‘I was the one thoughtless enough to get behind the wheel.’
‘After John plied you with alcohol all day—’
‘Mum,’ Damien whispered.
‘No, Damo, we all know she’s right.’ John sighed in self-recrimination.
Bernard sensed this was not the first time the subject had arisen at a Mallory symposium.
‘If anything’s to blame it’s the high quality of your bloody wine, I couldn’t stop knocking it back.’
John released a hoot and gave a mock cheer, fists raised in the air. ‘Classic Barkley. How do you think it would stand up in court?’
‘I may be about to find out.’
The table fell silent. Bernard realised his mistake. ‘Not because of this, another incident—I’m being sued. Not for my driving, for my reading.’
Lil peered at his plate. ‘Is that the almond cake? How is it—not too dry?’
‘Delicious.’ Bernard was unsure if the meeting, or at least the part concerning him, had come to an end.
John sucked the back of his fork. ‘Anyway, Bernard, the real reason we dragged you out here is because we’re not sure what to do about the campaign.’
Damien took up his father’s slack. ‘It doesn’t look great for the winery to be advertised by a guy with a drink-driving conviction.’
‘I don’t have a conviction, I’ve never had a conviction.’ ‘You may as well have.’
Bernard ignored the son and pitched his plea to the other family members. ‘The whole thing will blow over in a day or two, it’s just been a slow news patch, they love to crucify a celebrity whenever there’s nothing better to report.’
‘True,’ John mused, ‘it’s just that … a lot of our trade is local and they tend to hold onto things a bit longer.’
‘I’m sure they won’t begrudge me the one mistake,’ Bernard aimed at flippancy. ‘After all, most of them take the back roads home on a weekend.’
John and Lil smiled weakly.
‘It’s not so much the drinking as the fact you paid them off with our wine,’ Damien said.
‘Damien,’ Belinda whined. Her father patted her wrist.
‘I’m afraid you’ve got me there.’ Bernard shook his head. ‘It was a stupid reflex, the electricity workers did me a favour and I wanted to thank them—the wine was all I had.’
‘You’ve not heard of cash?’ Damien asked coolly.
‘That’s enough,’ John chided.
Lil smiled beatifically. ‘We understand. Only, we’ve had quite a few people ask, including that lass from the paper.’
‘Jessica Madden?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The lass from the paper, was her name Jessica Madden?’
Lil looked blankly at her husband. John shrugged.
‘It was, Mum,’ Belinda said. ‘I answered the phone to her, remember?’
‘What did you say?’ Bernard demanded.
‘I, um, I said that you’d been to lunch here.’ A wave of red swept up her neck. ‘I’m sorry.’ Belinda apologised to her empty plate, appreciating the gravitas of her mistake.
‘Did you mention I’d been drinking?’
‘I told the truth: I wasn’t there that day.’
‘No, of course you weren’t, excellent. Good job.’
She looked at him with gratitude.
John said, ‘Long story short, we’ve decided to pull the plug on the campaign. We’ve cancelled the ads in the papers and we’re having the billboards removed at the end of the week. We were thinking of leaving the ads in Wine Lovers magazine and Weekend Getaways—we’re still undecided.’
Bernard exhaled. ‘I suppose you could always run them again, when this whole thing blows over.’ They’d parted with a lot of money, a chunk of which was sitting in his bank account.
‘We’ll see.’ John’s tone suggested it was unlikely.
Bernard slumped in his seat; the atmosphere felt like the aftermath to a dreary Christmas dinner. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, why did you feel the need to tell me in person?’
‘Oh, Bernard,’ Lil said. ‘We consider you a dear friend.’
‘That’s right,’ John chipped in. ‘It’s a blasted shame, is all. Belinda, go have a ferret through those boxes, there should be one with Bernard’s name on it.’
‘We’re on,’ Neil’s voice murmured through Bernard’s phone. ‘Be at the station tomorrow at 8 am sharp.’ There were no other messages.
