Mystery Bay Blues

by Robert G. Barrett

  Warren thought for a moment. ‘That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Clover might like to take a run down the south coast and see her oldies.’

  ‘Yeah. Where’s she come from again?’

  ‘Dalmeny. Just next to Narooma.’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Les absently. ‘The only blue’s finding somewhere to stay down there. You can bet the place’ll be booked out on a long weekend.’

  ‘That mightn’t be a problem,’ said Warren. ‘Clover’s parents own a house right in the middle of Narooma.’

  ‘They do?’ said Les. ‘Yeah. But I don’t fancy imposing on people.’

  ‘No. They don’t live there,’ assured Warren. ‘They just own it. It’s a real old joint. Been in the family for years.’

  ‘Yeah? Maybe they’ll rent it out for the weekend. I’ll pay the freight.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Warren. ‘I’ll ring Clover and see what’s the story.’

  ‘Unreal,’ said Les. ‘That’d be the grouse if we could get a place to stay.’ Les sipped the last of his tea. ‘So what’s doing? You going out tonight?’

  ‘No. I’ll stay home. There’s some work I got to catch up on.’

  ‘All right,’ said Les. ‘I’ll knock up something to eat.’

  ‘Okay. See you when I get home.’

  ‘See you then, Woz.’

  Les took his mug into the kitchen then had a look in the fridge. There was some chicken and vegetables and things not doing anything. Les started cooking a chicken stew with okra and eggplant and a pot of rice. While that was simmering he put on some music, got his rubber mat out and did some yoga exercises from a book Clover had loaned him. About the only pose he could do properly was a Cobra. His back may have been getting better all the time, but it was still sore and if he didn’t do as Bernie and his doctor told him, he’d throw the thing out again for sure. Les did what he could then just lay there on his back listening to the stereo. Finally he got up, had a shower and changed into his blue trackies. By the time he sorted out the chicken stew over a couple of cool ones, it was dark and Warren had arrived home. Les heard him go into his bedroom then Warren walked into the kitchen, his Shooter denim shirt hanging out over his designer denim jeans.

  ‘So what’s doing, Woz?’ said Les. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Good as gold,’ said Warren, taking a Carlton long neck from the fridge. ‘I’d just forgotten where I put that floppy. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s all that pot you’re smoking,’ said Les. ‘Your memory’s gone. You’ve got CRAFT syndrome. Can’t remember a fuckin thing.’

  Warren blinked at Les over his beer. ‘Are you talking to me? Hello. Where am I?’ He looked at his reflection in the kitchen window. ‘Is that me over there? What am I doing here? Whose house is this?’

  ‘Yeah righto,’ nodded Les. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Yeah. That smells all right too.’ Warren lifted the lid off the pot. ‘Chicken?’

  ‘No. It’s Alaskan musk rat.’ Les sipped some beer. ‘So did you ring Clover?’

  ‘Yeah. Everything’s sweet. In fact I’ll ring her right now and you can talk to her yourself.’ Warren went into the lounge then came out a few minutes later and handed the phone to Les.

  ‘Clover,’ said Les. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good thanks, Les,’ came Clover’s cheery voice over the phone. ‘Warren told me about the tickets to the blues festival.’

  ‘Yeah. You interested?’ asked Les.

  ‘I certainly am,’ replied Clover. ‘Just because I drop the odd disco biscuit and hit a rave now and again, doesn’t mean I don’t like good, head-banging, foot-stomping rock ’n’ roll, big daddy.’

  ‘You’re beautiful, Clover,’ smiled Les. ‘So what’s doing with this house your oldies have got down there?’

  ‘Yes. It’s right in the middle of town. About two minutes walk from where they hold the festival.’

  ‘Unreal. Can I rent it over the weekend?’ asked Les.

  ‘No. You can’t rent it, Les. Sorry.’

  ‘I can’t? Ohh shit!’

  ‘No. But you can have it for free. Until the Wednesday after the long weekend.’

  Les shook his head. ‘Fair dinkum, Clover. You’re unreal. When are you going to piss Warren off and get with me?’

  ‘I can’t, Les. I’m hopelessly in love with him.’

  ‘Fair enough. So what do I do? Pick the key up from a real estate agent?’

