Mystery Bay Blues

by Robert G. Barrett

  Les sat down and after a while the others joined him, then they topped their drinks and rocked happily away till the Scorchers finished with ‘Skinny Skinny Skinny’. The band waved to the audience then left. When the applause died down, Les and the others went into a huddle about the band and finished what drinks they had left.

  ‘I got some great photos of you dancing,’ said Les.

  ‘I got a great photo of you taking photos,’ said Grace.

  Clover glanced towards the stage as the tent emptied. ‘Hey look. Morgan’s gone.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Warren. He looked at Les. ‘Why don’t we get some more drinks, and find a seat before Dave Hole comes on.’

  Everybody agreed so they got up and walked to the front of the tent. Waiting outside was Morgan, his mate, and the two women, all looking like they’d all just bitten into a plate of bad oysters. Clover saw them first.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she said, and hid behind Les with the others.

  Les was still very much in Bugs Bunny mode. ‘Great band, Morgan,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you’re into that sort of music. Or are you more a techno-house, dance club, kind of guy?’

  Morgan stepped in front of Les and pointed to his hat. ‘You see this hat?’ he rasped.

  ‘Is that what it is,’ replied Les. ‘I thought you’d brought your washing with you.’

  ‘It’s only an old one. But when I’m finished with you on Monday, I’m going to shove it right up your arse.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Les. ‘But make sure you take it off first won’t you.’ He turned to the others. ‘Come on. Let’s go and get a drink.’

  Les ignored Morgan and led the others to the booze tent. The queue wasn’t long and soon Les and Warren returned with a tray of drinks. They all toasted each other and took a sip.

  ‘I have to give it to you, Les,’ said Grace. ‘The spinnaker’s on the wrong end of your yacht. But you’re bloody cool. I was shitting myself back there.’

  ‘So was I,’ said Clover. ‘I still am.’

  ‘I told you before. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.’ Les smiled and raised his drink. ‘It’s all sweet.’

  ‘Don’t count your luck,’ said Grace. ‘We’re not home yet.’

  Les put his arm around Grace. ‘Why shouldn’t I count my luck? I’ve got you with me. Amazing Grace.’

  ‘I like you, Les,’ smiled Grace.

  ‘I like you too, Grace.’ Les gave Grace one on the cheek and they walked over to the main tent.

  This time they had to sit apart. Les and Grace got two seats on the side. Warren and Clover found another two further down from them in the middle. There was no sign of Morgan and his friends. Les swallowed some bourbon, then Daddy lumbered out on stage and took hold of the mike.

  ‘Orrrright. Here he is. Come on, give a big welcome. Dave Hole. Come on!’

  The crowd started clapping and cheering as Dave Hole led his band on stage wearing a vest and a baseball cap. He plugged his guitar in, nodded to the band, and they tore straight into ‘New Way To Live’. From that it was ‘Every Girl I See’ followed by ‘More Love Less Attitude’. And the crowd loved every note. Dave scissor-kicked and duck-walked across the stage. He worked the slide on his guitar till it screamed and sparks were flying off the frets. Les and Grace took photos, bounced up and down in their seats and listened in awe as Dave racked up more blistering solos, through ‘Cold Women With Warm Hearts’ and ‘Take A Swing’. The band did a swag more songs off all their albums, then came back for an encore with ‘Bullfrog Blues’, before finally walking off to a standing, cheering ovation.

  ‘Well Grace,’ said Les, ‘I don’t think we can complain. It hasn’t been a bad night of rock ’n’ roll.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘Wow! I don’t think I could take any more after that.’

  The crowd started to leave. Clover and Warren came over. Les and Grace put their cameras in their bags and stood up.

  ‘What did you think?’ asked Les.

  ‘Unreal,’ said Warren. ‘Especially when he finished with “Bullfrog Blues”.’

  ‘I like “Crazy Kind Of Woman”,’ said Clover. She turned to Grace. ‘I suppose we’d better start walking up to the house. Mum will be here soon.’

  ‘Any sign of — you know who,’ said Warren, running his eyes over the crowd.

  ‘No,’ answered Les. ‘But I wish there was. I’d like to put the hard word on his girl. She wasn’t a bad sort.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Clover. ‘If you fancy Harpo Marx in drag.’

