Gootabunda

By Richard Womack

Gootabunda is a mythical town in the mythical Australian bush. The inhabitants are nearly real, even if their reactions to the daily catastrophes that would flatten a less robust community, are always unusual and mostly ineffective.

When Marta hires an eager, inept unhandy man, she has no premonition that she will soon have rely upon him for her health and safety. Nor, when recovering from the consequences of this error of judgement, that she must then depend upon him and her exotic animals for protection against greedy pre-emptive enemies.

There are sinister forces secretly waging war against her in this comic crime saga, that she must overcome to survive. The action is fast, farcical and facetious !

Even Queen Victoria would have been amused by these struggles of her settlers; less sombre citizens are frequently moved to laughter by their antics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Womack
• Release date: Jun 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458128409

Richard Womack

Richard Womack has had over thirty of his plays broadcast to a long suffering Sydney and a selection published in “Listen Hear!”.His stage credits include “Year Nothing” that won the 2000 Tamworth Dramafest, and his very funny full length farce, “Boys’ Night In".His short science fiction stories have been published in magazines, e-zines and anthologies both in Australia and in the USA. “Emergency” won the Humorous Science Fiction award at AussieCon3, the 57th World Science Fiction Convention in Melbourne in 1999.His apprenticeship to creative writing was years spent evaluating Government reports, which provided an unparallel exposure to farce, fiction and fantasy. He now attempts to create humour with no socially redeeming content.

Book preview

GOOTABUNDA

by

Richard Womack

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Richard Womack

Other titles are coming.

CHAPTER ONE

SATURDAY

Undeclared war is very difficult to fight, especially if you don’t know who your enemy is. Even more so if the first assaults are so subtle that you don’t even know you’re being attacked. In this case the opening salvo came in the bulky form of Mayor Jortley.

Don't you fret little lady. Just pay up and there's nothing to worry about. So said Mayor – call me Bill – Jortley, but not in his civic capacity.

You wish! I'd sooner believe a politician’s promises! Marta Cartwright’s anger enhanced her small stature. That's the third time you've upped them premiums since Ben died.

It’s the times we live in, he said, condescendingly.

This is a sheep station, not a bloody gold mine. Marta had a rasping voice that could blast like a winter gale when she wanted.

But you keep claiming. Jortley attempted to be reasonable.

That's what insurance is for — to claim against.

Only in an absolute emergency.

’Tis an emergency. There's a drought on. Or hadn't you noticed in town?

Jortley straightened his bright tie that was an essential element of his self-imposed uniform and which he fondly believed distracted from his protruding belly, and smiled ingratiatingly at his infuriated client. She would soon give in.

He looked around the cramped room that acted as her office, and spied the visitor’s chair by the window. A harsh lance of summer sun illuminated it and its occupant, a large tabby cat with orange tinted fur, stretched in the warming beam. Jortley roughly tipped this sleeping feline onto the floor and settled himself to wait for his victory.

Careful with Kit Kat, remonstrated Marta, half reaching towards the upset pet that was recovering by stretching itself.

Lazy moggie, declared Jortley. You’d have more money for premiums if you didn’t give free board and lodging to so many useless animals.

Kit Kat isn’t useless. She was a great mouser in her prime. She’s loyal and faithful. She’s entitled to relax a little in her old age. Marta leant down and stroked her old friend, who responded with a contented purr and a leg rubbing. Then, with a disdainful glare at the disturbing human, she stalked outside into the sun, tail erect, her displayed posterior eloquently stating what she thought of him.

I think your business is done, decided Marta. She turned on her heel and followed Kit Kat out into the sun, leaving Jortley in possession of her sparse office, with no one to talk to and no way to win. He followed her out onto the porch, but her short angry back was already halfway to the barn.

Jortley was left no choice. He retired to his big black car, defiantly revved its engine, put the air full on, and attempted to skid his way out of the yard. It was a long way back to town and a wasted morning. He savagely blasted his horn at the nearest group of inoffensive sheep diligently searching for food on the parched plains, and gained some satisfaction from their panicked response. Then had to swerve wildly back onto the dirt driveway as he nearly ended up in that same bleak scrub as the sheep.

