by Judy Nunn
Gordon nodded his permission, and Ian and Mike took their beers up the bow where they sat on the deck, the babble of conversation from the cockpit a blur, replaced by the rhythmic sound of the water against Trusan's prow.
'I thought you might want a rest,' Ian grinned. 'Mum can be a bit much when she's working the room.'
Mike wasn't sure what he was supposed to say by way of reply. He couldn't tell whether Ian was being sardonic or not. 'She's certainly something, your mum,' he remarked with what he hoped sounded like admiration.
'Oh yes, she's very good at her job. Dad always says she's his greatest asset.' No dig was intended; Ian's response was made in all seriousness. 'She gave up uni for Dad – he's her career, she says, and they make a good team.' There was genuine respect in his voice as he spoke of his mother. 'Mum's bloody smart actually. She knows as much about the share market as Dad does – more, probably. In fact, I don't know why he doesn't give up his practice altogether. He doesn't need it.'
It seemed to Mike a rather callous dismissal of Gordon Pemberton's achievements. He'd heard that Ian's father was considered one of the top orthodontists in the country.
'He probably likes working,' he suggested mildly.
Ian nodded. 'Yes, he says he does, but I think it's more the social prestige he enjoys. Dad likes being the best in his field. He only went into orthodontics to make money. He told me I should do the same thing and cash in on his reputation. Dad reckons there's big money in mouths.'
It wasn't exactly the way Gordon had put it, but the gist had been much the same. 'A career in dentistry can be very rewarding, Ian,' he'd advised, 'particularly if you specialise. You should give it some thought.'
Ian laughed. 'I couldn't quite come at the prospect of spending a lifetime in people's mouths myself, so I opted for a science course. I don't know exactly where it'll lead me yet, but I don't think Dad'll be too disappointed, so long as I make money.'
Mike found the way Ian spoke of his parents brutally direct and faintly shocking, but there was no malice in what he said. In fact, there was something refreshing about his honesty, Mike decided. It surprised him that Ian had no particular aspirations though. He was the most gifted student in their course, a natural academic.
'But there must be something you want to achieve?'
'Oh, tons of things.' Ian laughed again, deliberately misunderstanding. 'A boat like this for starters.'
'Fair enough.' Mike grinned in return and took a swig from his beer. Ian's unashamedly frank reply had left him with nothing to say.
'How about you?' Ian asked. 'Following in your old man's footsteps?'
'Sort of, yes. I want to work with the environment like Dad, but preferably in marine biology if I can – marine science and conservation really fascinates me.' Mike couldn't disguise his enthusiasm. 'Probably because of my childhood and all this,' he added, looking about at the waterways he'd sailed and fished his entire existence. 'I love the river and the life in it and everything it stands for. I mean, what a way to grow up.'
Aware that his response may have appeared over-earnest in Ian's eyes, Mike shrugged. 'I'm just a river rat at heart,' he said with a smile. 'An academic Huckleberry Finn.'
'You're an idealist, that's what you are.' Ian had expected as much. 'You want to do something meaningful, don't you?'
Mike studied Ian warily, expecting to see derision, but there was none. 'Probably, yes,' he admitted. 'Well, if I pass, anyway. I'm not as brainy as you.'
'True, but you'll get there. Commitment's the thing.' Ian raised his glass in a toast.
They swigged back the remains of their beer and sat in comfortable silence for a while. The sunset had long faded and they watched the lights of Perth blinking against the sky and, overlooking the city, the war memorial, illuminated and hanging like a fairy castle in the air, high on the darkened hill of Kings Park.
'We'd better go back,' Ian said, and they returned to the cockpit. Trusan would be going about shortly. They'd be tacking close to the wind, the boat would be leaning, Cynthia would be complaining and Glenda would be turning green.
Forty minutes later, Trusan joined the mêlée of boats returning to the yacht club and Vic Nelson took over the helm. He turned the yacht into the wind, the boys lowered the mainsail, and, under power, he guided Trusan into the pen.
Another obligatory round of champagne followed while Vic and the boys stowed the gear, Mike glad of the opportunity to avoid the social chat, and half an hour later they were saying their farewells in the yacht club's car park. Cynthia had arranged a stretch limousine, which had been waiting for a good twenty minutes, and she insisted Mike accept a lift home with her husband's colleagues.
'I can call a taxi,' he said. He would certainly have preferred to.
'Nonsense. They're staying at the Parmelia. Claremont's right on the way.' Cynthia wasn't even looking at him, she was too busy brushing cheeks with the men and their wives. 'Just give the address to the driver. It's been divine,' she said, taking Glenda's hands in hers. 'I do hope I see you again before you go back to Sydney.' She wouldn't. All hospitality debts had been repaid. Gordon would see the men at the conference, but Cynthia had fulfilled her duties.
As the limousine cruised off, Mike looked out the window. Gordon was already walking towards his Bentley parked nearby, but Cynthia stood, one arm draped over the shoulder of her handsome young son, striking a pose as she waved farewell to her guests.
