Holden's Performance (24 page)

From his vantage point in the Hills, Vern felt the changes but had trouble seeing them. His old friend Les Flies lost his job on the trams. Turning down an offer to manhandle one of the buses he employed another transport term, ‘I wouldn't touch one of them with a barge pole.'

Les saw his remaining function in life as helping his friend Vern with the crossword puzzle, accompanying his other friend Gordon Wheelright on his field trips, and drinking cocoa with both of them. The violent backdraughts and swirling diesel fumes of the speeding buses had completely thrown out Wheelright's researches, a lime-known casualty of the removal of the trams.

To remind the city of the electric relics it had finally discarded, the state's biggest GM dealer commissioned a sculpture of a tram, a full-size replica in bronze by an artist with a promising Polish-sounding surname, to be placed on a plinth in one of the city's four main squares.

‘Not all big wheels come as generous as Mr McBee,' declared a grateful editorial in the
Advertiser
.

The announcement was made from the VIP lounge at Adelaide's sandy airport. McBee was at his most expansive; he had the local journalists doubled up over their notebooks, laughing through their noses. A stiff brandy sloshed around in McBee's hand. The other rested proprietorily on the knee of Karen, seated on his left and smiling nervously, setting off with McBee as chaperone to represent the state in the Miss Australia finals.

A possible hitch here was Alex Screech persisting in imagining his life in the terms of an epic. God knows, he had become bogged down in more and more words, many loose particles, loose ends, a compression of words, which corresponded with the mounting pressure of events; and as the gala night approached he began to look on his efforts the way a mechanic surveys an engine suffering carburettor problems. With time running out, and certain organisational obstacles appearing insurmountable, Screech saw himself as the solitary figure shifted about by the larger forces, and all the time conscious of the eyes of the world watching him. If only he had Shadbolt's reliability.

He rushed about breathing through his mouth. Frowning and distracted he had no time even for a bloody haircut. In periods of stress the words he released were fragmented and unmentionable; Harriet had always called him ‘sewer-mouthed'.

Shadbolt thought the boss might have been getting on Harriet's nerves. Since the announcement of the beauty quest she'd hardly been in the theatre. Balanced at the apex of ladders, wiring the place for loudspeakers and spotlights, and hammering up the purple drapes embroidered with the sunrise of the future (Alex's idea), he kept watching out for Harriet. He considered calling at Kangaroo Street, but had been discouraged by her last visit when she'd simply flung down a pile of layouts outside Screech's office and left.

The trouble was Alex had firm ideas on how the show should run. As he said in a distracted voice, ‘For Christ sake, I'm in the show-business game, I oughta know what's needed. If I'm not a world's expert in atmospherics, who is?' He had new business cards featuring the phrase ‘Special Events Specialists!' and ‘EPIC reversed out of the map of Australia.

It had been Screech's plan to have a drum roll and trumpets announce each high-heeled contestant. For that an orchestra would have to be hired out and put through rehearsals. It would also play the national anthem. Some kind of a catwalk had to be hammered out of packing cases, and fringed with tassels of purple velvet, ‘so that it doesn't look fucking second-rate'. Florists would have to be lined up, and former Miss Australia winners as usherettes would do the rest. A special red carpet would roll out the front door, a salacious tongue welcoming the voyeuristic VTPs. All this required extended meetings with the bank manager, where Screech made speeches about youth, beauty and patriotism, dropping the hint of free tickets for the manager and the missus. Even Shadbolt could see the danger of Screech becoming, in every sense, over-extended.

On the night which would shape the remainder of Shadbolt's life there was still wet paint in the foyer. At the last minute Screech had decided to paint it ‘nipple pink', as he put it, to increase the atmospherics. It made Shadbolt squint and wonder if the boss had ever seen those things of a woman. Through his window the Adelaide usherette's had been dizzying circles of terracotta, and close up were bumps of honey, dusted with freckles; and only the other day he couldn't take his eyes away from Mrs Younghusband's crinkled great-divides, swinging ponderously free of their supports, as she bent over scrubbing the enamel bath, while he described the behind-the scenes activity in the theatre, his voice going dry. Her circles were ancient grey, almost black. Still he willingly helped Screech with the painting, and ended up doing most of it himself.

