Cinnamon Sweat Read online



  CINNAMON

  SWEAT

  by Paul Greenway

  copyright 2014 Paul Greenway

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thursday

  As a late-20s metrosexual sort of guy, Sean was acutely embarrassed about the possibility of being mistaken for an old fart driving around on a retirement holiday. But inside his campervan, he did have all the gadgets he thought no-one over 35 could possibly know how to use. On the dashboard there was a GPS, so he didn’t have to stretch his arm over to the passenger seat and lift up a map; and it spoke to him, so he wouldn’t feel lonely along the bare, dusty tracks – although this rarely happened because his left hand was illegally glued to a mobile phone. He did have to shout while calling his girlfriend, however, because of what he was reliably informed was trendy music blasting from an iPod plugged into an adapter for the cigarette lighter.

  The repetitive and expletive-laden chorus of the hip-hop tune drowned out the first of several clunks from the engine. But with increasing alarm, Sean reluctantly ceased chatting on his phone and playing with his GPS, and listened to the unidentifiable noises emanating from the front of his van.

  Sean was not a mechanic; he was a film-maker searching for things to point a video camera at around the mid-north plains of South Australia. With a grant from a government department he hadn’t known existed that needed to offload funds before the end of the financial year, Sean bought state-of-the-art camera equipment worth more than the campervan. And he fiddled the paperwork for the grant to buy essentials, such as a TV, DVD player and guaranteed internet access, rather than what he deemed as surplus to requirement, such as a stove, fridge and reliable engine.

  His flicker of concern at the time of sale about the campervan’s possible undependability was now realised. He reluctantly shifted to a lower gear, slowed to the legal limit, and placed his left-phone-hand on the wheel. The clunking sound worsened as he approached a fork in the road. A signpost indicated that he was cruising, albeit increasingly slowly, towards “Chittingford Dales, Home to The Big Turnip”, another 200 metres further on. With a functioning vehicle he could’ve turned left and travelled 47kms to Upper Chittingford or veered right to Whyalla, 95kms further across the plains.

  As the campervan clunked to a halt, Sean’s immediate instinct was not to open the hood of his vehicle but the side-door to extract his handy-cam. He panned across the seemingly-infinite flat, dusty and arid landscape and then zoomed into a rusted sign stained with magpie droppings. An array of symbols indicated options available in Chittingford Dales, such as an “i”, which Sean now knew indicated “tourist information” and not “internet access”. But every symbol was blacked out with tape except those denoting that the town did offer food or, perhaps, Sean thought, a knife and fork, and petrol, or at least a petrol pump.

  Eventually conceding that he needed food as much as his van needed repairs, Sean started the engine again. But it wouldn’t work; nor would his mobile phone. He bellowed helplessly. ‘Hello? ... Hello? Are you there? ... Bloody hell!’

  Almost immediately, his friend the GPS started flashing, so Sean bumped it and then thumped it in desperation before it conked out. He glanced at the iPod which began blinking alarmingly and then silently displaying a message Sean had never seen before and certainly did not like. He switched on the radio, always a last resort, but it buzzed and then promptly died.

  Acknowledging that he now had no further options, Sean unfastened the handbrake and gradually pushed the campervan into Chittingford Dales. The streets were ludicrously wide, vast enough for three vehicles to travel each way, while the hopeful car parking lanes were also empty. Behind the telephone box that still took coins but had been vandalised to the point of complete uselessness was a shop with an ugly square façade. Signposted as a “Fruiterer”, it had clearly stood vacant for years, probably decades.

  In the undersized Edna Barrington-Smythe Memorial Park was an “Information Bay” that offered a potted commercial and communal history of the town. Surrounding a dusty mound in the middle of the park was a solitary ring of grass. Towering over the handful of functioning buildings was a silo that seemed over ten storeys high and a crumbling brick water tower with a faded mural of bullock carts.

  To Sean, the silence was almost deafening; only a few magpies squawked, no doubt debating about which road sign to crap on. But he could hear faint but unidentifiable series of sounds that could only be described as ping, ding and ching. He glared, cursed and kicked his van, which was motionless at a junction of Chittingford Dales’ only thoroughfares, Railway Terrace and Main Street.

