Cinnamon Sweat

  In a series of Polaroids, Cockles is angrily waving bank statements and receipts in the face of Oscar, who looks back innocently. “... Cockles became convinced that Oscar was ripping off the band and taking money while the others were all stoned ...” In another sequence of snapshots, Cockles is pushing and shoving Oscar while Trevor and Nigel are making feeble attempts to pull them apart.

  Deb turned the page and continued. “... Several times, I saw Cockles really argue with Oscar and nearly beat him up. Oscar denied everything about the missing money, but Cockles didn't believe him …” In a larger photo of a backstage party, Cockles is drunk and angry. In another, he is smashing a guitar on the ground. “... One night at Whyalla, after the last gig of the '75 tour, Cockles got really drunk, and was so livid. He was knocking over stuff and smashing guitars, looking to confront Oscar about the missing tour money.”

  Turning to the back of the diary, Deb unfolded a faded magazine article with the headline: “Bass Player of Cinnamon Sweat Accused of Killing Guitarist.” Deb grasped the armrests of the rocking chair as words from the article seemed to leap out: “... end of Whyalla concert ... allegedly gagged the guitarist ... top of abandoned mineshaft ... witnesses heard loud voices ... begging ... screaming ... Cockles interviewed by police but cleared ... mineshaft searched but no body found ... Oscar officially listed as disappeared ... possible suicide ... band continues touring for sake of fans ...”

  * * * * *

  In its heyday, slate, copper and wheat were shifted to Chittingford Dales from surrounding districts by draught horse and then shunted along a narrow railway on steam engines to the port at Whyalla for the long trip around the coast to the state capital, Adelaide. But the tracks had now buckled beyond repair and become choked with grass and miniature pine trees. The platform at the Chittingford Dales station had long ago crumbled, and the waiting room was now congested with sleepers, fences and other discarded junk. The only things still managing to flourish were the spiders and cockroaches.

  Squatting on a suitcase along the platform, Cockles was playing an acoustic guitar and writing a song – neither of which he could do particularly well. Hearing Cockles wailing from inside the pub, Sean and Mitch approached him with camera and microphone primed. Deb stood behind the fence at the back of her garden, which was adjacent to the train station, and listened intently.

  Cockles eventually noticed Sean and Mitch. ‘Hey, listen to this, guys. I'm writing it for the gig. It's about my stay here … Dust bowl, hell hole. No place to rock 'n’ roll. So slow, can't go. Have to stay and play the show.’ Cockles frowned as his plectrum fell down a crack. ‘It's called "Hell-Hole Blues".’

  Sean grinned. ‘I'm sure the audience will love it.’

  Cockles screwed up his face. ‘What rhymes with purgatory?’

  Mitch positioned the microphone below Cockles’ hairy nostrils. ‘Listen. How well did you know Lynne Sanderson?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She was the band's Personal Assistant.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘1975.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On your bloody tour of South Australia!’ Exasperated, Mitch showed Cockles a newspaper clipping from the scrapbook that featured a photo of him with Deb’s mother.

  Cockles slipped the thick glasses from the top of his bald dome and stared at the picture. ‘Never remember a name, mate, but always remember a body.’

  ‘So were you two ..?’

  ‘Were we what?’

  ‘You know ...’ Mitch waited for an answer before whispering. ‘… shagging.’

  ‘Was she female?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have a pulse?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Then, your question, my friend, has been answered.’ Cockles found another plectrum and continued. ‘I'm stuck here in a pig sty. Wanna cry, but prefer to die.’

  The three men turned towards the creaking sounds of the rusty back gate to Deb’s garden.

  ‘Hey, Deb,’ said Cockles, ‘listen to this … Nowhere worse, such a curse. Get me a doctor or a hearse. I've got the Hell-Hole Blues.’

  Deb nodded. ‘Nice.’

  Cockles peered down the tracks in both directions. ‘When does the next train come?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘When did the last train come?’

  ‘1962 …’ Deb turned as Arnold, with his head still bandaged from the previous fall, shuffled past with his walking stick. He was dressed smartly in a railway conductor’s uniform. ‘… but no-one's had the heart to tell Arnold yet.’

  Cockles groaned and picked up his guitar. ‘No rain, much pain. And I’m never gonna leave by train … What rhymes with “agony”?’