Marta, sun browned, wiry and cranky, watched him go with mixed feelings of triumph and apprehension at the possible results of her impetuous action. No insurance meant greater risks, and greater responsibility for her to protect her own, as she had been forced to do, alone, these past dozen years. That meant doing that fencing she’d been putting off for the past decade.

She called Im out of the front shed, where he was busy mixing meal for the next feed. Im, tall and thin and toughish looking under a shock of sun bleached hair, had an air of energy and resourcefulness about him that ignored the heat and the history of numerous past failures.

Im was the local odd job man, and some of his finished jobs looked extremely odd. But he was cheap and willing and local and therefore rarely idle. His only weakness, or at least, the only one he’d admit to, was a passion for shirts. He wore a different one each day depending on his mood. This morning had been nothing special for he sported a designer faded mock check number.

We’ve fencing to do, Marta informed him. Along Critters Creek.

Sheep don’t often wander across that. It’s too steep. Im avoided hard work whenever he could. It’s probably dry now. They won’t even go to drink.

But they do sometimes, persisted Marta. An’ the JK’s on the other side. An’ I don’t trust Jasper Kross.

Im shrugged. He was not paid to analyze the likes, dislikes and whims of station owners, just to do what he was told. Often in ways that they had not anticipated!

It took the best part of the rest of the morning to load the flat tray back of the ute, mainly because Im grabbed everything that might come in handy and stowed it randomly, favoring quantity over quality, while Marta tried to keep track of the mounting pile of equipment and things; discarding the unwanted and trying to remember the omitted.

So it was in the full blast of the midday heat that they set out across the expanse of the property in the four wheel drive ute, tracing the dirt track to Red Snake Gully. Dried out grasses, closely cropped by hungry sheep, struggled to survive in the hot brown landscape. This dusty beige extended from the low imitation of hills to their left to the gaunt march of coolabahs, a wind break that angled away to the right. A vast, hot, desolate picture, patiently waiting to be transformed by the summer rains.

Marta was fretting at the lost time, and charged at the spur rail line that split her farm. A narrow tunnel had been squeezed under the rail as a sewer to help drainage, and then had been built up to stop the railway lines sagging over the natural, occasional, watercourse. It had been widened at the insistence of Ben, Marta's father, to give access to the eastern corner of the property.

Can we get through there? Im asked anxiously, as they hurtled towards the small dark opening.

Do it all the time. At least six inches to spare above, snorted Marta, as they plunged rapidly at the black hole. I checked. We didn’t pack anything higher than the cabin roof.

I did, remembered Im. The last thing. I put in a bigger axe. It had its handle stuck up and I . . . There was a remote crash from the rear as they dived under the railway. But we probably won’t need it.

Marta now angled across the paddock to the stand of trees that marked the beginning of Red Snake Gully and the stream along her southern boundary. She pulled the ute into the last remnant of shade at the top of the slope. Below them, the dribble of water that was Critters Creek explored the rocky path that started out across the plain.

You unload, Marta directed. We'll grab a bite afore we do the fencing.

She grabbed the essentials and angled down the slope. At the bottom was an ample selection of dried dead wood, flotsam from the last time the creek had lived up to its name. She selected a flattish spot on the far bank and began to build a fire, then filled the billy and set it to capture the beginning heat.

That underway, she returned to help Im, who had one bale of wire out of the ute and down to the stream, and was struggling with the first of the star pickets. The footing down the steep bank was precarious and Im was making heavy weather of it.

Don’t treat ‘em like china, snapped Marta. They’re tough. Throw ‘em around. She unshipped a coil of wire, set it on its side, kicked it, and watched it roll down to the creek. Then she followed it down the incline with the tucker box and the undamaged axe.

But I want to pile them properly down there so that . . .

Forget pretty. Just get them bloody pickets down here quickly.

