The Charms of Sydney

He pulls his bowler hat down tight over his closely-shaven head and steps out into the cold night, his heavy boots making solid thumps on the woodblocked road. He waits for a hansom cab to clip-clop by, and being careful not to tread on the freshly deposited horseshit, falls in step with the man he has been watching from the shadows. He clears his throat. The man turns and almost jumps out of his skin.

Alfie Young often has this effect on people. Perhaps it’s his bulldog-like physique or the permanent scowl that plays upon his lips; or maybe it’s the scars that criss-cross his cheeks. No one has ever called him pretty.

The man composes himself, and swaying slightly, offers his hand to Alfie and says, ‘G’day mate, Frank’s the name, Frank Miller. What’s yours?’

Miller’s breath smells of cheap grog. Alfie doesn’t answer but shakes the outstretched hand firmly. So firmly that Miller winces slightly.

‘How was Rosa’s?’ Alfie’s voice is another thing that makes people uneasy. It’s a raspy croak with a sound like coal being shovelled; the result of a knife-fight in his native city of London.

Miller winks and says, ‘Madame Rosa’s girls know how to give a bloke a good time.’

Alfie chuckles and nudges him under the ribs. ‘All men have needs eh? What’s that song they sing? The Charms of Sydney. How does it go again?’

Miller gives a leery smile and throws an arm over Alfie’s broad shoulders. They walk together in the middle of the darkened street, up an incline that’s steep enough to make Alfie’s calves burn. Miller sings loudly:

‘I am a wild colonial boy

With a girl that I adore

But her smiles cannot compare my lads,

To the charms of a Sydney whore!’

Tram tracks glimmer like gold ribbons under the light of the streetlamps. Alfie feels a vibration underfoot. He grabs Miller by the arm, steering him towards the footpath.

‘Best get off the road old son, there’s a tram coming.’

‘Thanks for that, mate,’ says Miller. ‘I could think of nothing worse than getting run down by a tram. You’re a good bloke for a Pom. What did you say your name was again?’

Miller realises his hat has fallen off. He bends down drunkenly to pick it up and nearly falls over. Alfie’s eyes narrow when he sees Miller’s left hand.

‘Does your missus know you visit whores?’ says Alfie.

Miller finally picks up his hat and after several comical attempts, manages to put it back on.

‘Missus? What Missus?’

‘Ain’t that a wedding ring on your finger?’ croaks Alfie, gesturing at Miller’s hand.

Miller straights himself up a little. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. ‘Oh well,’ he says, ‘as you say yourself, a man’s got needs. How about you mate, got yourself a trouble and strife?’

The air between them seems to chill. Alfie gazes into Miller’s bloodshot eyes and says, ‘I had a wife.’

Beth was her name. Her lips were like the first strawberries of summer, her kisses wet and warm like the froth on a fresh pint of lager. She even told him she wanted children. Alfie had vowed to go on the straight and narrow once he had done his three months stint in the clink. Those three months was all it took for the bitch to cheat on him. Not killing Beth’s lover was the one regret Alfie had taken with him to this godforsaken city on the other side of the world.

Alfie’s gut churns at the memory and he slowly curls his sausage-like fingers into fists.

He drops his tone to a menacing growl. ‘You don’t feel guilty about cheating on your missus?’

Miller swallows. ‘They’re just whores. I’m the breadwinner. Nothing wrong with a bit of slap and tickle every now and then. No harm done. What’s it to you mate?’

‘You got married in a church, did you?’ says Alfie.

Miller shrugs. ‘Of course.’

‘Do those lines about being faithful and “till death do us part” mean nothing to you? Adulterers like you make me sick.’

Miller shifts his eyes from Alfie’s flint-like gaze. ‘Who the hell are you to say that? Are you one of them moral crusaders?’

Alfie grabs hold of the lapels of Miller’s coat and pulls his face towards his. ‘You might say that, although I’m not the sort that hands out leaflets.’

Miller’s eyes widen with fear and Alfie lurches forward and headbutts him across the bridge of the nose, breaking it with a crunching sound. Blood streams down Miller’s face.

‘Holy fuck,’ says Miller, staggering backwards and clutching at his nose.

‘That’s for the sanctity of marriage. And this,’ says Alfie, kneeing him in the balls, ‘is for your wife’s honour.’

Miller collapses to the pavement. In a whisper he says, ‘You’re fucking mad.’

‘And this is for reminding me of my wife.’ Alfie takes a few steps backwards and at a run, kicks him in the head, his steel-capped toe shattering Miller’s jaw.

Alfie drags Miller by his feet and positions him on the tram tracks. ‘You won’t be needing this,’ he says, and grabs Miller’s hand and pulls at the wedding ring.

‘Damn it,’ he mutters. The ring is stuck fast.

Alfie pulls and pulls but it doesn’t budge. ‘Don’t cheat me out of this, you stupid bastard.’ He stomps on Miller’s forearm. Overhead, the tram wires hum. Miller groans but is barely conscious.

Alfie reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a pair of heavy-duty tinsnips. He kneels down over Miller’s prone form and positions the tinsnips just above the wedding ring. He grits his teeth and squeezes the grip of the tinsnips hard with both hands. With a thunk the finger is sheared clean off. A spasm goes through Miller’s body but he cannot get up. He just shakes and groans.

A headlamp from the approaching tram sends an accusing finger of light over the crest of the hill. Alfie wraps the finger in his handkerchief and scurries away into the darkness of a nearby lane.

The tram’s brakes came on with a screech and a shower of sparks but it is too late. Alfie grins as the tramcar crushes Miller’s head like a ripe pomegranate.

Walking as quickly as his big body allows, Alfie retreats down the nearby side streets. He comes out near the harbour’s edge and takes a deep breath of salty air. There’s a bench nearby and he sits down and removes the grisly trophy from his pocket. He takes the finger and picks at the ring with the tinsnips. ‘Gotcha’ he whispers as the ring comes free.

Alfie wraps the finger back in the handkerchief and hurls it into the harbour. ‘Fish fingers,’ he mutters.

He reaches around his neck and removes a chain. It jangles as he places it on the bench. He unclasps it and slides Miller’s wedding ring onto it, clinking against the other rings on the chain. ‘Adulterer,’ he croaks quietly to himself before fastening the chain around his neck again.

A cool breeze gusts off the water. Alfie turns up his collar and walks back towards the city.

Photo: The Rocks, Sydney c.1900.

Credit: State Library of New South Wales