M'cracken's ghost

M I C HAEL S M AL L, W RITER MONDAY, 7 FEBRUARY 2011

M’CRACKEN’S GHOST ‘My old man’s passing was a big blow,’ Garvie was conceding slowly into his cups, his sallow complexion more waxy florid by candlelight. ‘Punched a big blow. I respected Godfrey, I adored him. Yer know, Parfrey, Mum tells the story that as a kid I used to call him g-g-god. He made possible . . . all this.’ His bleary eyes looked about the halfempty dining-room with an expansive hand. ‘Sure, we had our altercations. When I was kicked out for taking a smoko behind the bike sheds and wagging once too often, a deadly dull Baptist school it was, stuffy conformist, Dad sent me out to the sticks.

Suddenly found myself boarding in Ballarat. No fuss, no muss. The old man said very little about it, in fact, but I knew I’d let him down. Stupid old bugger gave a million bucks to the building fund of that same pile of bricks that baptized me in tears of tedium. As if to teach me a lesson. Wasn’t even a bappo himself, for chriss’ sake.

Wanted to be remembered. Well, I remembered him. Named our two boys after him, I did. The fork and knife didn’t object. You can smile, Parfrey. Wifey knew better.

Mark Godfrey and Luke Godfrey Garvie. Has a strong family ring to it, don’t you reckon?’

‘You’ve certainly put your inheritance to good use here.’ Parfrey was keeping half an eye out for the last patrons to stir, so he could make out their bills.

‘I’m grateful to you, Parfrey, agreeing to let me handle the books. Rest assured, Dad was a solid Rotarian, a fine upstanding accountant. Some even said creative.’ He winked, chuckled with glib satisfaction, took a long-drawn breath that inflated his sagging squatness, the smirk still lingering. ‘And now that I’ve taken over the old man’s business,’ he wheezed, ‘I have his glowing reputation to uphold. There’s many a well-oiled client on his list, you know.’

‘Talking of loyalty,’ said Parfrey, ‘I’m a bit concerned for chef. He feels anxious about his position here because you’ve engaged a consultant from Box Hill TAFE to advise on the etiquette of fine dining.’

‘Yeah, course. The restaurant is under-performing. What’s more, we need to smarten up on table settings, napkinry . . . er . . . nappery . . . er . . . ’ ‘Napery?’

‘Shove it, Parfrey. Just make sure you lay the bloody cutlery right.’

‘As mine host, I was rather hoping we could ginger up our standard fare with some colonial recipes.’

‘Oh yeah, like what for god’s sake? Kangaroo crud and brains washed down with witcheTty grubs? Or giblet soup followed by wombat erky jerky? You’d need lashings of dead horse to make that specialty palatable.’

‘No, no, something more subtle, like venison pasty . . . gooseberry fool . . . buttered toddy . . . mulled wine for the mellow bouquet, a warmer, sensuous ambience. We need an angle, Garvs, something unique that would set us apart. Say we offer tea, damper and mutton for lunch.’

‘Then we really would be sidelined up shit creek without a paddle. No, I vote we take a shoofty at the old Merrijig and Caledonian Hotel. Quick sticks. Treat ourselves to a slap-up nosh. Satisfy your appetite for history and my take on how to burn the competition. Get ‘em done like a dog’s dinner. Market share is what it’s all about and cordon blue is the way to go. Our first goal is to break into the Good Food Guide.

Another thing: a lot of food walks. I suspect Horrie sneaks it out under his coat.’

‘Standard practice, Garvs.’

‘Leftovers he cannot re-use, yeah, but not produce from the freezer. I know he’s a mate of yours, but I say he’s for the chop.’

If he was staying the night, Parfrey always chose a room not taken by the latearriving ‘overnights’, one of the original ‘authentic’ rooms with sharply angled ceiling that forced you to duck low as you squeezed round the lumpy-soft, iron-railed bed, a very basic sink unit and a solid wooden door with large iron hinges and a most

officious-looking key too large to fit into any pocket but a smithie’s from Queen Vic’s reign.

After their monthly executive meeting which culminated in dinner ‘on the house’, Parfrey invariably found it impossible to get to sleep for two or three hours, mainly due to the unaccustomed rich food and choice wines, though unlike Garvie he resisted the dozen oysters, filet mignon and a whole cheese platter with dried fruit and nuts. His policy was not to select the most expensive items on what was a highly conservative menu, some locals said stodgy and over-priced, but his body collapsed on the bed even so, stomach distended, spiced-up mind racing . . .

