‘I’ll drink to that.’ He raised his glass, I clinked it.
I thought about losing two hundred dollars, and then I thought about winning it.
‘How can I trust you?’
‘My money’s on the table. Take it, and if you’re wrong, then put it back.’
‘OK, Fritz, you have a deal, but I’ll need some time.’
‘Five minutes, that’s all I can afford. Audience get in at eight thirty.’
I laughed, expecting him to join me, but he didn’t. I felt powerful with my big chunky glass full of ice and drink. I lit a Marlboro, sank back and tried to work it out, while Fritz played some tunes.
I had nothing to go on whatsoever. There were no other paintings in the house from what I could see, just a couple of plates that looked Japanese, and some rubber plants. I could only find one more photo in addition to the one in the kitchen. It was near the door as I came in, on the wall. It was a racehorse with a young woman and another man. I had a horse and a boat and that was all.
I sensed Fritz had done very little over the past few years and that perhaps his wife was the driving force behind their luxurious lifestyle. The house would probably have a study packed with clues, but I was restricted to the minimalist entrance room.
Did they have a boat and a horse? In which case, it would have to be Peter Bloody Stuger. The only horse featured was a unicorn – surely Fritz wasn’t that wasted, and the house was in far too good taste to go down that route.
‘Three minutes left,’ said Fritz, loving the other two that just passed.
‘Shit.’
I would have to do it by a process of elimination. There was no way the mountains, the triptych and the landscapes were in the race. I wasn’t sure why but my instinct said no. The abstract would be suitable for the house, but I didn’t take Fritz to be the home-furnishing type. He loved music and was obviously in a band of some sort at one point. So I had him as a sentimentalist, therefore his choice was connected with something personal – otherwise why suggest a game based on guessing? I went back to the bloody unicorn against all odds.
‘Time, please.’ Fritz pointed at the clock.
In a desperate last-second attempt to secure the deal, I scrutinised the back of the painting to see if there were any bits of paint overlapping, so at least I would have more of an idea what colour scheme was used. But it was clean. Which is why I had a slight chance in saying what I thought it was.
‘Is it the unicorn drinking from the lake?’
Fritz let his head fall back over the sofa, which confirmed it for me. I jumped up and down; I was having so much fun.
‘How did you know, you bastard?’ Fritz downed his drink.
‘I think you maybe have a racehorse, that’s all.’ I gestured to the photo. What I didn’t tell him was that I always kept the unicorn at the back of my folder, as it was the last one I was likely to get out because it was so shit. Most of the paintings had some paint on the back because they were often still wet. But the unicorn only leant against the folder so it was spotless in comparison.
‘Unicorn’s Trust,’ said Fritz, swirling his ice.
‘What?’
‘That’s the name of our horse.’
‘Fuck, that’s weird, really weird.’
‘So, it’s all yours.’
‘Guess so. What about your other choice? The deal is you get to buy another one.’
‘Let the wife choose that. Here she is now.’
An engine purred in the drive. I was apprehensive about meeting his wife, and afraid that she might change the evening, which was turning out to be better by the minute. I stood up in anticipation of her arrival.
‘What’s the plan, Fritz?’
‘Plan is, you’re Tiff’s replacement. Joyce will understand, she’s used to last-minute hitches.’
I was registering the name Joyce with the face in the photo and the fact I’d felt I’d met her before, when she came in, all bright and breezy, just as I’d imagined her. Her arms were laden with shopping and gold bracelets. She was no taller than me, with big brown eyes and smudged mascara from a hot day; her handshake was warm and long.
‘Hi there, love. Joyce Cane. Pleased to meet you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
* * *
I COULD NOT believe for one moment that I was in the house of carpet mogul Joyce Cane. It was not the house I had imagined her to live in. I had imagined her to have a house full of carpets like the ones she advertised on television.
‘Fix me a bloody drink, will you, darl’. Been on my feet all day,’ said Joyce.
