Guns 'n' Rose Read online

  Turning right again at the pedestrian crossing, Les found himself back where he started. Well, how good’s this? thought Les, feeling even happier than he did before. This place looks grouse. I never even got much of a chance to notice it last time. Now I’m here for a week with three big ones burning a hole in my kick. How absolutely sweet it is. Now let’s go and find The Don’s place and get unpacked. At a leisurely, unhurried pace Les drove ahead, this time up a hill past the boats in the Haven and the steep rise of the Skillion and past the turn-off to North Avoca. There was a lone restaurant on the right called the Silver Conche that looked pretty good, then Price’s street a bit further along on the left; only it had been re-zoned for some reason and was now called Mill Hill Road. Price’s house was just down on the left, exactly as Les had left it last time. The only difference was it appeared to have been given a classier landscape job out the front and the block of land on the right was gone and somebody had built a two-storey home there. Norton eased the Berlina up in front of the double garage and cut the engine.

  Three small Japanese cars were parked outside the new home on the right; Les gave them a cursory glance as he got his bags from the car and carried them up the short side passage to the front door. There was no one around, the only street noise was the wind gently tossing the branches in the surrounding trees and several magpies, kookaburras and wattle birds singing to each from somewhere amongst the leaves. Norton let his eyes run over the neatly trimmed flowerbeds, colourful indoor plants and ferns, then opened the front door and stepped inside, closing it behind him. Yes, he smiled to himself, just as I remember the place. A bedroom, study and kitchen on the left and a short hallway to the sunken lounge. A passageway with bedrooms running off it to the right, the bathroom and the larger bedroom he was in before next to the double garage facing the street. Les dropped his bags for a moment, walked down into the loungeroom and over to the electric curtain which was now a pink and brown floral design. He pressed the button and it swished back to reveal the swimming pool, sparkling in the sun and sheltered from the breeze by the surrounding cabana set amongst more fresh landscaping, flowerbeds and mini-date palms. The house had been recarpeted in swirls of thick, brown axminster, the furniture was all soft, cream velvet and plenty of it. Bird and flower prints hung on the walls, a chandelier hung from the ceiling and on a small oak cabinet near a smoked-glass coffee table sat a combined fax, telephone and answering service.

  Norton left the curtains drawn and walked downstairs to the bottom half of the house and the other bedrooms, opened the back door next to the laundry and stepped out into the pool area. He had a quick stroll around, tried not to burst out laughing, he was that happy, and went back inside. S’pose I may as well have my old bedroom facing the street, he thought, tossing his bags on the double bed then flicking on the light. The old bedroom had been repainted and carpeted too. A teak dressing table sat near the built-in wardrobes and thick, dark green curtains hung across the window. Les drew them back to let some more light in and started unpacking, all the time thinking about the pool out the back. In near record time, Les had everything sorted out, his Speedos on, a towel round his neck and was almost sprinting downstairs and out the back door. Without further to-do, he dropped his towel on the nearest stretch of landscaped turf and barrel-rolled into the pool like a leaping killer whale.

  The water was absolutely glorious; cool, refreshing and not over-chlorinated. Les swam, wallowed, duckdived and flopped around in general, not believing the change in fortune that had come over him. One minute he was in the middle of the city feeling like he was being slowly choked to death and wondering where it was all going to finish. Now he was totally relaxed. The water in the pool felt like it was cleansing him of all his sins and worries, the sun beaming down from above seemed to be putting the charge back into his life batteries already. Norton floated on his back, spurted out a jet of water, then looked up into the sky with the odd tuft of white cloud scudding around and winked into the blue cosmos. And when did I ever doubt you, old mate, he smiled. Les flopped around a while longer then got out, put his sunglasses on and with his towel round his waist thought he might check out the surroundings.

  The house on the left was brown brick, with white lattice at the back full of healthy green vines and red bougainvillea. A brick and concrete patio dotted with more vines and pots of flowers overlooked a sloping, neatly trimmed backyard that led to what appeared to be a reserve full of towering gum trees and native shrubs. A slim woman, possibly in her sixties, with straight, greyish blonde hair, wearing white shorts and a white top, sat at a wrought-iron table writing a letter. Near her stood a man about the same age with a salt ’n’ pepper beard and glasses. He was wearing a striped Tshirt and blue shorts and he had a stick in his hand. He was talking to someone or something at his feet. Les had a closer look and saw it was two agitated magpies, whistling, squawking and preening their chests.

