The Pencil Case

by Lorraine Cobcroft

  “So,” I said emphatically, “I’ve been figuring out this business plan, and I want to take a loan out to --- ”

  “No, Paul!” she snapped. “I don’t care how much you’ve won on paper or how reliable you think this system of yours is. It’s not happening. We’ve been through this. We are not risking our home to bet on bloody horses. End of discussion.”

  There was an uncomfortably long silence. My fists were clenched and my face was set hard. I was avoiding her gaze and trying to swallow my anger. Finally, I spoke again.

  “Who said anything about betting?” I said. I paused a moment. “I want to take a second mortgage to start a business.”

  She sat up and spun round to face me. “What sort of business?”

  “A craft business. Metal spinning. I’ve done some research and I can buy a machine for a few grand. I’ve read about the process. It’s not that hard.”

  She seemed lost for words. I studied her expression.

  “I’ve always been good with my hands, Fran, and I like making things. I worked in shit jobs for 20 years and hated nearly every bloody day of it. With no education or trade training, I’ve got no more hope of finding a fulfilling job here than I had when I left the army. Less, probably. I don’t want to spend the rest of my working life doing something I hate. I might as well have stayed in the bloody army. At least it paid a decent wage.”

  I opened the esky and helped myself to a beer and sat staring at the label. My pulse raced. I studied Fran’s anxious face and silently prayed I’d find a way to make her understand how desperately I wanted this chance.

  “What do you plan to make?”

  “Junk jewellery, souvenirs, badges. There’s heaps of stuff this machine can turn out.”

  She considered my reply silently, understandably confused. I’d been secretly researching this for months, but it must have seemed to her that this came out of nowhere. She needed time. I agreed to drop the subject for the moment, but over the days that followed, I continued to plead. Eventually, she relented.

  Three weeks later, she met me one morning on the wide steps of the local bank. We walked arm–in–arm down the long corridor to the manager’s office to listen to the compulsory reading of legal cautions and loan terms and nervously affix signatures to a ‘Second Mortgage’, adding $20,000 to our existing debt. The banker solemnly handed us a cheque book and explained that we had a $20,000 overdraft. Interest would be charged only on the largest outstanding balance during any given month. Fran left there white–faced and shaking. I couldn’t recall when I’d felt so optimistic and so happy.

  Five months on, the money had almost run out and I had sunk into the depths of despair. Fran sat at the table one stormy Friday evening, peering over loss statements, telling me tearfully I would have to quit. I remained stubbornly determined to ignore all signs of defeat. I ripped up financial statements and threw them at her.

  “Piss off with your fucking numbers. You’re so negative. All you want to do is tear me down.”

  She knew that deep down I fretted and worried. She heard me tossing and turning at night. She knew that I worried about her. She found me on the verge of tears one day, after a casting failed. “I didn’t want you to know, Fran.” I said quietly. “I knew how it would upset you.”

  Then, one windy late September Wednesday, she came home to find me whistling as I slid a bottle of her favourite champagne into the fridge. I turned to her with eyes dancing and my face glowing as I pulled a shiny badge from my pocket and flashed it at her joyfully.

  “Look closely, my darling! You are looking at our ticket to business success,” I said, dropping it on the table.

  It was odd shaped --- a curved section with a long tail on which the words “Harley Davidson” were engraved. It was shiny silver, not real silver of course. Polished monkey metal. It twinkled in the sunlight, so the words were hard to read. She seemed incapable of sharing my obvious enthusiasm.

  “Well? You are supposed to be excited.”

  “What is it?”

  I gave an exasperated sigh. “A motorbike badge, for Harleys of course. I took an order today for 500 of these at 20 bucks a pair from a bike shop in Tweed Heads.”

  She made no response, but just stared at me doubtfully.

  “Five thousand dollars, Fran, and I can fill this order in two days.”

  She turned it over thoughtfully. I struggled to suppress frustration.

  “Five thousand dollars,” I repeated. “We based the business plan on taking less than half that each week, and if the badges take only two days to make, I’ll still have plenty of time to produce other stuff. And best of all, Hopo insists it must be all cash dealing.”

