by Mike Safe
It left Harcourt feeling at best ambivalent and at worst despondent. He had half a lifetime, well, maybe another third of it in front of him. He couldn’t just surf and play around with his guitars all day. There was no way he was going to pick up a decent fulltime writing job in journalism again. He could probably find more or less fulltime employment, maybe subediting and doing what passed for writing on some dreary trade magazine, maybe something for chartered accountants or real-estate managers, although the pay would be pitiful and the subject matter brain deadening.
With Writers’ Week at the Adelaide Festival coming up, Tess was occupied in the office even more, there early every morning and not home until after dark, somewhere beyond eight. Harcourt had only found time to mention the Vargas book to her in passing following his encounter with Mudguts and she had been uncharacteristically vague about any chance of the job coming his way. Tess had a testy relationship with her opposite number at Montacue, Amanda Peers, who would most likely be involved in the book if her company ended up as its publisher. Part of the ill-feeling was down to their competition, which had a way of turning personal.
‘She’s an out and out bitch and her staff hate her,’ Tess told her husband. She smiled and added, ‘No doubt she says the same sort of things about me.’
As expected, her Edmund Harrison coup had caused ructions, including with her local boss, Billy Duane. For a day or two, there had been much emailing and telephoning between Sydney, headquarters in New York and Harrison and his agent in London. But Harrison was coming, he was doing his readings and that was that. After initially backing Billy’s protests, New York had relented, although it didn’t see why some writers’ gabfest at the bottom of the world should have first look at a book that was supposed to be an international publishing event. Still, they were desperate to keep Harrison happy and on their books with a new contract.
Harcourt was intrigued as to why the Englishman had insisted on coming to Australia.
‘Well, I sweet talked him a bit,’ Tess confessed. ‘But I didn’t have to try too hard – he just wanted to come here.’
In a way, this hardly surprised Harcourt, his wife being the artful persuader. She should coach a football team, he thought. Within a week she’d have them running through brick walls and winning premierships.
Whatever her charm, she had also used it on Billy Duane and he was soon claiming his own share of the credit for luring Harrison southwards. Tess was canny enough to grant the old stager this moment of indulgence, although Harcourt suggested, and she agreed, that Billy hadn’t survived all those years and egos in New York without having acquired more than a few rat cunning skills of his own.
The upshot was that Harcourt had time on his hands. He ended up spending more of it with Randy Wayne at the Sand Bar. On one such slow afternoon, Harcourt brought along the two songs he had written and told Randy Wayne about a few weeks before – ‘She’s Driving Up the Coast’ and ‘Deeper Blue’.
‘Okay, I like that one, even if your playing of it left a bit to be desired,’ said Randy Wayne after Harcourt stumbled his way through ‘She’s Driving Up the Coast’, picking out the tune on his friend’s Gibson Hummingbird guitar, a big strummer of a thing that he had trouble handling properly. Randy Wayne loved the Hummingbird, having owned it for more than forty years. It would now be worth a small fortune on the vintage guitar market.
‘Anyway, like I said, I like the song, even if it’s just a three chord special,’ Randy Wayne said. He took a sip from the glass by his elbow before taking the Hummingbird from Harcourt and playing the Patsy Cline country classic ‘I Fall To Pieces’. The song – melody and rhythm – flowed effortlessly from his fingers.
‘Shit, man, why are you sitting around here?’ asked Harcourt as the last notes faded. ‘You could be back there and doing it.’
Randy Wayne laughed as he cradled his Hummingbird. ‘No, I’m happy enough, thanks very much. Maybe one day, someday, you never know, but I’m content just cruising along down here for the moment.’
‘C’mon, Randy Wayne, you might be an old fart but you’ve still got it,’ chimed in Buzzy, the part-time barman and sometimes bass player, who was loading Lone Stars into the cooler. ‘All those well-preserved ladies who keep dropping by to see you seem to think so anyway.’
‘Everybody’s a comedian today,’ said Randy Wayne.
