Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 11

‘Floyd, it’s your girlfriend!’ bellowed Helen McGuinness from the kitchen table.

She wanted to curse. Deftly feeding a five-year-old tangled in the phone cord, soup coming to a boil on the stove, and all the while she was trying to calculate payments for bills piled high on the kitchen bench. Would it ever finish?

A cordless walkabout phone lay broken gathering dust on a nearby shelf. It was an old Mother’s Day gift she just couldn’t bring herself to throw out; there hadn’t been many. She eyed it with suspicion. She’d been promised, at the time, it was repairable so between her two eldest sons and their tribe of friends, she reasoned one kind soul might, at least, have made an attempt.

Her voice reverberated through the old house. Paint flakes fell like dandruff from the shoddy paint work on the sagging support beams. The four-bedroom Californian Bungalow was well past its prime. The auction board three years earlier had suggested ‘Renovate or Detonate’ – but, in the time since, they’d done neither. The worst house in a very average street, it had really stretched their budget. Things hadn’t got any easier.

At the time they’d considered several smaller homes in drastically better condition. For a mother with three growing boys though, it was never an option. Space was a luxury she couldn’t forego. House policy had always been one of “open door” too; friends were generally welcomed regardless of reputation or condition. The unwritten rules were few, but respect was high on the list; respect for the tired old house, respect for each other, and respect for yourself.

***

Helen McGuinness

In 1967 Helen McGuinness had the world at her feet. The daughter of a prominent Melbourne family, she spoke 4 languages; three fluently. Well versed in the arts and an A grade tennis player, there was no problem at all rubbing shoulders at the very echelon of Melbourne society. Her real gift though, was the piano; not merely dazzling guests at her parents’ dinner parties, a place at The Conservatorium had been all but assured. Indeed it was the logical next step. Life, however, had other plans. They came in the form of a dashing, young Peter McGuinness.

Peter was a dreamer. He came from very humble beginnings in the back blocks of Dandenong, and then the sleepy Melbourne beachside hollow of Mordialloc. He had originally tended horses before school at the local Epsom training facility to put bread on the table of the family home. That, coupled with the local football club’s meagre match payments to his hard drinking, straight kicking, elder brother, Graham, was enough to keep the McGuinness family off the streets – just.

The demise of their father in less than honorable circumstances had been the principal reason behind the shift from Dandenong. They weren’t exactly chased out of town, but leaving quietly had been the only real course of action. Their mother never recovered. By the time Helen was even remotely on the scene, old Betty McGuinness already had one foot in the grave. The other was resting very comfortably on an empty cask of Riesling.

Like so many, life was a struggle for the McGuinness family. Ships, however, sometimes come in. When Graham hit the jackpot, on the back of some very questionable information, the McGuinness boys were suddenly on their way. He didn’t have many true believers and the racing commission tried to hold an inquiry but Graham just stuck to his guns; it wasn’t his first rodeo.

‘I’d had a few drinks at the time. I didn’t realise I’d put on a 100 unit Quadrella.’

His reputation helped. He’d always been something of a ‘mug punter,’ so it was almost within the realm of possibility. Certainly nobody stepped up publicly to call the big Mordialloc full-forward a cheat. There were a few though, questioning under their breath why he hadn’t shared the information. He answered them all with the same dry line.

‘Ain’t no such thing as a sure thing!’

The only other winners in all of Australia – a few prominent local racing identities with a 50 unit syndicate of their own – begrudgingly turned a blind eye. Peter copped a mild beating and lost his job at the stable yards but the TAB paid; not happily, but they paid.

The money was directed, with some difficulty, straight into a Bayside Hamburger restaurant before it was whittled away. A shrewd move in any play book, and it looked, for a while anyway, like you really could spin gold from “Fine Cotton”. It was in those early, heady, carefree days that Pete McGuinness, the flashy young restaurateur, made his opening play for the lovely Helen.

Passing through on her way back from a relaxing weekend at her family’s seaside cottage in the neighbouring suburb of Chelsea, Helen had only stopped in at the restaurant to use the restroom.

While not exactly smitten to begin with, Peter was certainly very different to the usual suitors her parents were suggesting at the time. He possessed a certain crassness that under the right circumstances, perhaps through the right lenses, could be construed as charm; it refreshed her. Anything was possible with Peter McGuinness. He was brash, he was bold, and he was relentless.

The chase appeared innocent enough; seduction being an art not a science. More frequent trips to Chelsea, long walks, smooth talks, gourmet hamburgers. Perhaps he added a little too much beetroot. It all came unstuck.

Hardly 1968’s wedding of the year; Helen’s family scrambled to preserve what little there was left of her honour. Horrified; yes, but Pete was tolerated due to Helen’s total infatuation. He was coarse and unrefined. His formal education was confined to the minimum requirements of the state, but Helen couldn’t be swayed. Here was the man she’d teach, and learn from; and grow old with.

