The Naked Drinking Club (5 page)

Anaya stood with her back against the bar, resting on both elbows, in a cocky I-own-the-place fashion. She had washed her hair and done herself up a bit in evening mode. She looked good, but she was so cold. I wanted to know more about her, but I’d leave it for now; leave it until they needed me more, and needed the money I was going to bring to them.

Jim was still shaking his head and laughing. He did impressions of me doing my routine at the house.

‘Well, I couldn’t afford it, but it’s cheaper that way, me bringing the art to you.’ His Scottish accent was terrible. Everybody laughed except Anaya. She looked at me, as though she was trying to figure me out.

Jim went on, ‘Excuse me, can I use your toilet? I think I’m going to shit myself.’

We all laughed.

The bar was buzzing and it felt exciting. I put two dollars in what I considered to be a perfect jukebox. Sentimental old songs were my favourite and this jukebox was one of the best I’d ever seen. Even the old bars back home down in Leith couldn’t top this. My money got me three tunes, ‘Seasons In The Sun’ by the Fortunes, ‘This Old Heart Of Mine’ by the Isley Brothers, and Peter Sarstedt’s ‘Where Do You Go To My Lovely’. It was all too good. I came back to the bar singing along with the Fortunes. The chorus came and the entire bar including Anaya belted it out.

Jim ordered the two of us a couple of shots of JD. I grabbed him by the shoulders with both hands and fixed him to the spot, straining my voice above the double chorus of the last verse.

‘LISTEN TO ME!’

‘WHAT?’

‘THERE IS NOTHING, AND I MEAN NOTHING, QUITE AS GOOD AS THIS, IS THERE?’

He nodded, then threw his head back and laughed.

‘I FUCKING LOVE ALL THIS!’ I shouted, all fuelled up and on top of the world.

We hugged and toasted ‘the new team’. After checking with Greg and Anaya, I told everybody I was moving into the company flat the next day. They all cheered, and then the Danish announced that they were doing the same, and we all cheered again. Two more schooners were brought to us by the barman, who shrugged and pointed over to an older man who had been playing pool for most of the night, or sitting at the end of the bar on a stool and watching us. We raised our schooners at him, and he raised his back. I felt so happy and content, and hopeful about this job, and where it would lead
me.
It surely meant that I’d get enough money to travel around and find what I was looking for.

While the others were talking, I looked in the zip section of my purse and checked that my piece of paper was still there. It was my only copy and I carried it everywhere. I looked at the notes I had made on it two years before I came here, and then put it back in my purse for safe keeping.

CHAPTER
FOUR

I STOOD ON
the corner of Tulley Street and Mulberry Way, a pretty
Neighbours
-style area an hour out of the city. The car had just pulled away; Scotty made a clenched-fist sign out of the car window for my benefit. I surveyed the streets in either direction. The houses looked the same: they all had matching driveways and plots of front garden surrounded by lush vegetation. It looked like a new development.

I decided to start to my right, in Mulberry Way, because my portfolio was hanging over my right shoulder. I walked up a drive, pausing before I knocked on the fly screen to compose myself and to practise smiling. There was no answer so I rang the bell. A few seconds later, an old man, possibly in his eighties, came to the door followed by an old woman. My heart sank. They looked at me through squinted eyes.

‘Sorry, love,’ said the man, smiling. ‘We don’t hear so well. Had you been knocking for a while? Everybody stands there for the longest time until we hear them.’

‘No, not at all. Listen, it doesn’t matter, I was just … I’m showing some artwork but … it’s OK, I won’t bother you.’ I didn’t feel comfortable selling to them, it seemed wrong. I was counting on the people I sold to annoying me with their wealth and happiness, but not this – not kind, vulnerable, old people. I decided I wouldn’t go any further.

‘What’s she doing, love?’ asked the old woman from behind her husband.

‘She’s an artist.’

I felt really bad. ‘Well, I am kind of, but I don’t need to … don’t worry.’

