The Carnival is Over, page 3
Eileen was sprawled on the loungeroom couch reading The Land. The two German shepherds leapt up beside her, nuzzling her legs and whimpering, and when she got up they slobbered over her hands and feet and she laughed and called them beautiful. They stood, tails thumping her legs, as she fussed over them.
‘You get a better welcome than I do these days,’ Mick said. ‘All right you two. Enough.’
‘Not jealous, surely?’ She grinned, and came over and kissed him, holding her body against his while he hugged her and let her perfume, Chanel Number whatever it was, wash over him. He kissed her again, slower, tasting gin and tonic on her tongue.
‘You missed me,’ she said, when they came up for air.
‘In thrilling Manilla? As if I had the time to miss you.’
‘Well I missed you.’ She pressed against his groin. ‘Poor Tony, he timed it badly.’ She gave him a sad smile, before letting him go and heading for the kitchen where the smell of Chinese food filled the air. ‘You hungry?’ she called back. ‘I went to the Lean Sun Low.’
‘Great. So you’ve got a night off?’
‘Special council meeting. Adam’s choosing another deputy. They won’t be finished until all hours, then they’ll have drinks. Meaning he’ll stagger in at daybreak. I told him I wouldn’t be waiting up.’
‘I thought the lot of them had to vote on it.’ Mick poured them lemon squashes.
‘In circumstances like this it’s the captain’s choice, I’m told.’
She served up two plates and they sat down to eat in front of the TV. Movie of the Week was The Third Man, a classic and one of his favourites, starring Orson Welles, Joseph Cotten and the beautiful Alida Valli. He liked watching Eileen absorbed, getting drawn into the drama.
‘So, how did Adam take the awful news?’ Mick asked her between mouthfuls of Mongolian lamb and fried rice when the ads came on.
‘Not well,’ she said. ‘Adam had a love-hate relationship with Tony, given Mr Poulos enjoys throwing his weight around. Enjoyed, sorry. Better get used to that. But we were friends with Tony and Linda, and I feel for her. He had a big heart, Tony. And he left big shoes for the new deputy to fill.’
Mick wiped his mouth on a paper serviette. ‘And who will that be?’
‘Bill McGuire maybe, or Jack Crawley. Adam’d be happy with either one.’
‘Will the chosen one also be deputising on the Abattoir Council?’
‘You’re kidding. They won’t let that happen again, Adam and J.T. Look what it got them last time. A deputy who was calling the shots.’
‘Ah, one of those. I sympathise.’
She smiled. ‘When have you ever had anything to complain about with Ross? He nominated you for sergeant all those years back, when he could’ve nominated himself.’
He half-smiled. ‘Ross has got too much sense to want this job, that’s all.’
She nudged him, and they grinned and ate their spicy food and he kept his nose out of local politics for the rest of the movie. In the final ad break before the end of the film, Eileen stood beside him, an arm on his shoulder as he washed up their plates. He looked around and found her beautiful violet eyes on him. Liz Taylor eat your heart out, as he liked to tell her. A man could drown in them if he gazed too long. But it wouldn’t do to be putting another man’s woman on a pedestal, as Joseph Cotten learned the hard way at the end of The Third Man. Though not even Alida Valli could stop Mick yawning.
‘Call it a day?’
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I have to know how it ends.’
They watched the last five minutes of the film, with Alida giving Cotten the coldest shoulder in movie history as the famous zither theme played.
When he turned the TV off, Eileen’s eyes were welling. ‘How could she do that to him? It wasn’t his fault—that Harry Lime was evil.’
‘It’s always the good man’s fault.’ He grinned and squeezed her hand. ‘Most women have a soft spot for the bad boy. Don’t you think?’
‘If you’re talking about you and me and Adam, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Mick,’ she said, vaguely irritated. ‘It’s Orson Welles for God’s sake,’ she smiled. ‘He’s a spunk. The thinking woman’s crumpet.’
Mick laughed. ‘You seen him lately? He’s the size of a whale.’
‘You haven’t got a romantic bone in your body.’
‘Really?’ He got up to put a record on. With Bill Evans in the background, weaving his magic on ‘Autumn Leaves’, Goodenough put the dogs out for the night. Eileen was waiting for him when he returned. Leaning back on the bed, smiling.
