Although the Daffasanas couldn’t upset Wayne, they still managed to get on the wrong side with everybody else in the building.
Wayne had just come home from work one afternoon. He had a carton of twist-tops under his arm and as he walked into the entrance he casually glanced at the bulletin board in the foyer. There was a typewritten letter there saying that Mr O. Daffasana had been elected chairman of the body corporate for the units.
This’ll be nice, thought Wayne. They’re going to let that idiot run the whole show. It won’t worry me, though.
He turned to walk up the stairs when the young English disc-jockey came down carrying two suitcases.
‘What’s doing, mate,’ said Wayne. ‘You’re not leavin’ us, are you?’
‘Yeah,’ said the DJ, a look of disgust on his face, ‘We gotta move out.’
‘What happened?’
‘That old geezer Daffasana grassed us to the estate agent ’cause me bird had a dog in the flat.’
‘Fair dinkum.’
‘Yeah, a bloody little silky terrier. It’s no bigger than a powder puff.’
‘Isn’t he a bastard.’
‘Straight up, Wayne, I wouldn’t half like to get my hands round his bleedin’ throat.’
‘Yeah. Jesus that’s bad luck. Anyway, come up and have a beer with us before you go, eh.’
‘Cheers, mate, I’ll do that.’
What a bastard, thought Wayne, as he walked a bit slowly up the stairs. Anyway, he’ll get it one of these days.
A few days after the DJ moved out Wayne was getting some blankets out of the garage when he noticed the door to the Efremoffs’ garage was half open. He’d never seen it open before so out of nothing more than idle curiosity he crouched down and had a peek in. Inside there were three camping stretchers on the floor and against the walls on either side were two pairs of double bunks.
So that’s where they all sleep, thought Wayne, chuckling to himself. They’ve got a regular dormitory in the garage. Good luck to them anyway, they’re only battlers.
Later that night they were lying in bed just about ready to go to sleep. Wayne was telling Jill about what he’d seen in the Efremoffs’ garage. They were having a bit of a laugh about it and Wayne was just about to switch off the light when they heard this awful din coming from the stairs outside their flat. It sounded like some people having a heated argument.
‘What the bloody hell’s that?’ said Jill.
‘Dunno,’ said Wayne, ‘sounds like a murder in progress. You stay here, I’ll go and have a look.’
He got out of bed, walked quietly to the door and had a look through the peephole.
Just outside their door, Otto and Frieda Daffasana were having a violent argument with Mr Efremoff and two of his sons.
Mr Efremoff was waving his arms around excitedly, his two sons were behind him trying to restrain him.
‘Why you do not mind your own business, you stink rubbish German bastard,’ shouted Mr Efremoff.
‘This is a respectable block of units,’ replied Mr Daffasana haughtily, ‘not a cheap hotel. You people wish to live like cattle, go somewhere else.’
‘I pay for my home,’ said Mr Efremoff. ‘What is mine is mine. Why don’t you mind your own business?’
‘My husband is in charge here,’ said Mrs Daffasana, her voice rising shrilly. ‘You people are no more than pigs. You will do what my husband says or leave.’
‘You call my family pigs, you German dog,’ roared Mr Efremoff, straining at his two sons. ‘I will kill you for this.’
‘Come closer and I call for the police,’ said Mr Daffasana, edging back.
‘You have insulted my family. You will die, you dog.’
Crikey, thought Wayne, I’d better say something or they’ll be here all night. He opened the door and stepped outside, a ferocious scowl on his face.
‘Righto, Mr Daffasana,’ he said looking directly at Otto and Frieda. ‘What do you think this is, bloody bush week. There’s people trying to get some sleep here, you know.’ He turned to one of the Efremoff sons, gave him a wink and glared back at the Daffasanas, pointing and waving his finger. ‘Just what do you think you’re bungin’ on. My wife and I won’t stand for this, I’ll have the agent round here tomorrow. It’s disgraceful.’
‘You have not heard the last of this,’ said Mr Daffasana as he and his wife retreated back into their flat. ‘You are a pig.’
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ screamed Mr Efremoff as his two burly sons dragged him up the stairs.
‘Goodnight, everyone,’ said Wayne. He closed the door quietly and went inside.
‘What was going on?’ asked Jill, as Wayne climbed back into bed.
