The Grand Hotel

by Gregory Day

  ‘There’s no need to swear, sir,’ Raelene Press replied. ‘But no, I am not joking. We just cannot risk further damage to the Plinths.’

  ‘But my Alex is a dead-eye,’ Givva said. ‘He won’t hit the stupid fuckin’ things. He’ll throw exactly where he intends to. That’s what he’s been practising for.’

  Raelene Press was conciliatory. ‘I’m sure you are right. But unfortunately, as we have seen, not all the competitors are likely to be that well practised.’

  ‘What? So you punish my poor son, who’s already broken his back because of you bastards at the shire, just because Tyson here’s a loose cannon? That’s not fair.’

  ‘Hey, watch your mouth, Givva,’ Tyson Conebush said, from beside the blue pole. ‘I just skimmed that stone fifteen times. Alex’d be battlin’ to beat that.’

  Givva Way’s jaw dropped. ‘For your information, young fella, only last week Alex skimmed one twenty-one times in far from perfect conditions.’

  ‘Yeah, but that wasn’t under pressure. With a crowd and that. Not like mine.’

  Unwittingly with this comment Tyson Conebush had touched on the doubts that Givva had earlier expressed to me about his son not holding up to the strains of competition. I decided it was time I left my judging post and went across before the animosity escalated. Givva was fuming, things were about to get out of control. Fresh from the garden party brawl the last thing I wanted was a repeat performance.

  Arriving at the throw-point just in time, I stood between Tyson Conebush and Givva Way as they began to hurl threats and abuse at each other. And, glancing hurriedly up onto the brow of bearded heath above the beach, I thought I caught a glimpse of a blue police uniform standing behind the railing of the lookout. But just as quickly it was gone.

  I heard the words coming out of my mouth before I could stop them. ‘I think the lady’s right, you guys. We can’t ruin the Plinths. It just wouldn’t be good. So calm down, calm down. We’ll reschedule all this for a nice offshore day on the ocean, and sort out who’s the champ. So just calm down.’

  Givva Way looked at me with a shocked expression. I could tell he thought that right then and there I was a traitor, a turncoat, that I’d crossed over to the dark side.

  ‘And look,’ I said. ‘Come back to The Grand and I’ll put on a lunch. On the house. For all stoneskimmers. And spectators.’

  But Tyson Conebush was having none of it. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I want an official judging of that throw of mine. Two of youse said it was a fifteen and I want this lady here to confirm it.’

  ‘Aw forget it would ya, Tyson?’ I said. ‘The contest’s been postponed, because of the Plinths.’

  ‘Well in that case I reckon I’m the champion,’ he said.

  ‘You bloody well are not,’ Givva Way shot out. ‘Your first throw was a fresh-air shot and your second hasn’t even been properly judged. That means if there’s any kind of temporary champion it’s Nan. With a throw of four skims.’

  ‘I would agree with that,’ said Raelene Press, ‘with the proviso that it’s only a provisional measure, until another time and place can be arranged.’

  Hearing all this, Nan Burns had broken into a huge grin over by the registration desk. She raised both fists into the air in mock-triumph and began jumping up and down on the balls of her feet like a victorious boxer. The mood in the crowd changed on seeing this and they began to cheer her victory. Before long Joan Sutherland and his sons were calling ‘Speech, speech’. Thankfully what had looked like a potentially violent situation had been avoided. Everyone agreed to pack up and retire back to the hotel to celebrate with Nan.

  The Lazy Tenor and The Blonde Maria had not graced us with their presence down at the stoneskimming comp, which was a source of some relief when I’d first seen the Sutherlands coming happily down the steps to the beach. Now, of course, with everyone adjourning back to the hotel, I was worried that another conflict was at hand. Despite how well Joan looked, there was no way the derangement that had surfaced in him at the garden party could have been entirely cured so soon. Does love fly from the nest of the heart so quickly? I don’t think so. And nor does the brindled moulting bird of sexual jealousy. So as we wandered away from the shore of the inlet, with the telltale bells of the Plinths ringing in our ears, I was much relieved when the big dairyman with the broken wing came over to say goodbye.

  ‘I’m off to Minapre, Noely, to have the plaster removed,’ Joan told me, as Jen waved from where she and the boys were getting into the car by the road.

