‘Jesus, what made you bring this ugly looking little prick with you?’ said Les happily. ‘I’m glad you did though.’
‘Couldn’t leave him up there without me. Anyway, your two blues are looking after the place while I’m away.’
‘Ohh, how are Shemp and Larry? They all right?’
‘Yeah, good as gold. Took ’em pig shootin’ last week. They went well.’
‘That’s good. Real good,’ said Norton softly. A look of sadness crept into his eyes as he slowly patted Grungle. ‘Well, come on, let’s have a beer anyway,’ he said rising to his feet.
Murray picked up his overnight bag and clomped down the hall after Les, with Grungle following. In his R. M. Williams riding boots, moleskin trousers, tattered check Millers shirt and an old brown bushman’s hat with its sweat-stained band and the brim turned up at the sides he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Marlboro cigarette commercial. You could almost smell gum trees and hear flies buzzing.
‘You can throw your swag in there, cowboy,’ said Les, indicating a room running off the hall. ‘We’ll stick Grungle out on the back verandah. There’s an old lounge out there; he can doss on that. I’ll go down the road later and get him a couple of tins of Beef Chunks.’
‘Nah, I wouldn’t feet him that shit. I got his tucker here,’ replied Murray. He threw his overnight bag on the bed, unzipped it and took out two parcels wrapped in blood-stained newspaper. ‘I got a couple of kangaroo legs. I’ll give him one now and whack the other in the fridge. He only eats raw meat anyway.’
‘Oh, fair enough,’ said Les. He took the other leg off Murray and they went to the kitchen where Les put it in the fridge and took out several cans of Fourex. ‘Come on outside,’ he said nodding his head towards the back door.
They walked down a small set of stairs leading off the enclosed verandah. Les tugged the ring-pulls off two cans and handed one to his brother. ‘Cheers Muzz,’ he said.
‘Yeah. All the best,’ replied Murray.
They sat there on the steps drinking and watching as Grungle happily tore the kangaroo leg apart, his massive jaws noisily crunching through flesh, fur and bone like it was a piece of sponge cake.
‘He sure is an ugly looking prick of a thing,’ said Les laughing. ‘But you can’t help but like him.’
Murray grinned and nodded his head. ‘Yep,’ he drawled, ‘and I wouldn’t swap for anything in Australia.’
‘I wouldn’t blame you, mate,’ said Les with a smile, reaching over and patting Grungle’s scarred head.
They sat there in the cloudy afternoon sunlight, talking about old times and steadily knocking over the tinnies, when the aroma from Stavros’s Sunday afternoon barbecue started to drift over the fence and cause a bit of a rumble in Norton’s stomach. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked his brother.
‘Oh, a bit,’ replied Murray.
‘Well come down and I’ll introduce you to my neighbour. He’s a Werris, but he’s not a bad bloke.’ They got up and walked over to the fence. ‘How you goin’ there, Stav?’ called out Les.
Stavros looked up from his chops and steaks sizzling on the hotplate and smiled. ‘Hello there Les, my friend. How are you?’
‘All right. Stavros, this is my brother, Murray. He’s down from Queensland for a couple of days.’
‘Hello there my friend,’ said Stavros, reaching over the fence and offering his hand.
‘G’day Stavros. Pleased to meet you,’ replied Murray. Unconsciously almost crushing the Greek’s hand to a pulp. Stavros winced and introduced Murray to the rest of the family. Murray shook hands a little gentler this time and there were smiles all round. Stavros was just about to offer the boys some food when the sound of Murray’s strange voice attracted King’s attention. He was lying over by his kennel, not taking a great deal of notice, being more interested in what he could scrounge from the barbecue. He looked up at Murray and as he did he suddenly spotted Grungle through a crack in the fence palings. His ears pricked up and he drew back his mouth revealing a row of gleaming white fangs. A horrible deep growl came from his throat. In an instant he flung his huge frame at the fence in a barking, snarling frenzy of rage and frustration as he tried to get at Grungle; flecks of foam and saliva flew round the yard. The sudden noise was horrifying.
