‘Oh yes,’ said Edith. ‘The Merrigan house. Miss Merrigan rang us.’
‘Yeah, that’s her,’ said Les. ‘Clover Merrigan.’
The two old ladies smiled serenely at Les. ‘We’ve been expecting you,’ said Joyce.
Les made an open-handed gesture. ‘Well here I am,’ he said. ‘I just got here.’
‘How lovely,’ said Edith. ‘And how do you like Narooma, Mr Norton?’
Les looked at the woman in the red glasses for a moment. ‘Hey, what can I say?’ he replied. ‘That bridge. They don’t make bridges like that anymore.’
‘No. They certainly do not,’ agreed Edith.
‘I’ll get the key,’ said Joyce.
Edith tilted her face and smiled up at Les. ‘Do you know anything about the Merrigan house, Mr Norton?’ she asked.
Les shook his head. ‘I’ve got the address in the car. That’s all.’
‘All right then,’ replied Edith. ‘Well, it’s just up there on the corner,’ she pointed. ‘Number three. A lovely old house. You can’t miss it.’
‘Ohh yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘I think I saw it as I was driving in.’
Joyce returned with a solid brass key tied to a piece of blue cord. ‘There you are, Mr Norton,’ she said.
Les jiggled the key up and down in his hand. ‘They sure don’t make keys like this anymore, either.’
‘No. They certainly do not,’ said Joyce.
Edith studied Les for a moment.’ Are you a religious man, Mr Norton?’ she asked.
‘I sure am,’ replied Les. ‘Only the other day I was doing a bit of carpentry, and I hit my thumb with a hammer. The first thing I did, was tell Jesus Christ all about it.’
‘Oh that’s so nice,’ beamed Edith.
Joyce studied Les too. ‘He looks like a good Christian,’ she said.
‘Yes he does,’ agreed Edith.
Les dangled the key. ‘Yeah — well, I suppose I’d better get going,’ he said. ‘I have to unpack, and everything.’
Edith smiled up at Les. ‘Do that, Mr Norton,’ she said. ‘And enjoy your stay in the Merrigan house. And should you need us, we’re always here.’
‘And the church is just up the top of the hill,’ smiled Joyce.
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Les. ‘Goodbye ladies.’
‘Goodbye Mr Norton.’
Les turned and walked back out to the car. So that was Edith and Joyce, he mused. Friendly enough for a pair of old bible bashers, I suppose. Are you a religious man, Mr Norton? Les drove to the next corner and stopped.
Browning Street was a short, steep road running down to the water. On the other side was a big, white, weatherboard house with a green roof and a wide verandah overlooking the ocean. The foundations were covered by crisscross, wooden slats; a low, post and rail fence ran beneath the trees surrounding the front yard. There was no gate, just a gap in the fence. Les drove in and pulled up on the grass alongside the front door. He switched off the motor, then got out and had a look around.
The sloping yard was wide and green. Runners and flower beds spread colour around the house and dotted amongst the trees were healthy aloe vera plants and thick ferns. Les walked across to a wooden fence that ran past an overgrown vacant lot, to a barbecue down the side of the house. Pecking around a bush near the barbecue were a couple of magpies. They stopped for a moment to watch Les. Norton gave them a whistle then walked back to the where he’d left the car. Three thick wooden steps led up to the front door. Les worked the heavy brass key into the lock, gave it a twist and stepped inside leaving the door open behind him.
A long, wide hallway, with a bathroom on the left and a kitchen on the right, led past two bedrooms on either side to a large loungeroom with a bedroom on the right. There was a library full of old hardbacks in one corner of the loungeroom, a piano in the other and a sandstone fireplace faced a door leading out onto the verandah. The furnishings were a wooden coffee table and a tan Chesterfield that matched the burgundy carpet. Mirrors and paintings hung on the whitewashed walls along with framed, black and white photos of old Narooma. The ceilings were high and small chandeliers hung from them; a teak rail ran around the walls below the ceiling and all the doors and windowframes were edged with teak panelling. The light switches were the original brass fittings. Les opened the door and stepped out onto the verandah.
