‘Well I reckon it’s all right. What do you reckon?’ Wayne Nolan turned to his girlfriend, Jill Riley, waving one arm around the empty home unit. ‘You can’t say it’s not big enough,’ he added.
‘It suits me. I’m easy,’ said Jill with a slight shrug of her shoulders.
Behind them Mr Lewkovitz, the estate agent, stood with a bored smile on his face. Lean and losing his grey hair, Mr Lewkovitz looked almost the opposite of dark-haired Wayne and blonde Jill; both of whom had happy, well-fed personalities and a weight problem to go with it. Lettings never did turn him on. ‘For the money this unit is very good value,’ he said.
‘You reckon the owner will shout us some new carpet,’ said Wayne, ‘and if I paint the loungeroom he’ll shout the paint too.’
‘Certainly,’ said Mr Lewkovitz, making a magnanimous gesture with his hands.
‘Righto, we’ll take it,’ said Wayne. He turned to Jill. ‘We’ll get your brother up here on Saturday, attack it with a bit of paint and we can be in by Monday.’
Wayne shook hands with Mr Lewkovitz and they went to his agency in Bondi Road to sign the lease.
Trying to find a decent flat in Bondi is about as easy as trying to find Lasseter’s lost reef. Wayne had been looking every day for over two weeks, getting the usual shuffle from the local estate agents. Most were either too dirty, too small or too expensive; some had cockroaches in them as big as lobsters and some you wouldn’t let to a prehistoric man.
Having to search for a new flat couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time for Wayne and Jill. In six months time they were going to Coffs Harbour to get married. Jill’s uncle had a bakery there; he was retiring and Wayne had arranged to take over the business for next to nothing. But the owner of the unit where they lived had decided to sell and they had to move out. It was a real pain.
However, as luck would have it, Wayne knew an old Jewish tailor in Bondi who used to do his alterations for him. He had a cousin who knew a man who had a brother whose wife worked in an estate agency in Bondi Road and if he went up there they might be able to help him. Which is how Wayne came across this particular flat in Denham Street, just behind the Royal Hotel.
For a flat in Bondi it wasn’t too bad. It was fairly new, bright, roomy, had a garage and if you stretched your neck on the verandah like a giraffe you almost had an ocean view. All it needed was new carpet and a coat of paint in the lounge and at $140.00 a week it wasn’t cheap but it was reasonable value. Besides, it was only for six months.
The following Saturday Wayne and Jill’s brother Bob were in the loungeroom, rollers in their hands and paint all over them going for their lives on the walls and ceiling. They didn’t bother about putting a tarpaulin on the floor as the old carpet was going anyway. On one side of the room was an esky containing a case of iced twist-tops; on the other side was a transistor radio sitting on an empty grocery carton. Jill was in the kitchen making a pot of tea and sorting out some fish and chips.
‘Hey Bob, stick the radio on 2KY, will ya,’ said Wayne. ‘It’s time for the first leg of the extra double.’
‘Righto,’ replied Bob. ‘You got something in this, have ya?’
‘Yeah, Tassy Lady. It’s 12/1.’
They stopped painting to listen to the race; Tassy Lady got up.
‘You bloody little beauty,’ called out Wayne. ‘I had ten units on it.’
‘Good on you,’ said Bob, ‘you can buy some more beer.’
Jill appeared from the kitchen holding a tray with the tea and fish and chips on it. ‘Here you are,’ she said, ‘eat this before it gets cold.’ As she put the tray on the floor there was a rapid knocking at the door. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.
She grabbed a chip from one of the plates, walked over and opened the door.
Standing there was a sour-faced, dumpy, foreign-looking woman in her late forties. She had a figure like a sack of potatoes and that many double chins she would’ve needed a bookmark to find her collar. Before Jill could get a chance to ask her what she wanted the woman opened up.
‘You will have to turn the radio down,’ she said. ‘You are making too much noise. My husband is a sick man. He will not stand noise.’
Jill stood there for a moment, eyes blinking and her mouth slightly open. ‘Who are you?’ she finally said.
‘I am Mrs Daffasana,’ she said. ‘I live across the hall. This is a very quiet block. You will not make noise. The radio is too loud.’
‘Who is it?’ Wayne called out from the lounge.
‘It’s some woman from across the hall,’ said Jill. ‘She reckons the radio’s too loud.’
‘Ohh, tell her to get stuffed.’
Jill turned to the woman. ‘My husband said to tell you to get stuffed.’
The woman went red, gave a stifled cry and ran back inside her unit, slamming the door behind her.
Wayne was standing there, the roller in one hand dripping paint on the old carpet when Jill walked back into the lounge.
‘What was that all about?’ he said incredulously.
‘That old tart reckoned the radio was too loud.’
‘Too loud,’ cried Bob. ‘Christ, you can hardly hear the bloody thing in here.’ He pointed to the radio; it wasn’t much bigger than a book.
‘It’s gonna be nice living here if they’re all like her,’ said Wayne shaking his head. ‘Come on, let’s have a cup of tea.’
The following Monday afternoon Wayne and Jill were moving their belongings into the flat. The parking area was out the back; to get there you drove up a short narrow driveway. However as they were just going to be a short while moving their stuff Wayne parked his old Holden panel-van outside the front door. It wasn’t really blocking anyone’s way, just a bit of an inconvenience for a short time. But sure enough, down came Mrs Daffasana.
‘You cannot park here. You are blocking the entrance. There are parking places out the back.’ She pointed to the rear of the flats.
Wayne stood there dripping sweat, trying to manhandle a TV set from out of the panel-van.
