FELIX BRENNAN.

Sydney.Buckleys Pub.

As I now, spent most of my time in town, due to my work conditions anyway, and other reasons of course, to do with my marriage. It would have been a three hour drive in total every evening, not including dropping off a crew, and having to meet them again after their shift, every evening, after 10:30 pm.

(I eventually separated again and living first in an apartment in Edward St, Bondi, with Sam -Themistocles,then a house on the North Shore, near Cammeray, with Pascal and then in an apartment in the Koala Inn on Oxford Street.

I used to visit the kids on the weekend, usually a Sunday, and I paid all the bills, expenses and gave extra weekly money as well, a lot of which was being given to Rosetta's friends). I had a problem with alcohol but lucky for me I couldn't drink a lot before falling asleep, hence my nickname 'sleepy' in some places. Enough not to be driving though...

I drank at, ‘Buckley’s Pub,’ in my work break, which was a favourite with all classes and had been one of the first pubs to let women drink in the public bars.  The front of the pub inside consisted of a horseshoe shape bar and was mainly the haunt of the working men and women.  Along the left there was a hallway, partitioned off and leading to the back bar or saloon. There were stairs up to the living quarters from the back bar or from a street entrance.  The gent’s washroom was downstairs in the back and the ladies was upstairs. All around the pub the walls were covered in paintings. Artists used to display their wares this way and it made the hotel very cosmopolitan.  Buckley’s was an oasis from the horror of all the modernists and their cigar box buildings and polished brass bars.  Jim Buckley was the licensee and he was a character. He had been a boxing champion in New Zealand, lightweight I believe. He had been a prospector and had also met ‘Al Capone’, in the Blue Room in San Francisco, running booze I believe. Anyway he now had some problem stemming from a throat cancer operation and couldn’t speak loudly.

 

On one of my early visits; I was standing reading ‘Teach Yourself Irish’, when a big Irishman, named Sean Cox introduced himself to me, as I was drinking Guinness and that was a talking point. “ You like the Guinness then”, he asked. “ I answered that I had the occasional jar. He then introduced himself and it seemed he lived a long time in Nottingham. I noticed that he was slow on buying so I went ahead and paid for more drinks, for a while actually.  I didn’t realise it at the time but this was the first of many drinks that I would buy Sean.  The Coxilian period of Buckley’s world, was quite an expensive era to many people, and I was up there.

 

Sometimes, as a diversion, I would take a ferry ride to Manly, which could be reached by hydrofoil. I remember one occasion very well.  As the foil took off it zipped by the Opera House giving a beautiful view of the building and its terraces.  Its polished sails looking as if they were filled with air.  As we moved out into the harbour, we passed Fort Denison or ‘Pinchgut’, which had been a maximum, security jail.  It was a small reddish brick for with a round “ Martello Tower”, quite romantic today.  The view was becoming more interesting, I could see small coves and houses perched on the wooded sides of the harbour.  In the distance I could see the gap of ‘The Heads’, or the entrance to the harbour.  I could also see Manly coming into view and I was was taking a few snaps.

 

On arrival at Manly I walked along the pier and down the main street, ‘The Corso’, to the beach.  The beach was typically Sydney similar to Bondi except it was straight and backed with stands of Norfolk Pines, from Norfolk Island. I strolled around taking photos and spent a happy few hours there. On returning I decided to take the regular ferry back. It would be slower but yet another experience.  It was a wooden structure about fifty years old or more I guess.  It was a couple of enclosed decks with lounges and open decks near the funnels.

.  As I sat and watched the passengers I noticed they were a mixed bunch, with city types and bathers with towels and paraphernalia.  Amongst all these was a clergyman that was talking to all the kids and giving them sweets.  He also was lecturing some people about the error of their ways or something like that.  Eventually he lay on a bench and fell asleep snoring loudly, clutching his large brown shopping bag.  My attention was diverted by a beautiful shot of the Opera House and Bridge together, and then we came in to dock at Circular Quay.  I was putting my gear away and preparing to disembark when I notice the Priest still snoring away on the bench. I wondered whether I should wake him up before he was left on the ferry.  However one of the crew came and started to push him gently in order to awaken him.  What happened next, I could never have imagined, neither I am sure could the other passengers.

