Charley the Checker's Protégé

The sound of a human body being struck by a motor vehicle once heard is never forgotten. Perhaps the sympathy evoked on behalf of the victim is a recognition of one’s own vulnerability, perhaps it is a cogent reminder that death, rarely considered in our normal day-to-day existence, can be a mere step away.

That Tuesday afternoon in July the body that was struck belonged to Sam Barker who was fifty-eight years old, of average height, obese, and an alcoholic. In fact, if Sam had not been an alcoholic and had not been tottering back and forth among the homeward-bound office workers in Sydney’s Pitt Street, he would not have staggered into the path of a passing car, and neither he nor the spectators would have had their reminder of death.

“Jesus!"

“Is he all right?"

“Did you see that?"

“It wasn’t my fault. He just stepped in front of me.” Expressions of confusion, indecision and excitement tumbled into each other; and then, “Let me through. I want to see him. Sam…”

Tony Jamieson forced his way through the milling crowd to where Sam lay. He and Sam worked together and Tony had witnessed the accident but from too far away to prevent it. “Can you hear me Sam?” he asked.

“Jesus, Tony, I’ve been hit.”

“Where are you hurt?”

“My leg. I can’t feel my bloody leg.”

Tony wasn’t surprised, the right leg was bent unnaturally between ankle and knee. “Don’t worry, Sam,” he said. “I’ll look after you.” Then he looked up and asked, “Who’s the driver?”

“I am.” The speaker was a tall woman in her early thirties, smartly dressed in the manner of an office worker from an image-conscious company. Her hair, which had been neatly groomed, was becoming dishevelled as she ran anxious fingers through it. “I couldn’t help it. He just stepped out…”

“I know,” Tony cut in. “It wasn’t your fault. Have you got a blanket in the car?”

“There’s a travel rug.”

“Get it would you. He’s going to freeze lying on that concrete. Then you’d better ring for an ambulance.”

The woman brought the rug and they made Sam as comfortable as possible before she borrowed a mobile phone. Tony squatted beside Sam, wishing the spectators away. He was soon joined by a short, plump woman who, if she had not been physically attractive when young, had scarcely become more so as she approached retirement age; but her voice was gentle and her eyes concerned.

“Is it Sam there, Tony?” she asked. Jean McCrory was a team leader in their office—a meaningless title that had been “supervisor” before the public service had attempted unsuccessfully to modernise its work practices.

“Silly old bugger’s drunk again,” said Tony. “Fell in front of a car. He’s broken his leg.”

“Oh, Sammy, you poor thing,” she said. “As if you don’t have enough troubles. Can you hear me, pet? It’s Jean.”

“Jean?” Sam struggled to comprehend. He had, with the ease of the habitual drinker, realised that he could do nothing but wait for help and had begun to doze. “I was just . . . I dunno. I slipped, I think.”

“It’ll be all right soon. You’ll see.” She looked up at Tony “Has somebody phoned for an ambulance?”

Tony nodded.

“I can hear the crowd, Jean,” said Sam, a trace of wonder finding its way into his voice. “They’re cheering.”

“It’s just the traffic, Sam. It’s the noise of the cars you can hear.”

“There used to be crowds, Jean.”

“Aye. Fine crowds came to see you Sammy, but that was a long time ago. Not today.”

Sam looked at her and there was a puzzled expression on his face. It was as though he was aware of something lost but was unable to put his finger on it. “I was good, Jean. Back then. I was, wasn’t I?”

“Indeed you were,” Jean sounded wistful. “You were one of the best. Rest easy now, pet. The Ambulance will be here soon.”

“What’s he talking about, Jean?” asked Tony. “Crowds and things?”

“You young lads see Sam like this and you think he’s just another drunk. I suppose he is now, but he was more than that—very much more.” Jean took Sam’s hand as she sat on the corner of the rug, beside him. “I knew him when he was a young man like you, Tony. He was so very, very good. And handsome, too.”

“You’ve got a fan here, Sam,” said Tony, but when Sam only mumbled incoherently he turned back to Jean. “What do you mean, Jean? What was he good at?”

