The Silent Country (6 page)

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.

‘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 delights 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.

‘These laws, they are ridiculous!’ The large man at a table surrounded by friends, acquaintances and the curious, flung up his hands in exasperation. ‘Maxim Topov should be able to drink wine where and when he wants!’

Colin, sitting alone in a corner, watched the other people in the coffee shop hover around the burly man with the loud Russian-accented voice. They appeared to hang onto his every word. To Colin, the people looked to be arty types. Some of the men had beards and wore berets. Many of the women were heavily made-up and wore flowing clothes or chic little dresses. The Russian gave out a handful of leaflets and then dramatically left the café with several people in his wake. Another man gathered up his cigarettes, paid the bill and, as he left, stuck one of the flyers onto the café noticeboard.

On his way out Colin made a point of reading it.

Direct from Russia! The brilliant cinematographer and filmmaker Maxim Topov will be screening his film
‘
Under Dark Skies
’, Sunday, three pm, at the Roxy Cinema, Paddington
.

Come, hear Topov speak about his career and his exciting plans to make a film in Australia. You could be part of Topov’s next masterpiece!

Admission 2/-

Colin loved films. He enjoyed the interesting ones with subtitles, as well as Hollywood movies and the few Australian films he’d seen. This Russian one intrigued him. So, on Sunday afternoon, Colin threw a long scarf his mother had knitted around his neck, which he thought gave him a more rakish air and set off for the little art-house cinema in Paddington.

There was a smallish turnout and Maxim Topov stood in front of the stage with a very large, flamboyantly dressed, alarmingly red-headed woman. The two were in deep discussion until the woman turned and marched up the aisle and took her seat in the centre of the theatre while the director disappeared into the wings. The lights dimmed save for a spotlight on the stage as Topov reappeared, parting the curtains with a flourish and announcing to the empty gods, ‘I am Topov.’