The Real Thing

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Reckon. It’s one of the new “J” series. Electronically fuel-injected. Goes like a shower of shit. It’s bloody frightening at times.’

  ‘Yeah? How come you don’t ride a Jap bike, like a big Suzuki or a Kwaka?’

  ‘Turn it up Les. I used to be an old bikie. You know the old sayin’ we used to have — I’d rather see my sister in a brothel than my brother on a Honda.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  George zipped up the front of his leather jacket and they shook hands warmly again with Les promising he’d drop in and see George and his family on the way back, if he had time.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said George, with a bit of a cheeky grin as he put his helmet back on. ‘Seein’ as I held you up for an hour, belted the shit out of you and drank all your piss, how would you like a police escort to Kempsey. You reckon you can keep up?’

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ replied Norton, with a smile and a wink.

  ‘Righto, let’s go. I feel like goin’ for a bit of a blat to tell you the truth.’

  George leisurely hit the electric starter button and the big, powerful motorbike throbbed into life. Norton got behind the wheel of the BMW, started the motor and adjusted his seatbelt. With a casual flick of a switch George activated the siren and flashing blue light then slewed off on to the road in a shower of dust and gravel, with Norton, tyres smoking about ten metres behind. Within twenty seconds they were screaming along the Pacific highway at almost 200 kilometres an hour. Inside the luxury saloon Les still felt relatively safe, but the ear-piercing screeching of the Bridgestone steel-cap tyres, as they hugged the bitumen like chewing-gum, and the blur of the cars they were overtaking as they pulled over at the staccato wailing of the siren, certainly indicated they were moving all right. In front of him, George seemed almost horizontal to the highway, ploughing into the bends and obviously having the time of his life. Behind him Norton’s face was set in a grim smile as he fed the car skilfully and gently into the curves, but behind his sunglasses his eyes were as white and as round as two dinner-plates.

  About four kilometres south of Kempsey Carrots slowed down and indicated for Les to overtake him. As he did Carrots doubled back then pulled up alongside. ‘I’ll see you on the way back Les,’ he yelled into the window. ‘So long mate.’

  ‘Righto George, see you then.’ Norton gave a wave out the window. Carrots did a U-turn and headed back towards Taree. Les cruised leisurely into Kempsey.

  He pulled up outside the nearest hotel, went inside and ordered two middies of New, which he downed in quick succession. His hands and knees were still shaking slightly even after the second one, so he ordered a third. A quick glance at his watch indicated they’d travelled from Taree to Kempsey — roughly 140 kilometres — in a little less than forty minutes. He smiled, shook his head and shuddered slightly then ordered another beer.

  The enticing aroma of the counter lunches and the incessant talking of the two friendly-looking old birds serving them up attracted his attention so he ambled over. The corned silverside, with parsley sauce and fresh vegetables looked all right. He ended up having two plates, plus bread and butter custard with fresh cream. This was washed down with another sparkling middie of New.

  His nerves back to normal and his stomach full Les had a stroll around Kempsey, bought the morning paper, filled the tank then proceeded on his way to Sawtell — at a considerably more sedate pace this time.

  By the time Norton stopped for a crap at Barraganyatti, a milkshake at Nambucca Heads and another one plus a bit of a perv on a massive-breasted young blonde working in a paper shop at Urunga, it was almost three. He came to Bonville Station and found the Telegraph Point Road turn-off to Reg’s farm. He had another look at the little map he’d drawn out when Reg had spoken to him over the phone. Ten kilometres down Telegraph Point Road, turn right at Friday Creek Road, follow that another three kilometres and you’d see Reg’s letter-box out the front. The farm was about a kilometre in from the road. Easy.