‘You’d better come in then, love, and tell us all about it.’ They both chuckled, in that way old people do at young people. I felt it would be rude not to go in now, so reluctantly I did. They guided me through to the lounge where they had been sitting at a dining table still not cleared from dinner. This made me feel even worse. I thought about my dear grandfather, the one reason I had stayed in Edinburgh for as long as I did. I thought about his life now, his tiny room in the nursing home, his miserable tray dinners, a life of watching
Countdown
with the heating up full blast and nobody ever bothering to tune the radio in the communal lounge to a station. I hated his second wife for what she did to him, how she put him in the home while she lived in his house and spent his money. If my grandmother had lived, they could have had a life together like the sweet old couple with me now.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, were you having your dinner?’ I asked.

‘Don’t you worry, we’ve had plenty dinners.’ The old lady chuckled some more. They were ridiculously nice. ‘Now then, take a seat and we’ll get you a cup of tea.’

‘No, no really … it’s fine.’

‘You can put that thing down there.’

I felt awkward with my enormous folder of deceit taking up what felt like most of their lounge. The old man pointed to an area of wall beside the sofa.

‘There, that’s it,’ he said, as I lay down the folder. The old woman left to make some tea. I felt exhausted with politeness even though I had only just begun.

‘It’s a lovely area, isn’t it? And this is a very nice house,’ I said, looking around. The place was full of ornamental cheese dishes; they crammed the glass cabinet in the corner of the room, and the top of it, and the windowsill. Three were on the television, and two more on the table we were sitting at. Some were plain, and others were decorated with various woodland creatures hanging onto the handles; one had a china mouse as the lid, another had two Australian flags sticking out on top.

‘It is lovely, we’re very lucky,’ said the old man.

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Oh, it must be coming up for fifteen years now. Before that we lived nearer the city beside my wife’s sister Madge, but
after
she passed away, and we were getting on a bit, we decided to get a smaller more manageable place for us both.’

I’d already decided to ask about the butter dishes next; by that time, the tea would be ready, and I’d talk a bit about Scotland because everybody loves that, and then I would thank them and leave, not wasting too much time not selling. I had to be firm. I needed money and I had to make some cash tonight. There was nothing left for me to pawn. Coming to Australia with only around two hundred pounds was always an insane thing to do.

The old lady came through with the tea. I was surprised to see a tea cosy. They must be from Britain originally, I thought, despite those Aussie accents.

‘How long is it, love?’ asked the old man. ‘The girl’s asking how long we’ve been here.’

‘Oh now …’ She put down the tray, while the husband cleared stuff away and laid out the cups and saucers. ‘Madge passed away in 1975 in the April and we moved here in the November. Fourteen years, next year will be fifteen.’

‘Yes, next year will be fifteen years,’ added the husband.

‘My name’s Kerry.’ I decided not to shake hands as it was too formal and salesman-like for old people.

‘Well, Kerry …’

‘That’s a nice name, isn’t it?’ said the lady, pouring with a shaky hand that broke my heart.

‘I don’t think I’ve heard that name before,’ said the old man, taking over the pouring.

‘It’s not really my real name.’

They chuckled again, as they did with almost everything I said.

‘Do you take milk and sugar, Kerry?’ asked the lady.

‘Just milk, thanks.’

The old man said, ‘I’m Norman and this is my wife Barbara.’

‘Hello again.’ This time we all chuckled.

They offered me a plate of Garibaldi biscuits, which prompted me to ask them about the photos everywhere of a man in uniform.

‘That’s our son, Tom. He was in the army but he’s retired
now,’
said Barbara, picking up a picture. I took a Garibaldi and put it on a side plate. Tom looked handsome, and was pictured with a woman and two children. ‘And those are our grandchildren, Thomas and Norman.’

‘There’s your glasses, love.’ The old man passed his wife a case.

‘Thanks, love.’ She looked closer at the picture. ‘That was taken the Christmas before Tom left the army, that’s at Kirundi RSL.’

They passed it to me. I politely held it for a time I thought to be appropriate and smiled before I handed it back to Norman.

‘He’s very dashing, isn’t he?’

‘He gets his good looks from his father,’ said Barbara.

‘What’s an RSL?’ I asked.

‘Royal Servicemen’s League,’ said Norman.

‘It’s for men and women who served in the armed forces in Australia. It was set up after the war, wasn’t it, Norman?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, just after the war, and you become a member if you were, or are in the forces, and your family and friends can go there as guests.’

