Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 22

‘Come a little closer, darling,’ Floyd whispered softly to Jenny Jones. ‘I’ll show you the Southern Cross constellation.’

‘I’m happy sitting where I am,’ she replied calmly. ‘And can we change the radio station to something a little more upbeat. What are we listening to anyway? Songs of Love? Since when have you been interested in this kind of crap?’

‘It must be something Graham left in the car.’

It was Saturday night, three weeks after the party. There hadn’t been any further legal developments as far as Max the lawyer knew. It was a long shot, but they were all kind of hoping the whole rape business would just go away. Floyd had been grounded since the event. It was pretty embarrassing for a bloke of 18; but it was that or move out. His mother wasn’t bluffing. Graham had been given his license back. His old Dodge Phoenix was also back on the road. Floyd spied a prime opportunity to break his three week drought. The lovely Jenny had been stand-off-ish since the party. Even after she aced her French exam Floyd was still struggling to get back into her “good books.” He’d given her the mandatory week to cool her heels, but now here they were, two weeks further down the road. Her behaviour and attitude were bordering on plain rude.

Finally, after a persistent week of calling, and then the promise of a big surprise, she’d relented. Two bottles of wine were pre-stashed under the front seat of the big old Dodge. He had some clean bedding packed onto the back seat,. There were even a few ‘slow tapes’ on stand by in the glove box. Floyd was back in the game.

Hearing her snide comment in reference to the doona rolled conspicuously in the back, he’d been happy to see she hadn’t completely lost her sense of humor. All angles were covered. Floyd was sure in his heart, checking his reflection in the dash mounted rear view mirror, this make up session was going to be one of the classics.

Feigning interest in a supposedly rare galactic phenomenon, they were finally in the car park facing out onto Mordialloc pier. The outline of the rotunda was in the distance and the tea trees were rustling under a gentle breeze. The night was oozing with ambience. It was a crescent moon; the shining stars were just another complement to the whole beautiful effect. Complete solitude would have sealed it. Unfortunately though, they weren’t the only ones absorbing nature’s grandeur from the pier car park on this particular Saturday night.

He’d noticed the white Holden station wagon as soon as they arrived. It was jammed tightly up the far end, partially obscured by foliage. The ladders on the roof gave it away.

To think that its owner, Terry Kollins, T. K., a.k.a. “The King,” had played football with his uncle Graham 15 years earlier was impressive stuff. If his uncle were to be believed, the legend went back even further. It was all significantly enhanced by the rumour he still slept on a single bed. Some captains, it seemed, weren’t afraid to go down with the ship!

‘You’re looking a little cold all the way over there, Jenny J. Why don’t you come over here and let me give you a little massage,’ said Floyd. He was using his sweetest voice. Cold as bloody ice, he wanted to scream. He’d arrived at these crossroads before though; a delicate hand was the key.

‘I’m fine where I am,’ she responded matter-of-factly. ‘And would you mind not singing along to the music. I have a bit of a headache.’

‘But I’m not just singing, my darling, I am serenading… ’cause it was cold and lonely in the deeeep of niiight... and I could see paradise by the dashboard liiiightt...’

‘Floyd, please!’

‘Alright, alright, keep your hat on. Shit, this isn’t still about the party, is it? Geez, how many times does a man have to say he’s sorry? It was all a bit of a misunderstanding at worst; you blitzed your French exam! I’m not expecting roses, but a “thank you” wouldn’t hurt.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Who put you in the taxi and sent you on your way, fresh and sober; and at a reasonable hour? Most blokes I know would’ve conned you to stay around and help with the clean up. Not me! I know how important your exams are to you. I put that first. Now, come over here and give your hero a kiss.’ Floyd could see it in her eyes, she was weakening.

‘And what about Timothy Hill, and the carload of tarts that arrived about an hour after I left?’ She was breathing fire, but it was diminishing.

‘Shit, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? They dropped in on the way home from the city. Tim was already legless. We didn’t think it right to let him drive them any further. Bullet knew one of the birds from around the traps. We all got to talking and they decided to stay for a drink. We’ve been over this.’

‘Got to talking, eh? So tell me again how a cigarette lighter gets wedged up some poor guy’s arse?’

This is brutal.

‘Look, like I told the police,’ Floyd exclaimed. ‘I really don’t remember what happened. I don’t remember Tim leaving and I can’t discuss the case any further because I signed a special police form. Just from what I have told you now, I could go to jail. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’

Floyd didn’t give her a chance to answer. He shimmied quickly across the seat and had her in his arms. His timing was a little off, the kiss cumbersome, but he locked on. He held her tight. When he did finally release, his head was spinning. The next move, over into the back seat, should be a soda.

Reaching under the front seat to start the magic show with a bottle of Brown Brothers Riesling he turned to wink. Jenny was crying. Framed by the starlit night, and with Meatloaf crooning low on the car stereo, the scene was perfect.

‘Floyd … ’ she said sheepishly, choosing her words carefully, ‘we need to talk.’

