At the Big Red Rooster Page 2

  ‘Just sowing a few wild oats,’ said Bernie, his dad, to worried Barb. ‘Did much the same meself, once.’

  ‘When?’ snapped Barb.

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Bernie. ‘All part of growin’up.’

  ‘And Cindy never stopping gabbing on about how good her Lisa’s doing down the Big Red Rooster. It’s driving me bonkers,’ said Barb.

  * * *

  Lisa took a nice photo. So nice that she bought two extra prints – one for her parents and one for Brett. It was just so hard to keep her eyes from constantly wandering to her framed likeness right slap up on the wall in loose goods. There she hung, nicely labelled and right next to a portrait of the founder of the kingdom with its own personal message to one and all: ‘They also serve who only stand and wait; Milt J. Wassermeyer, Chairman.’

  There was but one fly in the loose goods ointment. Delyse, Lisa’s sole staff. Of course Delyse was not a cadet. No way! Delyse was just a simple supermarket worker who had been at the Big Red Rooster since leaving Marwood High a couple of years earlier.

  ‘You goin’ with that hunky guy works here, eh,’ she said to Lisa. ‘Whatsisname? Brad? Bob?’

  ‘Brett,’ said Lisa, and then added, ‘My private life is my personal business and I keep it quite apart from my work,’ which was something like a line she had heard from Mr Marlon Dick.

  ‘What’s he like in bed, eh?’ asked Delyse, nicely. ‘Them studs often not worth writin’ home about. Not in my experience anyways.’

  ‘Would you kindly top up the bran barrel, Delyse?’ said Lisa. ‘I asked you to do that this morning. Twice, I did.’

  ‘Well, don’t twist yer knickers round yer private parts,’ said Delyse. ‘Was just gonna do it,’ she giggled. ‘Reminds me. Had this real bad case of dandruff last year. Shook me head real hard right over all that bran,’ she giggled more. ‘Geez and you couldn’t tell the difference.’

  Life in loose goods was busy for Lisa as she laboured to do not only her own job but that of Delyse as well. Topping up the giant plastic wood barrels of oatmeal, flour, pastas, various sugars and dried fruits was constant. That Delyse was of no use at all became rapidly apparent. Delyse quite enjoyed her job and spent most of her working day combing her hair, applying eye, lip or fingernail make-up and chatting up the young guys in Mr Whiskas’ butchery. She even wandered as far as fruit and veg where Brett had at long last been promoted from watering to chopping dead and dying outside leaves off lettuce and cabbage and placing softer tomatoes on top of the firmer ones.

  Mr Marlon Dick provided a sympathetic shoulder. ‘I do the whole works, Mr Marlon,’ said Lisa. ‘She’s useless is Delyse.’

  ‘It’s fully up to you as supervisor, my dear, to ensure your staff carry out their given functions and tasks and obey your orders. The mark of a successful supervisor is how the team works,’ he patted her arm. ‘I know you’ve got a right one on your hands there, my dear. Keep a list of what she does and doesn’t do. Make it long enough and I’ll see she gets the chop,’ he grinned.

  ‘Wow!’ said Delyse, returning from one of her many breaks. ‘He’s sure built, that Brett of yours. Choice. Him’n me just had a smoke out back. Let me feel his pecs. Wow! Boy! Wish I was you, girl. Bet he’s hard like that all over,’ she winked.

  Lisa made her lips disappear in the manner of Marlon Dick and vowed silently that she would make a list of the sins of Delyse not only very long but very quick. ‘Fill up the chewy gumdrops and jellybeans in Candy Corner,’ she snapped. ‘They’re empty and the consumer clientele are asking.’

  * * *

  Brett began to take time off work using any excuse he could think of. His efforts, already minimal, lessened further and he seemed to spend more time out back in the stockrooms, skylarking, smoking, drinking even, than he did on duty.

  ‘Can’t get through on the phone to old Dickless,’ a very croaky-sounding Brett on the phone to Lisa just moments before she was due to set off on her bicycle for the Big Red Rooster. ‘Tell someone for me, eh. Got a bit of virus or some ’flu I reckon,’ he managed a painful cough down the wires. ‘Feel like shit. Ooohh! My poor head.’

  ‘Hangover more like it.’ Lisa was pure acid. ‘You were okay yesterday.’

