Twelve
Lachlan was standing at the Cattleman’s Bar about four on Saturday afternoon shooting the breeze with Stevo, a mate he only ever saw once or twice a year.
There was nothing fancy about the bar situated within one of the four iconic pavilions of the showgrounds. Looking out on the main drag that led from the admission turnstiles to sideshow alley, it had a cracked concrete floor and a pockmarked wooden slab for elbow resting and beer serving.
There was only one beer on tap, and no chairs.
Nonetheless, sandwiched between the church-run burger stand and the CWA tearooms, the Cattleman was an institution, having served beer to thirsty show goers for over a century.
Not bad for a pub that was only open two days a year.
It was crowded as per usual on the last afternoon of the two-day event. All the livestock had been shown, all the wood had been chopped and all the ribbons had been awarded. It was time to relax and socialise, with what felt like the entire cross-section of rural Australia milling around the bar.
Everyone from jackaroos and jillaroos to farm hands to station owners, from ag experts to machinery and grain reps, from local government pen pushers to cowboys to townies whose businesses formed vital supply chains.
The Cattleman didn’t care where you came from or what you did; it welcomed everybody.
Unlike Stevo, who was cutting loose, Lachlan had been sitting on his second beer for a while. He had to drive home in a bit and for damn sure Thommo would be sitting on the road out of town with his handheld breathalyser.
‘Now that is one fine-looking filly.’
Lachlan turned slightly and looked over his shoulder, almost choking on his mouthful of beer as Rowena, drenched in winter sunshine, sauntered past the open frontage of the pavilion.
Holy shit.
He’d caught a glimpse of her leaving for work this morning in her hospital-issue navy trousers and navy polo shirt, her hair pulled back in that neat ponytail.
She did not look like that now.
She’d changed into jeans and a fire-engine red, long-sleeved t-shirt. It was pushed up to her elbows and hugged her chest to perfection. Gone was the ponytail, her hair swinging free, sliding between her shoulder blades as she looked around, taking in the sights.
She looked like a goddamn walking emergency beacon.
Quickly swallowing the dregs of his beer, he clapped his hat on his head and Stevo on the shoulder. ‘I’m outta here.’
‘Oi,’ Stevo called after him. ‘I saw her first.’
Lachlan, who didn’t stop walking, muttered, ‘No fucking way, buddy.’
He dashed out of the pavilion, catching sight of her easily in the crowds who were determined to enjoy the annual event to the very last second.
This evening the show would culminate in fireworks, and he had no doubt that, whatever the capacity was at right now, it would be double at eight o’clock tonight.
Striding purposefully, dodging prams and escapee kids and people just stopping to chat in the middle of the goddamn concourse, he reached her as quickly as possible, announcing himself as he sidled up. ‘Hey.’
‘Oh.’
She stumbled a little at his sudden appearance and he castigated himself. Smooth. Real smooth.
‘Sorry.’ He slid a steadying hand beneath her elbow. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Where’d you come from?’
Lachlan tipped his head in the direction of the Cattleman. ‘The bar.’
Falling into step beside her, he geared down to a stroll, which was about the speed of the surrounding masses. ‘Reggie said you did the show yesterday?’
Lachlan had made a concerted effort not to crowd her since she’d arrived. She seemed content in the quarters, keeping pretty much to herself, and apart from the odd waved greeting that had passed between them, he’d let her be.
Sure, he’d wanted to drop in and see how she was going, or just chat, but he didn’t want her to think he had some kind of agenda where she was concerned, either.
Because he didn’t.
She’d been adamant about their boundaries and he respected that. Hell, he’d even taken to wearing underwear while playing the bagpipes.
‘I was going to. But Brooke wanted to swap shifts yesterday so she and Nathan could come here last night. So I didn’t finish until nine. Figured I could just as easily come after my early shift today for a gander.’
Lachlan had heard her car drive in at nine-thirty last night but had assumed she’d come from the show, not work.
‘Fancy some company while you gander? I can tell you which stall has the best dagwood dogs and where to find the bull with the biggest balls.’
She laughed. ‘How can a girl resist that kind of offer?’
‘I mean—’ Lachlan grinned. ‘Right?’
‘What’s your favourite part of the show?’ she asked as they weaved through people who continued to mill and clump. ‘Is it the animals? Or the machinery and other farm stuff?’
