by Bill Day
She stands and heads out the door. The door clicks shut. I realise I’m holding my breath. I let it out in a long sigh.
Ms Gail turns to the technicians. “Did you see her, so focussed, did you get it all?” The sound and camera guys nod. “This is going to be huge, and we have the scoop.”
She stands. “Before we go, can we see it? The birthmark that is.” I sigh and lower my shorts. They move in close. “That is a cool mouse. Where did she find you?”
I shrug, “She’s a master of her craft.”
Ms Gail looks thoughtful and jots that down as a quote in her notebook. She says her farewells and they all disappear through the front door.
The phone rings, it's Lucky. “Monty, can you head outside and help Andy. She was trying to measure the car park for some reason but Helen’s grabbed her measuring tape. Then Trotsky got involved. Anyhow, it’s a mess down there. Can you go and sort it?”
I smile - of course I can.
8
The Man with the Plan
I don’t have a mother and father any more. They are Celia and Brian. I watch them as they get about with Lucky. I have never seen them so happy. I used to look at them and just see parents, now I see something else entirely.
“Monty!”, they cry. I am Monty now. Max is gone, even to Brian and Celia. “Monty, we are all meeting in the diner. Perhaps you could rustle up some grub.”
“Sure.” How did catering for a building full of people become “rustling up some grub”. Fortuitously I have plenty of odds and sods in the cool room - spring rolls, party pies, quiche, and another lot of the renowned egg and bacon pies. I race down and pop them in the ovens.
People arrive just as the food is ready. They fall on the food like locusts.
Brian, Lucky, and Celia walk in.
“Everyone, you all know Brian Mumm, the legal miracle man. He has been looking at our problem with the developers. Can you explain please Brian?”
My Dad (I can still call him that occasionally) gets to his feet. “The problem is how to stop Seabreeze Tower being sold to developers, who will demolish and subdivide for housing. Raymond owns most of the units, as you all know, but there are six he does not own. Four of those are in private hands and two are government rental. You might not even know if you are in Government rental as the organisation covers the rent.”
My ears prick up, “organisation?”
“The problem is in the constitution. Each owner has a single vote. As you know Raymond owns most of the building but that only gives him one vote. The other six owners are keen to sell and have the balance of power to do so.”
Minnie Valleri cuts in. “So, what do you propose Brian?” It seems my father is on a first-name basis with almost everyone in the building.
“Well, there are a few things we can do to get the balance of power. Firstly, we acquire as many units as we can but we won’t get them all. Three of the four private owners are willing to sell at exorbitant rates. We can buy those but it will put a hole in our finances.”
Our Finances? I think there is more going on here than I know or have imagined.
“The owner of unit 23, Jack Chisholm, is a problem. It seems Raymond annoyed him by throwing him off the first-floor balcony.”
Maxine chuckles, “I remember that! Bastard tried to evict Jock McInerny. He was going to press charges until Fingers called on him. Little baby - he fell in the compost heap and didn’t even get a scratch.”
Fingers shines as people nearby slap him on the back. Jock throws Fingers a wave of appreciation from across the room.
“He asserts he would rather choke on his vomit than sell to Lucky or his mates. Fingers, you might want to visit him to check his resolve on that. So, unit 23 is one problem. The other problem is the Government housing. There is a long and complicated process involved in acquiring those; however, they are so desirable the Minister of Housing may sign off on divesting them. In that case, they will almost certainly go to a developer.”
Jessica throws in a question, “So the Minister of Housing holds some sway?”
“Sarah Chan? Yes, she does and it would be useful to have her on side.” Jessica slips out and heads upstairs.
Celia puts her arm around me, “Isn’t he magnificent Monty?” She smiles at me. “Look at him. No one fidgets, whispers, or even looks away. When he talks people listen.”
“So there you have it. Fingers will work on Jack Chisholm. I will investigate the further acquisition of the other units. Does anyone have ideas about the Government units?”
Jessica re-enters the room carrying a large concertina folder. She walks to the front of the room and thumbs through the pages. With a flourish, she produces a black and white photograph. Brian squints at the photograph for a few seconds.
