The Testimony    (13 page)

Ruby frequently had a ‘sickie’. She was a chronic alcoholic and struggled with life. Her face and broad, unsteady gait betrayed her condition. At work she wore her dustcoat inside out so the large pocket could keep a bottle of ‘grog’ out of sight. She had a top-up frequently, because without a steady level of alcohol in her blood she could not function. The team did Ruby’s work frequently, and gave her some good-natured ribbing. Mavis seemed to act as her counsellor, listening to her problems with her husband, children and the world at large.

I was impressed by the women’s solidarity, and also their ability to swear at length without repeating themselves. My vocabulary was greatly enlarged at Henty House, even though I did not then grasp the strength of some of these words. I gradually learned it by the discomfort they caused when I used them in ‘polite society’.

But most impressive was my colleagues’ political knowledge and astuteness. While I read the newspapers at face value, they read between the lines—sceptically and critically. ‘Pig Iron Bob’ Menzies was in power then, and his policies and statements underwent sharp and brutal analysis by the Henty House charladies during smoko. Their comments were supported by historical facts and past events. I was an avid listener.

This admiration, however, was not mutual. They did not think much of me. I was one of a large influx of postwar European refugees who flooded an insular, Anglo-Saxon Australia. Many Australians were at first suspicious and resentful of the foreigners. My mates did not hide their feelings, and were often hostile. They called me ‘funny kid’ or ‘silly kid’ (I was nineteen; they were in their mid or late fifties). When they found out I was studying science at Melbourne University, they said, ‘La-di-bloody-da students we don’t need here; we need real workers!’ adding that the bloody ‘reffos’ always took the best jobs around. (Jobs were plentiful at that time, with many shop windows displaying ads for workers.)

I decided to skip smokos, to avoid their resentment and to gain time to tackle my difficult linoleum floor. A lot of loose pipe tobacco was embedded in the floor wax, often mixed with spittle. I had to scrape it out before doing a new wax and polish. (Oh, for the ease of carpeted and vacuumed floors!) But it was not to be. Doris arrived and yelled, ‘You bloody well get down there or else. It’s union rules, and you’re not gonna lick it. Now!’ She then noticed my tobacco problems, commented colourfully on the draftsmen and gave me a large can of wax solvent, which made the job much easier.

One morning there was in incident that saw a turning point in their attitudes towards me. Ruby arrived with a black eye and a badly swollen nose. She looked a frightful mess, and said that her husband had thrown a potato at her. Someone said that they hoped she had thrown it back at him. Ruby drew herself up to her full, shaky dignity and slurred, ‘I didn’t, ’cos I’m a lady!’ Although it was hilarious, I was too intimidated to laugh. The others roared with laughter and jeered.

Ruby turned to me and shrieked, ‘How dare you laugh at me! You bloody reffos come to this country with no respect, can’t speak King’s English, can’t cook decent grub …’ She continued for what seemed a long time. No one said a word, and I just sat there. Then Doris yelled, ‘Enough! Everybody, out!’

We filed into the lift, but Ruby stayed in the room. Quite shaken, I got to my floor, sat down and decided to get another job, perhaps washing dishes in a restaurant or cleaning some other place. I tidied the tearoom cupboard and toilets, then found that I had forgotten to take my keys. Downstairs, under the keyboard, I found Ruby sobbing and Mavis urging her to go home to bed.

This meant another ‘sickie’ so, following the rules, I did my job quickly and went to help on Ruby’s floor. The others seemed surprised to see me, but said nothing. Doris directed me to do the ashtrays and wastepaper baskets, a change from the usual toilets job. Later I told Doris I wanted to leave, and asked how long it would take her to find another cleaner. She said a month, maybe three.

The next morning Ruby got into the lift but did not step out at her floor. She and I were alone in the lift on the top floor when she grabbed me by the lapels of my coat and said, ‘Now look ’ere, love, you don’t want to take no notice of a bugger like me, see? I didn’t mean it, I’m bloody sorry!’

After this incident there was a gradual but marked change in their attitude to me. I was given tips on where to find bargains, how to avoid rip-offs and asked what I needed, because their husbands worked in a factory or storeroom and could get it for nothing. I was given various items—satchels, socks, a blouse, stockings—that must have ‘fallen off the back of a truck’.

Thus encouraged, when they mentioned reffos later I said, ‘Oi there! I’m one of them, remember?’

They replied, ‘Agh, shut up. You’re different!’

I was probably the only reffo they got to know well. And I got to know these ladies well, and I liked, admired and respected them. They were salt of the earth, rough diamonds with well-hidden hearts of gold. (Such mixed, mineral metaphors!)

I have forgotten to mention Joy, a picture of misery who mothered me most of all. One morning she whispered that the union official who had just arrived meant trouble. And she was right. He told me that, as I had not joined the cleaners’ union, I couldn’t work there. I told him that when I applied for membership it was refused because I was a member of the students’ union, and you couldn’t be in two unions.

He said that was not his problem and without joining I couldn’t work there. Joy ran to get Doris to help. When she arrived I began, ‘Could you explain to this gentleman—’ but before I could get any further Doris stepped in, assumed the charging-bull posture and growled, ‘That ain’t a gentleman. That’s Jack from the union. Why don’t you git off the kid’s back and piss off, Jack? She come here with nothing, needs this job and can do a good one. So how about pissing off, Jack?’ She mentioned a big union boss, a friend, who had apparently said it was okay. Jack stood undecided for a moment, and then ‘pissed off’, never to be seen again. I worked there for another year.

My memory of the sixth charlady is blurred: she was a very quiet and self-effacing woman, and even her name escapes me. But all six of us took part in my most memorable incident at Henty House.

