WILD ORCHIDS - PROLOGUE AND CHAPTER ONE
By Denise Main and Ian Chisholm
Prologue
The yellow taxi pulled up outside a Conference Centre in St Kilda Road. Colourful flags fluttered in the warm breeze, large posters and notice boards announced the 2019 Richard Trengove Literary Festival. A tall heavy-set figure emerged from the taxi; the shoulder strap of a leather bag slung over his broad shoulder. It contained the book which had been the tipping point in shaping the new chapter in his life.
Oscar Stone was greeted at the steps by an event official wearing a colourful summer dress and a wide smile.
‘Mr Stone, welcome to Melbourne and the opening of this year’s Festival,’ she enthused, with an outstretched hand. ‘I’m Adrienne, assisting the event organiser who you will meet shortly.’
‘Thank you, Adrienne, please call me Oscar. It is my pleasure to be here as your guest speaker.’
They went through the large white panel doors and weaved their way through the milling crowd in the foyer and to a side room where a table was set with morning tea refreshments.
‘Oscar, please help yourself, make yourself comfortable, while I let our MC know you are here.’ She waved toward the table and hurried from the room, leaving a lingering hint of her perfume.
Putting aside the shoulder bag, he poured a full cup from the coffee plunger and settled into a chair. Taking his newly released book from his bag, he gazed at the glossy cover depicting he rear-view image of two men walking along a narrow road, a ginger cat trotting at their heels. He turned it over in his hands and studied the first sentence of the book’s blurb, which he had written and re-read many times. It began: ‘This is a story of two men and a cat; a fiction inspired by a true story.’
He drained the last of his coffee and with the book still in his hand, he wandered to the window and gazed out to the magnificent, tree-lined boulevard; his mind drifted to where it had all unfolded.
The door opened and Adrienne appeared.
‘Oscar we are ready for you. Would you come through to the staged area please?’ Oscar turned from the window and followed her. On the stage the MC welcomed him and turned to the audience.
‘Please help me welcome Oscar Stone, Director of the London Publishing House, Dragonfly and resident of Fingal Sound on Victoria’s south coast.’
Oscar stood before the microphone, smiled and nodded his appreciation until the clapping subsided. With a wide smile on his still handsome face and his dark eyes shining with enthusiasm, he was ready to present the book Wild Orchids and how it came to be.
‘I would like to introduce you to the book by reading the first few lines ….
Chapter one: the bridge
Hunger had been his constant companion for the best part of two days.
It was the smell he noticed first. It hit him like a blow when he opened the door to the hostel. A nauseating sickly-sweet mix, with an added deodorant which did little to obliterate the reek of stale tobacco, musty sweat, decay and desperation. Archie Pilgrim put the rag he carried in his pocket to his red nose and blew loudly, hoping to rid his nostrils of the cloying offensive odour. If it wasn’t for the squally wind outside carrying an icy cold rain of a Melbourne autumn night, he might have about-faced and left to seek another shelter. He stood in the dark, his blue eyes, red ringed from the cold, sunk deep into his lined, weathered face. He quickly scanned the foyer.
With a loud scrape, the door behind him. Silently, a dark shadowy shape emerged from a doorway marked Private.
‘Help ya mate?’ The shape came into the dim yellow light of the entrance. A hulk of a man stood before Archie and peered down at him with dark hooded eyes imbedded in a craggy face that showed the ravages of a life lived hard.
‘Lookin’ for a room, just fer tonight?’ he barked. ‘Can’t give ya one on yer own. Is ya willin’ to share with two others?’
‘If that’s all you have, I’ll have to take it, I s’pose,’ Archie mumbled. ‘How much?’
‘Twenty bucks. That’s fer sheets and towel.’
‘I’ll take it.’ Archie pulled a folded note from his trouser pocket.
‘No. 6, it’s down the corrida.’ The attendant took the note and pointed a long nicotine-stained finger in the direction of no. 6.
The door was open and Archie cautiously peered into a cold stark room roughly painted in a wan green with one grimy closed window. There were three single iron beds, each with a stained bare striped mattress, a thin pillow and a grey blanket. Archie walked to the bed furthest from the door, under the window and hoped fervently that with some luck, the other beds might not be taken.
‘I’ll just hang in, stay tonight, then get out of here first thing, but to goodness knows where, because I don’t,’ he muttered.
The hot shower he had craved for days was a short-lived relief. It was clear that he couldn’t stay in the shower cubicle a minute longer than necessary. He recoiled in horror at the grey mould that crept out from every crevice and up the walls, never mind the more than suspicious brown stains on the shower base, which had him curl up his toes in disgust while he waited for the hot water to flush them away. The dubious looking black streaked and cracked mustard yellow floor made him cringe as he quickly dried himself, only taking the time to put on the same worn singlet and underpants wanting to escape the pigsty of a bathroom. Clasping his clothes to his chest he scurried away, back to no. 6.
Archie gasped when he reached the door and was confronted by a bedraggled looking man sitting shivering in his wet great coat on the bed nearest the door. His long, straggly, dark greying hair sat lankly on the upturned collar.
