Father of the Year
I was 26 when I left my work as a country parson to take up the prestigious position as the Minister Cheltenham Church of Christ Victoria. This Church had the reputation of being a very large and alive Church. But that was a mirage. The reality was quite different as this young country parson was soon to discover. The life of a suburban Minister has some real surprises.
There were lots of good men in the church at Cheltenham. I was particularly fond of George Welcome and his wife Simone. George was an Elder, a Sunday School teacher and leader of the church cricket team. He was an example to everybody, genial and friendly. He was Production Manager for “Roll-up Doors” and was a very practical man. Over the years George Welcome was a great asset to the life of the church, as were Campbell and Doris Strong. Cam was manager of a supermarket and a very practical guy. He used to write at my request, a daily devotional for people who wanted to develop the habit of reading the scriptures and praying every day. Over the following twelve years after I had asked him to start this daily devotional he developed great skills and abilities in helping adults come to an understanding of the Scriptures and of how to improve their personal lives.
Ernest Welcome was another man I greatly appreciated. He was a market gardener and one of the older men when I came to Cheltenham. He was a cousin to George Welcome and like him was big, genial and very supportive of all the Church work. He loved the work of the Sunday School and the Youth Ministries and yet he had no children of his own. But his very generous financial contributions made sure that we had buildings and equipment sufficient for any youth or Sunday School program. I remember on one occasion after his wife had broken her hip and in a very short period of time deteriorated in health and died at home, that my wife and I went round to comfort and console him. We knew that Ernest was pretty helpless in the house and some of the deaconesses from our Church had been spending their time in visiting Mrs. Welcome and helping keep the house going. We knew that upon her death things would be fairly messy, and perhaps we could straighten up before some visitors arrived to console Ernest. My wife and I went round immediately we heard of her death. We talked with him for some time in the lounge room, read some scripture together and prayed together.
Ernest was shedding quite a few tears. My wife Beverley said “Would you like me to clean up some of her soiled clothes? I could wash her nightie, underwear and so on and bring them back to you all freshly ironed. Would you like me to gather them up?” Ernest nodded his head. “It’ll be a great help if you do,” he said, and he nodded to the front bedroom. Beverley went off to pick up any soiled linen to take them home to wash. Thirty seconds later she was back, her face white and ashen. “She’s still there!” she said. Ernest looked up through his tears, “Oh yes, I told the undertaker to leave her in the bed. I don’t want them to take her away just yet.”
Another man who made an impact in my life in those early days of being a suburban minister was Antonio Sergi. Antonio, or Tony as we called him, had been around for years. Tony was a good market gardener, working hard in a single block of land behind his house. He had migrated to Australia just after World War II and worked in a large Melbourne foundry, Vickers Ruwolt at Burnley. He was a steel moulder with a great deal of skill. However, after work he spent his twilight hours of each day intensively gardening and cultivating the block of land behind the house. He grew every kind of vegetable imaginable and freely gave of them to the neighbours, to other Church members and friends. Tony had a very modest home made out of cement sheeting only one street away from Red Bluff, one of the very beautiful areas along Port Phillip Bay. However, Red Bluff itself, just opposite the Red Bluff Hotel, had a very unsavoury reputation. His wife Maria had come out to join him after he had earned enough money to get their home and together they brought up two sons and a daughter. Maria died some years prior to my coming to Cheltenham and Tony had battled on, bringing up his three kids on his own. He was an extremely fine man, regular at Church, loving to read his Bible and great at any working-bee for any good cause.
Of the three children the eldest boy, young Tony, was the pride of Tony’s life. Young Tony was a footballer of considerable skill. As a young teenager he had played for Moorabbin and at sixteen had been picked by the Carlton Football Club talent scouts. All the Australian Rules football clubs around Melbourne had mainly Anglo-Saxon names among their players, but at the Carlton Football Club Sergio Silvani and then Alex Jesalenko and other players brought a whole group of migrants’ sons. Young Tony Sergi fitted in well and became an outstanding Australian Rules VFL player.