  ‘No. Mum and Dad hardly ever rent it. It’s … it’s a kind of family heirloom.’

  Les shrugged. ‘Okay. So what do I do?’

  ‘You got a piece of paper and a biro?’

  Les got a notepad and a biro and Clover gave him instructions. The address was 3 Browning Street. Close by was a Christian Op-Shop. Ask for Edith or Joyce. They’d give him the key. The house was empty at present. Les could move in when he liked. He just had to be out by Wednesday before some people came to steam clean the carpets.

  ‘That sounds fantastic,’ said Les, doing a little doodle above the notes and the map he’d drawn, from the instructions Clover had given him over the phone. ‘Are you going to stay there too?’

  ‘No,’ replied Clover. ‘I’ll stay with my parents. You and Warren can have it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘But you’ll love the house, Les,’ said Clover. ‘It’s got a great view, it’s even got a piano. And it’s got … it’s got charisma.’

  ‘Sensational,’ said Les. ‘We can all stand round the piano singing charismasy carols.’

  ‘Les. Give me a break.’

  ‘Sorry Clover.’

  ‘So how’s your back?’ she asked.

  ‘Getting better. I even managed a bit more yoga this afternoon.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘All right,’ said Les. ‘I’ll put you back onto Warren. If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you in Narooma.’

  ‘Okay. Bye Les.’

  Les handed the phone to Warren. Warren took it back out to the loungeroom, finished his beer talking to Clover, then walked back into the kitchen.

  ‘So have I got connections? Or have I got connections?’ he asked, dropping his empty into the kitchen tidy before getting another beer from the fridge.

  ‘You sure have, old mate,’ replied Les. ‘The tickets are on the coffee table. Open the envelope and check out the lineup.’

  Warren got the envelope, brought it out to the kitchen and studied the brochure. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘There’s everybody here but the Morman Tabernacle Choir.’

  ‘They arrive on Sunday,’ said Les. ‘Along with the Russian Cossack dancers and Kylie Minogue. All wearing gold hot pants.’ Les got another beer also. ‘I’ll drive down early Thursday morning and beat the traffic. So when you arrive, I’ll have the house stocked with plenty of food and piss.’

  Warren nodded. ‘I’ll get away from work as early as I can on Friday. Allowing for the traffic, and picking up Clover, we should be there by about eight or nine o’clock Friday night.’

  Les rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘That’s about when it kicks off.’ He winked at Warren. ‘I reckon this could be good.’

  ‘So do I,’ nodded Warren. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Les served up the chicken which turned out even better than he thought it would. They both stuffed themselves and talked about this and that. Then after they cleaned up, Warren had a shower and locked himself into his computer. Les propped on the lounge in front of the big screen TV he’d shouted himself with the money from Adelaide and watched a video Warren had brought home from work, Black Hawk Down. There was heaps of action and bombs going off, which all sounded pretty good coming through the stereo. And Eric Bana wasn’t too bad as the laconic, Delta Force, all-American, superhero. But Eric’s Kentucky fried, suthin’ accent? Les wasn’t too sure. By eleven o’clock Norton was on the nod and so was Warren. Les hit the sack looking forward to a long weekend of ‘head-banging, foot-stomping’ rock ’n’ roll. Les was up before Warren, wearing a blue cot
ton tracksuit and his new black trainers with the little plastic springs on the bottom. He had some coffee and toast then set out for a walk, leaving a cheap overnight bag with a towel in it at South Bondi. It was another lovely spring day with a light, off-shore breeze, hardly a cloud in the sky, and the morning sun sparkling on the ocean. Les followed the cliffs to Clovelly and back, pleased that his walks were getting brisker all the time. He retrieved his bag then had a swim and a shower at North Bondi, stopping for a while to talk with a couple of blokes he knew from the Cross. When Les returned home with the paper and a road map of NSW, the morning was almost over. He toasted a couple of bacon and tomato sandwiches and washed them down with a mug of tea, then decided he’d clean the car out before he started packing his gear.

  Les was jangling the car keys and about to open the driverside door, when he noticed the car was due for registration on Friday. The slip from the RTA had been on his dressing table for a month and he’d forgotten all about it. He’d also forgotten the front tyres were bald and there was a small hole in the muffler. Les shook his head. And I’ve got the hide to bag Warren about him losing his memory. Bugger it! Without any further to-do, Les locked the house then drove over to Chicka’s garage at Bronte.