  As he drove slowly along Telegraph Point Road, Les couldn’t help admiring the lush, green beauty of the countryside spread out on either side of the dusty, red dirt road. Undulating emerald hills scattered with blue-gum and eucalyptus trees and great, ashen-coloured granite boulders would tumble into tiny, crystal-clear creeks and fern-covered gullies that meandered through dense patches of sub-tropical rain forest. On either side of the road rough-hewn poles supporting a sagging wire fence would disappear momentarily into patches of lantana, then emerge on the other side as splintery, wooden slip-rails, turning grey from years in the outback sun. One or two rusty cyclone-wire gates indicated there were farms around but they were very few and far between. Friday Creek Road was a lot narrower than the other, considerably bumpier and wound straight into the rain forest. Les was forced to slow down quite a bit, but it wasn’t long before he found the entrance to Reg’s farm: a white-washed wooden gate between two stumpy, chipped, white wooden poles with a psychedelically painted oil-drum sitting on one. The gate was open, so he drove straight in and along a narrow, uneven drive, that looked as if it would be just about inaccessible in wet weather.

  Sitting in the car Norton couldn’t help breaking into a grin at Reg’s country abode. The ancient wooden farmhouse stood in the middle of a small clearing and was surrounded by trees, shrubs and brightly-coloured native flowers. A ricketty wooden veranda, full of cobwebbed pot plants, some hanging, most just sitting there, ran the length of the front. This was divided by a front door, with a loose-fitting fly-screen clinging desperately to it, and an old rusty horse-shoe nailed crookedly on top. A lopsided brick chimney pushed through the green, galvanised-iron roof, which ran up alongside a huge jacaranda tree dropping sweetly scented purple and blue flowers all over the top of the house. At the other end a spreading bougainvillea wrapped round an old water tank in a flowering burst of orange and crimson was so bright it almost dazzled you. Even though the old ramshackle house looked like it would probably blow away in a decent gust of wind and gave the appearance that you’d have to give it a coat of paint just to get it condemned, it simply oozed character and sleepy rustic charm. Norton fell in love with it at first sight.

  From a small wooden shed just to the front and right and even more dilapidated than the ancient house, an old female, cross blue cattle dog, cross something else staggered out into the light, blinked a few times, gave a mandatory four or five barks then, as Les got out of the car, flopped at his feet, rolled over on its back, tongue out, eyes rolling and looked up at him as if to say, ‘Go on, give me belly a bit of a rub willya love’. Norton bent down and started rubbing the old girl’s ample stomach while it squirmed on the ground with delight.

  ‘Watch out for the dog mate,’ he heard a voice call from the doorway of the shed. ‘It’ll tear you apart.’

  ‘Its head’s not the best,’ replied Norton standing up. ‘But Jesus it’s got nice tits.’

  Reg walked over from the old shed wearing a paint-spattered white T-shirt and a pair of cut-down jeans. He had a huge grin on his face as he took Norton’s outstretched hand and started pumping it vigorously. For a slightly built artist his handshake was warm, firm and sincere.

  ‘Well, you managed to find the place all right,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, no trouble at all. I would have been here earlier but I just took my time and had a look at the countryside on the way up. It sure is nice.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Jesus it’s good to see you Les. I’m rapt that you came up.’

  ‘Mate, I’m rapt to be able to get out of Sydney for a while.’

  ‘Well you’ll love it up here.’ Reg noticed the brand new BMW. ‘Hey not a bad car you’ve got Les. Shit you’ve kicked on.’

  ‘It’s not mine, it’s my boss’s. He loaned it to me for the trip. I’ll tell you what Reg, I like your little farm, it’s the grouse.’

  ‘Yeah it’s a beauty isn’t it. Wall-to-wall carpet snakes and hot-and-cold running possums in the roof.’

  Norton laughed.
‘How much land have you got?’

  ‘Thirty hectares — about sixty or so acres.’

  ‘Jees, that’s all right.’

  ‘Yeah, got a creek and a dam down the back. Even got a bit of a swimmin’ hole.’

  ‘Fair dinkum? Jees you’ve killed ’em Reg, good on you.’

  ‘Thanks Les.’

  As they spoke several sulphur crested cockatoos landed in the jacaranda tree and started screeching at each other. These were soon joined by a flock of noisy rainbow lorikeets and a mob of argumentative eastern rosellas. In a moment the jacaranda tree erupted in a cacophony of abuse that seemed to be directed at a number of crimson finches, nutmeg man-nikins and red-eared fire-tails bobbing and chirping around in the bougainvillea at the opposite end of the house. Several cheeky magpies decided to put their heads in also then the dog started up.

