Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Ohh yeah,’ answered the woman. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Would you mind taking a photo of me standing next to the car?’

  ‘Okay.’ The woman looked at the camera as Les handed it to her. ‘How do you work this?’

  ‘It’s easy.’

  Les showed her how, then sat against the bonnet of the Hyundai with the ocean in the background. The woman clicked off a photo. Les got her to take another one of him standing on the wharf.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ he said, taking his camera back.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  The woman seemed quite friendly, so Les thought he’d try a few questions. ‘You from round here?’ he asked.

  The woman pointed to the houses facing the bay. ‘Over there.’

  ‘You lived here long?’

  ‘All my life,’ she replied, sounding rather proud of the fact.

  ‘Hey, how come there’s no boats around? It’s supposed to be a harbour.’

  ‘The marina’s at Goolwa. They keep them there.’

  ‘Oh? Where’s that?’ asked Les.

  The woman pointed across the bay. ‘About twenty kilometres that way. It’s nicer than Victor Harbor, too. Not so touristy.’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Les. Yes, she’s a local all right, he smiled to himself.

  ‘There’s another marina on Hindmarsh Island, too.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘You get the ferry at Goolwa.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ nodded Les. ‘Hey, have you ever heard of a boat called the Trough Queen? I’m looking for the owner.’

  The woman looked at Les and shook her head. ‘No. Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll ask around Goolwa.’

  ‘If you don’t do any good there, ask the fishermen in the pub.’

  ‘Fishermen?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ll all be in the pub Saturday night. They’d know.’

  ‘Which pub?’

  ‘The Harbor Hotel. There’s two pubs near the jetty. The Harbor and the Royal. They’ll be in the Harbor.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Les. ‘You’ve been a big help.’

  ‘No worries.’

  The woman went back to watching the seals and Les got in the car. Well, there you go, thought Norton as he drove back along the dirt road. All you have to do is ask the locals. I’ll take a run over to Goolwa. If I don’t do any good I’ll come back and ask the fishermen in the local boozer. Be funny if I bumped those blokes in the photo. Les stopped at the end of the dirt road and had a quick look at his map. On the way to Goolwa was a place called Port Elliott. I suppose I’d better have a look in there while I’m at it, he thought. It says Port. Yeah. Like this place says Harbor. Les bypassed the shopping centre again, figuring he’d check it out later and get a coffee. Just past the sea scout building on the left, Les noticed a sign. VICTOR HARBOR, WHERE YOU’RE ALWAYS WELCOME. Yeah. That’s me all right, Les smiled to himself. Everybody’s mate.

  The road to Goolwa was straight and flat through wide green fields and barren hills. Sitting amongst the farms and houses on the side of the road was an abandoned drive-in and an old sign, TEN DOLLARS A CAR LOAD. At a row of shops Les turned right into Port Elliott. The street leading to the ocean was narrow and flanked by old heritage buildings preserved in the original red-brick and sandstone. It was all very colonial and beautiful, but not what Les had come to see. He drove to the end and came out at a bluff overlooking a wide, deep bay with a rocky island in the middle. The wind had picked up, pushing a light drizzle before it and the ocean looked grey and uninviting. On a fine day it probably would have looked a picture. But not today. And again there was not a boat to be seen. Les turned around and got back on the main road.

  Entering Goolwa, Les drove past more old red-brick and sandstone buildings with verandahs built out over the footpath, and a sign said WELCOME TO GOOLWA. SOUTH AUSTRALIA’S TIDIEST TOWN. At the start of the main street another sign near the local war memorial said HINDMARSH ISLAND FERRY. Les hung a right then followed the signs, almost going round in a circle, before coming out at a railway line opposite a row of pine trees in front of a floating motel. Towering over a strip of water was a bridge under construction and just past that two rows of cars were waiting for the ferry. One lane said PRIORITY. Les pulled into the other and turned off the motor There were other buildings back amongst the trees and a restaurant on the wharf. Norton’s timing was good. Just as he pulled up the ferry pulled in. The cars in front started moving and a bloke in overalls guided them onto the ferry.

