Davo's Little Something (2 page)

Even the girls got on well together, with never any bitchiness, cattiness or back stabbing. Irene Van Heeden, the stocky, blonde head meat packer in her mid forties, might have got a little stroppy now and then, but Dutchy—as everyone called her because she was married to a Dutchman—only did this because she was responsible for all the meat that went out and had to keep the other girls in line.

The only one that gave a bit of cheek now and then was Kathy Fergusson; mainly because Davo would stir her up and she still had a bit of a wild streak in her from spending six months in Mulawa when she was seventeen for supply and possession of LSD. But that was almost ten years ago, and Kathy, with her plain rarely made up face and spiky dark hair, was now engaged to a bass player in a moderately successful rock group and hoped to be married before Christmas.

If Kathy gave the odd bit of lip Marie Papas, the young Greek girl, hardly said a word. Long black hair piled up on top of her head and eyes almost as dark as her hair, she looked like a typical Greek girl in her early twenties. Marie and her Greek carpenter husband lived in the same block of units at Charing Cross as Krystina Marjanovic, the Yugoslavian girl who worked there, though they rarely saw that much of each other outside of work. Solid but attractive, with two flaxen plaits hanging out from under her white work cap like some Viking maiden, Krystina and her Australian panel beater husband kept pretty much to themselves, mainly because Krystina was three months pregnant. Which you would hardly
notice except for a dramatic swelling in her breasts. Which Dave certainly noticed; every day, inch by increasing inch.

Davo looked up from the rump and loin as Eddie returned from out the back and stood under the meat rail that led out to the loading dock, slowly steeling his boning knife which he then tested by gingerly touching his thumb against the edge.

‘Alright are they?' said Davo.

‘Skin a mouse,' replied Eddie, with a bit of a wink.

‘Yeah? Well how about a loan of one. This bloody rump and loin's like a block of bloody wood.' Davo punched in frustration at the hard, white fat. ‘Fair dinkum, Len, you're gonna have to turn the room down. This is ridic'.'

‘Light a little fire in there,' smiled the manager sarcastically, still without looking up from what he was doing.

‘I'd like to light a fire under you, you red-headed clown,' replied Davo, still struggling with the almost rock hard rump and loin. From where she was weighing meat on a set of scales, Kathy glanced up and started singing ‘come on baby light my fire'. Davo gave her a filthy look but hints of laughter were creasing round his eyes. ‘You don't have to go to Harold Park to find gigs do you,' he said.

Eddie moved aside to let Dennis take the tray of mince over to the rollers, then opened the cool-room door that faced onto the corridor. ‘You want me to knock those two pigs over, Len?'

The manager thought for a moment before answering. ‘Yeah righto,' he said. ‘And while you're in there rotate all the meat, and any stuff that's goin' off, toss in a tub and you can trim it up and make some more mince, Dennis.' He looked up briefly from the block to catch the apprentice's eye as Eddie gathered up a handful of S-hooks from a wooden box sitting on the sawdust-covered floor, dropped them noisily into an aluminium Warwick tub and disappeared into the cool room.

Davo gave an audible grunt as he drove the heel of his knife through the fat to separate the rump from the loin; despite the difficulty he was still whistling to himself. He looked up at Krystina's jutting breasts, level with and almost in front of his face and started thinking about his ex-wife Sue's big breasts. Before long the constant rubbing against the block had caused a distinct stirring in his loins; he chuckled to himself as he
looked at the unsuspecting Krystina and continued working.

Although it was almost three years since their divorce he still often thought about Sue. Her curly blonde hair, her blue eyes, her top body. When their marriage had been good it was something else. But towards the end . . . ? Not that he could blame Sue for wanting to do better. What was he? A battling butcher who was that tired half the time he hardly ever wanted to go out and although they'd lived quite well there was no way in the world he was ever going to finish up a millionaire. And Sue had seen the other side—for less hours she made more money as a secretary in a law firm full of rich solicitors and barristers with Mercedes and BMW's and homes in Rose Bay and St Ives. And whenever her bosses had condescendingly asked her about him, they'd always referred to him as ‘Pigshead The Butcher'. He'd met some of them on different occasions and felt like giving them ‘Pigshead The Butcher' right on the chin but most of them were ex-Rugby Union internationals and Davo, not being a fighting man, knew how he'd finish up—as well as making a complete fool of himself he'd be on his arse. He gazed absently out the butcher shop window at some women fastidiously picking through the cartons of meat in the refrigerated display cabinet. Yeah; who could blame Sue for wanting to do a bit better.

