The Silent Country Read online

  ‘What is your type of man, Veronica?’

  ‘You know, Andy, I really don’t know and I don’t think that Sue and Philip’s domestic scene helps either.’

  ‘I loved raising my kids and all that went with it.’

  ‘Yeah, but was it you or your wife who did the hard stuff? Did she work?’

  Andy smiled. ‘I concede your point. No, she stayed home. I worked long hours and by the time the kids left home and I decided that we should do things together, it was too late because she got ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you had a wonderful marriage and you’ve got great kids, even if they are all over the place. You’ve had fun times visiting them,’ said Veronica who knew how much Andy missed his late wife. ‘Anyway, how was the reunion dinner? I enjoyed seeing those old TV clips.’

  ‘It was great. I like all the industry gossip, the re-telling of the old stories.’

  ‘I doubt I’ll be going to reunions of Our Country and reminiscing about our days here,’ said Veronica. ‘Though I have a ton of stories about Andy Fitzgerald.’

  ‘I doubt anyone would be interested. No, the early TV days were very, very different. But funny you should mention it. I met a rather interesting old chap at my table. Colin Peterson, he’d be around eighty. He told me he went on some crazy expedition to the Northern Territory to make a documentary in the 1950s.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know, he was a bit vague,’ said Andy thoughtfully. ‘Anyway, he didn’t have a chance to go into details because of the noise of the music.’

  ‘Maybe the poor old bugger doesn’t remember much.’

  ‘He wasn’t an old bugger. He was very spry. Actually, I’m sorry that I didn’t get a chance to talk to him more about this film expedition. My antennae sensed a story of some sort.’

  Veronica shook her head. ‘You and your story antennae. What kind of story?’

  ‘Heading to the outback to film then was quite an undertaking. I can’t recall seeing much footage taken in remote areas in those days. Newsreel grabs from a big croc attack, some first contact with a lost Aboriginal tribe. Not much else.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about this fellow?’

  ‘Not me. You. Your assignment, should you wish to accept it . . .’ he mimicked an American accent. ‘I thought you might hunt down Colin Peterson, chat him up, just see what you can find out. Charm him. You’re good at that.’

  Veronica sighed. ‘Doesn’t sound like much of a story to me.’

  Andy put his fingers up on his head and waggled them.

  ‘Yeah, right. Well, thanks for the great lead, boss.’ She smiled. ‘This time I think your antennae are a bit whacked, but I’ll humour you and go and see this Colin Peterson. But I have my doubts . . .’

  2

  TO COLIN, THE VOICE on the phone was soft, pleasant, friendly.

  ‘Yes, this is Colin Peterson,’ he answered. ‘Who’s calling please?’

  Veronica introduced herself and launched into a happy, chatty, conversation. She’d found that the warm and casual approach worked best initially, as people were sometimes suspicious when getting a call from a producer at a TV network. ‘I gather you met my boss Andy Fitzgerald on Saturday night. At the Pioneers’ Reunion.’

  ‘Ah, yes, from Our Country. Excellent show.’

  ‘Glad you think so. We’re very proud of the program. I was at the reunion dinner briefly. Saw the old film and TV clips. I’m sorry we didn’t meet. Andy says you made an intriguing trip to the outback. Was that for a documentary, or just a home movie . . .?’

  ‘My goodness, I just mentioned it in passing. I felt a bit of an imposter in such illustrious company, but I very briefly harboured a dream to get into the film industry.’

  ‘As an actor?’ Veronica knew this wasn’t the case, but it made the old man chuckle.

  ‘Goodness me, no. I had other dreams. Short lived. I spent most of my working life in the banking industry.’

  ‘Mr Peterson, I was wondering if you’d be willing to share some of your story. I’d love to know about it. We’re thinking of doing a program on the Aussie film and TV industry. It seems not many people ventured outback with a camera in the 1950s.’

  There was a pause. ‘I don’t know if I’d have anything important to contribute.’

