The collective responses among the nine visitors were immediate.
‘Sounds nice.’
‘I need a nap.’
‘Me too.’
‘I thought we were going to have some nookie.’
‘Too tired.’
‘Me too.’
‘Have they got coffee?’
‘What about Wi-Fi?’
The nine of them sluggishly followed Gladys out of the pub via the correct door. Deb noticed one of the groupies sauntering too close to Trevor, so she grabbed Arnold's walking stick.
‘Oh, no ... I, um ... need, um ...’
As Sean helped Arnold up from the floor, Deb angrily pursued the band and groupies out of the pub while poking one of the women with Arnold’s cane.
Mitch whispered to Sean. ‘We need a crowd for the concert DVD. Other than three road crew and three support band.’
‘At last count the town has fifteen residents.’
‘Make that fourteen.’ At the bar counter, Jack lifted Cyril’s limp wrist and felt for a pulse.
‘Deb and I won't be in the audience,’ said Madge. ‘We'll be catering.’
‘And Bob and I are on band security.’ Jack placed two of his fingers below Cyril’s chin. ‘And the others will be selling tickets, handling T-shirt sales, and so on.’
‘And I'm on crowd control,’ said Arnold, clinging unsteadily to the bar counter.
‘So, that'll leave about how many in the crowd for the gig?’ Mitch peered around the room expectantly.
Jack gave up on Cyril’s pulse and considered. ‘Um, about none. But out there …’ He pointed randomly through the window at the vast plains. ‘… there are 60 odd people.’
‘Are they odd?’ Sean’s gaze followed Jack’s arm.
‘No more than us.’ Jack placed a tea towel over the head of Cyril, who was now officially Lifeless. ‘Who’s going to be Commissioner of Child Care and Termite Control now?’
Madge shouted to Jack from the kitchen. ‘See if there's anything in Cyril’s pockets for his toastie tab, will you?’
‘Perhaps we should invite people to the concert from Upper Chitting ...’ Sean froze as Madge, Jack and Dave growled.
* * * * *
Sean and Mitch strolled past “Gail’s Grocery”, “Brenda’s Bakery” and “Deb's Discs” – each with a “Closed” sign on their doors – and were surprised to see a fourth shop in the row. Sean filmed the lettering across the window, “Department of Rural Development”, and was highly amused to see extra words added after in different fonts and colours: “... Regional Infrastructure … Environmental Protection & Sustainability … State Construction Network … Provincial Economic Stimulus Projects”. Other signs on the window indicated that the Council Office also served as a library and sales outlet for a tractor firm, and provided “relationship advice”, but was only open from 9am to 10am and 5pm to 6pm on Thursday and Sunday.
Sean and Mitch primed their camera and microphone, and entered. Typically functional but unimaginatively decorated, the Council Office was empty except for Deb, whose face was still grazed. She was hastily decorating the walls and windows with more Cinnamon Sweat posters, as well as balloons, streamers and ribbons removed from the intersection.
Also noticing the sign, “Barrington-Smythe Memorial Museum & Tourist Office”, Sean couldn’t help himself. ‘Excuse me, Miss. Where is The Big Turnip?’
‘Ssshhh! Can't you see this is a workplace?’
‘No.’ Sean peered around. ‘Dave said you might be here. You know, he doesn't like me.’
‘Dave doesn't like anyone who fancies me.’
‘What? But I don’t …‘
Mitch grinned at Sean but spoke to Deb. ‘I'd like to talk with you.’
‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Do I need one?’
Unable to conceal her indignation, Deb checked a diary. ‘I suppose we can meet now.’
‘I need to apply for–‘
‘You'll have to talk to the Mayor …’ Deb snatched a form from a desk and handed it to Mitch. ‘... and fill out Form HG55P9.’
‘But who ..?’ Mitch stopped as Deb leant under the desk, took out a top hat, and put it on. ‘You see, um, Lady Mayor, we need to construct a stage.’
‘You must discuss that with the City Engineer ...’ Deb grabbed another sheet of paper from another desk and passed it to Mitch. ‘... and complete Form GWB5151F.’
‘Are you ..?’