‘Hiya,’ the man said between shivers. ‘Name’s George. Looks like we’re sharing the room.’
‘Yeah. Name’s Archie. Me just for tonight,’ Archie said recovering from the shock of the bathroom and then seeing someone already claiming another bed.
‘So, what brings you to a dump like this just for the night? George enquired, lowering his eyes as Archie pulled on his trousers and woollen jumper.
Archie hesitated, not sure how much he wanted to tell this stranger.
‘Just landed in the city this morning. I’ve been living rough, wearing my shoes thin trudging the back roads north of the Murray River for a while. How’s about you?’
‘No story t’tell, really. Lived in the city all my life. Decided it would be best to sleep under a roof tonight while the weather’s so bad. Safer too, I guess.’
‘I’m not used to the city. Only to visit a couple of times. Thought I’d give it a try. A bit of a change from the country,’ Archie added.
‘Hey, the country sounds good to me, especially given my present circumstances.’
After the brief introductions the two men studiedly ignored each other in the room dimly lit by one overhead bare lightbulb. George draped his damp coat on the end of the iron bed and side-by-side they made up the narrow beds with almost see-through sheets and grey army blankets.
George and Archie, already in their beds, heard the door creak open, were startled as it slammed shut and the dim light was switched on. Their eyes swivelled to see a gaunt, sallow faced man shuffle into the room, ignoring them. He dragged behind him a battered candy-striped bag and went to the vacant bed. Archie’s eyes stayed on him as the sallow faced man threw the grey blanket over the mattress and slumped onto the bed. With hoarse groans he yanked off the muddy boots, buttoned up his coat and shuffled to turn off the light, emitting a loud fart as he lowered himself onto the creaking bed. Archie gave a sigh of relief and tried for sleep.
Accepting things for what they were, George tried to accommodate his feet hanging over the end of the bed, as well as the thinness and musty smell of the blanket, which he guessed, hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine since day one. He rubbed his belly; his stomach and innards grumbled. Hunger had been his constant companion for the last two days.
Archie, lay wide awake, disturbed by the outside swish of passing cars and the rumbling clatter of trams, but worst of all was the horrible snoring, gurgling and choking noises coming from the sallow faced man’s bed. He said his prayers yet again and went over well-known hymns to distract himself, all to no avail, for the guttural sounds coming from the third bed seemed to vibrate through his skull. However, eventually he drifted into an uneasy sleep.
A loud, angry shout jolted him wide-eyed awake. Before he could utter a cry, Archie felt a stinging blow to the top of his head followed by a flurry of punches and whacks to his face, chest and raised arms. Searing pain shot through his chest and sent waves of fear tightening his throat. With a loud thwack, another heavy blow landed on the bridge of his nose. A voice, shouted from the dark,
‘What the hell!!!!!’. George sprang out of bed; his fingers reached for the light switch. With a crackle and a fizz, the single globe hanging from the ceiling dimly lit the room. George was confronted by the sight of Archie cowering beneath a flurry of flailing arms.
He caught his breath as he stared at the man whose wild eyes glared out from a tangled mass of wiry greying hair. The yellowed teeth were clenched in a bizarre grimace as if George had suddenly appeared in a magical flash of light. With a shriek the man charged at George, spitting great globs of mucus. George ducked the blows and smashed his fist into the lunatic’s throat, then sent another blow to the side of his jaw and a third to the pit of his belly. George wrestled a bloodied torch from the man’s gnarled hand and struck him again with a crack to the side of the head. Stricken, with a deep groan, he staggered back and slumped on his bed where he lay in a crumpled heap, motionless and silent. Archie and George rushed to his bedside. Archie felt for a pulse and peered at the pallid, battered face.
‘I think there’s a weak pulse,’ his voice faltered. George shook the shoulder of the crumpled figure.
‘That’s fixed the raving lunatic. He’s out like a light; pretty sure he won’t bother us anymore tonight. Hope I haven’t gone over the top, though,’ he added nervously, as he watched the blood ooze from the head wound.
‘After all George, you were only defending us.’ Archie added nervously, ‘He was the one who started the attack.’
‘You should look at your face, it’s a bloody mess,’ George exclaimed.
‘Can’t feel a thing,’ Archie croaked. ‘It’s completely numb.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him while you go clean up.’ George suggested, ‘I can’t wait to get out of here.’
‘Me too,’ Archie echoed.
As soon as dawn’s light snuck through the smears in the window, George and Archie were ready to high tail it out of that hell hole. The man in the third bed hadn’t stirred.
‘He is quite still.’ Archie croaked.
‘Yeah, by the awful colour of his face he doesn’t look too good, George said. ‘Let’s get outa here. I wouldn’t want to get involved with the cops.’
Clutching their belongings, they closed the door on No 6, crept down the corridor and left the building. George began running up the footpath to the train station and panted,
‘Mate, I’m going to try and catch the next train, any train and I don’t care to where, anything to get away from here quick smart in case that madman has carked it and we get the blame. Might see ya around.’
