Mystery Bay Blues Page 8

  ‘Hey, you’ve got me,’ assured Les. ‘I’m coming round to your place.’

  ‘Make sure you do.’ Grace opened the door of her car.

  ‘Before you go. What about your aloe vera?’ said Les.

  ‘Oh. I almost forgot.’ Grace got a plastic bag from the front seat of her car and walked across to the trees. She broke off three pieces, put them in the bag and placed them in the car. ‘Thanks for that,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ smiled Les.

  Grace blew Les a kiss as she backed down the driveway and Les blew her one back off his fingertips, then she drove away. Les went inside to the bedroom and gave himself a double blink in the mirror. Did I just see what I think I did? What about those with breakfast? What about Grace? And she wants to fix my back. I wonder if that’s all she wants to fix? Les laughed and tidied up the bed. Imagine if Grace did throw me up in the air. Forget having a slipped disc, I’d finish up looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Les kicked off his casuals, got the paper and his book about old Narooma then walked out to the table on the verandah and made himself comfortable.

  Les finished the paper and started flicking through Narooma’s Glorious Past. ‘Noorooma’ meant clear water in the local aboriginal dialect and it was once a gold mining and timber town. White people had first been through there in 1797 and people started settling in the area around 1840. Les looked at photos of sawmills and old steamers. Serious men with full beards in high-collared shirts and stern women in black crinoline dresses with white hats that looked like tea cosies. As Les turned the pages, something Grace said earlier intrigued him. Edward Ruddle had sworn to wear his betrothed’s wedding ring until the day they were married. If that was the case, Edward must have had very dainty hands.

  Les turned a few more pages and couldn’t believe it. There was an old black and white photo of Edward Ruddle standing alongside Gwendolyn Monteith, seated in a high-back, wicker chair. Edward had untidy dark hair and a full beard, tiny glasses, and wore a frock coat, watch chain and striped trousers. Gwendolyn was wearing a heavy, pleated dress and a straw hat with the brim turned up. The photo wasn’t the best. But Edward looked like a reasonable style of a bloke. Gwendolyn, however, was an absolute beast. She had a miserable, fat face, pushed into a bony, hog head, with that many double chins she could have shuffled them and done card tricks. Resting in her ample lap, her hands looked like two small bunches of sugar bananas, topped off with a body that made Jabba the Hutt look like Elle MacPherson. Gwendolyn was nineteen. Edward was thirty-seven.

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Les. ‘What a walrus gumboot.’

  Les stared at the photo in disbelief and closed the book. Well that’s the mystery of Mystery Bay solved, he told himself. Edward’s pulled out a photo of his girl and everyone’s jumped out of the boat. Edward’s got the shits and kicked a hole in the bottom, no one could swim and they all drowned. And you can see why Edward was able to wear his beloved’s little band of gold. If the bloody thing could fit round Gwendolyn’s pig’s trotter, it’d double as a serviette ring. Les opened the book again. Still, he conceded, there probably weren’t many stray women down here in those days. And at thirty-seven, plucking a nineteen-year-old’s not a bad effort. But, fair dinkum, to marry something like that Edward must have been absolutely desperate. Or too lazy to pull himself. Les turned to the next page. A few pages on he came to a photo of the Merrigans.

  ‘Hello,’ said Les. ‘It’s Lander and the team.’

  The photo was taken standing on the verandah with the ocean in the background. There was no breakwater then and the channel was more a wide, sheltered bay with a long wooden jetty running out from the park on the right. Lander was all done up in a check, three piece suit and had grey hair, combed neatly over a full, happy face. Hildreth wore glasses and had her hair in a bun; she also looked happy, in a simple, floral dress with a shawl over her shoulders. Their skinny son, Eachan, had a cap plonked on his head and a crumpled coat over a pair of crumpled short trousers, and was staring into the lens like he’d never seen a camera before. Les smiled at the photo and pictured exactly where they were standing on the verandah when it was taken. He had a good look then turned the page. Towards the end of Jasmine Cunneen’s book, was ‘The Mystery of Mystery Bay’.

