A Climate Of Change

By Kit Adam

Starting in the 1980s and traversing through the following decade, A Climate of Change tells the story of two young men as they fall in love and develop friendship. Along the way, a dark past casts a constant shadow over not only their love but of those around them: institutional child abuse.

With the love and support of Robbie, Simon’s family deals with the trauma, but despite what they hope is a resolution, they cannot defeat the power of one of the world’s largest religious organizations.

A tale that explores young love, chasing the dream, and a series of tragic losses, A Climate of Change is told through the eyes three of the characters—Robbie, then Simon, and also Cal. It is an observation of young life, the landscape, the notion of relationships, and the disturbing horror of manipulation of young boys by those they trusted.

From the beaches of southern Australia to the towns and countrysides of England, Scotland, Canada, Europe, and back to the eastern coast of Australia, these young men mature and grow stronger.

Can lives be rebuilt and restored? Can love triumph over tragedy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984504104

Kit Adam

Brought up in Melbourne, and Canada, and a lover of the Victorian Surf Coast, Kit Adam has been involved in the Arts as a teacher, photographer and designer for over three decades. He continues to study and explore Art History and Theory from a variety of cultures and eras. Apart from the Arts, Kit's other passion is travelling. Very much a backpacker, he has spent far too much time traipsing the world and savouring the people, food and cultures., his camera and sketchbook as constant companions. Living on the Bellarine Peninsula allows Kit to enjoy the delights of Melbourne and the vigour of the beaches where he feels most at home. When not indulging in the surf, he can be found in one of the many cafes around Victoria. “A Climate of Change” is his first novel.

Book preview

SCORCHED

1973

My arms held behind my back, his weight forcing my body face first onto the heavy oak table. My nose is inhaling the acidic odour of Marveer. My toes are just making contact with the dusty Axminster rug. His clammy hand is fumbling with my Levi’s. The button securing the waist is breaking away under violent fingers, allowing the remaining buttons to spread and the denim to be dragged down. My jocks are explored before being slid down.

I feel drops of sweat cascading onto my lower back. The sound of my sobbing is punctuated by noises of guttural approval of the quality of what lies before my assailant. ‘Roll over, sinner. Let’s see what you have to show me.’

I’m terrified, confused, and staring into the face of a man whom I trust and whose words I believe in—or did till now. I tilt my head away to a gold-framed painting.

When he places both his hands on my ribs, I instinctively close my eyes. One is placed over my mouth, causing me to splutter. I struggle for breath.

His bloated belly trembles. His saliva dribbles in a weeping stream. Putrid breath scalds my nostrils, and I begin to feel an overwhelming sense of nausea building.

He becomes more aggressive, the grunting louder and the sweat drops heavier. I can only focus on the figure of Christ nailed to the wall behind the twisted plum-red face hovering above me. My guilt is being expelled from deep within me.

With a sudden gulp, spasm, and expulsion of halitosis-scented air, the quivering blancmange collapses into a throne-like chair, heaving uncontrollably. He instructs me that my sins are now forgiven and that God and Lord Jesus are proud of me. As he stands, he draws up his piss-stained Y-fronts and black trousers, pulls on his braces, and then lays his gold crucifix on my chest, all the while muttering in Latin and crossing himself intermittently.

His eyes watch with a demonic sparkle as I put my shirt back on and do up my jeans as best as I can now that the top button is gone. There is a dampness in my crotch that is uncomfortable and brings to the surface the contents of my guts. The only other person in the room shows great disgust as he hands me a mop and bucket to clean up the vomit from the blue-and-gold rug.

‘Our little secret between you, me, and the Holy Spirit. Bless you, dear boy. To disclose your penance would see you cast into the depths of Hades’ eternal flames. And you wouldn’t want that now, would you?’ As he leaves the dankness of the rosewood-lined vestry, he pauses only slightly to adjust his toupee under the watchful eye of Holman Hunt’s The Light of the World.

Later I creep into the backyard and throw my jocks into the incinerator. There is no way I’m going to let my mother see that the white cotton is now a crusty russet-coloured cloth. At least I sleep knowing that I am free of sins and have suffered pain as punishment for my gluttony whilst taking Mass. The wafers are not, as I now know, snack food.

1

November 1981

The loosened tie, sweaty and once white shirt, and slight scent—no, actually, overbearing stench—of fermented hops truly suggested that the final exam had been completed a couple of hours prior. Eighteen—Robbie Bruce Walker had made it. Free of school fascism and, for the first time in six weeks, able to enjoy the stifling thirty-eight-degree heat.

The cold rush of the amber fluid did little to make the oppressive temperature bearable, but Bondy’s pool held great promise. If only we could get there. Balwyn was not that far from Kooyong as the fucking crow flies, but there were quite a few enticing inns between the Boston-ivy-clad walls of the Malvern’s beer garden and the alluring cool of the chlorinated bath.

