SCAB by Kendrea Rhodes

HIGHLY COMMENDED 2020

S C A B

โ€œWho ya got in the Cup, Georgie?โ€ Burges asked, still wearing his civvies.

โ€œBitalli mate, what about you?โ€ Rodier replied.  

โ€œDrongo, Iโ€™m going for Drongo. He hasnโ€™t won a thing yet, but heโ€™s got a crazy new jockey. Reckon that horseโ€™ll be famous soon,โ€ Burges replied. โ€œYou gonna sit-in tonight?โ€

Rodier did up the top button of his jacket at the collar. He looked over to his left, brushed unseen lint off his shoulder-board and straightened his jacket with a downward tug at the front.  

Burges continued, โ€œDid ya hear Brookes in the assembly hall last night? No spooks, pay-rise and pension for all!โ€ He punched his fist in the air.

โ€œLook,โ€ Rodier replied, โ€œI donโ€™t like the spooks either and the payโ€™s shit, but itโ€™s still pay!โ€ He spread both hands out, palms facing Burges, โ€œNicholson will discharge us if weโ€™re not on duty. I need the bloody money.โ€

โ€œChrist George. They wonโ€™t ditch us all and theyโ€™ll put the 29 back on when they hear weโ€™re all walkinโ€™ out,โ€ Burges said.

Rodier shrugged, but Burges moved closer, โ€œAnd if they keep the f**kinโ€™ spooks theyโ€™ll get what they deserve. You know they dobbed in Browne and Cornish last night for drinking tea, ten bloody minutes before knock-off!โ€

โ€œI heard. But I saw a line of blokes volunteering for the Specials at the town hall,โ€ said Rodier bending down to wipe his boots with a cloth, โ€œtheyโ€™re gonna replace all the strikers.โ€

โ€œDonโ€™t bother with ya boots George,โ€ Burges said, attempting to pull him up by the shoulder. โ€œCome to the meeting.โ€

Rodier pushed Burgesโ€™ hand off and stood up, grabbed his helmet, baton and beat-book, and walked away.

โ€œScab,โ€ Burges spat after him and several civvy-clad constables stared as Rodier headed for the parade ground. 

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IMAGE: The Age, 5 Nov. 1923 (source TROVE).

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IMAGE: Launceston Examiner, 7 Nov. 1923 (source TROVE)

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IMAGE: Western Mail Perth, 8 Nov. 1923 (source TROVE)

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IMAGE: The Argus, 15 Dec. 1923 (source TROVE)

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Sergeant Taylor stood in the gas lamp glow of the parade ground at the Russell Street Police Headquarters. His breath misted in the light as he rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet, watching the entryway clock. Fine drizzle dampened his overcoat. The bluestone Italianate-style police building wrapped around the central parade ground with return verandas over the ground-floors. Taylor glanced at the doorway of the police barracks. Constable George Rodier stepped through the door, dodging a drip of water from the overhanging veranda. He walked onto the empty parade ground and took first muster position facing the Sergeant.

The clock chimed 10:00pm.

Taylor ticked off one name out of thirty on his list and looked directly into Rodierโ€™s eyes. โ€œTheyโ€™re going to roast you for this,โ€ he said, nodding towards the assembly hall. โ€œTake traffic at Bourke and Swanston. You didnโ€™t strike last night?โ€

โ€œNo Sir,โ€ Rodier replied.

โ€œWas that your sister we found in the North Fitzroy Gardens the other night with the kids?โ€ Taylor asked.

โ€œYes Sir, Iโ€™m looking after them. Her old manโ€™s in the Fitzroy lock up for another week,โ€ Rodier said, tugging at his collar. 

โ€œRight. Get moving then,โ€ Taylor said.

Rodier headed for the bicycle racks. Distant voices from the assembly hall punctured the air with a chorused โ€œayeโ€. He heard Taylorโ€™s voice calling the men out to muster, a โ€œf**k offโ€ from Brookes, and a cheer from the throng.  

