WILD ORCHIDS - CHAPTER SIX by Denise Main and Ian Chisholm
Have you read the previous chapter yet?
The storm hit. It was not long after they bade each other good night, though expecting winter’s chill to creep into their thin sleeping bags with them. A mean blast of icy rain laden wind barrelled in from the ocean. On its way it found a tunnel under a blue stone bridge and blasted through with a vengeance, and in the pitch blackness it shafted two long shapes huddled on the floor wedged close to the protection of the stone wall. Another gust screamed in sweeping and scattering their loose belongings before it. The primus stove lifted from its stand whirling over the stony floor with a deafening clatter.
One of the shapes heaved and let out a long moan.
‘Gees’s Archie, this wicked front from the south is taking its time to move through. It’s been roaring like a banshee for the last hour. I’m chilled to the bone, but there’s no escape.’
‘Have to say George,’ Archie, shivering in his sack, croaked a reply, ‘Couldn’t have stuck this out on my own, it’s scared me witless. Saying my prayers and having you next to me were the only things that kept me staying put in this sleeping bag. But don’t know what I would’ve done anyway.’
‘Just hang in Arch, we’ll be outa here soon,’ George said with little conviction.
Dawn finally broke lighting the grey skies with feeble rays that held little promise.
‘We have no chance of clearing all the stuff and fixing damage done until the weather improves, but to stay any longer means aching empty stomachs adding to our already chilled misery.’ George continued, ‘I think we should make sure no loose stuff is floating about which might give our spot away. Then, let’s get out of here before the next downpour traps us again,’ he said, pulling his cap low over his head as he crawled fully dressed from the sleeping bag.
‘Much better to get out and seek some warm shelter while we can,’ Archie agreed, shivering despite still wearing his great coat and ugg boots.
Their shoes squelched in a sodden stretch of thick grass as they plodded along the narrow track beside Fingal’s Creek and where they found the rough excuse for a path that ran between the swift flowing stream and the sealed roadway metres above.
With chins tucked deep into their coat collars, they dragged their wet, bedraggled shoppers in a silence that was like a second skin, letting their minds roam with random thoughts of anything but the mess they had left under the Bridge. George led the way as they picked up pace trying to avoid waves of water that cars threw up onto the footpath. Another downpour of rain driven on a fierce squall, stung their weary faces and trickled its icy trail down their necks. It was in the comfort of Café Ecstasy where they would wait until the library opened.
The doorbell jingled as they shuffled into the café. A heady aroma of brewing coffee greeted their nostrils; small smiles creased their tight lips. Two chairs at a table in a far corner were vacant A cheery, rosy cheeked waitress, arrived bearing their orders: large, steaming, mugs of coffee.
Wanting to stay as long as possible, to get their minds from the terrors of the night storm, they sipped slowly on the hot drinks. What they needed most was a feeling of normality, with normal people around them, doing normal things. However, when George glanced around, he let out a gasp of annoyance and muttered,
‘Someone has commandeered the Age newspaper. I was hoping to get it first,’ he scowled and reached for a crumpled Herald Sun. He flicked through the pages, while Archie took a much-needed trip to the toilet.
‘Nothing here, nothing here,’ George muttered under his breath, quickly glancing at the headlines. After reading the cartoon pages he turned to the weather report and thought, just the same miserable weather in Melbourne.
When Archie returned, George passed him the pages he had just read.
The rain had eased. After drinking the last dregs from the mugs, noting the time, they reluctantly left the café.
‘Not sure what you want to do Archie, but I’m off to see if Sergio has a handout to get us through tonight. Catch you later back at the Bridge and then see if we can get our stuff together again.’
‘Righto. Now that I’ve warmed up and something in my belly, I’ll head to the market and whittle away some time there, maybe get a yesterday’s pie or something to see me through.’
Usually, once a week George went to the Commonwealth Bank of Australia to withdraw just enough from his fortnightly pension to pool it with Archie’s to buy their necessities, mostly, food. The balance was left to accumulate so that he could eventually make restitution and fulfill the promise he had solemnly made to himself. But not today he thought, gotta get somewhere to stay warm for a while longer. Sergio’s place is where I’ll go first.
George walked into the fruit shop and was greeted by Sergio with an extravagant flourish of arms. Rosa, his wife, watched on with a disapproving pout of her lip.
‘Greetings, proprietor of the best fruit shop this side of the Black Stump. How’s it all going?’
‘Eh, Georgio my gooda man, one of my favourite customa. I gotta some thingsa for you. Apples ana nice buncha banan. An’ the rocka melon. I know you notta minda the seconds. Eh, anna whatsa this ‘ere blackastump.’
