“Haven’t all you Sins won life’s lottery?” says Claire.
“Ha!” Hal gives a barking laugh. “We’re in debt. No vast acreage. No private lake. A dam.” Hal rises to his feet abruptly and stands at attention as the mayor – Malachi O’Neill wearing full regalia materialises before him. Hal lugs Claire to her feet. She manages a smile.
And it’s all true, Claire realises. It’s he whom Hal knows least, he seeks to impress. He introduces her to Mr and Mrs Mayor; he’s portly, prosperous; she, a once handsome woman, clings to the shoulder-length hairstyle of her youth, although its thinning is well advanced.
If Hal is to exploit any aura of health or looks Claire’s proximity confers, he must intersperse dancing with spells of moronic chitchat. He can’t let the mayor leave until certain obvious things have been said. They discuss the Warrney Agricultural Show animatedly, the preponderance of Clydesdales over quarter horses, until Claire wilts with boredom. Once her relationship to the St Johns is explained, mayoral felicitations ensue. After a few more pleasantries, they’re dismissed, and the representatives of the shire sit in the very chairs that had been theirs.
“They sought me out,” says Hal, as if he’d met a rock star. Claire suspects the warmth of their reception has more to do with their need for a chair to soothe Mrs Mayor’s bunions than to civic duty.
The Mechanics Institute is heated by six electric wall radiators that glow redly, giving an illusion of warmth. Alcohol and movement do the rest. ‘The Ballarat Big Band’ plays the standards, everything from Sweet Caroline, The House of the Rising Sun, She Was Just 17, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart… Anything Bingish. Sinatra crooned. Ella sung. Oklahoma. Brubeck.
Claire’s hasn’t heard Roll out the Barrel yet. Hal likes slow tunes. When Mood Indigo plays, he holds her close enough to hear his laboured breathing in her ear.
Claire can’t see lover-boy Clive – ah, there he is dancing as chastely as can be. Suz and Alex, too, are exercising restraint. It’s cool not to appear romantically inclined. Hal, who doesn’t understand ‘cool’, hums ‘Sweet Caroline’ in Claire’s ear.
“Ah, here are Cyn’s bestest friends, GwenLen,” Hal says. “Their names chime so sweetly together, they only need the one. You’ll have to meet them, dear girl, or I’ll never hear the end of it. Recently, they moved from Warrney to fix up their weekender for retirement. Len’s a solicitor, works part-time; he and Cyn closet themselves away for hours organising finances.”
“I don’t have a head for books. ‘Now Hal, go play with your test tubes,’ Cynthia says. So I do.”
They cross the ballroom to meet the pair. “Gwenda and Leonard Law, may I introduce you to Clive’s fiancé, Claire?” says Hal.
“Congratulations, my dear, you’re as lovely as Cynthia said you were,” says Gwen.
Len adds, “And now she’s seen you up close, all Cyn’s misgivings will have proven groundless.”
“Shush, Len,” his wife says. “Like all proud mothers,” she explains, “Cynthia never thinks any woman worthy of her son but now that she knows you…”
“Now that she knows me, she’s tricked Clive into partnering Felicity,” Claire says, and then wishes she hadn’t allowed these words to escape. She’d had no intention of mortifying kind GwenLen. The sentence had tumbled out without her censor checking it.
“Sorry, Gwenda,” Claire says, “It’s fine, honestly.” But the look(s) on GwenLen(s’) stony face(s) indicate(s) that her embarrassment mitigation attempt has failed. “We’ve first sitting supper tickets, they say, see you,” they hurry off in search of something nice and bland like blanc-mange.
“Anyway,” Hal continues. “I do play with my test-tubes. I’m working on a weed-killer for paspalum that won’t affect healthy pastures. Trouble is the darned stuff must be applied in the cool before dawn and requires lighting so one doesn’t poison viable pastures in the dark.”
He’s keen to impress her with his industry. “How clever!” she says. “Couldn’t you invent a system that lets you sleep through the night?” His eyes cloud over. She regrets her honesty.
“Yes, Claire. Back to the drawing board.”
