Bite The Wax Tadpole (13 page)

Malcolm glanced across to where Norman Tubby, hand over one eye, was reading an ophthalmic chart.

“Z... R... K... W... reminds me of the old story about the Polish Spitfire pilot.”

“No, no, none at all”, replied Malcolm. “No other symptoms.”

“Splendid. Hopefully then, we’ll have caught this... let’s call it a “thing”, shall we, in time. Of course, it’ll mean you having to take some time off work, couple of months in all probability. You tend to come out of these brain operations looking like your head’s been used as a match ball in the Grand Final. God, rather you than me. What is it you do, by the way? Interior decorating, isn’t it?”

Months? He couldn’t afford to take months off. They’d kill him, write him out. Maybe he’d just take his chances. He could cope with the occasional headache.

Norman stood behind Professor Onslow, and adjusted his codpiece. “It was during the war, and this Polish chap...”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Security to aisle twelve, security to aisle twelve, code tango, repeat code tango.”

Mohammed, a victim of cutbacks in the IT industry, had only been in the supermarket security business for two days and was vague as to what a Code Tango was. In training they’d been very hot on certain codes such as Alpha which was a fire, Oscar which was a cardiac arrest and X-Ray which was an armed hold-up. But Tango... no, couldn’t recall it. He was helping an old lady reach the last packet of discounted toilet duck on the top shelf when the call came over the Tannoy so he was in no position to consult the handbook which he’d left in the office. The only thing to do was to get to aisle twelve as quickly as possible and hope that Code Tango wasn’t “homicidal maniac with machete.” He handed the toilet duck to the old duck and set off towards Aisle Twelve - tinned vegetables, beans and cook-in sauces. As he got closer he could see a small crowd gathered at the end of the aisle, staring at something. Judging from their shocked but amused expressions Mohammed guessed that this was not a machete wielding maniac scenario. The crowd parted to let him through and he slewed round into aisle twelve ready to take charge of the situation.

A middle-aged man was pushing a trolley down the aisle, pausing here and there to chuck tins into it. A perfectly normal supermarket scene had the man not been stark naked. Mohammed spoke into his radio - “Can someone get a fire blanket to aisle twelve, please?” - before approaching the man who was now reading the label on a tin of asparagus tips.

“Good morning, sir, everything all right?”

The man looked at him and smiled. “Ah, yes, I expect you’re wondering where I’ve got my credit card concealed.”

The car limped to a halt beside a row of shops. The chap in the traffic helicopter had just told Rob, via the radio, that a BW – whatever that was – had broken down on the Pacific Highway causing major southbound delays. It was a cooler morning, the sky dark, the wind fresh. Despite the early hour, a group of schoolboys came out of the corner shop sharing a bag of hot chips. The next shop along was a neighbourhood computer and electrical retailer. Rob did a double-take after reading the sign in the window - “writer Repairs”. Almost immediately he realised that “Type” was obscured by a blackboard outside the window advising of the latest offers on reconditioned laptops. Writer repairs. The shop of his dreams. Talking of which, both of last night’s had involved a typewriter. He’d woken up after the Zulu episode and when he’d drifted off again the second dream was set the 1950s and he’d been in the Writers’ Bungalow at Warner Brothers’ studio furiously typing out a movie script which he knew was going to be sensational. At nearby desks Graham Greene, William Faulkner and Dashiel Hammet tapped away one-fingered before tossing their finished pages into overflowing bins. Rob typed: The End and ripped the last page of his Oscar winning script out of the rollers only to find it was written in Dutch. He looked at the rest of the script. That was in Dutch as well. Graham Greene had looked across at him, raised a glass of whiskey and said with a shake of his head: “Het spel van het leven en dodo.”

Hope was on the phone when Rob eventually shuffled into the Script Department. “God, how awful”, she was saying. “Was he completely, you know... goodness.... no, I’ll tell him as soon as he... oh, here he is now.” She put the call on hold. Bit of a record, thought Rob. Only one foot in the office and already there’s a crisis.

“Yes, what is it?”, he asked with all the weltschmerz of a man whose welt can stand very little more schmerz.

“It’s Jane, Neil’s wife. He’s been arrested.”

Well, that was a new one.