Racing around the speedway circuits of his youth, driving souped-up old bombs in those hit-and-run pile-ups out bush, before he drew a regular wage as an RACV serviceman. Having become inoculated with the familiar charms of the southwestern district, he appreciated what it meant having four generations of Irish descendants settled on this alluvial plain of potato growers; the town that once seemed so slow-moving and dilapidated with nothing to do was in fact an open-air museum of historical buildings and a mine of fascinating stories. No longer bored rigid, hanging out for the folk festival and twilit parade on New Year’s Eve, he began reading up. Now that he knew the resident worthies, which Garvie didn’t and had neither time nor inclination, he’d become an essential go-to man for the cityslicker . . .

Racing around Garvie, who would book the honeymoon cottage with log fire, complimentary bottle of champagne and basket of fresh fruit on the island bar, even when he left Jeri behind in Melbourne to tend the two Godfrey juniors. Parfrey was not completely at ease working in partnership with such a driven man, but savoured owning part of Victoria’s past glory-days, Beachcombe House, an impressive twostorey, hip-roofed rendered bluestone that once boasted stables for twenty horses and a coach house that the young Henry Handel Richardson would have set eyes upon when she lived in the Post Office nearby . . .

Racing around plans to launch historical walking tours about town and round Mutton Bird Island and along East Beach past the Aboriginal midden to the old outof-town Sandhills cemetery; and bike rides through the potato farms and over the dunes in search of a possible burial site for the Mahogany Ship . . .

Racing around erotic fantasies of dishy part-time waitresses in short black skirts twenty years younger between notions of running weekend workshops for writers, musicians, artists etc. The new proprietors had already refurbished the old ballroom with its imposing lustrous chandelier as a conference centre and done it up in Heritage maroon and cream. It offered a marvellous historical setting - hadn’t Rolf Boldrewood squatted hereabouts and probably danced on this very floor at the Annual Race Club Ball? – yet not a single organisation had hired it.. Nor had he heard since the decorators decamped that quaint rustling of crinolines at night when he approached to close the drapes, as if the ghosts of those distant quadrille parties had finally been spirited away. Anyhow, he had to set something up quickly, for Garvie was already leaning on him.

Indeed, there were times when Parfrey woke up in a sweat with thoughts of Garvie, the guy’s assumption of control, his revisionist jigging of the minutes, his brash, impatient expenditure, unsubstantiated book-keeping expenses . . . It was only last week at Rotary, the professional forum for local goss, that Conor O’ Casey, the bank manager from whom he had secured his loan, took him aside.

‘Watch, Garvie,’ he murmured. ‘Word is that he intends to buy you out.’

‘Thanks, Conor. I appreciate you have my interests at heart, but I certainly won’t be selling my half-share.’

‘I’m just passing on what I’ve heard. This cowboy falls out with every one of his associates sooner or later. He’ll fit you up too. Can get ugly if he’s on one of his benders. Has a history of buying up businesses cheap, thanks to the stake put in by other partners, investing in new equipment, furniture, manchester, then forcing a nasty rift. They then sell out below market value, beached high and dry, only to become part-time barmen or lose the rest of their savings in alpaca shares. There’s just one winner. Always.’

It was true, Parfrey reflected, that on completion of the conference room, Garvie was adamant about modernising the kitchen to attract a more innovative chef and bundle off Horrie Hourigan, the local fixture often derided by older locals as the toasted sandwich-maker from the cheap chew n’ spew round the corner, who after shopping

for the restaurant late morning would put his clunking feet up, read the paper and chain-smoke through the afternoon. ‘Stay out of my kitchen!’ his body-language conveyed, as if to ward off any criticism.

On the following evening, Saturday, usually the busiest night in the restaurant, the last table of diners, stiff-legged or tottery, a little hesitant in seeking an even keel, scraped back their chairs and departed reluctantly through the wooden swing doors.

Already prickly, having sat through the Enya tape half a dozen times and eyeing these dawdling diners narrowly, willing them to get up and go, Garvie could finally stand the wallpaper no longer, the embossed burgundy flowers that twined into the shape of a vase. Another thing, the quail had been so stringy that he was suffering from dyspepsia.