  The ferry took about a dozen vehicles and two minutes to reach Hindmarsh Island. Les followed the other cars off the ferry and started looking for the marina. The road was sealed, but all Les could see was reclaimed swamp covered in flat tundra with patches of scrub and no trees. The only touch of colour was an Aboriginal flag painted on a sheet of corrugated iron at the end of a paddock. Secret women’s business, thought Les. Christ! Why waste millions of dollars arguing over the joint? It’s a swamp. The roads seemed to circle every which way till eventually Les came across some new homes, bulldozers clearing the swamp and a blue-grey tavern with an olive green roof. Near a ring of townhouses down from the tavern was the marina.

  Les drove down to a parking area in front of a long, flat green building with a radio antenna on the roof that overlooked the marina. He parked the car and got out. Several grey wooden jetties pushed out from the grass in front of the parking area and along the jetties, rows of boats moved gently at their moorings. There was no one about; the only sound was the wind and a solitary crow squawking in the scrub. With a light drizzle softly swirling around him, Les pulled his collar up and started combing the jetties, looking for the Trough Queen.

  The boats were all cruisers and yachts named Wind Move, Lazy Life or Lady Celene with numbers on the bow: MR 6034, IF 1731, TQ 555. Definitely no old wooden clinkers. Les went over the last jetty then got back in the car. Well, it’s definitely not there. I’ll try the one in Goolwa. He started the car and drove back to the ferry. This time there were more cars and he had to wait a little longer. While he was sitting in the car Les noticed the other marina off to the right on the mainland. After cooling his heels for fifteen minutes they were herded aboard for the two-minute journey then he bumped off the ferry behind a small white truck.

  Les circled round once more then came down the main street of Goolwa. Like Port Elliott it was all old red-brick and sandstone buildings with galvanised-iron roofs and verandahs built out over the footpath. There was a hotel amongst a row of shops, a garage that looked like it had been shut since nineteen fifty, craft shops and cafes and a small horse-drawn tram displayed in a shelter. Very interesting, thought Les. He did a U-turn at a motel, stopping for a woman with a pram, then drove back and took a left at an op shop on a corner. There were more heritage buildings and houses, then Les bumped over a railway line and the marina was on the right, running alongside a park and a long patch of bullrushes. There was a small parking area in front of a brown building with BOAT SUPPLIES on the side. Les stopped the car and got out.

  The Goolwa marina was much the same as the one on Hindmarsh Island only more spread out and the boats looked a little less expensive. They had names like Big Bird, Onawa and numbers on the bow. LP 2545, MJ 663. At the end of one pier Les thought for a moment he’d found the Trough Queen. But it was only an old grey wooden clinker called White Coffee TF 3192. Les went over it just to be sure it wasn’t the Trough Queen renamed and done up. It wasn’t. Feeling a little disgruntled, Les walked back to the car.

  Well, that’s that, thought Les. My only chance now is to ask those fishermen tonight. He looked at his watch. But I don’t fancy hanging round till dark. I may as well drive back to Adelaide and come back tonight. This little car’s fun to drive and I’m doing nothing else. I wouldn’t mind a quick bite to eat right now, though. What about some fish and chips in Victor Harbor? I still haven’t had a look at the place yet. Les started the car and headed for Victor’s shopping centr
e.

  When Les got there, he went past the main street and turned left further on, doubling back down a wide road running alongside the bay. He had a quick look around then parked near a row of pine trees next to the tourist centre, where you caught a horse-drawn tram across the jetty to Granite Island. Over the road were two hotels with a park and a fountain in between and a building to the right with ENCOUNTER COAST DISCOVERY CENTRE on the side. Behind the building was a much larger park where a longer row of pine trees faced the ocean. Two small streets and a number of shops ran up from the hotel on the left and the main street started behind the hotel on the right. There weren’t many cars and people around. The main activity was a group of bike riders in coloured lycra and safety helmets. Les locked the car and crossed the road.

  The hotel the woman had mentioned, the Harbor, was the one on the left and looked quite modern with long, wide windows facing the ocean. The other hotel on the right, the Royal, had a green verandah above the footpath with signs on it saying DANCE CLUB SATURDAY, BAND FRIDAY. Set in in pavers around both pubs were lovely old gaslights and small trees. Les walked past the Royal and up the main street.