Bondy and I corralled a seething herd of grey-shorted, white-shirted, and cadmium-tied participants onto the pathway to oblivion. As the anointed elders, apart from ensuring the consumption of copious amounts of ale, we observed their number steadily decrease as each public house was conquered. Some excused themselves to take a piss, never to return. Others simply reached full capacity and gracefully departed to face their country-road-adorned matrons with a serious level of trepidation. (We heard later that Taylor was found in a semi-comatose state in the keg cellar of the Elgin Inn the following day, alive but hardly fit to be classified biologically.)

Many of the sunburned gardens along our meandering track through the upper-class residences of Melbourne’s inner east received complimentary fertilising from a number of well-lubricated throats as the gentlemen’s chorus traversed from one stately Victorian public house to another. But the grandiose architecture meant little to us on this occasion.

Under the wrought iron of the railway bridge shading the khaki-toned windows of Aussie Disposals, we spied similarly clad foe. The only visible difference was that their loosened neck attire was pale blue with red stripes. Catholics! Fuckin’ Micks! Dirty virgins! Pope pokers! For the past six calendars, we had spat at, incessantly tackled, and hurled ancient abusive war cries at the spawn of Satan. Today the wafer munchers were in a similar state of inebriation as us proddy dogs. This meant that, to the shopping jeep brigade and doped-up tech students passing by, a traffic-halting rumble of epic proportions seemed imminent.

Across the glistening tram tracks, a vitriolic volley of abusive epithets began.

We were accused of doing unsavoury acts with a well-known brand of shortbread biscuits, whilst in turn we referenced their masturbatory skills practised on elderly men in brocaded frocks. They rallied with comments relating mainly to what they would’ve liked to do to our maternal relatives. In response, our repartee made further reference to their passion for altar boys and choirmasters.

Browny bravely stepped forward to hurl a missive graphically describing their skills of extracting semen orally, and hurl he did. In front of the encroaching sixty-nine, a concoction of diced carrots, tomato skins, corn mash, and the unmistakable waft of parmesan exploded from the inner depths of his body with such force as to speckle the Vatican virgins with globules of heavily fermented bile.

The sixty-nine shuddered to a halt. The acrobatic bald Gallic conductor swung out onto the asphalt. Shopping jeeps and wisteria rinse sets spun round, adding a delicate mist of lavender and White Linen to the tension.

Silence enveloped the acrid atmosphere. All interest lay in how those with the noose of pale blue and red polyester would respond. Beneath the shade of the Victorian engineering triumph, the two parties met, trying to avoid the waste of Browny. Their eyes squintingly focused on their religious opponents with fierce intent. Six winters of discontent suddenly evaporated, and as if malignant, a blend of smiles, grins, and laughter led to hearty embraces.

Mounting the arc of steel at the front of the rumbling W-class tram like a stage, I proposed, ‘Gentlemen, the Auburn?’

The passageway under the train station was overwhelmed with adolescent males, all heading east towards the nominated inn on the road that bore its name. The regular patrons of this ancient watering hole made themselves scarce at the sight of reputed rivals cruising through the etched glass doors. They need not have worried; the rivalry diminished in a blur of sporting tales and vacuous fiction of years past. Hatred had turned to mutual admiration and joviality.

Amidst the ‘Stars on 45’ blasting across the dank lounge came on ‘Bad Habits’. What was I, the now defunct senior prefect, to do but mount the rostrum set up for Saturday night gigs and perform a now legendary routine? In years to come, it would gain the nomenclature ‘lip-syncing’; but in 1981, it was miming. With the 90 per cent alcohol level in my bloodstream, the swing choreography became a seedy burlesque event. White buttons shot through the air as the standard-issue Dobsons shirt was torn asunder to reveal an oarsman’s pecs, shoulders, and abs. A gaggle of Blue Nun–sipping typing-pool ladies squealed as they warmed to the impromptu floor show.

Within seconds, the mock-heraldic sticky carpet was strewn with the Glenferrie uniform shop’s bestseller: white cotton. It was, to say the least, impossible to remain static with the biting riff of ‘Edge of Seventeen’ pumping through the beery humid air. There was physical contact seen only in rugby scrums, and the Dylanesque vocals hardly replicated white-winged doves. Several pots and bellowed anthems later, the last remaining six—three of my comrades and two of our Catholic brethren—exited the Auburn and set forth with the sole aim of a full-immersion baptism in the cooling waters of Brother Bond of Balwyn.

But just up the road, we reached the Palace, the last bastion on the Burke Road border between the sensible folk of Hawthorn, who enjoyed a tipple, and the puritanical residents of Camberwell through to Box Hill and the Whitehorse Hotel, the first respite on the far eastern side of an alcoholic desert. The Palace’s neoclassical tower served as if a guard post mocking the suits as they alighted from their trains to the comfort of their Californian bungalows. Once Burke Road was crossed and the infamous dry region underfoot, all that remained was to successfully stagger through the leafy streets of oversized clinker-brick homes to the solitary cream brick veneer home of Bondy’s folk.

