Deadly Unna?

by Phillip Gwynne

  To tell the truth I didn’t like the Maccas that much. But every summer I used to hang around with them. So did Pickles. So did Dazza. We all did. Because somehow they made things happen. It’s like in chemistry – you’ve got this test tube full of these amazing chemicals but there’s nothing happening, no action, they’re just sitting there looking at you. Then you add a catalyst. Straightaway – fizz! pop! whoosh! Well, those Maccas were catalysts. And if you didn’t hang around with them, you missed out on half the fun.

  Still, at the end of last holidays I’d made a promise.

  ‘Blacky,’ I said to myself. ‘This summer you’re not going to have anything to do with those Maccas. They’re such phonies.’

  But now I had to break that promise. I had no choice. I was smitten, and the girl who smote me was staying with the Maccas. It was no big deal, anyway. Breaking your own promises never is.

  21

  Pickles and me were sitting at the anchor.

  It was a muggy night. There were campers everywhere, out for an evening stroll, in their bright clothes and sunburned faces, eating ice-creams. Most of them were double-headers; they were loaded these campers.

  ‘Did you see the Maccas today?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. They were up the jetty with that chick. But I didn’t talk to ’em much. Too busy with me gents.’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  Pickles gave me a funny look.

  ‘Squirming around as usual,’ he said.

  I felt sick inside. The Maccas had been squirming around with Cathy. Up the jetty. In public.

  ‘What, in front of everybody?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Maggots aren’t exactly shy, you know.’

  ‘The Maccas, not the maggots, you dickhead. What were the Maccas doing?’

  ‘I dunno, just showing her ’round I s’pose.’

  ‘Were they holding hands or anything?’

  ‘You’ve got the hots for that chick, haven’t you?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Then why you asking so many questions for?’

  ‘You know me. I always ask heaps of questions. It’s me nature.’

  Pickles farted.

  ‘And that’s mine,’ he said.

  I shuffled to the end of the bench.

  ‘Well, were they holding hands or not?’

  ‘Not.’

  Thank God for that.

  ‘Wanna go over the pub, play a few games of eight-ball?’ asked Pickles.

  ‘I’m broke.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, patting his top pocket, ‘I’m loaded. Them gents went like hot cakes.’

  ‘I dunno. I might just hang around here a bit.’

  ‘She won’t be coming down, you know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That chick, what’s-her-name.’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not interested in her.’

  ‘Like hell. Come on.’

  ‘Okay, then. Let’s go.’ We strolled across to the pub.

  22

  Pickles pushed open the door. I followed. Inside it smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke. The front bar was long and narrow. It had a tiled floor with a little gutter around the edge. Mounted on one wall was a set of shark’s jaws. They were huge. Mick reckoned the shark must’ve been at least a fourteen-footer. Somebody had stuck a cigarette onto the lower jaw.

  Old Froggy was hunched up in the corner, mumbling into his beer. Next to him a couple of dusty farmers were talking to each other, slowly squeezing out words. The regulars – the old man, Mick, Slogs and Rocker – were all standing at the bar. Shirl was sitting on a bar-stool, her legs crossed and an ashtray balanced on her knee. At the other end of the bar, two campers, wearing Bermuda shorts and long white socks, were playing eight-ball. Big Mac was standing behind the bar. His belt was undone and his hand was down his trousers. He was adjusting. A lot of blokes in our town did this. When we went to Adelaide I was always on the lookout, to see if city people did it as much. But they didn’t – the only people I saw adjusting in the city looked suspiciously like country folk down for the Christmas shopping, or the Easter Show. I reckon it had do with beer guts. If you had one then you had two options. Either you slung your belt low, below the gut, the crotch at knee level and the bottom of your trousers all bunched up on your shoes. Or you pulled them right up, the belt riding high on your gut, trouser bottoms flapping in the breeze and plenty of sock on display. If you went for this option, as Big Mac did, then the crotch of your trousers would apply pressure to your reproductive organs. To relieve this pressure you’d always be adjusting.

  ‘I gotta have a piss,’ said Pickles. He went to the toilet.

