The Local Spree
The cold southerly had been brewing during the stoneskimming competition and now had simply snapped like a twig. Both The Blonde Maria and I were wrapped up in blankets as we sat beside Kooka’s bed in The Sewing Room later that night. The old man himself was lying under two doonas and a brightly coloured rug, and with his brow and beak poking out from under these heavy covers he reminded me of an aged kookaburra being nursed with cotton wool in a shoebox.
We had been treated to the sound of the surf again, and the swimming publican, and for a moment after my initial excitement I had feared that the dream would indeed just be a repeat of the night before. But I needn’t have worried. The ocean hiss took over from the radio’s brief transitional static, the waves tumbled and churned, Joan Sweeney sighed and gasped with release and exhilaration but there were no calls from Tom String back on shore. There were none of the lists that Maria had mentioned either. Instead the swimming publican seemed to be composing a letter.
She composed this letter out loud among the waves, but all in a tone of mock-seriousness, and with satisfied laughter between the sentences. Then she dived and we heard the underhum of the ocean Maria had described to me previously. The room went quiet but for this drone and her breathing, and I imagined Joan Sweeney, with arms out wide and legs kicking like a frog, swimming underwater now her letter was complete.
But what was the letter all about? And who were these Bass Strait prostitutes, and who had made the accusations? She emerged from the water and the hum disappeared in the daylight. Once again the sound of the ocean was open, swish and effervescent. Joan Sweeney didn’t say any more but her mirth could be sensed, even at a distance of over a hundred years. She was having a lend of somebody – no, not just anybody, she was playing funny buggers with the powers that be.
This woman whom Kooka had only ever met in his archives had not surprisingly pricked his interest, to the extent that after unburdening himself of the ghosts of his mother and his wife, he was now dreaming purely of her. There was such bold charisma in the tone of her letter that beside me Maria was smiling her head off, her enjoyment lingering still in the wake of it. I began to smile too, and to nod involuntarily, and to watch Kooka closely. His face was impassive; there was no outward sign of the world inside his head, no evidence of Joan Sweeney still swimming in the waves. He was just an old man of the bird family Halcyonidae, wrapped up in two doonas and a crocheted rug, in a sudden snap chill on the twenty-first-century coast.
I should have been tired from the lack of sleep the night before, not to mention the disappointment of the stoneskimming competition and the forty-six counter meals that resulted. But I felt not one hint of fatigue and leant forward again on the edge of my seat as now the transistor seemed suddenly to switch channels. Gradually through a flux of static we heard the unmistakable sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle and then Tom String saying the words, ‘Your port, Mr Arvo. Port in a storm I might say.’
‘Thank you, Tom. You wouldn’t want to be out in it.’
‘No fear. The Grand’s a racket of a roof to be sure but it beats a drenching.’
It was true; we could hear now the sound of rain pouring on the roof of the old hotel.
‘Do you always bring the goats in from a shower?’ Mr Arvo was asking Tom String.
‘Yairs we do, but seldom here into the bar. It’s only the stables are full with the girls’ horses. And a little later of course they’ll be full with the girls. Mrs Sweeney’s a practical woman.’
‘Oh yes. So the girls don’t work upstairs?’
‘Oh no. Not with the sound of it, Mr Arvo – can you imagine? No, not down the hallway from your room – now there’s a condition you’d want laid down.’
‘I see. Well the girls and the goats don’t seem to mind each other’s company, all huddled there by the fire.’
‘Yairs well, it’s blazing, eh? “Ash that burns”, that’s our tree around here, and our little joke.’
From further along the bar Joan Sweeney’s voice was now heard, calling to the female customers: ‘Jadey, Rose, Cumquat May, would you care for another drink with your food there? Cook says it’s nearly done.’
‘Aye, and it ain’t goat!’ Tom String chimed in.
‘That’s enough out of you, Tom String. You be ready with the brush and shovel now. And top up Mr Arvo’s port. You’ll give my hotel a tight reputation.’
