Flotsam and Jetsam

By C.J. Cairns

Phil Wilson is an ageing saxophone player who washed up in the Ocean Breeze caravan park, like flotsam left on the beach after a storm. Even for those somewhat on the margins of the good society, life can be pleasant. Phil and his fellow caravan park renters thought so.

But life throws a series of curveballs and they can give in or fight back. They will need to navigate the testing waters of interpersonal relationships, bureaucracy, and the unpatrolled worlds of online communities.

Set on the Surf Coast in Victoria, the novel is a wry study of male mateship and the challenges of friendship and relationships.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035814350

C.J. Cairns

Flotsam and Jetsam is the first novel by C.J. Cairns. It draws heavily upon his time spent living on the Victorian coast. Now domiciled in Lorne, he enjoys the status of pater familias of an ethnically and geographically diverse family. His greatest critic and supporter is his long-term partner, Janet.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Barwon River arcs to the sea in a wide shallow sweep. A narrow line of sand dunes holds it from Bass Strait but only just, until it pushes into remnant hills and makes a final turn seaward. A low-slung road bridge spans the mouth, a great spot for holiday fishers. There, two former holiday towns sit on either side of the river. One draws cashed-up retirees escaping the metropolis of Melbourne. The other has morphed into a dormitory sprawl unrecognisable to those who spent summers there thirty years ago. For all those years, a ribbon-like caravan park has nestled in the dunes between the ocean beach and the river. Over the three summer months, it bursts with campers and lately with those modern mobile homes of holiday makers on the road. For most of the year, only a small corner of the park is open. Phil Wilson washed up here four months ago.

Home for Phil is a six-meter-long van that has seen better days. Designed in the pre-metric times, it is known as a Viscount sixteen-footer. The sides are a chalky white with purple wheel arch covers. It is fitted out in the most basic way with space for cooking, sleeping and sitting. None of those functions does it perform well but since Phil is not a natural housekeeper, he gets by. One side of the van connects to a canvas annex with sides that roll up in good weather. Two speakers of an aged stereo sound system are bolted to the van wall for outside listening, bolted in case someone were desperate enough to try to steal them. When he’s ‘in’, they pretty much continuously play rhythm and blues plus jazz.

On any Friday, Saturday or perhaps Sunday, ‘the boys’ might gather at Phil’s van for a sundowner or two. There are four of them – all park residents. Each a misfit in his own way, though none would self-identify as such. To them, a man in his fifties living alone in a caravan is no misfit, just a guy a bit buffeted by life’s storms.

It’s a Friday in late November. Two of the boys, David and Barney, are in residence in Phil’s mismatched folding chairs. His own padded vinyl recliner is reserved and waiting for him while he makes a leisurely selection of CDs to play. Musical choices are much discussed and disputed but, as host, Phil retains the right of veto. Tonight, he kicks off with vintage Ray Charles.

Ever get to see Ray in person when you were over there? asks Barney.

Missed by, says Phil, holding his finger a centimetre from his thumb.

Mm. Imagine catching him with a small band. Before the strings and country syrup got to him.

This comes from David who fancies himself as an arbiter of musical taste. Heading for sixty, he is a solid, tanned, sometime surfer who holds down a job in a vague way at a servo in Ocean Grove, if a few half-day shifts a week classified as holding down a job. If their mate Terry were here, David’s comment might lead to a heated exchange. Terry believes ‘good’ country music deserves high esteem.

White man’s blues, he is fond of saying. Every bit as valid and soulful as black man’s blues.

He would then probably launch into a promotional rave about how Ray Charles even peaked in his country phase. Depending on how well-oiled they were, a decent round of arguing, pronouncing and piss taking might take place. Taking the piss is something they pride themselves on. It just wouldn’t do to let anyone get ahead of themselves.

Tonight though, it’s early days so to speak. The conversation ambles back to music in general and why it has all been downhill since as far back as 1980. Though not true baby-boomers, they incline towards the boomers’ view that the real slide probably started in 1970 when the Beatles split. Yoko Ono has a lot to answer for in their eyes.

