by Judy Nunn
Both the industry and the government regulator were deeply grateful to Dr Phillips and his assistant, and their efforts were widely acclaimed. As a result, the services of the soon-to-be-qualified Dr McAllister had been eagerly sought, but Mike had ignored the offers of research positions, which would have involved principally laboratory work. Instead, he'd agreed to join the WA Museum-based team on their expedition north, which was scheduled for departure in early February the following year.
'Only two months now, I can't wait,' Mike said excitedly. 'I'll be out in the field, it's what I've always wanted.'
'And what you've been working towards for six bloody years. Good on you, mate – you deserve every success.' Muzza was genuinely happy for his friend, although he'd miss Mike. Very much.
The two were seated in Muzza's kitchen, surrounded by the faces that screamed at them from the wall and the twisted shapes of bodies and wreckage strewn amongst shattered rubber trees. During his weekly visits, Mike had become accustomed to the images scrawled on the walls, and these days he ignored them. Spud and Ian, however, who called in less frequently, still found them very unsettling.
'Christ, Muz, they've been there for three months now,' Spud complained. 'You said you were going to paint over them.'
'I am.'
'When?' Ian asked.
'When I'm ready.'
Muzza wasn't sure when that would be. Perhaps never. While the drawings and paintings were there, the images didn't come to haunt him in his sleep.
The artwork had materialised through a suggestion made by the psychiatrist whom Muzza was obliged to visit on a regular basis during his six-month good-behaviour bond.
'I've been advised to seek an outlet through which I can express my anger,' he'd announced one morning when his mates had arrived to discover the lower half of one kitchen wall covered in huge charcoal-drawn faces. Some were Vietnamese, some Caucasian, all demented, all screaming in pain, or rage, it was impossible to tell which. 'They're not bad, are they?' he'd remarked, gazing at them with all the objective appraisal of an art critic. 'I always liked drawing. I should have opted for architecture instead of medicine.'
The drawings were more than 'not bad'. Despite their disturbing element, and scrawled as they were in a primitive way, they were surprisingly good.
The day Murray Hatfield's neighbour had taken him to court had proved a blessing in disguise. Muzza had attacked poor Rodney for no apparent reason, although it later turned out that he'd thought the car parked across his driveway belonged to Rodney. It hadn't been Rodney's car at all, but Muzza had nonetheless called him out into the street, charged his wheelchair at the unfortunate man and hauled him to the pavement, landing on top of him and punching away for all he was worth. Rodney, terrified, had scrambled free and called the police.
The judge had been lenient. Given the fact that Muzza was a war veteran, he'd been let off with a six-month good-behaviour bond under the proviso that he attend regular counselling sessions with a court-appointed psychiatrist.
'The shrink said I should write it all down,' he'd explained as the others had looked askance at the tormented faces on the wall, 'but I decided to draw it instead. I'm going to try painting the next lot.'
Over the ensuing weeks, the kitchen walls steadily became a battleground until Muzza ran out of space. It frustrated him that he couldn't reach higher and cover the entire wall, and he'd been about to start on the living area the other side of the arch. But then Mike had arrived with a load of art supplies, and it had proved unnecessary. Muzza found that he actually preferred an easel and canvas.
Before long, he was visiting the library and combing the bookstores, and soon the kitchen table was littered with books. He studied the work of the masters, concentrating on light and perspective, applying the lessons he taught himself daily, and although the content of his paintings remained disturbing, they began to take on a hauntingly beautiful new form. They were becoming works of art.
Muzza's behaviour was obsessive, his mates agreed, but they also agreed that he seemed much more content in himself lately. And he was certainly less reliant on the grog and the pills.
Yet further evidence of Murray Hatfield's rehabilitation had taken place in mid-November when he'd agreed to attend the grand opening of Farrell Vintage Motors.
'Sure. I'll come,' he'd said. 'The shrink says I should get out more, and I'd like to take a look at the cars.' Muzza had always been interested in vintage cars.
His mates had considered it an absolute breakthrough. Muz never socialised publicly.
'Besides,' he'd grinned, 'I want to see what all the fuss is about, don't I?'
For the past two months there had been considerable coverage in the press about Spud's latest enterprise. The site in Fremantle had been picketed by small groups of angry protesters, and several articles in the West Australian had referred to 'the desecration of a historical landmark' and 'the greedy opportunism of money-hungry developers with no care for the state's heritage'. The ongoing campaign was led by none other than Natalie Hollingsworth, Mike's old flame during his early university days, now a qualified architect and a passionate spokesperson on the preservation of historical landmarks.
Spud had taken it all in his stride. 'Natalie always was up herself,' he'd said to the others. He'd only met the girl on a few occasions, but he knew the type. Old Perth money. Natalie had had it easy all her life. Well, some people had to make it on their own, he'd thought, and Natalie Hollingsworth and her lot could just go and get fucked.