There were sniggers from the girls beside the fire and the clicking sounds of the goats’ hooves on the hearth.
‘Anyway, girls, what’ll it be?’ Joan Sweeney called. ‘Underground mutton or pork fed on bread and peaches? Or hedgehog, known as porcupine in your parts I believe?’
‘Ooh, the bread and peaches pork for me thank you, Mrs Sweeney,’ came a young female voice from the fire. ‘Sounds lovely.’
‘And you, Jadey?’ the dutiful publican asked. ‘Don’t be shy now.’
‘I’ll have the same, missus, thank you,’ said a quiet voice with an Irish lilt.
‘And Cumquat May? What would you like for your tea?’
‘Porcupine thank you, missus,’ Cumquat May replied, in a voice a little harder than the rest, and more mature. ‘And a plonk with that thank you. One for each of us please.’
‘Yes, well, you’ll be needing your strength when the boys roll in. If they ever make it through this rain, that is.’
‘What about the bearded jokers?’ said Tom String, from where he was topping up Mr Arvo’s port. ‘Don’t they get a plonk?’
‘What was that, Tom?’ Joan Sweeney replied. ‘I couldn’t hear you for the rain.’
‘The goats, Mrs Sweeney. Don’t they get some mulled plonk to sip by the fire?’
Joan Sweeney laughed, a high laugh, as if Tom String was an incorrigible child. ‘I’ll just ignore that bait shall I, Tom String? And if you’d kindly take down Mr Arvo’s dinner order, I’d be much obliged.’
The cork was squeaked back into the port bottle and Tom String asked Mr Arvo what he would have. Mr Arvo seemed to consider the menu for a moment before asking, ‘Tell me, Tom, what exactly is underground mutton?’
‘Rabbit, Mr Arvo. Shot with me own parrot gun.’
‘I see. Mmm. No quail tonight?’
‘You always have to ask, don’t ya? But no, sir. Me pointer’s havin’ pups. When you were last here, it was autumn, the quail were like mice on the ground. If you’re still here at the end of summer, we’ll see what we can do. That’s if Candle ever recovers from childbirth.’
‘Candle?’
‘Yairs. Me pointer.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, in that case I’ll have the pork.’
‘Good choice, Mr Arvo. A hotel’s pigs are happy pigs. What with all the throw-outs. And doubly so here at The Grand, with all the fruit back up in the valley. If peaches were pounds, they’d rename this joint El Dorado.’
‘Well it’s to my liking anyway, Tom,’ Mr Arvo replied.
‘To mine as well, Mr Arvo,’ said Tom String. ‘And working for the good lady beats crackin’ stones for a living.’
Gradually now the rain on the old Grand Hotel roof seemed to be lessening, but as it did we heard a few heavy drops falling on our own. The flashing of the roof above The Sewing Room pinged as the first drops hit and before long there had been some kind of downpour exchange: the roof of Joan Sweeney’s Grand had gone quiet while my own was now thrumming away.
Back in the old Grand, in burst the boysthey’d been waiting for and, as Tom String remarked, they’d timed their run. They were just in the nick of time for tea.
The new noisy influx into the bar seemed to amuse the girls but disturb the goats, who could now be heard anxiously pitter-pattering in circles on the stone floor and occasionally bleating as well.
‘Now look what you done, you brutes. There was us girls and the goats having a nice quiet yarn by Mrs Sweeney’s fire and you had to go and ruin it. Come here, you Heides all. Come and settle again.’
It was the comely voice of Rose, who had been the first of the three whores to order her meal.
‘Oh bejaysus! We’re not gonna get the fleas tonight are we, Bait?’ exclaimed one of the men who had burst into the bar. ‘I’m just over gettin’ drenched. The last thing I need are a goat’s old nits as well.’
‘I dunno about nits, but would you have a look at those tits?’ replied his companion called Bait. ‘And I don’t mean on the goat.’