His dad continued to work in the Foundry each day and grow vegetables in his spare time in the block behind the house. But over the years he walked with a painful limp. A knee had given out and he had to have a knee-joint replacement. In those days, the mid sixties, a knee-joint replacement was a big deal and Tony was not looking forward to the surgery and the several months off work that it would involve. But almost all of his work, growing vegetables, was done on his knees and a replacement was a necessity.
In 1968 a committee we had established to choose an outstanding man in the congregation to be honoured by being named “Father of the Year” came to its decision and Antonio Sergi was our selection. He was the Cheltenham Church of Christ “Father of the Year” because of his devotion to his three children and the way he was bringing them up single-handedly. They were a credit to him and the community. Tony was amazed, overwhelmed and greatly humbled when the presentation was made to him.
I visited him just a month later, in hospital. His knee was black from bruising and there were very serious cuts running up and down his leg and across his knee in several places. There were steel pins through his leg in several places and it was held up in the air by ropes to a framework above the bed. The whole leg had been bandaged and the lower half was in plaster. In those days a full knee-joint replacement would put a person out of action for three months. There would be a long and painful convalescence, of learning to shuffle awkwardly in physiotherapy sessions and then walking on crutches and for wearing a support stocking and a tight elastic knee-band for months.
When Antonio came home he started gently walking on the footpath around his block. He despaired over his inability to pull out the weeds in his garden. Painfully he would hobble down the street and then back again. As he grew stronger he used to walk on crutches down to the end of the street, cross Brighton Road, then go through the tea-tree scrub to the beach. He would then sit in the shallows bathing his leg encased in its white surgical stocking and walk through knee-high water slowly strengthening each leg each day.
The Red Bluff beach just opposite his street, was opposite the Red Bluff Hotel which had a bad reputation for what went on in those days in the tea-tree scrub.
Only two or three weeks after he was released from hospital I received a ‘phone call. It was Tony. He was crying “I’m ashamed, I’m ashamed, I cannot tell you … I needa help. They won’ta believe me. Come quickly please. This is terrible, terrible.”
What could it be? Tony had never been in any kind of trouble in his life. He was a quiet, mature person who didn’t even drive a car. He used to ride a bicycle to work and certainly was not the kind of person to cause any trouble. And yet here he was ringing me at night, from the Cheltenham Police Station.
I ran across Nepean highway to the police station and went in to the detectives’ room. Several men were being questioned by a team of police and plainclothes detectives. Tony was sitting on a long bench, his crutches beside him. The sergeant looked up at me, recognised me and said “He’s free to go now. You can take him home if you like. He’s required no longer.”
I sat down beside him. “What has happened Tony?” All he would say was “It’sa terrible. It’s notta true. They don’ta listen to me.” I helped him up and got him out to my car. He just sobbed and sobbed. Gradually the story came out. He had walked down to the end of the road late in the afternoon and made his way through the tea-tree down to the beach as he had done three times every day – morning, noon and late in the afternoon. It was a lovely autumn day. The water would be cool but the setting sun was still warm. He intended to soak his leg in the seawater. As he was getting along on crutches, through the tea-tree scrub walking towards the beach, a man suddenly appeared. “G’day, nice night isn’t it?” Tony replied “Beautiful. It make-a you feel good to be alive.” The stranger said “Do you come here often?” Tony said “Every night. I like-a it here.”
Then from nowhere, two plainclothes policemen suddenly came out of the bushes. The first man read him something and he was handcuffed and taken out to a police paddy wagon that was standing in the car park of the Red Bluff Hotel. Inside were half a dozen other men seated and handcuffed.
Back at the Cheltenham Police Station Tony was read his rights, he was searched, questioned and charged with “loitering with immoral intent.” Tony kept saying to me “They wonta believe me. Those other men … they were … you know … you know … they were … whata you say … pooftas. And they charge-a me with being one. I am not. This is terrible. Terrible. Terrible.”
