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 them 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 uncooperative 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.
Then it was time for afternoon smoko and the Country Women’s Association ladies produced yet another fine feed. Clive Lonergan took the microphone from Fred to announce the results of the weight-guessing competition: Gyro Edgson had won the steer, Olive Day the Brahman breeding heifer.
While everyone was still eating, some of the donated goods were carried up onto the stand. Barry Field, a saleyards auctioneer originally from the town, had come north especially to offer his services. Jeremy displayed the goods in his usual theatrical manner, and the crowd made bids. Barry had the knack of picking the right starting price, keeping it all rolling along rapidly, and knowing when to pronounce an item sold. People were caught up in the moment and more than a few ended up with goods they hadn’t planned on purchasing.
When everything had been sold and Barry was wrapping the auction up, a highly intoxicated Carrie Allen screamed her request: ‘How much for Jed? I wanna buy Jeddy!’
Barry immediately took up the suggestion, calling, ‘How much for O’Donnell, Jed O’Donnell for a day – who’ll give me three hundred?’
‘Me!’ screamed Carrie, and Jeremy looked decidedly disconcerted.
‘Four hundred!’ screeched Brandi, without waiting for Barry’s prompt.
‘Four-fifty, who’ll give me four-fifty for a day with Jed?’ Barry rattled.
‘I WILL!’ Carrie yelled.
‘Five hundred!’ Brandi was bouncing on the spot.
‘You can’t be serious?’ Barry spoke into the microphone in his normal, non-auctioneer voice.
‘’Course she’s bloody not!’ Jeremy said loudly.
‘Five hundred!’ Brandi screeched again.
‘Sold!’ Barry concluded the session.
By now the sun was low in the sky and the novelty bash was drawing to a close. People dispersed a little and some started to head for their cars. Tired children were wailing and a few adults were becoming loud and unruly after several hours of drinking. Senior Constable Glover was visibly on alert and ready for action.
At this point Fred Campbell appeared on the stand to make a few final announcements and acknowledgements. Nato Mesiti came up to thank everyone, but became choked up with emotion, so Giovanna rushed to his side and forced out some heartfelt words of gratitude.
There was an awkward pause and then the band began to play. It had been set up on the back of Nev’s truck not far from the bonfire, which Jeremy now lit for the stayers. The Long Socks, Bobby Socks and frocka teams had long since buried the hatchet and now grouped around the fire laughing and talking. Bonnie even went so far as to buy Brandi a drink.
Olive came and found Alice, who was sitting chatting with Ewan, Bonnie and Troy, to let her know she and Sam were leaving. Jeremy looked up from where he was sitting on the other side of the fire with a bunch of admiring high-schoolers.
‘I’m coming too,’ said Alice, standing up to go with her grandmother. Jeremy was secretly pleased. He’d been watching Ewan and Alice for some time, not sure of the direction in which things were heading.
But Ewan objected. ‘Steady on, Alice, we’re just getting started here! We’ve got some serious celebrating to do!’ He took her by the arm. ‘The best is yet to come!’
‘Yes, that’s what I’m worried about.’ Alice smiled at him and unhooked his fingers from her arm.
Ewan jumped up from his seat and stood in front of her, grinning. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ Over his shoulder, he addressed Olive. ‘You just head on home, Mrs Day. I’ll take good care of her.’
Alice tried to push past him, first on one side then the other, but met with his solid chest both times. On her third attempt, he wrapped his arms around her just as Olive began to pound him on the back with the large rectangular Tupperware container she was holding. Bonnie and Troy looked on in amusement.
At this point, Jeremy jumped to his feet, overcome with a violent compulsion to flog the hell out of Ewan. ‘Must be the rum,’ he told himself. He struggled to suppress the urge and concentrated instead on the enraged old lady battering his friend’s broad back. ‘Now, now, Mrs Day. We haven’t had a single brawl yet today. Everyone’s been so well behaved. Please don’t spoil it by starting a blue.’
‘Jeremy, get this neanderthal away from Alice!’ Olive demanded loudly. ‘She’s trying to come home!’
‘Webber, mate, I wouldn’t mess with Mrs Day. She might look like a sweet old biddy but, let me tell ya, she can be savage.’
By now Alice had broken free from Ewan’s embrace and was facing him again, looking flustered. Jeremy looked at the glow of the fire on the contours of her face. A few curls had escaped from her plait and her eyes were large and entreating as she looked up at the big football coach. Jeremy wished intensely that he was the recipient of that look.
‘Bloody hell, Ali! Don’t look at him like that – he’ll never let you out of here!’
‘Too right I won’t.’ Ewan was grinning down at her.
Olive brandished her container in readiness for another strike, but the next moment they were all distracted by a small explosion nearby. Someone had let off a firecracker and it spun an erratic course across the grass, spewing colour as it weaved between the shrieking youths.
When Jeremy turned back, Alice had gone, though Ewan was still there and so was Olive, who was watching the commotion disapprovingly.
Ewan looked around wildly. ‘Where’d she go?’ he exclaimed in dismay. ‘Bugger! Slippery little witch!’
Olive looked surprised then pleased to discover her granddaughter gone. Without further ado, she strode away, leaving Ewan and Jeremy standing there. In the fading light, Jeremy spotted Alice at a distance, walking with Sam towards the parked cars.
‘She was fair dinkum!’ cried Ewan disappointedly. Like Jeremy, he was unaccustomed to knockbacks. ‘I just thought she was trying to stir me up, make me keener. It bloody worked too!’
‘Tried to tell ya, mate,’ Jeremy said. All his murderous feelings towards Ewan had evaporated. ‘Not like other girls, our Alice.’ He was smiling after her. Ewan eyed him suspiciously and shook his head before walking away dejectedly to get another drink.