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Authors: Bryce Courtenay
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all their lives. Billy, despite his status as a homeless drunk, represented some sort of educated authority they couldn’t bring themselves to face.
On the other hand, Casper Friendly was illiterate. ‘Whitefella don’t give Abos no teachin’ in my time,’ he’d laugh. Knowing that some of the blokes in need of help would come to him rather than go directly to Billy, Casper’s illiteracy had become his calling card.
Casper had an easy laugh and appeared generous with his money when he was working a client, so that it wasn’t difficult for a mark to confess that he had trouble ‘readin’ and writin’’. He often enough became the acceptable conduit for the help the homeless needed. The final thing in his favour was that he was perceived to be an Aborigine and therefore carried a status on the street even lower than the white alcoholic needing help, so there was no need to ‘eat crow’ by coming to him.
Billy had no problem with any of this, it was Casper’s charges as an introduction agency he objected to. If he brought Billy a customer who needed to open a bank account, he would charge the customer ten dol lars a fortnight from his pension for the first year and five dollars forever after. The commission Casper earned helped to keep a gang of freeloaders faithful to him. They served as his standover men in the event that one of his clients failed to pay up on pension day.
Billy found himself caught between a rock and a hard place. While he would have preferred not to work with Casper, an outright refusal would have been unthinkable. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure that Casper’s henchmen wouldn’t come after him if he proved refractory.
Casper Friendly was a man in his sixties, almost ten years older than Billy, which made him old for a street alcoholic. Thin as a twig, he had been a fringe identity around Darlinghurst as long as anyone could remember. The pension office records had him registered as Casper Friendly, though neither of these names was correct. Someone, way back when the cartoon had first featured in Saturday afternoon matinee shorts, had named him after Casper the Friendly Ghost. This had been modified over time to his present name.
The original nickname, it seemed, was arrived at because he was an albino as well as a quarter-caste Aborigine and he resembled someone with bleached eyebrows and hair suffering from a severe dose of sunburn. To add to his overall paleness, he only ever wore white cricket gear. In moments of sobriety he would explain that his grand-daddy had been a member of the first Aboriginal cricket team to tour England in 1868, and wearing cricket gear was an honour bestowed upon his family by the elders of his tribe and had something to do with their secret men’s business. Like Sam Snatch buying the pub with his windfall and savings, it was generally accepted that this wasn’t true, but veracity has no priority among the homeless and nobody cared, so Casper was free to claim anything he liked.
Billy finally completed drinking the second scotch and made his way through to the beer garden, where Casper sat with the black man. The Aboriginal albino waved over to him. ‘Hey, Billy, where’s you fuckin’ bin, man?’ Casper indicated the man beside him, ‘We bin waitin’ here since fuckin’ openin’ time!’
Billy ignored the question, drunks don’t keep time and it was pointless telling Casper that he never arrived before nine-thirty. ‘Good morning,’ he said formally, looking at a point somewhere between both men, the accepted etiquette among the homeless.
‘Yeah, gidday,’ Casper said absently, pointing at the black man beside him, ‘This is me good mate, Trevor.’
The Aborigine nodded, but didn’t offer his hand or look directly at Billy, ‘Ow ya goin?’
‘He come from out Wilcannia way,’ Casper volunteered, ‘From me own tribe.’ Casper turned to the Aborigine beside him, ‘What’s your last name again, mate?’
‘Williams,’ the man
On the other hand, Casper Friendly was illiterate. ‘Whitefella don’t give Abos no teachin’ in my time,’ he’d laugh. Knowing that some of the blokes in need of help would come to him rather than go directly to Billy, Casper’s illiteracy had become his calling card.
Casper had an easy laugh and appeared generous with his money when he was working a client, so that it wasn’t difficult for a mark to confess that he had trouble ‘readin’ and writin’’. He often enough became the acceptable conduit for the help the homeless needed. The final thing in his favour was that he was perceived to be an Aborigine and therefore carried a status on the street even lower than the white alcoholic needing help, so there was no need to ‘eat crow’ by coming to him.
Billy had no problem with any of this, it was Casper’s charges as an introduction agency he objected to. If he brought Billy a customer who needed to open a bank account, he would charge the customer ten dol lars a fortnight from his pension for the first year and five dollars forever after. The commission Casper earned helped to keep a gang of freeloaders faithful to him. They served as his standover men in the event that one of his clients failed to pay up on pension day.
Billy found himself caught between a rock and a hard place. While he would have preferred not to work with Casper, an outright refusal would have been unthinkable. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure that Casper’s henchmen wouldn’t come after him if he proved refractory.
Casper Friendly was a man in his sixties, almost ten years older than Billy, which made him old for a street alcoholic. Thin as a twig, he had been a fringe identity around Darlinghurst as long as anyone could remember. The pension office records had him registered as Casper Friendly, though neither of these names was correct. Someone, way back when the cartoon had first featured in Saturday afternoon matinee shorts, had named him after Casper the Friendly Ghost. This had been modified over time to his present name.
The original nickname, it seemed, was arrived at because he was an albino as well as a quarter-caste Aborigine and he resembled someone with bleached eyebrows and hair suffering from a severe dose of sunburn. To add to his overall paleness, he only ever wore white cricket gear. In moments of sobriety he would explain that his grand-daddy had been a member of the first Aboriginal cricket team to tour England in 1868, and wearing cricket gear was an honour bestowed upon his family by the elders of his tribe and had something to do with their secret men’s business. Like Sam Snatch buying the pub with his windfall and savings, it was generally accepted that this wasn’t true, but veracity has no priority among the homeless and nobody cared, so Casper was free to claim anything he liked.
Billy finally completed drinking the second scotch and made his way through to the beer garden, where Casper sat with the black man. The Aboriginal albino waved over to him. ‘Hey, Billy, where’s you fuckin’ bin, man?’ Casper indicated the man beside him, ‘We bin waitin’ here since fuckin’ openin’ time!’
Billy ignored the question, drunks don’t keep time and it was pointless telling Casper that he never arrived before nine-thirty. ‘Good morning,’ he said formally, looking at a point somewhere between both men, the accepted etiquette among the homeless.
‘Yeah, gidday,’ Casper said absently, pointing at the black man beside him, ‘This is me good mate, Trevor.’
The Aborigine nodded, but didn’t offer his hand or look directly at Billy, ‘Ow ya goin?’
‘He come from out Wilcannia way,’ Casper volunteered, ‘From me own tribe.’ Casper turned to the Aborigine beside him, ‘What’s your last name again, mate?’
‘Williams,’ the man
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