the year in the reserves and his best friend Declan in the firsts. Ironically both of the "winners" had both been thrown out of the presentation for being too drunk. Neville had laid down on a bench and two men approached him and proceeded to try and rape him. he took off like a hare and he might have been a drunk but he was fit. Really fit. He scaled the fence of the park and impaled himself on the pointed fence post, He gouged out most of the muscle at the top of his leg, bore a horrible scar.
Luckily the taxi driver who picked him up off the road, bleeding horribly, believed him and took him straight to the hospital and he was there for weeks, received criminal compensation and that money is what he had used for his recent trip to Dublin. Where he had just returned from when I met him. The scar no longer hurt and never affected his ability to play soccer, but he ate well and exercised all the time. He LOVED his game of soccer, kicking left footed and he was left handed as well.
And I grew to love the man. We walked hand in hand down hot Windsor streets, falling down together in front yards in the dark and kissing. We were drunk on love and a lot of beer. he taught me to drink quickly and not be too drunk. He could easily drink 15 pots an hour. He was a legend to the others and a buffoon, a figure of fun, when he was out of control and started taking off all his clothes. Which everyone encouraged. Not to be mean, he loved the outrageousness of himself. And the rest of the time he was as quiet as a mouse, nerdy almost and acting amazed at his drunken antics.
He was a conundrum, this "Nifty Nev" as the girls started calling him or just Nifty. he took me everywhere, always, announcing me as "The Darling"
"The darling is here"
He hung off my every word like golden honey flowed from my lips, it didn't but it was sweet of him to think so. We went everywhere together, the city, the Art Gallery, Out to dinner at Munroes and Dips and places in the country and the beach. We went to Queenscliff for holidays and all the while we talked and talked and talked. He could match me and we had a meeting of the minds type of relationship. We went to raucous parties in St Kilda and the nights would always end the same with someone in tears singing,
The Fields Of Athenrye"
Jimmy, the butcher, and The big gorgeous Scottish Dave Chapman ( Chappy) and Lenny the fey and funny Scot, who was always out of his gourd on something, Neville called him Trainspotter. Lenny died of a drug overdose, dying in his flat with his girlfriend stepping over his inert body the next morning, before realising he was quite dead. We mourned Lenny for a long time and bought Andrea Bocelli's Romanza and played it for him, Lenny, on beautiful Sunday Evenings, beautiful music for a beautiful man.
I met them all , the South Yarra Soccer Club social club and coaches and trainers and was surrounded by love and acceptance, they were happy to see Neville happy as he was one of theirs and he often said if it hadn't been for Soccer he would have been dead a long time before. He had to stay sober for training and games and respected his club to be able to do that. he bought me books from the old bookshops in St Kilda and South Melbourne market. The books he knew I loved. Sue Grafton and the alphabet mysteries. Writing in the fly leaf, to my darling. When we first met I was wearing Dune by Christain Dior, and that is the fragrance he always made me wear from then on.
When we finally moved in together I was terrified. he had wanted me to move in with him as soon as he split from Vicky but I thought he needed some time out. He asked me in early Feb 1996, but didn't move in together until The October. In the mean time he shared with Declan his childhood friend, A gorgeous human being. He had the deepest voice and would sound almost like a mafioso when I rang to speak to Neville. It sounded like harsh treacle if that makes sense, dark and menacing at first then funny, then sweet. He was our go between Me and Neville for a while, I would ring him he would ring Neville and he would ring me from the call box, while he packed his things to move out from Vicky's.
She didn't seem to be that bothered that they had split up, she bought a unit In Parkdale and met a new man all in very quick succession after parting from Neville. He was quite happy too and we saw a lot of each other and then moved in together. Dec was off around Australia with Sue his girlfriend and we could rent his flat out, together, All by ourselves. So on the first day I stood in the middle of the kitchen and cried. Neville was upset, he'd bought champagne and a full bottle of Cougar Bourbon for me. He kissed me and hugged me and asked me what was wrong
"What are we going to talk about ", I wailed
I was used to a big family and here it was just him and me and he had no kids, and mine were grown. And of course we never stopped talking from then on. We had "An Old Bitch" of a sort of landlady, a tall rangy country woman, who was 90 if she was a day. She kept an eye on the flats for the Owner, but was mainly a self appointed upholder of "all the things people might do while living in flats, especially little Irish Bastards like Nev and Decco". Nev loathed her but was always polite, she less so.
One time we were trying to wrestle a fridge up the stairs, huffing and puffing, and she appeared, Mrs Mangle as we called her. We both were red in the face and panting from our exertions, Mrs Mangles head appeared from below us.
You lot had better not be moving someone else in", she bellowed.
We cracked up, Nev wedged between the wall and the door, trapped,
"No", he yelled, " just moving in a new fridge in "
and he stuck out his tongue at her and we continued on our merry way, sputtering with hysteria that always overcame us at the most inconvenient times. we were so happy in that flat In Scott Grove in Glen Iris. I was well away from my grown girls and Nev thought this was great. He had no idea how to get on with kids, anyway, and made it plain. But he best thing he did for me was restore my faith in Men, he was loving, non demanding, cooked, he worshiped me and for that I can't thank him enough. he healed me, he healed my hurt and would let me cry about Lauren, just hold me until I was sensible again.