So Im tried to roll the next angle iron down the slope. Of course, it wouldn’t go. Then he tried a wooden ‘king’ corner post, which was at least round, and with the aid of a kick start, rolled it down to the stream, splashing Marta on its abrupt arrival.

Watch it. Not so damned close, she yelled up, as she unpacked the food.

Im waved an acknowledgement and wrestled another to the ground, angled it further upstream, and kicked. The post started reluctantly, then plunged over a mini precipice that gave it momentum, struck a small boulder and leaped enthusiastically to the left. It then gathered speed for its final descent to the creek, and aimed itself straight at the unwary Marta.

She heard a shout and looked up at the white painted king post bouncing, almost lazily, inexorably, towards her. She jerked upright and lunged desperately aside, but the time was too short and the missile too big and fast. It hit her leg, and threw her to the ground like a rag doll.

Im hurried down to help. Marta lay still, her face strangely pale, lips pressed in a rigid, silent line.

You OK? Looked like that post almost hit you.

Me leg’s broken, said Marta through clenched teeth.

Go on, stop kidding. It can’t be. Here, let me help.

Im stepped forward, into the viciously swinging arm of his employer wielding a spade. At least, that was Marta’s intent, but the swing of her body to follow the arm, also twisted her legs, and the pain hit her again. She gasped and began urgently concentrating on keeping her body and her leg still. She let go of the spade.

Thanks, said Im, neatly and innocently picking it out of the air. I’ll be wanting that next. Shall I start over there?

No. Start over here. I’ve got to have help.

I’ll help, said Im, forever eager.

It’s your help caused this.

No. All I did was - - - .

I know what you did. I copped it!

Fair dinkum? The first note of concern crept into his voice.

No, I always take a kip in the ‘arvo. Especially in the middle of an urgent job. And lie around screaming like a stuck pig. OF COURSE I’M BLOODY HURT, ya stupid galah.

Then I’d better see to you before I dig any holes.

That'd be nice. Marta’s voice dripped with sarcasm and she slowly straightened her wiry frame. Then, suddenly, urgently: What are you doing? Bugger off! Get away from me!

I was just helping, explained Im. If your leg really is broken, the first thing to check is to see if it needs to be re-set.

Get yer mits off me, ya clumsy galoot.

Had I better grab the ute then, and get you back home?

We’ll go to town. I need a quack.

Right-o. I’ll get the ute, then.

Oh yeah? And how do you think ya gonna get it over the creek? Or even down the hill?

Im paused in his attempt to scramble up the steep incline, and wondered at the pain wracked words of the injured woman. She was right, as usual.

It's flatter just downstream. He charged to the cringing Marta and attempted the grab her by the collar. I'll drag you over.

What! Stay clear. Leave me be, you dopey drongo. What d’you think you were goin' to do?

Im backed off, surprised, offended. "I was just going to carry you’.

Like bloody hell! I don't trust you.

But I'm strong enough.

In this rough stuff? You’d bloody drop me.

Im looked at the uncertain footing of the pebble strewn waterway, and its steep banks, and was undeterred.

I'll be careful.

Like you were with that blasted post. No thanks. I'll move meself.

It was painful, but it had to be done, and Marta could just do it. By sitting with her back to the direction of progress, and moving her buttocks slowly and ever so carefully, she could just drag her damaged leg an inch at a time. It could be her imagination, or maybe she was getting used to the pain, but it didn't seem to be hurting quite as much. Maybe it wasn't broken, only bruised. But one hell of a bruise!

Marta was so immersed in her slow and painful progress that she didn't notice Im's absence, until he almost tumbled on top of her at the end of another journey up and back from the ute. A mattock swung dangerously from one hand.

This was the best I could find, he reported. I thought I’d packed your walking stick, but I couldn’t find it.

Marta didn’t comment on the uselessness of a walking stick on a fencing expedition. It would be an argument hard to sustain in the present circumstances. She contented herself by condemning everything else he did.

We don’t need to dig fer firewood, she said, looking at the mattock.

It's not for firewood. Just lie straight so I can measure you.

I'm not ready for me box yet.