‘For Christ’s sake, lady,’ he said, gritting his teeth, ‘I’m only going to be a few more minutes.’
‘That is no excuse. You are blocking the door. I cannot get in or out.’
‘If your arse wasn’t so big, you’d get in all right, you fat heap,’ replied Wayne.
Mrs Daffasana was horrified. ‘You cannot talk to me like that. I will see my husband. I will ring the agent.’
‘Ring who you bloody like.’
She turned and went inside, wiggling her ample backside between the front door and the panel-van. There was room enough to drive a horse and dray but for Mrs Daffasana it was a bit of a battle.
About a half an hour later Wayne had moved his car and was in the flat unpacking a carton of cutlery when the phone rang. It was Mr Lewkovitz, the agent.
‘Mr Nolan,’ he said, ‘did you have an argument with Mrs Daffasana over your car? She says you insulted her.’
Wayne explained to him exactly what happened, but Mr Lewkovitz wasn’t really impressed.
‘We will forget about it this time, Mr Nolan,’ he said slowly, ‘but you must be quiet and keep your car out the back. Is that understood?’
‘Yeah, righto,’ replied Wayne glumly and hung up.
Jill appeared at the door with an armful of coat hangers. ‘That the agent?’
Wayne nodded his head. ‘Yeah.’
‘Mrs Daffasana?’
‘How did you guess.’
Over the next week Wayne got to meet some of the other people in the block of units. There was a family of Russians who lived upstairs — the Efremoffs. Wayne got to meet the father, Sergei, and his wife, Rossana. He lost count of the sons and daughters; every time he walked up the stairs he seemed to meet another. There must be two hundred of them, he thought; I don’t know how they all fit in the one unit.
Some Asian students lived opposite them, Wayne guessed them to be Vietnamese. But they were a friendly lot, very polite, forever smiling and they would always make sure they said hello if you happened to pass them somewhere.
An English disc-jockey lived underneath with his good-looking New Zealand girlfriend. He wasn’t a bad bloke, always said hello if he passed by. He worked in a disco somewhere.
Wayne didn’t get to meet many of the people in the front block of units, just most of those in their block. However one old bloke he did get friendly with was the caretaker, Mr Percival Gatterskill. But everybody called him Sir Percy; everybody but Otto and Frieda Daffasana of course.
Sir Percy was a lovely old bloke, he was just on ninety and he’d been in Australia over seventy years, having come out from England when he was a young man. He’d lived in the units since they were built and originally owned the house the block was built on.
Sir Percy had the grounds and the gardens around the units in immaculate condition. He took his time doing it, but it was his main little interest in life and it kept him active. He used to sport an English gentleman’s cap and liked to wear a collar and tie with his overalls and while this might have looked slightly incongruous on anybody else, on Sir Percy it looked quite pukka. He was only a little over five feet tall with a completely bald head and the biggest pair of ears Wayne had ever seen on anyone; Wayne reckoned they were big enough to swat flies with. But they had a good rapport, Sir Percy liked a flutter on the gee-gees, Wayne didn’t mind a punt now and again and between them they used to pick a few winners.
About a week after they moved in, Wayne got the amplifier for his stereo back from the repair shop. Wayne and Jill were pretty careful with their money but Wayne didn’t mind splurging a little on a good stereo and a few records now and again. He liked a bit of rock ’n’ roll, especially groups like AC/DC and Cold Chisel.
They’d just eaten tea this night. Jill was in the kitchen washing up; she put the last dish away and stood in the doorway drying her hands on a tea-towel, watching silently as Wayne finished putting his stereo together in the loungeroom.
‘There you go,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘All finished.’
Jill didn’t say anything. She just stood there watching as Wayne went through a stack of albums till he picked out the one he wanted, took the record out of its cover and placed it on the turntable. He moved the needle across onto the record and turned slowly to Jill, a strange smile on his face.
‘I wonder if Otto and Frieda like Rose Tattoo,’ he said.
Jill threw her hands over her face. ‘Oh, no,’ she cried and ran into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Wayne turned the volume control nearly all the way up. ‘Righto, Mr Spock,’ he said, ‘take us out of earth orbit, all ahead warp factor nine.’
Angry Anderson had got no further than three bars of ‘Bad Boy for Love’ when there was a furious pounding on the door.
‘I wonder who this can be,’ said Wayne as he got up and walked over to open the door.
There stood Otto and Frieda. It was the first time Wayne had seen Mr Daffasana up close; he was just as fat and ugly as his wife, only with more grey hair. He was fuming, his eyes were rolling around in his head, his face looked like an Italian flag, he was so worked up he could hardly get the words out.
‘What do you think you are doing,’ he finally screamed out. ‘Are you a mad man? Do you wish to kill us with this noise?’
Then she started up. ‘You cannot make this noise. We will not stand for it. This is a respectable block of units.’
Wayne stood there impassively, the music blaring out behind him loud enough to wake the dead. He put his finger up as if to say, ‘Hold on a moment’, then went into the kitchen. He came back with a pen and a piece of paper, wrote something on it and handed it to Mr Daffasana.
Otto tore it out of Wayne’s hand and read it. It said, ‘You will have to speak up. I can’t hear you.’ He went another shade of green and flung the piece of paper at Wayne’s feet.
‘You will hear from the agent,’ he screamed, ‘and my solicitor.’ Then they both scurried back to their unit, slamming the door behind them.
Wayne went back inside and turned the stereo down. Jill appeared from the bedroom.
‘What’d they say?’ she asked.
‘They said they don’t like Rose Tattoo. Anyway, I’d say Lewkovitz should be round here by no later than six tomorrow night.’
