Remember Ronald Ryan (2 page)

PLAYWRIGHT'S NOTE

Ronald Ryan was born the poor Mick uneducated abused lonesome son of Old Jack Ryan, dud father and puller-out-of-water-channels of drowned wallabies.

Old Man Ryan and Cecelia, Ron's mum, were what was called winos or cabinet drinkers, to use the polite term once fashionable in our rural districts. Ryan never forgave the old boy for abandoning him and his three young sisters.

During the early part of World War II, Ryan obtained work at Balranald, being shown how to cut redgum into railroad sleepers for the New South Wales railways. Ryan dudded the very men who showed him how to do something well. He pulled aces from the bottom of a friendly, end-of-the-week poker game, played on stumps between Murrumbidgee mozzies and Madame Moonlight. Ryan was in some ways despicable.

He met by fluke someone of class, indeed someone swish from the upper class of our town, Dorothy George. They danced divinely by the light of the Yarra moon. He was at this time engaged in the manufacture of Repco spark plugs and had to leg it to court her, or hope for connecting W-class trams to take him from down-market West Footscray to leafy privileged Brighton, where Old Man George smoked five-bob cigars with his friends, Arthur Rylah and Henry Bolte. Ryan was doomed to marry out of his class.

Dot loved to spend and her husband liked to splash it around. He became at one time or another Jailbird, Fruiterer, House Painter, Pop-up Toaster Salesman (although of course the pop-up toasters weren't his), and wound up in the boob, for fourteen years, set at hard labour splitting up stubborn boulders in the H Division exercise yards. He got over the wall just on Christmas in 1965, announcing he could do no more can—no more can was his shorthand way of painting the portrait of liberty. He got over the wall with Peter Walker who was fearless, in for eleven, and not bad at hot-wiring Toranas.

Every single thing Ron Ryan touched fell apart in his hands. A guard was felled in the heat of flight, George Hodson, and Ryan was hanged for it.

He endured over a year in H Division, Pentridge, and Peter Walker, his fellow escaper, was given nineteen years for the manslaughter of a towie (tow truck driver), Arthur Henderson, whom he met at a party.

Ryan and Walker were only ‘out' for about three weeks, but they managed to cause mayhem in dreary Melbourne; possibly they put it on the map. Ryan is the ultimate loser and he found a mate to match his talentlessness.

He was only really good at one thing and that one thing was spirit. He died with it intact and was beyond everyone and everyone's judgement, and everyone's pale, when he politely obliged with a callous and bizarre execution at D Division at Pentridge, February 3rd 1967, despite the fact that Melbourne didn't want it.

Premier Henry Bolte was pretty keen on it and that was the physical conclusion of Ronald Ryan, whose earthly skills included the ability to laugh, to be extremely kind, to be extremely thoughtful, to shave with Smoothex whilst whistling, to be good to his kids, his three daughters and his wife and one or two mates, some of whom were Homicide detectives.

He died quick as he wanted it done quick, but for nearly thirty years the name of Ron Ryan has been bandied around Australia's cities similar to the way we keep hearing about Bradman or Phar Lap or the other good old word, Justice.

Ryan now remains merely in human memory, there being no grave nor marker for his Christian or second name. Out of mayhem peace must show up. He had no bones about ringing the same coppers who were after him while he was on the run with a tip on a horse.

I interviewed so many, and so many wept when talking about Ryan. What was it about him, I wondered?

He is special to them, and terribly tender; even now—especially now with the years—more tender. Why do they keep on thinking about him? He has let them go long ago. Why can't they? Something about the larrikin spirit, I'd say.

No murder was ever present in his small and big-time heart, and the purpose of my play is to show Ryan for what he really was: a poor, charismatic, literate, clever, bungling, courageous, appalling, bank robber who was murdered by the Government. It is one thing to shoot at a boozed guard in the heat of flight and quite another to be hanged as a work of art before the critics. No-one in Australia's history copped a worse go than Ronald Ryan. Not even his brother in Christ, George Hodson.

