Fat, Fifty & F<li><li><li>ed!

by Geoffrey McGeachin

‘Your job?’

  She nodded and repeated the starting sequence. This time the motorcycle stuttered noisily to life. The engine roared as she worked the throttle, then settled into a slow rhythmic throb.

  ‘What kind of job?’ Martin shouted over the noise.

  ‘I’m a librarian,’ she yelled, flipping down the helmet visor. She twisted the throttle again and they took off in a shower of stones and dust, Martin clutching frantically at his helmet with one hand and the sidecar with the other.

  eight

  Just before dusk they had hidden the motorcycle in some thick scrub off the road outside a small town. It was only a short walk to the caravan park they had seen advertised on a highway billboard. Faith crossed an empty car park to the manager’s office to rent an overnight cabin, while Martin hid in the shadows. It was off season, so there was no-one around to see Martin sneak into the cabin five minutes after her.

  ‘Have any problems?’ he asked.

  ‘Dead as a doornail this time of year,’ she said, closing the door behind him, ‘so the manager was grateful for any business. Told him my car broke down just outside town. Since I paid cash, he upgraded me to this luxurious pied-à-terre.’

  Martin inspected the very basic fittings in the cabin. There was a combination living/dining room, a galley kitchen, and a separate bedroom with a double bed and an en suite bathroom. The cabin had obviously seen a lot of summers, and the wear and tear was showing.

  ‘Crikey, what must the low-end accommodation be like?’ he wondered.

  ‘Think mildewed canvas, ex-army folding cots and chipped enamel mugs and you’ll get the picture,’ Faith said. ‘Manager looked like the kind of bloke who might come sniffing around a single woman later, so I asked if there was a local pharmacy where I could get some lotion for crabs.’

  She smiled brightly at Martin, who was stunned.

  ‘Just a joke, Mr Carter, but it caused a definite loss of interest on his part. He is, however, letting me have one of their rental bikes. Probably apply a blowtorch and Dettol to the seat after I return it. So, you hungry at all?’

  ‘I’m suddenly starving,’ Martin said.

  ‘Me too. We both left our lunches up on the mountain, if you remember. How about you keep a low profile and I’ll cycle into town for some supplies?’

  ‘Will you be all right on your own?’ Martin asked.

  ‘I reckon I might be. I’m a big girl, Martin.’ Faith rummaged through her wallet. ‘Bugger,’ she said.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘I spent the last of my cash on the cabin.’

  ‘No problem,’ he smiled, and handed her a wad of money from his back pocket.

  ‘Why, Mr Carter,’ she said, ‘ten thousand dollars! Whatever can you be expecting?’

  She was a funny bugger, this one, thought Martin. He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I know all about country towns at seven-fifteen on a weeknight,’ he said, ‘so I’m not expecting a whole lot. A takeaway chicken shop, maybe.’ He collapsed onto the shabby couch with a groan. ‘I’m not usually much of a drinker but I could do with a serious belt right about now.’

  Faith collected the bicycle from the park manager and pedalled into town. Martin was watching from the darkened cabin when she returned forty-five minutes later. The carrier basket was overflowing and several bulging plastic bags were hanging from the handlebars.

  She unloaded barbecued chicken, coleslaw, bread and wine onto the bench in the kitchen. ‘It’s a two-chicken-shop town,’ she said. ‘Very high-tone. Not Too Fowl was closed, which I considered something of a blessing, but Chooks ‘R’ Us was still roasting.’

  Faith put the foil bag containing the chicken into the oven, set it to low, and started pulling items from a plastic bag. ‘Struck it lucky with a convenience store next door to the chicken man,’ she said, reading the instructions on the back of a silver box with a picture of a glamorous blonde on the front. ‘Go and wet your hair, Martin.’ She held up a pair of scissors and a comb. ‘The first thing we have to do is give you a different look.’

  He retreated obediently to the bathroom, and when he returned she wrapped a towel round his shoulders and neatly trimmed his hair. Not a bad cut, Martin decided when she’d finished. Next she put on a pair of rubber gloves and shampooed an ammonia-smelling liquid through his still damp hair. She carefully applied some of the solution to his eyebrows with a cotton bud.

