Free Smoky Joe's Cafe by Bryce Courtenay Page A

Stupid old cow.
    A commercial traveller comes in for breakfast and the usual assortment of customers wander in, most of them wanting cigarettes. It’s almost nine o’clock before we can talk.
    â€˜How’d it go?’ Wendy asks, ‘Place looks spic ‘n’ span, you must have been up bright and early?’
    My head’s hurting and hammering against the side of me temples like the clappers of hell. There’s something evil about a bad hangover, it hurts more three hours after than it does when you get up. Not that I’m not used to them, I’ve had more hangovers than most people have had hot breakfasts.
    â€˜Yeah, it was good,’ I say, not wanting to give too much away. I’m not in a fit state or even ready to explain. I know I’m gunna have to level with her sooner or later, best try and get through the morning first. Perhaps even after the meeting, stall her until tonight when I know a bit more and my head hurts a bit less. ‘Bit of a meeting this arvo at the pub, think you can manage here?’ I say.
    â€˜Meeting? Another piss-up, you mean?’
    â€˜No, no! No grog. It’s a fair dinkum meeting, love.’
    â€˜What about?’

    â€˜Look, I’ll tell you later, okay?’ I give her a look which says don’t bug me now.
    She sighs, ‘Mum wanted to have her hair done at Hair to Stay.’
    â€˜Well, she can’t.’
    Wendy moves into the kitchen area and I follow her, I can see if anyone comes into the cafe. ‘You go tell her that, Thommo. She’s already made the appointment, it’s a big thing, she’s going to Mary Willow’s seventieth.’
    â€˜Stiff shit,’ I say, then instantly try to take it back, ‘I mean, you explain it to her, she’ll only have a go at me if I do.’ But Wendy’s heard me first off and won’t stand for that kind of language. I can cuss, that’s the way I am, but not directed at her or her mum.
    â€˜Stiff what?’ she spits, ‘Who do you think you’re talking to, Thommo?’
    â€˜Look, it’s real important, this meeting.’ I try to keep my voice calm.
    â€˜Oh, I see. Important how? I thought last night was a party with your mates, “a grand reunion piss-up” is how you described it.’
    â€˜Yeah, well, it turned out to be more than that.’ I’ve gone too far, said too much. I can see Wendy’s not going to let it go.
    â€˜Thommo, what’s going on? You in trouble? Your
mates? One of them? Stay away, we’ve got enough on our plate as it is.’
    â€˜Nah, nothin’ like that.’ I try to sound casual but I’m digging meself in deeper.
    â€˜What then?’
    â€˜Look, do me a favour. Leave off will ya, Wendy?’
    She raises one eyebrow, she’s a school teacher, or at least she was before Anna come along and she had to help run the cafe and care for her. I know that look. ‘Secret men’s business, is it?’ she says, sarcastic.
    Thank Christ, a customer walks in. I can’t get over to him fast enough. Turns out he’s not a customer, it’s some bloke wants to flog me a new kind of ice-cream, pure fruit, nothing artificial, picked at dawn from an orchard in Queensland. Normally I’d give him the bum’s rush. Nobody in this town eats anything that’s good for them anyway, but now I treat him like a long-lost brother. I let him chat on about the crap he’s flogging. I even take a large carton and the free scoop and a box of fancy cones. The salesman’s stoked. I get the feeling sales haven’t been that great. I turn around and Wendy’s come out the kitchen and now stands behind the counter lookin’ at me with her arms folded across her chest. Not a real good sign I gotta tell ya.

    â€˜I’m taking Mum to the hairdresser’s,’ she says, lips pulled tight.
    One thing I’ve never done, about the only thing, is backhand