by Judy Nunn
The small, popular eatery aptly named La Spiaggia, meaning 'beach' in Italian, had started out in the fifties as a humble kiosk, until the owner had dug out a large part of the sand dune beside his stall, built a retaining wall on the uphill side and laid in a spacious wooden floor. Then he'd added the major ingredient – the music that was driving the youth of the world wild. Rock'n'roll. News of the live rock bands performing at Scarborough had travelled fast, and before long the innocent open-air dance floor of La Spiaggia had become the hottest place in town. Motorbikes roared up the Esplanade. Bodgies in black leather jackets and desert boots turned up in droves, and with them their companions, widgies, in tight sweaters, hooped earrings and bright red lipstick. Then the hot-rodders arrived and drag-racing became an added attraction, the screech of tyres and the smell of burning rubber mingling intoxicatingly with the beat of rock'n'roll.
For many, the dance remained the thing as they jived themselves into a frenzy on the polished wooden floor that had become known as the Snake Pit. But there was an unruly element which had stamped the place its own. As the fifties had become the sixties and the decade had rolled on, the bodgies and their widgies had become the rockers and their chicks, and other gangs had emerged. The sharpies, surfies, mods and rockers all gathered at the Snake Pit. Occasionally, and inevitably, clashes occurred, but there was a general acceptance that this was common ground. To the gang members, the Snake Pit had become synonymous with the angry rebellion of their youth – this was a place that belonged to them. This was their personal domain.
The Snake Pit had created excitement in Scarborough, but it had brought with it an element of danger.
On this particular hot December day, Scarborough Beach was more crowded than ever, and at lunchtime the numbers swelled as hundreds of others arrived to take up their positions in anticipation of the parade and the beauty quest.
Complex constructions of scaffolding, wood and canvas had been erected on the beach. A huge stage, complete with catwalk, sat in the centre, a red-carpeted wooden walkway leading from the steps at the side to a large brightly striped marquee, which would house the contestants. There was a special grandstand for the official government party and principal sponsors, and opposite it a shaded area with tables and chairs for the panel of judges. There was no seating arranged for the general public, who would quite happily spread their towels and beach mats out on the baking sand, or watch from the elevated position of the sandhills.
Despite the fact that it was still two hours before the military brass band would lead the procession down the Esplanade, Simon from 6PR Radio was already making announcements over the loudspeaker system.
'Just two hours to go, folks! The grand final of the WA Beach Girl Beauty Quest is about to take place right here at Scarborough! And who's hosting it? None other than our very own ...' A pause for the silent drum roll. 'Dougie Mac!'
Simon wasn't an on-air personality, although he was doing an excellent imitation. Simon was a hardworking publicist, and today was the promotional opportunity of a lifetime. Douglas 'Dougie Mac' Mackay was 6PR's top-rating disc jockey and the event was to be televised – it was a publicist's dream.
'Presenting the sash and crown to the winner,' Simon continued, spruiking like a true professional, 'will be the face of WA herself, Mayjay, and presenting the cash prize, the Honourable Gerrard Whitford, Minister for Tourism.'
The additional announcement had been a direct order from Gerrard Whitford's assistant, Howard Stonehaven.
'Don't forget the "Honourable",' Howard had said. 'Gerrard likes that.'
'So don't go away, folks, stay right where you are. In just two hours we'll be joined by our very own Dougie Mac!'
Simon switched off the PA system – he'd take a fifteen-minute break before starting up again. And, as a gesture of rebellion, he'd continue to give Dougie Mac two plugs each announcement and the 'Honourable' Gerrard Whitford just one.
The Honourable Gerrard Whitford was at that very moment ogling the girls in the showrooms of Farrell Vintage Motors. The huge main showroom floor had been denuded of its vehicles, which all stood waiting in the street, and chairs and benches and mirrors had been set up. Twenty beautiful young women were being buffed and fluffed by make-up artists and hairdressers, and Gerrard was feasting his eyes upon the sight. But he was a little distracted. His trump card wasn't amongst them. Mayjay was late.
'Where the hell is she?' he roared above the surrounding chatter as Howard appeared by his side. 'Did you ring the hotel?'
'Yes. They said she'd left. She must be on her way.'
'I bloody well hope so. She's bloody late.'
'Who? Mayjay?' Spud had emerged from the nearby door that led to the boardroom where a buffet luncheon was set up. He joined them, a beer in his hand. 'She should be here any tick now, her publicist phoned twenty minutes ago saying they were on their way.'
'Why the hell didn't you tell me?'
'I just did.' Spud ignored the man, turning to Howard instead. 'You should grab yourself some lunch, Howard, before the girls demolish it all. I thought beautiful women didn't eat, but I was wrong.'
