This was our second topic for the year, with 18 stories received. The stories were entertaining and well written, and the winner was Roy Mears, who produced an outstanding piece of work. The prize was presented to him at Barwon Heads Hotel on Tuesday night. We hope you enjoy the story presented on this page.
Alan Cobham
Judges’ comments
We were immediately entranced by the likeable, mischievous Aussie larrikin taking chances, a characteristic that goes with him throughout the story. There are vivid descriptions of our local area and lively, amusing dialogue. We follow the story to its clever, moving conclusion, completing the cycle of chance.
Roy Mears
Ocean Grove author Roy Mears has a strong background in communication, first through membership of a children’s theatre group and now as a trainer in leadership and professional writing. His interest and expertise in short story writing has been recognised in the Peter Carey Short Story Competition, where his entry was highly commended. Roy is now working on a middle grade novel which explores the theme of communication.
Left or right
Robbo always backed the Kombi up the drive, so it was easier to get away in the morning. “No point wasting time. Adventure awaits,” he’d say. “There’s a whole world out there.”
He’d take the fire track behind the town dam. I swear going up the hill, it would’ve been quicker to walk. At the top Robbo would let the Kombi slide, mostly sideways, whooping and yelling, his arms out the window, slapping the door like he was urging on a charging steed.
When we hit the highway he stopped, stared straight ahead and asked, “Left or right?”
Before I could get a word out, Robbo would take off. “Too late! My call. Missed your chance.” He was that kind of guy. I didn’t mind, only ever made a pretence of protesting before pushing in the eight-track and winding up the volume.
Left and we headed east, back through the tourist towns, Anglesea, Torquay, sometimes as far as Geelong. We never stopped in town, except to pick up supplies. In those days you had to bush bash to get to Bells. There were plenty of camping spots, if you were prepared to take a chance on a random track in the scrub.
Tied an old tarp off the roof racks and pegged it out for a crude tent. Fixed the tears with gaffa tape. Mostly kept the rain out. Sometimes we had to squat. We copped a spray when they found us in the lifesaving club at Lonnie. Wanted to know where we got the beer. Chased us right across the quarry.
One day at Eastern Beach was a scorcher, sun was blazing. Even the blowies took the day off. Middle of the day, everyone in the water, Robbo spots the old playground slide, goes galloping up the ladder and screeching down the metal slide. Dry as a dead dingo’s donger. Tore the seat clean out of his togs. Raced through the crowd into the water to cool off, bare backside and all. Never laughed so much in my life.
If we went right, we headed west along the coast, but not before the tail end of the summer when the crowds would have gone. We would find a spot to stash the Kombi in the bush and hike to where a small creek emptied onto the beach. Had it all to ourselves. We fished, sucked on a longneck, and skipped half-naked and half-cut into the surf.
Then we’d build a bonfire. Robbo would find a hollow log, trim both ends with his trusty Husqvarna, build up a solid base of glowing coals, then upend the log on top. Before long, smoke would be pouring out of his makeshift chimney, the inside would catch alight, and heat would pump out in all directions. Kept us warm all night.
Sometimes, Robbo misjudged how long to cut it, would rip the chainsaw into action and, fully loaded, stumble around the fire, trip over himself and still cut a perfectly flat circle, neater than if he’d been working the machines at the mill.
Last trip we both ended up hoeing into the Big Brekkie, three kinds of burnt sausage, bacon, tomatoes, baked beans, and a couple of fried eggs with lashings of tomato sauce in the old pub at Skenes Creek. Halfway through, Robbo excused himself and headed to the loo. I’d never known him to do that before. He usually mopped up any remaining yolk and sauce with his last
bit of toast.
When he sat back down, he leant on the table too hard, bumped his cup, snatched at it, and threw the coffee all over me.
“Jeez, mate, you okay?”
“Yeah, mate. Just a bit tired.”
We sat in silence.
“Bit crook.” Robbo lifted his head, looked me square in the eyes. “A lot crook actually.”
I waited.
“Even went to the doc. Reckons I need an op. Supposed to go in last week. But I’ll take me chances. Always have.”
I should have said something at the time. Now here I am. Back with Robbo for what is nearly a half century of road trips together. Back in the Kombi. Except this time, I’m driving and Robbo’s in the passenger seat. In the urn.
When I reach the highway I need to rest my head on the wheel, take a couple of deep breaths. I don’t know what to say, which way to turn. “Which way, mate? Left or right?”