And better eventually came in the form of ex-St George Rugby League forward and Fraud Squad detective Ron Moody, who had just retired from the police force to buy a hotel at Cronulla.

‘He's probably bought the pub with all the slings he's taken over the years—the prick,' he remembered saying to her bitterly the night she told him she was leaving.

‘Frankly, I don't give a stuff where he got the money, Bob,' was Sue's equally bitter reply. ‘But he's got it and you just bloody well haven't.'

And that was about it in a nutshell; and nothing much he could do. He couldn't really belt Sue, he'd only make a bigger fool of himself, and Moody was just as tough off the field as what he was on. Even if Davo had been some sort of fighter or heavy, Moody would have put a bullet in his head or got one of his copper mates to find a gun or a bag of heroin in
the glove box of his car. So Davo just had to cop it sweet as they say and even though he wasn't the type to bear a grudge he was hurt deeply—no two ways about it. But it was all water under the bridge now and the few times he'd bumped into Sue and Moody since they got married it was smiles and handshakes all round. Though deep inside Davo would dearly have loved to tell her to go and pull her fanny over her head and him to go shit in his rotten ex-copper's hat.

Ironically enough, two months after their divorce, Davo and one of his mates won $60,000 between them in a Jackpot Lottery. After shouting his parents a holiday on Lindeman Island the first thing he did was give Sue back the $7500 she'd put into their home unit in Bondi Road, that Davo still lived in. She didn't really want it, Moody was quite rich, and she'd told Davo to pay her back if ever he sold the unit; her little act of compassion for dumping him. But Davo insisted. It was worth $7500 just to see that momentary look of remorse on her face when he handed her the money. She even reached out and tenderly, hesitantly touched his cheek and there was definitely a bit of a tear in her soft blue eyes as he wished her all the best then turned and walked out of the hotel. Which was probably why she and Moody always smiled and felt a bit selfconscious if ever they happened to bump into him somewhere. Good bloke Davo they'd always think—honest as they come and definitely wears his heart on his sleeve.

He trimmed the sirloin, sliced it into even-width steaks and started running it through the band saw. Yeah that $30,000 was a nice bolt out of the blue alright he mused to himself. At least somebody up there still loves me, that's for sure. After he'd paid her, given the oldies their holiday, got right in front with the payments on the unit and updated his old Holdenutility for a better one there was still around $20,000 left in the bank with what he already had in there. Not quite enough to tell Mr Murray Brinsden the overweight, overbearing general manager of the supermarket what he could do with his butcher shop, but a nice little something to have tucked away all the same.

Who'd want to leave here anyway he thought. It certainly wasn't the Burma railway and compared to some of the shops
he'd worked in it was like an old folks' home. Uniform supplied, good money, cheap meat. The hours were alright too, no early starts, every third Saturday off and if you wanted a day off you just took it and they'd send someone from another store to take your place. You couldn't have asked for a better boss than Len, even if he did get a bit serious, and besides that there was a heap of girls working in the supermarket looking for someone with a bit of money and his own home—and most of them thought Davo was lovely. With his easygoing nature and sense of humour he never had much trouble getting one or two back to his unit for a few drinks and bit of discreet whatever. But after what he'd been through with Sue Davo swore it would be a bloody long time before he'd ever tumble into getting married again.

Yes he thought, as he ran the last of the T-bones through the saw and stacked them on a tray to be packed, any man with ambition would take his money and start himself up in some sort of business like a milk-run, or a cleaning-run or own your own butcher shop. But what's the point? You're your own boss fair enough, but you work heaps longer hours, you've got all the worries in the world and you end up paying it all back in taxes anyway. No. As he put the tray of T-bones on the rollers, he glanced back out the window at two girls, obviously flatmates, picking carefully through the cartons of meat. This'll do me for the time being.