  Setting the timer on the stove, Faith filled the sink with hot water and detergent and started scrubbing dishes and cutlery from the cupboards. Martin watched with the towel still around his shoulders.

  ‘Food’s probably okay,’ she explained, ‘but I’ll bet these plates and forks could give you an interesting case of Delhi belly.’

  The timer went off just as she finished the last of the dishes. ‘Time for you to hit the shower, Martin. Way past time, in fact. You really stink.’ She tossed him a garbage bag and shampoo. ‘Put all your old clobber in this,’ she said, ‘and you’ll need to wash your hair at least a couple of times.’

  After locking the bathroom door, Martin stripped and stuffed all his clothes into the garbage bag. Just tying the yellow tape around the neck of the bag made him feel cleaner.

  He looked in the mirror. Jesus, was that the same face he’d looked at twelve hours earlier? They say a day is a long time in politics – they should try armed robbery. His cheeks were red with windburn, which gave him a healthy glow, and he liked his new shorter haircut. It suited his face. His eyes looked really blue. Had they always been blue? He couldn’t remember.

  He turned and looked at his profile. Very solid, yes, but at least he didn’t have a real beer gut and he had the height to carry it. C’mon, who was he kidding? Those extra kilos might have been spread evenly over his body but they were still there. Even Faith had noticed.

  Faith. He couldn’t figure her out. He looked at his reflection. C’mon, when had he ever been able to figure a woman out?

  The towels in the bathroom were thin and threadbare but the water in the shower was surprisingly hot. Martin shampooed his hair first and then began to methodically scrub every square inch of his body. The first couple of times was to get rid of all traces of the bikie and his putrid clothing. The third time around even Martin couldn’t be sure what he was trying to rub off.

  When he came out of the bathroom, he found new socks, underwear, and a yellow and green tracksuit spread out on the bed. A pair of Dunlop Volleys were still in their box.

  Back in the living room, Faith was setting out dinner on a coffee table in front of the TV. She looked up and smiled as he walked in wearing his new outfit. ‘Here, try these.’ She handed him a pair of heavy, black-rimmed glasses with lightly tinted lenses. ‘You look like the man of my dreams,’ she teased when he put them on.

  Embarrassed, Martin adjusted the frames on his nose. ‘You must have extremely limited expectations,’ he said.

  Faith laughed – that throaty laugh again. Martin decided he really loved the way she laughed. He found himself laughing with her.

  ‘Those sandshoes fit?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re fine,’ he said, but his mind was miles away from the Dunlop Volleys.

  ‘And the hipster briefs are okay? You didn’t strike me as a boxers sort of guy.’

  ‘No, they’re good,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘Size okay? Not strangling the scrotum, are we?’

  Martin blushed.

  ‘Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. Just wanted to make sure your boys were comfortable.’

  ‘No, they’re good … the hipsters, I mean. Not my … no, no, they’re fine. Thanks,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Good. I also got you some sunglasses and a scarf for the road.’ She reached for another bag. ‘Squinting and picking grasshoppers out of your teeth tends to take the joy out of sidecar touring.’

  ‘So I noticed,’ he said, relieved that the conversation had taken another direction.

  ‘We should eat.’ She passed him
a chilled bottle of chardonnay and a corkscrew. ‘Wine going to be okay? I wasn’t sure how serious a belt you were looking for, but we probably shouldn’t get totally blotto, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Wine is fine,’ he said. ‘But given the circumstances, Faith, getting blind screaming legless on just about anything seems like a bloody great idea to me.’

  They ate in silence, sitting on the floor in front of the TV so that no shadows showed on the drawn blinds. The infrequent news breaks made no mention of a major bank robbery that day, which Martin thought was odd. But apart from that, he was starting to feel a little less confused. Strangely, barbecued chicken and industrial coleslaw had restored a sense of normality to his day.

  After the meal, they turned the sound down on the TV and Faith opened a second bottle of wine. Martin hadn’t realised they’d already finished a bottle – the alcohol seemed to be having no effect on him.

  ‘So, Mr Carter, what’s your story?’ she asked, stretching out her long legs.