The men started laughing but Joan Sweeney cracked down hard. ‘That’s quite enough of such guff from you fellows. Any more and you’re out on your ear. If Cumquat May, Jadey and Rose have been kind enough to make the journey, you’ll behave, do you hear?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, missus, I am a bit hard of hearing. What was that you said?’ asked another one of the men, in a sincere and humble tone.
‘You tell Ding, Bait Belcher. He’s genuine. You tell him I’ll have no more dirty talk in my hotel. I’m not used to it and I don’t like it. And if he doesn’t believe me, he can try wrestling with Tom.’
‘Good evening, you fellas,’ cried Tom String cheerily across the bar. ‘And g’day to you too, Ding Dong,’ he called out with extra relish.
‘Tom String,’ they all replied at once, with the man called Ding Dong’s voice louder and reedier than the rest.
‘Now you’re just in time for tea, boys,’ said Joan Sweeney matter-of-factly. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d order now so we can get this show on the road.’
With no further discussion the four men each ordered underground mutton but for Ding Dong, who ordered a serving of the hedgehog, perhaps on account of not hearing the menu properly. They then ordered their drinks as well, their Native Companion Ales, which was the beer Tom String brewed in his upstream camp. As they took their first long draughts and smacked their lips with satisfaction, I found myself hankering to know what a Native Companion tasted like, and more particularly to know how it compared with our Dancing Brolgas.
The Grand Hotel goats now seemed to have settled again with the girls by the hearth and for the time being, at least, the men and women kept to separate areas of the bar. Tom String was pouring the drinks and Joan Sweeney had taken a stool next to Mr Arvo, where together they were chatting pleasantly as they enjoyed their meals. Beside me now Maria had opened her eyes and was grinning from ear to ear from the fun of it all.
‘Yes, they had threatened to send a sergeant from Ballaarat. By all accounts he’d made his name as a young man cleaning up the diggings back in the early sixties,’ Joan Sweeney was saying to Mr Arvo between mouthfuls of a rather chewy boiled echidna. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it? Unfortunately the old fella couldn’t make the ride. He’s well over sixty by all accounts. But yes, perhaps that was due also in part to my letter.’
‘And what, may I ask, Mrs Sweeney, would you have done if the sergeant had made the ride?’ said Mr Arvo.
‘Well to be perfectly frank, Mr Arvo, I’m not sure. My scouts on the route would’ve given me notice. But you see, that is not the issue here. The issue is that Victoria as defined by the borders is a large colony – you know yourself it’s as big as England – and the great majority of it is unknown to the powers back in Melbourne where I grew up. They have no idea of the requirements of a hotel in a small outpost such as ours and no experience of the way we are living. And yet they tuttut and stroke their beards, while we are carrying on with the business. But really, the aspersions they were casting on The Grand were factually incorrect and, practically speaking, quite irrelevant. I wrote the letter not to avert the sergeant’s visit but to educate the administrator!’
‘Well I must admit it has been an education for myself lodging here.’
‘Indeed. You obviously approve, Mr Arvo?’
‘Oh yes, yes. That’s why I came back. Not only for the peace in the valley but also for the, how shall I say ... civilisation of your hotel, Mrs Sweeney. Even in Australia now, the difference between man and beast is growing.’
‘I don’t follow you, Mr Arvo.’
‘Well you see, Mrs Sweeney, I believe not in the lion lying down with the lamb, which of course is an impossibility, but rather that mankind and the animals are in fact kindred, rather than enemies. That they are not so different, you see.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, and here we are chatting pleasantly, sharing your hotel bar with goats.’
‘And prostitutes,’ laughed Joan Sweeney.
‘Indeed. And prostitutes. And also, I may add, beautiful flowers.’
‘Aah yes, my flowers.’
‘I counted eight vases.’
‘That’s right, Mr Arvo. All collected and cut by myself in the hereabouts. Very kind of you to count the vases.’