  Chicka was happy to see Les; but he was flat out. He’d order the tyres and a new muffler. Les would have to leave the car and pick it up in the morning; it should be ready by nine, he said. There wasn’t much Les could do except nod his head. He told Chicka he’d see him in the morning and caught a taxi home.

  It was warmer now and much too good a day to be inside. Les got his banana chair, walked back down to North Bondi and propped on the sand with a book. He went for another swim then caught up with the same blokes he’d been talking to earlier and they had steak, chips and salad at the Rathouse. They followed this with a good, strong coffee at Speedos then Norton went home.

  Les spent what was left of the afternoon preparing for the trip. He packed his camera, his snorkelling gear and the binoculars Eddie had given him — along with, what he imagined would be more than enough clothes, a few other odds and ends and his ghetto blaster. He also cleaned his thermos and made some ham and salad sandwiches, figuring on eating something half decent on the way down, rather than a diabetes-burger, fries and Coke. By the time Les had this organised, he’d finished two beers, the sun had gone down and he was eating last night’s leftovers while he studied his road map. Narooma wasn’t that far away. Four or five hours at the most. Even counting on a trip to the RTA, he should be there in time to pick up the key. He rang Price and left a message on his answering service to say where he was going and when he’d be back. Not that there was any drama at the Kelly Club. Big Danny was filling in admirably and Les could take all the time off he needed to recuperate. Les was checking what was on TV when the phone rang. It was Warren.

  ‘Woz. What’s happening old mate?’ said Les.

  ‘Not much,’ replied Warren. ‘I’m at Clover’s. We’re going to the pictures and I’ll stay at her place tonight.’

  ‘Half your luck.’

  ‘Listen. She said if we get down there late, and you’ve already gone to the festival, there’s a welcome mat outside the front door. Leave the key under it so I can get in.’

  ‘Okay mate. No worries,’ assured Les. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. Let’s just hope the weather stays like it was today. Did you do anything?’ Les told Warren about his day knowing exactly what his reply would be. ‘Hah!’ chortled Warren. ‘And you’ve got the fuckin hide to bag me about my memory. You wally.’

  ‘Yes. You’ve got me again, Warren.’ Les hadn’t told Warren he’d been sneaking a bit of his pot and having a little joint sometimes when he did his yoga with the stereo on. It wasn’t a bad buzz. ‘I apologise.’

  ‘So you should. All right dude. We’ll see you Friday night,’ said Warren.

  ‘Okay Woz. See you then.’

  There wasn’t a great deal on TV. Les watched some rubbish, then Foreign Correspondent. After that he climbed into bed with his book, The Perfect Storm by Sebastian Junger. All Les could think when he finally turned off the light was there had to be better ways of earning a living than fishing for swordfish off Grand Banks. Before long Les was snoring peacefully.

  Les had a sleep-in the next morning. But he’d finished breakfast, changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and was pulling up in a taxi outside Chicka’s garage right on nine to find the mechanic putting the last wheel on his car. Les checked the two new tyres, picked up his rego sticker and green slip, paid Chicka and was soon driving out the door heading for the RTA in Bondi Junction. It was a beautiful, sunny day and Les wasn’t enjoying the morning crawl along Bronte Road. He found a parking spot near the Cock ’n’ Bull and walked round to the Roads and Transport Authority. The queue was surprisingly short and Les was back home attaching the new rego sticker to his windscreen before he knew it. He put his gear in the boot and placed several tapes and an overnight bag next to him. He took a last look at the house and had a quick glance at his watch, then started towards the Princes Highway. Les listened to the radio as far as Sutherland before he slipped on a tape. Seconds later, Barbara Blue was reggaeing the old Janis Joplin song, ‘Piece Of My Heart’, and Les was heading for the south coast.

