Mixed Emotions

He was a leviathan. The six-foot-plus, 93-year-old giant sat with his back braced against my chest. His calloused left hand locked flat against the stark slate-coloured pavement on Castlereagh Street.

I saw him topple over. He went down like a large Beech tree, the likes of which I had walked amongst a week ago when tramping along New Zealand’s Kepler Track. They too looked to be very old.

Remarkably his head stayed clear of the ground and there were no cracks or scrapes as the tall-timbered fellow fell to earth. No one moved a muscle, for he was standing behind the jeering crowds that lined the streets on Anzac Day. But you could have felt the earth move.

What do I do, turn a blind eye and walk on? I went to him. Whilst cradling his head I whispered words of reassurance and encouraged him to lie still. A moment or two passed before I sat him up and propped his heavy mass against me. He did not moan or whimper but bowed his head and cried dry tears for 30-seconds or so. Gently patting his back, I let the strong and silent type have his moment.

After about five minutes, three representatives from St John’s Ambulance appeared. At a guess, their average age was 15. One wore braces. “What’s your name”, “where do you live”, one of them asked the fallen. “Did you have any breakfast?” Ah, the first decent question. For I could have answered the others.

Gently shifting my friend’s frame against a conveniently positioned cycle rack, I skipped in to a nearby 7-Eleven and bought an Up and Go, For Breakfast drink. Sanitarium would have been proud. His large paw engulfed the tetra pak and with one or two sucks on the straw he emptied its contents in five seconds flat.

It transpired that he hadn’t eaten all morning and had been standing solo for more than three hours. Low sugar levels were deemed to be the reason for his downfall.

“Everything went a bit blurry,” he said. “Well, on the 100^th anniversary of the landing at Gallipoli, you couldn't have picked a more auspicious day to keel over,” I replied. A smile flicked across his face, limbs began to move and life slowly returned.

Wearing a Tam O’shanter, thick jacket and sporting two neatly fitted hearing aids, Ferguson was his name. More patriot than digger, he had traveled from his home in Guildford each year for more than 50 years to join the throng and support the veterans doing circuit work around the city on April 25.

Ferguson’s dark eyes were rimmed milky white and had a slightly blind look about them, like the pink eye disease suffered by Hereford cattle. His aged eyes had seen a lot.

“I worked in the city for years” he said “with the coppers”. “Tactical response was my go”. “I still train to keep in shape.” “If you were a Saints supporter, I’d take you to the footy,” I replied. “Parramatta is my team,” he said. “I played for them you know, in first grade.” Was he taking the piss now? Don’t be a cynic, it’s Anzac Day I thought.

In the space of 20 minutes we had become friends, of sorts. He asked what my name was and where I lived. Speaking to him reminded me of my father, my uncle, my grandfather, even George the fishing guru who taught me as a gangly kid how to whet a line. All dear departed elderly gents who helped shape my life.

It was an emotional day for both of us. Tears traveled a distance down my cheeks as Ferguson’s hulking frame blended with the masses on his way home. Loss, mateship, adversity, Anzac Day.

Only minutes before my close encounter with Ferguson, I stood on George St applauding the troops and cheering my 15-year-old nephew who triumphantly led his school band in the procession. Tears of joy that time.

With Ferguson gone, I pondered the recent pounding on the pavement while chomping on a steak sandwich and savouring a cup of tea in Hyde Park. Next stop was Allianz stadium where I met a mate, watched footy, drank beer, got wet and let more emotions flow.