The watcher

The Big Wet put my little business on the map, big time. When the lake began to fill again after so many years of drought, the punters blew in around my kiosk like flies around a rubbish tip. Apparently what they’d all been hankering for was the forgotten sensation of staring at a body of grey water and eating salty chips. But these punters were the transients who came, ate their burnt sausages, slapped a few kids, dropped an icecream in the dirt and left. It was the Eateries that kept me interested, not the pissy little kiosk that went with it. Get into high end food and you can kiss the tax office ta ta, if you know what you’re doing.
Lake Wivenhoe Fine Eateries is a bit of a naff name, I grant you, but that’s what it came with. I had the sign re-done in a script so Ye Olde Gothik you’d have to guess it was ‘ironic’. My food is like that too. I serve good old-fashioned (if ironic) Mum’s roasts and casseroles. No fancy Mediterranean foods or Asian/fusions at the Eateries. Instead your beast will be slaughtered down the road at Fernvale, your bass or trout caught in the Lake, and your root vegetable grown in the Lockyer Valley. All the condiments are made from locally grown mustard or radish or mint, prepared by yours truly. Not bad for a bloke who started out as a shearer’s ‘cookie’.
So tucker at the Eateries is ‘organic’, fresh-killed, bursting with flavour and not exactly cheap as chips. My Eateries customers are a breed of people for whom a good old British feed of roast beef and bread pudding is a fetish. Everything they do seems like it’s a fetish. In the northern summer they holiday in Brittany or Tuscany in a little Grenier or Villa. The men buy their suits on Saville Row. The women get their shoes in Firenze (they never say ‘Florence’). They also drive European cars (SAABs, Citroens, BMWs – the sorts of cars that come tax-friendly on a company ‘lease’). My preference is for the high end British classics though. At present I own an MG TF, built 2003, colour Midnight Blue. She’s a little beauty. I’ve got another MG too, but that one’s just for me. She’s not for show. But back to my customers.

I get along pretty well with them mostly, I’m not rubbish at the ‘mein host’ stuff if I say so myself. Sometimes I feel like I’m over-doing the jaded bachelor cliché and even if you had cataracts over both eyes you could pick it. But apparently they don’t. One old fellow, the one the cops found floating in the lake, was a regular for years. I’ll call him Dr Jones. He and his lovely wife would drive from Toowoomba and weekend at the chalets nearby. Sometimes he’d bring his mates along and they’d enjoy the fishing (tame as), and the after service which of course included cooking the catch and bringing it to the table. Dr Jones expected and got some sort of discount for his recruitment efforts, I forget how much.
The Joneses rented the chalet furthest from the park in an area of scrub alive with insects and birds. Mostly the two of them came alone however, and at night on my patrols I’d listen as they pleasured one another amidst the evening whirr of insects and delicate slapping of waves. But as international travel got cheaper and the chalets dearer, the chalets finally ceased to function, just like Mrs Jones, dead of a brain tumour at the age of sixty three.
For a time after his wife’s death Dr Jones visited the Eateries a lot. It seemed I’d made a home away from home for him. He’d wait until the Eateries had closed for the night, and then join me for a chat on the restaurant verandah. Gazing across the reach of the lake at night is an enchanting experience, especially when a wind blows up and there’s a mighty rush of energy blowing through the trees. But if the truth be known, I’m a solitary sort of a fellow. By the end of a long day I’m keen for a bit of down time.
But Max Jones was Superintendent of the Toowoomba Hospital and was used to getting what he wanted. So I sat with him on the verandah, and played the required part, that is I was a witness to his life. The Eateries (me) picked up the tab of course. The man was a widower in need of consolation. How could I put all those double malt whiskeys on his bill?
