A novella in 30 chapters

Stingaree Bay: Chapter 10

Trouble on the Way

‘We’ve got a market gig!’ announced Loz proudly at the start of practice. ‘Third Saturday morning in February. If everyone can make it?’

Everyone could. But where?

‘River End Farmers Market. The manager is a mate of mine, he says it will be nice to have something different. It’s only a small market. A nice, gentle start to performing together.’

‘Marvellous! But … you sure we’re ready for a gig?’ wondered Anna. ‘This is only our third practice. It’s short notice …’

‘We’ve got three more practices till then,’ Loz pointed out. ‘Anyway, it’s only busking. Not like it’s a paid performance, or anything. More like practising in public.’

In the end, Anna went with the flow, although she didn’t seem too happy about it.

The next question was what tunes to play. Loz thought that there should be two setlists of eight tunes, each set to be played twice. ‘Remember, none of the punters are going to be there for the whole market.’

The first setlist came together easily, but for the second, they struggled. Loz and Nigel argued for a more eclectic approach. Again, Anna wasn’t keen.

‘Bad Moon Rising is not a bluegrass tune,’ she objected. ‘It just isn’t.’

‘But it’s a crowd pleaser,’ persisted Loz. ‘Remember, this is a market gig. They’re not bluegrass fans, necessarily. They don’t care. We could grass it up a bit, too. A fiddle break, maybe?’

‘Do not attempt to bribe me with fiddle breaks, lady. And “grass it up” is not a thing.’

‘Where’s your sense of adventure, sweetie?’

‘It extends as far as Clinch Mountain Backstep and Cherokee Shuffle, and no further.’

‘Come on, darl. Be a sport!’

Anna considered. Loz was right: this was just a market gig, and a free one at that: no fee, just whatever tips they could get for busking. There was no point in being a purist, under the circumstances.

‘Oh, all right, then …’

Ten minutes and three attempts later, the Pickin’ Chickens lapsed into bemused silence.

‘I think it’s still lacking something,’ pondered Tony.

‘Any sort of musical merit?’ suggested Anna.

‘What about if we played it in three-four time, as a slow waltz?’ suggested Nigel, and could not be dissuaded from singing what he had in mind.

‘Ouch. Some things can’t be unheard, mate,’ offered Tony helpfully in the ensuing silence.

‘The thing about a crowd pleaser, hun,’ Loz pointed out, ‘is that it’s a song that the audience knows and loves. Not something completely unrecognisable which happens to have the same words.’

‘I’ve never been so insulted,’ Nigel huffed theatrically.

‘Then you probably don’t get out enough,’ said Hugh. ‘Let’s take a drinks break.’

‘Bloody good idea!’

They put down their instruments, retrieved their glasses and stubbies from the table, and filed out onto the terrace. Night had fallen and the three-quarter moon, bad or otherwise, had indeed a-risen. A gentle breeze stirred the casuarinas, silhouetted in silver.

‘Lovely evening.’

‘Sure is. Though the forecast was for storms.’

‘BoM gets it wrong again.’

‘So it would seem.’

Desultory chatter and laughter followed: good friends easy in each other’s company. The ten-minute break became half an hour.

‘Looking a bit interesting over there to the north, but.’ Tony pointed to an impenetrable black wall advancing over the Bay, suddenly blotting out the three peaks of Wurdi Youang. A silent slash of light split the cloud from top to bottom.

‘Ferk!’

‘Ferk is right. Look at this.’ Tony handed Loz his phone. The BoM radar showed a thick mottled band of blue, green and yellow scything southward, spattered with red blobs, some centred with black. A textbook line squall with intense thunderstorms embedded in the vanguard, likely hailstorms.

Loz clapped her hands to her face. ‘My tomatoes!’

There was nothing to be done, other than hope for the best. Loz was distracted, and after a few half-hearted numbers, she called time on the rehearsal. The band members packed up and said their goodbyes. Loz watched the taillights disappearing up the long driveway to the main road.

The first storms tracked to the east, over Portree. With any luck, the rest would too. Sophie handed her a mug of cocoa. The three of them sat and watched the northern horizon for a while, then Sophie and Cris said goodnight.

There was nothing else to be done, Loz decided. Might as well try to get some sleep.

She drifted off into fitful unconsciousness about one o’clock. To be woken at four by an enormous detonation of thunder overhead.

Thank you for reading! Next week in Stingaree Bay:

Chapter 11: Green Tomatoes

Loz and her team survey the damage after the storm.

All chapters of Stingaree Bay will appear in this list when published.