Mavis Levack, P.I. Page 12

  She scooped the beer cans and bottles into the garbage bag. Then the sound of the shower ceased. He’d be out in a minute. She quickly wiped the table down, sweeping the bits of wood and cloth into the bag as well.

  ‘Oh, agh, oh!’

  Mrs Levack turned abruptly. There he was with his asymmetrical moustache, towel around his belly, holding his hand to his chest. Oh my God, he was having a heart attack. Mrs Levack dropped the bag and rushed over to him.

  ‘You should have let me help you. Come and sit down. Do you have pills to take or something?’

  ‘Where’s me ship? What have you flamin’ done with me ship?’

  ‘Your ship?’

  ‘It was laid out on the table. What have you done with it?’

  Mrs Levack stood there staring. What was he talking about? Had he been a sailor? Had the shower reminded him of the sea? Then it slowly dawned. The bottles, the little bits of wood and cloth. Model ship. All the puff went out of Mrs Levack’s sails.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s in here,’ she gulped, offering him the garbage bag.

  The man swung his bony arm up and pointed at the door. ‘Get out,’ he ordered.

  Mrs Levack was on the verge of tears. She wouldn’t have minded a carer herself.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Out!’ The arm remained rigid as a pole.

  Mrs Levack picked up her bag and slunk away. The screen door creaked and banged behind her. Before she’d even got to the gate of number 28, she heard him slam shut the main one, as heavy and irrevocable as a prison door.

  She sat in the Corolla breathing in and counting, breathing out and counting, just like the young girl at the relaxation classes had shown her. It didn’t make a blind bit of difference. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the visit had been a disaster, she now had to report back to the agency. In fact they’d even given her the use of a mobile phone to make the job easier. She picked up the black oblong shape, turned it over a couple of times, trying to figure it out. She knew how to operate the remote control for the TV, this couldn’t be all that difficult.

  ‘The Good Samaritan support carer agency. Marina speaking.’

  ‘Marina?’ Mrs Levack couldn’t believe she’d got it first go. It filled her with a heady kind of confidence. ‘I’ve just finished at 28 Smith Street. I’m ringing to, ah, touch base.’

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Marina.

  ‘Ah, fine. Just fine.’

  ‘He wasn’t any trouble then?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Levack in a small voice.

  ‘You must have a way with him. Some of them can be awfully feisty. Pride. You have to handle them with kid gloves. You OK for . . . ?’ But it was obliterated by a lot of noise. Some sort of interference. It happened with mobile phones.

  ‘Pardon?’ asked Mrs Levack.

  ‘Are you all right for Friday’s visit?’

  ‘Certainly,’ lied Mrs Levack. At the moment the last thing she wanted to do was go back into that house. Perhaps if she gave it a little time, waited for the moustache to grow back. She put down the phone but the noise persisted. Sounded like car horns. Before she had time to think about it any further an angry red face appeared at the window. On top of the face was a policeman’s hat. He asked to see her licence, then he started writing a ticket. Oh dear.

  ‘But, officer, the car was stationary,’ she protested. She knew the rules about mobile phones.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Stationary through three changes of traffic lights.’

  Mrs Levack suddenly remembered where she was. She looked up. In her rear vision mirror she saw a long line of cars, the drivers all beeping their horns. This was without a doubt the worst day of her life.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if Eddy finds out you’ve been fined,’ said Mavis’s friend Freda that night down at the bowling club. Tuesday night was darts night at the club. Bill and Eddy were at the board, well out of earshot.

  Mrs Levack took another big gulp of her whisky. ‘But you don’t understand, Freda. I never drive the car. It’s Eddy that always drives. Forty-two years he’s had his licence, and not one ticket.’ She had told Freda all about her day, right down to the last detail.

  ‘Well, he was a tram driver, Mavis, what do you expect? Besides, it’s not going to show on Eddy’s licence, it’ll be yours. Same again, thanks, Gavin,’ said Freda, indicating another round of drinks.

  ‘Now then,’ said Freda, smacking her lips, ‘we’d better decide what to do about your gentleman. When’s the next visit?’