  There were the usual coffee shops, a newsagent, clothes and sporting stores, fish shops and banks. Les heard music playing — The Eagles, ‘Hotel California’. A little further on was a radio station, 99.9 FM, Great Southern Radio, and a DJ in his forties sitting in a window facing the street. Les turned back and found a fish and chip shop opposite the bank with a wooden table and bench seat out the front. This’ll do, he thought, and went inside to see what was on offer.

  There was a dark-haired woman in a white tunic standing behind the counter and a blackboard menu on the wall. Les ordered three King George whiting fillets and chips and an OJ. This didn’t take long to cook. Les paid the woman then went outside and sat down at the wooden table. He spread his fish and chips out to cool and started eating. The whiting fillets were delicious and the chips weren’t bad either. A car parked in front of where Les was sitting pulled out, and seconds later a flock of seagulls arrived, squawking and arguing with each other around Norton’s feet, waiting for a handout. Les threw them a few pieces of batter and some burnt chips to shut them up. But the more he gave them the more they wanted and the more they fought amongst each other. Les was tossing the seagulls another couple of chips when a bloke driving an old, white Jaguar with Victorian number plates pulled into the vacant parking spot, scattering the seagulls. The bloke got out of the car and locked the doors. He was wearing a blue-check shirt tucked into a pair of blue King Gee trousers and he was bigger than Les, with a beefy, florid face and long black sidelevers. For some reason he gave Les a dirty look before crossing over to use the ATM outside the bank. As soon as he left, the seagulls returned for another handout. A couple landed on top of the bloke’s restored Jaguar and shat on it. Les tossed the seagulls some more chips as the bloke came back from the ATM. As soon as he saw the seagulls sitting on his car, his florid face turned purple.

  ‘Ahh get off the car, you mongrels,’ he cursed, scattering the two seagulls. ‘I just washed the fuckin thing.’ The bloke looked at Les finishing his fish and chips and muttered something under his breath.

  Les smiled up at the bloke good naturedly. ‘They reckon that’s a sign of good luck,’ said Les, nodding to the two piles of white shit on the roof of the car.

  Sidelevers glared at Les. ‘You’re lucky I don’t shove those fuckin fish ’n’ chips down your throat, you prick,’ he growled.

  Norton’s eyes narrowed. It hadn’t been a good day, even without the weather.

  ‘Yeah?’ replied Les. ‘Well how about you shove your old bomb Valiant up your fat arse instead, you big goose.’

  ‘What did you fuckin say?’ snarled Sidelevers.

  ‘You heard,’ said Les. ‘What? Are you deaf as well as ugly?’

  ‘Why you smartarse fuckin cunt.’

  The big bloke came charging round on the left to grab Les by the front of his tracksuit and pull him out from behind the table. Les edged back a little, then quickly stood up and slammed the top of his head into Sidelever’s nose, stopping him dead in his tracks. The big bloke howled with pain as blood started pouring out of his mangled nose, and down his chin. Les pushed Sidelevers back, then bent slightly at the knees and belted him under the ear with a short, devastating left hook. The big bloke’s legs went from under him and he fell down in the gutter next to his car, out cold. Les looked at him for a moment, then picked up the wrapping paper from the table and scattered what was left of his fish and chips all over Sidelever’s chest. In a squawking, screeching frenzy, the seagulls immediately swarmed onto the big bloke’s check shirt and started gobbling up the scraps. One dropped a shit on his forehead. Les scrunched up the wrapping paper, tossed it in the nearest bin along with his empty OJ container and walked back to the car. On the way out of town he saw the sign again: VICTOR HARBOR, WHERE YOU’RE ALWAYS WELCOME. Yeah. That’s me, nodded Les. Making friends wherever I go.

  Les stopped at the garage near the Goolwa turn-off and bought a packet of jaffas and some mineral water. He had a fiddle with the navigator while he was sitting there, getting Route Selection, Optimise Distance. And the woman’s voice saying softer — louder. Les had a pretty good idea how to get back to Adelaide anyway, so he just left the navigator turned on and kept his map next to him. Well. So much for beautiful downtown Victor Harbor in the daytime, thought Les, popping a jaffa in his mouth. I wonder what it’ll be like when I come back tonight? Cold, I’d reckon. He hit the blinker and headed for Adelaide.

