Cinnamon Sweat

But Deb, of course, was frantic. ‘Which way will they come? West through Rochester Woods? Or south from Attleborough Forest?’ She turned to Sean. ‘Find out!’ He sighed and began marching towards the dust-free mound. ‘Don’t worry, Sean. You can get reception here in the street now that Gladys isn't on her dialysis machine.’

  Sean checked his phone and was pleasantly surprised that the appropriate symbols were blinking encouragingly. ‘Boyd? Can you hear me?’

  Inside the van, a battered relic from the band’s fateful tour of 1975, Boyd was clutching his phone with one hand while gripping the steering wheel with the other. His head swivelled from one window to the other as he desperately tried gauging his location and direction while also frantically searching for road signs. The soft acoustic track from the well-worn Led Zeppelin CD was punctuated with clunking noises. ‘Yeah, Seany. Are there are some lovely ladies waiting for us?’

  ‘Um ...’ Sean peered at Deb jumping up and down with exhilaration and trepidation, and at Madge and Gladys preparing food.

  Deb screamed breathlessly. ‘I think I have to pee! Again!’

  Boyd swivelled around from the driver’s seat towards the back of the van. ‘The promoter guy Sean says there’s plenty of tasty chicks waiting for us.’

  From the back of the van, there were howls of delight from the band.

  ‘You beauty!’

  ‘Awesome!’

  ‘Come to papa, ladies!’

  These were instantly followed by a chorus of complaints from the females.

  ‘Oi, shut up!’

  ‘Keep your bloody hands off them!’

  ‘We’ll kill those slags!’

  A sudden thump forced Boyd to face the road.

  Sean gulped. ‘Well, I wouldn't say they were tasty as such.’

  Deb skipped towards Gladys. ‘I bet Trevor is still so sexy. He used to have long golden hair. Look, I’ll show you.’ As Deb started unbuttoning her blouse, Sean again turned away with acute discomfort.

  ‘Hey, Seany, what about food? Trevor's hungry.’

  Sean glanced at the trestle tables. ‘Yeah, there's, um, plenty of food.’ He was grateful that he could at least hear and smell something sizzling. ‘There’s a barbecue ...’ Sean spotted a small tub of ice. ‘… and, um, some drinks.’

  Boyd wanted to swivel again towards the back of the van, but he heard another thump and promptly faced the front. ‘Guys, the promoter says there's plenty of grub, grog and groupies.’

  This prompted more remarks from the band.

  ‘I want food more than sex.’

  ‘Hope there’s a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Maybe, some scones too.’

  Sean approached the barbeque where Madge and Gladys were frying and burning ham, tomato and bread for toasted sandwiches. Noticing that the small tub of ice only contained cans of Coke and Fanta, Sean whispered to Madge. ‘Where's the beer and wine?’

  ‘If you want alcohol served before midday in this town, you need permission from the Commissioner of Liquor, Gaming, Casinos, Racing, Lotteries and Children’s Playgrounds … over there.’ Madge pointed to Deb, still hysterically jumping and spinning in every direction.

  ‘And, Seany, the film crew is ready, yeah? All primed up for The Sweat's best reunion DVD ever?’

  Sean watched Mitch position their singular hand-held camera in front of Deb as she shouted. ‘Tell the band to stop! I need to pee!’

  Boyd continued driving with one hand while searching for road signs, controlling the band and groupies, and thumping into things unseen. ‘Are you there, Seany? … You're cutting out ... Seany? ... Can you hear me?’

  Without warning, the overlong Led Zeppelin track stopped mid-song. This unexpected silence was immediately filled with utterances of dismay from the band.

  ‘Hey, my iPad's not working!’

  ‘What happened to the song?!’

  ‘Why is my iPhone on the blink?’

  Sean slowly removed the phone from beside his ear. ‘I think the band is almost here.’

  This made Deb even more frantic. ‘But from which direction?!’

  Sean paused as he wondered how to lie convincingly. ‘Um, I think Boyd mentioned somewhere called Dingleford Lakes …’

  ‘You mean Dingleberry Lagoon! Jeez.’ Deb swivelled 180 degrees. ‘That's other there! From the east!’

  The arrival party collectively groaned as they picked up all the trestle tables and tubs of ice, as well as the scorching barbeque and boiling urn, and shifted everything to face east. Dave scrambled up the ladder and twisted the banner around to face the correct way.

  ‘Hang on.’ Jack raised his arms. ‘What's that noise?’

