Bite The Wax Tadpole Read online

  And she’d got her future plans all mapped out. When she’d appeared in court the day after the studio disaster she’d got talking to an elegant woman called Sarah who was up for drug possession. “Had a bit of a bump in the Ferrari and the cops found a smidgin of coke in the glove box. But with what I know about the sex lives of the cops and lawyers in this city I think we might find that the evidence has been unfortunately mislaid.”

  Melissa had been intrigued and pumped Sarah for more information which had been freely given along with her business card. “Look me up when you get out. You’ve got the looks to make a fortune in this business. Although you might give some thought to getting something done about....”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing, never mind.”

  Yep, as soon as she was out she was going to become a high-class hooker. But not here, not in Sydney, not in Australia. No, a change of location was definitely called for. London, that’s where she’d go. Sarah had plenty of contacts there. And she’d change her name. To something more exotic. French, perhaps. Antoinette was a name she’d always fancied.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  A somnolent dusk was falling over the city, a dusk made hazier by the couple of drinks Rob had downed on his way into the City. Sally had asked to meet him at Hornsby RSL and they’d sat in the glow of the pokies as she outlined her idea for a sitcom to him. She’d changed since the incident. She’d come out of the closet for one thing. Her air of being a spinster of this parish was, it seems, engendered by her being the only child, and therefore carer, of aged parents who took the Bible quite literally, to the point of shunning mixed fabrics. The near approach of the Angel of Death (well, Nev Beale in a helicopter) had opened her eyes to the brevity of life and she now lived happily with a lady plumber who sang baritone in the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Choir. But it had been an epiphany in more ways than one and she was now determined, she told him on the phone, to do something with her own writing instead of editing others’. And so, accompanied by Miss Givings, his usual companion on such occasions he’d agreed to listen to her pitch and give what feedback he could.

  Sally sipped nervously at her gin and bitter lemon as she handed him some sheets of paper.

  “Just rough at the moment, of course. Lots of work to do but... anyway, basic idea is this lady, this woman, high powered lawyer, middle aged, gives it all up to open a home-birthing business. Of course, her husband, he’s a judge, thinks it’s menopausal and embarrasing, her children think she’s mad but... hey, plenty of scope for comedy.”

  “Right...”

  “It’s called “Mid-Wife Crisis”.

  “Very good. I was going with “The Orifice”.

  Despite this unpromising beginning he’d actually warmed to the idea over two large glasses of merlot. He’d ended up by promising Sally he’d read through everything and get back to her.

  “Thanks”, she’d said as he’d left. “You were one of the better bosses in TV, you know. Good luck with tonight.”

  He’d sat on the train as it swayed towards Central thinking how difficult it was to escape television. His own epiphany, as a piece of rotor blade has sliced the Bowling Club bar in two, had been along the “someone’s trying to tell me something” lines. Working in TV was dangerous to his mental and physical health. Get out. Go. And he had. Yet here he was on his way to the AWGIEs, scene of so many previous disappointments.

  Lights began to gleam in the greyed-out skyscrapers hemming the Harbour, their reflections trembling in the flinty waters. Breezes with the threat of winter in them flicked at the many and various restaurant awnings as Rob limped along the Quay’s dark timbers towards the crowd mingling in the subdued glow outside the Destiny House Bar and Conference Centre. The ebony walking stick was a bit of an affectation as the physiotherapy was coming along nicely but why not milk the ambient sympathy while you can? He had thought about donning a silk-lined cape and a fedora as well but he didn’t want to risk the murmurs of sympathy turning to whispers of “tosser”.

  The first person he recognised was David Williamson who was probably in line once more for the award as Outstandingly Tall Playwright of the Year. As Rob closed upon the chattering, glass clinking throng Gloria, nearly as broad as Williamson was long, appeared from behind a row of potted fig trees.

  “You’re on the mend then?”

  “Just a flesh wound, really.”