At fifteen minutes to six the following evening there was a knock at the door. Wayne opened it and there stood Mr Lewkovitz, his face looked like Jed Clampett’s dog.
‘Hello, Mr Lewkovitz,’ said Wayne pleasantly. ‘What’s doing? Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Not at this instant, Mr Nolan, thank you,’ said the estate agent tiredly. ‘Mr Nolan, I’ve had another complaint from Mr and Mrs Daffasana.’
‘Really,’ said Wayne sounding surprised. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Did you have a band in here the other night?’
Wayne couldn’t help it; he threw back his head and roared out laughing.
‘A band?’ he said. ‘How would I get a band in here? You couldn’t fit a flea circus in here, let alone a band.’
Wayne went on to explain to Mr Lewkovitz how he was a baker and, having to start work at 4.30 a.m., he was in bed at 9 p.m. every night; that Jill was a nurse who worked long, hard hours and needed her sleep also, so there wasn’t much chance that they’d be up all night playing records.
‘When it’s all boiled down,’ said Wayne, ‘Jill and I would probably be the quietest people in the block. Besides, I’m entitled to play a bit of music now and again, I mean we’re not actually living in a monastery, are we?’
‘Very well,’ said Mr Lewkovitz, ‘but please, please try not to antagonise Mr Daffasana; he is a sick man and has a heart condition.’
‘No worries, Mr Lewkovitz. She’ll be sweet.’
Over the next few weeks Otto and Frieda Daffasana’s area of musical appreciation opened up considerably. They got to hear groups like Moving Pictures, Status Quo, Dragon, The Sex Pistols plus a few concerts live on 2JJJ. And if 2MMM and Channel Ten had a rock simulcast they got to hear that too.
It wasn’t long before Otto’s nerves were twanging like rubber bands and the ulcer in his ample stomach was consuming about a gallon of Mylanta a week.
One Saturday afternoon Jill was in the bathroom washing her hair and shaving her legs, and Wayne was in the lounge taping some tracks off some albums. As that particular track finished Wayne hit the pause button on the tape deck and was about to get another record out when he heard this strange sound coming from outside the flats. At first it sounded like the Salvation Army was playing in the parking area. He opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the verandah. At first, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He ran back into the bathroom and got Jill.
‘Quick, come and have a look at this,’ he said. ‘You’re not gonna believe it.’
Jill managed to wrap her dressing-gown around her and throw a towel over her head as Wayne dragged her out onto the verandah.
‘Look,’ he said excitedly, pointing towards the Daffasanas’ unit. ‘Can you believe that?’
On the balcony of his unit Otto Daffasana had rigged up a public address system and blaring out of the two old metal speakers with an awful crackling sound was Chopin’s Waltz No 11 in G Flat Major followed by Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude. It sounded dreadful.
Wayne and Jill stood there shaking their heads and laughing.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I dunno,’ replied Wayne, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It sounds a bit like Hooked on Classics. You know what this means though, don’t you.’
‘What?’
‘War. Come on, let’s go back inside.’
Once inside with the doors closed and either the stereo or the TV on, you couldn’t hear a thing. Wayne and Jill couldn’t but every flat and house in a radius of nearly half a mile could, and they were quick to voice their disapproval.
Over the next few weeks, whenever Otto would try to upset Wayne with a burst of Tchaikovsky or Wagner, a barrage of rubbish bottles and abuse would rain on his balcony. But Otto wouldn’t give up. Finally, one night, a dead cat tied to half a house brick crashed straight through the sliding plate-glass door of his unit. Otto dismantled the PA system after that.
But Wayne still had his stereo. One of his favourite tricks was to play the last three tracks of an album just before Jill and he would go out of a night on the weekend. Wayne would leave the record playing and they’d be halfway to the hotel by the time it would cut out. Otto wouldn’t know this and he’d just be left there banging on the door and seething with frustration.
Although the Daffasanas couldn’t upset Wayne, they still managed to get on the wrong side with everybody else in the building.
Wayne had just come home from work one afternoon. He had a carton of twist-tops under his arm and as he walked into the entrance he casually glanced at the bulletin board in the foyer. There was a typewritten letter there saying that Mr O. Daffasana had been elected chairman of the body corporate for the units.
This’ll be nice, thought Wayne. They’re going to let that idiot run the whole show. It won’t worry me, though.
He turned to walk up the stairs when the young English disc-jockey came down carrying two suitcases.
‘What’s doing, mate,’ said Wayne. ‘You’re not leavin’ us, are you?’
‘Yeah,’ said the DJ, a look of disgust on his face, ‘We gotta move out.’
‘What happened?’
‘That old geezer Daffasana grassed us to the estate agent ’cause me bird had a dog in the flat.’
‘Fair dinkum.’
‘Yeah, a bloody little silky terrier. It’s no bigger than a powder puff.’
‘Isn’t he a bastard.’
‘Straight up, Wayne, I wouldn’t half like to get my hands round his bleedin’ throat.’
‘Yeah. Jesus that’s bad luck. Anyway, come up and have a beer with us before you go, eh.’
‘Cheers, mate, I’ll do that.’
What a bastard, thought Wayne, as he walked a bit slowly up the stairs. Anyway, he’ll get it one of these days.
A few days after the DJ moved out Wayne was getting some blankets out of the garage when he noticed the door to the Efremoffs’ garage was half open. He’d never seen it open before so out of nothing more than idle curiosity he crouched down and had a peek in. Inside there were three camping stretchers on the floor and against the walls on either side were two pairs of double bunks.
So that’s where they all sleep, thought Wayne, chuckling to himself. They’ve got a regular dormitory in the garage. Good luck to them anyway, they’re only battlers.
