Maddog Tales

My Granddad, Mervyn, worked on the Queensland docks as a stevedore, a wharfie in Australian slang, performing back breaking work to load and unload ships by hand. The harsh working conditions made Mervyn’s tall frame lean and hard. When he started on the docks, employers used the bull system, selecting workers daily from the wharfies massed on the docks looking for work. Strength and compliance became the two traits most sought after by the bosses who wanted to quell the rising unionism (and communism) in their workforce. Like most wharfies, Mervyn stood staunchly with the union and played a part in strikes for better wages and conditions throughout his working life. Unfortunately, Mervyn succumbed to cancer in the mid-sixties and most of my knowledge of him comes from my Grandma (Edna) and Mum but I have two vivid memories.

The earliest memory is of a bow and arrow Granddad made for my brother Ross and me. A large jacaranda tree grew in the yard around their flat, its branches fanned out like a massive sunshade and a fantastic place for boys to climb. I spent many hours perched in its branches when I got older, its purple flowers carpeting the ground to produce a natural pavilion ready for any big occasion. On this day, its young branches provided a supple limb to construct a bow for our game. Granddad notched each end and stretched a piece string tightly bending the limb into a bow. An umbrella tree provided several long thin stems that he fashioned into crude arrows to complete our simple toy. I remember shooting the arrows wildly under the clothesline under his watchful eyes.

I made similar bows from those same materials several times during my childhood but they never worked as well as I remember the one Granddad made us. Unconsciously, I think I used the bow and arrow as way to remember my Grandfather, reinforcing my one happy memory of his life with me because cancer already had a hold on him by this time.

Mum and Dad took us kids, my sister just a baby, to see our Granddad one last time at the hospital. I walked into a cold hospital room and can still see the frail shell of a man sitting up in the bed waiting to see his Grandkids one last time. I cannot see his face or remember what wisdom he may have imparted that day, I only feel incredibly sad. Even today, 40 years latter, I still feel uneasy when I go to a hospital even for the most benign reasons.

Latter, Grandma told us her stories of Mervyn’s life and we saw him through her eyes, a lovable rogue, good provider, husband and Dad. She created an idealised figure incorporating even his more questionable traits into the likeable lad she married. Meryvn, far from perfect in real life, had brushes with the law and some questionable morals by today’s standards.

Mervyn ran a Starting Price (SP) book for local punters and although he known to be involved in this illegal activity, the police could not prove their suspicions. Unlike most SP bookmakers, Mervyn did not keep a book, it did not exist anywhere but in his head. He logged each bet into his memory safe from scrutiny but recalled easily to pay the winners and console the losers. The cops caught up with him when a disgruntled punter provided the police with the information they needed to prosecute. The family story does not record his punishment. I don’t know whether he found himself in court or received a little rough justice from the cops but it curtailed his small enterprise. Despite a questionable moral outcome, Grandma told this story with pride.

She also boasted about Meryvn’s will and endurance when faced with pain. Working at home one day he severed his Achilles tendon, a painful, crippling injury for most people. Mervyn, the family provider, could not work with this injury but had no resources to sustain his family’s meagre existence. Ignoring the pain, he limped to work the next morning where he reported the injury as a work accident to secure worker’s compensation. His deception kept the family afloat until he regained his strength but I no longer feel the same pride my Grandma imparted to me when she told the story.

However, I grew up in a more privileged society because of the Mervyn’s work in the unions to make life more equitable for all Australians, and I did not face a moral dilemma to support my family like he did. Although I only knew him a short time, he continues to influence my life with the two small gifts he gave me. A simple bow and arrow, and the strength to support my family no matter how hard life becomes because they are what each life is really about.

Tags: autobiography, Family, Grandparents, Memoir, memories, rememberances