Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  They talked for a long time. At least Mike did. And as he spoke of his passion for the Pilbara and the effect it had had on him, Muzza, having satisfied his own need to communicate, observed his friend with an artist's objectivity. He was relieved that Mike no longer appeared tormented as he had upon their last meeting. But he'd changed nonetheless, Muzza thought. He was certainly not the person in the portrait. But then the person in the portrait had been a boy, and this was a man. Perhaps it was as simple as that. He hoped so.

  With a couple more beers under their belts, they rang Spud, who'd been waiting for Mike's call.

  'Mikey, you're in town! Great! Stay right where you are – I'll pick you up and we'll go out to the farm.'

  'I'm at Muzza's.'

  'Oh. I see. Muz gets top priority, does he?' It was difficult to tell whether Spud's pique was for real or whether he was joking. 'Okay, we'll take him with us.'

  'No, I'll give it a miss today if that's all right, Spud. Could we make it tomorrow?'

  'Fine by me.' For one split second Spud had been miffed that Mike had chosen to visit Muzza before him. But he'd quickly reproached himself. Mike was playing the good Samaritan – of course he'd call on poor old Muz first, that was Mikey's way. 'Why don't you ask Muz if he wants to come along. He hasn't seen the farm yet.'

  'I'll put him on, you can ask him yourself.'

  Muzza reneged on the trip to the farm; he had a physiotherapist's appointment, he said. Which wasn't really true, but he thought it best that Spud and Mike have their own private reunion.

  He nudged a signal to Mike, who huddled beside him, his ear to the handpiece. 'Hey Spud,' he said, 'want to come to a wedding the week after next?'

  'Whose?'

  'Mine.'

  'Shit! You and Olga are getting married?'

  The reaction was instinctive and very, very loud. Muzza and Mike shared a grin.

  'Yep.'

  A moment's pause, then, 'Good on you, mate. I'll be there with bells on.'

  After they'd hung up, they rang Ian Pemberton, who'd relocated from Kalgoorlie to Perth where the head offices of Excalibur Holdings were now situated.

  Pembo's reaction was a little less crass but equally incredulous.

  'Really?'

  'Yep. Really.'

  'Well, of course I'll be there, Muz. I'm very happy for you.'

  'Invitations'll be in the post tomorrow,' Muzza said. He laughed as he hung up. 'You see what I mean?'

  Mike nodded. 'But they wish you well, Muz.'

  'Course they do, I know that.'

  Olga arrived home.

  'Hello, Mike,' she said. Then she kissed her husband. 'Have you told him?' she asked.

  'Told him what?'

  'About the portrait, of course.' She smiled. What else could he have possibly thought she meant? But Olga had known the moment she'd walked into the kitchen that her husband had confided in his friend. Murray was positively glowing.

  'Yeah, I forgot. The portrait.'

  Muzza spun himself around and disappeared through the arch into the lounge room, the others following. He was difficult to keep up with.

  They gazed at Mike's portrait, all three of them.

  'I want to enter it in this year's Archibald,' Muzza said, 'so long as you don't mind.'

  'Of course I don't. It's your creation, do what you will with it. But wouldn't it be better to paint someone famous?'

  Mike's casual laugh was a smoke screen. He found the portrait confronting. Here was the person he'd once been: boyish-faced and eager, a young man on the threshold of life. Was it only two years since he'd looked like this?

  'Nup. Don't want anyone famous, this is my best piece. I'm calling it Life's Purpose.'

  Their eyes met for a moment, both of them recalling the conversations of their past. Then Mike looked back at the portrait.

  'It's a good title. Spot-on.'

  'Yes, isn't it?'

  Mike didn't accept Olga's invitation to stay to dinner, much as he'd have liked to.

  'Mum's cooking a roast,' he said. 'It's her special treat, she thinks I'm twelve years old.'

  'Mothers always do, don't they.' Olga smiled. Then, as she walked him to the door, she said quietly, 'Thank you for being Murray's friend. You are good for him.'

  'It works both ways, Olga. He's good for me too.'

  'Yes. You are very lucky.' She kissed him on the cheek. 'As am I. We are all lucky to have Murray in our lives.'

  Spud picked Mike up in the brand new Land Rover he'd bought for the farm – he drove a Mercedes in the city. The Swan Valley property was only thirty kilometres out of Perth, the roads were excellent, and he didn't actually need a four-wheel-drive vehicle, but he liked the dual image. He freely admitted the fact to Mike, who greeted him with a grin when he arrived at the front door of the McAllister house.