Jean hesitated for a moment as she sought a starting point then, in a voice that still carried a hint of the Scotland she had left as a child, she began to speak. Sam, in that twilight world on the edge of sleep, was transported backward by her words, seeing in his mind scenes long-since blurred by the combination of time and alcohol.

The February sun blazed down on the E.S.Marks Athletic Field and young Sam Barker enjoyed the relief of the light southerly breeze that blew in across Botany Bay. He was of average height and lean build, but his long and smooth muscles rippled in the sunlight as he worked through his warm-up exercises. He had brown hair and heavy eyebrows that almost met above a straight nose. At age twenty-two, the youthfulness in his face combined with determination and about all his movements, which were fluid and economical, there was a sense of purpose.

He placed his left heel on the perimeter fence and slowly straightened his knee, then leaned forward until his forehead rested upon his shin the the classic hamstring stretch.

Sam felt strong and fit. He felt, he thought, like a lion preparing for battle; or even like a lion about to enter the Roman arena with no more opposition than a handful of terrified Christians. He felt invincible.

Seven years of work had gone to prepare for this day, seven years since he joined the Harriers. Seven years spent jogging the six miles from Gladesville to the City each morning—jogging, that is, except for the sprint across the narrow Gladesville Bridge with its single lane of traffic in each direction and no footpath, keeping between the tram lines to avoid twisting an ankle, keeping pace with motor vehicles to avoid being run down. Years of training on Monash Park each evening, of intervals, of repetitions, of pushing his body to the limit, resting it, then pushing again. Seven years of raising his pain threshold. Seven years of learning to run four hundred metres faster than anybody else—and today was his chance to prove it.

Sam slowly straightened and changed legs, taking note of his rivals who were similarly occupied. There were Ken Bright and Richard Olle from his own club, both top runners but he had been beating them all season; Andrew McInnes, a recent arrival from Auckland who could prove hard to beat; John Smith, a fine athlete whose ordinary name belied his extraordinary ability; Sven Larsen, a Swedish migrant who would be more dangerous over the half mile but had dropped back to the four-forty for a season to improve his speed; Sid Belshaw who had won this event three years ago but was beginning to lose his edge; and Zip Whittaker, the reigning New South Wales champion with two recent times below fifty seconds, who was favoured to retain his title today.

There was a cry from the crowd, “Give ‘em heaps, Sammy!” and he looked up to where his family formed a tiny fan club. His parents and both younger brothers waved as he looked up and he gave them a grin. He wondered if anybody from the office had come to watch.

It was all concentration when the eight finalists set their blocks at the start. Running in lane five of the staggered field Sam would have only Larsen, Smith and Olle in sight as they commenced the race. When he found that he was breathing too quickly and noted that his hands were shaking, he nodded with satisfaction, content to be tense; he could not be keener to run.

“On your marks!” The starter’s gun cracked and Sam rocketed from his crouch, seeing little, intent only on speed. His arms pumped and his legs flashed as he strove to bridge the gap between himself and Larsen. Eighty yards into the race he caught him and saw that Smith had likewise passed Olle and was leading the charge.

Two-twenty yards now, half way, and Sam’s breath hissed between his teeth as he strained for more speed. The wind rushed past his ears and that combined with the scarcely noticed roar of the crowd prevented him from hearing McInnes making ground on his inside. Further back Zip Whittaker, able to judge his race perfectly from lane one, had passed Bright and Belshaw and was setting out after the flying New Zealander.

Sam’s calves and thighs burnt, his lungs laboured as the runners raced into the home bend with not much more than a hundred and twenty yards to run. When they straightened he strode past Smith, at the same time becoming aware of McInnes and Whittaker moving up on the inside. Seventy yards left and each pain-filled second seemed like minutes; fifty yards and three superb athletes were locked together; twenty now, and time seemed to stand still as they sped along the track.

The pressure was enormous. Unflinching wills drove protesting bodies toward the finish. It seemed they must cross the line together when, unexpectedly, Whittaker faltered, then McInnes—and Sam powered to the tape to win.