The view over the houses and the boats moored along the jetty below was absolutely spectacular. It went up to the trees and the golf links on the right, out to the breakwater, across to the hills behind the bridge and along the coast all the way to Dalmeny. There was a table and chairs in one corner of the verandah and round the other side was a second bathroom. A set of stairs led under the house; Les followed them down. Sitting on the dirt floor were several empty boxes and a stack of splintery timber next to a room with no door. Inside was a wooden wheelbarrow, some old tools and rusty tins of paint, a small pile of rusty horseshoes and some other junk covered in dust and cobwebs. Les gave everything a quick once over, then went back upstairs to check out the bedrooms.
They were all big and full of antique mahogany furniture and beds. In the back bedroom were a double and two singles; there were also two singles in the nearest bedroom along the hallway and one double in the room across from the kitchen. Les gave the last mattress a push and walked into the kitchen.
As well as an electric stove near the sink, it still had the original wood burner set into one wall. Sitting on the wooden floor in front was a solid table and four highback chairs. There was ample cupboard space, a two door fridge and a large pantry in one corner. A laundry led out to another room at the side with a red cedar table and eight matching chairs. Les walked back to the loungeroom, eased back on the Chesterfield and put his feet up on the coffee table.
The house was like a time capsule left from around the turn of the twentieth century. The only things out of place were the electric stove and the new fridge in the kitchen. So this is the Merrigan house, Les smiled to himself. Apart from being a little gloomy, it’s the absolute grouse. And what about that view? Thank you Clover. Les turned to the piano in the corner and couldn’t help himself. He went over and lifted the lid then clunked tunelessly up and down on the keys several times before closing the lid again. Whistling cheerfully, Norton went out to the car and brought his gear in.
Les chose the bedroom across from the kitchen; the double bed was comfortable, there were plenty of blankets in the wardrobe and a reading light sat on the dressing table. A door in the corner opened out onto the verandah and there was a window across from the bed. Les opened the window and the curtains swirled gently in the ocean breeze. He tossed his bags on the bed and unpacked.
The bathroom had been modernised a little; shiny green tiles covered the floor and walls and the shower looked new. Les put his shaving tackle in a cabinet above the sink and left a towel on the rack. In the loungeroom, a wooden mantelpiece rested beneath a mirror above the fireplace; the ghetto blaster sat there perfectly above a power point. Les tuned to a local radio station and got Graham Nash wailing ‘Military Madness’. He turned the volume down and walked out onto the verandah. The sun was heading for the mountains behind the lagoon and the water in the channel looked like rippling turquoise as it wound its way in from the sea. Les stared at the view for a while then his eyes moved to his watch. He clapped his hands together and minutes later, he was in the Berlina heading for the shopping plaza.
Les hit the supermarket and stocked up on bread, milk, a barbecued chicken, mineral water, and other groceries. At the bottle shop he bought two bottles of Jack Daniels, plenty of mixed beers and a bottle of Bacardi for Clover. On the way back he stopped outside a real estate office across from the older hotel and went to the newsagency. It was quite big and well-stocked; Les got the Sydney paper and a ‘What’s On’ around Narooma. A coffee table book — Narooma’s Glorious Past, by Jasmine Cunneen — caught Norton’s eye and he bought that too. As he placed them in the car he glanced across the road at the a
rcade. There was a new age clothes store and a food shop at the entrance. Les felt like some corn chips, so he walked over and bought a packet of Dorritos. While he was there he decided to have a look in the arcade.
On the right was a health food store, the other side was taken up by a second-hand shop. Les strolled in munching his Dorritos. The shop was crammed with furniture, office-chairs, electrical appliances, packets of sunglasses, plates, cups, clothes and countless other odds and ends. On the floor was a big box of dolls and sitting on a dressing table next to the box was a kooky-looking bear about the same size as a pineapple. It had a silly smile on its face, sunglasses, and a white tuxedo. Les smiled and absently poked his finger in the little bear’s fat tummy. Instantly the little bear went into action, waving its arms around and shaking its head, while from a tiny speaker came Ricky Martin singing two bars of ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’. The bear’s actions took Les by surprise, then he started laughing at the bear and himself. The bear finished and Les poked it a second time. It didn’t take much to set it off and immediately the bear went into action again; arms waving, head rolling, fingers pointing and Ricky Martin belting out ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’.