He took off her dress and folded it over the chair. As she shook her auburn hair out over her shoulders, Mick sat beside her, kissing the curve of her neck and cupping her breasts, feeling her nipples harden as she turned and pushed him onto the bed and lowered herself onto him. When the pleasure got too intense he turned her over, moving slowly inside her, the house so silent the ticking of the clock almost drowned out the sounds of their lovemaking. Then, when they fell back on the mattress, he heard a barn owl hoot and flap its wings somewhere outside. Like some yahoo fake-applauding, he thought as he fell asleep.
•
It had long been a ritual at the Humphries–Slocombe house that if there was a decent movie on TV, Doug would ask Corrie to let both boys—or these days Evan, since Hal was now a working man who could set his own hours—stay up late to watch it. The Third Man wasn’t really Evan’s cup of tea; he was more into Benny Hill. So at nine-thirty it was Hal and his stepdad in their separate armchairs, watching Orson Welles scuttling through the sewers of Vienna.
When Alida Valli appeared, Doug remarked, ‘She’s a real sort, isn’t she?’ He winked. ‘Don’t tell your mother I said that.’
‘Yeah, she’s pretty,’ Hal agreed.
Doug coughed. ‘Got your sights on anyone at the moment? Girl at work, maybe?’
‘At the abattoir? Nah.’ Which wasn’t strictly true.
‘Oh. What about that Allie girl?’
He shuffled in his chair. ‘Allie? We’re friends, that’s all. I hardly ever see her now.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s in admin.’ Hal gave a vague shrug. ‘They don’t talk to us. Besides, she’s leaving soon.’
‘Leaving admin?’ Doug said, wide-eyed. ‘Where’s she going?’
‘Dunno. Got a new job, I think.’
‘Well, she’s a smart cookie. Just, decent jobs are hard to come by in Moorabool for anyone. Especially if you’re…’
Hal said nothing, then Doug started to open up like he sometimes did when they were alone. ‘Don’t get me wrong. She’s a nice lass, by any standards. But it can’t be easy, can it…for her?’
Fortunately the movie returned, and they watched in silence until the zither played over the credits. Then Doug stretched his lanky frame and said, ‘They don’t make ’em like that anymore, do they?’
‘Say that again. G’night, Doug.’
‘Night, pal. Listen, I hope I wasn’t being too…personal.’
‘Course not.’
But Hal lay awake for quite a while, watching the moonlight streaming through the blinds, that zither filling his chest with its song of longing. He thought about Allie Tenpenny, wondering why she never wanted to talk to him anymore. Why she seemed to go out of her way to avoid him since they’d been working in the same place the last two months. Then his thoughts turned, as they often did, to Christine. His boss in the offal room; older and kind of beautiful. A bit sweet on him, he thought. Though for some reason her manner towards him had changed since last week. Since Mr Poulos died.
5
Five mornings a week Hal caught the seven-thirty bus for the ten-minute trip to the abattoir, sat up the back with Lloyd, and tried to put up with Lloyd’s bullshit about this or that, usually some local spunk who had the hots for him. When they got out at the car park behind the huge sheds, Lloyd would sniff the foetid air, listen to the bleating of a new truckload of sheep and say, ‘Another day in paradise…’ Then they would trail off after their respective co-workers: Lloyd towards C Block, the killing floor, ‘like a lamb to the shlaughter’; and Hal towards D Block, the boning room, unless they needed an extra hand in the even awfuller offal room.
At least these lambs would be able to catch the four-thirty bus home at the end of each day. And get paid enough at the end of the week to fulfill their ongoing debt to society—the owner of the Torana Lloyd had written off, almost killing them in the process. Though Hal was equally culpable in the eyes of the law, and it was only thanks to Mick Goodenough’s intervention that they’d dodged juvie and wound up on one-year good behaviour bonds. Working at the abattoir, for their sins. As they were traipsing inside, a car backfired in the car park and they looked up to see the old two-tone brown Holden rustbucket. Lloyd leaned over as an afterthought and whispered, ‘Pelican Shit’s got it in for you, mate. Watch your back. He’sh a real prick.’
‘What?’ Hal tried calling him back, but Lloyd was already engulfed by the herd of men and boys funnelling through the kill-floor doors.
