Chapter 1
Gwen Goodman, who liked her distinctive out-of-fashion first name, wearing just thin cotton shorts, her breasts freely exercising, had the insane belief that there could be some guy out there who’s think she looked sexy while licking his lips and thinking he could be in with a chance.
She sighed, thinking the truth was chances of an invigorating last great romance for her were not on the cards.
Gwen looked across at her former long-time hero, now a shadow of his former self, mouth-open and asleep in his cane chair after his four cans of beer and only half-consuming her evening meal of lamb shanks, carrots and the best gravy to be found within 20 miles or more of their place under the Australian sun that threw regular droughts upon the farmland.
Being in the territory of droughts prevented them from becoming enriched by their reared cattle that aged skinny instead of killing out succulently with marbled fat that would fetch top prices. Their stock that survived their harsh life to make it to the slaughter house were usually graded suitable for beef hamburgers.
Hamburgers were one of husband Nick’s favourite meals or snacks. What a Cretan!
Gwen, only child of James and Helen Price-Waverley, of inland Marree, northern South Australia, poured another glass of her favourite Shiraz, and sat back in a romantic mood and began thinking of her association with Nick.
When they first met as youngsters, she’d known nothing about Nick Goodman. Her marks at school had been consistently out-scoring everyone in her class, and student and parental pressure resulted in school administration having Gwen tested by specialists. The findings resulted in Gwen being placed in a class a year above her age group seven weeks after she had started her final couple of years of high school education.
Now thirty-seven years later, Gwen could remember mostly of what eventuated. It went like this:
She was anxious about being tossed into a pit of older and possibly some academically jealous stroppy students. Her anxiety increased when the stressed history teacher Mrs Owens said nastily, “Where can I place you where you’ll be out of my sight?”
Mrs Owens looked at the back row of desks and called, “Emma, gather your things and move forward to sit with Lily. Nick, welcome your new seating companion, um… um…”
“Gwendoline Price-Waverly,” said Gwen, helpfully.
“Yeah, Nick, greet Gweno as your desk mate in the gentlemanly manner that your mother wishes you possess,” Mrs Owens said, triggering classroom mirth.
Nick said, “Good riddance to lacklustre Emma and now I’ve got you, Gweno. Did you have to come to this school?”
She whispered, “What a diabolical greeting, arsehole At least trouble yourself by giving me a chance to co-relate reasonably well with you and call me Gwen without that stupid ‘o’ addition from our half-brain teacher.”
“Why the fuck heap me with that airy-fairy out-burst?” Nicky scowled.
Gwen said calmly it meant give himself a chance to get to know her because despite her merited class promotion, he may find her quite acceptable.
He leered as said that was unlikely because she had pathetic boobs.
“Well, bringing up that deficiency makes us even. You appear to have a pathetic brain and childlike awareness of things that might be significant.”
“Like what, Gwenny?”
“That my mother elevated me into a larger bra size last week. It might interest you to know that females of similar age develop physically at different speeds, rather than on the same day or even same year.”
“Nah, I didn’t know that. I have to admit that you have an interesting manner and don’t appear to be nervous in my company like most of our fellow students that I appear to scare.”
“Well, try acting without aggression and see what happens. My first impression is you’re simply a guy who’s intellectually adrift in this world who feels it necessary to act like a jerk.”
“Smart arse, you know nothing about my unsettling life,” Nick said, hotly. “This is the eighth school that I’ve been enrolled in and the seventh community that I have lived in temporarily in my 15 years. Little wonder I’m adrift, eh? I make friends and barely get to know my local environment intimately before my drifting father moves the family on again.”
“Nick Goodman, stop talking to our newcomer and pay attention what I’m teaching,” scolded Mrs Owens.
Gwen squeezed his arm and whispered, “That revelation has given me some understanding about your dislocated life that will be dragging you down.”
He said, yeah fucking oath and stared at his arm that Gwen had squeezed.
