Sugar Town

by Robert Nicholls

  “And he’s with Amalthea now?” Bridie asked, drawing me to a halt.

  “Yes, he’s with her now! I had to leave him there! Look!” I scrambled for my phone to show her Kevin’s text. “Kevin was worried about you! I was worried about you! We didn’t know where you were! And you know how Asael gets if he sniffs trouble! And anyhow, Amalthea only had the one bike! So I left him. She was happy; he was happy! What’s the problem?”

  “I want him home.”

  “Fine!” I told her. “No problem!” I told her. “I’ll go straight away and get his precious self away from the wicked witch!” To which she replied that we’d go together. And so we did, her walking stiffly, me free-wheeling beside her on Amalthea’s bike.

  Small towns aren’t made for lingering in and, what with the festival being all but done, most people had already drifted homewards. There were people who hailed us, but all they wanted to talk about was the crash of the Moth and my rescuing Johnathon and, as the story had gone around, Bridie’s fearless, hands-in-the-air defiance of seemingly imminent death.

  “Big Fella in the sky got a soft spot for you, girl!”

  “I reckon! Lettin’ ‘er order up miracles, by the look!”

  “Kee-riste, woman! There’s folks sayin’ it was you kept that Moth up there! Saved the whole she-bang of us! Lemme feel your muscle!”

  A couple of men in front of the pub touched the brims of their caps and stepped aside. “Miz McFarlane,” one of them said in greeting. I looked back and saw them watching, though I figured it was her ass they were looking at rather than her halo. She was fully embarrassed, but I could see she was enjoying herself a little bit too.

  “Have you got any idea how much respect people have for you?” I asked.

  “It’s not me. They’re remembering the Reverend, is all. He was a much greater force for good in Sugar Town than you give him credit for, you know! As I’m sure he still is . . . where he is. Despite . . .” and this was a concession to me, I knew, “despite what appearances may suggest.”

  “Yeah. Super Rev’, I’m sure! But he still went away, didn’t he? Hey!” I had a sudden flash of inspiration. “You know how Frieda told you nobody blames you? Do you reckon people think he went away because of us? That if it wasn’t for us, he’d still be here, preaching up a storm?”

  That connection actually took both of us by surprise. We fell quiet for several minutes. Then I said, “Too bad you didn’t get to see Bessie! I bet she could have put our minds to rest on the whole question!”

  And that was why, as we rolled past the entrance to the Showground, Bridie decided we should have a quick look . . . just on the off-chance that Bessie hadn’t joined the instant exodus of Showies.

  Chapter 9 – Bandini and Johanson

  A small crane from the sugar mill was already shifting the burnt out remains of the Tiger Moth and, in the vicinity of the gate, the smell of pumpkin still lingered. At first glance, that was all that lingered. The tents, the wagons, the spruikers, the power cables, the jury-rigged lights were all gone. Only a lone black dog was left, wandering along the sawdust-strewn paths, sniffing out the discarded ends of dagwood dog’s and hamburgers.

  I’m sure Bridie was relieved. She stopped at the gate, looked and gave me a shrug. Oh well! On the verge of turning back, though, my eye was caught by a movement, far down the lolly drop paddock. It could have been another dog, but it would have to have been one with a tail that looked like an arm! Because it was an arm! Someone was lying out there, flat on the grass, pointing or waving at the sky!

  My immediate, if highly unlikely thought, was that some poor lolly-bombed soul had been overlooked and forgotten, left for a night and day to lie, wounded and helpless. Dorrie, taking a last weary glance from her ambulance, across the darkening paddock: ‘That’s the last of ‘em, I guess! Me for home!’

  The arm went down, bobbed up briefly and went down again. Bridie and I approached slowly. It could be someone in need of help. But it could also be lovers, enjoying a bit of private sugar in the grass. In the event, it was neither. It was two old men, lying side by side, hands now folded on their chests, chatting softly as they gazed into the air. Next to one was a laptop computer, open, its screen filled with a reflection of the lowering sun.

  “Well well!” said the computer owner happily as Bridie and I hove into their circle of awareness. He levered himself into a sitting position and, “Well, well, well!” he repeated. “The people you don’t meet when the party’s finished!”

