Roger Metry Roger Shoe Repairs Redfern Street, Redfern For half a century, seven days a week, Roger Metry has let himself into his Redfern shoe repair shop at 6am. He turns the lights out and locks up to go home about 9pm. Hes never taken a holiday. Not once has he returned to the village of Kousba near Tripoli in Lebanon where he was born in 1944. Young generation now, they go to disco. Our disco was in the shop — do this and do that, says Metry, 70, who took over from his father in 1964. Im a working person; Ive got to work all the time. I love to meet people, I love to talk to people and I like to be occupied. Hundreds of pairs of shoes are jumbled on shelves in the back workroom of Metrys Redfern Street shop. Theres a print of the Last Supper on one wall and an aphorism in Arabic script on another. The machinery on his workbench has decades of built-up grime. He thinks his sole stitcher could be 80 years old. One friend or another, Peter or maybe Joe, is likely to be sitting in a corner, drinking coffee, reading the paper, ribbing him. Inevitably the radio will be tuned to the racing station. I call it the church if you dont mind, says Metry of the local TAB that he finds time to visit. Im a gambler and a womaniser and I drink and I smoke and I do everything, says Metry. We love the horses and we love the woman. Someone said to me once, the sport of kings, horse racing. I said, well Im not a king, but I pray to be. Through the 1990s, Metry prayed for survival. Ive seen hell in this shop. For about 20 years I could not make a living; we were starving because the industry was gone. My wife looked at me one day and said, what are we going to do?. I said, Uncle will look after us. Metry doesnt go to church but the man upstairs, God, Uncle, is in my heart, mate. His uncle sent Tap Dogs creator Dein Perry to Redfern Street. He walked up to me and he said, Roger, we want you to do the contract for the Olympic Games — 800 pairs of boots. Got me out of trouble. Havent looked back. Metrys fabled generosity cant have helped his business success. Ten dollars to fix a pair of broken stilettos, nothing if he can see someones down on their luck, and whats a shoelace between friends. They want a shoelace — dont worry about it. He see you in the pub, he want to buy you a drink because you gave him a shoelace. Redfern, thinks Metry, is like a little country town in the middle of the city. I know every Tom, Dick and Harry. People say, hello Roger, how are you, hows work, hows the family? People talk to you. He remembers it when a tram ran down Redfern Street and the factory workers streamed into the area to work at Tooheys, at BMC (the British Motor Corporation), which produced Morris Minors and Oxfords in Zetland, at the mail exchange, at the police academy in Baptist Street, at glass factories and breweries and the heel factory across the road. In the morning you had to push your way through. There were people by the thousands. In the 60s, the Metry family had four shoe repair shops: in Redfern, Coogee, Belfield and Fairfield. Coming to Australia, a new country, you had to make a future. So far, so good. For now Metry is staying put. His son, Nathan, is training with him, and his wife is content. Shes happy; she doesnt see me. Maybe, he says, hell stop work when hes 92. If youve got pride, and honour, respect, you dont depend on the government; youre supposed to contribute to the government to keep the country going. https://facebook/IshareMediaAustralia/posts/1522375088014495
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 13:33:45 +0000
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