Cinnamon Sweat Read online

  Sean stood and collected his gear. ‘OK. So, it’s decided. The band will sleep here in the hall, somehow, but the gig must be held outside because of the crowd.’

  ‘What crowd?’ Jack sniggered.

  Sean put down his camera bag. ‘But, hang on, what if it rains?’

  ‘Son, it has not rained here for …’ Bob glanced at his watch and pondered. ‘… forty-five years.’

  ‘What about The Floods of '75?’ asked Sean as he strolled towards the door.

  ‘The floods started up there …’ Jack pointed towards the window through which Sean now peered. ‘… in the hills of Upper Chittingford.’ Sean pointed his video camera towards the vast, arid and featureless landscape. ‘The flood was their bloody fault.’

  * * * * *

  Back inside the pub, Bob, Arnold and Sean were sitting patiently at one table, each with an eye aimed towards the fuzzy TV, while Madge was behind the counter serving drinks. Several others unknown to Sean drifted into the main bar from the pokies room. These included Lifeless Cyril, who drooped himself on to the bar counter, and Dave, who glanced at Deb, and then glared at Sean as he started filming. Looking inconsolably forlorn, Jack leant over the jukebox, which was not plugged in, nor playing “I Hope You Die Before I Get Old”. Instead, “Imagine” rattled out of an antiquated cassette player.

  Clutching a number of forms, Deb addressed the entire group, which now numbered eight men and six women, plus Sean. ‘Listen, everyone. It's easy. Just tick the box for “yes” or “no”.’ She read out from one of the forms. ‘The question is: “Do you want filthy slag groupies sleeping with – and, no doubt, performing disgusting acts and passing diseases to – members of this lovable group within the sacred confines of the Town Hall?” That’s it.' Deb handed out one form to everyone, except Sean.

  Sean whispered to Jack. ‘Do I ..?’

  ‘Don't be daft, son. To get a vote, you must've been born here, or have family go back at least three generations, or married someone else in town. And served as mayor at least once.’ Sean stared at Jack and shuddered. ‘But Bob and I are given special consideration because we actually chose to live here all those years ago.’ Sean’s jaw dropped further and his shoulders continued to quiver.

  While Sean wondered if the batteries in his handy-cam would last, everyone eventually read the form, ticked their response, and laboriously placed their forms into a box.

  Deb swiftly emptied the box and counted the votes. ‘That's five, plus my vote, which makes six against the slags.’ Deb smiled sweetly at the five other women all sitting in solidarity at one table. She silently counted the remaining forms. ‘And that’s, um, six in favour of the groupies.’ She growled at the group of eight men now squashed together in apparent solidarity at another table. ‘Which means two of you eight blokes abstained.’

  The collective ire at the men’s table was immediate and thunderous.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who didn't vote for the slags?’

  ‘We need groupies!’

  ‘What does “abstain” mean?’

  Filming the scene from a distance, Sean whispered to Madge. ‘That's six all. What happens now?’

  ‘There's one more eligible voter.’

  ‘But Gladys is having her hip replaced!’ Deb reached for her mobile phone and swore softly. ‘Gotta get to the mound!’ She scurried out of the pub.

  Arnold rushed to the bar counter as quickly as an octogenarian with an oversized hearing aid and undersized walking stick could manage. ‘Get me the phone, Madge. Quick!’ The landlady of The Lamb & Slaughter picked up a large, clunky 1950's-style phone from beneath the counter and plonked it front of Arnold. With chubby, nicotine-stained fingers he dialled, waited and then slammed down the handpiece. ‘Madge, where's the bloody switchboard operator?!’

  ‘Hip! Remember?!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Saturday

  Deb removed a series of faded sepia photos of the town’s glory days from the 1930s which featured hundreds of men in bowler hats proudly attending Australia Day marches. She replaced these photos with posters of the inglorious days from the 1970s of Cinnamon Sweat in ridiculously-tight and multi-coloured leather trousers. To complete her tacky renovation of the pub, Deb strung up ribbons and streamers left over from a sports competition in 1965, when the town had a school, and balloons that Arnold insisted on inflating, much to Deb’s increasing impatience.

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

  I'm gonna max out all my credit cards and keep all my pay …

  Ignoring everyone and everything – especially that song from the jukebox on constant rotation – Mitch was engrossed at a table, expertly setting up a sophisticated laptop with connections and cables to the handy-cam, microphone and several aerials.