‘No, that would be an obvious conflict of interests. But, as it happens, I am acting in that position because of Gladys’ arthritis.’ Deb bent down under a third desk and lifted up a hard hat, which she proudly placed on her head.
Although utterly confused, Mitch knew he had to continue. ‘As you know, we, er, want to put on an outdoor concert.’
‘Then, you'll need to contact the Environmental Protection Officer and get a special permit.’
‘Are you ..?’
‘By coincidence, I am temporarily in charge since Cyril …’ Deb grimaced. ‘But I don't have the hat.’
‘Why do we need this special permit?’ Already clutching three forms, Mitch was unwilling to complete another.
‘So that you don't intrude on sacred areas with secret Aboriginal paintings.’
‘Where are these areas?’
‘We don't know.’ Deb shrugged. ‘They won't tell us. It's a secret.’
For the sake of the camera, Mitch tried to control his exasperation. ‘So, where can the band play?’
Deb ambled to a distant poster-less wall and inspected a town map. ‘Well, let’s see … Avoiding that sacred area I just mentioned and the residue from The Toxic Overflow of '05.’ She peered more intently. ‘And allowing enough space for traffic during the event. And, naturally, we can't be anywhere near The Big Turnip, which is heritage-listed, of course ... So, that leaves just one place.’ Deb pointed to her left. ‘Just out there.’
Sean peered through the window. ‘The bowling green?’
‘Yep.’
‘But won’t we wreck it?’
‘Probably.’ Deb shrugged. ‘But it hasn’t been used since Gladys started dialysis and Arnold had a stroke. And it’s ideal. Flat surface, overhead lights, some shelter and a few seats. But it'll take a few days to process the paperwork through the Sporting & Recreation Division.’
‘Why?’
‘Sean, I am busy!’
‘OK. OK.’ Mitch pocketed the forms. ‘We'll change the gig to Wednesday–‘
‘But that's three more days!’ shrieked Deb.
‘–and change the venue to the bowling green.’
Sean closed the monitor on his video camera. ‘I suppose it shouldn't be that hard to advise the change of date and location to the five people likely to attend.’
Mitch unplugged the microphone. ‘And it does give us an extra few days to–‘
‘–hold Cyril's funeral?’ Deb nodded solemnly.
‘–find a guitarist.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday
Dave leant back contentedly against the hood of the band's blood- and fur-splattered van and leered at the three young groupies, also known as the “road crew”. After apparently impressing the girls with his explanations about the virtues of gaskets, he noticed Boyd storming towards him, so he ducked his head under the hood and started thumping the engine with a spanner. Sean was again filming from a distance without anyone knowing.
Boyd tried to look menacing. ‘Get the van fixed quickly, will you, so we can get the hell out of here after the gig.’
‘Don't panic, mate. You ain’t going anywhere soon. Your gasket's blown.’ Dave twirled his spanner and winked at the young groupies.
‘What?’
‘But you are in luck. Gladys brought a gasket over for Sean’s van from Upper C. I'm sure she'd sell it to you for a little extra ...’ Dave wiped his hands.
‘… a li
ttle extra what?’
‘Let’s just say, I think she fancies Cockles.’
Boyd shuddered as the three band members approached. They were followed by Deb, who started poking the young groupies with Arnold's walking stick for no particular reason, and Gladys, shuffling as fast as her Zimmer frame would allow.
Trevor flailed his arms. ‘Have you heard that the gig's been postponed to Wednesday?’
‘Stuff that!’ Nigel stubbed out his cigarette with his boot. ‘I am not sticking around that long. I'm leaving town. And I'm leaving this bloody band!’
‘Me too!’ Cockles tried to catch up with Nigel as he stormed down Railway Terrace.
‘You can't quit!’ Boyd waved a document above his shoulder. ‘You all signed a contract for a reunion DVD and CD, and both have to be recorded here, in this dump. But if you leave and break up the band, the contract also states that you would also have to record a farewell DVD and CD–’
‘Shit!’ Nigel and Cockles stopped and swore simultaneously.
‘–which would have to be recorded here too.’ Boyd pointed to Cockles, who had slumped to the ground. ‘And, by the way, you’ll have to donate your body ...’ Boyd glanced at Gladys, who was beaming at the bassist. ‘... to get a gasket for our van.’