Sam slowed down then stopped and leaned forward, gasping, hands on knees, and for the first time heard the noise of the excited crowd. Olle and Bright rushed to congratulate him, Whittaker shook hands, McInnes clapped him on the shoulder. It had happened. He was State Champion. He had hoped for this but now that it had happened he could hardly believe it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the announcer’s voice, “winner of the four-forty and New South Wales Champion for 1954 is Sam Barker of the Gladesville Harriers in the time of 48.1 seconds. A new Australian record.”

Sam threw up his arms in triumph and, smiling broadly, made his way toward the grandstand in search of his family.

The locker room on the fourth floor of Sydney’s GPO was cheaply equipped with a row of steel lockers, a few laminex topped tables and chairs, and a floor covering of worn and broken linoleum that had been worn at the outbreak of World War II, just fifteen years before. There was a sink, a hot water urn and a pair of threadbare couches in a corner. There was nothing else.

If the surroundings were dreary, the group of half a dozen people who gathered after work to celebrate Sam’s victory made up for it with noise and merriment. Since alcohol was prohibited in government buildings, Charley the Checker acted as barman and served the drinks from his locker, pouring them into coffee mugs so that, at a casual glance, it would seem to be only a noisier-than-usual coffee break.

“Sam was wonderful,” Jean McCrory told the others and raised her cup of Bacardi and coke in salute. “I always knew he was going to win.”

Sam laughed. “It’s great to have a supporter, Jean. I’ve got to admit I was confident myself, maybe more confident than I had a right to be, but it wasn’t an easy race. Whittaker and McInnes were tough.” He pushed his empty mug toward Charley. “Can I have another orange drink, mate? They’re great.”

Although the others were drinking beer and spirits, Sam had never had the time or the desire, to develop a drinker’s tastes. If he was ebullient tonight he supposed that was because he was still elated by his win; he had no reason to suspect that Charley had decided that a celebration couldn’t be a celebration unless everybody was at least half drunk, and was lacing his orange drink with vodka.

“What’s next, Champ?” asked Crusher Cox. He was a big man, a few years older than Sam, and a grade footballer. More than the others he understood the dedication that went to make a successful athlete.

"The National titles come up in a few weeks.  After that...who knows?"  He emptied his mug with relish and Charley took it again, unbidden, to refill it.  "It's two years to the Olympics but now that I've got the record, maybe even that's possible.  Depends on whether I can hold my form for that long."

The evening passed rapidly with everybody in a party mood and when the time came to leave, Sam staggered a few paces and put a hand on the wall to support himself.  He looked puzzled, but unconcerned, and Charley began to chortle.  "There y'are, Champ," he said.  "That's another first for you.  First time pissed."

Jean was angry.  "What do you mean, Charley?"

"He's been drinkin' vodka all night," said Charley. "Took to that  like a champion too, didn' he?"

"That's not funny, Charley," she snapped.  "He's not a drinker—why couldn't you leave him alone?"

"It's orright," Sam slurred the words.  "Doesn't matter.  It's been a good fun party."

"Come on Sam."  Jean was worried about him in this unaccustomed condition.  "I'm going to see you get home all right."

With Sam slumped beside her the bus ride home was more intimate than Jean had expected.  He dozed, his head resting on her shoulder, and she found herself enjoying it.  At twenty-two she was the same age as Sam;  she had short legs that supported a dumpy body, a small round face, a nose like a sparrow's beak, and medium-length blonde hair—all of which combined to make her look like an enormous day-old chick.  Consequently her self-confidence had suffered and she had had few experiences with boys.

She had to wake Sam to ask for directions as they approached Gladesville and when they reached his stop he followed her from the bus.

"I feel wunnerful," he said, clutching her for support as he misjudged the step to the roadway.  Jean put her hand around his waist to support him and he rested his arm across her shoulders.  They looked like lovers strolling home from a night out and Jean, her habitual shyness blurred by several glasses of sherry, luxuriated in the unusual situation, and in the sensation of warmth from his body.

As they approached Sam's street he said, "Come 'n' I'll show you where I train."  He steered her toward Monash Park and the two walked around the oval, Sam thinking of his training and reliving his triumph, Jean thinking of Sam and of lonely nights.  When they stopped she rested her head on his chest and it was natural for him to lift her chin with his fingers and kiss her.

