by Judy Nunn
'Really?' Gerrard wondered when, and why. Spud Farrell had only recently come on board as a sponsor, and he wasn't one of the major players. What did he have to offer? 'Did you score?'
'Eh?'
'Did you fuck her?'
'No.' Spud was mystified. 'Why the hell would you think that I had?'
'Because she's a slut, that's why.' Glad that he now had Farrell's undivided attention, Gerrard was eager to divulge the gossip. 'She's turned it up for a number of the sponsors. Only the major ones – it appears she's choosy. And I've heard she accepts presents.'
The innuendo was plain and he smirked lasciviously, but the words had a ring of vitriol. He'd tried it on with the girl himself and she'd knocked him back in no uncertain terms, which he'd found most insulting, given his position. Why the sponsors and not him? He was the minister!
'Professionally trained model, my arse!' Gerrard gave a loud snort of derision. 'She's nothing but a fucking hooker!'
'A bloody good-looking one, you've got to admit.'
Spud checked his watch. He found the news of Mayjay's sexual exploits extremely interesting and he'd have liked to hear more, but they were running out of time.
'I'd better get into my clobber,' he said. 'It'll take a while to round the girls up, and we'll need to be leaving in the next half hour.'
Inside the showrooms, he signalled Ziggy to get things moving and disappeared into his office. As he donned his Peking to Paris khaki, Spud's mind was on Mayjay, recalling the long-ago afternoon in Ruby's lounge room when they'd first met. How do you like it? she'd asked as she'd undone his belt. Kinky? Her smile had dared him. I do. The kinkier the better. She'd fastened the belt around her neck. I just bet you'd love doing it my way, she'd said.
He wondered if she'd done it kinky with the sponsors. The thought was intriguing, and, he had to admit, rather titillating.
Twenty minutes later the convoy prepared to set off. The image was a colourful one, albeit bizarre – pretty girls in bright, miniskirted summer dresses being assisted into classic vintage vehicles by drivers in full period costume. The ABC cameramen were careful not to miss a trick.
In his adventurer's khaki and pith helmet, Spud was playing the role to the hilt. Having opened the Itala's passenger door, he stepped aside with a grand flourish of showmanship to make way for Mayjay.
She looked him up and down approvingly. 'Very nice,' she said, her eyes roaming over his knee-high boots and safari jacket before coming to rest suggestively on his crotch. 'Love the jodhpurs.'
Spud felt his pulse quicken. Could he be in with a chance? Then, recalling Ruby's warning, he put the thought out of his mind. He couldn't afford to risk the wrath of Ruby Chan and the powerful heavies she had at her beck and call. Still, the fact that Mayjay was coming on to him was immensely flattering.
Her eyes wandered languidly upwards until they came to rest on the pith helmet. 'I'm not so sure about that though.' There was mockery in her laughter as she climbed into the Itala.
Spud's ego came crashing down about him. But even in his humiliation, he felt a stab of anger. Was it her deliberate intention to make him an object of ridicule? How dare she! He gave a laugh, intimating a joke shared, and prayed that the cameraman hadn't caught the moment – or if he had, that it wouldn't go to air. At the same time, he wondered whether he really did look stupid. Should he get rid of the pith helmet during the actual ceremony? He was thankful that he'd brought along his suit for the party afterwards. He'd contemplated staying in his adventurer's gear, but he had a nasty feeling now that she'd been having a dig at the jodhpurs as well.
The police patrol car and two escort motorcycles took off slowly, the vintage vehicles following at their own pace. There were eight in all, each and every one in mint condition, including a 1927 Packard and a 1933 Delage. They were a collector's dream – in this case, Anthony Wilson's dream, or rather his passion. Anthony had ached to be included in the procession, but hadn't been able to come up with a plausible reason why he should be.
Behind the vintage cars came the government chauffeur-driven vehicle carrying the Honourable Gerrard Whitford, who, much to the embarrassment of his assistant seated beside him, waved at passers-by through the open window, receiving little if any response. Gerrard had thought it fitting that, as the event's key spokesperson, he should be part of the parade, although the rest of the official party would be waiting at Scarborough.
Following the government car were several Avis limousines transporting a bevy of publicists, minders, hairdressers, make-up artists, and Ziggy. Siegfried 'Ziggy' Schultz, the general manager of Farrell Vintage Motors, would drive the Itala back to the showrooms after the event. Finally, bringing up the rear of the procession, two more police escort motorcycles added the final touch of pomp and ceremony to a sight that was, all in all, most impressive.
As the convoy travelled down Stirling Highway, people gathered in groups on the pavement to cheer the contest-ants as they passed. Some of the four-seater vintage cars carried three girls apiece, and they waved and blew kisses in return. But the onlookers' principal cheers were directed at Mayjay, who was leading the procession in the open two-seater Itala driven by Spud. She was enjoying the attention immensely, and as they passed a particularly large crowd, she clasped the windscreen and rose to wave like true royalty.