‘Yes, but that of course doesn’t include those in the parlour, or the upstairs hallway and rooms. There are three in my room alone, Mrs Sweeney.’
‘And also three in my own, Mr Arvo. But now you’ve mentioned it, the flowers are a case in point.’
‘How so, Mrs Sweeney?’
‘Well then, do you see many roses among my vases, or Calla lilies, carnations, lupins or marigolds?’
‘No, no, hardly at all. There is a rose in each of my bedroom vases, obviously from your beds down by the well, but surrounded by so much other colour. And no lupins, or marigolds or lilies, no.’
‘There, you see. Half the flowers I use in this hotel I don’t even know the names of myself! But at the same time I know these flowers as well as the contents of my bulk spirits order. I gather them in the valley or up on the ridge or along the dunes where another pair of eyes might not even notice them. The orchids, the hues of the heath, the “tassel flowers” – well, that’s what I call them – that grow among the wiregrasses where the stock have never browsed. But an important personage from Melbourne wouldn’t know the half of it, wouldn’t even know that some of these flowers that fill my vases exist! It’s a different country out here, Mr Arvo. And this is the point. There are different colours in the hotel vases, different shapes too, and it’s the same with the clientele. Take little Ding Dong over there. He’ll take Rosie tonight. You’ll hear him crying out from the stables, even with your window shut. And if there weren’t a Rosie, he’d be crying out a different tune. A man’s heart needs the occasional shelter. And out here it’s my duty to supply it – otherwise the men are in drought, no matter the rain. Yet the powers that be feel quite within their rights to tell me how to run my hotel. Pah. It’s a different country.’
There was a brief silence after this speech of Joan Sweeney’s. Then through the tranny Mr Arvo asked the very question I’d been thinking myself. ‘What about the girls though, Mrs Sweeney? How are they benefiting, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Not at all, Mr Arvo,’ came the publican’s reply. ‘I may love to pick flowers but I also run a profitable business which is at the same time a community service. Look at it like this. A man’s lust is as old as the world itself. And wherever there is desire, there is also money. So by rights this earth we’re holed up in is just one almighty Grand Hotel. There you have it. But contrary to the information the inspectors in Melbourne received, these girls are not harpies from the Bass Strait Islands. All three of them are from Ballaarat, the same as the doddering sergeant who couldn’t make the ride. Cumquat May there is half Chinese and third generation in the trade. Rose is the illegitimate child of a prominent politician from New South Wales, no names mentioned, and as such cannot stake her claim for fear of a tragic accident involving the broken axle of a jinker. And Jadey, the shy one, was saved from pure destitution by Cumquat May only last week, and is trialling a new path. This way she at least can hear the rain on the roof rather than standing out in it catching her death. So that’s how I see it, Mr Arvo. And if, as you say, there is a fine line between man and beast, then who am I to deny it?’
‘Mmm, quite right. Mind you, if I myself had a daughter and I found...’
‘Mr Arvo, if I may interrupt. To have a daughter is not a notion, not a hypothesis or idea, but a firm reality for those who are so destined. But often, in the case of sons as well, that reality is too great to bear. Some daughters are farmed out to nuns, some are left with a rug and a prayer of hope on an Emerald Hill porch, others quite simply perish; some sons are lucky enough to be billeted out with relatives in further regions for farm work. I could go on but you take my point. These girls here are no worse off in many ways than the men over there who are right now deciding which ones they fancy. Do you think those coves wouldn’t like a well-mannered slip to come home to at night? Of course they would. But in my experience, Mr Arvo, if I may be brutally honest with you, were it not for Cumquat May, Jadey and Rose being here tonight, Bait and Jimmy, Ding Dong and Ted over there would be eyeing off the goats. Quite seriously.’
