By Kevin Drum.
There wasn’t a publican or club manager who didn’t acknowledge him by name. Then there were the nodding acquaintances, train station attendants and guards, bus drivers, hairdressers, snooker hall managers, and taxi drivers. All were vital threads in the daily tapestry of his life.
Digby was my roommate in a boarding house, located in what is known as Sydney’s St George/Kogarah area, southwest of the city. It took some time for us to get to know each other, as I was working twelve-hour night shifts, and it was a couple of weeks before we caught up.
‘G’day Dig what’ll it be?’ asked the barman at the Penshurst Hotel.
‘Two schooners of Reschs thanks Barry,’ he replied. And don’t forget number seven in the fourth at …’
‘Yep Randwick, thanks Dig, let’s hope it’s a winner, eh?’ grinned Barry.
‘Now where were we?’ he said, patting his pockets and glancing over to me. ’How about one of those Rothmans before we get into it? Sorry mate, I haven’t got around to buying smokes today’
What a tale of woe he related, replete with tear-brimming emotion, as he described the break-up of the relationship with the girl he planned to marry. It came to an abrupt end when she told him six weeks prior to the wedding it was all off.
Somehow, and I wasn’t sure why, I was unable to raise a skerrick of sympathy for him? Maybe because it was at odds with the polished smooth-talking persona he presented, a man of the world, obviously used to having his own way. A ladies’ man with a charming persuasive manner, but which I surmised, could swiftly switch to aggression if provoked.
His mannerisms betrayed him. The polished speech and vain habit of smoothing back his hair. The almost-whining tone of voice, and inability to hold eye contact beyond seconds, all signals he must truly be believed, but in fact projected the exact opposite. He was senior to me by several years, my guess, he was about thirty.
We left an hour or two later, and although I never counted or put much worth on the trivialities of life, I realised with wry humour I was now four cigarettes and a couple of beers lighter.
A card game was arranged for the next Saturday evening, at the huge table in the communal dining area of the boarding-house, and I was looking forward to socialising with my fellow lodgers. Apparently, it wasn’t an unusual event, and although I enjoyed cards, I never considered myself an accomplished player, and seldom played for money.
I got dealt the highest card, so nominated Show Poker, and suggested some ground rules. No borrowing money from fellow players, and a maximum betting limit of twenty cents. The initial table chatter was the usual, regarding personal and job details.
‘What do you do and where’re you from Terry?’
‘Bank Teller mate, Parkes, and you?’
‘Truck mechanic, Auckland.’
‘Bloody kiwi, is the joint sinkin’ over there or something?’
‘More like blowing up,’ I answered to general laughter.
And so-on around the table until it was Digby’s turn. ‘What about you Digby?’ said Frank.
‘I’m local born and bred, between jobs at the moment, and on the dole.’
‘On the bloody dole mate, how can you afford to pay board, and gamble?’
The flash of anger in his eyes was instant, and disappeared as quickly as it came, ’I manage,’ he said.’ But no worries boys, I should hear back on a couple of jobs this week. She’ll be apples.’
It was a great night with a lot of good-natured banter, although Digby mentioned several times we should be playing real poker.
I changed jobs, which meant normal daytime working hours and train travel to and from Redfern. Often I would change trains to get off at my home stop. It was on one of these afternoons I saw Digby at the Hurstville station. He hadn’t seen me, and breezed through the barriers with a nod and a wave to the attendant, then went and sat on the city-side platform, next to a middle-aged man. He started chatting to the man, and botted a cigarette. The man then removed what looked like the horse-racing guide from the newspaper he’d been reading, and handed it to Digby.
There was nothing surprising about this, except Digby wasn’t where he should have been. He had been spinning the yarn he was working in another suburb, on a different train line. He had also been specific, that he was working afternoon shift, and joked it enabled him to keep gentlemen’s hours.
Something didn’t add up, but apart from mentioning it briefly to some of the others I put it from mind. One afternoon some weeks later, I arrived home from work to see a beautiful young woman standing at the front gate of the house, clutching some mail. She looked uncertain and bewildered. ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘can I help you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have some mail for Digby, is this where he lives?’
‘He sure does,’ I replied. ‘I’m his roommate, but he’s not home and we don’t usually see him until lat…’
‘How is he?’ she interrupted.