Nick repeated what Gwen then whispered when Mrs Owens asked him what happened to Napoleon.
“He was incarcerated by the British on Saint Helena after the defeat of the French at Waterloo 200 years ago and died on that island.”
“Correct, Nick but Gwen do not stupidly feed Nick answers. He’ll have no idea what incarcerated means.”
“It probably means imprisonment, Mrs Owens.”
“Omigod, Nick. Our near-genius newcomer is stirring your brain just by sitting next to you.”
At that mention of near-genius, at least half the class turned to stare at Gwen.
Gwen stood and said hotly attempting to douse class resentment: “Near-genius I’m not, Mrs Owens. But I’m widely read and my scholarly mother conducted my home schooling until I turned fourteen at the end of last year and I came to this school this year as a boarder.”
“There is no need to trumpet your prowess, Gwen.”
“I was doing the exact opposite, Mrs Owens, to dismiss the impression that I was born a near-genius.”
“Please don’t contradict me in my classroom, young lady.”
“Then please don’t exaggerate my ability to other students.”
“Young woman, shut your mouth. You are within a whisker of receiving a harsh detention.”
Gwen sat quietly staring at Mrs Owens who was trembling with rage.
“Christ,” Nick said. “Most of her students are scared of her and yet you stood up to her like a lioness.”
“Mrs Owens?”
“Yes, Gwen.”
“May I explain why I’m at this school.”
“Yes, make it brief.”
“I arrived at this school at the beginning of this year at my mother’s insistence. She was a pupil here by the name of Helen Price.”
“Omigod, you mean THE Helen Price?”
“Yes, Mrs Owens, one of only two students who have their photo on the honours board that records the names of eminent pupils stretching back to when the school opened in 1937. The other name with illustration is Scott Malcolm, a world-class mathematician who also matriculated, as it was called in those days, to enrol at university at the age of fifteen. Mother became the first surgeon and so far, only surgeon at our country town hospital that’s the only hospital for almost 250 square miles. She married the likeable son of a local farmer, I become their first-born and my three siblings followed.”
“My mother is the near-genius, not me nor the rest of her brood. I once asked had she ruined her potential in becoming rurally isolated. She replied definitely not, as being the only surgeon resident over such a large district, her studies and training had been on-going and increased her skills far more extensively than had she been an urban specialist, giving her immense satisfaction. She employed a fulltime housekeeper to keep us occupied and in line during the long hours that she was working away from the farm.”
“That’s all I wish to share to illustrate that all country women cannot be considered house-bound under-achievers or just cooks on farms. Incidentally, my mum rides her horse at week-ends rounding up or shifting cattle with greater skill and style than almost all of the males we’ve employed on our 23,007-acre farm in my memory.”
“I hope that clears the air, acknowledging that I might be a little bright, but I’m no near-genius.”
“Thank you, Gwen,” said Mrs Owens who scowled when the class broke into spontaneous applause.
Nick trumpeted, “Good on you Gwen, being a near-genius to have the guts and stand up and tell us that you really are one of us.”
“Nick Marshall,” screamed the history teacher. “Go and sit outside the classroom and don’t move until I send someone to call you back inside or the mid-morning break occurs, whichever comes sooner.”
“May I go and sit with him Mrs Owens? I unintentionally triggered him into committing his folly.”
“No, you stay right where you are and keep your mouth closed,” thundered Mrs Owens.
Gwen and Nick established themselves as temporary school legends that day for reputedly almost giving their teacher a nervous breakdown.
Those two students became good friends from that day until the end of that school year. Nick didn’t appear for the final school year and returning from the long break, Gwen learned he’d been transferred to another school more than 300 miles to the south.
* * *
Twelve years later, Gwen and Nick met again by chance at a bar in Melbourne.
Nick thought he recognized her and said, “Gwen?”
