The Postie And The Priest A Look At Father Bob Maguire Through His Letterbox

By Ron Burrows

With its fifty-seven short, sharp chapters, a la 'Gargantua and Pantagruel,' The Postie And The Priest is a biography about the iconic Father Bob Maguire whose message could well be: "Love thy neighbour but don't become holier than thou whilst doing it." Ron, an impious postie who rides for the South Melbourne Disaster Centre, has no intention of doing that; in fact by introducing two most unlikely characters he indulges his alter-ego's insistence on allowing his imagination a lateral perspective on his perception of the reverent father's life.
The symbiotic relationship between the postie and the priest is evident during the sessions in the rectory when the priest, with his long-legged poodle lolling in an armchair, tells his story to the postie whose interviewing skills have not had the requisite time to develop. With his rich Shakespearean-like use of language, humour and humility, the priest steps down into the millieu of the postie and tells his monologous tales against the background noises of ringing telephones and the door bell constantly buzzing as the dog crunches on chicken necks or charges around the study flinging a rubber hamburger about. The priest is well in that millieu too as friction develops during a heated discussion about the priest's interaction with paedophile priests: despite their friendship this is no hagiography.
As he is regaled with stories about creepy Catholics, Post Office Fleas, lunatics, beekeeping, and a tragic story about a flash priest from Braybrook who built a church in the mud, the postie is always mindful of his red pushbike with its yellow bag of mail leaning innocuously against the front fence because, unbeknown to his superiors, these sessions are held midway through his round.
There are anecdotal stories about posties and people who the postie meets as he pedals around the streets of South Melbourne delivering his mail, an epoch into the times in which both he and the priest live.
As the manuscript develops Father Bob, who says that there isn't much of a story to tell, finds that his interest is piqued by the unusual style of writing of the man he has 'ordained' as a mobile priest; he enjoys being a character in a book full of colourful characters, protagonists who prospective publishers want to eliminate. The reader is in the book-lined study as the duo discuss the vagaries of the publishing world: the insistance by publishers and their editors that the edges of the manuscript be chamferred so that it easily slots into an existing pigeonhole. The postie and the priest refuse to capitulate and the drama showing their determination to get the work published regardless continues to unfold even as the nasty Archbishop plots against the priest in a public display of bullying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Burrows
• Release date: May 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458198600

Book preview

THE POSTIE AND THE PRIEST

A Look At Father Bob Maguire Through His Letterbox

A Biography by Ron Burrows

Edited by Peter Burrows

Cover photograph by Geoffrey Burrows

Published by Ron Burrows at Smashwords

Copyright 2011Ron Burrows

Thank you for purchasing The Postie And The Priest. All royalties from the sale of the book go to the Father Bob Maguire Foundation aka The Cause.

Smashwords Edition: License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: That Can't Be Right

Chapter 2: Father Bob And The Mobile Priest

Chapter 3: The Divide

Chapter 4: James 836133

Chapter 5: Creepy Catholics And Post Office Fleas

Chapter 6: Vatican Who?

Chapter 7: The Wheel Of Life

Chapter 8: Abbe Pierre

Chapter 9: Love And Best Wishes

Chapter 10: The Peanut Farm

Chapter 11: Brother Alex

Chapter 12: You've Gotta Have Two Men

Chapter 13: Nathan Stirling

Chapter 14: Betrayal

Chapter 15: Chuck A Buck

Chapter 16: Father Smooch

Chapter 17: The Cause

Chapter 18: Father Bob: Star Of The Wireless . . .

Chapter 19: . . . And Television

Chapter 20: The Mad Micks

Chapter 21: God Is Good

Chapter 22: Shiny Suburban Catholics

Chapter 23: You're In The Army Now

Chapter 24: Bob's Blog

Chapter 25: The Grin

Chapter 26: They Died On Our Watch

Chapter 27: Christmas Eve

Chapter 28: A Priest For All Religions

Chapter 29: The Three Flags

Chapter 30: Back To The Desert

Chapter 31: The Tail Wags The Dog

Chapter 32: Hot In The City

Chapter 33: St Patrick's Day

Chapter 34: The Last Supper

Chapter 35: Good Friday

Chapter 36: Post Mortem

Chapter 37: Catherine Of Sienna

Chapter 38: Tractoring

Chapter 39: The Beekeeper

Chapter 40: The Fool-In-The-Grey-Flannel-Suit

Chapter 41: The-Man-In-The-Middle

Chapter 42: The Icon File

Chapter 43: Flash In The Mud

Chapter 44: Chiko

Chapter 45: The Roman Catholic Thing

Chapter 46: The Roaming Catholics

Chapter 47: Cuban Cigars

Chapter 48: Exponential Growth

Chapter 49: The Gladstone Bag

Chapter 50: Father Bob And The Clerical Cliche

Chapter 51: More Tea Vicar

Chapter 52: The Hard Sell

Chapter 53: Follow Me

Chapter 54: The Fish 'N' Chip Eaters

Chapter 55: The Civil-Bloody-War

Chapter 56: Broken Rites

Chapter 57: The Unknown God

'Is it possible, in the final analysis, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close can we come to that person's essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?'