  ‘Come on quick, eh. Ooohh!’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Lisa, and slammed down the phone. Not a good start to her day. The day got worse. No Delyse – and not even the courtesy of a phone call from this one. The list of Delyse’s crimes grew longer and longer still when Lisa discovered the mini-barrels of sultanas, dried peel and raisins as empty as the day they were made. Lisa worked like a Trojan and it was with a self-satisfied smile that she stood back, mid-morning, and watched as her small crowd of consumer clientele happily scooped into the abundance of welltopped-up barrels and jars and boxes.

  It was at about this time that Lisa started to feel a twinge of conscience about her poor sick Brett and her unsympathetic treatment of him. Poor Brett. Poor poor Brett. No doubt about it but she, Lisa, had been a right bitch. She made up her mind. The very moment the floating supervisor arrived to relieve her for her lunch break Lisa dashed, flat out, to Patty’s Pantry – the Big Red Rooster deli. As quick as quick she sorted out a tempting selection of her Brett’s favourite yummies. She pedalled, even flatter out, back home, long blonde hair flying loose behind her in the stiff autumn breeze. Dumping her cycle and collecting wits and wind she jogged through Granny Hudson’s leafy glade to Brett’s home and to his room, a private apartment tacked on by Bernie, his dad, to the back of their garage.

  Lisa sniffed, the revolting smell of cigarette smoke assailing her nostrils. Surely poor sick Bunnikins wasn’t smoking? Not when he was sick, poor pet? Lisa listened. Voices? Giggles? Could it be his mum, Barb? No. These giggles were not mum-like giggles. Lisa shook her head. Silly, silly. Must be poor Bunny’s radio or stereo. She did not bother knocking.

  A louder gust of giggles greeted her as Lisa opened the door. ‘Surprise! Sur – oh no!’ she gasped and gagged and then, ‘Oh Shoot. Shoot. Oh shit shit shit!’

  ‘What the hell – ’ a non-croaking Brett began. Too late. Lisa had slammed shut the door and was already back through Granny Hudson’s forest.

  As she pedalled faster than any biathlete back to the haven of the Big Red Rooster she saw in her mind’s eye one colour only – the colour of rage. Flaming scarlet rage! She also saw, and kept on seeing, the horrible, horrible sight of her Brett and the revolting Delyse together, a tangle of arms and legs in and out of his bed. Almost worse, still, she went on seeing the portrait photograph of herself on the wall above his bed, so recently given to her love, skewered for all to see by a dart through one eyeball. It was only as she dumped her cycle in the staff cycle park that Lisa realised she still clutched to her wildly heaving bosom the bag of yummies selected less than thirty minutes earlier for her faithless boyfriend.

  * * *

  ‘Two or three for the axe this month, including your Delyse. She’s done her onions this time. First-class job you done on her. Stitched her up good and proper. Nice work, my dear,’ said Marlon Dick to Lisa with a very broad grin right across his face. ‘Not that I enjoy doing any of this, of course. Still, someone’s gotta do the dirty work. I’d like you to be with me, my dear. Part of your training, of course. You should find it helpful to observe my technique. I’ll send the floating supervisor to relieve you,’ and he went on. ‘Not that you’ll be playing any part in the painful process.’ In addition to being supervisor of cadets Marlon was also supervisor of appointments and disappointments.

  In the three weeks since the ghastly bedroom scene Lisa had found ample time for, at first, a very natural rage and anger and then for a more quiet time of inner reflection and thought. Not a word on what had happened passed between Lisa and Delyse. Not a word passed between Lisa and Brett.

  Quiet reflection – and a conclusion that it was she, Lisa, who really was the one most at fault. Well, between she and Brett at least. The one very very very most at fault was t
urd-face Delyse. One must be honest with oneself, thought Lisa in some sort of conclusion. Had she not after all placed her career and ambitions above her relationship? Had she not thought more of the Big Red Rooster than she had of her poor, probably lonely and neglected Brett? Poor poor Brett. So lonely he could be tempted by that hideous tart who was so soon to get her just desserts. Once those desserts were dished, might it not be time, then, for a fresh start, a new start for her, Lisa, and her long-time love, Brett? Maybe even a step further? With Delyse gone from loose goods a vacancy most certainly existed. Surely no one would expect her to run the place by herself. Could they? Who better indeed to become a strong right arm at her side than Brett? Many, many birds could be killed with this one stone. Above all there could be no better way of keeping an eye on her erstwhile love – a very constant eye! Once Delyse had been dealt to she, Lisa, would raise the matter with Marlon – and forcefully, too! As supervisor of loose goods surely her opinion, her word, would count for something.

