A Long Awaited Visit
Rutherglen and Chiltern
It was Thursday January 21st when I received an electronic telegraph message from my good friend, Ms Lloyd. She was conveying to me that she and my boss from Ironoutlaw.com, Mr Webb, were travelling up Chiltern way the following day, and would I be up for a visit. Again, I was quite beside myself, and promptly replied in the affirmative. Ms Lloyd was keen on seeing my etchings from my little book of verse, Bound for Judgement, but buggered if I knew what Mr Webb was doing up here. I thought him and all those other Melbournites were still incarcerated in the Police Commissioner’s back yard. I must admit, at first I was a little apprehensive about Mr. Webb coming to Chiltern to visit old Al, for a couple of reasons.
The first thing that came to mind was… ‘Is he going to ask me why I haven’t written any more Keep Ya Powder Dry for Australian Ironoutlaw, and what excuse could I come up with’, and secondly, ‘If he’s got that bloody Corony virus thing?’ Not being one to be at all superstitious, I quickly made for the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall, just to make sure that tomorrow wasn’t Friday the 13th. After offering my concerns to my good wife, she reassured me that I shouldn’t be concerned at all; she had heard that the Melbournites had all served their sentence, and had been released back into society on good behaviour after the Keeper of the Melbourne Gaol, Mr. Andrews, raised outstretched arms to the heavens and proclaimed freedom for all. Now feeling quite relieved, I showered and slipped calmly into my new silken black but sheer, Phantom embossed pyjamas, tucked in my Neddy bear, and retired peacefully for the night.
The next morning, with bleary eye and coffee in hand, I made my way slowly out to the area where I would be entertaining my two important guests. After my eyes had finally cleared, I could now see that my entertainment area looked more like poor old Mrs Jones Inn after the siege. As I had been doing a little renovating the previous day, the remnants of the days labour was to be seen uncaringly scattered across the entire area. It took an hour of hard labour clearing the sawn timber, plasterboard, and whatever else it takes to build one lousy bloody wardrobe. With the deck cleared, I could now concentrate on other things, like; what the hell am I going to do to entertain my long awaited guests? My good wife will be at work and I will be left alone to fend for myself. As Ms Lloyd had not given me a time of arrival, I sent off an electronic telegraphic message around 11:00am, to which she responded promptly stating they would be arriving some time after 3:00pm. Great news indeed, I thought, that gives me more than enough time to purchase food and refreshments for such an auspicious occasion. I delved into my old wallet and found I still had a couple of quid left over from my aged pension, and would be more than enough for fine food and refreshments.
I immediately jumped into my old battered utility and headed straight for the local IGA. With basket in hand my eyes keenly browsed the fine selection of treats in the dairy foods cabinet. My enthusiasm started to diminish substantially when my keen eyes and limited funds were not enough to match the not so keen prices of the exotic items I had in mind. I was looking at imported pate, Arctic salmon, artichoke hearts, and all that other fancy stuff. Keeping in mind what I needed for refreshments, my wallet would only allow me just enough for a small block of crumbly cheese. Not to be deterred by my ever shrinking budget, I thought maybe I could get away with crumbly cheese on Jatz crackers. The thought of serving up exotic foods to my guests soon disappeared as did the couple of quid I had in my wallet. With my crumbly cheese and Jatz in basket, my next stop was the liquor department, and to peruse the fine wines displayed in all their majestic glory. I chose a fine white for Ms Lloyd for under ten bob, and a top shelf red for myself for the same amount. As Mr Webb was from Melbourne and only drank fancy beer, I chose a six pack of that imported stuff from Mexico called Corona, not realising the poor bugger had been locked up in Melbourne for something to do with the same name. Quickly forgetting about his extended incarceration, and the remains of my paltry pension spent, I returned to make ready for the arrival of my important guests.
Tidying myself up, and donning my only pair of tired overalls, I could now hear the old Grandfather clock striking three. After carefully preparing my platter of crumbly cheese and Jatz crackers, I left it on the kitchen bench and headed for the letterbox to wait anxiously for Ms Lloyd and Mr Webb. The afternoon was starting to heat up and I could feel the sun’s rays biting through my singlet. It seemed only seconds had passed when I heard someone shouting and shaking me … Alan, are you okay mate! Wake up! Wake up! When I looked up, it was my old mate Bruno from next door. He had just finished bottling up his 100 proof whiskey and happened to see me sprawled across the front picket fence near the letterbox. Seeing I had passed out and was severely dehydrated, he quickly returned with a small drop of his home made fire water. The contents of the glass soon brought me to my senses and I asked him for the time. ‘It’s five past four mate’ he says. On hearing the time my old head dropped. I immediately thought my guests had known of my skills in entertaining and had decided to give old Al a miss. I felt gutted, cursing to myself I walked slowly back to my lonely chair on the back verandah.