Bondy of Belmont Avenue had resided in Deepdene for most of his seventeen years, but the account at the Whitehorse Hotel was well used by his dad. The family could well have operated its own speakeasy considering the contents of Gerald Bond’s cellar and bar. Having recently restocked the facilities, Gerry and his wife had sensibly decided to spend the next two nights at their estate near Yea, leaving their youngest to host whomever he so desired.

Finally, within an hour of staggering, it was achieved. Down the slender path framed by an eclectic collection of rhododendrons and variegated hollies, there it lay, a glistening oasis amidst Valencia orange trees bookended by faux Grecian vats pushing kumquats up to the now mandarin sky. The still azure waters beckoned as freshly sliced limes slipped effortlessly into Bombay Sapphire and Schweppes.

I had no shame and was soon embraced by the chlorine-scented fluid clad only in my school tie and jocks of a lurid hue that could only be classified as watermelon. I stood waist-deep and finally well chilled as my fellow inebriates unsteadily removed their grey fashion statements of the past six years. My string bikini was not alone in stating some form of clandestine rebellion. The two Catholic boys also showed a preference for the skimpier cut. My associates tended to be somewhat more conservative, adorning their nether regions in jocks composed of thicker bands hugging their adolescent hips.

Daniel may well have wished he’d selected a darker-coloured pair for his Classics exam; the lemon cotton was now completely transparent, leaving us in no doubt that he was not of the Yiddish persuasion. Though still rather revealing, now that our jocks were saturated, gratefully, the variety of colours and patterns was not advertising the choice our parents had made when we were but wee babes.

One of the Catholic brethren, Simon, was a former adversary of mine from seasons on the Yarra and Barwon Rivers. We were of similar build, sporting the tans, abs, and muscles from the preseason training for rowing club selections. We’d never spoken before the Auburn but migrated easily to conversation; we were the only oarsmen.

As was a custom after years of enforced short back and sides, none of us had butchered the locks since the September holidays. My mousy brown hair had been nurtured to nestle on my shoulders in readiness for my long-held dream of dreadlocks. Simon’s jet-black waves were hanging past his jaws like velvet curtains.

We sat together in the shallow end, armed with a West Coast Cooler each, and chatted about our days of oar, comparing results—very much in my favour—and the camaraderie only rowers understood. His pale grey eyes were hypnotic. Or was it the sickly sweet citrus piss flowing from the green bottle causing my fading in and out of reality? I was no doubt talking Braille but knew Simon was hanging on each and every word.

The sun painted the sky with stresses of blood orange and passion fruit. I became aware that I was beginning to yearn for food and something more tasteful than carbonated cat piss. ‘What about it, Simon? Shall we hit the deck bar?’

In an elegant slur, he agreed. ‘Damn fine idea.’

The pungent though inviting odour of pizza wafted past as Simon and I stumbled to the deck bar. He leant to put on his shorts, only halting when he realised all people around were still dressed only in ties and minuscule amounts of clinging cotton or nylon. His jocks, white with random red swirls, hardly obscured his semi; but when he moved behind the bar to join me, he was well aware that wringing wet watermelon-coloured cotton did not, in any plausible way, obscure a raging boner. He gave me a smirk as I inspected the bar.

‘Bogan with carbonated carbon fibre, minimal cubes in crystallised sand with no cylindrical plastic?’

‘What the fuck?’

‘Would you like a bourbon and Coke with no ice in a glass and no straw, Simon?’

‘Is the pope a Catholic?’

‘I don’t know. Is he?’ We both laughed. By this stage, we would have laughed at anything.

The bar—the deck one, that is—proved very good at concealing our lower bodies from the eyes of our comrades, who were lounging around the pool, munching on the contents of recently delivered Sofia’s cartons. An obscenely large pizza marinara had gratefully been left on the bar, and even more thankfully, Simon was not allergic to seafood. Whilst munching prawns, anchovies, and tomato paste, we slurped our Jimmy’s just blushed with Coke, drew dramatically on glowing Alpines, mispronounced our words, and cast downward glances with cheeky acknowledgement that we were both handsomely endowed.

We bantered at length, I think about music, school subjects, and sports, sharing several bouts of drunken giggles. This guy was as if a best mate of years’ standing. He too had sat the Art exam earlier in the day and was as passionate about photography as I was about design, a subject still seen as a branch of art.

I found myself enamoured by this strikingly amiable tall lad and was oblivious to the antics of the four other products of Melbourne’s private school system. Puberty had set in for me whilst I was still at primary school, and so for several years, I’d suffered through random and often poorly timed erections. On this occasion, I was in no way ashamed of the protruding appendage. Yeah, sure, I had mucked around at camps and sleepovers, but I’d always only fallen in love with the opposite sex—twice.

Simon was something different. Every time our eyes met, I felt a vial of adrenaline flow through me. Lis and Sue had caused the same reaction in forms 1 and 3 respectively, but since then, I’d shagged a moderate list of girls, feeling nothing more than lust. The steady romance had never cast its spell on me, and I didn’t mind at all. My reputation was that of a damn fine root combined with the attributes of being a gentleman.

