The Deadly Dispute

Sydney, 1967

NO PLACE FOR A LADY

Hazel Bates arrives on the docks to the sight of a dead body being hauled out of the water. The scene is chaotic, with police attempting to hold back an unruly crowd of dock workers while two ambulance men lift a stretcher with a blanket-covered body into the back of an ambulance. Slamming the doors closed, the two men pause to watch the police efforts with amusement. They light cigarettes, cradling the match’s flame for each other. One cracks a joke, and their laughter reaches Hazel on the bitter wind sweeping off the harbour. She feels a chill that’s not entirely weather related.

Her gaze sweeps the dock area and harbour beyond. She should have asked Rex exactly where to find him among the confusing number of large sheds and buildings, all tacked together haphazardly. It’s a place on a different scale to the rest of the city. Directly ahead, two enormous cargo ships cast giant shadows over the finger wharves that jut out into the harbour, and long goods sheds lining them. With ships in port, the place would normally be bustling with activity, but the forklifts and stacked handcarts sit idle. Half-loaded trucks are abandoned, tailgates hanging open.

A man stands alone further down the wharf, away from the crowd. He stares out to sea, apparently uninterested in the drama playing out nearby. On a barrow beside him is a stack of wicker baskets, the sort that pigeon fanciers use. The sides of the baskets are open, so he must be waiting for the return of his birds.

Hazel walks over to the man, a wiry, weather-beaten fellow wearing a black donkey jacket and a knitted hat. At her greeting, he turns with a suspicious look. She asks if he knows where she would find Mr Shepperton at the Dockside Workers Union office. 

‘Mr Jolly? Happy chappie. You Mrs Jolly, are yers?’

Hazel laughs. ‘Hardly, he’s quite a bit younger than me.’

‘Yers look all right. Could probably get a younger fella if yer fancied, like.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ says Hazel. She follows his gaze, shading her eyes against the glare of the winter sun, low in the sky. ‘Are you waiting for your pigeons?’

‘Nah, waiting for a nice sunset. I catch ’em and sell ’em down the markets.’

‘Silly question, sorry,’ Hazel says, with a chuckle. ‘Do you happen to know which building he works in?’

He points towards a sprawling set of buildings. ‘He’s in there talking to that bunch of whiners. Never happy, that lot. Any excuse to down tools and bugger off to the pub.’

At the sound of shouting, they turn to watch the ambulance drive off and the police getting back in their cars, accompanied by heckling from the crowd of wharfies.

‘Was there an accident here just now?’ asks Hazel.

The man gives a bark of laughter. ‘Bloke accidentally went swimming with bricks on his feet.’ He turns to her with a sly grin, revealing one remaining tooth. ‘Accidentally asked too many questions.’ He glances at his watch and looks up into the sky, murmuring, ‘Come on, me lovelies . . . ah, here they are!’ As the birds swoop across the harbour towards them, he nods in the direction of the union office. ‘Don’t let me keep yer. Me birds don’t like strangers.’

Hazel takes the hint and bids him good afternoon. Walking away, she looks back to see the birds land gracefully on his cart. The man takes each bird gently in his hands, places them into the baskets and closes the lid.

She finds the union office and steps inside, relieved to be out of the wind. The reception has a long counter barring entry to the offices. Through the doorway, she can see into a larger room where twenty or thirty men, dressed in rough work clothes, are listening intently. She can’t see the speaker and can only hear fragments of what he’s saying but realises it’s Rex Shepperton holding their attention. After a few minutes, the meeting closes with a sprinkling of applause and a low rumble of grumbling as the men file out a side door. A moment later, Rex walks in, looking his usual dishevelled self in a well-worn tweed jacket. He’s a solid fellow with a thick head of hair streaked with silver and badly in need of a trim and his cheeks are ruddy, either from the cold or too many evenings spent at the pub.

‘Ah, Hazel. What a pleasure to see your lovely face after looking at those ugly mugs in there!’ Rex is followed by another man he introduces as the union organiser. ‘I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for this lady,’ Rex tells the man with obvious pride. ‘She looked after me as a kiddie, rescued me more times than I can even remember.’

The man raises an eyebrow. ‘Mixed blessing, I suppose.’

Rex laughs and turns to Hazel. ‘Thanks for coming in. I wanted the chance to show you round and have a chat before you officially start next week.’

He opens the counter to allow her through, points out his own office and leads the way down a dark hallway with pale green walls like a hospital.

‘Rex . . . or would you rather I called you Mr Shepperton at work?’ asks Hazel.

‘I get called a lot worse than Rex.’ He chuckles. ‘Of course, Rex is fine.’ He stops at a door and flicks through a bunch of keys on a ring. ‘As I said on the phone, Trades Hall in the city is our headquarters, but we also have this office down here. We come back and forth and are down here for worker meetings all day on Wednesday. So I thought you could spend the Wednesday down here, and Monday and Friday at Trades Hall – if that suits you?’