Haruki Murakami

Chapter 1: That Can’t Be Right

"Watch him. The bastard’s mad."

When I first began delivering mail to Sts Peter and Paul’s Church in South Melbourne I took that address quite literally and delivered mail to the church. I rode my bike into the grounds and up to the front steps. On the first occasion I walked quietly, almost reverently, past the baptismal font and paschal candle, looking with wonder at the magnificent stained-glass windows, gently calling out: Is there anybody there? It makes me laugh now to think of my naivety. I placed the bundle of mail on the altar and rode off thinking to myself: ‘That can’t be right.’

For a week or two I simply left the mail on the nearest pew. I came to enjoy going into the church. It was not really a religious experience though, more like a quiet interlude away from the traffic. I wanted to sit down on a pew and relax but was afraid that I would either fall asleep or be ‘sprung’ so I stood, just inside the door, and soaked up the silence instead. It was Father Bob who eventually set me straight, telling me that there was a letterbox near the front door of the rectory. I missed my daily visits to the church where I could be on my own for a few moments away from the noise of the street. There were a few times when I would have appreciated that sanctuary too. If I had told Bob he probably would have said: ‘That’s alright Father, just keep leaving the mail on the pew. I’ll send the dog over to collect it.’ And what a dog it was.

Father Bob had a big black incongruous poodle. ‘Watch him,’ he used to say, ‘the bastard’s mad.’ I handed Bob a bundle of mail outside the rectory one morning as the dog, with his red tongue hanging out, ran round and around the bike panting and closely watching the wheels. We talked for a while then I started to ride off, standing up on the pedals to get the bike moving. The dog barked once then sprang up and bit me sharply on the arse. Bob, usually a master at keeping a straight face, had trouble that day. That dog has long since died but Father Bob managed to get a ‘replacement’ that looks to be a clone. This one has a much better temperament than his predecessor though and the two of us get along well. It is indicative of the generous nature of Father Bob Maguire that, years later, he would consider giving the nod to the local postie to write his biography, but he is, after all is said and done, a champion of the underdog. Then again, maybe he was simply seeking atonement for the actions of his mad dog all those years ago.

The welfare of the battlers takes precedence in Bob’s life. He looks upon them as his personal responsibility and is penniless as a consequence. He feeds and fends for ‘those that live on the hungry side of town and for the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold’, people like those portrayed in the Johnny Cash song Man in Black. He has even been known to slip the poor old postie $100 at Christmas, with his usual: ‘I’d better fix you up with that hundred quid I owe you Father.’

This is the story of a priest with panache who has become a household name written by a postie who hasn’t. It is also the story of how I fulfilled my dream of writing Father Bob’s biography, of how I gathered the threads of the story together whilst still working as a postie and of the drama that unfolded as Father Bob and I tried to get the manuscript published.

Chapter 2: Father Bob And The Mobile Priest

"Oh, no he’s not just the postman. He’s really a priest."

When you take Daylight Savings Time into account it is relatively early as I ride out of the Disaster Centre aka the South Melbourne Delivery Centre. It is 8.15am or 7.15am God’s Time, as Father Bob might say. The weather forecast is for a maximum of 38 degrees with strong northerly winds and a late afternoon change. I pedal up Cecil Street past the South Melbourne Market wondering for the umpteenth time about the viability of so many fruit and vegie stalls at one location. I’m also thinking about the manuscript because partway through the round I will be visiting Father Bob for my first ‘official’ visit as his biographer-on-a-bike.

There is a bloke, with a young woman beside him, sitting in the shade on a bench on Father Bob’s front verandah when I arrive about an hour later. Before I go inside to visit Bob we talk for a while. The young woman sits as still as a Flat Daddy, a life-sized cardboard cutout that the Americans bizarrely substitute for a real daddy who has gone off to fight in Iraq or Afghanistan, as the man begins to tell a story about a cat he once had. He was living rough at the time, he said, sleeping on the streets, or in parks, and had been scrounging for food in a rubbish bin when he came across a ginger cat. One of her legs was crushed, and she was barely alive, he said. So he took the cat to a local vet and asked him if he could look after her and find her a home, saying that he would pay as soon as he got some money. He returned to pay the vet some time later only to discover that the cat, now in excellent health apart from a crooked leg, was waiting for him.