  The axe fell first on Mum Mudgway, the oldest employee at the Big Red Rooster. Quite elderly now and in her mid-fifties at least, Mum, popular with one and all, had become less of an asset and more of a liability in her job of part-time shelf-stocker in jams and preserves. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Mudgway,’ said a sad-faced Marlon Dick. ‘But your supervisor reports a worsening situation. We’re losing more stock through your droppages and breakages – a whole box of Bulgarian cherry conserve just last week – losing more, my dear, than we do through nicking,’ and he pushed a box of tissues at the weeping Mum.

  As Marlon’s secretary, Bernadette, led the very wet Mum Mudgway off to the staff cafeteria for a comforting last cuppa, Marlon said, ‘Send in the next one before you take Mum down,’ and in came Delyse.

  No damp eyes with this one. It was all rather an anti-climax. Delyse stood there, chewing gum, a sneer from ear to ear and not taking her eyes off Lisa. ‘Okay by me, Dickie, and I want me holiday pay, every last cent or I’ll take yer guts to the tribunal quicker and go fer damages, too.’ Delyse nodded at Lisa, ‘Know what this is all about, don’t we, sweetie?’ and as Bernadette led her off to clear out her locker immediately and quit the premises, she managed one final, barbed thrust. ‘Bet I done more fer lover-boy in five minutes than you done fer him in yer lifetime blondie.’

  Lisa steadied herself as the door closed behind Delyse. Then she spoke. ‘Thank you thank you, Mr Dick er Marlon. Now what about my loose goods replacement? I got this very good idea and I know it’ll work with him under my wing and all – ’

  ‘Later. Later, my dear,’ Marlon consulted his desk diary. ‘One more for the high jump first. It’s all going quite nice so far. Ask him to come in, will you? Bernadette’ll be a while this time.’

  It was not a pretty scene.

  Brett cursed, swore and used obscene language. Not only did Marlon’s lips disappear but so, almost, did his eyes. The only bits that got bigger and redder on his face were his nostrils.

  Lisa shook, shivered and felt her knees knocking so bad she had to move her legs apart. She wanted to cry.

  Brett cursed and swore some more and said some very rude things about some little bits and pieces of Mr Marlon Dick’s body and the functioning of those bits. As Brett’s swearing turned to threats against his person, Marlon picked up his phone and barked one word, ‘Security!’

  Lisa never knew how she managed to get herself home that evening. Nothing that Cindy said was of comfort. She lay on her bed, an absolute picture of grief and anguish.

  * * *

  It was with superhuman strength that, next morning, she dragged herself from her bed, showered, had a good breakfast and, still broken-hearted, pedalled off to work. Strange, she muttered to herself as she parked her cycle and looked across to where a small but rapidly growing crowd had gathered outside the main entrance foyer of the Big Red Rooster. The crowd seemed to be gazing skyward and Lisa looked up. She gasped one long in-drawn breath. The symbol, the pride of the supermarket, the Big Red Rooster itself, still surmounted its gabled heights, but only in part. Gone, completely gone, severed from its torso as if with one giant blow from Mr Whiskas’ cleaver, was the head of the bird. Lisa glanced at her watch. Right on eight a.m.

  As the hour turned and right on cue, the gigantic headless rooster flapped its vivid wings of lycra and issued forth its customary crow. The entire crowd cheered. You can’t keep a good rooster down!

  * * *

  These days Cindy and Barb are not quite so close and they tend to take coffee together more on a weekly than daily basis. Barb now shops on the other side of Marwood where the supermarkets are simpler. Things haven’t affected Bernie and Kev quite so deeply and they continue to have a few beers together at the club most evenings. However, it’s now separate barbecues for the two families if the weather is clement. This most certainly pleases one person. Old Granny Hudson’s sight and hearing may well be impaired but her sense of smell can lead her dead accurately to any barbie within a wide radius of her home and if there’s anything better than one barbie it’s two of the same.

  Lisa went over to say goodbye to Brett. ‘Barb says he’s heading up north for a while,’ Cindy had told her. ‘Barb says her brother’s found him and that girl of his some sort of jobs picking kiwifruit for a while.’

  Lisa knocked on the door of his garage bedroom.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, when he opened it. ‘Just thought I’d pop over and say goodbye and all that.’

  ‘Yeah well, oh yeah well, that’s nice,’ said Brett. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hope you like it up north,’ said Lisa. ‘You goin’ with anyone?’