Im ignored her and laid the mattock as close to her injured leg as she would let him.

What are you trying to do now? she screamed at him.

This is the shortest bit of straight wood we got, explained Im, as though to a demented four year old. I’m going to lash your leg to it. To use for a splint.

Marta’s amazement and curiosity overcame her credulity.

And what part does the mattock head play in all this? she asked.

Yes, it could get in the way, conceded Im. I’ll have to take it off.

Before or after my leg’s lashed to it?

Maybe easier before. Im smiled happily. See, you can’t be too hurt. You’re still thinking ahead.

Marta grunted and fingered the mattock. Maybe she had enough strength to swing it at him. She reluctantly discarded such thoughts. But possibly it could be of some use. She looked at the distance between herself and the fire. All her effort had gained barely two dragged yards.

I could use it as a walking stick, she said. Maybe I could try that.

Good idea, smiled Im.

But first, I gotta stand up. That’s not so easy.

But you can do it, enthused Im, ever confident in Marta’s abilities.

Marta carefully pushed herself up into sitting position, or as near as upright as her body would go. The human frame, especially her human frame, was not designed for right angles. Then she bent her good leg, in preparation for standing on it. And levered her buttocks off the ground.

She attained at least two inches of height before her arms ran out of length and her injured leg began complaining. She quickly subsided to the turf again. That way wouldn’t work.

She sat, uncomfortably, and thought. How does one get up from sitting on the ground? One just does. One doesn’t think about it. Except when one has a very painful leg complaining at every move. This was ridiculous, said a very angry Marta to herself.

Im, sit down, she commanded.

Why?

Just do it.

Im recognised Marta’s no nonsense voice, and obediently began to settle next to her.

Not here. Over there!

Im shrugged and obeyed. He was reasonably certain that she had hurt her leg, not her head. But he was now beginning to doubt that observation.

Good. Legs out in front of you.

Like this?

Yes. Now, get up.

Then why did I have to sit down in the first place?

So I can watch you get up.

Im shrugged, swiveled on his hips to one side, bent his legs, pushed himself up onto his knees, and would have easily attained the vertical, except that as he lifted one knee to get his foot on the ground, the other slipped into the stream and upset him onto his face. He struggled erect in a whirlwind of urgent ungainly limbs.

Stop! shouted Marta.

He stopped, teetering uncertainly, one foot still in the stream, and looked enquiringly at his boss.

Too fast, she said. Now do it again.

What, fall into the water?

No. Sit down and get up.

It’s not so easy on this uneven ground.

Tell me about it!

Im obligingly sat himself down again, and with energetic twists, making full use of both legs, stood again. Marta watched intently. Such agility was clearly beyond her current capabilities.

No damned good. You'll have to get a stretcher and carry me out.

Don't quit yet.

It's not your blasted leg that’s hurting. I can't do it, an' that's that.

I can help.

No you bloody won't. You helped me into this problem in the first place.

Im ignored this unkind, if accurate, comment, intent as always on his own solutions. He came and stood over Marta and positioned himself carefully on the uneven ground.

Give me your hands. I'll help pull you up.

Not bloody likely. I don't trust you.

Put your good foot against mine. Then it can't slip out from under. We'll go at it slowly.

Marta, hesitantly, cautiously, extended her hands and Im gripped her wrists. They tested each other’s strength. Im had to lean forward, which was not the best position, but Marta was slight and light. Slowly, Marta took up the strain and began to lift herself. An inch, then another. Then a shuddering pause as the injured leg moved and complained. Then another inch upward. And another stop.

Bugger it, I can't do it. It hurts too bloody much.

They were both at full stretch, caught in mid action, Marta's full weight on their combined arms. Im was still unnaturally bent forward, and the strain was telling on his shoulders and back. It couldn't last. Im felt Marta begin to give up and relax back onto the ground.

With one mighty effort Im pulled. He jerked Marta upright, and clasped her to his chest. Marta screamed once, began to struggle, and then used Im's stability to minimise movement.

Bastard!

But you're standing now.