  In fact, everyone in the studio had been remarkably lucky and all the casualties had only suffered minor injuries. Except for Nev Beale, of course, who had been reduced by the explosion to his constituent atoms. The studio had been a write-off like a car with too many dented panels. Which meant, perversely, that things turned out well for Stan Drake who pocketed the insurance, sold the land for housing development and used the profits to save his business empire from collapse. Perhaps he was still reflecting on this bit of good fortune during the tedious hours he was having to sit through during his trial for bribery, fraud, corruption and general dirty dealing in the recycling game.

  “Still not interested in doing “Bayside Mall”?”, inquired Gloria as she shovelled a brace of canapés into her mouth.

  “Not really. Nice to see you’re still interested, though.”

  “Bloke we ended up with is a complete wanker. Couldn’t plot his way across George Street with a cattle prod up his arse.” She spotted someone behind Rob and gave a wave. “Marieke, sweetie, how are you?” She inserted another canapé. “Must mingle. Good luck with the award. About time you won.”

  As Gloria lumbered aside he could see Adam sauntering towards him smiling in the way that a nephew smiles when encountering a bereaved Aunt Gladys at Uncle Bob’s funeral.

  “Well, well, my former subordinate. How goes it?”

  “Oh you know...”

  “I hear the show is rising like a phoenix from the ashes.”

  “Yeah, literally, I guess.”

  The live show had not been the death of “Rickety Street”. There had, of course, been a hiatus in production but there were sufficient episodes in the can to keep it going for the following couple of months. In the meantime, the Network had been bought up by Murdo Hacker, the aspiring media mogul from Western Australia who, rather unbelievably, was a fan of the show. Plans for a new studio were drawn up and only a few weeks were lost on air. Some recasting was inevitable, of course, and the gaps in continuity had to be roughly plastered over but the show rolled on.

  “So, how are you finding life at the top?”

  “Okay. Sort of. New producer’s a bit of a bastard but. Still, early days...”

  Rob leaned on his stick and gave him a professorial look. “There’s a bit of sage advice I always lived by. Think about it when the going gets tough. “A correre e cagare ci si immerda i garret”. Stick to that and you won’t go far wrong.”

  With what he hoped was an enigmatic smile he limped towards the venue entrance.

  A black clad waiter was standing smartly to attention by the door. As Rob passed he thrust a tray of drinks towards him.

  “Cheers”, said Rob as he grabbed a glass of bubbly. He took a sip and was about to move on when he realised that the waiter was familiar and turned back.

  “Gerry! What the hell are you doing here?” From what he had heard, Gerry was now writing for “Rickety Street”, “Home and Away” and “Neighbours”. Unless they’d started paying in Zimbabwean dollars there was no need for him to be moonlighting.

  “Got an acting job”, whispered Gerry. “Pinter. “The Dumb Waiter””.

  There was quite a long pause before Rob said: “Right, right. But... the dumb waiter is... in the play... well, it’s a dumb waiter, isn’t it? You know, one of those little lift things that ...”

  He moved his glass up and down by way of illustration.

  “I know that but this is the best I could do. You know, standing around, not saying much.”

  “Brilliant. Right, I’ll...” He raised his glass and turned towards the door.

  �
��Good luck with the award, eh?”

  Inside, the guests were still milling around, tentatively hovering near their allotted tables. Rob consulted the seating plan. Who the hell were these people he’d been put with? He didn’t know any of them. There was a tap on his shoulder.

  “G’day, Rob”, said Neil, holding out his hand.

  Rob was shocked at how well Neil looked for someone who’d been sectioned when last heard of. There was a new light in his eyes and his seemingly permanent stoop seemed to have gone making him about a foot taller. And his manner, Thank god, didn’t seem to be that of someone crying out for revenge.

  “Neil, matey. How’re things? You’re looking terrific.” They shook hands like a pair of steam driven pistons.

  “Never better, mate, never better. Just wanted to Thank you for giving me the old heave-ho from “Rickety Street. Just what I needed, a few months in the nut house. Neurolinguistic programming and cognitive behaviour therapy. Fantastic. Should have done it years ago.”

  “That’s brilliant. So you’re back writing now?”