  The farms and turn-offs to local hamlets went by. Les wasn’t thinking about much. There wasn’t much to think about. Things hadn’t quite turned out the way he expected. But it wasn’t over yet. He still had one shot left. And trying not to be over optimistic, Les had a feeling something would turn up in the hotel when he met the local fishermen. He took a tape from his backpack and popped it in the stereo. Next thing Lee Kernaghan was twanging ‘Aussie Dog House Blues’. Mount Compass went by and further on a turn-off to some place called Yundi. It didn’t seem long and Professor Ratbaggy was singing ‘Love Letter’ and Les was in downtown Adelaide.

  ‘Right turn. Five hundred metres.’

  ‘Okay, baby,’ said Les.

  ‘In two hundred and fifty metres, take the next turn on your right.’

  The navigator hadn’t been saying all that much and whether it was working properly or Les had somehow fluked it, he didn’t know. But the Bar Kings’ ‘Treat Me Right’ faded out just as Les pulled safely into the driveway of the Adelaide Grande. He opened the door to get out and pushed the minus button on the navigator.

  As the concierge approached, the voice said, ‘Softer. Softer.’

  Les gave him a smile. ‘Be nice to my girlfriend, won’t you.’

  The concierge smiled back and gave Les his receipt. ‘No problems, Mr Ullrich. We’ll look after her.’

  Les caught the lift to his room and got out of his damp tracksuit. After spending most of the day sitting in the car, he felt like another swim in the heated pool to stretch out a bit. He put his Speedos on, climbed into the bathrobe and with a towel over his shoulder, caught the lift down to the pool to give the guests another glimpse of his freckly backside. Except when he got there, two other guests were in the pool — a couple of young Japanese honeymooners who went awfully coy when Les dived in alongside them. Les gave them a smile then spent an enjoyable time flopping around and breaststroking up and down the pool. The only chilling thought, apart from the weather, was knowing it all had to end and he wouldn’t be doing any swimming in the remand yard at Long Bay. Les finally got out and went back to his room. He rang room service and ordered another Caesar salad, plus a club sandwich and coffee. Then he got under the shower. His food arrived, Les switched on the TV and ate it watching a wildlife documentary. After putting the empty tray outside the door, he changed into a pair of jeans, a clean grey T-shirt and his leather jacket. He checked everything he needed was
in his backpack, then went down and collected the Hyundai.

  Minutes later Les was taking a night drive through the suburbs of Adelaide. Somewhere along the way the voice said, ‘Right turn, five hundred metres.’

  ‘Righto, sweetheart,’ replied Les. ‘You don’t have to nag. I think I know where I’m going by now.’

  A bit further on the voice said, ‘In two hundred and fifty metres, take the next turn on your right.’

  ‘Hey, I won’t tell you again,’ said Les. ‘Knock up on the nagging. You don’t know who you’re dealing with, woman.’

  Bloody sheilas, smiled Les. You can’t tell them anything. He slipped on a tape and Steely Dan started bopping out ‘Cousin Dupree’. The Hippos were ‘Three Steps From The Blues’ when Les drove into Victor Harbor.

  Les pulled up facing the park opposite the Harbor Hotel and switched off the motor. He got out of the car and there was a bitter wind blowing straight in off the ocean; as he’d surmised earlier, it was cold all right. There weren’t many cars around and the surrounding cafes were almost empty. From the hotel further down Les could hear music coming from upstairs and see the punters drinking in one of the bars below. Across the road at the Harbor Hotel two bars faced the street; a lounge on the left and a smaller one on the right. Oh well, here goes nothing, thought Les. He shouldered his backpack and walked over to check out the lounge first.

  A long bar faced the door as you entered and inside it was split into two sections: a raised lounge on the left with a gaming room behind, and a betting room on the right. The barmaids wore white shirts and rugged-up in jackets and scarves was an average crowd of all ages and sexes, seated or standing around enjoying a drink and a smoke. The betting room was full of TV sets showing the prices and a TAB doing brisk business on the trots. Above the bar were photos and paintings of racehorses and a wooden cabinet full of cups and trophies. Set up in the lounge was a duo called Joe and Danny who were currently on a break. Les had a quick look around then walked into the lounge first. Nothing much was happening in there so he walked back to the betting room. After checking out the punters, Les got a feeling he was in the wrong part of the hotel. He stepped across to the bar and caught one of the barmaid’s eye.