Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (24 page)

‘Hello, Les,' he said quietly.

‘G'day Bob. How's things?'

Quigley glanced at his watch. ‘Right on time.'

‘Yeah,' nodded Les. ‘It's only about ten minutes from my place.'

The kitchen wasn't all that big, barely four metres by six. As he stood there watching Quigley, Les had a quick, clockwise look around. Next to the back door
and beneath the windows was a double sink that Norton tipped hadn't seen a sprinkle of Ajax since the 2nd AIF came back from Gallipoli. Next to it was a small dishwasher that looked like a cut-down iron lung and in pretty much the same condition as the sink. A shelf ran from it into the corner, above which was a cupboard full of plates and soup dishes. Next was an ancient, eight burner stove and oven behind where Quigley was standing, with a pot full of something boiling away on top. Next to it at about eye level, was a sort of oven or pie warmer and beneath this were three, small deep freezes which ran from the corner to the wall of the kitchen fridge. The door to this was next to the swing door that lead to the dining room. There was a pantry in the other corner, then more cupboards and shelves full of plates and cups, tablecloths, napkins and other restaurant junk that ran down to a hot water urn near the back door.

In the middle of the kitchen was the huge, old table where Quigley was standing, on which were chopping boards, bowls of herbs, stacks of butter, tins, vegetables, jars of spices, carving knives, whisks, ladles and other restaurant odds and ends. Between the table and the freezer wall sat a small chest of drawers that held the cutlery. The floor was grey lino and everything else was either yellow, brown or black and all grimy, greasy and badly in need of a bucket of hot water, a scrubbing brush and some Flash. God, what a bloody pit, thought Norton. Did I really eat here once? I thought they closed places like this down after they sprung Oliver Twist.

It was warm outside but the kitchen was hotter. Norton found a place amongst the tablecloths for his overnight bag, took out his sweat band and looked at Quigley.

‘Well, Bob. What do you want me to do?'

The way Quigley looked at him, Les was convinced he must have ‘24 Carat Mug' written across his forehead in luminous green paint. Oh well. Let him think what he likes, thought Les, wrapping an old sweatband around his head.

‘You know how to cut up vegetables, Les?'

‘Sure.'

‘Okay. Start on those carrots and broccoli.'

Norton picked up a small carving knife and gave it a couple of hits on a steel while Quigley showed him how he wanted the vegetables cut up then put into two containers of water which were nothing more than grimy, battered, plastic ice cream cartons. While Les was doing this Quigley pointed out where everything was and what it was and showed him how to work the dishwasher and where the dishracks for it were kept. He told Les not to throw out anything that came back on the plates — all foodscraps went into two plastic buckets under the table one for meat scraps the other for vegetables. Any vegetables that looked like they hadn't been touched went into another ice cream container on the table.

While Norton chopped away, Quigley drank bottles of Powers and constantly smoked cigarettes while he told Norton how good the food was in his restaurant, how good it was going, how good a chef he was, how good his car was going, and how many sheilas he was throwing up in the air. He also added that he was doing a job on one of the waitresses who was nineteen.

Norton felt like pulling a few squelches on Quigley and asking him who was he trying to kid — the place was a brothel, the food was ordinary at the best of times, and didn't he think Les had ever had a root? But he changed his mind, deciding to act the dummy and kept nodding his head as Quigley went on with his bullshit, almost as if he was awe struck. Norton cut up the vegetables plus some par-boiled potatoes in their jackets and some herbs and was beginning to think that, apart from putting up with Quigley's ego-tripping the work was pretty easy and the next three nights could even be a bit of fun.

‘That'll be plenty of vegetables, Les.'

‘Righto, Bob.'

Quigley wiped his hands on a greasy teatowel and lit another cigarette. ‘I'm going inside to change the menu around. I'll get you to clean out the fridge.'

