Me Old China
When I was studying to be a Minister of the Gospel my student churches were two adjacent wooden churches in the inner slum areas of Melbourne. For seven years during the 1950’s and 1960’s the people of those inner slum areas were my parish.
I soon discovered that one of the most important aspects of relationship had to do with mateship. Everybody had their mate. Women had their mates. Men had their mates. The boys and girls in the community had their mates. You usually did not have many of them but most people spoke about having mates. In reality they were often only acquaintances.
But if you were lucky you had one real mate. Among most of the men, and some of the young fellows in our area, the mate was referred to as “Me China”. A person would say they were going out with “Me China”. You see, china plate, for which china was the abbreviation, was the rhyming slang for “me old mate” so going with “Me China” was going with “me mate”.
A mate would stick by you even in tough times and in difficult places. I first really understood this when I had Bazza on parole. Bazza was on parole for manslaughter. He had actually been sentenced and spent some time in gaol and then had been released under my care for 156 weeks. He was a tall, heavy, not too bright lad of about 16. He had murdered a man with a boning knife which he used in the abattoirs. There he picked up offal. He stabbed the man in the stomach with this big twelve inch boning knife and ripped him up through the rib cage so that all his insides spewed out onto the bar floor, just like one of the bullocks he used to cut up.
Of course the constabulary came and eventually put Bazza away. Bazza was released because at the time he was drunk and did not know what he was doing. Frankly, I never thought drunkenness was an excuse. So I had Bazza for 156 weeks. If Bazza was caught doing anything at all he would go back inside. He had a prison sentence hanging over his head ‑ twelve years I think it was ‑ and if he was caught doing anything wrong he would go back to gaol and be forced to spend the twelve years there.
Bazza started to attend our youth club. Big, thick of head and rather dull of brain, but a good fellow especially when I had to stack up all the chairs after a youth programme and put things away. Bazza always used to hang round and give me a hand. He really was a kind hearted fellow and I got to know him quite well.
Bazza had a China. His China was “Scab”. Scab was a measly looking, inoffensive young fellow but they used to hang round together. Bazza was not the type to attract a great crowd of followers but Scab used to follow him faithfully in all that they did. I got to like the two lads, especially when I had jobs to do and I needed someone with more brawn than brain. Bazza would be there and Scab would come along.
Throughout all of the time I had Bazza on parole and probation, he never got into trouble until one night that stands out in my memory. I do not know what possessed him to do it but one night he decided to go for a ride on my motor bike without asking me. So while I was in the youth hall Bazza and Scab were looking at the BSA 500, that big black bike which used to have the little sign painted on the side of it in white letters saying “The Flying Vicar”.
Then I guess he threw a leg over the big round seat and started to kick it over just to see if it would start up. And, of course, it started, the big 500cc engine pounding away. Bazza sat down in the seat flexing his right hand, with his left hand on the throttle and then Scab sat on the pillion seat behind him and ‑ well I guess they did not really mean to steal it but it just started off and up the road it went with Bazza driving, making a dreadful noise. He drove without any lights on.
They swung round into Union Road and out onto the tram lines right in front of a police car. The police car immediately switched its flashing lights indicating that they had to pull up. But Bazza was not going to pull up for a police car. He was not going to get caught breaking parole. He was not going to go inside. So immediately he opened the throttle and sped off as quickly as he could, straight up the centre of the tram tracks. Around the corner he went into Ascot Vale Road, down along Maribyrnong Road with the police car, now with its siren on and all lights flashing, following close behind.
Around they went into a side street. Around into another side street, Bazza with Scab hanging on behind, thoroughly enjoying the chase with the police car persistently behind them. The motor cyclists decided to turn down a lane way. They moved into the lane way and, of course, the police car taking longer to manoeuvre the sharp turns, gradually dropped a little bit behind. The two lads thought they had outrun the police. Swinging out of the lane into another street, they opened up the big throttle and tried to speed away. At that moment they dropped into one of Ascot Vale’s deep drains which crossed the streets.
We were so close to the Maribyrnong River that on the flats the open drains in the road used to be up to two feet deep. They had sped straight into a drain. Driving quickly round the corners without any lights on they skewed round and spilled off. Just then the police car with lights and sirens came out of the lane and stopped dead on them. Before they knew what to do the police had leapt out upon them. “Righto you two”, and they slammed them up against the side of the police van. “Righto, which one of you was driving?” Scab, who had been on the pillion, said “I was.”. The policeman gave him a kick in the rear and slammed him up against the side of the van. “Right, you smart Alec. I’ll send you for a row.” and started to take down the details.
