Free The Otto Bin Empire by Judy Nunn

Rose’s company, but for her practical assistance. Despite her pregnancy, Rose worked as hard as any of the three roadies who followed the bus in their beaten-up Holden.
    Rose loved every minute of the tour. She’d been well past the morning sickness phase when they left, having suffered little discomfort in any event, and she revelled in her usefulness.
    By the time they returned to Sydney, her pregnancy was patently obvious and over the next couple of months as the New Year crept in and January slipped by, the larger she grew the more they both basked in the sight.
    â€˜This is what they mean by “huge with child”, Toby said as they sat naked together in bed, Rose propped up on pillows. He ran the palms of his hands over her taut black skin, his fingers tracing the impressive globe of her belly.‘ Huuuge with child ,’ he repeated, chanting the words, milking them for all they were worth and enjoying the sound, ‘ huuuuge with child. It makes a man feel humble, it truly does.’
    Rose laughed. He’d just smoked a joint. ‘You and your Irish blarney,’ she said, but she delighted in his admiration, knowing it wasn’t just the dope and that he was only half joking.
    She gave birth in early March, a relatively easy delivery, and when they returned home from the hospital with their little brown bundle Toby remained lost in awe.
    â€˜Look at her now,’ he said, gazing down at the baby in its cradle, studying the tiny hand clutching his little finger with such surprising strength even in sleep. ‘Was there ever a more perfect baby?’
    â€˜No. Never.’ Rose savoured the moment, holding it close, knowing that this was the happiest moment in her life, simply because no human being could possibly be happier.
    With the proceeds of the tour, which had paid well, Toby put a deposit down on a modest one-storey terrace house in the neighbouring suburb of Balmain, not far from the harbour.
    â€˜I’ll not have my daughter raised amongst a horde of doped-up, drunken musicians,’ he said with mock severity, ‘oh dear me, no, it’s the straight and narrow for our Jess.’
    Rose smiled. Toby would always be surrounded by musicians wherever he lived, but once again she knew that he was only half joking and that their days of heavy partying were probably over.
    â€˜It’s ours, Rosie,’ he said as they wandered around the house, Toby running his hands over walls that were badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. He addressed the baby asleep in her arms: ‘What do you think, Jess? Our very own home, every brick of it, all ours. Well, no,’ he corrected himself, ‘not all ours – all the bank’s actually, but it’ll be ours soon enough.’
    They stepped out into the backyard, which was surprisingly large, particularly given the size of the house. The backyard was the reason Toby had chosen the property.
    â€˜And here’s where the recording studio will go,’ he said, arms outstretched, encompassing the entire yard, ‘right here.’ A recording studio of his own had always been Toby’s dream. A state-of-the-art affair with plenty of space for the band to set up, a huge dividing double-plateglass window, a sixteen-channel mixing desk and big JBL speakers for perfect playback: he could see it all.
    He put his arm around Rose and together they surveyed the tangled mess of weeds and debris over-run by morning glory vines. A crumbling home-made brick barbecue, once someone’s pride and joy, sat on one side, lantana bushes did battle with the morning glory on the other, an umbrella tree and a rubber plant vied for supremacy down the back and in pride of place stood the metal skeleton of a Hills Hoist clothesline, ubiquitous symbol of suburban Australia.
    â€˜It’ll take a few more tours I reckon,’ Toby said, sensing as he did that might be something of an understatement.
    Three years, three tours