Page 75 of A Home Among the Snow Gums
‘Kylie,’ she said, spying her friend sliding in from the direction of the beer garden. ‘Here, have a flyer. Marigold wants me to hand them around. Why are you dripping wet?’
‘Small incident with one of the tap handles. Tom had to call for aid and Hanrahan’s finest mechanic was on hand to save the day.’
Hannah leant in for a sniff. ‘I hope that’s Kosciuszko Pale Ale.’
‘It is. Go hand out your flyers and I’ll pour you a schooner. I’m on double duty as finest mechanic and bar wench this evening.’
Hannah said hello around the room to Kev and Lionel and the guy from Dalgety, who introduced himself as Roger Kettering. Of Tom there was no sign, but her brother rocked up with Jane Doe at his heels. When she raised her eyebrows at him he lifted his phone and rolled his eyes.
One on-call Cody at a time. Thankfully it wasn’t her.
‘I’ll need a flyer,’ said a chilly voice.
Maureen Plover! Hannah didn’t see Maureen out and about very often. She’d assumed she spent all her spare time drafting tidbits of meanness for the Chatter or cackling over a cauldron.
‘Hello, Mrs Plover. I didn’t know you were helping out.’ She’d have bet the glass of lager she was hoping to soon be given that Marigold didn’t know either. Two matriarchs on one committee? Bosoms would be heaving before the first agenda item was read out.
‘I thought, since I’d championed the need for the Ironbark Station campdraft in the Hanrahan Chatter, that I should volunteer some of my expertise to see it done.’
‘That’s very civic minded of you.’
Making her escape, Hannah took a seat next to Kylie and thanked her for the beer. ‘What?’ she said, because her friend was looking her over critically.
‘You’re wearing a blouse.’
‘I couldn’t come in my scrubs. By 5 pm the only place for them to go is the soaking bucket or the incinerator.’
‘But a blouse. I love it. Tidy hair, mascara, you even smell pretty. I’m getting some subliminal messaging here.’
‘Relax, Kylie. You’re not my type. The subliminal messaging is for our host, who doesn’t appear to be at his own meeting.’
‘He’s outside, waiting for—Oh. Here they all are.’
The buzz in the room died down as Bruno Krauss, Hanrahan’s living legend, wheeled himself into the public bar. He was flanked by Mrs LaBrooy, who had lived up at Ironbark, taking care of the family, for as long as Hannah could remember, and none other than Barry O’Malley, the town mayor. Behind them, carrying a collection of belts draped over one arm, was Tom.
‘Bruno looks terrible,’ whispered Kylie into her ear.
It was true. His cheeks had a grey cast to them, and thin was too plain a word to describe the angle and bone he’d become.
‘You’re all here,’ Bruno said, in a voice that had lost none of its bark. ‘Well. That’s saying something.’
Hannah couldn’t quite tell if he was happy about it or angry about it.
‘Welcome to the meeting,’ said Marigold smoothly. ‘Why don’t we get started? There’s a flyer going around for everyone to nominate their inter—’
Bruno cut her off. ‘I’ll be running this meeting, Marigold Jones.’
Hannah sucked in her breath. Seemed like they now had three of Hanrahan’s fiercest citizens to deal with.
Marigold took a seat. ‘Of course.’
Bruno settled himself in his chair and took a look around. ‘Well, you all know each other, I expect. I’m here to say my bit and then I’ll butt out and leave you lot to see it done. Ironbark Station has produced some of the finest campdraft horses this country’s ever seen. That’s the way we do things up at Ironbark. We expect the best. So that’s what I’m expecting come October when the draft is on. I’ve got enough cattle to stock the camp, and my manager Lynette will see to the cattle chutes and arrange paddocks where the entrants can park their floats and water their horses. You’ll be doing the rest. But you’d better be ready. When you open the draft up to competitors on the tournament circuit, you’re going to sell out real quick. Every campdrafter in the country wants a chance to win what we’re offering. Tom? Where’s my … oh.’
The belts were old and their buckles were polished. ‘I’m offering as prizes my championship belts. They’re no use to me anymore, and Tom’s agreed. It’ll be a campdrafter that’ll value them more than the wall on my study, where they’ve been hanging twenty years or more.’
‘That’s a generous prize, Bruno,’ said Roger. ‘You can bet your backside I’ll be competing for one.’
‘Good lad. Right. Now, who’s getting me a beer?’
