The Grand Hotel

by Gregory Day

  As the enthusiastic man spoke on the radio, Maria and I dared not look at each other for fear of disturbing the process. So far so good. Kooka was looking decidedly relaxed; he already seemed to be sleeping among the blankets. My presence in the room had not bothered him one bit. But would it bother the little black transistor? That was the question.

  As the man waxed lyrical about how the ingenious old Darwin houses were the forerunners of new environmental design, the tranny suddenly glitched and his voice was cut off. For a moment or two we were subjected to just pure static before, just as suddenly, the static ceased and a new set of sounds emerged.

  Immediately, through the shifting sounds of the load of coal, wood knocking on wood, the buckle of the wheels, and the tinkling of a horse’s harness, I recognised what Maria had already described to me. It was Joan Sweeney and Tom String, taking the ocean coal back to The Grand Hotel on the dray.

  Meeting Mr Arvo

  I leant forward in my chair. Within only a few seconds of our listening to Tom String and Joan Sweeney jigging along in the dray, they came to a resounding halt. Tom String started cursing. They were at the top of the Boatbuilder’s Track. To this day Boatbuilder’s Road, as we call it, remains dangerously steep, so much so that my sister-in-law recently used it as a training ground for her trekking holiday in Nepal. It seemed, however, that the palomino of history had other ideas. He was digging his feet in.

  ‘Oh blow you, you two-faced mule,’ Tom String was calling. ‘You’ve done it before. What’s the rub?’

  ‘It’s obviously the full dray behind him,’ said a reasoning Joan Sweeney. ‘He’s scared it’ll come down on top of him.’

  ‘Pah. I’ve had him bring a load of ironbark down this hill. I tell you he’s got a bloody headache – from those dregs you let him in on.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’re right,’ laughed Joan Sweeney. ‘What about we give him a hair of the dog?’

  This time Tom String snorted like a horse. ‘You’re a fine one, missus. That’s quite enough of the lighter side, thank you very much.’

  ‘No, Tom, I’m serious,’ she replied, but still with a humorous tone. ‘You’d do the same for a man who couldn’t work for a hangover.’

  Tom String blew an exasperated breath. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, missus? This ain’t a man, it’s a horse. Let’s start treatin’ him as such.’

  And with that came the rustling sound of the wattles-witch, before it rapped down on the hide of poor Paul. Tom String hit the horse three times in succession, with cries of ‘Ho, thee!’ before giving up in disgust.

  The horse snorted, then chewed its cud. The harness tinkled as Paul shifted his feet where he stood, looking headfirst down the precarious Boatbuilder’s hill.

  For a time there was silence, a stymie. Then Joan Sweeney said, ‘Here, Tom, at least let’s try it. You don’t seem to have any other bright ideas.’

  ‘I am not feedin’ this horse from my cask of grog in broad daylight. It’s what your dead husband would call “half caste behaviour”, Mrs Sweeney.’

  ‘Yes, but the point is all bets are off, Tom. The hotel must open for lunch and it’s getting on. I demand we try it.’

  Tom String sighed. ‘Very well then, missus.’

  The sound of his feet landing on the ground as he hopped off the cart preceded a rummaging in the toolbox before the telltale sound of a cork squeaking from a bottle was heard. Then the liquid glug of beer being poured into a metal container.

  ‘Would the good lady like to do the honours?’ said Tom String, with sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Joan Sweeney, before she too hopped down off the cart. ‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said, as he handed her the beer. ‘Now, Pauly, all your Christmases have come at once, old boy. You take it from me, I’m a publican, I know. This’ll fix you up.’

  As the horse slurped the beer out of its container, Maria and I looked at each other for the first time. Both of us were smiling.

  Before long the beer had been drunk and the palomino’s tongue could be heard scouring the empty metal. Then he neighed, quite distinctly asking for more.

  ‘A top up? Most certainly, sir,’ said Joan Sweeney. ‘Tom, a top up of your Native Companion Ale for this gentleman, please.’

  I could only imagine the look on Tom String’s face as he rolled his eyes before pouring more beer from his travelling cask into the horse’s cup. Once again Paul slurped it up. Then, if I am not mistaken, he farted. Either that or it was Tom String, expressing his disgust. I think it was the horse, however, because Joan Sweeney said, ‘Hear that, Tom? The sweet sound of satisfaction. That’s music to the mine hostess’s ears.’