Quigley told Les where the mop and bucket were and to get the Ajax and a scrubbing brush. Any ideas Norton had of the job being ‘a bit of fun' quickly disappeared as soon as he saw inside the fridge. It was about two metres by four with racks and benches round the walls and it was even filthier than the kitchen. There were chewed up cartons of butter and other food on the floor amongst plastic containers of cream and milk. Tubs of vegetables and fruit and trays of half-cooked meat and chicken sat on the racks — everything from floor to ceiling was covered in slime, grease and other gunk, and several broken eggs sat amongst congealed blood on the dirty, wooden floor. Two thoughts struck Norton as he took it all in: the bastard who had been there before him must have had a nice holiday, and how come a health inspector hadn't put his head in before now? It was botulism city. Norton shook his head for a moment, then began stacking the contents of the fridge onto the floor outside so that he could mop the fridge out. Besides the cartons of food, there were half-empty bottles of wine and soft drink and cartons of Powers and other beers, which Norton tipped were leftovers from the restaurant and Quigley's private stash.

With a bit of elbow grease, Norton got into it, and got the fridge cleaned up about three hundred per cent better than what it was. At one stage he went out into the kitchen to get some more hot water, when what must have been one of the waitresses arrived. She was skinny, with straight, black hair, and was wearing a pair of black ski pants and a white top. She was definitely no oil painting, with black circles under her eyes and lines around her mouth, and if this was the nineteen-year-old Quigley was knocking off she must have been fighting six rounders since she was fifteen — she looked closer to thirty. She totally ignored Les as she threw a purse, a packet of cigarettes and her car keys onto the bench near the pantry. She got a bottle of Bundaberg Rum from the pantry, poured enough in a glass to start up a two-stroke motor, and hit it with a smidgen of
ice and Coca Cola. She glugged half of it down, then lit a cigarette and walked out into the dining room. Fuckin' hell, thought Les, as he waved away the fumes and the cloud of cigarette smoke she left behind. It's lucky she didn't blow us both up.

Norton cleaned out the fridge and restacked it about the same time as Quigley finished whatever he was doing in the dining room.

Quigley had a glance round the fridge and gave it a look of grudging approval. ‘That's good, Les,' he said.

Good? thought Norton. You're fuckin' kidding, aren't you? I'll bet it's the first time it's seen any hot water in a year. ‘Yeah,' he nodded, washing his hands in the sink. ‘It was a bit of a mess. How long has the other bloke been working here?'

‘Layton? Oh, about six months or so. You know him do you? Layton Mitner?'

Norton shook his head. ‘Can't say I do.'

‘He'll be in later. He's an old mate of mine.'

If he's half as grubby and half as big a smartarse as you, Quigley, thought Norton, I can't wait. ‘So what do you want me to do now?'

There's a kilo of prawns in the fridge. Peel them, then I'll get you to make some garlic bread.'

Norton got the prawns from the freezer and began peeling them, putting the peeled ones into another battered ice cream container. Quigley pottered around in front of him, trimming beef and chickens and preparing other things for the restaurant. Norton was going to start up a bit of a conversation, then he thought no, bugger it. The three lousy nights I'm here I'll just act the complete wally and switch right off — what's there to talk about anyway? He was relieved when Quigley turned on a radio that was sitting on top of the pie-warmer; even though it was barely audible. But, Norton's relief turned to further frustration when he found it was tuned to one of those Western Suburbs stations that churned out nothing but golden oldies, greatest memories and takeaway food ads one after the other. With
Bobby Goldsboro moaning his way through ‘Honey' followed by Roy Orbison and ‘Blue Bayou' Norton knew that Saturday night couldn't come quickly enough.

After a while the skinny waitress came back in, poured another rum and coke and lit another cigarette. ‘That's all the tables done, Robert,' she coughed. ‘I might go through the bookings.'

‘Okay, Carol,' answered Quigley.

Even though they hadn't been introduced, the waitress still ignored Les, who didn't actually go out of his way to smile and catch her eye either. She gulped down her rum and Coke then without bothering to say ‘excuse me', grabbed a handful of the prawns Norton had peeled, shoved them on a buttered bread roll and began gnawing at it while she smoked her cigarette at the same time. Norton was trying to remember the last time he'd come across a pig like her — probably lying in a gutter somewhere a few streets up from the Kelly Club. She moved to the opposite side of the table and got into a muted conversation with Quigley, as pieces of bread and prawns fell from her mouth onto the floor. Under closer scrutiny she was even skinnier than he'd thought; she reminded Les of Popeye's girlfriend Olive Oyle, and if it hadn't been for her Adam's apple, she would have had no shape at all. The way they talked, it was now obvious that she was the one Quigley was skiting about rooting. Lucky guy, thought Les. Wish I could find myself a young spunk like her. He peeled on and after a while Quigley actually showed a modicum of manners.