With this virtually naked Adonis seated in front of me, this was a deeper, more intimate feeling. Somewhere in my insides, the emotions were not stirring. They were being belted about like a squash ball. I had to break away from our isolation and suggested we rejoin our mates in the pool.

Jagger’s slightly off-pitch vocals were drifting across the yard, and as I slipped back into the watery embrace, it crossed my mind that I was perhaps the knight in shining armour coming to the emotional rescue of an indoctrinated confessional youth. The final chorus of ‘Start Me Up’ couldn’t have been more apt.

By the time the skies had darkened, my skin had puckered enough that I decided it was time to head back to Blackburn. It was early enough to get the tram to the end of Route 48. I dressed as best I could, and as much as I hoped they wouldn’t, my jocks were still wet enough to create dark patches on the bum and crotch of my shorts. It was still in the low thirties, so the lack of shirt would be no problem; regardless, Bondy lent me a singlet for the journey home. His offer was accompanied by the drawl of ‘Yous would ’ate to scare the fuck outta one of the old foggies with your nooooditee.’

I farewelled the only two bodies showing any signs of life, turned to Simon, and unhesitatingly posed the question ‘Point Lonsdale over the break?’

‘Is tomorrow too soon?’

‘Saturday? I’m startin’ the breakfast shift from Friday at a hotel in Queenscliff.’

‘What time and where?’

‘Noon at the Gellibrand Hotel. Know it? Bring your bike as it will be a ride back to Lonnie after lunch.’

‘Sounds like a plan. I’ll be on the morning ferry. Anything else I should bring?’

‘Depends on how long you plan to stay.’

What was I doing? I’d known this guy for five hours, and now he was coming to stay at Lonnie with me. Fuckin’ hell, was I nuts?

2

Two years of no decent rain and very long hot summers had taken their toll on everyone. The city looked grotty, the people lacked energy, and the absence of greenery in a place referred to as the Garden State could be fodder for fraud litigation. Even the Yarra, too thick to drink and too thin to plough, was even more of an eyesore. The bluestone banks were exposed and played host to the psychedelic swirls of oil slicks dancing in unobstructed sunlight.

The cranes constructing the new concert hall wilted and yawned with each load, and the once lush Paris end of Collins Street now more than ever evoked Brack’s commentary on the plight of the office worker. The sepia and ochre hues made the baked pavers and sandstone edifices even less attractive.

At the opposite end of the Gallic sector of Melbourne sat the failed homage to Bauhaus, Spencer Street Station. Sadly, the only attractive aspect of this decaying structure was a highly detailed mosaic telling the brief history of transport in the colony.

Spencer Street Station was already hot, a paltry thirty-five, by 10 a.m. and I was heading to Point Lonsdale by train and bus. My boardies were saturated with sweat, and my brand-new Golden Breed singlet was translucent. The stick of Brut 33 was getting a workout every ten minutes to avoid me smelling like every other passenger, apart from some considerate young lassies who permeated the air with 4711.

Whilst waiting for the departing train south, I sat gazing in awe at the mural, contemplating why they could get such a massive artwork so right and a monument for travellers so wrong.

Eventually, a language masquerading as English crackled over a failing sound system to announce that the train on platform 3 was ready to board. In Orwellian order, a smorgasbord of humanity filed into the compact furnaces to onwards go.

With a grudging groan, the squeal of metal on metal, and the rattling of artificial cherrywood panels, the dusty red slug began its journey to Geelong. The shade of the smoke-stained station roof gave way to the slayer of Icarus and the attractive scenery of shipping containers and power lines.

I’d been allocated a seat in one of the segregated compartments that made up this ancient iron horse. Much to my chagrin, the only other occupants were a toothless matriarch and her three whining, out-of-control sprogs, who probably had three different surnames. I knew I’d be lucky to receive an apology for their countless kicks, nudges, and ear-splitting screams. Whilst listening to Steve Winwood on my Walkman, I found myself staring evilly at the grotesque apparition seated opposite and humming, ‘Don’t wait to be told, you need Palmolive Gold.’

It was hardly surprising—and certainly delightful—when they stepped onto the platform at Werribee and left me to enjoy my own company for the remaining forty minutes of the trip. I felt the IQ level in the compartment rise by at least 120 points.

I miss those old red rattlers. You had to be skilled to balance on the faux leather seats, and if you were on the taller side of five foot twelve, you stood cautiously to avoid contact with the brass luggage racks. The windows had personalities of their own, jammed open in winter and cemented closed in summer. If you were lucky enough, you could be entertained by watching the sliding door respond to every slight braking and accelerating of the diesel engine hauling the slowly decaying carriages. Much of my journey was spent imagining the shattering of the glass as either the door would sprint closed or the window would suddenly hurl downwards. Sleeping, or for that matter even dozing, was not an option.