  ‘Is that right?’ I replied happily. ‘And everything else is okay then is it?’

  ‘Oh yeah, well as can be expected, given the muck-ups and that.’

  ‘Jen seems okay?’

  ‘Oh no, she’s had a rough trot, there’s no doubting that. But shit, Noel, a man’s not a saint is he? Well, not this one anyway.’

  ‘So what, are you coming back to work?’

  ‘To tell you the truth I dunno. Still thinkin’. About whether I can handle it. But I know you’ve got a lot on your plate so I won’t think for long. I’ll let you know real soon.’

  ‘You know if it’s a question of you or Maria, I’d have to choose you every time. The Grand needs you, Joan. She’s not even singing anymore, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, well thanks, Noel. I appreciate it. I’ll see ya.’

  As I walked back with the rest of the stragglers from the stoneskimming comp, across the kikuyu and pigface flats on our way to the hotel, I noticed five swallows sitting like quavers and crotchets on the musical-stave powerlines running alongside the main road. I knew that what I’d said to Joan about valuing him over Maria was no longer strictly true. Not now that she’d let me in on Kooka and the broadcasts from his tranny. I was working the hours of three men without Joan behind the bar, but the truth was I could put up with that if I was able to visit the old Grand with Kooka and the magic tranny every night. But all that was dependent on Maria. I resolved as I walked home that if the old Grand Hotel was to somehow come alive once again in The Sewing Room that night, I’d ring Joan Sutherland the next morning and tell him he was welcome to a few more weeks of paid leave. No ifs or ands or buts. One should never say no to a miracle after all.

  The Local Spree

  The country may be dry in most parts but in our world it’s as wet and marshy as Ireland for months – so rather than supply beer for the thirst of hot dwellers, here we supply the liquid, i.e. alcohol, so as to be in good harmony with our green surroundings. As a matter of fact we do also supply peanuts, not to soak up the effects of the liquor you understand – hard-boiled eggs from our hotel chooks, which are at all times available on the bar, are more than adequate for that purpose – but rather to be in league with the salt-laden air as it wafts in billows up our coastal valley.

  The cold southerly had been brewing during the stoneskimming competition and now had simply snapped like a twig. Both The Blonde Maria and I were wrapped up in blankets as we sat beside Kooka’s bed in The Sewing Room later that night. The old man himself was lying under two doonas and a brightly coloured rug, and with his brow and beak poking out from under these heavy covers he reminded me of an aged kookaburra being nursed with cotton wool in a shoebox.

  We had been treated to the sound of the surf again, and the swimming publican, and for a moment after my initial excitement I had feared that the dream would indeed just be a repeat of the night before. But I needn’t have worried. The ocean hiss took over from the radio’s brief transitional static, the waves tumbled and churned, Joan Sweeney sighed and gasped with release and exhilaration but there were no calls from Tom String back on shore. There were none of the lists that Maria had mentioned either. Instead the swimming publican seemed to be composing a letter.

  To suggest, by hearsay, as you do, that the ground outside my establishment is commonly ‘strewn with broken bottles, glasses, peanut shells, crayfish heads’ and that my licence is being ‘improvised upon’ to include the activities of a ‘brothel of the wilds�
�� is, in short, stupendous.

  My concern, it is true, is for the satisfaction of my patrons, whether they be loyal, irregular, local or itinerant, in each case in need of an inn. Nevertheless I maintain an always clean, ruly and law-abiding premises, so as to dignify both my own labour and the necessity of recreation hardworking men require in this the littoral bush. These men strive, not to conquer the implacable red heat of the inland but rather to eke out stability of produce amidst the daily fluctuations of these southwest skies. Far from fraternising with imported purveyors of prostitution from the Bass Strait Islands, the lives of my patrons, without exception, are indebted to honesty, goodwill and self-sacrifice. Indeed many of them, both in their employment as fishermen and in their cast of fine feeling, are nothing if not reminiscent of the Galileans of the Gospels. Even those stockmen who rely on The Grand Hotel for our smithy and as a traveller’s rest often inspire in me feelings of admiration for the arduous and lonely nature of the labours they have undertaken.