  Martin sketched a picture of his bleak five years of family life in Burrinjuruk, and the events leading up to the present. He was surprised at how easily it all came out in front of a complete stranger. Faith listened quietly, nodding from time to time and maintaining eye contact with him. He liked that. He tried to remember the last time someone, apart from Colin, had appeared to be genuinely interested in what he had to say.

  ‘Now your turn,’ he said when he’d finished his condensed life story. ‘What exactly were you doing on a lonely mountain top with a crazed bikie?’

  ‘Not a long story either,’ she said. ‘After my marriage fell apart, I chucked in my job, bought a second-hand motorcycle and decided to cruise. The bike broke down between towns and Prince Charming offered me a lift. It was stupid but I hopped right in. I guess I was paying more attention to the bike than the rider.’

  Martin looked at her blankly.

  ‘World War II vintage Indian. Military Chief and very cherry.’

  Martin still looked blank.

  ‘Before there was Harley-Davidson, there was the Indian Motorcycle Company,’ she explained. ‘Seriously cool bikes, and he was riding one. Military issue 344 Chief, with the 74 cubic-inch engine. Would have been lend-lease from the Yanks to us in ’44. Pretty rare, especially in original condition, which this one was, apart from the crappy paint job. Streaky spraycan black all over the khaki. Plus that awful girlie picture. Bloody sacrilege.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘Anyway, it was hot, I was tired from walking my bike, not thinking straight, so I hitched a ride and I guess I fell asleep.’

  ‘Next to that engine?’ Martin was amazed.

  ‘You’re really not into bikes, are you?’ she smiled. ‘Anyway, when I woke up we were on the mountain and things started getting ugly. Then you showed up. My lucky day.’

  There was a sudden thump on the roof of the cabin. Martin jumped to his feet, spilling his wine. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, his face white, ‘do you think it’s the police?’

  They listened for a minute, but all Martin could hear was his heart thumping in his chest.

  Faith shook her head. ‘Don’t panic, Martin,’ she said softly, ‘there’s no way anyone would know you were here. Especially not the cops. Not this soon anyway.’

  Martin’s heart rate began to return to normal. There was a scuffling noise from the roof. They listened, looking up at the ceiling.

  ‘So what do you think, Mr Carter? Possum or pervy park manager?’

  ‘Possum, I reckon. There’d be more snuffling and grunting if it was the manager.’

  Faith chuckled and refilled their wineglasses.

  That was the second time she’d laughed at something he’d said, Martin thought, like it really was funny. ‘And what happened to your marriage,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind me asking?’ He was surprised that he’d asked. Maybe the wine was kicking in after all.

  ‘Normal stuff, I guess,’ she said. ‘He ran off with my best friend.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Why did he do that?’ As soon as he said it, he realised it was a stupid question.

  Faith sipped her wine. ‘I think it was her tits.’

  ‘She have really big ones?’ he asked, staring into his glass.

  ‘Not particularly. But she did have two.’

  Martin looked at her, and saw something in her eyes that silenced him for a long time.

  ‘Did you have chemo or radiation afterwards?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Bit of both. Lucky me, eh? Vomiting plus glowing in the dark.’ She gave him an inquisitive look. ‘You’re unusually well informed for a country bank manager. And thanks for the “really big ones” comment,’ she added. ‘Me and my prosthetic are really quite flattered.’

  Martin blushed scarlet. ‘Sorry, I don’t normally say things like that.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ she smiled. ‘I meant it. Nicest compliment I’ve had in a really long time.’ She raised her glass and clinked it against his.

  Martin finished his wine in one large gulp.

  ‘Now tell me,’ she asked, ‘your working knowledge of post-operative oncology comes from?’

  ‘I was married for fifteen years before the whole Burrinjuruk disaster.’

  ‘Interesting. Teenage romance? With the requisite late-’60s unwanted pregnancy?’

  He nodded. ‘She lost it, but we were married by that stage. Never managed to get pregnant again. Not having a whole lot of sex might have contributed to that. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘one day I heard her crying in the shower. She thought if she ignored the lump it wouldn’t be cancer and it would just go away. By the time she realised it wasn’t going to disappear, it was all pretty hopeless.’