‘I don’t see a lot of him,’ I replied. ’He keeps to himself, but seems okay.’
‘Please don’t tell him I was here,’ she said, handing me the mail. ’Say you found the letters in the mailbox, or something, I’m sorry, I have to go.’ She turned to walk away, stopped, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
My emotional maturity was sadly lacking in the social graces, and the sight of a beautiful woman in distress was most upsetting. However, I tried my best and stammered, ’can I do anything for you?’
‘Thank you but no. I was silly enough to get engaged to Dig, and loved him dearly, but it all went awfully wrong. Sorry, I don’t mean to be any trouble.’
‘You’re no trouble at all,’ I assured her. ’At least let me walk you to the station, the fresh air will do us both some good,’
‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she said wiping away her tears and holding out her hand, ‘Thank you so much, I’m Kathy.’
It was a long two hundred metres, as between sobbing fits, piece by piece, her story unfolded.
‘Digby swept me off my feet just after my sixteenth birthday. He was so kind and attentive, and I was besotted with him. My parents warned me when he started borrowing money, but I didn’t care, he made me feel alive, and I was happy. Do you know that he’s never held a job for longer than two weeks in his entire life?
‘Then I started hearing rumours about his gambling, drinking, and womanising. I just couldn’t take any more. The final straw was when I found out he was acting as an escort for older women. Three years of my life wasted.’
‘I know I can’t make you feel better, ‘I said, ‘but as the hurt and grief passes, remember the good times you shared.’
‘You’re so sweet,’ she said, putting her hand on my arm. ’
‘You’ve made a tough call; it was either leave or face a life of misery and betrayal.’
‘Well, here’s my train,’ she smiled. ’Thank you for listening, I really do appreciate it.’
‘Good luck,’ I called, waving her goodbye.
Three of us had spent the Sunday afternoon at Cronulla beach. Tired hungry and sun-burned, on the way home we stopped off at a Hurstville milk bar for a hamburger. We ate in, and the meal was delicious; the cheery Italian shopkeeper was most attentive. When leaving we decided to grab a milkshake. Smiling he thanked us, handing over the shakes.’Grazie …how you say … gentlemens?’
Digby took one sip and exploded, hurling the contents over the man. ‘Powdered milk you penny-pinching wog bastard,’ he screamed, red with rage.
‘No sir,’ said the shopkeeper reeling back. ’No sir, its rea …’
‘Bullshit you fuckin’ money-hungry wog,’ he yelled, ‘give me my fuckin’ money back.’
We stood there aghast at this violent uncalled-for outburst, apologised profusely to the shopkeeper, and left. I was personally embarrassed, and furious that Digby had compromised us all with his ignorant tirade, and ruined what had been a great day. I couldn’t let it go unchallenged.
‘You’re a bloody embarrassment Dig’
‘Forget the lecture you kiwi prick,’ he snapped.
‘Forget the lecture, you arsehole? You’re nothing but a bigoted, bullying, lying pig, and that’s being unkind to pigs. Just like Kathy, we’ve finally got to see the real Digby, and I for one don’t like it.’
He stood there, mouth agape.
Wordless, he turned on his heel, and walked out of our lives.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kevin Drum is an avid aspiring writer. The eldest of seven children, he was born in 1944 in the tiny New Zealand town of Raetihi and emigrated to Australia in 1967. He satisfied his passion for big trucks working for truck companies, beginning as a mechanic and relief driver, then as a manager. From 1980 until his retirement in 2016, Kevin was in business, first in Mt Gambier, later in Melbourne.
A proud father of two wonderful daughters, with four granddaughters, and happily married to his beautiful wife of nearly twenty-five years, who also brought her two sons into his life, Kevin enjoys all types of reading, with a special interest in history and biographies. He enjoys sport and played rugby, but has now switched his allegiance to Australian Rules Football as a Sydney Swans supporter.
Kevin started writing ten years ago with letters to newspapers, commenting on current affairs which he continues to this day. He also commenced a personal memoir, but soon realised he needed guidance and skills improvement. He was a member of Melton Wordsmiths for several years, and joined Belmont Page/Geelong Writers after relocating in 2017 to enjoy life in retirement at Drysdale on the Bellarine Peninsula.
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