REACHING OUT TO THE CITY LIGHTS....CHAPTER 13

Aerial view of Brisbane western suburb, Kenmore

Cadell Street, Toowong....nowadays

                                      

During these years, Randall and I continued our contact by the written word. He was still living and working in New York, but was also doing a lot of travel wide and far from his base. For a time he and a mate travelled frequently between New York and London scouring the countryside of England for antiques, which they brought back to New York City and sold to the budding British tourist trade! At that time, too, he and his friend had set up a small company selling cheap airline tickets, similar to what Freddie Laker was doing. Randall’s life was going full steam ahead, as was mine.

My landlord of the Toowong unit met a young lady.  Soon thereafter they married. He moved out of his town-house apartment, which was situated at the far end of the building. I relinquished my apartment to move into his vacant town-house.  I also took taking on the responsibility of managing the units on his behalf. Within a short time, he sold the whole complex to an Australian-Chinese gentleman who, at the time, was based in Goroka, Papua New Guinea. A meeting was arranged between me and the new owner, Tennyson Lau. Tennyson was happy to have me continue to manage the complex. The status quo remained.

The building was tenanted with "twenty-something" occupants, all of whom were busy working in their various careers. I befriended one particular tenant, Margaret, who like me, had a keen interest in food, the preparation thereof, and entertaining dinner guests. Between the two of us, we threw many dinner parties. It became our habit each Friday evening to prepare Spaghetti Marinara. I'm not sure how it all began, but soon we had a small, friendly, high-spirited competition going on to discover who could make the best, perfect Spaghetti Marinara. Neither of us won...I think it was a dead-heat, but the feasts were worth it. Alternate Fridays we would host our "Marinara" soiree, accompanied with red wine, garlic bread, good music, much laughter and interesting conversation. Sometimes it would be just the two of us, other times honoured others were invited to be guests at our festivities.

Margaret and I often met up after work to have a few drinks at a cocktail bar. Our favourite at the time was the "Hour-Glass Bar" at the Criterion Hotel in George Street, in the inner city area. Every so often either one of us threw a small party of up to 12-15 people at our respective apartments. It was at one of the parties Margaret met Denis, who later became her husband. Denis was a welcome addition to our Friday night "Marinara" restricted social circle. There was no one "special" in my life, but I was living a life fulfilled; a life which included a wide group of friends.

My boss and his wife became close friends. Often on Sunday mornings, I was invited to their home in the western suburb of Kenmore for "choir practice", to be followed by a special Sunday lunch. "Choir Practice" commenced around 10.30-11 am out on their patio. The bar opened upon my arrival. Between drinks and conversation, I'd play with their young sons who were “shooting up” rapidly. The two boys and I had formed a strong bond from when they were babies. I was part of their life, which included being their "pillow-fight" buddy.

During those Sundays I spent at their home, the boys and I ran riot, with their parents in the background telling me I was worse than the kids! Many times when the “oldies” had to go away, whether for matters of business, such as conferences etc., or sometimes for an "escape" weekend, I'd move into their home to look after the boys. Those times were filled with fun and games. We had football matches down the hallway, exploding into the family room, along with wild pillow-fights each night before the boys went to bed. I took them "lobbying" for freshwater crayfish.  A the little creek babbled gently through the trees at the lower end of the street where they lived.  Our “fishing” fun lasted until the day I discussed snakes with them. After hearing my tales they weren't too keen on our pastime!

I introduced the boys to Paul Gallico's "The Snow Goose". The eldest boy had commenced school. His brother was three years younger, and hadn't yet done so.

Their father and mother were away in Adelaide at a Kolotex conference. I moved into their home lock, stock and barrel. Sasha, my ginger cat, of course, went with me. It was during this particular stay one chilly night with the fireplace, warming the lounge room, I gathered the boys around me in front of the fire. With the eldest lad to the left of me and the younger to my right, I began reading "The Snow Goose".

I was brought up with the story when I was a child, listening to the dulcet tones of Herbert Marshall as the reclusive crippled artist, Phillip Rhayader and Loretta Young as the young girl named,  "Frith". I'd also read the book many times.

To this day, the story has continued to hold a special part of my heart. Engrossed in telling the story, I paused for a moment when I reached a particular moving sad part of the story. I didn't want to break out in tears in front of the two little boys. The three of us were lying on our stomachs facing the fire. I looked to my left to see tears streaming silently down the young boy’s face. To my right, his brother had his little face cupped in his hands, his arms, bent at his elbows, rested on the lush carpet. He, too, had tears falling down his chubby cheeks. Seeing their tears caused the tears I'd been forcing to stop to spill. Quickly wiping them away, I closed the book, telling them we had had enough of the story for that night. I would finish reading the book the following night. For a while, hoping to distract them from their sad emotions, I lay talking with them, before challenging them to a pillow fight before bed. The pillow fight, of course would be after our game of soccer down the hallway.

The night before their parents were to arrive back from their trip, I warned the boys that there would be no more football games “once Mum and Dad came home”. We'd have to behave ourselves when the "grown-ups" were around. We always had such fun together.

 There came a time when kitchen floor at the Kenmore home was having its cork tiles re-corked, sealed and whatever else. I invited the family to dinner on the Saturday night, allowing the seal to set properly without the traffic of little feet over it. After they had finished their meal, the boys became drowsy, and wandered upstairs to the bedrooms. Come time for the family to leave at the end of the evening I suggested they leave the boys who were sleeping soundly in one of my upstairs’ bedrooms; for their father come by to collect them up the following morning. This they did.

