Cinnamon Sweat
Page 9
Deb momentarily broke away from the hordes, although she was still pursued by the more desperate hunters of autographs and photographs. ‘Pretty obvious really.’ Deb glanced at Mitch, who pretended he wasn’t listening. ‘Clues were throughout the webcast everyone saw.’
Several among the mingling masses were keen to answer Jack’s question.
‘We knew because Madge called you “The Odd Couple”.’
‘It was obvious to me and my wife because you lived together, and had a neat garden with hanging baskets.’
‘And I realised when you both abstained while voting about the groupies.’
‘Well, it was clear to Darlene and I because neither of you is fat, ugly or bald.’
Bob chuckled. ‘And what made you think that Jack was really Oscar?’
‘Pretty obvious really.’ Deb again glanced at Mitch, who continued to pretend he was checking his iPad. ‘All on the webcast that everyone was watching for days.’
‘I know!’
‘So do I!’
‘No, let me explain!’
Others in the swelling throng were eager to explain.
‘Jack said he moved here in 1975 after quitting something.’
‘Bob wasn't living here during The Pub Strike of '74.’
‘And I heard Jack say he hated the band, but he knew who played the viola on “My Tongue in Your Cheek”.’
‘And, of course, Bob and Jack disappeared when the tour finished in Whyalla, which is only ninety-three kilometres away.’
‘Ninety-five.’ Dave wiped his hands and turned to Boyd. ‘OK. That’s done. I've now placed the gasket Gladys brought back from Upper Chittingford into the band’s van.’
‘What?!’ Sean nearly dropped his video camera.
‘Don't worry, mate. I have what you need for your campervan.’ Strolling to the vans belonging to the two sets of executives, Dave opened both hoods while continuing to sing: ‘Cos we're too fat to rock 'n’ roll. Ugly, bald and far too old. Burgers ‘n’ booze have taken their toll. We're too fat to rock 'n’ roll.’
Sean spoke to Deb when a painful wrist forced her to stop signing autographs. ‘What happened to your mother?’
‘She lived in Upper Chittingford. She ran Lynne’s Laundry.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘No.’ Deb paused, clearly pained. ‘But that’s another story.’
‘Story? What story? Wha-wha-what happened to her?’
‘Shut up, Mitch!’ Sean barked at his colleague before turning back to Deb. ‘But why did you set up that unplugged type stage in the Town Hall?’
‘Because I checked the weather forecast for the day of the gig. And because the outdoor stage was in a prohibited location anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
Deb shrugged nonchalantly. ‘The bowling green was too close to the nesting area of the Lesser Rainbow-Speckled Gully Warbler.’
Sean paused in disbelief. ‘But why didn't you say that when we applied for the permit?’
‘Because those birds only come out when it rains.’
They turned en masse towards the trendy ringtone on Mitch’s iPhone. ‘Hey, Dusty … Yeah … Oh … OK, I will.’
Hesitantly, Mitch pressed the “speakerphone” key and laid the phone on his palm. He beckoned for Deb to come closer. ‘Congrats everyone!’ Dusty was clearly thrilled. ‘The Facebook feedback has been ultra-phenomenal. We've started repeating the whole series again online from Day One and sold the rights to even more TV stations in countries I’ve never heard of. And it's all rating even better today than yesterday! Deb, you have turned stratospheric in Twittersphere …‘
Deb glanced at Mitch, who whispered. ‘That's good.’
‘… and on YouTube you've already had over twenty-five million hits …‘
Even more confused, Deb again glanced at Mitch, who explained. ‘That’s even better.’
‘… and I'm going to commission a new webcast series with–’
‘Great! I'd love to.’ Mitch almost dropped his phone.
‘Not with you.’
‘Oh.’ Mitch frowned and glanced at the band still watching Dave whack the engine with a spanner. ‘I’m not sure The Sweat is really capable of–’
‘And not with those stupid geriatrics either.’
‘Oh.’
Dusty continued with his excitable explanation. ‘I want Deb …’
‘Oh!’ She jumped with excitement.
‘… to host her own webcast …’
‘Oh?’ She paused with uncertainty.
‘… which will be streamed online …’ Deb glanced at Mitch, but he was too forlorn to explain anything. ‘… on Deb’s own web channel through RealiTV.’
Sean grinned and whispered to Deb. ‘I'll translate later.’
Mitch turned off the speakerphone and marched towards the abandoned Blacksmith’s. As he began pleading, his voice faded in the distance. ‘But, Dustin, I've sucked up to you so much and ...’
The band followed Boyd as he approached Sean and Deb. ‘It appears that clips of the band on YouTube have gone viral …’
‘Which is good,’ added Sean for the benefit of Deb and the band.
‘… and your songs, especially "Too Fat to Rock 'n’ Roll", have been downloaded by the millions …‘
‘Which is also good.’ Sean nodded.
‘… through file-sharing networks.’
‘Which is bad.’ Sean stopped nodding. ‘You're very famous, but not very rich.’
Boyd sighed. ‘So, the only way to make any money as a band these days is to tour. Therefore, you need to get back on the road.’
Nigel turned to Jack. ‘Will you join us?’
‘Will you make any poofter jokes?’
Cockles slapped the guitarist on the back. ‘I can't guarantee that Jack, but we won't mean it.’
Boyd turned to Bob. ‘Do you want to manage the band again …’ He glanced to his right. ‘… and deal with those blood-sucking parasites?’
The ambitious young film directors and eager record executives with Armani suits all waving contracts rushed towards the mechanics yard. Dave had noticed them before anyone else and swiftly closed both hoods of the men’s vehicles. ‘The band’s van is ready to go.’
‘Great. Everyone, jump in!’ hollered Bob. The four band members squeezed into the back of the van as rapidly as anyone could with collective arthritis, sciatica, irritable bowel syndrome and, now, gout. But none of them noticed that attached to the back of the van was a trailer containing Cyril's casket.
As the van with its trailer sped down Main Street and turned left at Railway Terrace, Sean filmed them for the last time as they passed the six groupies yelling at them to come back. He then recorded Gladys as she waved sadly. He zoomed into Madge on the pub veranda relishing a cappuccino. And he finally panned across to The Big Turnip being pieced back together by the visiting crowd.
The quartet of directors and executives jumped into their separate vans, but neither would start.
Still singing "Too Fat to Rock 'n’ Roll", Dave sluggishly approached the vans, shook his head, and wiped his hands. ‘Sounds like the gaskets. Could take five days.’
‘What?!’
‘… Or eight if I’m too busy.’
THE END
All words (and music) of the songs in this book
are copyrighted by Paul Greenway