It wasn’t merely Pete’s upbringing that disturbed the Helen’s old man, and it wasn’t his laziness, total lack of business accumen or the fact he was lucky, not successful. No, never one to admit it publicly, he just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that his little girl, the apple of his eye, was marrying a Catholic.

Early marital bliss transcended any potential problems as the newlyweds settled into their new life together. Home was the idyllic, rough and tumble bayside suburb of Mordialloc. Helen though, paid more than the price of beachside real estate. Estrangement was what she paid, and within three months of marriage her father had shut her out completely.

With a teary eye and a tender heart, she knew that things between them would never be the same again. He came from the old school; the school where family pride and honour remained the tendered currency. Even the birth of Douglas did little to re-unite them. Her father sent just a solitary note, wishing her the best.

Outwardly though Helen McGuinness shone; thriving in her new role of mother and housewife. Free from the shackles of expectation and preconception that had marked her youth she strolled the palm tree lined boulevard of Main Street, Mordialloc and knew for the first time what it was to really breath. Butcher shop, bakery, chemists and cafés, two reasonable Chinese restaurants, a video rental for a quiet Monday nights snuggled up with the family, and a regulation post office; who could want for more?

Honest local traders; a real sense of community that made her feel she was part of something. All interspersed with parklands, sporting-fields, and the crisp salty breeze that one only gets living with the sea on the doorstep.

Turning off Main Street, as had become her standard route, she would continue along the creek in the direction of the pier. Long deep breaths, strolling with a rhythm dictated by the ripples on the water, she could admire the handcrafted wooden boats of the local fishermen, then watch the trawlers as they unloaded the night’s bounty.

Finally standing at the pier’s end when she could go no further, her eyes looked expectantly at the horizon and clean sea air polished her soul. She knew she’d found a small piece of paradise. It was only an hour down the road from where she was raised, but for the stark contrast in life, it could have been the far side of the moon.

Floyd’s grandfather had passed by the time he was old enough to really remember; the old man’s self-imposed isolation over the ensuing years never wavering. To bridge the distance caused by his youngest child’s desertion of her faith was a journey the old man was never able to make. Peter saw the stupidity, as he called it. He had often tried to intervene; his good intentions finally turning to anger.

It was usually only under protest that he accompanied his wife out to the cemetery; every Father’s Day since the unexpected passing. It was important to Helen and so the kids were dragged along too. Pete never saw the point, dead was dead. It didn’t much matter who you were or what you had when you were alive, you all went out the same way. Maybe ‘the rich’ really were different, he conceded once; Helen’s father certainly was.

Following in the tradition of the day, as stipulated in the will, all title and goods were bestowed on the eldest son. That was Helen’s older brother. Strict provisions were also made to care for their increasingly despondent mother.

It wasn’t an issue. Money was the last thing the McGuinness’s needed. The bayside restaurant was a regular gold mine. Regardless of the fact that the Yanks had arrived on the scene with their high volume, low quality, franchise operations, the McGuinness’s restaurant was still doing very nicely indeed, thank you very much. Nicely it did too, till about 9 months after the birth of Floyd’s younger brother Charlie.

Helen was returning from one of Champ’s (as young Charlie was affectionately known) inoculations when she had spotted her hard-working, smooth-talking husband. He was relaxing on the open seaside deck of a fashionable local restaurant. His equally hard-working personal assistant – a well endowed 19-year-old in possession of few, if any, of the relevant qualifications –dutifully by his side.

The running joke in the McGuinness household suddenly didn’t seem so funny.

Suspicious – yes; but Helen McGuinness was a good wife, a good mother and their marriage was solid. His vehement denials at her impromptu innuendoes went a long way toward putting Helen’s mind at ease.

After everything she’d already sacrificed, standing by her man came as natural to Helen as the storm changes that blew in from the Southwest. The very wind that had her sons scrambling for their surfboards in the middle of winter. She knew her place and her value, come hell, high water or act of God; the latter finally sealing the fate of the marriage of Mr and Mrs Peter McGuinness.

Attempting to buy the fallen woman’s co-operation failed miserably. The cheque for $50,000 had bounced. It left the jilted girl with little choice but to present herself to Helen along with the whole sordid tale. With a prominent stomach, very much alone, and carrying a copy of the worthless cheque to support her claims, she arrived at Helen’s front door in tears.

Without pause to think, Helen marched the shell-shocked teen straight back up to the bank. She made good on her husband’s monstrous deception. It wasn’t out of pity for the tragic young vixen, nor out of spite for her pathetic husband; it was just the right thing to do. The white picket fence shattered around her. The business was crippled with the stroke of a pen. She held her head high though, and her back was straight.

And then, when the dust finally settled, Helen picked up what was left of her dreams and marched forward. She didn’t blame the teen. Funnily enough she didn’t blame her husband either. Her father had just been right all along.

It was, in the end, just a question of breeding.

***

‘Floyd, I’m about to hang up this sorry excuse for a phone!’ repeated Helen McGuinness, now clearly at the end of her tether.

