Davo's Little Something Read Free Page A

Dennis score tries, kick goals and win scrums Davo finished his second mug of tea and looked at his watch. ‘Well—you right Den?’ hesaid. The apprentice nodded as Davo folded his paper and put it in his bag.
    As he got up Davo put his arm around Helen’s shoulders and whispered something about sexual harassment in her ear, giving it a bit of a nibble at the same time, then, leaving her giggling and squirming on the seat, he and the apprentice headed back to work.
    â€˜Have a nice smoko Davo?’ asked Len, taking off his apron as Davo and Dennis walked into the shop.
    â€˜Yeah, it was tops,’ replied Davo, tying his back on.
    â€˜Sandwiches alright?’ smiled Eddie.
    Davo kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’
    â€˜Well that’s nice.’ Len got a brown paper bag out of the cool room with two devon and pickle sandwiches in it both about as thick as a Webster’s Dictionary then he, Eddie and the two other girls went to have their morning tea, leaving Davo and the other three alone in the shop.
    Eddie had left a huge white plastic tub half full of scragneck, ends of topsides and rounds and other odds and ends to be trimmed up for mince. While Dennis was doing this Davo got several boned out briskets from the cool room and started rolling them with a corn-beef needle, something like a large darning needle only with a sharpened flat point, and a ball of thick white twine. In front of him, Kathy and Krystina continued weighing and packing meat for the display cabinet.
    For a Wednesday it seemed a little busier than normal. Davo looked up from his rolling every now and then to see more than the usual number of customers fossicking through the cabinets before they finally dropped one or two items into their metal trolleys. No one in the shop was saying a great deal; Dennis, when he did speak, could only talk about football and Krystina, like Marie, didn’t say much at the best of times. Left alone together it didn’t take long before Kathy and Davo started stirring each other.
    Davo speared the needle through the brisket, looped the twine around it then tied a knot and looked up at Kathy. ‘Where’s the Express playing tonight Kath? Any pub game enough to have them back a second time?’ he asked, snipping the knot with the heel of his boning knife.
    The band that Kathy’s fiance played in was called The Frank Wayne Express after their leader, a frantic guitarist named Frank Wayne.
    â€˜They’re not playing tonight,’ was the reply. ‘They’ve got a gig tomorrow night though supporting the Mentals at Revesby Workers Club.’
    â€˜Got a gig, have they, man. That sounds cool,’ said Davo derisively.
    â€˜Yeah, well you should know all about gigs Davo,’ smiled Kathy. ‘Being one yourself.’
    â€˜You know what’s wrong with your boyfriend’s band?’ said Davo, pretending to ignore Kathy and sound nice at the same time, ‘they need a better name. The Frank Wayne Express sounds too corny. It makes you think of Frankie Laine singing Mule Train or something.’
    â€˜Yeah? Well you’re pretty tuned into the rock scene, Davo. What are you into these days. 2CH—a bit of Tom Jones, Patti Page, Kamahl. What would a cool swinger like you suggest?’
    â€˜I dunno. What about Credence Rainwater Revival? Or The Rockroaches—you know, like The Beatles. Or The Pointer Brothers, or get Frank to change his name to Bruce Scaggs or Mick Jaguar, or something like that. I know,’ continued Davo, while Kathy looked at him with a mixture of pity and bored disgust, ‘why don’t they call themselves The Far Queue.’ ‘Ohh turn it up, Davo.’
    â€˜No, I’m fair dinkum. They’d love that on Triple J.’
    â€˜When do you ever listen to Triple J?’
    â€˜All the time, man. George Wayne. Rusty Nails. I’m hip to the re-bop momma don’t you