  I'm gonna sail across the world with a chick half my age,

  I'm gonna join a band with my mates and rock up on the stage …

  For the sake of the camera perched on a tripod and filming discreetly from a distant corner, Sean made a token effort to help Deb. ‘Aren’t you sick of that song?’

  ‘No.’ Deb glared at him.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Listen, Sean, I'm so glad the town's fax machine is broken and your van won't be fixed until after the gig.’

  ‘I'm also staying here for another reason.’

  Deb glanced coyly at Sean. ‘Sorry, but my heart belongs to Trevor now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You could've told me yesterday that you felt this way.’

  ‘No. God, no.’ Sean pointed to his left. ‘That's Mitch. He's from RealiTV, here to do a reality series about the band. The filming and interviews we do will be streamed online as a webcast on a dedicated YouTube channel.’

  ‘I am not going to pretend I understand any of that.’ Deb snatched another semi-inflated balloon from a breathless Arnold.

  Mitch approached them but didn’t bother helping. ‘You see, I've uploaded edited film Sean has taken so far to our website and we will stream online …‘

  ‘You're still speaking nerdish.’

  ‘… in real time from now on, so people all over the world can get to know you and Chittingford Dales, and see the band play live.’

  Sean unrolled another poster of The Sweat and gingerly picked up some drawing pins. ‘This reality series is about you, Deb. You'll be really famous.’

  ‘Not sure I want to be really famous. But I suppose I'll have to get used to it after ...’ Deb paused to whisper as Dave entered the pub. ‘… I marry Trevor.’

  Dave glared at Sean and sat at the counter. He was closely followed by Bob and Jack. Without anyone saying a word, Deb moved behind the bar and poured them beers.

  ‘Is that band still playing here?’ Jack snarled. ‘What are they called? Simpleton Zit?’

  ‘Yes, Jack, they are,’ said Sean.

  ‘Do you know anything about football?’

  ‘No, Bob, I do not.’

  ‘That’s a pity, mate.’ Bob sighed. ‘Because there's a game this afternoon and our umpire's getting her hip replaced.’

  Mitch picked up the handy-cam and started filming an interview with Jack. ‘I've just visited the number one attraction in Chittingford Dales. And I have to be honest but it …’ Mitch hesitated as he noticed Madge and Deb making signals behind Jack's back. ‘… looks like a, um …’ Mitch was even more bewildered when Madge and Deb started making slicing signals across their throats.

  ‘… turnip, Mitch.’ Sean spoke quietly but firmly. ‘It looks like a turnip.’

  Still befuddled, Mitch turned to Jack. ‘Um, so tell me about The Big, er, Turnip.’

  ‘Bob and I arrived here just before The Floods of ‘75 which carried on to '76. The town was struggling. People were out of work. It was such a sad place to be. Deserted. Not like now.’

  Mitch grinned at Sean. ‘No ...’

  Bob continued. ‘So, we decided to build a turnip farm to keep the people happy–‘
r />   ‘–and myself busy after I had to quit ...’ Jack looked away, yet nobody it seemed knew why.

  Bob broke the surprisingly uncomfortable silence. ‘But the farm got wiped out.’

  ‘By the floods or fires?’ Mitch tried to keep a straight face.

  ‘By The Vegetable Plague of '85. So, Jack decided to build a memorial to commemorate the greatest tragedy to befall The Dales.’

  * * * * *

  Once the pub had been adorned with posters, ribbons, streamers and balloons, it was time to garnish the Town Hall. As the location of the band’s sleeping quarters, Dave was busily laying down mattresses while Deb was frantically fluffing pillows. Jack was attending to his shrine and discreetly pulling down posters of The Sweat from the wall whenever Deb’s back was turned. Sean opened his handy-cam and Mitch turned on his microphone, and they approached Jack.

  ‘Tough game of footy this afternoon.’ Mitch tried not to smirk.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Bob, as he entered the pub with his arm in a sling and bandages across his face.

  ‘Umpiring ain’t easy.’ Sean could not avoid smirking.

  ‘We've got more important things to discuss now than stupid football.’ Lifting a hefty briefcase onto a table, Deb growled to no-one in particular as she noticed that several posters had fallen to the ground. ‘Thank you for attending this special council meeting.’