  They joined the crowd exiting the tent and kept going. Les had his arm around Grace as they went by the jetty and Warren was arm in arm with Clover. Although the pot had worn off, they were still laughing and joking as they strolled along. Nevertheless, Warren was avoiding any shadowy areas and looked very relieved when they reached the front yard.

  ‘So what’s the story tomorrow?’ asked Les. ‘I’m going to Montague Island at nine o’clock.’ He glanced up at the cloudy sky. ‘Don’t look like being much of a day for it though.’

  Grace turned to Clover. ‘I told Alysia I’d help her in the shop till one. Why don’t you call over after then and we’ll have lunch?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Warren yawned. ‘I’m having a sleep in.’

  Clover took hold of Warren. ‘Then why don’t we all do our own thing tomorrow. And meet back here at six. For a double shot, decaf-mushroom latte.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Warren, leaning against Clover.

  Les shook his head. ‘Like I said, Clover, I can’t wait.’

  The station wagon pulled up out the front. Warren waved to Clover’s mother without bothering to walk across to the car. Les hadn’t met her. But he gave her a wave also, then put his arms around Grace. Grace slipped her arms around Les and he kissed her.

  ‘Thanks for everything today, Grace,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’ Grace shook her finger at Les. ‘Now don’t forget to drink your water in the morning. Every last drop.’

  ‘No I won’t. Goodnight Grace.’

  ‘Goodnight Les.’

  Les said goodnight to Clover, then she and Grace piled into the station wagon and it drove off.

  Warren let go another huge yawn. ‘Shit I’m tired,’ he said.

  The yawn was infectious. ‘You’re not Robinson Crusoe,’ said Les. He got the key from under the mat, opened the door and they stepped inside. Les locked the door and walked into the kitchen.

  ‘You feel like anything, Woz?’ he asked, getting a bottle of water from the fridge.

  ‘Yes. About ten hours sleep,’ said Warren. ‘I’m rooted.’ Warren went to the bathroom then came back and propped in the kitchen doorway. ‘I couldn’t believe it, when you hit that big goose with the apple core,’ he laughed. ‘You’re fuckin insane.’

  ‘I know what I’d like to hit him with,’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Warren. He let go another yawn. ‘Shit! I hope that bloody rat doesn’t wake me again tonight.’

  ‘Hey. Thanks for reminding me, Woz.’ Les put the bottle of water back in the fridge, took out a packet of cheese then got a rat-trap from the pantry. ‘See how Jerry Lee Rodent likes this.’

  Les broke off a piece of cheese and tied it to the trap with a thread of cotton from a tea towel. Warren watched absently as Les baited the trap, when the temperature in the kitchen suddenly plunged to what felt like below zero.

  ‘Shit!’ said Warren, as clouds of steam formed in front of his face. ‘How fuckin cold is it.’

  ‘There must be a bloody draught in here.’ Les put the trap down and rubbed the goose bumps on his arms while his breath also turned to steam. ‘It’s probably coming from under the house.’

  ‘Coming from fuckin Siberia’d be more like it,’ shivered Warren. ‘Ohh fuck this. I’m going to bed. It’s freezing. See you in the morning, Les.’

  ‘Yeah, see you then.’

  Warren moved off into the ha
llway leaving a cloud of steam behind him in the kitchen. ‘Hey, what is under the house?’ he called out from the hallway.

  ‘What was that?’ Les yelled back.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll see you in the morning.’ The loungeroom door closed followed by the door to Warren’s bedroom.

  Les knitted his eyebrows for a moment then shook his head. He sprung the trap and left it on the floor under the table then turned out the kitchen light. After going to the bathroom, Les took off his clothes and climbed into his tracksuit. He got under the blankets and switched off the bedlamp. It didn’t seem as cold in the bedroom and before long Les had warmed up and was almost asleep. Warren was right, he smiled. The look on Morgan’s face when he turned around in the tent was a hoot. But one way or the other, there wouldn’t be much laughing on Monday. In the quiet darkness of the old room, Les let his mind drift off to more pleasant things and soon he was sound asleep.