The lake attracts another kind of human visitor, a breed of kid I call the scavengers. I had a pair of them living under my restaurant (on and off) through the Wet season. They were there the day Max Jones was found dead. These kids are indeterminate. They’re a bit Abo and a bit Anglo, a bit young and a bit old. And from a distance you can’t tell which one is the girl and which the boy, though I manage to get a clear enough look at them when they get out of their flannel shirts and baggy sweat pants. It’s not hard to tell a boy from a girl when they’re naked in clear water, even if it is late at night. Of course it helps if you’re carrying an SLR with a Canon EF 300mm f/4L IS USM. That ‘zoom’ is an item of glorious perfection.
To me these two kids were a template of the human form. They had long fine limbs and delicate shapely heads. The girl was smooth as wild honey, slender-hipped and small-breasted, with the pale green eyes you get in a particular type of cross-breed. The boy gleamed with long skeletal muscle, the observer’s eye being led to that natural focal point – the fat bud between his legs. Most of the time I knew they were around because I could smell them. They reeked of unwashed bodies and sweated chemicals; leftover stubbies and wine bottles, and sniffed petrol. They ate what they could find - stale cake and dropped sausage. Sometimes they broke into the kiosk and pinched stuff.
When they were in the mood they terrorised the park-goers like a pair of juvenile crows. There was a flurry of long-distance car locking whenever those two approached. Did my pair know I watched them? Did they watch me? We’ve never so much as spoken. In fact if ever I approach they retreat like a mirage. But I have certain respect for the guerrilla. We’re not so different, them and me.
So my scavengers and I accommodate one other. One thing I don’t think my pair know is just how much I had figured on them. I know their names – Jinxy and Briff. And I know their scam. It’s pretty basic. They pinch cars for a bloke up in the backblocks. The stolen vehicles are stripped and repainted and voila, your beloved silver Landcruiser is now dark blue and available for a knock down price in the Trading Post. They like motorcycles particularly your Honda or Kawasaki. Jinxy drives the big SUVs; the boy, Briff, loves the bikes. Their ‘wheels’ are always temporary of course. Once they’ve snatched a vehicle they take off in it. Then we don’t see them for a while. Then they suddenly show up again.
One night I saw a ute pull up by the boom gate. The two kids slid out of the tray like shadows, and disappeared into the scrub. The ute bloke was your typical prize dick-head – did a donut on the gravel and roared off with a squeal of tyres. Not like those kids. They headed off quietly into the scrub where a couple of old water pipes kept their swag dry. They could both get around without making a sound. That’d be their Abo blood I guess.
When I can’t sleep at night, and that’s often enough, I walk the foreshore with my gun. That tends to give anyone else around a bit of a message. And it gives voice to something in me too, something a bit primitive. I’d like to have a worthy canine like a big Shepherd or a Doberman with me. Then we’d really look like we meant business. But it’s a national park - so no dogs.
The last time Dr Jones (Max) came to the Eateries was a Friday. He drove up in his two-seater and parked where he had long ago used to park, when he and Mrs Jones stayed at the chalet. Max had a little beauty of a car, a 1950s Morgan ‘flat’ radiator 4+, in British racing green. This was a beast more beautiful than Hitler’s Mercedes-Benz and I envied him that car far more than I ever envied him his lovely wife. I’ve had eType Jags, Aston-Martins, Morgans, MGs. You name it I’ve owned it. But Dr Jones’s car was the kind that I knew would keep me faithful. He crossed the green spaces of the park, with his wide-legged old man walk and I put on my ‘mein host’ face and went out to greet him like we were long lost friends.
When he’d booked his table, the week before, he made sure it was his ‘usual’ place - by the water, where he and Mrs Jones had liked to sit, away from prying eyes. He’d asked for a late lunch so I could join him for a final meal, and I didn’t have much option but to agree.
‘What’s this about your last supper,’ I said as I put my hands above his elbows to settle him into his seat.
The raw skeleton of his humerus felt hard and close beneath my fingertips. And his pants hung from his hips like heavy drapes. He gestured with his left hand, not bothering to speak. In fact I noticed he was breathing through his mouth, as old people often do, as though the nostrils are no longer up to funnelling something so dense as air. I’d asked the chef, and one of the staff to stay back and look after us. That made for overtime for them. They were happy enough to get the money.