Fritz mumbled and walked through to the kitchen.
‘So what’s he got you doing, love?’
‘Nothing – I mean, I was going round the houses selling my artwork when he thought I was his friend Tiff at the door, so he let me in.’ I stared at her, as I spoke.
‘And you couldn’t get away ever since, uh?’ Joyce lifted her hair up at the back and stretched her neck before kicking off her shoes and sitting down.
‘No, I’ve actually really enjoyed myself.’
‘Typical bloody Fritz, flamin’ maniac, he gets so over the top. Don’t let him bother you.’
Fritz came back with the drink and Joyce took a generous gulp.
‘That’s better.’ She put her feet up on the sofa and played some more with her hair. ‘So, you one of these travellers who sell the paintings, yeah?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been doing it pretty much since I came here.’
‘Oh yeah, got a few mates who have bought some of that stuff; some of it’s OK. Bet you get around a bit, love?’
‘I do, yeah, going up the coast tomorrow with the people I work with.’ I was nervous in Joyce’s company, like I was a fan. I wanted to know about her life and I couldn’t stop looking at her, while Fritz played guitar softly in the background as we continued to chat.
‘So watch this, he’ll go berserk,’ she whispered, but needn’t have because Fritz was oblivious to anything we were saying. ‘Fritz, love.’ She winked at me playfully.
‘Mm, yes, my darling wife?’ he said sarcastically, looking up.
‘Got some bad news, I’m afraid. Well, I happen to think it’s good news but then I’ve been working all day. But the Harrisons have cancelled, Sheila’s got crook.’
‘What’s crook?’ I asked.
‘It’s Aussie for ill, love.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Cancelled!’ yelped Fritz. ‘Why didn’t they let us know earlier? A lot of thought and hard work went into this gig, you know.’
‘Calm yourself now, love, I’m not in the mood for one of your tantrums.’
‘What, they just blew us out, like that?’ Fritz clicked his fingers, then got up and started pacing. ‘Bloody flakes, the lot of them.’
Joyce rolled her eyes at me. I sniggered.
‘WHY-ARE-PEOPLE-SO-UTTERLY-UNDEPENDABLE?’ He threw his arms around.
‘Fritz, calm down, babe, we’ll rearrange for next week, I promise. Now why don’t you go and give me five minutes of peace and quiet to chat to the girl?’ She shook her head into her drink.
As soon as Fritz left the room we both laughed.
‘Men! Uh, who needs them?’ she said.
‘Fritz is a fairly unusual man though, is he not?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘How long have you been together?’
‘Twenty-four years, just passed.’
‘Long time. Hey – that’s when I was born.’
‘There you go.’
I couldn’t stop staring at Joyce; her presence felt so warm and reassuring, like nothing else I had experienced before.
‘Let me tell you about Fritz, love.’ She paused for self-editing purposes. ‘Fritz had a rotten life by the time I met him, I mean we all did then, but his was about as low as it gets. Amazing that I’ve still got him with me. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he ends up becoming a muso.’
‘What, sorry?’
‘Muso – you know, musician – in a band. The Hideaways – real top band in the sixties, made it number one over here. They had a big hit with a song that Fritz and his mate Tiff wrote. Tiff’s a bloody nutcase by the way, can’t bear him. He’s bad for Fritz. Anyway they wrote the song, it was number one for six weeks, and Fritz has never got over it. He’s always harking back to those days, and on a night like tonight when he wants to put on a show, when we have guests coming over, he loses the bloody plot.’
‘Poor Fritz.’
‘Don’t you worry about him, he’s OK, but I’ve got to keep my eye on him, and I’ve got to watch him with this stuff.’ She shook the glass. ‘Speaking of such, fancy another?’
‘Yes, please.’
She winked at me again.
‘Fritz! Fritz!’
Fritz came back in looking dejected.
‘Can you get us another couple of these, babe, please?’