'I'm fine thanks, Spud, I had a sandwich earlier.'
The smile the two young men shared was one of acknowledgement – neither had much time for Gerrard Whitford.
'How about you, Gerrard?' Spud asked. 'Fancy some lunch?'
'Excellent idea.' Aware that his show of irritation had been unwise, Gerrard quickly pasted on his public persona with a hearty smile – any display of ill humour was reserved for his staff. 'Need to get some food inside us, don't we? It's a big day, we're all a bit jumpy.'
The clumsy excuse Gerrard offered for his rudeness was, strangely enough, true. He was nervous. This was potentially his finest hour and he couldn't afford any slip-ups. Today was an integral part of the most expensive advertising campaign ever undertaken during his tenure. And yet the beauty quest had been funded more by commercial sponsorship than by the government. It was a coup. And it was to be televised. His personal triumph would be witnessed across the state!
Gerrard had conveniently forgotten that the sponsorship agreements had been put in place by his assistant, Howard Stonehaven, who had also engaged the interest of Channel 9. He'd forgotten, too, that the key points he'd included in his speech of thanks to the sponsors had come from Howard, particularly the line he'd practised as his final quote. The marriage of government and private enterprise, Howard had urged. It's the way of the future, Gerrard. Gerrard had found it inspirational stuff.
He ran through the words again. He'd deliver them directly to the camera, he decided. My God, but it would make an impact.
Yet again Gerrard thanked his good fortune that David Brand was in Canberra and unable to officiate. But then, had the Premier been in town he may not have attended in any event – his department had shown little interest in the beauty quest. Given the country's current turmoil, and the ever-increasing protests against Australia's commitment to the war in Vietnam, the project had been considered frivolous. Howard Stonehaven had come up with the perfect response to their indifference. 'It's the very frivolity of the beauty quest that makes it so valuable,' he'd retaliated. 'In stressful times people seek an escape.' Gerrard had quickly adopted the argument as his own.
How right he'd been, he thought now with smug satisfaction – the WA Beach Girl Beauty Quest had been embraced across the state. Today he would receive the recognition he so rightfully deserved. It was tremendously exciting. No wonder he was feeling jumpy.
'Grab us a plate of something, will you, Howard?' he said, turning to his assistant. 'Plenty of meat. And a beer wouldn't go astray either.' In a matey aside to Spud, he added, 'Better keep clear of the top shelf until after the speeches, eh?'
Howard obediently left, disguising his contempt as he always did. Gerrard Whitford's days were numbered. The man was a dinosaur – he hadn't had an idea of his own in years. Howard Stonehaven was not alone in his views; others were starting to notice Gerrard's incomp
etence. And those who didn't soon had their attention drawn to the fact. Discreetly. Howard always appeared supportive.
'But I'm sure Gerrard has things in hand,' he'd say, while informing his confidant of a problem as yet unforeseen, and one which he knew Gerrard would not address.
Howard was driven by the purest of motives – his actions were for the good of the party. It was high time Gerrard Whitford was put out to pasture and new blood introduced. Howard strongly believed in 'the right man for the right job', and he strongly believed the right man was him.
As he piled slices of ham and rare roast beef onto a plate, he wondered which and how many of his personal quotes Gerrard would use in his speech of thanks to the sponsors. The man would be well and truly caught out. Howard had privately shared any number of pithy and memorable catch phrases with Gerrard. He'd also shared them with each of their mutual colleagues and all the major sponsors, when he was quite sure that Gerrard was nowhere within earshot.
'Hello, Spud.'
The voice was in his ear, and Spud turned to discover Mayjay standing right behind him. Beside her was an efficient-looking young woman in a well-cut suit, the miniskirt of which displayed a neat pair of legs. He and Gerrard had been so busy chatting that the women's unannounced entrance had taken them both by surprise.
'Hello, Mayjay.'
'Good to see you.' She smiled her lazy, insolent smile and offered her hand.
'You too.' It was the same extraordinary smile he'd found so disconcerting the very first time he'd met her. Was its intention to seduce or insult? It was difficult to tell, and equally difficult to look away. 'You haven't changed,' he said as they shook hands.
'Mayjay!' Gerrard interrupted loudly, extending his hand so that Mayjay was forced to turn her attention to him. His grin was broad and friendly but he was angry. How dare the bitch greet Spud before she greeted him. He was the minister, it was a shocking breach of protocol.
'You look beautiful, my dear,' he said, shaking her hand. She did. Bare-legged, in high-heeled sandals and a bright red mini dress with shoestring straps, she was bloody gorgeous. 'Absolutely beautiful.'
'I should hope so. It's my job.' Mayjay turned to the neat young woman beside her. 'This is Trish Barraclough.'