  ‘But it must have been a bit of an adventure. I bet the roads were pretty rough and there wouldn’t have been a lot of civilisation, would there? Who was in the party besides you?’

  ‘Miss Anderson,’ he said. ‘It was such a long time ago, I’m not sure that you’d find it interesting.’

  Veronica didn’t like being rejected and she thought that she could overcome his reticence. Most people loved to prattle on about some small or large event in their lives, whether for a TV show or not. ‘Could I meet you for a coffee, please, Mr Peterson? You just don’t know what you might remember that could give me a clue, a lead for my story.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure.’ He sounded embarrassed.

  But she heard the wavering in his voice and suspected that he might be persuaded to share his reminiscences. ‘I’d love to meet you,’ she said soothingly. ‘You must have your own memories of TV starting in Australia, Australian movies . . .’

  ‘I met Chips Rafferty once . . .’

  Veronica pounced. ‘There you go. I’d love to have a general chat about Aussie films and television, especially in the fifties. Where would you like to meet? You name the place. I love getting out of the office,’ she said breezily.

  ‘Would Kings Cross be out of your way?’

  Veronica was surprised at his choice of the one-time bohemian, sleazy, dangerous, arty hangout that was now a slick and desirable residential and tourist area. ‘Fabulous. The colourful Cross. Does it have any association, any memories for you?’

  ‘Ah, well it was popular with actors . . . that’s where I met lots of artists and, as you say, other colourful characters.’ He sounded more enthusiastic and Veronica was sure he would begin to talk about himself when they met.

  He had chosen a coffee shop in Macleay Street opposite a smart Italian restaurant. Veronica hadn’t been to the Cross for some time so she took the train and enjoyed the walk from Darlinghurst Road. Although the area had changed under the ‘Clean up the Cross’ campaign and new boutique hotels and smart apartments had blossomed, it still had a rakish air. It felt safe in the sunshine even though strip-club touts chivvied her, but there was a sense that come the neon evening, the Cross’s true lascivious, illegal and dangerous self would re-emerge as it always had.

  It was early afternoon, in that period when the lunch crowds had gone and when it was too early for the cocktail and after-work wine bar set, so there was no mistaking Colin Peterson sitting alone at a table in the near-deserted coffee shop. He was as Andy had described: a round, almost cherubic face with a short, neatly clipped beard, sparse white hair and bright blue eyes. He wore a spotted bow tie and he rose with a smile as she came towards him.

  ‘Miss Anderson?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Peterson. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

  ‘Not at all. I came early to enjoy the ambience of the Cross, even though it’s changed a lot since my day.’

  ‘You knew the Cross well?’ she asked, somewhat surprised, as she sat down. It didn’t fit with the conservative banking image she had imagined.

  ‘Everyone came to Kings Cross in the old days, just to walk through, ogle the locals and feel slightly wicked on a Saturday night,’ he said with a smile. ‘Actually, I moved here at one stage. Lived up the road, almost opposite where the El Alamein fountain is now. It was a red-brick apartment building divided into very tiny studios and dinky flats. It was a nice building, not like some of the big old homes that were turned into illegal bedsits with too many people crammed in. Mind you, the Cross was cheap, so interesting people came to live here in the old days.’

  ‘You mean artists, actors, bohemian types,’ said Veronica as she glanced at the menu.

&n
bsp; ‘And ordinary folk like me, families too. It was a community. Everyone looked out for their neighbours, regulars in the street.’ He signalled to the waiter behind the cash register at the bar. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Oh, a cappuccino. But please, let me pay, this is on Our Country. Would you like another coffee, something to eat?’

  Colin ordered more coffee and a muffin and leaned back, making himself comfortable.

  ‘So did you grow up in this area?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘Goodness, no,’ he said. ‘I originally came from Parramatta, so it was a shock to my parents when I rented a flat here. They couldn’t bring themselves to tell their friends that I was living in Kings Cross.’

  ‘So what was the appeal for you?’

  ‘It was so different from anything I’d known. You must remember that in the fifties, life in Sydney was conservative. We had come out of the postwar austerity and people started to have a better lifestyle, go for modern things, but it was, by today’s standards, still very suburban.’

