Birrumbulla Tales: 07 The Tack Room Adventure
$180.00
The lives of two people are about to splice into a new thread, twisting to become stronger. But will the tension of spinning knots stretch and sever, or will the weft and warp weave a fabric strong enough to last time?
Description
Excerpt from Letter 1:
Firstly, may I say it is hot. Understatement of the century! When I got off the train in Wangaratta last night it was 8pm and HOT! The bus to Beechworth was a normal bus. Not a coach, a “bus” bus, like you’d take to the shops! I had to haul my luggage bag on board with me and my shoulder bag and by now (cos it was HOT) my “Mum knitted” green jumper is tied around my waist, and I was also carrying my coat (why did Mum force me to bring it? And why is it that I’m currently trending on style using your old army Greatcoat, … oops! … Yes, that’s where it went!) I couldn’t wait to get “there”, to this farm up country “Like where you always want to be!” (as Mum justified sarcastically) and strip off, shower, then pass out on my allocated bed, in my shorty PJs, and sleep! (Did I mention it was hot at eight pm?)
Of course, after the hour and forty something minutes on the bus, I get out at Beechworth and it’s not hot anymore. It’s COLD! What’s with this place? I dump my bags and coat and haul on my jumper which of course dislodges my hair, and it goes everywhere as per usual. So, I push that all back and look around as I entrap it in my trusty garter, remodelled as a hair elastic. A wind blew through and I could feel my nipples erect so I grab my shoulder bag and coat. I like the cold, it was just the sudden contrast!
There was this guy standing waiting for me. He was in shorts, thongs, and a footy top, and even close to midnight, he had a bloody hat on! Yay! Bogans live in the country too! When will the blessings cease? (Yes, Dad I was polite.) He grunts at me and grabs my bag like it’s an old lady’s shopping basket and walks away. There’s no one else at the stop, I mean no one! The bus has vanished, the town is empty! So, I gather he must be my ride to the farm. Anyhoo he has my bag, so I follow him. He swings my bag into the back of a rusty old Holden ute next to a couple of dogs who manage to get out of the way just in time.
“Don’t pet them, they’re work dogs.” He growled at me as I went to pat the head of the nearest one sniffing at me. “Get in or walk.” He also said and got in behind the wheel.
I only just got in as he took off … and I thought country blokes were meant to have good manners!
Flicking looks at him in the lights from the dash gave me the impression that he was rather good looking, if only he’d smarten himself up a bit. But he was not a happy chappy; at least not happy about collecting me, that was evident. Tiredness also came into play as at one point he drove single handed and leaning the other elbow on the open window scratched his head then rubbed his eyes and forehead and rested his head for a moment on his fist. (His hat was on the dash) He flicked a look at me and saw me watching him. I quickly looked away and he straightened up, but there was something, a flash when our eyes met, a slight smile to the corner of his mouth. (Do NOT fall for a bloody country bogan, Susie Sue! NO BOGANS!! You hear me! NO BLOODY BOGANS!!!!)