Hazel nods, relieved she only needs to brave the docks once a week. ‘Did you have a tea lady previously?’

‘A tea man actually – nickname Cold Tea Jack. Probably tells you all you need to know,’ says Rex, trying various keys in the lock. ‘He was before my time. The thing is, we’re in competition for membership with a couple of other unions, one being the notorious Painters and Dockers mob. Being able to offer workers a hot cup of tea when they come in will do wonders for our public relations. These blokes don’t get much for free.’

‘Of course,’ says Hazel. ‘We’ll work on it together.’

Rex grins. ‘Just like the old days.’ Unlocking the door, he pushes it open for Hazel to enter. ‘How’s your Norma getting on?’

‘She’s very well. Country life agrees with her,’ says Hazel, glancing around.

‘You’ve got a couple of grand-kiddies, I seem to remember?’

‘Twins – Harry and Barrie, eleven this year. Lovely little boys.’

Hazel notices a shadow of sadness cross Rex’s face and understands why, but there’s nothing to be said about the great tragedy in his life. And now is not the time anyway.

‘Well, here you are,’ he says, looking around the small kitchen. ‘Your own little empire. Set it up however you want.’ Handing her a couple of keys, he adds, ‘That’s the front door and the kitchen door. Now, anything else you need?’

‘Is there a budget for biscuits?’ she asks. ‘I have a wholesaler—’

‘Of course. Whatever you want.’ Rex gives her a warm smile. ‘Good to have you on board. You’re just what we need to oil the wheels around here.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ she says, returning his smile.

‘Good on you, Hazel love. Now I think of it, we’re all away at a conference next week, so start the week after.’ He pauses at the door. ‘You probably know from the news that a variety of activities go on down here. The less you know about them the better.’

‘There was a body being removed when I arrived,’ says Hazel.‘I spoke to a fellow on the wharves who implied it was . . . murder.’

Rex sighs. ‘It’s possible. That’s the second body fished out of the harbour in a month. Don’t take too much notice of what the papers say. It’s not the wharfies . . . well, not our members, at least.’

Hazel feels a gentle tingling in her ears. It seems Rex is doing a little public relations work himself, perhaps bending the truth alittle.

‘It’s rival criminal gangs that operate down here and, to be honest, one less of that lot is no great loss. On top of everything else, you might have heard about this gold robbery on board the Cape Argus in the papers yesterday?’

‘A million in gold coins,’ says Hazel. ‘Bound to capture the public imagination.’

Rex shakes his head despairingly. ‘It’s put a lot of people on edge down here. So what I’m saying is, being friendly and cheerful is good, being too inquisitive is not good.’ He fills his cheeks with air and blows it out. ‘And possibly dangerous.’

Surprised by his serious tone, Hazel says she’ll keep that in mind.

Rex lingers in the doorway. After a moment he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and opens it to reveal a thick wad of cash, peels off a couple of twenties and hands them to Hazel. ‘There’s no heating in this building. Get yourself a warmer coat.’

Hazel flushes. ‘Rex, I couldn’t possibly—’

‘Let me do this for you, Hazel,’ he says. Noting her struggle to accept, he adds, ‘Bring me the receipt and I’ll claim it as protective clothing.’

‘All right,’ says Hazel reluctantly. ‘Since you put it like that. Thank you.’

He gives her a jaunty salute and heads off down the hall, whistling tunelessly.

Hazel stands for a moment, looking around the cold, cheerless kitchen, which doesn’t seem to have been cleaned since Cold Tea Jack went on his way. There’s a small bench and sink and a Zip hot water heater. In the floor-to-ceiling cupboards on one side of the room, she finds a filthy tea trolley, along with a couple of dozen heavy white cups and saucers and a battle-scarred, double-handed teapot. She’ll have to give the place a thorough going over when she starts work.

Out on the docks, seagulls are tossed about by blustery winds. Hazel passes a team of workers lowering a huge cargo net containing a dozen wooden crates off a ship, using curved hooks with handles to guide the cargo towards the dock. As she reaches the gates, she hears a shout and turns to see the net has ripped open. The load tips heavily to one side. Workers run for their lives as a crate tumbles to the ground, smashing open on the dock, the rest left hanging precariously.

Men come running from every direction. The scattered contents of the crate – car exhausts and mufflers – are snatched up. The broken crate is shoved off the dock into the harbour. Within minutes, the looting is over, men return to their work and the remaining crates are lowered onto the docks as if nothing happened.