  ‘Mum in the kitchen with a frilly apron, father knows best. Just like those old TV shows?’

  ‘That was my mother and father. They were good people, wanted the best for me so they were pleased when I got the job in the bank. I lived at home, didn’t have too far to go to work at the Bank of New South Wales at Auburn.’

  ‘What happened to send you into cosmopolitan, bohemian Kings Cross?’ asked Veronica.

  There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Quite simple, really, I got a promotion but it meant a transfer to another branch of the bank.’

  ‘Kings Cross?’

  ‘Down the road there. It’s now the Westpac. Well, initially I was in shock. I’d never seen so many foreign people, or such unusual people. And not just in the bank! At lunchtime I walked around and looked at the restaurants and eating places and finally I got up the courage to go into one of the new Italian coffee shops. I think it had the second espresso machine in Australia.’

  Veronica laughed. ‘How exotic!’

  ‘It was,’ he said seriously. ‘But while it was so different, the Cross had the feel of a village. You soon recognised the locals, got to hear local gossip. I started buying a piece of fruit each day from a fruiterer and he and his wife knew everything about everyone. Then I discovered a French patisserie, a Greek delicatessen and a Yugoslav butcher. It was food I never knew existed. When I described it to my mother and wanted her to come here to try some of it she wouldn’t have it. Said it was greasy, unhealthy and the foreigners ate bits of an animal that we wouldn’t give to a dog. So I kept quiet after that.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘Oh, he took me aside for a quiet word about the gambling and especially the houses of ill repute . . . “If you get my drift, son,” ’ he mimicked.

  Veronica smiled. ‘Ah, the brothels. And what about the underworld, the dangerous, sinister side of the Cross that you hear about?’

  ‘I didn’t know much about that. I never went near a nightclub or any of those girly show places. Wasn’t my cup of tea. But you saw prostitutes hanging around the streets. The police would round them up periodically. Sometimes you’d hear about a murder or a police raid on places.’

  ‘Did your bank ever get held up?’

  ‘No, thank goodness. But I was always amazed at the characters that would come in and deposit bagfuls of money. That was the legit money, I learned. The shady money never saw light of day in a bank,’ he chuckled.

  ‘And you liked it so much you moved here?’ asked Veronica, trying to imagine the quiet and to her mind, rather nerdy Colin suddenly moving from his neat and tidy home where his mother did his washing, ironed his shirts and cooked his meals to the brazen madness of Kings Cross.

  ‘Not immediately. What really got me involved in the area was the pictures.’

  ‘Movies, you mean?’

  ‘That’s right. But not just the big commercial cinemas. I saw posters advertising all kinds of film screenings for foreign films and some local ones that looked interesting. It seemed so intriguing, so exotic. So off I went. That was a different world again,’ he commented wryly.

  ‘Why was that?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘Well, most of the movies I had seen came from Hollywood, although there were some good British ones around, too. But these movies weren’t in English and the directors told the stories differently. There was more drama and yet more subtlety. It’s hard to explain, but I’ll never forget the first Vittorio De Sica film I went to, The Bicycle Thief. It is still a masterpiece. I remember how wonderful I thought Fellini was when I saw La Strada. Have you ever seen The Seven Samurai? That is one of my all time favourites. The directors in those days, they had such original ideas.’

  ‘I suppose that there weren’t many Australian films made in those days, before TV.’

  ‘Well, surprisingly, there were a few. The fifties were a time of massive industrial unrest and I’d say the heart of it all centred around the waterside workers on the docks. They had a strong union and they fought hard for better conditions but there was an element of what my Dad called lefty, pinkos stirring.’

  ‘Communists? Did you mix with them?’

  ‘No, not at all. But the union made some rather interesting films that I used to go and see because I wanted to see anything Australian.’

  ‘What kind of films?’

  ‘They were documentaries showing the working and housing conditions of people and how social and political change could improve them, that sort of thing. They were out-and-out propaganda.’