It was lunchtime, and Hal was sitting on his own at a small table in the outdoor yard, a noisy, concrete quadrangle between B, C and D blocks where, weather permitting, the workers sat clumped together at plastic tables and chairs. Hal was leaning on his elbows, hunched over his book and the remnants of a pie and sauce, when he heard snickering. Someone hissed, ‘Sssshh.’ Things went suspiciously quiet.
A voice like fingernails scraping a blackboard cut through the quiet. ‘Whatcha reading, mate? Somethin’ sexy?’ More tittering.
Hal braced himself as a chunk of something shiny, brown and malodorous landed on the page. Half a kidney. He sniffed—a burst of ammonia—and kept reading through an explosion of chortling. Hal read on, Pelican Shit’s giggling a minor distraction, to where the lump of meat blocked the sentence, then casually flicked it onto the floor. Ignore them, he thought and they’ll bugger off. But they were in no hurry to go, judging by the malicious tone entering the laughter.
More chunks of offal rained down on the floor around his table but missed his book. Bullies? Nah. Dumb pricks, more to be pitied. Twenty-three years of age and wouldn’t know what to do with a book other than wipe their arse on it. He read on stubbornly as the offal kept coming. Enough for a stew. Pelican Shit cacking himself. Hal was at the end of the page when he found the last sentence obscured by a fresh red-brown lump. More breathless tittering, then: ‘Hey sweetie!’
Enough was enough.
‘Fuck off, dickhead,’ said Hal, refusing to look up as he brushed a chunk of something paler—tripe now?—off his elbow.
‘What you say, shit-for-brains?’ Pelican Shit’s pretend hostility had just turned real. Is this it? What Lloyd had warned him to watch his back for?
A chair scraped; he braced himself for the blow. Then a screech of indignation rang out.
‘Shit-for-brains? Look who’s talking!’ Christine’s voice cut across the concrete like a chainsaw. ‘You three halfwits bothering my workers again?’
‘Nah, nah, settle down, Christine! Don’t get ya knickers in a—’
‘Smoko’s over…Go on, fuck off or I’ll be having words with Mr McGuire.’
‘Come on Christine, just havin’ some fun with the kid…’ Pelican Shit wheedled. His back-up thug Spider threw a grin towards Hal. ‘He’s orright, aren’t ya, mate?’
‘Oh yeah, he’s havin’ a laugh a minute. Now piss off.’
Hal turned to see Christine drawn up to her full five foot two, staring the three toughs down like she was a yard taller than them. Pelican Shit mumbled something about stuck-up bitches and his henchmen threw dark glances at Hal, ‘We’ll see ya later, matey.’ They dragged their carcasses back to all they were good for: killing sheep. He would have to watch his back all right.
‘They bothering you, Hal?’
He picked up his paperback. ‘They can’t help being what they are.’
‘Morons with half a braincell between the lot of ’em?’ Christine took a seat beside him, opened a thermos and offered him a milky coffee.
‘No thanks Christine.’ He smiled, and returned to his book.
She glanced at him. ‘Always got your head in a book, haven’t you? It’ll clog your mind up if you’re not careful.’
‘I know. If I’m not careful I might even forget I’m here,’ Hal said.
‘Better lend it to me, then.’ She looked at the cover with sad eyes. ‘On the Road…any good?’
‘It’s great.’ Hal smiled.
Christine read out the blurb on the back. ‘A benzedrine-fuelled trip across America with Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise, and Dean’s wife, Marylou, who shares herself between the two friends…Jesus, McGuire’ll love that. Word to the wise, Hal: read some Harold Robbins. Something normal.’
Hal grimaced. ‘The day I read Harold Robbins is the day I line up with the sheep to get my throat cut.’
For a moment her face lit up. ‘Well, I hope they don’t stamp you mutton instead of lamb.’
‘No chance of that here,’ he winked.
Christine flicked her long brown mane back and let out a deep-throated laugh, then Hal was laughing too. Letting his guard down, with his boss of all people. But she wasn’t like his boss at all. How would he ever have handled this shithole without Christine? She was gorgeous. She was also married, to some alco who drove one of the meat trucks. He’d heard they were separated now. Then she stopped laughing, and next thing there were tears running down her cheek. What the heck? Maybe she did care for the guy…
‘Christine? You all right?’