Beneath the bluster, the others defer to Phil on matters musical. After all, he did actually make a living at one time playing sax. He keeps himself by giving lessons a few times a week. It supplements the small pension he retains from two jobs he had in the decades before and after the millennium. Of the four mates, he is the one with least baggage from the patchwork of relationships that make up their respective social histories.

He thinks he can stay financially afloat if he avoids expensive lifestyle choices – monthly haircuts, brand name clothes and sneakers. After all, he never went far along that road at any stage of his life. Phil has evolved a style he likes to call his rumpled everyman look. Tall and not yet losing much of his hair, he has lately taken to wearing pre-loved straw hats, wide brimmed for the beach and nattier ones for around town. Picture Neil Young without the overblown sideburns.

Will we be seeing the T-meister this fine evening? David wants to know. Anyone had a text?

Not a peep. Terry’s been off the air all week. Barney offers.

Terry has a three day a week job twenty kilometres away, working as a gardener on one of the new US style residential golf course developments. It’s unlike him not to let Barney know if he would be out of town for the weekend. He would want him to feed his best mate Happy, a black cat.

Terry arrived at the park two years ago courtesy of a breakdown in a five-year relationship. The boys think he’s still bitter, though he loudly maintains he is well past it. Happy was about all he took away from the partnership. Best not go there, was the general consensus, if ever the topic of commitment to a relationship should come up.

Been a few campers drift in this week, David says. They might open up B and C sections early this year.

Being the longest-term resident allows him to take on the role of elder statesman on matters regarding the park.

More grey nomads on the road each day. Park life will be Kangaroo Edward if they swamp us. Arriving in their great bloody long home units on wheels.

Kangaroo Edward is one of his pet expressions. It means ‘rooted’ and with his jaundiced view of people and the world, it often gets an airing.

Wonder if that cute woman with the retro bubble van will check in for December like last year. Would be nice to see her around again. Renew acquaintances. David said.

Looks like love is in the air. Barney said just to poke David a little. Don’t poke a snake, was a maxim the group used to warn each other away from touchy topics. David and women was one of those areas. Phil repeated the saying to himself, quietly bracing in case Barney set David off. No explosion yet. Phil tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

Requests, gentlemen. Brother Ray has finished.

Anything but more squawking jazz saxophone. Leave Charlie Parker asleep. Some mellow blues would suit the ambience, David said.

Ambience, ambionce, ambulance! Well, peel me a grape and pass the canapés. We’re at the Hilton now.

Barney laughed at his own joke and Phil joined in. His own humour has always amused Barney hugely. How the ambience on a Friday night rose or fell was closely related to the steady consumption of sundowner drinks. Phil had occasionally tried to explain to the boys the significance of wine as a cheap mood enhancer in mid-century blues songs. David couldn’t unscramble the confusion with Red Devil Lye, no matter how many times they told him that was the drink women used to poison their no-good men. Phil favoured wine for mood improvement. He was on a quest to find the best red that discount stores would sell for less than seven dollars.

Before they each moved on to their own favourites, two rounds of beers had become customary. They slipped down easily. The night was warm and the weekend was upon them. Barney remembered they hadn’t solved the small mystery of Terry.

Should we contact him? Remind him that he has a table booked here?

Good idea but he might have a better offer, you know, drinks with female company. One of those cashed up widows from the club where he works. David mused.

Nah, he would have to let one of us know. Couldn’t help but boast, was Barney’s view.

Anyway, let’s fire up the charcoal griller. Tonight, the house special is mixed meat parcels with fennel and apple in an organic casing—sausages to you plebs.

As host, Phil got to set the bar snack menu, so sausages it was. A man of limited domestic skills, he did, nevertheless, consider himself a skilled char griller. He put his faith in the great charcoal making capacities of the local tea tree and in his ability to brush off the flak he got from the boys about never cleaning the grill. Residue, according to Phil, was just added flavour. The closest he came to sophistication was offering a choice between tomato sauce and bright yellow American mustard. There was also the choice of bread wrapping or good old fingers. As the fire flared and the coals reliably formed in the grill pit made from half of a forty-four gallon drum propped on four bricks, the talk drifted back to Terry.