  When Les woke up around seven the next morning he felt pretty good. He’d slept well, he had no sign of a hangover and although his back was still stiff from Grace’s massage, the pain in his spine had eased. A quick peek out the window said it didn’t look like being much of a day however. He went to the bathroom, then changed straight into his training gear and walked into the kitchen. Rubbing his hands together, Les had a look under the table. The trap wasn’t there, or anywhere else in the kitchen. Mystified, Les picked at his chin for a moment, then smiled. I’ve got him. He’s wounded and dragged the trap somewhere. All I have to do now is find Jerry’s mangled corpse before he stinks the place up. Les pointed. Probably in that side room. But first, a cup of tea and toast. With just a little grated cheese. Les put the kettle on, popped two slices of bread in the toaster, then opened the fridge and reached inside.

  ‘WHACK! ! !’

  ‘Shit a fuckin brick!’ Les flew back as the rat-trap slammed down a centimetre from his thumb.

  Norton stared at the rat-trap sitting next to the tomatoes and milk with the piece of cheese still attached. Gingerly he took the trap out and placed it on the table. Fuckin hell, he scowled. That could have broken my bloody finger. Norton’s eyes narrowed towards the front bedroom. Fuckin Warren. He’s getting sillier by the minute. No, Les shook his head. Not even Warren’s that stupid. You know what, I reckon the poor, silly bastard’s walking in his sleep? I think I’d better have a word with the boarder. Before he does somebody an injury. Particularly me.

  Les removed the piece of cheese and placed the trap back in the pantry. He made his tea and toast then walked down the hallway and opened the door to the loungeroom. The bear was on the piano facing away from the wall and snoring was coming from Warren’s room. Les stepped out onto the verandah and leant against the railing.

  There was still no sign of rain. But the sky was grey and it was cool with a southerly blowing. Not much of a day for a boat trip out to Montague Island. Les watched the people round the jetty and listened to some music coming from the nearest balcony while he worked out his game plan. He’d walk to the pier again and check out Bar Beach. Les finished his tea and toast, put his cap on and set off.

  Whether it was the festival atmosphere or he just had a good vibe about him, Les wasn’t sure. But almost everybody he passed on his walk either smiled or said hello. Even some old ladies picking up rubbish by the side of the bridge stopped for a moment and smiled when Les strode past. Les smiled back at everyone as he ambled steadily along and in what seemed like no time at all he was standing on the breakwater. There was a decent wave running and a group of surfers were getting some hot barrels off Bar Beach, while some fairly solid swells were pushing into the Bar. Les couldn’t tell how rough it was out to sea. But it looked very bumpy and, beneath a grey sky, the water was dark and uninviting. He did a few light squats and watched the surfers for a while then headed for home.

  Les kept the two bottles of mineral water Grace had given him in his room and it wasn’t hard to gulp one down after the walk; the bitter-sweet taste was quite good. He had a shower and put on his tracksuit, then walked up and got the paper and some more film. He didn’t notice Ian in the dive shop on the way and Warren was still in bed when he got back. Les made a couple of toasted sandwiches and washed them down with some fresh tea while he read the news. After that, he checked his cameras and got his diving gear and everything else together. He couldn’t see himself getting in the water on the day. But part of the island might be sheltered. Making sure he had his ticket, Les shouldered his bag and walked down to the jetty.

  The Kingfisher was moored between the catamaran and the other boats. It was all white with a red cabin at the front, wide beamed and ten metres long. Aerials and fishing rod holders poked up in the air, a flag dangled off the stern and a radar dish sat on top of the cabin. There were no steps; you climbed straight in from the jetty. Standing at the rail holding a clipboard was a beefy, bearded, red-haired bloke wearing sunglasses, shorts and a white T-shirt with Kingfisher Cruises across the front.

  ‘Are you the skipper?’ asked Les.

  ‘That’s me, mate. Neville. Everyone calls me Nev.’

  ‘Okay Nev,’ Les handed Nev his ticket. ‘I’m Les. Ian sent me.’