 

The Priest’s eyes opened drearily and he said, “ What’s happening”?  “Nothing Father”, said the seaman, “but we are at the city end now, and about to re-sail with new passengers.”   “ Oh did you, you arse-ole”, screamed the Priest.  “ I’m sorry Father “, said the crewman his mouth open like a stunned mullet.  The Priest then stood up, he looked like he was about fortyish and about five feet ten inches in height, with an extremely lived in face behind a beard.  It would have been a gentle face if wasn’t twisted up with fury and vituperation at this point.  I must confess I had recovered from the shock and was bent over double laughing at this incredible picture.  The crewman was in shock and the passengers were standing dumbfounded, in amazement and mirth.  The Priest continued, “ You scraggs and scruffs, you dubbos, you nongs, you ne’er do wells, you f…ing arse-oles, disturb a clergyman on his divine journey  would you?”  “ Disturb a Priest preparing his sermon would you?  “You showers of shit, you ratbags, that crawled out from under rocks when your mother wasn’t looking.”  He then took a beer can out of his shopping bag and shook it up. He then opened it and sprayed everyone within range, much to everyone’s amusement, including my own. I wished that I had a movie camera with me but I did get some good stills.  This was the last straw of course and he was bundled off the ferry by some burly crewmen , still shouting that they would be excommunicated for this heresy, and that they would have to do three Our Fathers, an Our Lady and a Glory Be as a penance and contribute a case of beer to the Church through him.  Anyway he marched off in the direction of the Rocks and would you believe it right into Buckley’s Pub.  I had met Brian Walker, otherwise known as ‘ The Raven’, no doubt due to his kind of raving behaviour.

 

I disembarked, headed for the South Sea Island restaurant and had a Chinese smorgasbord.  I then walked over to Buckley’s. There was a common room, with a television set, so I could watch the news.  There was a lot of talk about ‘Green Bans’, and stopping the redevelopment of the Rocks, and Kings Cross, into new office towers.  I thought it really is a major world conspiracy.    It seemed a girl called Juanita was running a publication of some kind and was giving the developers hell.   However I wondered how long she would be left alone doing that, interfering with millions of dollars of real estate..  I went down to the bar for a drink and ran into Jimbo himself, we had a conversation, with Jimbo using a note pad to talk to me.  I still wasn’t used to the way he talked.  He told me about the Green Bans and said that they were even trying to knock down his pub.

 

“ Hi there”, said a voice behind me.  It was  Peter Milligan,  you’ll always recognise him, by his brown cord jackets, and we chatted for a while.  Milligan was a local architect, and he often dropped into Buckley’s for a drink.  At that moment another figure loomed up it was Sean Cox, standing there, all six feet looking like Robert Mitchum with a beer belly.  Another fellow joined us called Tony Black and he was in real estate or mining or something like that.  He was a Dubliner and full of stories and get rich schemes.  It was a very pleasant evening and these characters were highly entertaining.  Sean of course didn’t buy a drink and I ended up lending him some money to boot.  I met these characters many times over, for like me they were regulars.

 

I enjoyed talking to the barmaids, Sarah, June and Inga.   I nearly went out with Inga, who was a tall German girl, but we never quite got around to it. I did have a friendly relationship with Sarah though.  One could chat with them, as they floated from one bar and area of the pub to another and back.  They must have given Cox a free beer for it looked pretty flat.  I bought him a drink for he was really good company.  Soon enough the regulars came in, Milligan and a couple of others.  We were just settling into an interesting conversation, about the old convict days, when in walked the ‘Priest’, Raven.  I didn’t know but he had been barred for two weeks for some transgression or other.  Jimbo spotted him and asked him to leave, as his barring wasn’t up yet.  Jimbo obviously liked him so he wasn’t too hard and the pub was full of tourists anyway.  Raven whispered something to Jim and the next thing I wasn’t prepared for.  There were lots of Americans with cameras and pyjama pants on, plus the usual ‘slummers’, visiting pubs of character.