Mike decided that he didn't particularly like Cynthia Pemberton. She was not vacuous as he'd first thought – far from it. As Ian had said, she was smart. But he'd come to the conclusion that she was the most awful snob. He'd found her treatment of Vic Nelson as they'd left the boat exceptionally rude. She'd ignored him completely. Even as Vic had helped her from the boat onto the jetty, as he had each of the women, Cynthia had kept chatting to the others as if the man were a lackey simply doing his duty. She hadn't even said goodbye to him as she and the group had walked off down the jetty.
Mike had been a little surprised by Gordon's and Ian's treatment of Vic too, although both had been pleasant enough.
'See you, Vic,' Ian had said, and Gordon, last off the boat, had shaken his hand. 'Thanks, Vic. Well done.'
But then father and son had walked off to join the others, leaving Vic to clear away the bottles and refuse on his own.
Mike had watched them go. 'I'll take the garbage ashore, shall I, Vic?' he'd asked.
'No, thanks, Mike, that's my job.' Vic had offered his hand. 'Give my best to your dad,' he'd said as they shook.
The Pembertons seemed to live by a different set of rules, Mike thought. The rules of the rich, he supposed. It explained a lot about Ian. No wonder he was a snob. What option had he had? He'd been born and bred one. Mike suddenly felt a bit sorry for Ian Pemberton – no wonder he put people off with his arrogance. And what a pity his only aspiration was to be rich like his dad. The bloke had the brains to be successful in any field he chose.
'Spud, this is Ian. Ian Pemberton, Spud Farrell.' Mike made the introductions and the boys shook hands.
The three of them had met up outside Claremont Yacht Club early Saturday evening, just two weeks after Mike's sail on Trusan. Mike had considered it only fair to reciprocate Ian's invitation with one of his own, although it was quite possible Ian would consider CYC beneath him, and God only knew what he'd make of Spud. But then God only knew what Spud would make of Ian. If there was one thing Spud Farrell couldn't stand, it was a snob. Mike hoped Ian wouldn't start pissing from a height as he had a tendency to. If he did, Spud'd probably deck him.
Despite having gone their separate ways, Spud and Mike had kept in touch over the past year. A day's work at the yacht club now and then to earn free beers on a Saturday evening – as they'd done that very afternoon; and the occasional night of jazz at the footy club – as they intended to do that night. The bond between the two remained strong, and Spud, as if needing to reaffirm it, would often say the words out loud. 'Mates forever, Mikey,' he'd
toast as he raised his illicit glass of beer, and Mike would respond with fervour.
Claremont Yacht Club remained a prime venue for Mike and Spud's illicit drinking. They were still legally under-age, but at CYC the stalwart older members – permanent fixtures in the bar on a Saturday night – would shout them beers in return for a day's sweaty labour sanding back and anti-fouling a boat on the slips, or slaving away at some dogsbody work about the clubhouse, which always seemed in need of repair.
Mike, Spud and Ian found their way through to the bar, which was smoky and crowded, as it always was on a Saturday. A chook raffle was in progress, and several men were gathered around the old poker machine the club had recently garnered – the one-armed bandit was proving CYC's most successful fundraiser to date. Down the end of the bar, old George was tucking into his blue manna crabs, chin dribbling yellow as he noisily sucked out the mustard before ripping the shells apart. It wasn't a pretty sight, but everyone was used to it.
Mike and Spud were greeted all round, and very soon they had beers in their hands, as did Ian – any friend of the boys was welcome, the old blokes agreed. Besides, they could do with an extra worker about the place.
The three of them gathered at a table by the window overlooking the narrow strip of beach and the modest gathering of boats in the marina below.
'Bit different from Freshie, eh?' Spud said to Ian with just the touch of a sneer.
Mike had told Spud about Ian and the Pembertons and the sail aboard Trusan that very afternoon as they'd worked on the hull of the old clinker dinghy, and Spud had been impressed.
'Trusan, eh? Shit, she's got to be worth a quarter of a million. They must be stinking rich.'
'Yep,' Mike had agreed. 'Rich as Croesus, I'd say.'
It had got Spud thinking. He'd had a number of links with the wealthy of Peppermint Grove over the years. He wondered whether his mother had ever cleaned for the Pembertons, or whether he'd ever stolen Gordon Pemberton's hub caps. Now, as he looked at Ian in his trendy silk sports jacket, Spud's old edge of resentment crept back. Ian Pemberton represented everything he detested and everything he yearned for. Christ, he thought, he used to be envious of Mikey and his family, but the McAllisters of Claremont were paupers compared to the Pembertons of Peppermint Grove.
'Yeah, it's different from Freshie all right,' Ian agreed, looking around at the cosy camaraderie of the bar. He hadn't picked up on Spud's derision. 'I wouldn't be able to do this at Freshie.' He saluted them with his glass and took a hefty gulp of beer.