‘Otto’s sprung the Russian dormitory. Now he wants to kick the Efremoffs out.’
‘God, does he ever let up?’
‘No. He’s just filthy on the world. But he’s gonna get it one of these days, don’t you worry about that.’
Jill cuddled up to Wayne and kissed him lightly on the neck. ‘Am I going to get it too?’ she asked coyly.
‘You, my dear,’ said Wayne, as he reached up and turned out the bed lamp, ‘are a very good chance also. Come here.’
The next day Wayne was on the phone to the agent trying hard not to laugh as he spoke.
‘That’s right, Mr Lewkovitz, he threatened to kill Mr Efremoff right outside my front door. And the language, I mean my wife’s a Roman Catholic, you know.’
‘Very well, Mr Nolan, I’ll have a word with him first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks, Mr Lewkovitz. Goodbye.’
The estate agent hung up the phone and covered his face with his hands. ‘Why me?’ he sighed, ‘Why me?’ He reached into a drawer in his desk and took out a packet of Serapax, squeezed one out of the silver foil and swallowed it. He looked at the other little pink pills momentarily, then squeezed another one out and took that too. ‘Why me?’ he sighed, ‘Why me?’
About a fortnight later Wayne was walking down Bondi Road after placing a few bets at the TAB. He was sauntering along just taking his time and checking out the shop windows, when something in a second-hand store caught his eye. It was a portable barbecue, in good condition and the price tag was only $20.00. He went in and checked it out.
It was a fairly simple little gadget, comprising three metal legs that screwed into an enamel bowl which held the charcoal, on top of which sat a revolving metal hot plate.
Barbies on the balcony, thought Wayne, what a beauty. He paid the proprietor, an ever-smiling but shifty-looking Syrian named Ha Keem, tucked the folded-up barbecue under his arm and went home, stopping at a hardware store on the way to get some charcoal and a packet of Little Lucifers.
That evening they were out on the balcony, Wayne and Jill plus her brother Bob and his girlfriend Sharon. The little barbecue worked a treat, and the sausages and cutlets were sizzling away being cooked to perfection. The aroma drifting up under his nose was making Bob’s mouth water.
‘That’s gotta be the best twenty bucks you ever spent, Wayne,’ he said, jabbing a sausage with a fork.
‘Mate, when it comes to having a good time,’ said Wayne, ‘money is absolutely no object to me.’ He took two twist-tops out of the esky next to him, screwed the caps off and handed one to Bob. ‘Here, get that inter ya.’
Jill and Sharon were standing there, quietly sipping chilled Moselle.
‘Hey, Wayne,’ said Sharon. ‘Isn’t that your friends from next door behind you?’
Wayne turned around. Otto and Frieda Daffasana were out on their balcony staring over at Wayne with looks of disgust etched on their faces. They had magazines in their hands and were fanning madly at the air with them.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ called out Mr Daffasana.
‘Having a few beers and a barby,’ replied Wayne. ‘What’s it look like.’ He let go a resonating belch in their direction.
‘You cannot light fires on your balcony,’ said Mrs Daffasana. ‘The smoke is s
taining our paintwork. It is coming in our unit. It is ruining my curtains.’
‘Ohh, go and have a shit,’ said Wayne.
The following evening at six o’clock there was a knock at the door. Wayne opened it and there stood the estate agent, Mr Lewkovitz. His eyes were slightly glazed, his back was stooped; he seemed to have shrunken somehow since the last time Wayne had seen him.
‘Hello, Mr Lewkovitz,’ said Wayne. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Mr Nolan, are you lighting fires on your balcony?’ The agent’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. ‘Mrs Daffasana says the smoke is staining the outside of their unit and getting into the lounge and ruining her curtains.’
‘Smoke, fires?’ said Wayne incredulously. ‘Come out here and I’ll show you something.’
He took the agent out onto the balcony, showed him the tiny barbecue and handed him the bag of charcoal.
‘There, what’s that say on the packet?’ said Wayne. ‘Smokeless bloody charcoal. Where’s the smoke comin’ from?’
The agent looked at Wayne, a strange, sleepy sort of half smile on his face. ‘You get a nice view from up here, don’t you, Mr Nolan.’
‘Yeah, on a clear day I can see right across the street,’ replied Wayne.