They broke for air and she looked up at him in wonder; then he put his arms around her and again they kissed, this time with a hunger that surprised both of them.  The years of self-denial had suddenly slipped away.  Jean felt warm and tender, her lack of past opportunity hurling her into this moment with astonishment and with an urgency born of her fear that Sam would stop.  When his hand covered her breast in a caress that was both passion and exploration, she didn't try to dislodge it and he pressed his body harder against her.

"There's nobody home at my place," he said.   "They' went on holidays after the race.  We'd have the house to ourselves."

Jean found herself torn between excitement and caution.  He wanted her tonight—but he was drunk tonight.  Would he still want her when he was sober?  It didn't really matter.  Right at this moment she wanted him  and with her head against his chest, she nodded her acceptance.  What does tomorrow matter? she thought, as long as I have tonight.

Inside the house they again kissed and Jean, still feeling confused, clung to him.  Sam unzipped her dress and she leaned back a few inches to allow him to slip it from her shoulders.  She had to help him with her bra and, self-conscious about her body, was grateful that he hadn't turned on the lights.

At work next morning they had no opportunity to speak privately and if Sam was unwilling to go out with Jean at lunch time, she persisted until he agreed.

The lift to the ground floor was crowded when they left and Charley the Checker was a passenger.  He was going to the Liverpool Arms, his regular watering hole.

"Come 'n' have a drink, Sam," he said.

"No thanks, Charley."

"You might as well.  After all, you're not a virgin now."

Jean blushed heavily and Sam stammered, "W-what do you mean?"

"Virgin drinker, of course, after last night.  Whaddaya suppose I mean?"  Then Charley caught sight of Jean's expression and said, "Oh!"  His face lit up in a big smile as he realised what Sam had thought he meant and he chuckled and added, "Oh ho!"

The doors opened allowing Sam and Jean to escape from the lift, their faces flushed with embarrassment, as from behind they heard Charley's knowing, "Well, who'd 'a believed it?  Sam and little Jeannie."  They almost ran from the building and hurried away in confused silence, neither knowing what to say.

"About last night..." Jean groped for words.

"I, uh..." Sam tried unsuccessfully to find some response.

"Look, I don't do that as a rule," Jean said, then seized his hand and pulled him into the doorway of a disused Repin's coffee shop.  "Going to bed with people, I mean."  She dropped her forehead to his chest so he couldn't see her face.  "I, ah, haven't actually done it at all."

"I know," said Sam.  "I mean, I guessed as much."  He thrust his hands into his pockets for, although he knew she needed reassurance, he thought things were sufficiently complicated without doing anything that might end in another caress. "It was my first, too.  Look, Jean, I'm sorry."

"What happens now?"

Sam avoided her eyes.  In the past, when he had imagined himself going with girls, should he ever have enough time free from training, they had been svelte, elegant and desirable.  Jean was none of those.  She had seen him home last night and things had simply gotten out of hand but, although he acknowledged her as a friend, she in no way appealed to him as a lover.  He remembered holding her, kissing her, caressing her naked body and, in spite of himself, he shuddered.

The reaction wasn't lost on Jean and her eyes brightened with moisture. 

If it wasn't for the vodka I'd never have touched her, Sam thought, but she had allowed him to possess her, groping and clumsy as he was, in a manner that could have given her little pleasure.  He didn't want their relationship to go any further but he wanted to let her down as gently as possible.  Now, thanks to Charley, everybody was going to learn what had happened.

He wondered how to answer her question.  "Jean, you're a terrific person, uh, a wonderful person.  It's just that well, I'm an athlete.  All I do is train and race.  There really isn't much time for me to do anything else."

"What about last night?"  She was losing control of her tears and they were starting to trickle down her cheeks.

Sam felt wretched.  "I, ah, well, we'd been drinking, Jean.  Look, I'd never been drunk before and, really, I didn't know what I was..."

Jean's anguish burst from her in a single tearing sob.  She turned from him and ran, scattering startled shoppers as she went.