  ‘Christ, Bob,’ said Big Mac to the old man when he saw me. ‘That lad of yours don’t stop growing.’

  ‘Must be using the right fertiliser, eh?’ said Rocker.

  The farmers stopped squeezing words and turned around. Farmers love talking about fertiliser. Super-phosphate is their favourite topic of conversation.

  ‘He’ll be top ruck on the peninsula next year, no worries,’ said Slogs.

  The farmers turned back to their beers.

  The old man was smiling, looking almost proud. Since the grand final his attitude to me had changed. He didn’t ignore me all the time. I wasn’t about to rush out and nominate him for Father Of the Year, but still, it was an improvement on the ‘my own son a gutless fucking wonder’ days.

  ‘I was the same at his age,’ said the old man. ‘Grew two inches one year.’

  ‘He’ll be chasing the girls soon. Won’t ya, luv?’ said Shirl.

  Which got me thinking about that camper again. Cathy. Cathy the camper.

  Pickles returned.

  ‘Coupla sarses for the boys,’ said Mick.

  ‘And some chips, too,’ said the old man.

  Big Mac grabbed two glasses from the tray.

  ‘Mac,’ came a voice from the other side of the bar, ‘any chance of gettin’ a beer over ’ere?’

  The owner of the voice was standing at a small serving area, like a window. He was in the back bar, or the black bar as everybody called it, because that’s where the Nungas did their groggin’.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Big Mac, as he poured our drinks. ‘I’m busy ’ere.’

  ‘How’s your mum?’ said Shirl. She stubbed out her ciggie.

  ‘She’s good,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know why Bob doesn’t bring her down here. Give her a night out.’

  Yeah, sure, Shirl. I could just imagine my mum sitting in the front bar, admiring the shark’s jaws. Once a year, usually New Year’s Eve, she’d put some lippie on and come down to the pub. But she’d sit in the lounge bar, with some of the other ladies, and sip a crème de menthe. The lounge bar was posh, or it was supposed to be. It had tables and chairs, even carpet with roses all over it (though it was old and threadbare and scarred with cigarette burns).

  I took a sip from my drink. Big Mac sure made a top sars, I’ll give him that.

  ‘Another round for you blokes?’ said Big Mac to the campers.

  ‘No, not for us. We’ll be off,’ one of them replied.

  ‘You boys keen on a game of eight-ball?’ said Rocker. ‘Me and Slogs’ll take youse on.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ said Pickles.

  I rushed over to get the good cue.

  Pickles and I were a pretty good team. He was a better shot than me, especially the long ones, but I was good on tactics – which ball to play, where to leave the white, when to play dirty, that sort of stuff. And Pickles used to listen to what I had to say – about the only time he ever did.

  ‘Heads or tails,’ said Rocker, flipping a coin.

  ‘Heads,’ I said.

  ‘Heads it is.’

  ‘Mugs away,’ I said.

  ‘Mugs away’ was one of the old man’s sayings. And now I was saying it, without really thinking about it. It’s crazy, isn’t it, the stuff yo
u sort of absorb from your parents?

  Rocker was a good player, probably the best in the pub. And the more beer he drank the better he got. Slogs was hopeless, sober or drunk.

  First game was close, only the black was left on the table. Rocker was lining up to sink it.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Rocker, it’s the missus,’ yelled Mac.

  He was holding the phone an arm’s length away from his ear, like he was getting a blast. This got a laugh from the regulars. It always did.

  ‘For Chrissakes,’ said Rocker. ‘Can’t she see I’m on the black? Tell her I’m on me way, eh.’

  Rocker had problems with the missus. Big problems. She didn’t like him staying down the pub sinking beers and playing eight-ball while she sat at home looking after the three little Rockers. She was always ringing up. Sometimes she came down the pub to try and drag him home. Once night she even threw her wedding ring off the end of the jetty. I went diving for it the next day and found it next to an abalone. Rocker gave me ten bucks and a ride in his burnt-orange Monaro. The missus didn’t seem that pleased to get the ring back, though.