After clearing away the dinner debris, I climbed the stairs to go to bed. Both boys stirred as I entered my bedroom. They'd taken over my double bed, preferring the larger bed to the single bed in the second bedroom. I ushered a drowsy elder lad into my second bedroom, with the younger boy insisting sleepily he wanted to stay in my bed. And, then began a night of musical beds. At one stage I had the two boys and my cat, Sasha with me in my double bed. Later when I thought they were well away with the Sandman, I crept out and crawled into the single bed in the other room. Upon waking in the morning, I discovered both boys, plus Sasha were my bed-mates, all squeezed up next to me in the single bed! The double bed in my bedroom was empty.

A couple of months after we commenced the joint marketing operation, I gave up my evening part-time job at the "Pelican Tavern" because my day job demanded my undivided attention. However, as our premises were within walking distance of the tavern, once a week I’d walk to the tavern to share lunch and conversation with Mr. Wypow, the owner/chef. He, like me, looked forward to our get-togethers during which we would feast on the fare he presented as we discussed the events of the world.  Kyriol Wypow was sixty-three years old at the time. He was a very interesting man, intelligent, quite pedantic at times. He enjoyed a good, healthy debate, as did I. We would sip on lemon tea as we grazed over the many small, but varied portions of food such as marinated herrings, dill pickles, olives, cheeses of different varieties, smoked meats. The fare offered was a reminder of his life in Russia. Mr. Wypow was quite a character; one I've always felt fortunate to have known. He and his wife lived at St. Lucia, a Brisbane suburb. Their next door neighbours, as I mentioned previously,  were Sir Rafael and Lady Cilento.

Mr. Wypow was actress Diane Cilento's god-father, or so he told me. I had no reason to disbelieve him. He also told me it was he, who encouraged Diane to go overseas to fulfill her dreams of being an actress. Actually, the first night I attended tables at the "Pelican Tavern", one main table of eight I had to service was the Cilento family, David Cilento, Diane's brother and other members of the rather large family. Diane Cilento was one of six children. Years later, I met Diane briefly, not long after she and her then husband, Tony Shaffer (who wrote Sleuth" and "The Wicker Man", and whose twin brother Peter wrote "Equus", "Amadeus" and "Royal Hunt of the Sun") started "Karnak" outside of Mossman in north Queensland. This was during my Hinchinbrook Island days, and thereafter. Life certainly does move in mysterious cycles.  Mine certainly has.

One day, John asked Chris, the young store-man Debbie and I had unintentionally locked in the men's toilet, to remove the registration sticker from his Chrysler Valiant. This was before registration stickers became self-adhesive. So, armed with a carpet knife, water and cloth, Chris did as he was bidden, only to return upstairs a little while later, again wide of eye, white of face, standing in front of my desk.

"Where's our boss?" He asked me.

"He's in his office," I replied.  John’s office was next door to mine.

"He can't be," exclaimed a confused Chris. "I removed half of his rego sticker. Then I had to come back upstairs to get some more water, and when I went back down, his car's gone!"

"Nope...he's in his office, Chris. He has not gone anywhere," I repeated. "Have a look for yourself."

Then the penny dropped.  Rushing downstairs, I burst out laughing. John’s car was parked where he had parked it upon arrival at the office that morning, registration sticker intact. The manager of Rogtex Men and Women's Clothing division had a car similar in shape and colour to John's! The Rogtex manager was a conservative gentleman, with little or no sense of humour.

Word quickly spread throughout the office and warehouse about Chris's blunder. All of the staff, including John, our boss, erupted into laughter. Uncontrollable tears flowed down our cheeks. We were holding our sides as we pictured Mr. “Rogtex” discovering half of his registration sticker removed. I kept an eye out for his return, and as soon as I saw his car pull in to the carpark, I told everyone to be quiet, to stop laughing, put their heads down and look busy working.

Mr. Head, the Rogtex manager, stormed into the reception area, smoke billowing out of every orifice! Fuming, he stood at my office door.

"Do you know what happened?" He growled at me.

Feigning innocence and ignorance, I asked him, "What do you mean, Mr. Head?" Somehow I managed to retain a serious appearance.

"That idiot, Chris!" He raged. "He's taken half of my registration sticker off! I was turning into St. Paul's Terrace and the passenger side door flew open! There I was with traffic looming down on me from both directions, when I noticed it!"

"Oh! Dear! I'm so sorry, Mr. Head," I mumbled, in a painful attempt to put a lid on the laughter within. "He must have mistaken your car for John’s! It's an innocent mistake. I'll go and point it out to him." John, in the meantime, leaving it up to me to handle the situation, had remained in his office, with both doors closed, the coward!

I'd never seen such a work-dedicated staff as I did that morning. While all the turmoil was going on they had their heads buried in whatever pretense of "busy-ness" they could conjure.

Later, jokingly, I berated the lot of them for leaving me to carry the can! I advised them never to mention Chris's misdemeanor to Mr. Head, who never did see the funny side. It became an unmentionable subject, although the rest of us laughed about it for ages.

I'd hired another "little princess" at one time. She was young lass of 16 years. Her pert little nose was permanently held up in the air. When Robyn started with us, I placed her in the general office, handling the work from each division. As was my wont to do, I liked to change staff around so that they became familiar with all aspects of whatever the jobs, and divisions, entailed. I decided to move Robyn out to the reception desk, and move the receptionist into the general office, to enable both girls to gain further experience.

Upon informing Robyn of my decision, she tossed her long hair from her shoulders, her nose went even higher in the air as she asked me, "What will my "title" be?"

In total seriousness, burying my inner mirth, I looked at her and replied, "Well, Robyn, I can give you a "title", but I don't think you're going to like it!"

That was the end of the discussion!

To be continued...