Read Online Ironbark by Barry Jonsberg - Free Book Online

Granddad can get his dentures around something else. He clears his throat like he’s summoning up another oyster, but the moment passes. Then he takes one hand off the wheel to fish around in his nose. He’s got some great personal habits, I tell you. But he doesn’t say anything. I look out the window to see if there’s any thinning on the tree front, but they’re out in force and tight.
    â€˜I might become a chef,’ I say.
    â€˜A chef?’ says Granddad. If you were to judge purely by his tone of voice, you’d think I’d expressed ambitions in the area of gay porn.
    â€˜Yeah. Not a lame kitchenhand scraping grease around in some dodgy cafe. A proper chef. With the big white hat.
    The sort that shouts, “Give me a rack of lamb with a fennel salad,” at scurrying minions. Has his own TV show. Gets to swear a lot. You know what I’m talking about.’
    â€˜No,’ he says, looking carefully at what he’s mined from his nostril. It’s clearly nothing nine-carat because he rolls it up and flicks it out the window. ‘No. I don’t.’
    â€˜Well then, I guess I’ll have to show you,’ I say. ‘Strap your tastebuds in tonight, Gramps. They’re headed for a roller-coaster ride.’
    We lapse into silence. Granddad has probably used up a week’s worth of words and needs to rest. I turn back to the trees and try to get them to disappear by sheer force of will. Works, too, because they thin and the dirt track becomes scattered with loose stones. Signs we are approaching what passes for civilisation out here. I pay more attention. I’ve got this horrible feeling we are going to end up at some bush shack that sells canned meat, the local newspaper and tractor parts.
    But we don’t. Granddad sprays up loose gravel as he drifts onto a main road. Well, it’s sealed and it’s got lines in the middle. About twenty minutes later we hit the town and the coast. I can’t remember the name of the town. Something Pom-sounding. There’s just one street, overlooking the ocean, but it has a supermarket and a bottle shop, so I’m not complaining. Tassie’s equivalent of a city shopping centre. There’s also a couple of cafes, a newsagent, a craft store and a few antique shops that you can tell are going to have junk at stupid prices that some relic in a bow tie will flog to tourists. The place is so picturesque I wanna throw up. I don’t, though. I’ve checked the mobile and, wonder of wonders, I’ve got another signal. Only two bars, but hey . . .
    Granddad parks up in the supermarket car park. The ute’s engine runs for about thirty seconds after he’s turned it off. It’s a crack-up. We get out and Granddad doesn’t bother to lock the doors, though he does wind up the window. It’s not just that no one would be likely to steal the pile of junk. I reckon this is the sort of community where one crime is committed every two hundred years and that’s probably parking in a disabled spot.
    We arrange to meet up in an hour. I need to make my call and do some shopping. I find a bench next to a row of memorials to the fallen in various wars and get on the phone. I’m hoping for a text message or two, but there’s nothing. Knowing I’m being so sorely missed gives me a warm glow. I try Kris’s new mobile, but it’s turned off. Probably in maths class and she wouldn’t wanna mess with Miss Millner twice on consecutive days. Trust me, it’s not an acceptable risk. I’ll try her again during the school lunch break.
    Of course, this leaves me with about fifty-nine minutes to kill, and a quick eyeballing of the main strip doesn’t fill me with inspiration. The shopping for tonight’s dinner is probably going to take fifteen minutes, tops, and for the rest of the time I can either check out the antique shops or sit on a bench somewhere and watch random