The Blonde Maria swung my way on the wicker chair, with a wide-eyed expression as if to say, ‘Did you hear what she just said?’ Her movement in the room after a long period of captivated stillness must have registered upon Kooka, because suddenly he groaned and chapped his lips together before rolling over to lie flat on his back. We were on tenterhooks, hoping that he wouldn’t wake up, and thankfully he didn’t. The tranny gave out only a brief glitch as he readjusted himself under the heavy bedclothes and then delivered us safely back into the hospitable arms of Joan Sweeney’s hotel.
It seemed that Joan and Mr Arvo had polished off their meals by now, as the sound of their plates and cutlery being cleared away by Tom String could be heard.
‘And how was that hedgehog, missus?’ the all-rounder asked, only to be told by his boss that it could’ve done with more pigface.
‘Bit fatty was it?’ he replied. ‘Still, killing it meant we could get the coal home on the cart.’
‘That’s true, Tom,’ Joan Sweeney replied. ‘But the fact remains we should have stopped for more pigface.’
‘Maybe, missus. But Mr Arvo distracted us, didn’t he, with his chat at the riverbend?’
‘Right you are,’ exclaimed Joan Sweeney, quickly turning Tom’s criticism into a lighthearted moment. ‘The fatty hedgehog was all Mr Arvo’s fault. I’d like to know how you’re going to make it up to me, sir, aside from distracting me with subjects I am passionate about, to take my mind off the food you’ve spoiled.’
Mr Arvo chuckled happily without quite having the wit to continue the joke. ‘Well all I can say is that the pork was the best ever. Absolutely first class,’ he said.
‘Peachy, you might say,’ called Tom String dryly over his shoulder, as he rattled through what sounded like swinging saloon doors, presumably ferrying the dirty dishes back through the bar to the kitchen.
Now it seemed a conversation was beginning between the boys at the bar and the three girls from Ballarat who sat by the fire with the goats. This was initiated by Bait Belcher, who was now finding the goats to come in handy. Venturing away from the bar towards the girls, his rough twang was quiet and conciliatory as he spoke. ‘So youse’re keen on goats are ya, ladies?’
‘Not really,’ Cumquat May shot back with authority. ‘Well, not as keen as some,’ and then she cackled, and Jadey and Rose giggled beside her.
Bait Belcher, however, seemed to take no offence – either because he didn’t twig as to what Cumquat May was referring to, or because he was in no way ashamed of his apparently near-famous history with goats. ‘Poor dumb creatures,’ was all he said, and it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was referring to the goats or Cumquat May, Jadey and Rose. Nevertheless the ice had been broken. ‘If you let us pull up a pew or two, me and the other coves here could tell you a thing or two about goats. Very entertainin’ stories too.’
‘Please yourself, Bait Belcher,’ Cumquat May said, with the unmistakable tone of someone who had undertaken this exact process before, and with the very same gentlemen.
Bait Belcher called back to his mates at the bar. ‘Here, Jimmy, Ted, pull up a pew and be kind to the girls. They’re sick of yarnin’ to the willow-munchers. And get Ding to bring over some jugs. Mrs Sweeney! Three jugs of the Native Companion Ale if you will. Ding’ll bring ’em over to the mantle.’
‘Certainly, Bait Belcher,’ Mrs Sweeney replied and, excusing herself from Mr Arvo, got up to pour the drinks.
Tom String re-emerged from the kitchen right then and told Joan Sweeney how well the coal was burning in the stove. ‘If anythin’, it’s glowin’ too fast. Just as well we got that load on the cart today.’
‘Yes,’ Joan Sweeney replied, ‘I could tell by the rag over the new girl’s nose that it was putting out. She’s never been here before, Tom. Make her welcome would you, and help Ding take over these drinks?’
‘Too right, missus.’
By the sound of it Tom String and Ding arranged the jugs and the glasses between them and carried them across the room to the mantle, where they could be heard setting them down. ‘You’re first up, lassie,’ Tom String said to Jadey, the Grand Hotel virgin. ‘Will ya look at the head on that one, eh? No one can say Tom String doesn’t know how to pour his own ale. Got a line on it straight as the blue horizon. And it’s got your name on it too, lassie!’