Grungle looked up from his kangaroo leg and his pink, piggy eyes narrowed, a ridge of black fur started to rise along the middle of his short powerful back. He looked up at Murray as if to say, what do you want me to do? Go over the fence or straight through it.
Quickly Murray put his hand on Grungle’s nose. ‘Stay there mate,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’ Grungle ignored King and went back to his meal.
Thinking he had Grungle bluffed, this only annoyed King more, he jumped up at the fence barking and snarling, almost screaming with rage. Stavros ran over from his barbecue and took him by the collar.
‘Easy boy,’ he said. ‘Down big fellow. It’s all right. Come on now King, take it easy.’ With a considerable amount of effort Stavros managed to calm King down a little and drag him snarling and snapping viciously back to his kennel where he was just able to slip the chain on him; almost dislocating his shoulder in the process as the huge german shepherd kept lunging back towards the fence. After finally getting him chained up he returned to Murray, who was leaning against the fence, a look of utter disbelief on his face as he watched King straining on his chain snarling at Grungle. He looked over at Les who winked back impassively.
‘Oh boy. I’m sorry about that,’ said a puffing Stavros. ‘It’s just that the big fellow goes mad when he sees other dogs. He’s a killer you know.’
‘Go on, eh?’ replied Murray slowly.
Les caught the look in his brother’s eye and winked again. ‘That’s Stavros’s guard dog, King. He’s a real terror Murray. You got to watch him.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ replied Murray, slowly again.
‘Oh ho, you better believe it,’ said Stavros. ‘Fod God’s sake don’t let your dog come in here. King would tear him apart.’
‘You want to put money on it?’ said Murray quietly. Slowly pushing his hat down over his eyes.
‘What was that?’ said Stavros.
‘He said, you could bet money on it,’ cut in Les quickly.
‘Oh of course,’ said Stavros lightly. ‘I mean look at the size of your one compared to mine. King is a giant. A killer as well. It would be a . . . a slaughter.’
‘We got an old saying in Queensland, mate,’ drawled Murray ‘it’s not the size of . . .’
‘What Stavros is trying to say, Murray,’ interjected Les, ‘is that King’s too big and he wouldn’t like to see your dog get hurt. That right Stav?’
‘Of course,’ said Stavros, making an open-handed gesture. He looked down at Grungle still quietly sitting there chewing on the last of the kangaroo. ‘He seems a nice little fellow, funny looking though. I’ve never seen one like that before. What is it?’
‘Fox terrier,’ replied Les.
‘A fox terrier.’ Stavros threw back his head and laughed. ‘A fox terrier against The King. Tch, tch, tch. I’d hate to see the result.’
‘I’m bloody sure you would,’ Murray muttered under his breath. His dark brown eyes flashing.
‘What’s he eating there?’ said Stavros. ‘It looks like a leg of lamb.’
‘Yeah, Murray feeds him baby lamb,’ said Les. ‘It’s easy for him to chew.’
‘Lamb. Hah. You should feed him beef my friend,’ said Stavros looking at Murray. ‘This is what I give King. Raw beef. That is why he has such strength.’
‘I wouldn’t want him to get too savage,’ said Murray, patting Grungle’s horrible scarred head as the last piece of bone got ground up and disappeared down his throat like some potato peelings going down a disposal unit.
‘Anyway, my friends,’ said Stavros. ‘Talking of meat, are you hungry? Let me make up for King’s terrible behaviour with some food. There’s plenty here. Plenty. Despina, bring another two plates.’<
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‘Well. Only if you insist, Stav, me old mate,’ said Les, winking at his brother once more.
Stavros insisted so Les and Murray got into it. Murray was an old pie and peas man from Queensland and he had to admit the food was a little bit spicier than what he was used to and Les reckoned he wasn’t that hungry anyway. However, between the two of them they managed to chomp their way through almost a side of lamb and two scotch fillets.
Stavros was giving the beer a bit of a nudge as he was taking Monday off from work to go to some Greek wedding. He was also giving Les and Murray’s ears a bit of a nudge about how good his kids were and how good a house, car and job he had and about how he’d killed them in general since he came to Australia. But the boys didn’t mind, as the food was going down it was all going in one ear and out the other.