'Sit down,' Spud ordered, 'there's a corner coming up.'
It would be a little while before they turned the corner, but still smarting from his humiliation he wanted her to know who was boss.
She obeyed instantly, and her smile was radiant as she linked her hand through his arm and gazed at him in what appeared to be genuine admiration. 'This was a great idea, Spud,' she said. 'How boring it would have been in limos. You're an absolute genius.'
He basked in the praise, he couldn't help himself. Christ, the woman was perverse.
At Scarborough, crowds had gathered, the hundreds having swelled to well over a thousand. Police were in evidence, press photographers and camera crews were set up, and 6PR's Dougie Mac, with a roaming mike, was spruiking for all he was worth. The official party had gathered at the north end of the Esplanade, beside the parking area. The lord mayor of Perth, the local mayor and councillors, together with Anthony Wilson – who, despite having nothing to do with the electorate, had somehow managed to be included – were joined by repre-sentatives of the major corporate sponsors, and all took up their positions in the cordoned-off area by the main track that led to the beach.
At the southern end of the Esplanade, in the forecourt of Luna Park, the assembled military brass band awaited its signal from the policeman in the nearby patrol car, who in turn awaited the radio message from his colleague leading the procession from Fremantle.
The policeman gave the drum major the thumbs up. The convoy was turning off the West Coast Highway, just one short block away.
Upon command, the band marched out of the forecourt, turned sharp right into the Esplanade and took up its position. There was a minute's silence, musicians poised, then the drum major barked the order and, as the band struck up and began its march down the street, the police car and motorcycles rounded the corner.
The timing was perfect. 'Seventy-Six Trombones' was in full swing as the Itala came into view, Mayjay, the symbol of Western Australia, standing in all her magnificence, saluting the crowds.
The cameras turned over, hundreds roared their approval, and the cavalcade began its slow procession down the fluttering-flag-lined length of the Esplanade. The grand final of the WA Beach Girl Beauty Quest was under way.
CHAPTER NINE
In open cotton shirts, towels slung around their necks and shorts pulled over their bathers, Mike McAllister and Ian Pemberton were lounging in the deserted beer garden of the Scarborough Beach Hotel. The few drinkers who'd been there had left to watch the parade, and in an hour or so the staff would start clearing the place in prep-aration for the private party that evening. The boys had brought along their suits for the sponsors bash,
as Spud had advised, but they'd left them in Ian's car. It wouldn't have been any fun hanging around Scarborough in a jacket and tie on a blistering Saturday afternoon.
The two had arrived around lunchtime, intending to catch a few waves and have a beer and a hamburger before watching the parade, but already the crowds had been gathering. An hour later, when they'd emerged from the surf, it seemed hundreds more had appeared from nowhere. The queue at Peters by the Sea stretched for nearly a block, so they hadn't bothered with the ham-burger, and there was no sense in jostling for a position to watch the cavalcade – every vantage point along the street had been taken. They'd opted for the beer garden instead. They'd wait until the procession reached the north end of the Esplanade, they'd decided – they were tall, they'd be able to see over the heads of most people.
Through the beer garden's rear entrance, which opened onto the parking area and the Esplanade beyond, they'd caught glimpses of the official party's arrival, and they were just starting on their fourth beer apiece when 'Seventy-Six Trombones' struck up. They decided not to rush things, however. Why bother wasting a good beer, they agreed, let the parade come to them.
A short while later, as the band, now playing 'Pomp and Circumstance', drew near, they drained their glasses and wandered out through the car park to join the crowds lining the pavement. The first thing they saw, gliding above the heads of the gathered throng, was Mayjay. Standing majestic in the Itala, her hair windswept, her arms out-stretched, she acknowledged her worshipping subjects like a pagan princess.
'My God, she's even more incredible in the flesh,' Mike muttered.
'You're not wrong.'
They both craned for a view of the car and its driver, and Ian gave a snort of amusement.
'Do my eyes deceive me or is Spud wearing a pith helmet?'
The band came to a sudden halt before the official party, the cars slowly pulled up in a line, and the drivers helped the girls alight.
'Christ alive, what's he come as?' Ian laughed.
Mike shared a smile – Spud really was too short for jodhpurs and a pith helmet – but he resisted the urge to laugh out loud. 'It's his big day, Pembo. Don't spoil it by taking the piss out of him.'
Ian gave a shrug that said 'why not?' Personally he couldn't wait to take the piss out of Spud. If the situation was reversed Spud would do the same to him.
A brief opening ceremony took place in the cordoned-off area, police keeping at bay the hordes that threatened to surge forward, eager for a clearer view of the contest-ants and, most particularly, Mayjay. The local mayor made a short speech, before introducing the lord mayor, who made a longer speech officially welcoming the contestants to Perth. Then Mayjay was symbolically presented with the keys of the city, after which the girls were escorted down the main track to the marquee. The official party, now including Spud and Mayjay, followed to take up their seats in the grandstand, and a mad dash over the sandhills ensued as hundreds scrambled for prize positions near the stage.
