‘What’ve we got for smoko today, Davo?’ he asked, in a sing-song sort of voice with a smirk on his face.
‘Today,’ replied Davo, ignoring the apprentice’s sarcasm, ‘lovely tender lamb sandwiches with chutney on Vogels bread, and a slice of beautiful fresh apple-pie. Does that sound alright?’ Davo probably was a bit oldfashioned but he didn’t mind baking a leg of lamb or a cake now and then and the unit had a modern kitchen full of all the latest appliances so why not use it.
‘Jesus you’re tight. Why don’t you buy your lunch and not be such an old tart.’
‘Yeah? And what have you got smart arse?’
The apprentice opened up a white paper bag to reveal two glazed buns he’d bought earlier. They were smeared with sickly red jam and pumped full of thick, mock cream, that looked more like something you’d see your grandfather shaving with. ‘There you are,’ he said cockily. ‘Two grouse cream buns.’ Davo turned away and shook his head in disgust. ‘Fair dinkum, I feel sorry for you. How could you possibly eat that shit? No wonder you’ve got a head full of rotten pimples. Jack Nicklaus’ll be ringing you up soon, wanting to know what’s par for your face.’
‘Ohh bullshit. I’m a footballer, I need the carbohydrates.’ ‘Carbo arseholes. Fair dinkum, you’ve got a hide to bag me for bringing a bit of decent tucker to work. Another two years of eating that shit and your face is gonna look like a second hand dart board.’
‘Ohh bullshit.’
As they continued up the stairs Dennis fell behind Davo and ran his hand across the stubble on his lumpy face that was too sore to shave: he hated to admit it but Davo was right.
There were about a dozen or so others in the lunchroom. Davo nodded to a couple he knew as they threw their stuff on an empty table near the wall and got a large mug of tea each from a steaming urn in a sink near the corner. Davo got the morning paper out of his bag, spread it out and started reading it while he was eating, looking up once to make another comment about Dennis’s two repulsive looking cream buns.
They were only there a few minutes when they were joined by two girls from the fruit and vegetable department. Vicky and Helen. Vicky was reasonably attractive, slim, dark hair, about twenty-two, but Helen was a fat, bosomy blonde, with one eye slightly out of alignment and a constant, high-pitched giggle.
‘Hello, Davo darling,’ she gushed, clumsily plonking her ample backside at the table opposite him and Dennis.
‘Hello, Helen. How are you sweetheart? Hello, Vicky,’ replied Davo, smiling over his paper.
Davo was one of the few men who had a great deal of time for Helen and some of the gossips in the supermarket thought he was trying to have a bit of an affair there. But Davo was more cunning than that. Helen had at least a dozen good-looking girlfriends she used to run with and by running off Helen, if ever he saw her out and around the Eastern suburbs at night, Davo had more than his share of luck. Helen was none the wiser to Davo’s subterfuge and secretly in her heart nurtured the idea that Davo might eventually take her back to his unit one night for a cup of coffee and a bit of whatever.
They sat there for about another ten minutes or so, Davo still reading his newspaper and looking up now and again to talk about nothing much in particular, TV, a bit of supermarket gossip, movies, till Dennis managed to swing the conversation round to football.
After about another five minutes of listening to Dennis score tries, kick goals and win scrums Davo finished his second mug of tea and looked at his watch. ‘Well—you right Den?’ he said. The apprentice nodded as Davo folded his paper and put it in his bag.
As he got up Davo put his arm around Helen’s shoulders and whispered something about sexual harassment in her ear, giving it a bit of a nibble at the same time, then, leaving her giggling and squirming on the seat, he and the apprentice headed back to work.
‘Have a nice smoko Davo?’ asked Len, taking off his apron as Davo and Dennis walked into the shop.
‘Yeah, it was tops,’ replied Davo, tying his back on.
‘Sandwiches alright?’ smiled Eddie.
Davo kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’
‘Well that’s nice.’ Len got a brown paper bag out of the cool room with two devon and pickle sandwiches in it both about as thick as a Webster’s Dictionary then he, Eddie and the two other girls went to have their morning tea, leaving Davo and the other three alone in the shop.
Eddie had left a huge white plastic tub half full of scragneck, ends of topsides and rounds and other odds and ends to be trimmed up for mince. While Dennis was doing this Davo got several boned out briskets from the cool room and started rolling them with a corn-beef needle, something like a large darning needle only with a sharpened flat point, and a ball of thick white twine. In front of him, Kathy and Krystina continued weighing and packing meat for the display cabinet.
