Jenny stops talking, a little embarrassed, and he blows a thick plume her way before a swig of his first longneck for the day.
‘Yeah, ya can do EVERY BLOODY THING IN THE WORLD AND YA STILL GET SICK!’
We walk to the Fremantle beach one night for me to take promotional shots to send to the local newspapers. Jim’s regular Tuesday gig has had a small crowd, but hoping to bring in more people, I work on a press release with the caption ‘Banned Comedian Hits Fremantle’, and send it to the media. The local radio picks it up, booking him in for a spot on their afternoon show.
Mole is knocking on my door to see if I want to sit with him and Grant on the balcony while they watch the sunset. I’m listening to Jim on the little radio I bought just the day before. I hustle Mole into the room quickly, my finger in a ‘shoosh’ signal on my lips, not wanting to miss any of the show. Mole is tentative, not wanting to cross the threshold of our private space, but also very curious, and respectful.
He finally tiptoes in, clenching his Emu Bitter, crouching down with me on the floor, stroking his beard ponderously and listening. He looks around and I notice intrigue through his cloaked face.
‘It’s – nice – in here,’ he says, looking around at our space decorated with quotes and pictures from our travels. ‘But he needs to be a bit tougher, that man of yours,’ says Mole, out of nowhere. ‘Didn’t know how to take him at first. Now I reckon … more people like him in the world … less wars!’
‘Yeah, he’s pretty peace-loving,’ I say.
‘But you know, he needs to be a bit more like a … man. You can’t do all of that … stuff. It’s not fair.’
He’s caught me unawares. I wonder what else he’s noticed about our relationship, from under his wiry beard. ‘I know. But I love him.’
When the show is finished, Mole gets up, swaying, looking over at our open notebooks as he leaves the room.
‘I’ve never lived with artists before,’ he mutters curiously, on his way out.
Jack and Darren are screaming again. This time, it’s really bad. Jim has just bought a ticket online to fly to Melbourne the next day for a gig he does every year for a friend. Yet again, with pay, he will barely break even from the cost of the flight. It’s a matter of loyalty to the friend who has booked him, I realise. But still, it worries me, his extraordinary nonchalance about money. It feels like others notice it too, and try to take advantage of him. Will he ever get ahead?
His eyes, peeping back at me in the night, glow with concern as the screams grow louder, followed by the blood-curdling thuds of slapping flesh. It’s hard, though, because sometimes they are followed by laughter, sometimes screams.
The next day, they are even worse, fighting in the hall and knocking on our door every five minutes to ask to borrow a phone or a few dollars. I’m trying to work – this time, irony of ironies, on yet another fashion column about a designer whose dresses would cost about as much as a year’s rent at The Rose. Every time I get a flow of thoughts to type, there’s another knock at the door or more screaming and then – what sounds like beating. To make it more confusing, this is sometimes followed by laughter, sometimes by groaning. I’ve had enough.
Darren knocks at the door and I lurch forward, intercepting Jim.
‘Look, you’re a grown man, you need to look after yourself!’
Jim looks startled, like I’ve yelled at him.
‘Oh NO! I’ve upset the missus!’ Darren starts to sob, and I run down the stairs to get out of this madhouse.
I don’t know who I’m more annoyed with – Jim, for being so bloody nice all the time, or Darren, for constantly pestering us while we’re trying to work in our room. I also know that people with such mixed-up psyches need a bit of common sense, you can’t just keep enabling their insanity. Also – I’m tired, stressed, and running my own strange business in such a hairy way doesn’t leave much room for mistakes. Or days (and nights) left sleepless from people who are torturing us all. Still, I feel sick in my stomach after confronting him, and ashamed of myself. Jim would never snap at anybody. He’s the measure by which I now treat people.
My heart pumps in palpitations as I walk quickly down to the beach, and cry it off at the waves. Jim calls, ten minutes later.
‘Lou, I’ve found somewhere else for you to stay tonight.’
Oh boy. Now he’s looking after me, too. This makes me even more upset. Now I feel like I’ve become the weak victim I so abhor. I think, breathe, logically. I’m a grown girl. I can look after myself. This is why I just snapped at Darren, right?
