Ewan Webber, the Warrigals’ coach, agreed to come north two days before the event to help Jeremy prepare the women’s rugby and men’s soccer teams for the big day. During the training sessions on the Saturday the sportsground rang with laughter, and all the players went home that night anticipating a day that would prove to be memorable.
Chapter 24
Dawn on the day of the Keira Mesiti Novelty Bash was chilly and clear. Olive had been lying awake for some time, wondering how on earth Jeremy O’Donnell had wound up in the position of chief organiser of a charity fundraising event. There was no other way of looking at it, she’d been wrong about Jeremy.
She got up and put some bacon in the grill; it was his favourite breakfast. Then she brewed some extra-strong tea. But when Jeremy came to the table, she noticed with concern that he didn’t take any of the bacon, not a single rasher. Was it possible that King Jed was suffering from an attack of nerves? Olive watched him struggling to finish his single piece of buttered toast, and sympathetically topped up his mug.
Jeremy surveyed the scene before him as he walked over from the car park, still feeling a little queasy. It was only eight o’clock but a small crowd had already gathered at the showground. The jumping castle had been inflated and was crouched beside the canteen, whirring and ready for an invasion of small barefoot people. Over in the large mound of white creek sand that had been dumped there for the day, several children were already excavating with a variety of digging implements and toy machines.
The rust-coloured weaner steer from Redstone and the grey Lonergan heifer were standing dejectedly in one of the old gidgee yards to the side of the grounds. They were shifting warily, looking back at the people who were sizing them up.
By nine o’clock the crowd had swelled. Some were seated on the small grandstand while others were setting up camp on the grassy slope beside the oval. But most were milling around chatting or laughing and catching up on the local gossip. A convoy of caravans and motor homes driven by grey nomads had arrived in town on the Thursday, and had halted their journey westwards especially for the event.
Fred Campbell, the town lawyer, was commentator for the day. Preceded by some electrical crackling, his voice rang out over the ground, welcoming the throng. Jeremy was pleased to see that everyone was in high spirits. This was no ordinary day out. The community was feeling unified and purposeful, here to help a sick kid and have a damn good time to boot.
The first event of the day was the women’s rugby match. As Jeremy had hoped, it turned out to be a true crowd pleaser. The menfolk of the town saw a new side to the women they thought they knew so well. It was a short match with only ten-minute quarters, but it turned out to be more than long enough for tempers to flare and suspense to build. Jeremy noticed that quite a bit of money was changing hands, in addition to that which was rapidly filling the circulating donation tins. People laid private bets as the two teams warmed up, and the favourites to win were most definitely the team he had coached, the Bobby Socks. Brandi’s bunch of fifteen, comprised of the roughest girls around, certainly looked daunting. They were all dressed in black. Their fingernails, too, were painted black, and they wore short black socks to help distinguish them from the other team. As Jeremy led them through a series of muscle stretches, they were eyeing off the Long Socks aggressively and screaming random cries of challenge.
The other team wore multicoloured outfits and their stripy socks were long. They focused only on Ewan, calmly doing their stretches as if oblivious to the daunting rabble nearby. Jeremy battled to keep his mind on his team, but his eyes kept flitting across to Nancy, so adorable in her rainbow socks. Bonnie started chanting quietly, something about power and pride, brains against brawn, good over evil. Soon all the Long Socks had joined in, and the united monotone sounded impressively threatening. However, Kelly Miller, one of the high-schoolers, was suddenly overcome with nerves and rushed off to the toilet.
In the first quarter, during which time neither team scored, Jeremy was surprised to observe that the teams were fairly evenly matched. The first scrum was an ugly affair with the Bobby Socks defending. Despite their disadvantage, they managed to regain the ball in the scuffle. Jeremy was relieved they hadn’t positioned Brandi or Bonnie as front rowers, as the two girls seemed to be taking things very seriously. Even so, there was a great deal of screeching, shoving, scratching and hair pulling. Bonnie was number eight for her team. Her effort equalled that of all the others combined, some of whom were nearly lifted off their feet from her rearward pressure in the scrum.
