The Naked Drinking Club (10 page)

I could feel my obsession growing.

‘All on your own tonight, Anaya?’ Scotty joked, looking over at the Danish girls to check whether they were listening or not. Jim sat quietly, watching Anaya and me. I leant over Scotty to get a new cigarette as mine was nearly out, and glanced over at Anaya. She gave me a cold intense look, her head and eyes completely still, which was enough.

‘So, Scotty, who do you want to sleep with in the group apart from the— Andrea and Karin?’ I’d nearly said ‘the Danish’.

‘I never said nothing, mate, that’s your own idea.’ He got really defensive and red in the face. I felt sorry for him.

‘Only pulling your leg, Scott.’ I tried to hug him but he pulled away.

‘Anyone up for a bong, yeah?’ He began compulsively flicking his lighter on and off. There was a general reaction of no interest. But he got it out all the same and we all had a turn on it.

Later Karin, the Danish who spoke more than the other, stood up.

‘I know, we’ll play this thing where everybody has to tell the group something about themselves that the others don’t know, yeah?’ She swayed, then sat down.

‘OK, you go first,’ said Anaya, who was more sober than the rest of us.

‘OK with me. Mine is about school.’ Karin paused. We all listened intently.

‘Get on with it,’ heckled Scotty, who was the most wasted I’d seen him.

‘When I was at school, I ran the school … What is your name for it? Selling the sweets for the children at the school breaktime, in the shop, yes?’ She looked down at her friend and conferred in Danish.

‘Tuck shop,’ shouted Jim.

‘Yes, tuck shop, and I stole some money from it every week, and with it I bought myself a record when I had enough money.’ She giggled to herself.

‘And that’s why you find yourself here today, my dear,’ said Scotty. There was little reaction to her confession, but Anaya made a comment on our behalf, out of politeness: ‘Naughty you.’

‘OK, I go next.’ Anaya straightened her shoulders back. ‘OK, mine is that my father is a high court judge.’

‘Fucking hell!’ said Jim and I at exactly the same time.

‘Does he know you do this?’ I was impressed.

‘He knows nothing about me, I don’t tell him.’ She took a drink. Scotty was too far gone to feel anything about it, but Jim and I were amazed at her declaration.

‘OK, you next, Kerry.’ She shifted the attention away from herself. I wasn’t sure how to treat this. I could tell them any number of bad things I’d done which would outdo anyone in the room, but it might be too much, so I decided to keep it light and innocent.

‘Kerry’s not my real name. I changed it from something else.’

‘So what’s your other name?’ asked Jim.

‘That’s my other secret.’

‘I hope you haven’t been in big trouble.’

‘No trouble, it’s to do with something else.’

Anaya blew out smoke and looked at me. She may be cold but she was getting hooked in, I thought. I was pleased with my announcement and the mystery it added to my presence in the group.

‘Now, Jim, what about you? What don’t we know about you?’ I asked, taking over from Anaya.

‘Well, I don’t believe you know anything about me, do you?’ he replied.

He was right; out of all of us, he was the hardest to fathom. He was moody and often silent, but when he was interacting, he was engaging and genuine. He’d also landed the supervisor’s job early on, which meant he was trustworthy and reliable, but I knew enough by the age of twenty-four to tell when a person was carrying something big inside them. I knew, because I was too.

‘Tell us something, Jim, come on,’ I pleaded.

‘Yeah, go on, mate,’ said Scotty, with slits for eyes.

Anaya and I had another quick look at each other.

Jim sighed. ‘All right. I used to be a woman.’ He burst into fits of laughter, the Danish roared, and Anaya and I joined in half-heartedly, still looking at one another.

‘Tell us something we didn’t know, mate.’

The Danish laughed even more, perking Scotty up with their reaction to his remark. He shouted, ‘Tell us about the bloody enormous big scar on your side. What the fuck is that?’

Everybody went quiet.

‘It’s not a big scar, Scotty, calm down, love,’ answered Jim calmly.

‘I might be pissed off me nuts, mate, but I know scars and that is a fucking big knife wound, isn’t it, eh, big boy?’

The rest of us were still, unsure of what to do and feeling the tension from Jim’s awkwardness.

‘It was an accident, a stupid accident. That’s it. There’s no bloody great story, ye daft Aussie twat.’ Jim took a drink, his eyes never leaving Scotty for a second. Scotty lunged forward at Jim and tried to pull up his T-shirt.

