Page 150 of A Town Like Clarence


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A bow-legged old bloke in a plaid shirt and ancient jeans that had been starched into planks shuffled up to the stage. Thelma told the crowd to settle down, then handed him the microphone.

‘Once more, old friend, across the cattle grid,’ old mate began as Kirsty stepped down onto the trampled grass and was engulfed by the crowd.

‘OMG,’ squealed a voice at waist height.

‘Amy!’ she said, reaching out and gathering her into a hug. ‘Hello.’

‘Epicpoem, Kirsty. I didn’twantto like it after you ran off from my birthday party before we’d even had cake, but I am an artist. I recognise talent when I hear it.’

She chuckled, because, seriously, Amy was adorable, then looked up at Patty Miles, who’d come up behind Amy. Patty had gone all out with her henna-dyed clothing today and earrings, dangly beaten-metal discs, gave her look an earthy glamour.

‘We are so pleased to see you back, Kirsty,’ said Patty, leaning in and bestowing a kiss on her cheek. ‘I’m heading back in to nab a seat for the award ceremony, but if I don’t see you later, come out to Bangadoon real soon, won’t you?’

‘Um, sure.’

‘Look what I won!’ A green second-place ribbon was thrust up into her face, the wordsAmy Mileswritten in an old-fashioned hand that Kirsty instantly recognised as Carol’s.

‘Congratulations,’ she said, keeping her voice low and heading out through a split in the tent walls so they wouldn’t disturb the next competitor. She’d have to circle back and find her mother after the next performance. ‘Come and tell me about it outside. Which poem did you win with? The chooks or the dog?’

‘Chooks.’

‘Nice. I’m sorry I missed it. Some kid at the entrance was being real fussy about signing in and numbers of people.’ Kirsty looked up and did a quick scan of the crowd. ‘Um … have you seen your uncle? I have a bone to pick with him.’

‘Uncle Will?’

‘No.’

‘Uncle Lachy?’

‘Er … no.’

She wasn’t imagining the smirk on Amy’s face. ‘You must be keen to see Uncle Red Ant, then, is that it?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘You, Amy Miles, are a menace.’

Amy giggled. ‘I know. The uncle you’re keen to pick bones with is over there. See? He’s using his elbows to push through all those people wanting to slap his back about being the moped hero.’

Kirsty looked across to where Amy was pointing and it was true. Joe was following her out of the tent.

‘I think your grandma’s calling you, Amy,’ she said. ‘Better go see what she wants.’

Amy shrugged. ‘I’m okay here.’

Joe had reached them. He looked better than she remembered … eyes smilier, shoulders broader, grin sweeter. ‘Scram,’ he said to hisniece, who pouted, tossed her hair, then disappeared back into the marquee.

‘Huh,’ she said. ‘You’ve got skills.’

‘Chickens, kids, macadamia trees. It’s a gift.’

He had a gift with itinerant, emotionally baggaged pilots too, she thought. ‘I was hoping we could talk. I, er, left things very abruptly last week and, well, I’ve got stuff to say.’

He gave a little smile. ‘Stuff?’

Was it her imagination or had he just moved a little closer? Yep, she thought, her eyes dropping to his neckline. That paisley pattern was close enough to be making her dizzy … so dizzy, she was having a hard time remembering all the things she wanted to talk through. Her crazy reaction to the joyride, him losing his house to (maybe) cover a gambling debt, the sparks that had been flying about between them like she was flint and he was steel.

She cleared her throat. ‘Us.’

Oh, and she’d just remembered that bone. ‘And what the hell’s going on with that padlock on the shed door?’

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