  It was an easy shot, but Rocker missed.

  ‘Shit!’ he said, then he went to answer the phone.

  It was Pickles’s turn.

  ‘Not too hard,’ I said.

  Pickles wasn’t a bad player, he had a good eye, but he would’ve been heaps better if he didn’t hit the ball so hard. Sure it looked great when it came off; the ball would thump into the pocket. But if he missed, the ball would ricochet madly around the table, knocking the other balls out of position, mucking up my carefully thought out strategy.

  This time he curbed his ball-shattering impulse; the eight-ball dropped softly into the pocket. We won.

  Rocker returned with two beers. He passed one to Slogsy.

  ‘Rack ’em up, eh,’ he said, handing me the money.

  ‘Thought you’d be on your way home,’ said Slogs, a smug look on his face.

  Slogs was pretty pleased with himself. He wasn’t married. (Who’d want to marry a greasy lump of mettwurst?) There was nobody ringing up, bothering him down the pub.

  ‘Got time for one more, eh,’ said Rocker.

  Eight games, eight beers, and three phone calls later, he was still there.

  By that time the farmers had gone. Old Froggy was still on the same beer, still mumbling away. The old man was getting pretty animated – he was doing his mad laugh – half kookaburra, half banshee. And didn’t they love that down the front bar? Mick looked the same as always, beanie askew, rollie dangling from his lip. The ashtray on Shirl’s knee was full of butts. Her stool was starting to wobble a bit. Every now and then she’d put out a steadying hand. In between pulling beers, Big Mac adjusted.

  The front door swung open.

  ‘Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug.’

  It was Tommy Red, Dumby’s father. Since the grand final he’d been a frequent visitor to the front bar. He was wearing his cowboy hat, and those white shoes. He started shaking hands with the regulars.

  ‘Gidday, Tommy.’

  ‘How ya going, Tommy?’

  ‘You’re looking fighting fit, Tommy.’

  Everybody liked Tommy. He was a real character.

  ‘Ow ya going, champ?’ he said to me, slapping me on the back. ‘Chug-a-lug. Chug-a-lug. Can I get ya a drink? Mac, a raspberry for young Blacky ’ere. And young Mick, too. How ya going, young Mick? Orright? Chug-a-lug. Chug-a-lug. That’s two raspberries, Mac. And some chips for the boys, too.’

  And then Tommy started on one of his stories. About the time he’d rowed across to the island with a school teacher from Adelaide. They got caught in a storm and had to spend the night in a cave. Tommy really could tell a story, he had the knack. When you thought about it, what he was talking about wasn’t that interesting. It was the way Tommy told it. His delivery.

  Soon everybody was pissing themselves. Shirl almost fell off her stool. Even Mick had a smile on his face. Not Big Mac though. He was cleaning glasses, breathing heavy. Doing his Darth Vader impersonation.

  Then there came some thumping noises from the black bar, like furniture was being thrown about.

  ‘Bugger me,’ said Tommy. ‘Sounds like the bruddas having themselves a corroboree. Better get over then and sort ’em out.’

  ‘Good onya, Tommy.’

  ‘Catch ya later, Tommy.’

  ‘Chug-a-lug. Chug-a-lug,’ said Tommy.

  ‘He’s a character ain’t he, that Tommy Red?’ said the old man, when he’d gone.

  ‘He sure is,’ said Slogs. ‘Pity there’s not more like him out there.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Big Mac. ‘Did ya hear the one about the boong and the priest?’

  Everybody’d heard the one about the boong and the priest. But Big Mac started to tell it anyway.

  ‘Hey, Mac, man’s not a camel.’

  There was somebody at the window.

  ‘I’ll be there directly,’ yelled Mac. He continued with the joke.

  ‘And the priest says to the truckie, don’t worry I got the black bastard with the door!’

  Big Mac burst out laughing, his big gut wobbling like a jelly on a plate.

  And then he repeated the punch line, just in case we’d missed it.

  ‘And the priest says I got the black bastard with the door!’