Later that night they were lying in bed just about ready to go to sleep. Wayne was telling Jill about what he’d seen in the Efremoffs’ garage. They were having a bit of a laugh about it and Wayne was just about to switch off the light when they heard this awful din coming from the stairs outside their flat. It sounded like some people having a heated argument.
‘What the bloody hell’s that?’ said Jill.
‘Dunno,’ said Wayne, ‘sounds like a murder in progress. You stay here, I’ll go and have a look.’
He got out of bed, walked quietly to the door and had a look through the peephole.
Just outside their door, Otto and Frieda Daffasana were having a violent argument with Mr Efremoff and two of his sons.
Mr Efremoff was waving his arms around excitedly, his two sons were behind him trying to restrain him.
‘Why you do not mind your own business, you stink rubbish German bastard,’ shouted Mr Efremoff.
‘This is a respectable block of units,’ replied Mr Daffasana haughtily, ‘not a cheap hotel. You people wish to live like cattle, go somewhere else.’
‘I pay for my home,’ said Mr Efremoff. ‘What is mine is mine. Why don’t you mind your own business?’
‘My husband is in charge here,’ said Mrs Daffasana, her voice rising shrilly. ‘You people are no more than pigs. You will do what my husband says or leave.’
‘You call my family pigs, you German dog,’ roared Mr Efremoff, straining at his two sons. ‘I will kill you for this.’
‘Come closer and I call for the police,’ said Mr Daffasana, edging back.
‘You have insulted my family. You will die, you dog.’
Crikey, thought Wayne, I’d better say something or they’ll be here all night. He opened the door and stepped outside, a ferocious scowl on his face.
‘Righto, Mr Daffasana,’ he said looking directly at Otto and Frieda. ‘What do you think this is, bloody bush week. There’s people trying to get some sleep here, you know.’ He turned to one of the Efremoff sons, gave him a wink and glared back at the Daffasanas, pointing and waving his finger. ‘Just what do you think you’re bungin’ on. My wife and I won’t stand for this, I’ll have the agent round here tomorrow. It’s disgraceful.’
‘You have not heard the last of this,’ said Mr Daffasana as he and his wife retreated back into their flat. ‘You are a pig.’
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ screamed Mr Efremoff as his two burly sons dragged him up the stairs.
‘Goodnight, everyone,’ said Wayne. He closed the door quietly and went inside.
‘What was going on?’ asked Jill, as Wayne climbed back into bed.
‘Otto’s sprung the Russian dormitory. Now he wants to kick the Efremoffs out.’
‘God, does he ever let up?’
‘No. He’s just filthy on the world. But he’s gonna get it one of these days, don’t you worry about that.’
Jill cuddled up to Wayne and kissed him lightly on the neck. ‘Am I going to get it too?’ she asked coyly.
‘You, my dear,’ said Wayne, as he reached up and turned out the bed lamp, ‘are a very good chance also. Come here.’
The next day Wayne was on the phone to the agent trying hard not to laugh as he spoke.
‘That’s right, Mr Lewkovitz, he threatened to kill Mr Efremoff right outside my front door. And the language, I mean my wife’s a Roman Catholic, you know.’
‘Very well, Mr Nolan, I’ll have a word with him first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks, Mr Lewkovitz. Goodbye.’
The estate agent hung up the phone and covered his face with his hands. ‘Why me?’ he sighed, ‘Why me?’ He reached into a drawer in his desk and took out a packet of Serapax, squeezed one out of the silver foil and swallowed it. He looked at the other little pink pills momentarily, then squeezed another one out and took that too. ‘Why me?’ he sighed, ‘Why me?’
About a fortnight later Wayne was walking down Bondi Road after placing a few bets at the TAB. He was sauntering along just taking his time and checking out the shop windows, when something in a second-hand store caught his eye. It was a portable barbecue, in good condition and the price tag was only $20.00. He went in and checked it out.
It was a fairly simple little gadget, comprising three metal legs that screwed into an enamel bowl which held the charcoal, on top of which sat a revolving metal hot plate.
Barbies on the balcony, thought Wayne, what a beauty. He paid the proprietor, an ever-smiling but shifty-looking Syrian named Ha Keem, tucked the folded-up barbecue under his arm and went home, stopping at a hardware store on the way to get some charcoal and a packet of Little Lucifers.
That evening they were out on the balcony, Wayne and Jill plus her brother Bob and his girlfriend Sharon. The little barbecue worked a treat, and the sausages and cutlets were sizzling away being cooked to perfection. The aroma drifting up under his nose was making Bob’s mouth water.
‘That’s gotta be the best twenty bucks you ever spent, Wayne,’ he said, jabbing a sausage with a fork.
‘Mate, when it comes to having a good time,’ said Wayne, ‘money is absolutely no object to me.’ He took two twist-tops out of the esky next to him, screwed the caps off and handed one to Bob. ‘Here, get that inter ya.’
Jill and Sharon were standing there, quietly sipping chilled Moselle.
‘Hey, Wayne,’ said Sharon. ‘Isn’t that your friends from next door behind you?’
Wayne turned around. Otto and Frieda Daffasana were out on their balcony staring over at Wayne with looks of disgust etched on their faces. They had magazines in their hands and were fanning madly at the air with them.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ called out Mr Daffasana.
‘Having a few beers and a barby,’ replied Wayne. ‘What’s it look like.’ He let go a resonating belch in their direction.
‘You cannot light fires on your balcony,’ said Mrs Daffasana. ‘The smoke is staining our paintwork. It is coming in our unit. It is ruining my curtains.’