I march back to the pub to talk to Leigh.
‘I don’t feel comfortable staying there with those guys up there. They fight in the night and it’s just horrible. Plus they keep knocking on our door.’
‘Okay, that’s it, yours is the third complaint, they’ll be gone tomorrow. They haven’t paid their rent for a fortnight anyway.’
Jim makes Leigh chuckle with a joke as we leave and holds my hand as we go upstairs to get our stuff. When Darren walks past he grips me tighter. I bury the thought, that he’s more worried about upsetting Darren than upsetting me. I pack up my laptop and a day’s worth of belongings, feeling guilty and angry and relieved all at once, but determined to put my dinner party face on.
Rhyll and Justin live in a little house, just across the road and down the corner from The Rose. I’ve always wondered how different people’s lives can be, from one house to another. From their front garden I can see our bedroom window at The Rose, and I’m so grateful not to be sleeping there tonight.
We pull into their driveway in the balmy night. Inside, Leonard Cohen croons softly while they talk contentedly, stirring salsa on the stove. We’ve just left a psychological drama, and here we are in a romantic comedy.
We walk in and Jim takes the lead, making jokes and banter, while they serve us up homemade nachos with slow-cooked salsa. It’s such a relief to eat from a table with matching cutlery, a place that doesn’t feel like it’s encrusted with ghosts – and living demons – of jagged men. And when they pour the wine it’s not with the ferocity of someone filling up at a petrol bowser in a hurry.
‘I actually just finished my photography studies …’ Rhyll is saying as I zone back into the conversation after a brief pang of guilt at Darren and Jack. Why am I causing trouble for those poor lost men who have no choice but to live in places like The Rose? The events of the night have fragmented the fine equilibrium I was so enjoying. I’ve lost my bearings, and it’s made me weak.
‘Here’s some of my work …’
Rhyll is showing me her folio. Beautiful nude black-and-white portraits and profile shots, lovingly arranged, the beginnings of her career. ‘I’m still trying to get a proper folio of published work together, though.’
Something occurs to me. Since landing in Western Australia, I hadn’t interviewed any couples from Perth for one of my magazine columns. My editor had said that though they’d be ‘willing’ to publish a story on a couple from the West, they didn’t have any photographers this side of Australia, so I’d have to supply images as well.
‘Do you know of any nudist organisations around here? I heard some part of Cottesloe Beach is nudist, occasionally …’
Rhyll nods. ‘Yeah, I think they’re called Sunseekers or something. Why?’
‘I do a column on … interesting couples. I thought I could interview some nudists. Would you be interested in taking the photos?’
‘Oh my god Lou, I’d love to. Wow!’
We trade email addresses and phone numbers, which seems awfully formal as I’m sleeping on her sofa bed tonight.
At eleven o’clock I drive Jim to the eucalypt-lined airport and drop him off. We’re back laughing together again, he at the perfection of Rhyll helping me with my columns, ‘See, Lou, Jack and Darren were really helping you with your work …’ I let it slide, still uneasy at the memory of their discord.
‘Say hello to Melbourne for me! And babe, can you bring me a copy of The Ag
e?’
He kisses me goodbye and walks off briskly, his bag across his back heading towards the open doors of Perth airport.
When I get back to Justin and Rhyll’s, they are snuggled on the couch watching a Jarmusch movie. Justin’s guitar is propped in front of him for impromptu moments of creativity. See, I think. Couplesville doesn’t have to involve a sprinkler. These two manage to balance creativity with a safe place to live.
‘That’s pretty rock-star of Jim, flying down to Melbourne for a gig then back the next day. You guys are living the dream!’ says Justin.
Yeah, but sometimes it’s not that dreamy.
I fall asleep listening to the same traffic go past on the same road, but in a different direction. And I dream Darren is bashing down the door to eat my bowl of nachos.
In the morning I wake, momentarily forgetting where I am. Then I remember Rhyll will probably pad around in her nightie. Romance and flowers and the female form aren’t cause for fear and frustration. I don’t need to feel guilty. Relax.
