Free The Boys of Summer by C.J. Duggan Page A

this in the
brochure,” Ellie said glumly as she sprayed Windex and cleaned
fingerprints off the jukebox. Her bracelets clinked with each
vigorous rub.
    “Melba said we had to ‘earn our keep’,” I
air-quoted.
    Chris was nowhere to be seen. He had his own
room upstairs; more ‘lurks and perks’ of managing the bar, on top
of lock-ins, was, obviously, free board. That left Uncle Eric in
charge of the day shift, something he was much more accustomed to.
The place was breezy; slower and less high maintenance during
daylight hours with just a handful of church-skipping tradies
having a quiet cold one as opposed to the rowdy twenty-something
crowd of a Saturday night.
    It would be our second day into the Irish
Festival and I was prepped; I wore my infamous Guinness top with a
black skirt so I didn’t look like a body double for that 1960s
chick from the Avengers. We had a few lunchtime walk-ins, mostly
tourists all damp and sun-kissed from swimming or lying out by the
lake. Seeing them put Ellie and I in a whimsical mood, so we made
plans to break away to Mclean’s Beach between shifts.
    But until then, forced to endure everyone
else enjoying their holidays, the afternoon dragged on. I couldn’t
stop myself from turning each time the front door opened, my heart
skipping a beat in hope, but the Onslow Boys never appeared. I
guessed that they had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon. I
could only hope they’d venture out when the sun went down.
    At shift’s end, we bolted down the hill in a
highly unlady-like fashion, bags bouncing on our shoulders, arms
flailing, breaths laboured. Our minds focused solely on reaching
McLean’s Beach at the hottest part of the day. It would be crowded
and overrun, no doubt, but not so much by tourists. The beauty of
Maclean’s Beach was that it was always crowded by locals rather
than tourists, just the way we liked it. Although I would often
complain about tourists, I did get it. How could I not? My parents
constantly reminded me.
    “No tourists, no livelihood, Tess.”
    Mum and Dad’s cafe on the main strip of Perry
– a direct line into Onslow – proved to be the perfect busy
stopover. Mum was an excellent cook, taught from Gran and no doubt
her Gran before her. She specialised in traditional family
home-cooked recipes and Mum’s homemade pies were a big hit. It had
made my heart clench when the Onslow Boys gave them the tick of
approval as the ‘best pies in town’. I wondered if Mum would
remember them coming in. I’d have to ask in a way that wouldn’t
make her suspicious or have me sound like a stalker.
    As time ticked on towards the dinner shift,
Ellie and I packed up our towels we had stretched out on for an
afternoon sunbaking session and headed for the hotel. We walked
past the mechanics, where I knew Toby worked. Naturally, it was
closed on Sunday, but I did have the slightest hope that Toby might
have been in there, anyway. He could be doing a bit of weekend
catch-up. Being a sweltering summer afternoon and all, if he was in
there, he’d most likely be shirtless. Hey, it was my fantasy.
    My gaze skimmed the exterior of the closed
building. Faded block lettering read ‘Matthew & Son’ on the
tangerine and blue workshop. Toby’s dad, Matthew Morrison, had been
the local mechanic for as long as I could remember. It was where
everyone went. Since he was the only mechanic in town he could have
named his price, but he was a real decent bloke and always charged
reasonably. Or so my dad said. I squinted at the sign; it should
have really read ‘Matthew & Sons’ seeing as Toby and his older
brother, Michael, both worked there. That in itself was a real
testament to their dad. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my
parents, but I could never work for them. And believe me,
they had tried. One of the upsides of working at the Onslow was my
parents stopped pestering me. They seemed pleased enough that I had
stepped out of my comfort zone and was trying, at least.