‘Ohh, go and have a shit,’ said Wayne.
The following evening at six o’clock there was a knock at the door. Wayne opened it and there stood the estate agent, Mr Lewkovitz. His eyes were slightly glazed, his back was stooped; he seemed to have shrunken somehow since the last time Wayne had seen him.
‘Hello, Mr Lewkovitz,’ said Wayne. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Mr Nolan, are you lighting fires on your balcony?’ The agent’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. ‘Mrs Daffasana says the smoke is staining the outside of their unit and getting into the lounge and ruining her curtains.’
‘Smoke, fires?’ said Wayne incredulously. ‘Come out here and I’ll show you something.’
He took the agent out onto the balcony, showed him the tiny barbecue and handed him the bag of charcoal.
‘There, what’s that say on the packet?’ said Wayne. ‘Smokeless bloody charcoal. Where’s the smoke comin’ from?’
The agent looked at Wayne, a strange, sleepy sort of half smile on his face. ‘You get a nice view from up here, don’t you, Mr Nolan.’
‘Yeah, on a clear day I can see right across the street,’ replied Wayne.
Mr Lewkovitz didn’t say another word. He just turned, walked slowly out of the flat and shuffled down the stairs into his car.
As he left Jill arrived home from work, still wearing her nurse’s uniform.
‘I just saw the estate agent as I was coming up the stairs,’ she said. ‘He was talking to himself. He doesn’t look at all well. I’ve seen that look on people when I was working out at the mental home. What did you say to him?’
Wayne told her what had happened.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.
‘He’s gonna get it,’ said Wayne. ‘Somehow, some way before we leave here, he’s gonna get it.’
Wayne and Jill regarded their dislike of Otto Daffasana more as a joke than anything else. To them, especially Wayne, it was more of a hoot annoying Otto than anything else. But Wayne’s waggish dislike for Otto turned into out-and-out hatred one afternoon about six weeks before they were due to move out.
It was a Wednesday, race day, Wayne hadn’t seen Sir Percy for a few days, so he thought he’d call round to his little room beneath the units and see what the old boy fancied at Warwick Farm that day. As he walked around he noticed an unusual amount of rubbish lying around the units. The gardens looked a little dry and neglected also, which was most unusual for Sir Percy.
The door to Sir Percy’s room was open when Wayne got there. He was about to knock loudly and barge in, in his usual cheeky manner, but he noticed the old fellow was sitting there, his head slumped on his chest, staring down at the floor, his face a picture of abject sadness. Wayne knocked on the door lightly.
‘Hey, Sir Perce, what’s doin’ old mate?’ asked Wayne.
Sir Percy didn’t appear to notice him. He just kept staring at the floor. ‘Hey, Sir Perce,’ asked Wayne again, ‘are you okay?’
Sir Percy slowly turned and faced Wayne. There were tears in the old man’s eyes.
‘I’ve been sacked as caretaker,’ he said, his voice barely audible.
Wayne was stunned. ‘You’ve what?’
‘Daffasana’s in charge now and he’s had me replaced as caretaker,’ sobbed the old man.
Wayne couldn’t believe it. To him Sir Percy wasn’t just a nice old bloke he’d made friends with, he was a part of that block of units. Like the gardens he so carefully looked after and the trees and flowers, Sir Percy was a part of them. Like the little birds that used to eat crumbs out of Sir Percy’s hands amongst those trees and flowers. Sir Percy was part of it all. He was just there.
Wayne sat on the table next to the old caretaker and put his arm round his shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened, old mate,’ he said.
‘I used to get twenty dollars a week as caretaker. Daffasana got a contract cleaner, one of his Jew mates, to come in and do it an hour a week for fifteen.’
‘You mean they sacked you to save a lousy five dollars a week.’ Wayne was astounded and angry. ‘But you used to spend all week lookin’ after the place, not just a bloody hour.’
‘I know, Wayne. But I tell you,’ said the old man, a tinge of anger entering his voice, ‘I won’t do another thing in this damn block of flats.’
Wayne stayed with Sir Percy for a while then figured it might be best if he left the old fellow on his own.
‘I’ll come back down and see you later on,’ he said. He patted the old bloke on the shoulder then left quietly, half closing the door behind him.
Later that afternoon when Jill got home from work, Wayne told her over a cup of tea what had happened to Sir Percy. Jill was almost as upset as Wayne.
‘God,’ she said, ‘he must be a terrible sort of person to do that.’
‘I tell you, Jill, before we leave here I’m gonna get quits on that bastard somehow,’ said Wayne. ‘I’ve thought of a dozen ways, but I just need that one extra.’
‘A dozen ways and you need one extra, eh!’ said Jill. ‘Something like a baker’s dozen.’
‘Yeah, a baker’s dozen. An extra good one for Otto.’
It would only be a few more weeks now and they would be moving from their unit. They’d informed Mr Lewkovitz and had already sent a lot of their belongings up to Coffs Harbour by train. Jill would take her car up in another couple of weeks and catch the plane back.
Seeing as he wasn’t going to be around much longer, Wayne used to call in to the Royal Hotel most afternoons to have a few last drinks with all his mates. He didn’t mind a game of pool and a few schooners of Old with the boys.
This particular afternoon he was with his mate Arthur, a panel-beater from Kempsey. They were playing a game of doubles against two big Maoris. They were only playing for beers so they weren’t taking the game very seriously and were just potting balls and talking as they were going along.
‘Jesus, I had a nice bastard of a day at work today,’ said Arthur, taking a giant pull at his schooner.