‘Yes, but you have to sign them in, Norman.’

‘Yes, you sign them in. They limit the numbers, but you can sign people in.’

‘What’s it for? Is it like a British Legion kind of thing?’

‘Yes, of sorts.’

‘And sometimes they use it for other things, social events. We had a bingo night at our local one recently, Norman, didn’t we?’

‘We did, and they do discos for the younger ones like you as well. We didn’t go to that,’ joked Norman. We all laughed.

They explained that their son Tom had moved to New Zealand and that they only see him and their grandchildren at Christmas and in the summer holidays from school. They missed seeing them terribly as they used to be nearby and would visit them most Sundays.

They told me about how they met during the war. Norman was originally a Londoner who worked as a postman, but was later sent to Devon, and it was there he met Barbara, who was
working
as a housekeeper. They came to Australia on the ‘ten-pound package’.

‘Yep, we’re ten-pound poms,’ said Norman.

‘And proud of it,’ added Barbara.

They told me that at first they were sent to Elizabeth, a place in South Australia, where all the English newcomers went. It was named Elizabeth after the queen. As I talked to them, I realised how Australia provided the perfect escape for so many people from back home, and the chance to start life over again. I was beginning to understand how easy it must be to take up and leave for a place that is vast enough to allow a person to hide from everyone they knew and the secrets that may haunt them back home.

Barbara made a fresh pot of tea. I looked at my grandmother’s watch. I’d been there an hour and I couldn’t go on devoting so much time to one house each time I went out, unless I sold three per house each time, which was asking far too much. I made my peace with the situation by telling myself I could put the time spent here down to my own personal research for information, down to the real reason that had brought me here.

But now it was time to go. I thanked them both for being so kind and offered to take the cups through to the kitchen.

‘Don’t be silly, we need something to do when you’ve gone.’ One more chuckle all round.

‘Now then, love, what was it that you were selling?’ said Barbara, looking over at my folder.

‘Yes, come on then. We’d better take one,’ said Norman.

‘What? No, really, you don’t have to.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

‘Come on, let’s have a look, we’d better have one,’ he said, putting on his glasses.

‘You don’t have to, really. I didn’t stay because of that, and I really liked talking to you both, honestly, that’s all.’

‘Don’t be daft, you’ve got to earn a living, don’t you?’ insisted Norman.

‘Well, yes. But you’re different. Thank you but it’s OK, really.’

‘At least let us look.’ Barbara laughed again.

I reluctantly went over to my folder and began getting the paintings out, deciding not to bother with the abstract ones. I laid them around the room. They both surveyed them, the same painting at the same time. I watched them both, doing everything together. I wanted to rush out and phone my grandfather but I couldn’t really afford it, and besides, there was a time difference problem, made even worse by the ridiculous regulations at the home restricting you to calling during office hours only.

I began to talk about them, but on the second one I stopped and let Norman and Barbara pick what they liked.

‘We’ve already got that one, haven’t we, Barbara?’

‘What?’ I said, panicking.

Barbara looked closely at the boats. ‘Yes, we have, yes. Haven’t even put it up yet, have we?’

‘No. I keep meaning to, though,’ said Norman, leaving the room.

‘Sorry, how come you have this picture? I mean, there could be one similar but it can’t be the same.’ I was embarrassed but Norman and Barbara didn’t seem to find the situation odd or awkward or dubious.

Norman came back in the room with a picture under his arm.

‘Is this it?’ he asked, turning it round to reveal another Peter Stuger identical to mine, except dry. At that point I realised that there was no need to express shock or disbelief, no further need to bullshit and lie, for Norman and Barbara simply didn’t care.

‘Go on, you pick one for us,’ said Barbara.

I started to feel that there was little chance of me leaving now without selling them a painting, as they were so insistent and it seemed to make them genuinely happy to do so. Perhaps Norman and Barbara enjoyed my company as much as I did theirs and this was just their way of showing it. Maybe they missed visitors, and they see helping me make some money a fair exchange for a chance to be visited and talked to. I felt less bad as I processed these thoughts and came to the conclusion that all three of us got something out of this, so I agreed to sell to them.