  She sat forward with a start. “Why? Is there --- ”

  “He’s a bikie, Fran. He sells to bikies. It’s a cash business, but it’s a great business. These guys love their bikes. They spend a fortune on them. Hopo reckons he can’t get enough of these things. I can make a thousand a week with ease. More maybe.” I studied her expression, bitterly disappointed by her lack of confidence.

  “I’ll deliver the order next Monday” I said brightly. “Come with me, Fran. Meet Hopo. He’s quite a character. You’ll enjoy a day out. We can go shopping after. It’s a while since you’ve been to a city to shop, and I know you love it.”

  She nodded silently, apparently not trusting herself to speak. I understood her fears. I struggled to believe too, but I had an order in my hand and a promise of more to come.

  Hopo’s shop was in a back street, a rather grubby–looking shed–like structure with a dozen shiny Harleys lined up out front. Fran hated bikes, but she couldn’t help but admire the gleaming chrome–spoked wheels, the brightly coloured duco polished to a mirror shine, the long, plush, leather seats, and the shiny handlebars standing high and proud.

  Inside, racks of spare parts of every description lined the walls and the smell of leather and chrome mixed with the pervasive stink of nicotine. Exhaust pipes, leather seats, handlebar grips, wheels. Along one wall, T–shirts and leather gloves. Up the middle, racks of heavy–lined leather jackets.

  A streak of light from a high window danced over shiny helmets --- silver, red, purple, deep blues and greens --- all lined with deep–black leather padding. Boxes of decals and badges rested, tilted on the diagonal to display their contents, against the front edge of a wide wooden counter. No cash register --- just a tattered–looking docket book with a worn blue carbon sticking out from under the top page.

  Behind the counter, Hopo! Long uncombed hair, scraggly beard, heavily pocked face with a deep, angry scar running down the left side from forehead to chin, and a huge crooked nose. His chin rested on an arm painted in reds and blues and purples --- every inch of flesh from bare shoulder to wrist covered with complicated designs featuring skulls and dragons and eagles and flames. An unbuttoned navy shirt --- frayed at the shoulder where the sleeve ought to have joined --- only partly covered a hairy painted chest. Even leaning over the counter, he towered over me. Thick, solid muscle pushed out tattooed skin. I hoped he didn’t notice Fran’s involuntary shudder.

  “Wilson!” he exclaimed, straightening up and extending an enormous swarthy hand.

  “Hopo. Meet my wife, Fran.”

  He looked her up and down with an evil grin. “Lucky guy. She’s got curves in all the right places.”

  I ignored the remark and placed a large box on the counter. Hopo lifted the flap and thrust his chin forward as he peered inside.

  “I’ll need a minute to inspect and count them,” he said. “Want to make yourself and that pretty little sheila a coffee while you wait?” He pointed to a grubby sink set into a wooden bench littered with chipped cups, half–full coffee jar, and a jar of sugar caked and blackened from repeated dips with wet, soiled spoons.

  “No thanks. I want to watch you. Can’t risk you stashing a few under the counter when I’m not looking and then accusing me of short–changing you.”

  “You wouldn’t short–change
me, mate. I’d knock your bloody block off if you tried,” Hopo chuckled, but his tone was cold and warning. He started examining the pieces, one by one. He set eight aside, pointing out what he claimed were imperfections. I saw no flaw, but I didn’t argue.

  Fran whispered a complaint that her legs ached and her mouth was dry, but she had no appetite for his coffee. She was scanning shelves loaded with an astonishing variety of male jewellery, clothing, badges, wall plaques, miniature bikes. Everything embossed with the word “Harley”.

  At last, Hopo was done. He reached under the counter and pulled out a large metal box. Fran gasped when he opened it. It bulged with 20, 50 and 100 dollar notes. I reckoned there must have been 50 grand in there. Hopo carefully counted out 5,000, then made a show of returning 100 to the box. He pushed the rest of the pile across the counter.

