Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  'My contribution,' he said, and they took a quick swig each before they went inside. It was Bundaberg rum – overproof and with a kick like a mule.

  Mike was the only one who scored that night. He and Natalie left early. Ian and Spud gave up trying to flirt with the other two girls: it was obvious from the start that they weren't really interested.

  'What do you do?' one of them had asked Spud.

  'I'm a bookie,' he'd said with a worldly air. Being a bookie at nineteen was no mean feat – it was bound to impress.

  It didn't. In fact, it put the kybosh on things for Spud, and the girls hadn't been interested in Ian from the outset. They knew him from uni and thought he was up himself.

  After Mike and Natalie had left, Spud and Ian took their Cokes outside – they weren't going to share their Bundy with the girls if there was nothing in it for them. They walked around the side of the club, away from the lights of the main entrance, and leaned against the wall while Spud spiked their drinks.

  'Why'd you say you were a bookie?' Ian asked with a touch of admiration. He rather respected Spud for taking the piss out of the girls like that. They'd asked for it in his opinion.

  But Spud hadn't been taking the piss at all. 'Because I am. Well, as good as,' he said in response to Ian's disbelieving look. 'I'm a bookmaker's clerk – it's only a matter of time.'

  'You can't be a bookie's clerk,' Ian countered triumphantly. 'You're too young. Clerks can't be accredited until they're twenty-one.' So there, his voice said, like a kid who'd won an argument.

  Spud wasn't deterred. 'Sure, I can't go to the race meetings for a couple of years, but I can still do the books, can't I?' He swilled back half his rum and Coke in one fell swoop. 'Ever heard of Big Bet Bob?'

  'Yeah. Who hasn't?' Everyone, even those outside betting circles, knew of Robert 'Big Bet Bob' Wetherill. He was one of Perth's top bookmakers and always in the news. A clever self-promoter, Bob made sure of it.

  'Well, that's who I work for.'

  'You're joking.' Ian sounded less confident now; Spud's assurance was very convincing.

  'Nup. I work out of his offices in Dalkeith.'

  'Really?'

  'Yeah, he took me on six months ago. I'm good with numbers, see.' Spud drained his glass. 'Finish your Coke,' he said. 'We'll drink the last lot neat,' and he took the flask from his pocket.

  While Ian manfully skolled his nearly full glass, Spud made his announcement.

  'I'm going to become the youngest bookmaker ever registered in Western Australia,' he said, 'and that'll be just the start. Being a bookie's like uni, you see, Pembo. It's just a means to an end.'

  As Ian downed the last of his rum and Coke, head whirling, he saw no reason to doubt that Spud Farrell was destined for success.

  The rum, on top of the beers they'd imbibed at the yacht club, had lent a glow of bonhomie to the night and, as Ian dropped Spud off outside the cottage in Pennell Road, both a little the worse for wear, it was as if they'd been mates for years.

  'See you, Spud,' Ian said.

  'See you, Pembo.'

  A bizarre, and rocky, friendship was in the making.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Maggie McAllister was a little concerned about her son. It didn't worry her that Mike seemed to have turned into a bit of a lair – she agreed with her husband that it was just a phase he was going through. But she had deep reservations about the whopping great one-cylinder 500cc Matchless motorbike he'd insisted on purchasing for his twenty-first birthday. He hadn't wanted presents or a party, just the equivalent in cash, and when they'd obliged him, to Maggie's horror he'd gone out and bought the second-hand bike.

  'It's just part of the phase he's going through,' Jim had once again assured her, but this time he hadn't allayed her fears.

  'A bloody dangerous part,' she said.

  Jim personally thought the bike a safer vehicle than the little 125cc Lambrettas so popular amongst the students these days, but he lectured Mike nonetheless. His lecture was more about Mike's application to his studies than anything else though. The boy was of legal drinking age now, and it was a naturally wild time in a young man's life. Jim understood the temptations on offer, but the student drinking culture could be the downfall of some, he warned.

  'You've had excellent passes so far, Mike,' he said reasonably. 'It'd be a shame to let it all go in third year, don't you agree?'

  'Don't worry, Dad,' Mike promised. 'I won't let that happen.'

  Mike meant it. He had no intention of flunking the final year of his basic three-year science course. He planned to complete a further honours year and then embark on his PhD. But it was true he was finding it difficult to knuckle down and study. He was too busy revelling in everything life had to offer. Not that drinking was any novelty – he and his mates had been drinking illegally for years – but pubs and beer gardens had now become the common meeting ground, and the partying was intense. Mike was sensible enough, however, to leave his bike at home when he went out on a spree with his mates.

  Ian Pemberton's twenty-first promised to be a slap-up party, and even those students who disliked him accepted the gilt-edged invitations. Ian's popularity had picked up, however, since he'd been getting around with Mike. He seemed to have lost some of his arrogance it was agreed, and although his fellow students didn't know exactly when or how the nickname had evolved, somewhere along the line Pembo had become one of them – more or less.

