Free Heritage by Judy Nunn Page A

bonhomie was, he appeared sincere and Lucky was grateful to the man for rescuing him. Peggy had left him stranded with two P & A lady committee members early in the evening, saying she was off to check on Edna and the volunteer caterers and she’d be back in a minute.
    â€˜But I thought you weren’t working tonight.’
    â€˜I’m not. They might just want a quick hand setting up, that’s all,’ and she’d disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
    Half an hour later, as the members of the local band started tuning their instruments, Lucky had found himself still marooned with the lady committee members. Having shared with him their admiration of the decorations – the streamers, the balloons, the floral arrangements and the festive atmosphere of the hall in general – the ladies had embarked upon an intensely personal discussion about a particularly cantankerous judge in the show’s needlework section, and then they’d been joined by two of their male counterparts who’d discussed with equal intensity the improvements required to the main arena fence, and the fact that it must certainly be discussed at the next general meeting. Lucky had by that time been so assiduously ignored that he’d felt invisible, which he’d considered most fortunate. But then several farmers had arrived, one of them keen to discuss the collection and care of birds sent by rail for the poultry section and, as Lucky introduced himself, aware that no-one present would remember his name, he’d suddenly become very visible.
    â€˜You’re a German, aren’t you.’ It had been an accusation rather than a question, and although the others had been silently nursing their own vague discomfort in the German’s presence, they had been most embarrassed by the poultry farmer’s overt hostility.
    â€˜Yes, I am German.’
    â€˜Thought so.’
    That was when Cam had come to the rescue. He’d slapped the poultry farmer on the back. ‘Look after your birds, Bill, that’s what you’re here for.’ Everyone knew that Bill was a bit barmy when it came to Germans. His younger brother had died by his side at the Somme, so it was pretty understandable. ‘Come on, mate,’ he’d said to Lucky, ‘let’s go outside and grab a beer.’ Out in the showground he’d headed for the nearest liquor booth and insisted on shouting the first round. ‘Lucky you said, right?’ He handed Lucky his beer and they edged clear of the crowd around the booth.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I’m Cam. Cam Campbell.’ They shook. ‘I’ve got nothing against Germans …’ and Cam launched into his hail-fellow-well-met routine.
    A successful farmer with a large family property not far from Adaminaby, Thomas ‘Cam’ Campbell was a big, beefy man in his late forties, ruddy-faced with a smile both confident and likeable. Highly respected as one of the finest horsemen in the area, he was popular among his peers, and Lucky, like most, found himself warming to the man.
    â€˜You work for the Authority, I take it?’ Cam queried after they’d clinked and taken a swig from their glasses.
    â€˜No, I’m a labourer, I work for Selmers,’ Lucky said, referring to the Norwegian contractors handling the Guthega dam project. ‘I’m based at Spring Hill.’
    Cam was surprised. He’d assumed that the German, a cultivated man judging by his faultless English, was one of the experts brought out from Europe by the SMA. But he wasn’t deterred by discovering the bloke was a labourer; he liked him all the more for it.
    â€˜Well, good on you, Lucky,’ he said. ‘There’re plenty of decent honest blokes working here on the Snowy,’ and he raised his glass in a toast of approval, ‘which is more than I can say for the bloody SMA bosses!’ Then he downed half his beer in several swift gulps before