It was Norton’s turn to have the following weekend off so he’d arranged to go up the north coast of New South Wales and stay with a friend who had a small farm up there. Price heard about it and, seeing that his wife was overseas, offered Les the use of her new BMW for the trip, which he enthusiastically accepted.
‘Where are you going again?’ asked George Brennan. ‘Coffs Harbour?’
‘Sawtell,’ replied Norton. ‘It’s about five miles this side of Coffs. A mate of mine’s got a little farm there somewhere.’
‘That artist bloke?’ said Billy.
‘Yeah, Reggie Campbell,’ said Les. ‘He’s a good little bloke.’
Norton had come across Reggie around a year or so ago early one morning on Bondi Beach. Reggie — or Reg as most people called him — was a slightly built guy in his late twenties, although he looked a bit older, with wispy, thinning, fair hair and expressive, liquidy brown eyes that always looked like they were ready to melt and run down his face. Reg was a fairly quiet sort of bloke, but he was also a very good amateur painter.
The Sunday morning Les met Reg, he’d just pulled some air hostess from a party after work and they’d decided to go for a dawn swim before heading back to Les’s house for a bit of breakfast and whatever. Reg was on the beach minding his own business, painting the sunrise when three drunken Maoris, who’d staggered across from the Fondue Here for a swim, decided to give him a hard time; squeezing his tubes of paint, throwing his brushes to each other, and pushing him around and so on. They were just about to wreck his easel when Norton, who was standing nearby with his lady friend, thought he’d better put his big red head in. One of the Maoris foolishly decided to throw a punch at Les and the next thing all three Astra bats were lying bleeding and moaning on the on the sand, teeth sticking through their gums, ribs cracked and their already flat noses a lot flatter than they would have been if they’d just had a swim and minded their own business in the first place.
After seeing Norton in action Reg’s heart wasn’t quite in painting scenes of peace and tranquility so Les and his lady friend took Reg back to Norton’s for a cup of coffee and to clean him up a bit. After that Les and Reg became fairly good mates. In appreciation for what he’d done Reg gave Norton one of his better oils of the Bronte Boat Crew and when he bought his farm and moved out of Sydney, he kept in touch with him. Knowing how much Les loved the country, Reg was always inviting him up. Norton, how having the opportunity of over a week off from work and having never been to Coffs Harbour decided to take Reg up on the offer — anything to get out of the rat race and enjoy some fresh, clean country air again.
‘And is Reg still doing plenty of painting Les?’ asked Billy.
‘Yeah, so he said over the phone,’ replied Norton. ‘Reckons he’s goin’ all right, too. Sellin’ a few here and there. I’m lookin’ forward to seeing him again to tell you the truth.’
‘Yeah bullshit,’ laughed Price. ‘You just want to get up that North coast with all those hairy-legged young hippie shielas, eating magic mushrooms and smoking dope. You’ll probably come back here next week with all flowers in your hair, playing a guitar like Cat Stevens.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ smiled Norton, pulling the ring pull off another stubbie as the others roared laughing. ‘But I have been known to have a bit of a puff on the odd joint now and again, and if any of those New South Wales chics want to have a drink and a bit of the other with a nice Queensland country boy, well I’ll be in that, too. Very smartly.’ ‘And you reckon you can keep out of trouble up there, for over a week?’ chuckled George Brennan.
‘What do you mean keep out of trouble?’ replied Norton indignantly. ‘Christ, I’ll be stuck out on a farm in the middle of nowhere with one other bloke. How am I gonna get into any strife? Jesus, George, give a man a bit of a go.’ He took another pull on his stubbie, a look of extreme anguish on his face.
‘Yeah, remember what happened last time you went away?’ said Billy ‘What about your little escapade in Brisbane?’
‘Yeah. But that wasn’t my fault.’
‘Oh no. It never fuckin’ is, is it?’
‘Listen,’ said Price sagely. ‘If you do happen to get into any sort of bother up there, I know the top copper in Coffs Harbour. I’ll give you his name before you go. I’m not worrying about you so much, you big hillbilly, but it is my wife’s new car you’re taking.’