The fridge had little to offer in the way of dinner. Bernard removed a small wedge of cheese and sniffed at it. The pantry was equally lacking: there were some packet things, rice and pasta and whatnot, which on closer inspection required milk or butter to be added. He salvaged a tin of baked beans from the back before recalling he had no bread. In the freezer’s far reaches he located a frosty box of fish fingers. He tipped the remaining ice-encrusted battens onto a tray and grated the cheese on top.
—The last of your Christmas engagements just cancelled. —I thought they might.
—The Mallorys have cancelled too—they won’t be using you again.
—I know.
He spread a thin layer of mayonnaise over a cheesy finger before eating it.
—I doubt I’ll have anything else for you before Christmas. How’s Voss going? I haven’t heard back from Eucalypt Press.
—Almost done.
—Good for you.
Bernard caught the eye of the middle-aged man eating fish fingers reflected in his kitchen window.
—You know, while I’m in the spotlight, we should look at getting me some work, some serious work. Any press is good press, right?
—Sure, sure, you think of something you’d be right for and I’ll make some calls.
Bernard flicked through the channels with a professional curiosity, stopping to consider a game show: a toothy presenter was beaming at a bewildered young man, trying to figure out which in a list of Most Popular Selling Cars should come next. The host leant in to remind the player of his options—to play or not to play? They could have been teammates; only when the contestant decided to lock in Volkswagen and lost the twenty-five thousand he’d accrued did the presenter dismiss him—damaged goods. The host offered patently fake condolences before turning his back in favour of the next buoyant candidate. Bernard was unsure if he could stomach the bloodlust. Then again, he might enjoy cutting people down at the height of their greed.
He flicked past a couple of news reports before landing on a twenty best and worst program. An image of the Hindenburg blimp igniting into flames was replayed three times. Bernard was captivated by the blaze as it swept across the blimp, leaving behind a charcoal frame. How many passengers: two hundred, three? He inclined toward the telly to see if he could make out any human form in the balloon’s annihilation. A nymph appeared on screen to warn viewers not to go away because they’d be back with more after the break (as if this hadn’t been the procedure since the dawn of television). To maintain interest the cutaway featured footage of a Cyclone Tracy teaser. Bernard changed channels—no prizes for guessing September 11 would come in at number one. He passed a reality show featuring wide-eyed gimps listening avidly to condescending judges. Then a panel-style forum: six adults of various levels of attractiveness giving their opinions on the topics of the day. Bernard had seen the show before and hated the way the panel spoke over the top of one another, each too busy conceiving the next interesting thing to say to listen to the other speakers.
‘For God’s sake, shut up!’ he shouted at one particularly obnoxious female. ‘He just said that—you’re arguing the exact same point, you stupid woman!’
Bernard sat back and watched the panel spout disinformation. I could easily do this, he figured, it’s just like any of Mia’s dinner parties.
Neil walked Bernard through the station, his hand hovering protectively in the region of Bernard’s elbow as though guiding him to court—or the gallows. From the ceiling came the frothy banter of Ben and Sim: witty repartee involving clipped sentence
s with occasional groans and sound effects. The corridor was lined with placards featuring the faces behind the voices of Force FM, grinning vacuously. It had been the same in all the foyers of all the TV stations Bernard had worked at, only the faces were different. The constant removal and replacement of the glossy boards promoted an air of uncertainty among those left hanging. Bernard suspected it was a ploy on the part of the studio heads to keep the talent on their toes. Like the removal of statues at the end of a dictatorship, the studio’s population stood armed with mugs of coffee and cheap biscuits to watch the latest celebrity despot being carried away.
They rounded a bend and came to a huge, double-sized board featuring a man and woman pretending to strangle one another. Beside the board a glass wall faced into a sound booth, and beyond that a recording studio, creating a stereoscopic effect.
Neil tapped lightly on the door to the sound technician’s booth as Bernard inspected his interrogators through the glass. Ben was round and piggy-eyed and most likely bullied as a child. Sim wore black-framed glasses (generally favoured by those trying to pass themselves off as being more intellectual than they are) with an alarming slash of red for a mouth. A beckoning wave from the sound technician roused him from his daze. He entered the studio. Ben nodded for him to sit at the desk’s third chair and Sim swung a microphone over.