It’s the strangest thing, this tension that has built up in my body since sleeping in spaces inhabited by lonely old men. It’s like I have to constantly monitor myself. I catch myself staring enviously at Rhyll’s kitchen, a shiny steel coffeepot sitting on the stove, a bowl of fruit casting rainbow rays through the kitchen window. I wonder when I’ll be able to cook dinner in such an idyllic setting, without the smell of Grant’s pork simmering in the scratched frypan.
It’s a shiny day and I drive up to Cottesloe Beach for a barefoot walk along the sand before I settle in with my laptop at the café on the water. I spend the day as the old me, eating breakfast out, working on my laptop from the café upstairs, visiting the Cottesloe library, browsing in shops and collecting my mail from the North Fremantle post office. There’s a letter from Sally, post-marked from five days ago. She knows how much I appreciate handwritten mail over emails. The time it took to get here accentuates how far I feel from everything over here.
Dear Lou
Things are pretty boring here. Work is the same – although I’m coming up to holidays soon and going to use the cut in interest rates to get the floors repolished. Umm … what else? Miss you! … I dreamt last night you were back in my kitchen, telling me stories and drinking coffee. Melbourne’s just not the same without you.
How is Jim? I think it’s awfully romantic what you’re both doing together, even though it’s also pretty crazy.
Maybe you can’t have one without the other?
Love,
Sally
Reading her familiar handwriting in the front seat of the Mazda under the scorching western sun, the tears are spilling thick and fast. It’s days like these I really miss her.
At four in the afternoon, it’s time to head to the airport to collect Jim, and my throat does a see-saw at the thought of returning to The Rose. When we pull in, Jack and Darren are sitting on the balcony with their belongings, waiting for a taxi to collect them. Jim says goodbye to them both, shakes Jack’s hand, and wishes him luck in the court case with his daughter and the other assault charge.
‘I didn’t know about that?!’ I say, once we are safely back inside our room.
‘Yeah, I thought it best not to tell you while all that other stuff was going on.’
An hour later, Mole taps on our door. ‘Party time kids, the monsters’ve gone. We’ll all be able to sleep tonight!’
As crazy as it is in this nut-house, at least there’s a sense of camaraderie.
‘Knock on old Uncle Mole’s door if you want to have a beer to celebrate!’
Jim goes straight to bed since he caught the red-eye to Melbourne and back, and I go downstairs with Mole and Grant to sit in the bar. After realising it’s skimpy night, feeling a bit uncomfortable as the only clothed girl at the bar, I head back upstairs, and lie, unsleeping, under the whirring fan.
One night, when the place is peacefully quiet except for the distant hum of the television in a far-off room, the electricity goes out while Jim is cooking. I pop out to Mole and Grant midway through their Emu Bitter shift on the balcony and ask if either of them know how to locate the fuse box. Mole hops straight into action, still gripping his beer as he flexes his handyman muscles and flicks the fuse, locating the source of the problem – an overused power board.
I carry my glass of white wine out onto the balcony to say thank you, and Grant tries to give me his chair. ‘Stay with us, love.’
Mole, with pride, punches him playfully, telling him to be quiet. I ask Jim to bring dinner out to the balcony, when he’s finished cooking. He gets an excited look in his eye.
After the sun has set and Mole is quietly stroking his beard, Jim comes out with four steaming plates of tofu and vegetables. After the obligatory protestations, Mole takes a bite out of politeness, and we both look away, not wanting to seem too eager to make him eat.
‘Not bad, this tucker, not bad,’ he says, gobbling up the entire plate of tofu and leaving the vegetables. Grant eats everything on his plate too, smiling at us and offering Jim a slab of pork from the factory if he likes.
Talking in bed later, we both agree that baked silken tofu is the perfect dinner for a man with only one tooth.
Jim leaves for another gig in Kalgoorlie, and I decide to stay in Fremantle for the weekend, catching up with Justin and Rhyll and working on some stories. I wake on Saturday to hear something at the bedroom door, and when I get up, I find a box of biscuits sitting in the doorway.