The numerous paddocks gave way to shrivelled market gardens as the train struggled towards Corio Bay. To the right, the You Yangs merged with a mirage of watery fields. The quaint bluestone station at Little River brought to mind the irony that one of our most successful musical imports had chosen to name themselves after such a bleak hamlet. In the distance loomed the austere tower of Refinery Grammar, neighbouring swelling smoke pipes scarred with a golden scallop shell. The industrial landscape soon became residential with the more desolate housing squalor of Norlane, Corio, and North Shore and their cluster of fibro-cement and terracotta-clad sheds that served as homes for orthodontic nightmares and their kin. Eventually, through the haze emerged woodchip piles, container ships, and a town dominated by the steeple of a Catholic basilica and a truly grotesque eight-storey hotel on the hill: Geelong’s only testament to the dichotomy of high-rise buildings.

As a freshly washed red setter, the train shook itself violently and came to a stuttering halt. As cautiously as I could, I peeled my skin from the crazed leatherette seat, painfully taking numerous dark green flecks with me. The combination of the replicated cowhide and my sweat had created an adhesive grip worthy of Tarzan.

Geelong Station always held me in wonder. The ornate ironwork and corrugated roof took one back to the 1880s with relative ease. That the wooden bridge from platforms 2 and 3 to platform 1 still stood was a testament to the builders of a long-forgotten era. The station was distinctly disproportionate to the rest of the town. Though Victoria’s second-largest city, I still felt as if I were alighting in a lonely backwater.

The excuse for a bus waiting to head down the Bellarine not only looked like it had seen better years but sounded like it too. My rucksack was thrown into its arse, and I boarded feeling decidedly immature; I was the youngest traveller by at least forty years. Unwritten was the rule that the older one was, the farther from the rear axle one placed one’s posterior. The benefit was that I had the entire back seat to myself.

The view from the rear was blemished by panama hats, beehive hair in various shades of mauve, and a sea of loud-polyester-clad shoulders. Sunspots and bony digits gripped the metal rails atop the seats immediately to the front of each of these folk, who were making their pilgrimage to the Seaview or the Terminus for their annual two-week break.

Thankfully, the batteries in my Walkman still had enough power to get me through Making Movies and some of Swingshift in the oppressive clammy heat inside the bus. Reclining was not an option as I was projected into the air every time the rear axles detected an imperfection in the asphalt. I bounced past the upside-down building, the beautifully kitsch dinosaur, and the settlement of Leopold.

Suma Park heralded the descent into Point Lonsdale and the end of the Bellarine Road. Over the bouffant bus heads, I spied the coastal Heads and was able to pick out Point Nepean through the haze. At the base of the hill stood one of the beacons designed to direct ships through the teeth of the Rip. This beacon, at the three-point intersection, was where I was able to regain my land legs, extract my rucksack, and head through the gates of the Beacon Holiday Resort.

My saunter past the various caravans and annexes, adorned with beach towels and limply hanging seasonal garments, led me to the resort’s rear gate, where my shortcut opened onto Springhill Court. Across from one of the court’s many vacant lots stood Bloomington House.

My parents had selected the truly inappropriate identity of our treated-pine cabin-style house in memory of the road we had lived on in rural Ontario when I was a youngster. The title led one to anticipate grandeur, but the three-bedroom kit home was instead nothing more than a typical beach house. Nevertheless, I loved it.

The front yard was speckled with agapanthus that resembled onion weeds. The east-facing windows were shaded by an awning of corrugated iron that went the entire length of the front and culminated at the far end with a carport. The posts were decked with jasmine, and the gentle scent was wonderful when it was in bloom. Sadly, this summer, it took on the appearance of expended tomato creepers rather than jasmine.

Its back veranda also ran the length of the house, sheltering one from inclement weather, whilst the yard was big enough to have a hit of cricket with little difficulty. Placed centrally in the yard was a paved area that included a rustic barbecue constructed by my father and me years earlier. A few weathered hunks of red gum formed some seats, and against the fence was a pile of wood used to burn food.

My bedroom was at the back of the home, with its own sliding doors out onto the rear veranda. My parents’ third double bed had been transferred into my digs mainly as I was now too tall for a single bed. Their fourth was in my den back in Blackburn. Bed number 3 had certainly seen more physical activity under my occupancy than it had during its tenancy of the previous inhabitants.

I had a routine upon arriving on my own, and on this hot November afternoon, the tradition was maintained:

1. Make a beeline down the hall and throw rucksack on bed.

2. Open sliding doors.

3. Strip naked.

4. Walk to the refrigerator and procure two beers.

5. Open living room sliding doors.

6. Step outside and down one ale.

7. Stretch and scratch the groin.

8. Relax and enjoy the second ale.

We only had neighbours over the back fence. Thoughtfully, our builder erected a seven-foot paling. Privacy was no problem. On either side of the house were two vacant lots as we were the first to buy in the subdivision and the second to build.

