Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  The road and the traffic ground on. ‘Paying Cost To The Boss’ — B.B. King and The Rolling Stones were picking and honking out the speakers as Les went past the turn off to Katoomba. Shouldn’t be too far now, he mused. B.B. King faded into Mollie O’Brien wailing ‘Denver to Dallas’ when Les made out a sign on the left. Medlow Bath. Hello. I’m here. Thank Christ for that. Les looked for some shops and houses. I am? There was nothing but trees and a railway line on the right. What the fuck? A railway station came into view and suddenly what looked like a palace appeared out of the gloom on the left. It was all maroon and gold with gold arches out front, set under a huge grey dome next to a bigger building resembling a white castle. A hedge and an old mossy sandstone fence ran along the front with a black and gold sign above the hedge saying MEDLOW ASTORIA — WELCOME. Hey I’ve heard of this joint, thought Les. Price said he used to come up here for dirty weekends before he got married. It’s supposed to be el schmicko. Why don’t I prop here? I can’t get any closer to Medlow Bath than this. Les swung the Berlina into the driveway and pulled up outside the main entrance.

  Norton got out of the car, stretched his legs then took the red carpeted steps to the front doors and into the warmth of the foyer. Hey, this is all right, he thought, pausing to take a look around. Everywhere was beautifully restored art-deco, featuring maroon, gold and white. Arches and small columns stood under a domed ceiling hung with sparkling chandeliers, while thick scatter rugs covered a polished oak floor spread with velvet lounges and plump matching cushions. Alongside the lounges were ornate wooden tables and lamps made to resemble ancient Egyptian figurines. There was an open fireplace under a white archway on the left, and in front of another white archway on the opposite side of the room, two polished oak tables formed the front desk. An attractive, dark-haired woman in a crisp char-grey uniform and matching tie smiled up from the desk on the left.

  ‘Yes sir. May I help you?’

  ‘I’d like a room for the night, please,’ replied Les. ‘A single.’

  ‘Certainly sir.’ The woman consulted a register. ‘I can let you have a room in the Concordia Wing at three hundred dollars a night. Or, if you wish to take advantage of our mid-week special, you can have two nights for four hundred dollars.’

  Les thought for a moment. ‘Yeah okay. I’ll take the two nights.’

  Even though he intended staying only one night, it was now mid afternoon and in the thick fog outside he’d be flat out finding a herd of elephants with bells round their necks let alone a house. So he’d have to leave his searching till the morning, when hopefully the fog would lift. For the sake of an extra hundred he could take his time checking out and relax a little before he went back to Sydney. The woman took Norton’s credit card number, did the details and gave him a key to room 123. Les said he’d be right with his bag, went out and parked the car near the sandstone fence then came back inside, turned right at the foyer and went looking for his room.

  The Medlow was huge and plush and was probably the place years ago. Long carpeted corridors ran to the left and right with signs saying Del Monte Room, Savoy Lounge, Gaming Room, Caledonia Wing, etc. Les walked past the old gaming room on his right, that was now a conference room, and the breakfast room on the left, where a scattering of punters were taking tea and sandwiches in front of huge windows overlooking the Megalong Valley. Further on, a double-glass door opened into an extensive, art-deco lounge room called The Kurrajong Room. Logs crackled in a big open fireplace on the left and more plush furniture, lamps and ornate tables sat on a polished wood floor spread with thick rugs. On the right was a cigar room, another glass door, then a chrome-railed bar next to a pool table tucked into the corner. Delicate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, paintings and mirrors looked down from the walls, and running past a balcony on the left, massive windows with brown drapes offered stunning views of the Megalong Valley.

  From a set of speakers hidden somewhere in the ceiling, a reedy version of ‘Pennies From Heaven’ played softly in the background. Les stopped and looked around with a half-smile on his face. It was like stepping back in time. Any moment he expected either Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot to stroll in ready to take tea and cucumber sandwiches, or Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to come dancing down the staircase in the corner on the left singing ‘You And The Song And The Moonlight’. The doorway to the Concordia Wing was near the staircase. Les picked up his bags and headed towards it.