  Despite blocking the intersection in both directions, Sean instinctively reached inside again for his handy-cam. He zoomed into several houses with faded “For Sale” signs and others which were completely abandoned, including a myriad of churches and the former State Bank building with its peeling paint of an incongruous peach colour. Some shops still faintly marked as the “Draper”, “Blacksmith” and “Saddler” seemed to have been converted years ago into trendy cafés or boutique shops, but were now also desperately seeking buyers. Massive sheds of corrugated iron with no definable purpose were rusting to oblivion, taking with it a history that no-one had bothered to document, or even cared about. The solitary building seemingly maintained and still functional belonged, for evident reasons, to the Country Fire Service.

  The only signs of life within Chittingford Dales were at the intersection. On one corner was an empty concrete yard with a shed, an old-fashioned petrol bowser and a sign, “Dave’s Mechanics”. And on the other corner was a dilapidated hall with “The Institute” engraved on several outside walls. Directly opposite both were the requisite pub, The Lamb & Slaughter; and a row of shops, “Gail’s Grocery”, “Brenda’s Bakery” and “Deb’s Discs”. Unlike every other store in town, these were not abandoned, for sale or needlessly bolted.

  Nothing seemed to be happening at the hall, the shops or the mechanics, so Sean left his campervan in the middle of the intersection and instinctively looked to his left and right before crossing the road. Perched next to the ice-fridge on uncomfortable wrought-iron chairs along the pub’s veranda were two men Sean would come to know as Bob and Jack. Both seemed surprisingly well-groomed and -dressed – not the rough farmers in dungarees or bearded miners in overalls that Sean imagined would inhabit the town. Sean offered them a cursory nod and semi-smile before eventually finding the only door that actually led into the public bar.

  On three separate tables inside, two men and a solitary woman were nursing half-empty schooners of flat beer and eagerly devouring toasted sandwiches apparently coated with plastic wrapping. They silently stared at a nauseating soap opera on a black-and-white TV with the sort of fuzzy reception that made the vision and sound almost impossible to identify. The ping and ching sounds were now noticeably louder.

  Hearing the stranger rattle three doors before finding the main entrance, Madge had hastily exited the kitchen and was now standing in front of a row of dusty bottles of wine and liquor. Surprisingly tall with curled fingernails and hair dyed with a bluish tinge, Madge decided to uncross her arms and appear welcoming to Sean. ‘And what brings you to our fine town, son?’

  ‘My van’s broken down ...’

  Madge nodded. ‘That’s why most people come here ...’

  ‘… and it needs fixing.’

  ‘... and why they stay.’ Sighing loudly, Madge polished the same glass for a third time while ignoring Bob and Jack as they entered the bar.

  ‘So, I, um, need a mechanic.’

  ‘Dave! This bloke needs a mechanic!’

  ‘Tell him I’m on my lunch break!’

  Sean swivelled to his right towards the disinterested shout from Dave. He was sitting a
lone, sipping the undrinkable, digesting the inedible, and viewing the unwatchable.

  ‘Dave says he’s on his lunch break.’ Madge shrugged. ‘You want something to eat? I can put something in the microwave.’ From below the counter, she lifted up and peered intently at a few pre-made “toasties” in plastic wraps. ‘I can do you ham. Or cheese. Or ham and cheese ... Or cheese and ham.’

  ‘Um, no thanks.’ Sean nodded sideways towards the main door. ‘I’ll get something at the bakery.’

  ‘Deb! This bloke wants to buy something at the bakery!’

  ‘Tell him I’m on my lunch break!’

  Sean swivelled to his left where Deb was seated at another table, similarly drinking, eating and watching. In her late 30s, Deb was plain and plump, her appearance not enhanced by a dowdy frock and oversized spectacles.

  ‘Deb says she’s on her–‘

  ‘I know.’

  Madge crossed her arms impatiently. ‘Well, son, if you don’t want to eat at my pub, then how about a drink?’

  Sean nodded eagerly. ‘A latte, thanks.’ Madge glared at her customer as several patrons spluttered their beers and guffawed. ‘Or, um, maybe a cappu ... um … cin ... er ... o?’