During the short interval one of the CWA ladies, Beryl Sawtell, scurried out onto the field with a platter of cut-up oranges. Puffing and red-faced, she insisted that all the girls eat a quarter of an orange before resuming play. Kelly Miller rushed to the toilet again and then it was time for the game to go on.
In the second quarter, the Bobby Socks scored two tries in quick succession, Libby kicking a goal after each. But they also earned two penalties for high tackles (one being more of a strangling). This gave Jenny Lonergan the opportunity to kick two conversions for the Long Socks. Another vicious and drawn-out scrum resulted once again in the Bobby Socks regaining the ball. Then Carrie Allen, one of the miners, nearly scored a third try for the Bobbies, dropping the ball just metres from the line. Things weren’t looking good for the Long Socks. Jeremy, whose eyes kept following Alice, had to remind himself to be pleased with the score.
Alice was surprised by how much she was enjoying the game. At half-time, when Beryl bailed them up with oranges again, she looked around for Jeremy. He was engaged in a pep talk with the Bobby Socks, his face alight with enthusiasm. She smiled proudly to herself. Jeremy had impressed her yet again with this novelty bash. He wasn’t making it easy to keep her feelings for him cool.
Ewan gathered the Long Socks together and told them to awaken their primal instincts and show some fighting spirit. ‘Don’t let them scare you with their dirty play,’ he said insistently. He advised Bonnie and the social workers, the biggest and most assertive players in the team, to initially hold on to the ball and draw the opposition. Then they were to pass it via the high-school girls to Alice on the outside.
Bonnie drew them into a huddle and barked, ‘Let’s do it for Keira!’ Starting soft and low, she broke into a mantra-like chant which rose in pitch and volume as first the Mesiti sisters, then all the other Long Socks joined in: ‘For Keira! For Keira! For Keira!’
The huddle burst apart with a cheer and the Long Socks were fired up and ready to face the enemy.
During the third quarter, Alice came into her own. She was winger, and what she lacked in aggression and size she made up for in speed and agility. She scored two tries, and just missed out on another, when two of the miners blocked her near the tryline. They slowed her just enough to give an enraged Brandi the opportunity to launch her solid frame at Alice’s darting one. It was more of a bodily charge than a tackle and Alice was flattened. Some of the crowd booed.
While Alice was recovering, Jenny kicked a penalty goal, making up for the ones she’d missed after Alice’s tries earlier in the quarter. Jeremy ran some water out to Alice, then, picking her up like a baby, ran with her between the goalposts. The crowd roared appreciatively as Alice struggled to free herself and dart away. The third quarter closed with the score standing at fourteen to nineteen in favour of the Long Socks. They ceased play just long enough to eat more oranges.
When the game was underway again, Alice noticed with concern that Bonnie was on the warpath. Early in the fourth quarter, Brandi got the ball and Bonnie thundered towards her. She came in from the side, pushing away two of her own teammates in her eagerness to reach the blonde. As the gap between them closed, Bonnie roared, lowered her head like a charging bull and launched herself into Brandi’s ribcage.
As Brandi went down, the ball was catapulted over the sideline. She was winded, but that wasn’t enough to stop her from thrusting her fingers into Bonnie’s wiry curls and twisting th
em cruelly. Suddenly they were wrestling, with first Bonnie, then Brandi on top. The crowd went wild with enjoyment and Alice could hear money clattering into the donation tins. Ewan attempted to separate the girls and had his face scratched for his trouble. The crowd was chanting, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’, and it was only with the assistance of Jeremy and some of the other players that Ewan was eventually able to disentangle the two.
After this altercation, Libby earned three points with a penalty kick for the Bobby Socks, bringing them within two points of the Long Socks. Play resumed with only four minutes to go. Then, to the Bobbies’ horror, after a few lucky passes Alice yet again gained possession of the ball. But this time, a number of them were hovering near her in readiness. She felt them closing in on her as she streaked towards the tryline. She twisted at the waist and flung the ball backwards at the nearest pair of long socks she could see.
It was Giovanna Mesiti; by some miracle, the older woman caught the ball mid-stride. The attackers slightly altered their course and continued to advance. Alice slowed to a jog and watched anxiously.