Buzzy headed out the back to bring in more cartons of beer while Randy Wayne took another sip. Harcourt picked up the Hummingbird and started playing his other new song, ‘Deeper Blue’, the one he knew Randy Wayne wouldn’t like. This was the first time he had tried it in front of anyone and as he worked his way through the verses with their gentle lyrics and soothing suspended chords that gave the whole thing a sort of floating feeling he found himself thinking, gee, this is a bit on the cheesy side, but he made it to the end.
Randy Wayne put down his empty glass and smiled, ‘Yeah, well, like you suggested, it’s a bit hippy trippy surfer dude. But for what it sets out to do … it’s okay.’
‘Don’t knock yourself out with praise,’ said Harcourt, half joking, sort of.
‘Well, I don’t think it’s a Riders’ song for us, even though it’s got all that beach and water stuff going on.’
‘No, I guess I agree,’ said Harcourt. ‘I just wrote it because it’s what came out. I never saw it as being something we’d ever get up and do on stage. I mean, we play in front of a hundred drunks in a bar, if we’re lucky, and they want to rock out, not bliss out.’
‘Well, you’ve got that about right. But I tell you what,’ said Randy Wayne. ‘Why don’t we do a demo of it and you can send it off to Jack in London? He can put it on YouTube, good-looking young guys going on about the sun and sea. For the Brits that’s all mythical stuff. I mean, they still watch those Aussie TV soaps don’t they? If they believe that shit, they’ll believe anything. You never know.’ Randy Wayne smiled. ‘They might get a million hits on YouTube and you’ll get a big cheque.’
SIX
Gordy Stone was well ahead of Harcourt as they made their way through a bottle of cheap shiraz in the back bar of the Dog and Whistle, an old pub up the road and around the corner from the newspaper where they had worked together. Gordy, who had turned down a redundancy while Harcourt had taken one, was, as he put it, ‘hanging on by my short and curlies.’
Harcourt had questioned meeting his former colleague at the pub for what was supposed to be a quick lunch. He was apprehensive about having to deal with others he had spent his days alongside until recently and all the awkward small talk that would take place if this happened, as it almost certainly would.
The Dog and Whistle was back in fashion, one of those tarted-up inner-city pubs now being written up glowing in the eating and drinking tittle-tattle that was served up by the Sydney media. This meant it had become a regular haunt of the newspaper’s staff, especially middle management drones who had hung on to their expense accounts.
‘They’re arseholes, Johno, I’m telling you,’ said Gordy. ‘It’s all changed and none of it for the better. Those of us hanging in there are expected to do more but you can forget any thought of a bit extra in the pay packet, unless you’re a management hack whose job is to flog the underlings, of course.’
It was a same old tale of woe that Harcourt had heard once too often from Gordy and while sympathetic he was now starting to feel removed, even vaguely liberated, from the whole grinding experience. It was two months or so since he’d been shown the door but in a way it felt a lot longer.
‘Well, hell, Gordy, you could be thankful you’ve still got a gig,’ he retorted. ‘They must at least see you as part of their ongoing plans, whatever they might be. Well, for the time being at least.’
Gordy stopped for a moment and did an agitated double take of sorts. ‘Well, you’re right, I guess. But, yeah, it’s only a matter of time, believe me, and I’m gone too.’
It was all becoming a bit morose, even more so as Gordy hurried his way through the b
ottle of red. Burk, their friend from the sports desk, was supposed to have joined them, but he had texted saying he’d been delayed. Harcourt squirmed as Gordy started in on the struggle to pay his kids’ private school fees for the coming year and divorced wife number two giving him hell about the all-important need for their sixteen-year-old son, Jasper, to make the school’s cultural trip to Europe in the coming northern summer.
‘Six fucking grand, that’s what it’s going to cost me,’ grouched Gordy. ‘Twelve days wandering around the capitals of Europe – what a laugh. His idea of culture is death metal and computer games where everybody dies. He’s barely seen inside a museum or art gallery. He wouldn’t know the difference between the Louvre and a loo. You can bet the only reason he’s interested in going at all is the chance that he’ll crack on to some little French hottie.’ He snorted before adding somewhat ruefully, ‘Well, I could hardly blame him for that, I suppose.’
