cht 8=1 the fagan of crown street

ch 8-pt 1    "The Fagan of Crown Street." 

SYDNEY-Sept, 1963- Bums gathered in an alley behind Commonwealth Street "God Is Love" church every Thursday and Sunday. At 6 p.m a door opened and 43 men and 4 women were served an excellent meal. Those with tolerance to sit through an (after-dinner) Baptist prayer service got extra cake. In '63 there were no young homeless that I could see: only me.

Near Circular Quay, (in another back alley) behind the (Catholic) St Vincent de Paul, different bums (and a few who’d gone to Kent Street) gathered. "St Vinnies" served (daily at 8 and 4-30 ) a mediocre, but appreciated, watery soup that smelt like a cup of tea and a cup of tea that smelt like soup. A bloke complained,

"There’s no meat in the soup today." and someone yelled,

"Then you're lucky. Those who got some yesterday are in the morgue now." He got a few laughs. 

At Kent Street one morning Fagan stepped out of Dickens' novel "Oliver Twist "and limped into my life. He looked 65, his clothes were third hand and a big hessian bag hung from his shoulder. He seemed well known. Men joked with him, one deliberately snubbed him and another sneered "dirty old poofter". Fagan laughed it off , sat down and ate with enjoyment. He was fascinatingly grotesque and I watched him from the corner of my eye. Stareing was unwise .It could lead to violence. He finished eating, slunk toward me and offered his hand.

"My name's Jack.... Jack McCarthy. ‘haven’t seen you here before". His large hooked nose was pock marked and his handshake lingered long and squeezed hard .

I thought,

"He's a poof....I hope no one watching thinks I'm one ... or that I'm his bum boy." I told him my name was Paul McKnight. It just popped into my head. I projected super-ultra-butch and tried to appear disdainfully dismissive in case blokes were watching us. Jack chatted on about some great Souths.v. Manly rugby league game and how I could come and listen to it on his excellent radio. He put out the offer.

"I live in a nice big house with lots of rooms. Do you have a place to stay? Other boys live there as well. You can stay if you need a place and do a few odd jobs around the house. Are you on the dole? You can have your cheque sent to my place. Gee, you're a very nice boy.....I can tell." 

With suspicion, I took his offer. If it was a ruse to get in my arse, then I'd just piss off. He didn't seem like he'd be difficult to escape from and it would be great to get on the dole or a job.

We took of through the morning city streets and, despite his limp, kept a pace I could just manage. On the way through Darlinghurst he threw me a sack and ordered,

"Help us get empties! The bottle-o gives ha'penny for beer bottles, 3 pence for lolly-water and 6 pence for screw-tops. You make good money pickin' up bottles."

 We searched every laneway and even plucked bottles from back yards. I hoped no girls saw me scrounging in bins but by the time we got to Crown Street our sacks were full. I could hardly carry mine. Fagan's place was a rundown double storied terrace house like others in Surry Hills. The small back yard was overgrown with weeds. Next to a wall was an old battered coffin with no lid. Climbing rickety outside stairs we hid our bottle stash under a pile of garbage.

"B******s 'round here will pinch whatever's not nailed down," he warned and fished around in several layers of clothes until ,like a jailer , he pulled out a big bundle of keys .He unlocked the door and ushered me into a small dark room .

 A blind was opened and I saw a table,2 chairs and an ancient mantle radio that Jack turned on .

"Sit down. That chair is the best. You young boys like the radio don't you.". Frank Ifield's song "I Remember You" spread out filling the room. Fagan tidied newspapers and strewn clothing then offered me tobacco in a tin. He explained

"It's flake: rub it between ya palms to break it up." I took the flake, rubbed it then rolled expertly saying,

"no worries: I know flake .Thanks mate." Fagan Jack lit it for me.

"It sounded like you said 'you're a snow flake'": he joked: then added,

"I bet you'd like a nice cup of tea wouldn't you. I'll get us some water". He went out and down the stairs. I looked around my new home. The single mattress smelled a little musty, the pile of old blankets didn’t smell bad and a garbage bin just smelt. I thought

"Bugger this joint .It's only one room. The city mission would be better than this. Where the hell are 'the other boys' he said live here? I'm gonna split." Fagan came back with a small saucepan of water and lit a tiny gas ring that smelt like it leaked.

''I pay the b******s 4 quid a week for this place and I don't even have an inside tap "he moaned. 