  The second man was also struggling to rise, a laborious, wincing exercise that eventually had him vertical in front of us. He was a foot shorter than Bridie, inches shorter than me, with a Santa Claus build but a clean-shaven face that was shiny red and glowing. Like one of Snow White’s dwarves, I thought; Bashful, judging by his gentle smile and the way he doffed his cap.

  “Forgive me, ladies,” said the seated man, “if I let my friend stand for both of us. I’ve only got so many ‘get-ups’ per day in me and I have to use them sparingly.”

  It was Brian Johanson, owner, editor and chief reporter of the Sugar Town Weekly. The Weekly had three claims to fame: its long-term ownership by the Johanson family, its status as one of the state’s very last independents and its thoroughness. Nothing that happened in Sugar Town escaped being weighed for its newsworthiness by Brian Johanson.

  “Arturo,” he said to his companion, “these lovely young ladies are the very ones we were speaking of! Behold, the Queen of the Harvest Festival, Bridie McFarlane! And the radiant heroine extraordinaire, Ruthie McFarlane!”

  The little man bobbed his head merrily.

  “And that man before you, ladies,” said Brian grandly, “is none other than The Great Bandini! Grand practitioner of prognostication, augury, horoscopy, divination and necromancy.”

  “Retired,” said the man, thrusting out a dry little hand for shaking.

  “Temporarily disengaged,” said Brian.

  “Permanently superceded,” said the man and only then did the Italian accent register. Pair-man-ently soo-per-see-ded.

  He kissed our hands. I was enchanted.

  “You will call me Arturo,” he declared. “Only Arturo. Issa great honour for me. Such beautiful girls! Dis man . . .,” he gestured toward Brian, “he makes his life wit’ words. But does he tell how byoo-de-fool you are? No! Brave, yes, and wonderful, yes! But byoo-de-fool he forgets!” He shrugged helplessly, holding his hands out in a Papal gesture. “Australian men, eh! D’eir souls are made of dust!”

  We all laughed and Brian said, “It’s a frontier, mate! We need our women tough – not spoiled! You got time to sit, you two?” He patted a patch of grass beside him and Arturo quickly pulled a carefully folded handkerchief from his pocket, to spread on the ground.

  “Please,” he said, gesturing grandly at the little square of cloth.

  “Oh no!” Bridie said. “We don’t want to intrude. You were chatting!”

  “Please,” repeated Arturo. “Two old men! What we got to talk about, eh? But wit’ byoo-de-fool girls, da world is new again. Please!”

  That was enough for me. I plopped myself straight down on his hanky and even my scrawny butt made it disappear entirely. The moment I’d seen Brian there, my thoughts had turned to the faded newspaper clippings in my pack. And the fact that every scrap of news that had been reported in Sugar Town in the past thirty and more years, had been written or edited by him. The deaths of Rita and Gramma G, the leaving of the Reverend – even the reduction of the disappearances of Isak and Les Crampton to a sixty word filler – it was all his work! A person looking for historical information, I thought, could do far worse than spend a few minutes chatting with Brian Johanson!

  “Well,” Bridie, hesitated. She really wanted to get on and check on Asael.

  “Just for a few minutes, Bri’?” I pleaded. “Just to say hi?”

  “Ahh, now, there you go!” crowed Brian. “You see? The Great Bandini still has the gift!”

  �
��Da gift of da popcorn,” Arturo beamed. “Only dis.” And to Bridie’s frowned question he explained, “Once, yes. For Bandini, dere was more. T’ings dat hide . . . Bandini could see. But Bandini don’ look no more. Now, only da popcorn. Bes’ popcorn for da peoples! Always fresh. Real butter. Not too much salt. For keeping da arteries good in byoo-de-fool girls, yes? You tried? I don’t t’ink so, eh? I would remember. But nex’ year, nex’ festival, you come see Arturo, eh? Not even heroes – not even Queens should miss da popcorn!”

  “You travel with the Show, Mr Bandini? Are you one of the Showies?”

  He wagged his head in affirmation. “I travel. Sometimes wit’, sometimes a little behind. Today, a little behind.” He pointed toward the lower end of the grounds and there, blocked from our original view, were two small caravans.