‘Speaking of hotties, how’s it going with Sandy?’ asked Harcourt. He knew mention of Gordy’s live-in girlfriend was sure to wind his ex-colleague up even more tightly, which was probably an unkind thing to do, but Harcourt thought the conversation was so much beyond his control that he might at least find some sort of warped enjoyment from his friend’s agitation gaining an extra edge.
‘Well, it’s having its moments,’ said Gordy, not quite taking the bait. He paused, took another mouthful of red and contemplated the medium-rare hunk of steak that sat largely untouched on the plate before him. ‘I don’t know if it’s going to last – if I even want it to last. I’ve made some mistakes in my life, Johno, and Sandy is shaping up as just another along the way. It’s not her fault … I just don’t know where it’s all going, if anywhere.’
Harcourt was momentarily chastened. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, not knowing what else to say.
At that moment Tom Burkowski fronted up. Laughing heartily, he shook Harcourt’s hand – and Gordy’s moment of confession came to an abrupt halt. He went into a long and animated revelation about a story, front page for sure, that would be running tomorrow about a star rugby league halfback who was about to be charged with drug possession and even distribution – a huge story in league-mad Sydney. ‘It’s been under wraps for a week or so, but the cops and league bosses are moving on it tomorrow.’
Before anyone could respond, Tab Markinson, the despised deputy managing editor and job-cutter, appeared at their table. Thirty something and preppy dressed, he wore steel-framed glasses and his pale grey eyes glinted through the lenses with serious intent.
‘Hey, Burk, can you people please keep it down,’ he said. ‘We can hear you from the other side of the room.’ He gestured towards a table over in the corner where another drone type, a woman from the newspaper who had something to do with accounting, from Harcourt’s hazy memory, sat peering at them through designer-frame spectacles. She looked like a female version of Markinson.
‘So? What’s the problem?’ asked Burk. ‘Is this a monastery and we all took a vow of silence when we came through the door?’
‘No, but you’re getting loud and we can plainly hear bits of what you’re talking about and that’s supposed to be hush hush until tomorrow’s edition, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Burk.
‘It’s one thing to tell Gordy about it but you shouldn’t be saying anything to Johno.’ Markinson, pausing for a moment, looked at Harcourt as if he was an afterthought. ‘He doesn’t work for us anymore.’
‘Exactly who am I going to run out and tell, Tab?’ said Harcourt. No doubt Markinson had played a role in putting him up for retrenchment but Harcourt doubted he was vindictive enough to have singled him out – he just did what he had to do to make the numbers add up, or in Harcourt’s case, subtract.
Markinson fixed his gaze on Harcourt. Finally, he exhaled noisily. ‘Johno, I’m not saying you’re going to tell anyone anything. I’m just making a point that you’re no longer with us …’
Burk rose from his chair, the colour flaring in his battered face as his big hands, like slabs of sundried ham, clenched into fists by his side. Back in his time of rugby league stardom, the wild days when all-in brawling was part of the ritual, he had willingly gone toe to toe with the toughest and maddest men in what had then been a brutal game. The passing years had mellowed him, and there was no way he was going to put one on Markinson’s pointy chin here and now, but his voice was laced with quiet menace.
‘Listen, you jumped up little nobody. I’ve known Johno twenty years longer than I’ve known you and he remains one of my closest friends. For whatever reason – well, we all know the reason, to save a dollar – you and your associates saw fit to show him the door, which in the overall scheme of things was your prerogative, seeing that you’re the fools who’ve been put in charge of this sinking ship of a newspaper. But I would trust him with a confidence, about the job or my innermost thoughts, long before I’d trust you. Make of that what you will – but now we want to finish our lunch.’