Mike and Ian didn't join in the rush, but ambled across the street to watch from the higher ground as, on stage, Dougie Mac introduced the members of the local rock band who had been patiently awaiting their big moment.
The band had aptly chosen a bracket of favourites from The Beach Boys, and as 'Surfin' USA' and 'Good Vibrations' blared through the speakers, hairdressers and make-up artists worked frantically in the marquee, repairing the damage that had resulted during the drive from Fremantle. The band would shortly segue into the Little Pattie number, 'He's My Blonde Headed Stompie Wompie Real Gone Surfer Boy', which would be their standby cue. All the contestants would be called up on stage where they'd be briefly interviewed, one by one, before returning to the marquee to don their bikinis for their individual parade on the catwalk.
Up on the sand hills overlooking the beach – not far from where Mike and Ian stood – a gang of some twenty young men had gathered with their girlfriends. They wore boots, jeans and T-shirts and, despite the heat, their signature black leather jackets. The girls were similarly attired, although most had discarded their jackets, dangling them nonchalantly from one finger over a shoulder. The rockers, their chicks riding pillion, had fronted up on their motor-bikes a good hour earlier to watch the procession. Like everyone else they'd appeared to enjoy it, and like everyone else they now appeared to be enjoying the music, clapping along with the rest of the crowd.
At the end of the number, the band members took their bows, then quickly cleared their equipment to the rear of the stage as, one by one, the contestants were introduced.
'Miss Geraldton! Miss Rockingham! Miss Mandurah!' Checking out the names in the folder he carried, Dougie, the jarringly energetic wake-up voice of breakfast radio, gave it his best hard sell as he called the winners of the previous competitions up onto the stage.
As the girls paraded along the red carpet from the marquee to the stage and mounted the steps to join Dougie, they were cheered and applauded, the rockers up on the sandhill being particularly vocal.
The rockers' applause, however, differed from that of the general crowd. While there was nothing specifically offensive in their catcalls and whistles and cries of 'hubba hubba', their enthusiasm sounded fake. They were overly raucous. It was difficult to tell whether they were jeering or cheering, but one thing was obvious. Their chicks weren't happy.
When the contestants were all lined up on stage, Dougie took each girl aside and interviewed her, referring meticulously to the list of questions in his folder. As the girls would be judged according to their responses, he knew that he had to get it right.
Some girls, assured and confident, played to the crowd, and some won fans with a natural charm. Favourites were quickly establishing themselves, and at the conclusion of each interview, as the contestant returned to the marquee, the applause accorded them varied markedly.
The rockers were letting it be known loud and clear who their favourites were. But they weren't waiting until the girls had been interviewed. Miss Port Hedland, a bosomy blonde who hailed from a cattle station three hundred kilometres from the coast, received a cacophony of catcalls the moment she stepped forward. As did Miss Albany, an equally well-endowed redhead who lived in the remote desert goldmining town of Coolgardie.
'Go home, slag!'
Carol considered it her duty to make a statement, and she screeched the words at the top of her voice. She was Marco's girlfriend, and as Marco was the leader of the gang it made her the chicks' leader and therefore their spokesperson, and the chicks were all thoroughly fed up with the attention being afforded the women on stage.
The other chicks gave her a rousing cheer, and the rockers laughed. It was exactly the reaction they'd been seeking. Along with creating a stir, they liked to rile their women – it was all part of the game.
By the time it came to the individual parade, the rockers were playing their game in earnest, and the chicks, keen to gain their boyfriends' approval, were joining in vociferously. As the bikini-clad contestants made their way down the catwalk, some with the slick assurance of professionals, others with a gaucherie that betrayed their origins, the rockers yelled 'Get it off!' and 'Show us your tits!' while their girlfriends countered with 'Slags!' 'Sluts!' and 'Go home, Molls!'
Although the gang numbered only forty amongst a crowd in excess of a thousand, they were making their mark. The cameramen wisely avoided them, and the spectators tried to pay them no attention in the hope they'd get bored and go away, but it became increasingly difficult to ignore the troublesome group. Others nearby, including Mike and Ian, started yelling at them to shut up, which only spurred them on and added to the disruption. It was a welcome relief when the police closed in.
The rockers were surprisingly acquiescent – taking their lead from Marco, as they always did.
'Just cheering the girls on,' Marco said cockily, draping his arm around Carol's neck. 'Can't help it if the chicks get jealous, can we?'
He looked around at the rest of the gang, who nodded, shrugg
ing innocence. En masse, they wandered off to their motorbikes. They'd had their fun, they wouldn't push things further – there was no point in being arrested for disturbing the peace. Besides, they'd be back later. Scarborough was their place, particularly after dark.
