Shearers' Motel by Roger McDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

though not for long. ‘Too many tough bastards like you, Bertram Junior.’
    He came out with things like that. But he still gave Bertram Junior the feeling he had to watch his language when he was around him. When he burnt his hand on a baking dish while Bertram Junior was standing in the room one night, he said, ‘Fuck!’ and ‘Cunt!’ and dishes scattered everywhere. Bertram Junior blinked at this: ‘Cookie, you surprise me. I didn’t know you knew them words.’
    â€˜You don’t know me at all.’
    â€˜I’d reckon,’ said Bertram Junior.
    Things were okay, though. Except Bertram Junior knew they wouldn’t always stay that way. If you paid peanuts you got monkeys. In a shed you always had a feeling at the back of your neck about when and how things would go wrong. ‘No matter what happens, no matter how much time, thought, energy and hope I put into a job, someone will always let me down.’
    The bloke was busting a gut to get the meals on time, to make it look good, to not waste anything. It wasn’tsurprising he was good at his job. You would expect a bloke like him to be competent, he was smart enough to run the whole shed — so why did he worry about it so much, and never entirely let go, and not smile more? Why was he like a tight fist that wouldn’t open out?
    â€˜I won’t be awarding you any cooks’ premiership, Cookie, till you master the boil-up.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜Kiwi food. I’ll give you the recipe one day.’
    â€˜Give it to me now.’
    â€˜Okay. Couldn’t be simpler,’ shrugged Bertram Junior. ‘You drop any kind of meat in the pot, but specially pork bones, plus cabbage and doughboys — what you’d call dumplings — and just leave it on the stove all week. Anyone comes in hungry, they just reach their hand in the pot and take some.’
    â€˜Is that all?’
    â€˜That’s it,’ said Bertram Junior.
    â€˜Then why am I bothering with the stuff I’m cooking?’ he asked, opening his exercise book at random to a page of food notes. ‘Here’s what I’ve got for tomorrow. Pikelets. Chocolate biscuits. Coconut pudding —’
    â€˜Don’t like coconut,’ said Bertram Junior. ‘What about soup? You never give us soup.’
    â€˜In this heat? What about cold soup?’
    Bertram Junior curled a lip. ‘I’ve never heard of that.’
    â€˜Meat fritters at lunch. Leftover chops. Potato salad. Stew for the main meal with cauliflower cheese on the side. You want me to go on? Custard, jelly, cream. Roasts, stews, grills. Then over to breakfast the next day, bacon and egg as usual, baked beans, toast, potato fritters …’
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    Davo said he was the way he was because he was a watcher. ‘He’s on guard, Bertram Junior. He’s the proverbial fly on the wall. He’s noting down everything we do in that exercise book of his. Being a cook’s only a front. Watch out — he’ll put you in a book one day.’
    â€˜Yeah, and get his face smashed in,’ said Bertram Junior, looking over his shoulder.
    Cookie was listening from the kitchen.
    Seeing that everyone in a shed got needled, it came round to his turn, sure as clockwork.
    â€˜Nothin’ to do, Cookie?’ wasn’t a bad one, if he took an interest in anyone else’s work.
    â€˜Note that one down, Cookie?’
    â€˜Put that in your book?’ wasn’t bad either.
    Or more specially, ‘Don’t put that in your book’.
    â€˜I’m not writing a book. I’m trying to learn a job.’
    Got him there.
    Get him on hygiene: ‘Are you making sure that everyone washes their hands, Cookie? Specially that rousie we got today. He’s a bucket of filth.’
    â€˜I nailed up the back door coming in from the shithouse. He has to come round through the mess. That way I can see him at the