‘Fair dinkum,’ cried Norton. ‘I don’t bloody believe this. This is like a bloody inquisition. You’re all gettin’ into me.’ He was about to go on when he noticed the others just sitting staring at him in impassive silence. He finished his stubbie and threw the empty into a small bin next to the fridge. ‘I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt to give me that coppers’s name though,’ he finally said, a little reluctantly.
Late the following afternoon, after training, Norton caught a taxi over to Price’s Vaucluse mansion and picked up the gleaming white BMW. As Price handed him the keys he noticed a shiny new pair of board racks attached to the roof.
‘You didn’t tell me Myra was into surfing Price,’ he said, running his hands over them.
‘One of the nephews put them on,’ replied Price. ‘He had to pick up a new surfboard over at Brookvale or somewhere. Leave them on, we’ll take them off when you get back.’
‘Righto.’
With a warm handshake, Les said goodbye to Price, slipped the BMW into drive and with a wave headed through the cast-iron security gates of Price’s stately home. As he drove up Hopetoun Avenue the BMW purred like a baby tiger and responded immediately to his lightest touch. How good’s this, he thought, cruising towards Rose Bay. He smiled smugly to himself and couldn’t help putting his foot down a little. The ultra-modern dashboard and driver’s seat moulded in around him in a shiny chrome and padded leather cocoon of flickering digital gauges and air-conditioned luxury.
When he got home he sat in the driveway for a while fiddling around with all the different little knobs and levers till he’d worked out the sun-roof, the air-conditioner, the stereo system and everything else. Norton often toyed with the idea of buying a new car — with all the black money he had he could easily afford it — but by looking around Norton discovered something about owning a decent car in Bondi. It isn’t long before it’s full of rust, got no hubcaps and a coat hanger for an aerial; that’s if it isn’t stolen or some drunk backs into it and drives away. So he just drove old bombs — for the time being anyway.
He spent what was left of the afternoon packing the car: there wasn’t much. A suitcase with a few clothes and some training gear, a banana chair, a large carton of groceries and three cases of Fourex. When he’d finished he left the BMW in the driveway and drove his old Ford down to see his mate Paul at ‘Peach Music’ on the beach front, where Norton used to get most of his records and tapes. Paul was a mercurial little red-haired guy not unlike Warren who shared the house with Les. Les had talked him into making him up half a dozen ninety-minute tapes of various bands and artists to play while he was driving. After paying Paul he drove down to No Name’s for a spaghetti and crumbed veal. With that sitting under his belt he bought a couple of bottles of wine and drove over to Clovelly to see this blonde hairdresser he’d been taking out on and off, on the off chance no one else was home and he might be able to give her one before he left. Unfortunately the girlfriends were home so they all just sat around drinking Norton’s nice chilled Casal Garcia till he decided to hit the toe. He arrived home in time to say goodnight to Warren, his house mate, who was watching TV and sipping Jack Daniels with another glamour he’d met through the advertising agency. Les went straight to bed as he intended being up at four.
When the radio alarm went off at four, Norton didn’t just open his eyes and stumble out of bed, he leapt out like he was diving off a springboard. It took him about three seconds to get dressed, then after using the bathroom he was too revved up to eat so he just made a big mug of Ovaltine which he drank standing in the backyard. The October morning was
crisp and clear with scarcely a breath of wind as he stood there: the stars were still out but near the horizon they were just starting to get swallowed up by the faint glimmer of dawn spreading across from the east. What a grouse day, he though, as he finished his Ovaltine and went back inside. Just the day to be heading off for the country.
He put the empty cup in the sink, turned off the kitchen light and went out and got into the BMW, placing a bag of fruit and a small esky with six cans in it on the front seat next to him. In an instant the big powerful motor hummed into life. Now what’s Paul got here for me, he thought, as he had a quick look through the small case of tapes his mate had made him. This’ll do. Tape One — Side A. He dropped the cassette into the stereo. Cold Chisel belted out ‘Same Old Merry-Go-Round’.
‘Jimmy Barnes, you little beauty,’ he said out loud, adjusting the graphic equaliser. ‘You’ll do me for an old mate.’ He slipped the BMW into drive and before long he was cruising comfortably through Bondi Junction heading for the Harbour Bridge.