Here it comes again; the old Engagement Talk. What is it with chicks; can’t they just put out in the back and be happy for the exercise? Why does it always have to mean something? Floyd steadied himself, and tried to push a tear to his eye. This was going to take some acting; Christ, he was toey.

‘Yes, the love of life, the brightest star in a moonlit sky,’ he replied. The analogy was a good one. He was getting much better at it off the cuff. Who knows, he thought, as her tears only seemed to intensify, perhaps one day I will marry her.

‘Floyd, Floyd please, there’s no easy way for me to say this, so I’ll just say it. I don’t think we should see each other any more.’

A long minute of silence followed. Jenny couldn’t look him in the eye. Her vision was glued to the horizon and the panorama of stars engulfing the Mordialloc pier.

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ replied Floyd finally, dismissing the comment off-handedly. It was just the latest in a long line of recent over-reactions. ‘You’re pissed off at me, and I get it. We’ve been through times like this before though. We always bounce back; it’s what makes us such a great team.’

‘Please, Floyd. Don’t … ’ She was sobbing openly. ‘I’m so sorry, I really am.’

‘I’m the one who’s sorry!’ repeated Floyd, not really sure what he was apologising for. If he could just get half a bottle of that over-priced Riesling into her, it would make all this go away.

He moved in close to take her back into his arms. There was no shimmy this time. Feeling her body go rigid he stopped abruptly. He kissed her cheek and could taste the salt from her tears. Still she wouldn’t return his affections or alter her gaze.

‘Sweet Jesus, JJ!’ he exclaimed. He recoiled to the driver’s side of the big bench seat. Pressed hard up against the driver’s window, it only seemed to exaggerate the size of the old car. ‘Here I am looking at possible jail time. It’s my hour of need; and the one person who I thought I could depend on, the only person I need to depend on, wants to leave me on the friggin’ gallows!’

Floyd hit the dashboard in disgust. Jenny gasped. Meatloaf sprang from the cassette player. She still wouldn’t look at him, but at least she’d stopped crying.

‘When you calm down, Floyd, you’ll understand this is for the best,’ said Jenny, decisively. ‘I’m sorry, but this just isn’t working anymore.’

Enduring a barrage of abuse from a dejected Floyd McGuinness, Jenny Jones pulled the big Dodge door lever. She let herself out into the cool night. It was still well before midnight. The gentle breeze on her face felt soothing against the wet of the tears.

She thought about a taxi but decided against. The thirty minute walk back to her home would give her the time she needed. It hadn’t been an easy decision; they never were. It was one she’d needed to make though, and she’d known it for a very long time.

Her mother had sensed something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just the party. True, she hadn’t liked Floyd much from the beginning; but she’d stood steadfastly by her daughter’s choice. Through all the tears and anguish that followed Jenny’s first real love, mum was always dutifully by her side. Some lessons could only be learnt through experience. Jenny knew that now.

She cringed. Floyd’s abuse continuing unabated in the background. Working her way quickly across the oval that separated the car park from Beach Road Jenny didn’t look back. With each step her emotional load was becoming lighter and her mind clearer. Freedom had never felt so right.

Floyd was aghast. This certainly was a first. After all he’d done for the kid! Hell, he’d basically carried her for a month last year when her silly mutt got cleaned up by a truck on White Street. He accompanied her to her grandfather’s funeral wearing that stupid tie, then remained sober at the wake. He’d held her hand and looked solemn for what felt like hours!

Shit, then he’d all but pushed her over the line on her recent French exam. These were just the things that came to mind. Christ, could I have given any more? And now, finally it’s his turn. His turn to be shown a bit of compassion, a bit of tenderness. What does she do - she legs it!

His first impulse was to chase. He could catch her; he was certainly fast enough. Then he could patiently explain how irrationally she was behaving. If he could only get her in the back of the Dodge by eleven thirty. Even with the mandatory 25 minutes of cuddling, he could still get the car back by half past twelve. There was only one obstacle; an old white Holden station wagon. It had heavy condensation on the windows, and ladders on the roof.

Yelling was a big mistake, very unprofessional. For all ‘The King’ knew, he was just sending her on her off for a box of cigarettes. It was a long shot, but maybe his screaming tirade hadn’t even registered. From the movement of the old Holden the occupants definitely had their minds on other business.

Floyd crossed his fingers. Graham and Terry were still in occasional contact. If Graham ever found out, everyone would soon know. Christ, he’d never live it down! Deciding instead to play it cool, he pulled the cork on a bottle of Brown Brothers Riesling. Guzzling the cheap white, he lit a Marlboro and then launched poor old Meatloaf in the direction of Port Phillip Bay.

With the lyrics of ‘Paradise by the Dash Board Light’ going round in his head, and still wondering what the hell he was going to tell the boys, the old Holden spluttered to life. Its headlights cut across Floyd as it pulled out and made its way in the direction of the exit.

Floyd tried to glimpse the participant in the front passenger seat. He could only make out long curly locks and a rather generous nose. The brake lights came on. He watched Terry’s arm extend from the drivers window. It was a half wave finishing with a point of the finger. Bastard, he thought, the bastard’s giving me the salute!