I explained to Tony the police were only doing their job and that local residents had often complained about the men who went into the tea-tree scrub opposite the Red Bluff Hotel and that he had somehow or other just been caught with this operation. I told him it would all be explained in court but I suggested he get a solicitor to represent him. Tony would have none of it.
“This is a free country. There is justice here in Australia. I don’ta need a lawyer. You only have to tella the truth. The Judge, he’lla protect you. He’ll see I’ma telling the truth.” I argued with him. “It’s not that easy Tony, you need a solicitor.” Tony was adamant. “No. I’m notta paying money to those chaps when I haven’t done anything wrong.”
The court-case was just as I had feared. Mr. Brown, the local magistrate was a fairly miserable person. He was the one who had warned me to sit down when he sentenced poor Mrs. Leila Belliot to eight months’ gaol for aggravated assault when she hit at a social worker with a garden-stake. IT was at the time when the child welfare authorities were taking the children away because her children were not wearing socks to school in winter and they believed her an unfit parent. I had tried to defend her but Mr. Brown had ordered me to sit down.
Tony was unrepresented. The least I could do was to be beside him. I told Tony that when Mr. Brown asked him if he had anyone to speak on his behalf he should say “Mr. Moyes.” And I would then be asked to give character reference on Tony’s behalf.
Mr. Brown wasn’t exactly on my Christmas card list of favourite people. And this morning he looked leaner and meaner than usual. The cases were going through one every couple of minutes. They were mainly traffic fines, drunk and disorderlies, and this series of unusual cases: “Immoral acts in public places, to wit Red Bluff Beach.” Most of the men were not represented or even in the court. He simply heard the names and the charges and gave them each a $200 fine. Then came Tony. Tony stood up when his name was called and on his crutches went to the dock unrepresented. Mr. Brown asked him to explain what he was doing in the tea-tree. Tony replied with a very carefully rehearsed speech “Your Worship, I comma to this country twenty years ago from Italy. I worka in the steel foundry.” Just then Mr. Brown said “Yes, yes, Mr. Sergi. You may skip the history lesson. And don’t bother to worship me. Just honour me.”
The unintended pun went right over Tony’s head. He didn’t understand what Mr. Brown was saying at all. Seeing the magistrate had stopped he simply took up where he had left off: “Your worship, I comma to this country twenty years ago…”
“That’s enough. Were you in the tea-tree on Red Bluff on the evening of May 20th at 6.30 pm?” said Mr. Brown, looking straight at him. “Yes. I had just finished walking along the footpath. I watered the cucumbers and vegetables and then I wenta down to Red Bluff… ”
“Well, spare me the details of your every activity. We have had a very full testimony given here today and I accept the police account that you were loitering with immoral intent. The community will just not accept this kind of behaviour. I find the charges proved. Fined $100, in default ten days’ imprisonment, seven days to pay.”
Mr. Brown hit his wooden gavel on the bench and wrote something into his large ledger.
Tony let out a low moan – “No… that’s notta fair. That’s notta justice. I comma to this country because here a man is free.” He was cut short. Mr. Brown waved his hand and two constables took Tony and led him out the back door of the court into the police station. There he was finger-printed. The Clerk of Courts came in with some papers for him to sign. Tony just signed them and stood there silent. Stunned. I had gone around the other way and stood beside him. Suddenly I was conscious of a person behind me. “That was a bit rough wasn’t it?” It was the deep voice of George Coote, the Greek wrestler and editor of the Moorabbin Standard News. George was my friend, the man who took regular articles from me, and who was known as a communist, a sympathizer with the underdog and an active protestor against the Vietnam war. George went on “Old Brown was tough as hell on Tony. What do you reckon?”
I was steamed up. “It was a complete miscarriage of justice. Tony is innocent. He’s a fine man. You know he was elected our “Father of the Year” this year? This guy’s on crutches and can hardly walk. Mr. Brown didn’t let him tell his story. Look, you can see his leg is still in surgical stockings. He used to go down to that beach three times a day and soak his legs. Brown didn’t let Tony call any character witnesses at all. I was ready to speak on his behalf but he didn’t let anyone speak. Old Brown is in the wrong. He shouldn’t be on this bench.”
