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CHAPTER
46
He was here.
A sunshine yellow paisley shirt had flickered in her peripheral vision and she’d felt a rush up her spine.
She was almost through her poem, with the exciting finish yet to deliver, and it seemed like there were a hundred eyes on her. All she really wanted was the one pair of rusty hazel eyes that had just locked with hers.
Her thoughts stumbled. Her kind-eyed farmer with the knee-melting smile? Hurrah, yay, happy to seehim. The guy who’d locked her out of her own damn plane? Yeah. Awkward.
But the crowd didn’t care about her personal dramas, they were invested in her bush poem.
She lifted the microphone to her mouth, took a deep breath, and gave the crowd the hero ending they were primed for.
‘Well, shit a brick,’ said Hogey as the moped dropped a gear
The man astride it flung a loop of rope past Hogey’s ear
‘Now tie it to your roo-bar, mate,’ the man said, with a spark
Of laughter in his voice, like saving bulls was just a lark
He grabbed a fallen branch and chucked it right across the creek
To form a makeshift bridge as narrow as a lightning streak
And with a whine his moped zoomed across the slippery wood
He flicked his wrist; he roped that champion bull right where it stood
‘Well, bugger me,’ said Hogey, as he watched with slackened jaw
‘That moped bloke’s true blue all right, he’s gone and beat us all!’
Then Hogey used his ute to tow the mammoth bull across
While Tim McGee wept tears of joy, his fortune now not lost
Joe’s eyes hadn’t left hers. He was laughing, and Hogey was standing beside him, an arm slung round his shoulders, looking delighted to be outfoxed in her verse. She had one stanza to go, so she grabbed the schooner of beer she’d placed on a stool for this very moment and gave her poem her all.
And back in Clarence River town the locals cheered and waved
When Hogey and his new best mate returned to celebrate
They headed for the pub and Hogey shouted him a beer
‘A toast to blokes on mopeds who are tough and show no fear.’
She bowed, and the crowd went wild. Like,actuallywild. She took a sip from the schooner and held it up like a victory toast, and the answering roar nearly blew the canvas off the tent poles. Ken was standing below the stage staring up at her, his mouth agape, tears of laughter running down his cheeks.
Carol and her judging team sat behind a trestle table, looking formal and sober as they made tick and cross marks on the scoresheetsin front of them. Then Carol looked up and dropped her a wink that was wildly magnified by the lashings of green eyeshadow she’d chosen to gussy herself up with.
Kirsty grinned at her, then realised she still had the microphone in her hand. ‘Um, thank you,’ she said.
Thelma swanned onto the stage wearing a hot pink powersuit that might’ve (definitely) sported shoulder pads. Carefully laundered by Ken since 1980, Kirsty thought.
‘Fabulous,’ Thelma carolled into the microphone. ‘Another wonderful entry. We’re making our judges work for us today! And who’s next? You, sir?’