There was a commotion outside on the stairs. The door banged open and 3 laughing teenagers burst in. The biggest sat next to Jack, looked at me and whispered in Jack's hairy ear. Jack said,

"Boys, this is Paul: he's staying with us for a while. We’ll call him Big Paul" He pointed at the smallest kid and said,

"We’ve already got a "little" Paul, haven't we boys? "The big kid tuned the radio until he found a station he liked. The other two turned out their pockets on the table in front of Jack .Out came coins, 3 chocolate bars, a spanner set and a can of pea soup.

"We pinched all this from Woolie's. It was real easy. When we took them bottles to the bottle-o he reckoned there was 3 green ones. They're no good .He said don’t bring them sort no more. We got a quid for the lot." Jack asked,

"Where's the rest of the money then?"

The older boys smirked but the youngest looked worried and said

"We bought some smokes." Jack sighed and became serious,

"Where are they?"

"Here they are Jack." Looking like he was facing the judge to hear his sentence the little kid placed a crumpled packet of f**s in front of the old man.

''There's 4 ciggies left Jack. We saved 'em for ya'," he placed them in the old man's top pocket.

Jack looked stern. Oldest kid fiddled the radio until he got rock. "Leave it on 2GB Frank," Fagan yelled.

" I want to hear P***y and Charlie in a minute." Frank danced around miming the song lyric.

"Turn it BACK!!"the old bloke screamed. Little kid got off the mattress and switched it back. Big Frank made like to hit him. Little one flinched. Jack snarled,

"Bloody leave him alone you smart arse b*****d! Or you can piss off out of here!"Frank looked rebellious but didn't answer back. Jack told me names. Little Pauly had escaped Gosford Boys Home and the cops were looking for him. Jack went on,

"And this bugger is Robbie the robber: the best shop lifter in Australia. You watch him and you'll learn a bit." 

I told them about my time in Magill Boys Home. I called it "reform school". It sounded tougher. I wanted them to respect me so I volunteered the crimes I'd done and added some. Little Pauly described his Gosford incarceration. I pitied anyone put in there. Gosford made my Magill seem a holiday camp. And little Pauly had escaped! I was impressed and told him so. He beamed with pride. I don't think he'd had much praise in his life.

 

Next day I applied to get the dole. It took 6 weeks to get your first check mailed to your house and 19 years olds (like me) didn't get much. During the daytime we'd shoplift. We were not professionals --just kids getting candy and groceries. When left alone I began looking for houses to break into: but Sydney people looked so tough that I postponed break and enter. I did not fancy being caught by a Surry Hills local. The men looked like boxers--and some of the women also. 

I got the notion to rob drunken punters as they wobbled homeward from the Harold Park trot meeting but whenever I followed a bloke, I hadn't the heart to hit him with the thick walking stick I carried for the job. I'd tell myself to

"Wait until he falls down drunk, then pick his pockets as I pretend to help him up." The only time I did score a fall-downer, his pockets held only a soggy salad roll.

That's why I dislike the death penalty. With a little encouragement I would have hit a drunk on the head. He could have died. I'd have been hung or got 20 years. The idiot I was then is so unlike the person I became 5 years later. That's why capital punishment's a bummer justice-wise. 

I hung around the coin-in-the-slot Fun Palace near Pitt and Park Street. (There was another in George St. called "The Happiest Place on Earth," with a great electronic baseball game and bear-shooting machine, but Pitt St had a better jukebox.) I thought it'd be a good spot to meet girls. One Saturday, clean and well dressed in rocker style, I slouched around the games trying to look like James Dean. A plain clothed detective questioned me. I thought I was convincing him I was a normal teen but he saw through my bullshit and took me to Central Police Station.

"So I can check who you are and what you're up to."

When he saw my Adelaide police record and ascertained I had no legal means of support he charged me with Vagrancy. I didn't mention I lived at Jack the Fagan's because they’d arrest little Pauly and I'd probably still get busted. 

I was locked in a big holding cell with other crims and drunks and next morning was sentenced to three months hard labour. The black mariah (big van of steel, dark inside, no windows) came at 4pm and crims sentenced that day were loaded in and driven to Long Bay Gaol. At 5 pm we entered the cold steel gates. (NOTE :: I may cut the following 'jail bit' out later......there's a better description next time I go "in".)