  A corridor with scalloped light fittings along the cornice led to a short set of stairs on the right where two chrome statuettes of women holding outstretched beach balls were set in a wall alongside some glass bricks. Les took the stairs to his room. For three hundred dollars a night, or whatever he was paying, Les felt his room could have been a little bigger. It was no larger than the spare room at Chez Norton. But it was cosy enough, with a comfortable double bed, a small TV, a bathroom and a table with two leopard-skin seats. A sash window offered a sweeping view of the Megalong Valley; only the fog and rain cut the view to a path below and the surrounding trees and ferns. Les tossed his bag on the bed and sat down facing the window. Well, here I am, he thought. Now what? The rain pattered down on the roof and the breeze coming from the valley flicked at the rainwater in the trees. I suppose I’d better drive into Katoomba, buy a map and see if I can figure out where they’ve hidden the rest of Medlow Bath over a cup of coffee or something. Les unpacked his travel bag, freshened up a bit then headed back the way he came.

  On his way out through the Kurrajong Room, Les stopped beneath a painting near the main door, titled Nile in Flood. It showed the pyramids and the sphinx and Les was thinking how nice it looked, when a girl about twenty-five came bouncing down the stairs in the far corner carrying a clipboard. She was wearing a light blue pleated dress cut above the knee, long white socks and dainty white shoes. A blue crepe de chine top fitted over her dress and a brimless white sequinned hat sat tight on her head like a bathing cap. She had a pretty pixie face, blue eyes and two thin bangs of blonde hair flicked across her cheekbones from beneath her hat. Les gave the girl a double blink as she stepped daintily across the room. Did I say something about Agatha Christie? It’s Vera Claythorne taking a brief holiday after the coroner’s inquest. As the girl approached the main door, she dropped a fountain pen from her clipboard. Les bent down and picked it up.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ he called out. ‘You dropped something.’ The girl either didn’t hear Les or she ignored him. ‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘Bleed to death.’

  The girl turned around from the door. ‘What was that?’ she said.

  Les held up the fountain pen. ‘You dropped this. I said, okay, if you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m ever so sorry,’ apologised the girl. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ replied Les, handing her the fountain pen.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘That’s very gentlemanly of you.’

  Les gave a slight bow. ‘My pleasure, madam. Hugo would have done the same for Vera Claythorne.’

  The girl stared at Les and her cheeks coloured slightly. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, then opened the door and bounced off down the corridor like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.

  Have a nice day, Vera, Les chuckled to himself. Now, what was I doing before I was so rudely interrupted?

  Les got in the car and headed through the drizzling rain and fog towards Katoomba. After the warmth of the hotel it seemed colder than it already was, making things even more miserable. Before long he reached the lights at the turn-off and took a right across the bridge over the railway line.

  The road curved left past some shops on the right and a few more on the left next to a tunnel beneath the railway station, then it went right again into the main drag. From what Les could make out through the fog and rain, Katoomba was trying to be the art-deco capital of Australia. Most of the shops, especially the restaurants, had that 1930s black and chrome look about them. The main street
sloped down on the left, past restaurants, banks, clothes shops, a couple of churches and whatever, before levelling off at a pedestrian crossing on an intersection. Les did a U-turn and came up the other side. It was much the same. More shops and art-deco restaurants, a medical centre, butcher, newsagent, the town centre arcade, an antique furniture centre then the grounds of another old hotel at the top, the Kensington. The hotel was at the back but a set of steps off the street led up to two double-glass doors and a bar. A sign on one of the doors said PIANO MAN — THURSDAY NIGHT. Back at the top of the hill, Les noticed a hotel across the railway line called the Gordon. He did another U-turn and found a parking spot, outside a cluster of restaurants opposite the Kensington, then got out of the car and had a look around for a moment. With his breath turning into small clouds of steam in the cold mountain air, Les strolled down to the newsagency and got a map and the local paper. That didn’t take long and when he returned Les decided to try Cafe Zappa.