David gave a personal status report. Haven’t seen him walking on the beach in the last few days. Often see him when I’m checking the surf. Good luck to him though if he is dating. Been a string of innings without a big score for him. Though, you’re damn right, he bloody well boasts about dating. So, I know we would hear if he was back in the water.

Without knowing it, David, a master of mixed metaphors, was edging a little close to those conversational rocks that loomed in any detailed discussion of attachments with women. Time to deflect, Phil thought.

For your personal edification and enjoyment, here is a track with the best ever first line.

He ducked inside to the CD player and found Captain Beefheart.

Absolutely no argument, even from you music morons—best start line—. See, it’s poetic—sets up a story—a mystery and then it blends into a weird groove about wanting to boogalise you.

Barney felt it was time to take Phil down a peg or two. Missed your calling, didn’t you? Teacher you should’ve been. Always teaching us what music is about. We have our own ideas too.

David sensed Barney was a bit scratchy tonight. What about a bit of air harmonica, guys? Bring on some Junior Wells.

The boys played air harmonica when the mood was right. Tonight it just didn’t seem to fit. Phil was busy with the sausages and the distraction kept him from any feeling of being got at by Barney. The other two weren’t going to break out their imaginary harps on their own, so the idea died and the party broke up a little earlier than usual when the snacks were eaten.

David went to his van to watch old movies on his DVD player while Barney drifted away to have a shower and make some calls about gardening jobs he had lined up with people who owned holiday houses in the vicinity. The mystery of Terry would soon explode with unsuspected consequences.

Chapter Two

Terry did not surface at the park until Sunday afternoon. It was David who bumped into him as he returned from a mildly successful fishing session just upstream from the bridge.

Got the debt collectors on your trail or something, mate or was it something I said? I know. I’ve got BO, he chided.

Actually, Mr Smartarse, I’ve been busy doing research. Kind of historical research, was Terry’s explanation for his absence.

Got a book on the go you haven’t told us about?

Terry was a little evasive in his answer. Look, it happens to be a little personal, for my eyes only.

Fine, got the point. Anyway, join us over at Phil’s later for a beer. I’ll give you a couple of mullet once I get ’em cleaned.

The boys assembled under the cover of Phil’s annex around six. There was a cool breeze coming off the sea, so two of the sides were down. Unusually, the sound system was silent. Phil was busy getting the griller ready to cook. He’d heard of David’s luck with the mullet and was prepared to pass his cooking tongs over.

What’s up, chef? Got no gourmet treat in mind today? Barney joked as the tongs were passed to David.

Knowing your limitations. Movie source anyone? Phil asked.

Too easy— It was Terry who answered as he came into the clearing beside Phil’s van.

Return of the prodigal. Anyone remember this guy’s name? Been weeks hasn’t it since he was around? Barney chuckled as usual at his own wit.

Terry plopped a six pack of beers onto the battered low table occupying the space between the three folding chairs and recliner, following it with a large bag of salt and vinegar potato chips and motioned to the others to help themselves. Phil waved his hand and stepped up into the van. He was back in a minute with a bottle of white wine and a couple of glasses. He tapped the bottle with the rim of one.

Italian. A white pinot. Eight bucks at Pre-Mix King in Geelong. Been saving it.

Bit pricy for you. Eight bucks. David was jesting.

Not when we’ve got you on the cooker. Fresh back from winning Master Chef, aren’t you? Phil came back.

Stubby tops were unscrewed and lobbed into the beer box in the corner of the annex. Phil was the only one for wine. They were itching to ask Terry about his absence but there was protocol to be observed—the three beer drinkers took a sip and Barney said as usual, Not a bad year this one. Needs to be served chilled.