‘Got it!’ replied Floyd, dashing in the direction of the kitchen. The familiar groan from an outdoor ‘thunder-box’ accompanied him into the house. The grass in the backyard was knee high, but the track to the outhouse was very well trodden.

‘How can I be of service to you on this fine Melbourne day, Jenny J?’ questioned Floyd smoothly into the receiver. His Saturday morning sabbatical had put him into the finest of moods.

‘I just heard about your end of year break up party from one of my girlfriends!’ moaned Jenny Jones on the other end. ‘Do you know how stupid I feel when I don’t even know about my own boyfriend’s party? Talk about thoughtless! Sometimes I don’t think you even love me at all.’

‘Christ babe, how can you possibly say that when I tell you every day?’ cringed Floyd. He was scrambling. ‘The date wasn’t even settled until yesterday. I wanted to surprise you babe, that’s all. Because I do love you, kid. I love you, I love you, I loooovvvveeee you!’ He cocked his leg. Floyd’s attempt to pass wind brought a mild stomach churn, then a reflex clamp of the cheeks.

‘Just like the camping trip, I suppose!’ continued Jenny. It was reference to a failed attempt at a boys’ weekend three months earlier.

‘Look … ’ replied Floyd, sternly. He wasn’t liking the direction of the conversation. ‘The important thing’s that the party is on next Saturday night. Exams will be over and it’ll be a great chance to relax and decompress. Unfortunately Douglas’ll be in attendance with a few birds and a couple of his idiot mates but Mum’s given it the “all clear.” It’s a definite goer.’

‘You’re a selfish bastard!’

Jenny’s cold voice had Floyd completely off balance.

‘You know I’m doing an extra elective in French,’ she continued. ‘and don’t have that exam until the following Tuesday! Just when I think … ’

What is it with chicks? thought Floyd. Doesn’t matter what a bloke tries to do, it’s never enough! If the poor bastard gets even close, the standards are raised; Christ, and expectations along with ‘em. Then, as if to add insult to injury, legs are closed too.

His uncle Graham hadn’t been far off the money when he’d once commented, “cookin’ eggs and spreadin’ legs; nothing more, nothing less!” It had certainly got a few nods at the time.

Good old Uncle Graham, former legend, resident fool. And where was he now? A long way from his heyday, holding up the bar in Stanton’s Hotel, at the top of the Mordialloc hill; another big match, another big performance, another day at the office for Graham McGuinness.

Most football players just don’t know when to finally admit that it’s over, Floyd reflected, the receiver at arm’s length, the tirade continuing on the other end of the line. Some jump ship at the first sign of a leak, a niggling injury or the over burden of family commitments; others look for a mile stone, 100 games or a best clubman award. Bloody uncle Graham, his football was all he had. After his performance in the ’77 VFA Premiership, they’d even tried to give him the key to the city; talk about legend – he should have gone down with the ship!

Doctor’s orders, they’d said, but it was very questionable. A blind man could see there was still a bit of tread left on the old tyres. A sad day for the McGuinness family; it was an even sadder day for Mordialloc.

It was some consolation the old war horse didn’t bow out completely. Instead, he continued his familiar antics round the watering holes of Mordialloc. He traded on his former glories and the stories that accompanied them. Even as he packed on the weight, lost his spark, and suffered occasional minor bladder malfunctions, he still had the respect of every man in the room. It had been a slow, steady decline. In more recent times – he didn’t even have that.

‘Look, JJ, please!’ Floyd finally pleaded into the phone. She’d carried on enough. ‘The fact is that the party is on next Saturday night. As I told you before, I’ve taken care of all the fine points and Mum’s given the okay to beer and wine. The date’s etched in rock, and unchangeable. It’s going to be a great party and I want you to enjoy it with me. If you’ve got to drink lemonade – big deal. You’ll still have a good time, and you study too much anyway! I really am sorry, but it’s a missunderstanding at most. Come on, you know I love you! The break’ll probably do you wonders, you’ll see. In fact, they reckon relaxing the brain completely, 48 hours prior to an exam is actually the best thing. It’s something about the subconscious.’

‘Who are they, these so called experts?’ asked Jenny testily. Her tone finally beginning to lighten as the storm blew itself out. She could never stay angry at Floyd for long and he knew it.

‘Look, I’m not going to bore you with all the details JJ, it’s just something they say. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you!’

The conversation had already gone on too long. As Floyd wrapped it up he was already looking forward to the Aladdin’s cave of possibilities that might present themselves next Saturday night post Jenny Jones’ inevitable early exodus. If she had to come at all, this really wasn’t a bad result.

‘I don’t know whhhyyyy I love you Floyd McGuinness, but I doooo!’ Jenny finally sung down the line, before ending the call.

Why indeed, conceded McGuinness, wrinkling his nose at the corniness of her parting salve. Then his stomach grumbled; his arse cheeks quivered. He grabbed the old Trading Post newspaper off the bench. A return to the backyard thunder-box was in order. There were classic cars to be perused and a job to be finished – properly this time.