by Phyllis King
Rae knew from the papers that Tiny Tony was the small man she’d seen squirming on the ground. Real name: Tony Agostini, a former jockey.
‘Did you come up with anything further about Westerton?’ she asked.
‘As you suspected, it was a fake address inspired by Queenstown,’ said Ogilvie. ‘Hardacre’s little joke. He’s from there originally. Used to work in the copper mine, till he got the sack.’
‘Tell her about Mr and Mrs Stoppell,’ prompted Boyd.
‘They’re not mister and missus. Not even defactos,’ said Ogilvie. ‘Justin and Janine are brother and sister. Or they were, I should say.’
‘Was she actively involved or just tagging along?’ asked Rae.
Boyd got in first: ‘She was the cockatoo.’
It took Rae a second to recall the term from her repository of slang. ‘The lookout,’ she said.
‘Janine kept watch while the blokes blew up the ATMs. Then when they were ready to bolt, she drove the getaway car,’ said Ogilvie. He picked up his beer but stopped short of taking a drink. ‘Bloody good driver too, from what I gather. Checked her record and there’s not so much as a parking ticket.’
Back at the holiday park, Rae savoured the night, before going inside. She could hear the whoosh of the waves against the nearby rocks. Stars were peppered over the silvery water. The guests were nestled inside the cosy spaces of their cabins and caravans, behind the soft glow of covered windows. A deep sigh unrolled from Rae’s chest and hovered on the air.
She was tired of messing with other people’s lives. Tomorrow she would contact her kids and see which of them could make time for a visit from her first; Grant down in Hobart or Brooke in Victoria. She had not seen either of them for too long.
Neil’s voice chimed in: ‘Not such a big hassle to get someone to fill in for a few shifts.’
All right, she would have a chat with Lindsay. Some of his family had helped out in the past. Then she could head off, north or south, she didn’t mind which.
<
A Man of Fashion
Lesley Truffle
It started with a white Panama hat. The Panama travelled out on a P&O liner The Iberia in 1962. First class of course, all the way from London to Melbourne. The hat was in good company as all Jude’s clothes were premium quality. Actually they were better than that for they were bespoke tailored. And had been created without the use of a pre-existing pattern.
The cabin steward, Johnny, was impressed by Jude’s evening wear: several tuxedos, morning coats and not just one but two white sharkskin jackets. If clothes really do maketh the man then Jude had been manufactured in heaven.
As Johnny explained to a fellow galley slave, ‘The bastard’s got morning suits, day suits, evening suits and creeping-around-in-the-bloody-middle-of-the-night suits. Everything tagged with his name in embroidery: Jude D. Worthington.’
‘What’s does the D stand for?’
‘Dick. He’s got a quilted satin dressing gown with his initials on the breast pocket. In case he’s so hung-over he can’t remember who the hell he is. Even his silk underpants have got his name on them. In case he leaves them somewhere he shouldn’t.’
‘Why would he bother getting his undies handmade?’
‘Dunno. Perhaps the bastard has to. He’s hung like a donkey.’
‘What’s the missus like?’
‘Sex kitten. Should see her evening dresses, they’re a real bugger to press. Silks, satins, taffeta and you should see the quality of the velvets. Tight all over. Breasts everywhere. She’s real classy, nothing slutty about her. When she gets dolled up and goes to the dining room, the officers drool in their soup. Eats at the Captain’s table all the time. He’s crazy for her. Looks like Sophia Loren. With better teeth.’
‘Yeah, but I bet she’s pretty ordinary without the expensive clobber.’
‘No, mate. When she gets up in the morning, no makeup, no nothing, she’s edible. Like she’s been unwrapped from tissue paper. No morning breath. Smells good, like roses.’
Jude had always had the best. So naturally his wife, Eve, was top shelf. He’d made sure of it. Not only was she beautiful and of good genetic stock but she had a Masters in Chemistry. At university she’d written a brilliant dissertation on chemical warfare and the Dean had stated, ‘It’s so incisive and seminal, that it could well have been written by a man.’
High praise indeed. But it just wasn’t done for a gentleman of Jude’s class to have a working wife. Eve was his domestic goddess and would create his family. He’d get Technicolor cards printed of the children around the Christmas tree. A perfect Kodak moment.
Jude knew damn well that clothes entered the conversation before he did. So he ensured that before he opened his mouth, he’d be well received. The Panama hat was good at entering the conversation first and it drew attention to his best features. Not that he had any ugly features. As his mother told everybody, ‘My only child does me proud. Blonde, blue-eyed, tall and agreeable. All the girls want him. When Jude was born the mould broke.’
He’d broken more than just a few moulds. Hearts had been broken randomly and carelessly all over England. Not to mention a few vacation spots in warmer climes. Funnily enough most men didn’t warm to him. It was hinted he was flaky and untrustworthy. But Jude didn’t have to worry about where his next lay was coming from. It was whispered that at least two girls had been forced to leave university because he’d made them pregnant. The university authorities had it down pat. The slut would be soundly punished and the boy, whom she’d shamelessly misled, would stay on to finish his degree.