‘Yeah, what happened?’ Wayne moved round to the other side of the pool table, took a shot, missed and sunk the white. ‘Shit,’ he said. He looked back up at Arthur, ‘What happened?’
‘I was workin’ on this Alfa Romeo,’ said Arthur, draining his schooner. ‘Just as I’d gone to lunch the silly bloody apprentice has accidentally flipped a spreader full of epoxy resin all over the door.’
‘Epoxy resin?’
‘Yeah, like hardener superglue, sort of.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Anyway, when I got back from lunch the bloody stuff had gone off and jammed up the whole bloody door. The windows, the locks, the flipper windows, every bloody thing.’
‘Fair dinkum.’
‘Yeah, I spent nearly two hours tryin’ to clean it out. Finished up havin’ to replace the whole bloody door. Brand-new bloody Alfa, the boss was screamin’.’
‘What was the name of that stuff again?’
‘Epoxy resin.’
‘Epoxy resin, eh.’ Wayne tapped his pool cue thoughtfully against his leg. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said, ‘very interesting indeed.’
The following afternoon Wayne was down the boat sheds at North Bondi. Two fishermen had just come in, hauled their boat up and were cleaning and gutting their catch on the rocks near the water’s edge. Wayne walked over to them, a large plastic bag in his hand.
‘Hey, fellahs,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t spare us a few fish heads, could ya?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ said one of the fishermen, a little dumpy bloke in an Easts jumper with a blue denim cap pulled down over his head. ‘You goin’ wormin’, are ya?’
‘Yeah, gonna try and get some blood worms and wrigglers,’ replied Wayne.
‘Good idea, plenty of whiting on at the moment. Here y’are, help y’self.’
Wayne took half a dozen large fish heads and put them in the plastic bag. He thanked the fishermen then walked up to his car and drove home.
On the balcony he had a large plastic four-litre honey jar he’d brought home from the bakery. He put the fish heads in it, filled it full of water, then screwed the lid back on very tight, putting just a tiny pin hole in the lid before he wrapped it in a plastic bag and left it in a corner of the balcony.
That night Wayne and Jill were lying next to each other in bed. They were both trying to read a book but Wayne kept laughing and coming out with these silly giggles all the time.
Finally Jill could take no more, she reached across and gave Wayne a clout over the head.
‘What the hell are you laughing at, you stupid bastard?’ she said. ‘You’re driving me mad. I think you’re mad.’
‘I’ve got me baker’s dozen,’ said Wayne, then roared laughing again.
Jill sat up. ‘You mean with Daffasana?’
‘Right on, momma.’
‘Tell me what it is.’
‘I’ll tell you when we get to Bulahdelah.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘I’ll tell you at Bulahdelah.’ He roared laughing again. ‘It’ll be better then, you’ll see.’
‘I think you’re mad,’ said Jill and switched off her light.
On the Saturday night, a week before they were due to leave, Jill’s brother put on a farewell party for them at his house. It was a ripper of a party, all their friends were there and they ate, drank, sang and carried on till about four in the morning. Wayne could put a schooner away at the best of times but that night he drank enough beer to fill a dry dock.
There were no parking spots out the front when they got home and Wayne was too drunk to get the car in the garage so he parked out the back of the units, in the corner, next to a sign Daffasana had put up that said STRICTLY NO PARKING IN THIS AREA. The car wasn’t in anyone’s way, just possibly a mild inconvenience if you happened to be turning your car in that area.
‘’Sonly for the night, anyway,’ mumbled Wayne as Jill helped him up the stairs, not that she was in much better condition. ‘I’ll move it firs’ thing inna morning.’
When Wayne surfaced about lunchtime the next day he was a very sick man. His stomach felt as if he’d tried to commit hari-kari and he had a hangover about the same size as the Israeli defence budget. He staggered to the kitchen, popped two Codral Reds into his mouth and washed them down with half a can of Coca-Cola. The bubbles stung his throat and made his eyes water. He let go a rancid belch that rattled all the dishes in the cupboards.
‘Wonderful,’ he said, ‘that should put a head on everything I drank last night.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shit, I’d better go down and shift my car.’
When he got down to the parking area one of his tyres had been let down. You didn’t have to be Einstein to figure out who did it.
‘You rotten bludger,’ said Wayne. But instead of getting angry and throwing things around, he calmly got the jack and tyre lever out of the car and smiled up towards the Daffasanas’ unit. ‘Don’t worry, Otto,’ he said slowly. ‘Yours is coming too.’
The night before they left, Wayne and Jill were lying next to each other on two blow-up mattresses; they had plenty of blankets but were cuddling up to keep warm. The flat was completely bare, except for enough things to make a cup of tea in the morning, and the car was packed and in the garage, ready to go.
‘Well,’ said Wayne, ‘it won’t be long and we’ll be in that warm Coffs Harbour sunshine. I’ll be in the shop and then after that I can make a respectable woman out of you.’
‘About time, too,’ said Jill. ‘I do love you, Wayne. You know that, don’t you. For a half-bald baker with a fat stomach, you’re not half bad.’ She cuddled up a bit closer. ‘Not half bad at all.’
‘And I love you, too,’ said Wayne. ‘For a cranky old nurse with smelly feet and a big backside, you’ll do me.’ He kissed her gently on the head. ‘You’ll do me. See you in the morning.’
‘Nigh’ night.’
It was cold, dark and drizzling rain when they got up at three-thirty the next morning. They had a quick cup of tea and a biscuit, then Wayne got the car out of the garage and parked it out the front of the flats. Jill came down with the rest of the stuff that Wayne hadn’t already put in the car.
‘Is there anything left up there?’ he asked.
