1. ADVERTISER.COM.AU SATURDAY JANUARY 10 2015 OPINION 17
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All unpaid volunteer
emergency services
personnel are, or we
assume they are,
registered with the
services they work with.
There should be no
difficulty in granting
exemption to them.
STEWART
The wildly overtaxed
public would expect
essential services such as
CFS, disability schemes
and the like to be among
the first things financed
out of all that money.
PAT
I do not object to paying
an emergency services
levy if it is used to fund
the emergency services.
VROOM@THE —
TRACK
Why exempt the CFS
volunteers, Mr
Marshall? What about
SES, Sea Rescue
Squadron and St John
volunteers? Can they be
excluded, too, please?
Why don’t we exclude
every South Australian,
except for high-earning
politicians, from paying
the huge increase in the
ESL?
BILL
T
HE name of the female sex
worker killed in Adelaide’s
Hindley Street last week, as
sad as it was terrible, is un-
likely to stand the recall of
time.
At the same time, in an Atlantic-bat-
tered corner of Ireland, a story broke of
the death of a young and best-selling
author, Marsha Mehran.
Marsha, Iranian by birth, penned
Pomegranate Soup a decade back, a
tome ostensibly about food but more so
of displacement and belonging.
Marsha was just 36 years old, alone
when she passed, her last contact with
anyone an email to say she was ill and
vomiting blood.
She had gone to her Irish bolthole to
write, she said, but we’ll never know.
She was divorced, empty of funds and
friends, though Google shows us a
beautiful and spirited young woman.
Home had been in Iran, Argentina,
America and Adelaide, where she was a
talented concert pianist.
The sex worker was a decade youn-
ger, from Sydney and of Chinese heri-
tage. We can guess she, too, was alone
in spirit and direction.
The stories reminded me of another
passing, 30 years ago in my northeast
corner of England.
I never knew his name but it was the
hat that did it. Tall, black and furry, a
real Cossack would wear it.
And he wore it everywhere. Cer-
tainly to work and certainly to the foot-
ball.
And certainly past our house. Daily.
There was a dark overcoat in the colder
months and I don’t remember the sum-
mer. The dark fitted the mood, always.
Anyway, he’d trundle past, 8.20am
on the dot, a purpose of destination al-
ways if not direction. Pushing 5.30pm,
he’d be back, right to left this time, on
his way home.
We ate in the front room and saw
everything, the Cossack never a high-
light, if ever a mention.
I found later that people other than
families lived on our street, in the burbs.
Like the Cossack. He was sallow
more than pasty, taller than most and
sadness not so much surrounded him as
leapt ahead.
I never thought our worlds might
collide as I never thought of him be-
yond the passing seconds each day. I
never contemplated he might have his
own thoughts and feelings and fears.
And I certainly never thought we’d
share a passion.
Middlesbrough Football Club was
my team, by turns life-enhancing and
sapping, effervescent and a world away
from the Cossack.
Our match routine was always the
same: me, my mate Mark and his dad.
Ten minutes to kick- off, I could scarce-
ly think, the fear of losing all-consum-
ing.
Then, one day, down the aisles and
cutting in three spaces in front, came
the Cossack. Grey and ghostly, the red
scarf around his neck.
I saw him every second or third
match after, but he was there always, I
knew. Someone else from our street
and our team. Sterling.
We spoke only once, a couple of
years later.
I was 18 and clueless. My parents
were away and left a small cheque to
see me through. Beer was cheap but it
needed cashing.
I didn’t have an account and un-
thinkingly took it to the bank.
The teller was uncertain.
“You live on my road, don’t you,” he
said.
“Yes.”
“OK, I’ll do it now, but you need
your own account. Speak to your par-
ents next time.”
We never mentioned our football,
we didn’t need to.
We never spoke again. A couple of
years later I found out he was dead.
The Cossack, a sole child, had nur-
tured his bedridden mother for years
and at the end of her life, took his.
I don’t know what he got from his
home life but he found his way to the
bank each day and he found his way to
the football.
But he cared for them both, his mum
and his team.
As with Marsha, and maybe the sex
worker, loneliness can draw upon and
lead to all manner of choices, some for-
ward doing, others less so.
I guess we shouldn’t judge and,
though the festive period has now
passed, when we’re asked to help or
make a donation, now and then, just
reach out and help. It can’t hurt.
Steven Marshall on support
for the CFS
Tomorrow: Lainie Anderson
on the ESL and the CFS
CONNECT: Loneliness can be a heavy burden - reaching out can help.
WHAT YOU
ARE SAYING
TELL US: HAVE YOU RECENTLY
REACHED OUT TO SOMEONE WHO
MIGHT BE LONELY?
ADVERTISER.COM.AU
RICHARD EVANS
Reach out to help - you
know that it can’t hurt
RICHARD.EVANS@NEWS.COM.AU
ADVERTISER.COM.AU
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