For a Wednesday it seemed a little busier than normal. Davo looked up from his rolling every now and then to see more than the usual number of customers fossicking through the cabinets before they finally dropped one or two items into their metal trolleys. No one in the shop was saying a great deal; Dennis, when he did speak, could only talk about football and Krystina, like Marie, didn’t say much at the best of times. Left alone together it didn’t take long before Kathy and Davo started stirring each other.
Davo speared the needle through the brisket, looped the twine around it then tied a knot and looked up at Kathy. ‘Where’s the Express playing tonight Kath? Any pub game enough to have them back a second time?’ he asked, snipping the knot with the heel of his boning knife.
The band that Kathy’s fiance played in was called The Frank Wayne Express after their leader, a frantic guitarist named Frank Wayne.
‘They’re not playing tonight,’ was the reply. ‘They’ve got a gig tomorrow night though supporting the Mentals at Revesby Workers Club.’
‘Got a gig, have they, man. That sounds cool,’ said Davo derisively.
‘Yeah, well you should know all about gigs Davo,’ smiled Kathy. ‘Being one yourself.’
‘You know what’s wrong with your boyfriend’s band?’ said Davo, pretending to ignore Kathy and sound nice at the same time, ‘they need a better name. The Frank Wayne Express sounds too corny. It makes you think of Frankie Laine singing Mule Train or something.’
‘Yeah? Well you’re pretty tuned into the rock scene, Davo. What are you into these days. 2CH—a bit of Tom Jones, Patti Page, Kamahl. What would a cool swinger like you suggest?’
‘I dunno. What about Credence Rainwater Revival? Or The Rockroaches—you know, like The Beatles. Or The Pointer Brothers, or get Frank to change his name to Bruce Scaggs or Mick Jaguar, or something like that. I know,’ continued Davo, while Kathy looked at him with a mixture of pity and bored disgust, ‘why don’t they call themselves The Far Queue.’ ‘Ohh turn it up, Davo.’
‘No, I’m fair dinkum. They’d love that on Triple J.’
‘When do you ever listen to Triple J?’
‘All the time, man. George Wayne. Rusty Nails. I’m hip to the re-bop momma don’t you worry about that.’ Davo trimmed the ends of the rolled brisket then hung it up on the rail putting a little square of grease-proof paper over each end to stop them from drying out.
‘But just think how it would sound, Kath.’ Davo dropped his voice to try and sound like a radio announcer. ‘And here’s tonight’s What’s On. We just rang Revesby Workers Club and they said Far Queue. Or, At Salinas tonight—it’s Men at Work and Far Queue too. And that ends tonight’s What’s On. Far out and Far Queue. What do you reckon Kath?’
‘Yeah, t’riffic, Davo. I’ll put it to the boys tomorrow night.’
‘Ask them if they want a new lead singer too. I don’t mind punking up my hair. I’ll even stop washing for a couple of months.’
‘Davo, you can’t even talk in key let alone sing.’
Davo was about to say something when Krystina turned around from the window, a half smile on her face. ‘Davo, your gir
lfriend’s outside. Mrs Finniecome.’
Davo looked up from what he was doing out into the supermarket where a short, stocky, fairly old lady wearing thicklensed glasses and a light blue twin-set, was standing in front of the display cabinet, holding a packet of meat up in the air. She caught Davo’s eye as best she could through her Cokebottle glasses and smiled.
Although all the cuts of meat were pre-packed, it was store policy that if any customer should want a special cut, like a wing-rib or a crown-roast or something boned out, all they had to do was get the girl to ask one of the butchers and they would be only too happy to do it; so they made out. Davo generally got all the public relations jobs. Not because he wanted them, but Len was always too busy, Dennis was still only an apprentice and Eddie used to frighten all the old women with his sinister-looking tattoos. There were only a few women who asked for special orders and after a while Davo got to know all of them and they all thought he was lovely. Mrs Finniecome’s specialty was getting a kilogram of chuck steak run through the mincer.