She’s as bright as a button, the young vet told him, and has a real personality. She’s different to your average moggie. I can’t quite explain it. I couldn’t find her a new home though so unless you take her I’ll have to put her down.

But I haven’t got a home either, the man responded How can I look after her?

The vet shrugged sympathetically. I’m sorry mate, but I’ve done all I can.

The man’s story is suddenly interrupted. A volunteer worker has been cooking breakfast for a few homeless people at the back of the rectory. One of them, after eating his fill, is on his way singing raucously as he ambles down the path. The storyteller and I look at each other and laugh and it is then that I see a barely perceptible movement from his younger friend. The corners of her mouth twitch ever so slightly.

The storyteller continues, his brown eyes shining: I took the cat with me. I Christened her Cherie. My Cherie: ‘my love’. I got the name from the cartoon Pepé Le Pew, the skunk and a cat named Cherie, the love of his life. She was my love. Pepé looks down at his hands for a moment. For a while there, we slept in a burnt out car. She used to follow me around like a dog and if I stopped to talk to someone she would ‘drop’ and remain lying beside my feet until it was time for us to move on. All the street people loved her. She really was just like a dog. We lived together for fifteen years. She was all I had. I had hardly any money for myself but I had to feed her, share whatever I had. She was my responsibility. I had to stay out of trouble with the police too. There would be no one to feed her if I got banged up. She couldn’t hunt with her crook leg. We went bush and lived in a deserted farmhouse. Now and then I used to pinch a sheep from a neighbour’s paddock and butcher it. She loved the meat, he confides almost whispering.

What happened to her? I ask after a few quiet moments.

She died of old age about six months ago, he says sadly. Matilda knew her, he indicates his friend beside him who doesn’t respond. I won’t get another one for a while.

Pepé is not doing it as hard now, he tells me. He lives in a Ministry of Housing flat in South Melbourne. Pepé says that he has come to borrow a few quid from Bob, one of many colourful people who rely on Father for regular subs.

Father Bob has a kind, round, suntanned face with dark brown eyes and thick rubbery lips. Most of his hair has deserted him although he still has a white ‘border’ around the sides and back which highlights his suntanned scalp. He has a penchant for Hawaiian shirts, not tucked into the trousers. From a photograph that I’ve seen of him he is not as corpulent as he once was. The snapshot that he showed me depicted a young chubby priest wearing a white cassock. We are sitting in his study discussing the weighty subject of his father’s predilection for alcohol: the usual sort of thing that priests discuss with their posties. It is welcome then when a visitor, who is also a customer on my round, lightens the mood. I have been delivering mail to Chris Apostalidis for as long as I have to Father Bob although we’ve only ever been on a ‘G’day mate’ basis.

You think Ron’s just the postman don’t you? Father Bob asks Chris, who looks at me and pulls a face. I raise my eyebrows and shrug.

Father Bob Maguire grins mischievously. Before speaking again he glances out the window of his study. It is a bugger of a day for posties and parrots alike, I think to myself, noticing that someone has taken away the birdbath that used to sit under the eucalypt near the tap. The large windows of the study, where we are sitting, look out onto the garden, a large area of patchy lawn shaded by eucalypts.

Oh, no he’s not just the postman, says Bob. He’s really a priest. He times his story, swivelling in his chair to look at our guest steadily. He came to me one day and asked: ‘Will you ordain me as a priest, Father?’ And I said: ‘Yes, you can be the Mobile Priest. You go round delivering the letters and if you come across someone who has just staggered out of the brothel, you say: ‘I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father.’ I’m never going to be able to get near a person like that, so you, as the Mobile Priest, can look after him. You ride along a bit further and somebody else brings a baby out to you in the street for baptism.’ I’m caught up in the story imagining a need for holy water and a basin strapped to the bike.

The laughter pushes us all back in our chairs. Chris is still chuckling as he leaves. Father Bob is grinning too as he glances out the window again. There are a couple of large photographs on the wall beside the window. Bob tells me that the priest depicted in one is Helder Camara, a Brazilian Catholic Archbishop, who tried to put Vatican Two into operation, not only in his own parish, but in his diocese. He became the face of Latin American Liberation Theology, he explains to me.

You must think highly of him to have his photo on the wall, I say wondering what Vatican Two is or was.