I went into the laundry and grabbed a beach towel from the shelves, unbolted the hatch under the back veranda, and dragged out my Strapper. The bikes were kept in the shed out the back, and thankfully, mine only needed the cobwebs brushed off it. The tyres were sound, but I still pumped them up a bit. The board trolley was in good nick, so after giving the fibreglass a good waxing, I went inside to don a pair of boardies.

By the time I was at the base of the surf beach, I was fucked. The heat had made the ride hard work. I chained the treadler to the fence and, with the board under my arm, hiked up the path and over the top of the dune to see the rollicking surf ploughing into the smooth sand. The beach was populated by a few local surfers and a couple of pert-breasted chicks soaking up the still scorching sun. The sand was blistering underfoot and could be felt through my thongs.

Heading out the back was breathtaking as the water was cool, the salt tasty, and the foam exhilarating. The waves were moderate but regular. Each set contained at least one really good barrel, and on several occasions, I was able to ride almost into the shallows.

At around six thirty, it was time to head back to the house. I stopped at the Top Shop to pick up some Sex Wax, a hefty serving of whiting and potato cakes, and an Egg Flip Big M. As I sat on the steps looking out over the front beach, a familiar figure approached. ‘Well, look who’s made their way down from the big city.’

‘Hey, Jenny. How you been?’

‘Not bad, despite the heat. You?’

‘Down for the summer to work the breakfast shift at the Gellibrand.’

Jenny sat down beside me and offered a smoke as we chatted about how we’d gotten through the first year of the Victorian Certificate of EducationE. She was a bright girl and was hoping to get an Anderson score that would allow her to do Medicine at Monash—a far cry from my hope to do graphics at Swinburne.

Her chocolate brown bikini top matched her caramel skin beautifully, and I found the scent of Reef Oil stimulating. She had a Balinese sarong covering the bottom half as we still held some respect for the Top Shop owners. Whilst we lads would be topless, we were always in boardies. Speedos were certainly not acceptable, unless you were under 5. The girls also played along and would wear shorts or sarongs to conceal their camel toes.

Had I not been required to go through the back door of the Gellibrand at 7 a.m. I would’ve accepted her invitation to join her family for dinner. We agreed to catch up on Sunday afternoon and hang at the beach. By that stage, she’d have some of her United Ladies College mates with her, and the summer parties would begin.

Back at Bloomington House, I hosed down my board and saturated myself under the outside shower. The sweat and salt formed a natural exfoliant, and soon I was refreshed and tingling. As the sun set, I massaged a heap of Vaseline cream into my aching muscles.

Putting on the Melitta coffee pot infused the house with my favourite aroma, that of the arabica bean. I grabbed a pack of Mint Slice and a glass of Scotch and sat on the back veranda, taking in the still heat and distant sound of the waves crashing onto the beach. The coffee was great, the whisky sublime, and the molten biscuits, well, bearable. The bonus was a nice joint that gave me a totally relaxed state of mind and body.

As I lay on my back, thoughts of school having ended, shredding the waves, the formality of a regular waiting job at the hotel, and Simon ricocheted around in my mind. It was all so intimidating and heightened by the perfumed smoke I was inhaling.

Eventually, I floated onto the bed, set the alarm, and without even closing the doors lay prostrate on the navy blue cotton sheets, only to be woken by the combination of ‘Antmusic’ and an agonising morning wood.ng After a shower, I packed my school shoes, one of six new white shirts, and black trousers neatly into my daypack. On went some footy shorts and an old blue wife beater, and out came the bike.

In the fresh morning air, the ride stretching across the isthmus, past the high school, and up the hill was beautiful. Swan Bay reflected the early morning sun, showing yet another day of searing heat. Entering the quaint town of Queenscliff near the vanilla-coloured church treated me to a silent and still view of the various Victorian buildings that made this place attractive to old folk.

Reeling past the chippy and ANZ, I parked my bike in the back lane of the Gellibrand. Scotty, the dish pig, was sitting on the step to the kitchen, enjoying a smoke, and greeted me with a generous smile. I’d met him a few weekends back when I was down for a trial weekend to see if I had the necessary qualities to make a breakfast waiter.

His shoulder-length hair was tied back in a ponytail, highlighting his high cheekbones and small but square chin covered in a slight beard. Scotty’d also been employed for the summer break, and his rough look didn’t really have the desired front-of-house appeal that Stephanie wanted. His Melbourne College singlet was already clinging to his lithe torso. A small tuft of hair peeked from the low-slung collar of his maroon-and-blue garment.

‘Hey, Robbie, good to see you again.’

‘Likewise, Scotty. Spare a dart? I’ve got time for one.’

‘Full crowd in today.’

‘Shit. Hopefully with the heat, they’ll stagger down in stages rather than all at once.’

‘Fat fuckin’ chance of that. I reckon they’ll all want to be on the beach early. Some guys have already been for a dip.’

The wind was non-existent, and as such, each expulsion of smoke dangled like wispy marionettes rather than drifting away into the cloudless sky. ‘Who else is on?’

‘Just you in the bistro, buddy. Bev’s cooking, and Pat’s setting up the bar.’