  ‘Good on you, Les. Climb aboard. We got two more to come and we’ll shove off.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Les piled on board. There was a seat running along the stern and two other seats below the cabin. A set of steps went up to the cabin on the right and another set in the middle went down to the galley. Above the steps in the middle was a storage space full of orange life jackets. A young couple in warm clothes were standing near the stern and an older bloke and his wife wearing shorts were seated next to the steps beneath the cabin. The young couple were your average Australians. The older bloke had glasses, thin hair and ears like frying pans; his wife was dumpy with a worried look on her face. Les gave them a half-smile and took the seat opposite on the other side of the storage space. He placed his bag between his legs, took out a bottle of water and had a sip while they waited for the others to arrive. Les was looking around, avoiding eye contact, when two young girls wearing blue tracksuits and sunglasses — one girl much heavier than the other — climbed on board. They had jet black hair and very olive skin and Norton guessed by their complexions and mannerisms they were European or Middle Eastern. They sat down on the seat along the stern and Nev put his clipboard down.

  ‘Okay folks,’ said Nev. ‘This is The Kingfisher. I’m Neville. Welcome aboard.’ Neville then went into his tourist spiel for the thousandth time.

  Montague Island was nine kilometres south east of Narooma, around eighty-two hectares in area and pinched in the middle. After Lord Howe it was the second largest island off the NSW coast. The trip out and back, going around the island, plus snorkelling would take the best part of four hours. Neville went on about other things of interest. But Les was only half listening. Big Ears thought he was being funny and kept interrupting all the time making stupid remarks. Finally Neville pointed to the life jackets and informed them it was deadly imperative everybody wore one when they were crossing The Bar. The Bar was deadly and dangerous. Ships had sunk there. People had drowned. Great sea monsters lurked beneath The Bar. Neville made crossing The Bar sound like going around Cape Horn in the Cutty Sark. Oh. And if anyone was interested, the sunglasses he was wearing were special polaroids. A snap at twenty bucks each.

  ‘Okay folks,’ said Neville finally. ‘Let’s put our life jackets on and we’ll get going.’

  They all took a life jacket from the storage space and while they were strapping them on, Les got into a little polite conversation with the two girls and the young couple. The young couple were from Penrith and down for the Blues Festival so they’d decided to take a trip to Montague Island while they were in Narooma. The two girls were Iranian and came from Yagoona. They too were down for the festival and the thinner one was, like Les, going to Montague to go snorkelling; particularly to dive amongst the seals. Les ignored Big Ears. He took a photo of e
veryone putting on their life jackets and when Big Ears saw Norton’s camera, he offered to take his photo. To keep him happy, Les handed Big Ears the camera, then watched as he looked at it like it was the control panel on the space shuttle and went on to stuff up two photos. Les took his camera back as the skipper checked them all out.

  ‘Okay,’ said Neville, satisfied everybody was secure. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Neville cast off then climbed up to his cabin and started the motor. Les and the others either found a seat or somewhere safe to stand as the skipper carefully manoeuvred The Kingfisher away from the jetty. Soon, they were motoring slowly up the channel.

  They got to The Bar as four decent swells came through and the boat started dipping up and down and rocking from side to side. Les held on to a pipe above his head and realised what Neville had meant about having a life jacket on when crossing The Bar. As well as being quite narrow, the water wasn’t all that deep at the mouth; if any sort of a sea was running it would be extremely dangerous. They hit another couple of swells as they cleared the entrance, then Neville veered right and gunned the motor.

  The Kingfisher was noisy and vibrated like a floor sander. Out to sea, the ocean was rougher than Les had anticipated and sheets of spray came splashing over either side of the boat as it pitched up and down in the swells. Nevertheless, Neville yelled down from his cabin that it was safe to take their life jackets off if they wanted to. As soon as they did, Big Ears got up on his seat and poked his head around the corner of the cabin, straight into a huge blast of water that immediately soaked him to the skin. Everybody tried not to laugh and Les took a photo as Big Ears sat down and tried to appear nonchalant while his dumpy wife looked more worried than ever. They bumped and rolled through the troughs and Les remembered Neville saying they’d probably see dolphins on the way out. They might even see whales. The others were looking out to sea and Les was watching the landward side of the boat when he gave a double blink. Swimming slowly along the surface a hundred metres from the boat was a huge shark. There was no mistaking its triangular black fin and the black tip of its tail flicking through the chop. Les poked his head up the stairs.