  ‘Friday.’

  Slim sat on the edge of his comfy lounge chair. In front of him Playschool beamed away merrily. The sound was down low but still he couldn’t help lifting his slippered foot occasionally in time to the music. Catchy little tune that ‘Bananas in Pyjamas’. He’d spent the last three days sorting through the pieces of his model ship. It would take a while longer yet, but he had all the time in the world. The white tornado that had whirled through his house doing its damage was gone, replaced by the calm after the storm. He’d shut the door, battened the hatches and was now absorbed in his task.

  The doorbell croaked. A rough, rusty ring like an old man coughing. He’d have to get round to fixing that one of these days.

  ‘Stone the flamin’ crows!’ It was that woman again. He wanted to slam the door right in her face but her foot was in the way.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She stood there in the doorway humming a song like a siren trying to beguile a sailor.

  ‘I’ve brought you something,’ she said. She reached into her bag and drew out a large package, humming all the while. He recognised the tune now, it was one of his favourites, ‘Moonlight Becomes You’. How did she know? He took another look at her. She was no bigger than a grasshopper. Was this the same one who had come the other day? Perhaps he’d imagined the whole thing. He made a resolution to cut down on the morning beers.

  ‘Here,’ she said, offering him the large package.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Just wanted to . . . you know, make amends.’

  He stood there stroking his moustache, or at least what was left of it, looking at the proffered package, wondering whether to take it or not. Curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘S’pose you’d better come in.’ As long as he kept her away from the ship it’d be all right.

  He slowly unwrapped the parcel, keeping one eye on her.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said when all the wrapping was off and he saw that he was holding a model ship kit. ‘I was putting mine back together but I don’t suppose it would do any harm to have a back-up.’

  Taking begrudging acceptance as encouragement, Mrs Levack dived into her bag again and retrieved a second, much smaller present.

  ‘You can wear it while the other one is growing back. It’s an acrylic fibre, doesn’t matter if it gets wet.’

  It was a moustache, similar to Slim’s former pride and glory, packaged and presented like a bow tie.

  ‘Thanks. Thanks very much.’

  There was a moment of embarrassment at this apparent easing of hostilities.

  ‘You, ah, ready for your shave?’

  ‘I’m growing a beard.’

  ‘What about your shower, then?’ suggested Mrs Levack.

  ‘I think I can manage by myself. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘Perhaps some light cleaning, a little dusting?’ Mrs Levack begged in a last-ditch attempt.

  ‘Ah, no.’

  She’d run out of suggestions. She hadn’t actually caused any damage this time, he hadn’t got angry or cantankerous, but she’d failed. Eddy had warned her that she wasn’t cut out for this sort of work, she was almost as old as the people she was trying to help. She had her part-time job as a cleaner at the Opera House, there was bowls, that got her out and about, why wasn’t she happy with that?

  Because she wanted to help those less fortunate than herself. And she wanted to succeed at it. Bu
t she seemed to have come to the end of the road. Perhaps she’d have better luck with the next client. If the agency gave her any more clients after this.

  A dejected Mrs Levack picked up her bag, gave Slim a little wave and shuffled towards the door as if her shoes were made of lead.

  ‘Bye then.’ She stood there giving him a hangdog look.

  ‘There’s a pile of washing up. If you’re interested,’ said Slim, softened by Mrs Levack’s doleful eyes.

  ‘Well, only if it needs doing.’

  Slim started heading for the bathroom, leaving her to it. ‘Just don’t touch the ship, OK?’

  Mrs Levack stood at the sink, rubber gloves up to her elbows, working her way through the washing up. Useful at last. Everything was right with the world. She stopped her zealous scrubbing for a moment to listen to the song coming from the shower. Yes, it was the Willie Nelson song again.

  ‘Moonlight becomes you/I’m thrilled at the sight/And we could get so romantic—ah, Christ!’

  They weren’t the words Mrs Levack remembered. She raced to investigate.

  What Slim saw from his side of the shower curtain was a white nurse’s shoe and a silhouette carrying a very large cleaver.