‘Better get into the uniform then.’ I shifted over to the staff changing room and, being a flirt, left the door wide open whilst I changed out of the casual wear, applied more Brut 33, and climbed into a more formal attire.

Entering the kitchen, I grabbed one of the knee-length maroon aprons, tied it at the back, and greeted Bev with a big hug from behind. I’d only done service twice with Bev. She was such a great old bird. It was hard to determine her age, but as she had four kids in their teens, I would put her in her forties. Bev was not by any means attractive. The thought of her naked would give you a soft-on for a month. Her breasts were voluminous, her arse massive, and her skin tired. It was when she smiled that copious amounts of warmth exuded from her. This was one of God’s greatest. She enjoyed life, and if she liked you, she would spoil you rotten.

Over the two shifts, we’d bonded brilliantly. She and I were so opposite. I was educated, she never. I was comparatively good looking; she was far from it. Her skill in cooking was unbelievable, mine pedestrian. She often came in to do the breakfast shift so that she’d have her real passion finished by lunchtime. The real passion, and why she was at this five-star establishment, was her desserts.

Bev’s ability to produce meringues, tarts, summer puddings, and a huge array of petits fours was amazing. Scotty and I’d often have a couple secreted into our bags as a surprise for when we got home. Through Bev, I learnt how to cook to taste without recipes. She educated me in matching herbs with spices, seafood with textures, and meat with sauces.

The tables were set, and all I had to do was put out the butter and condiments. A quick check with Bev about her creations for the day, and then I waited until the wealthy guests strode down from their palatial rooms. Three lots were having breakfast in their rooms, so I set up trays for them; thus was the routine for each and every day and would be for the summer.

The clack of heels on terracotta tiles gave warning that the boss had emerged from her apartment and was traipsing through the conservatory on her way to the bistro. ‘Good morning, Robert.’

‘Good morning, Stephanie.’

Stephanie was one of the family who ran this hotel and also a restaurant in Melbourne. They were culinary royalty in Australia, and to be given the chance to work for them was a privilege not to be taken lightly. ‘All should be in readiness for you. We have a full complement in, and it could get a bit hectic. Let me know if you need assistance, and I’ll get Patrick to help out.’

‘Thanks for that. Is there anything that needs doing, specially today?’

‘Once you’re done with service and have set up for lunch, could you wash down the tables in the garden? With the sun out, I think a lot might retire out there for drinks during the day.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘One last thing, see Scott and get a hair tie from him. Your locks are getting longer, aren’t they?’

‘No problem. Do you want me to get a haircut?’

‘No need for that. The longer hair suits you. Just keep it tidy. Now come on, get down to business. Room 4 wants breakfast at eight thirty, 16 at nine, and 12 nine fifteen.’ With a swish that rustled the enormous bouquets of baby’s breath and hydrangeas framing the doorway to the bistro, Stephanie was gone.

The hotel was one of the four grand old ladies in town. The late Victorian lacework veiled the rich red bricks and disproportionate sash windows framed in hand-routed woodwork. Throughout, the tiled floor echoed an age of elegance long since conquered by linoleum. Terracotta triangles nestled next to caramel and vanilla ceramics, creating a dancing display from when craftsmanship was admired.

The three-metre walls had been faithfully restored and clothed in a rich velveteen paper of maroon and silver, the former deciding the trademark colour of the hotel. As one traversed the antique furnishings, the 1970s receded from memory, and the Merchant Ivory apparition of crinoline and starched collars awoke in one’s mind.

Nothing was minute. Every piece of art, decoration, and furniture had been specifically selected to build an ambience of a slower era and decadent existence. The only sounds were of polite conversations complementing the music of string quartets stroking the fragrant air. Vast bouquets of lilies, hydrangeas, gypsum, and seasonal blooms gently swayed in their oversized Grecian urns.

Once the theatre embraced you, there was the unfulfilled expectation of eavesdropping on chatter between the likes of Wilde, Poirot, and Coward. Sadly, many of the guests spoke in dialects more akin to Bob and Dolly or Hoges and Strop. At least for most, the illusion—and exorbitant tariff—did induce behaviour seen more often in the Long Room rather than Bay Thirteen.

The patrons flowed in steadily for their cooked breakfasts and assorted fruit salads. No continental breakfast for this collection of Melbourne’s finest. Bev prepared seafood crepes, buttered field mushrooms, fruit compote, all forms of eggs, and several varieties of fresh breads from the local bakery. I had to take the orders without a notepad, and as soon as I was in the kitchen, I’d scratch them down for Bev in a shorthand she’d taught me.

The coffee and teas were brewed and orange juice expertly squeezed by Pat in the bar. Unusually, some of the guests would leave tips, which were placed in a communal jar under the watch of Bev and divided evenly between the four of us at the end of service. The time went by fairly quickly, and thankfully, Pat was able to help out by doing the room orders and clearing tables. He’d trained as a barman, and as such, that was his place.