‘I thought it might be nice to celebrate our long friendship,’ he said, raising his glass. As he held it up his hands shook so much the whiskey slopped over the sides. I looked ruefully at the puddle. Glenfiddich. The tab would be on me of course.
I’d already organised the dishes. I knew what he liked.
‘We’ll eat a couple of those trout we caught this morning,’ I said to the girl. I forget her name. She was good looking but in that country way that turns solid by the time they hit forty.
‘Tell cookie to bake them separately. Use a couple of the blue Creuset dishes, the oval ones, and bring them to the table when they’re done. We want sliced lime across the flesh, and shallots in the pan. Tell him to shove a bit of garlic and butter into the flesh.’
Dr Jones listened with one hand cupped to his ear. He nodded at the garlic and butter.
‘I think we should eat some of the King Edwards,’ I said looking at him. ‘They’re fresh in this morning.’
He was a bit of a potato connoisseur.
‘Use the small ones, don’t peel them but cook them a little first. Then they can simmer in the juices.’
A slight amount of drool had collected in the corners of my guest’s mouth, that white stuff old people seem to have instead of saliva.
‘And we’ll have a side dish of Brussels,’ I said. ‘Make sure cookie soaks them for about 5 minutes, then tell him to cut the stems with a little vee, so they cook right through. Steamed please.’
‘Unsalted butter,’ Max added, wheezing the words out. I guessed he meant on the sprouts.
‘That’s on the table,’ I said, pointing to the dish.
‘Sprouts have to be hot,’ he said. His voice whistled as he spoke.
‘I’ve got it in hand’ I said.
It was a funny sort of occasion. I had to cut the potatoes for him, as he had so little strength left, yet how easily he seemed to wade into the lake later that afternoon, pushing into the weight of water until he was completely under it. You might wonder what kind of conversation we had when something like that lay in wait between us. Well we talked about cars.
‘Where’d you get your moggie?’ I asked.
I noticed I’d nodded in the direction where the precious beast was parked.
‘Bought her in Melbourne,’ he said. His sentences were broken into chunks of syllables, maybe about three or four at a time. ‘From a bookie’s wife.’
‘In good nick?’ I asked.
‘Had to ship it up by train,’ he said. ‘Crankshaft was stuffed.’
‘Thought you might have imported it,’ I said. ‘She’s in perfect nick, looks like a one-owner kind of a vehicle.’
‘Interior was good. Stone leather seats. Oak dash. Mrs Jones loved her.’
‘Bookie must have loved her too. What happened?’
‘Bloke took on one big plunge too many. Race was supposed to be rigged, so his missus said. Somebody two-timed.’
‘So he had to get rid of the car?’ I asked.
‘Got rid of himself first,’ Dr Jones said.
‘Pudding,’ I said after that.
He considered.
‘Hasty pudding,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way. Somewhere else.’
‘We put sultanas in it here,’ I said. ‘A bit of a variation, but it tastes even better than your grandma made it.’
He snorted at that.
‘That woman. Couldn’t boil an egg in hell’ he said. ‘Your place. Made sense of her food. For me.’
So we ate the hasty pudding, and drank one commemorative glass of drambuie each.
‘The car,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t think of selling her?’
‘She stays with me. Until I die.’
‘Right,’ I said.
We followed the meal with a good strong coffee (locally grown ‘Black Mountain’, roasted in my own ovens). I was ready for a bit of a lie-down after that. Too much food. For an old bloke he could certainly put it away.
He started struggling to get up.
‘Going for a stroll,’ he said, ‘along the shore.’
So I helped him to his tottery feet and saw him off. He turned in the direction of the causeway.
‘Probably take that path,’ he said, making an old man gesture, the right hand bent and index finger curved separately, the wrist flicked with just the smallest expenditure of energy. He seemed to mean the low lying waters, where a sandy beach had formed in an inlet in the shallows.