  ‘All right, all right, don’t shit yourselves,’ said the man. ‘I’m coming.’

  The magpies started walking and the man with the stick followed them down from the patio to some shrubs near the start of the backyard. On the way, two beautifully marked dragon lizards sitting on two rocks took no notice of him till the man fed each of them a grape which they both immediately started chewing. The man stopped at the shrubs, poked the stick in and pulled out half a dead snake, which sent the two magpies into even more of a squawking, flapping, whistling frenzy.

  ‘Look,’ said the man, ‘it’s dead. The kookaburras have been eating it.’ The man flicked the dead snake from the stick and gave it a couple of healthy belts with the stick for their benefit.

  The two magpies had a look, then settled down and followed the man as he started walking back to the patio. On the way he stopped to give the two dragon lizards a quick pat and say something, then joined his wife back on the patio. The two magpies stayed with him for a moment before flying up onto the fence where they started whistling happily now that the drama was all over.

  Well, don’t that beat it all, Norton smiled to himself. I wonder who that mysterious, bearded man was? Doctor Dolittle? The man and his wife didn’t seem to notice Les, so he left them and strolled between the pool and the cabana to where the fence ran opposite the house on the right.

  It was a two-storey, brick job, painted white and blue with a blue roof. A wooden sundeck dotted with flowers and trees in ceramic pots, faced the ocean above Les and below it was another wooden sundeck strung with clotheslines and hanging plants. A set of steps ran down to a backyard that was fenced off above another, sloping yard that had been cleared except for several tall trees and a smattering of lumpy, sandstone boulders. A children’s slippery dip and swing stood in the yard near a cubbyhouse built out from the fence and next to it was a rotary clothesline. Not far from the clothesline, a girl in a white two-piece was sunbaking face up on a banana-lounge. She had nice legs, solid boobs with a soft roll of fat round her tummy and her dark hair was bobbed ‘Melrose Place’ style around her eyes and neck. Les couldn’t make out her face because she was wearing dark sunglasses, but he could see it was a bit plump with a double chin and full lips. Whip a few kilos off her, mused Les, and she might be half a good sort.

  Just as Norton started looking at her a phone rang from under the house. The girl seemed to come to life, sat up and slid her sunglasses on top of her head and noticed Les. Norton was tempted to smile down and give her a wave. But feeling she’d probably think he was perving on her, he turned away and started picking at nothing on a small window ledge on the cabana while he watched her reflection in the glass. She got to her feet and went up the stairs to the lower part of the house. However, before she went inside she turned around and gave Norton a couple of very heavy, longdistance once-up-and-downs, then the screen door shut behind her. Norton turned around and snapped his fingers at something Price had mentioned in the office when they were all drunk on Tuesday night. Price had owned the vacant block next door which he sold privately to the bl
oke who had built the house. He lived upstairs and rented out underneath.

  So that’s who lives there, mused Norton. I’ll bet she shares with someone. Probably a boyfriend. I wonder what the owner’s like? Not that it’s any of my business, but going by the swings and things and all those toys lying around, I reckon he likes kids. Les wandered back alongside the pool, stooped down and absently plucked out a couple of leaves, then went inside.

  The kitchen was tiled white and modern with a porta-gas stove, plenty of kitchenware and a top-ofthe-line double fridge with an ice-making machine in the front. Inside was spotlessly clean, but totally empty except for a water jug and a tub of ice-blocks in the deep freeze. Les closed the doors then drummed his fingers on the top and looked thoughtful. Well, if I’m going to stay here for a week, I’m going to need provisions, and plenty of them. I don’t know what young James is like on the tooth or whether he likes a drink, but I know I do. Les climbed into a pair of Levi shorts and his old, blue Surfer HQ T-shirt then drove down to Terrigal shopping centre.