‘Right here.’ He winced as Jim grabbed his wrist and held it tight, leaving Scotty unable to move. Scotty was completely oblivious to Jim’s anger; he just laughed and crumpled on the floor.

‘All right, Scotty, that’s enough,’ said Anaya, reining him in.

‘What’s your secret, Scotty, uh?’ I said, trying to steer the attention away from Jim.

‘Oh fuck, there’s so many.’ His words were muffled as the right-hand side of his face was pressed into the floor. ‘OK, I killed a dog last week in my car.’

‘NOOO!’ cried the Danish as one.

‘Aw, Scotty, mate.’

‘I know, it was shit, but what could I do? It was the bloody dog or me.’

‘In the Holden?’ asked Anaya.

‘Yeah, the bloody Holden. I cleaned it all off though, poor little thing. Sorry, ladies. Really sorry.’ Unbelievably, Scotty lit another bong and gurgled away.

‘OK, that just leaves you, Andrea.’ Anaya smoked in the direction of the Danish.

Andrea had drank steadily all night but had said very little, if anything at all. I couldn’t remember anything she had said since I met her.

‘Well, mine is also about a dog. When I was sixteen, I let my boyfriend’s dog, Bengy, lick me.’ It was a mixture of the fact that it was Andrea who said it, and that she was obviously thinking about it during Scotty’s confession, and the fact that she named the dog, and the fact it was named Bengy, that
caused
us all, Jim included, to hit the floor and laugh solidly for what felt like an hour.

The nurse annoyed me with her tense, nasally Scottish accent. I tried sounding sober but could hear myself slurring.

‘What time is it there?’

‘You’ve already asked me that, Mrs Swaine.’

‘Miss!’

‘You’ve already asked me. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.’

‘All right, OK. I just want to speak to my grandfather, that’s all.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t, it’s not possible. There isn’t a phone in his room and we don’t have the staff or the facilities—’

‘How is my grandfather, for fuck’s sake?’

‘I’m sorry but I’m going to have to terminate the call. I can’t tolerate swearing. If you’d like to call back another time – meantime I’ll pass on your regards.’

‘No, wait!’

‘You’re shouting, Miss Swaine.’

‘K-e-r-r-y. It’s not my real name. I need you to do one thing, please, I promise, just one thing for me. I’m in Australia, I’m miles away and I don’t have a phone. It’s my birthday, that’s why I’m drunk.’ I thought the conversation needed a socially acceptable reason for my behaviour.

‘What can I do, Miss Swaine?’

‘Tell my granddad I’m thinking about him, that I love him. OK?’

‘I will do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

‘One more thing.’

‘I’m afraid I’m putting down the phone now, Miss Swaine. If you’d like to call back another time.’

‘Please. PLEASE tune the fucking radio right, will you?’ The line went dead. I replaced the receiver, and went back inside the flat, creeping around so as to not wake the others.

CHAPTER
TEN

IT WAS WARM
despite the downpour. Neutral Bay smelled clean and good with a coastal breeze blowing in over the houses of Montpelier Street. The rain had made me melancholy; I was thinking about the past and my constant need to search for answers as to why I felt the way I did: lost, drifting and drinking far too much.

Nobody wanted to see paintings when it was raining. No one wanted some stranger dripping wet in their hall. Plus it was Sunday, and Sundays were probably the same all over the world. People wanted to be left alone to read the papers and go for walks in looser clothing than usual, or have dinner with their family. All my life, I had hated Sundays; they seemed to intensify all my feelings of loneliness and fear.

I stood sheltering in a phone booth with my folder. I was wearing a cagoule that I’d found back at the base left by a past seller, but my hair was dripping wet. I lit up a Benson & Hedges Light. I wasn’t up for this today, and felt weary. Perhaps I would stay in the phone booth and accept defeat until it was time to get picked up. But Greg and Anaya wouldn’t let up when sales figures were down; and they had been, for all of us. The last month had been the wettest month in Sydney’s history. This job had been an easy ride at the start, but on days like this I could see why it was hard to hack for some.

The street looked dead, no cars moving, nothing. I finished my cigarette, flipped a coin and went left up towards Premier Street where the houses were whiter.