The show opened at eight, as advertised.

Drum rolls, trumpet fanfare, lights!

Alex Screech came skipping out on stage, the elongated triangles of his hired tails snapping at his ankles. Raising both arms he exposed a silver watch Shadbolt had never seen before. From the wings Shadbolt could smell the turps Alex hastily used to dissolve the paint from his fingers and hands.

‘La-dies and gentlemen, distinguished guests—'

Shadbolt winced at the earsphtting screech and whistle of loudspeakers. In the stalls, ladies wearing cultured pearls put fingers to their ears, the sunspotted men frowning and clearing their throats. But then the voice came over loud and clear.

‘This shithouse system. Those cheapskate bastards.'

In his drive to cut expenses he'd hired the public address system from a huckster operating from a garage, not far from the theatre, and so transgressed the first law of exchange: you only get what you pay for. Now he was paying for it, standing there flapping like a scarecrow.

Moving onto the stage Shadbolt whispered, ‘Hang on a sec' And as Screech stood humbly to one side he did what the audience had expected all along.

‘Testing, testing. One, two, three…'

The four strokes of the internal combustion engine. Those numbers were repeated electronically in public places all over the country throughout the fifties. And then with his spare hand Shadbolt activated in a single downward stroke the waiting amateur orchestra. It was intended to open with ‘God Save the Queen' anyway.

Standing in the wings was a man with sandy combed hair, wearing a tuxedo.

‘Well done,' he winked as Shadbolt came off. ‘That's the spirit. Alex can piss off now. I'll get behind the wheel. I can do without all that electronic garbage.' He shook Shadbolt's hand and patted him on the back, all in the one motion. ‘Hoadley. Senator Sid Hoadley.'

He strode onto stage. Acknowledging the applause he placed his arm around the proprietor's defeated shoulders.

‘Thankyou for the introduction, my good friend Alex—what'd you say your last name was, Alex? “Screech”, that's it. Well, what a coincidence?' He laughed with the crowd. ‘Thanks anyway for all the hard yakka that's gone into this, a great national occasion, where we can all sit back and feast our eyes on some of our young lovelies. I must say this is a night I've been looking forward to.'

Already Hoadley had one hand resting in his side pocket, his thumb forming a fin in the dark waters of his jacket. No need for the microphone and all the wiring: Sid Hoadley, the human loudspeaker, could penetrate the farthest reaches of the most cavernous hall. His was a foghorn of confidence, matching the legs-apart stance, helped along by the voltage of his smile.

Shadbolt hardly noticed his friend stumble past.

‘Don't talk to me,' Alex muttered.

Shadbolt should have been patrolling the aisles looking for trouble. Instead he leaned forward watching the Senator; and the perspiring aspirants queued up behind him, first in bathing costumes, designed to throw their vital statistics into bold relief, before changing for the final round into rustling ballgowns. At the sound of their names they brushed past Shadbolt, switching on the Colgate smile, and entered the limelight.

By loudly cracking regional jokes and then turning and suddenly speaking softly, almost privately, Hoadley had the happy knack of putting each contestant at ease. Then he'd turn to the audience, speaking loudly again.

‘Now what's your name again? Speak up, darling, I'm hard of hearing at my age. Now what are your interests in life? Don't tell me, don't tell me. Mathematics, mountain climbing, car engines. What? Music, parties, swimming? Do these old ears of mine hear correctly? How about a swim tonight in the moonlight? Beg your pardon, cancel that! What are you laughing about? Ladies and gentlemen, we have here in contestant number four a girl who doesn't stop laughing. That's all I can say. Why, I remember the first beauty contest I entered…That was before the war. All right, I'll change the subject. Do you have a boyfriend? Don't answer that! Are your mum and dad here tonight? What? All the way down from northern Queensland? Where are they? Let's have a look at you. Stand up Mr and Mrs—. Give them a big hand, You have a very beautiful young lady for a daughter, you must be very proud of her. I think Queensland is in with a very big chance.' Drums and fanfare. ‘And now'—sunny Miss Queensland tripped off scoring an impressive nine out of ten in the smile department—'and now, before we come to our next young lady, I'd like to ask something. What exactly is a beautiful woman? Now if you ask me—'

Grinning encouragement Shadbolt half-turned, and brushed against silk.