I arrived one morning to find the whole of the floor in the draftsmen’s room flooded by about an inch of water. It was trickling into the corridor, tearoom and toilets. Someone had left the plug in the hand basin and a tap was slowly running. I waded to the basin, turned off the tap and went to ask Doris what to do.

She surveyed the scene with strange glee, and told me to mop up only in the corridor, nowhere else. At smoko she outlined her battle plan. We were all to take our mops and squeeze-buckets (the latest in mop-up technology) to the top floor at 8:20 am, say nothing and leave the rest to her. Five of us waded into the flooded area, lined up next to our buckets, leaned on our mops and waited. Doris was organising the arriving draftsmen into a group in the corridor outside, and when she had gathered six or seven she ushered them into the flooded room.

It was the first time that I had seen the draftsmen, and they were a sight to behold. Each had a crew cut, a moustache and a downward-curved pipe in the mouth. Each wore a tweed jacket fashioned like a military uniform, with shoulder flaps in place of epaulettes. (I was later told this fashion derived from the US Air Force stationed here at the end of the war.) They looked almost identical, like a vaudeville cast about to break into a song-and-dance routine. Did they really not know how ridiculous they looked in a group? They must have had similar thoughts about us: six women in grey dustcoats, leaning on mops in the middle of a puddle, grim and reproachful.

I had a moment of detachment then: a brief switch from being a participant in, to being an observer of, a scene. I remember thinking this one belonged in a Charlie Chaplin film.

After a brief but dramatic silence, Doris began, ‘If you buggers think you can do this and get away with it, you’ve got another think coming!’ (‘Another think coming’ was her favourite saying.) She followed with threats of reporting them to the health inspectors for their filthy ways, their poor aim in using the toilet, spitting tobacco on the polished floor and using the hand towels to clean their shoes or wipe their bloody noses. Slavery was over now, in case they hadn’t noticed, and cleaners demanded respect—and so on. Doris gave them a large piece of her mind, generously and without deleting expletives.

I stood, amazed, and wondered about the outcome of this. Where I came from, lowly servants could not, would not, berate their superiors in even the mildest way. But when Doris finished by telling them to ‘get lost until we cleaned this mess up’, one of them apologised and they all left meekly. By then our shoes and feet were soaked; yet we followed Doris’s advice to work slowly and take a smoko in the draftsmen’s tearoom, because we would be paid overtime for all this.

I loved every minute of this incident, and often related it to other migrants as an example of Australian egalitarianism.

Henty House was a place where I learned many valuable lessons. After I left we had an arrangement where, once a month, I would wait outside for my former colleagues at 8.15 am to go for a cuppa and a catch-up. They too wanted to know how I was getting on. Within a year Ruby died, then Mavis and Joy left, and when Doris decided to retire this arrangement petered out.

THE ALFRED

The Alfred Hospital in Melbourne is a major general-teaching hospital with a reputation as a place of excellence. I joined the staff of its Pathology Department in 1953, and worked there for the next twenty-two years. For a time after the war the senior staff—medical superintendent, matron, sisters-in-charge and administrators—were ex-army personnel. There was regimentation, strict routine and a variety of uniforms, now thankfully long gone.

Several important new developments in health care were pioneered there, such as cardiovascular surgery, kidney dialysis and a new treatment for burns. There were lectures and symposia that attracted overseas experts and specialists. It was a good place for learning. The staff, at all levels, was given to institutional pride and patriotism. The Alfred was the great commoner among the other hospitals, all named Royal or Saint, yet it was superior to them. This ethos created loyalty and low staff turnover.

The Pathology Department had a team of dedicated scientists specialising in haematology, bacteriology, biochemistry, histology and serology. Trainees like me were rotated through these sections as part of their study of medicine, medical technology or postgraduate specialisation. The excellent people-management skills of our boss had a lot to do with our dedication to what was a very demanding job. The 9 am to 5 pm hours were often extended by being on call for emergencies, signalled by the siren of an approaching ambulance. This went on for years before payment for overtime became compulsory.

Unlike my former workmates, the charladies, those at The Alfred were accepting and friendly from day one. There were no big bridges to be built here, and it dawned on me, gradually, that this country was now home and not a stopover on a trek.

* * * 

After five years of residence and good behaviour, refugees became eligible to apply for Australian citizenship. This involved undergoing a naturalisation procedure, carried out in a court of justice. One stood in a witness box before a bewigged judge and recited a lengthy and firm renunciation of allegiance to one’s country of origin, followed by a lengthy and impassioned oath of obedience to the British monarch.

Many migrants, though eligible, did not apply to be naturalised. A survey at the time showed that this was due to the off-putting court atmosphere and procedure. Many migrants left their country in sorrow rather than anger, and felt uncomfortable with its total rejection. And many monarchies in Europe were less than admirable and not worthy of abject obedience. It was then recommended that naturalisation ceremonies be performed in groups, rather than individually, in a friendly manner and setting, with less formidable pledges.

In 1954 I underwent a naturalisation ceremony and, no longer unnatural, became an Australian and a British subject. It was a memorable day. Two colleagues accompanied me to the Town Hall for the ceremony. My naturalisation took place in one of the first group ceremonies in St Kilda Town Hall on 13 September 1954. It was friendly, indeed. Ladies from the Good Neighbour Council offered home-made biscuits, and the British and Foreign Bible Society (Victoria) gave each of us a pocket-size copy of the Bible—Old and New Testament—with a photograph of Her Most Excellent Majesty Elizabeth II on its front page. The Bible was required for the oath of allegiance.

The forty or so of us sat in front of the stage. Up in the balconies were relatives and friends of the citizens to be, and my two colleagues from work. We were welcomed by the mayor in full regalia, who said that soon we should have the rights, privileges and obligations of citizens of this country. He then called on the town clerk to administer the oath of allegiance.