  The cork was then squeaked back into the cask, the cask returned to its place beside the mattock and other tools, and the two passengers, Tom String and Joan Sweeney, resumed their positions in the dray.

  After a few moments the swish of the wattle was heard again but no resounding thwack on the hide was needed. It was enough this time that the wattle had been raised. The horse and cart set off, ever so gingerly negotiating the steep downslope of the Boatbuilder’s hill.

  A shiver went up my spine when finally they made it to the bottom, rounded the left-hand corner and Paul broke into a trot along the Dray Road, heading seawards on the riverflat. Surely they weren’t far from the hotel now, and for the life of me I tried to picture the scene. For a start there would be no houses, and not as many trees because of the stock. There would be no Ocean Road either; where the Dray Road terminated at the hotel corner there would have only been a sandy bridle track running away westways along the shoreline. Before too long I was smelling wild freesias by the roadside, seeing trout jumping in the riverbend, watching wedgies sailing in the thermals high above, with freshwater springs every mile or so and the whole air of the place tangy and pure. I was reminded of the Reconstructed Inlet picture we had on the wall of the bar downstairs, except that now the picture had come to life, there was a cart in a trot, and from the Dray Road the original Grand Hotel would soon come into view.

  And then, blazing across my vision, to the right of the melodic cart, I saw the brolga pairs dotting the riverflat. The grass was green and lush, and they pranced, frisked, bowing, jumping suddenly into the air, browsing the ground with their bright crimson heads, in the same stable blue weather in which Joan Sweeney had enjoyed her swim.

  ‘Woah there, Pauly,’ Tom String cried as the dray reached the riverbend. Then he called out, ‘That’s no place to read, Mr Arvo. That pontoon was built for loading and unloading my barrels.’

  ‘Don’t you mind him,’ called Joan Sweeney. ‘He doesn’t even know his own horse.’

  ‘Mrs Sweeney, Tom String – a fine day,’ called the man on the riverbend pontoon politely, in a European accent.

  ‘Yairs. A top day for workin’. Readin’s for the rain,’ Tom String called back, continuing his jest.

  There was no reply from Mr Arvo.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Arvo, you just ignore him. His horse does,’ Joan Sweeney joked.

  Tom String geed the palomino lightly, manoeuvring the dray off the clip-clop of the road and onto the softer grass of the riverbank proper, closer to the pontoon.

  ‘What would they say back in your country, Mr Arvo, about a lady publican who feeds good grog to the horses?’ he asked, as Paul’s hooves settled on the grass of the bank.

  Mr Arvo’s reply was light and good humoured. ‘My apologies, Tom, you cannot corner me to say a cross word of Mrs Sweeney. I’m sure my room is the best in the whole colony, let alone in The Grand Hotel.’

  At this Tom String burst into howls of sardonic laughter. His palm could be heard slapping his big thigh where he sat on the cart. The laughter was so forceful that by rights it should have scared the horse, but there was no movement from Paul, not even a shift of feet. ‘That’s a good one, Mr Arvo! The best in the colony you say. And how long have you been ’ere?’

  ‘I first arrived in ’75.’

  ‘Why,
that’s over a couple of decades ago now. You been sleepin’ in hollow logs all that time? No one’s ever mentioned The Windsor to you, in Melbourne, not even in passin’?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard of The Windsor, Tom. I imagine it’s very fine. But far too noisy for me.’

  ‘Noisy you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joan Sweeney chimed in. ‘Like you, Tom String. Noisy. At this rate Mr Arvo will be moving on sooner than he’d wish.’

  ‘Aw, that’d be a shame,’ said Tom String. ‘I’d like to hear more of his imaginin’s. The Grand Hotel the finest in the colony! What other secrets can be found in that book you’re readin’, Mr Arvo?’

  The Balt laughed a little defensively. Then Joan Sweeney asked, ‘Will you be wanting lunch today, Mr Arvo?’

  ‘No, Mrs Sweeney. Your cook, Mrs Lynch, made me a sandwich for my walk.’