I was drawn to the house from where Astrud Gilberto music was coming. I rang the bell. A voice shouted, ‘Round the back!’ so I went up the side of the house and through a wooden door into a garden. Six people, seated round a dinner table on a patio covered with a corrugated roof, looked at me.

‘Can I help you?’ said a man about my age, standing up.

‘Hey, how you doing today?’ I began the act, remembering never to start with an apology for my presence, never to assume a low-status position from the outset, but feeling like a total dick for asking how people were, having just arrived uninvited on their own property. I took in the table of six, three couples by the look of it, and remained smiling despite the fact I was getting nothing back.

‘I guess we’d like to know who you are and why the hell you’re here,’ said an underweight woman in bright red lipstick and sunglasses. I wanted at once to punch her repeatedly in the head.

‘Hi, I’m from Scotland, my name is Kerry and I’m just going round your neighbourhood today showing some paintings, that’s all.’ I kept smiling away like a dummy. The man who first stood up, moved towards me with tongs in his hands.

‘How many of you are there?’ The group round the table laughed. ‘How many other little Scottish people are there out there?’

I was at a crossroads early on. I had to decide how to play this, if indeed to play it at all, or – for my own satisfaction but at the risk of making no money and possibly ruining anybody’s chances in this neighbourhood again – just telling them to fuck right off and die.

I decided to carry on. ‘Well, I’m just the scout, they send me on ahead of the others, but they will be here soon.’

‘Let her stay for a bit,’ said another equally annoying man. ‘Might be a bit of a laugh.’

‘No, Hugo, we’ve got to get going soon. Max is at my mum and dad’s, remember?’ said another thin woman whom I took to be his wife. I felt stupid in my cagoule and the pumps that Scotty had drawn smiley faces on the night before. A woman who seemed less neurotic than the other two, drank white wine and watched me.

‘Paintings, you say?’ she said, speaking from the glass she held at her mouth.

‘Yes, Robin, let’s see what you make of them. Maybe you could get some inspiration,’ said Dick One.

‘Shut up, I’ll be the judge of that.’

They all laughed again. I could see the way this was going. The white wine drinker was a painter and I was in big trouble, and this was going to be my biggest challenge so far.

The first man kicked the folder. ‘Come on then, get them out, wee lass.’

The others found the bad Scottish voice hilarious.

‘Be careful with the folder, otherwise I’ll have to pay for anything damaged,’ I said.

He retreated, miming treading on eggshells. I still had no idea of what line I was going to take but I knew I couldn’t do the usual one. It just wouldn’t work with this lot.

‘My name’s Kerry, by the way.’ I’d already said this, but I was buying time.

‘G’day, Kerry,’ said Dick Two. I felt the confidence drain from me and had an overwhelming urge to give up or just beg them to all chip in and buy one piece of shit from me.

‘Here you go, Kerry, have a glass of wine,’ said Hugo.

‘Yeah, why not, lass?’ said Dick Two. They were all half cut from afternoon drinking; the table was strewn with the remains of a Sunday dinner.

‘OK, OK, let’s go,’ said the one who’d kicked the folder, clapping his hands and hurrying everything along.

‘Someone should tell her,’ said Dick One. They all stifled giggles.

‘Leave the poor girl alone,’ said Robin. ‘Red or white, darl’?’

‘White, please. Bit early for red,’ I said, in a bid to appear cultured.

‘Tell her!’ shouted Dick One.

‘No. Now shut up!’ Robin snapped. ‘Kerry, just ignore them and show us the paintings. I’m genuinely interested.’

What could I do? I would have to get the paintings out some time, even though the crowd would rip me to shreds. It didn’t matter how good I was at reading the situation – in a group like this, the paintings would speak for themselves, and
that
meant I would be humiliated. After all, this entire gimmick was designed for the dumber, unquestioning people who lived in the suburbs, not the cynical sarcastic personalities of urban types. That’s why we didn’t sell in central locations such as trendy Paddington, which was awash with bookshops, delis and gay couples. Or Surrey Hills, home to media people, fashion designers and hairdressers.

I sheepishly pulled out the Peter Stuger. They all clapped and roared with laughter.

‘Guys, guys, come on, seriously, give the girl a break,’ Robin cried over the noise.

Guys, give the girl a gun, I thought, but Robin was on my side and that meant something.

‘Look, maybe I should just leave it. They’re obviously not your cup of tea, and that’s fine. You can’t please everybody.’ I knew they’d urge me to stay for their own amusement.