Yes, he was doing good things but was knocked orf eventually by headquarters. He got caught short because the international leadership changed. John Paul the first died and then JP2, who was frightened stiff of Communists, came in. He thought that the Latin American Church was falling into Communism just as the German Pope now is frightened that the Roman Catholic Church is falling into Anti-Europeanism.

He tells me that the other black-and-white photograph is of the original street people taken at the time when Open Family came into being, a motley bunch as you would imagine but somehow appealing and intriguing. I decide to leave alone this avenue to the Open Family story for another time so that I can concentrate on Father Bob’s early history. I am about to ask him another question when his secretary, Annette, comes in and says that there is someone at the door to see him. Whilst Bob is out of the room I open my notebook and write a description of the church and its surrounds.

Sts Peter and Paul’s Church is an impressive bluestone church with a recently renovated dark-grey slate roof. There is a half-moon driveway, serviced by two entrances off Montague Street, which sweeps past the front steps of the church through the parvis. Wedding and funeral vehicles predominantly use this arc. A pair of modern glass doors positioned inside the double outer-doors protects against draughts in winter and keeps the heat out in summer. So youse don’t have to suffer like Jesus did, Father Bob once observed.

The rectory, where we are now, is on the other side of the driveway with a footpath leading out into Dorcas Street. A white statue of the Virgin Mary stands near the path. A diminutive Irish lady who often attends Mass at noon sometimes stands and talks to the statue. They are both the same height. Before leaving she kisses the first two fingers of her right hand and then tenderly places her fingers on Mary’s head.

The school on the other side of the church was once called St. Peter and St. Paul’s Catholic School, but some years ago it had to amalgamate with a couple of other schools in the neighbourhood because of dwindling enrollments. I remember riding into the school with the mail not long after the name change. A competition had been organised to find a new name and ‘Galilee’ was chosen. A teacher walking by asked whether I liked the new name.

I love it. I think that it’s a magnificent idea to name a school after a Melbourne Cup winner, I replied. It’s one of the few Cup winners that I have actually backed too.

We didn’t name the school after a racehorse! the indignant teacher huffed. She straightened her body and puffed out her chest like a pigeon. Galilee is where Jesus grew up, don’t you know! She glared at me, wiping the spittle from the corners of her mouth, before stalking off across the quadrangle.

Smiling at the memory I focus on the present as Bob comes back into the room. He sits down, takes off his glasses, and knuckle-massages his eyes. It’s all too much for me, he says. Although we haven’t been talking for long the interruption has taken up a fair bit of time and we decide to call it a day. The story about Bob’s father will have to wait. Bob checks his diary so that we can arrange another appointment for the following Friday and we say our goodbyes.

I ride away from the church, humming softly as the tyres sing along in the sticky tar of the footpath. I cross Montague St, ride along Dorcas and turn left into Nelson Road, a wide, curving tree-lined thoroughfare with broad nature-strips and two storey Victorian style houses on both sides. Some parts of the streetscape have been destroyed over the years by slack building regulations and careless development. Victorian houses have been demolished and replaced by houses that do not fit, but generally speaking it is still a lovely street. A grey two-storey weatherboard in Nelson Road, on the other side of Park Street, with a wide front verandah is my favourite. The weatherboards could be cedar that has greyed from the weather over time. Its appearance has barely changed over the years but there is no denying its appeal. A massive eucalypt in the narrow front yard is a feature in the garden with the branches within reach from the second story verandah. The garden doesn’t really need anything else, although I’ll definitely be searching for a birdbath that looks as if it just belongs under that tree when I buy the place. The front fence would probably collapse if anyone leant on it and has been like that for some time. I’ll have to do something about that too.

An early model, low-slung, Citroen, that always seems to stay at home sits out in the street in front of the house. A stay-at-home yacht on a trailer sits behind, but not connected to, the car. I always look at the place as a package: the house, the car, and the boat. Flicking through the mail as I approach I stop near the gate where the letterbox would be if there were one and stretch a red rubber band around the mail and fling the bundle onto the front verandah like a paperboy delivering newspapers. It lands with a satisfying plop.

A couple of houses past the weatherboard I stop, lean the bike against a fence, and step onto a shady verandah to deliver a registered letter. The roar of a vacuum cleaner is barely audible above the thumping stereo. I go through the motions of knocking on the door in between the heavy beats from the sub-woofer then write out a card and poke it into the letterbox.

