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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781490711454 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 08/26/2013 |
| Pages: | 424 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.86(d) |
Read an Excerpt
HAZEL
By Brian Stuart Pentland
Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2013 Brian Stuart PentlandAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-1145-4
CHAPTER 1
Hazel O'hara
'Are the staff on paralysis training tonight?' came a sharp, sarcastic cry, and Hazel waved his serviette as if the boat was just leaving the dock. 'Darling, over here we happen to be this strange race called 'clients'.'
A waiter moved across the room. 'I heard you the first time,' he spat.
'Darling, how could that be? Do you think the battery has gone in your hearing aid?' and Hazel smiled falsely. 'Another two bottles, darling, because we don't want to interrupt your night off.'
'Arsehole!' The waiter retorted.
'I knew it,' cried Hazel. 'He must be going to win an award for literature. You can tell by his grasp of words that he is going to be a greater writer. Eat your heart out, Barbra.' The other three at the table fell about laughing. Hazel was at it again, never to be put down, a word or generally more than a word, to put people where they belonged—according to Hazel.
He was almost six feet tall, thin as a rake, with green eyes, reddish blonde hair, a very pale complexion, a good nose and strong jaw-line, which sometimes made drag nights even funnier. He had no real patience and no real staying power: when he saw a task ahead, he went for it. The moment it was mastered he became bored and found it repetitious and moved on. He was always the one to have at a dinner party; he was the star in every sense, the entertainer, the clever boy. Boy Hazel was now 35 years-old and had never bothered, except for a teaching job, ever to stay at one job for a period of time after mastering it. He had first trained as a teacher of youngsters from five to eleven and that had worked for a while but then the predictability of it all swept over him and he was off on another avenue. He was, to say the least, a very difficult personality, one minute quiet and considerate, and in a flash, if someone annoyed him, his viper tongue took over. He could slaughter any character within a dining room's length. Even at the hotel where Hazel drank and drank regularly, no-one really thought it worth while to enter into a fray with him, and as a result his friendships were very few—a million acquaintances but real friends only two or three at the most. He was so difficult and far too unpredictable for anyone to get close to him and getting close to him he hated. He found it extremely claustrophobic and demanding.
Yet despite all this he was strangely methodical. His tiny rented apartment was always immaculate. Saturday morning it was always cleaned from top to bottom: no great task given how small it was—a kitchen, a bathroom and a bed-sitting room; nothing of importance in the decoration, in fact it was rather minimalist, a complete contrast to his personality. The only extravagant thing he possessed was an extremely large European painting he had purchased at a smart auction in a very important home, more the result of waving to an acquaintance than bidding seriously. The painting was knocked down "to the tall man with red hair". 'Charming,' said Hazel later. 'The cretin could have said "to the elegant gentleman on my right"—what a limited piece of work!'
And so, over his two-seater settee, hung in a large ornate gilt frame, a European landscape which completely over-powered the whole space. And with time Hazel had become remarkably attached to it, which was odd as everything else he owned when it didn't function or he was simply tired of it he disposed of without any compunction: but the painting always remained.
His love life was extremely difficult to know. As Hazel gossiped about everything but never about what he did in his private life, no-one was sure but the stories were many. His tongue, or better still, his repartee, was such that it tended to negate his ever having a fixed relationship or in fact any relationship at all.
He was the supreme entertainer. If he did a drag show, he always used something clever—no Barbara Striesand for him. He used a World War Two nurse's outfit and mimed Gracie Fields's "Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye", which had the queens cheering and screaming for more. He was calculating. He knew very well that to do serious drag meant that there were always going to be bitter send-up comments, so he always got in first. He sent himself up before the others could do so and as such was always a great success. For example, dressing as Doris Day and singing "Younger than springtime", he had everyone in hysterics, especially as he was so tall and in stilettos. Hazel became a vertical image of entertainment. But with the microphone in his hands, it was death to anyone who thought to make a smart comment from the crowd and get away with it. His replies were super-sharp and delivered without a single shred of charity. Hazel was, indeed, someone to be careful of. Even in ordinary situations, for example. Meeting him at the supermarket or at the greengrocer's one could be absolutely sure that the comment he passed was generally not going to be in your favour. Altogether, he was generally summed up as 'a very bitchy queen'.
But he had another side to him that he kept completely secret from people, or perhaps it should be said from all but the two or three people he really liked. He was completely faithful and would do anything to help them and at any cost.
One of these persons was Keven O'Malley. Hazel had carried a torch ever since he had seen him, which must be almost ten years ago. He was extremely handsome, of average height, and with a great body, as a result of a lot of body-building, thick black bushy hair and electric blue eyes. He was the ideal for Hazel and woe betide anyone who passed a comment that was not favourable about him in Hazel's earshot. He was like an Araphoe Indian on heat.