  There was a parking spot just in front of the taxi rank beneath the pine trees; Norton got out of the car and decided he might have a quick look around the beach before he did his shopping. He zapped the car doors, strolled across the park past the picnic sheds and started walking along the promenade. It was a little different to the last time he saw it. Part of the promenade had collapsed and was fenced off with pine logs and a sign saying KEEP CLEAR, STORM DAMAGE. Les wasn’t sure what the tide was doing, but where there was once nothing but beautiful beach, there were now rocks and boulders dumped up against the seawall by the council. There were more scattered rocks as Les walked along, the blackened remains of an old wooden fence and a jumble of old, concrete steps. At the end, a pathway led to a small, open-air pool beneath the cliffs, which was half full of sand and looking a bit neglected. Les had seen better sights. But, he mused, like most beaches it would all probably come back in time. Though you’d think the local council would put a decent open-air pool in there. It’s such a nice spot under those cliffs and little trees. He had another look around and watched some people fishing off the point then walked back along the promenade.

  There were half-a-dozen or so men in Speedos sitting out the front of the surf club, talking and listening to a radio in the first-aid room tuned to some station cranking out old baby boomer ballads. The surf club had a canteen open and Norton arrived just as a bloke in horn-rimmed glasses and shorts got hold of a microphone hooked to the club’s PA system and let go a spiel in word-perfect ‘Strine’.

  ‘G’dayagenladeezngenilmen. Juzleddinyknowthezerfglubgandeenstilloben. Wegodizygoldjogwedgesnbaddlebobs. Gogagolajipsnoddogz. Odbies zozichrollszundanoylenlibblog. Angewagenladezangenilmenanavanizday.’

  Well, there you go, Les smiled to himself. Who says Australia is losing its cultural identity? That man just raised it to new heights with barely a few words from an ancient dialect. Let’s hope he lives long enough to pass it on down to the young ones. Norton watched absently as a couple of punters came up and bought some ‘odogzngoke’, then he crossed over to the bottle shop.

  The bottle shop was clean, modern and bright with a yellow paper parrot hanging from the ceiling and almost the best selection of booze Les had ever seen. Coolers brimming with designer and local beers, shelves groaning with exotic spirits and a wine selection that would have sent Len Evans into hog heaven. A tall man in a Grolsch T-shirt was behind the counter adding up something on a calculator. He looked up as a woman in shorts with thick, dark hair going grey burst through the door covered in sweat from a power walk. She said something, then disappeared out the back, leaving a dotted trail of sweat on the polished wooden floor while the man went back to his calculator. Les perused the selection and bought a dozen mixed beers, three bottles of Bacardi and two bottles of flavoured Liudka vodka—strawberry and rockmelon—which he placed straight in the car. A small supermarket was almost next door; Les hit that and came out with milk, bread, butter and whatever which he placed in the car also. There was a butcher shop in the main drag. But Norton thought he might cheek out the one round the corner as it was next to the fruit shop.

  It was one of those small, quality shops with a window display of choice cuts of meat that made your mouth water just looking at them. There was no one inside the shop except for a tall, brown-haired butcher nattering happily away to his shorter, dark-haired workmate while they trimmed stuff on the block. They were even happier when Les walked in with a roll of notes and happier again when he walked out with an armful of steaks, chops, bacon and sausages.

  The fruit shop next door was another eye opener and, to Norton, shopping at Terrigal just seemed to get better and better. The roomy store was chock full of fruit and vegetables of every size, shape and variety. Salad mixes, Roma tomatoes, kumeras, papayas, all kinds of grapes and everything as fresh as it comes. Plus bottles of balsamic vinegar, virgin olive oil, jars of crushed garlic and ginger; you name it, they had it. But best of all was a machine they rolled fresh, local oranges into and out came sparkling fresh orange juice. There were a couple of young blokes out the back packing trays near a ghetto-blaster tuned to 2JJJ. An attractive woman in white jeans with a lovely smile and dark, Spanishlooking eyes served Les, wishing him a happy day as he walked out with a carton of fruit and vegetables and three two-litre containers of fresh orange juice. Les put all this in the car, then looked at his watch. The sun was well over the yardarm, so he thought he might check out the hotel and have a cool one.