  ‘It sounds familiar.’ Bob turned his head.

  ‘I've heard it before.’ Gladys nodded.

  Sean stared at them in disbelief. ‘It's a car, you–!’

  ‘They're coming!’ shrieked Deb.

  The vehicle noise became increasingly louder. The arrival party continued staring to the east in eager anticipation, but then turned in seemingly slow motion with mouths collectively open as the band’s van chugged past them from the north.

  Sean frantically pressed some keys and shouted into his phone. ‘Boyd! Stop the van!’

  Within seconds, the vehicle came to a clunking halt about 200 metres past the intersection. Obeying Deb's frenetic orders, the arrival party again picked up the tables, tubs, barbeque and urn, and rotated everything towards the south, the direction the van was now heading. But Dave could do nothing about the banner.

  The van gradually reversed back towards the intersection. Amid more unidentifiable mechanical squeaks and creaks, the vehicle eventually died about 100 metres from the arrival party, in exactly the same way Sean's campervan had done so days before.

  The silence – eerily devoid of ping, ding and ching sounds – was eventually broken as the van door slid open. The three band members, each trying to look cool with a spectacular lack of success, squeezed out and, out of habit, stretched their limbs.

  Each was old, fat, bald and ugly, and dressed completely differently: Trevor had an AC/DC T-shirt, leather belt and black jacket, and a ridiculous grey-haired pony-tail; Nigel was dressed like a punk with green, cropped hair and a face adorned with studs and rings; and the third, Cockles, was bedecked with disco-era flared trousers and flowery shirt.

  From inside the van, the three groupies gradually raised their heads a little above the window edge before rapidly ducking down.

  From the driver’s seat, Boyd got out to inspect the numerous dents along the van’s side and the blood and fur splattered across the hood. He stared at the banner, shook his head, and slid on his thick glasses. The three band members also squinted at the banner.

  ‘What’s it say?’ said Trevor.

  Boyd was flummoxed. ‘It says “Semens Wet”.’

  Nigel clapped his hands. ‘Sounds like an orgy's awaiting.’

  Boyd and the three band members tried to maintain a groovy gait for the remaining 50 metres to the arrival party at the intersection, but their pace quickened as their genuine thirst and hunger overtook any pretence at being cool.

  Sean whispered to Deb. ‘Which one is Trevor?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ She waved anxiously as the band approached.

  ‘Check your picture.’ Deb started unbuttoning her blouse. ‘Not the tattoo!’ hissed Sean, as he again noticed Dave glaring at him. ‘I mean that photo you have!’

  ‘Oh.’ From her back pocket, Deb unfolded a faded snapshot of the four members of Cinnamon Sweat taken during the 1975 tour of South Australia, with each walking along a deserted country road in a similar manner. She held up the photo to compare the faces with those now only 20 metres away. As they came closer, it became blindingly obvious to everyone in the arrival party, especially Sean and Mitch eagerly filming, how much the band had aged from the posters adorning the town.

  As Deb inspected the photo more intently, she realised she was suddenly face-to-face with her ido
l. ‘Trevor!’ She immediately became giddy and fainted.

  Trevor, Nigel and Cockles stepped over Deb, now crumpled on the ground, as they excitedly approached the trestle tables, tubs, barbeque and urn.

  ‘There are scones!’

  ‘I could kill for a cuppa.’

  ‘Look at all those toasties!’

  * * * * *

  It took about 15 minutes for the entire offerings of food and drink at the arrival party to be devoured by the band, so everyone adjourned, of course, to the pub. The band members and Boyd sat at one table devouring more toasted sandwiches and pints of beer. Dave, Gladys and Arnold stood in one corner observing, each still unsure whether inviting Cinnamon Sweat was a good idea, while Jack and Bob sat snarling at a separate table quite certain that it was not. Behind the bar counter, Madge was applying Band-Aids to the grazes across Deb's face caused by her swooning.

  But Mitch didn’t want to waste any time wondering, snarling or applying first aid. He abruptly placed a microphone in front of Cockles. ‘How do you like Chittingford Dales?’

  ‘Man, we … we just … arrived,’ he mumbled between mouthfuls.

  ‘But you drove through it twice.’

  Cockles swallowed hard and gazed out the pub window. ‘This is it?’

  Mitch continued. ‘Can you please introduce yourselves to our viewers?’

  ‘I'm Cockles.’