  ‘And I s’pose if you get peckish you can always catch a fish,’ said Tom String, laughing still, mainly to himself.

  ‘Or pick some of the blackberries further along the bank,’ Joan Sweeney cut in.

  ‘Yes, all that, yes,’ said Mr Arvo. ‘No, but for now I think the sandwich will be plenty. Perhaps I’ll take a berry or two when it’s time to leave.’

  ‘Well, Bertie Bolitho’ll be grateful if you do. They’re the bane of his life those berries,’ said Tom String.

  ‘Anyhow then. Cheerio, Mr Arvo,’ said Joan Sweeney. ‘We must get this coal unloaded and open doors. You never know who’s to show up at The Grand on a fine day at this time of year.’

  Tom String clicked his tongue and geed his Pauly to move. The horse let out a deeply resistant groan. ‘Ho, thee!’ Tom String cried, and swished the wattle through the air.

  Groaning again, Paul reluctantly moved off. The planks and hasps of the dray began their knocking sounds. The harness tinkled as they covered the uneven ground of the riverbank back to the road.

  ‘You see, missus, what you’ve done now?’ Tom String said, as the wheels levelled out and Paul began to huff and snort. ‘You’ve spoilt him. He thinks it’s time for a nap. Ho, thee! Yea get up, you moke!’ the jesting slushy cried, and the half boozed palomino lumbered into a heavy trot.

  As the cart trotted off on the dirt of the Dray Road, Kooka switched position in the bed, this time rolling over onto his right side to face the ocean window of The Sewing Room, away from the bedside table and the tranny. Now we could no longer see his face clearly, just in profile, and like the palomino after it had drunk the two cups of beer at the top of the Boatbuilder’s hill, Kooka now began to fart like a trooper. The tranny glitched, we lost the sound of horse’s hooves and the jingling harness, and then, after a brief gap of nothingness, The Sewing Room was filled with pure static.

  In the absence of the dream the white noise came as a shock but as we sat there, unable to move, hoping the broadcast would recommence, it gradually began to sound just like the ocean. I grimaced, thinking how cruel it would be if just as they were approaching The Grand Hotel Kooka’s dream was broken.

  But broken it was. The ocean static lasted for only a few seconds before a man’s voice could be heard talking about the plight of the homeless in Australian cities. I’ll never forget those first words he spoke as Maria and I were ripped away from the dream. ‘ It is a common misconception among the population that only the unemployed are homeless. It is becoming increasingly common for people with jobs to sleep on the streets as well.’

  The word ‘abrupt’ does not adequately describe the transition from listening to Tom String and Joan Sweeney on the dray, to an ordinary man’s voice on night-time radio. The Blonde Maria and I sat in a common stupor of silence for the entire duration of the interview about ‘the new homeless’. When it finished, we were treated to the theme music for the four o’clock radio news.

  The Easy Glory of Her Smile

  Even after the four o’clock news had started, I hadn’t wanted to leave Kooka’s bedside, thinking that somehow the dreams might find frequency again. Eventually, after half an hour of excited whispering in the pool of light, Maria convinced me that the pattern of Kooka’s sleep could be relied upon. Every night he would dream soon after she finished reading the book, but when the dream was over there would be nothing more – just news reports, film reviews, talkback and comedy re-runs.

  So gently we tiptoed out of the room and spent the hour or so until light down in the bar. At last I could quench my thirst. To do so I chose a cup of black Lady Grey tea laced with Black Bush. We both lit cigarettes and by candlelight helped each other join the dots.

  I couldn’t contain my excitement – at times I was literally shivering with it – but I was also disappointed that the broadcast had been cut short before the cart got to the hotel. Maria said there was no guarantee that we would progress any further the following night; in fact she suggested it was a distinct possibility that Kooka may simply revert back to Joan Sweeney swimming in the ocean with her lists. I disagreed with her on this; I felt in my bones that by some miracle Kooka was dreaming us towards an explanation for why the old Grand Hotel had burnt down. As far as I was concerned, my vision of the valley full of brolgas proved it.

  In hindsight I think my head was full of greedy thoughts as we sat there in the early hours. I should have been satisfied and amazed with what I’d just experienced rather than immediately hankering for more. But, unwise and immature as I am, I wanted more. I wanted everything I could get of these uncanny nightly broadcasts, which by their very occurrence seemed to prove to me that with The Grand Hotel my own life was finally on exactly the right track.