“Oh my. Yes, indeed Sarah Chan would be a useful friend to our cause.” He looks quizzically at Jessica. “I’ll let you handle that Jess?”
She shrugs and smiles. “We had a fling at uni. I always keep photos, just in case I need a favour down the track.” I wonder just how many other favours are stored in Jessica’s folder.
“Okay, so Jess visits Sarah Chan, Fingers visits Jack C., and we look to buy as many units as we can. The next owners meeting is in eight weeks so we have to act fast. Anything else?”
Andy pipes up, “Well it’s a bit off-topic but I have five days to organise an art extravaganza. I could use a hand if anyone cares to chip in.”
Andy goes on to explain her grand plan for an art space and tries to justify the insane timeline.
I take Celia out for a stroll in the garden. The roses are lovely at the moment. We both take time to smell each bloom and compare the various scents. Holding her hand lightly I finally reply.
“Yes, he is magnificent. You both are.”
9
The Tatters Brown Memorial Garden
I’m standing toe to toe with Andy.
“I don’t care. It’s their home and you can’t rip it down.”
Monty, they’re dogs! They are with you most of the time anyhow. They can sleep at your place.”
Sleep at my place! No way, they’re too antisocial. You can’t rip it down Andy. Where would they sleep - your place?”
“My place? Don’t be an idiot Monty.”
Trotsky and Helen peer out, disturbed by the heated words going on just outside their sleeping quarters. Helen wants to come out but knows something isn’t right, so her head pokes in and out like a wooden cuckoo. Trotsky grins at everyone for a minute then goes back inside to sleep.
“Anyhow, I claim this as my art project. I will do something arty with it.”
Andy glares, “It had better be spectacular Monty or I’ll whip your arse.”
She stomps off to find new victims. She’s been like this for days now. It started when she wanted to run a ditch through Miss Jessica’s small ground-floor garden. That standoff ends when Jessica knocks off Andy’s hat then kicks her arse as she bends over to pick it up. Andy went face-first into a newly planted bed of beets.
The next incident is with Muscles. Andy wants an ornamental lake in one corner of the grounds. Muscles has conniptions and runs around muttering about Tatters Brown.
Subsequent investigation reveals that Tatters Brown is Muscle’s long-deceased tabby cat and not a deceased rival. We all declare the area off-limits. Andy screams at Muscles that he has to “fix it up” or “be drinking through a straw for a month”. She retires to her bedroom for the rest of the day, time she can ill afford.
Most of the arrangements fall to me in absence of any pragmatic input from Andy. I try to follow her lead but she is indifferent to practicalities. I hire a stage, portable toilets, seats, graders to enlarge the car park, advertising, public address systems, and a host of other stuff. Now I have to do something spectacular with the doghouse. Fantastic.
Celia manages a lot of the arty stuff. A lovely spiral pathway emerges in the rather barren side lawn. Lucky and Brian have thrown her a wheelbarrow of cash so she can hire
labour at inflated “boom-time” hourly rates. The money pot seems vast and mysterious.
Celia strides up - she looks busy. “Hi, Monty. I won’t do too much more as we want room for the visiting artists to shine. They will need plenty of space. What do you need for the doghouse? Is Muscles okay with the Tatters memorial? Oh, there’s Jessica. I need to see her.” She skitters off, flat out like a lizard drinking.
I hired Enrico and his daughters to light up the place at night. Enrico has come over to scope out the new works. “Monty! Andrea is a true artist, yes?”
“Absolutely Enrico. Anyhow, we want lights on the building but no drones. There will be too many people for drones.”
He looks crestfallen, “Sonia and Mary will be sad. But, cheer up, I will find something for them to do.”
Enrico, can you get a cannon, one that shoots paint? Like a giant paintball gun.”
Potato cannons with paint canisters, yes, we can make them. How many you need? No, don’t tell me. I will make you 6 with 36 paint canisters. Sonia and Mary can work on them!”
“Whatever sounds good Enrico.”