Giovanna issued a bloodcurdling war cry and ran straight into the fray, her face contorted into a grimace of reckless determination. The cluster of Bobby Socks engulfed her momentarily before she somehow burst through and out the other side, still hugging the ball. She pelted towards the line with the baying she-hounds close on her heels, before diving into a victory slide. She lay on the ground, elated, her nuggety little body heaving. Amid all the jubilation, no one noticed Jenny’s final kick, which went wide and dribbled along the ground. Nonetheless, the Long Socks had won, twenty-four to seventeen.
After the game, the girls disappeared to change and the Country Women’s Association ladies produced the first round of refreshments, which consisted of mountains of scones, pikelets, slices and cakes. Fred got on the microphone to remind everyone that the donation tins were circulating — an unnecessary reminder, as these containers were already a-clatter with coins in appreciation of the home-cooked food. Hammerhead and Mushgang had opened the bar as well, so things were well and truly underway.
Ewan pulled Jeremy aside, his mouth full of pikelet and another one in his hand. ‘What a game, eh?’
‘Yeah, I reckon!’ Jeremy answered thickly through a mouthful of chocolate cake.
‘That Alice’s a hot little goer . . . Never noticed her before. She spoken for?’ Ewan folded in half the pikelet he was holding and stuffed it into his mouth.
Jeremy gulped down his mouthful of cake before he’d finished chewing it. He took a large sip of beer to chase and soften the chocolaty lumps that were having trouble clearing his Adam’s apple. Then he looked sideways at Ewan.
‘Not exactly. I mean, there are fellas interested. Wingnut Lonergan for one. But she’s . . . a bit of a loner, I s’pose you could say. High standards. Picky little wench.’
‘Surprised you haven’t hit on her yourself, mate. Dunno how you can stand it with her out there, just the two of ya. Drive me mad, it would.’
Jeremy laughed in answer, a little too jovially. Then a loud cheer captured their attention and they looked across to see Arthur Sawtell setting up the seniors tug of war. Fred Campbell announced the event, and the pot-bellied, bow-legged contestants posed and flexed their muscles in an impressive show of strength. However, it was all over a little too quickly, one side having the advantage of three men under seventy. Winners and losers fell in a heap, jumbled with the heavy rope.
Next the ‘buggered hat’ competition was announced and the crowd was directed to three trestle tables that had been lined up in wait. In a short time the tables were covered with a motley variety of hats, mainly felt, in various degrees of dilapidation. The contest for most battered headgear was going to be tight.
Meanwhile, at a signal from Ewan, Jeremy and most of the other young men disappeared off to change. It was time for the ‘frocka’ match. The boys soon reappeared, grotesquely attired in loud florals and gaudy prints; someone was even in sequins. Their muscled hairy legs and arms sprouted incongruously from the softly falling folds, and their faces glowed with that unique brand of elation that only the wearing of women’s clothing can bring on in a man.
Jeremy was immensely proud of his outfit. He’d refused to show Alice his frock in advance, promising to dazzle her on the day. It was a hideous purple leopard-skin print, sleeveless, with a high waist and full skirt. He’d jammed the bust with two water-filled balloons that trembled erratically. A thick black vinyl belt was done up tightly underneath to hold them in place. His hair was covered with a small beanie, crocheted from some kind of feathery twine in the same ghastly shade of purple as the dress. All of Jeremy’s teammates wore hats or head adornments of some kind to distinguish them from the opposition, who were bare-headed.
In spite of the absurdity of the costumes, the game was fast and furious. Keira’s father, Nato, was referee. A fiery soccer fanatic, he seemed to forget the light-hearted nature of the game, presiding over the hairy damsels as though it were a World Cup final. There were a few nasty colourful collisions that appeared serious enough to briefly silence the crowd, but no injuries worse than a bleeding nose were sustained. The rodeo clowns, Jeremy, Wade, Michael and Max, incorporated some stunts into the game; their somersaults, leapfrogs and cartwheels were all well received and raucously applauded.
