out and sounded a cheerful blast of the horn as he
veered off back down the street.
The muffled sound of Cold Chisel’s ‘Cheap
Wine’ filtered from the hotel. I leant casually on the verandah post, as I took
the singular cigarette from behind my ear and flicked it into my mouth, before
lighting it up and puffing it to life.
So this was Ballan’s ground control, I
thought, looking up at the pub: the place where Farmer John would meet up, and
the local young blokes would converge on a Friday night to chase a bit of skirt.
Seeing as it was Ballan, the male population no doubt outweighed the female, as
any female within their right mind would surely flee this place at the first
given opportunity. Just like Miranda had done.
My brows pinched together at the thought of
her name; it had a way of weaving its way into my skull at any given moment,
and I wasn’t entirely happy about it. I had played with fire today. The line I
had drawn in the sand had become blurry, even more so when I found myself
thinking about Miranda Henry and her perfectly … perky body.
Ah Christ!
I took a deep drag of my cigarette and
flicked it to the bitumen, twisting it into oblivion. Getting out for a bit was
just what I had needed. A chance to clear my head by clouding it into a murky
shambles of alcohol-fuelled good times. Steve was right; I did have a big day
tomorrow, but that was only the beginning of my hell. He thought that there
would be no problem trusting me with his precious darling Miranda; well, I wish
I had as much faith in myself as he did. If nothing else, she would move back
into the house once it was empty, and if she didn’t, I bloody well would.
I had planned to have a quiet word to Steve
tomorrow about getting her car up and running again. I knew it was out of line,
but he couldn’t really hold her prisoner for two weeks till he got back from
Wahroo. I would have strangled her by then. No, I just had to reason with him,
regardless of her being his little girl; he couldn’t force her to stay, and
that was obvious. As we all knew, as soon as the Mazda was up and running
again, she would be nothing but a trail of dust. I smiled at the thought as I
made my way to the Commercial door and entered through the barroom.
For a Sunday it was packed; clearly there
really wasn’t anything better to do on a Sunday night but drink to forget that
they lived in Ballan. Not that I could blame them. The dusty nothing that
surrounded the town made me almost wistful for Onslow … almost.
Still, you would never have to fight your
way to the bar on a Sunday in Onslow. Yet here I was in Ballan, sliding past
people, a few young blokes spruced up with their polished RM Williams belt
buckles, downing a few Bundys. A pretty little brunette tucked her elbows in
and smiled coyly as I slid past her. I had a height advantage over most, and
yet I couldn’t see Bluey as I pushed through and anchored myself to the bar. I
caught the eye of the burly, balding barman, motioned to the VB tap and held up
one finger, reaching for my wallet in my back pocket. He nodded with
understanding and grabbed a pot glass with his chubby fingers. I was somewhat
disappointed there wasn’t some buxom beauty swanning around behind the bar—I
could deal with a bit of a distraction—and when the barman bent over revealing
his hairy butt crack, well, that was definitely not the kind I had in mind.
“Say, you haven’t seen Bluey around, have
you?” I asked, exchanging money for my beer.
“You won’t catch him in here tonight; he
and his daughter are heading to Wahroo in the morning for the cattle auction.”
Okay, a no would have sufficed.
I masked my smirk by sipping my beer; it
was so like a small-town barman to relay a life story.
Steve must have gotten it wrong, unless
Bluey was having some kind of romantic rendezvous in town, something I’m sure
the barman would know in great detail if I had been emotionally invested in
caring.
I all but choked mid-sip
veered off back down the street.
The muffled sound of Cold Chisel’s ‘Cheap
Wine’ filtered from the hotel. I leant casually on the verandah post, as I took
the singular cigarette from behind my ear and flicked it into my mouth, before
lighting it up and puffing it to life.
So this was Ballan’s ground control, I
thought, looking up at the pub: the place where Farmer John would meet up, and
the local young blokes would converge on a Friday night to chase a bit of skirt.
Seeing as it was Ballan, the male population no doubt outweighed the female, as
any female within their right mind would surely flee this place at the first
given opportunity. Just like Miranda had done.
My brows pinched together at the thought of
her name; it had a way of weaving its way into my skull at any given moment,
and I wasn’t entirely happy about it. I had played with fire today. The line I
had drawn in the sand had become blurry, even more so when I found myself
thinking about Miranda Henry and her perfectly … perky body.
Ah Christ!
I took a deep drag of my cigarette and
flicked it to the bitumen, twisting it into oblivion. Getting out for a bit was
just what I had needed. A chance to clear my head by clouding it into a murky
shambles of alcohol-fuelled good times. Steve was right; I did have a big day
tomorrow, but that was only the beginning of my hell. He thought that there
would be no problem trusting me with his precious darling Miranda; well, I wish
I had as much faith in myself as he did. If nothing else, she would move back
into the house once it was empty, and if she didn’t, I bloody well would.
I had planned to have a quiet word to Steve
tomorrow about getting her car up and running again. I knew it was out of line,
but he couldn’t really hold her prisoner for two weeks till he got back from
Wahroo. I would have strangled her by then. No, I just had to reason with him,
regardless of her being his little girl; he couldn’t force her to stay, and
that was obvious. As we all knew, as soon as the Mazda was up and running
again, she would be nothing but a trail of dust. I smiled at the thought as I
made my way to the Commercial door and entered through the barroom.
For a Sunday it was packed; clearly there
really wasn’t anything better to do on a Sunday night but drink to forget that
they lived in Ballan. Not that I could blame them. The dusty nothing that
surrounded the town made me almost wistful for Onslow … almost.
Still, you would never have to fight your
way to the bar on a Sunday in Onslow. Yet here I was in Ballan, sliding past
people, a few young blokes spruced up with their polished RM Williams belt
buckles, downing a few Bundys. A pretty little brunette tucked her elbows in
and smiled coyly as I slid past her. I had a height advantage over most, and
yet I couldn’t see Bluey as I pushed through and anchored myself to the bar. I
caught the eye of the burly, balding barman, motioned to the VB tap and held up
one finger, reaching for my wallet in my back pocket. He nodded with
understanding and grabbed a pot glass with his chubby fingers. I was somewhat
disappointed there wasn’t some buxom beauty swanning around behind the bar—I
could deal with a bit of a distraction—and when the barman bent over revealing
his hairy butt crack, well, that was definitely not the kind I had in mind.
“Say, you haven’t seen Bluey around, have
you?” I asked, exchanging money for my beer.
“You won’t catch him in here tonight; he
and his daughter are heading to Wahroo in the morning for the cattle auction.”
Okay, a no would have sufficed.
I masked my smirk by sipping my beer; it
was so like a small-town barman to relay a life story.
Steve must have gotten it wrong, unless
Bluey was having some kind of romantic rendezvous in town, something I’m sure
the barman would know in great detail if I had been emotionally invested in
caring.
I all but choked mid-sip
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