“Okay, now I must see Andrea for an autograph - for my Mother of course.”
He runs off into the building.
There is a squeal of brakes as a red van slides to a stop. It’s Helen. She can’t hear traffic so she ignores it. With all the comings and goings, the dogs wander in and out as they see fit. Helen has stopped more than one vehicle in the last few days. A burly red-faced man climbs out of the red van. He glares at me.
“Whose dog is that? Is that your dog? Bloody mongrel!” He tries to kick Helen.
Bang! A can of tuna lands at his feet, splits open, and sprays all over him.
“What!” He looks up furiously and sees a face on a fourth-floor balcony. “Watch it up there, arsehole!”
Bang! A tin of baked beans lands on his van roof, followed by three cans of Corned beef.
“You're crazy!” he screams.
Mandy yells back at him and hurls a can of creamed corn. “Hey, wanker. Bugger off and don’t come back!” Never confuse shyness with timidity.
Trotsky holds back to avoid the rain of canned goods but eventually, the smell of tuna is too much. He charges in. The red-faced driver screams and runs for his car door. Trotsky sees his tuna snack disappearing and runs after it. Red Face just makes it to his car but doesn’t quite get the door shut. He tries to jam it shut with Trot’s considerable girth wedged in it. He screams again as Trotsky grabs his tuna flavoured pants and rips most of the left leg away. He slams the van door three times on his foot before he realises Trotsky has retreated. The van door finally closes and the van speeds away.
I give Mandy a wave. She returns the wave and retreats out of sight.
We can’t keep Trotsky and Helen confined so they wander the surrounding countryside. They have taken to collecting. The front of their doghouse is festooned with mementos of their daily and nightly ramblings. Straight edges, measuring tapes, levelling string, bags of screws, trowels, hats, gloves, and fluorescent jackets lay in piles around the brick doghouse. There is even a set of bobcat keys in the pile somewhere. I know this because the bobcat next door wouldn’t start this morning.
“Who’s got the bobcat keys? I told you not to take my bloody keys!”
“Buggar your keys, where’s my straight edge! I told everyone not to touch my tools.”
A third man walks out, “Where did I put my gloves?”
“Don’t worry about your straight edge. We need the bobcat this morning.”
“Use the spare key.”
“I lost the spare key. Use a chunk of wood.”
“A chunk of wood is not a straight edge, dickhead.”
“Dickhead! Did you call me dickhead?”
“I said, “Has anyone seen my gloves?”
The other two turn. “Piss on your gloves!”
Glove Man stares in outrage and points accusingly. “Well, that’s unnecessary. I am quite sick of both of you.”
They put their hands on their hips in mockery. “Well, that’s unnecessary.”
Gloves Man is devastated. “Bullies! You think it’s funny. I’m filing a complaint.” He stomps to his car, slams the door, and drives away.
The other two watch him go, turn, and walk inside. I think a baseball bat and a bucket of lemons would have defused the situation nicely.
Anyhow, Muscles is doing his best with his Tatters Brown memorial artwork. The weeds are gone and grass replaced by a neat, raked garden. He is bent over a bed of wet cement labouring to write “Tatters” with glass mosaic tiles. It is beautiful to watch.
I hear a call of “Oi,” from next door. I look over and Helen sprints away. An extension power cord drags behind her. Trotsky is not far behind as he snaps at the other end. A thin, wiry, tradesman with “Mike’s Electrics” embroidered on his shirt runs after them. He keeps up with them, which is pretty impressive given Helen’s speed. The cord slows her down.
She sprints into the grounds as the cord snakes behind her. Trotsky puffs and slows. Mike passes him and is hot on Helen’s tail. She makes for her keepsake pile but looks back and realises Mike is still behind her. She takes off towards the back corner of the grounds, where Muscles is face down gently placing his mosaics.