  ‘They call me Lover Lips.’ Nigel revealed two rows of nicotine-stained teeth.

  ‘And I’m Trevor.’

  Instinctively, everyone spun towards the sound of Deb sighing loudly – except for Sean, who panned his camera towards the bar counter, on which Cyril’s head lay motionless while clutching an empty glass, and to a man standing with a menu in his hand. ‘I'm Steve,’ the man mumbled.

  Boyd shrugged. ‘He's not in the band.’

  ‘I'm just ordering …’ Steve grimaced at the menu. ‘… toasted sandwiches and a–‘

  ‘Don’t bother about coffee,’ added a caffeine-deprived Sean.

  Ignoring Sean and Steve, Mitch shook his head. ‘I am not calling you Lover Lips.’

  ‘Then, call me Nigel.’

  ‘Jeez. I think I prefer Lover Lips.’ Mitch shifted his microphone. ‘Why are you called Cockles?’

  ‘I can't remember.’ He shrugged. ‘It was the 1970s.’

  As Mitch continued the interview, he wordlessly indicated for Sean to film the band’s outfits. ‘You all seemed to be dressed a little differently.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Boyd exhaled. ‘Trevor thought Cinnamon Sweat was still in their heavy metal phase. And Nigel thought it was the band’s punk stage.’

  ‘And, apparently, we never had a disco period.’ Cockles sighed.

  ‘Good thing, too,’ mumbled Deb. ‘Bloody John Travolta.’

  Mitch continued above the growing number of grunts and groans from Jack at a distant table. ‘So, what instruments do you play, Cockles?’

  ‘The bass guitar, double bass, the cello, the Mellotron, the viola ...’

  ‘What?’ Nigel spluttered a mouthful of Madge’s Ham and Cheese Surprise.

  ‘Listen,’ said Cockles with some menace. ‘I played the viola on “My Tongue in Your Cheek” – and the piccolo.’

  ‘And I am Nigel, more commonly known among the ladies as Lover Lips.’ He peered around the pub for an attractive woman to leer at, but quickly gave up. ‘I am lead vocals, harmonies, choir, harmonica …’ He turned to Cockles. ‘… and I played viola and piccolo on “My Tongue in Your Cheek”!’

  ‘No, you did not,’ muttered Jack from a distance.

  Mitch placed his microphone under Trevor’s double chin. ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I play drums, and timpani, chimes, bells, xylophones, gongs, castanets, marimbas, bongos, triangle …’

  As Trevor continued listing the percussion instruments he claimed he could play, Sean again panned across to Cyril, whose head had still not moved from the stained towel along the bar counter, and to Steve. ‘I am still not in the bloody band,’ he shouted, turning towards the kitchen. ‘And I am still waiting for my bloody toasted sandwiches!’

  ‘Maybe, Madge is on her lunch break,’ said Sean.

  Mitch checked some notes on his iPad. ‘OK. I’m confused. In one word, if that’s possible, what do you each play or do in Cinnamon Sweat?’

  ‘Bass,’ said Cockles.

  ‘I’m the singer.’ Nigel grinned. ‘That’s three words. Or is it four?’

  ‘Drums,’ said Trevor, as Deb sighed again.

  Mitch checked his iPad again. ‘So, where's the guitarist?’

  Boyd eventually broke the silence. ‘Oh, um, let me get back to you about that.’ Taking out a phone from his top pocket, he rattled a few doors before moving outside.

  ‘So, um, Cockles,’ said Mitch, ‘tell everyone watching about your time in The Sweat.’

  ‘I don't remember much, mate. I joined in 1974–‘

  ‘1973,’ said Deb confidently.

  ‘–then left a year or two later. Joined and left again in '87. Got married and divorced twice–‘

  ‘Three times.’

  Cockles paused to count on his ring-encased fingers and nodded at Deb. ‘–in between stints in psychiatric wards, and traipsing across Asia dodging bounty hunters. I came back to The Sweat permanently in, um … 2007.’ He turned to Deb. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  Indicating that Sean should move his camera towards Nigel, Mitch continued. ‘And, Liver Lips, what's your history with the band?’

  ‘I joined in '74. Left after the tour of '75. Re-joined on June 25, 1979. Left the next day. Released a solo album that sold nothing. Was forced by the court to join the band again in '82. Then, The Sweat broke up without me, so I did another solo album that sold even less … Eventually, I thought it'd be better to stay in the band permanently. Well, my parole officer did, anyway.’ Nigel glanced at Deb, who nodded.