So. It just means I'm going to fall down again soon.

Not with the mattock.

Which is now on the ground! How the hell am I supposed to get it, ya great galah.

I'll get it.

I need you for support to keep standing. DON'T MOVE.

I'll do it slowly. Don't worry.

Slowly? Like that last effort of yours. You call that slowly!

That was an emergency. You were slipping.

I wasn't bloody slipping. I was trying to sit down again. I was in perfect control. DON'T MOVE, I said.

I'm only bending over. Slowly.

Well don't. I have to shift my weight when you change position. Ow! Gawd’s strewth.

But we can't just stand here like this all day.

Why not. It's the only position I've got, NOW, that doesn't hurt like hell. You got me into it. Now you can suffer a bit.

I've got a foot under the haft. I can lift it up a bit.

Keep STILL. Gawd!

Im qualified for a circus act. He balanced himself and Marta on one leg, while using the foot of the other to lift the handle of the mattock. Then, with a slightly bent shoulder and a wildly groping hand, he managed to grab the top of the tool.

Got it. Here, put your weight on this.

That's no good, ya numbskull. I need it on the other side.

Not a prob. Im made to pass the mattock from one hand to the other, but the ungainly staff and heavy head was not that easy to control. Nor was Marta that accommodating about every little movement that Im made. Twice he tried to move the mattock, once over their heads, which nearly brained Marta, and once between them, which necessitated threading the long handle through Marta's grimly clutching arms. He dropped it during this last attempt. By some miracle, it missed smashing any of the four feet competing to be crushed and ended up with the shaft caught between them.

Careful. Don't drop it. Don't poke me with it. Don't do that. DON'T MOVE! Marta’s contribution to the exercise was hardly helpful. Im of course, ignored all these orders. He finally managed to pass the mattock from hand to hand, around her back.

Marta ungratefully took the stick, and pushed it into the ground and slowly transferred her weight from Im to this new support. It worked. Finally she was able to push Im away.

Marta was independent again. With this new prop and her good leg supporting her she could keep all the pressure off her damaged limb.

Right. Marta felt confident enough to take command again. Bring the ute down as far as it will SAFELY go, and I'll come and meet you.

She put the mattock head carefully to the ground just in front of her, tested to make sure it was firm, used both hands to put most of her weight on it, and hopped. Just six inches. It worked, but her leg complained of the jolt. She suppressed a groan, moved the mattock further forward, and tried again. And nearly fell over as her hop wasn’t high enough to clear an ambitious weed sprouting in the uneven ground. Im had stayed close so she frantically grabbed his shirt, dragging it across his chest and nearly ripping it.

Still no bloody good, complained Marta. This’ll take far too long, and it’s too dangerous.

You can do it, said Im, with absolutely no evidence to support his statement.

But I'll be dragging me bad leg.

Then lift it.

Marta tried, and screamed, and wavered dangerously and grabbed Im again.

It hurts if I try and flamin' move it at all. It's no good. I gotta sit down again.

Im held her steady, a dangerous look of concentration on his face. My gawd, thought Marta, he’s thinking again.

You need a sling, Im said.

A sling! It's my leg that's broken, not me bloody arm. Or hadn't you noticed. Or are you anticipating your next bout of help!

No, a sling for your leg. Here, I'll show you.

BACK OFF! Just keep away. Tell me your idea first.

I was only goin' to take yer belt off.

That’d be a great help, that would. And what's that supposed to do. Somehow relieve the pain in me leg?

Yes, in a way. I can loop it over your head and under your thigh. That'll hold your bad leg up. Then you can hop on the other one.

Marta considered this. Like all Im's ideas, it sounded sensible until one came to actually do it, when the flaw became, usually painfully, apparent. Yet it certainly seemed better than just standing here and waiting for something to happen. Marta could think of one improvement, however.

We'll use your belt. It's longer than mine. She didn't add that it would also be easier manipulating the mattock without her jeans tangling her feet.

But Im's belt wasn't long enough. He tried to lengthen it with a not quite clean handkerchief, but attaching it was