Some years before, after a party in the late hours of the morning, Hazel was obviously one of the last to leave and from inside the party house he heard a scream and much yelling on the street. He dashed to see what the noise was and to his horror he saw two hoodlums attacking Keven, who had also been at the party—and everyone just stood around watching. No-one, not a single person, moved in to help him. Hazel raced forward but not before ripping off a loose picket from the front fence and just attacked. The length of timber swung in all directions and every strike hit the target. The two hoodlums scampered quickly away, using sharp expletives to describe him. He helped Keven to his feet and then turned on the crowd of partygoers. 'Cowards!' he screamed loudly. 'You would let a person you know be beaten up and look at you there—there must be fucking thirty of you and there were only two shits. Don't any of you ever think that if you were in the same situation that I would ever, ever come to your aid. You could all be beaten to a fucking pulp for all I care. Go home, little boys,' he shouted sarcastically, 'it's where you belong.'
Hazel helped Keven to his car, but because he was in pain Hazel drove him home and put him to bed after cleaning him up. Keven never forgot the sacrifice that Hazel had made for him, while the others just stood back and watched; and in any social situation he always welcomed Hazel, which was more than many of his acquaintances would have done.
It was after that evening that Hazel began lessons in kick-boxing and, being tall, with long, strong legs, he began to master this art of self-defence, except that, sometimes, when really angry and fighting in the gym with an opponent, he would have to be physically restrained as he set out to attack his foe rather than use the exercise as a learning process.
Keven O'Malley was a good-looking, successful architect, in great demand from his clients as his work was very thorough and inventive. He lived in a large terraced house in South Yarra and as he became financially secure he purchased it when it became available. He also bought the derelict terrace next door and converted it into his office/ showroom. He had four staff and he streamlined his business so every cent ended up in the right place, namely his bank account. If he saw Hazel in Toorak Road, he always invited him back for a drink and occasionally took him out to dinner. But the Hazel he knew was a completely different character from the Hazel everyone else was obliged to suffer. Hazel was quiet, polite and chattered on to Keven in a sophisticated manner about architecture or interior decoration, world affairs—quite the person to be with, a few sharp funny comments but not the raw humour he usually used.
The other friend he had was Mary Warren. She lived not far from him and often they would go to the supermarket or a film or he would just arrive with a whole meal, everything, wine included, in a large supermarket bag, just take over Mary's kitchen and produce a splendid meal but only for the two of them.
Mary was very overweight, "ten tons of fun", as Hazel jokingly called her but she had a very beautiful face, excellent skin, fine features, blue crystal clear eyes, a full mouth and a mane of auburn-coloured hair. She was good for Hazel; she was the only person he would tolerate giving him a talking-to, and at times a sharp one, without his becoming vicious and retaliating. Mary was Hazel's oldest friend. They had been at school together, the two most outlandish figures at the school in both personality and physical appearance, and it was Mary alone who held the secret as to what Hazel's real name was. He had become "Hazel" at a young age and the name stuck. He used it as a badge; he flaunted it just to make people uncomfortable originally, but with time everyone just accepted that this tall, blonde-haired queen was called Hazel.
They were remarkably similar. Mary and Hazel neither really wanted a relationship as in the past their experience in this field had been rather disastrous or awkward. They both needed their privacy but both swore they would change their ways if Antonio Banderas asked either one of them to marry him. He was their ideal of the perfect man and they never got tired of watching at Mary's house DVD after DVD of him. Mary had in fact framed several photos of the star and had them on a table in the sitting room and any time Hazel found a new photo he would immediately have it framed and it would join the others on the table including the photos of Banderas naked. Even Hazel had a copy of that. So the two of them lived in an odd fantasy world, with Banderas strangely holding it all together.
Mary worked as a child psychologist: she was very good at her work and very dedicated. She had gone to university, completed her studies in record time and started work at once and unlike Hazel remained in the one job all her life.
Hazel at this time had thrown up working as an interior decorator and was working as a waiter in a smart restaurant. The only problem was that his retorts to some of the patrons could never be described as smart. Then, only six weeks before, an emergency occurred in the kitchen of the restaurant, and, as the chef fainted and had to be sent home, Hazel as ever came to the rescue. He donned the chef's hat, put on an apron and off he went. The owner was so surprised at Hazel's ability to change from waiter to super-chef, but all the clients that evening remarked to him that the taste and the presentation were splendid. From then on, Hazel was fitted out in a chef's outfit and was trying his culinary skills on the patrons and with great success. In his inimitable style he did away with the chic printed menus and put up a blackboard, admittedly on a gold easel, and limited the choice to four entrees, four main courses and four deserts. The owner, Godfrey Simms, was in great doubt as to the change, but with a full restaurant every evening when Hazel was working, he changed his mind at once. Hazel insisted that he do something with the interior. 'Darling,' he said to Godfrey, 'it's so old hat—a bare brick wall! So 70s! Get it plastered and put a fabulous chandelier in. Come on—get moving!'