Helen sprints over Muscle’s neat, raked garden. She comes to the absolute corner of the grounds and swerves to follow the fence line. The cord snakes along behind her. She slows slightly and Trotsky, getting his second wind, grabs the other end of the cord. Mike catches up and grabs the cord, just in front of Trotsky. Helen, not able to go forward spins about in an arc, which intersects with Muscles. The cord tightens on Muscle’s ankles and he trips face first into the wet cement. Trotsky, having a keen sense of danger, drops the cord and slinks away. Helen slinks with him.
There is a roar of complete outrage. Muscles stands, his face grey. Rivulets of wet cement flow down his full beard. He looks about. Muscles sees a lone tradesman holding the offending cord.
“Sorry. My name’s Mike. It wasn’t me; it was the…….”
With another roar Muscles charges Mike, picks him up, and body slams him into the remaining wet cement. He leaves a neat body imprint. Mike lies in the cement and looks up at Muscles.
“Dogs! It was the dogs!”
In a feat of sheer strength, Muscles picks him up, carries him over to the fence, and throws him over. He lands with a clatter on a pile of building scraps.
Mike lies on the refuse pile muttering, “Dog. White dog. Not me. Not me.”
Muscles grunts and returns to his garden. He looks heartbroken at the devastation. I walk over.
“Hey Muscles, this tradesman imprint is wonderful. Why don’t you use your mosaics to write around it: “We love you, Tatters Brown.” Then you can make the imprint into a little pond.”
He smiles, “Great idea, thanks, Monty. What do you think Celia?” Celia is standing nearby with a smile of absolute delight.
“I think it will look spectacular Muscles. Your garden looks beautiful.”
He smiles shyly and resumes his labours.
Celia gives a wink and smiles. “You’re the man Monty.”
Of course I am.
10
Helen Goes Gardening
Fingers gives me a call, “Monty, I need a driver. Meet me at the diner.”
I wait by the diner until his skinny arse comes down the stairs. Fingers is all skin and bones but tall, perhaps six and a bit foot. He is wearing a rather nice fedora hat, which I haven’t seen him wear before. He is holding a shovel.
“Monty! I need you to grab the van and drive me. I’ll direct you. It’s not far.” So I grab the van and bring it around.
“Oh, I need Helen, just Helen, not the brown boof-head.”
Trotsky and Helen are pretty much inseparable and I feel awful as I lure Trotsky into the basement with a sausage while Fingers holds Helen on a lead. We buckle up and set off.
Fingers gives directions and we are so
on driving around a mixture of old and new houses.
“This one Monty. The one with the nice garden.”
It’s a 1940’s brick house with wrap-around veranda and rusted corrugated iron roof. It looks every bit its age, except for the garden. The garden is a delight of roses, dahlia, daffodil, and a host of other flowering plants. Someone here is a passionate gardener.
“Who’s house Fingers?”
“Jack Chisholm’s”
Oh, crap. I pull the van to a stop by the curb. Fingers gets out with Helen still on a lead. He grabs the shovel and motions me to follow. I wish I were far away from here. Violence is not my thing. He knocks on the door and a shadow appears behind a dark screen.
The shadow is not welcoming. “Piss off Fingers.”
“Oh, that’s not nice Jacky. I have come to….”
“I know why you’ve come. I won’t sell. Piss off back to Lucky and tell him to kiss my arse.”
“Ah, you were never a reasonable man Jacky.”
Fingers walks into the garden, eyes a bed of roses, and begins to dig under a nice hybrid tea. I think its a peace rose, which is quite ironic. Helen, being a working dog, takes over the digging with all the passion of an evangelist preacher. Soil sprays out in fountains for three or four minutes. Then Helen grabs the base of the rose and shakes it from side to side. She sees it’s not ready to pull and resumes her earthworks. Dirt sprays over the large front window and down the brickwork. It seems Helen is a passionate gardener.
A whimper comes from behind the screen. “Bastard dog. Damn you Fingers.”
Helen grabs the bush again and rips it out of the ground. She shakes it to make sure it’s dead, then sits and watches Fingers with anticipation.
“Now Jacky, you have a lovely garden. What are these plants over here? He walks over to another garden bed.
“Shit Fingers, not my dahlias.”