A novella in 30 chapters

Stingaree Bay: Chapter 3

Three Blokes in a Jam

A stream of cars flowed through the soft summer night. Some with windows down, driver elbows out, bass pumping. Excited laughs and whoops of young men and women. Others serious or weary, focused on the road ahead, anxious to get home. The occasional horn at the lights, impatient or merely boisterous. A squeal of tyres.

In the carpark of the Crocodile & Handbag, Nigel wrestled his double bass, even more unwieldy in its padded bag, into the back of his white Toyota van.

Hugh would have liked to help. Yet he knew from bitter experience to keep well out of Nigel’s way, while he was wrangling The Beast. There were some folk who would not be helped, and his boyfriend was one of them.

Waiting, he ran his hand over the scratched Swift Plumbing logo on the side panel. ‘You know, that doesn’t look anything like a swift …’

Nigel muttered something fortunately inaudible, head and shoulders still in the back of the van. Just as he emerged, Tony was passing by on the way to his car, guitar slung over his shoulder.

‘Good session, guys! Always nice to have the double bass. Keeps the rest of us on track.’

‘Yeah, it was alright, wasn’t it?’ responded Nigel. ‘You’re pretty handy on that guitar, mate.’

Tony laughed, looked pleased. ‘I’d be better if I practised more, but cheers.’

Nigel reflected for a moment. ‘You know what? We could start a band. Play some market gigs, maybe wineries or cafés. You’d be up for that, Hugh, wouldn’t you?’

‘Sure,’ said Hugh, wedging his instrument case in carefully, next to The Beast. ‘If you think I’m good enough.’

‘Yeah, I reckon. You’re coming along nicely.’

Hugh had only taken up the banjo two years previously, with Nigel’s encouragement.

‘Not a bad idea at that …’ responded Tony. ‘We’d need a singer, though. You know what it’s like, just playing instrumental stuff. Punters treat you like musical wallpaper.’

‘Ha! You’re not wrong,’ agreed Nigel.

‘So, it’s a pity none of us can sing for shit, then,’ observed Hugh.

The other two nodded ruefully. Then Nigel had a thought: ‘My ex can sing. And she plays mando.’

‘Yeah, Loz has got a great voice,’ agreed Hugh. ‘Her mate, Anna, who runs the Portree Café, she plays fiddle.’

‘Anna Morton?’ chipped in Tony. ‘More like classical violin, I thought. Used to play professionally. Heard her a few months ago, down at Cliffton. Stunning.’

‘Oh, Anna’s not proud — she’ll play a bit of bluegrass or folk, too,’ said Nigel. ‘We used to jam for hours, round the kitchen table. Nice lady.’

‘And you’re on good terms with your ex-missus?’

‘Oh — yeah, we get on better now than when we were married,’ said Nigel. ‘Should have got divorced earlier. It might have saved our marriage.’

This with a reassuring wink at Hugh.

‘Ha! See if you can talk them into playing with us grumpy old blokes, then?’ suggested Tony.

‘Might be worth a go. Tell you what: I’ll sound her out. If she’s up for it, I’ll let you know. We’ll organise something. Right?’

‘Great! Well, fingers crossed, eh? Night, fellas …’

Work was busy; a week passed before Nigel had time to drop round to see his ex-wife.

The passion between them, fierce enough in its early years, had faded long before the marriage was dissolved in an amicable, low-key divorce four years hence. It had been a pleasant surprise to each of them — and astonishing to their friends — to discover that their friendship had outlived their marriage.

It helped greatly that Loz and Hugh got on so well. A new woman in Nigel’s life might have been harder for her to accept.

Then, too, Loz often needed Nigel’s practical assistance with jobs around the farm. He was pleased to have a concrete pretext to see her, and she him, he thought.

Still, this might be stretching the friendship.

Elbows on table, Nigel regarded Loz over the rim of his tea mug.

‘So I was wondering … we were wondering …’ he faltered.

It was one thing to talk about this with your mates after a good jam and a couple of beers, but in the cold light of day, in your ex-wife’s kitchen, which used to be your kitchen …

‘Yes?’

‘Whether you’d be up for playing in this band with us.’

‘Me in a band … with my ex-husband and his boyfriend. What could possibly go wrong?’

‘Ah, yes. Well, when you put it like that …’

Loz’s poker face crumpled into a grin. ‘Just winding you up, you daft bastard. I think it’s a great idea. Yeah, I’d love to.’

‘You would?’

‘Anna’s been nagging me to start playing again, and this’ll give me the motivation.’

‘Speaking of Anna …’

‘Oh, so you want Anna in the band, too?’

‘Ah … yes. If you think?’

‘Course I think! She’ll jump at the chance.’ Loz glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Lunch service will be over in about ten minutes. I’ll give her a call then. In the meantime, tell me more about this Tony Florentino.’

‘Fioretta. I think you’ve met him? Medium height, dark hair. Not bad looking, I guess.’

‘Not ringing any bells.’

‘Ah, well … He’s round about our age, I would say, maybe a few years older. Good bloke. A bit serious, until you get to know him. Just taken early retirement and … I think he’s got a bit too much time on his hands. Wife’s something high-powered, away a lot on business.’

‘Right. He sounds alright, in theory. But can he play?’

‘Yeah, he’s a good bluegrass guitar player.’

‘Does he do drugs?’

‘Nope. Not that I know of.’

‘So I assume he drinks to excess …’

‘No. He’ll have a couple of beers, that’s it. Definitely not a pisshead. I’ve never seen him drunk, now that I think of it.’

‘Sounds okay, then. Better than half your mates, any road.’

Thank you for reading! Next week in Stingaree Bay:

Chapter 4: A Band is Born

What’s in a name?

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