As he made his way towards the loading dock, Rob tried to reassure himself that Neil would have had a nervous breakdown even if he hadn’t been euphemistically rested from the writers’ list. Jane had said she’d seen it coming. Probably all for the best, really. Now he’d reached rock bottom the only way for Neil was up. Or was that just a cliché spouted by the likes of Dr Phil and Deepak Chopra? Anyway, he’d get treatment, that was the main thing. Meantime, there was the problem of what to do with the script he’d been given the day before.

Gerry was in his usual spot, in costume, puffing away on a coffin-nail. He looked up as Rob approached, apprehensive. “Rob, mate, have you, you know, had chance to...”

“Read your submission? As a matter of fact, I have. What’s your shooting schedule like today?”

It was the first time Rob had run a script conference with the writer dressed as a marsupial. He was reminded of his first close-up encounter with a kangaroo. Alison’s father had taken him on a bush walk soon after his arrival in Australia. It had very obviously been one of those “let’s see if I can fathom out what the hell my daughter sees in this bloke” walks but they’d got on pretty well. Derek had been trying to explain the finer points of Aussie Rules when they’d rounded a corner and almost fallen over a big red who’d turned up his paws. Something had ripped open its guts and it was black with flies. The smell so indescribable he’d never been able to describe it to anyone. There were no flies on Gerry it was true but there was an odour rising from him like the miasma from a fetid swamp. It was particularly rank in the airless, windowless room. Dear god, had the wardrobe department’s budget been cut so low they couldn’t run to the occasional trip to the dry-cleaners?

Gerry was nervous, fidgety as Rob ran through the housekeeping side of things - the cast and sets that were available, the exterior shooting allowed, how long the segments between commercial breaks had to be. Gerry nodded and doodled scratchy circles, stars and swirly things on his notepad. Oh, for the big boy’s book of psychology, thought Rob. Apart from a chapter on “Character Analysis Through Mindless Scribble” there might be a section on making decisions whilst under duress. After learning of Neil’s incarceration in the Barking Institute, Rob had sat at his desk wondering which writer to invite on board the sinking ship when he happened to glance at Gerry’s submission lying unread under a decaying pizza box. He’d picked it up, held it at arms’ length as though it might suddenly explode, gingerly opened it up and read a few lines through narrowed eyes. Well, well, surprise, surprise, not bad... not bad at all... quite good in fact. Like he’d said himself, Gerry certainly knew the show and the characters. Give him a go or not give him a go? What the cotton-picking hell - why should he even care? He probably wouldn’t be doing him any favours, anyway, not with the show about to be “re-zoned”.

“You don’t know how grateful I am for this, mate. Things haven’t been that crash hot since I got written out. Not that I’m blaming you or nothing. No, no, you got to write characters out, kill them off. I know that. Just didn’t think the only work I’d get in the next eighteen months would be playing a bloody kangaroo in a kids’ show.”

“An actor’s life, eh?”

“And it’s tough for me, see, playing a kangaroo ‘cos I’m a method actor, you know, like de Niro, Dustin Hoffman, Ray Meagher, those sort of blokes. I have to get inside the character, become the character, know what I mean?”

“So... you do a lot of hopping, do you?”

“When I was on the show, Benny the mechanic, I did a TAFE course in car maintenance.”

“I didn’t know that. Brilliant, well done. You’ll let me know if you’re ever up for the role of Jack the Ripper, won’t you, so I can avoid dark alleyways. Right, I’ll just organise some coffee and we’ll get going on our magical, writerly journey, okay? Shouldn’t take long, got it all mapped out yesterday.”

Trying not to breathe in as he slipped behind Gerry’s chair, Rob made his exit. On his own, Gerry dug into his pouch and came out with a hip flask. Given that kangaroos are not known for their alcoholic consumption, Stanislavsky would probably not have approved but, what the hell, Stanislavksy’d never worked in serial TV, had he?

Phyllida tossed the Earl Grey tea-bag into the garbage bin conveniently situated next to the trestle table conveniently situated outside the set on which coffee, tea and biscuits were conveniently located for the convenience of cast and crew. Angus, who played Sergeant Black in the show and her occasional lover off it, dunked a Scotch finger in his coffee. “I can come round and stay the night, if you’re really worried”, he said apropos her concern over the possible stalker. “ I’ll wear my uniform, if you like.”

“I thought we were going to try a fireman next time?”

“No, no, to frighten off the stalker.”

Josh, blond ex-underwear model and, according to the Daily Tele, the “teen actor in drug bust”, threw a script down on the table, conveniently situated for such occasions, and spooned three heaps of coffee granules into a polystyrene cup. “Man, this live ep thing, it’s, like, far-out. All these lines and, like, one chance to get it right.”