“Yes, omigod Nick Marshall, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, you did well to recognize me behind his beard. Do you live in Melbourne now?”
“No, I still live on the family farm. Dad and I are staying at this hotel. We have attended my younger sister’s wedding. Mum returned home immediately after the wedding because she had a couple of urgent scheduled operations to perform.”
“Are you married?”
“Nope. Are you?”
“Can’t find anyone who’d have me. Given up trying but actually unless one wants children, there’s no need to try too hard as there are plentiful single or married women around who are hoping to attract a man for a night of two.”
Gwen said softly, “I wouldn’t mind finding a man who’s prospecting for love just for tonight. Dad’s having a night out with Angus cattle breeders he’s known for years.”
“Are you suggesting…”
“Yes, but condoms are mandatory.”
“Wow.”
“Let’s start with dinner here at the hotel — the Italian Restaurant, say 7.30, I’ll book and it’s my treat?”
“Great, but I’m paying.”
“Sorry, you’re not. I got in first.”
* * *
Next day Gwen and her father Finn began driving the 14-hour journey from Melbourne to their farm near Marree, with an overnight stop booked proximately halfway at Renmark.
“Who’s that guy with you who waved you off… a male prostitute?”
“No dad, he’s a guy I was at high school with and yes, we did spend the night together but with no money changing hands. Should I reach the age of 32 unable to find a guy that I’m comfortable with to marry or just live with, I’ll probably call him and propose.”
“Your mother wouldn’t stand for you having a guy in your bed in her house who wasn’t married to you.”
“That’s true, but much like with you, mom doesn’t always win fights with me.”
“And he’ll be ordered to removed his facial hair.”
“He’ll tell her to get fucked.”
Her dad chuckled and said, “Sounds like my kind of guy. What does he do?”
He usually drives a Kenworth T909 moving livestock or hay for an interstate trucking firm, mainly throughout Victoria and into New South Wales and occasion into South Australia.
“Does he come from a farming family?”
“No.”
“What does his father do?”
“He owns a menswear shop in suburban Melbourne.”
“Ah, a la-de-da guy probably, so I suggest you steer clear of his son.”
“Dad, his son, Nick Goodman played several games for senior Melbourne Storm teams.”
“Ah, the son sounds alright. Invite him to visit us sometime. Just advise him to trim his beard a bit.”
Chapter 2
When her 31st birthday was approaching, Gwen began feeling the panic of not being married.
She called Nick and told him she was worrying about not finding a husband.
“Marry me,” he joked.
“Nick, you have stayed with us here on the farm several times and enjoyed it. Dad took to you like a duck to water and mom was beginning to befriend you a little. So, I’d like to propose marriage to you.”
“What, don’t you recall calling me an arsehole when we first met at school?”
“Yes, but that’s long-gone water under the bridge. I don’t fuck arseholes or allow them to fuck me. What’s your next objection?”
“Don’t you understand it’s males who propose marriage?”
“Nick darling. Update your thinking. This is the 21st Century and women now prove they can do anything but pee into the wind. What’s the next objection?”
“I won’t have a job if I go up Marree way, as jobs there will be as scarce as good-looking fellows with brains.”
“Mum and dad are mulling over retiring next year. You’ll go on the payroll as soon as you arrive and dad will begin teaching you farm management with my assistance as farm accountant. What’s the next objection?”
“Well… um, I appear to have run out of them. I guess that means we are engaged to marry?”
“Yes, it does. I have my full pilot licence now and so will hire an aircraft and fly to whether you are with a free weekend and we can sort out the details including when you wish to resign from your present employment.”
“I can’t wait to tie the knot darling Gwen except it till have to wait until after the rugby league grand final next month.”
“That will be fine as mum will need much of a month farting around making arrangements and choosing her mother-of-the bride wardrobe.”
