In my conscience it was the first crime against one of my peers. Maybe that's why it is so long remembered and with such clarity. Half forgotten are the numerous animal acts committed since. Against my own people that is. The others do not worry me. Why should they? More a matter of pride than regret.
In a relative sense the Latimer boy wasn't a peer. All I knew of the Latimers was that there was a lot of them and that they were very poor. The very had a significance at the beginning of the nineteen thirties as at least we had the old man's war pension by then. Recognition by the State of him being classified as a sometimes lunatic to be locked up in the looney bin every so often. Don't talk about the war and a land fit for heroes.
Real depression poverty seemed to pass us by what with the lurks on the side. The bird aviary and smaller canaries. "Sing yer yeller, pommie bastards, sing," one of my Oz born uncles would yell when pissed on the old man's home brew. Then there was the lucerne and vegitable patch. The side garden of mostly dahlias, zinnias and ranunculus. "Mother Bloody England" would be another colonial riposte from an oiled up visitor.
And dogs. The two bitches always seemed to be in pup to Tiger. His pedigree name was more poncy than that but he was true-blue antipodes born and bred. Tige won a lot of show ribbons in his day, mostly reds and yellows. A rare blue to denote cattle dog champion. He got lots of seconds and thirds though and the best adorned the lounge room walls of the grandly named Soldiers Settlement, two-bedroom brick house.
The old feller once took me on a long train ride over to 'the North Shore' across the newly completed Harbour Bridge. Big deal. Tiger won the all-comers top dog riband. With golden tassles all round. Father was cock-a-hoop and got pretty drunk. All the way home he kept saying. "Me headaches gone, me headaches gone." Over and over. It's the only time I really remember him laughing with happiness.
The chooks. Above all the squawking, clucking, crowing inhabitants of one third of the block dominated the household. We all had tasks concerning their wellbeing. Stupid, like sheep. The fowls I mean.
So by flogging the continuing supply of young dogs as working beasts to beyond my imagination pastures, chooks eggs daily and their edible mothers at Xmas, the sale of smaller feathered bipeds ("good warbler that one, mister"), the occasional bunch of flowers for a hasty wedding or an over delayed funeral perhaps and having a 'hero's' pension (pittance) our family probably survived the bitter years better than the Latimers.
You could tell by the clothes a bit. Our commonality lay in our leathery bare feet. The peer thing broke down depending on who had a quid or not. Or more to the point of peerdom amongst us kids, maybe a cricket bat, a bag of connie agates or fireworks on Empire Day night.
All these years on and everything changes and nothing changes. Funny that.
The Latimers wou1d have had their own lurks – most everybody did. I had several. Two come to mind.
Being a hot-shot barrow racer on Moorefield Road hill I had a light weight machine with ballbearing wheels. A screamer. Being always on the make for money there was a cast-iron wheeled heavy weight box with which I would be sent to scour local paddocks where cowpats and horseshit were sufficient unto the day thereof even if the day was long, hot and hard.
Henry Louis Alex preferred the equine to the bovine. Bullshit was more abundant however, heavier and lots more fitted into the conveyance. A cornbag full would fetch sixpence from a neighbour on trust of it being kept as a transaction between ourselves.
Somehow, I always had boils.
These duties led to certain relationships with certain market gardeners who produced remarkably fine lettuce with big hearts. The growers big hearts allowed them to sell to me at twopence a throw. Hawking these at two for sixpence from door to door around the suburb brought a cop of fifty percent. Primitive Capitalist Accumulation. Every Saturday morning, until I got sick of it. Grocery and bread cart deliveries bought hobbies.
After Infants School we get sent up to Belmore South Primary.
The Latimer kid sat in the first row nearest the door. First seat. I was behind him. There was about five rows of six ("Sit up straight there and the verb is were") of those bolted together cast-iron frames. Wooden desk tops and seats attached to these.
This day, after we had all been marshalled and marched, we were sat down and set some boring task and I noticed something tied to one of those curlicues that were part of the moulded fret work of iron. It hung on the desk in front. Latimer's. A hanky.
And tied in the corner was a sixpenny piece. It dangled down and I wondered where he had got it. For lunch I had one soggy tomato sandwich and a soggier jam. The enticing tuckshop might not as well have been there.
The curlicues, the handkerchief and a treasure in the corner.
Temptation resisted but only just.
Back from morning recess there was no Latimer. But on the floor, between his seat and mine was a shining sixpence. I took it. After lunch we file in with Latimer back and he gives me a dirty look that made the rest inevitable.
Called up before the class and questioned I blabbed something about a street find. Where? Did anybody see me break rank and pick it up? I was trapped but played dumb and stuck to my story. The Headmaster gave me a sealed letter for my mother. The coin restored to its rightful owner, I didn't give the old lady the letter but I know she had a talk to the Head. I don't know or remember anything else being said.
Over the years this memory has taunted me.