Les was hooked. He finished his corn chips and called out to the owner, a thin faced man in a white shirt, sitting behind a desk near the door.
‘Hey mate! How much for the bear?’
The owner knew a mug when he saw one. ‘Ten bucks, mate,’ he replied. ‘It’s from Costa Rica.’
‘You got me,’ said Les, fishing out a ten dollar bill. He picked up the bear and away it went again, waving its arms around, ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’. Les was buggered if he could figure how to turn it off. ‘Hey mate,’ he pleaded, as the bear kept dancing around in his hands. ‘All right if I borrow a chair and break it over this things head? I can’t bloody stop it.’
‘Hang on a sec,’ replied the owner. He fished around under one of the bear’s feet and found the switch. The bear stopped immediately. ‘There you go.’
‘Thanks mate,’ smiled Les, feeling a little foolish. He gave the owner the ten dollars and walked back to the car.
Before long, Les had everything put away, eaten some chicken sandwiches and read the paper. The bear was sitting on the piano and Les was standing on the verandah with a cup of tea, watching some people fishing off the jetty. After four hours in the car his back was a little stiff and Les felt he could do with some exercise. There was still an hour of daylight left, and a brisk walk over the bridge to the breakwater and back would be ideal. Les tossed the last of his tea onto the dirt drive separating the Merrigan house from the houses below, got into a pair of shorts, an old T-shirt and cap and his new trainers and set off.
Les came down the hill and passed by the jetty, just in time to see a plump woman pulling in an equally plump bream. The pool was closed, but there was still plenty of movement around the trucks and trailers in the park behind. In the camping area alongside the lagoon, people were sitting outside their mobile homes enjoying an afternoon cool one; several raised their beer holders as Les strode by and he waved back. Past the camping area, the walkway rose alongside the mangroves to a footpath over the bridge. Les peered down into the water at a school of blackfish hanging around an old pier, amazed at how clear it was.
Past the bridge, the footpath curved right, down to a long boardwalk. Les followed it across the shallow end of the lagoon and beneath the tree-studded cliffs above. Apart from one or two others and a few people fishing, Les had the boardwalk to himself, before it ended at a car park and a boat ramp, near a safe beach inside the channel with a shark net across the front. A sandy trail led out to the end of the breakwater, and at Bar Beach a group of surfers were getting some hot lefts running off the granite boulders. Les watched them for a few moments in the fading light then headed for home.
When he reached the jetty Les was feeling good, so he double-timed it up the hill to the house. Yes, he smiled, as he opened the front door, my back is definitely getting better. Another week and it’ll be as good as gold. And the first thing I’m going to do is have a paddle and get back on the heavy bag. Maybe have a spar with Billy. After a shower and a shave, Les put on his Levi’s shorts, a white T-shirt and his blue And 1s. With a bottle of mineral water in one hand and the tourist magazine in the other, he wandered down to the loungeroom, switched the verandah light on then walked outside and sat down.
It was dark now and cool, but not cold. Les watched the coloured shipping lights blinking on and off at the entrance to the channel; the lights of a boat coming up the lagoon then started flicking absently through the magazine. Amongst the ads for riding schools, joy flights, restaurants and little maps of the Eurobodalla area was a section titled ‘This Week In Narooma’. The Blues Festival was the main story. But tonight, they were having the Battle of the Bands and a fireworks display, near the golf course above the ocean. That could be all right, thought Les. And it’s close to home. I may as well walk up and put my head in for a while before I hit the sack. Les finished his mineral water and looked at the empty bottle. It was quite refreshing and there was beer in the fridge. But what he really felt like was a nice draught beer — or three. There was a hotel just down the road. Les switched off the light, got some money and headed out the door.
From the house to the hotel via the op-shop was just a quick stroll. The hotel had a red brick front plastered with beer signs and was called McBride’s. An entrance next to the bottle shop ran through a gaming room and via a patio on the left was another entrance through two solid glass doors. Well raise my rent, Les smiled to himself, stepping back to check things out. I’m two minutes from the pub. There’s another one just up the main drag if this one’s no good. Across the road is a bright, shiny ‘rissole’. And the Blues Festival is five minutes away along the jetty. What did Jack Nicholson say in that movie? Maybe this is as good as it gets. Les took the side entrance to the hotel.