  ‘How about a beer?’

  ‘OK, a small, light ...’

  Madge shook her head, uncrossed her arms, and poured a heavy, full-alcohol beer from the only beer tap into a highly-polished pint glass.

  * * * * *

  With no offer of help – not least from Dave the Mechanic – Sean managed to cajole his campervan from the intersection to the mechanics yard. Surrounding the vast door-less iron shed was anything and everything that could rust, including corroded tractors and oil drums, as well as piles of unusable tyres, bales of serviceable hay, and stacks of crumbled bricks. The words on the poop-streaked sign indicated that “Dave’s Mechanics” still offered petrol and repairs, but no longer sold spare parts, tyres or batteries.

  In his mid-30s, Dave had a healthy ruddy complexion garnered from days of clean air and sunshine, and an unhealthy chubbiness gathered from evenings of beer and toasties. He expertly unfastened the hood of Sean’s campervan and wiped his hands of grease – from Madge’s toasted sandwiches, not Sean’s van. A few moments later, Sean turned around in alarm as Dave walloped several parts of the engine with a spanner. This did, at least, identify the ding sounds Sean had heard while cruising into Chittingford Dales.

  The mechanic leant out from under the hood, wiped his hands again, and shook his head solemnly. ‘Just as I thought. It’s the gasket.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know what it does, mate. I just know it needs replacing.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  Dave nodded and wiped his hands again for no apparent reason. ‘… and expensive.’

  ‘How long will it take to fix?’

  ‘That depends on how you intend to get yourself a new gasket. You could walk to Upper Chittingford.’

  ‘But it’s forty five kilometres!’ Sean pointed in the wrong direction.

  ‘Forty seven.’

  ‘And the gasket would be heavy.’

  ‘… and expensive. Or you could drive there.’

  ‘But ...’

  Dave sighed and wiped his hands once more. ‘So, I suppose I’ll have to order you a new gasket from the mechanics over there in Upper C.’

  ‘Which means?’

  Dave stopped wiping his hands and raised one of them to his stubbled chin. ‘Well, assuming my fax machine–‘

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘–is working. Or I can leave a message on the mechanic’s beeper ...’ Dave paused to glare at Sean, who prudently decided not to comment. ‘... and assuming the bus from Upper Chittingford is running. And then there’s the big footy game on Saturday, of course.’ Dave raised his other well-wiped hand to his chin. ‘Might take five days.’

  ‘What?’

  Dave glowered at his customer. ‘Or eight if I’m too busy.’ Sean gulped and peered around the mechanic’s yard, which was completely devoid of any other vehicles or anything else indicating any other ongoing activity. ‘If I were you, mate, I’d push your van into the Bella Vista Caravan Park and wait.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Dave pointed perfunctorily towards another flat area next to the yard that was as equally devoid of customers and trees. A few poles did indicate that Sean’s campervan could be connected to electricity from Dave’s shed, but precious little else resembled a vista or anything bella.

  ‘Is the owner of the caravan park on a lunch break?’

  ‘Nope. I've finished my toasties.’

  Sean knew the answer but instinctively asked anyway. ‘I suppose at the caravan park there’s no, um, Wi-Fi?’

  ‘Why what?’

  Sean sighed. ‘So, what the hell am I going to do in Chittingford Dales for five–‘

  ‘Or eight.’

  ‘–days?’

  Dave peered around, wiped his hands and shrugged. He waved an arm towards the row of three shops. ‘You could visit Deb's Discs.’

  ‘Really?’ Sean’s gaze followed Dave’s arm. ‘There's a record shop?’

  ‘Should be open when Deb's finished her toasties at the pub.’ Dave buried his head beneath the hood and banged a few more engine parts with a spanner. ‘And there's always The Big Turnip.’

  * * * * *

  Sean didn’t bother checking to his left or right as he crossed the broad dusty street and ambled towards Deb's Discs. Noticing a sign on the door, “Out to Lunch”, he chuckled, turned on his handy-cam and strolled towards The Big Turnip. Sitting forlornly in a car park that had barely seen a vehicle since World War II, Chittingford Dales’ major tourist attraction was about half-a-metre high, daubed in orange, and smothered with magpie droppings.