  ‘Christ,’ said Norton, when the din finally subsided a bit. ‘You sure you’ve got enough birds up here.’

  ‘Bit better than those daggy-looking pigeons and lice-infested starlings I used to paint down at Bondi.’

  ‘And those one-legged seagulls.’ Norton looked fondly at the birds then threw back his head and roared laughing. ‘Reg that’s music to my ears. It reminds me of home.’ He looked back at the tree then turned to his artist friend. ‘Oh Christ Reg I think I’m gonna cry.’

  They both started laughing. Les got his gear out of the boot. He handed Reg the box of groceries and they went inside. The dog crawled under Reg’s Mini panel-van and went to sleep in the shade.

  ‘Just throw your stuff in here,’ said Reg, leading Norton along a narrow corridor, through the lounge and into a modest but spotlessly clean bedroom that faced the jacaranda tree. As Les threw his suitcase on the white, single, wooden bed its beautiful perfume wafted through the billowing lace curtains.

  ‘Hey this is all right,’ he said, placing his overnight bag on the dressing table, which was also painted white and topped with a large round mirror. This stood next to a fair-sized wardrobe, also painted white.

  ‘Yeah, it’s not a bad little room this,’ replied Reg. ‘You get the sun first thing in the morning in here and that bed’s nice and comfortable. There’s fly-screens on the window to keep the mozzies out too — which I might add are as big as Harrier jump-jets up here and just as bloody noisy. Come on I’ll show you the rest of the joint.’

  The rest of the place was much like the outside — a little the worse for wear and tear over the years but full of charm. An ancient, brown, three-piece chesterfield filled the lounge-room. This faced a bamboo coffee table, obviously home-made, and an inexpensive stereo system and TV with a chipped black phone sitting on the top. A few indoor plants covered the holes in the threadbare brown carpet, and several of Reg’s landscapes, which to Norton’s eyes looked bloody good, adorned the walls. The narrow hallway, also hung with paintings, led past another bedroom, slightly bigger than Les’s and into a surprisingly well-appointed kitchen. A large modern fridge, covered with magnetic do-dads and magazine cartoons and topped with a huge wicker bowl of tropical fruit, hummed away in the corner next to the built-in cupboards. This faced a long, solid wooden bench covered in modern electrical appliances. It had a stainless-steel, twin-tub sink built into it. Next to this was a porta-gas stove that appeared to be brand new. An extensive spice rack and several posters covered the walls and more colourful indoor plants and vines meandered brilliantly around the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window.

  ‘Were you expecting a brewery strike Les?’ asked Reg, as Norton placed the three cases of Fourex on the big, wooden kitchen table.

  ‘I get a bit thirsty now and again Reg,’ replied Norton, ‘and I wasn’t too sure whether they sold the good stuff up here.’ Reg took one of the cases, put it in the fridge and came up with two cans of Carlton Draught. ‘You think you can force this down till the other gets cold?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ smiled Les, tugging the ring-pull from his can. ‘Cheers mate.’

  ‘Cheers Les. Good to see you.’

  They finished the first two cans in the kitchen then Reg took another two out of the fridge and suggested they go and sit on the veranda. Norton took off his shirt and sneakers and they plonked themselves down in two old, comfortable leather chairs and sat talking and enjoying the afternoon breeze. The sun started to drift slowly behind the distant hills and valleys. It was beautiful and quiet in the peaceful balminess of the spring day drawing to an end. Norton had just closed his eyes for a moment when several rainbow lorikeets, fluttered down on to the railing running along the veranda. They were soon joined by more and it wasn’t long before there were at least twenty glaring and squawking at each other, their tiny multi-coloured bodies rolling from side to side, parading up and down the railing with a gait not unlike a mob of drunken sailors.

  Reg put his beer down and stood up. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘I s’pose I’d better give these miserable little bastards their tea.’ He went into the kitchen and returned with a large enamel dish full of stale bread which he’d soaked with water and covered in honey. ‘Righto you little shits,’ he said, tapping the side of the plate with a knife. ‘Here you are. Get into it and no bloody fighting.’