Barry Dickins
Melbourne
September 1994

For Ian Grindlay

FIRST PRODUCTION

Remember Ronald Ryan
was first performed by Playbox Theatre Centre at the C.U.B. Malthouse, Melbourne, on 21 September 1994 with the following cast:

Director, Malcolm Robertson
Set and Lighting Design, John Beckett
Costume Design, Laura Doheny
Sound Design, Stuart McKenzie

CHARACTERS

RONALD RYAN
, a charismatic petty criminal

PETER WALKER
, an uncharismatic petty criminal

DOROTHY GEORGE
, Ryan's bubbly wife

BETTY BRADFORD
, her girlfriend

MRS GEORGE
, her born-to-rule mother

MR GEORGE,
millionaire mayor of Hawthorn

GLORIA
, Ryan's sister

CECELIA
, Ryan's mother

RYAN'S FATHER
, an Irish Catholic sponge

GOUGH
, Mrs George's wine waiter

LANGE
, officer who reluctantly lends Ryan a rifle

HODSON
, slain prison officer

BRIGADIER HEWITT
, Salvation Army man

LADY IN CAR
, a stubborn Preston lass

HURLEY
, Ryan's friend and former associate

MRS HURLEY
, his wife

BANK CLERK
, a nerve-nut

WOMAN IN BANK
, a Christmas reveller

CAR SALESMAN
, worked for Kevin Dennis Motors, Regent

CHRISTINE AITKEN
, girl who harbours Ryan and Walker during their escape

ARTHUR HENDERSON
, a tow truck driver

JOHN FISHER
, a crim who knew an earlier Ryan

GOVERNOR IAN GRINDLAY
, ex-navy rehabilitating Governor

DETECTIVE SLATER
, a hero from police homicide

DETECTIVE WRIGHT
, Sherlock of Dandenong

MR X
, a mystery man and police informant

JUSTICE STARKE
, murder trial judge who applied the death penalty upon Ryan

PHILIP OPAS
, Ryan's defence lawyer

FATHER JOHN BROSNAN
, Pentridge priest; a raconteur and natural leader

GOVERNOR FRASER
, one of Pentridge's officers

KEN LEONARD
, guard on deathwatch

MR DRUMMOND
, a beautiful, and gentle Christian English teacher

HARDING
, a good timber boss of Ryan

HANGMAN
, a violent public servant

Other characters

PRISON GUARDS
,
POLICEMEN
,
DETECTIVES
,
PARTY GOERS
,
CHRISTIAN BROTHERS
,
SISTERS
,
REPORTERS
,
BANK CLERKS
,
ROBBERS

SETTING

An hallucinatory H Division, Pentridge Prison, Melbourne.

ACT ONE

RYAN
chomping an apple, gazing up at a tower inside Pentridge Prison. It is hot. It is 1965.
WALKER
is smoking next to him.
OFFICERS
are heard guzzling beer on a quiet Sunday. Although early in the morning, it is blazing hot.

RYAN
: See that tower? One guard.

WALKER
: Only one?

RYAN
: A hook made out of wire. Tie it to a couple of blankets; see you in Brazil.

WALKER
: Got a gun?

RYAN
: I'll get one. Been saving up really hard, Pete. Want to be in it?

WALKER
: I need a tan… Yeah, I'll be in it.

WALKER
does a few vigorous push-ups.

RYAN
: You make Tarzan look like a girl.

WALKER
: Listen to Mr and Mrs Decent out in Sydney Road, will you? Having a ball, aren't they? Escaping.

Traffic noise floats through loudly.

RYAN
: Wish I was with 'em.

WALKER
: We soon will be. Teed up the table?

RYAN
: The barbecue table to hop up the wall on? Yeah, I have. We've got a few assistants. You require the patience of a monk to break out of Pentridge.

WALKER
: Hop up the wall and in Brazil.

RYAN
: Exactly.

He whips out a
Herald
newspaper folded up.

I've been following the tides.

They closely examine the paper.

WALKER
: The tides of the earth. You're a scholar, Ron.

RYAN
: You've got to keep up appearances, dear boy. Now where am I?

WALKER
: What time's the tide to South America? What time's it go?

RYAN
: Half past four. Here it is. Neap.

WALKER
: Neap? What's that? When it's coming in?

RYAN
: That's when we're going out.

WALKER
: Someone's coming.

They laugh. Blackout. We hear voices in the blackout.

RYAN
: I had a mate was gonna go instead of you. But now he's not. It's you. Not him. Right?

WALKER
: Yeah, that's right, Ron. I can't do any more can.

RYAN
: No man can. The time is ripe. Be ready. Brazil is imminent. It calls.

RYAN
in his cell alone, musing. Staring out the tiny cell window on a hot night. Music bridge: one or two bars of ‘The Crystal Chandelier' on acoustic guitar.