  Deb took out a notepad. ‘Listen, I'm writing a book about Cinnamon Sweat–’

  ‘How about “anguish”?’

  ‘–and I need to ask you a few questions about Oscar.’

  Cockles leant the guitar against his suitcase. ‘I can't remember much from the '70s, love. Well, nothing, really. Not even the names of my wives, kids or bandmates.’

  ‘I know. I mean, I remember Mum telling me that. She also said that you and Oscar had arguments.’

  ‘All of us had arguments, love. All the time. We hated each other. Still do.’

  ‘Arguments about money?’

  Cockles became noticeably irate. ‘I never saw any money from that bloody tour in '75. I ended up flat broke.’

  ‘So, what really happened to Oscar?’

  ‘I assume you read the newspaper stories. He disappeared. Down a mineshaft.’

  ‘But why would he kill himself if he’d stolen all that money from the tour?’

  ‘I'm no detective, love.’

  ‘Did Oscar take money from that tour?’

  ‘I thought so, until I found out that our manager at the time Robert was later arrested for tax evasion and embezzlement.’ Cockles glanced to his left and grunted. Shuffling towards him was Gladys clutching a Zimmer frame, her face caked with make-up. She spotted Cockles, waved excitedly, and shuffled more determinedly. Leaning out from the ticket office, Arnold growled.

  ‘Now, if you excuse me, duty calls.’ Picking up his guitar and suitcase, Cockles started crooning as he ambled towards Gladys. ‘I'd rather put my body in a casket than sell myself for a gasket …’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday

  Sean and Mitch stood outside the pub checking their watches, preparing their camera equipment, and mindlessly humming “Hell-Hole Blues”. A magpie swooped over them before they shifted to the relative safety of the poop-proof veranda. Somewhere, a dog howled, no doubt also dismayed at being stuck in Chittingford Dales. And Gladys shuffled out of the Town Hall with a broad grin as she adjusted her corset and stockings.

  At exactly 9am, the only operable door to the pub was opened from the inside by Madge. ‘You boys are early.’

  ‘What else is there to do?’

  ‘Especially, when there's no bloody coffee!’

  Madge snarled at Mitch, but spoke to Bob and Jack as they hurriedly entered. ‘And here comes the Odd Couple.’

  Sean and Mitch slipped into the darts room, location of the weekly grudge match against The Cock Inn from Upper Chittingford, and now temporary storage facility for Cyril’s casket.

  ‘God, I'd kill for a skinny decaf.’ With trembling hands, Mitch picked up a dart but missed the board completely. Instead, he skewered a photo of a previous landlord of the pub standing with a rifle over a dead kangaroo.

  Sean grabbed the dart and yanked it out. ‘What were Deb and Cockles talking about? That stuff about Oscar and the mineshaft?’

  ‘I don't know, but it's still old news about sad, pathetic wannabe rock-stars. I want to focus on this love-child angle about Deb.’

  Also missing the dartboard, Sean punctured a hole in a team photo of The Dales’ last functioning netball team from 1987. ‘But we haven’t ruled out Cockles yet. He could still be Deb's father.’

  ‘Or it could
be Oscar, the dead one. Or Trevor, her crush.’

  ‘But, Mitch, all the band probably slept with Deb's mother, or claim they did. Or did and can't remember what they–‘

  ‘I know! DNA!’

  ‘You are kidding … Aren’t you?’

  Deb had entered the pub before 9am via a delivery door to the kitchen, and been in the ladies toilets when she’d heard the beginning of the banter between the two caffeine-deprived dart hurlers. She continued listening to Sean and Mitch argue through a rusty air vent in the paper-thin wall.

  ‘No, I’m not kidding. I am telling you, Sean, DNA is the only way to find out Deb's father. And that is the crux of the show. Let's go find Nigel and Trevor.’

  ‘Can’t I at least stay until I hit the dartboard?’

  ‘No. C'mon.’

  Deb heard doors slam and Cyril’s casket tumble as Sean and Mitch scurried out of the pub. She bolted the door to the toilets and sat inside a cubicle. From the same box, she took out a third diary – this one with the names “Lynne Sanderson” and “Nigel” on the cover and, again, a picture of the two of them taken sometime during the 1970s.