Astride the bike once again, delivering mail in a detached manner, I cross the road to deliver the even numbers and make my way back down Nelson Road towards Dorcas Street. The bloke on the right has already begun to wander about. Thankfully, René keeps the bike and letters straight and out of harm’s way. René is good at navigation and order, keeping track of logical things like letterboxes and people’s names while the bloke on the right can’t even remember his own name never mind the moniker of the bloke on the left; he can’t even tie his shoe laces and is always getting lost. One good thing about this job is that René, who, incidentally, christened himself René Descartes, can quietly look after the mail while the bloke on the right keeps the bloke on the bike smiling. I was quite young when I first became aware of the bloke on the right; he used to get me into all kinds of strife at school. That’s when he got the name Ronny. He has never been able to remember Descartes’ name and rarely pays attention to anything he says. Even at that young age Ronny would laugh with delight as René chastised me for looking out the window, daydreaming as I listened to Ronny, instead of listening to the teacher. Divided almost at conception the Cauliflower-twins like to maintain their own independence.

I ride on, my earlier buoyant mood gradually fading as the heat sucks the enthusiasm out of me. An old lady beating against the hot northerly wind, like a sailing boat, is blown off course on the black ribbon of tar as the wind tugs at her wispy white hair; nevertheless she manages a smile as she tacks past lugging her plastic bags of groceries up the street.

Chapter 3: The Divide

"The bloody past will only drive me mad! You’ll have me locked up in a lunatic asylum, delving into my past, trying to find my mother."

Jan Ullrich, the big German who has been riding in the Tour De France for the last few years, might appreciate a sprocket similar to the one that the bike mechanic has fitted to my bike but my skinny old legs are protesting. I’m out of the saddle going up the Cecil Street hill (more like a hillock really) on the way to the start of the round. There are three and a half hours of riding to go yet, including the time that I will spend at Father Bob’s. I do a stage of the Tour every day – the only problem is it’s the same bloody stage day in day out!

Father Bob’s cluttered desk is large enough to easily accommodate a priest on one side and a postie on the other but I’ve got it to myself this morning; Bob is not back yet from an earlier appointment. I’m lounging back reading the blurb on the back of one of Father Bob’s books when he enters the study and says without formality: We’d better get on with it Your Grace. He tells me that his mother was a practising Catholic even though his father much preferred grog to God. Bob begins to talk about his early life when his mobile phone buzzes in his pocket. This is something that I will have to get used to it seems because it buzzed a couple of times during the first interview too. Bob Maguire, he says as he slits open one of the envelopes that I’ve just placed on his desk.

Most of my family was swept away into the cemetery, Bob says, getting back to his story after dealing with the phone call. Swept away and erased! he exclaims. I was only sixteen years old. That was right at the time that I should have been forming lasting relationships and social connections.

I am caught up by Bob’s dramatic use of language, already distracted, going over those two sentences in my head: ‘Most of my family was swept away into the cemetery. Swept away and erased!’ Hang on, what is Bob saying?

I never knew my mother. I’ve got no early memories of her, he says as Descartes pokes me with his cattle prod. I sit up straight and tune in.

That seems a bit odd, I frown. You were a teenager when she died. I’ve got memories of my mother back to when I was about three. My first memory is of being perched up in the little pillion seat behind her on her bike.

 Yes, Bob responds loudly and emphatically, perhaps a little too loudly but you probably lived a peaceful existence. Was your father raging-drunk most of the time, railing against your mother? She had a stroke. I remember her being partly paralysed down one side. There’s not much more to the poor woman. Poor Annie, God rest her soul. Father shakes his head and compresses his lips. She was home all day and night with no money. She used to take me with her on the tram down to Ansell’s in Chapel Street to pawn her wedding ring. I remain still as Bob contemplates.

The bloody past will only drive me mad! You’ll have me locked up in a lunatic asylum, delving into my past, trying to find my mother. All these repressed memories, he says, putting his glasses back on and fixing me with a doleful stare as if I were Freud’s apprentice. Then he picks up another envelope from the mail on the desk, opens it and returns to the subject of his family.

We were all short, states Bob as if starting anew. My father was only 5 feet 5 inches tall.

‘As if this had anything to do with anything,’ say René Descartes.

His earliest and fondest memory, he says, is of his lovely sister, Kathleen, taking him to the pictures at The Fleapit, also known as The Empress Theatre, in Chapel Street St Kilda.

We hardly ever went to the pictures. The name of the film we went to see that day was ‘Song of Russia.’ I remember the music: it was a Tchaikovsky piano concerto. I don’t seem to have many childhood memories, he says as he rubs a hand reflectively across his chin. I think Robert Taylor starred in the show. Bob softly hums a few bars of the music.

That’s when you joined ‘Peter’s Pals!’ he exclaims jubilantly. It’s all coming back to me now. The names of the birthday boys and girls were flashed up onto the screen and you went up and received a certificate or something. I was a Sunbeamer with Corinella too. I remember getting a green certificate."