  Apart from an old pencil sketch of the boat, sitting on the beach with a hole in the bottom, there were only the names of the other missing men and all the police and officials investigating the case. There wasn’t a great deal more than Grace had told Les already. Police initially thought it was foul play, then said there’d been an accident at sea. Important evidence was never properly examined and prominent people thought the police had botched the investigation. The Select Committee of the Legislative Assembly investigating the incident concluded it was murder. The police, the police magistrate and the mining warden said it was an accident. A lot of theories were put forward over the years. But the mystery of Mystery Bay remains unsolved to this day.

  Les ran his eyes over the page again, then closed the book. Unsolved to this day? I just solved the bloody thing. The surveyor did it. Les put Jasmine Cunneen’s book on the table then went inside and got The Perfect Storm. He made himself comfortable and rejoined the crew of the Andrea Gail having a wonderful time battling twenty metre waves and two hundred kilometre winds off Grand Banks.

  Les read on into the afternoon. He was that engrossed in his book, he didn’t notice Narooma coming to life. Cars were arriving down the side street or up Browning and stopping in front of the surrounding holiday flats and houses. Car boots and garage doors were opening and closing, bags and suitcases were getting dumped on footpaths, keys were rattling and getting pushed into locks. Shades were being pulled up and down, taps were being run. The sun began to to go down and lights started coming on. Bottles clinked, cans fizzed open and voices drifted over from the surrounding balconies. Les heard music and looked up. Canned Heat. Coming from a flat on the corner. Other balconies followed suit. John Lee Hooker, John Mayall, Dave Hole. From a house below, Les heard Buddy Guy and Junior Wells, chugging out ‘This Old Fool’. From another balcony, Johnny Johnson started tinkling ‘Drink of Tanqueray’. Hello, thought Les. Looks like the bloody tourists have hit town for the Blues Festival. And I’m caught in the battle of the ghetto blasters. Trapped in a rock ’n’ roll no man’s land. He put his book aside, stretched his legs and looked around. Well, if I don’t want to finish up missing in action, I’d better start fighting back.

  Les walked into the loungeroom and switched on his ghetto blaster. It was still tuned to Season FM. A smooth voice said, ‘That was “Thanks for the Boogie Ride”, with Anita O’Day. Now let’s hear the dulcet tones of Kay Starr and “Secretary to the Sultan”.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s not,’ said Les. He switched the radio off, got a tape and took the ghetto blaster out onto the verandah. He put it on the table facing the jetty and found the power point. ‘Instead, why don’t we hear Katie Webster, from her CD Two-Fisted Mama! And “The Katie Lee”.’ Les hit the play button and Katie Webster’s honky tonk piano joined the other music. ‘Fire one for effect,’ smiled Les, then went inside and got a bottle of beer.

  Les had an enjoyable late afternoon, sitting with his feet up on the verandah, drinking beer, listening to music and watching the world go by. Around in the park someone did a sound check which thumped out across the channel. Les changed tapes and kept drinking beer. Before he knew it, it was well and truly dark and he was getting drunk. He looked at his watch. Shit! I’d better take it easy. Grace’ll be here before long and I don’t want to open the door with my wobble boot on talking in Icelandic. Les finished his beer and got under the shower.

  He had a shave and mulled over what he should do about dinner. Going down to the pub or the RSL might still be a bit risky. There was chicken and salad in the fridge and tins of salmon in the cupboard. Les made some sandwiches and read the paper again over a mug of tea. He cleaned up, then changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt with a
hang out denim shirt, and dabbed a little Calvin Klein on his face. Satisfied everything was in order, he went to the kitchen and made a delicious: JD and mineral water with a slice of lime. Les was glancing at some maps in his ‘What’s On’, when there was a knock on the door. Les opened it and Grace was standing on the step wearing a pair of red jeans and a short-sleeved maroon shirt, over a mauve T-shirt with tiny yellow parrots on the front. She had her hair in a ponytail and pinned to her shirt was a little wooden lorikeet with mother-of-pearl eyes.

  ‘Hello Grace,’ said Les, cheerfully. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. How’s yourself?’ she replied.

  ‘Terrific. Come on in.’ Les glanced along the driveway. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘I left it at Belinda’s and got a lift over.’

  Les closed the door and ushered Grace into the kitchen. He gave her another once up and down and noticed the neat cut of her shirt and the tiny green emblem near the pocket.