  “Bollocks to that, I’ve gone back to uni. Psychology over at Macquarie. Now then, fill me in on what exactly happened with the live ep.”

  The evening progressed through entrees, several bottles of wine, the first of the awards and the usual satirical cabaret in which producers, funding agencies and the government’s policies on pretty much anything were mercilessly lampooned. The strangers at his table won an award for Best Corporate Video Script and one of the women shrieked as though she’d bitten by a cobra. The statuette, if that was the correct term, which they passed excitedly between themselves was, Rob supposed, meant to represent a pen nib but looked more like a cracked and deformed toe-nail. Perhaps the makers had got tonight’s event mixed up with the New South Wales Chiropody Awards.

  The main course came along with more wine. Relaxation began to shade into tipsiness. He was trying to pull apart a bread roll seemingly made with two parts concrete to one part flour when Ken Field passed by and greeted him like a long lost limb. Ken had been the Network Script Executive when Rob had edited “Thompson’s Ferry” .

  “Great days, mate, great days. Show was at its best when you were on board”. Rob agreed, naturally, but wondered if Ken still remembered sacking him. Rob had turned up for a meeting with toothache and Ken had taken a dislike to his morose attitude, apparently. He’d told the Script Producer he didn’t want people on board who weren’t team players and the next thing Rob knew he was clearing his desk. In the script game there was no appeal, no second chance, no video referee. “Anyway”, said Ken with a matey slap on the shoulder, “ can’t stop, got to get to the gents. Bit of trouble with the old prostate.”

  Rob took a glug of wine. “There is a god, then.”

  “What was that?”

  “That’s no good, then.”

  “Nah. Anyways, good luck. Catch you later.”

  More awards were awarded, more institutions were satirised in song and Rob’s tipsiness tipped over into the sort of inebriation he’d promised himself to avoid. More people came and slapped Rob on the back and asked him what he was up to and more drinks were drunk as more time passed and the moment for Rob’s category ticked ever closer. Not that he was that worried. Not this time. If he didn’t win it he didn’t win it. As simple and simplistic as that. “Prick!” was due out in paperback, “Another Prick!” was half written, he’d had some development money for “Bleak City” and the twins were healthy.

  The award for Rob’s category was to be presented by the Managing Director of a firm of solicitors specialising in media contracts and intellectual property so no doubt, thought Rob, the Guild would shortly be getting an itemised bill: eating canapés – 12 x $2.50; quaffing champagne – 3 x $5.30; breaking wind during cabaret – no charge. Rob’s attempts at indifference were self-deluding and his innards starting churning like a mill-race as the MC read out the nominations.

  And then the MD was on his hind legs fumbling with the tackily gold envelope. Breaking the seal: $2.50; removing contents: $5.60; perusing contents: $15; reading out said contents: $25.

  “And the award for the best script in the children’s C category goes to Rob Jones for “Old MacDonald Had a Pharmacy” Episode 26: “The Parrots Ate ‘Em All”.

  Applause. Some cheers. Bloody hell, he’d done it. Not that it mattered a jot, of course. No, no, no, not at all. Still, he’d bloody well won. He got to his feet and Thanked the lord that he had his injury as an excuse for his unsteadiness. Leaning on the ebony cane, he made his slow and humble way to the stage. Crap, he should have written a speech.

  The MD smiled broadly and held out the golden toenail. Handing over prize: $50. A photographer snapped them shaking hands before the MD retreated leaving Rob alone to face the faces facing him. They reminded him of sea-anemones bobbing gently on a reef. It was an analogy he could possibly use some time in the future but right now he needed a speech.

  “Well, well, there’s a funny thing...”

  A good start, said with all due humility and deference but, on its own, a little on the brief side. He held up the award as he’d seen them do at the Oscars, showing if off but, at the same time, clenching it as firmly as a life-belt. “Been a long time coming, this so Thanks to all the good people at “Old MacDonald’s”. Where are they?” He scanned the room shading his eyes like a shipwrecked sailor looking for a desert island. “ Ah, yes, up the back there.” He waved to them, using up another few seconds of his allotted two minutes.