After about an hour or so Stavros well and truly had his wobble boots on and was suffering very badly from verbal diarrhoea. Les could feel that Despina and the kids were starting to get more than a little embarrassed, so he and Murray thanked Stavros for his hospitality, told Despina how much they enjoyed her cooking and went inside, leaving Grungle in the backyard; much to King’s intense aggravation.
‘Christ that Werris can talk, can’t he?’ said Murray, sitting back on the lounge with his leathery hand wrapped round a steaming mug of coffee. ‘And what about that silly big bloody dog of his?’
‘King?’
‘Yeah, bloody King. I’d like to give it King, right in the nuts. I felt like gettin’ Grungle and tossin’ him over the fence. You wouldn’t want to be wearin’ a white shirt if I did. My dog’s a killer.’ Murray snorted contemptuously into his coffee. ‘I’d like to take it back home and see it put it’s act on down The Royal one Friday arvo. It’d last about five seconds. Bloody German shepherds.’ He snorted into his coffee again. ‘They’re not worth two bloody bob.’
‘Yeah I know, they’re useless,’ replied Les. ‘But apart from that he’s not a bad bloke, so let him have himself on.’
‘Yeah, I s’pose.’
‘And I got to live next door so for Christ’s sake don’t let Grungle near King. Okay?’
‘Yeah, fair enough.’
‘Anyway, what about giving me a look at these opals.’
‘Yeah. I haven’t showed you yet, have I?’ Murray stood up and from a pocket deep down inside his moleskin trousers produced a small leather pouch containing the two precious stones wrapped in tissue paper. With great care he spread them out on the coffee table in front of them. ‘Well, what do you reckon?’ he said.
Sitting on the coffee table with the lounge room light reflecting in them from above, the two opals looked like a pair of small boiling red suns, tinged with blue, yellow, green and every colour imaginable. As he moved them around, the colours appeared to explode out of the stones one minute, then dance and roll in waves the next with an almost hypnotic effect. Les thought they were the most fascinatingly beautiful things he had ever seen, yet with a beauty that was eerie, almost unearthly at the same time.
‘Jesus, they are something, aren’t they Murray?’ he said sublimely. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that.’
‘Neither have I, to tell you the truth,’ replied Murray slowly.
Les then told his brother about the conversation he’d had with Price Galese earlier in the week and to forget about seeing the rip-off merchant in Bellevue Hill that night as there would be a driver round to pick him up tomorrow and he’d be getting the right money for the gems at Price’s house tomorrow no matter what. Murray was rapt.
‘Les, I appreciate what you’ve done for me,’ said Murray reflecting into his mug of coffee. ‘But as soon as I do this deal tomorrow I’m heading straight back home. I’d like to stay a while but I can’t stand cities, mate. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right Muzz, I understand. I’m a bit the same way myself. But you know how it is with me,’ said Les sadly.
‘Yeah. But that’ll blow over eventually.’
‘I hope you’re right. I’d love to come back home and see everyone.’
‘Anyhow look,’ Murray reached over and slapped Les on the leg. ‘What about letting me take you down the pub and shout you a couple of beers. I just feel like having a few over the bar and then I might hit the sack. What do you reckon?’
‘All right. You can shout me a middy or two down the Bondi. We take your car or mine?’
‘Let’s walk down. I just been in a car for 17 hours and I wouldn’t mind stretching me legs.’
‘Righto. I’ll just throw a pair of jeans on.’
While Les got changed, Murray pocketed the opals and checked on Grungle in the backyard, giving him a big pot of water from the kitchen. He was all right and Murray could see King was still chained to his kennel so there was no chance of him getting at Grungle and getting torn to pieces for his trouble. King saw Murray and started growling again. The wiry bushman walked over to the fence, cleared his throat and spat a big gob right on to Kings face. ‘Shut up, you prick of a thing,’ he snarled. King didn’t know what to do but he quietened down immediately expecting a couple of house bricks to come sailing over the fence into his rib cage.
