Free Four Fires by Bryce Courtenay

Sarah and Colleen in the front all squashed up and us on the mattress, comfortable as you can get, with Bozo's mutts, all of which had been dusted up with flea powder. I tell you what, we were that excited and proud. Nancy said it was a pity Tommy was on the hill and couldn't come with us. But I know we didn't agree with her, though of course we wouldn't have said so.
    The Diamond T wasn't all that used to getting out of second gear and the hundred and thirty miles to Melbourne was going to take all day. About halfway, near Seymour, it started to rain and soon it was pissing down and the mattress got soaked through. We pushed the blankets and cushions under it and they only got a bit wet then dried out in the wind later. 'There goes Nancy's sleep,' Mike says. 'We didn't take the spoon out the sink.'
    'What do you mean?' I protest. 'We couldn't help that it rained!'
    'Canvas, we should have wrapped it in the back-verandah canvas, Nancy's going to be cranky as hell.'
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    'At least the rain will wipe the squashed grasshoppers from the windshield,' Bozo says. 'The radiator's probably half blocked with the blighters.' After it stopped raining, he banged on the roof and Nancy drew to a halt and Bozo was dead right, the radiator was almost clogged with dead grasshoppers. That's what I mean about Bozo, maybe we didn't get it right with the mattress but the Diamond T was his personal responsibility and he'd taken the spoon out of the sink. The Diamond T could easily have overheated and then God knows when we'd have gotten to Melbourne, if ever.
    The Diamond T held up after that and we came into Melbourne just as the lights were coming on. We couldn't believe it, stretching as far as the eye could see were lights dancing like a million fireflies in the dark. We'd dried out a bit in the meantime and fortunately the big old army duffle bag we'd packed our posh clothes into for the presentation had kept them dry. Bozo wasn't all that happy about the duffle bag
    being used for our clothes. He'd filled it with river sand and it hung from the back verandah as his punching bag. We had to empty all the sand out so we could use it for the trip.
    'What if the Queen gives us the prize, wants to hand it to Nancy personally?' I say, as we're coming in to the showground.
    'Better not, if Nancy has to curtsy she'll fall on her arse,' Mike laughs.
    Bozo shakes his head, 'Don't think she'd do it.'
    'Do what?' I ask.
    'Bow and scrape to the Queen,' Bozo replies.
    'More than that, she's also head of the Church of England,' Mike says. 'We've got the Pope and they've got the Queen.'
    'Nancy has to, it's the law,' I protest. 'She's the Queen of England and Australia, they told us in school, she's higher up even than Bob
    Menzies.'
    'Still and all, I don't like her chances, Nancy's pretty stubborn,'
    Bozo counters.
    Mike cuts the argument short, 'Queen's not even in the country, so I wouldn't worry too much, maybe she'll come year after next for the Olympic Games and stay over for the show.'
    'What do you mean, not here? Nancy said the Queen likes bush Page 42

    blossoms because of what she'd seen before?'
    'That's just Nancy, because it's called The Royal Melbourne Show,'
    Mike replies. He seemed to be thinking. 'Still an' all, it would've been nice to get the prize from the Queen. Her handing it to Nancy.'
    We couldn't believe our ears. Bozo was the first to recover. 'Jesus, what do you mean? The Queen's a Protestant and she's English and head of their church, you said!'
    'Yeah, I know, it's not that, it's all the hoity-toity people in Yankalillee, they'd eat their livers.' He spread his hands, like he was reading a newspaper, 'I can see the Gazette, in these big black letters on the front page, there it would be for all to see: MRS NANCY
    MALONEY MEETS THE QUEEN! They'd puke with envy. Imagine
    Mrs Yerberry in her fox stole hearing the news, she'd have a conniption, maybe drop dead on the spot!'
    'Conniption' was a Nancy word and it meant something