 

Jim put the Raven’s arm up his back and prepared him for the ‘bum’s rush’ down the hall and out the door.  Raven said lets go and ‘Dick the Pig’, opened the swing door dividing the lounge from the street and away we went.  It was another hilarious event: Raven shouting,” Throw out a man of the cloth would you, you f…ing bastard, you’ll go to hell, and you f….ing tourist-whorists haven’t you seen a man of the cloth being thrown out of a pub before? You showers of shit.”  I was roaring with laughter for I had seen the scene on the boat, so were all the regulars.  However the tourists and visitors were standing with mouths agape at this incredible scene.  Raven hit the street but ran around to the side entrance where he was shouting, “ Buckley you will go straight to hell for this, throwing out a clergyman.  And that he wasn’t going to ‘Bless’, the f…..ing customers anymore.  The Raven it seemed walked through the pub splashing water from a coke bottle on to everyone, abusing them as he blessed them. Often I would go to other watering holes though, especially in Bondi.

 

Sometimes, particularly on a Saturday, I went around to the Bondi Hotel, for a few drinks, especially if it was very hot, for only the pubs sold big glasses of squash lemonade. On one occasion, I thought I would go in the back bar and watch the cricket for a while, as I knew that it was on.  The back bar was very basic with a couple of pool tables, and nailed down tables and stools around the place.  I walked in and sat down by the window, where I watched the cricket. Here I would, sometimes, meet my old friend, and sister’s father –in –law, L Sven.

L Sven was originally from Norway but had been caught out of the country by the war.  He had spent many years in the Merchant Navy before settling in Liverpool, where he had a scrap business.  It was ideal for him for he could go on the Scandinavian ships and communicate.  So he more or less cornered the market on scrap from these ships.  He made a lot of money for a while and he was helpful to those who needed a helping hand or a pint.  He helped me a few times when Mike and I arrived back in Merseyside, and I never forgot that.  He was getting old now though, his hair was still full but grey and he had a bit of a beer belly.  He had a red friendly face narrowing in the Nordic fashion and he was about 5ft 11ins and well built.  We chatted for a while and he offered any help at any time, as was his nature. I actually got the opportunity to help him in return, which I was thankful for.  His daughters ended up being two of my receptionists.

 

Later at the Newcastle, the Raven turned up and introduced me to his brother Cyril who happened to be an aboriginal, and he was also an aboriginal activist. I had some doubts about how serious that would be, taking into account what I already knew of Raven.  Raven was raving about being thrown out of a party he had formed. I asked him what party was that, and he answered the Nazi Party.

 I needn’t have worried for it seemed that Raven regularly formed controversial groups to raise money for him and Cyril.  He had all the contacts in the Press and was guaranteed a story would be printed resulting in a temporary flow of funds from sympathisers.  He had in the past formed extreme leftwing groups and even the K.K.K. he didn’t mind which end of the political spectrum it was.  (It seemed that a group of friends, in Queanbeyan,  had put sheets on and then called the newspapers, to announce it all).  In this Nazi case he had roped together a few people who were serious about the Nazis and rented a house in  Ashfield  near Sydney.  Here they trained their ‘Stormtroopers’, in the back yard.   When I confronted the Raven with all this, he explained it this way.  “ My dear Tony, I was in need of extra income and so was Cyril.  Please don’t be uncharitable my boy.”  It seemed that although Cyril was an Aboriginal, he was made an honourary ‘White’ for the duration.  Cyril was also the leader of a Black Panther group, how serious this was, I had no idea.  However I got the impression that it was quite a serious organisation.  He joined the Raven, sitting on the verandah, drinking flagons of wine, whilst shouting out exercise commands to the ‘stormtroopers’, who were marching up and down.  Raven wasn’t a bad public speaker either.  He used to give raves at the Domain Park on the weekend sometimes.  With regard to the Nazi Party, he said;  “ In the morning I would go out and meet the mail-man to pick up the donations.  That way I had first crack at the money, after all I was the founder.”