His mouth opened. He hardly recognised Karen standing tall at his elbow.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘I'm terribly nervous, I'm shaking like a fish.'

Her brother looked at her.

‘Whose idea was this? When did you arrive?'

‘—and now from Ad-elaide, South Austrylia, the city of churchyards, wine vineyards, the city of light—'

Shadbolt patted her slippery hip. ‘I'd better wish you luck.'

‘Do I look all right?'

Brothers are supposed to be blind to the attractions of their sisters. ‘The rest weren't up to much,' he shuffled. ‘You'll be right.' Rising to the occasion Karen stepped out and began hesitantly smiling.

She was different from the others. Hoadley saw it immediately. The eradication of innocence produced a stronger, complex beauty. An adult firmness had entered her throat and eyes.

Turning his back on the audience Hoadley winked over his shoulder. ‘This is just between me and Miss South Austrylia. You're not nervous, are you?' he murmured. ‘No need to be nervous.'

At that moment the flow of the parade was broken by a voice somewhere in the audience. People in the stalls turned around. Even Sid Hoadley who had answered back hundreds of hecklers in his loud career was taken by surprise, for he felt himself judged by the beauty alongside him, and his famous foghorn voice of confidence was no match for this high-pitched, persistent irritant. Karen waited patiently, smiling with interest.

A hand roughly shook Shadbolt's elbow. Alex Screech had his clip-on tie askew, and breathed whisky fumes.

‘This is no time to stand around perving. Your job's down in the aisles. That's what I'm paying you for. Now get fucking moving. There's trouble and I want it rooted out before the whole bloody show becomes a shambles.'

Blinking and nodding Shadbolt brushed past blushing Miss Tasmania and Miss Northern Territory. The boss had never been harsh to him before.

He had no trouble spotting the agitator in the middle row, and as he muttered excuse-mes, making his way past raised knees, he recognised the voice.

‘You lot all coming here gawping at women's bodies—look at you. Women's bodies being paraded half naked like this, to feed your eyes on. What's wrong with you all? Nothing better to do? You should be ashamed. Everybody here. You men, how would you like your wives to. And look we have an elected government Minister here. Take a look at him. He's joining in too.' Glancing up at Shadbolt she cried, ‘Don't you lay a finger on me!' and turned back to the stage: ‘So is this government policy? Answer that. Does the government condone the view of women whereby—'

Lifting the shouting body Shadbolt felt something become stuck between the seats. Bending down he found a pair of embarrassing crutches.

‘You only had a walking stick the other day,' he gritted.

Struggling past the knees again he carried Harriet half over his shoulder, the clumsy crutches protruding at pathetic angles, her two fingers forming McBee's V for victory behind her back, a hectic flash-illuminated image which would appear the following day in the tabloid papers.

‘Give her a big hand, ladies and gentlemen,' Hoadley bellowed. ‘That looks like Miss Austrylia, 1928.'

In the foyer Harriet said in a quiet voice,

‘You can put me down now.'

‘What did you have to go doing that for?' Shadbolt asked. ‘Why do you get involved?'

Alex Screech came towards them, shouting at a distance.

‘I spose you're happy now. You and your crazy ideas on what's right and what's wrong. Everybody's having a good time, and you come and fuck the show up good and proper. And what about these?' He pointed to the crutches, ‘I've never seen them before. Just to spoil the show and embarrass me. I know. If you weren't a woman,' he said through his teeth, ‘I'd kick you in the balls.'

‘I'm driving her home,' said Shadbolt quickly. He could feel her body leaning against him.

‘I don't know what the Senator's going to say about all this. There are some very important people inside. They're so important they don't like photography. And this is going to land on page one, you'll see.'

Applause as the band struck up. Another contestant—it was Miss Northern Territory—traipsed off stage in slightly scuffed high heels.

‘Alex sure was hopping mad,' Shadbolt shook his head as he turned into Kangaroo Street. He switched the engine off. ‘Are you all right?'

‘I think I'll have a drink.'

Carrying the crutches Shadbolt cracked his head on the doorway. Harriet moved about, switching on lamps.