He challenged everything about me. He was a strong unionist, he was a hard and willing worker but when he didn't want to work, he wouldn't. He made sure I was not a doormat to my kids, which I wanted to be, not them, me. I needed to be needed, he got me through all that. He had no time for pretentiousness or bull shit. he hated the Corrs, Riverdance, anything that was too "twee" Irish. We went to movies twice a week, or a market, out to dinner as everything in Glen Iris was within train, tram, walking distance. We dined at Dips Tavern and it soon became our most favourite place except for the Windsor on a Saturday afternoon after a Match, and then again on Sunday for dinner and more drinks, until we would wind our way back to the flat arm in arm.
He was fastidious unless he was drunk, which was often. He would take me to places he loved and people he loved and they loved him. many of his friends he had grown up with in Palmerstown, Dublin, some like Decco from the same street. He was a good and loyal friend, well liked and respected and tolerated. He was always interested in other people, curious and people thought he was the most intelligent man they had ever met and one of the most troubled.
Everyone who knew him from childhood knew that he had a terrible one. His Father a loud, bullish man who was jealous of his intelligent son and beat him savagely. One time Decco and Decco's Da, seeing the shadow of the father beating Nev, shadowed on the blind, the image forever in Decco's mind and wanting to break in and help him. But that was not done then, the Father a well respected man, who worked for Aer Lingus all his life and dropped dead at 55, fit and well but had retired early. Nev's Dad died when my Dad was in his last grand battle for life. Nev didn't shed a tear, ever, for his father. I did and I lit a candle. He didn't care, not at all,
"Just because he's dead, Janette, doesn't make him any less of a bastard to me", he said
and I shut up after that. He didn't fly to the funeral as it would have been too late, anyway. The death was sudden, his Mother in full mourning with his 3 sisters, he being the eldest and the big disappointment to the family, well he always felt like that. I am not sure how they did feel about him, exasperated mostly. They all had careers and partners and didn't drink like Nev. They hated his drinking and I think his Mum said many a rosary for him, but nothing worked. They adored him however with all his faults, and he adored them and was faintly jealous of their triumphs and also immensely proud.
We survived 15 years before we parted. I had taken him to counselling, AA, doctors endlessly, trying to "Fix" him, Save Him, I made him get his licence, buy a car, get a steady job and I wanted the fine Man that was under the alcoholic to be whole. I had no frame for this serious an addiction and was helpless. I went to Al Anon, with Yvette as she was struggling with Simon, same thing, alcohol. We hated alcohol and I stopped drinking with Nev, I smashed bottles, I pleaded, ignored and finally one day he said,
"Janette, don't ever ask me to stop drinking"
He had been on Antabuse, a 10 week stay in a psychiatric hospital and he still wanted to drink.
I was glad for his honesty and we parted amicably and well. We split the money from the last house in Noble Park and he bought me a brand new washing machine as a goodbye present. He let me keep the engagement ring he had bought me. I had the roses and the perfume, I cried the day we signed the documents to sell the house and he was drunk and laughing.
I met someone else around a year later and shockingly my son in laws brother died at 31. My son in law and daughter took it on themselves to pay for his funeral themselves. They were a struggling couple with a mortgage and 4 kids and were doing it tough. Nev had come to the funeral to pay his respects and disappeared. I heard later he had gone to the Old Dandy in Dandenong, met my new fella, the Public bar Manager, wished him well and left. A few days later my son in law answered the door to a knock and standing there was Nev. He handed over an envelope of money.
Dean my son in law waved the money away.
Nev persisted.
"its for the funeral. I had a good week, please let me help"
Dean reluctantly took the envelope, inside $500 in cash. He never got over this small kindness and neither did Alena. Alena thinks i should get back with him, as she loved him the most. He also promised me all his super when he dies, unless I remarried. As my ex husband had left me with nothing and he thought that unmanly. Aww, love you Nev. You and I know you happy where you are, wherever you are. Wending your "Lonely way back Home" with a six pack under one arm and a quarter chicken and chips under the other. Your feet tripping you up and one goal and one goal in mind. Home. And " The Bill", if it's Saturday night or the soccer on any other. Hope Man City wins for you "darling heart" and here is your favourite Kris Kristoffersen song that I said resembled you.
See him wasted on the sidewalk in his jacket and his jeans,
Wearin' yesterday's misfortunes like a smile
Once he had a future full of money, love, and dreams,
Which he spent like they was goin' outa style
And he keeps right on a'changin' for the better or the worse,
Searchin' for a shrine he's never found
Never knowin' if believin' is a blessin' or a curse,
Or if the goin' up was worth the comin' down
CHORUS:
He's a poet, he's a picker
He's a prophet, he's a pusher
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's stoned
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.
He has tasted good and evil in your bedrooms and your bars,
And he's traded in tomorrow for today
Runnin' from his devils, Lord, and reachin' for the stars,
And losin' all he's loved along the way
But if this world keeps right on turnin' for the better or the worse,
And all he ever gets is older and around
From the rockin' of the cradle to the rollin' of the hearse,
The goin' up was worth the comin' down
CHORUS:
He's a poet, he's a picker
He's a prophet, he's a pusher
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's stoned
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.
There's a lotta wrong directions on that lonely way back home.
May you always find your way home, safely, Nev xoxo ---- The Darling