  “Oh!” I said. “Maybe you know Madame Zodiac! She asked for Bridie to come see her but . . . I guess we left it too late. You’d remember her, Mister Johanson. Bessie Crampton?”

  Both men looked at me curiously and Brian nodded slowly.

  “I do remember Bessie. Very well! I must say, though, that I’m surprised you do, Ruthie!”

  “Oh yeah, who could forget? Actually, I spoke to her yesterday! That’s when she said she wanted to see Bridie but . . . well . . . everyone’s gone already!”

  “Mate,” said Brian to Arturo, “I reckon you have your answer!”

  Mister Bandini pointed again at the caravans “One for Bandini, one for Madame Zodiac. For her, I am here . . . popcorn man in empty field, waiting.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry! I . . .!”

  “No, no, no!” Arturo protested, flicking my words away. “Her gift says, ‘Go,’ so she goes. My gift says, ‘Wait,’ so I wait. Da gift is always boss, eh?”

  Brian took up the explanation. “Arturo’s been with the Show for longer than you two’ve been alive. There was a time he would tell your fortune like nobody’s business. There were people all up this coast who wouldn’t step sideways without the Great Bandini’s blessing. But that was way back. Correct me if I’m wrong, mate – but Bessie came to him for a reading one year and he wound up being a disciple instead of the guru. That about right, Arturo?”

  The little man sat, straight as a stick – a very happy stick.

  “Bandini, he sees to here.” He ran a fingertip the length of his hand. “But Bessie, she sees to here!” He ran the finger all the way to his elbow. “Straight away, I know dat! I say to her, ‘Lady, why you ask what you awready know?’ She says, ‘I know, but I don’ wanna believe.’ I say, ‘Want’ don’t fill no buckets, lady. You gotta believe!’” The smile showed signs of slipping as he added, “Sometimes da sight, she’s no easy to have, my friends.”

  Mister Johanson took up the story again.

  “He’s understating the old Bandini charm, of course. When the show left town that year, Bessie left with it. Hung on all the way up the coast, she did, until eventually Arturo figured she meant to stay. Then he stepped aside and Bessie got herself a permanent gig.”

  So that was her excuse for abandoning us? She’d run off to join the circus? Mean-assed little husbands notwithstanding, she sounded so much like the Reverend, I figured they might have been cut from the same bolt of cloth. But the important thing today was that she was still in town.

  “And you’re waiting for her now?” I asked, just to be sure. “She’s still in Sugar Town!”

  Arturo patted my arm and leaned forward, confidentially.

  “Every year, we come t’rough Sugar Town. Every year, Bessie says, ‘Arturo, you go inna tent. Madame Zodiac’s t’roat, she’s not so good.’ Dis year’s different. She says, ‘Arturo, I gotta fix somet’ing here.’ I say. ‘Hey, you gotta fix? Go fix!’ So! Soon somet’ing is fix and she come back. Meantime, I talk to my frien’ da newspaper man and to byoo-de-fool girls. ‘S all good, eh?”

  He shrugged boyishly and Bridie began making diversionary social noises. We’ve missed her so much. Is she well? Is she happy? Has she missed Sugar Town and her friends? Yada yada yada.

  It was all prattle, but I had real business in mind and I set to rummaging in my backpack, looking for the article I wanted.

  “Did you write this, Mister Johanson?” It was the missing persons article about Isak and Les Crampton.

  He took it and scanned it briefly. “Nineteen ninety-eight?” he whistled. “Where’d you find this little titbit?”

  “We’re having a clean-up. Stuff falling out of the cracks. Did you write it?”

  “Mm, I did.” He handed the shard of paper to Arturo, who also scanned it.

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Leslie Barry Crampton. He was Bessie’s husband!”

  “He was. And . . . ?”

  “Well . . . do you know what happened to him? I mean, Isak obviously turned up again! What about Mr Crampton?”

  He looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Mr Crampton did not turn up again, Ruth. For all intents and purposes, he fell off the earth. And before you ask, I can tell you nobody much missed him.”

  Arturo handed the clipping back to me and climbed wearily to his feet. Apparently this wasn’t a conversation that interested him.

  “Why? What do you mean? Because he was a nasty, mean-assed little bastard?”

  “Ruth!” Bridie stammered, scandalised by my whole demeanour, no doubt. But Brian Johanson just laughed.