  The twenty-first was celebrated at the family home with all the pomp and ceremony the Pembertons had at their command. A marquee was erected on the grass tennis court and a twelve-piece band and dance floor set up beside the pool. Cynthia's gourmet caterers provided the continuous buffet laid out on long linen-clothed trestle tables in the marquee, and waiters in dinner jackets paraded about the gardens with trays of beer, champagne and soft drink, and endless bottles to top up empty glasses.

  The champagne wasn't vintage Taittinger. It wasn't even champagne if the truth be known, although it said so on the label. It was a local sparkling wine – Cynthia's one economy for the night. She doubted whether the students would value the real thing, she said, but secretly she was sure that they wouldn't know the difference. And, to give her her due, she was probably right.

  Two burly men in dinner jackets – members of the three-man security team Cynthia had employed – stood either side of the wrought-iron gates that led directly into the lavishly landscaped back gardens of the Pemberton property. The third equally burly security man was posted around the block by the circular driveway to the front door, with orders to redirect all arrivals to the rear entrance. Cynthia didn't want a mob of unruly students traipsing through her house.

  'How do you do. So nice of you to come.'

  The band was playing 'Three Coins in the Fountain', which seemed very apt as Cynthia stood, radiant and perfectly lit, beside the fountain near the gates, greeting each and every guest. The indirect lighting throughout the garden was most effective, emphasising the beauty of the statues and rockeries and imported palms. Beside Cynthia stood her husband, and both were flanked by tray-bearing waiters.

  'Welcome, welcome.' Gordon's approach was one of bonhomie, shaking everyone's hand and gesturing to the waiters. 'Help yourself to a drink.'

  'Hello, Mike, how lovely to see you.'

  Cynthia smiled dazzlingly and shook his hand. The smile froze just a fraction as she turned to greet the ginger-haired young man who had arrived with Mike McAllister. He was dressed in jeans and a denim jacket. She didn't approve. The invitations had said 'cocktail dress' for the women and 'smart casual' for the men. Smart casual did not mean jeans.

  'How do you do,' she said. 'So nice of you to come.' She didn't offer her hand.

  'Good to meet you, Mrs Pemberton.'

  Spud was aware of the disapproval. He could have worn his decent gear – he had a number of classy sports jackets these days. He would have too, if there'd been anything to gain by it – he was quite happy to ingratiate himself when necessary.
But Gordon Pemberton? An orthodontist with no interest in gambling? He'd opted for the denim instead. It made a statement.

  'And what's your name?' Cynthia's smile remained frozen. The boy looked rather common, she thought, he couldn't possibly be one of Ian's fellow students. But he'd arrived with Mike McAllister. She was a little confused.

  'Spud,' he said. 'Spud Farrell.'

  Inwardly, she cringed. 'Your real name, dear. What's your real name?'

  Cynthia Pemberton was every bit as up herself as Mike had told him, Spud thought, but he had no intention of being rude. He didn't want to spoil Pembo's party.

  'Patrick,' he admitted. 'But I prefer Spud.'

  The boy was most certainly from the wrong side of the tracks, Cynthia thought. Where on earth had Ian met him?

  'Well, Patrick, I hope you have a lovely evening.'

  She turned to the next guest, and Gordon saved the moment. 'Help yourselves to a drink, boys,' he said.

  'Thanks, Mr Pemberton.' Mike took a beer from the waiter's tray. Cynthia was certainly behaving true to form, he thought. 'Let's find the birthday boy,' he said to Spud.

  Spud grabbed a beer and, as they moved off, he yelled, 'Hey Pembo, where are you?' at the top of his voice.

  Behind them, Cynthia once again cringed. The boy was not only common, he was a thug. And Pembo. She'd heard one or two of the other students refer to her son as Pembo that evening – it was unutterably ghastly, she'd have to put a stop to it.

  'How do you do. So nice of you to come.'

  *

  Ian was not immediately in sight so the two mingled for a while. Spud left Mike chatting to Murray Hatfield. Murray was still in first year, but he and Mike and Ian had become good mates – an unusual situation between third-year students and freshmen, but Muzza, baby-faced and popular, was the best halfback the A team had ever had.

  Spud finally found Ian beside the miniature waterfall of the rockery, which was at the rear of the pool. He was chatting up Natalie Hollingsworth. The nearby band was now playing 'Unchained Melody'.

  Ian had been coming on strong to Natalie for the past several months – she and Mike had long ceased their casual affair – but his efforts had been to little avail.

  'Hello, Spud.' He grinned as he looked Spud up and down – the jeans wouldn't have been a hit with his mother. He deliberately hadn't invited Spud home in the past, knowing what his mother's reaction would be; the ensuing interrogation simply wouldn't be worth it. But this was his twenty-first, he'd decided, on his terms, and he'd wanted Spud here. 'Glad you could make it,' he said. Then he gave Spud the nod to disappear, signalling he was making inroads with Natalie. But Spud wasn't to be deterred.