  They battle on God’s earth and amidst his elements, and the little I can do for them I shall. But at no time as the licence-holder of this hotel have I been so presumptuous as to provide latitude from the law. In twelve years of marriage to my deceased husband I saw its worth to a colonial society time and again, and I watched him uphold it in his profession as one would watch a shepherd with his sheep.

  Consequently, the intended visitation under your instructions of the sergeant from Ballaarat holds no fear for me. On the contrary I consider the expense of his journey to be a waste of government money, which in these straitened times could in all likelihood be better spent. Nevertheless, upon his arrival he shall be treated no differently from any other weary traveller who arrives at my door. His horse shall be watered, he himself shall have a bed should there be one vacant, and every effort will be made to ensure his comfort in regard to victuals. I am sure that after a brief stay he shall depart The Grand Hotel wondering why it was he received the orders he did. And on his journey home he may well reflect how far the southwestern region of the state of Victoria has progressed since the lawless days among the pirates, sealers and whalers earlier in the century.

  She composed this letter out loud among the waves, but all in a tone of mock-seriousness, and with satisfied laughter between the sentences. Then she dived and we heard the underhum of the ocean Maria had described to me previously. The room went quiet but for this drone and her breathing, and I imagined Joan Sweeney, with arms out wide and legs kicking like a frog, swimming underwater now her letter was complete.

  But what was the letter all about? And who were these Bass Strait prostitutes, and who had made the accusations? She emerged from the water and the hum disappeared in the daylight. Once again the sound of the ocean was open, swish and effervescent. Joan Sweeney didn’t say any more but her mirth could be sensed, even at a distance of over a hundred years. She was having a lend of somebody – no, not just anybody, she was playing funny buggers with the powers that be.

  This woman whom Kooka had only ever met in his archives had not surprisingly pricked his interest, to the extent that after unburdening himself of the ghosts of his mother and his wife, he was now dreaming purely of her. There was such bold charisma in the tone of her letter that beside me Maria was smiling her head off, her enjoyment lingering still in the wake of it. I began to smile too, and to nod involuntarily, and to watch Kooka closely. His face was impassive; there was no outward sign of the world inside his head, no evidence of Joan Sweeney still swimming in the waves. He was just an old man of the bird family Halcyonidae, wrapped up in two doonas and a crocheted rug, in a sudden snap chill on the twenty-first-century coast.

  I should have been tired from the lack of sleep the night before, not to mention the disappointment of the stoneskimming competition and the forty-six counter meals that resulted. But I felt not one hint of fatigue and leant forward again on the edge of my seat as now the transistor seemed suddenly to switch channels. Gradually through a flux of static we heard the unmistakable sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle and then Tom String saying the words, ‘Your port, Mr Arvo. Port in a storm I might say.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom. You wouldn’t want to be out in it.’

  ‘No fear. The Grand’s a racket of a roof to be sure but it beats a drenching.’

  It was true; we could hear now the sound of rain pouring on the roof of the old hotel.

  ‘Do you always bring the goats in from a shower?’ Mr Arvo was asking Tom String.

  ‘Yairs we do, but seldom here into the bar. It’s only the stables are full with the girls’ horses. And a little later of course they’ll be full with the girls. Mrs Sweeney’s a practical woman.’

  ‘Oh yes. So the girls don’t work upstairs?’

  ‘Oh no. Not with the sound of it, Mr Arvo – can you imagine? No, not down the hallway from your room – now there’s a condition you’d want laid down.’

  ‘I see. Well the girls and the goats don’t seem to mind each other’s company, all huddled there by the fire.’

  ‘Yairs well, it’s blazing, eh? “Ash that burns”, that’s our tree around here, and our little joke.’

  From further along the bar Joan Sweeney’s voice was now heard, calling to the female customers: ‘Jadey, Rose, Cumquat May, would you care for another drink with your food there? Cook says it’s nearly done.’

  ‘Aye, and it ain’t goat!’ Tom String chimed in.

  ‘That’s enough out of you, Tom String. You be ready with the brush and shovel now. And top up Mr Arvo’s port. You’ll give my hotel a tight reputation.’

  There were sniggers from the girls beside the fire and the clicking sounds of the goats’ hooves on the hearth.