  “Another batch next week?” I said, ignoring the small deficit in the payment.

  Hopo nodded. “Told you, mate. Keep up the quality and I reckon I can move all you can make.”

  “He scares me, Paul.” Fran said, driving away.

  “He scares me, too,” I admitted, “but he’s OK as long as you don’t cross him. He’s got a reputation for being pretty nasty if he doesn’t get his own way, and he’s got some pretty unsavoury friends. Apparently some of that cash comes from drug dealing, but I prefer to know nothing about that.”

  “God, Paul. Do you really want to do business with a guy like that.”

  “For five grand an order? You bloody well betcha!”

  The orders came through regularly, mostly for 200 at a time after the first three. Hopo frequently objected to non–existent flaws and short–changed us, but it didn’t matter. I returned from delivery trips with my wallet bulging. Fran dashed nervously from parking lot to bank door with bundles of cash, after extracting a few notes for the cash tin hidden in the back of the pantry. By the end of the following year we had paid off the business loan and I’d persuaded Fran there was enough spare change for me to pursue my long– cherished dream. I set aside five grand, opened an account with an SP bookie, and started to work my betting system.

  ~~~~

  39: CHRISTMAS HUMBUG

  DECEMBER, 1987

  I was doing another Hopo delivery three days before Christmas. Fran was wildly excited that, for once, we wouldn’t do Christmas on a pauper’s budget. “Take me and the kids with you, Paul.” she pleaded. “We can do some Christmas shopping. You can distract the kids while I get their presents and then we can all go out for lunch.” She waited for a response, but when I was silent she continued eagerly. “That was one of the best things about Christmas when I was a kid. We always went shopping together and bought lunch out.”

  “Christmas! Bah humbug!” I said with a chuckle, adding, “Sorry, guess I’m a bit like that character, Scrooge, was it? But for different reasons. I hate all the fuss and bother and the crowds. Do we really have to battle crowds of Christmas shoppers?”

  “Don’t be such a wet blanket, Paul. We’ve always made Christmas special and fun. Remember that first one, in Singapore? We were so damn homesick, I cooked enough to feed 10 and we showered each other with so many gifts to try to make up for being alone and far from family, and then we made love on the living–room floor all afternoon.”

  “I remember. It’s still bah humbug.” Then, after a pause, “OK. OK. If it will stop you nagging, I’ll take you with me and we’ll have lunch, but you can sit in the car while I do the delivery. I’m not taking you inside that place again.” My forceful tone caused an involuntary shudder.

  “Fine. I don’t like Hopo anyway, but why is it such a big deal?”

  “I overheard a conversation a few weeks ago. I didn’t like it at all.”

  “What –”

  “Told you he ran drugs, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He had an unsavoury–looking fellow in there and they were talking about some woman Hopo had taken up with. It seems folks think he murdered her husband. Police interviewed him, but they couldn’t pin anything on him. Happened six years ago, apparently, so I guess he thinks he’s free and clear so he can be a bit careless about who he boasts to. I’m sure he didn’t mean me to hear though.”

  “Shit, Paul! Murder! And you’re going to keep doing business with him?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s none of my business, but I saw the way he looked at you and I don’t want him deciding he fancies you better than whoever it is he apparently thought was desirable enough to kill for.”

  We set out early, kids all dressed up for a fun day out, planning what gifts to buy for each other, and Fran chatting happily about ideas for Christmas gifts for relatives. I was in a cheery mood, almost excited in fact. I told Fran I was planning to buy something really special for her, so she would have to take the kids off somewhere after lunch and let me organise surprises for all of them. “And not to see Santa either,” I added. “I want to take photos of them, and you, on Santa’s knee.”

  “The kids are way past that,” she laughed, “and you definitely won’t get me up there.”

  “Then how will I know what you wish for?”

  “You just said you already had a plan.”

  “I do.”

  “So give me a hint.”

  “You’ll just have to wait, my darling. You are just like a little kid at Christmas, and I’ll enjoy watching you struggle through the next few days in agonising suspense, wanting desperately to sneak a peek and not quite game.”