'Yes, yes, I know, we've met.' Gerrard gave the woman a perfunctory nod. He'd had numerous meetings and phone conversations with the ad agency publicist assigned to Mayjay.
'I wasn't introducing her to you. I was introducing her to Spud.'
'Of course.' Christ, the bitch was rude, Gerrard thought.
When the introductions were over, he said tightly to Trish, 'We're a little late aren't we?' Still angered by Mayjay's insolence, he took his annoyance out on the publicist.
The pained look on Trish Barraclough's face spoke multitudes. She was sick to death of Mayjay's tardiness herself. The woman was unprofessional and downright arrogant and Trish couldn't stand her. The sooner Mayjay's contract was over the better as far as she was concerned. But she said nothing, prepared to take the blame as always.
'We've been keeping hair and make-up waiting for nearly forty minutes.' Gerrard's tone demanded an apology, and preferably a grovelling one.
'We don't need hair and make-up.' It was Mayjay who replied. 'We do our own.' She thrust her flawless face close to his, eyebrows raised scornfully. 'I'm surprised you haven't noticed.'
Well, well, Trish thought, for once Mayjay wasn't leaving her to shoulder the blame. Not that she was leaping nobly to her publicist's defence, Trish knew that – she was having a dig at Whitford, and who wouldn't want to – but it was a relief to be let off the hook.
'Nevertheless,' Gerrard tried to maintain his dignity while he backed off, 'the schedule was quite clear, everyone was called at the same time –'
'I'm not everyone,' Mayjay replied. She looked about at the girls, noticing that many had a glass in their hands. 'Ah, champagne,' she said with an approving smile to Spud. 'Your idea?'
'Of course.'
'Lead me to it.'
Trish interrupted. 'I think we should introduce ourselves to the contestants first,' she suggested, pleasantly but firmly.
Trish was a tough young woman, successful in a man's world. An active feminist, she was paving the way for others within a forward-thinking firm where she was considered executive material. At twenty-five, she already headed their publicity department and was very good at her job.
'Why?' Mayjay had no desire whatsoever to chat to the contestants.
'Because it's polite and it's friendly . . . and because it's what we're paid to do.'
Mayjay shrugged. She didn't like the publicist any more than the publicist liked her. Trish Barraclough, in her opinion, was a stitched-up little power person who was jealous because she couldn't score with men. Or else she was frigid.
'All right,' she said sulkily, 'if you say so, you're the boss.'
Trish covered the weary resignation she felt with the brightest of smiles. 'Let's get a glass of champagne first, shall we?' It was easier to let the woman have her own way. What was the point in doing the introductions if she remained sullen and uncommunicative.
'An excellent suggestion.' Mayjay smiled happily. She'd won.
'Through there.' As Spud pointed to the door that led to the boardroom, he gave Trish a sympathetic wink. Being Mayjay's publicist was obviously no picnic.
'Let's step outside,' Gerrard said as soon as the women had disappeared. He wanted a private chat, away from the excited natter of the girls and their attendants, and the bustle of the runners delivering drinks and food.
Spud signalled to Ziggy, his general manager, that he'd only be gone five minutes – they'd need to be rounding up the troops shortly. Then he allowed himself to be ushered into the street where an ABC television crew was setting up. Channel 9 was covering the entire event live, but the ABC was shooting footage for a human-interest segment to follow the evening news. One of the two cameramen present was already filming the Itala where she sat ready to lead the procession, gleaming and polished to perfection. Her bodywork was a little camouflaged by the banners strapped to each side that read From Paris to Peking to Perth, and in only slightly smaller letters above, Farrell Vintage Motors, but she looked splendid none-theless.
Spud was delighted that Anthony Wilson's ABC contact, a bright young segment producer on the news, had come up with the goods. The ABC had initially been unenthusiastic about the beauty quest, particularly as it was being fully covered by Nine, but the executive producers had found the suggestion of 'local business assists government' most interesting. And they'd readily agreed that the Itala offered a historical element which was right up the ABC's alley.
'I didn't know you'd met her, you didn't tell me that.' Gerrard tried to sound casual as he took Spud to one side.
'Met who?' Spud had been busily studying the cameraman's angle and wondering about the width of the lens – was the bloke getting the showrooms in the background as he filmed the Itala? Probably not. A pity, but it didn't really matter, Spud supposed, he was certainly getting the banner.
'Mayjay, of course.' Gerrard curbed his annoyance. 'You didn't tell me.'
'Tell you what?'
'That you'd met her.' The irritation was starting to show.
'Oh. Well, I have.' Spud smiled apologetically. Although he didn't like Gerrard Whitford, there was no sense in alienating the man while he was still in office. And it hadn't been his intention to irritate anyway, he'd simply been distracted. 'I've met her a couple of times actually.'