‘Thank Tom for the beer, Jadey,’ Cumquat May instructed.
The girl’s voice was muffled, obviously by the rag over her nose, but a faint ‘Thank you, Tom’ was heard over the rain that was still falling, ever so lightly, on the Sewing Room roof.
‘I’m sorry for the stink of the coal there, lassie,’ Tom String said then. ‘Thing is, we don’t even notice anymore. And you won’t after a couple of my beers, will she, Cumquat May?’
‘I dare say not,’ Cumquat May agreed.
‘Nah, and you’ll have no rag up your nose when we get you out to the stables,’ said the man called Ted, in a Scottish brogue. ‘But you’ll have somethin’ else up ya out there. Too bloody right ya will, yer fresh’n.’
There was a sudden commotion after this remark; the goats’ hooves could be heard clicking again on the stones. And then the fella called Ted was bleating like a goat himself. ‘Aw, Tom,’ he winced. ‘Aw, bugger off. Blimey, I meant nothin’ by it. Och! Let go o’ me would ya, ya big black oaf? I was only havin’ a bit of a lark with the whores!’
Tom String however was firm. ‘Nup, Ted. You’re barred. Out you go into the wet, ya jummy you. Mrs Sweeney’s set her rules for the seasonal entertainment. You knew that. She’ll look after us all, but only to a point. Now get out o’ here and go swim with the river rats!’
And with that the Scotsman Ted was thrown out into the night and the door was slammed behind him.
‘By jingo!’ cried Ding. ‘I never seen a shirt collar used like a jug handle before! Hey, Tom String, you pouredhim out into the night.’
‘Too bloody right I did, Ding. And I’ll do the same to you if you act up. Now let’s get on with this spree, hey, and you fellas make these inlanders welcome. Especially young Jadey there. Drink up, lassie. And don’t mind Ted. There’s a reason he lives in a hut made of old kero tins. He’s a deadset river rat.’
Once again the goats could be heard resettling in front of the crackling mountain-ash logs of the fire. The rest of the first jug of Native Companion Ale was poured, and before long the room had well and truly tempered and was full of quiet conversation.
‘He’s an invaluable asset that Tom String,’ Mr Arvo was saying to Joan Sweeney, who had joined him again at the end of the bar.
‘Particularly on a night such as this,’ the publican replied. ‘We only do it once a season – it’s too long a trip for the girls and all – but there’s always bound to be some trouble. Often enough it’s with Ted. Or some blow-in who can’t believe his luck.’
‘Yes, I can imagine. I suppose if a working man stumbled in here off a boat or a wagon and struck such potential comfort, he’d become quite excitable.’
Joan Sweeney laughed. ‘You’re not wrong there, Mr Arvo. Tom’s an asset right then and there, make no mistake.’
The gang-gangish sound of squeaking cork was heard again and Joan Sweeney offered Mr Arvo another port, this time on the house.
‘That’s very kind,’ said Mr Arvo. ‘Now, Mrs Sweeney, about your flowers. I was wondering if I may be able to help you with them.’
‘With the flowers?’ replied Joan Sweeney. ‘Oh never mind that, Mr Arvo. I enjoy collecting them. It’s that and swimming which keeps me sane around here.’
‘No, no, Mrs Sweeney, I didn’t mean you’d need help with the collecting. More with the naming.’
‘The naming?’
‘Yes. You were saying just before that you don’t know half the names of the flowers you pick for your vases.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, you see, it’s there where I might be able to help.’
‘How so, Mr Arvo?’
‘It’s a long story, Mrs Sweeney, but in essence, before I left Finland, I had trained for a time as a botanist. As a very young man, you understand.’
‘How interesting,’ said Joan Sweeney.