  At the sound of Reg tapping on the plate several of the lorikeets flew on to him swarming over his arms, shoulders and head. He put the plate down at the top of the stairs. The next thing it was on. The tiny but temperamental little birds started tearing spitefully into each other to get at the bread and honey; though most of the fighting seemed to emanate from half a dozen lorikeets who seemed to want the lot for themselves.

  Reg stood up and shook his head slowly. Tiny feathers were flying everywhere. The little parrots ripped into each other in an ear-splitting, almost deafening crescendo of visciousness.

  ‘The bloody gang of six again,’ he said, still shaking his head. ‘Looks like I’m going to have to get my gun and sort this out.’

  Norton brought his beer down from his mouth. ‘You’re not going to shoot them, are you?’ he asked, a little incredulously.

  Reg just stood stoney-faced. ‘Sometimes Les, a man’s just gotta do what a man’s just gotta do.’ He turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Norton shook his head and stared after Reg. It seemed a bit strange that Reg, a quiet peace-loving artist, would take the trouble to feed the lovely little birds then start shooting them just because they fought among themselves and made a bit of noise. Poor little buggers, he thought, as he watched them still squabbling furiously over the bread and honey.

  Reg was soon back standing grim and defiant on the veranda. He had a kid’s sheriffs badge pinned to the front of his T-shirt and a water pistol, dripping water, clenched in his right hand.

  ‘Righto you little shits,’ he said, taking aim at the biggest lorikeet in the gang of six. ‘You ought to know better by now than to mess with Sheriff Campbell. This water pistol’s fully loaded and I shoot to drown.’ In an instant the gang of six were screeching even more furiously as a barrage of well-aimed shots from Reg’s water pistol forced them away from the bread and honey.

  Norton had just taken a mouthful of beer when this happened and half of it went down the wrong way. He fell off the chair in a spasmodic fit of choking, coughing laughter. He dropped his can of beer and doubled up on the floor, tears streaming down his face. Reg ignored him and stood there with the water pistol in a full combat stance blasting away at the lorikeets and yelling: ‘Cop that you bastard. And that, and that.’

  Norton managed to prop himself up on one elbow in the spilt beer. ‘You’re fuckin’ mad,’ he wheezed, trying vainly to get his breath and strength back.

  Reg turned slowly to Les. ‘Did you say something stranger?’ he said, completely po-faced. Then it was Norton’s turn to cop several bursts of water in the face. He put his hand up feebly to protect himself but was forced to collapse into a pile of hysterical disbelief.

  ‘You’re in this too Sally, you old moll.’ Reg walked over to his car and started sq
uirting the dog till she finally got up, put her tail between her fat legs, and with ears pinned back slunk off under the house to hide. Reg stood in the clearing twirling the water pistol round his finger.

  ‘There’s one thing you’d better learn stranger,’ he said, giving Les another squirt in the face. ‘I’m the law this side of Friday Creek Road and don’t you, or no bird or dog for that matter, ever forget it. Son of a bitch.’ He gave Les and the lorikeets another burst then went into the kitchen, returning with another two cans of beer.

  The lorikeets settled down, Les managed to compose himself, though he could still hardly talk, and they sat absorbing the peaceful tranquility of the north-coast countryside. The sun settled down behind the hills turning the blue sky into orange, crimson, purple, primrose and amber before it finally, tenderly said goodnight. Soon Venus and the moon would appear then the inky, cobalt night would fill with countless silver stars.

  ‘I think it’s about time we went inside,’ said Reg, swatting at his arm. ‘Here come the bloody mosquitoes.’ They finished their beers and went into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, what do you fancy for tea Les?’ said Reg, as Norton seated himself at the kitchen table.

  ‘I don’t care. How about you whip something up? You were a pretty good cook if I remember rightly. There’s a whole Scotch fillet there. I got it at Nambucca on the way up.’

  ‘I might make some sate beef in the wok. You hungry?’

  ‘You’re kidding. I’d eat the crutch out of a rag doll.’ Norton stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’m blody tired I know that.’ As Les stared absently into his can of beer he heard Reg talking at the cupboard.

  ‘Get back Señor Alfonso. Go on, back, back.’

  ‘Who the bloody hell are you talking to?’ asked Norton.

  ‘Señor Alfonso.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s that?’