 

The local press had printed the story, courtesy of the Raven anyway, so donations were sent in by sympathisers.  Raven went on; “ When ‘the skull’, Ross, drove down from Cairns to join the group, after reading about it, we really knew advertising was working, and getting a little out of hand.”  The Skull was well known in Sydney, mainly for pushing little old Oriental women off the sidewalk.  Raven continued; “ The Skull arrived, polished bald head on his motor cycle announcing he had come to join up.”  He had driven about sixteen hundred miles.  “ I didn’t know what to do with him “, said Raven. “ So I asked him did he have any money, for the Fuehrer was in bed having a screw and everyone else was pissed drunk. “ I told him it was Hitler’s birthday soon and we needed to buy a flag.  He gave us a few hundred dollars, some of which we spent on a flag and the rest was spent on piss.

(alcohol) ”  “ We had to reward him for this; so as he had transportation, we gave him a pot of paint and made him the ‘Minister for Propaganda’, and told him to go out and paint slogans on walls.  

 

“ How come you were thrown out?” I asked him.  He replied; “ Oh all these serious people joined up and took over the party, and they didn’t like Cyril or me.”  One guy owned a Fascist bookshop, and probably was the worst.  Anyway I was given the ‘bum’s rush’, so now I am a clergyman.”  “ I am thinking of starting a new Socialist group though, perhaps Marxist or perhaps Marxist-Leninist.”  He then said;  “ Check the papers tomorrow!”  I said that I would and then ordered another round of drinks.

 

One day, the afternoon paper, The Mirror, had a full face view of the Raven, under a headline, “ The laziest man in Australia”, wouldn’t work in an iron-lung!  It continued on about how he was a welfare bum and was bludging off the State and all the mugs.  This of course bought more drinks in his regular pubs, it was a huge joke again.  I suppose that I also was a mug but he was a friendly fellow and a great entertainer and conversationalist.  Although, he did seem to have some problems, with his personality.

 

 

I had a busy day, so I thought I would give the bar a miss after dinner.  So I settled in to watch T.V. for a while. The main news was that Jack Munday had put a green ban on ‘The Rocks’, and many heritage buildings.  Also that the newspaper publisher Juanita had disappeared, last seen entering one of the clubs of her adversary.   I knew she was running a risk holding up real estate development.   Right now in Australia it seemed the multi-nationals were running wild anyway, so much wealth in the earth, and in the tourist industry.

 

“ Come on you old bastard”, he said.  Sean poking his head around the door.  “ I’ve someone for you to meet.”   I left the T.V. lounge and followed Sean down to the bar.  Living in a pub is a liability, I thought.  “This is Jimmy Dalmadge, from London”, he said.  We introduced ourselves and he seemed a nice of enough guy of about fifty years of age.  He had grey hair, a narrow face and glasses at the end of his nose, another character for sure.  He was originally from Ireland and was a Protestant from the Republic, Anglo-Irish, I suppose.  I’m sure that I was introduced so as to pay for Sean’s drinks of course. Sean was pretty well under the weather by the time Milligan and others joined ‘the shout’.  Sean went to the washroom and never reappeared, fell asleep no doubt.  Jimmy said, “ lets fix the bludger up good and proper.”  Jimmy was jumping around waving his arms like a bantam cock, or a band leader. I could hardly believe what happened next.

 

Jimmy and Mulligan went into the washroom with me following. It was very cramped and you could see Sean’s feet sticking out from under the door.  One of those half doors with space at the top and the bottom.  I could hear Sean snoring and his trousers, underpants and socks were all jumbled up around his feet.   The boys removed his trousers and underpants, I could barely restrain my mirth.  Mulligan rolled up the bundle and we left Sean asleep, wondering what the reaction would be.  A couple of fellows came out and said that there was someone asleep in the toilet, but we told them not to worry.   “ Hello boys”, came the booming voice of Sean . There was an apparition of Robert Mitchum, standing there, shirtails, sued boots, and incredibly underpants!  I don’t know how he had done it but he had convinced a visitor to the washrooms to give him their underpants!  I must say I was now convinced of Sean’s powers of persuasion.   Buckley then came out and proceeded to chase Sean around the pub with a soda syphon. It was hilarious and a great entertainment for all, especially the disbelieving tourists.  Eventually Milligan gave Sean his clothes back and the story was retold all evening to each arrival.  Sean would get many free drinks on the strength of this story.  Sean didn’t actually bum his drinks in this case he had earned them.