  'G'day, Natalie,' he said. 'Need a word with you, Pembo.'

  'Don't go away.' Ian flashed Natalie a grin. She smiled politely in return – she still considered Ian Pemberton insufferably arrogant.

  'You said your folks wouldn't be here,' Spud hissed when he'd taken Ian aside. Bugger it, there was no way he could spring his surprise if that stitched-up mother of Pembo's was around.

  'They'll be leaving soon,' Ian assured him. 'They're going to the ballet. Mum just wanted to do the meet-and-greet thing, that's all.'

  'Bit of a dampener.' A real dampener, Spud thought – the red-carpet royal welcome was a bloody disaster. Everyone was standing around like stale bottles of piss, trying to be on their best behaviour and freezing in the fucking cold. 'So when are they coming back then?'

  'One o'clock, they said. They're having supper with friends.'

  One o'clock was the promise Ian had exacted from his mother. Cynthia had tried to negotiate for midnight but he wouldn't be in it. He'd also refused his parents' offer of a formal dinner, which he'd known would have been predominantly for their friends, not his, with speeches and the classic twenty-first 'key' and all the other bullshit such an event entailed. The party was to be for his mates, he'd said, or he didn't want a party at all. Gordon had been sur-prisingly understanding, and Cynthia had been forced to give in with ill grace. 'Well, we'll just have to have it in the back garden,' she'd insisted, despite the fact that it would be late August and probably chilly. She'd arranged for the marquee to be heated, and had decided that the toilet facilities in the cabana by the pool would be more than adequate, but she'd prayed it wouldn't rain. They'd have to come inside if it did.

  'One o'clock, eh?' Spud was safe. His surprise was planned for the dot of midnight. 'Right you are.' And he disappeared, leaving Pembo to resume his pursuit of Natalie Hollingsworth. But Natalie had gone.

  Damn Spud, Ian thought as he went off in search of her.

  Cynthia was miffed that less than half the guests had arrived when, twenty minutes later, she and Gordon left for His Majesty's Theatre. The invitations had stipulated seven o'clock. Ian had tried to warn her.

  'No-one arrives at parties until at least nine, Mum,' he'd said.

  'Then you must simply tell them to be punctual, pet,' she'd answered. 'I shall consider it the height of rudeness if they're late.'

  Her instructions had apparently been ignored, and now Cynthia was forced to leave without having vetted all the guests. It was intolerable. She gave strict orders to the security guards that all gatecrashers were to be turned away. Anyone without an invitation was not to be admitted, she said, and any potential troublemaker was to be instantly evicted. Then she and Gordon drove off in the Bentley to the strains of 'April in Portugal'.

  After the departure of the Pembertons senior, the party picked up. The band instantly segued into 'It's All Over Now', the smash hit from a hot new group called The Rolling Stones, and followed it up with a string of everyone's favourites from The Beatles. Within seconds, the girls in their smart, flimsy cocktail dresses had ventured out from the warmth of the marquee into the chill night air to throw themselves about on the dance floor.

  Shortly after nine, a bunch of students arrived with the stash of marihuana Ian had paid for in advance. They were the hippie set from uni, the 'Ban the Bomb' mob. He didn't normally mix with them, but they could be relied on for dope, and with the promise of endless free food and booze they'd eagerly accepted the invitation. Ian himself wasn't a regular 'head' but he was determined to give his guests the very best time possible – it was the sole purpose of the night. His twenty-first birthday party was a bid for friendship. Ian Pemberton was enjoying his newfound acceptance. He liked being Pembo – one of the boys.

  Joints were passed around, surreptitiously at first, then, as the mixture of grog and grass freed inhibitions, with a careless abandon. Tony and Bobbo, the bouncers by the gates, exchanged knowing looks and grins – they could smell the pot.

  Around eleven thirty, Bobbo left his post to have a bit of a prowl about the garden, and returned with his report. The kids were getting bombed out of their brains, he said, but there was no sign of trouble. They were having a ball – staggering around the dance floor, snogging all over the place, and one couple was all but having it off by the grove of palm trees near the back verandah. The bouncers had no intention of interfering. Let the kids have a good time, they thought – who cared? Their orders were to keep gatecrashers away and evict troublemakers. Besides, they couldn't stand the insufferable Cynthia Pemberton.

  'Hey, you blokes want a beer?'

  It was a quarter to twelve when Spud fronted up to the bouncers at the gate.

  'Can't, mate, we're on duty,' Tony said.

  'Thanks all the same,' Bobbo added. The offer had been made in the spirit of friendship – the kid wasn't giving them cheek. He didn't seem as out of it as some of the others either, Bobbo thought. He certainly wasn't stoned – you could always tell.

  Spud stayed chatting with them for ten minutes or so. He held his liquor well and he never smoked grass – booze and dope didn't mix, he'd found. But he'd had quite a few beers and was on to the Bundy now. The Pembertons hadn't provided spirits, but Spud always had his flask handy.