‘Oh, Les,' he said. ‘This is Carol.'

‘Hello, Carol,' replied Norton.

‘Harrumphgh, Les,' answered Olive Oyle, through another mouthful of prawn roll, causing more of it to fall on the floor.

When Norton finished peeling the prawns, Quigley got him to squeeze lemon on them plus a splash of vinegar and put them back in the fridge. Then Les started on the garlic bread, which simply meant cutting into some bread rolls three or four times and painting them with
melted butter and crushed garlic, using a filthy old paint brush Quigley produced from somewhere then wrapping them in aluminium foil before putting them back in the fridge.

When Les was halfway through the garlic bread, waitress number two arrived. She was a bit on the dumpy side with straggly blonde hair, wearing a black minidress and a white shirt. She said hello to Quigley then, like Carol, she tossed her cigarettes, car keys and purse into the pantry corner and got out a cheap bottle of Scotch. And like Carol, she also poured herself a stiff drink and lit a cigarette. Again Les may as well not have been there as she got into conversation with Quigley and Carol. Eventually Quigley introduced her as Mendle. Hello, mused Les, what a quinella: Olive Oyle and Mendle As Anything.

By now a few customers had begun to drift in; although this brief interruption in no way hindered Quigley or the waitresses drinking or smoking one cigarette after another. The blower above the stove was on but the cigarette smoke in the kitchen was now burning Norton's eyes. It was also starting to piss him off as well. He was about to make a sarcastic remark about passive smoking and health regulations when he felt something rubbing up against his leg. It was an old, red alley cat, who had let itself in through a hole in the flyscreen door. Les was about to automatically kick its arse back out the door when Quigley spoke.

‘Here you are, Rusty,' he said, and cut up a few scraps of beef which he dropped straight onto the floor near the sink.

The cat got stuck straight into it, its tail up in the air moving slowly from side to side. Jesus, thought Les, what next? Normally by now, especially working in a restaurant surrounded by food, Les would be getting a bit on the peckish side. Also with the heat he would have had a pronounced thirst and be absolutely tonguing for a beer. But between the cat eating off the floor, the filthy state of the freezer, and the way Carol ate,
somehow made him completely lose his appetite. And the way they all slopped booze down their throats like mule skinners in the Last Chance Saloon was enough to turn Norton off drinking for the rest of his life.

The moggy left the way it came in, accompanied by a flurry of barking, growling, hissing and spitting. Norton glanced over between washing pots and dishes and saw an old grey mongrel dog with its nose through the hole in the flyscreen door.

‘Hello, Bootsie,' said Quigley.

Quigley opened the door and dumped some more food scraps on the floor. It was the dog's turn to get on the feedbag, which it did, accompanied by much grunting and slobbering all over the floor. That's it, thought Norton, shaking his head, if a rat comes out of one of the cupboards and Quigley says ‘hello Tiddles' and starts feeding it, I'm knocking off.

Unbelievably, there were customers, and Norton was kept busy washing dishes, scrubbing filthy, blackened pots and getting things for Quigley from the pantry and the freezer, while the owner and his two waitresses smoked at least a hundred cigarettes each and drank themselves into oblivion.

The night progressed with Norton switched off as best he could. He managed to save his eyesight and lessen the damage to his lungs by going out amongst the empty bottles in the backyard every now and again for a bit of fresh air. In the meantime, he'd found a new job; emptying the girls' ashtrays for them. He also found out that the stuff he'd seen boiling away on the stove earlier was called demi-glace and all the scraps and leftover wine went into it to be reduced down to stock. He also found out where all the vegetables that didn't go into the bucket under the table went: back out into the restaurant. Norton just blinked when he saw what he swore were the same vegetables go round about four times. Christ, is it Saturday night yet? he thought, as ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree' gurgled out of the radio sitting on top of the pie-warmer. But
it was tolerable — until Saturday night anyway. Then who should arrive, acting like he owned the place, but Quigley's mate Layton Mitner with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.