Davo caught the old lady’s eye through the window and smiled back pleasantly. ‘Hello, you dirty miserable old shit,’ he called out. ‘How are you?’ Krystina’s cheeks coloured and Kathy put her head down, trying not to laugh. Mrs Finniecome, not being able to hear Davo through the plate glass window, smiled back enthusiastically. Davo pointed to the packet of meat in her hand. ‘Do you want me to come out there and shove that meat right up your smelly old arse do you?’ The woman nodded her head and smiled back happily. ‘Righto, Kathy. Go out and get it off the old dratsab will you.’
Kathy went out and got the chuck steak off the woman. ‘She wants it through the hamburger plate too,’ she said, handing it to Davo.
Davo waved the packet of meat at Mrs Finniecome and smiled again. ‘Would you like me to drop my balls in with it too?’ The old woman, thinking he said hamburger-plate, smiled and nodded back. ‘Righto teenuck-head.’
Davo, like most shop butchers, had a habit of saying different words backwards. It was an old code butchers used whereby they could say things in front of customers and the customers would be none the wiser. For example, if something wasn’t fresh, they would say ‘it’s deelo’, old backwards. If it was completely rotten and crawling with maggots, it was ‘on doog—luff of toggams’. Likewise, ‘ni the moor’ meant in the fridge. ‘Ni the wodnee’ was in the window. ‘Luff of sipp’ full of piss. ‘Dratsab, teenuck, teg kaycufed’ etc, etc.
Davo cut through the carton of chuck with his boning knife, sliced it up a bit smaller on the block, then ran it through the mincer, putting it back in a fresh carton for the girls to price and reseal.
‘There you are—tishgabs,’ he said, waving to the smiling woman. ‘I got the old tom-cat out in the lane and jerked him off into it for you. Give it that bit of extra flavour—alright?’ he added, with a nod of his head. Mrs Finniecome smiled back gratefully as Kathy sealed the carton then took it out to her trying her best to keep a straight face.
‘I bloody well heard that Davo,’ a deep voice growled from the rear of the shop. It was Len as he and Eddie came back from smoko. The big red-headed manager got his apron and kit from the same hook on the rail Davo had used and started putting them on. ‘You’re gonna get sprung one of these days and Brinsden’ll be down here like a shot out of a gun.’
‘Ohh bullshit. Look the old teenuck loves me. See you shithead.’ Davo smiled once more and waved to the woman who waved happily back as she pushed her metal shopping trolley off to another part of the store, obviously delighted at getting that extra little service and what appeared to be a kind smile to go with it. ‘See. What’d I tell you.’
‘Fair dinkum, what’s the bloody use.’ Len automatically clanged his steak-knife against his steel a couple of times as he stood there shaking his head at Davo. ‘Anyway—how are you goin’ with those briskets?’
‘Alright, only got two to go.’
‘Okay. Well finish them, then you can break up twenty lambs. Split the saddles but don’t roll them.’
‘Righto.’
Davo rolled the other two briskets while Eddie went back to work in the cool room and Len kept cutting meat for the display cabinet. Dennis continued his trimming like he was in a trance, stopping every now and then to tilt back his head and let out a cavernous yawn.
When he’d finished the briskets Davo started skidding the lambs out of the cool room, six at a time, and breaking them up on the band saw. Between the noisy whine of the saw, Len cutting away stoically on one of the blocks, the apprentice half asleep and Eddie in the fridge there wasn’t a great deal to talk about or anyone to talk to, so Davo kept working away whistling absently to himself while he thought about what he was going to do that night.
One of his best mates, Colin Andrews, was coming over about eight and they were going out for a few drinks and see what was around; probably The Golden Sheaf at Double Bay early then The Cock n’ Bull at The Junction and maybe finish up at a disco. Maybe. Colin earned plenty of money driving a petrol tanker for an oil company, he dressed well and was a notorious womaniser. Like Davo, Colin was divorced, but unlike Davo, Colin’s ex-wife had kept their unit at Coogee and for the time being he stayed at his parents’ house in Rose Bay. With his gingery blonde hair, tanned good looks and silver tongue, Colin never had any trouble getting women; which was basically what brought his marriage undone. With his own personality, and running off Colin, Davo had his fair share of luck too; however, any lumbering or screwing that had to be done all took place at Davo’s unit till Colin could get a place of his own or one to share with a mate.
Davo was chuckling to himself as he thought of some of the capers he and Colin had got up to when they went out together and tonight would probably be no exception.