RYAN
: Eight years or eight hundred?—What's the difference? I'm a man of action, Dorothy. I'll fly over that tower to you, Girlie! I don't know what divorce you're talking about. The Governor reckons I'm a top guy. He'll vouch for me. I'll be a top guy again in South America. We'll meet up in the jungle if necessary. Come back to Australia loaded. Grow a moustache and they won't know me. A couple of coconuts for breakfast. Just like Melbourne only they laugh over there. I could do with a laugh. Not much fun here. Fancy staying here your whole life. Rotting. Why do it? Why bother? Ten years for strolling through a nice warehouse. Quiet, like a moth, with a rifle. Neap. Gee, that's got to me. I believe in having a go. You're not meant to fail. I've got go in me. When I'm old, I'll have go in me. Shooting pigs going grey. Listen to the screws guzzling the beer. Can't run, most of them. It's going to work. I can feel it. I know it. I can trust him. He's fit. Into the carpark and hot-wire anything to get out of here. The least you could've done is let them write to me. My three daughters. [
He stretches and relaxes for the first time
.] When we met. What we said. When we wed. Where are you? Where are you?

Cross to two pretty young women coming down the stone steps of Princes Bridge to the Yarra Bank where ferries are moored. They are
DOROTHY
GEORGE
and
BETTY
BRADFORD
. Both lit up and dying to dance to the music of Glenn Miller. We hear that music.

DOROTHY
: Mother said not ‘The Dancing One'. ‘The Dancing Ferry'. Where is it? It sounds like fun, doesn't it?

BETTY
: Look, it glitters. ‘The Dancing Ferry'. There it is, Dorothy.

DOROTHY
: Isn't it hot? How are your shoes? Are mine okay? Do I look okay? Oh, isn't it lovely? Look at all the lights on it. Like pearls, aren't they?

BETTY
: We've got to have a go on ‘The Dancing Ferry'. Look how boring ‘The Undancing Ferry' is? Old men reading the
Herald
with their teeth out. God, Melbourne's dead.

DOROTHY
: I love Glenn Miller, don't you?

BETTY
: I love men! Don't you?

DOROTHY
: My family are so formal, they get tense if the broth is served at a minute past seven. They get all agitated. I'd love to dance. But fun's not the thing in Melbourne, is it? Anything but have fun. Why were you born? Who can say?

BETTY
: You were born for fun. You don't live very long. Have fun. [
Spying
RYAN
] Who's he? He's just looking. He's not someone to dance with. He's well-dressed at least. Don't stare at him.

DOROTHY
: [
murmuring
] Beautiful!

BETTY
: That's right. Play hard to get. Now, he's coming over. Why hasn't he got a mate?

RYAN
: Like a spin?

DOROTHY
: Yeah.

She is in a dream. They dance.

RYAN
: Do you come here often?

DOROTHY
: Yeah.

RYAN
: Jeez, you can thrash.

He laughs
.

DOROTHY
: Yeah.

The Glenn Miller swing music builds and they dance into a street light.
RYAN
smokes and holds his girl.

RYAN
: You'll have to marry me now, Dorothy.

DOROTHY
: Why?

RYAN
: I've missed the last tram back to Footscray. Have to walk.

DOROTHY
: How many trams do you need to get to Mother and Father's? How many trams from your boarding house to our mansion?

RYAN
: Well, let's see. You get the Footscray one to The City, Flinders Street, and then you wait an eternity for either a Wattle Park, or what's the other sort? Glenferrie Road, is it? Oh, I don't know, they're all green, aren't they? Now I've missed the last one. Curses. What am I gunna do? Walk back to Footscray. I will. I'm so athletic, maybe I'll hop, skip and jump back home. Did you know I'm a champion bike rider? I've got cups. Gold they are. Melt them down into a front gate.

They are laughing and taking it easy with each other.

DOROTHY
: [
laughing
] I'll wet myself.

RYAN
: Don't do that.

DOROTHY
: Melt a gold cup into a front gate. Why do you say things like that?

RYAN
: [
laughing
] I don't know. I don't know why I say things like that. Just for fun.

DOROTHY
: [
collapsing in mirth
] You're fun alright.

He helps her up, cuddles her.

I defied Mother. I'm bad, aren't I, Ronnie? So bad.

She kisses him.

Are you a ratbag?

RYAN
: You must defy authority. Otherwise you go under. It's well-known.

DOROTHY
: [
in a
passionate whisper, ravishing him
] We won't go under, my love.

RYAN
: It's hard when you're twenty-two and too old for a pushbike.

DOROTHY
: What's that about a pushbike? What are you saying now?

RYAN
: I could ride my bike home, but I'd look a bit of a goose.

DOROTHY
: Please love me. And don't forget you're coming to dinner next Sunday. They want to satirise you.

RYAN
: I think I'll bring the pushbike. Lean it up against your old man's money.

They kiss tenderly. Blackout.

See you in leafy Hawthorn.

