Sitting outside in his car Les didn’t quite know what to do. He’d never sacked anyone in his life and no matter what, he couldn’t have done it just like that, anyway, no matter what sort of a mood he was in. And the last thing he wanted to do was go down and have a look at his gilt-edged investment rotting away just down the road; it was too vexing and too depressing. He thought about it for a few moments, then started the car, took the next on the left and drove home.
It was close enough to lunchtime when Les walked in the front door and normally at this time he would have cooked himself something tasty to eat, but for some reason he seemed to have lost his appetite. Instead, he made a cup of coffee and contemplated his miserable fate while he flicked through the folder Whittle had given him. The pile of documents with all the facts and figures made no sense at all. The letter from Randwick council did, though, and he was able to grind through that. The only other thing he could understand was that the flats were insured for $150 000 with Erin. A. Insurance Company. Hah! That figures, snorted Les. Erin means Ireland where that stinkin’ lawyer’s in gaol and you can bet your life he’s set that up and pissed off with all the funds. So it’s a lay-down misere that’s not worth the paper it’s printed on. On an impulse he picked up the phone book and then the yellow pages. There was no Erin. A. Insurance Company in Sydney. That figures. Yeah, that bloody well figures. He put the useless insurance policy back in the folder and tossed it on the dressing table in his bedroom.
Norton switched on the TV to watch the midday movie, but ten minutes of Joan Crawford in Autumn Leaves almost had him reaching for the hemlock. Ahh, bugger this, he cursed, switching off the TV. I know what I’ll do. I’ll get a bottle of Bundy and a case of beer and blot the whole stinkin’ day out. He went to his room to get some money then he remembered that he and Warren were going on the wagon for a month. Christ! What a time to try and stay sober. No, bugger getting on the piss. I’ve only got to wake up again tomorrow and Warren will want to know what’s going on.
He fiddled around the house for a while then drove up to Bondi Junction and hung around the shops and the Plaza for the rest of the cool, cloudy, November afternoon. When he left, he bought a kilo of cheap mince; being in a lousy, miserable mood he decided to cook a lousy miserable tea.
The mince was stewing on the stove and Les was stirring it disconsolately when Warren arrived home about six.
‘Hello landlord,’ he said cheerfully, as he breezed into the kitchen, holding two large bottles of mineral water. ‘What’s doing?’
‘Not much,’ grunted Les.
Warren took a deep breath, held out his arms and flexed what little muscles he had. ‘You know, I’ve never felt so good in my life. This getting off the drink is the best idea we’ve ever had.’
‘Yeah? That’s good.’
Warren moved across to the stove. ‘So what’s for tea?’
‘Mince.’
‘Mince!’ Warren peered distastefully into the pot. ‘Fuckin’ mince. They feed you that in Boys Homes.’
‘You don’t like mince Warren?’
‘I’m fuckin’ sure I don’t.’
‘Well, don’t fuckin’ eat it.’
Warren stepped back from the stove. ‘Jesus! You’re in a good mood.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Yeah, terrific.’
Warren got cleaned up then joined Les in a very ordinary tea. So much for a month of gourmet cooking, he mused. This tastes like shit. And Les is in the same sort of mood. I think having him hanging around the house is going to be like I pictured it in the first place. Very bloody ordinary. They did the dishes and watched TV. The TV was quite good, but the conversation on Norton’s behalf was very limited.
‘You know what’s wrong with you?’ said Warren, half way through ‘Beyond 2000’.
‘What?’
‘Withdrawals. Two days off the piss and you can’t handle it.’
‘If you say so, Warren.’
‘You fuckin’ big sheila.’
‘If you say so, Warren.’
They watched TV till around eleven then hit the sack. Norton managed to get to sleep after a while but he definitely wasn’t looking forward to the following day. Or the following five years for that matter.
Wednesday was pretty much like the day before; scattered clouds being pushed along by the southerly, cool but in no way cold. Les was up at his usual time for another run in Centennial Park, trying to enjoy it as best he could, despite what was sitting uneasily on his mind. Warren had left for work when he got home and Les remembered his saying something the night before about having to start a little earlier because of some new advertising campaign. He got cleaned up and had a leisurely breakfast and read the morning paper, making it last as long as he could. Finally he got into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and headed for Randwick. It was getting on for eleven when Les turned into Perouse Road and found a parking spot almost out the front of Blue Seas Apartments.