At that hour of the morning there was hardly a car on the road and still hardly any as he sped up the Pacific highway to the toll gates at Berowra. That’s the best sixty cents I’ve spent in a while, he thought, as he dropped the money into the metal basket. Then with the rising sun starting to fill the inky-blue of the night sky with streaks of crimson and gold, and with Rose Tatoo wailing into ‘Bad Boy for Love’, he tore off along the tollway. ‘Hit it Angry me old son,’ he said happily, pushing the accelerator almost to the floor.
In what seemed like no time at all he was at the Central Mangrove turnoff to bring him out past Newcastle. About twenty miles of winding, narrow dirt road brought him down into the Wollombi Valley where he decided to stop next to a creek bed and have a leak. The air was as still and quiet as the inside of a church and crisper than fresh celery as he stepped out of the heated car and zipped up the front of his sheepskin jacket. The sounds of a few crows crying in the background and several cheeky magpies whistling to each other and strutting around the ground echoed eerily through the patches of dawn mist on either side of the road. Les stood at the front of the car relieving himself. A sudden movement among the bushes at the top of the creek bed caught his eye. A huge grey wombat wobbled into view then stopped, looking at him, it’s eyes blinking groggily, it’s big hairy nose twitching comically from side to side.
‘Hello old fellah,’ Norton called out with a grin, and unconsciously waving to it. ‘Stay there a minute mate, I’ve got something here for you.’ He did up his fly, went to the car and got an apple from the plasitc bag on the front seat. ‘Here you are mate,’ he called out cheerfully, bowling the piece of fruit to the fat, furry, grey animal. The wombat picked the apple up delicately in it’s front paws, sniffed at it for a second then wobbled off back down the creek bed. ‘You needn’t worry mate,’ laughed Norton, as he watched it’s huge backside disappear out of sight. ‘I see bigger wombats than you nearly every night in Sydney.’
With a grin from ear to ear he stretched his arms out by his side and took a huge lungfull of air in, held it for a moment or two, then let it out in a great cloud of steam which hung for a few seconds before evaporating into the cool morning air. The trees, the animals, the mellow singing of the birds and the unpolluted green silence of the bush instantaneously washed over Norton in a great wave of blissful rapture. He stood smiling happily to himself, taking it all in. Norton was back in the bush — he could scarcely have been happier. He got back in the car quite exhilarated and proceeded on his way.
Next stop was a Shell cafe just outside Bulahdelah for a chocolate milkshake and a hamburger with the works. With that sitting inside him Norton decided to motor along steadily and listen to his tapes while he took in the countryside and maybe stop for lunch at Kempsey. Even without speeding he figured he’d be at Reg’s farm some time in the early afternoon.
The trouble with some new cars, especially the fully imported luxury models, is at times the power of their performance can be quite deceiving. Sitting behind the wheel surrounded by the latest in air-conditioned automotive technology you can be zipping along doing all sorts of speeds yet outside it hardly seems like you’re moving at all; which is all right on German autobahns with ten lanes and no speed limit, but in Australia it’s a different kettle of fish altoghter.
Norton was belting along listening to the stereo, taking in the beautiful New South Wales countryside, not a care in the world, when about ten miles the other side of Taree the haunting bongo sounds in Kevin Borich’s ‘Tell Me Why’, was abruptly disturbed by the — Wow — Wow — Wow — of a piercing police siren. Les glanced in the rear-vision mirror and there was a speed cop, his blue light flashing, sitting right on his tail. Another glance at the German speedometer showed he was doing 185 kilometres an hour: but after driving his old bomb of a Ford with it’s noisy sluggishness it hardly seemed like he was moving at all. He eased off the accelerator and pulled over to the side of the road; the speed cop pulled up a few metres in front of him.
Fuck it, thought Norton as switched off the motor. I s’pose I’d better see what this prick wants to do. You never know, I might be able to bribe or talk me way out of it. He got out of the car, a sheepish grin on his face. ‘Sorry Boss,’ he said, making an open-handed gesture. ‘You’ve got me cold. I know I was speeding all right. You want my licence?’