As she leaves, Hazel wonders if she has just witnessed a typical day on the docks. She was only there an hour. Clearly not every day heralds a new murder, if that’s what it was, but this area is notorious as a hotbed of crime, making headlines with wildcat strikes, pillaging on a grand scale, widespread corruption and violent standover men.

Hazel feels a sudden pang of missing her fellow tea ladies, Betty, Irene and Merl, and their lunch get-togethers in Zig Zag Lane. And the staff of Empire Fashionwear, where she worked for ten years and knew everyone. She gives herself a shake. There’s no point in dwelling in the past. Once you start, where do you stop? Rex was kind enough to offer her a job, a great relief given she’d been out of work for so long. Perhaps not her ideal workplace but interesting all the same, and she’ll enjoy working with her old friend.

Hazel opens her front door to the fragrant aroma of roasting meat and vegetables. She calls out a half-frozen ‘Cooeee!’ to let Betty know she’s home and gets a warm one in return. Hanging her coat on the hallstand, she goes down to the kitchen. Betty has the coal range heating the room, and she’s even filled the scuttle from the sack in the backyard. A friend of many years, Betty Dewsnap really is the perfect boarder.

‘I was frozen the entire day,’ says Betty, bending over to peek inthe oven. ‘I washed up all the cups twice just to have my hands in hot water.’

Hazel agrees. ‘I do hope this cold snap will be over soon. It was bleak down on the docks with that wind straight off the harbour.’

‘And how did it go?’ asks Betty, closing the oven door.

‘It was fine,’ says Hazel, not wanting to expand on the experience, the details of which would only worry her friend.

Betty, now topping and tailing green beans, pauses to look at Hazel. ‘I could manage to pay a bit more in board, so you don’t have to take the job— oh gosh! I just saw Irene come in the gate. She can probably smell a rolled roast all the way from Lisbon Street.’

A moment later, Irene Turnbuckle gusts through the back door in her tatty black winter coat. She has a limp cigarette stuck to her lip, and a newspaper under her arm. She’s also wearing a stripy woollen hat that looks vaguely familiar to Hazel.

‘It’s bloody freezin’ out there!’

‘Irene, close the door, for heaven’s sake! I hate this dreadful wind,’ cries Betty.

‘Can’t stand the competition, eh?’ Irene chuckles, kicking the door shut behind her.

‘Very funny, Irene,’ says Betty crossly.

Standing with her back to the range, Irene rubs her hands together.

‘And now you’re hogging all the heat,’ Betty grumbles. ‘Also, is that Hazel’s tea cosy you’re wearing?’

Irene takes off the knitted hat and stares at it. ‘Wondered why it had two holes in it. Thought they was for yer ears, to hear better.’

Hazel laughs. ‘You can keep it, Irene. It suits you.’

‘I suppose you’re staying for tea, are you, Irene?’ asks Betty resignedly as she takes the roast out of the oven.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Irene says, pulling out a chair.

The headline emblazoned across the front page of the evening newspaper catches Hazel’s eye and she picks it up to read.

MURDER & MAYHEM!

To Sydney’s great shame, its port and wharves have become utterly lawless in the grip of criminal unions and communists. On top of the recent million-dollar gold robbery, today an unknown victim was found murdered. Two murders in a month, the first still unsolved. Our fair city now holds the dubious title of Australia’s centre of crime and the police seem powerless to control it. Prime Minister Holt has dubbed it Australia’s wild west and State Premier Askin has publicly suggested he pull his head in and stick to his own job.

Hazel quickly folds the paper and puts it on the dresser, out of Betty’s sight. She finds a bottle of plum wine in the cupboard and pours them each a glass.

‘This is the life, eh?’ says Irene. She has a good sniff of the meal put in front of her. ‘Smells good enough to eat,’ she adds with a grin.

‘We don’t eat like this every night,’ Betty says. ‘It was on special at the butcher’s, so I thought we’d have a little celebration. Hazel went to see about her new job today.’

‘I’m not quite sure how I feel about it, to be quite honest,’ Hazel admits.

Irene takes a swig and grimaces. ‘Yer not taking that job down the docks?’

‘I don’t really have much choice. I’ve got to get those broken roof tiles replaced before it gets worse. Both upstairs bedrooms have sinister stains on the ceiling, and I’ve already got half-a-dozen buckets in the roof space.’

‘Yer bloody mad setting foot down there. Commies and crims, the lot of ’em.’

‘I don’t like the idea of you venturing down there either, Hazel,’ agrees Betty. ‘It’s no place for a lady, everyone says that. It’s too dangerous.’

Hazel looks up from her dinner, this conversation spoiling the pleasure of it. ‘Think of it as a temporary measure. I know what you’re saying, but we’re tea ladies. We’re no strangers to danger, are we? I’ll look out for myself, I promise.’

But neither Betty nor Irene seems reassured.