Without deigning to lift her eyes from her teacup, Angela replied, ‘Need I remind you how the poor poppet came to be sitting at our breakfast table?’
The poor poppet, buoyed by Ruby’s support, chimed in to say that it was two against one. That meant she stays.
Angela primly set her straight: ‘You don’t count—end of discussion.’
‘There hasn’t even been a discussion,’ Izzy protested. She slapped her hands to the sides of her head. ‘You can have it now. I won’t listen.’
Ruby said that wouldn’t be necessary; she and Angela would talk outside.
Izzy announced loudly, ‘I can’t hear you,’ to show how well her mufflers were working.
Angela returned alone and promptly began bustling about, filling the sink and packing away the breakfast things. She swept Izzy’s uneaten toast off the table. ‘Ruby’s calling your mum to let her know you’re coming home this afternoon.’
They took her to a pizza parlour for lunch. The restaurant owner, being Italian and genial and having no other customers to woo at that early hour, swanned down from on high to serve them. Izzy couldn’t be prompted into saying what she wanted. The man suggested to the blonde bombshell (addressing Angela’s décolletage) that the girl have a small Tropicana: ‘It’s the pizza all the kids are having.’
Angela placed their order and waited for the man to leave. She jerked her head at Izzy, miserably studying the contours of her lap. ‘Honestly, people will think we’ve got her doped up on lithium.’
As Ruby tried to engage her sulky granddaughter in conversation, Angela swiped a newspaper off a nearby table.
‘Oh, shit!’
‘Angela,’ Ruby rebuked, considering their company.
Angela read on unawares, paraphrasing aloud in her excitement. ‘Bernard Barkley was involved in an alleged drink-driving incident. The popular news reporter ran off the highway and into a tree, killing the tree.’ Angela gasped and flipped down the paper. ‘Drink driving.’
‘Alleged.’
‘He always liked a tipple.’ She returned to the newsprint, her pupils sweeping back and forth across the paper, devouring words.
Izzy asked, ‘Who’s Bernard Barkley?’
‘No one. Angela’s brother. He was in an accident, apparently.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘What a thoughtful question,’ Ruby said. ‘Is Bernard all right?’
Angela was too enraptured to respond. Her lower jaw had dropped open, revealing the jagged tips of her bottom teeth.
Ruby tried again. ‘I take it Bernard wasn’t injured?’
‘Doesn’t appear to be,’ Angela muttered to the page.
Angela kept returning to the article throughout their meal, reading it over and reciting any titbits. Ruby was partly happy for the distraction—especially as Izzy seemed cheered by the fact that Angela was related to someone whose poor driving skills were considered worthy of print.
The restaurateur, inspecting their plates as he stacked them into a haphazard pile in the crook of his elbow, enquired, ‘Did you not like my pizza?’
Angela claimed they had eyes bigger than their stomachs.
Izzy told him about Angela’s brother being in the newspaper, explaining, ‘We were too excited to eat.’
The restaurateur asked what Angela’s brother had done to deserve such an honour.
‘He crashed into a tree,’ Izzy boasted.
Angela explained that her brother was Bernard Barkley.
‘Who?’
‘The man from the news?’
The restaurateur took a step back, as though dazzled by his proximity to stardom. Then he gathered himself, feigning concern. ‘He was in an accident. I hope he’s not hurt.’
‘Bernard’s fine,’ Angela assured him, as though she’d just got off the phone with her brother.
Izzy, not wanting to be left out, pitched in, ‘Angela wished that it would happen.’
Angela pretended to be shocked. ‘No, I didn’t!’
‘You said—’
‘I said I wished it had been me and not him.’ She glowered at the child.
The restaurateur, whose thirty years in hospitality had taught him a thing or two about prandial tension, asked Izzy if she was having fun with her sisters—the question so ridiculous it rendered the child speechless. Ruby set him straight. The man acted as though he might drop the stack of plates he was holding. Ruby couldn’t possibly be old enough to be a grandmother.
‘Yes, I could.’
