Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘You’re very quiet there, old mate,’ he said.

  ‘Eh? No, I was just thinking about something, Billy,’ replied Les. ‘You and Eddie were talking anyway.’

  Eddie stretched his arms above his head and yawned. ‘I know what I’m thinking,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of going straight to bed when I get home. I worked on the house all day today, pouring concrete. And I’m rooted.’

  ‘Hey, talking about work,’ said George Brennan, locking the safe. ‘That lazy, loafing nephew of mine Kevin’s got a part in a movie tomorrow. They’re shooting it at Bondi Beach Public School while the school holidays are on. He’s a cop.’

  ‘Kevin?’ said Price. ‘How could he do a day’s work? They’d have to take an X-ray first to see if he had one in him.’

  ‘He’d make a good cop,’ said Billy.

  ‘Yeah,’ chuckled Les. ‘It runs in the family.’

  ‘Hey, how come you haven’t got a part in the movie, Tom Cruise?’ said George. ‘It’s being shot in your backyard. And you’re an actor and a model. Did your agent forget to ring you?’

  Les brushed his fingernails lightly against his shirt then glanced at them indifferently. ‘It’s funny you should say that, George. Because I just happen to have a share investment in that very same movie.’

  ‘You what?’ said George.

  ‘I bought some shares in the movie,’ replied Les. ‘It’s called Leaving Bondi.’

  ‘Shit! You kept that quiet,’ said Billy.

  ‘Well,’ drawled Les. ‘I didn’t want to start running around big-noting, Billy. Just because I’ve become a major player in the Australian film game.’

  ‘Major player in the film game.’ Billy shook his head. ‘Fuck off, will you, Les.’

  ‘How much did you stick into it?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘Enough.’

  George turned to Price. ‘Can you believe this cunt? Sticking his money into a movie.’

  Price gestured with one hand. ‘I don’t know, George. Taking a punt on an Aussie movie’s not a bad idea.’ He turned to Les. ‘This could turn out to be a very wise investment, old son.’

  Les nodded. ‘That’s right. It could turn out to be another Crocodile Dundee.’

  ‘Crocodile Dundee,’ scoffed George. ‘I know one thing. You won’t be crying crocodile tears if you do your money. They’ll hear you howling the other side of Cape Barren lighthouse.’

  ‘Hey, I’ll be down Bondi tomorrow,’ said Eddie. ‘I got to see a bloke about something. You reckon it’d be worth me hanging round the movie set for a perv?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Les. ‘But I’m going to have a look. I might see you down there.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll have a coffee,’ said Eddie.

  Price changed the subject to something that had happened at the club earlier in the night. Then they talked about something else. It was the end of the week and everyone was feeling tired and looking forward to a few days off. They drank and talked for another thirty minutes or so then left. Driving home in the back of Price’s new Mercedes, Les was thinking. Yes. Things ain’t that bad. I’ve just earned a few Oxford Scholars tonight. My job definitely isn’t the Burma Railway. And I’m getting a lift home in an air-conditioned Merc. Yes. Things could be a lot worse. Eddie dropped him off at his door, Les said he’d see them all later and went inside.

  Once more, Les had the house to himself. This time Warren was down the south coast at Ulladulla, in a weekender with a blonde actress he’d met at the Toriyoshi. A blonde Les fancied. But unfortunately Warren tap danced too fast for him. Les got out of his work clothes and into his tracksuit pants and a T-shirt, made an Ovaltine then walked out into the backyard and looked up at the stars shining down on a crisp autumn night. He sipped his Ovaltine and shook his head, finding it hard to believe how time went so fast. It only seemed like a few days ago they were trying to get the money together to make Leaving Bondi. Now they were actually filming it. Les yawned and had a slight chuckle to himself. He’d got a postcard from Neville Nizegy early in the week. From San Diego of all places. It didn’t say who it was from. But Les knew. I wonder what Nizegy would think if he knew some of his money was going into an Aussie movie? He’d probably be rapt. Naturally, Nizegy didn’t leave a forwarding address, so Les couldn’t tell him. Les finished his Ovaltine. Yawned again then went to bed. In ten minutes the big Queenslander was snoring soundly.

  By the time Les rose from his sleep-in, got cleaned up then climbed into his blue tracksuit and trainers to walk down and get the paper, it was ten o’clock. After throwing his dirty clothes in the washing machine, before taking his own sweet time over poached eggs and coffee, it was after eleven. Outside it wasn’t too bad a day; mild, with a few clouds around and a light nor’wester rustling through the few trees in Cox Avenue. An excellent day for filming smiled Les, as he flicked through the sports pages. Filming, I say filming my movie that is, boy.

  By the time Les cleaned up in the kitchen and hung his washing out on the Hills Hoist like any other good Bondi housewife, it was getting on for twelve. Les had a glass of filtered water for the road, locked the house up and headed for the film set.