Markinson glowered at Burkowski before a tight smirk crossed his face. ‘Burk, I know you think you’re untouchable, but you should watch what you say.’ He paused for a second as if recalibrating his thoughts. ‘There’s no need to be like that.’
Burk sighed, his hands slowly relaxing. ‘Well, good for you, Toxic,’ he said. ‘But you know what? There’s something about you that makes me want to be just like that. You bring out the worst in me. Now be a good little pussy and piss off.’ He sat down, picked up his knife and fork and started sawing away at his newly arrived steak.
Markinson retreated to his own table.
Gordy, with his back to Markinson’s side of the room, tried to suppress a laugh. ‘I’ve never heard anyone actually call the little arsehole Toxic to his face before, Burk. You get ten out of ten for that. It’s really made my day, cheered me right up.’
Burk poured them another glass of red from the new bottle he had bought and cut off another chunk of meat. ‘You know what?’ he said with a grin. ‘This is a really good steak.’ A couple of days later Harcourt and Randy Wayne, with Buzzy helping out on bass, recorded a rough demo of ‘Deeper Blue’, and sent the sound clip, on Randy Wayne’s insistence, to Jack. Harcourt’s vocal was terrible but Buzzy had helped with harmonies on the chorus while, as usual, Randy Wayne’s configuring of an appropriate guitar lick, dreamed up more or less on the spot, had saved the whole exercise.
Afterwards Harcourt went home and knocked out his first column for What Men Want. He wrote about music and how everything old was new again and that there wasn’t anything original under the musical sun. It was a topic guaranteed to get up the noses of anyone under the age of thirty and as that was supposed to be the magazine’s core readership it would no doubt cause a fair amount of outrage. Within thirty minutes of emailing the copy his mobile rang.
‘Hey, man, good stuff. I like it,’ said Farnsworth. ‘Just what we want. It might need a minor tweak here and there but nothing major.’
‘Well, I’m pleased about that,’ said Harcourt. ‘But it’s yours to do with what you will.’ He was used to having his words sliced and diced and didn’t worry too much. His main interest was the thousand dollars to be paid into his bank account, although the truth was that he had enjoyed putting the words together. It was something that had been part of him for all his adult life and it felt good, almost therapeutic, to be doing it again.
With nothing else to take up his time, Harcourt walked the length of the beach and back. He passed a group of Chinese tourists as they came trooping down from their bus to take a look at the supposed golden sands of an Australian beach. What this closely marshalled platoon of middle-aged couples in their golf shirts, sun shades and sensible walking shoes made of its graffiti-scrawled concourse, scruffy grass and wind-battered shrubbery was anybody’s guess. It was hardly a perfect postcard scene.
Harcourt waved down Cruz Jones, who was coming back from the shops with a salad roll and bottle of fruit juice. ‘H
ey, Cruz, didn’t your old man know Mike Vargas back before he went off to make movies? I know Vargas didn’t grow up right here, maybe further down the coast a bit, but I have a vague memory of your dad mentioning him somewhere along the line. I mean, he knew everyone from the beaches back then.’
‘Yeah, I have recollections of him talking about that,’ said Cruz. ‘But it was a long time ago. You know how the old guys – you’re not quite one of them yet, Johno – get off on their “remember when” stories? But, sure, that does ring a faint bell.’ He paused and then asked, ‘Why? What’s the interest?’
‘Oh, nothing too much at the moment, but there might be something coming up that he could help me with.’
‘Okay. Well, I’ll ask if you like.’
Harcourt continued walking slowly along the concourse. He had to admit he was interested in the book project, even if the chance of it coming his way had to be a long shot.
A few seagulls pecked away in desultory fashion at whatever they could find washed up on the low-tide sand while others tucked their heads into their white bodies and attempted to sleep. It was that kind of a day, even for seagulls. A lot of people didn’t like them because of their quarrelsome ways, but Harcourt admired their hardy survival instincts and how they’d turned humankind’s ability to leave a trash-scattering stain upon the landscape to their own advantage.