CHAPTER
47
Joey let the awards ceremony play out around him. He clapped when Patty nudged him, he slapped Ken on the back when the old guy got an honourable mention for written category, but mostly he just stared at the drip working its way through the ancient seams of the marquee on the far side of the stage.
Kirsty had seemed so happy to see him. Like … sparkly-eyes happy. Heart-thumpingly happy. And then not ten minutes later she’d swooped on down like an avenging angel and snatched her mother—her freaking mother—away from him and disappeared.
‘Joey, get with the program,’ his mum hissed. ‘You’re the Acting Chairman of the committee. Get a smile on your face and look thrilled, will you?’
He grimaced, which would look near enough to a smile to anyone who’d washed down their lunch with a few beers. He’d suspected Kim telling Kirsty about his bad debts had been the stumbling block … and now he knew he was right.
‘Before we move on to the finalists, we’ve just had a message in from Sergeant Baxter. The creeks in the district are on the rise. Anyone heading out Alstonville way is advised to stick to the main roads, and the dogleg on Shannon Gully Road looks like it’s about to go under. If anyone needs to get home, don’t worry, we’ll be printing the winners in the paper during the week.’
There was a rumble as some of the families started heading out of the tent, and Thelma gave the crowd a moment to settle. Shannon Gully was his way home—luckily he had plenty at the pub to keep him busy for hours yet. While the crowd rearranged itself, he took the opportunity to question Patty. ‘Did you see Kirsty’s reaction to the raffle tickets, Mum?’
A gelcoat nail nearly skewered his kidney from behind. ‘I tried to tell you,’ said Daisy in a low voice. ‘You wouldn’t listen. Mr High and Mighty wouldn’t listen to gossip, in fact.’
He turned to stare at her. ‘What are you talking about?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Kirsty. She thinks you’ve got a gambling problem.’
‘But I don’t.’
‘Well, duh,’ his loving sister said. ‘But her motherdoeshave a problem; didn’t she tell you that? So maybe—don’t shoot me—maybe when she saw you selling raffle tickets to her mother, she got a little worked up.’
A lot worked up. Worked up almost as much as the storm that was now bucketing down. She had told him, but he’d … well. He hadn’t been thinking about Kirsty’s mother, he’d just been selling tickets and feeling happy, finally, because now he’d have a chance to tell Kirsty that he was wrong and the committee was right and nothing,nothingwould make him happier than if she were to become Mrs Farmer Joe. ‘I’d better go find her,’ he said, scanning the thinning crowd.
‘You’re Acting Chairman of this muster, son,’ said his mum, nodding towards the stage. ‘It’s your duty to be here.’
Crap. His mother was right. Thelma had begun proceedings again and was holding up a trophy of a small brass country hat mounted on a stone base. ‘Third prize in the Larrikin Awards for best performance poetry, in the adult category, is …’
The man beside her, the poetry judge Carol had been fluttering her eyelashes at all day, pulled a name from an envelope and passed it over to her. ‘Kirsty Fox, forA Toast to Blokes on Mopeds.’
‘Kirsty?’
The crowd was roaring with approval but his rouseabout was a no-show. Thelma caught his eye.Where is she?she mouthed.
Kirsty was nowhere.
Once the last of the prizes was announced, and the raffle ticket was drawn, and Carol had stood on stage and made her big announcement that the community of Clarence were thrilled to be supporting the rescue of a recently discovered war plane, he headed outside.
He checked the stage, which was a washout; all the musicians had claimed their instruments, packed up the electrical gear and scarpered. The stallholders had packed up too, trestle tables and plastic chairs left abandoned on the grass to be sent back to the party hire company in Lismore tomorrow. The plant stall was down to one droopy looking ficus, and the cow in charge of crapping on a numbered patch of grass was looking as miserable as a wet week.
He tried the pub’s front bar, where Will was working the beer tap for a half-dozen regulars. ‘You seen Kirsty?’ he said, then noticedthe woman sitting in the alcove by the bay window nursing a mug of coffee.
‘No, mate. I’ve been in here since the rain began. How’s it going down there in the marquee? Might need to wrap things up before everyone gets flooded in.’
‘Thelma’s on it; they’ll be done in a few minutes. You have a chat to that lady?’
Will looked over to the window seat. ‘No, why?’
Joey leaned over the bar. ‘It’s Kirsty’s mum.’
Will’s eyes widened. ‘Okaaay. Better get on over there, then, mate. Make yourself known; do the schmooze.’
Yeah. He’d better. He ran a hand through his hair to knock out some of the rain gathered there, squared his shoulders, and made his way over.
‘Mrs Fox?’