‘Yes, well I never did complete my studies – my true vocation was to travel the wide world and it’s that which I pursued. But, after spending four or five unsuccessful years in the dregs of the diggings, on Bendigo, Ballaarat and Blackwood, a man told me one day that the Baron von Mueller was in need of botanical fieldworkers in Melbourne – to assist with the collection at the Botanical Gardens there, you understand.’
‘I do, Mr Arvo, I do.’
‘So you see, Mrs Sweeney, I found employment with von Mueller and thankfully got off the parsimonious diggings. As it turns out, the very week that I left I received news that my father had died back in Finland. Being an only child, I had inherited the whole of his estate. I was no longer in need of an income. But my interest was now aroused by the opportunity to work alongside the baron, so I went to enquire about the post. I met von Mueller in his cottage and we got on well, for he too had an interest in travel as well as plants. In short, Mrs Sweeney, I was appointed as his assistant-in-the-field and spent the next four years neglecting the duties of my inheritance back in Finland and ranging across Victoria instead, predominantly in the mountainous areas, collecting and classifying native species on his and the governor’s behalf. As such there was for a brief time even a small herb named in my honour by the baron, for I had collected this hitherto undiscovered plant in quite precipitous circumstances on the upper reaches of the Yarra near Warburton.’
‘Oh, Mr Arvo, I had no idea. We knew you were a man of music, and like my late husband you always have your nose in a book, but really, a botanist. And working with von Mueller! Tell me, what was the name of the herb in your honour?’
‘It is a native wild mint, Mrs Sweeney. Von Mueller named it Mentha Longifolia variation Nuortila, or in English simply the Nuortila mint, after me, Arvo Nuortila. I must say, to have such an honour even for so brief a time was the final persuasion I needed to settle permanently here. Of course I had to return to Finland to tie up my affairs, but as soon as I could I returned to Victoria, where I am destined now to stay. After all there are no fir trees back in Finland named after me. My family have all passed on. And I was never made so welcome in America. So here I am.’
‘Here you are indeed, Mr Arvo,’ said Joan Sweeney, obviously impressed.
‘But the point of all this, Mrs Sweeney, is not the Nuortila mint as such, but the fact that I may be able to assist you with the naming of the flowers you love so much.’
‘Yes, yes, I see, Mr Arvo. But really, I should be calling you Mr Nuortila, shouldn’t I?’
‘No, Mrs Sweeney. Mr Arvo is my name here at The Grand Hotel and I like it just fine.’
‘But now I know the Nuortila name is famous, it doesn’t seem right.’
Mr Arvo began to laugh, in a satisfied kind of way. ‘Oh no, the only famous name around here is Sweeney, and you well know that. Your courage and hospitality is famous from here to the Glenelg River. And please, now let me return some of your favours and help you with the flowers. Perhaps I could accompany you when you’re out collecting one day?’
‘Mr Arvo,’ said Joan Sweeney, in an ironic tone, ‘are you asking me to join you on a picnic?’
Once again the Balt laughed with relish, as he fervently denied any connotations that might be construed from his request. But Joan Sweeney was quite obviously in charge of the situation, and now she set his mind to rest. ‘Mr Arvo, don’t perturb yourself. Of course I’d be honoured if you’d come collecting in the bush with me sometime soon. And I’d be more than curious to know the flowers’ official names. It’s a very kind offer.’
In full swing Mr Arvo began naming the flowers right away. ‘Well, for a start, Mrs Sweeney,’ he said, ‘the “tassel flowers”, as you call them, in the vase there by the quart of boiled eggs on the bar, they are known botanically as Thysanotus tuberosus. In common speech, the fringe lily.’
‘The fringe lily,’ Joan Sweeney repeated to herself. ‘My old tassel flowers, eh? They’re lilies. Who would’ve thought? It makes me wonder what constitutes a lily. Thank you for that, Mr Arvo. I look forward to learning more.’