  He looked at her. ‘Goin’ by myself,’ he said, slowly. ‘You wanna come in for a minute?’

  ‘Oh, well. If you think it’s okay.’

  ‘Course it’s okay. Like you been in here a million times before,’ said Brett. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘It’s all right. Marlon says I’m a sitter for a scholarship thingy to that Wassermeyer school over in America.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ said Brett. ‘Excellent. Let’s drink to it. I got a coupla beers in me fridge.’

  ‘I thought you were going up north with someone, with – er – Delyse?’ said Lisa.

  ‘Her? You must be joking. Anyway, she’s gone somewhere else with some other guy. You gonna come in or freeze yer butt off out here? You gotta sit on the bed but. Not much room in here anymore.’

  Brett’s room was neat. Very neat. Clean, tidy and not the faintest whiff of foul cigarette smoke. Two things struck Lisa. Up above Brett’s bed hung her portrait in an almost-silver frame and only if you looked very closely could you spot a slight cast in one eye. The other thing that struck Lisa – and was very clearly the reason for any guests having to use Brett’s bed because the object took up over half the small room, was the head of the big red rooster.

  Brett followed her startled gaze. He grinned. ‘Got the bugger right good, eh?’

  ‘You… you… was you…’ and then Lisa started to laugh. Her laughter came louder and Brett joined in and they fell together, each into the arms of the other and went on laughing and laughing and laughing. When finally they quietened Lisa said, ‘How long you away for?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Brett. ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’ she asked.

  ‘Reckon you’ll be around when I get back?’ asked Brett.

  ‘That depends, too,’ said Lisa. And then they kissed.

  Uncle Mick & The Great Outdoors

  MY UNCLE MICK is a great believer in the great outdoors and the benefits we can all get from being involved in everything the great outdoors has to offer. According to Uncle Mick, if you’re going to consider yourself a real man, most of your life has to be spent in the great outdoors. Uncle Mick is Mum’s youngest brother. Since Dad shot through when me and Simon, my older brother, were only two and four years old, Uncle Mick has seen it as his responsibility in life to be a role model for the two of us. As he often says – to anyone who’ll listen – ‘I
’ll turn those little buggers into men, even if it kills me. Even if it kills them, too!’

  To be absolutely perfectly honest, our getting turned into men by Uncle Mick has just about killed us on more occasions than Mum has ever found out about.

  There was Uncle Mick and the abseiling disaster. Simon really did hang by the neck for quite a while before Uncle Mick managed to get him de-noosed. We couldn’t go home for a very long time – hours – until the dark-blue blotches had faded from Simon’s neck. Mum wondered why Simon insisted on wearing a scarf – even to bed – for days on end. She also wondered why he didn’t eat much for about a week – and Simon usually had the appetite of a horse. Of course, we couldn’t let on it was simply because he couldn’t swallow.

  Did I mention horse? That was another of Uncle Mick’s man-building disasters, only this time I was the victim. Now, I’ve got to be honest, I’ll just never make a jockey or horse-rider, no matter how hard anyone, including Uncle Mick, tries. First off, I weigh about as much as a couple of jockeys joined together – and I’m only thirteen. Second, well, being very honest again, my body shape is not exactly suited to horse-riding. I have a tendency to roll off. You see, I’m round. Not completely and fully round, not quite like a ball, but I’m not far off it!

  Now, Uncle Mick has got a mate for every purpose, reason or season, situation or need you could possibly imagine. This time he called on his old school-mate, Les.

  Les had set up a stables and riding school with half a dozen horses he’d saved – or so he said – from a fate worse than death. I got to ride what Les reckoned was his No. 1 top riding horse, Exhaust Pipe.

  You can imagine how Exhaust Pipe got his name! He didn’t stop, either!! If Exhaust Pipe was Les’s No. 1 horse, God knows what the others were like! Exhaust Pipe bucked me off seven times. Exhaust Pipe tried to eat me three times. Exhaust Pipe chased me round and round what Les called his riding school corral, in order to eat me. Finally, Exhaust Pipe managed to corner me and sit on me, before starting in on his feed. This was not a pleasant experience. I should state here and now that the whole lot – the bucking, the chasing, the sitting and the eating – took less than twenty minutes. I spent the next three days in bed. I never ever ever want to see a horse ever ever again. The only happy and joyful note was when I heard, a couple of months later, that the riding school had flopped, gone flat broke, and Uncle Mick’s old mate, Les, had opened up a pet food factory.