At the front of the grandstand, Jeremy could see Keira perched on old Gordon Mesiti’s knee. The range of emotions displayed on her face reflected the twists and turns of fortune throughout the match. She watched her four strong brothers with a pride that transcended the ridiculous nature of the event. The hatless team were victorious, but the final score of one/nil belied the intensity of the game and the many thrills that the audience derived from watching the players in frills.
After the frocka match it was time for lunch. By now Jeremy’s appetite had returned and the smell of the barbecuing meat and onions was tantalising. The tables were loaded with foil-covered dishes of potato bake, quiche, macaroni cheese and fried rice, again courtesy of the Country Women’s Association. Several large bowls overflowing with salad had been added at the last minute, along with six huge cane baskets of warm buttered bread rolls.
While people were queuing for the food, Jeremy and Hammerhead set up a gold-coin-rolling contest on the undercover concrete slab. The target was a two-litre bottle of rum and the winner was the one whose coin landed closest to the bottle without actually touching it. Father Callaghan walked away with the rum after his one and only attempt. ‘Here’s to divine intervention!’ he yelled, the bottle held high over his head in unpriestly jubilation.
Despite the size of the smoko a couple of hours earlier, everyone did justice to the delectable lunch spread. The donation tins were now being stuffed with five- and ten-dollar notes as the people (many of whom were tipsy) got stuck into the first-class tucker. Jeremy could see Senior Constable Glover hovering around like a thundercloud, silencing groups of chatting locals by looming up suddenly beside them. For a large part of the day he unknowingly sported a kick me sign, stuck onto the back of his perfectly pressed police shirt with electrical tape. No one dared to do as instructed by the sign, but nor did anyone remove it. And Gladys Hogan later swore black and blue that she’d seen him slip a couple of hundred-dollar notes into a donation tin when he’d thought no one was watching.
The ute-jumping competition was announced after lunch. This event was a matter of genuine pride, as station owners, ringers and trainers alike had the opportunity to display the athleticism and obedience of their working dogs.
At this point, everyone noticed an unfamiliar, well-dressed woman who had pulled up in an expensive four-wheel drive not long before. With her was a sleek, tan coloured greyhound on the end of a light plaited leather lead. They lined up along with the others.
More than half of the dogs were eliminated in the first round. Jeremy’s Ace didn’t even make an attempt to jump the adjustable horizontal pole in Gyro’s ute tray. The shove the unco
operative animal received from Jeremy’s boot completely failed to motivate him. Instead he ducked out of sight under the ute, much to the delight of the onlookers. Once the bar had been raised a sixth time, only the mystery greyhound could clear it. This slender, leggy creature leapt over it with ease, completely devaluing the effort of the other dogs. There was some half-hearted applause, followed by some resentful muttering when the mystery female greyhound owner promptly collected the prize and departed as suddenly as she’d come.
Fred’s cheerful voice heralding the horse races soon took people’s minds off the unknown marauder and any ill feeling was short-lived. In Jeremy’s initial plan, there had been a real ‘bush-style’ horse race. But then the Rotarians had discovered how much this single event would blow out the cost of insurance for the day. Consequently, that idea had been scrapped and a horse race using human ‘horses’ had been decided on instead. Two of the Rotarians had put all the horses’ names in a sweep, written on strips of paper. They were sold for twenty dollars apiece.
The ‘horses’ were lead-roped and lined up for display, while the crowd buzzed, discussing their form. Jeremy was mobbed by willing female jockeys and looked around hopefully for Alice. But he saw with disappointment that she’d already taken hold of Troy’s lead rope.
‘Righto.’ Jeremy held up his hands. ‘Which one of you ladies is the lightest?’
At this point Beryl Sawtell and Heidi Campbell decided to intervene and hurried over to lead each wandering jockey to a waiting horse.
At the starting line, the jockeys mounted piggy-back style and the horses crouched, waiting for Mushgang to crack his whip. Then they were off, horses straining and jockeys bouncing uncomfortably down the two-hundred-metre stretch. Jeremy was in the lead for the first fifty metres, until he and his jockey, Libby Cook, suffered a tumble. Michael Gibson, ridden by the petite Helen Mesiti, won by two lengths, and Wyatt Dart, with Kelly Miller as jockey, took out second place.
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