Now that I'm confessed I don't if I feel better or not.
I would just like Latimer to know that I didn't really steal his sac
It was lying there.
Like I said.
In a relative sense the Latimer boy wasn't a peer. All I knew of the Latimers was that there was a lot of them and that they were very poor. The very had a significance at the beginning of the nineteen thirties as at least we had the old man's war pension by then. Recognition by the State of him being classified as a sometimes lunatic to be locked up in the looney bin every so often. Don't talk about the war and a land fit for heroes.
Real depression poverty seemed to pass us by what with the lurks on the side. The bird aviary and smaller canaries. "Sing yer yeller, pommie bastards, sing," one of my Oz born uncles would yell when pissed on the old man's home brew. Then there was the lucerne and vegitable patch. The side garden of mostly dahlias, zinnias and ranunculus. "Mother Bloody England" would be another colonial riposte from an oiled up visitor.
And dogs. The two bitches always seemed to be in pup to Tiger. His pedigree name was more poncy than that but he was true-blue antipodes born and bred. Tige won a lot of show ribbons in his day, mostly reds and yellows. A rare blue to denote cattle dog champion. He got lots of seconds and thirds though and the best adorned the lounge room walls of the grandly named Soldiers Settlement, two-bedroom brick house.
The old feller once took me on a long train ride over to 'the North Shore' across the newly completed Harbour Bridge. Big deal. Tiger won the all-comers top dog riband. With golden tassles all round. Father was cock-a-hoop and got pretty drunk. All the way home he kept saying. "Me headaches gone, me headaches gone." Over and over. It's the only time I really remember him laughing with happiness.
The chooks. Above all the squawking, clucking, crowing inhabitants of one third of the block dominated the household. We all had tasks concerning their wellbeing. Stupid, like sheep. The fowls I mean.
So by flogging the continuing supply of young dogs as working beasts to beyond my imagination pastures, chooks eggs daily and their edible mothers at Xmas, the sale of smaller feathered bipeds ("good warbler that one, mister"), the occasional bunch of flowers for a hasty wedding or an over delayed funeral perhaps and having a 'hero's' pension (pittance) our family probably survived the bitter years better than the Latimers.
You could tell by the clothes a bit. Our commonality lay in our leathery bare feet. The peer thing broke down depending on who had a quid or not. Or more to the point of peerdom amongst us kids, maybe a cricket bat, a bag of connie agates or fireworks on Empire Day night.
All these years on and everything changes and nothing changes. Funny that.
The Latimers wou1d have had their own lurks – most everybody did. I had several. Two come to mind.
Being a hot-shot barrow racer on Moorefield Road hill I had a light weight machine with ballbearing wheels. A screamer. Being always on the make for money there was a cast-iron wheeled heavy weight box with which I would be sent to scour local paddocks where cowpats and horseshit were sufficient unto the day thereof even if the day was long, hot and hard.
Henry Louis Alex preferred the equine to the bovine. Bullshit was more abundant however, heavier and lots more fitted into the conveyance. A cornbag full would fetch sixpence from a neighbour on trust of it being kept as a transaction between ourselves.
Somehow, I always had boils.
These duties led to certain relationships with certain market gardeners who produced remarkably fine lettuce with big hearts. The growers big hearts allowed them to sell to me at twopence a throw. Hawking these at two for sixpence from door to door around the suburb brought a cop of fifty percent. Primitive Capitalist Accumulation. Every Saturday morning, until I got sick of it. Grocery and bread cart deliveries bought hobbies.
After Infants School we get sent up to Belmore South Primary.
The Latimer kid sat in the first row nearest the door. First seat. I was behind him. There was about five rows of six ("Sit up straight there and the verb is were") of those bolted together cast-iron frames. Wooden desk tops and seats attached to these.
This day, after we had all been marshalled and marched, we were sat down and set some boring task and I noticed something tied to one of those curlicues that were part of the moulded fret work of iron. It hung on the desk in front. Latimer's. A hanky.
And tied in the corner was a sixpenny piece. It dangled down and I wondered where he had got it. For lunch I had one soggy tomato sandwich and a soggier jam. The enticing tuckshop might not as well have been there.
The curlicues, the handkerchief and a treasure in the corner.
Temptation resisted but only just.
Back from morning recess there was no Latimer. But on the floor, between his seat and mine was a shining sixpence. I took it. After lunch we file in with Latimer back and he gives me a dirty look that made the rest inevitable.
Called up before the class and questioned I blabbed something about a street find. Where? Did anybody see me break rank and pick it up? I was trapped but played dumb and stuck to my story. The Headmaster gave me a sealed letter for my mother. The coin restored to its rightful owner, I didn't give the old lady the letter but I know she had a talk to the Head. I don't know or remember anything else being said.
Over the years this memory has taunted me.
Now that I'm confessed I don't if I feel better or not.
I would just like Latimer to know that I didn't really steal his sac
It was lying there.
Like I said.