  We stopped to buy ice creams before heading out to Hopo’s, and I left the kids to wait in the car with Fran while I finished my business. I thrust a large box under my arm and headed off into the store, whistling merrily.

  They were all getting impatient when I finally emerged, still with the box under my arm, and holding the envelope Hopo had given me. My expression was, no doubt, as grim as his had been when he greeted me. I threw the box into the back of the car, slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door hard and thrust the envelope at Fran.

  “Merry bloody Christmas,” I spat.

  “What’s this?”

  “A fucking Christmas card from Hopo. What do you think? Read it.”

  The envelope had been torn open. She extracted a soiled and tattered page and carefully unfolded it. The letter was addressed very formally to Mr Hopo Niles, Tweed City Harleys. It bore that elegant, distinctive Harley–Davidson emblem at the top, and the print at the bottom declared the signatory “Director, Brand Management and Intellectual Property Protection, Harley–Davidson Australia.”

  “It’s a warning about selling knock–offs, Fran. With a very polite explanation of Harley–Davidson’s licensing and quality–control terms.”

  She stared at me blankly.

  “The badges I make. The real deal cost $90 a pair. I couldn’t hope to produce a genuine product at that price, not with the licence fees they charge and their quality standards. Under patent law, they could take me for everything we own, and more, for making imitations.”

  She was speechless, terrified. It was bad enough that we hadn’t been quite honest with the tax man. She excused that, because the tax office shafted us early in our marriage and we figured it owed us. But…

  “Patent infringement? A patent owned by a company as powerful as Harley–Davidson? Shit, Paul!”

  “Surely you must have realised the deal wasn’t quite legit? Jesus! How gullible are you, Fran?”

  “You’re dealing with a drug–dealing bikie suspected of murder, making illegal product for him to buy from you for cash out of a tin that must contain around 50 grand in cash bills? Paul, have you completely lost your senses?”

  “Can you show me a way to earn a decent living legally when the system has been shafting me since I was eight years old?” I paused for a moment to compose myself. My caustic tone lightened a little.

  “Christ, Fran. Don’t go getting all self–righteous! We live in a dirty world. The people who get on well in it don’t do it by being proper and n
ice and law abiding. They do it by playing in the grey. And that’s all I did. The very pale grey, actually!”

  “They don’t do it by getting into bed with drug–dealing murderers, that’s for sure!”

  I started the engine before replying, then answered with far more certainty than I felt.

  “Hopo isn’t the problem here. Dealing with him is perfectly safe as long as the deals are on his terms. I don’t argue when he claims to find a flaw or when he miscounts an order. I take what he’s happy to pay me, smile, shake hands and say thank you, and I keep him well away from my woman.”

  “Not nearly far enough away for my liking,” she said sharply. “So what now? Where do you go from here?”

  “Hopo won’t be placing any more orders, and I can’t risk looking for other customers like him. I have to stop, Fran. It’s too risky.”

  “Of course you have to stop. You should never have started.”

  “And if I hadn’t, we’d all be sleeping on the street instead of planning lunch with Santa Claus.” I slammed my fist into dashboard and glared at her. “And if you breathe a word about any of this to anyone, it won’t be Hopo you’ll have to be afraid of.”

  My vicious tone no doubt transported her to an earlier time. Jealous rages, violent outbursts ending with broken china, holes in walls, and Fran engaging for days in futile attempts to mask a bruised cheek, split lip or black eye with makeup. It was all a long time ago, before I was reunited with a father who told me emphatically, after reprimanding me for raising my voice at her, that women were to be revered and honoured, treated with tenderness, and never spoken to in anger. My mother had added softly that for all the hardships she endured, she had seldom suffered a harsh word from her husband and he had punished his sons severely if they ever dared to show her disrespect.

  Despite the reconciliation and my dad’s influence, the demons still hadn’t left me. I still feared those I loved deserting me, and I talked constantly of women betraying men and couples being incapable of staying faithful. Just a month ago, I had told her that my aunt and uncle separated, and I asked her when she would leave me.