“You’ll be right, mate”, grinned Angus. Just don’t think about the million viewers waiting to see you fall flat on your arse.”

“Yeah, right, cheers.”

“And if you get nervous don’t go sticking something up your nose to help you relax.”

“Hey, man, those drugs were planted on me.”

He filled the cup from the urn and walked off, muttering. Phyllida and Angus began to drift towards the Green Room. “I could get a fireman’s outfit from wardrobe”, he offered.

Neither of them took any notice of the props assistant, dressed in jeans, shapeless top and a beanie pulled down low, carrying a potted aspidistra. She stopped by the conveniently situated table and picked up the script which Josh had conveniently tossed aside. Rolling it up into a tube she walked unhurriedly on. The casual observer might have casually observed that she had a rather pronounced squint.

Rob wished he’d had the foresight to order a packet of extra-strong mints along with the coffee. As it was the script meeting seemed to take only slightly less time than the Versailles Peace Conference. He hoped that the long term ramifications would not be as devastating.

“If you can get your scene breakdown in by next Wednesday that’ll be fantastic”, he said as Gerry packed up his notes in his pouch which seemed as capacious as Mary Poppins’ Gladstone bag.

“No worries, mate, no worries. And thanks again. You’re a life saver, mate, a real life saver.”

Rob didn’t think he’d feel half so grateful after his script had been edited but said nothing as Gerry pulled his scraggy roo head on and shook it into place. “You know my wife left me.”

“No, no, I didn’t.”

Gerry laughed bitterly. Is he back in character now, wondered Rob? Is that how a disgruntled roo laughs?

“Yeah, left me for a younger bloke.”

“His name wasn’t Joey, was it, by any chance?”

“Joey? Nah, Oswald. Asian bloke came to fix the washing machine. Still, blessing in disguise, eh? Means I’ve got plenty of time to write.”

Plenty of time to write. A frisson of envy ran down Rob’s back as Gerry plodded out although it could equally as well have been a shiver of horror at what he’d just done. He wasn’t one hundred per cent sure but he thought that he had detected the whiff of cheap rum breaking through the general malodour surrounding his newest writer. A crackpot actor with a drink problem. What was he thinking of? Ah, well, when you’re up shit creek why not make your day complete by putting a pick-axe through the bottom of your kayak?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Some days, and this was one of them, Leo hated his job with the passion some people felt for saving the whale or Grand Opera. Most of the time it was a good job. He enjoyed solving the problems that daily came a line producer’s way. Actor breaks leg, main location burns to the ground, pages missing from scripts and no bugger notices until half way through shooting – all in a day’s work. He took a handful of cashews from the packet on his desk and smiled unconvincingly at Malcolm who looked back uncomfortably. Did he know? Did he have some inkling? Did he answer the summons to the producer’s office with the resignation of a veal calf invited on a day trip to the local abattoir? Or was it going to hit him like a cartoon safe falling on Bugs Bunny?

“Remember when we worked together on ‘Dog’s Breath Bay’?”, Leo said by way of not getting down to the task in hand.

“I’ve tried to sublimate the memory but yes”, replied Malcolm. They’d shot 48 episodes of ‘Dog’s Breath Bay’ before it went to air and it was cancelled after two episodes. It was still talked of in reverent tones whenever discussion turned to the worst Australian dramas ever.

Leo chuckled. “Remember that episode where we had you out swimming and you got sucked up by the water bombing helicopter?”

“And unceremoniously dumped in the sewage disposal facility? As if it were yesterday.”

“Classic, absolute classic”, laughed Leo, picking out another handful of cashews, blissfully unaware of the slim dagger being pointedly pointed at his neck.

“He’s prevaricating”, said Norman Tubby. “Out with it, you prick-eared Icelandic cur or I’ll slit you open from nave to chops.”

It was, naturally, disturbing to Malcolm to have this figment of his imagination a seemingly constant companion but what he, or possibly it, had said was pertinent. He’d decided apropos the “thing” inside his brain to postpone telling Leo about it until after the live ep. Once that was out of the way and he’d proven his worth to the show he could ask for extended time off with a fighting chance of getting it. Leo couldn’t have got wind of his medical condition, could he? There wasn’t a mole in the hospital who’d sold his MRI scan to “TV Week” was there?