Rodier pedalled his Malvern Star with sweeping strides out of the barracks. Turning right onto Little Bourke Street, he stood-up off the seat as the bicycle tyres bumped over the cable tram tracks. The four storey Exford Hotel on the corner heaved with custom, barely containing its patrons who spilled onto the street in a flailing drunken mass. The hotelโ€™s Edwardian windows lined up, alert, like battle-ready soldiers assessing the scene. Three men stood smoking under a dull gas streetlight watching the mob at the hotel and watching the policeman ride straight past them. Rodier picked up speed.

On the footpath of Little Bourke Street, a grubby-faced boy reached to pick up a cigarette tin โ€” his mother dragged him off and he stumbled as they hurried up the cobblestone alley lined by out-houses and haphazard fencing. These hidden slums are barely noticeable from the wide city streets, but they reminded Rodier of his sister and her six children alone in the gardens at night. Thank God for Cornish, anything could have happened if he hadnโ€™t found them on his beat.

Rodier turned left onto Swanston Street where most of the shops were boarded up in anticipation of trouble. The city block was ablaze with new electric streetlights which not only illuminated the huge shop fronts of department stores touting โ€œThe Biggest Thing in Melbourneโ€ and โ€œGlass, China, Crockery, Fancy Goodsโ€, but also highlighted the crowds at the Bourke Street intersection.

The cable trams were backed up on Swanston Street and when Rodier passed by, he heard a yell: โ€œHey, thereโ€™s a copper on duty!โ€ Then laughter and someone else called out, โ€œGood onya mate.โ€

The Sun, Monday 5 Nov. 1923 (source TROVE).

The night-air clamoured with intensity as Rodier dodged the bike between people massing over the road. He dismounted and dropped the bike, just as a bottle smashed on the ground in front of him.

Twenty men rocked a tram car in its tracks, building momentum alarmingly. Rodier could see the drained faces of the conductor and gripman, still on the tram. The fare satchel hung over the conductorโ€™s shoulder. He was trying to cover it with his coat and hold onto the standing pole at the same time. The tram tilted.

A loud whoop echoed through the air as a bunch of special constables, armed with batons and sticks, ran full pelt at the hooligans rocking the tram. Rodier sprinted. Baton aloft he hit the marauding mob, swinging at the closest rioter who shrank away at the sight of the uniform. The collective thudding noises of batons connecting with ears, noses and skulls sent fear through the larrikin throng: men staggered, holding their stomachs, others bent double as blood ran from their faces onto the street. 

A small man rode the shoulders of a bigger man, both yelling excitedly. The small man held a burning rag and waved it above his head like a flag. He was trying to grab the railing on the roof of the cable tram, but Rodier caught him by the seat of his trousers and pulled him backwards.

The small man crashed to the ground and landed awkwardly, legs splayed and screaming. The big man went to punch Rodier but missed as the policeman bent to move the man on the ground away from the brawl. Rodier grunted in response to a kick in the back, looked up and saw the big man melting back into the melee.

โ€œMe leg, me leg,โ€ cried the small man.

โ€œWhy dโ€™ya do that?โ€ Rodier shouted as he lifted him to his feet, โ€œThe mob are toppling that tram and youโ€™re trying to get on it?โ€

โ€œGod, me leg. Watch it,โ€ the man wailed, leaning heavily on Rodier. The manโ€™s leg hung limp, dragging like a dead weight in every step he took.

The Specials were clearing up the tomfoolery at the tram, but there was an uproar at the Myer Emporium nearby and crowds rushed past, attracted by the sudden commotion.

โ€œWeโ€™re going to the Town Hall,โ€ Rodier said, โ€œthere were a few doctors there last night.โ€

โ€œHow am I gonna ride in the Cup on Tuesday?โ€ The man cried, โ€œIโ€™m the last chance for that idiot Drongo.โ€

 โ€œYouโ€™re the idiot mate, not the horse,โ€ Rodier replied.   


The Stringybark Short Stories Award 2019
Close to Heaven contains thirty-three contemporary, award-winning short stories from the 2020 Stringybark Short Story Awards. This is a short story anthology of Australian-themed tales by Australian and international authors, edited by David Vernon.

ยฉKendrea Rhodes 2023

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