  And they all laughed, all the regulars. Especially Slogsy. But I didn’t. I don’t know why, I’d laughed at the joke before. I’d even told the joke before. But tonight it didn’t seem so funny any more. And I knew it had to do with Dumby and Clarence and Tommy.

  23

  I woke up. The kookaburra was at it again. I could see the blue sky through the window. Another hot and sunny day.

  Then I remembered – I was smitten. Totally. I had to get up the jetty and see her. She’d be up there with the Maccas, for sure.

  I scoffed breakfast. It was ridiculous, when you think about it. I’d seen her for ten minutes at the most, and for some of that time she was holding a jar of squirmy maggots. But still, there was no denying it, I was gone. Well and truly.

  But then Mum had some jobs for me, so I was late getting there. The jetty was already crowded. A mob of kids was splashing around the shallow end – Learn To Swim classes. Mrs Matt, the teacher, was standing waist-high in water, a big straw hat on her head.

  ‘Heads under the water, children,’ she said, ‘and let’s all blow lots of bubbles.’

  The kids all stuck their heads under, except Dazza’s little brother.

  ‘But the water hurts my eyes,’ he said.

  What a whinger.

  Mrs Matt had taught just about everybody in the town how to swim, including me. Geez, those were the days. Head under. Lots of bubbles. Life was simpler then, that’s for sure.

  All along the jetty campers were fishing.

  One of them pulled in a double header. Two fair-sized gars.

  ‘Mind if I ask what bait ya using?’ said the camper next to him.

  ‘Not at all, mate. Gents.’

  ‘That’s funny, so am I and I haven’t had a bite all morning.’

  ‘Where’d you buy ’em?’

  ‘From the boy, the scruffy lookin’ one.’

  ‘Well, that’s your problem, mate. You gotta get yourself some of the Darcy gents. Swear by ’em, I do.’

  When I got to the shed I stopped. I could see them all, lying in a line along the jetty, soaking up the morning sun, like lizards on a warm rock. First the locals – Pickles, Mark Arks, Deano and Dazza, all in footy shorts. Then the two Maccas in board shorts, reading surf mags. And next to them Cathy, in a bikini. It was yellow with white around the edges.

  My heart skipped a beat, my legs turned to jelly, my insides went icy-cold – all that stuff in M&Bs that I didn’t really believe, well, it happened to me. It was too much, I turned around to go back. But Pickles saw me.

  ‘Blacky,’ he said. ‘Over here.’

  So I kept walking.

  ‘Hi, everybody,
’ I said. ‘Great day, eh?’

  Yeah, it was a great day, everybody agreed, except for Cathy – she didn’t say anything. She was lying on her back, wearing those sunglasses. Her hair was in a plait. There was a brown bottle next to her head. ‘Tropical Island Deep Tanning Oil’ the label said.

  I had two choices – either I put my towel down next to Pickles, or next to Cathy at the other end. What did he do, our brave hero? Yep, you guessed it. The towel went down next to Pickles.

  ‘Geez,’ said Pickles. ‘D’ya have to put your towel so close?’

  I wanted to get as close as possible to Cathy, without getting close to Cathy.

  ‘You wanna root me or something?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t actually,’ I said. I lay down.

  I stayed like that all morning. I didn’t go with the others when they went to bomb the campers. I didn’t go with the others when they went to dive off the lighthouse. I didn’t go with the others when they went to have a fag under the jetty. I stayed there and watched her. Surreptitiously, of course. I wasn’t perving or anything.

  Every now and then she’d turn over. The front. The back. Then the front again. Or she’d rub Tropical Island Deep Tanning Oil onto her skin. Occasionally she’d go for a swim. She’d dive off the second or third step (a neat dive, not much splash), and do a few strokes of freestyle (she was a good swimmer). When she came back she always squeezed the water out of her hair by twisting her plait. It was amazing how much it absorbed.

  She didn’t talk much. Sometimes her and the nearest Macca would have a whispered conversation. I could hear her giggling and I could feel the jealousy creeping around inside me like an octopus.

  Or she’d just say something out loud and one of us would answer. Never me, though.