The large, circular, neon sign extending out from the Yarra Hotel’s 160-year-old sandstone façade vividly illuminated the front entrance. The reddish glow of the Carlton Draught sign above the door hung like a harvest moon in the evening’s gathering dusk. I held open the door for Judy, and we slipped inside to the warmth and comfort of the main bar. The weather turned unseasonably cool earlier in the day, but once inside Judy slipped off the woollen shawl draped over her shoulders.
We found Dayne leaning against the bar chatting with the bartender and nursing a beer. As we approached, he turned in our direction and performed a quick beer glass salute.
Judy grinned, blushed ever so slightly, and held out her hand to shake Dayne’s. I performed the introductions and ordered a beer for myself and a Sauvignon Blanc for Judy.
For Dayne and me, frequenting the Yarra begun more like a pilgrimage than merely being our preferred watering hole. One of the co-owners being the famed singer-songwriter, Mick Thomas, a local legend in the Melbourne – if not Australia’s – music scene. Mick shot to fame with his first band, Weddings, Parties, Anything, before Dayne and I were born. His songs resonate with simple tales of the common man, of ordinary lives, whilst also weaving a musical tapestry recounting Australia’s rough and ready history. Although actual sightings of Mick are rare, with both our homes in close proximity, the Yarra remains a natural meeting point.
Turning from the bartender, I asked:
Dayne drained the last of his beer before answering.
He held up the empty glass.
To get through it.
What are you playing?
I grabbed an empty bar stool for Judy and positioned it next to Dayne. He turned in Judy’s direction before answering.
Some Neil Young, Springsteen, a little Paul Kelly of course.
I’ve heard of those blokes; my dad has some of their CDs.
Dayne and I faced one another, smiled and shook our heads. True, he and I did have musical tastes beyond our years. It was one of the few things bonding our friendship at a young age. While kids our age were jumping from one musical fad to the next, we absorbed the rock, folk, and blues classics as if through an intravenous drip until they coursed through our veins and became a part of our soul.
The front room of the Yarra was close to capacity. The melodic sound of Dayne fine-tuning his guitar almost lost in the buzz from a dozen different conversations around the room. Many were here for the night’s main act, Ulysses Wulf, others to meet friends and kick off their weekend. Most likely only Judy and I gave a toss about seeing Dayne perform.
From our seats at the bar, Dayne was only visible from the waist up. He turned to face the crowd and began strumming the opening chords to Neil Young’s, Sugar Mountain. It was the perfect choice for an opening song. His voice, with a tinge of nerves and never robust at the best of times, filled the room with a shaky falsetto sounding eerily like the original.
Polite applause rippled out from different pockets of the room as the final chord faded. Dayne took a long swig from a bottle of beer by his feet and launched into a rollicking version of Springsteen’s, Johnny 99; he followed with another selection from one of Bruce’s solo albums, Maria’s Bed.
More than half the crowd were now engaged and turned to watch Dayne perform. As he began the poignant Heart of Gold by Neil Young, I turned my attention to Judy.
Dressed casually in blue jeans and a crimson sleeveless top, she wore just enough makeup to accentuate her delicate features. When I picked her up earlier in the evening outside her parent’s home in Heidelberg, she appeared nervous and fretted over her choice of outfits. Gone was the confident young woman from the hospice. The change only served to make her seem more endearing. I told her she looked beautiful and meant it. Under the soft back light from the bar her tanned skin glowed, and when she tilted her head in my direction, her brown eyes sparkled with innocent delight.
She returned my smile, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and turned back to the stage. I was the happiest I could remember being in months and wondered how best to capture the moment and to make it last. Could this be the beginning of something? Or would it wither and die once the incongruous link of the hospice no longer existed? I ordered another round of drinks, and with the utmost determination banished all dark thoughts from my mind. Tonight, I was determined to relax and enjoy Judy’s company, tomorrow would come soon enough.
An attractive girl my age sidled in beside me at the bar and motioned towards the stage.
Yeah, his name’s Dayne Wallingham. He’s a good friend of mine.
Hmm. He’s cute.
With that the girl turned and headed back to a table in the corner.
The brief conversation drew Judy’s attention.
Her sly, beguiling, smile made me wonder, was she just amused or issuing a note of caution?
Judy began singing along with Dayne’s rendition of Passenger’s Let Her Go.
He really is very good.
I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. You are enjoying yourself, right?