There was a CD jukebox and a piano on the left as you stepped inside and the bar faced the entrance across several chairs and tables. Around the walls were photos of fishing clubs and football teams and blown-up photos of old Narooma. On one wall was a glass cabinet full of Harley-Davidson memorabilia and above the entrance was a big screen TV. The bar was well-stocked and angled round to the gaming room and the other entrance. Further to the left were more chairs and tables then a bistro surrounded by blackboard menus. Another glass door led from the bistro onto a balcony with a view similar to the one from the house. There were about forty people inside. A few were standing around the bar, some were seated, others were near the bistro eating. Les stepped across to the bar and waited alongside four burly, older men on his left, wearing yellow polo shirts. He wasn’t there long before a dark-haired barmaid came over and Les ordered a middy of Carlton Draught.
The four men alongside him were morose, half drunk, and arguing loudly amongst themselves. Les checked out what was written on one bloke’s polo shirt: Narooma Big Rock Fishing Club. That’d be right, thought Les. I don’t know a fisherman yet that hasn’t got the shits about something. Especially when he’s on the piss. Les was about to give them a wide berth when the barmaid placed his middy in front of him. Les paid her, then picked it up to take a sip so he wouldn’t spill any before he moved. He’d just got the glass to his lips when the fisherman next to him cursed belligerently to the others, waving his arm around to emphasise the point. His arm caught Norton’s and knocked most of Les’s middy into his face and down the front of his T-shirt.
‘Ohh take it easy will you mate,’ said Les, flicking beer from his face and half-soaked T-shirt.
The bloke knew he’d done it and half turned his head. ‘Get fucked,’ he said
‘What?’ scowled Les.
‘You heard. I said get fucked.’ The fisherman then ignored Les and continued arguing with his mates.
Les tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Hey mate. You just knocked my beer all over me. I think you could at least say you’re sorry. Not tell me to get fucked.’
The fisherman turned around and pushed a miserable, fleshy face, stinking of beer and cigarettes in front of Norton’s. ‘Well, I’m telling you again. Get fucked. And don’t poke your fingers in me, you cunt. Or I’ll take your beer and shove it up your fuckin arse.’
One of the bloke’s mates put his head in. ‘What’s up, Mick?’ he said.
‘Ahh this whingeing big prick reckons I spilt his beer.’
‘Tell him to get fucked.’
‘I just did.’
Norton’s face started to turn purple. He couldn’t believe it. Isn’t this lovely, he fumed. I’ve got a bad back. I’m in town just to have a good time. And I need a fight like I need an enlarged prostate. But I’m fucked if I’m gonna cop that. With a friendly smile on his face, Les turned and tapped the bloke on the shoulder again. The fisherman turned around and scowled.
‘What the fuck do you want now?’ he snarled.
‘Hey Mick,’ said Les. ‘You like fishing do you mate?’
‘What?’
‘I said, you like fishing, mate?’ repeated Les. ‘Well, hook into this.’
Les thumped his head onto the bloke’s nose, smashing it across his face like a soft-boiled egg. The fisherman screwed his eyes up with pain and blood started running down his chin as Les slammed his knee into the bloke’s groin then dropped an elbow into his jaw. The burly fisherman fell to the floor out cold, splitting his head open against the bar on the way down. The other three looked at Mick lying on the floor for a second, then came at Les swinging. Les blocked their punches then stepped in and nailed the one on his left with a straight left, breaking the bloke’s nose. Les hooked off the straight left into the next bloke’s face, splitting his cheekbone open like a ripe plum. Then Les set himself and slammed a murderous, short right into the last bloke’s face, pulverising his mouth and knocking out his front teeth. The bloke’s legs folded like a card table and he slumped on his backside next to the first fisherman. The two left standing were still wondering what was going on, when Les kicked the one on the left in the knee. The bloke screamed, tottered for a second then dropped to the floor, clutching his leg. This left the last member of the Narooma Big Rock Fishing Club groggily holding onto the bar with one hand trying to stay on his feet. Les palm-heeled him under the jaw and the fisherman went flying across the chairs and tables, knocking drinks everywhere, finishing up sprawled out on his back in front of the jukebox.
Mystery Bay Blues Page 4