Frank pads into the study, goes over to Father and ‘kisses’ his hand.

Go and see your Uncle Ron! commands Bob imperiously.

Frank wanders around the big desk, ‘kisses’ my hand, and then slumps into a leather armchair. Two long legs stretch out over the front of the seat; his head, with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, rests on the arm of the chair. On the first occasion that I visited, Bob was calling the big black poodle Rocky. Today though, it seems, his name is Frank.

Kathleen used to take me across town to ‘Windy Hill,’ the Essendon Football ground, continues Father Bob. She was making a valiant effort to take the youngest, and a boy, out to events that he would enjoy. Those were the days of the famous Dick Reynolds, Jack Dyer and Billy Morris. Then poor Kathleen died from tuberculosis and I was devastated. That was the end of the footy matches for a few years too, he says pensively.

Then a few years after that, says Bob ripping through his past with a chainsaw, a local priest, Jimmy McKew, took an interest in me and used to take me to the Richmond footy matches. He’d pick me up in his big black Pontiac. His family had money. It was an upwardly, socially mobile, Catholic family. We would get to the ground and he would say: ‘Wait here,’ and he’d leave me in the outer whilst he went into the Members. Bob smiles fondly at the memory. Then he died suddenly and it was all over. No more football matches again. This is what’s happened to me all my life, he adds philosophically, I’d just get up and running and it would all fall over.

Can you tell me about your school days, Father? I ask blindly missing the opportunity to find out what else had fallen over. René just shakes his half of the cauli.’

Yes, he continues with barely a pause. Our Lady of Lourdes Armidale was my first school. This was during the forties. We had to carry around lumps of rubber, a piece of black solid rubber that we could stick in our mouths, so that we wouldn’t bite our tongues off, in case the Japanese bombed us.

Hell, I murmur. Frank lifts his head and looks at me with his big brown eyes.

They dug trenches we could all run into if the man came over to drop bombs on us. It was just around the corner in the lovely park where we would normally have gone to play footy or cricket.

It would have been a scramble to try to get everyone into the park. Couldn’t they have dug the trenches in the school grounds? I ask Father Bob.

We never had much room at school, he explains, taking off his glasses to massage his eyes again. Catholic schools were small, he says suppressing a yawn but then gives in and yawns as he speaks. Whether we should have had Catholic schools or all gone to the State schools, I don’t know. Sometimes I think we’d all be better off if we had community schools. It would give everybody equal access.

What were you like as a teenager? I ask trying not to yawn. That seems to be the time when a lot of us go off the rails. ‘Easily led astray,’ is what teachers used to write about me, amongst their other lies and misconceptions. I realise only when editing the manuscript that Bob had not said much at all about his school experiences, lumps of black rubber and trenches in the lovely park. Who were his friends? What were his teachers like? Was he a good and obedient student?

Teenage years. Bob underlines the words and once again I’m impressed with the way he structures his spoken sentences. There is no umming and arring; even the commas fall into place. We knew we were in danger of falling into delinquency, which was the term used in those days. There was a general consensus: a warning system that said if you’re not gainfully employed, or you are behind the eight-ball as far as money is concerned, or the ability to fulfill your dreams then you might well end up a juvenile delinquent. If you got into that category you were buggered.

Bob smiles and raises his eyebrows. Some of us were wise little boys in those days and tried to stay out of the pit. Don’t stray from the herd. So we went around to the head of the herd, the parish priest, and said: ‘We do not want to stray from the herd, Father. We would like a place where we can get together now that we are grown up boys, and the church has got a house around the corner with a billiard table and other amenities. We would like to be able to assemble there.’ Now, this was wisdom before our time. Father Bob inclines his head as he looks at me. Then he says flatly: He knocked us back.

Before I have time to interject and ask why, Bob has moved on to tell a story about his oldest living relative in Australia, his 86 year-old cousin Molly Langman, a pious Roman Catholic from Fairfield. Bob moves from one topic to another with nary a thought for segue or link. Stories seem piled up inside him in no apparent order, waiting for an opportunity to escape. How will I move the reader from Bob’s herd and the billiard table to his pious aunt? ‘I’m sure you’ll come up with something,’ says René Descartes drily.

Bob continues with hardly a breath, making the point that Molly is a practising Mick. The women in my family may well have been devotional Catholics. My father, as far as I know, was not a practising Catholic. My brother is not a practising Catholic. My sister, however, was.

Father Bob glances at his watch. Get out! he exclaims theatrically. I’ve gotta go to Mass.