David gave a quick description of how he was cooking the mullet, wrapped in foil sheet with butter and lemon. He set them on the grill, giving the coals a poke with the tongs.

Cat remember you, Terry? Happy seemed a little testy when I fed him. By the way, no fee for the changing of the litter tray. Small sacrifice for a mate, Barney said.

Terry looked at each of them in turn, rubbed his close clipped grey hair and began. I know you’re busting to ask. First off, I haven’t been holed up with a new woman.

It was a lame effort at a joke and just drew a quizzical turn of the head and eyebrow lift from Barney.

Although, I will say it does have something to do with one. Not a new one.

Come on. It’s not a quiz show. Be specific. Details please and make it believable. Barney was not joking now.

Give him time. He’s got five days to fill in, unless it’s too embarrassing. Phil was aware that pushing too hard would mean Terry wouldn’t fill them in on what they were now very curious about.

Turns out I’ve been up in the city.

Obviously wasn’t for clothes shopping. Barney couldn’t resist a dig and he gestured to his mate’s weathered t-shirt.

David and Phil groaned and slowly Terry volunteered a few clues about his missing spell.

You know I split up a few years ago from Angela.

Barney was about to interrupt but Phil held up a hand to prevent it and David made busy turning the fish. Angela was Terry’s ex. They had lived together for eight years, renting a place in Geelong while Terry worked as a gardener at the East Geelong cemetery. Angela was a physio at the hospital. According to Terry she was still quite a looker in her late forties when she came to live with him – dark haired, quick to tan and fit.

The split hit Terry hard. Partner, job, comfortable house gone in a bleak six months. He had drifted through a number of lowly paid jobs until a mate offered him free rent if he house-sat his caravan in the park, the same van he now lived in a few sites down from Phil’s.

I’ve told you guys a little about Angela. Told you the chemistry just died a bit. Probably my fault as much as hers.

The trio nodded, sipped their drinks and left room for him to continue. He chose not to sit in the available chair; instead, he paced back and forth across the open front of the annex. Sketchy details of his five-day absence came slowly.

Turns out it may have been a little more than two people just drifting apart. I should have been a bit more acute back then. Should have seen the clues but I’m telling you one thing—revenge is a dish best eaten cold.

Mate, I think it’s ‘served’—a dish best served cold. Phil put in.

Barney cut him off with some force. Shit. Can’t help yourself, can you? Nit-pick and do it when Terry is wanting to vent about a big issue in his life.

Phil did a stagey hands up gesture and an exaggerated face which meant sorry when one could not be sure he meant it. Terry was too engrossed in his pent-up feelings to notice, so he continued.

Seems I missed some key clues about what was really going on back then. Turns out she wasn’t just a little bit tired of me and disappointed in our relationship. Wasn’t that she needed space from me to find herself. Find herself. Ha! She’d been busy finding someone fucking else! No, let me clarify that—she’d been busy just fucking someone else.

Hang on man. Didn’t you tell me ages ago that Angela upped and left for Queensland taking the car and family jewels but not with a new man in tow? Barney asked.

Although David and Phil were privy to the key elements of Terry’s big relationship collapse, as his friend of longest standing in the group, Barney claimed some proprietary rights over any retelling of the story.

Terry paced and sipped his beer. He hadn’t drunk enough to be anywhere near maudlin. He was on a slow burn.

Not the first bloke blindsided by another in the nest. No help needed Phil, I know the word, its cuckold. I was a cuckold and she had hold of some other guy’s cock. Don’t fall apart on me, I said to her. I need you. Turns out somebody needed her more. Feel like a fool now.

David looked up from the griller and posed a question. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re not the only one. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you find this out and how come only now?

Only found out now because, a, I was stupid and b, they were clever bastards.

David persisted. Yeah but I mean how did you find out now?

Funny combination of things is how. Terry paused and then decided to go on.