‘Why don’t we scrape this bloody paper off tonight?’ he said. The ginger bristle that hid his weak chin could certainly look formidable, even when flecked with the remains of quail. ‘It’s too heavy an eyesore for my brain.’

‘What’s the rush?’ said Parfrey, paring a slice of Garvie’s Timboon camembert.

Upgrading the dining-room had been a priority on the afternoon’s agenda. ‘That’s the Clarendon Hill merlot talking.’

‘Indeed it was a smooth drop of red, though I prefer a case of the real gold, a bottle of Grange. Let’s crack this liqueur. More wine for you? Sure? That means more for me.’

‘Do you realize you’re pissing away all our profits?’

Quick-and-dirty, Garvie reached over and shackled his partner’s wrist, stared him squarely in the eyeball. ‘No fuss, no muss, Parfrey. As long as your pet projects work, we shan’t starve. Look, the restaurant’s closed next week, so let’s do it now. Horrie’s already toddled off home. With god-knows-what viands under his armpit.’ More conciliatory, but conspiratorial, he winked: ‘While the chef’s away, the partners play.’

‘I’m not so keen. I’m pretty sure the wallpaper is genuine Regency with that background of vertical, grey stripes.’

‘This paper is brothel boudoir, 1960. Let’s not stuff around.’

‘Beachcombe House did once serve the ladies of the night. Way back. Adds to the character of the place, I must say.’

‘Now you’re talking, Parfrey. Great concept! We haven’t catered for the quickies and that should be our niche market. How about you come up with a proposal for an hourly rate? And fifteen minutes for the super-quicks.’

Zeal intensified, Garvie began tearing strips from the skirting board where it had already begun to peel and blister. ‘This is a piece of gateau.’

‘What’s underneath?’ said Parfrey, his voice drained so thin and dry, it barely concealed his abject dismay at the shredding of his aspirations, the loosening of his tenuous bond to the other’s vulgarity and insufferable ignorance and self-righteous arrogance, the slipping of his plastic mask over the slivers and folds beginning to litter the ruby red plush pile.

‘More wallpaper. Fetch me the Stanley knife and scraper.’

‘Even Epicurus made a virtue of prudence, you know.’

Working up a rhythm, oblivious, save for a fumey sigh and some muttered oath, Garvie was scattering strips of paper from the growing patch of stained wall between the wine rack and dresser.

Reluctant to become an accomplice, Parfrey tapped his knuckle half-heartedly along the wall from where the original bar in the 1840s survived as a small recess for a vase of red roses and gypsophila. ‘Sounds hollow behind here. Must’ve been the old fireplace.’

Garvie was scraping at sheets of newspaper, then a powdery blue kalsomine, a red frieze the faint hue of Grecian pottery above the dado, an olive kalsomine . . .

‘Mind what you’re doing with that scraper,’ Parfrey cautioned, his nerves on edge.

‘You’re knocking out lumps of render.’

‘It’s only rubble. Listen, it’s not the bloody wallpaper that’s holding the wall up. As partners, we can do anything we like.’

‘Go easy, Garvs, for god sake! This hotel is nearly a hundred and fifty years old, remember. It’s National Trust. We do have responsibilities.’

‘Business is business, my old man used to say. So our first responsibility is to make the business profitable. Now get slashing with that Stanley knife.’

Gingerly, with surgical precision, Parfrey cut into and down the line that framed the hollowness.

Over this panel too, Garvie was bending and peeling and casting, before uncovering a smooth, white plasterboard beneath. He knocked on the plaster. Yes, it was hollow.

‘It should be easy to whack paper over this. It’s smooth as a baby’s bum.’

Then without warning, he smashed his fist through the plasterboard.

‘What did you do that for?’ A prod of anger, frustration mounting, betrayed Parfrey.

You could see it in the pettish pursing of his mouth.

White dust had sprinkled over the plush pile. Garvie poked his fist, his arm, his nose into the cavity. ‘This is an old fireplace, all right.’

‘Just go easy.’

‘There’s enough room to swing a waitress.’

‘I wonder if this is where M’Cracken’s ghost hangs out.’

‘Ghost? What ghost?’

‘M’Cracken’s. The newspaper manager who was called out by Dr Scott. They fought a duel in the sixties.’

‘The 1960s?’

‘No, no, the 1860s. Some local stoush. They wrestled and fell off the parapet wall into the kitchen downstairs. M’Cracken split his skull. The doctor was about to administer a turpentine enema, when his rival carked it. By misadventure, the coroner said.’