I changed back into my shorts and wife beater to wash the tables before any guests wandered out the back under the pergola laden with grapevines. Bev brought out lunch for the four of us as the next shift began to arrive. We sat around, having a hearty meal and a free cocktail. One of Stephanie’s rules was that we could have any cocktail at lunch that we liked, provided Pat hadn’t previously made it. It was her way of teaching him mixing skills. He knew my liking for dark rum and bourbon, so he would usually appear with something made from one of them or, more often than not, both.

At twelve fifteen, I mounted my bike, rode down Hesse Street, turned right, and headed back up the hill until I was at the front of the hotel. Across the road, as I’d hoped, under one of the massive pine trees lay a topless young guy in bright yellow and orange boardies—Simon.

‘You’d think they’d clean up the filth in this park at least once a day.’

‘Robbie. Good to see you, mate.’

Our handshake was grammar school formal, but the meaning was more along the lines of brothers. A nervous tingle rising on my arm added to the first contact. ‘You been here long?’

‘About half ’n hour.’

‘Sorry, mate. I had to set up the back garden because of the heat.’

‘Better get back to your place and onto the beach then. How far we gotta ride?’

‘About fifteen minutes, longer if you want a beer first.’

We rode around to the back of the Gellibrand and, without being seen by Stephanie, persuaded Patrick to bring out two crownies. Of course, Patrick being Patrick, he brought out three, and it cost me a B&H. The three of us quenched our thirsts before Simon and I remounted and rode around to Springhill Court.

I opened the door to my sister’s room and suggested that Simon put his stuff in there. He ignored me completely and threw his pack on the unmade, clothing-strewn bed, assuming correctly that the hovel was indeed mine. ‘Lace and Strawberry Shortcake’s not really my scene, shithead. Navy blue, Bowie, and Stones posters are more me,’ he retorted, describing the view through my bedroom door. The solitary bed didn’t seem to faze him.

Whilst he helped himself to a beer and settled out the back, I showered the kitchen smells and cycling sweat off me and stretched into a pale blue pair of jocks. Taking a risk, I grabbed a UDL rum and Coke and strode out the back in only the briefest of garments. Simon was lying on one of the deckchairs and looked exceptionally relaxed. ‘Oh, so that’s the dress code.’

‘Generally, when I’m here on my own. In fact, I’m a bit overdressed. Up to you how you want to dress.’

‘Well then.’ Simon stood up, unlatched the Velcro fly, and dropped his boardies to reveal blue-and-turquoise jocks that were even skinnier on the hips than my Bonds Dynamites. The one thing that had changed since Wednesday was that there was no longer a trail of charcoal-black hair leading down into the front of his undies.

‘Excuse me, fuck knuckle, but your appearance is somewhat different from when I last cast eyes on you.’

‘And how, my liege, has my appearance altered?’

‘You appear to have taken a blade to your pubic thatch.’

‘That I have.’ Lowering the front of his jocks revealed that, true to his word, he had employed a scythe around his manhood. ‘Time for a change, and I was getting sick of them. What do you think?’

‘Honestly? Strange but, funnily enough, not offensive.’

‘Thank god. I thought you might find it a bit queer.’

‘Um … well … er … yeah. But I don’t mind.’

‘Where’s your razor?’

‘What?’

‘Time for you to shed the winter growth as well.’

Thirty minutes later, I was without pubes for the first time since primary school—a strangely satisfying feeling. After a quick fossick in the bathroom, I emerged with a bottle of Nair. ‘Looks silly with hairy legs, doesn’t it?’

Before long, the putrid liquid covered both our legs and the regions below our moderately firm balls that the razor had been deemed too dangerous to explore. Washing the mat of tangled hair off was fairly erotic as my legs felt so clean and slippery. I poked fun at Simon, who had a tan line clearly showing his choice of garment when outside. He was quick to point out that my tone was marginally paler. After mutual admiration of our now smooth skins, we settled in to rid ourselves of the tan lines completely.

3

Sunday’s service was uneventful. The only annoying thing was having to constantly change the butter dishes as they were turning to ghee in minutes. When I returned home from the Gellibrand, I could smell smoke and hear the spluttering of snags emanating from the backyard.

Strolling around the house, I was greeted by the vision of Simon tending the barbecue in just an apron, his taut bum cheeks exposed to the world. He correctly assumed I’d already had lunch, so there were only four snags and one onion’s worth being cremated. I threw some of Bev’s scallops on the hot plate to add to his pauper’s fare.

I went inside, filled the twin tub with the work gear, and—instead of getting dressed—simply threw my shorts and jocks onto my bed. Travelling via the fridge, I selected a couple of Lilydale ciders and rejoined the cook. ‘I never actually asked if you surfed.’

‘Portsea Back Beach boy since I was a kid.’

‘So the answer is no.’ Though there was no use of vocabulary, it was quite evident I was expected to go forth and multiply. ‘I know it’s not a designer label board, but you can use my old plank if you fancy hitting the swell this arvo.’