 

The regular bar staff were also enjoying all this hilarity as well.  Mind you the bar staff were also an interesting bunch themselves.  There was Ruby, the overdressed ‘Tart’, with a man’s voice and hairy legs and arms, but she could pass alright.  There was Sarah who was a student and whose father was a wealthy businessman.  Then there was Jane who handled the back saloon bar.  At this juncture Bill and the Printer joined us.  That’s all they ever were known by.  Bill was a remittance man and the son of a British Lord, but you would hardly know it.  He was totally eccentric with long hair, green teeth, dirty clothes and he wouldn’t tub.  That is he had an aversion to water.  He carried his money in a tobacco tin and had an incredible upper-class accent. He was very ‘plum in the mouth’, and how he ended up here, I couldn’t even hazard a guess.  His room mate the Printer was short, dark, energetic and probably some years older than Bill, they called him Smithy.  They were part of the collection of the pub and that’s what made it so interesting. ( I learned later that Bill eventually returned home, cleaned up and became an Officer in the Guards, he was Lord something or other, Smithy visited as well I believe.)  I could see the good sense in Buckley not allowing a jukebox in the bar, it would stifle the incredible goings on.

 

I was enjoying Sydney and there was plenty of other pubs with jazz and other music as well.  Sometimes I would go into the Paddington area, which was a little like New Orleans.  With its terraced houses and French Lace ironcasting.  The streets were narrow and winding and the area had become extremely expensive and yuppyish.  Paddo was on the way to Bondi so on a Saturday, I would often go in and see my old friend L S, at the Astor.(See note L Sven at bottom of chapter 9).

There were other people at Buckleys, that were not so friendly though. Riley, who came originally from Blackpool,  and seemed to be well known but had connections to mining.  He was known to Drury, Mulligan and Jimmy Dalmadge as well.  He seemed friendly enough at times but at other times he seemed to enjoy hurting people.  There was one barmaid, Linzi, from Kiwi who he seemed to take a particular delight in hurting.  She had a few insignificant blemishes on her face but was conscious of them. Riley used to tease her a lot about them, and he was always after other bloke’s girlfriends.  I had consoled her a few times when Riley had been insulting her.  One time I took her for a meal and to the movies, but we never seemed to get together properly. Although we went out a few times, and I think that she was a little more serious than I.

 

 Riley seemed to me to be a dangerous, jealous, psychotic in some ways..  One particular evening ‘Paddy’, had to pick up some drawings at the Beauchamp Hotel in Paddington, that had been dropped off for him.  He was always into developing buildings and real estate. Everything seemed to be done in a pub in Australia, good job there was no prohibition the place would be closed.

 

We agreed to accompany Paddy to the Bocamp as the Aussies pronounced it, in an hour or so.  After some time Sean had earned his drinks and Riley had disappeared.  I thought nothing of it at the time but Jimmy was very worried about it.  An hour gone so we piled into Steve’s station wagon and took off for the Bocamp.   Steve was a Canadian and worked for me, as a Sales Manager. When we arrived Riley was already there and made some excuse about dropping a girl off, and making his own way.  We had only been there about twenty minutes when Riley started picking a fight with Steve, who was quite a big boy.  Nothing could stop Riley, so outside they went to try and sort it out, for the bar manager didn’t want any arguments or trouble in the pub.  As soon as we stepped outside we were hit from nowhere, I went down and so did Sean.  We were getting a good kicking and being told to mind our own business.  I don’t even know where these people came from, obviously Riley had ‘set us up’. That’s why he was arguing, knowing we would be asked to go outside. I was dragged into an alley and given a pretty good hiding, and I could just see Sean lying on the ground. Someone came in the alley and said that’s enough and dropped a couple of guys, it was Paddy he was such a hard case.  The attackers disappeared as quickly as they had come, so we picked ourselves up and went inside to clean up. 