  Walking fairly briskly, Les went straight down O’Brien Street then took a left into Gould, slowing down as he crossed Curlewis to wave to a couple of girls he knew going past on ten-speeds. He crossed Beach Road, finally stopping in Gould Street at a metal gate set into the rusty cyclone-wire fence running along the back of Bondi Beach Public School. Behind the metal gate, a set of concrete steps angled down to the old schoolyard, the tar criss-crossed with white markings to form a basketball court. A row of scrubby trees ran below the cyclone-wire fence towards Warners Avenue and on the right a couple of tall pines and other trees stood in front of a grey paling fence that separated the schoolyard from the flats in Beach Road. On the left side of the schoolyard was a children’s play station flanked by two basketball hoops and across the playground, opposite Les, was a two-storey block of classrooms, then the rest of the school sprawled across to Campbell Parade. Joining the other interested bystanders in Gould Street, Norton leant against the metal gate and peered into the playground where the circus was well and truly in town.

  All over the schoolyard were actors and extras dressed in State Protection Group or army uniforms. Walking amongst them, in a grey dust coat with a holstered magnum on his hip, was the armourer, keeping an eye on the M–16s, Heckler and Koch sub-machine guns and Glock pistols the actors and extras were having a great time playing with. Two make-up girls were bustling about, wiping the actors’ faces or whatever while two wardrobe girls were busy double-checking their uniforms and another girl was walking around taking polaroids. Through the sprawl, other film crew were wandering around the playground, sucking on styrofoam cups of coffee as they squawked into two-way radios. Some of the extras, including George’s nephew, were leaning up against the school block. Others were seated around a hot-water urn next to one of the basketball hoops. While all this rattle was going on, another scene of organised confusion was being enacted next to the children’s play station.

  A camera was set up on a cherry picker and beneath it electricians, carpenters, grips and various other film crew were bustling about laying down tracks or securing things with grey gaffer tape. At the epicentre of all this and looking every inch the uber-director was Max King, wearing a red batik shirt and Ray Ban sunglasses. King was staring morosely at the ground, his hand under his chin, in earnest conversation with the cameraman and the first assistant director, who was in earnest conversation with the soundman and the second assistant director, who was in earnest conversation with the assistant to the assistant assistant’s whatever. Hovering in the background was the man with the clapper-board. He was in earnest conversation with a girl carrying a stop-watch and a clipboard who was checking the continuity. More film crew were coming and going and the dress was everything from ferocious black to Mambo Surfie and King’s batik shirt. All topped with weird haircuts in every colour of the r
ainbow and facial piercing. It was as if the inmates had taken over the asylum and the inmates were waiting for Max King to rise majestically above the mob, give the nod to the first assistant director who would give the nod to the second assistant director who would then utter the magic words:

  ‘All right. Quiet everybody. First positions please.’

  Les leant against the gate to watch all the sizzling action and beautiful girls in the movie business. There was neither. Every girl on the set would have got kicked off a ghost train and the whole scene was about as exciting as watching an endless American gridiron huddle. Les watched everyone on the set play hurry up and wait for a while longer, then decided to walk down to Campbell Parade via Warners Avenue and have a look in the front gate just in case something might be happening there.

  Through a line of trees behind the school fence in Warners Avenue, Les could see all the film company trucks lined up along the drive at the main entrance; wardrobe, make-up, generators, etc. The crew and cast had their cars parked nearby and in front of the drive was a grassy area about seventy metres square. Benches and tables were set up on the grass and behind the benches and tables was a dark blue catering van, its back nestled up near some scrubby trees running behind the school fence in Campbell Parade. Les strolled casually round the corner just as a 380 pulled up at a bus stop in front of the fence. As he slowed down for the people getting off the bus, Les noticed his left shoelace had come undone. He walked to the other side of the bus stop then turned round and rested his foot on the seat. Through the trees on his left, a flash of colour caught Norton’s eye.

  It was a thin, pale man with a shock of pink and yellow hair, wearing a black T-shirt, greasy black jeans and an apron round his waist. The man had come from a set of steps at the back of the catering van and Les surmised he was the cook. He was carrying a small tupperware container in one hand and a fork in the other, and had his back to Les as he picked something up from the grass near the steps. It was a couple of small, dried-up white dog turds. Les watched from behind the trees as the cook carefully put the two turds in the plastic container then clipped the lid on and disappeared back inside the catering van. Les closed his eyes and shook his head for a moment wondering what was going on. Les was still wondering what was going on when he felt a light punch under his floating rib. It was Eddie, wearing a black Balance tracksuit and matching trainers.

  ‘Righto, Shifty. What are you up to?’

  ‘Eddie,’ replied Les. ‘How are you, mate?’

  ‘Good. What’s happening on the film set?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ said Les. ‘Hey Eddie, you’re not going to believe what I just saw.’

  Les finished tying his shoelace and told Eddie what he’d seen, pointing to the catering van on the other side of the trees. Eddie seemed to think for a moment, a smile tugging at the corners of his eyes.

  ‘You reckon the cook was picking up dog shit? And putting it in a tupperware container?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘You could almost smell it. I wonder what he was up to?’

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ said Eddie, thoughtfully. ‘But I know how we might be able to find out. Follow me over to my car, I’ll show you something. It’s just round the corner.’

