The fat ladies of Chookoo

The usual fund-raisers hadn’t worked - not the emu races, nor the Running of the Goats which the Mayor dreamed up after a Woman’s Weekly Tour of Spain. But his fabulist notions of ‘vision’ on the 6 o’clock Toowoomba news materialised as a Grey Nomad impaled on a billy-goat’s horn. After that the Public Liability went through the roof and the Goat Rush didn’t get off the ground. The little town of Chookoo was doing it tough. Beef and wool had gone the way of prospecting, i.e. down the gurgler. The only thing the town had left to flog off was itself. First its citizens migrated east. Then the houses followed. Cottages and grand old homesteads took a slow beach-ward trundle on the back of a prime-mover, moving steadily down the Warrego Highway to new lives as sea-side ‘shacks’ for the offspring of judges. Soon the little streets of Chookoo would consist of mango trees, stones and the memory of plumbing. A Regional Queensland Grant was available that year and as part of his drive for re-election the Mayor urged the locals to come up with some new ideas. Chookoo was so far off the beaten track it was on it and if the town couldn’t ride on the sheep’s back any more, a caravan park filled with Winnebagos would have to do instead. ‘We need a few bloody tourists,’ the Mayor said, ‘to appreciate our outback charms.’ One bloke proposed a turbo charged boomerang. Another thought the nomads could hunt Min Min lights with a pack of dingos. The Three Fat Ladies Café put in a presentation too – a more lady-like affair of ‘fillum’ evenings. They proposed screening ‘European’ (code for erotic) films on the side wall of the café, accompanied by platters of Maleny smoked cheddar and a Ravens Croft Pinotage. This was the kind of thing a Grey Nomad would be into Wen thought. She was the fattest of the fat ladies and their leader. She wasn’t hopeful though. ‘Bloody Wayne’ll put a stop to it,’ she said. ‘He’s so up himself you can practically see his wrinkle.’ ‘Don’t you mean freckle?’ Tess said. The three ladies laughed so hard their chins inflated briefly like a pelican’s nosebag. ‘You catch more flies with honey love,’ said Margot, caressing her own ample thighs. The Mayor and Hospital Superintendent took their places on the platform and the hall shushed. Although Wen ran most things in the town, there was an annoying impediment to her rise to higher power and influence - the Mayor swanning around town in his fake ermine and chains of office. And she wasn’t alone in her views. ‘Look at that prick,’ someone muttered from the back. ‘Never done a day’s hard yakka.’ ‘He’s weary mate, gettin frocked up every mornin takes it out of a man.’ The three ‘ladies’ were there early so they could line up in the front row and eyeball the Regional Fund Committee (actually the Mayor and the Hospital Superintendent). ‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen etc etc,’ the Mayor said, his chains trembling across a well upholstered belly. ‘The committee would like to say how happy we are to welcome you all here tonight. And let me just say...’ ‘Come on Wayne,’ Wendy said. ‘Get on with it.’ The Mayor glared down at his sister. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued. ‘We’ve looked over the presentations and while I congratulate you all on the ingenuity of so many of your suggestions…’ ‘We thought that as there’s a big dunny at Dunedoo,’ the Superintendent interrupted. ‘Chookoo could have a Big Chook.’ Wen gave a mock yawn. It was always going to be a no-contest and everyone knew it. ‘Foregone conclusion Wayne,’ she heckled. ‘Looks like it’s just jobs for the boys as per usual.’ The Mayor raised his voice over hers and continued. ‘A name like ours lends itself,’ he said, smiling down at his sister in what she knew was a gloat of triumph. ‘And it won’t do your business any harm either,’ she said loudly, to a ripple of laughter from the auditorium. Brother and sister had been at each other’s throats for years, at least since the two year old Wendy had acquired a baby brother. The older people still laughed about her efforts to leave Wayne at the town dump. But there was truth in Wendy’s remarks and the populace knew it. And how did he keep getting elected when every last one of them declared they’d voted for Wen, not Wayne. ‘About as useless as pockets in a singlet,’ the bar-flies muttered about him, and more than once. Wayne was a builder by trade with a line in making fibre-glass ute covers. So he was just the man to build a king-sized Black Orpington. The chook was built in situ, right next to the ‘Welcome to Chookoo’ sign, her glossy plumage so lacquered it became a traffic hazard at sunset. ‘Chookoo’- as she became known - had a trapdoor in her chest feathers and an internal ladder so the passing Grey Nomads could climb through her gizzard and peer at the town that bore her name. Wayne had personally built the viewing platform on the inside of her beak holes, and lacquered the bright red comb which flopped winsomely over one eye. Plenty of nomads stopped for a gander at the chook, but in quite a short time her plumage faded to off-black, her comb turned orange and the photographs of nomads standing next to the disintegrating fowl became too ‘ironic’ for comfort. Soon ‘Chookoo’ was as sun-blasted and heat-beaten as the remaining residents. ‘Typical,’ Wendy said to anyone who listened. ‘Bodgy work by a bunch of crooks. Wouldn’t of happened on my watch.’ Every morning, bright and early, the three fat ladies opened the doors to their café, kettle on the hob of the old wood stove and fresh cakes in the oven. Their CWA notions of hospitality thrived within the converted saddlery they’d furnished with wool presses, sorting tables and sets of scales that stood next to more conventional tables and chairs. Every known piece of machinery in the district had made its way to the ‘Fat Ladies’, and even some unrelated artefacts such as rusted dingo traps and a harness for skinning a roo. People loved the Ladies café where portions were as ample as the ladies themselves. And their café was where everything happened. Truckies stopped in for one of Marg’s home-made bagels (with friend onion rings, newly slaughtered rump steak and a slathering of English mustard). And there were other things on offer too, things not exactly available on the shelves of the general store (dope, sly grog, even a bit of a trade in dingo pups). But the ladies ran the legitimate stuff too– the taxi, the real estate, the post office, the bank. They even maintained a bingo night alongside their weight loss program (weigh-ins were held weekly on the wool scales). ‘Twenty bucks a day for lettuce and boiled eggs,’ Marg chortled. She had no such plans for herself. ‘You’d have to be having a lend to charge twenty for a feed like that.’ Although they hadn’t got RQ funding for it the ladies decided to put on their ‘fillum’ nights anyway, selecting movies with a dark story and a bit of an ‘edge’ (code for full frontal nudity) when there were nomads in town. Although the locals were happy enough with their internet porn, the woeful download speed sometimes put them off their stride. So the rows of old cinema chairs facing the shed wall (it was painted white to double as a screen) always filled on movie nights, the nomads uncomfortable in flip-up seats, but charmed by the night sky and the ‘refreshments’ available from the hatch at the back. The ‘ladies’, being wives and mothers, and fat and old, never attracted much attention even when the sweet smoke of weed wafted across what look like a man in conjugation with a blow-up doll. But Wen was restless. Wayne was forever in her path, blocking her with his gloating smile and taking what was rightfully hers. ‘If anyone in the family should be Mayor it’s me,’ she said, and in the café there were posters of Wen stating just that: ‘Get the right member of the family – vote 1 for Wen.’ She peered up and down the empty street. No-one! There wasn’t a single motor home on the long flat highway, visible from both directions. ‘That bloody chook was always going to be a dead duck,’ she said. ‘Like most of Wayne’s hair-brained schemes.’ The sun was shining (when didn’t it?) and Margot’s latest culinary creation was just out of the oven – a ricotta cake with poached bush apple dusted in mango icing sugar. ‘About as useful as a chocolate teapot,’ Wen said. ‘Speaking of which,’ Tess said heaving the huge enamel pot off the hob, her child-bearing biceps straining with effort. ‘Time for a cuppa girls.’ The three fat ladies sat in a row, lined up along the pressed metal table top and facing the footpath so they could suss out any passing trade. Another semi had left the town overnight, carrying what had once been the Magistrate’s house lashed to its tray. But there was no magistrate any more, or even a member of the police, and that had left a huge gap in the social fabric of the town, not to mention right opposite the Information Kiosk (basically a cardboard sign pointing to the Three Fat Ladies café). ’Nothing wrong with your bush cake Marg,’ Wen commented, her tongue savouring the pungent contrast of tart fruit and creamy ricotta and fingers straying to collect the crumbs clustered on her shelf of a bosom. ‘I never thought Wayne would come to the party anyway,’ Tess said. ‘Nah,’ Wen agreed. ‘Wouldn’t take Einstein to figure that out.’ ‘Lacking in foresight,’ Margot said. ‘Not like you darl.’ She patted Wen’s freckly hand. ‘Or even foreskin,’ Wen said, giving Tess the giggles. There weren’t many family secrets Wen wasn’t willing to share. And although her efforts to leave her brother at the dump had been unsuccessful it still seemed like a top idea. ‘Moving to plan B?’ Margot said with a hopeful expression. She settled back in her comfy old cane chair. Wendy smiled at her two friends. It was remarkable how close they’d grown over the years, in spite of husbands and children and the occasional problem with the in-laws. It was also remarkable how alike the brother and sister had become. Wen had the same broad face and thickset body as her brother, as well as the sandy eyebrows and shortage of neck. But that was where the resemblance ended. Wen had a full head of dyed red hair. And she had surprisingly good legs, considering. ‘Yep,’ Wen said. ‘Time for the curtain to go up.’ ‘The leopard skin curtain,’ Tessa said, high-fiving Margot with her chubby palm. At the edge of town, in the shadow of ‘Chookoo’, there was a house where the former owner had carked it. Unlike the majestic timber constructions forever shipping out to Noosa and Perigian, this house was red brick and going nowhere. A high besser-block fence surrounded it, access being through a remote-controlled gate at the front. As its owner had managed to die in it undetected for a month the house had gone at a knock down price, to the ladies of course, always first to know Chookoo’s business. This house was Wen’s new dream – the triple 8 (named after the ‘fat ladies’ of course and their love of bingo). There were three bedrooms each decorated to a theme. The carmine room came furnished with gilt and mirrors, and (reproduction) Louis 18th furniture. The magenta was ‘underwater’ with an equatorial feel (rain forests and bamboo). And the black room had faux leopard curtains and African masks lit from inside. Tessa thought the African room would be everyone’s favourite; as soon as the drumming started she felt a hot flush coming on, and it wasn’t the return of the menopause. A walk-in pantry had been converted into a viewing room (for the voyeurs). ‘We’ll need to get a coupla girls in,’ Wen said. ‘Other than that she’s a goer.’ The 888 Loyalty Card was Tessa’s idea. ‘How about a freebie every fifth stopover at the Caff,’ she suggested, ‘one on the House?’ ‘The Maison,’ Wen corrected. ‘I’ll get used to it,’ Tessa said. She’d wanted to call it ‘House of the Rising Son’ in honour of the Animals song which had brought her firstborn (Eric) into being on the back seat of an FJ. But the others had other ideas. It was to be the ‘888 Maison’. ‘And why do the blokes get the rewards?’ she wanted to know. ‘Strictly business,’ Wen said. ‘The men do the driving and we want them to drive right back here to Chookoo don’t we?’ ‘We’re gonna make sure of that aren’t we girls,’ Margot said winking and smiling. ‘The wives might be glad of a night off anyhow,’ Tess said darkly. There were times when her conjugal arrangements felt a little samey after 42 years of ‘woman on top’. One thing the three did agree on was that the ‘888’ was for out-of-towners only. They didn’t want Chookoo mixing its business and pleasures. Once the Loyalty Cards began doing their work the population swelled, just as Wen had predicted. And lots of ‘likes’ were recorded on the Facebook page ‘Maison 888’, by people with names like ‘GreyGonad’ and even ‘StudleyManor’. ‘Pretty keen on the Jungle Room Tess,’ Margot said, reading some of the comments. Not all of them could be read aloud. ‘They like the ‘Versaille’ too.’ This was the name they’d given the room with the red and gold wall paper. ‘Let’s face it,’ Wen said. ‘They’re pretty keen on all the rooms the dirty boys. And they love the ‘Voyeurs’.’ The caravan parks overflowed. And people didn’t stay just the one night, eat Marg’s special breakfast of fried toast soaked in eggs and cheese and shoot through. No, the caravans and Winnebagos lingered, as did the truckies, roo shooters and hitch-hikers. They wanted to use their loyalty card one way or another. ‘This is going to piss Wayne off good and proper,’ said Tess. She laughed nervously. They’d been married for 43 years. He could get a bit narky if he thought she was colluding with his sister. But pissing Wayne off was an outcome welcomed by Wen. ‘I live in hope,’ she said. Around that time ‘Chookoo’s’ ladder fell out with a nomad on it and the 6 o’clock news ran an ironic story about Chookoo’s Big Chook. It was a filler, taking the viewer from the weather to the usual stories about neighbour disputes, family feuds and the overweight, so everyone in Chookoo was tuned in. ‘That’ll be the end of the photo-ops,’ Wayne said gloomily down at the pub after they’d all watched it. A huge election poster of his smiling face beamed over the bar. ‘Never was that great of an idea if you ask me,’ a man growled at the back of the room. ‘Couldn't organise a dog fuck in a paper bag,’ someone else muttered into his beer. Wayne looked around trying to catch a hint of laughter but every face was staring intently at the TV where an overweight woman chased her neighbour’s cat with a tin of curry powder. ‘Looks like the sister got all the nous,’ someone else said. ‘You know. The sister we voted for.’ If there was one thing everyone in Chookoo knew it was how sensitive the Mayor was to jibes about his sister. ‘Wouldn’t that blow the fork outa your nightie,’ another voice muttered to smothered laughter. Wayne put his empty glass down and headed for the door. There were things he felt entitled to like a bit of respect – and knowing what the hell his sister was up to. ‘Ah,’ he rumbled. ‘What the hell would you mob know?’ ‘Don’t get your his tits in a tangle,’ someone yelled through the slamming door. A man like Wayne always had favours he could call in. There was a visiting trapper whose load of dead dogs had ended up in the river. He’d bragged about his new loyalty card. And there was another bloke from Sydney, a rabbitoh’s supporter, hiding from the missus. The chicks at the Maison weren’t going to know Wayne from a bar of soap when he strolled in decked out in his rabbitoh’s red and green and carrying the spanking new triple 8 card. Things in the bedroom had got a little dull for Wayne over the years even though Tess complained she had to do all the work. To tell the truth he’d only married her after duffing her up and then her old man called around. Wayne was looking forward to a bit of a change, all in the interests of research of course. ‘What’s your preference?’ the reception asked, pointing at the chalked menu (the ladies still applied café thinking). This week’s specials: Customer ratings: Jungle drums 888888 Asian dreams 8888 Courtesan drama 88888 Jungle Drums sounded right up his street. He could feel the throbbing beat of the music right down to the soles of his feet, not to mention other parts of his anatomy. And there were some very encouraging moans of ecstasy, although these came (unbeknownst to him) from a voyeur in the converted pantry. After a buzz on the intercom and a bit of throaty chat the reception chick handed him a leopard patterned plastic key. ‘Go through now sir,’ she said. ‘Queen Ntwala is ready for you.’ Wayne opened the door. The room was dimly lit, and the African drumming generated an electrifying pulse. A woman’s voice called from the ensuite ‘Ready yourself for the umhlanga.’ This was the dance an African king’s wife performed for him apparently. Wayne had read about it while waiting in the waiting room. The voice was hoarse and throaty as you’d expect from a dusky sex queen. Wayne looked around the dimly lit room. ‘Put on the robe,’ she called. ‘On the chair.’ So he donned the green and gold man-dress and with arms akimbo admired himself in the full-length mirror eyes. The King of Swaziland he said to himself, adjusting his feathered head-gear, his ‘other half’ ready for at least seventy wives. There weren’t many things that happened in Chookoo that the ladies didn’t know. In fact sometimes they knew a thing before it happened, Wayne’s trip to the triple 8 being a case in point. The dog trapper, not happy at the loss of his hard-won loyalty card, put a complaint through to the Maison888 and before Wayne had even got the rabbitoh’s jersey over his head and the duck feathers on it, Wen was liberating the mayoral robes of office. Decked out in the gold chains and ermine cloak she swept into the back bar with Wayne’s campaign megaphone and showing a fair bit of leg. ‘Free look at the Triple 8,’ she spruiked. ‘Just one night.’ A festival air descended on the bar. No-one was going to turn down a free perve. ‘Wen for Mayor,’ someone shouted, before providing Wayne’s campaign poster with a lipsticked head of hair. The roar of utes and motorbikes drowned out everything else. ‘Get ready,’ Wen called through to the receptionist. ‘There’s a free night in the voyeurs’ room.’ ‘Looks like the hair treatment’s working Waynie,’ one smart Alec yelled to Wen, before gunning his Harley and heading to the Maison. It was hot and crowded with so many voyeurs in one small space but no-one complained. Everyone enjoyed a barney between Wayne and Wen and this one was shaping up as a corker. It seemed like Wayne was a bit on the nose with the general populace. ‘Bastard’s always got some sorta ripoff going,’ someone said (although that may have been Wen). The mayor entered the ensuite - belly first, ankle beads next and the ceremonial ‘umhlanga’ (in this case a knob headed nulla nulla) after – and a hush fell over the crowd. They loved the look on Wayne’s face when he recognised his wife. And they loved, even more, the sight of Tess in her x plus black teddy. Unknown to him Wayne’s voice was splendidly audible through the low-miked speakers specially installed. ‘What the bloody hell do you reckon you’re up to?’ He struggled to get back on the front foot but Tess was having none of that. ‘What about you ya mongrel, cheating on your long-suffering wife.’ It didn’t take many jibes at the next election rally before Wayne understood his mayoral days were over. Weeks later the three fat ladies sat together in their café, bottle of bubbly on ice and a plate of warm borek (pastry stuffed with mutton and parsley) on the pressed metal surface. Margot was going through a Turkish phase. “Mmmm. Mmm,’ Tess said, smacking her lips at the spicy scent. ‘To our new mayor,’ Margot said clinking Tessa’s glass. Wen adjusted the gold chains and ermine cloak. ‘And to no more girls on top,’ Tess said. She and Wayne had come to a new arrangement involving the plus size teddy and a bit more leeway all round. ‘Long live Chookoo,’ Wen said, watching as a house from further down the track slowly backed into the space the Magistrate’s house had left. ‘And us,’ they said to one another clinking flutes,’ the eight eight eights.’