Mr Lewkovitz didn’t say another word. He just turned, walked slowly out of the flat and shuffled down the stairs into his car.
As he left Jill arrived home from work, still wearing her nurse’s uniform.
‘I just saw the estate agent as I was coming up the stairs,’ she said. ‘He was talking to himself. He doesn’t look at all well. I’ve seen that look on people when I was working out at the mental home. What did you say to him?’
Wayne told her what had happened.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.
‘He’s gonna get it,’ said Wayne. ‘Somehow, some way before we leave here, he’s gonna get it.’
Wayne and Jill regarded their dislike of Otto Daffasana more as a joke than anything else. To them, especially Wayne, it was more of a hoot annoying Otto than anything else. But Wayne’s waggish dislike for Otto turned into out-and-out hatred one afternoon about six weeks before they were due to move out.
It was a Wednesday, race day, Wayne hadn’t seen Sir Percy for a few days, so he thought he’d call round to his little room beneath the units and see what the old boy fancied at Warwick Farm that day. As he walked around he noticed an unusual amount of rubbish lying around the units. The gardens looked a little dry and neglected also, which was most unusual for Sir Percy.
The door to Sir Percy’s room was open when Wayne got there. He was about to knock loudly and barge in, in his usual cheeky manner, but he noticed the old fellow was sitting there, his head slumped on his chest, staring down at the floor, his face a picture of abject sadness. Wayne knocked on the door lightly.
‘Hey, Sir Perce, what’s doin’ old mate?’ asked Wayne.
Sir Percy didn’t appear to notice him. He just kept staring at the floor. ‘Hey, Sir Perce,’ asked Wayne again, ‘are you okay?’
Sir Percy slowly turned and faced Wayne. There were tears in the old man’s eyes.
‘I’ve been sacked as caretaker,’ he said, his voice barely audible.
Wayne was stunned. ‘You’ve what?’
‘Daffasana’s in charge now and he’s had me replaced as caretaker,’ sobbed the old man.
Wayne couldn’t believe it. To him Sir Percy wasn’t just a nice old bloke he’d made friends with, he was a part of that block of units. Like the gardens he so carefully looked after and the trees and flowers, Sir Percy was a part of them. Like the little birds that used to eat crumbs out of Sir Percy’s hands amongst those trees and flowers. Sir Percy was part of it all. He was just there.
Wayne sat on the table next to the old caretaker and put his arm round his shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened, old mate,’ he said.
‘I used to get twenty dollars a week as caretaker. Daffasana got a contract cleaner, one of his Jew mates, to come in and do it an hour a week for fifteen.’
‘You mean they sacked you to save a lousy five dollars a week.’ Wayne was astounded and angry. ‘But you used to spend all week lookin’ after the place, not just a bloody hour.’
‘I know, Wayne. But I tell you,’ said the old man, a tinge of anger entering his voice, ‘I won’t do another thing in this damn block of flats.’
Wayne stayed with Sir Percy for a while then figured it might be best if he left the old fellow on his own.
‘I’ll come back down and see you later on,’ he said. He patted the old bloke on the shoulder then left quietly, half closing the door behind him.
Later that afternoon when Jill got home from work, Wayne told her over a cup of tea what had happened to Sir Percy. Jill was almost as upset as Wayne.
‘God,’ she said, ‘he must be a terrible sort of person to do that.’
‘I tell you, Jill, before we leave here I’m gonna get quits on that bastard somehow,’ said Wayne. ‘I’ve thought of a dozen ways, but I just need that one extra.’
‘A dozen ways and you need one extra, eh!’ said Jill. ‘Something like a baker’s dozen.’
‘Yeah, a baker’s dozen. An extra good one for Otto.’
It would only be a few more weeks now and they would be moving from their unit. They’d informed Mr Lewkovitz and had already sent a lot of their belongings up to Coffs Harbour by train. Jill would take her car up in another couple of weeks and catch the plane back.
Seeing as he wasn’t going to be around much longer, Wayne used to call in to the Royal Hotel most afternoons to have a few last drinks with all his mates. He didn’t mind a game of pool and a few schooners of Old with the boys.
This particular afternoon he was with his mate Arthur, a panel-beater from Kempsey. They were playing a game of doubles against two big Maoris. They were only playing for beers so they weren’t taking the game very seriously and were just potting balls and talking as they were going along.