  ‘Agh, Gawd strike me!’

  Mrs Levack moved the curtain a fraction. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What do you flamin’ think you’re doing coming in here with a meat cleaver?’

  ‘I heard you groan. Is everything OK?’

  ‘I can groan if I want to.’ He paused a moment. ‘It slipped out of my hand, that’s all.’

  ‘What slipped out of your hand?’ asked Mrs Levack, not sure if she really wanted to know.

  ‘The soap. What else?’ The silhouette did not go away. ‘Well,’ said Slim after a minute, ‘seeing as you’re here, what about giving my back a bit of a scrub?’

  He didn’t see Mrs Levack’s jaw clench on the other side of the curtain. It was all right, she reassured herself. This was exactly what she was here for. Gingerly she opened the curtain wide enough to put her arm in. Slim handed her the soap.

  ‘You can take those gloves off. I’m too old to have anything you can catch.’

  She started feeling around, the only part of her in the shower being her arm. It wasn’t the most efficient way of washing someone. And what if he had a fall? ‘Hold on. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  She was back in a minute. Dressed in the raincoat and rain bonnet she always carried in her bag. She pulled the curtain aside, got in and looked at his back. It wasn’t too bad. A bit bony compared to Eddy’s, but the skin didn’t sag too much. She started soaping it up.

  Slim remained there facing the wall, letting her work away. Had there been a fly on the wall, an unlikely occurrence in that steamy atmosphere, it would have seen a smile on Slim’s face and a look that was impossible for a fly to interpret.

  ‘There. All finished,’ announced Mrs Levack.

  ‘Good,’ said Slim. ‘Now what about the front?’

  Mrs Levack was in the Good Samaritan office, filling in a form for petty cash and feeling very pleased with herself.

  ‘How was today’s visit?’ asked Marina, a dark-haired forty-something woman sitting on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Fine. Just fine,’ said Mrs Levack, this time truthfully.

  ‘Poor old things. Even though they’re crabby, they really look forward to the visits. Gives them an interest.’

  ‘Oh, mine’s got an interest,’ Mrs Levack assured her. ‘Building a model ship. You know, one of those in a bottle.’

  ‘He’d just be telling you that.’

  ‘Oh no, I’ve seen it.’

  Marina looked perplexed. ‘But he couldn’t possibly do something as intricate as that, the way his hands are deformed with arthritis. That’s why he needs assistance. He’d cut his own throat if he tried to shave himself. He’s practically crippled with it.’

  What was she talking about? He’d been a bit unsteady the first day, but you’d hardly call him a cripple. ‘He gets around all right,’ said Mrs Levack.

  ‘Costas Stannopoulis?’

  ‘He likes to call himself Slim.’ She was starting to get a bad feeling about all this.

  ‘Twenty-eight Smith Street?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Levack, eagerly clutching at this straw.

  ‘Parramatta?’

  Mrs Levack let the straw go and mentally fell into a slump. ‘Pendle Hill,’ she squeaked.

  Marina consulted a teledex, then reached for the phone. ‘Mr Stannopoulis? Marina from the Good Samaritan. Have you had a visit from one of our volunteers today? . . . No? What about last Tuesday? . . . I see. Thank you, Mr Stannopoulis . . . Yes, right away.’

  During the course of the telephone conversation Mrs Levack’s face got redder and redder. She wished the floor would swallow her up and seriously thought she would be the first person in the world who actually, literally, died from mortification. But that didn’t last long. Though her face remained the same shade of red, mortification was starting to lag and righteous indignation was overtaking it in leaps and bounds. How could he? How could he?

  Slim drained the last of the beer, stuck the empty can under the lounge chair and let out a satisfied ‘ah’. All the pieces were in place now, he could start the rewarding work of assembling the ship. In fact he was so engrossed in thinking about it that he let the doorbell ring twice before he hoisted up his pyjamas and went to answer it.

  ‘G’day,’ he said.