Of course, relax, will you! I’m having a great time!
From Passenger to Persuasion by Tim Finn, followed by an old Dingoes’ number, Dayne had the small crowd wrapped around his little finger. Rapturous applause filled the room and Dayne took a moment to soak it all in. He drained the last of his second bottle of Carlton Draught and begun playing the opening strains of To Her Door.
The Paul Kelly classic was one of the first song’s Dayne learnt to play. It was the summer after he’d been expelled from school and was living, temporarily, with my mother and I after his dad kicked him out of their family home. The simple tune about second chances and redemption always held a special meaning for him. At the end of the song, he bowed, and with guitar in hand simply walked off stage. To the crowd, it appeared a well-planned, theatrical exit. Only I knew the feelings the song invoked made it impossible for him to speak.
We met Dayne outside in the beer garden. His guitar packed away, along with his emotions, in the battered old case which came with his first guitar. It was the guitar’s purchase, with his own hard-earned money, which prompted the final argument with his dad. What Dayne saw as an investment, his dad viewed as money tossed down the drain. The two have rarely seen eye-to-eye, or spoken, since.
Dayne, wide-eyed and energized from his performance rose from his seat as we approached and offered Judy one of the small wooden chairs.
So, how did you like the show, m’lady?
It was absolutely brilliant. So, this is what you do for a living?
Well, not exactly. Thirty minutes at the Yarra doesn’t exactly keep the lights on at chez Wallingham, but the free beer is nice.
The temperature continued to drop under the cloudless sky. A faint breeze ruffled the leaves of the potted plants scattered throughout the beer garden. Judy wrapped her woollen shawl around her shoulders and gazed up at the clear night sky. The lights of the inner-city reduced the brilliance of the stars to a faint glow, yet the setting couldn’t have been more idyllic.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she obliged by nestling her head back against my chest.
They keep the fireplace lit in winter, but this cold snap, I guess, caught them by surprise.
That’s okay. You’re keeping me nice and cosy.
Dayne smiled as he glanced at Judy then back to meet my eyes. Unless I was mistaken, I’d just received the unspoken nod of approval from my best friend.
So, Craiggo. Want to hear how the new band is coming along?
Sure.
Band? What band is this?
Judy’s eyes snapped open, eager to hear more.
Dayne gave a quick rundown of the new band, Gunga Dingo – the name eliciting a laugh from Judy – the various members, then a recap of the first rehearsal at his home.
You should have seen it. Somewhere between brilliant and a fucking train wreck. Excuse language, Judy.
You’re excused. You should hear the mouth on my dad.
As I already knew, Getch has a beautiful voice, but her movements are out of this world. You should have seen her twirl and spin to the beat. Picture a mix of a Western Desert tribal dance and Stevie Nicks in her prime. And then there’s her hair.
Judy asked the obvious.
What’s wrong with her hair?
Nothing I guess. It’s long and straight, well kempt really, but the bloody colour is nothing I’ve ever seen occur naturally on a human. Periwinkle she calls it. Whatever the hell that is!
She and I laughed, but Dayne was just getting warmed up.
Dayne waved his arms around in imitation and almost knocked over a tray of drinks being delivered to the table behind.
He offered a quick apology before continuing.
The story had us in fits of laughter. I finished my beer, then asked:
When can we expect the first gig?
Jesus, I don’t know, mate. I can’t think of place with a stage big enough to contain us.
Dayne surveyed the empty glasses on the table.
While Dayne sauntered off to the bar, Judy leant back and I hugged her just a little tighter. Neither of us spoke, just enjoying the moment and the warmth created by the touching of our two bodies. The hubbub of conversation from other tables faded into the background as I sensed her breathing slow; our chests soon rising and falling in time.
Dayne placed the drinks on the table and we turned to see the girl who I’d spoken to earlier in the evening.
Judy and I exchanged puzzled glances, but both recovered quickly enough not to blow Megan’s cover story.
Fifteen minutes later, Dayne was fathoms deep in his conversation with Megan and had seemingly forgotten we were sitting across the table. The second yawn from Judy was enough of a clue to know it was time to hit the road.
We said our goodbyes and waded back through the crowd. I forged ahead and Judy held on tight as we wove between the tables of the beer garden, through the packed main bar, and out the front door to Johnston Street. With Judy nuzzling close in the back seat and her intoxicating scent seductively filling my senses, the taxi drive back to Heidelberg took not nearly long enough.