  At first light Maria said she would try to get some sleep, so I sat alone on the pews at the big table in the bar. I could no sooner sleep than sing like The Lazy Tenor. My stomach was swarming with local butterflies and my mind retracing again and again the contents of the night. For a start it was intriguing to me that Tom String seemed so familiar. I had never heard his name, nor had Kooka ever mentioned Joan Sweeney having such an offsider. He had always described Joan Sweeney as a phenomenally capable woman who ran the pub with charm and an iron fist, but single-handedly. Now I was wondering what had happened to Tom String, and as I wondered I realised I could simply ask Kooka about him later in the day, or, better still, when I took the old fella up his breakfast.

  I looked at the cuckoo clock above the catfish skeleton on the wall. It showed 6.45am. I would wait until 7.30 and then fix Kooka an omelette. Oregano, tarragon, rosemary and mushroom, sea salt from Horseshoe Cove and fresh Otway pepper: a Grand Hotel special, just as he liked it. Then, suddenly exhausted, I rested my forehead on the hardwood of the big table and closed my eyes. And before you could say ‘yellowbellied water-rat’, I had fallen fast asleep.

  When I awoke, it was 8.25 and I recalled that it was Saturday – the day we’d set aside for our stoneskimming comp down near the Plinths. After the night I’d had, stoneskimming was the last thing I felt like doing but there was no getting around it. There were a dozen or so people who were really looking forward to the event, and I had agreed to be there on behalf of the hotel. The comp was set to kick off at 10am and then finish with a barbecue in the afternoon. But first I had to talk to Kooka.

  I found him sitting up in bed watching a welcome swallow flit about The Sewing Room. The poor bird was in a panic, and Kooka asked me if I’d open both the inland and ocean windows so it could find its way back outside.

  After flinging the windows open onto the new morning, I placed the tray with Kooka’s omelette, toast and tea onto his lap and sat down in the wicker chair beside the bed. ‘Sleep well?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Bloody oath. Like a twit,’ he said. ‘It was only the swallow that woke me up.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yairs. It was sittin’ right here on the bedside table when I opened my eyes. Just starin’ at me. Buggered if I know how it got in.’

  We both looked up to where the swallow was flying back and forth now along the room’s knotty unpainted rafters.

>   ‘You’d think it would smell the air and just head straight out now the windows are open,’ Kooka said.

  ‘I suppose it will eventually,’ I replied. ‘Doesn’t look real happy in here.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. Unlike yours truly,’ said Kooka, as he began to tuck into the omelette with relish.

  I let Kooka eat his breakfast in peace for a while until I couldn’t wait any longer. ‘I’ve got a question for ya, Kooka. About the old Grand Hotel.’

  ‘The old Grand?’ he said perfectly innocently. ‘Now that was a wild joint. They used to dance like brolgas in that old hotel.’

  My eyes widened. ‘Is that right?’ I said.

  ‘Well, by all accounts, Noely, it’d make your Grand look like the Women’s Temperance Union! No offence of course.’

  ‘None taken, Kooka. They were different times I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Mind you, even back then the old Grand had a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh well, I think Joan Sweeney was an enlightened woman. She ran a clean house, kept a nice table, but she also knew what keeps a man in the sticks sane. I mean there’s no point feeding ’em grog on the one hand and tryin’ to convert ’em on the other.’

  ‘What? Was she religious?’

  Kooka looked up from the plate. ‘Joan Sweeney? No, I wouldn’t reckon. But she was of a strong mind. She had deep beliefs.’

  ‘What kind of beliefs?’

  ‘Well it’s hard for me to say I suppose. I mean I’m only going on what I’ve got in the archive, just a scrap of info here and part of an old letter there, but I’d say she was, well, a modern thinker.’

  ‘In what way, Kooka?’

  ‘Well, for a start she believed she was definitely the equal of any fella. I can recall a part of a letter one of her offsiders wrote, where he said that “if it wasn’t for the easy glory of her smile, most coves’d think she was a toff. She has that natural dignity which no money can provide.”’