  “Ha! You’ve been talking to someone who knew him!” He began packing up his laptop, preparing to join Arturo. “Les worked for me as a journo’ for two years,” he said. “I kept him on that long for Bessie’s sake more than anything. But he was just what you called him. And you can throw in ‘lazy’ as well, with a vicious streak a mile wide. I was never gladder to see the back of a man.”

  He waved a hand at Arturo, signalling for help, and the two old men locked hands, using their combined leverage to get Brian to his feet. Bridie and I scrambled up as well and Bridie retrieved Arturo’s handkerchief.

  “I’m so sorry, Mister Bandini!” she began, holding it out to him. “Ruth’s going through some . . . uncertainty these days it seems. I hope she hasn’t upset you?”

  He waved the suggestion away and held out his hand to her.

  “You was brave liddle girl, Bessie says. She got good memories o’ you.” They shook hands briefly and he turned to me. I held out my hand and he bent over it, without touching, studying it from a distance. I felt as though I might be contaminated with something, but then he crinkled his eyes at me, drew some circles in the air and said, “Per favore?”

  I turned my hand and let him look at my palm. Unlike Bessie, he didn’t touch me, just rubbed his jaw and frowned.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “I’ve got trouble coming, right?”

  He pouted, pointed at some invisible markers and made a variety of old-man noises deep in his throat. Then he folded my hand closed and wrapped my fist in both his hands. He squeezed, not uncomfortably, as though willing the fist to stay in place.

  “Trouble’s only trouble if you not prepared,” he said.

  Then he did something to me that no one else has ever done. Still holding my fist in one hand, he made a fist of his own and, with the meaty side, he gave me a couple of speculative thumps on the wishbone. If I’d actually had boobs, he’d have been tapping me directly between them. It was such an intimate gesture that Bridie’s tension reflex made her gasp aloud. Strangely, though, I didn’t find it the least bit alarming. Confusing, yes; alarming, no. He gave me my fist back, put his own hands in his pockets and squinted narrowly.

  “You gonna surprise some people,” he said, chuckling happily and turning away.

  Mister Johanson, who’d busied himself with slapping grass clippings from his bum and organising his laptop, spoke to Bridie then.

  “Haven’t had anything in the paper from the Reverend lately, Bridie! You be sure to share, won’t you!” And to me, he said, “Bandini says it’s so, Ruth, so it must be tr
ue. You’re going to surprise. Just remember, there’re folks who need to be protected and folks who need to be protected against. And it’s seldom easy to tell ‘em apart!”

  Be protected against? Blank looks seemed to be becoming my standard default expression. Arturo, who had been watching the exchange, caught my eye and winked.

  “When Bessie come back, I tell her you was here, eh? Now me ‘n’ my big-shot newspaper frien’, we goin’ for nice cuppa tea, talk about nice headlines he gonna write for Miss Harvest Festival Queen Bridie.”

  The two old men waddled away, arm in arm, toward the distant caravans and Bridie and I started back toward the road and Amalthea’s house to collect our little brother.

  “She’ll be with Kevin, at the bakery,” I said as we left the grounds. “Bessie! I’d put money on it!”

  Bridie didn’t answer.

  “You going to go see her?”

  “Later, Ruth. We’ll talk about it later.”

  I absolutely knew that to be true. Mister Johanson’s comments about Les Crampton had finally clarified for me a series of possible connections – between a nasty vicious man, a terrible deed done to Bridie and some kind of justice dealt to the man, resulting in him going missing but not being missed. And though Rita’s ghost had identified Isak as being the key, I now had Bessie being the lock into which the key might fit. The details were surely in her keeping.

  Mister Johanson had also spoken of people who needed to be protected. I thought of Bridie and also of Isak, sedated and suppressed under Doctor Dabney’s care. But who were the people to be protected against? Doctor Dabney himself? Bessie, who’d come back into our lives for her own secret reasons? Or what about me? Pressing Bridie to find memories that might only do her harm in the long run! Strange to think that that might be the surprise – that I was the most dangerous person in my family!

  These thoughts filled my mind during the fifteen minute walk to Amalthea’s house. I don’t know what thoughts filled Bridie’s mind.