‘Well, enjoy it while it lasts,’ he said, intentionally bumping Angela with his hip as he reached to clear their cutlery. ‘Take it from me, soon enough the youngsters won’t want a bar of you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bernard had six messages: a female reporter from the Herald Sun seeking an interview, a male reporter from The Age seeking an interview, the woman from the Herald Sun calling back, a girl (sounding about sixteen) from a current affairs program asking if he’d be interested in giving his side of the story (how very considerate of them), the fellow from The Age—Bernard could see a pattern forming. He pressed the delete button and the universal message bank Girl Friday informed him, ‘All messages are deleted,’ before stating the obvious: ‘You have no more messages.
The next morning, two men Bernard vaguely recognised appeared in the paper, looking awkwardly down the lens, as though someone had directed them to pull serious faces. ACRU ENERGY WORKERS DISH THE TRUTH ON BOOZY BARKLEY.
The aim of the Regional Times article was to let the electricity workers give their story—Bernard couldn’t quite understand how the ACRU energy men had a story. Reading Jessica’s exposé, it seemed he’d had an altercation with the pair. Apparently, Matt and Lachlan had been troubled by the situation but had refrained from going to the police because of Bernard’s status within town.
‘I’m not the fucking mayor!’
He turned the page and was confronted by a picture of himself dancing at some charity event. The accompanying caption declared Bernard gave the men a case of wine.
‘Oh, crap.’
Bernard sought refuge at a local pub: a nondescript, slightly nefarious place where patrons committed crimes such as his on a regular basis. Obstructing the footpath was a metal A-frame, put out to notify passers by that the venue sold quality (whether good or poor was not divulged) meals from twelve to two and six to eight—such were the hours to which dining establishments were trying to indoctrinate the populace to feel hungry.
Arriving at a booth required crossing a sea of garish pea-green carpet interspersed with gold laurel bouquets; the inscrutable pattern brought on motion sickness. At the last moment, Bernard deviated from the booth he’d been aiming for to one set further along the wall where Lucas was ensconced, his face illuminated by his laptop.
‘I won’t interrupt,’ Bernard said. ‘Just thought I should say hello. I didn’t want you to see me and think I was ignoring you.’
‘Hey, man! Take a seat.’ Lucas closed his screen to demonstrate the invitation was genuine.
After a companionable hour of small talk, Bernard reached the bottom of his third drink. He sucked an ice cube into his mouth, cracking it carefully between his molars. Now seemed as good a time as any for exchanging confidences. ‘How’s it all going with Mia?’
Lucas scrunched one side of his face, like a schoolboy puzzling over a complicated maths equation. ‘To be honest, we’ve kind of been getting on one another’s nerves lately. Don’t get me wrong, I think Mia’s brilliant, she’s like no other woman I’ve ever met. I’m just not sure if I’m cut out for it, for her. How did you manage so long?’
‘I’m a creature of habit. Mia told me so.’
Their laughter petered out. They looked to their empty glasses for a change of topic.
‘They gave you a pounding on the radio this morning,’ Lucas informed him.
‘Who’s they?’
‘Ben and Simone, the hosts of the Breakfast Show.’
‘Is thi
s local radio we’re talking about?’
‘Yeah, Force FM, ninety-three point one.’ Lucas’s voice dropped an octave: ‘The home for tunes and talk.’
‘What did they have to say about me?’
‘Not much, they made a few jokes about drink driving and whether or not you were a bloody idiot—you know, the TAC campaign. It wasn’t offensive, more … playful. Ben had the idea you might still be missing, because of the abandoned car—he asked callers to ring in and say if they’d seen you.’
‘And did anyone call?’
‘I don’t know. Probably. I’d arrived at work by then.’
‘Why aren’t you there now?’
‘Because I hate my job.’
‘I’m familiar with the feeling.’
Lucas looked incredulous.