He picked up our glasses without speaking.
‘Come here, you big idiot.’ She pulled him down onto the sofa and cuddled him, to which he responded reluctantly. She pulled back strands of his hair that had fallen onto his face and kissed his forehead.
I watched with fascination, for here was the perfect wife, and the perfect mother. I wanted to stay there for a long time and be Fritz under the care of Joyce. But why? Why had I felt this connection with her from her television adverts, beamed into my life from her Parramatta Road showroom? Was there more to her and this than coincidence?
As she petted Fritz reassuringly, I traced back the path that led me to Joyce.
First, if I had not gone and sold a painting to Bruce and his wife, I would have had no cause to meet Bruce again and argue about the sale. However, if I had not been at the house at Watson’s Bay at the time I was, I may never have run into Bruce again. Let’s not forget that Bruce would not even have been there at that time himself, had he not been having an affair with the woman whose house it was. But they were both there and it caused us all to row, which made Scotty collect me and take me to this suburb, which he said in the car was not one that he had really ever considered targeting, and certainly one I would not have been targeting at all if I had not argued with Bruce, forcing me to find another area before the night was up. And tomorrow I would be going to the Gold Coast, and may never have come back to this side of Sydney.
Then there’s the house and what attracted me to it. Admittedly, it was the largest house in the cul-de-sac, with an intercom, so that the person who answered it, in this case Fritz, had no way of seeing that I was not in fact the person he was anxiously waiting for. Had he seen me face to face, he may not have let me into the house so readily. Once there, I did present him with knowledge of the words to the Beatles’ ‘Chains’, and although we both agreed that everybody knew a Beatles’ song, that would not necessarily be the obvious choice. And the song kept me there, led me right into the path of Joyce whose house it was all the time, whose face I felt compelled to watch whenever I saw it on the ad and whose voice I heard in the background in many of the homes I visited, saying, ‘True blue bonza bargains.’ And that took me back to this strange job that I fell into accidentally, a job that took me into the homes of strangers.
After petting Fritz and consoling him about the cancelled performance, Joyce asked me questions about myself, which I loved. All the time I watched her closely.
‘So you’re from Scotland, are you?’
‘Yes, Edinburgh.’
‘Got cousins in Newcastle, that’s close enough, isn’t it?’
I had to stop myself from exploding. ‘WHAT? Oh my God, that’s just too strange, I have too, I mean, I just found out that I know someone, well, am related to, from there, and now I think she’s here. That’s why I’m here, oh my God!’ I messed with my hair and shook my head.
‘Well, I’ve got to break it to you, love, as much as I’d love to be, I’m sorry but I’m not your mum.’ She laughed a little which made me feel stupid, and I didn’t want her to break it to me. And I only just got over her saying that, when I had to get over her knowing what I’d meant without me telling her.
‘No, obviously, I didn’t think you were, but I had a feeling about you when I first saw you on the advert. I felt as if I was going to know you or something, but how did you know about my mother? I haven’t told anyone here, how come you knew?’ My head was bursting with all of this.
‘I don’t know anything, love.’ She put down her drink, and searched my face with her eyes. ‘I just feel something from you, dear, and I think I’m on the right track.’
I bit my lip.
‘You’ll find what you’re looking for, love, I promise.’
I wanted to cry, but turned it into ice chewing instead.
‘You won’t always be lost.’ Her eyes looked watery.
I couldn’t take another mouthful of ice, so I brought my foot up on to my other leg and began massaging it.
‘I saw your sadness, love, the moment I walked in.’
‘What do you mean, Joyce?’ I loved using her name.
‘I can see things, my mother was the same, and so was my grandmother.’
‘You mean, like, psychic?’
‘Uh-huh, I’m afraid so, runs in my family whether you want it or not, and I tell you something else, love, you have it as well. It’s not developed yet, and I don’t know if you’ll ever want to, but it’s there. Probably what you picked up when you saw me.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Could be.’