  The first tape finished and a surfboard sticking out from the roof of a hotel caught Norton’s eye as he drove through Berry. He slipped another tape in and The Bellhops started rocking ‘Sick and Tired’. After that it was rolling hills full of dairy cattle, with the odd winery on the right and green fields leading towards the ocean on the left. Les cruised through Nowra and Down To The Bone were cruising into ‘Bridge Port Boogie’ when a green dinosaur with yellow spots attracted his attention approaching the fishing port of Ulladulla. Les kept going, then pulled up before the bridge at Batemans Bay and ate his sandwiches watching the Clyde River pushing out towards the Tollgate Islands. Next came Moruya and Bodalla and Les was thinking the countryside around the south coast looked pretty good. Red Rivers was bopping ‘The Girl Likes To Rock It’ and it was late afternoon, when the road wound gently down through the surrounding hills and there was the sign: NAROOMA. POPULATION 8000.

  Les crossed an iron bridge over a beautiful blue lagoon that spread away to a ridge of green hills on the right. On the left it pushed against a rocky treeline and grassy sandbars before it angled round into a deep channel running towards a narrow breakwater. Over the bridge, a flat stretch of shops and garages on the right faced a long camping area and a tourist centre, then a park at the end. The park was fenced off with hessian and inside were three huge coloured tents amongst a maze of caravans, trucks and trailers swarming with workers. Behind the park was an indoor pool. Les switched the car stereo off as the highway curved to the left and climbed past several shops. The road kept rising, but down on the left a narrow street, protected from the highway by a guard rail, ran past a hotel, a Chinese restaurant, a cake shop and several other shops. The last shop, next to a vacant lot on a corner, was the op-shop where Les had to pick up the key. Les had missed the side street below and there was no way in except to go back. So he decided to keep going.

  Past the vacant lot was a house almost hidden by trees, a dive shop, then the narrow street ended across from a hardware store, near Narooma’s one set of lights. Amongst the shops opposite was the newsagency and post office and a large motel overlooking the town. On the left were more shops and an arcade, then an old wooden hotel on a corner. The road levelled off to the right past a camping store and a bit further on Les came to a shopping plaza, with a supermarket and bottle shop. He turned left at the plaza, and drove down past a small lagoon alongside a golf course leading to Narooma Beach. Les did a U-turn at the surf club and took a street to the right that went up to a beautiful, tree-lined golf course overlooking the ocean. Another street full of neat houses and gardens dipped down and up and brought Les back to the wooden hotel on the corner.

  Driving back through the lights, the courthou
se and police station were up off the main road on the left, then came a modern RSL, a small picture theatre and a garage. Traffic was light and there weren’t many people around, and for all the shops doing business, Les noticed plenty with FOR LEASE signs sitting in the window. So this is Narooma, he mused, gazing down towards the lagoon. It sure looks nice. But shit! I reckon it’d get a bit quiet down here. Especially during winter. Les did a U-turn at the garage, then swung past the first hotel into the narrow side street and pulled up outside the op-shop.

  It was only small and made of plain, blue fibro, with two windows either side of the front door. On an awning above the door, a sign said: NAROOMA CHRISTIAN OPPORTUNITY SHOP. A table sat in front of each window covered with cups, teapots, salt shakers, and other odds and ends. And another sign tucked in the corner of one window said: DON’T WALK IN FRONT OF ME, I MIGHT NOT FOLLOW. DON’T WALK BEHIND ME, I MIGHT NOT LEAD. WALK BESIDE ME AND BE MY FRIEND. My sentiments exactly, mused Les, and walked inside.

  Stacked around the little shop were wicker baskets full of well-worn cutlery, pots, pans, china and other items people had donated, next to racks of clothes and piles of books. Les couldn’t see anyone, then he heard voices coming from behind a faded curtain drawn across a small room on the right.

  ‘Hello. Is anybody there?’ Les called out.

  A few seconds later, an elderly woman, wearing a pair of cheap jeans and a blue hand-knitted top came out from behind the curtain. She had thick, grey hair and peered at Les through a pair of glasses with solid red frames.

  ‘Can I help you, young man?’ she smiled.

  ‘Yes. I’m looking for Edith and Joyce,’ said Les.

  Another elderly woman appeared from behind the curtain wearing smaller glasses, and a white tracksuit. Her hair matched her tracksuit and she wore a hearing-aid in her left ear.

  ‘I’m Edith,’ said the first woman. ‘And this is Joyce.’

  ‘My name’s Norton,’ said Les. ‘I have to pick up a key for a house in Browning Street. I’m a friend of Clover’s.’