I laugh and thank Bob; it’s time to get back on the pushbike and deliver the rest of the mail. I’ve got extra mail today too. Absenteeism is rife on Mondays and Fridays. We are short of posties today so those of us who turned up have to do extra. If there aren’t enough relieving posties to fill the gaps, vacant rounds are divided up amongst the group. This punishment for coming to work is called a ‘divide.’

I cross to the other side of Dorcas Street, which is also a divide. Dorcas Street divides those who live in Nelson Road who have, from those who live in Nelson Road who do not have. Today I cross the divide and deliver to the many have-nots. Most of the houses, although not all, in this section of Nelson Road are Ministry of Housing places where the poorer residents, who do not own their own homes, live. The street curves from the corner of Dorcas Street, where an old pub called the Star and Garter that began in 1877 still stands (now luxurious apartments), down to City Road. There is a large Ministry of Housing area within the borders of Dorcas Street, Nelson Road, City Road and Pickles Street.

The Housing Commission, as it was called when these houses were designed and built, succeeded to some extent, in building houses that would not appear out of place with their richer cousins on the other side of ‘the divide.’ Today, although hardly opulent, these two-level houses on narrow blocks in Nelson Road would be described as town houses.

After delivering to Coventry, Normanby, Smith and Iffla Streets I end up back in Dorcas Street where my divide ends. I open the front gate of a single storey Victorian house, not far from the corner, and back my bike in a few metres until I reach a solid two metre high gate. I open the gate, back my bike in and shut the gate behind me. I roll the bike down the narrow path that runs between the house and the high paling fence. Leaning it against the fence I step onto a tiny back verandah and then in the side door to the kitchen.

I walk in as if I own the place and greet my old mate Eric who is already pulling two bottles of homebrew from the fridge. The amount of beer stockpiled in the back shed would be enough to slake the thirst of Pantagruel. As usual the nasal sounds of a race-caller are emanating from the radio that sits on top of the fridge. Eric has always been a keen punter and the races are usually on during the day whether he is punting or not. I telephoned him the other day; he wasn’t home but the race-caller was there. I could hear him in the background of the recorded message. I sit down in my usual place at the kitchen table whilst Eric decants the beer into a jug and then fills two pewter pots. This used to be my routine every day for nearly fifteen years when this divide was part of my usual round.

Eric, a quietly spoken bloke, retired from work at the Melbourne Metropolitan Board of Works about the same time as I started work as a postie at the Disaster Centre. We met out the front of his house one day when the tar on the footpath was softening and the northerly wind was grounding the birds. Eric invited me in for a beer and suggested that I back the bike in and leave it in the narrow sideway, behind the side-gate, so that it couldn’t be seen from the street. His wife, May, prepared four Uneeda biscuits, with half-inch thick pieces of cheese on top for me. I was the only one who ate. This would also become part of the daily routine. ‘And is the reason you put on so much weight over those years,’ sniffs Descartes sitting in judgment. Eric and I drank three bottles, pushing the beer down fairly fast, because I still had to finish the round and get back within my allocated round time. Our friendship grew from that day and within weeks we were knocking back three bottles every day. After about ten years, which would have been around the time that May died of Alzheimer’s, we cut our quota back to two; I was worried about getting pulled over by the police and breath-tested as I drove home.

It became common knowledge amongst the posties, over the years, that I was having a beer with Eric every day. I suspect that a couple of the bosses (we had a few different ones during my time there) might even have known but chose to ignore it for reasons unknown. For the last couple of years, since this section was removed from my round, I’ve been visiting on my way home from work. There’s something tantalising about forbidden hops though.

Eric and I talk and laugh about this as we sit at the kitchen table and quaff his homebrew. The divide doesn’t seem such a bad thing after all. Work is what you make it I think as I push my bike back along the narrow sideway (it’s 3feet 1 inch wide according to Eric) to the street. Eric follows me out and then chuckles as I shy clear of the bees buzzing around the big lavender bush near the front gate. They won’t sting you unless you swipe at them, he says. He gently puts an outstretched hand into the bush. Tiny feet walk onto his index finger and smiling again he proffers his hand. After a couple of moments the bee flies back to the nectar and I say goodbye and ride back to the office.

The Disaster Centre has disastrous Feng Shui. I noticed it the first time I drove into the joint in my car: the entrance is in direct line with the exit. Today as I ride in from York Street through the car park I frown yet again at the dichotomous nature of the place. The driveway, with strategically placed speed-humps, divides the facility, in effect making it two buildings sharing the one roof. Under this corrugated iron roof three groups of posties are split into two major divisions. On the left-hand side the superior group, South Melbourne, is accommodated. Port Melbourne and Albert Park share the building on the right-hand side. These two groups each have their own territory although there is no physical wall dividing them.