Somehow in my anguish in talking to George I didn’t realise that my friend was writing down every word and had his small tape recorder running.
The Moorabbin Standard News came out each Tuesday and Friday. When Friday’s edition came out there was Tony’s photo on the front and in big, bold heading “Miscarriage of Justice” “Father of the Year fined and Cheltenham minister calls for the magistrate’s removal.” The story went on describing in every detail what had happened and what I had said in the police station. In bold type was my criticism of the magistrate. “Mr. Brown didn’t let him tell his story. He didn’t let Tony call any character witnesses. He shouldn’t be on the bench.”
My ‘phone never stopped ringing from the time the story hit the streets. The Father of the Year in the tea-tree for immoral purposes and a minister of religion accusing a magistrate and demanding he be taken from the bench, was good copy. The “Herald” was on the line. Could they take a statement. The “Age” reporter was waiting at my door. The Channel 7 newsvan was setting up cameras on my front lawn and taking shots of the white church with the high white tower. Then a police car pulled into my drive and the senior sergeant of police who was also the Crown Prosecutor knocked on my door. The reporters and the cameras outside took note.
The Crown Prosecutor came in to my study. He was intimidating. He was a senior sergeant at the station and also the Crown Prosecutor in these kind of cases. The door shut securely behind him, he started talking to me in a long, tough warning. “You are on thin ice, young man. Do you understand what “contempt of court” is, young man? You are just on the edge. If you say a word to those ruddy press, I will be on top of you like a ton of bricks.” Just as he was giving the worst of his speech to me the doorbell rang. It was another reporter. I told him to wait a few minutes when I would consider making a statement. I felt encouraged by the press outside. I looked up into the eyes of the Crown Prosecutor. “What is your name and number sergeant? I want to write it down. Further, I want you to put what you have just said to me in writing. I want to take this matter up with the Commissioner. I believe your words to me just now were entirely improper. You were threatening me. This case was concluded and my remarks are true and fair comment.” The fact that I spoke back to him so boldly set him back on his heels a bit.
I was made more bold by his reaction and whether I was right on the details of what I said next or not, I don’t know, but I pushed on “and furthermore sergeant, I think there is something unjust and fundamentally wrong with you and Mr. Brown having lunch together each court-day and a drink together afterwards. The prosecutor and the magistrate should not discuss cases over a beer. It is not proper and I’m quite sure the community will not stand for this. Furthermore, I am quite sure the Chief Commissioner will want to look into your behaviour.”
The sergeant broke in “But we never discuss cases.” And I retorted, having a guess more than anything else “But you did discuss the homosexuals caught up in the tea-tree, didn’t you?” He looked at me. “How did you know?” he said. Suddenly I felt the suburban minister had the Crown Prosecutor in flight. “I’m going to tell the press everything I know and call for a judicial enquiry.”
The whole physical structure of the sergeant changed. “Now calm down please, Mr. Moyes. Mr. Sergi can appeal on this matter, and I’m quite sure that the Crown will not be pressing his case.” We discussed the matter a few more times and he kept reassuring me that the Crown would not press the case. And that’s exactly what happened. Tony appealed. The Crown withdrew. The appeal was won. And the Father of the Year did not have a conviction against his name.
And Mr. Brown? He continued at Cheltenham, but was absolutely circumspect. He kept the Clerk of Courts office, and had his lunch on his own each court-day.
Australia was just as Tony had said. It is a land of justice for an honest man. But sometimes the honest man needs help from his suburban minister.
That night in my study I spent some time writing up my journal and looking out of the window at the never ending stream of cars stopping at the traffic lights at the corner of Nepean Highway and Chesterville Road, that wide intersection that was dominated by the lovely white Church with the high white tower noting down the events of another day as a suburban minister.
GORDON MOYES