  Deb stopped flicking through the pages when she noticed a photo of Nigel grinning as he was being mobbed by groupies outside a hotel. She skimmed through the words on the accompanying page. “Nigel liked to be called Lover Lips. He pretends it's what the fans called him, but he made the name up himself …” Another photo showed Nigel preening himself in front of the mirror. “... He was arrogant beyond belief, but adored by almost every female ...” The next page has a snapshot of Lynne snuggling up to Nigel on the tour bus. “… And how could I not adore him too? I was so attracted by his confidence. He had a presence and charisma that was utterly irresistible. I knew he could never be faithful to me, but I didn't care. I loved him ...”

  In another series of pictures, Nigel is violently arguing with band members at a rehearsal. “... But Nigel had a nasty streak, an angry violent side to him if he didn't get his way. He did normally get what he wanted, but not from Oscar ...” Backstage, Nigel is arguing strongly with Oscar while yelling and pointing at a piece of paper. “... They argued over lyrics all the time, but on that tour of '75 the arguments were much more violent, because they fought over royalties for their biggest hit “My Tongue in Your Cheek”...”

  A Polaroid snapshot shows Nigel clutching a cheque and squabbling with Oscar. “... Nigel said he wrote the song, but Oscar claimed that he did. In reality, they both wrote it and should've shared the royalties, or whatever it's called, but they wouldn't ...” Deb paused as she heard Madge groan while lifting Cyril’s casket off the ground. “... It all came to a head in Whyalla, on the last gig of that tour. While investigating how Oscar had disappeared, the police found a knife in Nigel's guitar case. On it was blood. They analysed the blood. It was Oscar's. But the police couldn't stick anything on Nigel. Robert, the manager, somehow kept it all quiet and out of the papers.”

  Deb gasped. ‘Flipping heck.’

  * * * * *

  Leaning against The Big Turnip, Nigel was also writing a song with an acoustic guitar. Deb was about to approach him but scurried back into her shop next door when she noticed Sean and Mitch striding towards the band’s lead singer with their camera and microphone.

  Nigel appreciatively inhaled on a filter-less cigarette. ‘What do you think of this, guys?’ He delicately placed the stub on a curb and started singing and strumming. ‘Hell hole, no soul. Can't play my rock 'n roll … So bad, and sad. The sort of place to drive me mad … It's called "Shit-Hole Blues".’

  Sean grinned. ‘Kind of catchy.’

  ‘I'm going to play it solo at the gig. I want to surprise the others.’

  ‘I’m sure they will be.’

  Nigel stared at a notepad next to the cigarette butt. ‘What rhymes with “pumpkin”?’

  ‘Bumpkin?’ Delighted with Sean’s suggestion, Nigel fumbled for a pen.

  Mitch moved the microphone near the lead singer’s nose-ring and indicated for Sean to start filming. ‘Are you also playing guitar at the gig?’

  Nigel shrugged. ‘Have to. We forgot to replace Oscar. Bit of an oversight by Boyd, our manager.’

  ‘On the 1975 tour of South Australia, were you lovers with a woman called Lynne Sanderson?’

  ‘Was she a looker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, of course, we were lovers. I slept with hundreds of women, but couldn't remember any of them until my fourth marriage in '93.’

  Mitch glanced at Nigel's cigarette still smouldering on the curb. ‘Can I have a fag?’

  Nigel indicated towards a pack on the ground. ‘Sure, help yourself … It looks like a pumpkin and was built by a bumpkin …’

  As Nigel continued crooning and plucking, Mitch furtively snatched Nigel's half-finished cigarette from the curb, flicked off the ash, and hastily placed it in a plastic bag inside his top pocket.

  ‘Sean and I have to go. Bye,’ said Mitch abruptly.

  But Nigel wasn’t paying any attention. ‘… It’s nothing like a turnip, or a bloody parsnip ...’

  Noticing Sean and Mitch retreating, Deb strode out from her shop where she’d been listening attentively. She squatted on the curb opposite Nigel. ‘It sounds a little familiar.’

  Nigel screwed up his face. ‘Really? Dylan? The Stones?’

  ‘Look, I'm doing a book about the band, and need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘I don't know who I slept with.’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’ Deb paused. ‘I want to know about Oscar.’

  ‘I didn't sleep with him either. Although you never know. The '70s were crazy. And Oscar was a little different.’