  ‘That’s a nice shirt,’ said Les. ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘I buy them at the Hemp shop in Central Tilba,’ she replied.

  ‘It looks good over that T-shirt,’ remarked Les.

  ‘Thanks.’ Grace fingered the emblem. ‘Yes, they look good. They feel good, and they last forever.’

  ‘Don’t let Warren see it when he gets here. He’ll try and smoke it.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘He could smoke ten tonne of these and it wouldn’t do him any good.’

  ‘I know,’ said Les. ‘I was only joking. But I’ll buy a couple of those before I go home. They look all right.’ Les rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I get you a caarrktail?’

  Grace pointed to Norton’s glass on the table. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Jack Daniels and soda. Or there’s beer and Bacardi.’

  ‘How about a Bacardi?’

  Grace placed her bag on the table and looked around the kitchen while Les made a Bacardi and orange. He handed it to her and clinked glasses.

  ‘Cheers Grace.’

  ‘Yes. Cheers Les.’

  ‘Would you like to go out on the verandah?’ suggested Les.

  ‘All right. After you.’

  On the verandah it was quite mild. The sky was full of stars and the moon shone brightly on the channel. The surrounding balconies were down to only a couple of ghetto blasters. But coming from the park was a blur of music and the solid thump of a bass.

  ‘Sounds like the show’s started,’ said Les.

  ‘Yes. The first band was at seven-thirty. But there’s no hurry.’ Grace sipped her rum. ‘So what did you do this afternoon?’

  ‘Read a book. But you should have heard it out here earlier. It was like the battle of the bands.’ Les pointed to his ghetto blaster on the table and told Grace how he was reading when all the people arrived and things started happening. So he put his book down and joined in over a few beers.

  ‘What were you reading?’ asked Grace.

  ‘The Perfect Storm by Sebastian Junger. Before that, however, I was reading Narooma’s Glorious Past by Jasmine — someone-or-other?’

  ‘Cunneen,’ answered Grace.

  ‘That’s her.’ Les had a sip of bourbon and looked pensively at Grace. ‘You didn’t tell me what a ravishing beauty Gwendolyn was, Grace.’

  Grace pursed her lips. ‘You saw the photo, Les.’

  ‘Saw it? I’ll probably have nightmares.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Grace. ‘Young Gwendoline was something else. Wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah. A sumo wrestler in drag.’

  Grace looked out over the railing. ‘Just think, Les. Edward and Gwendolyn probably held hands and made love on this very land.’

  ‘How truly romantic,’ said Les. ‘Lucky Edward.’

  Grace turned to Les. ‘You have to wonder what he used to stop her from rolling down the hill. Logs, rope, giant tent pegs …?’ Grace put her hands over her mouth and looked around. ‘Ooh. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ chuckled Les, having to look away. ‘I also found a photo of the Merrigans. They looked fairly normal.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Grace. ‘About your average, eighteen fifties nuclear family. Except young Eachan looks like he’s just entered the twilight zone.’

  Les raised his glass. ‘You haven’t got a bad turn of phrase, Grace.’ Grace was about to say something when Les noticed headlights pulling up in the driveway. They stayed on for a moment, then they were switched off. ‘Hello,’ said Les. ‘I’ve got an idea who this might be.’

  ‘Your friends?’

  ‘Something like that.’ A minute or so later there was a loud banging on the front door. Les placed his drink on the table. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  Les walked through the house and opened the front door. Warren was standing one step below wearing a black tracksuit and cap, with a bag in each hand. He looked like he was ready to kill someone.

  ‘Yes,’ said Norton. ‘Can I help you at all, mate?’

  ‘Ohh get fucked will you,’ Warren exploded. ‘Why don’t you park your car right outside the front fuckin door, and take up the whole fuckin driveway. You dopey-looking cunt.’

  ‘I thought I had.’ Les moved aside to let Warren in. ‘So how was the drive down? They say the south coast is beautiful this time of the year.’

  Warren glared at Les. ‘How was the drive down … How do you think the fuckin drive down was? Fuckin hell! I didn’t think I was ever going to fuckin get here. And if I have to listen to another one of Clover’s fuckin Bob Dylan CDs I’ll smash the fuckin thing over her head.’