It was at this time that Hazel's bank account started to climb. He had always been careful with money, as two or three times in his life he had been without work, his fault, of course, but he realised the importance of a healthy bank account as it secured him the thing he valued above all, privacy, and that could only be assured if he had his own apartment and did not have to share in order to pay the bills.
* * *
'Darling, I have a night off. I'm on my way over. Open the wine,' and having hung up he collected a bag of semi-prepared food from the restaurant and a couple of complementary bottles of wine and made for Mary's in his pale lilac Volkswagon. He had had it sprayed this colour, his excuse being that even if he got completely drunk he could always recognise it. He beatled up the street where Mary lived and to his joy located a car leaving and so took the space only two doors from his destination.
Mary opened the door to a very excited Hazel. 'Darling, I hope you like lobster,' and went on noisily to describe the contents of the bag which he set down on Mary's kitchen top. 'Well, what do I have for you?' Hazel smiled wickedly.
'Oh, don't tell me.'
'Yes,' cried Hazel, 'but you can't see it until I have a drink.'
They danced about like school children, completely at one with one another, in their own very private fantasy.
'Well, where is he?' demanded Mary. 'I'm waiting,' and Hazel withdrew a neatly packaged frame and handed it to her.
'Happy Birthday, darling.'
'Thanks, sweetie,' was the reply, and she withdrew an antique frame made up at Mirror and the occupant of this frame was a smiling Antonio Banderas.
'Oh, it's heaven,' she screamed, 'and the frame—oh, Hazel, you shouldn't have, but I'm so glad you did.' And she leaned over and gave him a kiss.
'Darling, I have managed to organise a diet food evening.'
'Oh, how boring,' laughed Mary.
'I was just joking, sweetie. You will gain at least twenty kilos this evening.'
'Sounds divine! Bring on the kilos!'
There were lots of "ohs" and "ahs" as Hazel produced yet another treat from the bag.
'Oh, he is so gorgeous,' said Mary, smiling back at the new picture. 'Now, pick up your glass.' Hazel never had any problem with that. 'Have a drink. I have something to show you. Come on,' and Mary led the way down the hallway of this large house which had been left to her by her godmother many years ago. It was a double-fronted Victorian house in Hawthorn, with a large bay window on either side of the front door. All the rooms were large, which was perhaps just as well as Mary, in Hazel's apartment, was always terrified of knocking something over, the space being so very limited.
She directed Hazel to the main sitting room and to his surprise he noted on one wall a beautiful antique gilt frame hung in a vertical position but with a blank white canvas in it.
'Darling,' said Hazel, 'don't you think it's just a bit too minimalist?'
'Oh, Hazel, you are a dill! What do you think of the frame?'
Hazel moved closer and had a good look. 'It's fantastic. Where did you get it?'
'Well, you won't believe this, but a woman I work with said that her mother was being placed in an elderly care centre and invited me over to have a look at the furniture she had to sell. I thought of you, Hazel, but as your apartment is'—and here she stopped, had another sip and looked over the top of her glass—'well, so compact—'
'I think you mean small, don't you? Oh, how could your be so cruel?' feigned Hazel.
'Hazel, why don't you rent a bigger house. You would be much happier.'
'What's happy, Mary, about having a big house! I have so many problems just with my mouse-hole now—imagine if I moved into a space like yours, I would get lost,' and they laughed. 'Well, finish the story, as I've finished my drink.'
'Well, I bought the frame. It was on top of a wardrobe. And also this little table with the marble top. What do you think for? $200. I thought it wasn't too bad.'
'Too bad, sweetheart—you got a steal. A frame nowhere near as ornate or with real new gilding is going to cost you $600 or $700 but the blank canvas?' asked Hazel, frowning.
'Well,' smiled Mary, 'you study it for a moment and just think about it and I'll return with the bottle,' which she did.
'Well?'
'I'm stumped, sweetie, you'll have to let me into the mystery.'
'I've found a fabulous artist who can paint a portrait from a photo. Now do you get it?'
'The answer is no, unless you are going to be immortalised for posterity.'
'Oh, Hazel, sometimes you are so dumb.'
'Really, sweetie,' said Hazel, sharply.
'I am going to have a portrait of Antonio Banderas painted for the frame. Won't that be exciting!'
'If it's done well, yes. If it's not, it will be simply kitch,' replied Hazel.
'Oh well, if it doesn't work, I guess I can use another mirror,' and Mary laughed. 'Come on, Hazel, I am starving for this diet food.'
'To the kitchen!' cried Hazel and they went back to the large kitchen/ dining area overlooking a lush back garden. Mary refilled the glasses and was surprised when Hazel put his arms around her ample chest.
'Happy Birthday, and I'm sure the portrait will be just divine.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from HAZEL by Brian Stuart Pentland. Copyright © 2013 Brian Stuart Pentland. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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