‘Sounds like a yarn we could market. “Dr Scott, The Mahogany Coast’s closet murderer!” Well done, Parfrey. We need more of that.’

‘Let’s keep things in perspective.’

‘Wait on, what’s this?’ Garvie opened his fist on two beaten silver coins with brassy edging. ‘This one’s 1797. Here. And 1835.’

‘Wonderful!’

‘Could be worth a bob or two, you reckon?’

‘No, they’re in poor condition. But just think: these coins changed hands, what, a hundred and sixty-odd years ago.’

‘If they’re not worth a roast fart, so what?’

‘The value of the coins is immaterial. It’s what our discovery represents. The give and take of trade and commerce that goes back to the whalers and sealers. On our own premises at Beachcombe House. A tradition that’s tangible.’

Garvie belched. ‘Beg yours?’

‘Apart from assisting chef and the waitresses, I see my role as steward, building up an awareness of the history of this place. And personally to become part of that history.

Just leave promotions to me.’

‘What a wuss! Your sentiments are driving away business,’ said Garvie, waving the scraper at Parfrey’s maroon cummerbund that held the sinews of his spare frame

together on evenings waiting at table. ‘We have a product to sell: comfy cots, a good feed and a nice drop of plonk.’

‘I want to preserve the quality, Garvs. It’s in our mission statement.’

‘Screw mission statements! Superfluous as bottled water. They merely reflect the fuzzy ideals of the customers, not management. Now I don’t want to do my dough on this joint. Peach wallpaper doesn’t turn me on. You should never have consulted that Heritage woman. We can knock out this empty space and whack in more tables.’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Parfrey, straightening the wings, then loosening his black bow-tie, the restaurant in need of a good airing. ‘Just look at the unusual curves and snug alcoves, the pressed zinc ceiling, the wooden square in the corner where the servants’ ladder passed through to the upstairs rooms, the sloping passageway that creaks at every footfall on the first floor. They’re all part of its charming idiosyncrasies.’

‘Idiocies, you mean. I’m owner of this gimcrack pile, remember. Some rooms don’t even have showers. You can’t do business like that in this day and age.’ Garvie looked set to wrench at the plaster cavern with his teeth.

‘Lay off, you’re wrecking the place!’

Parfrey grabbed his partner’s arms, but the stockier man’s conviction proved stronger. The latter shrugged off the tackle as easily as words, and turned, a whiff of tokay still on his breath.

‘Don’t you ever do that again!’ Punching points with the scraper, Garvie stepped forward. ‘Listen, I’ve got too much dosh invested in this business. And we still haven’t knocked off the company loan.’

‘I’m not going to stand by and let you violate –‘ ‘Take your maulers off me!’ Lunging out, his blow glancing a thin, bony shoulder, Garvie over-reached in the slough of wallpaper. Toppling over Parfrey, he choked back a gasp, a dry-retch, his eyes widened then half-closed, mouth falling slack, the

veins in his forehead beginning to pulse.

Breathing hard, Parfrey, straining with frantic desperation, pushed the heavy ruck off to the side. In the subdued light, he saw to his astonishment the handle of his Stanley knife sticking out of Garvie’s bread-bag, damp and still darkening.

The first streaks of pink pencilled in the horizon.

Hunched on the step that gave on to the beach from the jetty, Parfrey stirred from the gloom, shuddering. Barely could he make out from his watch that it was four o’ clock.

Slowly he became aware of the deafening, high-pitched squealing and shrieking from the scrub behind the dunes. And dark, rat-like bodies scurrying along their beach runways and back again. Mutton birds. The dawn ritual: stretching their necks, beating their wings, rehearsing their take-off for Bass Strait. Now they were streaming between the hummocks from their burrows, indifferent to everything but one simple over-riding purpose, even pacing about at Parfrey’s feet. Above, a dozen mutton birds, more like struts of bat, flitted in a circle, tentative still.

Parfrey hauled himself up, stiff and cold, though the morning was warm and delicate, like the mauve hues teased from the lichen on the stone walls of the quarry. If only he had the courage to slip into that black turgid pool. All of a sudden, the lighthouse beacon lit up and halted him dead on the sand track: he thought he saw a keeper with skipper’s hat beaming the searchlight straight at him. Then a navy-tinted blackness fell over the rookeries. Except for a deep blue light, then red, winking from the two arms of the harbour.