Hal guides her into the centre of the room and twirls her around the dance floor as if he were a younger man. Claire strikes something bony. It’s Fliss’ ankle. Claire loses her balance and ends up on the floor. Did she lash out with subliminal intent at she who has temporary custody of her man? “Sorry,” she says, as she’s being helped up. “I didn’t see you coming.”
“We weren’t coming. You were, honey. Too fast!” Clive picks her up off the floor. He checks Fliss and Claire for injuries. Shakes his head sadly. “Another fall, hon. I saved you again. Those heels…You promised…”
“I couldn’t come to a ball in sneakers. These are Bonnie’s.” Claire’s voice sounds shrill.
“And they were Mama’s before that,” he reminds Claire.
“Not everything of Bonnie’s was Ma’s first,” says Hal cryptically.
Clive frowns at him. “Go easy, Dada. Don’t make Claire dizzy. Coming to supper?”
“No, we’re in the next sitting.”
“See you later.”
Chapter 31
Potting Shed
There’s sex in this chapter. Not sweet, soporific marital sex but urgent sex of the illicit sort.
Only three of the characters, Clive, Fliss and Alex are present in the potting shed of the Mechanic’s Institute during the B&S ball on the 22nd June, 1986.
Claire is safely inside dancing with Hal (perhaps not altogether safely) while this charade is being played out, so for a time, she’ll remain ignorant of Clive’s true (lying, cheating) nature. She’ll continue to delude herself that she loves him, whereas had she been present in the shed to witness his antics, she’d have stormed out enraged and there wouldn’t have been a story worth the telling.
Outside, she’ll have calmed down, provided her reaction is congruent with her past behaviour.
And, knowing the truth about her fiancé, Claire will be thankful for her narrow escape from an unfortunate marriage, or at least she will be once she’s done with feeling humiliated.
She’ll have implored Hal to drive her to Wangaratta on the morrow, from where she’ll mourn her broken engagement while being spoiled silly by her mum, who’ll forgive her for omitting to mention Clive. Claire will soon get over Clive, marry a local farmer and have lots of kids.
But this isn’t what happened. Nor did the alternative possibility occur – the one in which Claire witnesses the potting shed farce, but is persuaded to give Clive one more chance.
In either of these hypothetical scenarios, there wouldn’t have been a tale to tell. Luckily, for the sake of the plot, Claire is inside the hall and ignorant of Clive’s antics. Witness accounts have given us an impartial picture of the event. The following account is Clive’s knee-trembler ‘stream of conscience’ soliloquy, written as if from inside his head.
!!!!!!!knee-trembler alert!!!!!!!
its black-dark in here dark as sin all the better to feel you fliss you with the peach ripe bum wait ill lift you onto me properly girl not that theres anything proper about this enterprise squeeze your legs around me and bugger the velvet its sposed to be crushed thats fantastic fliss youre bliss
i did love you you know pity the city wasnt for you nor was the OT course and you so close to finishing it still credentialed or not you can occupy me therapeutically any time you want you must think im off my rocker marrying claire and hardly knowing her but that’s the thrill of it i see her as a tabula rasa ready to be drawn on by me shes inexperienced grateful i noticed her sitting prettily on the shelf but shes sweet and comes from a big family shes educated but not a knowitall and yet she calls you the golden fliss its odd that she knows about jason can you get a classical education chez the nuns i guess shed be jealous if she were here but if she were here we wouldnt be engaged in such a sinful activity – had a skinful acted sinful that’s the way it goes
absolute l
ast time you get lucky chez moi fliss not that were chez anyone right now unless its the ratepayers of the shire and theres a bylaw against what were doing now all fines payable to carl no-potting-sheilas-in-the-potting-shed-without-a-licence mc cance
anyway fliss i had to give you one last seeing to one last roll in the hay to say thanks for the memories i never minded your tiny mammories so stop apologising but claires will better suit our nursing neonates though im more of a hugh jarse man & i want you to know im not out here on a freezing cold dead o winter night out of selfishness this is for you my dear friend a rose pink thankyou note though i like high risk sexual antics anyway i hope it doesn’t mean theres anything psychologically wrong with me of course theres not this is for you fliss for being a good sport there’ll be no compulsion for me to snatch a quickie now ive got claire laid on like hot water and i can just reach out and turn her faucet on and she comes gushing out