  “You know, Lincoln wrote the Gettysburg Address on the train on his way there. To Gettysburg, that is. I was going to do the same, well, not go to Gettysburg, of course, but, anyway, there was a bloke sitting next to me on the train watching Fawlty Towers on his laptop and laughing like a drain so... Odd, really, I should get a gong for Old MacDonald. I’ve only written one episode. I wrote 189 episodes of Rickety Street and lost count of all the other stuff I’ve done. Funny business, writing for television. Seriously funny. Not what I meant to do with my life at all. Is it what you all meant to do with your life? Seriously. It’s a bit like starting out to be a doctor and ending up with a first-aid certificate. Hemingway, I was going to be; Steinbeck; Dylan Thomas. In my craft or sullen art. That’s all bollocks, by the way. Dylan Thomas, the bohemian inebriate - that’s not easy to say after what I’ve drunk – working away in the still night, by the raging moon. No, he kept office hours, worked nine to five then went to the pub in the evening. Like a civil servant or... or a bank manager. Had a reputation at the BBC for...” He looked around conspiratorially and then whispered: “... being reliable. Shocking, eh? Which goes to show.... what? Oh, yes, that nothing, nothing in the writing game is what it seems. Yes, anyway, long way from Cwmdonkin Drive to “Rickety Street.” Long way. Bit off subject here, I think. Hmm...”

  He paused, desperately looking for a link. Which was hard as he had little idea of what he was talking about. Just the usual bull, in fact. “Ah, yes, “The Wasteland”. You know “The Wasteland”? TS Eliot, brilliant. April is the cruellest month... fear in a handful of dust... Margate Sands something or other. Know what it was called originally? Can’t see any hands up. No? “He Do the Policemen in Different Voices.” Isn’t that just great? And “War and Peace” was “All’s Well That Ends Well.” “Moby Dick”? “Moby Dick” was “Ahab and the Giant Goldfish.” Perhaps I made that last one up. Point is, point is... things change. Which is fair enough. Writing’s a journey without maps. Did Graham Greene say that? Rather think he did. But it doesn’t matter a jot or even a tittle if you don’t have a map, not if you’re the one doing the navigating, if you’re the explorer, the trail blazer, the... whatever. Sure, you might take a few wrong turnings, get lost, find yourself in Woop Woop when you want to be in Woy Woy but you get there in the end. If you’ve any talent, you get there in the end.”

  As he swayed and grinned stupidly, he was aware of a certain amount of embarrassed agitation in the audience. Throats being cleared
. Glasses hiding faces. Eyes staring into the remains of dinner. There were others, of course, probably the more seriously pissed, who were grinning like sand dredgers.

  “Time’s up”, the MC whispered out of the corner of his mouth as he feigned clearing his throat.

  Rob looked behind him to where a clock counted down on a giant plasma screen with “Times’ Up” flashing in urgent red next to it in .

  “You know, I’m going to ignore that. Bloody apostrophe’s been irritating me all night. Where was I? Woop Woop? Woy Woy? Oh, yes, journeys, maps. You don’t have to do much exploring with soap opera scripts. You get given a map, a set of directions and a sat nav. Turn left in 600 metres, turn right at the next exit, take the road to blandness. And if you do manage to write something you’re proud of, something of your own? It gets edited. It gets over-edited. The producer fiddles with it. The director plays about with it. The actors don’t get what you’re trying to say. The episode’s too long in studio so it gets cut. It’s too short so someone sticks in a few incongruous lines. It’s never what you hoped it would be. Bit like life, really. Bit like, a few years ago Coca Cola did this advertising thing, you remember, things go better with Coke. Seems that when they got it translated into Chinese it came out as “bite the wax tadpole.” Sort of captures life for me, really. Bite the Wax Tadpole.”

  The faces in the audience were extremely fuzzy now but he could still recognise the bewilderment written on most of them. Which was hardly surprising as he no longer had any idea himself what he was talking about. Oh god... the underdone lamb and the over- done alcohol in his stomach had begun to react together and he felt nauseous.