* * * * *
Inside her shop, Deb was squatting on the floor, which was strewn with every imaginable record, single, tour program, T-shirt and other paraphernalia connected to Cinnamon Sweat that she and her mother had ever collected. Deb opened a large scrapbook in which numerous newspaper clippings from the 1970s about the band were glued or stapled. Flicking through the scrapbook with a wry smile, she noticed an article from 1975 with a photo of the four original band members and a young woman, who was identified in the caption as Lynne Sanderson. After gently running her fingers across the photo several times, Deb opened another box of memorabilia that she’d only found that morning under a pile of unplayed John Travolta records. Among the ticket stubs, bootleg cassette recordings and other souvenirs of The Sweat, Deb was astonished to find four diaries.
* * * * *
The front bar of The Lamb & Slaughter was bursting. Three of the four tables were occupied by Dave, Arnold, the band members and an assortment of groupies, all blankly staring at the fuzzy black-and-white TV, while the rest of the town’s population was crammed into the pokies room.
On the other table, Sean and Mitch were leaning over a laptop connected by cables to the video camera and microphone. ‘This is the highlights package I've edited and sent back to the guys at RealiTV,’ said Mitch.
Sean glanced at the band but whispered to his colleague. ‘But are you sure you want to ignore that stuff about Oscar being killed?’
‘That's old shit. I need to focus on the new shit.’
Deb strolled into the bar, forlornly clutching the scrapbook. She stood at Sean and Mitch’s table for a moment before gently placing it in front of Sean. ‘This may help with your thingy, the cast of webs. It was put together by my mother.’ Deb opened the scrapbook and proudly pointed to a photo. ‘That's her.’
‘Thanks.’ Sean offered a genuinely sympathetic smile.
As Deb walked behind the bar counter, Mitch flicked through several pages with articles about the band. The name “Lynne Sanderson” was underlined in several paragraphs and in captions underneath numerous photos. ‘Look. Deb's mother is in all these articles from papers from Port Augusta, Renmark, Whyalla ... And it says Lynne was Personal Assistant to the band during the tour of South Australia in 1975.’
‘And Deb said her mother was really close to the band.’ Sean whispered though he knew he couldn’t be heard by anyone over the screeching from the TV or the ching noises emanating from the pokies room. ‘Lynne must've been a groupie back then.’
‘Jeez, I hope so.’ Mitch grinned.
‘Deb doesn't know her father, so maybe one of the guys in the band is her father?’
‘Jeez, I hope so.’
‘Maybe, it's Cockles or Nigel.’ Sean gasped. ‘God, maybe her father is Trevor, who Deb has a crush on!’
‘Jeez, I hope so.’ Mitch raised his head upwards and silently prayed.
‘But that is so sick.’
‘It is, but in a good way – in the way that brings in viewers, ads and bonuses for the producers, which is you and me.’
‘Oh God, what have I started?’ Sean buried his head in his hands.
‘Listen. My boss, Dustin, says that what we've filmed, and what's been posted online, so far is pretty lame. Only about five million people are watching worldwide. He told me quite bluntly, Sean, that we need more viewers. And he's right. Our footage has no sex, no violence, no drugs or even rock ‘n’ roll. And no-one wants to know anything more about those bloody geriatrics.’ He nodded sideways to the band squinting at the TV. ‘But now we have something really, really–‘
‘–cringe-worthy.’
‘Exactly.’ Mitch extracted his phone. ‘Dustin will love this angle. Which old fart muso is Deb's father? Could it be the guitarist who was killed or even murdered in 1975? Or is it Trevor?’ Mitch was so excited his hands trembled. ‘Maybe, Deb is in love with her own father!’
‘Holy shit.’ Sean again buried his head in his hands.
‘Oh man, you could not make this stuff up … Oh hi, Dustin …’
* * * * *
Among the abandoned shops and deserted houses along Railway Terrace was one home that was clearly occupied – and by someone who cared. The quaint garden featured well-pruned rose trellises and was surrounded by a head-high fence offering some sort of privacy from townsfolk who know everything about everybody. The dogs sleeping in the driveway were still alive and no rusted mechanical skeletons dotted the freshly-cut lawn.