Tom String could be heard muttering to himself behind the bar now and demonstratively clattering among the dishes. Joan Sweeney called across to him from where she was sitting with Mr Arvo. ‘Tom, you’d never believe it but Mr Arvo here had a plant named after him by the Baron von Mueller!’
‘The Baron von who?’ replied Tom String, gruffly.
‘Von Mueller, Tom. The German. The famous botanist.’
‘You don’t say, missus. So, Mr Arvo, you’re a big knob are ya?’
‘No, no, Tom, don’t be like that,’ said Joan Sweeney. ‘He’s offered to come collecting with me and tell me what the names of these flowers we fill the pub with are. You see, Mr Arvo’s a botanist himself.’
‘No, no, Mrs Sweeney,’ interrupted Mr Arvo. ‘As I said, I didn’t take my degree in botany, I took it in–’
‘Oh don’t fret yourself,’ said Joan Sweeney, cutting him off. ‘You worked for von Mueller and you’ve had a mint bush named in your honour. That’s good enough for us. Isn’t it, Tom?’
‘Whatever you say, missus.’
‘Yes. See, Mr Arvo, we’re an understanding lot here. And as I was saying earlier tonight, we value experience of life in The Grand Hotel over university educations any day of the week. Tom, this is exciting. What was it called again, Mr Arvo? The mint, that is?’
‘The Nuortila mint. But it’s no–’
Joan Sweeney interrupted him again. ‘I think this calls for a toast, Tom, don’t you? It’s not every day The Grand has a lodger like this. Talk about hiding your light under a bushel! Let’s rustle up that leftover champagne from the anniversary dinner and have a Black Velvet to celebrate. Make enough for the girls too. And the lads over there. I know Ding Dong’s partial to a nobbler. Well don’t just stand there making a racket, Tom String. Set to, old chap. We’re going to toast the Nuortila mint. With the man himself, our very own Mr Arvo Nuortila.’
Joan Sweeney’s obvious excitement with Mr Arvo’s tale of the Nuortila mint was surprising in one seemingly so levelheaded – at least it was to myself and Maria as we sat glued to the transistor in The Sewing Room. Tom String grunted unceremoniously as she hurried him along to fix the Black Velvets for the toast. He was nothing if not dutiful and soon the sound of wooden latches could be heard clicking and unclicking behind the bar followed by the sibilant double-cascading sound of stout and champagne being poured into a jug.
I was enthralled by absolutely everything we’d heard since Kooka had fallen asleep, but now I was especially happy to listen as the gang in the old Grand Hotel toasted Mr Arvo’s Nuortila mint with the very Black Velvets we had enjoyed so recently ourselves down below in our own bar.
As Bait Belcher, Jimmy and Ding Dong raised the free celebratory drinks to their lips, along with the three whores from Ballarat, it seemed the ice had been broken and that everyone was getting along famously. Everyone except Tom String that is. As his annoyed clattering recommenced behind the bar, Arvo Nuortila began to sing in a rich and formal baritone.
Mr Arvo’s song was accomplished and strong but at the sound of it Tom’s racket seemed to increase even further. In a short voice Joan Sweeney quickly told him to shoosh.
It wasn’t long before the shuffle of dancing could be heard on the old hotel floor. Even young Jadey was giggling, with the rag removed from her nose, and amidst all the fun the occasional bleating of the goats, who were still ensconced by the fire, could almost have been mistaken for bestial laughter. Whatever the case the spree in the pub was now well underway, so much so that all the activity ruffled Kooka’s feathers somewhat. His face started to twitch and he let out a jovial ‘Hoy!’ before turning over to face the blaring tranny, which at that precise moment lost its contact with the dream.
Pure static returned to The Sewing Room and we let out a disappointed sigh. For a few moments we waited in hope, but we knew the rub. And when soon after the tranny glitched again and the prime minister’s voice could be heard discussing his government’s new policy on carbon emissions, we knew the fun was over.