  ‘And you?’

  Trevor answered with maximum speed and minimum interest. ‘Joined '74. Left at end of '75. Joined and left again in '77. Left again the next year but hadn't actually re-joined. Created my own band called, um ...’

  ‘... “Synonym Sweet”. But the rest of them sued you.’ Deb briefly glared at the other two members. ‘So, Trevor re-joined the original band in '79 and has been the lynchpin ever since.’ As Deb moved to the kitchen, she offered an infectious smile that Trevor ignored completely as he stuffed more cold toasties into his mouth.

  Once more, Sean panned across to Steve, who angrily moved away, and to Cyril, whose head had still not lifted off the bar counter.

  Everyone turned towards the familiar sounds of the pub doors rattling. Boyd entered, shaking his head. ‘It appears that the band's original guitarist, Oscar, died at the end of their tour of South Australia in 1975.’

  ‘That's right.’ Nigel nodded and chewed.

  ‘Yeah.’ Cockles sipped ad sighed. ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘I remember now.’ Trevor frowned and swallowed. ‘Oscar killed himself. But, you know, none of us can remember what the hell he looked like.’

  As Steve stormed towards the door, he abruptly turned. ‘Now, I remember. My Dad talked about you guys. The media at the time said that Oscar didn't kill himself but he was murdered ...’ Steve paused for effect. ‘… by one of the band at the end of the tour in 1975.’ Steve glared as the three band members shrugged at each other. ‘Why is this not bothering you idiots?!’

  ‘I can't remember anything.’ Cockles shrugged and burped.

  ‘It's all a blur, mate.’ Nigel murmured and munched.

  ‘If you can remember the '70s …’ Trevor belched and farted. ‘… you weren't there.’

  Steve turned irritably towards Mitch. ‘Well, isn't that a story?’

  Mitch shook his head. ‘It's ancient news. Nothing proved. We've got a far juicier angle for our video series.’

  Madge and Deb entered from the kitchen with more plates piled high with
toasted sandwiches in plastic wrappers, which the three band members enthusiastically grabbed, eventually unwrapped, and rapidly consumed.

  Storming out of the pub without any food from Madge or reactions from Mitch, Steve brushed past the three young groupies from the van, each in thin singlets and thick make-up. Dave and Arnold grinned excitedly, but Bob and Jack were impassive.

  Deb snarled. ‘I said no groupies!’

  ‘They're not. They are, um, road crew.’

  ‘What?’ Deb turned menacingly towards Sean. ‘Why are the roadies women?’

  ‘Equal opportunity, sex discrimination, and all that.’

  ‘And why have they got almost nothing on?’

  ‘Because it's hot.’ Sean gulped.

  ‘They don't look strong enough to lift any equipment.’

  ‘Not much gear is needed, Deb, for a small gig.’

  Everyone turned as they again heard doors rattling and people cursing; some other groupies eventually found the main entrance to the pub. They were far older and considerably less attractive, so Dave screwed up his face with distaste, but Arnold still beamed. The younger groupies from the van scowled at their rivals, while Bob and Jack remained expressionless.

  Deb pointed to the older groupies. ‘And who the flipping heck are they?’

  Mitch grinned. ‘Yeah, Sean, who the flipping heck are they?’

  ‘They are, um, the, er, support band.’

  Gulping down the remains of Madge’s Cheese and Ham Delight, Nigel stood, belched, and curled his arms around the shoulders of two of the older groupies. ‘Yeah, the original support band from our tour of '75.’

  Deb glanced dubiously at Trevor, who nodded. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘but the support band will have to start at 4pm.’

  Boyd swiftly glanced up from his iPad. ‘What?’

  ‘Don't worry,’ said Sean. ‘I'll sort something out.’

  ‘But our band takes a nap around four in the afternoon,’ explained Boyd.

  ‘And that's when I take medication for my hip replacement,’ added Cockles.

  From a distant corner, Gladys shuffled closer to the band’s table. ‘I had one of those.’

  Cockles stared at the wrinkled woman clutching her Zimmer frame. ‘Have we met before?’

  Gladys offered a playful grin and winked. ‘Maybe, we did in a previous life.’

  Boyd shuddered as he turned off his iPad. ‘Where are we staying?’

  Gladys nodded towards the window. ‘We've made arrangements for you at the RSL.’

  The three band members and six groupies look confused, so Sean explained. ‘It stands for Royal Shangri-La.’