  Les missed it before, but as he walked up the steps into the beer garden he noticed a sign strung above, white on black, saying CLUB ALGIERS OVER-30S DISCO. FRIDAY NIGHT, QUAY WEST DISCO. An over-30s disco, Norton smiled to himself. That could be all right. And I can just squeeze in there. I might come down and have a look. There were a few people scattered around the beer garden; Les strolled through the chairs and tables into the bar which was next to the food area. It had more chairs and tables, a jukebox, Sky TV near an open fireplace and another area to the right full of card machines. He ordered a schooner of New and, being a mug tourist, made a few enquiries from a tall, young barman in black. Yes, Club Algiers was on in the disco on Fridays and it wasn’t a bad night; lots of people. The disco was also open tonight and this would be the last Wednesday of the summer season. There was another bar upstairs—The Baron Riley. It was a piano bar and named after a ship that sank off Terrigal in 1860, and sold the best cocktails on the Central Coast. Les thanked the barman then walked outside and drank his schooner at a table under the vines overlooking the ocean.

  The sea breeze had picked up slightly, flicking even more white caps across the blue of the ocean, but it was still a treat sitting there ‘far from the madding crowd’ in Bondi. The south end of Terrigal might have been a bit knocked around from the storm, however there was still a long, beautiful expanse of golden sand running all the way to Wamberal Lagoon and Forrester’s Beach beyond and the surrounding trees made the low, mountain range in from the sea a carpet of deep, mist-covered green. Les could have sat there and had another five schooners easily; it was peaceful, relaxed and the sound of the waves softly and rhythmically washing over the sand and rocks below was almost hypnotic. But all the food in the car, especially the steaks, was calling and Norton’s mouth was watering worse than his stomach was rumbling. He drained his schooner to the last drop of froth and this time drove home via the church on the corner.

  It took Les roughly an hour to stow away all the food and booze, organise some more ice and work out the microwave oven, along with everything else in the kitchen, sip a Eumundi and feed himself. He made a rocket salad with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, baked half a kumera smothered with cottage cheese and herb dressing and grilled two of the choicest, boneless sirloins and two sausages which he washed down with fresh orange juice, bread rolls and a small plunger of coffee while he read the paper. The solid feed didn’t slow Les down; if anything it seemed to liven him up. I don’t know whether it was that
orange juice or the air up here, he mused as he finished the paper, but I feel like I could go ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Well, five anyway. After burping and farting around while he cleaned up the mess, Norton now decided it was time for drinky-poohs at Price’s.

  Cooking a meal wasn’t much trouble, and this was easier again by ten. He found a large, high-ball glass, half filled it with ice, added a liberal splash of Bacardi, a moderately liberal splash of strawberry vodka and topped it up with fresh orange juice. The first mouthful nearly sent shivers up Norton’s spine. Oh yes, oh yes indeed. He rummaged through his tapes, dropped one into the stereo and settled back on the lounge. Lee Kemaghan slipped into ‘Skinny Dippin’ ’, Les gargled some more Bacardi, vodka and OJ and started to wonder if it got any better than this.

  After about ten drinks Les lost count. He was getting nice and drunk. But not bloated or mindless; just in a roaring good mood. He’d switched the outside lights on and decided if he did start to get his wobbly boot on a bit, he could simply take his drink down to the pool, dive in and freshen up again. It was a mild, still night outside with plenty of stars around and things were more than pleasant hanging around by the pool. The only trouble was that about a hundred mosquitoes had the same idea too. I know what I’ll be getting tomorrow, grimaced Norton, as he squashed one about the same size as a Cape Barren goose that settled on his forearm. About ten gallons of Aeroguard and a dozen stainless steel fly swats. He went inside for the last time and left the mozzies to it.

  Les kept drinking, one cassette went into another and before he realised it the night wasn’t getting any younger. But for some reason Les didn’t feel at all like going to bed or watching TV. He felt like kicking on. Then he suddenly thought of something the barman at the resort had said to him. Tonight was the last time the disco was open on Wednesday and there was another bar upstairs which sold grouse cocktails. Ooh! What’s that you say, Shintaro? Les smiled boozily at his reflection in one of the windows. Disco. Cocktails. It’s only about a ten-minute walk down the road. Why not go and have a look? Les finished his drink, made another and drank that while he showered, shaved, shampooed and conditioned and hit himself with a bit of deodorant and a dab or two of Calvin Klein’s Obsession. Whistling happily he climbed into the same jeans he wore earlier, his brown grunge boots and a two-tone brown, collarless shirt, gave himself a last detail and started walking down to the hotel.