The old block looked pretty much the same as the last time Les had seen it, which was so long ago he couldn’t remember when. It was situated on the corner of Aquila Street and Perouse Road, about two hundred metres down from the Royal Hotel. Aquila Street was a dead-end street, about a hundred metres long, with a couple of blocks of flats on one side and Blue Seas on the other, the rear of which backed onto a lane with St Bridgettes College taking up the entire end of the street. Unlike the better blocks of flats opposite, Blue Seas only had two storeys: three flats on the top level and two on the bottom, along with the small caretaker’s residence, a storeroom and laundry.
The front of the building was old, daggy brown brick smeared with pigeon shit; Blue Seas was written above some windows in what once might have been dark blue but which was now almost faded to a light grey. A waist-high brick fence stood under this stopping at a side passage where an old wooden, paling fence hung with letter boxes ran alongside the house next door. The brick fence cornered from Perouse into Aquila and past the main entrance till it became more wooden palings which went round the back of the flats where the alley separated them from St Bridgettes at the rear. The whole place looked old and neglected and again Les wondered how he’d let them talk him into buying it. Shaking his head he got out of the car and walked over stopping to look at the small front yard. The grass was overgrown and a few different types of cactus plants almost gave a hint of colour where some dog turds sat amidst a number of yellow dandelions pushing through the weeds. Some fuckin’ caretaker I’ve got, thought Les. He shook his head and walked around to the old wooden doors at the entrance in Aquila Street next to a number of dirty wooden boxes that held the gas meters.
The foyer consisted of more dirty brown bricks above a floor of chipped, slate tiles edged in a kind of red and white diamond pattern. A staircase with thick wooden handrails ran up beneath a splintery wooden panel with ancient electricity meters clinging to it. In the light from the old lead-lined windows in a kind of blue bow design Les could see wires and leads poking and hanging out everywhere. Again, he shook his head then thought seeing as there didn’t seem to be anybody around, he might check the place out before he saw the caretaker.
The doors on the flats upstairs were the same as the ones below: white with brass knockers and milk serveries in between. He pushed a door open onto the fire escape. It had a wooden staircase and a handrail made of pipe and cyclone wire which had been painted a garish red; more wires and leads hung off the walls and more pigeon shit smeared the dirty brown bricks. Another flight of stairs led to a door that opened out onto the roof. The roof was flat — plain grey tar with a few old boxes, bricks and other junk strewn around. A TV aerial jutted out to one side and behind that, if you twisted your neck around enough, you got a distant glimpse of a few swells out on the horizon. So that’s why it’s called Blue Seas Apartments, thought Les. The panoramic ocean view. He shook his head and walked down to the back yard.
The concrete back yard held the empty clothesline and several long metal stakes jam
med into the concrete held the back fence up. Someone had stacked a number of housebricks into two squares filled with soil to make a bit of a garden, and the few red flowers within, along with the cacti and dandelions out the front added the only colour to what was undoubtedly a very dismal scene. How could I have been such a mug thought Les again. No wonder I kept away from the prick of a joint. He stared absently at the flowers for a moment then went in to see the caretaker, checking out the laundry as he did.
The laundry was dark, dirty and stunk of mildew. Old papers, bottles and other junk littered the floor amongst the dirt and dust that seemed to be everywhere. There were five copper tubs with a gas meter above, each fitted with a lock. Cobwebs, dead flies and more dirt festooned the windows that overlooked the backyard. Water on the floor, a few pegs scattered round the tubs, and a couple of dried-up bars of Sunlight said at least someone had been in there recently. How could I have been such a mug? thought Les again. And again he shook his head.
The storeroom was locked and the caretaker’s flat was next to the laundry. Les knocked, not too loudly, and waited. He heard a shuffling movement inside then the door opened.