After wiping the bone-dust off his hands onto his blue and white striped apron he checked his watch in the top pocket of his white coat; just on ten. ‘Hey, Len,' he said, ‘who do you want to go to early smoko?'

The manager looked up from the veal steak he was now slicing at his own watch wrapped round his thick, powerful wrist. ‘Shit! Is it ten o'clock already. Alright you and Dennis go now—and don't be all bloody day either.' He glanced over at the girls. ‘Kathy, you and Krystina like to go to morning tea now?' The girls nodded eagerly in agreement. ‘When you get back, Davo,' added Len, ‘roll all the briskets and Dennis can pump them.' Davo unbuckled his pouch and steel and hung it on a meat hook sitting on the rail along with his apron. He gave his hands a quick wash in the sink wiped them on
a paper towel then got his bag from out of the cool room and he and the apprentice headed for the lunchroom. The two girls got cleaned up in their own washroom where the corridor met the loading dock.

On the way up the stairs Dennis asked Davo what he had for morning tea. Dennis and the others asked Davo this every day because he always brought food to work with him; generally sandwiches for smoko and a bit of stew or casserole which he'd keep in a small steamer and heat up for lunch. Even though the others often brought food themselves it struck them as a bit strange for a bachelor and they'd kid him about being an old sheila and mean.

‘What've we got for smoko today, Davo?' he asked, in a sing-song sort of voice with a smirk on his face.

‘Today,' replied Davo, ignoring the apprentice's sarcasm, ‘lovely tender lamb sandwiches with chutney on Vogels bread, and a slice of beautiful fresh apple-pie. Does that sound alright?' Davo probably was a bit oldfashioned but he didn't mind baking a leg of lamb or a cake now and then and the unit had a modern kitchen full of all the latest appliances so why not use it.

‘Jesus you're tight. Why don't you buy your lunch and not be such an old tart.'

‘Yeah? And what have you got smart arse?'

The apprentice opened up a white paper bag to reveal two glazed buns he'd bought earlier. They were smeared with sickly red jam and pumped full of thick, mock cream, that looked more like something you'd see your grandfather shaving with. ‘There you are,' he said cockily. ‘Two grouse cream buns.' Davo turned away and shook his head in disgust. ‘Fair dinkum, I feel sorry for you. How could you possibly eat that shit? No wonder you've got a head full of rotten pimples. Jack Nicklaus'll be ringing you up soon, wanting to know what's par for your face.'

‘Ohh bullshit. I'm a footballer, I need the carbohydrates.' ‘Carbo arseholes. Fair dinkum, you've got a hide to bag me for bringing a bit of decent tucker to work. Another two years of eating that shit and your face is gonna look like a second hand dart board.'

‘Ohh bullshit.'

As they continued up the stairs Dennis fell behind Davo and ran his hand across the stubble on his lumpy face that was too sore to shave: he hated to admit it but Davo was right.

There were about a dozen or so others in the lunchroom. Davo nodded to a couple he knew as they threw their stuff on an empty table near the wall and got a large mug of tea each from a steaming urn in a sink near the corner. Davo got the morning paper out of his bag, spread it out and started reading it while he was eating, looking up once to make another comment about Dennis's two repulsive looking cream buns.

They were only there a few minutes when they were joined by two girls from the fruit and vegetable department. Vicky and Helen. Vicky was reasonably attractive, slim, dark hair, about twenty-two, but Helen was a fat, bosomy blonde, with one eye slightly out of alignment and a constant, high-pitched giggle.

‘Hello, Davo darling,' she gushed, clumsily plonking her ample backside at the table opposite him and Dennis.

‘Hello, Helen. How are you sweetheart? Hello, Vicky,' replied Davo, smiling over his paper.

Davo was one of the few men who had a great deal of time for Helen and some of the gossips in the supermarket thought he was trying to have a bit of an affair there. But Davo was more cunning than that. Helen had at least a dozen good-looking girlfriends she used to run with and by running off Helen, if ever he saw her out and around the Eastern suburbs at night, Davo had more than his share of luck. Helen was none the wiser to Davo's subterfuge and secretly in her heart nurtured the idea that Davo might eventually take her back to his unit one night for a cup of coffee and a bit of whatever.