‘I like all that.’ They passed a dagwood dog stand, the aroma of deep-fried batter tickling Lachlan’s nostrils. ‘It’s a good opportunity to catch up on the latest tech and new innovations all in one place. And who doesn’t like to see the fluffiest chook in the district?’
‘Well, yes.’ She nodded sagely, a smile playing on her mouth. ‘That’s a must.’
‘As is the largest pumpkin.’
Her eyes sparkled with laughter. ‘Absolutely. I couldn’t possibly exist another day without seeing that.’
She was teasing, but he liked it. It hummed through his body like the vibrations from a mechanical shear.
‘My favourite, though, is the woodchop events that happen in the centre ring. I really like the tree felling category where they have to chop all the way up on each side of the trunk. And I’m’—he gave a deprecating shrug—‘rather partial to the Ferris wheel.’
He’d had his first kiss at the top of the Ferris wheel at the Acacia Junction show when he’d been thirteen. It had been kind of inept and, looking back, he felt sorry for Beverly Morey, who’d had to endure his soggy offering.
But he’d never forgotten it.
‘Let me guess,’ Lachlan said, narrowing his eyes at her a little. ‘You’re a sideshow alley fiend, aren’t you?’
She laughed. ‘I am, actually. I love the rides! All the lights and colour and the loud music. And the way people’s screams bounce all around you. I love the Chair-O-Plane, the Zipper, the Hurricane, the Gravitron, the Top Gun.’
‘You like fast, huh?’
‘Oh yes.’ She grinned at him. ‘The faster the better.’
It was fair to say that Lachlan wasn’t a fan of things that went fast. His parents dying in a light plane crash, combined with investigating road accidents, had made him risk averse. On the other hand, he did enjoy belting across a paddock in an ATV, rounding up some sheep.
‘The Ferris wheel goes at a fair clip.’
Laughing again, she shoulder bumped him playfully, and Lachlan couldn’t help but laugh back. He was sure he sounded like a giant wuss. But it took a lot more than that to emasculate a guy who could shear a hundred sheep in a day.
‘I don’t mind a spin or two on the Ferris wheel,’ she said. ‘It’s like a palate cleanser. An adrenaline hiatus between the rides. But I prefer the dodgems for that.’
Lachlan grinned—he was the king of dodgems. ‘Cool. You wanna do that now?’
‘Actually …’ She slowed. ‘I was hoping to see Reggie’s blue ribbons first. I heard she swept the pool.’
‘She did indeed. Poor Madge never stood a chance.’
*
Lachlan led her into the Sir Winston Bleaker pavilion, which had been named after the first mayor of Acacia Junction.
Old Winny had been largely responsible for forming the original agricultural society that had been the driving force behind establishing the showgrounds.
The pavilion had been built many years ago, in time for the second ever show.
It was essentially a posh shed, with a gable roof over a large central space, surrounded on three sides by wide walkways set under a lower skillion roof and divided from the main space by iron poles.
Given its size, this pavilion always hosted the entries from its extensive competition programme.
Everything from arts and crafts to the big fruit and vegetables to the cooking categories were displayed here.
Everything that didn’t involve animals.
And there seemed to be as many people enjoying the offerings inside as there were wandering outside.
Around the edge of the space, under the skillion roof, could be found all the arts and crafts. Painting entries from all age groups were affixed to the walls, as were photographs taken by local amateur enthusiasts, which sat beside exhibits of children’s handwriting.
The side aisles also displayed table after table boasting exquisite examples of hand and machine sewing, embroidery, crochet, knitting, and a host of other crafty enterprises from egg decorating to teddy bears.
Behind them on the walls hung quilts of stunning variety and intricacy, some of which would soon be auctioned off as a fundraiser.
As it was the largest competition category, all the baked and cooked goodies that had been entered were displayed on tables running in vertical rows in the central open section of the pavilion, allowing plenty of room between the tables for people to pass by.
The cooking competition encompassed everything from kids’ chocolate crackles all the way up to wedding cake decorating and everything in between, and was popular with everyone.
As a kid, visiting the pavilions had been low on Lachlan’s list of things to do at the show.
He’d rather have cut dags off sheep all day than be dragged through all the boring stuff for an hour.
As a man, Lachlan appreciated not only the time and effort people put into their entries, but how things like this built and nurtured community while fostering healthy competition.
Or, in Reggie’s case, not so healthy.
They joined the lines snaking around the tables. Plates and plates of coconut ice, fudge, scones, about a dozen different biscuits and cakes as well as the jams and preserves were eagerly inspected by all and sundry and made his stomach growl.