If Warren was half Les’s size, the caretaker was a quarter. He looked around sixty, with thinning brown hair edged with grey, little ears, a little flattened nose and a little mouth full of stained teeth, all set in a heavily-lined face. Wearing an old pair of shiny blue trousers and a matching flannelette shirt he looked up at Les through a pair of watery eyes.
Norton gave a double blink at the wizened shape in the doorway. ‘Are you Harry Olsen?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ was the tight reply.
The caretaker being so puny Norton felt worse than ever. ‘Ahh... look, mate,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve been sent down by the estate agents.’
‘Yeah?’ The caretaker’s voice was tighter than ever. ‘And what do those two arseholes want?’
Les was taken slightly aback. ‘Well, mate. They’re ahh... they’re thinking of putting on another caretaker.’
‘Oh, are they?’ sneered the caretaker. He gave Les a pretty heavy once up and down. ‘And I suppose you’re it, are you?’
‘Well, yeah — kind of, in a way,’replied Les sheepishly.
‘And do you think I really give a stuff?’ The little caretaker puffed out his chest and raised himself up defiantly.
‘Well...’
‘Well, I bloody don’t. So there.’
Norton gave another double blink. ‘Well, good for you.’
The caretaker half smiled at Les. ‘Come in anyway, big fella. And I’ll tell you what’s goin’ on. And what you can tell those two slimy reffos to do with their greasy caretaker’s job.’
Norton followed the caretaker into a gloomy sort of a bedsitter. The carpet was a threadbare brown and there was a grey vinyl night-and-day shoved against one wall with a small laminex table and two chairs. The cold water kitchen had a gas heater, a small stove and a fridge and from the sickly yellow glow of a single light bulb, in a white shade hanging from the ceiling Les noticed a bit of a wardrobe against another wall and a door that probably led to a bathroom. A large bottle of opened beer sat on the table and, oddly enough, a suitcase half full of clothes sat on the night-and-day. The Ritz it wasn’t and the stark poverty of the surroundings made Les feel quite uncomfortable. So this is how the other half live eh? Yet what the little caretaker had said about the two estate agents made him curious.
As the caretaker moved around the table and poured himself another beer, Les noticed he had a pronounced limp.
‘So what’s your name anyway, son?’ he asked.
‘Les.’
‘I’m Harry,’ replied the caretaker, offering his hand. ‘But everybody calls me Hoppy.’
Norton took his callused handshake. ‘Nice to meet you... Hoppy.’
The caretaker looked evenly at Les. ‘So, how come you got the job?’
‘I... just saw it in the local paper,’ lied Norton. ‘I didn’t really know what was going on. I hope I’m not doing you out of a job.’
‘Hah! You’re not doing me out of job, mate. I was pissin’ off anyway.’ Acting like he’d just got one up on Les, the little caretaker continued to pack clothes into the suitcase.
‘My sister’s husband just died up in Newcastle. Left her a big house and plenty of money. She’s on her own and I’m going up to join her.’
Norton’s day suddenly brightened up. ‘Ohh, that’s real good then.’
‘Reckon. I can get out of this flea-bitten dump.’ Hoppy looked at Les a little suspiciously. ‘So you’re gonna be the new caretaker of Blue Seas, eh? You sure don’t look like you’re short of a quid.’
‘I just got divorced, Hoppy. The bloody moll took the house, the kids and every zac I had. I’m doing it tough, mate, don’t worry about that.’
‘I know what you mean. I got divorced myself. I also used to be a pretty good jockey once, till a couple of horses went over me at Rosehill about thirty years ago.’
‘Shit! That’s no good, mate.’
The little caretaker patted his right leg. ‘That’s why the limp. And why they call me Hoppy.’ He took a mouthful of beer. ‘You want a glass?’ Les shook his head. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yeah. I could go a coffee.’
Olsen nodded to the kitchen. ‘Well, help yourself while I finish packing.’
‘Okay.’
Norton fossicked around in the kitchen finding the jug, coffee and a clean mug. As he waited for the jug to boil, he thought it might be a good time to pump the caretaker for a bit of information.
‘So, how longVe you been here, Hoppy?’
‘Close enough to three years.’