  'What's with the Akubra?' Mike looked Spud up and down, taking in the boots, the jeans, the sleeveless T-shirt and, above all, the hat. He'd never seen Spud in an Akubra before.

  'Got to look the part, Mikey.' Spud held up his fists and shadow-boxed. 'Gotta create the image, you know what I mean?'

  Mike dodged the jabs, then laughed as they embraced.

  'I see what you mean, all right,' he said a minute or so later when they walked across the verandah and out the front gate to the spanking new, shiny green Land Rover.

  They climbed in, and Spud paused before turning on the ignition. 'How're you going, Mikey?' he asked meaning fully. 'Everything okay?'

  'Fine, mate. Everything's fine.'

  'Good. Just the way it should be.'

  Spud started up the engine and switched on the radio. He'd got the message. The night in Scarborough would remain a forbidden topic, just as it had been two years ago. He was more than happy with that.

  'Honky Tonk Woman' blared from the speakers, and they drove up Bay View Terrace and onto Stirling Highway singing along to The Rolling Stones.

  The day was one of mateship. Spud gave Mike a full guided tour of the stud farm, showing off for all he was worth and revelling in his friend's praise. He had several horses in work, and he introduced Mike to his resident trainer, a beefy man called Gus who was well known and respected in Perth racing circles. They stood at the practice track and watched the two young strappers take the horses through their paces, and Spud remained respectfully silent as Gus gave his instructions.

  He was garrulous again, however, as they continued with the tour, starting with the stables where two brood mares were heavily in foal. 'A couple of newcomers in a month or so,' he proudly announced. He was going to have the stables extended, he said with an expansive wave of his hand. 'I'm upgrading everything, right across the board.'

  Spud personally greeted each of the stable hands, introducing them on a first-name basis to his good mate Mike. It was apparent that the youngsters all liked the boss. One, a snub-nosed tomboyish girl of around seventeen, was grooming Killarney Miss.

  'You're doing a good job, Bec.'

  'Thanks, Boss.' Bec beamed.

  'Meet next year's Perth Cup winner, Mike,' Spud said boastfully as he scratched the filly's forehead.

  They walked down to the paddock and admired the brood mares, then back up to the farmhouse, which wasn't grand. The house itself was the least important item on Spud's agenda, but it was comfortable enough accommodation for Gus and his team. They sat on the front verandah with a couple of beers, eating the meat pies they'd bought on the way. The pies were stone cold by now, but they didn't bother heating them up in the oven of the old wood stove. It would have taken too long and they were starving. The day was hot anyway, and the beers from the icebox were well chilled, which was all that really mattered.

  Then they wandered down to Spud's favourite spot where they perched on the railings and looked out over the valley.

  'It's beautiful, Spud, truly beautiful.'

  'Yeah.' Spud lit up a cigarette. 'And this is just the beginning, Mikey.' Cigarette dangling from his lips, he spread his arms wide, like
a jet about to take off. 'This is just the beginning, mate.'

  Mike had no doubt that it was. He thought of Spud's early years. His drunken father, his paper runs as a kid, his morning milk deliveries, the way he'd helped support his family even as a schoolboy, and the way he'd scoffed at a tertiary education when Mike had known that, deep down, Spud had envied him and his uni mates.

  'You deserve your success, Spud,' he said. 'You've worked hard and you've earned it – good on you.'

  That was what clinched the day for Spud. He'd earned Mikey's respect and he felt drunk with pride. Heaven couldn't be much better than this, he thought.

  During the drive back to town, Spud brought up the subject of Muzza's impending wedding.

  'So what do you think of Olga?' he asked.

  He was interested in Mike's opinion. He and Pembo had discussed Olga in detail – they had Muzza's best interests at heart. They'd agreed that she could be quite a good-looking sort if only she did something with herself. Pembo had said that she deliberately presented herself as a 'plain Jane' because sex didn't interest her, which was just as well for Muzza's sake. But Spud had wondered whether perhaps Olga didn't want to present a threat to Muzza by making herself desirable and becoming a possible object of other men's attentions. Spud had thought very deeply on the matter.

  'She's a shrink, Pembo,' he'd said. 'Face it, she's smart.'

  They'd both decided that Olga was a bit of a weirdo, and left it at that.

  'I like her a lot,' Mike said.

  'Yeah, well, she's certainly done wonders for Muz, that's for sure,' Spud agreed.

  'No, I mean I like her a lot. I like her as a woman. I think she's very attractive.'

  'Really?'

  It wasn't the response Spud had expected. Mike had always had an eye for good-looking women. Hell, Mike McAllister had always been the first to score with the choicest of them all, and he'd certainly been selective. How surprising that he should consider someone as ordinary as Olga attractive, Spud thought.