  ‘Anyway, girls, what’ll it be?’ Joan Sweeney called. ‘Underground mutton or pork fed on bread and peaches? Or hedgehog, known as porcupine in your parts I believe?’

  ‘Ooh, the bread and peaches pork for me thank you, Mrs Sweeney,’ came a young female voice from the fire. ‘Sounds lovely.’

  ‘And you, Jadey?’ the dutiful publican asked. ‘Don’t be shy now.’

  ‘I’ll have the same, missus, thank you,’ said a quiet voice with an Irish lilt.

  ‘And Cumquat May? What would you like for your tea?’

  ‘Porcupine thank you, missus,’ Cumquat May replied, in a voice a little harder than the rest, and more mature. ‘And a plonk with that thank you. One for each of us please.’

  ‘Yes, well, you’ll be needing your strength when the boys roll in. If they ever make it through this rain, that is.’

  ‘What about the bearded jokers?’ said Tom String, from where he was topping up Mr Arvo’s port. ‘Don’t they get a plonk?’

  ‘What was that, Tom?’ Joan Sweeney replied. ‘I couldn’t hear you for the rain.’

  ‘The goats, Mrs Sweeney. Don’t they get some mulled plonk to sip by the fire?’

  Joan Sweeney laughed, a high laugh, as if Tom String was an incorrigible child. ‘I’ll just ignore that bait shall I, Tom String? And if you’d kindly take down Mr Arvo’s dinner order, I’d be much obliged.’

  The cork was squeaked back into the port bottle and Tom String asked Mr Arvo what he would have. Mr Arvo seemed to consider the menu for a moment before asking, ‘Tell me, Tom, what exactly is underground mutton?’

  ‘Rabbit, Mr Arvo. Shot with me own parrot gun.’

  ‘I see. Mmm. No quail tonight?’

  ‘You always have to ask, don’t ya? But no, sir. Me pointer’s havin’ pups. When you were last here, it was autumn, the quail were like mice on the ground. If you’re still here at the end of summer, we’ll see what we can do. That’s if Candle ever recovers from childbirth.’

  ‘Candle?’

  ‘Yairs. Me pointer.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, in that case I’ll have the pork.’

  ‘Good choice, Mr Arvo. A hotel’s pigs are happy pigs. What with all the throw-outs. And doubly so here at The Grand, with all the fruit back up in the valley. If peaches we
re pounds, they’d rename this joint El Dorado.’

  ‘Well it’s to my liking anyway, Tom,’ Mr Arvo replied.

  ‘To mine as well, Mr Arvo,’ said Tom String. ‘And working for the good lady beats crackin’ stones for a living.’

  Gradually now the rain on the old Grand Hotel roof seemed to be lessening, but as it did we heard a few heavy drops falling on our own. The flashing of the roof above The Sewing Room pinged as the first drops hit and before long there had been some kind of downpour exchange: the roof of Joan Sweeney’s Grand had gone quiet while my own was now thrumming away.

  Back in the old Grand, in burst the boysthey’d been waiting for and, as Tom String remarked, they’d timed their run. They were just in the nick of time for tea.

  The new noisy influx into the bar seemed to amuse the girls but disturb the goats, who could now be heard anxiously pitter-pattering in circles on the stone floor and occasionally bleating as well.

  ‘Now look what you done, you brutes. There was us girls and the goats having a nice quiet yarn by Mrs Sweeney’s fire and you had to go and ruin it. Come here, you Heides all. Come and settle again.’

  It was the comely voice of Rose, who had been the first of the three whores to order her meal.

  ‘Oh bejaysus! We’re not gonna get the fleas tonight are we, Bait?’ exclaimed one of the men who had burst into the bar. ‘I’m just over gettin’ drenched. The last thing I need are a goat’s old nits as well.’

  ‘I dunno about nits, but would you have a look at those tits?’ replied his companion called Bait. ‘And I don’t mean on the goat.’

  The men started laughing but Joan Sweeney cracked down hard. ‘That’s quite enough of such guff from you fellows. Any more and you’re out on your ear. If Cumquat May, Jadey and Rose have been kind enough to make the journey, you’ll behave, do you hear?’