  ‘Sounds like you hung around, though,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to kind-hearted bank-robbing bikie-slayers.’

  Martin raised his own glass.

  ‘Sorry, that makes you sound like a low-rent drive-in movie,’ Faith said. ‘Must be getting pissed.’

  Martin spluttered and wine spilled down the front of his tracksuit. He laughed as he mopped it up with a handful of paper napkins. ‘They do pretty good reconstructions these days, you know,’ he said, recovering. ‘I can give you the money.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer. That’s really kind of you.’ There was a catch in her voice. She cleared her throat. ‘I just figured I wouldn’t have it done until I didn’t need to. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, it does,’ he said.

  He decided to change the subject. ‘So where were you headed before you ran into Mr Smooth on the Harley? Sorry, Indian.’

  ‘Just north. My mum and dad bought a campervan and took off on the grey highway after he retired. I thought I’d follow their lead.’

  ‘Where’s the Grey Highway?’ Martin asked.

  ‘You know, Highway One. The coast road that runs all the way around the country.’

  ‘I know Highway One, I just never heard it called the Grey Highway.’

  ‘It’s grey because it’s chock-a-block with geriatric retirees in campers and caravans cruising their golden years away. Mum and Dad were just two more on the merry-go-round.’

  ‘You trying to catch up with them?’

  ‘No. Mum had a stroke near a north-coast town called Woodville on their second time around. They put her into a local nursing home. She died there last year.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Martin said. ‘That must have been tough.’

  ‘We were never really close,’ she shrugged. ‘I was in a pretty down situation at the time, so I passed on the funeral. Couldn’t face it. Missing my old dad a bit now, though, so I thought I’d chase him up.’ Faith stood up and crossed to the fridge.

  ‘Where is he now?’ Martin asked.

  ‘He stayed on in a retirement hostel attached to the nursing home. Poor bugger. Mum made his life a misery, and now she’s gone and he’s wasting away with a bunch of boring old fogies.’

  Faith opened the freezer and pulled out a couple of chocolate icecream hearts. ‘Des
sert?’ Martin nodded and she tossed him one. ‘Dad’s the one who got me interested in motorcycles,’ she said, crunching into the chocolate coating. ‘He was a marine engineer on coastal freighters, and apparently a bit of a larrikin to boot. Used to hoon around on a 500cc Norton Dominator until he met Mum. No more two-wheels after that, though. Got me to love bikes to make up for it, I guess. Taught me all about them. I started saving on the sly for a Ducati when I was nine. Bought my first when I turned eighteen. That’s an Italian bike,’ she explained.

  ‘Yeah, I figured that,’ he said, biting off a chunk of icecream.

  ‘Same make as the one that broke down and got me into all this trouble. Very Italian, very temperamental.’

  ‘Why didn’t you buy an Indian this time?’ Martin asked.

  ‘They’re fantastic bikes but bloody expensive. Indian went out of business in the early ’50s, so everything you see on the road these days has been restored. Nobody ever built a more beautiful-looking motorcycle, though. Maybe one day,’ she sighed.

  ‘So it was your old dad who made you a bikie?’

  Faith nodded. ‘But he wouldn’t want to catch you calling me that. I’m a biker, and there’s a definite difference.’

  ‘He sounds like an okay bloke, your old man.’

  ‘More than okay. One of a kind, old Wal. I missed him a lot growing up, when he was away at sea. Like I said, Mum and I were never really close.’ She licked her icecream stick clean. ‘Maybe you could pop in and meet him when we get to Woodville? If you’ve got a few minutes to spare.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’re heading north for that high-school reunion thing anyway. You’ll be a lot less obvious travelling with me, and I sure as hell don’t have anything better to do.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan, I guess,’ he agreed, surprised at how good this development made him feel.

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Faith gathered up the debris of their dinner. ‘Since I paid in advance, we can sneak out early. Got us some black spraypaint to give that fuel tank a bit of a makeover before we hit the road. Me straddling those pneumatic babes is probably not the look we should be going for.’