  'I don't see it myself,' he shrugged. 'But horses for courses, eh?'

  Mike felt no need to comment and they drove on in silence for a few more minutes. Then Spud said, 'Pembo rang me last night. We both reckon it's really great that they're getting married.'

  'Yes, it is, isn't it?' Mike smiled to himself. Olga was right. Muzza was definitely over-reacting.

  Spud switched on the radio, but it was 'Je T'aime', not one of his favourites, so he kept the volume down. 'Did you know Pembo's getting married himself next year?'

  'Yes, he told me. Arlene. What's she like?'

  'Cynthia.'

  'What?' Mike looked at him to see whether or not he was joking, but Spud's eyes were on the road ahead and he appeared deadly serious.

  'Pembo's marrying his mother.'

  'Don't tell me ... you're Mike ... I've heard so much about you.' Pembo had been about to introduce them, but Arlene had dived in. 'Ian never stops talking about his best friend at uni. How divine to meet you, Mike. I'm Arlene.'

  Mike caught Spud's eye and wanted to burst out laughing.

  'Arlene Johnstone, Mike McAllister.' Ian did the formal introductions. 'Mike, this is my fiancée, Arlene.'

  Arlene laughed. 'There's no need to stand on ceremony, darling. I feel as if we've known each other for years, don't you, Mike?'

  'I sure do, Arlene. For years.' He avoided Spud's eyes.

  Despite the burning hot February afternoon, it was comfortable enough on the hill of Kings Park amongst the shade of the trees, a light sea breeze coming up from the river. Muzza and Olga had instructed their guests to wear casual gear and everyone had, with the exception of Arlene, who teetered about on ridiculously high heels that sank into the grass with her every step. Not that she minded. Fashion statements were necessary in Arlene's opinion, and she'd willingly freeze in a cocktail frock on the worst winter night whenever the occasion called for it.

  Sonny and Cher's 'I Got You Babe' played through the sound system's speakers, and Mike stood beside Muzza and the celebrant as Olga was escorted 'down the aisle' by her friend and colleague, Dr Leo Bradman. Mike thought how very elegant she looked in her simple red dress and flat-heeled sandals. The only make-up she'd applied was a touch of lipstick, but her black hair was loose and fell about her shoulders. She had lovely hair. Strange, he thought, that Spud and Pembo couldn't see what an attractive woman Olga was in her understated way.

  The ceremony was charming, and very, very touching. Muzza, surrounded by his family and friends, glowed even more radiantly than the bride.

  The two looked into each other's eyes as they recited Shakespeare's 116th sonnet. They'd learned it off by heart, and Olga started.

  'Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds ...'

  She completed the first stanza perfectly, and it was Muzza's turn. He started out well, but then ...

  'Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his ...'

  Within his what, Muzza thought. He'd had a sudden mental blackout. Within Time's what?

  '... bending sickle's compass come.' Olga completed the line for him. She didn't murmur the words, or hiss them under her breath hoping no-one would hear her, she simply completed the line and Muzza continued.

  'Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.'

  No-one had laughed at the stumble. Mike was sure that most hadn't even noticed, presuming it was part of the double act. And Muzza was the least worried of all as he grinned, sharing the joke with his wife. He looked so incredibly young, Mike thought.

  'If this be error and upon me prove'd,

  I never writ, nor no man ever love'd.'

  They completed the final couplet together.

  The celebrant called upon Mike as best man to produce the ring, which he did, then he and Leo Bradman, who had 'given away' the bride, stepped back amongst the guests as the vows were exchanged. Apart from several friends from the clinic where she worked, Olga had no family present, nor any representatives of her past, which Mike found poignant knowing her story as he did.

  Olga had lost touch with her parents and her younger sister, who were in Poland, Muzza had told him. Her Jewish father had disowned her when she'd gone against his wishes and married an Australian whom she'd met at university in Warsaw. A year later, she'd come to Australia with her new husband, but the marriage had lasted for only one further year and she'd been left on her own at the age of twenty-six.

  'Tough call,' Muzza had said, 'alone in a foreign country, deserted by a man who'd never really loved her in the first place.' He'd sounded condemnatory as he'd spoken about the husband. 'She doesn't say much, but I can read between the lines. The way I see it, the bastard just wanted to get into her pants. She was a virgin and the only way to do it was to marry her. She loved him. She trusted him enough to leave her homeland and travel halfway around the world! But the novelty wore off and he left her stranded – what a prick!'