  ‘Thought this might come in handy. You won’t have to bend down if you lose your grip.’ She held up a cord with a cake of soap attached. ‘I’d better show you how it works. Now, where were we the last time? Ah yes, I was just about to do your front.’ The soap dangled suggestively between them.

  She was wearing the raincoat and hat. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. From out of nowhere came strains of the song: ‘Moonlight becomes you/It goes with your hair/You certainly know the right thing to wear.’

  Slim smiled. He had a good set of teeth for a man of his age. ‘There’s a tub in there as well, you know. And I’ve got a couple of cold ones in the fridge. We could launch the ship. What do you reckon?’

  Mrs Levack had not told her husband that the agency had sacked her. She couldn’t bear to hear Eddy say ‘I told you so’. Besides, you didn’t have to work through an agency to be a real Good Samaritan. It was the job of a carer to help those in need, wherever and however you found them. And Mrs Levack had found Slim. It was good for women to have an interest outside the home.

  ‘What an excellent idea,’ she said, barging right in.

  I Can’t Take Any More

  Mr and Mrs Levack were finally here! Hobart, Tasmania. The apple isle of Australia.

  ‘Aren’t the gardens just a picture?’ exclaimed Mrs Levack, admiring the multi-hued roses. ‘You don’t get that back in Bondi.’

  ‘Well, not in our flat,’ demurred her husband Eddy.

  ‘I’m so excited,’ Mrs Levack went on, ‘and we haven’t even arrived at the guesthouse yet.’ She tapped the cab driver on the shoulder, full of youthful enthusiasm despite her sixty-something years. ‘Do you know that Hobart has some of the best food and restaurants in the world? Who would believe it of a little place at the bottom of the world. Next stop Antarctica!’ she chortled.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ commented the cabbie dryly. He drove further up the hill, through more gardens full of roses. ‘You folks with the Japanese cosmetics group?’ he asked. ‘I brought a mob of them up here a couple of days ago.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Levack, impressed with how international it all was. ‘We’re from Sydney.’

  They’d scrimped and saved for this trip to Tasmania, putting aside a bit each week from the pension and Mrs Levack’s part-time job as a cleaner at the Opera House. It was a two-week holiday—a week doing what Eddy wanted to do and a week for Mavis. Eddy’s week involved a tour to the rugged north-east of the island where he hoped to spot the rare Tasmanian tiger. He’d read
everything he could on Tasmanian wildlife so that he’d be prepared. But first there was Mrs Levack’s week. She wanted to stay in Hobart and be waited on hand and foot. Eat in the restaurants, get dressed up and visit the casino.

  ‘This is it, Mavis,’ announced Eddy proudly, as if he’d built the blessed thing himself. ‘Spackman’s Guesthouse. Looks lovely, doesn’t it?’

  The cabbie opened the boot and heaved out their luggage. Eddy was in such a holiday mood that he tipped the cabbie a whole ten cents.

  They walked down the path of Spackman’s Guesthouse, crunching gravel underfoot. It must have been a stately home at one stage—stained glass windows, double storey, brick and plaster, pitched roof with quaint little attic windows. Mrs Levack was relieved to see a TV aerial on top of it all. She didn’t want to miss Murder, She Wrote.

  They plonked their bags down at the front door. Eddy put his hand around the lion’s head knocker and gave it a good bang. But no-one came to the door. Then Mrs Levack reached up and gave it a go. They waited, looking around at the roses.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ wondered Mrs Levack. She was standing on the threshold of her holiday and anxious to have it begin. A little rest, a refreshing shower, a walk around the shops, dinner, then off to the casino.

  ‘Anybody home?’ she called loudly. Inside the house the phone started ringing. It remained unanswered.

  More out of frustration than anything else, Mrs Levack pushed at the door. It opened. ‘Well, fancy it being unlocked all this time,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t that give it a friendly smalltown feeling?’

  They came into a welcoming foyer where a big vase of lilies rested on a stand.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mrs Levack. ‘We were wondering—’

  Eddy gave her a nudge. There was a huge mirror facing them. ‘Mavis,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘you’re talking to your own reflection.’