‘No, not a thing,’ replied Jill.
‘Did you leave the door open?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right, well wait here. I’ll be back in about ten minutes.’
Wayne ran quickly but quietly back up to the flat. Jill had left the light on in the kitchen like he told her to. He went to the balcony, took the plastic honey jar with the fish heads and water in it, out of the plastic bag and carried it carefully into the kitchen. From out of one of the cupboards he got two tubes of epoxy resin, one white one, one red one. He poured two small, equal amounts on a piece of cardboard and mixed them together.
He checked his watch. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ve got seven minutes before they go off.’
Turning the kitchen light off, he went out into the hall and, by the light of a slim pencil torch held in his mouth, he poked a few drops into the deadlock on Mr Daffasana’s door, using one of Jill’s bobby pins. He only poked it into the deadlock, leaving the ordinary doorlock; he wanted them to be able to get out all right but not back in.
He hurried back into the kitchen, put the two tubes of resin in the pocket of his jacket, picked up the jar of fish heads and, with the resin mix in one hand and the plastic jar in the other, he ran quietly down the darkened stairs, softly closing the door of the flat behind him.
There were two doors on Mr Daffasana’s garage, a ‘tilt-a-door’ at the front and, because his was at the end of the row, a side one as well. With the pencil torch in his mouth Wayne glued up the locks on each.
‘There you go, Otto,’ said Wayne silently to himself, ‘that ought to keep you occupied for a while. And now the final touch.’
Tying a large handkerchief across his nose and mouth, Wayne unscrewed the top of the honey jar containing the month-old fish heads in water and, careful not to splash any on himself, took a deep breath and poured the vile-smelling brew all around Daffasana’s garage, making sure plenty ran under the side door.
Even holding his breath and with the hanky over his face, the stench nearly knocked him out. It was the most putrid, nauseating smell Wayne had ever experienced; even worse than when the plumbers found two dead rats that had been blocking up the drain in the bakery.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he gasped as he felt the tea and biscuits rising up in his throat. He tore the hanky off his face and threw up into the garden. As he crouched heaving over the flowers, he noticed the fish heads scattered around Daffasana’s garage. They were nothing more than solidified, shapeless lumps of green slime. He turned away and shuddered.
But the job was done. He threw the honey jar into the incinerator under the units, then ran out to the car, jumped in, started the motor and drove off.
They hadn’t gone fifty yards when Jill started sniffing. She gave Wayne a look of disgust. ‘Pooh,’ she said, ‘did you just fart?’
‘No.’
‘Liar.’ She wound the window half down and put her face to it. They headed off up Bondi Road, stopping once to drop the keys into the estate agency letter box. Next stop Bulahdelah.
They pulled up at the Shell all-night restaurant just outside Bulahdelah at around 7.30 a.m. Wayne had been giggling and laughing like a school kid nearly all the way up, but Jill switched herself off at Hornsby and ignored him.
‘Righto,’ said Wayne as he switched the motor off, ‘time for breakfast and time I told you what’s goin’ on.’
While they waited for their bacon and eggs to arrive, Wayne explained to Jill exactly what he’d done. At first she just looked at him, her mouth slightly open, then she started to laugh till finally she cracked up completely.
‘Ohh, you sneaky low bastard,’ she gasped, trying to control the spasms of laughter that were racking her body. ‘So that was your baker’s dozen.’
‘That was it.’
‘Well, you couldn’t have done it to a nicer bloke.’
‘And if my timing’s right,’ said Wayne, looking at his watch, ‘fat Otto and Frieda should be just on their way to work while we’re sitting here having breakfast.’
They glanced into each other’s eyes for a moment, then started to roar laughing till finally they collapsed into each other’s arms across the table. The waitress serving them looked at them like they were either mad or on drugs.
Back at the units, Otto was bustling Frieda out the door. ‘Come along, Frieda,’ he said, ‘we must not be late, I have a lot of work on today.’
‘Yes, Otto, I am hurrying as fast as I can.’
Otto Daffasana was a partner in a television repair shop with an Austrian who was just as mean and miserable as he was. Frieda was their secretary.
He closed the door behind them and gave it a shake to make sure it was secure. Satisfied it was, he proceeded down the stairs to the garage, herding Frieda along in front of him.
The sun had come up hours earlier and, though it wasn’t really hot, it was enough to dry the slime into the concrete around Otto’s garage and attract every fly in Bondi. The Daffasanas were about ten feet from the garage when the stink hit them.
‘Ach du libber,’ roared Otto, ‘vas ist das?’
‘Gott in himmel,’ said Frieda. ‘Someone has been sick here, something has died.’
They stood there in the patches of slime and fish heads, trying not to be sick. Frieda’s face was chalk white, Otto’s was more of a delicate green.
‘I will get the hose,’ he said. He held his breath and jabbed the key into the side door of the garage. It would go in, but it wouldn’t turn. He pushed it, turned it and banged it but to no avail. ‘What is wrong with this door?’ he shrieked. He ran round to the tilt-a-door, almost slipping in a patch of slime. After several attempts, he found he couldn’t get that door to open either. Otto’s face was starting to redden and his chest was starting to heave. He thrust the keys at Frieda. ‘Here, go and get the spare keys out of the kitchen, I will get a hose from the caretaker.’
Frieda waddled off up the stairs like a baby hippo, while Otto stormed around to Sir Percy’s little room under the units. Sir Percy was sitting there sipping a cup of tea and reading a newspaper.
‘Get your hose and come and wash away this mess outside my garage,’ demanded Otto.
‘I’m not the cleaner,’ said Sir Percy, almost ignoring him, ‘clean it your-bloody-self.’