'My God, I can see what she's on about.' Muzza had been aghast as he and Mike had approached the show-rooms of Farrell Vintage Motors, where beautiful models in period dress posed by each of the vehicles on display and waiters, also in period costume, passed around trays of vintage champagne. 'It's a bloody monstrosity.'
Only the barest bones of the old bond store's façade remained. Stark remnants of convict brickwork were barely discernible amongst the Italian colonnades and ornate trimmings.
'How could they let him get away with it?'
'It seems, with the exception of Natalie and her followers, few people care about old buildings any more,' Mike had replied caustically. It was a direct quote from Spud, who'd refused to listen to criticism from the outset, and Mike had certainly offered his.
'Stop being over-sensitive,' Spud had said, 'nobody cares any more. It's all about modernising these days. You just need to maintain a bit of the old stuff to keep the wowsers happy and it works every time. Look what they've done to the barracks.'
'Exactly!' To Mike, the comment had proved his point beyond a doubt. The demolition of the magnificent Perth military barracks was nearing completion, and nothing was left but its lonely arched entrance standing at the top of St Georges Terrace like a miniaturised Arc de Triomphe. It was a travesty. 'It looks bloody ridiculous.'
Spud had remained dismissive. 'Depends on your point of view. I think it looks great myself. And the rest of the stuff was just a waste of space anyway.'
The grand opening of Farrell Vintage Motors had not disappointed. It had been grand to the point of absolute ostentation, and Mike and Muzza had watched the spectacle in open-mouthed amazement.
Spud himself had arrived in a bright red Itala claimed to be one of the original vehicles driven in the 1907 Great Race from Peking to Paris. The vehicle was privately owned and was neither for sale nor hire, but would serve as an exhibition piece and, given its reputed history, a major attraction for a month following the opening. Anthony Wilson had had the Itala flown in at enormous personal expense, and was secretly livid that Spud had not only received the credit but had had the honour of arriving in style when it should have been him. There was nothing he could do about it, however, and Spud's spectacular arrival had been the highlight of the occasion, along with the address from the Honourable Gerrard Whitford, Minister for Tourism, who had officially opened the show-rooms, flanked either side by pretty young girls in period costume.
Natalie Hollingsworth and h
er small band of followers had been plainly visible through the large display windows, chanting slogans and waving placards out in the street, but the minister had appeared unfazed by the sight. He'd personally congratulated Spud Farrell on saving a fine old building from destruction while simultaneously offering an innovative new service to the citizens of Perth and providing a fresh attraction for tourists and locals alike.
'Well,' Muzza had remarked as he and Mike had left the showrooms, 'my first social outing for some time has certainly proved a learning experience. Can't wait to tell the shrink.'
Now the two sat comfortably in Muzza's kitchen, Mike waxing enthusiastic about his forthcoming expedition and Muzza busy at his easel and canvas. He was painting Mike's portrait. He'd been working on it for several weeks and it was nearing completion, but he refused to let Mike see his work.
'Not until it's finished,' he'd repeatedly insisted, but it was obvious he was pleased with his efforts.
Muzza had finally stopped painting the haunted faces and visions of his dreams, and turned his hand to portraits instead – the final proof, in Mike's opinion, that Murray Hatfield had rejoined the world. He'd completed two self-portraits, neither of which he was happy with despite his friends finding them extraordinarily good, but this third piece, his study of Mike, he secretly considered his masterpiece.
'Are you coming to watch the parade with us next Saturday?' Mike asked, sitting back in his chair. He'd talked enough about himself and his work, he decided.
'I've thought about it.' Paintbrush poised, Muzza's eyes flickered from the canvas to Mike. 'Keep leaning on the table.' Mike did as he was told. 'I'd really like to see the cars, but there's bound to be a huge crowd so I reckon I'll give it a miss.' He paused, dabbing at the portrait. 'Besides,' he added, an unpleasantly sarcastic edge to his tone, 'beauty quests are hardly my bag.'
'Fair enough.'
Mike made no further comment. He hadn't assumed that the beauty quest would be Muzza's bag. But vintage cars certainly were. Muz was over-reacting again.
Silence reigned for a moment while Muzza regretted his unnecessary dig. The mere thought of women was enough, sometimes, to put him on a downward spiral. And why not? When you couldn't get it up for the rest of your bloody life, women were a thing of the past, weren't they? But that was hardly Mike's fault.
'So what time's it all happening?' he asked, keen to make amends.
'The cavalcade and opening ceremony are mid-afternoon, and the beauty quest starts at four – Spud says they want to avoid the full heat of the day.'
Mike was aware that Muzza's query was tantamount to an apology, although he considered no apology necessary himself. The odd outbursts of bitterness were perfectly understandable. For all of the progress made over the past six months, Muzza was still a damaged man psycho-logically. Perhaps he always would be. And who could blame him?
