Page 90 - moondani kyema
P. 90
ndani kyema, My Story - Ray Moore 90
them to wash, but usually with little success, so he got out the faithful insect spray –
you know the old type with the pump action – and sprayed them all over, including
asking them to bend over so that he could spray between their legs and around their
bottoms. That done, he would get out a clean set of clothes and provide a new
wardrobe for them. Even here, Jim would show great respect and humanity to the
men. He would check that the items of clothing were a reasonable fit and that the
man was happy with them. Some of those men almost smiled as they walked out of
there.
Jim was a very experienced man in this field. Once a young man came in and said
that he wanted his train fare to Mildura, because his mother had died and the funeral
was in a couple of days’ time. Jim had heard this kind of request a thousand times,
and usually saw through them. But in this case he must have been a little uncertain,
and he made the decision to help the man. However, he got me to take the money
and go with the man to Spencer Street station and buy his ticket for him. So we set
off and at Spencer Street, I bought the ticket and gave it to him and then walked with
him to the station to see him off. In those days you had to have a platform ticket if you
were seeing someone off and I had not acquired one so I stayed at the ticket barrier
and watched as he got on the train.
I was talking to the ticket collector and explaining briefly what I was doing, when, only
seconds before the train started to move, we saw a figure leap out of one of the train
doors and hide behind a stanchion. “Look at that!” I said to the ticket collector, “that’s
my man!” The collector called to a couple of his mates and went and grabbed the
man who made some lame excuse, and handed his ticket back to me. Thankfully the
ticket collectors arranged for me to get a full refund and I returned to Jim with my
story of the little drama I had been involved in.
There were some very interesting stories that I heard from these men as they began
to trust me and tell me about themselves.
There was old Eric who was a hopeless alcoholic, and many mornings used to come
for his breakfast, still strongly under the influence of yesterday’s alcoholic soaking.
He was a harmless old chap and I discovered that he came from Yackandandah in
north eastern Victoria. With a little bit of coaching, I could get him to recite poetry to
me which he did with enthusiasm and manifesting a surprising memory for poetry.
He would build himself up into an emotional state which always climaxed with a poem
about “mother”, and by the time Eric had finished the tears would be streaming down
his face as he thought of his mother.
I sat beside a chap one day while he was waiting to see Jim, and I noticed that he
had the ring finger and little finger missing from one hand. He told me he had been
around Melbourne for a long time and used to live in Fitzroy. Jim told me later what
the man himself had not told me. He was in fact the last of Squizzy Taylor’s gang.
Squizzy Taylor was of course an infamous underworld figure in Melbourne of the
1920s. This man was the most successful pickpocket in Melbourne in those days
and had deliberately had his ring and little fingers cut off so that his hand could slip
more easily into people’s pockets and handbags. Sitting next to him some weeks
later, I was able to ask him about it and he was quite willing to talk about it. When
we started to talk about picking people’s pockets, I pretended to be wary of him, and
jokingly moved away as if to protect my pockets. “No, no, Ray” he protested, “we
them to wash, but usually with little success, so he got out the faithful insect spray –
you know the old type with the pump action – and sprayed them all over, including
asking them to bend over so that he could spray between their legs and around their
bottoms. That done, he would get out a clean set of clothes and provide a new
wardrobe for them. Even here, Jim would show great respect and humanity to the
men. He would check that the items of clothing were a reasonable fit and that the
man was happy with them. Some of those men almost smiled as they walked out of
there.
Jim was a very experienced man in this field. Once a young man came in and said
that he wanted his train fare to Mildura, because his mother had died and the funeral
was in a couple of days’ time. Jim had heard this kind of request a thousand times,
and usually saw through them. But in this case he must have been a little uncertain,
and he made the decision to help the man. However, he got me to take the money
and go with the man to Spencer Street station and buy his ticket for him. So we set
off and at Spencer Street, I bought the ticket and gave it to him and then walked with
him to the station to see him off. In those days you had to have a platform ticket if you
were seeing someone off and I had not acquired one so I stayed at the ticket barrier
and watched as he got on the train.
I was talking to the ticket collector and explaining briefly what I was doing, when, only
seconds before the train started to move, we saw a figure leap out of one of the train
doors and hide behind a stanchion. “Look at that!” I said to the ticket collector, “that’s
my man!” The collector called to a couple of his mates and went and grabbed the
man who made some lame excuse, and handed his ticket back to me. Thankfully the
ticket collectors arranged for me to get a full refund and I returned to Jim with my
story of the little drama I had been involved in.
There were some very interesting stories that I heard from these men as they began
to trust me and tell me about themselves.
There was old Eric who was a hopeless alcoholic, and many mornings used to come
for his breakfast, still strongly under the influence of yesterday’s alcoholic soaking.
He was a harmless old chap and I discovered that he came from Yackandandah in
north eastern Victoria. With a little bit of coaching, I could get him to recite poetry to
me which he did with enthusiasm and manifesting a surprising memory for poetry.
He would build himself up into an emotional state which always climaxed with a poem
about “mother”, and by the time Eric had finished the tears would be streaming down
his face as he thought of his mother.
I sat beside a chap one day while he was waiting to see Jim, and I noticed that he
had the ring finger and little finger missing from one hand. He told me he had been
around Melbourne for a long time and used to live in Fitzroy. Jim told me later what
the man himself had not told me. He was in fact the last of Squizzy Taylor’s gang.
Squizzy Taylor was of course an infamous underworld figure in Melbourne of the
1920s. This man was the most successful pickpocket in Melbourne in those days
and had deliberately had his ring and little fingers cut off so that his hand could slip
more easily into people’s pockets and handbags. Sitting next to him some weeks
later, I was able to ask him about it and he was quite willing to talk about it. When
we started to talk about picking people’s pockets, I pretended to be wary of him, and
jokingly moved away as if to protect my pockets. “No, no, Ray” he protested, “we