Nestled into her grandmother’s rocking chair along the back veranda, Deb untied the box she’d found that morning. Glancing through the gate to check that no-one was watching and, more importantly, that Sean wasn’t filming, she slowly lifted out one of the four diaries. On the cover were the names “Lynne Sanderson” and “Oscar”, as well as a photo of them together from the 1970s.
Deb flicked through several pages with one hand while ruffling the ears of her border collie with the other. Searching for answers, yet apprehensive that she might find them, she skimmed passages of the diary while glancing at photos that were haphazardly glued alongside the text.
One photo showed Oscar backstage practising his guitar. Deb read the words underneath. “Oscar was an awesome guitarist – so gifted and devoted to his music.” Deb turned the page to see a photo of Oscar sitting alone in a hotel room drinking tea. She continued reading from the diary. “But Oscar was different, not like the others. He didn't have long hair, and didn't see the need to follow fashion with flares and flowery shirts ...” Deb noticed another picture of Oscar lying on a bunk bed alone, reading a serious book in a tour bus full of groupies, grog and joints. “… The others in the band and music press used to laugh at his choice of lifestyle ...”
In another series of snapshots, Oscar walks past a gaggle of groupies waiting at a stage door, but clearly declining their advances. “... Oscar didn't have girlfriends or like groupies. He didn't even want to have sex with me, but I understood ...” Deb gently moved her fingers over a photo of Oscar and Lynne holding hands while listening to, and meditating with, some sort of spiritual guru from India. “... Oscar didn't take drugs either. He didn't even drink. It was against everything he believed in and we were taught ...”
Another faded print showed Oscar and Robert chatting and drinking tea. “... Instead, Oscar spent most of his spare time with the band's manager, Robert ...” In another photo, Oscar and Lynne were sitting on a bed holding hands and talking earnestly, but like brother and sister. “... I really loved Oscar and he really loved me, but not in any physical way. We had a deep emotional and spiritual attachment. I would’ve done anything for Oscar – anything. I'm so very, very sad that he's gone. But I know, and understood what happened.”
Deb turned to a page where the only newspaper article in the diary had been glued. The headline read: “Cinnamon Sweat Guitarist Suicide at 27. Body Still Not Found.” Deb involuntarily gasped as she read the words printed by her mother under the article: “But it wasn't suicide. My beloved Oscar was killed by someone in the band.”
* * * * *
Bob and Jack were fiddling about in the kitchen of the Town Hall, the only part of that building not used by the band taking naps and by groupies applying make-up. Dressed in a black suit and top hat, Jack peered into a casket, adjusted the corpse’s hair, and slammed the lid. ‘At least Cyril died doing what he really loved.’
Bob nodded solemnly. ‘He will be missed.’
‘By who?’
‘No-one.’ Bob wished he hadn’t shrugged: his arm was still in a sling from umpiring the football on Saturday. ‘It's just a saying.’
‘Cyril will miss this stupid concert. Instead, he will be up there with John, the only Beatle who really mattered.’ Jack raised his head upwards.
Bob softly closed the kitchen door and whispered. ‘Do you think they know?’
‘Nah, they're all too stupid.’
‘Deb might find out.’
‘Not bothered if she does.’
‘Could be awkward, Jack.’
‘I don't care! Now get me the embalming fluid from the fridge, will you?’
* * * * *
After making another cup of tea, Deb settled back into her rocking chair and reached into the box for another diary. On the cover were the words “Lynne Sanderson” and “Cockles” above a photo of them together from the 1970s.
Again, Deb skimmed through the pages while fondly examining each photo. One of these showed Lynne and Cockles arguing passionately. Deb’s mother provided an explanation in the diary. “Cockles was rough, a bad boy, but I adored him, perhaps because he treated me so bad ...” Cockles is seen looking flustered at a table surrounded by accounting books and receipts. “... He didn't look smart, but he knew about money. He knew the band was getting ripped off ...”
Another picture showed Nigel and Trevor chatting with groupies and smoking dope, while Oscar was practising guitar. “... The rest of the band didn't care as long as they had enough money for joints, girls and guitars. As the long, long tour of '75 wore on, Cockles became more and more angry and suspicious about money missing from the sales of tickets and T-shirts ...”
Cinnamon Sweat Page 5