Syd Soyley is a True Blue outback backpacker, licenced professional adventurer, and genteel vagabond. He travels the world bringing his readers the grundiest travel log and extreme vacation guide on the Net.
Part I
Part II
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII
Part IX
Adventures in Dirt Cove, Part III
I went over to the window for a captain cook. Bloody hell! The old bag had painted it shut and put bars up. Wouldn't want Billy sneaking out in the middle of the night, would we? Not much of a view, anyway -- Billy's window was on back of the place and overlooked a low hill covered with stunted trees.
I gave half a thought to firing up me laptop and wireless modem and alerting the authorities, but what were the odds that there was a cop shop within a hundred clicks of Dirt Cove? For that matter, what were the odds they had email? Or electricity, for that matter.
Besides, I couldn't really dob on an old woman who lost her son at sea, could I? Syd Soyley's a fair dinkum adventurer, after all. If he can handle two weeks imprisoned in a bamboo cage by the Wombat Worshipers of Lower Tasmania for "allegedly" rooting the Chief's oldest daughter, he can stand a night or two locked up in a musty bedroom. Too right!
Looked like I was rooted, at least for the evening, so I set about exploring my flat. Remember backpackers: a good adventurer knows every detail of his surroundings.
Judging from the midget-sized bunk with the
faded "Empire Strikes Back" bed sheets, this was indeed once
an ankle-biter's room. A battered, driftwood-coloured
dresser stood in the corner. I went fossicking through the
drawers and I'll be buggered if I didn't find a bunch of
men's grundies -- none too clean, neither. Looked like I
wasn't the first bloke to stay here. One pair had the name
"Billy" stitched into 'em. The boy must've been a fair size
before he went over the wall.
I gave up rummaging when I discovered that someone had considered the bottom drawer a perfectly acceptable loo.
I sat down on the bunk and lit up a rollie.
Cripes, I was already bored shitless. Then I spied the
corner of a magazine sticking out beneath the dusty pillow.
Bonzer! A dog-eared, yellowing, vintage Seventies Playboy.
Undoubtedly once Billy's prized possession, poor bleeder. I
had a quick flip through the well-worn mag, but most of the
good pages seemed to have ripped out, perhaps by previous
guests.
"Billy! Are ye smokin' in dere?" the old bat yelled from right outside the door.
Crikey! "No, Missus Hicks," I said, taking a long drag.
"Dat's a good b'y." A pause, then: "Is da cat in dere wit' you?"
Which bloody one? "No, there's no cats in here!"
"Oh my. Where's dat cat got to, I wonders?" she muttered. "Dat stunned cat."
"I'm sure he'll turn up," I sighed.
"I s'pose," she agreed. "Now go to bed, Billy! And no playing the radio 'til all hours. Good night, me ducky."
Yeah, g'night ya old fruit loop.
Well, the lights were cactus and it was gettin too dark to read me Playboy Letters. Not much else to do besides hit the sack. Take 'er as she comes, I always say. No worries!
I was so stuffed I managed to catch a few winks despite the constant meowing and scratching at the door, and barking and howling of the rabid dingos outside. Bloody racket made the nighttime drumming of the South African Pillpopper Pygmies seem almost soothing by comparison.
I awoke next morning to the sounds of one or more cats undergoing painful labour out in the hallway. Struth, just what this place needed -- another half dozen moggies!
I was having a sippo from me canteen and wondering if there was room service when I heard a commotion down below.
"Billy! Ye came home at last!" cried Missus Hicks.
"Nay, Missus Hicks. It's Father O'Lecher," said a man's voice, a thick Irish brogue. "No need to get up, now. I'll show meself to me room. Here, look, I brought ye a drop o' the pure, for what ails ye."
"Why Billy, how nice! I'll make breakfast! Nice boiled meat sausages! Fresh from Uncle Sully's!"
"Ah ... no need to rush, Missus Hicks," said the voice, coming up the stairs, accompanied by the sound of hissing cats. "Ach! Ye damn furry beast, get off me!"
"Hoi! Mate! In here!" I yelled.
"Eh? Blessed Virgin, not again," sighed the voice. The lock clicked and the door was opened by a tall, red-haired bloke in a black priest's robe. He sported a wild, bristly beard, and was carrying a large black satchel.
"Thanks heaps, mate," I said, extending my hand. "Syd Soyley, Outback Backpacker."
Bottles clinked in his satchel as he transferred it to his off hand and shook mine. Holy water, perhaps? "Father Peter O'Lecher, pleased to be meetin' ye." He gazed beyond me into the room. "I trust you weren't locked in there too long," he said, looking concerned. "Ye didn't have to ... go ... in the bottom drawer, did ye?"
"Er, no mate. You're just in time, though," I admitted.
He looked relieved. "Ah, good, good! I hate it when they do that. Hope ye've no ill will towards Missus Hicks. She thinks everyone's Billy."
"No worries, mate," I said. "I mean, I'm sorry the poor bugger was lost at sea, and all, but--"
"Billy Hicks?" Father O'Lecher laughed. "Sure he never went to sea a day in his life. Chronic seasickness. Nay, he moved to Oshawa. Last I heard, he was working as a tater inspector in the McCain's factory."
Bloody hell! The old woman was battier than I thought!
NOTE: Billy Hicks -- if by some miracle you're reading this up in Oshawa, call yer bloody mother, mate!
"I travel up and down the shore, but I stay here whenever I'm in Dirt Cove," he continued. "I just bring herself a wee drop of rum. Calms her right down, it do, and she mostly leaves me alone."
"Good oil," I said. Nonetheless, this adventurer intended take his chances with the wild dogs and sleep under the stars that evening. "Well, I owe ya one, mate. Listen, I'd like to see a bit of the town. Any suggestions?"
He considered briefly. "Tell ye what," he said. "You help me unpack some supplies from me boat, and I'll take you down to Uncle Wally's Pub and Tavern for a bit o' bite and a few pints."
Bit early in the morning to hit the piss, but beggars can't be choosers. "Sure it's no trouble?"
"Nay, none it all. In fact, I've got some business to conduct there."
Perhaps he was taking Confession. "You're on, mate!" I said, gathering me swag.
Downstairs, Old Woman Hicks was resting contentedly on the daybed by the stove with a dozen moggies curled at her feet and a small flask cradled in her bosom.
"Ye and yer friend going out, Billy?" she said sleepily as we passed.
"Aye. Drink yer drink, now, Missus Hicks!" said Father O'Lecher.
"Keep an eye out for the cat!" she yelled, as I closed the front door.
"God love 'er," said Father O'Lecher, shaking his head. "Just a stroll down the road to the wharf," he said over his shoulder, then stopped. "Oh, one thing, though," he said, looking at me significantly. "If you don't mind my askin' ... yer not a cop, are ye?"
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