‘You know who owns the joint?’
‘Haven’t a clue. I think it’s one of the estate agent’s reffo mates. But I’m glad it’s not me,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘The place is a dump.’
‘Yeah, I got to agree with you there,’ said Les, trying not to sound depressed. He made his coffee and pulled up a chair while the caretaker finished packing. ‘When are you leaving?’ he asked.
‘Soon as I finish packing this suitcase,’ replied Olsen. ‘I’m off, quicker than Moshe Dayan’s foreskin.’
‘What about your furniture and that?’
Olsen laughed. ‘Mate. It’s all fuckin’ yours.’
Norton had to laugh back. ‘How are you getting to Newcastle?’
‘Train.’
‘I can give you a lift to Central, if you like.’
‘Okay, Les. That’d be good.’
‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’ve got to tell me a bit about the place. Who lives here and all that.’
The caretaker gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Who lives here? I’ll tell you who lives here. Some of the greatest weirdos I’ve ever come across. Wait till you meet them. You’ll love ’em.’
Norton sipped slowly on his coffee. ‘Like who, for instance?’
The caretaker rolled up several pairs of tatty socks and pushed them into the comers of his suitcase. ‘Okay. We’ll start with downstairs. Firstly, in flat two, you got old blind Burt and his guide dog, Rosie. He’s on the pension and he sells papers. He’s not all that blind, but he’s blind enough.’ The caretaker seemed to laugh at some private joke. ‘You’re gonna love old Burt.’ He took another mouthful of beer. ‘Then in flat three, you got Sandy. She’s an artist.’
‘An artist?’
‘Yeah. Not a bad sort, either. Sandra Jean Garrett’s her real name. She’s got a boyfriend — or two. She’s also got some old bloke comes round and porks her just about every weekend. I think he’s got a fair bit of money. He buys nearly all her paintings.’
‘Like a rich benefactor?’
‘Something like that. Right, now upstairs in flat four you got an all-girl rock ’n’ roll band. The Heathen Harlots.’
‘The fuckin’ what?’ exclaimed Les.
Olsen laughed out loud. ‘Wait till you meet the Heathen Har
lots, Les. You’ll love them too. They look like fuckin’ vampires and dress like aliens from another planet. They could be vampires too. I can’t remember the last time I saw them in the daylight.’
‘Christ!’
‘Flat five’s empty. Used to be a bikie lived there.’ The caretaker shook his head. ‘Bad lot too, him and his mates. There was a terrific stink up there about a month ago — screamin’ and yellin’. These other bikies took him away and I ain’t seen him since. Just between you and me, I think they killed him.’
‘Shit!’
‘Though, when I think about it, Jimmy wasn’t all that bad a bloke. Only a little fella for a bikie; not all that much bigger than me. Just before it happened he got me to put some stuff in the storeroom for him. Bits of a motorbike and that.’
‘Is it still there?’
‘Yeah.’ Olsen finished the bottle of beer. ‘And in flat six you’ve got a team of hippies.’
‘Hippies?’
‘Yeah, just like out of one of those sixties movies.’
Hello, thought Les, here we go again. I’m back in Yurriki. ‘How many living up there?’
Hoppy shrugged. ‘About half a dozen — I think. They drive an old blue kombi, it’s generally parked out the front. Wait till you meet them. They wouldn’t have a brain between them and I don’t think any of them have had a bath since the War of the Roses.’
‘Un-fuckin’-real.’
‘They’re all on the dole and all they do is get out of it and sit up on the roof playing didgeridoos.’
‘Didgeridoos? You’re kidding.’
‘Wait till you hear it when they go off. Albert Namatjira’d roll over in his grave.’
Norton shook his head and stared into his coffee. Christ! What have I got myself into here?
He looked up as Hoppy threw an old pair of tan shoes into the suitcase, shoved them down then closed the lid and turned the locks.
‘Well, that’s it,’ he said, picking up a cardigan from the back of a chair. ‘I’m packed and out of here.’
‘That’s it?’ echoed Les.
‘Yep.’ The caretaker gave the suitcase a tap. ‘That’s it.’
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 4