The €10 chip flew high, glistening in the late afternoon light as it fell. Heads. I took the right fork, Mister Chips snugly, securely back into my pocket. My once pretentious brogues, broken, flapping as the sole and uppers continued their separation, sunk into the muddy track.
Mister Chips always made the hard calls, my way forward, predestined, so to speak. I just hoped they would have memory, room for some forgiveness when they saw their prodigal, returning.
So much f
or my commitment never to revisit these tracts. Here I was, mostly broken, a shouldered bedroll, a black billy secured, gently bumping at my hip, and my scant provisions in a haversack – a small skillet, a couple of spuds, onions, carrots, dug from a roadside garden the other day, a small bag of flour, a twist of salt, my snares, a handline, extra hooks, and a lighter. My, how the mighty had fallen! Francois, why are you doing this? I stopped and fingered Mister Chips. He flew high, dictating that I continue. My pits released bitter staleness, my clothes ripped and stained.
I passed over the creek I played at, as a youngster. My dam was in evidence, although mostly breached by many winter rains. There was the tethered rope, still thinly dangling from the overhanging branch – there had been good times, mates, dreams, adolescent plans discussed at this waterhole, after school. I sat for a few quiet moments.
I had a spring in my step when I left. Dinner suit packed neatly into the Louis Vuitton suitcase, matching my future, as Mum and Dad drove me to the airport. I had written to my cousin in Nice, alerting him to my arrival, a bed, family, a base to pursue my dreams. Hobart’s casino has equipped me, I fingered Mister Chips, as my memory rewound.
Dad and I would regularly spend Saturday morning pouring over the form guide, considering jockeys, possible ‘roughies’, the short-odds favourites at Rosehill, Flemington or Glenorchy. Dad took my few shillings down with him to the TAB. We both had a few wins, enough to keep us engaged. As my stubble arrived, and my voice deepened, I was invited into the evening poker games.
The casino fitted my trajectory. At interview, I demonstrated my skills with the deck, explained via the weekly euchre games at home. I became a cadet croupier. I knew Draw, Stud and Hold’em Poker and Blackjack, but was introduced to Baccarat, and Roulette. I learnt of the hierarchy, poker machines at the bottom of the heap, the games of skill, of memory, at the head.
The school went over and over the games, from the basic plays, the handling of the shoe, feeling the chips, spinning the pea, payment protocols, common croupier lapses, what to watch out for – the spivs, their methods to blindside you, to cheat the house. It was six months of intensive, exciting labour.
The big night came with my first blackjack table. There were a few nerves, my supervisor watching, and of course, the overhead cameras alerted to my “solo” flight. But the cards were on my side, they slid effortlessly, smoothly – the game went forward without a hitch. I was away!
Over those four, Hobart years, I saw the punters, good and bad. There were the happy holiday crowds, bragging, laughter, a little drunk. There were the sweaty desperadoes, just chasing the next roll, the dudes, dinner-jacketed, pretentious, their chattering bling. There were the professional gamers, emotionless, watchful, considered. These were the punters that were the real entertainers, the ones that I could appreciate, the ones that held my attention!
From my side of the tables, it was a career that I secretly revelled in. But I needed a bigger pond. I considered the alternatives of Macau, Atlantic City or Monte Carlo. Mister Chips spun high, tails dictating that we head to Europe.
So here I was, sitting with my luggage. There had been no familiar faces as I cleared Immigration at Nice. An hour, I waited and sure enough, cousin Pierre eventually came running along the concourse, “…the bloody traffic, merde” as he kissed left, right and grabbed for my luggage.
His car was impressive, a little convertible number, the canopy down, the summer heat blowing over us as we headed west towards his Antibes flat. High chalky cliffs on the right, the bluest blue water on the left, beaches, sand, deckchairs, sunshine and deep shade. Money oozed – the cars, poodled-pedestrians, skimpily-clad chicks, the locked, gated villas, the date palmed avenues, even the birds seem to have a glint in their eyes. Yep, this was where my life was really going to start!