‘Just an old saying we have Sergio, to say how good you are,’ George said smiling and thanked him for his generosity. George left a happy man. Rosa was not as well pleased.
Eh Serge, you so kind t’dat old hobo, whatsa his name? Ah, Georgio? I saw youa give im extra banan and rocka mel and you no charge for him.’
‘Thatsa right Rosa, I’m give Georgio the olda stuff. Anna I no worries that hesa hobo, whata ya callim. Me, I think he’sa gooda bloke. He’sa speak real nice. Him sound likea he’s well educate. Mebe hesa been a teach or sumating.’
‘Wella then, how come he gotta long hair anna scruffy beard and smelly olda clothes if he been a teach or sumating?’
Sergio did not answer, lost in thought. Rosa crossed her arms over her ample bosom and watched him, a frown on her face. He slowly took an apple from the box, polished it with a cloth and placed it on top of the already impressive display of shiny fresh Pink Ladys. He turned and faced his wife.
‘Rosa, you know me good. I gotta softa spot for enabody whatsa hard up. And you rememb’ how we is when we comma ’ere this country? How kinda was alla da people? An’ I never forget.’
‘So, you say the hobo is harder up, eh? Rememb when we had trouble with that bloke you trust, eh?’
‘That bloke, he was trouble make. Not like Georgio. Told me he no wanna make the trouble in Fingal. Him just wanna live peaceful. Him a tough livin, poor old bugger, that’s what.
‘Sergio, you too trusting for him.’
‘Rosa, Rosa my dear, you gotta suspish mind. I’m tella you that bloke, he’sa all aright bloke, that one. I tella you somating else for nutting. He tella me he’s a musish. Him play trumpet ana da harmonica. Knows lotsa stuff likea Paverott anna Puccini anna Caruso anna Mario Lanza. How can a bloke what likes Italliano Opera be a bada one eh?’
‘Yair, all you need is start to talk da opera ana you hooked I know you, Sergio Pellini.’
A smiling Sergio polished another apple with his sleeve and placed it carefully on the pile. The thought of his first love, music, set him humming under his breath everyone’s favourite, Come Back to Sorrento. He had an idea. It was about Georgio and his music. The shop had begun to fill with customers; Rosa had already settled behind the cash register.
George dragged his now bulging shopper and quickly headed to the library. Being itinerant, he wasn’t eligible to borrow books, but free to sit and read papers, magazines and books from the shelves. Often, he would settle in and relish the quiet, warm comfort of the library spaces and the impressively well-stocked shelves. He walked in and went straight to collect a current copy of the Age, found a comfortable chair and scanned the pages. The headline at the bottom of page five held his attention.
St. Kilda Hostel Under Investigation.
The Warwick Hostel in Herron Street, St Kilda, has been temporarily closed pending a full police investigation. On these premises, an increasing number of serious assaults on fellow guests, have been reported to the police over the past month. The investigation has led to the discovery of drug use and trafficking. With little co-operation from the hostel proprietor and staff, the police ordered closure of the hostel until further notice. Police are appealing to anyone who has stayed at this hostel in recent weeks to come forward to assist in their enquiries.
George sat staring at the page for several minutes. Serious violence? Drug use? Trafficking? Help the police with their enquiries? God, I’m glad Archie and I scampered out of there with no forwarding address. What sort of violence? The investigation is just what we don’t need, he thought, his mind in a whirl. I’d better keep this to myself, don’t want him to get jumpy over something we don’t need to.
He closed the newspaper and shakily replaced it on the stand. Needing something to distract him, he scanned the shelves and released a long sigh of pleasure when his eyes rested on a collection of Shakespearian plays.
Once settled, he slumped into in a comfortable chair, his long fingers stroked the deep maroon, embossed cover as one would stroke a beloved cat. Time ticked by. George hardly noticed as he turned the pages, stopped reading every now and then, to gaze into space, deep in thought. He wrote his favourite quotes in a dogeared notebook. There were two he wanted to share with Archie that night. The first was from Henry V.
All the world’s a stage and all the
Men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances.
And one man in his time plays many parts.
George thought the quote was pertinent to them; mere players in the strange new life they had created.
The second from King John, was not unlike their day-to-day existence, living rough under a bridge.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
George’s cosy, dreamy, mindset was interrupted by a group of school children noisily taking up their place for a story telling session. Then the reality of what the storm had left in its trail under the Bridge shafted what was left of his dreaming. He groaned hoping Archie may have already reached their rough camp and had begun the task of retrieving what he could and setting things to right. At least he had a shopper full of Sergio’s generosity, and they would eat that night.