The next day I telephone Molly Langman hoping to be granted an interview. There is no answer so I leave a message detailing my request but she doesn’t respond.

When I next see Father Bob he says: She mightn’t be answering. She’s probably sick of it too, worn out with it all. She’s old. Don’t forget that Terry Monagle has already been over there asking questions. She’ll be wondering what the hell is going on. I’ll go over there sooner or later with a peace offering, says Father resignedly.

Terry Monagle writes a column about Catholicism for The Age. He has had books about religion published and has won awards for his writing. I met Terry in Father Bob’s study one morning not long ago. I had just stepped onto the front verandah with a bundle of mail in hand that morning when Father Bob came to the door. It had been a couple of years since I had last asked him if I could write his biography. On the two previous occasions (both a couple of years apart) he said that he didn’t want anyone to write a biography about him, but there was no harm in trying again, is what I thought. The idea of writing Bob’s biography had become an obsession. Once again I put it to him.

He’s in there now, Bob said, inclining his head toward the door.

Who? I asked, but I had already twigged. The dream was over.

My biographer, Terry Monagle. Come in and meet him, said Bob as he walked back inside.

After Father Bob introduced us we made small talk for a couple of minutes. Terry said that he had been writing the biography for about six months. I remember feeling as if I had taken a direct hit but managed to smile as if everything was hunky dory. Then Bob said casually: Ron wants to write my biography too.

Terry pursed his lips and his eyes seemed to bore into me.

They will be two completely different stories, said Bob to Terry. Ron’s will be more of an anecdotal type of yarn.

I remember a feeling of weightlessness as I rode around delivering the rest of the round that day.

Father Bob brings me back to the present by proffering a sepia photograph and ‘introducing’ me to his paternal forebears.

Bob’s father, James, is standing next to his father, James, at the back. Bob’s grandma, Ellen is pictured in the front with the other five children. According to family legend Grandpa Maguire was somewhat of a legend himself. He liked a wee dram (I can sense Descartes is about to make a smart arsed comment about my liking for the Scotch mist but I block the bastard out) and was quite likely to stagger into the front garden reciting Shakespeare at full volume after getting home from the pub. According to Bob his favourite well-rehearsed lines were from Othello:

Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something,

nothing;

‘T’was mine, ‘tis his, and has been slaves to

thousands;

But he that filches from me my good name robs

me of that which not enriches him, and makes

me poor indeed.

(Othello, III, iii, 157-61Iago)

Can I see the effects of Grandfather James’s alcoholism on his children in the photo? Or is everybody masked by his or her Sunday best expression? Was Grandpa’s penchant for performance passed down to Bob without his weakness for whisky I wonder? The pulpit is, after all, a raised platform not unlike a stage, smaller but no less demanding of our attention. The programmers of the television and radio stations hold Bob in high esteem because of his ability to pull in an audience and keep them watching or listening. Bob says that his father, James, also loved reciting Shakespeare so Father Bob’s theatrical persuasion has probably been passed on through genes going back for many generations.

When I mention the high regard that the media has for him Bob says matter-of-factly: That’s the reason why I perform for them like a trained monkey, although the result hardly seems worth the effort sometimes. He stifles one of his yawns and says: That’s it! End of the penny section.

As I walk down the path to where the iron horse is standing I decide that at our next session I will ask Father Bob to tell me a bit more about his father. I smile to myself thinking it must have been easy for his mother not to call him James but find out later that Annie and James had indeed continued the tradition: Bob’s elder brother is named James.

Chapter 4: James 836133

"Earnings: three pounds, five shillings. And you’re gonna tell me he drank the lot."

It’s a sunny Tuesday morning with a light breeze blowing. Ideal conditions for delivering if you’ve got anything to deliver. The Cauliflower-twins and I are sitting on the footpath in Bank Street, just around the corner from the barbershop waiting for my depot bag: there’s only so much mail you can carry in the basket of a bike. I’ve gone too hard early in the round and will now have to wait for the driver to arrive. There’s a milk bar on the corner of Park and Ferrars so I spring back onto the bike and dash around to buy The Age. Back in Bank Street I’m only just out of the saddle and settling down to read the paper when I hear the rattle of a diesel motor approaching. The contract driver pulls up and apologises for keeping me waiting. I got caught up in the bloody traffic at Southbank, he says with a shrug. We stand around talking for a couple of minutes and then he rattles off with a big puff of black smoke belching out the exhaust pipe.

When I eventually