‘Then give me your hose.’
‘I’ll give you nothing,’ replied Sir Percy. ‘Go to the shithouse.’ He reached over and slammed the door in Otto’s face with his foot. Seething with frustration and anger, Otto charged back out to the garage just as Frieda came down the stairs.
‘Otto,’ she cried, ‘the key will not work. I cannot get the door to open.’
‘What?’ roared Otto. He tore the keys out of Frieda’s hand and took off up the stairs. By the time he reached their unit, Otto’s heart was banging away like a Keith Moon drum solo and his ulcer had gone into overdrive. His fat body wasn’t used to this sudden burst of exercise.
After several attempts at banging on the door and trying to force the lock, Otto turned to face Frieda, who had wheezed her way slowly up the stairs.
‘Someone has done this to us, Frieda,’ he screamed. ‘It is a conspiracy. Those Russians pigs or that schweinehund cleaner, or could it be …’
He ran over and banged on the door of Wayne’s old unit, but it didn’t take him long to realise he was wasting his time. By now the veins around Otto’s neck were starting to stick out like battery cables.
‘They will not stop me,’ he roared defiantly. ‘I will smash the lock on the garage.’
He lurched drunkenly off down the stairs with Frieda in hot pursuit.
By the time he got to the garage, Otto had lost his self-control. He grabbed a large stone from the garden and charged at the garage door, laughing insanely, but his foot slipped on one of the fish heads and he landed with a thump on his backside in the slime and the fish heads. The rock flew up in the air and crashed down on Frieda’s foot. She howled with pain.
Otto made it clumsily to his feet only to slip and fall head-first into the fish heads and slime again. By now, Otto’s face looked like a big red soccer ball. He lay there, face-down in the slime, sobbing and clutching at his chest.
‘Frieda,’ he gasped, ‘I cannot breathe. Get the doctor.’
Frieda limped to the middle of the parking area. ‘Help me,’ she cried, ‘my husband has collapsed. Call an ambulance someone.’
Sergei and Rossana Efremoff had been watching all this from their balcony. They hadn’t enjoyed anything so much since they lifted the siege of Leningrad.
‘Shut up, you stupid German cow,’ Rossana called out.
Two of the Vietnamese students came out of the units on their way to university. They looked at Frieda and saw poor Otto lying there, so one of them ran back upstairs and called an ambulance.
The paramedics screamed up about ten minutes later. They walked over to Otto, still lying face-down on the concrete, and the stench hit their nostrils.
‘Christ, Davo, it looks like his bowels have collapsed.’
‘Well, I’m not givin’ him the kiss of life, Ron. No way.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘What if he dies?’
‘Smells like he’s been dead for a month anyway.’
They finally manhandled Otto into the ambulance with fat Frieda alongside and screamed off to the hospital.
A week after they arrived in Coffs Harbour, Wayne and Jill were married in a simple ceremony at a little church in Sawtell. A week later Jill informed Wayne over tea one night that she was pregnant. She was as happy as Larry but she had to tell Wayne in her own way.
‘Wayne darling,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some news for you.’
‘What?’
‘I’m hiding in the tea-pot.’
‘What do you mean, you’re hiding in the tea-pot?’
‘I’m up the spout.’
Not long after that they were both working in the bakery. Jill was in the shop cleaning out the pie warmer, Wayne was out the back. He’d just finished sprinkling shredded coconut over a tray of lamingtons and was washing the dough-break.
Jill swept the pieces of pie crust and pastry out of the pie warmer and put them on some sheets of a month-old Sydney newspaper. As she wrapped them up she was absentmindedly glancing at the newsprint, not taking a great deal of notice, when something caught her eye. She read it, quickly read it again, then gave a little scream.
She ran out the back of the shop and got Wayne. ‘Wayne, come out here and read this, quick, quick, quick.’ She dragged Wayne over to the sheet of newspaper. ‘There, read that.’
Wayne swept the crumbs off the newspaper with his hand and read it out aloud.
‘Let’s see now — it says here, “A Mr Otto Daffasana died today after three weeks in a mental institution. Mr Daffasana collapsed after suffering a mild heart attack early one morning in a block of home units at Bondi last month. Mr Daffasana spent one week in hospital, but was finally transferred to Ryde Psychiatric Centre where he died in his sleep. Mr Daffasana leaves a widow but no children.”
‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ said Wayne, sitting down on the counter.
‘Be buggered indeed,’ said Jill. ‘You know what this makes you, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Technically, you’re a murderer.’
‘Well, if I am, I know one old bloke that won’t give me up.’
Back at the units in Denham Street, Bondi, Sir Percy was pottering around amongst the flowers and trees he loved and cared for so much. A cheeky little sparrow fluttered down and landed on his cap, another two started bobbing up and down near his feet.
‘I suppose you want something to eat,’ he said. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can find.’
He went into his room and came back with a piece of bread which he broke up and started feeding to the birds. One jumped up on his hand and started pecking at the bread in his fingers. Sir Percy laughed.
‘You’re a cheeky little bugger, aren’t you?’ he said slowly. ‘You remind me a bit of my young friend, the baker.’ He glanced up at Wayne’s old flat. ‘I wonder what he’s doing now. I bet he’d get a shock if he knew I was chairman of the body corporate.’ He broke the rest of the bread up and threw it to the rest of the sparrows. ‘Anyway, birds,’ he said, ‘I can’t be standing here all day, I’ve got work to do. Besides, I’m getting thirty dollars a week now, you know.’
He adjusted his tie and cap, grabbed a broom and started sweeping the path, whistling softly as he went.