Page 33 of Third Time’s a Charm

We’re nearly three hours into the trip, about to enter what might be called a town if you’re being generous, when she finally stirs.

“Ooh. Best Coffee. Malleup General Store, two kilometres. We should stop,” she says, pointing to a badly hand-painted sign by the side of the road.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. Better than what?”

“Better than nothing?” she suggests with a yawn. “Look, there it is. Malleup General Store. Right there. Pull up.”

It would be impossible to miss it, since it’s the only shop on the street.

I’m spoilt for choice of parking spots. A red hatchback is parked on the other side of the road. Otherwise, there’s not a soul around on the wide, dusty street.

A dilapidated wooden bench sits under the window across the front of the shop, flanked by a notice board covered in ripped and faded flyers and community announcements. Colourful strips of plastic, many of them torn, hang in the doorway, fluttering in the faint, late morning breeze. The scent of fried food and coffee hits us as we duck through the plastic strips.

Two women stand at the counter in front of us, where an ancient coffee machine is hissing and burping.

To the left is a corner shop arrangement where packets of biscuits and chips share generous shelf space with slightly rusted cans of pineapple rings and washing-up detergent. In the corner there’s a badly listing revolving rack of faded postcards topped with a couple of dusty terry towelling hats.

Louise and I exchange a look. If this place has the best anything at all, I’ll be shocked.

“Be with you in a minute,” the woman behind the counter says with a nod to us while a man in baggy, disturbingly low-slung tracksuit pants and a sweat-stained navy singlet leans against the counter, arms crossed over his ample belly, chatting to the customers.

“So, my friend, Helen, here, is an author,” one of the customers says over the hiss of the coffee machine.

“Ooh, is she famous?” asks the barista.

“Not really,” responds Helen with a blush, which gets a chiding look from her friend. “I guess it depends on what you mean by famous.”

“Have to say, I’ve never read a book in my life,” ventures the bloke behind the counter, earning him an eye roll from the woman making the coffee.

“What kind of books do you write?” The first coffee is handed over.

“Romance. And they’re very good,” says Helen’s friend.

“Romance,” snorts the barista, giving the man beside her the stink eye. “Not much of that round here, is there, Wally?”

“You aren’t a romantic?” Helen asks the bloke, apparently named Wally, somewhat redundantly if looks can be believed. Wally scratches his belly beneath the long, straggly beard. I struggle not to laugh.

“Romantic? Well, I romanced Janey here.” He tips his grizzled, greying head towards the barista who is making the second coffee. “For three weeks. Till I locked her down. Then that was it.”

Janey rolls her eyes again. “If you can call knocking me up romancing, I guess.”

The customers laugh and Louise turns away, attempting to smother a snort.

“Yep. Never read a novel in my life,” the big man continues, oblivious to the laughter. “Janey reads novels. Me? People magazine. And porn.”

Janey leans across the counter with the second coffee.

“Not much reading in that. He just looks at the pictures,” she stage whispers.

All three women burst out laughing, and this time Louise can’t resist joining in.

“Maybe I’ll read one.” Janey folds her arms across an ample flannelette-covered bosom.

“They’re pretty steamy,” Helen offers.

“Ha. Maybe I’ll give it to him.” Janey jabs Wally in the belly with an elbow. “He could do with some coaching.”

“Are they that fairy smut everyone’s been talking about?” he asks, rubbing where Janey’s elbow connected.