She wiped her eyes. ‘What? Oh yeah, I’m fine. I just—’
She turned and froze at a sound from the doorway. Bill McGuire was standing there in a bow tie and rolled-up sleeves, thick hairy arms folded over his beer gut, staring like a gargoyle down that red-veined putty nose at the two of them. The reek of sheep’s blood wafting off him.
‘This is cosy,’ he said. ‘Very cosy indeed. What are you two laughing about?’
‘Oh, Mr McGuire.’ Christine composed herself. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘You want to share it with the rest of us, Mrs Makepeace?’ he leered.
‘Oh, just a little joke, Mister M. It wouldn’t interest you.’ She gave him a faint smile, and his leer became a sneer.
‘Try me.’ His eyes flicked from Christine to Hal.
‘No offence, it wouldn’t mean anything,’ she pleaded. ‘Just being silly.’ She pulled her hair into a ponytail and tied it back with a rubber band, throwing him a sultry smile.
Bill McGuire gave her the once-over then flicked his gaze on Hal. ‘How ‘bout you, Harold Humphries, whatever they call you?’
‘Hal, mostly,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘Like they call you Bill.’
‘Nobody here calls me Bill, son. It’s Mr McGuire to you.’ He marched over and snatched the book and scanned the blurb on the back. ‘What rubbish,’ he said. The vein in his forehead started ticking. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘What question’s that? Sir?’
‘I said.’ Hal caught a whiff of his vile breath. ‘What are you laughing about, you and your lady boss?’
Hal braced himself for the sack, what did it matter? He hated this shithole so much he almost envied Lloyd his job on the kill floor. He told McGuire what he’d said, the comment about mutton done up as lamb. The short man eyed him fiercely, his nose turned purple, and out came a single chortle like a rifle shot. Then he pulled himself up.
‘Funny boy. Get back to work.’ As Hal walked off, he heard him tell Christine, ‘A word with you, missy. In my office, please. End of shift.’
As he headed out the door for an afternoon’s fun and games in the boning room, Hal noticed Christine looking very meek and solemn. When the knock-off bell rang, he saw her walking glumly along the corridor to C Block. He said goodbye but she didn’t respond. In fact, for the next week, she avoided Hal, except to snap orders or tick him off. Maybe Pelican Shit was right about her.
6
Mick Goodenough surveyed the grand old brick Federation homestead across a wide green lawn, then walked between a row of banksias up to a door girded by pink rhododendrons and knocked.
Seconds later, as if he’d been expected, the door cracked open and Linda Poulos emerged from the darkness, blinking, into the spring light. She was paler and thinner than the last time he’d seen her, her eyes red-rimmed and shiny. She wore a black high-necked shift with an over-sized black cardigan that he thought might have been her husband’s. Somehow she still looked every inch the stunning blonde wife of the man who’d had everything. Stunning blonde widow, now.
‘Hello, Mrs Poulos. Sorry to bother you. D’you mind if I come in for a few minutes?’
‘Leanne gets back from kindy in half an hour.’ Her voice was husky with grief.
‘I’ll be gone by then.’
She looked back with longing into the gloom, then slowly opened the door. ‘You’re here now. What can I do for you, Sergeant Good-enough?’
Mick didn’t correct her with his ever-ready little joke—‘that’s Good-no, as in No-good, backwards’—he was pretty sure he’d told it to her before. Instead, he closed the door and followed her down a wide musty-smelling hall past some bedrooms, all with open doors and closed blinds.
He offered his condolences as she pulled her cardigan tight around her slender back. ‘It was a terrible thing.’
She nodded. ‘The kids are still in shock.’ She heaved a sigh as he followed her into a large dim room that smelled of furniture polish and dust. ‘The two eldest are with their grandparents. I’ve only got Leanne with me. It still hasn’t sunk in for her.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It must be hard on the kids.’
‘She keeps wanting to know when Daddy’s coming back from heaven. What do you say?’
Mick shook his head. She opened the blinds to reveal a loungeroom full of large, chunky furniture, a layer of dust over everything. One end was dominated by a massive antique dresser full of trophies and fancy crockery. His eyes wandered over the framed photos on every shelf.