‘Hey, George, wait for me, I’m not sticking around either. Even though we didn’t do anything to seriously harm him, did we?’ Archie called after him, his shorter legs struggled to keep up with George’s long strides. Behind them, they heard a raucous voice bellow.
‘Hey!! The two a youse. Stop. Come on back. I need to talk to ya. Ya got some answerin’ to do.’ George and Archie stopped in their strides, turned toward the roaring voice and saw the bulky figure on the footpath gesticulating wildly.
‘Christ, let’s go,’ George panted.
‘W- wait for me,’ Archie stuttered.
With George in the lead, his long great coat flapping, Archie’s case banging sharply against his leg with each stride, they ran for the station.
They lurched to seats on the moving train; the carriage was near empty. Archie reached out to grasp the back of aseat to steady himself and in doing so his arm brushed the thick woollen beanie of a man huddled into his coat collar.
‘Hey!! Watch it, ya bloody near knocked me hat off.’ The beanie man swung around to confront Archie, a scowl on his wizened face.
‘Sorry mate,’ stuttered Archie as he almost lost his footing once again. ‘Hard to manage with the train swaying like crazy.’
‘Sit down before ya go arse over tip,’ the beanie man pointed to the opposite seat. Archie plopped down with a whoosh; his battered suitcase held firmly between his knees. Beanie man’s dark beady eyes stared at Archie who knew he looked a wreck after the horrors of the beating and the nightmare in the hostel.
Beany man squinted. ‘Ya looks like you’ve had a rough night.’
‘You could say that.’ Archie mumbled.
‘Had a roughy meself. Thought I’d warm up on this ’ere early train and then see if I can get some grub at the Salvo’s pop up at Spencer Street. Bloke I shared the back lane with last night give me the rub.’ said Beanie man.
‘How long you been living rough?’ Achie asked.
‘Nearly all me bloody life, but ya do get around and get ta see different places. What about youse?’ Not waiting for an answer, Beanie man lifted his woolly to scratch his scabby bald head and continued,
‘I’m just back from roughing round over summer in a beaut little place on the coast called Fingal Sound. Would’ve stayed longer but have ta catch up with a sheila who owes me money and in case she does a runner.’ He rattled on,‘Whose ya mate over there?’
‘Not me mate, only met him last night.’ Archie said not wanting to mention the hostel and gatting roughed up by a looney.
‘He livin’ rough like youse?’ Beanie man asked in a loud whisper, eyeing off George sitting across the aisle.
‘I guess so, don’t know much about him.’ Archie mumbled, conscious that George could hear them.
George had heard the mention of food and conscious of the squeaks and rumbles of his stomach, leant over to join the conversation. Beanie man waved a hand, encased in a greasy mitten at George, and with a grimy finger pointed to the seat beside him. George accepted the invitation, with a twist of his head and a discretely wrinkled nose, sat next to him in the full air stream of the whiffy body odour.
Half an hour later the men were propped up against a concrete pillar at Southern Cross Station, each with a mug of coffee in one hand and a big slice of toast with vegemite in the other.
‘Ya know, the last good feed I had was in Fingal Sound two days ago. The place I wus tellin’ ya about. That’s where I was given the food vouchers, I’ve now shared with youse two.’ Beanie man spluttered with a mouth full of toast and tea, some of which landed with his spittle onto the front of his coat joining a row of other debris. ‘I can tell ya, the Salvos there put on a ripper of a meal every so often.’
‘You’ve talked up this town, sounds like a pretty good place to try out. How do you get there?’ George asked, taking small bites from the toast to make it last.
‘Yeah, tis. Ya get ta platform 6 fer the train to Merton, and then the bus’ll take you along the coast to Fingal Sound. Should give it a go. I was there in warm weather and happy to find a spot amongst the ti-trees. But good luck in whatever youse do, see ya around.’
George and Archie waved off Beanie man, who was hell bent on catching up with the sheila who owed him a dollar or two.
‘Well Mr. Archie, I guess this is where we go our separate ways. I’m going to take his tip and try out this Fingal Sound for a bit. Nothing to lose.’ George finished the dregs of the coffee he had sat on, not wanting to finish it. His stomach rumbled. He was still hungry.
‘I’m sort of keen on the idea of this place myself,’ Archie said. ‘I want to get out of Melbourne and last night’s experience has hardened my dislike of and my chances here in the city. Especially under my current circumstances.’ He spoke quickly, not looking at George, but into the empty mug in his cupped hands. George shrugged his shoulders and replied,
‘I have no objections to you travelling with me down to this place, but that’s all. I’m now kind of a loner, not good company and not looking for any either. Do you have money for the fare?’ he added.
‘Yes, I have money,’ Archie answered with a shrug. George stood, picked up his old suitcase, swung the backpack over his broad shoulder and looked across at Archie.
‘Well, come on if you’re coming, we’ve a train to catch.’
Stay tuned for the next chapter!