 

The next day I was in Buckleys and Riley was nowhere to be seen, some said he had gone to Brisbane stumping houses or something. It actually turned out that he had a thing about Irish People, and he was jealous of a language course, on tape, that I was putting together.  Up until this time, I thought he was friendly to me.  There was another fellow there also, who I thought was my friend, but wasn’t.  He was a blind guy, that used to try and ply me with drink, so that I would smash my car and kill myself.  A little friend of mine from Ireland, Paddy Donnelly, told me. ‘Be aware of the afflicted and their jealousies.’  

 

Sometimes on a Saturday, I would go to, ‘Paddy’s Market’.   I would catch the train to Central and walked up to the markets.  They were a cacaphony of noise with over 900 stalls selling anything and everything.  There seemed to be a mixture of Immigrants and newer Asian arrivals.  There were fast food kebab sites and coffee stalls. There was fruit, vegetables and fish products. There was electronic gear and clothes. Anything you could imagine including all the tourist stuff was available. No wonder it was such a famous  market.  It was a day out by itself the malls are cemeteries in comparison.  In fact the stall holders and ‘pitch men’, provided a lot of entertainment. Holding up products and asking, ‘how much am I bid’, and going through an auction routine. There were other’s selling perfume, pitching a bottle at a certain price and then adding in extras and building the price up.  Then they would drop it down from a $120 to $20 bill, and the ‘rick’, would buy the first packet every time. The rick’s hand always went up first to encourage others to join in and buy and then move on. There was an Italian fellow at one stall singing Opera, to everyone’s delight and it was a good way to sell pepperoni sausage. Over the road from the market was ‘Chinatown’, with all its great restaurants and a couple of famous pubs. This was a very famous area of Sydney, and one of the best pubs was the Covent Garden Hotel.

 

 

 On one occasion, I had been drinking with the Raven, and had gone back to his place, or rather his brother Cyril’s, in Balmain.   However I was so tired that I collapsed on Cyril’s bed and fell asleep.  I half awoke with a very sore throat and it was painful when I breathed.  I wasn’t really awake and the whole thing was like a dream sequence but the sore throat became oppressive and the pain in my chest was getting very sharp and causing a cough.  The coughing awakened me to a room full of smoke, hardly a thing could be seen.  I didn’t panic, I just got out of bed pulled on my trousers, grabbed my jacket and made my way out.  I had to walk across a couple of rooms and the smoke was thick and blocking my light.  I crawled along the floor for air and made my way to the front door.  As I reached it, firemen grabbed me and guided me the last few metres, to the front garden.  They said, “ Who are you, and what are you doing in there?”  “ There wasn’t anyone else supposed to be in there!”  I asked, “where is the other guy?” They answered he is on the lawn getting oxygen and first aid treatment.  They seemed quite surprised that I was still alive and wondered openly why I wasn’t dead and my friend hadn’t told them about me.   The Raven was now going on about me being a martyr, for the Irish, and the decent world at large.  He was convinced, that it was all an assassination plot by, some group who didn’t like him or Cy.  Actually this time it was the Raven falling asleep with a cigarette and setting fire to his mattress.  However it was a warning that it could be dangerous with these guys anyway.  I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t drank too much the previous evening.  We walked away with Raven cursing and going on about what Cy was going to say about all this. His water ruined flat and black smoke stains everywhere.  My big American Ford was parked outside, but Raven thought it better we not get in it, as it looked too posh, and might attract undue attention to him.

 

We didn’t have to wait long, for Cy came screaming down to Buckley’s that evening. “ Where’s the Bastard?, that drongo, that galah, that dubbo.”  Screamed Cy in the public bar.  The Raven was cringing and apologising. “ You know my dear Cy, I have the memory of a wombat, just forgot that I was smoking that’s all. Never mind Cy its still better than a humpy down at La Perouse Reserve.”   Cy was so mad, “ My carpets and bed stuff is ruined, the walls are black, my books and records are ruined.   He said “ Brian you are an idiot, I’m off to Redfern, Blacks are smarter people.”

