Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(25)
‘In fact, Mr Berlin, she’d probably be a good piece of road to avoid altogether from now on. A bloke wouldn’t want to have a nasty accident, come a gutser one dark night, if you take my meaning.’
‘Like I said, I’ll bear that in mind.’
Stansfield looked at his watch. ‘Grand final starts in a few hours, who are ya following?’
‘The Bombers.’
Stansfield shook his head. ‘Don’t stand a chance. Bastards’ll get done like a bloody dinner.’
‘You might be surprised.’
Stansfield laughed. ‘Not me, mate, I don’t like surprises.’
‘Is that something I should bear in mind too?’
The other man shrugged. ‘Couldn’t hurt.’ As Berlin opened the driver’s door on the Studebaker it squeaked loudly.
‘Needs a good drop of oil, that hinge, Mr Berlin. You go carefully now, you hear me.’
Stansfield stood in the parking area, hands deep in his trouser pockets, while the Studebaker pulled away. At the foot of the hill Berlin glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw the man still watching him, leaning back against the front mudguard of one of the panel vans parked by Blackwattle Creek’s high stone walls.
SEVENTEEN
Berlin stopped by the garage and had a terse word about the still-missing engine. The mechanic fiddled under the hood for ten minutes and the motor ran a little better when he’d finished. To save Rebecca having to bother, Berlin had the driveway attendant top up the petrol tank and clean the windscreen. He’d planned to drop in at the hardware store to check on the asbestos cement sheeting he’d ordered, but by then it was just on twelve and the place was already closed.
Rebecca’s camera bags were on the front porch when he pulled into the drive. He honked once and left the motor running. She came outside and waved. Her navy-blue trousers and matching jacket, and the figure-hugging black roll neck jumper reminded him of the first time he’d seen her. She’d snapped a photograph of him standing in the wreckage of a recently robbed Railways pay office, and in reality amidst the potential wreckage of his own police career.
He’d seen her as a pushy, smart-alec journalist and somehow she’d seen more in him than the bitter, antisocial, suicidal drunk that he’d become.
Back then Berlin had hated trousers on a woman and he’d made that clear. Now he understood they made sense, with all the stretching and bending and gymnastics Rebecca went through in search of the perfect angle for a photograph. And he’d also come to realise just how damned good she could look in a pair of trousers. He got out of the car and opened the boot for her camera bags.
‘Right on time, Mr Reliable. How did it go?’ She kissed him quickly as she moved past and tossed her bags into the car. He loved the way she handled them, seemingly casually but in reality always with care and attention. She was the same with the kids, he had realised, and with him.
‘Dunno, might be a bit of a dead end. I’ll tell you later.’ He closed the boot lid and turned the handle. ‘I stopped by the garage on the way back. The petrol tank is full and they had a look at the engine, so you should be right. You okay for money?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve got a couple of quid on me and when I drop off the film I’ll get paid for today.’ She slid into the driver’s seat and adjusted the rear-view mirror.
Berlin closed the door and leaned in the window. ‘Sorry I got the car so dusty this morning. And I’m sorry you have to keep doing this – the weddings, I mean. I know it’s not your favourite thing in the world.’
She put her hand on his cheek and he shivered as he always did when she touched him. ‘You and the children are my favourite thing in the world, Charlie, always remember that. As long as these weddings help us keep paying the bills, I can cope.’ She winked at him and kissed him. ‘And as long as the bouquets are big enough to cover the bulges in the bridal bellies, I can even make the poor little buggers look like virgins too.’
She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Gotta run. Good luck with the kids and I hope the Bombers eat ’em alive. There’s soup on the stove, shepherds pie in the oven, and some fruitcake for later.’
He watched her straighten the car up on the roadway and then wave before she drove off. The smell of her perfume and taste of her lipstick stayed with him long after the car was out of sight.
After lunch it was obvious that Peter was less interested in listening to the grand final than in hunting tadpoles in the murky ponds that dotted the empty, overgrown blocks across the street. The lad had joined his mother in following St Kilda, and with the Saints out of contention for the premiership his lack of interest was somewhat understandable. It was still too cold for snakes to be out but Berlin warned him to be careful anyway.
Sarah joined him in the living room just as the game started. She was wearing an Essendon team jumper her mother had knitted for her, black with a red diagonal stripe. Berlin grinned and ruffled her hair. Essendon, the Mighty Dons, the Bombers, had been his grandfather’s team before the war, and so in the Melbourne way of things they had become his. He remembered seeing his first match as a five-year-old, his brother Billy one year older and neither boy quite comprehending what had made them orphans. The bitter chill of the aptly named Windy Hill ground, the view of the oval from atop his grandfather’s shoulders, the sea of cursing, shouting barrackers falling back before the tall Scotsman who was equally imposing in or out of police uniform.