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Far out. When would this town let it go?
His brother hurtled back behind the bar as he was selling the last packet of chips. ‘Sorry, Joey. Frying basket caught fire; took me a moment to get it under control. What did I miss?’
‘A beer and a wine for Hogey and his friend,’ he said. ‘I’m outta here before I get roped into any more chores.’ Or cried over by any more Clarence matrons. ‘I need a steak, and I need it bad.’
‘I’ll punch it through for you,’ said Will, tapping into his iPad and handing him a tracking device. ‘Head up to the kitchen servery when that buzzes.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, and Mum’s here. She’s looking for you.’
He took a sip of his beer and before he’d had a chance to even think about finding a dark, shadowy corner to go and lurk in an arm had slipped around him, and he was surrounded by the familiar aroma of candlewax and homemade lavender soap.
‘Hey, Mum,’ he said.
‘Joey Miles, just the man I need.’ She slapped a bunch of flyers against his chest. ‘Distribute these for me, would you, honey? Smile a little, ooze some of that bad-boy charm your teachers were always complaining about.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I’m pretty sure my teachers never saw me oozing anything more than sweat at exam time.’
‘Jody Pozzi.’
‘Um … we were in grade three, Mum. I bought her one paddle-pop from the tuckshop.One.’
‘See? Charm. Encourage everyone to make a day of it and tell their friends.’
He ran his eye down the green flyer.The Annual Clarence River Bush Poetry Muster: prizes, performances, food, craft, music.His mother had run the annual event for as long as he could remember, and it had grown from a few crusty old-timers reciting their favourite Henry Lawson poems while their kids played under a tarpaulin out at Bangadoon into a major Northern Rivers event hosted by the Clarence Pub.
‘What’s the charity you’re raising money for this year?’
His mother’s nostrils flared in a way that would have had his charming third-grade self clearing off on his bike for an hour. ‘That committee,’ she said darkly. ‘I’m surprised they can tie up their own shoelaces and butter their processed supermarket bread. I’ve given them a zillion good ideas. A zillion. Can they make their minds up?’
‘No, I’m guessing.’
She bumped his hip with hers. ‘You always were my smart one.’
Not always.
‘We haven’t seen you enough; I hope you’re not working too hard. Why don’t you relax a bit? The world won’t end if you don’t get that farm up and running straight away.’
He frowned. The world might end—financially, anyway—if the bank decided to play hardball. He was hanging on by the skin of his teeth, and every tin of paint or barrel of fertiliser he lugged home in his ute was digging him deeper into a financial hole until his Bondi apartment sold and he got some accommodation money coming in.
Or managed to turn that old plane wreck into hundred-dollar bills.
‘I’ll drop these around the tables,’ he said, giving the flyers a waggle. ‘Then I’m having a feed and heading off. This is Gus’s first night home alone and I hold grave fears for the chickens.’
‘Thanks, son. I appreciate it. I’m ready for an early night.’
‘Is Dad here?’
‘No, he was done in after Daisy and— Well, after a big day.’
He inspected his mother’s face, but while the lanterns strung through the grand old trees of the pub’s garden were pretty, they weren’t much for illumination. ‘Are you okay, Mum? You seem a little … low key. For you, I mean.’
She gave his arm another squeeze. ‘Of course. Don’t forget my flyers, will you?’
‘I’ll do them now.’
He spent a few minutes tucking flyers under candle pots on the outdoor tables and handing them out to anyone who passed, getting kissed and backslapped by a dozen or so locals whose names were a blur. One of the bowling club widows caught his hand as he passed her table. Mrs Harmer, maybe, the old school librarian? Or was she the dragon who’d manned the stop/go sign at the high-school crossing? Whoever she was, she was on for a chat, wanting to know did he remember her little Suzie, who was thirty-six now and ran her own business. Totally single. Totally healthy.