You know my job at the golf course. Well, I was tidying up the plants around the first tee. A group came up to hit off and I moved aside and this woman looks at me with that ‘Do I know you?’ look. Turns out she did. She was a good friend of Angela back in the day. We had met each other quite a few times at parties and that sort of thing. She came up straight away and spoke to me. Said she was sorry she lost contact with Angela and with me. Anyway, they couldn’t hang around because you know golf and its bloody etiquette—mustn’t hold up the field, et cetera.

Sounds like she fancied you, Barney put in.

Sometimes I wonder if your mind ever developed beyond teenage lust, Barney.

As Terry said this, the other two mentally recited the ‘don’t poke a snake’ mantra. Of the four, Terry probably had the shortest fuse and given his present heightened emotional state, who knew, he might well blow. The thing which most likely held him back was his urge to get more off his chest. He explained that quite by accident their paths crossed later that afternoon. She was loading her clubs into the back of her car when he was heading to his car to drive home. She saw him and trotted over. She explained that she hoped she hadn’t embarrassed him when she spoke and that she knew he might well be sensitive about others knowing about his past relationships. Again, she said it was a pity Angela and he broke up and that she had moved away like that. The big thing was that she let slip something that shook Terry.

"In passing, she said that Angela getting mixed up with that prick Grant was so bad for her. ‘Mixed up in what way?’ I asked. I was thinking maybe he was someone who had conned her out of money when we split. Then it dawned on me that she meant mixed up in the obvious physical way. I didn’t need to ask because she went on to explain that this prick had apparently been spreading his charm about quite a bit and Angela was probably well rid of him.

I guess my face kind of gave me away, because Leah, that’s her name, stopped there and apologised again for bringing the past up. I wasn’t thinking so fast. See, I had never guessed. What I did manage to do was to convince Leah to give me her number because I said I would send her Angela’s address if I could find it at home. What I really wanted though was have a bit of time to think and then ask her some more questions."

Did you speak to her again? It was an obvious question from Phil.

Yeah, of course. Next morning, I phoned. Explained that I didn’t really even guess Angela was involved with anybody else. Said that if she didn’t want to talk about it, I wouldn’t bother her any more. She told me quite a bit. The shit worked at the same hospital. Seems this Grant tool made a habit of picking up married or attached women and having a fling. Is there a psychological condition that describes that shitty type of behaviour?

Sounds like he was like some pathetic ego-challenged prick who had to carve notches in his gun handle every time he fucked up someone’s life, David said and the others nodded and mumbled agreement.

Shook me up, I tell you, Terry went on. I wanted to punch a wall, still kind of do. Most of all I was mad about all the things I missed. Gotta give Angela credit. She sure fooled me. How could she be so deceptive?

First rule of cheating. Don’t get caught. Makes people pretty cunning, Phil offered.

So, for a few hours after talking to Leah, I would have kicked my dog if I had one and the cat was too clever to come within range. Funny how you can still feel red rage about something long after it’s passed. Particularly if you’ve been played and you seem to be the one who got to pay the price for what happened. Almost enough to put you off women for life. Then I thought some more. Angela didn’t really take me down financially. When she left, I probably fell apart because I was so busy feeling sorry for myself.

Terry’s admissions left a bit of a hole in the air. To leap up and give Terry a hug was just not in the boys’ style manual. David peeled the foil away from his fish and pronounced them ready. Phil ducked into the van to get plates and forks while Barney handed round beers and grabbed a handful of potato chips. Terry finally sat down and stared fixedly at the charcoal griller.

It’s not finished though, Terry said to no one in particular.

What? Your story? Barney asked too quickly.

It’s not a TV soapie on Netflix, mate, we don’t get to push pause and play. Let him have a bit of space. He’s in a bit of a dark room still. David’s gift for mangled metaphors was as sharp as ever.

Terry’s eyes narrowed and his lips grew taught. He spoke in a strange growling tone far different from his usual speaking voice.

Somebody’s got to pay. Somebody is bloody well going to pay.

Phil paused in the doorway with plates in hand, unsure if he should interrupt but feeling he must.

David. Will plates and forks do?

Terry didn’t venture any more details and