Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 14

‘Floyd, are you sure? I’d be more than happy to stay,’ reasoned Jenny Jones. Floyd was doing the gentlemanly act of putting her into the taxi. ‘Your hand’s hurt, the place is a mess, and my exam’s not that important!’

‘On the contrrrary, my darling,’ replied Floyd. He was slurring whilst attempting to sound suave. ‘Your exams are your future. I promised you it wouldn’t be a late one and you’ve had a pretty good time. I appreciate the support, I do, but your friends have all gone. You probably should have left with Lizzy an hour ago. There’ll be a few late night stragglers getting very pissed, telling tall stories and generally making fools of themselves. You wouldn’t enjoy yourself anyway.’

‘Come with me?’ Jenny almost pleaded. ‘Your hand’s still bleeding. Aren’t you drunk enough?’

‘I’m not deserting my own party. It’s just after 1 o’clock. You wanted a taxi, I got you a taxi. I’m sorry you have your stupid exam, but you do!’ he explained. Floyd was failing to conceal his frustration. ‘Goodnight!’

‘The taxi was your idea! Floyd McGuinness, are you trying to get rid of me?’

Oh, she is quick tonight, he thought. What is it with chicks?! Floyd braced himself and leant in to give her a final kiss goodbye. He secured her seat belt at the same time. Cutting off any opportunity to take the argument further, he subtly closed the door.

‘Take good care of her, mate!’ said Floyd, banging the roof of the cab. The driver was Pakastani, Indian, or Sri Lankan and he was certainly quick to get the gist. From the open boulevards of Bombay to the back blocks of Mordialloc, the firm stare and the tap on the roof – that was universal.

Making his way back into the party, McGuinness felt 10 pounds lighter.

‘Bulowski, you old dog, are those secretarial school birds still supposed to be making a late appearance, or what?’ he almost shouted.

The gathering had thinned significantly. It was definitely past its peak, but there were still a handful of revellers. Available talent may have been a little thin on the ground, but the vibe remained solid.

‘They should be here about 2!’ Bulowski concluded with authority.

About an hour earlier Bulowski had also given his date the soul destroying news that it was time for her to leave. She’d taken it well though; it wasn’t the first time. The poor kid still had nightmares of the time she’d begged him to take her home, and he’d conceded. He’d made most of the journey on the back wheel.

Having commandeered the chairs around the barbeque Bulowski was currently holding court, entertaining the lads with tales of his dream bike – Harley’s ’38 Knuckle. He stopped mid-sentence: ‘Though I should probably mention one slight deviation from the original plan. They might be bringing a bloke or two with ’em!’

Floyd exploded. ‘Slight! Who the hell are these guys? And how many girls are we expecting here?’

Silence descended. The new conversation gained a little more interest than a circa World War II motorcycle. Everybody still there knew the score. They were all taking in the ambience and the camaraderie, swapping tales of St. Stephen’s as school life disappeared over the horizon but a crystal ball wasn’t necessary. Every man still on deck was holding out in the hope of a late night strike.

‘A couple of old soft Grammar blokes, I think!’ replied Bulowski. The mention of their rival school got the desired effect. ‘Apparently, one of the guys has a car. They’ll be “dropping in” on their way back from St. Kilda. It should be four or five birds and maybe two blokes. I said you’d be cool.’

‘Do you ever really give the full story, Bulowski?’ ventured Floyd.

‘What about you Kenny, gonna attempt to climb the mountain again?’ asked Bulowski, ignoring the question. Attention was defected in the direction of a red faced Kenny Coen.

Kenny’s earlier description of a frigid Lizzy Burns, when her previous reputation was taken into account, hadn’t really stacked up. Kenny had, however, given a fairly long winded and slightly torturous account of reaching second base. His friends were prepared to let it slide.

‘And Kennith,’ continued Bulowski with a smirk. His diversionary tactics having all eyes on an embarrased Kenny Coen, ‘Have you washed that finger yet?’