Mike and Spud raised their glasses to follow suit, but before they could drink, Spud got in with the toast. 'Mates forever, Mikey.' It was a deliberate exclusion of Ian. Spud was staking his claim in a friendship to which Ian did not belong.
Mike recognised the toast as another put-down to Ian, just as he'd registered the comment about Freshie. Why was Spud being so antagonistic?
'Yeah. Mates,' he said, burying his head in his beer glass.
Then Ian, who hadn't put a foot wrong so far, waved the proverbial red flag.
'Mikey?' he queried mockingly. 'Mikey! You're joking!'
He was about to make some witty comment about how the A team rugby squad might react to their leading star centre's nickname, when Spud turned with a vengeance.
'That's right. Mikey.' His voice matched Ian's for mockery, and had a touch of his father's Irish, as it often did when he was bent on making an impact. 'You can always tell when people like you, Ian, because that's when they give you a nickname. I'm Spud. He's Mikey. Who are you, Ian?'
Ian was floored. What had he done?
Mike wondered whether he should just get up and leave and take Ian with him. He had no idea why Spud was being so belligerent.
'Go and score us another beer, Spud,' he said reasonably, hoping it'd give Spud time to cool down. 'Old George should be good for a round after the work we did on his clinker this arvo.'
Spud went off for the beers, aware that he'd gone too far and that Mikey wasn't happy.
'Well, what's got up his nose?' Ian said with a supercilious arch of his eyebrows.
'Wouldn't have a clue,' Mike replied. He changed the subject. 'You want to come on to the footy club later? We're meeting up with Natalie and a couple of her girl-friends.' At least they would be, Mike thought, if Spud cooled down. If not, he'd go without him.
'Sure,' Ian agreed. Hell, of course he wanted to come – he'd had the hots for Natalie Hollingsworth all year. So had every other male student on campus, but of course Mike had got there first. Still, Natalie's girlfriends sounded promising, particularly if they were the dolly birds she hung around with at uni.
When Spud returned to the table it was obvious he'd decided to toe the line. 'There you go, Ian.' He plonked a beer in front of Ian and gave him a guarded but friendly enough smile. It wasn't an apology. Rather it was a promise that he was prepared to behave himself, for Mikey's sake.
'Thanks, Spud.'
'Ian's coming with us to the footy club,' Mike said.
It had been a foregone conclusion. 'Well, you'd be mad not to with girls lined up, eh?' Spud grinned. He couldn't wait himself.
'Our last night out on the tiles,' Mike announced, taking a hefty swig of beer.
Spud commiserated with them – he knew they started their final first-year exams in two weeks. You wouldn't get him studying again for quids, he said. 'School was enough for me.'
Then he turned to Ian. 'Mikey tells me you're the brainiest bloke in the class.' He said it as a compliment and with admiration, but he was waiting for just the tiniest reaction. If Ian up-himself Pemberton dared take the piss out of Mikey's nickname, Spud'd go him.
But Ian knew better than to make any comment. He thought about correcting Spud in his use of the term 'class', but decided against that too.
'Uni's just a means to an end really.' He shrugged with what he hoped was a touch of humility. Ian had figured Spud out – the bloke was working class with a chip on his shoulder. 'Anyone can make a go of it.'
'And which particular end do you have in sight, Ian?'
'Money.'
Spud laughed, not unpleasantly. 'What for, mate? You've already got it.'
'No, I haven't – my dad has.'
'Same thing, isn't it?'
'Nope. Not at all.' Ian was no longer trying to placate Spud. He meant every word he said. 'My dad's a self-made man. He didn't inherit a penny himself, and I'm not relying on inheriting from him. Hell, I'd have to wait too long for a start, and he might spend it or lose it anyway. Dad built his own fortune, and that's exactly what I'll do.'
Mike watched the exchange with amusement. He could tell that Spud suddenly found Ian interesting. And why shouldn't he? They were alike, after all – both money-obsessed.
Spud was thinking exactly the same thing. Ian Pemberton was an arrogant shit, there were no two ways about it, but in a bizarre way they had a lot in common. They both wanted to be rich and they'd both been inspired by their fathers. Ian wanted to be just like his old man, and Spud wanted to be everything his old man wasn't.
'Well, good luck to you, Pembo,' he said. He was taking the piss all right, but in a friendly way.
Ian didn't react. He was sure the nickname was intended to be derogatory, but Spud Farrell was a tough little bloke and it wasn't worth crossing him. Ian abhorred violence – he'd run a mile from a fight.
An hour or so later, they left for the Claremont footy club. Spud's old Austin was undergoing repairs at the garage, as it often was, and Mike didn't own a car, so the two had been prepared to walk. It wasn't far – the club was just across the railway line opposite the Claremont pub. Instead, they arrived in style, pulling up right outside in Ian's brand new, bright red Ford Falcon Pursuit. As they piled out, Spud produced a flask from the inside pocket of his denim jacket.
