~~~~~~,~’~~~~~.~’~~80>

Solway called Tony Herbet at approximately eight thirty a.m.

He did not answer on the first ring, or the third ring, but rather on the seventh or ninth ring. Just long enough for Solway to wonder why he was not physically attached to his phone like everyone else in the modern day world seemed to be.

He also did not answer phones politely.

‘What,’ came the smokey, bourbon-soaked voice from the other end of the phone.

‘It’s Solway,’

‘Good for you.’ He sounded shifty.

‘Solway Endersans. We were in the swim team together.’

‘What year?’

‘There was only one year that mattered, you daft bastard.’

‘Okay good. That’s me, then. Who are you?’ Something clicked and a long slow breath hushed into her ear.

‘It’s… Oh for fucks sake, Tony. Do you do whatever it is you do, still, or not.’

‘That does not make any sense to me, and I don’t know what you’re talking about, and, I have to say I presently am doing things in a very dressed up way for the meaning of life in various countries so do not ask why I am dreaming this up as I go along.’

‘Are you drunk?’ Solway tried to wipe the grin from her face but was not succeeding.

‘Not at the moment, which I am not happy about, but I should be. What time is it?’

‘It’s eight thirty.’

‘Well, there goes that appointment. To what do I owe the pleasure, Solway?’

‘You could have started with that, for one. What are you doing today, Tony?’

‘Is this a trick question and do I need to call my lawyer?’

‘No, to both of them.’

‘Then I am probably free.’ 

‘Fabulous. Do you still fly?’

‘Yes.’ A sound like papers being shuffled echoed down the line. ‘Light planes only, nowadays, and it’s a very expensive pastime and I usually take clients for that very reason. As you can probably tell, I have lost about ten thousand dollars already today, but I do have a tank full of fuel so I may as well blow it on whatever hairbrained scheme you are going to start trying to sell to me. Annnnnd, go.’

‘My boyfriend is stranded in the middle of nowhere.’ Solway crossed her fingers.

‘That seems a very good reason for me to be flying today.’

‘I’m glad you think so. There are no airstrips nearby. Well, not where I left him anyway.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘My point?’ Solway pursed her lips. ‘I just need to know if the area has been flooded or not, and if perhaps you could spot him for me.’

‘No problem. I think. Do you have the coordinates?’

‘No.’

‘Not helpful, Solway.’

‘I can show you the aerial map though, and I can give you road names, which is obviously not going to help much, considering you’re flying.’

‘You would be amazed at what I can do when given the opportunity. I can work with that. Are you coming to me, or do I need to come to you?’

‘Whereabouts do you live now?’

Things seemed to be looking up today, Solway thought. Tony only lived about twenty minutes away, although he had requested forty-five to get to her, which, in Solway’s head, was cutting into the time she should be spending with Hans getting a suitable four-wheel-drive, and the right type of air-compressor. She sighed.

Sometimes, she decided, she should possibly rely on other people to be able to think for themselves. Hans had already proven that to her early this morning when he had made her a perfect cup of coffee, and two pieces of toast that were not in the slightest bit burnt.

Definitely looking up, that’s for sure.

11/ Slopes

There is only so much one can do when camping on the side of a hill. The first thing one usually finds out is there are no flat surfaces.

Bart wondered how he had not found this out sooner. He admitted to himself that, when he had put the swag under the only wattle bush on this slope – which was possibly a lie, but he knew what wattle bushes were like by now and had decided to grow fond of them, he’d put it (the swag) facing up/down and had realised at some point during the night (when he had not thought he was a possum) his head was likely facing in the wrong direction. It had not occurred to him to turn the swag around – just himself, which hadn’t been comfortable, as the swag was definitely not built for that.

So, with great aplomb and little else, he looked around for somewhere better to put the swag.

The sun peeked through the clouds at him every now and again, just for fun, but it did not rain again. Unfortunately, because the weather seemed to be at that time of year where it hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet, it had now become decidedly humid, and Bart, standing in the middle of a clearing by the side of a track, for the first time in a very long time, was contemplating removing his shirt.

This was not a choice he’d be making lightly, although the removal of said shirt would likely result in the word “lightly” having a completely different meaning.

‘I wonder what colour of floury or pasty I will be,’ he wondered, for he did not usually look at himself too much when having a shower, and had not considered what exposing certain parts of himself to sunlight might mean. That he’d never been described by anyone as floury or pasty (because they didn’t know what it meant) did not enter the equation.

Then, he wondered, if he did expose himself to the elements, if someone would turn up just as he was removing his shirt and think they had come across some kind of bushman peep show, because that might actually happen, and he was slightly concerned by that.

And then he wondered, if he was going to consider doing any filming at all, because he had actually been thinking about using his time wisely this morning, if waltzing around pale and shirtless like Gollum from Lord of the Rings would send the right message to people who wanted to go camping.

The answer to that was possibly not. Bart looked at the rest of the clothes he had packed. One t-shirt faded orange, two fleecy long sleeves too hot, one…

‘Bugger me,’ he said as he pulled the existing long sleeve over his head to put on the tee.

No one turned up. It was quite a let down. Orange had never been his colour, so he put it down to that.

Now, he thought to himself, scratching himself under the chin, I could either have a shave or I could set up the camp table on the least slopey-slope bit here somewhere, or perhaps get the shovel and see if I can dig one side of the table into the dirt a bit, and okay I’ll do that because I’m getting rather peckish, but first I need to water some shrubbery.

He rubbed his hands together and grinned. If he was lucky he might occupy himself for the entire morning and never even know how much time had passed although passing something right now would probably be a very good idea.

Off he wandered into the bush.

 He didn’t get lost once.

After Bart had set up the table, made himself a lovely cup of tea, and eaten a couple of boiled eggs (which had taken far too long to cook, in his humble opinion) he wandered down to the closest puddle, avoided looking for that fairy wren’s feather, and decided to check out his own reflection to see if he had become any more handsome in the last twenty-four hours.

He definitely needed to brush his hair. His mother would have admonished him severely by now and called him Mr Fluffy because Jesus Christ, what the hell had he done to deserve this? The bags under his eyes and the wildness of his, still-short-enough, beard were not going to get him on the front page of any magazines soon, that’s for sure.

Sunglasses. That’s what he needed. And a plastic surgeon, but he wouldn’t find one of those around here, and possibly a barber who had an excessive amount of hair gel available at half price, because that was gonna be the only thing that could fix his hair, and …

Sunglasses and a hat. His floppy hat, which had so kindly protected him from the elements, had been lost the previous day under circumstances his tired old brain no longer wished to think about. Therefore (and here he grinned, remembering a childhood maths teacher) he would have to see if Solway had left one of her many peaked caps in the fourby.

He also wondered, and not for the first time apparently, whether it might be a good time to have a shave, as having whiskery bits in humid weather could be extremely uncomfortable and he might get a rash, and nobody wanted that, least of all him, so if he was particularly lucky (not something he considered himself to be under the current circumstances) he might find a razor that perhaps, just perhaps, Solway had left behind, because that woman seemed to shave her legs under very strange conditions sometimes  and who knew, perhaps his luck would change, at least for today.

‘Right then.’ Bart stood up, didn’t trip over anything, and began to sort himself out.

He only questioned himself once or twice over the next four hours as to why he was so concerned about his appearance, but then reminded himself if he really did want to take some good footage, he should probably look a little bit professional, for a change.