still fliss youre not a bad ol tart youll end up with a mc cance marconi now im out of the picture youre not lowering your sights too much…naughty naughty dont pinch my maracas those maccas will be rich one day they’re tres ambitious and with their organic this n that they’ll strike it rich that carlo cocky little geezer might even make mayor one day but pas de princes pour Felicite a pity or you could withdraw pull out of the ratrace altogether like ill be doing in a minute though being a spinster would be hard for you hard haha subconscious minds a wunnerful thing
i reckon youll do whats needed to get yourself a man so train your sights on one of those dumb macca bunnies then gently squeeze the trigger and bingo grab your trophy skin im alive n throw im in the crock pot and cook his goose and even though the maccas are all fisheries n wildlife inspector scum marrying them is how you neutralise the pests locals will call you lady chatterley but at least macca will keep poachers away from your tight lil ol trout stream death to miscellaneous predators…like me…or you could be my bit on the side…no im a reformed individual…a pity life with claire will be eternal sunshine – has no vices i can find and her olds tucked away in woop woop primitive bush bashers she thinks a trip to the local chop sueys heaven shes a bit of a feminist though some women don’t see the symbolism of our privates – we blokes pour our champers into their champagne flutes magnificent how were constructed urogenitally speaking tho im biased being a penis man but i can see the beauty design-wise gods a semiologist the physiology of reproduction chimes with the metaphoric side o things ill be sitting saintly with ma in the family pew tomorrow earn my inheritance Claire wont come ha ha get it she wont be getting any tonight once ive come im all done and now my cup of happiness runneth over and i can feel you smiling on the inside fliss now nicky woop hon before were missed into the lav n fix your hair…
Chapter 32
Alex and Clive Potting Shed
Alex’s twin brother Clive has been doing that which he is best at. Okay, in case you haven’t been paying attention, he’s administered a heroic medical intervention to a girlfriend: it was gamely provided in the dark, under conditions less than sterile. The operation concluded satisfactorily.
Packing his equipment away, Alex’s bro’ hears his twin’s wild howl. He’s been sprung.
Alex drops to his knees. Instinct tells him to hide, although he’s innocent. Despite the plush pile velvet black of night, Alex can see his brother’s treachery. And, angry on Claire’s behalf, he can’t help but wonder, Is Clive’s love for Claire waning?
“Okay, show’s over spy,” Clive bellows. “Better be the three wise monkeys rolled into one. Hear any evil? Then keep schtum about it, mongrel.”
Alex snuffles miserably.
“Pervert, mouth breather,” Clive calls. “Useless…”
“…prick?” Alex chimes in.
“Oh, it’s you, bro, ‘Ooonly yahooo’,” Clive warbles tuneless with relief. “Gees, Alex, ya gave me a helluva scare. Ya coulda been anyone.”
“From now on I’m anyone. Forget I’m your brother.”
“Alex,” says Clive, whining a little.
“Our brotherly smotherly pact ends now, mate,” says Alex.
“Why?” Clive asks. He can be dense at times.
“Phff!” Alex says.
“Listen, bro, I worried about you at school. Ya went quiet in form four. Were you buggered at Timbertop the year I had glandular fever?”
“Don’t pretend ya give a fuck about me,” Alex says, his voice husky with emotion.
“I never liked to ask.”
“Then, ‘no’: I wasn’t buggered. Something minor went down. Why not ask me back then?”
“We had to stick apart at school or we’d have been compared.”
“No. You were brilliant; I was kind,” says Alex.
“You could do anything, Al. Now I’d like us closer. My kids’ll need an uncle who knows stuff.”
“You want an uncle? D’you even deserve kids? Right now, I’d knacker you ’til you sing soprano, ya lousy bastard.” Alex’s voice echoes around the iron shed and booms in his head.
"I know I’m apologising late but…there’s stuff…I was stressed out at school. It’s an honour being Head Boy. But you fear not measuring up. You run like mad to keep from falling back.
"Remember I had a month off sick when you were at Timbertop – some pesky viral thing. Doubt if I’ve ever been 100% since then. Mama saw how sick I was – we bonded. She bust a gut to get me well. Started the herb garden. Made up vile organic concoctions. She and Bonnie, always spiky together, bonded too…I was their joint project. Mama saw how much Bon loved me…
“Let’s be friends, Al. This was just a thank you note. Is Suz here?”