As the evening wore on it became more, lively.  Sean was blind drunk and singing his head off.  The Raven was sticking his hand in the air shouting, and Paddy was on a stool reciting poetry.  Emmet’s, ‘Speech from the dock,’ if I remember rightly.  I was laughing the bar staff were laughing it was a very funny time. I was running along the bar like a gorilla and Buckley was chasing me with the soda fountain, it was hilarious.  I never knocked over a glass and Martin was singing something, different altogether.  I had the habit of doing this several evenings a week, Buckley joined in and it entertained the tourists.

 

 

Unfortunately Raven had a bit of bad luck, on one particular day.  I wasn’t present this particular day but this is how it was related to me….”Things were going fine until some idiot came in shouting about Communists and stuff.  Then all of a sudden this fellow pulled a knife and started to menace Raven. Raven took the knife off the guy and told him that he would go home, and return to the pub.  If the guy was still there and in the same  mood, there would be trouble.   Which is what he did!   At this juncture the idiot pulled a knife, and he was crouched and making sweeping attacks on Raven.  Suddenly Raven dived for the fellow’s legs and down they went in a jumble.  Somehow Raven had hold of the knife, and he was holding the knife arm of this person, with his other hand.  The assailant broke loose and took a lunge at Raven. Raven then stepped back, somehow or other grabbed the knife and drove it into the chest of this lunatic. The attacker went down gurgling to the floor. The police came and the Raven was taken away”.  However there were a few lawyers present, as witnesses so Raven would end up with manslaughter, claiming self-defence.  He ended up at Long Bay Jail, which was not an unfamiliar residence for him.

 

So it looked like it was all coming to an end, with all this redevelopment going on.  Even the pub wasn’t on the ‘Green Ban’, now for it was only on the border of the Rocks.  The Rocks was only going to be developed as a heritage area for tourism and the like. Talking of developers, Juanita had definitely disappeared and no doubt was dead.   She was last seen going into a club, owned by a certain Abe Saffron, who was a well known ‘investor’, in the seedy area.

 

On another occasion, Sarah told me that her father is giving a party and I am welcome to come over and enjoy myself.   She was a nice girl and I think she liked me, however she did have a boyfriend. A Greek fellow we called ‘Andronicus Acropolis’, after a coffee brand, mainly because no one could remember or pronounce his real name.  Grant owned a big house, on the North Shore with B-B-Q and guest, house in the yard and everything.  The fire was stoked well when I arrived, with Sean in tow, anything for free drink and tucker!   The house was very big with many rooms and they had hired a jukebox for the day, a good idea, for guests could play what they wanted.  Sarah shanghaied me up to her room where she could chat to me some more.  We had a pretty interesting chat about politics, and allied subjects, but I knew it wasn’t going anywhere, so we went down to the garden.  Where all the guest were milling around, and generally enjoying themselves.  This was quite a social event and many television actors were there.  I remember one Irish actor off a police show, Homicide.

On a prior occasion, I was invited over for dinner with the family.  Sarah was interested in me it seems, and perhaps more so, since she learned that I had some Jewish ancestry, ( my paternal grandmother).  Anyway I had a very nice dinner and a long chat with Sarah’s mother, who was a Jewish Lady from Dublin, where my father's family was from.  I managed to chat about a lot of things with her father and brother, at the same time perhaps drinking a little too much wine and whisky. I managed to stand up and thank Mrs D for the very nice dinner and the invitation, and then promptly collapsed.  I was taken out to the guest’s house, in the garden and spent the night there.  Mrs D wasn’t mad and was impressed with my timing.  That, I could give all my thanks, before collapsing.  The relationship with Sarah really didn’t start, for she was with Andy, and I was definitely not a candidate for imprisoning myself in another marriage.  I think, in the end, Andy married some girl from his Greek village, that he had never even met before.  Religious and cultural differences, I suppose.

 

 

Late that week, the newspapers were showing headlines,  “ Market Pub burnt down, people die.”  I was shocked that’s where the ‘Irish’ held their folk singing and charity raising.   It was an old building so it burned quickly.  There was a suspicion anyway, but there was no proof, for it seemed, if it was a professional job, there wouldn’t be any. Unfortunately the landlord and one, or two, of his children died in the fire.  This was a great loss to all involved with this courageous person.