At Waterloo station Jude’s pregnant girlfriend sobbed, ‘You’ve got charm, looks and buckets of money. What have I got? A baby I don’t want and no husband. How could you do this to meeeeee?’
How indeed. After she’d stopped hitting him, he’d stroked her hair and stuffed a wad of folding readies into her handbag. She’d refused to take the money initially. But what good were principles when you were going home in disgrace to live with your parents in a crumby half house in Essex. Jude loathed gloomy girls and couldn’t wait to see the back of her. Besides, another girlfriend was whining that she hadn’t had a period for four months. It was getting expensive. Perhaps he should start wearing prophylactics. Bloody awful things. Might just as well take a shower in a raincoat.
On the ship the Panama hat charmed quite a few ladies of easy virtue but Jude wanted to start his marriage off right. Actually that’s a lie. Some of his future colleagues were on board and when one of them murmured, ‘We’ve noticed you’re spending a bit of time with the gels downstairs,’ Jude realised he’d have to clean up his act.
Everyone knew Jude was a first rate Chemical Engineer with expertise in explosives. And that the Australian Government was welcoming him with open arms. Unfortunately Jude’s career aspirations limited his sex life and he was reduced to shagging shop girls from Tourist Class. Usually in the lifeboats. It wasn’t optimal.
Things didn’t look too rosy when the Worthingtons disembarked at Melbourne. They were staying in a fifth-rate hotel in Kensington before moving to their government-built home. It was stinking hot and Jude had removed the Panama hat. He didn’t want it sweat-stained.
Eve stared out the taxi window. She couldn’t believe their hotel was in such close proximity to the stockyards and abattoir. Cattle were being driven down the street. There were ugly metal railings protecting the footpaths and front gardens. How barbaric. She hadn’t known Australians lived like this. The stench of death and animal fear was overpowering. For weeks she’d been cosseted in deep luxury and now she had to rough it. What would mother say if she could see her now.
As the Worthingtons climbed the hotel steps they heard a ruckus behind them. There were dirty men with shotguns, swearing at a bull that had broken free of the pack. The bull was right behind Eve, his hooves clattering and slipping on the steps. Eve screamed and flung herself at the doors but they’d been locked by the manager. She could see h
is terrified face on the other side of the glass.
Jude backed up against the handrail and remained very still. Eve was flailing around attracting the bull’s attention. Jude hoped the beast would gore her first. He examined his hat, in the vain hope that those watching would think he was brave. And prayed he wouldn’t piss his pants. The fierce sun was boring a hole in the top of his head. Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
Shots rang out. The bull staggered towards Jude then collapsed in a stinking bloodied mess at his feet. Its sad brown eyes were staring straight at him. Jude shuddered. Perhaps it was a bad omen.
The abattoir workers gathered around trying to work out how they were going to scrape a 2,000 pound bull off the hotel steps. Eve’s cheeks were streaked with black mascara. Her favourite hat had been trampled by the bull. When Jude touched her shoulder she rounded on him.
‘You conceited bastard! More concerned with your wretched hat than me. Cattle in the main street, for god’s sake; and mistreated animals getting slaughtered!’
Jude smoothed his hair. ‘Stop shouting, darling. Everyone’s staring at us.’
‘Don’t darling me! You’ve got a career and I’m going to be stuck at home. No family. No friends. In this godforsaken country. And you’ve made me pregnant. How could you do this to meeeeeee?’
Jude shrugged. He had no words. Different woman; same complaint. What must the abattoir workers think of him.
Hours later Eve woke in their hotel room. Claustrophobia. Heat. Grime. The sheets smelt stale and someone had stuck chewing gum under the rim of the bedside lamp. Jude was long gone, trying to sort things for their new house. Or that’s what he’d said. What Eve didn’t know was that he was relaxing in bed on the other side of town.
Jude was ensconced in a Toorak mansion, smoking post-coital cigarettes with Monica Larkin, the wife of an architect he’d met on the ship. He’d never had a redhead before, a real redhead that is. His last redhead had been a waitress, a foul-mouthed slapper. She’d smelt of fried bacon and her dyed hair had glowed in the dark. Whereas Monica reeked of Chanel No. 5 and resembled the girl on the Redhead Matches box. She’d been greedy, gobbled him right up. Jude’s sense of worth was restored. Astonishing how fellatio banished all self-doubt.
Monica was wanton yet delightfully solicitous. ‘Like something to eat, lover?’
‘Could you rustle up a cheese omelette?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And some bread and butter soldiers?’
‘No problem. Love your Pommy accent. It’s real classy’
God he missed his mother. Jude was so used to her being there for him, bucking him up when the world turned against him. He’d give anything to see her. Although Monica’s plump white arse was an acceptable consolation prize. Married women. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Sex in the afternoon, comfortable double bed and nursery food. A man couldn’t ask for more really. Not true. He could. And he would. Just as soon as she’d fed him and mixed him his special dry martini. With two green olives.