It was now approaching 5 o’clock and the temperature had quickly soared to around 38 degrees. The fancy cold beer I had bought for Mr Webb was now too much of a temptation, and to spite Mr Webb, I decided to drink all of that bloody fancy beer. I had just finished draining the fifth bottle when who should appear from around the corner of the house but non other than Mr Webb himself, with a smile bigger than his wallet, followed closely by Ms Lloyd. ‘How the hell are ya mate he cries, come and give ol’ Brad a hug.’ I gave him a half hearted hug and greeted Ms Lloyd graciously, all the while hoping Mr Webb wasn’t feeling all that thirsty. With only one of his beers remaining, I was prepared to take the gamble. Ms Lloyd, as usual, was dressed appropriately, but Mr Webb looked like he had just stepped off of one of those bloody cruise ships, which made me even more anxious. Who the hell wears Hawaiian shirts, Bermuda shorts and sandals in Kelly country? The second part of my premonition was about to come true. ‘When are you going to write some more Keep Ya Powder Dry, Al?’ says he. Sweating profusely, I quickly seated my guests, and offered Ms Lloyd a fine white wine which she gratefully accepted. I then turned to Mr Webb, praying to the almighty he would refuse my offer of the last remaining beer I had purchased for him, which to my great relief he did. I thought all was going well until I returned to the kitchen to pour Ms Lloyd her glass of wine. As I have never used a glass when drinking wine, I now realised I did not have any of those long stemmed wine glasses but only those that used to contain peanut butter that I had sitting in the cupboard since the 70s. To make matters even worse, I also noticed my fine platter of crumbly cheese crackers had suffered considerably from the extended period of heat, and had now turned into something that resembled a cheese pizza. It was moments like these I wished my good wife were here to rescue me from such situations. I filled the peanut butter glass until a meniscus appeared, and very, very carefully returned to Ms Lloyd. I hoped, by the surprised look on her face, that my glass of fine wine was to her satisfaction.
After settling down with my bottle of fine red, Mr Webb proceeded to tell me that they had been in Rutherglen at that bloody Brad Pitt of the blacksmithing world, Nick Hawtin’s fancy new bakery and coffee lounge Caffeine_n_machine. He continued to tell me it was adorned with vintage motorcycles, old race cars, and all sorts of wondrous things, not to mention the best coffee in the world, but the most delicious bakery items you could every imagine. Now I immediately knew that Nick Hawtins is the bloody reason I passed out on the front fence! How the hell could I compete with that? Filled with coffee, cream buns, and who knows what else, why would my guests want anything to do with my crumbly cheese on crackers, or seemingly now cheese pizza? The talk soon turned to that of Kelly and at last all was at peace with the world. I was in deep conversation with Ms Lloyd on such subject when it was suddenly interrupted with a cackling outburst from Mr Webb. I turned to see what he was going on about, when he started reading aloud my suggestions to the Indigo Shire Council on how to improve the entertainment for the Ned Kelly Weekend some years ago. He was scrolling through that bloody electronic phone of his like a man possessed. I could not work out what would give him so much amusement. What is so funny about running one hundred head of wild horses down the main street of Beechworth herded by wild Bushmen from the high country? My idea of having the Wombat King dressed in full Kelly armour skydiving from a plane at 20,000 feet into a burning replica of Ann Jones Inn in the Police paddocks would have certainly drawn a crowd. If the Wombat King can fire a shotgun into the ground and come up with a bloody gold nugget twice the size of a man’s fist, anything is possible. Such memories brought back a tear to old Al’s eyes. I remember the times at Mrs Grubwinkler’s Riding Academy for Queensland Beginners, my dear tan and grey mare, Mirthic, and our ride to the Golden Horseshoe rodeo in Beechworth, spooking the farmer’s cows while learning to play Aussie Rules in the backyard at Tallangatta, such great memories. I could see by now that Mr Webb might be getting a little dry through all the talk and laughter, so I kindly offered him that last remaining fancy beer of the six I had originally bought for him. The afternoon carried even more great conversation. My good wife had now returned from work and the laughter and chatter continued into the late afternoon. It was a great pleasure to catch up with dear friends after all we have gone through over the last twelve months, and times like these I will cherish into my twilight years. As Mr Webb and Ms Lloyd drove off, I could not help but admire Mr Webb’s new Bentley as it purred off into the distance. I looked up at my old beat up ute, with visions of my cheese pizza set firmly in my mind, and thought to myself, Al, ya better … Keep Ya Powder Dry!