RYAN
and
WALKER
break out of Pentridge Prison. The prison yard. They have the hook and towels tied together. They run up the overturned picnic table, which becomes a stepladder. They cast the hook and climb the towels to the tower. They are climbing the wall.

RYAN
: It was worth six months getting fragments of wire junk to spin this hook thing. It seems to be holding on alright. Doesn't it seem strong to you, doesn't it, Peter?

WALKER
: As long as the bloody bedcovers don't fray, that's what I'm worrying about. Nearly there.

They stand on the tower.

You beauty.

RYAN
: I enjoyed that. Do it again one day. Piece of cake. Don't know why it doesn't catch on. Make a sport of it. Put it in the Olympics.

WALKER
: But will you give up the fruit shop for me, that's all I want to know?

They smoke on the tower wall.
GUARDS
are still boozing up.
RYAN
grabs guard Lange's carbine.

RYAN
: [
whispering ironically right in his ear
] I write to you and you don't write to me. Hello, darling. What's your little name? Come here often? You're so cute. Give us a kiss.

WALKER
: I love you.

LANGE
: It's Lange. Warder Lange. You won't get away with it.

RYAN
: Fritz Lange. You're a filmmaker. How's the gate undo? How's the gun work? Explain everything to me, Mr Lange, sir.

LANGE
: Put the shell in it—like that, I suppose you do. It's an M-901. American kind.

He loads the gun.

RYAN
: Don't you know how to fire it? How'd you get this job?

LANGE
: Don't shoot me. I'm very new at this.

RYAN
: I'm not going to shoot you. It's too hot. Just open the gate. And we'll get on great. Don't bugger me around.

LANGE
: Which gate? Which gate you want?

RYAN
: Ground floor women's lingerie. Aren't we at Myers, Lange? Hey! Is this your first day here, Fritzy? Now undo the wicket gate. That's right.

WALKER
: Come on. Come on. Move it. Move it. Move it.

RYAN
: What do you want, a green light? Open it. Open it, will you?!

LANGE
: I'm opening. I'm opening. Give me a chance.

WALKER
: All this is too slow. It's going too slow.

RYAN
: Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Put a penny in it.

WALKER
: What do you reckon this is, bush week? Open it!

LANGE
opens the wrong gate, and they are trapped.
RYAN
and
WALKER
run down the steps to the grille.
LANGE
has a tube of beer. Sweating and shaking,
RYAN
and
WALKER
run back.

RYAN
: Wrong gate, Deputy Dog. Now do the right one or they'll find you floating somewhere.

Sirens ring out.

WALKER
: Fucking Germans. Listen. It's the Luftwaffe!

RYAN
: [
with the carbine to
LANGE
's ear
] The right gate, mate. Don't disappoint me. We're all going to Brazil.

The gate opens and they are in the carpark with only one car.

RYAN
: Can you hot-wire it, Peter? There's only one car here, of all the luck. Where's the warders' cars?

Sirens from Pentridge Prison ring and reverberate deafeningly, then for a few seconds fall silent. The subsequent ringing of them is slow and soft, like distant church bells. Everything is not quite normal. Running into traffic and monstrous tram brake noises and Mr Whippy vans and shrieking tyres and shrieking human voices are the escaped felons—
RYAN
and
WALKER
. Shots are fired and they swear.

Cunts are everywhere.

WALKER
: Language, Ron.

RYAN
: Who's this? Now what?

They collide with an old
SALVATION ARMY BLOKE
, his tambourine goes flying with his tattered old Bible.

SALVATION ARMY BLOKE
: I'm an old Salvo. Who are you?

WALKER
: Fuck me dead.

SALVATION ARMY BLOKE
: Christ, you say what you like, don't you?

WALKER
: Shoot him.

RYAN
: I hardly know him.

WALKER
: He might be of use as a hostage.

RYAN
: I wouldn't give you two bob for him.

SALVATION ARMY BLOKE
: I'll pray for both of you.

RYAN
: Not another Bible basher. Get out of the road. Get out of the road.

WALKER
: Shoot him. Just shoot him. I'll do it. Stand still. Stupid old prick.

SALVATION ARMY BLOKE
: We can't all be Einstein.

RYAN
: [
clubbing him under the chin
] Goodnight, Sergeant Major.

The old
SALVATION ARMY BLOKE
falls in a heap.
RYAN
picks up the Bible.

Something to read on the banana boat.

The truck tyres and tram brakes and general chaos are unbearable.
RYAN
spots a
LADY
trying to start up her car. He rushes up to her and holds the rifle at her head as she determinedly strives to get the car moving. Noises are hellish but not so loud we cannot hear
RYAN
and other characters effortlessly.