‘Well, that’s all the lambs done,’ said Davo, switching off the band saw. He scooped up a pile of pink bone dust and dropped it in the fat basket then manhandled the wire baskets full of legs, forequarters and loins into the cool room, where he hung them with a box of S-hooks Eddie had left in there previously. Eddie was now rolling sets of ribs on a stainless steel bench; he winked up at Davo as he came back out of the fridge and stood there looking at him.
‘You want a hand with those?’ asked Davo.
Eddie shook his head. ‘I’ve only got a couple to go.’ He picked up a long roast of beef he’d just rolled and dropped it on the bench to even up all the wooden skewers.
‘What time is it?’ asked Len, without looking up from the block he was working on.
Davo wiped his hands on his apron and extracted his watch once more from the top pocket of his white coat. ‘Nearly 12.’ ‘You and Dennis may as well go to early lunch.’
‘Righto. Suits me,’ replied Davo, undoing his apron.
‘What’s for lunch today, Davo?’ asked Kathy, in the same sing-song type of voice Dennis had used earlier. ‘Nice little lamb sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Or have we got a little stew.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ replied Davo indifferently. ‘I’m not having any lunch—just a cup of coffee and a donut. I’m going to get a haircut. How does that grab you? You old broken-down rock n’ roll groupie.’
‘Ooh—going over to see Waynee darling are we?’ said Dutchy, as the others started laughing. Kathy gave a little whistle and blew Davo an exaggerated kiss.
‘Yeah, why not,’ said Davo, putting on a bit of an effeminate voice and running his fingers sensuously through his unkempt brown hair. ‘I’m starting to get these flyaway ends again, which are ever so bothersome, and Wayne is the only hairdresser I know that can keep my hair shiny and manageable.’ He stuck his thumb up at Dutchy and poked his tongue out. ‘And that to you, you bitch.’
‘When are you going to take me over to Wayne’s for a haircut?’ asked Eddie, giving a lopsided grin with several teeth missing.
‘I don’t know about taking you. I wouldn’t mind taking one of your arms though—give me something to read while I’m waiting.’
‘Oo
h, that’s a bit below the belt,’ said Kathy.
‘Talking about below the belt,’ chuckled Len. ‘You’d better watch your esrae while you’re over there.’
Davo finished wiping his hands on a paper towel, which he tossed in the basket and then walked to the front of the shop. ‘You know what,’ he sniffed, pausing at the glass swing door, ‘you straights give me the shits.’ He gave them all a haughty look, threw back his head and disappeared out into the supermarket.
The ‘Waynee Darling’ that Dutchy and the others had been so derogatorily referring to was Wayne St Peters, who managed a busy hairdressing salon in Bondi Junction: Vermillions. Just around from the Leagues Club. Davo and Wayne had been friends from school and their parents had known each other since before they were born. Wayne was gay; though at first glance you would never guess it. Unlike those limp wristed, mincing little fags you often see poncing around Oxford Street or characterised on TV or in the movies, Wayne, with his compact build, superb dress sense and boyish good looks, looked like a young Tony Curtis. The only thing that distinguished him from most other men was a distinct charismatic elegance and an articulate deep voice, that wouldn’t have sounded out of place reading the news on the ABC.
Wayne only lived about two blocks from Davo in a spacious modern home unit he co-owned with a friend of his: David, a women’s fashion designer. The main reason Davo got his hair done at Vermillions was that apart from Wayne being an old friend and one of the best hairdressers in Sydney, he also cut Davo’s hair for free. Besides being an arbiter of fashion, Wayne was also an excellent cook and wine buff who liked nothing better than to entertain his friends with quiet tasteful dinner parties back at his home unit. As a result he relied on Davo for all the best cuts of meat. Steaks that would literally melt in your mouth or beautiful fillets of pork without a gram of fat on them. Veal steak cut wafer thin etc.
Davo had often been over to Wayne’s for some of these gourmet meals and had met most of his and David’s friends. Although Davo was completely heterosexual—slightly chauvinistic if anything—the company at Wayne’s never bothered or offended him in the least. They were all pretty much like Wayne; well-groomed, friendly, young professional men. They discreetly did their thing and Davo did his. In fact compared to some of the yobbos Dave used to come across in hotels, arguing over pool tables and pouring schooners down their throats till they were mindless and legless, Davo found them quite a pleasant contrast. It was also Wayne and David who had given Davo the most comfort and on more than one occasion a bit of a shoulder to cry on when he was in the doldrums after Sue had left him.
Davo's Little Something Page 2