  Les closed the door. ‘Where is Clover?’

  ‘I dropped her off at her place. Fuck! That was another shitfight. Getting from fuckin Dalmeny back to here at night. You should have …’ Warren stopped and looked around. ‘Hey. So this is the old house. Fuck me.’

  ‘Haven’t you been in here before?’ said Les.

  ‘No. Shit! What about all these old photos and paintings?’ Warren had a look in the kitchen and bathroom. ‘Hey this joint’s fuckin unreal.’

  ‘I’m in that bedroom. There’s one across the hall and another off the loungeroom.’

  Warren had a look at the bedroom in the hall, then followed Les into the loungeroom. ‘I’ll take that one.’ Warren threw his bag on the double bed and came back out. ‘Fuck! What about all the grouse old furniture? Check the old fuckin piano.’ Then Warren noticed something missing. ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ he said. ‘There’s no fuckin TV. Where’s the fuckin TV? You’ve taken it into your room, haven’t you? You big cunt.’

  Les placed a soothing hand on Warren’s shoulder. ‘Warren. They didn’t have TV during the First World War. Anyway, come out onto the verandah.’

  Warren followed Les and stopped dead when he saw Grace standing next to the table. ‘Shit! How long have you been there?’

  Grace raised her glass. ‘This is my first drink.’

  ‘Grace, this is Warren. Warren, this is Grace.’

  ‘Hello Grace,’ said Warren. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine thank you, Warren. Les told me about you. Where’s Clover?’

  ‘She’s … she’s at her parent’s place. She’ll be here later.’ Warren stared at Grace, then turned to Les.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Woz?’ asked Les.

  ‘Yeah. I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘There’s Jackies and ice in the kitchen. Help yourself.’

  ‘Okay.’ Warren had another look at Grace, then headed for the kitchen.

  Grace smiled at Les. ‘So that’s Warren.’

  Les smiled back and picked up his drink. ‘That’s him. AKA, the boarder.’

  It didn’t take Warren long to knock up a double, triple Jack Daniels and return to the verandah. ‘Well, cheers everyone,’ he said.

  Les raised his glass. Grace spoke. ‘So how was the drive down, Warren?’

  Warren winced as the bourbon bit in. ‘Oh, it was … nice. The south coast’s quite lovely this time of
the year.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ nodded Grace.

  ‘Are you from down here?’

  ‘Central Tilba.’

  Warren had another hit on his drink. ‘So where do you know gorilla-head from?’

  ‘You mean Les? We met last night. I’m going to help fix his back.’

  ‘He’s not still putting on the bad back act is he?’ said Warren. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it, you know.’

  ‘Is this true, Les?’ asked Grace. ‘You told me you were in agony.’

  Les shook his head and held up his empty glass. ‘How about we have a refill.’

  Grace handed Les her glass. He went out to the kitchen and made two fresh drinks. When he got back to the verandah, Warren and Grace were talking and laughing away. Les handed Grace another Bacardi and orange.

  Grace thanked Les and put her drink on the table. ‘I might go to the loo,’ she said.

  Warren waited till Grace was halfway down the hall and turned to Les. ‘Fuck! Where did you find her?’

  Les gave a casual shrug. ‘You know how it is, Woz. They find me.’

  ‘She’s not a bad sort,’ said Warren, sucking lustily on his JD. ‘What about her set?’

  ‘You noticed, Woz.’

  ‘Christ! How could you miss it.’

  Les took a sip of JD also. ‘So what’s doing with Clover? How long before she’ll be here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Warren. ‘About an hour or so.’

  Les looked at his watch. ‘Well instead of waiting around, we might meet you down there.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Warren. ‘I want to have a shower and unpack my gear anyway.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘I’ve been to the supermarket. There’s coffee and tea and all that in the kitchen, as well as booze.’

  ‘Good on you.’

  Warren offered Les some money. Les told him not to worry about it. Then Grace returned. She got her drink from the table and smiled at the boys.

  ‘Warren doesn’t know for sure how long Clover’s going to be,’ said Les. ‘So I suggested we meet them down there.’

  ‘She might be a while,’ added Warren. ‘And I still have to get cleaned up.’