Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 23

It was well after midnight when Floyd finally piloted the big Dodge back into the driveway of his uncle Graham’s unit. After polishing off two bottles of Riesling and half a box of Marlboro cigarettes, he’d been very happy for the power steering. The push button automatic transmission was another blessing. Jenny might have given him his marching orders, but Floyd really wasn’t feeling much pain.

‘So, what about it, ace?’ Graham stood by the doorway, like he’d been waiting especially. ‘Should I carve another notch in the old steering wheel or what?”

Floyd didn’t move. He just sat and stared. His uncle with his big stupid grin. He was sporting his favorite stained Hawaiian shirt too; the one that seemed to be shrinking daily, now Graham was substituting the bakery for the bottle shop.

He’d always been a big man, well for as long as Floyd could remember, anyway. A powerhouse in his playing days, still solid in his drinking days, now though, he was just another fat slug.

His shitty one-bedroom flat on White Street did little to help his cause. Floyd noted the boarded side window with a completely rusted eve. The split weatherboards were all flaking; abandoning their posts via a potent mix ultra violet rays and unforgiving exhaust fumes. Missing roof tiles completed the sorry picture. It was only a mile or two from the Beach Road apartment, with the lap pool and classic sea views, the big man had commandeered in his heyday. How far he’d fallen though, was really quite tragic.

To make matters worse Graham was smiling. Standing at his front door, with a flickering patio light about to descend them both into darkness, the fat fool looked genuinely happy.

Floyd daren’t even think about a so called “legends football league.” It was the often cited elusive comeback for a host of broken down old players; his uncle included. Fortunately though, there’d been a lot less talk these days; thank god! It’d been one of the few saving graces of Graham’s sobriety. Floyd could think of nothing worse than watching a group of washed out old has-beens scrambling round a muddy paddock trampling over what little was left of their pride. He wasn’t the only one.

‘Piss off, Graham!’ he replied, finally.

Slowly prying the door of the rusty old Dodge, Floyd tossed his uncle the keys, and turned for the road.