I have my camera set up just inside my office, which of course overlooks the lake. Rangy gums circle the shore line, but they’re slender enough not to present much impediment to the view. With my f/4L IS USM trained out onto the water there’s not much I can’t see. I didn’t really want to have a nap. I wanted a bit of time to myself before the evening shift started. So I relaxed into the armchair/cum/sofa I have in my office and stared out.
It was fairly clear watching the old man what Dr Jones’s intention was. And he set about it directly he reached the lapping waters. Under his woollen jacket he was wearing a hand-knitted cardigan, not that it was cold. And his trousers were a heavy wool and gabardine blend. My guess was that he intended the wet weight of it all to keep him under when the involuntary struggle began. I watched as he waded further and further out. With my zoon lens trained on him I could clearly see the expression on his face. He showed effort, quite intense effort. I didn’t detect sadness or regret, just a determination to keep going. And that was how it turned out. He drowned. I watched. Then someone reported it.
The first thing the cops asked when they arrived was how he’d got there.
‘In his car of course,’ I said, turning to where he’d parked the Morgan.
It was gone. The scavengers had got to it.
‘It was there,’ I pointed. ‘and now it isn’t.’
They both watched my face as I spoke. Coppers always do that. They never really buy ‘the story’, a state of suspended belief I have some sympathy for.
‘What kind of car?’ one of them said, making notes in her little book.
‘A Morgan four plus,’ I said, ‘British racing green. Flat radiator. Separated engine and gear box. Antique chassis.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she said.
‘Yeah. Bit of a British roadster buff,’ I said. ‘I never got in his car though. We weren’t friends.’
‘But he came here to have his last meal with you,’ she said.
‘That kind of thing happens when you’re a hospitality professional,’ I said.
I leaned on the last phrase so it sounded like it was in quotes. But she didn’t crack a smile. Not a bad looking bird, even with her pulled back and the blue trousers that didn’t fit her nice arse as well as they could have. After a few more questions she left me alone, but not without noticing the camera.
‘You like photography?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I wasn’t going to tell her the zoom was my real reason for keeping it there. That might make me sound like the local pervert.
‘You could see a bit with a focal length like that’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed.
They went off to search the area where Max had left his car, found out about the comings and goings of my scavengers and then after a bit of a hunt around discovered the emptied wallet.. I’ve never understood how the kids got hold of this, unless he left it on the shore as some sort of identifier. He left his watch too, apparently. But they were stupid enough to discard what they didn’t want nearby. Probably didn’t even realize the old man was dead in the water right next to them. Anyway they got the key to his car that way and took off. I thought how it would be, climbing into that baby. I imagined turning the key and listening to the music of her purr. Then I imagine her clutch opening and her gears clicking into place, and then how I would hold that vibrating beast to the road and take her to the end of the line.
As soon as the cops had gone, maybe after five, ten hours – I got myself into negotiations with the prize dick-head up the back-blocks. He had that little moggie tucked away under a canvas sheet, removed from the prying eye. After some chat we found our way towards a suitable price for a change of engine number and a coat of Saratoga. That would make her into the kind of girl who knew her obligations after a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a four star meal.
There was an inquest later in the year, the kids were persons of interest, but in the end nothing was concluded. They come and go. I know when they’re around – it’s the smell of the petrol fumes they inhale and the reek of unwashed hair. I put food out for them – they’re fond of chips, will always go a broccoli floret (must be iron deficient), and they like a lamb shank from time to time. The coroner called me in but what could I say except that the guy was old, his wife was dead, he’d just decided to top himself.
Once it was over I took the car out, opened her up and took that throbbing beauty up the Brisbane Valley Highway on a bright crisp Autumn morning, and she was everything I knew she’d be. And business boomed. People love my story about the old bloke who drowned himself after a perfect lunch with yours truly. I guess I’m still dining out on it.