“What’s your name?” he said. He took Scab’s name and address. Then he said to Bazza, “What were you doing?” And Bazza said, “I was just sitting on the pillion.” So he took his name and address. The policeman said “Well, I will not charge you because you could not do anything to help it.
But you, young fellow, you should not be driving. You have not got a licence. You are under age. Yes you will go for a row.” He took down the name and address and indicated he would be charged.
Well the two boys walked my motor bike back up and left it outside. A little later on in the night I was called upon by the police. I told the police I knew the boys well and I did not want to press charges. I would look into the matter and severely talk to them and I assured the police they would not do it again. But the police said they were going to press charges and they would both be summoned to attend court.
So I went to court with them. Early one morning down in the North Melbourne Court we stood there. I knew the magistrate. I listened to the prosecutor give the evidence. They had both been driving a stolen motor cycle, without lights, in a dangerous manner. They had crossed over the centre line of the road. They had driven dangerously without lights in a lane way. They had crossed carriageways without slowing, and all the rest of the official jargon.
The magistrate listened to the evidence then indicated that big Bazza, who was on the pillion seat, could stand down. There was nothing he could do about the way the motor bike was driven. But the young Scab was the one who was going to face the charges.
The magistrate asked him a few questions. Scab, who was an anaemic looking smaller fellow, answered the best he could. Then the magistrate said, “Well. I find you guilty. I sentence you to …” “Er, just a moment Sir, please.” I stood up in the court and spoke out loud. I had never done that before ‑ never interrupted a magistrate. You just did not do that sort of thing. But I had been in that court many times and I knew Mr. Mason knew who I was.
“Excuse me, sir. May I have permission to approach the bench?” Mr. Mason looked at me over his half glasses. “Certainly Mr. Moyes. Do you have something to say?”
I approached the magistrate and I said to him in a quiet voice, “I know both of these young lads, sir. As a matter of fact it was my motor bike that was taken. I am quite sure they meant to ask me if they could ride it. Of course I would have said they were not allowed to ride it on the open street. They did not really steal it. I did not want to press charges. The police wanted to make this matter a matter of the court’s attention.” Mr. Mason said, “Yes, Mr. Moyes. Yes, yes. I understand all that. What is it that you want to say?”
I leant closer to him. “Mr. Mason,” I said, “I cannot prove this but I do not think the person who is charged was driving the motor bike at all. I think he was on the pillion seat.” Mr. Mason leant back and looked at the two boys once more. He then leant forward to me and said, “You know, I had a hunch that that young fellow was trying to cover for his mate. I rather admire that in a young fellow. The other bloke, he was the one that looked more like the leader of the two. Hmm. Thank you for telling me that Mr. Moyes. Thank you.”
I went back and sat down in my place. Mr. Mason leant back in his chair for a while and adjusted his spectacles, checked his fountain pen, wrote some things on the charge sheet and then said, “I find you, young man, guilty of stealing a motor bike, of misuse, of disorderly conduct, of dangerous driving, of driving without lights.” He read out the whole charge. Then having read out the charge and found him guilty, said, “In view of your youth and in view of the fact that your Probation Officer here and friend Mr. Moyes has spoken on your behalf, I will not enter a charge of guilty against your name. Instead I will place you on 52 weeks probation and if, in that time, you do not get into any trouble of any kind whatever with the police, then this charge will be stricken from the record. It will hold nothing against you. Then in the future if you try to get a job in the public service or with the railways or anywhere else you can go there with your head held high because you have no police record. That is, if for the next 52 weeks you go to your Probation Officer every week and if you keep out of trouble. Now is that all right?” Scab said, “Yes, sir.” Bazza just looked at him. We walked out of the court together unable to believe our good fortune.
The wisdom of Solomon possessed Mr. Mason. Justice had been done. The Police Prosecutor thought he had got his man. The police constables had a chase that ended in victory. Young Scab was kept up to the mark for the next 52 weeks keeping out of trouble. And big Bazza did not go to gaol because he had not broken his parole. He was helped because of his China, his mate who was true blue in time of trouble.
I admired Scab for taking the blame for Bazza. I thought again about what it means to be somebody’s China as I walked out into the heavy air with the wind blowing from the abattoirs, started my motor bike and headed back towards the College of The Bible to train as a young minister, thinking of my meeting with some of God’s children in the slums of Newmarket.
GORDON MOYES