Bernard told him, ‘I suppose newsreader seems quite lofty. I didn’t always hate it; it was a gradual process. I’m not sure if it’s because I became incompetent or the news turned to drivel that ruined it for me. Not that I’m complaining. I was fortunate to have fallen into the job in the first place. A friend at university asked me to be in some god-awful play he was directing and from there I got the part in Red Cross, and so on and so forth. Mind you, back then there wasn’t the competition there seems to be now. In my day—feel free to roll your eyes—we were warned not to aim too high or hope for too much. The only certainty in life was the certainty of disappointment.’ He sucked the last droplet from his glass. ‘Now there’s this go-get-’em! philosophy of individualism that reduces everything down to aspiration. Apparently you can be anything simply by wanting it.’
‘At work there’s twenty-year-olds berating themselves for their lack of success.’
‘When did success become something for the young to achieve and not something to be earned over decades of labour? What are they expecting to do with the next sixty years?’
‘So you didn’t want to be on TV?’
‘Not particularly, other than to attract women—I think I wanted to be a pilot.’
On their way out, the two lurching drunks stopped to relieve themselves. Bernard examined the twin doors for a moment. He pointed to the one bearing a brass Victorian gentleman and pointed at his own chest. He pointed to the brass bustled dame then pointed at Lucas, who playfully slapped his hand away—they might have been father and son.
Bernard had the good sense to leave his car and go home on foot. Waiting at the corner he stopped to sniff the air. A ubiquitous burger restaurant was emitting an enticing fatty aroma.
Inside, the airbrushed photographs of sumptuous burgers and shining fries (you could actually see the salt) on the illuminated menu board looked delicious. Bernard only wished he could focus on the backlit lettering. His trouble wasn’t helped by the pop diva howling in the background. Too soon he was next in line to order.
‘I just want a hamburger and some chips please.’
‘Which one?’
‘Whichever. The best one.’
He opened the cardboard lid of the container and beheld the disappointing burger nesting within. It was the sodden younger brother of the burgers in the pictures, the runt of the litter. He used two hands to draw it out of its box and stop the droopy contents from escaping. He took a bite and felt the creamy juices enter his mouth. It was magnificent. The salty-sweet flavours turned over as he chewed. He placed the burger on the tray’s paper lining and sampled a limp chip, then a couple more chips to slow himself down before taking another mouthful of burger, even better than the first—something tangy had worked its way into this bite.
‘Well, you’re the last person I expected to see in here.’
Two women stood over him, one middle-aged and another in her twenties, a near replica of the elder.
‘The face is familiar, the name escapes me,’ Bernard confessed.
‘I sat beside you at the singing contest.’
‘Of course, the dance teacher.’
‘This is my daughter, Leona. We’re rewarding ourselves with Chillers after our workout.’
‘I take it a Chiller is whatever’s inside that plastic cup.’ ‘Ice cream mainly.’ Leona laughed.
‘It’s shocking.’ The mother sighed. ‘All that hard work down the drain.’
Bernard agreed. ‘Should have skipped the gym and come straight for the Chiller.’ They both chuckled a fraction longer than was necessary.
‘What’s your excuse? I’m Terri, by the way.’ She pegged her purse under her elbow to offer a free hand.
Bernard surreptitiously wiped his palm off on his trousers before shaking; he didn’t bother giving his name. ‘I’ve just spent half the day at the pub with my wife’s new boyfriend, now I’m too drunk to go home where there’s probably a reporter camped out on my veranda.’
‘Wow.’ The women looked at one another, astonished. They might have been in an ad for a new model car.
Leona frowned sympathetically. ‘I heard about the accident.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘I’ll fill you in later, Mum.’
Bernard glanced down at the remains of his hamburger, looking about as dignified as he felt.
‘We should leave you to your food,’ Terri conceded. ‘I’m pretty much done here.’
Leona opened her purse and for a moment Bernard was terrified she was going to offer to pay for his meal. She extracted a white card and placed it on the tray. ‘That’s Mum’s number. She’s an awesome cook—you should pop round sometime for dinner.’
He picked up the card, a sketch of two children striking dance poses. ‘Thank you. I’m afraid I’ll probably take you up on that.’
Terri shrugged. ‘No pressure.’
‘I’ll have you know, I’m excellent at washing up.’