‘So, Bernard,’ Ben began, ‘we’re just going to ask you some questions, then we’ll put out the call for impersonators. You’re still cool with that?’
‘I am.’
He noticed a wary look flicker between the hosts, fearing he might conduct the entire interview in monosyllables.
‘Thanks for coming in and doing this,’ Sim said. ‘I understand you didn’t want to talk to the media.’
‘True, but this isn’t really the media is it?’
Sim cocked her head. ‘Why do you say that?’ The big fishies in this pond didn’t like being reminded that their pond was a puddle.
‘I just meant breakfast radio, it’s a bit of a lark.’
Ben grinned, lifting his tiny upswept nose. ‘You’re a brave man. Ten seconds, guys.’
Sim leant forward, breathing into her microphone. ‘Let the games begin.’
Twenty minutes later, Neil guided him in reverse back along the navy hallways. ‘That went pretty well,’ he reflected. ‘I almost laughed out loud at that Chinese woman.’
Bernard vaguely recalled; it felt like trying to raise a memory from the ocean floor.
‘The plumber was pretty funny too. And the kid, that was cute.’ Neil addressed the empty hallway up ahead.
Bernard had a sudden moment of terror. ‘Did we find a winner?’
Neil shot him a look over his shoulder. ‘Yeah, the third guy. Don’t you remember?’
‘Not particularly. Was he good?’
‘He’ll do.’
‘I feel exposed, like I just gave away my credit card details on air.’
They were back at the station’s foyer. Bernard’s eye was drawn to the ceiling. A grinning Santa was perched inside a plastic wreath dressed in a nineteen-twenties bathing suit. This was obviously Beach Santa, produced especially for the Southern Hemisphere. ‘I owe you a drink,’ he said.
‘I’ll take you up on that. Right now I have to get home. My little girl’s not well.’
‘You’ve got a child?’
‘Three. Twin girls, a baby boy—and an exhausted wife.’
Bernard felt sheepish. He’d never thought to ask. Neil seemed so young, and single, what with the hundred-dollar haircuts and the faded T-shirts—and what wife would let her spouse leave the house parading a toilet brush beneath his nose? Neil was holding open the heavy glass door, eager to be going, and why wouldn’t he, he had a family to take care of.
Bernard sensed Santa’s painted eyes mocking him as they left the building.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ruby pulled into the kerb alongside a rusty playground and a pair of weather-beaten picnic tables. A short walk away, a rather unimpressive waist-high hedge signalled the entrance to A’mazed. She withdrew her mobile from her handbag and switched it on; her eyes grazing over the tiny number twelve occupying the missed calls icon. In retrospect it probably wasn’t a good idea to have switched it off last night.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
Izzy rocked her head gravely up and down and held out a sallow palm for the phone, her woebegone compliance causing Ruby to capitulate.
‘Would you like me to do it?’
The pair had come to an agreement as they drove back to the petrol station to collect Angela: Izzy would stay with Ruby for a few days, so long as she got her mum’s permission. Ruby knew she was avoiding Carol—worse still, handballing the problem to Izzy. She justified her cowardice by the fact that Izzy was the one who ran away, and she ought to take responsibility for her actions.
Izzy chewed her lower lip as she looked at her mother’s name on the screen. ‘It’s weird that you’ve got mum’s number in your phone. Why don’t you ever call?’
Ruby smiled weakly. ‘Your mum’s never very happy to hear from me.’ With that, she lost her nerve. ‘Probably best if you do it.’ She pressed the green dial icon and took a step back, as though she’d just pushed the detonate button.
Izzy put the handset to her ear and shuffled her feet, ambling across to the second picnic setting. Ruby thought of Carol’s voicemail recording: her daughter doubtfully saying her name, as though unsure who she was, telling the caller to leave a message. (She remembered an older, happier recording, in which Carol had finished the message by howling spookily ‘If you dare …’)
Izzy examined the phone a moment, before putting the handset back to her ear. She clambered up to sit on the iron-bark table.