When Jim arrives home on Sunday night after the gig, I’m cooking us dinner in the kitchen, and Mole pokes his head in to listen, his usual Emu Bitter clenched in his fist.
‘Ah, I knew you’d gone away!’ He’s looking at Jim. ‘Don’t worry, I was keeping an eye on her for ya!’
Grant comes in under the pretence of offering Mole pork again, but really, I think, just to talk to us, his motley-community.
‘That couple from room twelve have gone back to jail. Not sure about the kid … poor bugger.’ They’d been dealing something, from their rooms. A guy got upset, something went wrong, Leigh found out and gave them the boot.
‘Jacko’s going back to jail, tomorrow too,’ Grant murmurs, like he’s reporting the weather, referring to a heavy-footed early riser who I’d only seen once, coming up the stairs.
Mole, standing stroking his beard in the background, pretending not to listen, looks up at me. ‘You two lovebirds make this place … better.’
Mole knocks on our door, half an hour later, with a package of ham and jasmine tea, nervously muttering under his breath, not meeting my eyes. ‘Just … ask, if you need anything … knock on old Mole’s door. Anyone tries to hurt you two … I’ll kill ’em. ’Kay?’
In the morning we wake to find a note shoved under our door. It says that because of rising land costs and the mining boom, The Rose is going to be bulldozed in a fortnight. ‘All tenants need to find alternative accommodation.’
Honeymoon at The Rose is over.
21
Wheatbelt sushi
‘Anyway Lou, wasn’t it nice to chat to someone with teeth?’
WE’VE ONLY BEEN AT THE Rose for a month, but the room feels like our own house by now. I can’t believe how much stuff I’ve accumulated – boxes of published articles and newspaper liftouts, products sent care of the North Fremantle post office, books I needed for various articles, a medical dictionary, and even a printer. But we have to cram everything back into the Mazda, so it’s time for another declutter. I never realised how much hard work goes into staying lean of possessions.
I’m hesitant to throw it all away – I’ve just started writing for a medical journal, and I need the printer to cross-reference quotes, information and sources. I also need it for invoicing, but if I’m going to put travelling light first on my agenda, I’ll have to turf it.
I walk down to the post office, to collect the last of my mail before we head to the wheat belt, to stay with some of Jim’s friends and chase a couple of his gigs. A
nd then – who knows where else we’ll go? Back to printing at internet cafés and scrounging for net coverage. Sigh.
But again, that thought of seeing a new place on the map. Yes. The thrill of movement will make up for the exhaustion I feel at all this packing up. I ask Jim if we can stay a couple more days at The Rose, just so I can enjoy relaxing in a room with books again.
‘But Lou, Pluto’s so happy we’re visiting, he’s killing a pig.’
At the post office, I find a parcel. It’s a four-hundred-dollar pair of designer sunglasses: Just a little thank you from the girls at Paul Maloney fashion agency … Your article last Saturday did wonders for Karen’s line …
Mum has also sent a postcard from an art exhibition on global warming. It’s such a foreign concept over here, where the mines are in your face and nobody’s concerned with staying trendy – sunglasses or global-warming wise. My stomach lurches. Balancing freedom and stability is a full-time job.
When we pack the car in the morning, Mole is sitting at the TAB with a longneck of Emu Bitter, feistily watching the races.
‘You two lovebirds getting out of here are ya?’
We tell him we’re heading to Merredin for a gig, then not sure where to next.
‘Well you know you can call on me any time you run into trouble. Any time.’
Jim asks him for his phone number but he has no idea what it is. Instead, Jim punches his own number into Mole’s phone.
‘See ya Mole.’
We thank Leigh for having us and load a few more boxes into the car. Mole, standing on the balcony to wave us off, mutters to me quietly as I head down the steps. ‘Bloody beautiful bloke your fella. But you take care of yourself will ya? I think he sometimes forgets about the – uh – details. He needs to learn to listen to you more.’
He wanders back inside, waving in a fly-swatting movement with his back to me because he doesn’t like goodbyes.
Before we left Melbourne, when I was cleaning out the car, I’d found a filthy brush and pan in the inside console of the passenger door.
Love and Other U-Turns Page 24