We were told to strip and change into jail uniform. Blokes under 24 were sent to "the boys' wing." Older crims went to other sections.

The first thing crims ask is

"What you in for?" When I said "Vagrancy," I became the target of derogatory jibes about how a young bloke like me was on "an old man's" charge. The tougher you talked (back then) the less you were picked on. These days (I hear) crims are more intelligent. I bullshited I was a burglar the cops hated.

"They had no evidence I was doing jobs so the c--ts charged me with a bodgie vagg rap to get a f****n' conviction." I was treated with more respect -but not much. Dressed in one-size-fits-all baggy soft denim prison trousers and skinny in my short-sleeved ( red/ white/ blue narrow vertical pin striped) b**b shirt, I looked like the village idiot. Prison short back and sides haircut didn't help. 

The only people young crims respected was an all out brawler. They could tell I was no fighter but it was necessary to act as if I'd fight. Otherwise I'd be "stood over" by anyone who thought they could take my tobacco. The only currency (in 1963) was tobacco. Every week we'd get 2 ounces (100 gm) of Government Issue tobacco (same as patients in nut houses). Gambling was not permitted but went on: all bets were in "ciggies". The only thing you could buy from "outside "was a Sunday newspaper. Short skirted posh dames were ripped from society pages and stuck on many a cell wall. It was the only "porno" available.

 At night I'd do press-ups and listen to my cell speaker box tuned (by screws in a control room) to 2GB (the station that never played rock). Four library books a week took me out through the 3 window bars (no glass) and around the universe. I read John Dos Passos' giant trilogy "USA" and my first sci-fi: Arthur C. Clarkes' "Childhood's End." Being the last person left alive in the world was my favourite fantasy. I became addicted to science fiction..

Thank god I had a single cell so I didn’t share with some rapist. I never understood why crims hate "solitary", I adored it. 

In the morning at 8-00 I had to leave my secure cell and join the yard. I feared being "stood over" and would rather have been killed or injured than be known as a soft victim. A couple of guys managed to grab ciggies off me in weak moments, but I managed OK.

My "hard labour" was having to sit on a long wooden bench at a big table with a dozen other morons. We folded Tattersall’s lottery advertising brochures into envelopes so some other workshop could post them to Tatt's customers. The workday seemed to last forever. My workmates sat around teasing each other about latent homosexuality. I was uneasy around this banter, and uncomfortably waiting for some tough mug to pick me out for humiliation. It happened but when they saw I wasn't too embarrassed to be laughed at they picked on a more sensitive kid. 

Violence was ever-present. During tea breaks in the yard I saw more vicious fighting that I'd seen in movies. I grew to respect their courage. They fought like insane Muay Thai beasts, smashing heads on concrete, kicking balls and gouging eyes. When screws (very slowly) came and yelled at them to stop, the combatants casually brushed themselves off, cleaned the blood off and forgot about it until next time.

On Saturdays, one yard at a time, we sat in the chapel and viewed a Hollywood movie projected on the wall. Even watching "the pictures" one had to keep one's guard up but it was great to (almost) lose myself in film.

Reading good books, keeping my bum covered and sleeping as much as possible: time passed. 

After getting out of Long Bay I moved back to Fagan Jack's for a week. The "old" kids had left and the new one there seemed sneaky as me so we never talked much. One morning Jack tried to kiss and fondle me. We wrestled for a bit until I broke away. The incident annoyed me.

"I've had enough of this joint. I'll piss off, and take some of Jack's loot with me." 

The day before, as I was waking, I noticed Jack furtively hiding his bank passbook in a place he thought was his secret.

He mentioned he had to take the mantle radio to the repair shop. I calculated he'd be gone 45 minutes.

In '63, before computers buggered up the forger's art, you could withdraw dough from the bank just by handing the teller a bankbook and a signed withdrawal form. I took Jack's book from its hiding place and ran to the bank. Presenting his forged signature I withdrew 120 quid (now days $800) from out of his 350 quid (now $2200) account. I didn't have the heart to take all his savings.

I ran back to Jack's place, returned the book to its hide out and got a taxi to the train station. I thought Jack and the kid would come looking for me. They'd expect me to get that night's express so to fool them I got a suburban train to Camden. Sitting in a coffee shop I fed the jukebox, studied the racing form, winked at girls and counted my money. After booking a sleeping berth on the next night's Melbourne Express I sat and meditated on "elation". 

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