Ruby turned to where Angela was frowning at her from inside the Winnebago, and shrugged. When she looked back at Izzy, her granddaughter was talking a mile a minute, seemingly reciting all that had transpired since the previous morning. Abruptly, the girl’s mouth slackened and she hung her head—doubtless Carol was giving her an earful in response. Ruby wondered if she should go over and attempt to explain things. From her distant vantage point she could make out the muttered sorrys that Izzy was voicing. Ruby rose from the bench. Izzy, watching her, shrugged stoically, looking decades older than her eight years. Her voice switched from apologising to pleading, the words ringing out clear and reedy. Then came the singsong thankyous like a record needle skipping in its groove. Ruby turned back to Angela and gave a victorious thumbs-up.
Izzy met her halfway across the playground and handed back the phone. Ruby brought it to her ear.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
‘Carol? Are you there?’
Further silence. Ruby looked at the screen: Carol was gone. ‘Didn’t she want to speak with me?’
Izzy looked mildly surprised. ‘Why would she want to talk to you?’
‘Should I call her back?’ Ruby knew silence from Carol could only mean the silent treatment.
‘No. She said it’s okay.’
Ruby turned things over in her mind. If she called to try and clarify things, Carol might assume she was rubbing her nose in it. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. She’d try again tomorrow.
Angela shuffled across in her seat to make room for Izzy. ‘So, I take it you’ll be joining us then?’
‘Yes.’ Izzy grinned. ‘Isn’t it great?’
Angela narrowed her eyes. ‘You might have converted that big old softy, my girl, but I’m a harder post to push over. I’ve been around the traps once or twice and I won’t stand for any funny business from a ten-year-old.’ Izzy mentioned she was eight. Angela muttered, ‘Well, you won’t always be.’
Having said her piece, Angela shimmied her shoulders and clicked her fingers. ‘Let’s live it up, girls.’ She was excited by the prospect of showing the youngster a good time. It was like having her very own Pippi Longstocking to play with.
Ruby cut a swathe through the country
side driving home from A’mazed—amazing only for the aggrandisement of its title. Her passengers, both lulled into sleep, drooped like rag dolls. It felt heavenly to think of having Izzy in her care for the next few days. Her only uneasiness came in the form of a memory, which, having arisen from her psyche, refused to be ignored. Like an eyelash that had drifted onto the cornea, it would continue to irritate until it had been dealt with.
Carol and Simon had come to town. Simon was having an exhibition in Melbourne somewhere—Carol made it sound like the Archibald, Simon said it was no big deal. Izzy had only been a baby, around six months or so, and slept in a sling across Carol’s chest—a yuppie papoose, as Simon called it. (Ruby couldn’t think when anyone had cause to refer to Carol as a yuppie.) Carol elected that they dine at the town’s most expensive venue, because even though her life was over she still deserved to eat good food. When Simon muttered, ‘Don’t start and Carol scratched back, ‘She’s my mother, I may as well be honest’, Ruby realised this was not going to be the jolly catch up she’d envisaged.
Ruby was painfully on edge the entire meal. It was like dining with terrorist extremists. Any sudden movement or ill-considered comment could set them off. There was the danger of Izzy waking and grizzling, of Carol’s ‘new mother’ anxiety, and—worst of all—of the couple’s constant bickering. Ruby tentatively inquired how Carol was coping. Her daughter bit her head off. ‘I’m not! Especially because I’m completely on my own.’ To which Simon said, ‘Hellooo?’ thereby activating an argument about his level of his assistance. Each subsequent exchange played out in much the same manner as they waited an eternity for their meals to arrive. When Ruby mistakenly asked about Izzy’s sleeping habits, she prompted a defensive, stiff-jawed tirade from Carol that co-sleeping was a matter of necessity ‘if you’re as sleep deprived as I am. I mean, I’m more likely to harm the baby through sheer exhaustion than rolling over on her in the night.’
When the food was eventually placed in front of them, Izzy mewled and squirmed. The three adults held their breaths in terrified suspension, waiting to see if the wriggling bundle would fully wake and shatter what little calm remained for them. Ruby half hoped she would and so put an end to the anticipation. Ruby got her wish. Izzy made a few grunts like a car getting started on a cold morning before her engine turned over and she let lose with a howl.
The Grand Tour Page 18