The interview panel were impressed, albeit there would be regulatory formalities to transfer my licensing from Hobart to Monaco. That happened, and I was working the main floor, small-timers, maximum bets €1,000, Roulette, Baccarat, Blackjack.
The constant, mooted conflation of canned music, laughter, the tinkle of glassware, the roulette’s hollow, bouncing pea, the croupier’s call, last bets “dernieres mises” an intoxicating, heady fog that comfortably encircled my being! I was back in the play, I could feel that certain je ne sais quoi, a sense of arrival.
The nightly commute from Antibes became a pain. I found a flat much closer, in Nice and moved in with Brigitte, from the High-Roller’s room. There were a lot of laughs, late afternoons before work, on furlough, bubbles, the clubs, the lines, eventually tumbling into an occasional intimacy. We had it all, for a while!
A group of us, mostly Casino staff, fell into a regular poker game. Five of us, in the pre-dawn hours, at shift’s end, secretly playing, sometimes continuing through to dinner-jacketed employ. Lines replaced sleep, means started to fail, skipped meals, ragged edges were appearing.
There was some discussion around the table of possible security anomalies, camera blind spots, consistent staff lapses at shift changes. Our games intensified, the ante increased, we were regularly playing for ten hours straight. Opportunities to beat the house were being explored. Alcohol, weed and mounting losses drove the discussions more intently.
Our proposed scam was refined and trialled successfully. Cashflows were resecured, I walked taller until the gendarme approached me in the changerooms. I ran up against the French Justice system, learning that its Riverian subset had a particular meanness when it sensed that its’ main source of income was under threat.
I met a hardened mob inside Baumettes’ penitentiary! Scammers, pimps, several innocent murderers, thieves, drug dealers, a few casino staff convicted, as I, after perceiving and exploring Casino weaknesses.
Over the years I learned to survive. I lost my habit, my innocence, my French language improved, albeit I was to learn that some of it was not recommended for polite society! I worked for several years in the infirmary, a year or so in the library, also in the kitchen. Mister Chips and I continued to consider the options, reduced as they were, but we occupied time.
My cousin Pierre came to visit every few months, driving the 180 kilometres down to Marseilles. The stories of his doings, his Antibes antique’s export business, broke up some of the monotony. But he returned to Hobart three years after I went inside.
Mum used to write, her birthday card always included gum leaves. Tears usually followed, a small expression of remorse, shared with Mister Chips in the privacy of my cell. She included snippets, sometimes cuttings from the Mercury, family events, my brother’s marriage, the arrival of two children, my nephews! The letters stopped, a year or so after Pierre went back!
I was eventually released, extradited, at the Republic’s expense, back to Melbourne. My prison allowance provided a modest nest egg. I had Mister Chips. He suggested I head for Hobart and family. I wasn’t even sure anybody was still there, alive, that might remember me. I think it was a first, but I went against Mister Chips and chose the banks of the Goulburn River.
I spent the next eight years on the river, walking, sitting, thinking. I joined a regional library, finding contemplative introspection in Sartre, Marx, Nietzsche. I was quietly content, Mister Chips remained pocketed, mostly retired. Librarians and shopkeepers provided my scant tag to humanity.
I made do, usually able to find shelter, as needed. Summer fruit, autumn spuds, rabbits, sometimes roadkill. Winters could be a bit sparse, but hey, I was making different calls now. Odd jobs provided a basic cash flow, kept me in tobacco, matches, an occasional beer. I sometimes missed Mister Chip’s directives, but there was an inner contentment with my lot. Even in retirement, he provided the rationalization, a window into my being, and friendship.
The seasons rolled on. A fisherman found me and got me to the local hospital. A terminal diagnosis came as a not unexpected, quite appropriate punctuation!
I had help with the ferry fare across to Devonport. I walked and hitched down south. I wondered if Mum would remember me?