Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Errant Husband (Episode 7)

 

Episode 7 – Windy Weather and Warner Brothers

 

Having peered through its lens on many an occasion, I was an adherent to the belief that hindsight vision is always 20/20. My conscience and good nature forced me to choose the smallest and cheapest rental car available. I had reasoned that the MG 3 – or similar – would be saving my client a few bucks. But now, with the winds intensifying, mercilessly buffeting the vehicle from one side of the road to the other, I was certain that I had not made the wisest of choices. And not for the first time, I reflected grimly. I was getting what I paid for, or in this case, what my client was paying for.

 

 

Then, when I spied the lights of Port Douglas through the unnaturally early gloom, I was relieved. I suspected that it would be both the first and last time that this town would make me feel this way. The first order of business was to find a bar in which I could consume a comforting shot of Jameson. But this would not be as easy as it sounded, given that many establishments had already put up the shutters for the evening. And this was supposed to be a tourist town. After putting the vehicle to bed for the night, I girded myself against the cyclonic wind gusts billowing down the main street.

 

Very few souls were about. But the Central Hotel was open, a beacon of light amid the dimness, and I approached it as lustily and greedily as a parched man might a desert oasis. Despite the weather outside not being conducive to sunbathing, the pub smelled of suntan lotion and Rexona. The first drop of nectar was savoured, and I swirled its goodness in my mouth before swallowing. I scrolled through the pictorial substantiation I had collected on my phone. I sent the photographs to my client. I was half way through my second Jameson when she replied with words of gratitude and a word of warning. “Thank you, Swifty. This is just the evidence I needed. I have already sent through the pics to my husband and asked for a divorce. He isn’t happy. Be careful!” This was not ideal, although surely Max McDonald had no way of knowing that it was me who was the surreptitious snapper? Surely?

 

 

History has proven that after a certain amount of Irish whiskey I tend to do or say things that complete sobriety would strongly warn me against. Text messaging my old girlfriend Laura was a case in point. We hadn’t quarrelled or fought; she had merely made it clear that she wasn’t yet ready to commit. And tonight she again ended the pleasant but brief exchange with the words “I still need more time…” For minutes, these words jangled through my head like the sad bells of Rhymney until, like a vision, Jess appeared at the door of the pub. I made a show of rubbing my eyes in disbelief, attempting to convey the message that I was most pleased to her. She approached the table. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine,” I said in my best Rick Blaine voice. She was up for a riposte. “That sure isn’t gin you are drinking. And given there aren’t too many joints open tonight, you weren’t too difficult to find”. She smiled in a way that would soften even the hardest of hearts. “You were looking for me?” I asked, a little incredulous at this turn of events.

 

“We hadn’t really finished our conversation last night before you did a runner”. She was correct. Twenty four hours later it now seemed preposterous that I chose slinking back to my room alone ahead of spending more time with this woman. “I don’t like cane toads,” was the best I could offer. As an excuse it was meek. “You should have stayed, Swifty. There was a toad named ‘Michigan J Frog’ and he won every race.” I laughed for the first time in eons. “That’s a great name for a cane toad. It was a great cartoon, too”. Jess looked at me expectantly, awaiting an explanation. Obviously she was no aficionado of old Warner Brothers cartoons. I invited her to sit. I bought her a drink. And, as the winds swirled and bellowed with a fearful banshee-like howling in the real world outside, inside at our comfortable little table, I began explaining to her the majesty and glory of Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, Tweety and Silvester. And of course, Michigan J Frog, with his top hat and cane, singing “Hello, Ma Baby”. We both laughed long and hard.

 

 

Occasionally I peered over my shoulder, half expecting Laura to appear, admonishing me like a latter day Banquo’s ghost. But she wasn’t there. And anyway, wherever this night was heading, I had long since decided that I had nothing whatsoever to feel guilty about.

 

 

You can read more from Smokie (and also Swifty Taylor) HERE

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