‘Everything sweet out there?’ said Les when Murray came back inside.
‘Good as gold.’
‘Right. Well let’s go and throw a few pig’s ears down our motor boats.’ Les locked up the house and they walked leisurely off up Cox Avenue and down Hall Street in the direction of the Bondi Hotel.
There was quite a mob at the hotel when they got there, more than Les expected for a Sunday night. He recognised a few people in the crowded bar he knew from round and about and nodded his head, but he didn’t bother to introduce his brother as he didn’t really know them all that well; more casual acquaintances than anything else. Murray got a couple of beers and they found a spot near the end of the bar and stood back to watch the passing parade. Les could sense the stares his country brother was getting in his big bush hat and boots and could hear some of the derisive remarks. But he didn’t let on. Murray was equally fascinated by all the different types of people as well.
There were bushy-headed, overweight Maoris; all covered in tattoos, both the men and the women. Beefy pommies were drinking schooners with red-headed Scotsmen, rosy-cheeked Irishmen were arguing at the top of their voices with swarthy, dark-haired Europeans. Around the pool tables drunken Aussies were clumsily banging balls around with equally drunken New Zealanders, and leaning against the bar several off-duty coppers were checking the crowd out and tipping schooners down their throats like they were expecting a brewery strike. Standing across from them, around a small, circular raised table, a team of shifty-eyed men dressed in T-shirts, shorts and white shoes were talking quietly over their drinks and checking out the coppers. Scattered amongst the various drinkers, wearing cheap dresses and faded jeans, were a number of seedy looking women, looking bored and wishing they were somewhere else. The general atmosphere was very smoky and very noisy.
‘Strewth. What a nice mob of strays this is,’ said Murray, pushing his hat forward and scratching the back of his head. ‘Where’ve they all drifted in from?’
‘It sure ain’t the Royal at Dirranbandi is it?’ said Les with a grin. Some one in the crowd caught his eye. ‘Hey wait here a minute will you Muzz?’ he said to his brother. ‘I just want to see a bloke for a sec.’ He drifted over and got into what looked like a serious conversation for a couple of minutes with a nuggety little bloke in his late 30s, wearing a pair of dirty, blue overalls.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Murray a little anxiously when Les returned.
‘He’s a wharfie I know. Got a couple of hot VCRs. I might get one off him through the week.’
‘Oh.’ Murray ordered another two beers. ‘Hey Les. You feel like a game of pool?’
‘Oh yeah, if you want.’
There was a row of coins on the side of one of the pool tables, Murray put his 60 at the end of the line and waited for his game to come up.
They finished another two beers then it was their turn. Just as Murray started to walk over to the pool table someone else shoved his 60 in the slot, the balls rattled down and he and his mate started placing them on the green felt table.
‘Hey, just a minute old fellah,’ said Murray, ‘it’s my turn.’
The bloke who’d put his money in the slot looked up at Murray. He was a thick-set Pommy with straggly black hair and tattoos on his arms; he looked like a shorter, barrel chested version of Joe Cocker. ‘What’s up with you?’ he said in a heavy Yorkshire accent.
‘That was my 60 you just pushed in.’
‘Leave it out Tex,’ said the other Pommy, racking the balls. He was a little taller than his mate, with curly blond hair and about the same amount of tattoos. A noticeable scar ran across his cheek and finished under his broken nose. ‘You’ve been on the farm too long. You’ve got the coins mixed up.’
‘No I haven’t,’ said Murray a little heatedly as his hackles started to rise. ‘It’s my turn.’
‘What’s up with Tex? Has he been at the sheep dip again?’ A third Pommy put his head in. He was the biggest of the three, over six feet tall with dark greasy hair and a sullen, jaundiced appearance. Like the others he was tattooed and a bit overweight.
‘Hang on,’ said Murray, placing a hand on top of the triangular placed balls. ‘I’m not coppin’ this shit. It’s my turn.’
‘Get your hands off the pills Tex. Or you might find your hat out in the street with your head in it.’
‘You reckon,’ said Murray. His voice starting to rise.
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