“Christ, what a carry on. Oh, tell her I’ll remove my facial hair just for the wedding. That will please both mothers and you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I don’t care what you do with your face but I do require you to have a bald cock and hairless lower tummy. I can’t stand having to pick hair from between my teeth.”
“I don’t believe that, Gwen. I think it’s just your sly way to pretend that you have some dominance over me.”
“Think what you wish. May I tell mum and dad that we are engaged?”
“Yeah, feel free to do that and insist that we have the wedding in Melbourne that mum and dad can host.”
“Great, and bye unless you have something else to discuss?”
“No, that ends our monumental conversation on a high note.”
“What was that, ‘monumental’ and ‘high note’?”
Nick said, sounding irritated, “You’re to blame for that. Years ago, you convinced me to take a bath or shower more than once a fortnight, to drop reading comics and start reading non-fiction books and financial magazines while reducing my consumption of beer and swearing and to stop peeing into street gutters.”
“I obeyed because you are such a dominating bitch and for some reason, I gradually realized that change was in the air for me. I even stopped farting noisily in public, adopting the technique that you used to repeatedly claim that females use. Over time, I found I was changing my shirts, underpants and socks more regularly and people appeared to stay longer talking to me.”
“I even stopped gambling, and with the disappearance of my losing streak, I found I had more money to toss around. Instead of investing in gold or real estate as most of the advisers I read about recommended, I just bought shares in the large public-listed trucking company I drive for becoming its 129th largest shareholder, which means when I sell that stock, I shall be bringing you at least 250,000 bucks in dowry. I’d always reinvested dividends. Smart thinking, eh?
Gwen managed to blurt, “Omigod.”
* * *
The wedding was rather unspectacular with only 30 guests, with Nick managing to stuff up only twice.
The first mishap occurred at the altar, when the clergyman stood with her hand out after asking for the ring.
Nick dug into the pockets of his hired morning suit furiously, then with less pace and then painstakingly slowly, all the time muttering ‘It’s here somewhere.’
His very embarrassed and irritated mother-in-law finally cleverly shouted, “Check your socks, dummy” and Nick triumphantly fished the ring out from his right sock.
At the reception, only light-alcohol beer was available and Nick disgraced himself by spitting out his first gulp on to the table and shouting, “Who ordered this Angel’s Piss?”
His religious new mother-in-law turned purple-faced in fury and shouted, “Shut your mouth you heathen.”
However, Nick would remember his wedding night for the rest of his life as one of the best occasions of his life.
Gwen’s only bridesmaid was her best friend from her farming district and was without her husband and so Gwen invited Judi to share the marital bed. with Nick’s reluctant consent. But when he discovered a major reason why Gwen and Judi were bonded so closely, he rose to the occasion splendidly — and a splendid occasion it was, in terms of immorality.
* * *
Almost asleep, Gwen thought all-in-all, she’d had a satisfying life and acknowledged it had improved with her marriage as Nick kept her on her toes, although he was now lagging behind her sexual needs and all she could do about that was to keep feeding him red meat.
The house phone went.
She sighed.
“I’ll get it,” Nick said, stirring.
“My hero,” she yawned.
More than an hour later, Nick awoke Gwen and shoved a tray containing tea and biscuits at her.
“What have I done to merit this rare treat,” she said huskily.
“I have great news.”
She wriggled up against the bedhead working out a breast to hang hopefully.
“That caller was Judi. She’s invited us to go with her as her guests to a holiday house she and Fred booked months ago in the Far North. Fred now wants to go to the Far South with his eldest Tony, who looks a little like me, to a stud bull sale and to tour the south a bit. That bull sale coincides with their holiday booking but Judi said she wanted to holiday in the much warmer north and Fred said to invite us to go with her. I’ve accepted and said we will provide all the food and pay for the flights and car rental. Judi has accepted.”
“Oh, Judi asked were we good for sex, and I said, were we ever.”
“Great, I’m hugely delighted,” Gwen said, holding out her bare breast and practically drooling.
The End