Jude lay spread-eagled and let the ceiling fan cool his naked body. He was terrifically proud of his abdominals. Old man Larkin looked at least five months pregnant. Pathetic runt. The master bedroom was decked out with frilled pink satin, fluffy white rugs and the most vulgar crystal chandelier he’d ever laid eyes on. Hard to believe the man of the house was a design expert, with a job lot of International awards. The Larkins were nouveau-riche but who cared. The only irritant was a yappy poodle with beady eyes. The dog had taken an instant dislike to him; and had been on the bed glaring at Jude the whole time. It had almost put him off his stroke.
Eve got out of bed and stared hard at Jude’s hat. The Panama stared back, giving nothing away. It was the prince of straw hats and Jude flattered himself that he looked as suave as Victor Laszlo in Casablanca. The Panama represented everything that Eve didn’t like about her new husband. She’d glimpsed his true colours at the exact moment they’d crossed the equator. During some stupid fancy dress party, she’d escaped a drunken King Neptune and had stumbled on Jude behind the life boats, lifting up a mermaid’s tail and fondling her perky breasts.
He’d said, ‘Sorry, darling. I was curious.’
What the hell did he think the girl had stashed under her tail -a dry martini with two olives perhaps? Eve giggled then sobered. If only she hadn’t ignored her mother’s advice. Now it was too late. She’d made her bed and must lie in it. So Eve opened a bottle of duty-free whiskey and poured a triple.
And so began Mrs Jude Worthington’s new life in Australia.
Eve’s new home failed her every expectation. The house was situated on a main road in the suburb inappropriately named Sunshine. She lay alone most nights as 22-wheeled rigs thundered past. There were ants crawling through the cracks, termites in the floor boards and the barren front lawn was weed infested. Big crevices appeared almost overnight in the front yard. Every house was identical to its neighbour and was a vile mustard shade.
The suburb was industrial rather than residential, the shops utility rather than recreational. Nowhere to go unless she walked to a tiny playground and studied the dog turds. There was a single swing with a bit of shredded bark underfoot and a sad slide with a dent in the middle. And a prickly bush that served to conceal the local paedophile, as he lay in wait for little girls returning from school.
Everything was brown and broken. England, my England. Eve struggled to get out of bed in the mornings and kept bursting into tears for no discernible reason.
The only renovation had been Jude’s installation of a built-in wardrobe for his exclusive use. He wasn’t generous with money anymore.
‘I give you housekeeping every week. You’ll just have to make do.’
So she did. She bought cheap powdered paint, mixed it with water and painted the walls. If there was a gaping hole in the wall she’d fill it with coal, wallpaper it up and paint right over the top.
As her pregnancy progressed she found it impossible to bend over and in the last trimester she just lay on the sofa, in her knickers and bra and wept.
England my England. After the birth of her first child, Jude bought her a second-hand sewing machine and she made curtains. The machine wasn’t even a treadle, she had to turn the handle with one hand and steer the fabric with the other. The baby was a crier and the only time Eve could relax was when she’d had a drink or three.
After a trunk call from her mother, Eve got all assertive. ‘Jude, I can’t make ends meet on the pittance you give me.’
He lowered his newspaper and put down his sherry. ‘Too bad. Learn to economize.’
‘But you’re on a marvellous salary. All the other British engineers have bought homes in residential suburbs. The Churchills are moving to Camberwell.’
‘Camberwell. How dreary.’
Eve tried to keep her voice even. ‘You spend all our money on clothes. That Italian cashmere coat cost a fortune. And those imported French silk shirts. Yet I’m still wearing clothes purchased for the honeymoon.’
Jude retreated behind his newspaper. ‘It’s not our money, it’s my money.’
After all, he had to contend with Monica’s expectations. Wining, dining and gifting her was not something he could stint on. She had one hell of an appetite and only ever ate five-star. Recently he’d nervously suggested Monica might like to try a local Indian restaurant and she’d rounded on him.
‘Jude, never again dare suggest I should eat Third World food.’
She’d even made him exchange an expensive gift because the diamonds weren’t first rate. That woman could pick an inferior diamond at twenty paces. He smiled. Monica was one classy broad.
Jude had forgotten all about his wife, until he felt sherry hitting him in the face - and crash! - as she tossed his glass into the fireplace.
‘You’re an egocentric prick. Don’t know why I married you. Mother was right. I want a divorce. I want to go home.’
Jude stood up. Sticky sweet sherry was trickling under
his collar.
‘I’ll never divorce you. You belong to me. Till death do us part. You’d have to fight me in the courts. Difficult without funds, darling.’
He slapped her hard across the chops. The results were instant. She sat down; speechless, with an angry red welt across her jaw and a split lip. And something deep inside her broke.
Jude took a shower, smothered himself in Old Spice and went out. He stayed out till five in the morning and Eve said nothing. Success. At last he’d found the solution to his domestic problems.
The next time Jude stayed out all night, Eve took his Panama hat and stuffed it full of ripe peaches from the tree. She then hid it in the garage. By the time Jude found the hat, it was rotten and stinking to high heaven. He had to make a stand. And so Eve wore sunglasses in public, to cover up another black eye.