‘Jesus, I had a nice bastard of a day at work today,’ said Arthur, taking a giant pull at his schooner.
‘Yeah, what happened?’ Wayne moved round to the other side of the pool table, took a shot, missed and sunk the white. ‘Shit,’ he said. He looked back up at Arthur, ‘What happened?’
‘I was workin’ on this Alfa Romeo,’ said Arthur, draining his schooner. ‘Just as I’d gone to lunch the silly bloody apprentice has accidentally flipped a spreader full of epoxy resin all over the door.’
‘Epoxy resin?’
‘Yeah, like hardener superglue, sort of.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Anyway, when I got back from lunch the bloody stuff had gone off and jammed up the whole bloody door. The windows, the locks, the flipper windows, every bloody thing.’
‘Fair dinkum.’
‘Yeah, I spent nearly two hours tryin’ to clean it out. Finished up havin’ to replace the whole bloody door. Brand-new bloody Alfa, the boss was screamin’.’
‘What was the name of that stuff again?’
‘Epoxy resin.’
‘Epoxy resin, eh.’ Wayne tapped his pool cue thoughtfully against his leg. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said, ‘very interesting indeed.’
The following afternoon Wayne was down the boat sheds at North Bondi. Two fishermen had just come in, hauled their boat up and were cleaning and gutting their catch on the rocks near the water’s edge. Wayne walked over to them, a large plastic bag in his hand.
‘Hey, fellahs,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t spare us a few fish heads, could ya?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ said one of the fishermen, a little dumpy bloke in an Easts jumper with a blue denim cap pulled down over his head. ‘You goin’ wormin’, are ya?’
‘Yeah, gonna try and get some blood worms and wrigglers,’ replied Wayne.
‘Good idea, plenty of whiting on at the moment. Here y’are, help y’self.’
Wayne took half a dozen large fish heads and put
them in the plastic bag. He thanked the fishermen then walked up to his car and drove home.
On the balcony he had a large plastic four-litre honey jar he’d brought home from the bakery. He put the fish heads in it, filled it full of water, then screwed the lid back on very tight, putting just a tiny pin hole in the lid before he wrapped it in a plastic bag and left it in a corner of the balcony.
That night Wayne and Jill were lying next to each other in bed. They were both trying to read a book but Wayne kept laughing and coming out with these silly giggles all the time.
Finally Jill could take no more, she reached across and gave Wayne a clout over the head.
‘What the hell are you laughing at, you stupid bastard?’ she said. ‘You’re driving me mad. I think you’re mad.’
‘I’ve got me baker’s dozen,’ said Wayne, then roared laughing again.
Jill sat up. ‘You mean with Daffasana?’
‘Right on, momma.’
‘Tell me what it is.’
‘I’ll tell you when we get to Bulahdelah.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘I’ll tell you at Bulahdelah.’ He roared laughing again. ‘It’ll be better then, you’ll see.’
‘I think you’re mad,’ said Jill and switched off her light.
On the Saturday night, a week before they were due to leave, Jill’s brother put on a farewell party for them at his house. It was a ripper of a party, all their friends were there and they ate, drank, sang and carried on till about four in the morning. Wayne could put a schooner away at the best of times but that night he drank enough beer to fill a dry dock.
There were no parking spots out the front when they got home and Wayne was too drunk to get the car in the garage so he parked out the back of the units, in the corner, next to a sign Daffasana had put up that said STRICTLY NO PARKING IN THIS AREA. The car wasn’t in anyone’s way, just possibly a mild inconvenience if you happened to be turning your car in that area.
‘’Sonly for the night, anyway,’ mumbled Wayne as Jill helped him up the stairs, not that she was in much better condition. ‘I’ll move it firs’ thing inna morning.’
When Wayne surfaced about lunchtime the next day he was a very sick man. His stomach felt as if he’d tried to commit hari-kari and he had a hangover about the same size as the Israeli defence budget. He staggered to the kitchen, popped two Codral Reds into his mouth and washed them down with half a can of Coca-Cola. The bubbles stung his throat and made his eyes water. He let go a rancid belch that rattled all the dishes in the cupboards.
Still Riding on the Storm Page 9