Beach Walker – Chapter 19
Fame at Last
‘Picked this up on the way here,’ I said, slapping the newspaper on Leonard’s kitchen table. He shot me a mute enquiry.
‘Page five. Recognise anyone?’
As the coffee pot began to steam and snort, he opened the paper, scanned the short article and photo.
‘Who the hell’s Dr Leonard Boss?’
‘Not sure,’ I replied, ‘but he’s a good-looking fella.’
‘Not in the same league as this Gracie Davids sheila,’ he said, tapping the photo. ‘Glad to see the local journos are on the ball. Can’t beat ’em for accurate reporting.’
‘They meant well, bless their little cotton socks.’
‘Hmm.’ He made a face. Poured steaming hot coffee into chipped mugs.
‘Come on! A nice write-up, I thought. Though the way they put it isn’t quite right: “a surprisingly entertaining talk about kelp by Dr Leonard Boss and Gracie Davids.” It was your talk, not mine.’
‘Bullshit and you know it. We were a double act – as it turned out. And a good one.’
‘Well … thanks.’
‘Knew I was in trouble – soon as I saw the audience. Knew the level was all wrong … but I was stuck on the rails and couldn’t get off, until …’
‘Until I derailed you?’
‘Fucken oath you did!’ My friend’s sunburnt face scrunched into a silent laugh. ‘Must’ve looked like a stunned mullet – when you grabbed that speech out of my hands and put it away.’
‘You did look a bit … startled … it’s true.’
‘Bold move, Grace love … You’ve got bloody big balls, I’ll say that for you.’
‘Thanks. I think. But listen –’ I leaned in, elbows on the table, and looked my friend in the eyes. ‘I’m so, so sorry for letting you in for this. I knew you didn’t want to do it, but I …’
‘Thought it would be good for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah, well … maybe you weren’t wrong. And at the end of the day, you didn’t force me, you know. I did say “yes” of my own free will.’
‘Sort of. After I’d worn you down.’
‘True, true … Always said you were bloody bossy.’ His eyes twinkled reassuringly.
‘I won’t do it again. Promise.’
‘Yeah, right.’
As he sipped the scalding coffee, his expression grew thoughtful.
‘What?’
‘Hope this is the end of it. Can’t help thinking that no publicity is good publicity, as they say.’
‘They don’t say that. Nobody says that. It’s “All publicity is good publicity.” You’re thinking of “No news is good news.”’
‘Am I? Hmm … We’ll see, I guess … ’nother Timtam?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
After the Festival, life returned to its normal, pleasant routine.
The main excitement was a daily stream of photos and videos of my grandson, Billy, alongside breathless accounts of his latest exploits. Given that he was one whole month old, the exploits were rather modest, viewed objectively. Were grandmothers allowed to be objective? Probably not, I thought. It was high time for a trip up to Byron Bay to inspect the little chap in person.
Otherwise, there were walks on the beach in the autumn sun, a snorkel trip with Leonard. We were recognised. ‘Ooh! I know you! You’re the seaweed people, aren’t you?’ called one of a group of female snorkellers.
‘Leonard here’s the seaweed man,’ I corrected. ‘I’m just the sidekick.’ A frown and sideways glance from the man himself. It wasn’t difficult to read his thoughts: another superfluous conversation with ‘randoms’ – to use my Brendan’s expression.
Still, he answered their questions with good humour. Identified the species they pointed out and offered some tips about rarer, more interesting ones they might find around the reef.
‘Fame at last, eh?’ I commented as they entered the shallows.
‘Yeah, well, you can stick that,’ my friend muttered, back in curmudgeon mode. A little grin spoiled the effect.
Then, one drizzly morning in early April, my head full of busy, grandmotherly thoughts, I pulled into Leonard’s driveway and had to brake sharply.
For the first time ever, the five-barred double gate was closed. More than that: it was chained and padlocked from the inside.
A hand-made sign hung over the top bar, just a ragged rectangle of plywood. The crudely-painted black letters read:
NO TRESPASSERS
I rummaged for my phone. No reply.
This was all very odd. Heart thumping, I fumbled out a text message:
Gate locked. What’s up?
Next week in Beach Walker:
Chapter 20: Digging
As Leonard frets, Grace ponders on some unsolved mysteries.
Disclaimer: The people and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people and events. The locations are authentic.
More intrigue from Leonard