‘Shut up. Put both your hands on top of the car and spread your legs,’ barked the tall, rangy speed cop. He still had his full face helmet and sunglasses on, but Norton noticed he’d undone his holster and his right hand was resting on the butt of his service revolver.
Norton looked at him incredulously. ‘What was that again?’ he asked, scarcely believing his ears.
The cop raised his voice and started to draw his revolver. ‘I said, put your hands on the roof of the car and spread your legs. Are you deaf or something? Now fuckin’ move.’
Norton looked at the cop and shook his head. ‘Yeah righto Boss Hogg,’ he almost spat. ‘I didn’t know I was in Alabama.’
The cop moved alongside and just to the rear of Les. ‘Oh a smart cunt eh?’ He bent slightly at the knees and punched Norton fair in the ribs with his gloved fist — hard.
Norton let out a roar of pain and anger. ‘Why you. . .’ he hissed furiously, spinning round to face the speed cop. Gun or no gun, cop or no cop he was going to jam that motorbike in his blue-uniformed arse, ring Price and worry about it later. He was about to make a grab for the cop when unexpectedly the cop ran around the other side of the BMW — underneath his helmet Les thought he could hear him laughing.
‘How did you like that you big red-headed cunt?’ said the cop. ‘That’s for the nose job you gave me when I was playing for Newtown.’ He whipped off his helmet to reveal a freckly, grinning face with a badly broken nose and a shock of spiky red hair almost the same colour as Les’s.
Norton looked at him for a moment then through his discomfort and pain let out a bellow of laughter you could have heard back in Taree. ‘Well I’ll be buggered. Carrots McCarthy. What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Watching out for no good bastards like you,’ was the raucous reply.
The speed cop turned out to be George McCarthy but everyone called him ‘Carrots’ because of his spiky red hair. George used to play centre for Newtown in Sydney. During a preseason game one year a bit of an all-in started and George king-hit Les: he may as well have punched the nearest brick wall. Norton turned round and hit Carrots with a left hook that squashed his nose flatter than a trodden-on potato-chip, put him out of the game and left him with a pair of black eyes that dark you could have written on them with chalk. The funny part about it — rugby league being what it is — the following year George finished up playing with Easts and, until Les left the club, they became pretty good mates.
‘How did you know it was me?’ asked Norton, after they’d shaken hands and finished giving each other a friendly push and shove around.
‘I didn’t. But I know tha
t car and plates. That’s Myra Galese’s car. It gets the silkworm treatment everywhere it goes in this state. I saw it rattling past so I thought I’d better have a ‘Captain Cook’ just to see what’s going on, and when I saw your big, ugly, red head in the front I knew I had to do something. And here we are mate.’
‘My ugly, red head. You oughta talk,’ said Norton, pointing at George’s spiky red mop. ‘I’ll tell you what though.’ Les gave his ribs a bit of a pat. ‘You still haven’t got a bad punch for a skinny fellah.’
‘I haven’t got a bad punch.’ George laughed and pointed to his badly dented hooter. ‘What about this? You oughta talk.’
They stood there half shaping up and grinning at each other. ‘So how long have you been up here anyway George?’ said Norton, when they finished laughing.
‘Oh, about two years. I transferred up here to coach the Taree Sea Eagles.’
‘Yeah? They any good?’
‘No, they’re not worth two-bob. But they’re good blokes and I love it up here, and so does the missus and the kids. It’s as easy as shit compared to Sydney.’
‘I know exactly what you mean George.’
Norton explained how he got the car and was on his way to Sawtell for a short holiday. He decided the best thing to do would be to get the small esky off the front seat. Pretty soon they were sitting at the side of the road laughing, kicking goals, scoring tries and talking the general waffle old football mates talk about when they get together.
After about an hour of magging in the bright spring sunshine, while the other cars swished by them on the highway, Carrots stood up and looked at his watch.
‘Well Les,’ he said, draining the last cold can of beer. ‘I suppose I’d better get back out there and apprehend a few more evil-doers.’
‘You certainly apprehended me you bludger,’ smiled Les, giving his ribs another pat. As he picked up the empty cans he noticed the logo on George’s police bike. ‘This a BMW, too,’ he said. ‘They any good?’
The Real Thing Page 13