  Like the others it was either restored — or just left the way it was to save spending any money — art-deco. The floor was bare boards with booths on either side and a counter at the rear where they did the cooking. Les went for a bowl of pumpkin soup and a flat white; the woman said she’d bring it to him. Even though it was cold and miserable outside, Les chose a footpath table left of the front door, opposite a table full of hippy-gothics on the right.

  Along with the men at the table there were three women with prams and babies and everyone had this arty, ‘Okay, so I might be on the dole or getting a pension and I dress like a rag picker and I’m half broke. But I’m still really cool, you know’ look about them while they sipped their coffees and smoked skinny roll-your-owns from a communal packet of Champion Ruby. Like most of the other punters shuffling past in the rain, carrying string bags or backpacks, the dress code at the table opposite was thick beanies, army pants, loose knitted jumpers and leg warmers. Purple Doc Martens, rainbow-coloured stockings and crushed velvet dresses was another look, along with denim dresses, greasy jeans and ugh boots. And of course nose rings, ear rings, ear studs and cheap Indian jewellery. Some bloke with a cane at a table outside the restaurant next door was wearing a floppy velvet hat, a white jacket and a long scarf. He looked like Dr Who minus the Tardis. Norton’s pumpkin soup and coffee arrived. He left the locals to it and sipped and supped while he studied his map.

  Medlow Bath wasn’t all that big. Just a cluster of cul-de-sacs on the other side of the railway line, not far from a water catchment area, with one long road leading out to the airfield. Depending on the fog and rain, Les felt he was in with a chance. He still didn’t know what he was looking for and if he did find the house with the red fence, he was just going to hope no one was home and break in. He’d brought a jemmy with him for that purpose. He still didn’t have much to go on. But he didn’t have much to lose. And the alternative was the remand yard at Long Bay. Les put the map aside and flicked through the paper while he finished his soup and coffee. The soup was a bit bland and could have done with some chilli and garlic. The coffee was okay. By the time he’d finished, the street was emptying and it was getting dark. Les paid his bill and left for the hotel.

  Driving back to The Medlow, Les found himself developing a kind of ‘who gives a stuff’ attitude. He had nothing much to go on. And he was more than likely wasting his time. So why not to have as much fun as he could before the chop, and try not take it too seriously. If something turned up, great. If it didn’t, well, at least he’d had a go. Les was also feeling, although he’d been off his food a bit, the pumpkin soup and the mountain air had put the edge back on his appetite. Dinner at the hotel would definitely be in order. After a few gin and tonics in the Kurrajong Room of course. I wonder should one wear one’s tuxedo to dinner? he mused. And take one’s ivory cigarette holder? One should certainly give it some thought. He found the same parking spot by the sandstone fence and locked the car.

  There weren’t many people around as Les walked to his room; a few Japanese tourists, one or two couples and the smiling staff going past. Les took his time having a shower and a shave, then changed into a blue shirt with little white roulette wheels on it Price had given him, jeans, black desert boots and his leather jacket over the top. Then dabbed a drop or two of Eau Sauvage on his face. He also took a book with him to read while he had a few drinks. It was a book he’d bought off Billy Dunne for two dollars. Billy’s wife had bought it for three dollars in an op-shop. It was called The Portable Beat Reader and had a photo of William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac on the cover. The main reason she bought it was because the photo of Jack Kerouac on the cover looked a lot like Billy. Billy, however, couldn’t get into the book. Especially the poetry. Les didn’t mind the book. There was a bit of Charles Bukowski, and Burroughs’ views on drug addiction made interesting reading. Like Billy, however, Les too thought the poetry was VFO. Very fuckin ordinary.