“Na. Lucky me, to get here in time for your vertical gymnastics.”
“What’s to be ashamed of? Thank God no one else saw. I’ll drive Ma to church tomorrow, thank Him personally,” says Clive.
“Claire’s another victim of your charm.”
Clive’s toe makes contact with a plastic planter pot. He lashes out at it.
Alex runs a spanner over the iron walls. He feels the corrugations thrumming in his soul.
“Don’t imply she’s ‘just another’ in a series,” Clive says.
“Well, she is!” says Alex.
"Al, give me some credit. She’s the woman who pulled me up short. Without her love, I’d be a lonely bastard like you. I’d never have plunged into marriage, mortgages and mini monsters.
“Claire’s my cure for loneliness. Tonight was an anomaly.”
“Shut up, Clive, or I’ll put Claire in the picture.”
“You punitive wowser! It wasn’t an opportunistic fuck. I was saying thanks.”
“Try a Hallmark card. Gees! What a con job we’ve perpetrated!”
“Appreciate your loyalty, Alex, honestly.”
“I’ve spent a quarter of a century sticking my neck out for you; you save others but can’t save yourself. Always gagging to be your best friend, confidant and faithful mongrel bitch.”
“I never held a gun to your head, Alex.”
“It changes now…ten pm, June 21,” says Alex, unrelenting.
Time stretches twists like bubble gum. In the distance, the band strikes up a jaunty rendition of ‘Moon River’.
“Ma says we’re two halves of a whole; our twin-ship means I bathe in your reflected glory. I’m meant to hide your failures. Well, from now on there’ll be no more rescuing!”
“You won’t need to from now on. Now that I’m with Claire. Ha! The yin and yang twins! I’m the blond exuberant one. You’re the smouldering log fire that’s been pissed upon.”
“Pissed on by you, you with the face of an angel, soul of a devil. I’m swarthy. I could be illegitimate. When Ma developed mastitis, she squeezed out droplets for her first-born!”
“Jealous?”
“Jealous of that air-kissing smoochy crap? No way. You smile and smile and kiss and you’re a villain.” Alex kicks the plastic pot to Clive. Despite the gloom, he returns it niftily.
“Always impres
sin’ us with your Bard quotes. You and your corny Shakespeare club… you lot gave me the shits!”
“You were the handsomest; athlete, charmer, flawed hero. But if you hurt Claire with your Don Juan’s progress, I’ll…I love her.”
“Aw, c’mon bro, you always think my girls are cute, but you’re not inclined…You, your furniture restorer mates! They help you to sweet pieces off of shipping crates. Having an occasional girlfriend proves nothing.”
“Bullshit!”
“The olds might be fooled. Not me. Suz is your prop. Thanks for bringing her this weekend. It helped Claire fit in. Claire thinks the world of you. All the way down it’s, when will Alex come?”
“She likes me,” Alex says.
“No way!”
“I’m fed up with your vile seduction scenes. I love the girl you’re messing with now.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Making love’s not loving, Clive. I haven’t had the pleasure. Yet I know her thoroughly. Her gentleness, her sensitivity. I love her rare bad moods.”
“God, Alex? You fall for a girl you drive to Clifton Hill one Sunday?”
“Yes. I love Claire.”
“Pathetic! Denying your own sexuality!”
“I’d have denied it years ago. But I felt for the gays at school. Shit they got for not being roughhouse Aussie blokes. If I ran with poets, misfits, dorks, I…”
“You did it to embarrass me.”
“To avoid competing,” Alex insists.
“Thanks for nothing’, ya freaking phony!”
“That time you entered the cross-country, boy, I was pissed off,” says Alex.
“Why?”
“My sport. You muscled in. That day…I pictured your victorious sprint to the finishing line, while I plodded along. I’d started late…my shoelace…”
“Typical!”
“You started strongly, but I caught you crying, exhausted in the thistles by The Little River.”
“I’ve no recollection…”
“I wanted to comfort you, but I knew you’d hate to be found crying. I hung back. Waited behind an outcrop.”
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