  Jack sneered. ‘Did we have a choice?’

  ‘Not while I am Mayor.’ Deb unclipped the briefcase and extracted a file. ‘Opening business is the Cinnamon Sweat tour of Chittingford Dales. I've created an itinerary, but I can't give it to you until we get a copy-machine.’

  ‘Did you say coffee machine?’

  ‘No, I did not.’ Deb briefly glared at Mitch. ‘I thought we'd celebrate the band’s arrival with a civil reception ...’ She paused as Sean and Mitch grinned at each other. ‘... when I will give the band – and, by that, I mean Trevor, of course – keys to the city.’

  ‘To the what?’

  Deb glowered at Mitch once more. ‘In-ter-rup-ting again.’ She turned to Sean. ‘How long will The Sweat play for?’

  ‘Not long, I guess.’ Sean shrugged. ‘They only ever recorded one studio album.’

  Deb found a pen and made some notes. ‘To comply with Bylaw 67G created after The Explosion of '91 the band will have to start the concert at 6pm.’

  ‘But they'll probably still be sleeping then with their, um, their–‘

  Deb continued to glare with venom at Mitch. ‘If you mean groping, fornicating and other lascivious acts with uninvited women, well, you know what the very latest bylaw says about that!’

  * * * * *

  Once the pub had been decorated and Town Hall desecrated, Deb focussed her efforts on beautifying the town. She started with a serious dusting and polishing of an unimpressive monument with an undersized bust of a man’s head with an overlong name on a plaque beneath. But she decided not to bother with the water tower and grain silo. After standing back to admire her efforts at scrubbing off a particularly stubborn pile of magpie poo, she plugged in a lengthy extension cord and began vacuuming Main Street.

  Strolling across the intersection with their camera gear, Mitch stopped at the monument. ‘‘Who is that?’

  Sean bent to read the long plaque under the small bust. ‘That is Reginald Barrington-Smythe.’

  ‘What's he famous for? Inventing toasted sandwiches?’

  Sean squinted at the rusty inscriptions. ‘He lived here all his life–‘

  ‘That is certainly some achievement.’

  ‘–and no doubt invented the idea of big monuments in small towns.’

  Sean panned his camera across a row of abandoned homes, each with a knee-high wire fence and gate needlessly protecting a tiny patch of untended garden. One shop had been used as a post office, evidenced by the bulletin board unchanged for years and the letterbox unused for decades. ‘I bet more people reside in the cemetery than live in this dump.’

  They found Deb in a puff of dust. Mitch pointed a microphone in front of her. ‘We are now streaming fully online. You're already famous.’

  Deb pouted and yelled above the racket from the antiquated Hoover. ‘Famous like a real person? Or like a celebrity on TV?’

  ‘Well, on your Facebook page–‘

  ‘My what?’

  ‘–you've got thousands of friends.’ Mitch had to also shout above the din.

  ‘But I don't know any of them!’

  ‘And you're so popular now that there are dozens of fake Twitter accounts using your name.’

  ‘Why would the twits do that?’

  ‘Because they can.’ Mitch shrugged.

  ‘Why don't the authorities stop it?’

  ‘Because they can't.’ It was Sean’s turn to shrug. ‘And you've received an invitation to perform on that Channel 8 show, “Celebrity Dancing Chefs”.’

  ‘But I can't dance. Or, um, chef.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Mitch shifted the microphone closer. ‘So, tell me Deb, what is it that you like about Cinnamon Sweat?’

  ‘Their long hair. And tight trousers.’

  ‘And their music?’

  ‘Most of the time.’ Deb manoeuvred the vacuum cleaner around two crumbling wagon wheels alongside the footpath outside the pub.

  ‘And what pushes you to still run their official fan club?’

  ‘It all started with my Mum. She was a real fan. She was really, really close to the band.’

  ‘Was she indeed?’ Mitch was cautiously thrilled.

  ‘She travelled with The Sweat throughout their tour of South Australia in 1975.’

  ‘When you were born, Deb?’

  ‘1976.’

  Mitch glanced eagerly at Sean. ‘Deb, was your father a fan too?’

  ‘I never knew my father.’

  Mitch found it difficult to contain his excitement. ‘Does that mean you don't know who your father was? Could he be someone your mother shagged during that tour?’