  Barely able to control his mirth, Sean filmed the monument from several angles before he noticed Dave approaching. ‘But it's a–‘

  ‘–little small, I know, mate. Those Guinness guys came around to check it out for their book, but they just laughed.’ Dave shrugged. ‘Probably because it's not really that big.’

  Sean stared at the monument and then at Dave. ‘But it looks just a like a–’

  ‘–potato?’

  ‘I was going to say “pumpkin”.’

  ‘Really? I'm not much on vegetables.’

  Dave shrugged again, wiped his hands, and wandered into Gail's Grocery as Deb turned over the “Out to Lunch” signs on the front doors of all three shops.

  * * * * *

  After devouring a pie of unidentifiable meat and a stale bun from Brenda’s Bakery, Sean entered Deb’s Discs. Barely wide enough for three customers, the walls were adorned with posters of several bands, but on closer inspection Sean realised they were of the same band – but the members, outfits and eras were all different. The racks were crammed with 12-inch vinyl LPs and 9-inch singles in strict alphabetical order. Scratchy pop-rock music that Sean vaguely recognised blasted from a stereo system with a turntable in the corner.

  Instinctively flicking through the records in order, Sean ignored offerings by The Average White Band and The Bay City Rollers before noticing an immense section dedicated specifically to Cinnamon Sweat. Still trying to recall the song on the record-player, he picked up and peered at a 12-inch with the label “The Sweetest Sweat”.

  ‘Hi. I'm Deb.’

  Sean turned towards the voice at the door. ‘You just served me at Brenda’s Bakery.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I'm Sean.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I'm staying here while …‘

  ‘I know.’

  ‘… my van is being …’ Realising there was no need to continue, Sean swivelled back to stare at the discs for sale and the walls plastered with posters. ‘This is amazing. I haven't been anywhere like this for years. More like decades.’

  ‘Yep.’ She nodded with obvious pride. ‘Deb's Discs does offer the best range in town.’

&n
bsp; Sean raised “The Sweetest Sweat” LP with one hand and pointed to the walls with the other. ‘You have so many records here by Cinnamon Sweat and so much stuff about them. But they were before my time.’

  ‘That's a shame. They were huge in the 1970s. Well, '75. Actually, more precisely early June 1975. And maybe not that big, really.’ Deb pointed to the LP in Sean's hand. ‘That's their greatest hits album. Well, one of them.’

  ‘How many records did they make?’

  Deb expertly flicked through the special section dedicated to Cinnamon Sweat, extracted a 12-inch, and passed it to Sean. ‘This is "Thanks for the Mammaries", their first studio album. And their only studio album, actually. The band also recorded eleven live albums. And their record company put out eight best-of collections.’

  ‘So, what happened to them?’

  ‘The band broke up during the disco era of the late '70s. Bloody John Travolta.’ Deb snarled unconvincingly. ‘Then, Cinnamon Sweat reformed in '83 and made a live reunion album. They broke up in '86 and recorded a live farewell album. Reformed in '91. Broke up a day later, so they didn't have time to make another live album. Then, they broke up again, which wasn't necessary because they hadn't actually reformed.’ Deb continued with increased fervour. ‘Anyway, long story short, they reformed for the 27th time a few months ago, but haven't released a live reunion album yet.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about them.’

  Deb’s grin was infectious. ‘I was their number one fan. Still am. My mother formed “The Sweet Sweat Fan Club” nearly forty years ago. And I still run it – although there aren't many members left now … Well, none actually.’ Deb’s frown disappeared as she gleefully recognised the next tune throbbing from the tinny speakers. ‘You must remember this one! It’s called "My Mamma Says I'm a Son of a Bitch".’

  With admirable gusto and gumption, Deb began singing.

  ‘Mamma says I'm so unkind,

  She says I've gotta dirty mind,

  She says I'm morally deaf, dumb and blind …’

  ‘No?’ Deb moved to the turntable and expertly lifted the needle to another track. ‘How about this one?’

  Sean shook his head but tried to appear interested as Deb started bopping around the room and warbling.

  ‘I'm gonna buy a red convertible and drive it every day,