  Apart from a young barman in black, there was no one in the Kurrajong Room. Les ordered a gin and tonic, chose a plush lounge facing the side door and took in the art-deco ambience while he sipped his gin and tonic and read his book. He was looking at a poem that consisted of ‘Scissor sceptre cutting prow’ repeated four times, followed by ‘Ahh, swark, swark’, and thinking, did some wally actually get paid to write this? when who should come bouncing down the stairs, wearing the same clothes, but the girl he saw earlier. Vera Claythorne. She too was carrying a book. She couldn’t have missed Norton sitting there, but she didn’t catch his eye and Les didn’t make a point of catching hers. She went to the bar, got a drink, then sat down on a lounge a little to Norton’s left. She opened her book and started to read. Les continued to read his and sip his gin and tonic. He was reading a list of instructions some hippy had written during the Vietnam War on how to beat the draft. Three suggestions were: develop a bleeding stigmata, contract tertiary syphilis, when the doctor tells you to spread your cheeks, have a firecracker stuffed in your date. At the word firecracker, Les wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. He looked up at the same time Vera did. This time he caught her eye.

  ‘Hello,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Agatha Christie,’ replied the girl. ‘The Mysterious Affair At Styles.’

  ‘I should have guessed,’ replied Les.

  ‘Oh? What makes you say that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Les. ‘Just a guess.’

  The girl looked at Les for a moment. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she said. ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ answered Les, shuffling along the lounge. ‘Be my guest.’

  The girl came over and sat down on Norton’s left. She put her drink on the table in front of them, then placed the book she was reading on her lap. In the process, Les managed to sneak a glimpse of lacy white knickers under the short blue dress.

  ‘You said something to me earlier when I dropped my pen,’ said the girl. ‘Hugo would have done the same for Vera Claythorne. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ smiled Les. ‘It was just a joke. I hope I never offended you?’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ replied the girl. ‘On the contrary.’

  ‘Really?’ purred Les. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘That’s Agatha Christie. They’re two characters in And Then There Were None.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Les.

  ‘Do you read Agatha Christie?’ asked the girl.

  ‘Of course,’ said Les. ‘Not as much as I’d like to. But I read what I can.’ Les hated Agatha Christie. If he could have, Les would have organised a book burning and incinerated every Agatha Christie book he could find, along with the author. When he was at high school, a sadistic female English teacher made the class read three Agatha Christie novels. To Les, it was about as interesting as studying for a degree in law. But being young it got brainwashed into his head and to this day he still remembered most of the corny names and places.

  ‘I study Agatha Christie,’ said the girl, p
atting her book. ‘I absolutely adore her.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ enthused Les. ‘Agatha Christie’s one of the great women writers of our time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ smiled the girl. ‘I also write poetry.’

  ‘Really?’ Les nodded to his book. ‘I love poetry.’

  ‘And I’m also working on a novel at the moment.’

  Les looked surprised. ‘Well I’ll be,’ he said. ‘This is just the most amazing coincidence.’

  ‘Why? What makes you say that?’

  ‘I happen to be a publisher.’

  ‘A publisher?’ gushed the girl. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ Les offered his hand. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Forrest McNamara. Roulette Publishing, Sydney.’

  ‘Oh dear me,’ flustered the girl, placing her dainty hand in Norton’s huge, calloused mitt. ‘This is incredible.’

  ‘Yes. Like I said,’ smiled Les. ‘It’s certainly a delightful coincidence. So what’s your name? If I might ask?’

  ‘Blythe. Blythe Selby.’

  Les shook his head. ‘That’s poetry in itself.’ He took another mouthful of gin and tonic and let Blythe get her breath back. You would have thought she’d just met Elvis.

  ‘And what brings you to the Blue Mountains and the Medlow Astoria, Blythe?’ asked Les.

  ‘I was invited to read my poetry at the Blue Mountains Songs of the Wind Festival,’ answered Blythe.

  Les slanted his head slightly to one side. ‘How simply marvellous.’

  Blythe gave Les the low-down on how her father ran a furniture company in Bathurst. It was a family business. She did the books and Daddy was picking up the tab at the Medlow. She’d just had a reading and had to go back home in the morning, but she was returning to the Blue Mountains on the weekend.