  ‘What?’ Deb turned off the Hoover and glared again at Mitch. ‘I don't think I like you.’ She picked up loops of the lengthy extension cord and marched towards the abandoned Butchery.

  Sean turned off the handy-cam and slapped Mitch across his shoulder. ‘Don't be so bloody mean!’

  ‘Don't be so bloody naive. Jeez, you wanted to do this reality video series. People love this stuff, Sean. It's what they crave. It rates. We get ads. Money comes in. I get a bonus. You get more work. It's a win-win-win-um …’ He paused to count his fingers. ‘… win-win.’

  ‘Unless you're Deb.’

  ‘Well, yeah. I suppose.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sunday

  The band’s arrival was imminent. The pub and Town Hall had been fully adorned with ornaments to Cinnamon Sweat, despite the efforts of Jack, and Deb had lovingly dusted, vacuumed and polished the entire town. Even the diarrhoeal magpies had stayed away – probably because Lifeless Cyril had shot a few overnight.

  Everyone was finishing their assigned duties at different speeds and at various interest levels as delegated by Deb, the event organiser and Mayor. Bob, Jack, Dave and a few others still unknown to Sean or Mitch had strung up a few more tacky balloons, streamers and ribbons along the electricity poles, and had looped a banner between the town’s only two street lights. Madge and Arnold had managed to set up three trestle tables, all facing the same direction, with a range of colourful cupcakes and jam-topped scones, as well as an urn of tea.

  Armed with camera and microphone, Sean and Mitch approached Deb, who was under the banner and arguing with a wrinkled woman clutching a Zimmer frame.

  ‘You know I need a hearing aid,’ said the woman quietly.

  ‘That's why I wrote the name of the band on a piece of paper!’ Deb gnashed her teeth.

  ‘You know I need glasses.’ The woman shuffled away as Sean and Mitch glanced upwards and then eagerly filmed the banner, which read “SEMEN’S WET”.

  Se
an peered at Gladys but spoke to Deb. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘That is the deciding vote.’

  ‘I thought she was in Upper Chittingford getting her hip replaced.’

  ‘I was.’ Gladys shuffled back while squinting at a piece of paper and checking the banner.

  Mitch positioned the microphone in front of Gladys’ crumpled face. ‘So, how did you get back here? There's no bus for three days.’

  ‘I walked.’

  ‘But it's forty five kilometres!’ Sean was genuinely astonished.

  ‘Forty seven,’ shouted Dave, perched on the ladder.

  Jack turned to Gladys. ‘Can you umpire next week?’

  But Gladys ignored him and twisted towards Sean. ‘It only seemed a long way this time because I was carrying that bloody gasket for your van.’

  ‘What?’

  Jack grabbed Gladys’ arm. ‘Bob got beaten up at the game yesterday.’

  ‘I can put the gasket in your van within thirty minutes.’ Dave growled at Sean. ‘Then, you and your camera can piss off.’

  Jack continued to plead. ‘But, Gladys, you're tougher than anyone.’

  ‘Did you vote?’ said Deb to Gladys.

  ‘Of course.’

  Gladys passed Deb the voting form, but quickly took it back. ‘It's a secret ballot.’

  Deb snatched the form from Gladys’ arthritic clutch. ‘Not when it's tied, and you're the deciding vote, and I am Mayor.’ Deb eagerly opened it but soon grimaced.

  ‘No band would play in this town without groupies.’ Gladys chuckled. ‘And I should know.’

  Sean shuddered uncontrollably.

  * * * * *

  Sean strode past The Big Polished Turnip to the dust-free mound where he telephoned the manager of Cinnamon Sweat. ‘Hi, Boyd. Listen, there's been a vote. They decided that, um, no groupies will be allowed …’ Sean moved the phone away from his ear. Glancing with embarrassment at the others on the mound, he gradually brought the phone back to the side of his head. ‘Yeah, I know, Boyd ... I know you have needs ... And the girls have needs ... The band, of course, does … Often … Yes, we all have needs. But, listen, I have a plan ...’

  * * * * *

  The scones and cupcakes were tempting and the urn was boiling. The streamers and ribbons were still attached to the poles and the direction of the banner was correct – even if the wording was not. Everyone and everything was facing west, the direction from which Sean had pushed his van into town in what seemed to him a decade ago.