  Les followed Eddie across to his maroon Calais which was angle parked on the opposite side of Warners Avenue. Eddie opened the boot and took two aluminium binocular cases out of an overnight bag. He opened the cases and handed Les a pair of black binoculars. They were wider and heavier than normal, with green tinted lenses and there was a switch built into the lens on the right with a tiny light in front of it. Stamped across the top was CANON IMAGE STABILIZER 15×45IS.

  ‘What are these?’ asked Les.

  ‘Image-stabilizing binoculars,’ replied Eddie. ‘I just bought them. You focus on what you want to look at. Then press that button and it cuts out any movement.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘That catering van’s facing this way. Come on over the road and we’ll have a look from behind those trees. We might be able to see what he’s up to.’

  Les had another look at the binoculars. ‘Righto.’

  They crossed Warners Avenue, found a clear view of the catering truck through the trees, then rested their arms on the metal fence and raised the binoculars to their eyes. Les gave a double blink. The catering van was a hundred metres away, but the binoculars were so powerful, you would have thought you were inside it. There were gas bottles behind another door on the right and a white laminex counter at the front with a blue awning over it. Pink Hair was chopping up broccoli behind the counter. Les pressed the image-stabilizer switch and could scarcely believe his eyes. Everything stood perfectly still; there was absolutely no shaking at all. It was like watching TV, only better.

  Les could easily make out the cook’s facial features now. Under the pink hair, he had a lean, grainy face with a pointy nose and a long pointy chin, where a silver stud glinted through a blond goatee beard. There was a dark-haired girl in another black T-shirt and jeans, wiping over the tables on the grass, leaving the cook alone in the kitchen. The cook finished what he was doing, had a quick look around then reached under the counter and took out the tupperware container. He removed the two white dog turds then very deftly sliced them into six neat portions and placed them on a plate. Through the binoculars, Les could see everything clear as crystal. Next, the cook got a bottle of chocolate sauce from beneath the counter and poured some over the portions of dog shit. While the sauce was sinking in, the cook reached into a cabinet above the counter, got a packet of shredded coconut and sprinkled it liberally over the pieces of sliced dog shit. Satisfied, he put the plate to one side as Les put the binoculars down and turned to Eddie.

  ‘Did you just see that?’

  Eddie had his binoculars down too. ‘Did I ever. What a cunt.’

  They raised the binoculars again and Les pushed the stabilizer switch. A fat, orange blowfly drifted languidly into the catering truck and landed on the counter. The cook kept his eyes on it then picked up a plastic flyswat and carefully flattened the blowfly where it landed. The blowfly had scarcely stopped kicking when the cook descended on it with a small pair of scissors and quickly trimmed off its wings and legs. He flicked them off the counter then got another small tupperware container, opened it and dropped the blowfly inside with several other trimmed-up blowflies. The cook looked at them for a moment before tipping the lot into a pot of bean casserole simmering on the stove behind him. He gave the casserole a stir then put the two tupperware containers into a dishwasher as his assistant came in through the door on the right.

  Les brought the binoculars down again, shook his head and looked at Eddie in disgust. ‘Ohh yuk!’ he said. ‘That’s enough to turn you off your fuckin day.’

  ‘It is making it a bit willing,’ agreed Eddie.

  ‘Making it a bit willing?’ said Les. ‘It’s enough to make you sick.’

  ‘And on your movie too.’

  ‘Yeah. My grouse bloody movie. What’s his caper?’

  ‘I don’t know. But are you going to cop it?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘No fuckin way Jose.’

  ‘Then there definitely has to be a square up.’

  ‘Oh! A square up for sure, mate.’

  ‘You got any ideas?’ enquired Eddie.

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘How about I go over there and pour that casserole down his pink and blond throat. Then force-feed him those dog-shit lamingtons for dessert.’

  Eddie wiggled his eyebrows. ‘I got a better idea.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yeah. The old exploding-cake-full-of-shit trick.’

  ‘The exploding-cake-full-of-shit trick, Ninety-Nine? What’s that all about?’

  ‘Come on. Let’s put these back in the car, and I’ll tell you.’ They walked back across the road to Eddie’s Calais. Eddie returned the binoculars to his overnight bag and closed the boot. ‘I’ll put a thundercracker in a cake full of shit. Then rig it so when Pink Hai
r opens the box it goes off and he gets a face full of shit. Along with his chuck wagon.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Les. ‘How’s it work?’

  ‘I’ll explain it to you in the morning. All I want you to do is find out his name, so we can write it on the cake box. Then you deliver it to him. You reckon you can do that?’

  ‘I don’t see why not, Edward.’

  ‘I got a couple of blokes coming to see me tomorrow morning. I’ll bring it over your place about ten-thirty. Is that okay?’

  ‘Good as gold.’ Norton turned towards the catering van. ‘In fact I can’t wait.’

  ‘Okay.’ Eddie looked at Les for a moment. ‘You still feel like a cup of coffee?’

  Les shook his head. ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘No. Me either. You want a lift home?’