'I'll watch it on television,' Muzza said. 'According to the newspapers, it's going to be the biggest thing since sliced bread.'
'Of course it will be.' Mike laughed. 'Spud's at the helm.'
A quarter of an hour later when he took his leave, they were still talking about Spud's audacity.
'Don't ask me how he does it.' Mike shook his head in bewilderment.
'That's Spud,' Muzza said. 'He'll never change.'
Farrell Vintage Motors was one of the minor sponsors involved in the finals of the WA Beach Girl Beauty Quest to be held at Scarborough the following weekend.
For the past month, state-wide competitions had been conducted in the larger beachside towns as far north as Port Hedland and as far south as Albany. The events, promoted by the state Department of Tourism and backed by local businesses, had proved popular, contestants from surrounding coastal areas being joined by dozens of hopefuls who had travelled hundreds of miles from rural centres, remote bush townships and even outback cattle stations. The girls' expenses had been footed by their families and local communities, but the quest's grand final was to be a different matter altogether. The twenty lucky finalists were to be flown to Perth courtesy of Ansett Airlines, where they would be accommodated courtesy of the Ocean Beach Hotel at North Cottesloe, a venue that perfectly fitted the ethos of the quest, it had been decided. They would be transported in chauffeur-driven limousines courtesy of Avis, and the winner would receive a healthy cash prize, a return trip to New York courtesy of Qantas, and a guaranteed six-month photographic modelling contract.
Many large corporations had been only too happy to join the state government in sponsoring the grand final of the WA Beach Girl Beauty Quest, particularly as the event was to be televised. But somehow Farrell Vintage Motors, in providing its vehicles, had managed to make the event appear its own.
The contestants were to be transported in a cavalcade of vintage cars down the Scarborough Esplanade, the driver of each car in full period costume. Leading the cavalcade would be the famous 1907 Itala, and From Paris to Peking to Perth was the proud slogan that had featured in recent advertisements. Driving the Itala would be well-known Perth identity Spud Farrell, and accompanying him would be the special guest of honour, none other than the symbol of Western Australia herself, Mayjay.
For the past seven months, Mayjay had dominated television screens, billboards and magazines, not only across the state but the entire country. The rest of Australia had been treated to the image of Mayjay in the glorious surrounds the west had to offer. Mayjay framed by a dramatic sunset over the Indian Ocean; Mayjay against the backdrop of stark red rock, which could only be the Kimberleys; Mayjay dwarfed by the giant karri trees of the southern timberlands . . . and on it went.
The lengthy promotional campaign adopted by the state Department of Tourism was proving successful, and the advertising agency's idea to incorporate a beauty quest had been considered a positive brainwave. Glorious girls from all over the state would compete in the WA Beach Girl Beauty Quest, and who better to present the sash and crown to the winning contestant than the face of WA herself – the original beach girl beauty, Mayjay.
'So we finally get to meet her, do we?'
Mike exchanged an incredulous glance with Ian. It was Friday night and Spud had just offered them invitations to the sponsors bash after the following day's event.
'All the contestants will be there,' Spud had said, before casually adding, 'and Mayjay too.'
Both Mike and Ian had been sceptical when Spud had told them, months ago, that he knew Mayjay, particularly as he'd been so enigmatic about the fact. 'She's the daughter of a friend of mine,' he'd said, nothing more, and they'd thought it might be so much bullshit. But the more ubiquitous Mayjay had become – it seemed, as the months passed, she was everywhere they looked – the more Spud had stuck to his story until they saw no reason to disbelieve him. Spud wasn't one for empty boasts, and now it appeared he was going to make good with a personal introduction.
'Oh, you'll get to meet her all right, I guarantee it. But a word of warning: dress like the sponsors, suit and tie. It's a private party and there'll be hundreds trying to crash it.' He grinned. 'The organisers reckon they want to keep the yobbos out, but it's my guess the lecherous bastards want to keep the girls to themselves.'
Scarborough Beach on a hot December day was always crowded – the broad white expanse of sand littered with bodies baking in the sun, the postcard aquamarine of the sea teeming with those cooling off from the heat, or, when the surf was up, riding the waves to shore.
Fronting onto the coastal scrub where the surf club stood, and where the sandhills led down to the main beach, was the broad avenue of the Scarborough Esplanade. It was just three blocks long, the intervening streets leading back to the major link road of the West Coast Highway, but during the height of midsummer, the three short blocks of the Esplanade were, for many, the most exciting place in Perth. Families thronged to Luna Park, drinkers lounged in the beer garden of the Scarborough Beach Hotel, and bathing-costume-clad queues lined up at the hamburger joint of Peters by the Sea. But the attraction that
drew the greatest crowds was undoubtedly the Snake Pit, which sat in the middle of the three blocks, Luna Park to the south and the hotel to the north. The Snake Pit was famous. Or rather, it was infamous. Although it hadn't started out that way.