  ‘They don’t sound like light entertainment,’ said Veronica.

  ‘That’s true, but the docks area was a strong community. There were a lot of activities after hours and at lunchtimes – meetings, talks by all kinds of people, concerts, shows and such. I followed the film screenings.’

  ‘They must’ve been interesting times – and people.’

  Colin chuckled. ‘There was a lot of stimulating debate. I met an actor there who was a famous radio voice. I was used to hearing him in the radio serials as different characters. He looked nothing like I thought he would, of course.’

  ‘Did you like Hollywood films too?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘Oh, I loved them. Especially the musicals. At the film club that I joined we discussed them all at great length. But I was more interested in the screenplays, how the stories unfolded, came together, the characters and so on, than I was in the stars, or even the directors.’

  ‘Ah, so you wanted to be a screenwriter?’

  ‘I didn’t imagine I ever would, of course. But I did pen a few ideas and dialogue from time to time,’ Colin admitted.

  ‘So is that why you were hired for the filming expedition?’ asked Veronica, glad to be able to get back to the subject she wanted to know more about.

  ‘I suppose so. Though I had no experience, no credits to my name. I worked in a bank. All of us who went along on the expedition kind of fell into it.’ Colin suddenly smiled.

  ‘Now I am intrigued. I want to know the whole story.’ Veronica signalled to the waiter for more coffee. Colin Peterson looked more relaxed, if reflective and his blue eyes looked past her, remembering back, fifty years before.

  The tram clattered to the top of William Street and seeing the big billboard advertising sign for Capstan cigarettes, Colin stepped lightly from the running board and walked down Darlinghurst Road towards his flat. Mr Hugo, an elderly man with a white goatee and jaunty hat, was walking his small dog and in a thick accent, greeted Colin. Mrs Stavros in the fruit shop had told Colin that Mr Hugo was from Romania. Everyone called him Mr Hugo as no-one could pronounce his surname.

  One of the streetwalkers hovering near the corner gave him a swift smile of recognition as she watched for prospective customers. Spiro, the tout outside the entrance to a flight of steps that descended below street level to a club boasting ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’, nodded at Colin. He’d given up trying to persuade the young man to go downstairs and sample the d
elights of the topless girls’ dance revue. Colin had heard it was more than just a lewd show. Illegal SP bets could be placed and alcohol was available outside legal drinking hours.

  Colin popped into the continental mixed business and bought a small loaf of the dark brown bread he’d come to love. He paid for the bread as well as his dinner, which was handed to him across the counter in the lidded bowl he’d dropped off that morning. It smelled delicious, vegetables and some sort of bean in a thick rich broth. Nothing like the food his mother cooked.

  Thanking Helena, the proprietor, he took his dinner back to his flat. Looking around the tiny area, Colin smiled to himself. He loved the Cross and his little home. He knew that his decision to move here had shocked his parents, especially his mother, but it all felt like such an adventure. He cooked meals for himself occasionally on his small gas stove but it was just as cheap to eat out or have food prepared for him by Helena and her husband Gustav. And while his mother would have been horrified to know he was eating strange foreign food like spaghetti, roll mops and dim sims, Colin found the food interesting and eating out gave him a reason to people-watch and enjoy the colourful parade around him at the Cross.

  Tonight, however, he was eating at home, so he changed his clothes and tidied the small flat, heated his meal and broke off chunks of the bread, dipping it into the broth as Helena and Gustav had showed him. His mother would consider it ill-bred, but he wiped the bowl clean with the last bit of bread and licked his fingers with satisfaction. He turned on the radio and listened to Jack Davey’s quiz show.

  When it was over he sat down to work on a screenplay that he was trying to write, but felt distracted. It was only eight-thirty so he decided to go for a walk and treat himself to a coffee at Nino’s, his favourite coffee shop.

  The coffee house was crowded. Nino, the owner, threaded between tables, exclaiming volubly in Italian and, ignoring the liquor laws, surreptitiously poured red wine into the customers’ coffee cups.