  ‘Did you have arguments with Oscar about lyrics and royalties?’

  ‘Of course. All songwriters do.’ Nigel couldn’t avoid raising his voice. ‘Always have. Always will.’

  ‘To the point where one stabs the other?’

  Nigel paused and shrugged. ‘I wouldn't know.’

  ‘It was all in my Mum’s diary. A knife. Your bag. His blood. All kept quiet.’

  ‘Did your mother also know that neither Oscar nor me own "My Tongue in Your Cheek"? Neither of us ever collected any royalties for our biggest hit.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘The same person whose fingerprints were on the handle of that knife, who planted the knife in my guitar case, and kept it all so quiet with the police.’ Nigel reached to the curb for his cigarette, and frowned.

  * * * * *

  In the midst of another heated argument, Sean was again angrily tossing darts at the board in the pub. Most of the time, however, he missed and punctured the heads of local football and lawn bowls teams featured in a series of photographs from the 1980s. ‘But, Jesus, Mitch, that is the story, surely! Stabbing. Blood. Missing guitarist. Jealously. And what's this shit about her mother's diary?’

  ‘I don't bloody know! And I don’t bloody care!’ Mitch flung a dart into the general direction of the board but it pierced the footy tipping competition ladder from 1997. ‘We are still going ahead with the angle I discussed before. Is Deb the love-child of Oscar, the dead guitarist? Or does she lust after Trevor, her own father?’

  ‘But–’

  ‘C'mon.’

  Sean reluctantly followed Mitch as he trudged from the darts room and into the front bar. Jack, Bob and Dave were staring at the TV while Madge was serving no-one behind the counter. On the jukebox, “I Hope You Die Before I Get Old” was playing as Nigel, Cockles and Trevor were humming along and trying to remember the words.

  ‘OK, ready?’

  Nodding unhappily, Sean sat at the only spare table and opened his daypack. Inside, was the small plastic pouch with Nigel's cigarette butt, as well as three other larger empty plastic bags.

  Mitch approached the jukebox on which three empty glasses were stacked. ‘Hey guys, let me buy you a beer.’

  Still staring at the jukebox, the three band members spoke over th
e top of each other.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘When's the chorus start?’

  ‘Make it a pint, mate.’

  ‘What the hell are you singing in that bit?’

  ‘Draught for me.’

  ‘It’s “red convertible”, not “bread and vegetables”!’

  As the band continued arguing about how to sing and play one of their major hits, Mitch picked up their three empty glasses. He glanced around guiltily as Madge glared back at him. ‘Three of whatever they're drinking, thanks Madge. And toasties all round for the lads.’

  Again, Nigel, Cockles and Trevor responded haphazardly without turning around.

  ‘No tomato.’

  ‘What’s that line?’

  ‘Extra cheese.’

  ‘It’s “chick half my age”, not “chicken laugh on stage”!’

  ‘And skip the ham this time.’

  As Madge turned to squash as many plastic-wrapped toasties as she could into the microwave, Mitch moved the three empty glasses onto Sean's table. While Sean opened the daypack at his feet and gently placed the glasses into the three separate plastic bags, Mitch plonked some money on the bar counter.

  But Madge spun around and growled as a series of loud and recognisable clinking noises came from Sean’s daypack as he picked it up.

  * * * * *

  The moment Deb turned the sign on the door of her shop to “Closed”, she started sobbing. She again flicked through the diary about Oscar and stared at her mother's words: “But it wasn't suicide”.

  Deb closed her eyes and recalled what she’d heard from Cockles: “I thought so until I found out that our manager at the time Robert was later arrested for tax evasion and embezzlement”.

  And the comment from Nigel: “The same person whose fingerprints were on the handle of that knife, who planted the knife in my guitar case, and kept it all so quiet with the police”.

  Deb once more stared at the words scrawled under the newspaper article in the diary about Oscar: “My beloved Oscar was killed by someone in the band”.

  Deb wiped her eyes and whispered to herself. ‘But, Mum, by who?’

  She tentatively picked up the fourth volume of her mother’s diaries. Similarly, the names “Lynne Sanderson” and “Trevor” were printed on the cover under a photo of them together at a gig from the ‘70s. Deb gazed lovingly at Trevor’s picture and began sobbing again. ‘God, don't let it be you.’