"Jean!" he called as he watched her go, himself chagrined, but he made no move to follow her.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the runners are taking their places for the Australian Championship to be run over four hundred and forty yards.  Starting from the inside lane they are Geoff Farley from South Australia, Robert "Zip" Whittaker from New South wales, Barry "Bee-Bee" Bridges from Victoria, Mark Garrett and Brett Corcoran who are both from Queensland and will be running in adjacent lanes; Joe Simpson from the Fremantle club is in six, Terry Bandell, Tasmania, is in seven, and the race favourite, Sam Barker, the fastest man in Australia over the quarter mile, will start on the extreme outside.

"The draw doesn't favour Barker.  With all his opponents starting behind him he won't be able to see them during the race and will be forced to judge his own pace, completely dependent upon his inner clock.  Still, Barker's a very experienced competitor and..."

Sam felt his nerves stretched tighter than he could ever remember.  With his Australian record only three weeks old he was expected to win this race and had been under considerable pressure from the press, his friends, and his club mates; he had even done an interview and mocked up a training session for the Cinesound News. Everyone wants to know a champion, he thought, and while he enjoyed his current popularity he was afraid it might not withstand a loss here today.

He squared his shoulders.  Well, I'm not going to lose, he told himself. I've beaten all these blokes before.  I've never been fitter than I am right at this minute, and I'm the record holder.  What am I worried about?  I'd rather be me trying to beat them than them trying to beat me!  He felt much better for the thought and smiled as he savoured the likelihood of being National Champion.  Much relieved, he began to settle himself into position.

"They're away in the four-forty," intoned the announcer, "and on the outside Sam Barker exploded from the blocks, getting the best of the start.  Whittaker's gone very fast too and so have Bee-Bee Bridges and Terry Bandell. Barker's running very quickly at the end of a hundred yards and has already pulled away from Bandell; he might have gone too fast in the early stages, but he looks comfortable and we could see him break his own record today if he can keep going.

"Bee-Bee Bridges and Zip Whittaker are making up ground along the inside lanes and both have run this distance in the low forty-eights.  Further out Joe Simpson, who won the W.A. title in forty-nine flat, has set out after Barker, and with half the race to run it looks like developing into a real thriller."

Sam had been worried about his wide lane but when he dropped Terry Bandell he began to feel more confident.  They raced down the far side of the track and he held back a tiny part of his speed, knowing he would need it for the sprint home.  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe Simpson moving up beside him.  Simpson!  Then how far back can Bridges and Whittaker be?  Sam was running scared.  He was out in front with no knowledge of his main rivals and he was being challenged.  Without conscious thought he abandoned his race plan.  He threw caution to the wind—and bolted.

"Barker's taken off!"  The announcer's voice rose to a shout;  he was caught by the excitement that was galvanising the entire crowd into a single roaring organism.  "He's put down the hammer, and he's gone!  Simpson can't handle the speed but look at Whittaker flying on the inside.  This is what he's been watching for.  And here comes Bee-Bee Bridges!

"They're into the straight now.  Barker!  Whittaker!  Neck and neck!  And Bridges is charging at both of them.  Whittaker's gone.  He's dropping back.  It's Barker and Bridges, ladies and gentlemen.  Bee-Bee Bridges will be the Australian Champion from Sam Barker in second place, then Zip Whittaker, and what a race it's been..."

Sam was jarred back to the present by the blast of a car horn and the screech of brakes as an impatient motorist tried to squeeze out from behind the Fairmont that blocked the road where he lay.  Jean, too, was disturbed.  She stopped talking and stared off into the distance, her mind trailing thirty-five years behind.

"Sam did all that?"  Tony Jamieson's voice was incredulous; he felt as a small boy might have felt who, after hearing a fairy tale, had discovered that magic really existed.

"He was a wonderful athlete, Tony.  Fit, trim, smart.  When he walked into a room there was a sense of power about him."

"Now there's just the smell of booze," Tony shook his head.  "What happened?  What turned him into this?"

