CHAPTER 39
The rest of the week was less scenic than my first visit, as I followed Kul around a number of businesses that included more than a few of that old favourite from Sheffield, the waste cooking oil account. Kul was quite bullish about them, which surprised me, for he had never pushed himself so far forward back in Yorkshire. I slowly came to understand how deeply he felt that the Australian venture was his own particular baby, and it would grow his way.

“There’s a trick we need to keep in mind, mate. We can go in as management consultants, just like those bloody companies back home with stupid slogans about DNA, where every other word is ‘solution’, and that gets us one bite at one cherry. Get their particular problem sorted, get paid, and then try and find another customer. I prefer the idea of trying to find a way to slip a hook in, so they stay landed. Got me?”

I just nodded, and he grinned, suddenly less serious.

“Me, I’m a sneaky Singh, so what we do is collar the biodiesel people first, THEN introduce the eatery to them. For the eatery, we do their accounts, which is Chad’s forte. ‘Hello Mister Deep Frier, your customer can haz cheeseburger and we can get you extra moolah for the grease and oil. Oh, and we’ll do your annual accounts, for this teeny, tiny additional fee’ sort of thing. All working on the ‘you already know us’ line. Hook in, steady income rather than a one-off. Our man in Kalamunda, if we get that plan off the ground, we’ll be looking to tie in the Sydney end as well. No ifs or buts, just steady money”

He paused, and I braced myself: yup.

“One Butt, of course! Right: two places this morning. First one’s a Chinese place, and I really rate their seafood. Second one’s a chippy and, well. Could be better, and think they might get there now that I’ve got them changing their sludge more often. Ready?”

That set the pattern of the week, and I could see my waistline suffering if I took up every offer of ‘Fancy a bite while you’re here, boys?’, but thankfully Kul had backed off from that first morning’s Full Aussie-British breakfast.

Each day brought finer tuning to my body clock, and I was able to get a better feel for the dynamics of both the office and the Butt family. It was quite a change seeing them in a home environment, rather than at the pub or just the two lads in the hills. It also cut me to the core, every so often, as I could see exactly how smitten Kul was with his wife, how that was returned with interest, and a clear lack of any concern for any concept of social place or caste system. They were a family, and that was all.

Our evenings were full of laughter, and I found my own share of the household expenses coming down to a visit to ‘the bottle shop’, as they called an off-licence in Australia, and more serious shopping as we prepared for the weekend’s ‘barbie’. My take on that Aussie institution had been filtered through Eric Bogle’s song, and I was led through the terms by Dal, including ‘snags’ and ‘Aerogard’. And, of course, I bought a hat.

My old sun hat was a narrow-brimmed cotton thing, one step up from a knotted hanky, handy for climbing in, but Dal took one look and burst into raucous laughter.

“Oh, Mike! How to say ‘Pom’ in a nit of cloth”

“What’s the alternative then, oh picture of sartorial elegance in shorts and leather sandals?”

“Ah, the decent ones are things like Akubras, which cost an absolute fortune. I have a Jacaru, which isn’t cheap, but it’s cheaper. Akubras are felt, but with the others, you can get shiny kangaroo skin ones, or sort of suede ones, plus some with mesh tops. I think those ones make you look like a butcher, though. Hang on…”

He popped out to the coat hooks in the hallway, and returned with a faded-looking suede hat, broad-brimmed and wrinkled in the crown.

“Crushable, Mike, but comfy, and they don’t get too hot. Very easy to underestimate the sun here. Dad might stick with the turban, but all that hair gets annoying”

I had noticed his haircut on first arriving, but hadn’t wanted to raise the subject myself. There it was now, out for discussion.

“Your parents don’t mind?”

“I think Mam might, but not as a big thing, or not as big as my grandparents would. They’d throw a fit! Hang on—just going to grab something Mam made, for calls home”

Out again, and this time he returned with a fully-wrapped turban, which he slipped onto his head.

“Mam sewed this, Mike. When we Skype home, I pop this on, and it looks like I’m being a good little Singh for them”

He burst out laughing, and between gasps, he pointed out that it was unlikely any hatter would make one big enough to fit over a Sikh turban.

“Anyway, still got the beard, bangle and blade, but I draw the line at the knickers. Oh, and I have some tricks for the barbie. And the climbing, too. Things are done a bit different over here”

“You haven’t been sneaking out on your own, Dal?”

He shook his head emphatically.

“Not likely, Mike! Just stuff I heard down at the indoor place me and Dad use. Stuff about bolts”

“You have me worried now”

“Don’t be. I did some shopping”

That worried me more, but I left it for the Saturday. I would need to watch him.

Four of us left the house that morning, my new copy of Dal’s hat in place on my head, and Geeta insisting that someone needed to maintain control of what she called eskies, a pair of rather large insulated bags that held our daytime supplies. We parked at the top of the interesting ‘zig zag’ road before Dal led us towards the quarry, which had a frustrated Chad and Maz waiting at a locked gate. Dal grinned, “Got the code from the Parks people”, opened the combination lock, and we were in, and I felt immediately at home.