Unlike most newcomers, Neil had been completely disinterested in the restoration of Bernard’s domicile. Instead he loped determinedly in the direction of the kitchen, which Bernard informed him was ‘Straight ahead.’ Bernard loathed the way homeowners too often regarded their houses as galleries, with every visit necessitating a tour of the premises. He’d been frogmarched through countless homes (always under the false impression he was there for a meal) and seen more bathroom makeovers and kitchen extensions than he cared to recall. On each occasion he’d itched to reveal to the houseproud owners that theirs was one of twenty open-plan kitchens newly extended into indoor/outdoor entertaining areas he’d seen that month.
Upon sitting, Neil launched into an account of a scheme he’d been devising.
‘Steady on,’ Bernard interjected. ‘Can I at least get you a drink before you set about saving my skin?’
Neil tried speaking again as they waited for the kettle to boil, but Bernard’s raised index finger called for patience. He carried their coffees to the table, wondering if he should mention the charcoal bruising on his visitor’s face. Was a shared beating something to bond over? He thought not, particularly as it might lead to talk of his testicles. ‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘Do you hear much of the Breakfast Show?’
‘I heard I’ve been rating a mention.’
‘Yeah, sorry about all that kerfuffle.’ Neil slugged piping black coffee into his asbestos mouth. ‘The program’s crap. There’s no escaping it at work, there’s speakers in every room, it’s like Mao’s fucking China down there.’
‘Are they still taking stabs at me?’
‘Yes. But we’re going to turn it to our advantage. We’re going to use their show as part of my plan.’ He formed a steeple with his hands and tapped his fingertips together, like a mastermind describing his vision for world domination.
‘So, Neil from New Zealand …’ Bernard allowed a pregnant pause to see if he was right. Neil nodded sagely, keeping in character. Bernard went on, unjustifiably self-satisfied, ‘Fill me in then—what’s the plan?’
Neil leant across the table, relishing the conspiracy. ‘It’s like this, all the publishers want is a recording of you reading Voss, am I right?’
‘You
make it sound so simple.’
‘But what if it wasn’t you? What if it was someone who sounded like you?’
‘Is that possible?’ Bernard felt like giggling. ‘Is there some device that can do that?’
‘No.’ Neil raised a devious eyebrow. ‘We hold a competition to find who can do the best Bernard Barkley impersonation.’
‘And the forum for this competition would be the Breakfast Show?’
‘Bingo.’ Neil reached for a pastry, his fingers dancing over the plate. ‘This is all very … fancy.’
‘Only defrosted.’
Bernard was a regular at a nearby bakery, in spite of the painfully over-familiar service. On his first encounter, the owner had joyously stepped out the routine of attending him, sculpting a reverent smile as she handed over a cardboard tray of cakes. ‘There you are, Bernard. I hope you enjoy your vanilla slice. We came third in the state championships.’ He’d begun filling his freezer every time he felt like indulging: to buy one pastry appeared sad; buy three and you were hosting morning tea.
‘You should try some of that vanilla slice, I have it on good authority it’s the third best in the state.’
‘This one in particular?’
‘She didn’t say.’
Neil raised the block of custard toward his lips and took an exaggerated bite. He deftly sucked the overflow from his moustache into his mouth and chewed deliberately. ‘Not bad.’
‘Award winning?’
‘Couldn’t tell you—tastes like vanilla slice.’
‘That’s good. Many of them don’t.’ Bernard reached for an éclair. ‘The main problem, aside from convincing Joe and Jane—’
‘Ben and Sim.’
‘Who cares—aside from convincing them to do it—’
‘They’ve already agreed.’
‘Right. Well. How do we get the winner to read the book? I couldn’t and I’m a professional.’
Neil hooked his forefinger across his lip, smoothing his facial fur. ‘I think your inability to complete the reading is personal, which means I don’t think anyone else should have too much trouble. I’ve managed to read it through nearly twice. It’s dull, but it’s not unintelligible. I’m sure there’s some people who might enjoy it—it’s supposed to be a classic, don’t forget.’
The Grand Tour Page 16