Breaking his freeze, he walked back towards the causeway.

Should he go to the police right now? And confess everything? But what was there to confess? It was a complete accident. How could it be construed otherwise? All right, so disagreement between the partners was rumoured on the grapevine, that Garvie, who was probably cooking the books anyhow, was at the minute carrying out a portion-costing of the food to check how money was slipping through the restaurant

returns, that Parfrey himself was probably skimming cash from the till. And as for that Horrie Hourigan, now there’s a greasy spoon . . .

Of course, there was no alternative but to present himself at the police station.

Except that it would be closed. Until eight or nine.

He had tried desperately to shut out that look of torment on Garvie’s grim visage, his mind skittering about the other rooms in the hotel like invisible mice, but skirting the restaurant. But now his mind began roving through the double doors to the wine rack to the dresser to the slew of wallpaper . . . to the fireplace staved in . . .

That was it! He could lug the body into that space, the old fire-place, and wall it up.

Somehow. Stick some ply in. Plaster it over. Get the decorator to wallpaper over.

His plodding gait quickened. In the black-to-greyish light he glimpsed the dark, sinewy shape of a fox or feral cat stealing through the ruins of the lighthouse keepers’ cottages. The sky was thick with mutton birds, an errant seagull or two. Then a soft lump tripped him, a fairy penguin, on its back, stiff toes extended, like a clockwork toy knocked over, white waistcoat glimmering dirty silver.

Already the odd fishing smack or shallow-draughted couta boat decked with coils of ropes and craypots was chugging out to open sea, he noticed, his footfall beating a lugubrious monotone on the wooden planking of the wharf. The Moyne reeked of fish-scales, petrol fumes, exposed mud below bluestone walling where small crabs were scuttling from the scurf.

But then the town lay deathly still.

Passing the arcaded porch of the bluestone court house and restored thick-slabbed whalers’ cottages, Parfrey entered the once-grand hotel through the archway used by the horses of Cobb & Co and the wealthy squatters. His step faltered. Were any of the guests up and about, preparing to go for an early-morning stroll, a dip in Shark Bay? No, the coast was clear. He grasped the handle of the outside door, took a deep, quavery breath, and slid the glass door open. He listened. Not a sound. He tested the swing doors of the restaurant. With the familiar creak, they gave.

And found himself back inside that room. But still on the edge. A few moments to train his eyes to the gloom. Then something brushed his feet, slithered, trailed round his ankles. He kicked out, but the object of his fear proved light, elusive, papery.

He looked behind, round about, upwards. And there, caught in the murk of street lighting from a gap between drapes, a face, rubbery with moisture, hair stringy rat tails, a scar for a mouth that yawed into a twisted smile, was M’Cracken’s ghost.

Parfrey backed away, saw the blade of the Stanley knife glint in the shaft of amber light, and stumbled backwards, back through the line of wall, back into the hidden fire-place, back into the shadows of history.

Michael Small May 11-25, 1993 Read on 5UV Radio, Adelaide, July 20, 1996 P O S T E D B Y MICH A EL A T 02:50 EMAIL THISBLOGTHIS!SHARE TO TWITTERSHARE TO FACEBOOK

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SNUFFLING FOR BLACK GOLD



THE SCORN OF BECKY PILBEAM

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THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR

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WHERE THERE’S A WILL



A LEGEND LAUNDERED

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BRIEFED FOR BERLIN

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ROAD TO KAROL BAGH

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CYCLONE CORAL

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A BITTER SPACE

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BEYOND THE GIRRAHWEEN STEPS

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THE BOUNCING STONES

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PUSKAS

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HER MASTER’S VOICE

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M’CRACKEN’S GHOST

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DUST IN YOUR EYES

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RAKING THE ASHES

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VEGETABLE LOVE

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HARVEST–TIME IN PROVENCE

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I DON’T TELL STORIES

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IMMEMORIAL RUN

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THE ODD FLUTTER

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HOMEWARD BOUND

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SOVRAN KING

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L’OSSESSIONE

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THE MODEL UNVEILED

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RESTING PLACE

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CAT’S PAW

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HER NATURAL LIFE

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THE PLAY’S THE THING

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ROADSCAPE

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BORN LOSER

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ALICE SAFARI

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BETWEEN TWO STOOLS

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