‘Do you believe in fate, Joyce? Because I do. In fact it’s the only thing I think I believe in at all.’
‘I do too. I know there’s such a thing. I know because when I was a little girl, I dreamt about a big boat that would take me and my mum and dad and little brother far away to another place that was dry and hot. I would dream this maybe every week, and each time I dreamt about this place I would know the place more and more, like I would add things on, so that when I went back to it I had built up a life almost, that I knew my way around. I started these dreams when I was very little, as young as four years old I started having them.’
‘When did you come here?’
‘We came in from Manchester in the mid-fifties. It was my dad’s idea – he hated what had happened in the war and was never the same when he came back – seen too much. He stuck it out at home for a few years, “then one day he stood up and he told us that either we all went to Australia with him or he would go himself. My brother said, “What’s Australia?” And my dad said, “It’s the furthest away from here you can possibly get.” That’s when I knew we’d be on the boat I’d been dreaming about, that’s when I knew what fate was.’
‘That’s like me, with here. I always felt I’d have to make some big journey, to find things out about myself, like how I began, how I was made.’ I felt young in my explanation of things with Joyce, and excitable.
‘So, is it both your parents you are looking for? Or just your mum?’ It was strange to hear this, as I had never thought about both of them much. My obsession was with the search for my mother only.
‘No, just my mother,’ I said tearfully. ‘I was adopted.’
‘Yep, I figured.’ She shook her head. ‘Like so many little babies of the fifties and sixties, and long before that too, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I said mournfully.
‘What do you know about your mother?’ She sipped from her drink, the whole time looking into my eyes, reading my face. I composed myself in order to answer that question, a question I had never been asked before.
‘Nothing much, other than what I was given when I first went to Register House on my eighteenth birthday. And that was just an address given by her at the time of my birth.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Joyce smiled at me through tear-filled eyes that I tried my best not to be affected by.
I continued. ‘A few years later, when I was twenty-two, I got on a bus for Newcastle and went round knocking on the doors in the street whe
re she used to live until I found out what I know now, which is that she came here soon after I was born, and married an Australian serviceman called Duffy. I don’t even know what part of Australia, for sure, or if she’s still here, but he was from Sydney, and the neighbours I spoke to thought it was here or Brisbane. I could go to Births, Deaths and Marriages and do a proper search, I suppose, but I don’t, and I don’t understand why I don’t. It’s such a long story, Joyce, and it’s a weird story, and I found it all out myself.’
‘Course you did, love.’ She took another drink, this time a larger one, and watched me unravel the page of Duffys from my pocket, as I began to tell her about Hank, and the odd way I found him.
‘None of this surprises me, you know, love?’
‘Really?’
‘Nuh, none of it – you being here, phoning up that cowboy fella who’s going to help you – it’s all for a reason, like I said. But it makes me laugh because Australia is a big place, as you know, nothing quite like it, and here you are with nothing to go on, floating around but you know you’ll do it, don’t you?’
‘I do, I suppose. Sometimes I just feel that it will come and find me, no matter what I do.’
‘One step forward, two steps back – that’s you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes, that is me.’ I had only been in Joyce’s company for about half an hour, and already I was worrying about how I would leave her. Everything before her seemed to pale into insignificance; she was it, so far.
‘What about your real mum?’
‘No, that is my real mum; the one I think’s here.’
‘No, that’s your biological mum, your birth mum. The mum that stayed with you, the one that brought you up, that’s your real mum, love.’
‘We really don’t get on. Not for a long time, anyway.’
‘Of course you don’t get on, she’s your mum! You’re meant to fight, and get on each other’s nerves. But that will change, love, believe me, that will change.’
Joyce put a new slant on everything, her words were magical.
‘We don’t get on – I’ve hardly spoken properly to her since I left home, or to my father. He’s fucking useless, and she just goes along with it.’
The Naked Drinking Club Page 17