By the time 1958 arrived the Australian sporting community was ablaze with excitement.  After their greatest-ever Olympic Games result in Melbourne two years earlier, the whole national was convinced their athletes could sweep aside all opposition at the Commonwealth Games, to be held in Cardiff.  For Sam Barker, however, there was only discouragement.  His performances since winning the State Championship had been patchy and he was clearly past his best.

"How'd yer go on Saturday, Sam?"  Charley the Checker faced up a bundle of manila folders and filed them in a pigeon hole behind his desk.

"Terrible," Sam said.  "Those young blokes are getting too bloody fast.  If I keep going backwards like this I'm going to finish last."

"Yer only a young bloke yerself," said Charley.

Sam shrugged, an indication of despair rather than acceptance.  "I shouldn't be past it," he said.  "Twenty-six isn't too old.  The trouble is, I've done nothing but train for the last eleven years and the results I'm getting these days make me wonder if it's worth the effort any more."

"It's near enough to lunch time.  Come down to the boozer for an ale."

Sam was about to refuse but changed his mind.  "Yeah, why not?  Might help me to relax."

"Good on yer, mate.  We'll make a man out of yer yet."

The Liverpool Arms was crowded and noisy but as they elbowed their way through the crowd Charley caught the barmaid's eye and held up two fingers.  When they reached the bar there were two large beers waiting for them.

"Always buy schooners," said Sam.  "Fifteen ounces of liquid gold and a man's drink.  Never drink middies—they're for sheilas.  Cheers!"

Sam sipped his beer and made a face.  "How do you blokes drink this stuff?" he asked.  It's awful."

"Get it inside yer," said Charley.  "The first one's like that, the second's a lot better, and the third'll be better'n mother's milk."

He was right.  By the time Sam started to drink his third schooner he had begun to enjoy the taste.  His lips were numb and cold and it wasn't long before he found himself laughing at Charley's jokes.  When the lunch hour ended the crowd began to thin out and there was room to take a stool at the bar.

"Hey, we ought to be back at work," Sam said, looking at his watch.  "We'll be in trouble."

"Nah!" Charley caught the girl's attention and called, "Two more beers thanks, Shirley."  Turning back to Sam he said, "You'll be right, mate.  You're me protégé."  He pronounced it like prodigy.  "Besides, now that Killer's the boss he'll cover for us."

Sam felt strangely carefree.  "Ah, what the hell," he said, and settled down with his beer.

"You won't have little Jeannie to take you home this time, mate."

Sam took a big swallow from his glass before answering.  "Jean's orright," he said.  "You leave her alone."

"C'mon, tell your old mate now.  Did yer get into her that night or didn't yer?"

"Leave it alone, Charley," said Sam.  "It was a bloody long time ago an' I was pissed.  Thanks to you."  He frowned and tried to organise his thoughts.  "An' now I'm pissed again, and that's thanks to you, too."  He scowled at Charley for a few seconds while the older man watched him impassively, then ended lamely with, "Ah, who cares?  Let's have two more, Shirley."

"So that's about all there was, Tony," Jean finished her story.  "It's the sort of thing that can happen.  Running had been his whole life and when he stopped there was nothing else:  no girls, no social life, no other interests.  So he drank."

"Lots of us have a drink Jean."  He looked down at Sam and his lip curled with distaste.  "We don't all end up like that."

"Our office isn't a good place for a young man on the way down, Tony.  Too many drinkers and too much temptation.  If it hadn't been Charley who started him it would have been somebody else;  Sam was popular and the other chaps wanted to go to the pub with him.  After a few years most of the staff had changed and the people who drank with him then didn't know who he was or what he'd done.  He was just another drunk."

Tony looked at her thoughtfully.  "But not to you, Jean?"

"To me he'll never be just a drunk, because I can remember young   Sam, with his flying feet and the world chasing behind."  She looked down at Sam and with a tenderness she hadn't felt for many years and murmured, "Maybe that's enough, eh, Sammy?  Maybe if there's someone who can still remember, young Sam will still be alive, in a way.  Just a wee bit.  Out there burning up the track, beating all those other young fellows."  She squeezed Sam's hand.  "What do you say, Sammy?  Can we keep young Sam alive, you and I?"

But Sam just lay there, dozing—too drunk to feel the pain of his broken leg.