It was busy, but nothing like the Popular End of Stanage on a holiday weekend would have been. It was a typical quarry venue, with a level floor and a few remnants pf spoil heaps in some of the scruffier corners. I could spot a number of shiny bolt hangers on the rock, as well as what looked like rusting bolt heads.

“Dal, I thought this was a trad place, not sports climbing?”

“There’s some trad stuff, but a lot of the top bolts are Aussie style”

“Please explain…”

“Well, normally, you drill in, put a bolt through the hanger, do it up tight? Then people just clip the hangers with quick-draws?”

“I know that”

“Well, over here, they improvised”

“I am not going to like this, am I?”

I could see Maz and Chad sitting up, eyes locked on Dal.

“Makes it more like trad climbing”

“Go on”

“Well, you take a big bolt, and you grind it down so it tapers. Then you drill the hole, or find a crack, and hammer the bolt in as far as it will go. That leaves the hex head sticking out with a quarter-inch or so of bolt”

“So how do you clip it?”

“You carry a second chalk bag, with hangers in it. Slip one over the top of the bolt, then clip it”

“And what’s to stop it simply lifting back off the bolt?”

“The krab blocks it”

I muttered something under my breath, while he held out exactly what he had described, a spare chalk bag. It clinked.

“Grades, Dal? How do they grade their routes?”

“Simple number system, starting at one. V Diff is about eleven, E1’s about eighteen, and so on. Printed a sheet off with some route descriptions and grades. Some trad routes, but without gear, we’ll be stuck on the sport routes”

I shook my head.

“Without gear, or any experience on this stuff, and three complete novices, we’ll be stuck on toproping”

I paused, before adding, “Unless I see a really tempting slab route without any bloody Aussie death traps”

I found a place to settle our kit, and then started to talk the newbies through the calls and general ‘good practice’. Just as I went through the ‘why’ of not looking up at a call of ‘BELOW!’, a climber approached our group.

“You’ll be a pom, then? I’ve seen these two down the Vault. You fancied some fresher air, then, Dal?”

“Oh hi, Vern. This is Mike. Just joined us from Sheffield, working with Dad. He’s the one who first took us out on the rock”

‘Vern’ was in a loose T-shirt and looser trousers, obviously as a concession to the local sun conditions. I offered a hand, and he shook it with a particularly tight grip.

“What you climb, Mike?”

“Oh, all sorts, grit to slate”

“No, mate: what grade?”

“Oh, god knows in your system, but I’ve managed a hard E6 in the UK, but that was on slate, so it was bolted. Done some softer E6 routes on grit, though”

“That’ll be trad style?”

“Real climbing, I prefer to call it. Yes, trad”

“Bloody hell, mate. Careful how you sit down, you must have huge balls! What’s E6?”

Dal chipped in.

“Don’t know, but E1 is eighteen, and then it’s about two to an E-number, so…. About 28?”

“Strewth, he says, trying not to be rude in front of the ladies. And trad? Bloody brass bollocks! What you here to do?”

I shrugged.

“Three new chums here, not done anything before, so I just wanted to give them a go, see if they like it, and have a picnic”

“Good on yer. What gear you got?”

“Er, three harnesses, some slings, krabs and quickdraws, and one rope”

“Well, I’m helping with a group. Got some spares, harnesses that is. Want a lend of some shit? And knowing this place, a bloody bash hat’s a good idea””

I suppose that was my first real encounter with the Perth attitude of open-hearted welcome, and the day took off, as Vern simply wrapped us up with his group. There were all the usual moments, including people being lowered giggling after failing on a move, but as that was usually Chad, nobody minded. I was introduced to Vern’s group as a ‘visiting Pom expert’, which was certainly not true, and a bonus for me was the opportunity to follow him up a couple of routes at about 23 local grade, e2-3 for me. He also gave me my first experience of ‘Aussie bolts’ and, well…

Are they all mad?

For my part, I led a 23 and a 24 in between helping out both with Vern’s own learners and my crowd, and I caught more than a few grins passing between all three of the Butt family.

I couldn’t imagine a better day that hadn’t involved my wife.

We finally parted ways with Vern’s lot in the mid-afternoon, as the heat was getting far too much to cope with, all sorts of offers and invitations coming our way from the climbing group, and then drove back to the family home, where Chad and Maryam were shown to spare corners for that night’s kip, and the shower, which we all needed. It was rather amusing when both Kul and Geeta turned up wearing towel turbans over their long, wet hair. I waited till last, and by the time I was back with the rest, Kul and Dal had the barbeque burning properly.

Chad was utterly Australian in having an ‘electric eskie’ in his car, basically a battery powered portable fridge, in which he had packed a collection of shish kebabs, marinated cuts of fish, and so on, while Dal’s contribution was simplicity itself, in being chunks of feta dusted with chilli powder and wrapped in foil. Getta had prepared the promised samosas, Kul a superb range of salads, and I, well, I had got the local bottle shop to deliver a decent quantity of beers, wines and, as I couldn’t be sure about Maryam, a mix of soft drinks including ready-made LLB.

So the sun shone on my new hat, and the breeze turned into the Doctor, pushing the flies away as afternoon turned into evening, and it was sailing ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings, as I spotted that Maryam was most definitely not avoiding the alcohol on offer, nor the pork.