The Punjabi Pappadum (8 page)

PUMPKIN BHAJI .......... $8.95

Mashed pumpkin tempered with fennel and mustard seeds.

T
hings between Dexter and Indira were worse than chilly now. They were arctic. But, despite the cold-shoulder treatment, Dexter persisted. He felt like one of those huge icebreakers with Hugo at the helm steering him through the subzero temperatures, ramming his head into one giant iceberg after the other.

“It's not working,” groaned Dexter one night. “Anyway, it's giving me a headache.”

“Did you tell her about the band?” asked Hugo.

“Yep.”

“And?”

“She laughed.”

“Okay,” said Hugo, shuffling through some paperwork. “It's time to get serious. Let's bring out Phase Four.”

“Phase Four?” asked Dexter. “What's that?”

Hugo handed him a piece of paper with “Phase Four” written at the top.

“It's blank.”

“Exactly.”

“But what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yep. No more Mr Nice Guy. You've been a complete gentleman so far. It's time to blank her. From now on you don't even look at her. No compliments, no attention, nothing.”

“I don't know if I can do that,” protested Dexter.

“I know what I'm talking about, Dexter. Remember Rosie Langcox?”

Dexter nodded.

“Wouldn't have a bar of me until I started blanking her. It drove her nuts.”

“Couldn't we just move on to Phase Five?”

“Sorry.”

“Why not?.”

“'Cause there isn't one, that's why.”

* * *

Approaching the Pappadum, Travis and Dexter spotted Indira power-walking towards them along the footpath. Before she got too close, Dexter dropped his eyes to the ground, cool and defiant, and kept walking.

“What was that about?” asked Travis.

“I'm blanking her,” explained Dexter. “Phase Four. How'd it go?”

Still moving, Travis snuck a quick look over his shoulder at Indira who was now facing them, flatfooted and confused.

“I'd say it went well.”

“Excellent.”

The boys paused outside the Pappadum and read the sign stuck to the front window.

CLOSING DOWN PARTY

COME AND JOIN RANJIT AND AMRITA SINGH FOR A FINAL BANQUET TO HELP SAY GOODBYE TO THE PUNJABI PAPPADUM.

SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 7.30 pm.

ALL WELCOME.

Travis and Dexter couldn't bear to face what must have been waiting inside. Instead they sprinted to the nearest phone booth and called Ron's mobile.

“G'day Ron, it's Dexter. Have you heard?”

“Yeah, Veejay just left. He's not travelling too well, poor lad.”

“Any progress with your contacts?”

“It's happening, fellas, just be patient.”

At Ron's end, another voice sounded in the background.

“Tell him to leave the bottles under the awning, Cecil. I won't have warm milk.”

Ron snapped. “For the last time, Elsie, they don't deliver any more.”

“Sorry,” continued Ron. “Where was I?”

“The contacts,” pressed Dexter.

“Oh yeah. As I was saying, it's gotta be done by the book. But don't worry, the boys in blue are onto it. You'll know when the story breaks, believe me. It's gonna be huge.”

“Okay … Are you all set for the Songfest?” asked Dexter.

“Are you kidding? Just got the old girl back from Sam's dad. Tuned AND serviced. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

GREEN CHICKEN CURRY .......... $13.75

A variety of seasoned vegetables cooked with a spinach sauce and exotic herbs.

W
ithout, the Longwood Show was the social event of the year. It didn't stop the nation like the Melbourne Cup, but on that special Saturday in December, it did create a slight pause, a comma if you like, in the lives of all Longwegians. It was a day to celebrate all the things that Longwood had to offer. But mainly it was about oranges, big juicy Valencias. Traditionally, the day kicked off with the famous street parade. Every year it was the same. A series of floats rolled down the main street, turned left at the council chambers then gathered at the oval, home of the Longwood Devils, for judging.

Halfway up the main street, the outgoing mayor of Longwood, Wes Fowler, in his trademark Akubra, stepped onto a makeshift dais and clutched a microphone.

“One, two … One, two … Can everyone hear me?”

“Get on with it, Wes,” shouted someone in the crowd.

“Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, and boys and girls. It is my privilege as the outgoing mayor of this great town to open the annual Longwood Show. By now, you would all be aware of the recent robbery down at the Citrus Grower's Association — one of the blackest days in Longwood's history, ladies and gents, make no mistake. But in such times of darkness, sometimes there steps a shining light, someone willing to carry the torch. And that someone, ladies and gents, is the person on my right. Please join me in a round of applause to thank Mr Horace Dundee for his generous donation and sponsorship of this year's ‘Miss Valencia' pageant.”

“Shining light!” whispered Dexter. “You've gotta be kidding.”

“This year, thanks to Horace, we have a record number of beautiful young ladies entered and the largest number of floats in the history of the show. So without further ado, as I bid farewell to the post of mayor, I declare this year's Longwood Show officially open.”

Inside, the four members of Deadly were seething. Plain and simple, Grubby was a crook, yet here he was, up on stage, St Horace, Longwoods saviour and all round nice guy. If only they knew.

Finally, the first float and pride of the fleet wound its way up the main street.

“That's one big Valencia,” said Travis's mum, turning to Dexter's dad.

“Not as big as the one we had planned for the highway,” he replied. “Would've been four times that size.”

“Must've been a bit tricky getting that orange juice to spurt out the top. How'd you manage it?”

“Wasn't easy, Kath. You see where the orange is fixed to the trailer?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there's a trapdoor there. Getting the pump in was the snag. After that I built up a series of pipes to the top, set the pump just right and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“He's pretty handy with the tools, Kath,” said Mrs Macallister proudly, “I'll give him that.”

“You're lucky. Theo hasn't got a clue.”

Behind the Valencia float came the very subdued Longwood Ladies Auxilliary, followed by the Dairy Farmers' Association's cow float.

“Here comes Theo now,” said Travis, pointing.

All eyes turned to float number four and the boys from “Only One Owner”. Theo Ryan stood front and centre in a black leather jacket and matching pants.

“I like the leather, Kath,” said Mrs Macallister. “Very sexy.”

“Yeah, it's not like Theo at all. I'm not complaining, mind you.”

Suddenly the huge speakers on the back of the trailer came to life and soon Theo Ryan was cutting loose, as best as he could in tight leather, with the Only One Owner theme song, “Born To Be Wild”.

Keep the motor runnin',

Head out on the highway,

Lookin' for adventure,

Whatever comes your way.

In all, nine floats rolled by and slowly made their way through town to the oval. The entrants in the Miss Valencia pageant were already lined up in front of the giant orange, whose condition seemed to be deteriorating rapidly.

“That orange of yours sounds a bit sick, Mr Mac,” said Sam. “It's the pump, I reckon.”

“No chance, Sam. I double-checked it personally before we started.”

Most of Longwood were gathered on the oval now, eagerly awaiting the crowning ceremony. Notepad in hand, Horace Dundee walked down the line of Miss Valencia hopefuls, stopping at each one for questions.

“Taffeta seems to be in this year, Kath,” said Mrs Macallister. “Can't say I'm a big fan myself. And what about some of those necklines!”

Finally, Horace Dundee had made his decision and faced the audience, microphone in hand. The big moment had arrived.

“Greetings, fellow Longwegians,” said Horace. “Before I make the big announcement, I'd like to take this opportunity to inform you of my decision to run for the position of mayor. So, if any of you have any concerns you'd like to discuss, I am only too happy to sit down and listen. Open government, people, is what I stand for …”

A loud gurgle interrupted him.

Horace didn't like competition. If anything stood in his way, he simply got rid of it. But a giant Valencia was another story.

“Who's the idiot in charge of this heap?” he screamed over a grinding series of bangs and thumps.

“I am,” replied Mr Macallister, stepping forward. “Nothing to be afraid of, people. It sounds like some sort of blockage. I'll just get my tools out of the ute. Stay calm.”

Longwegians, it should be said, were not an especially religious lot, but when it came to citrus fruit, particularly the juicy orange variety, then their faith was unwavering.

“Is it just me,” asked Dexter, “or is that orange about to blow?”

“Blow?” replied his dad, securing his tool belt. “What are you talking about?”

An uneasy hush floated through the crowd as the giant Valencia rocked and growled like an angry god.

Mr Macallister straightened his baseball cap, ready for business. “Let me through, people. I'm coming through!”

At the trailer's base, Mr Macallister removed a shifter from his belt and opened the trapdoor. Nervously, the Miss Valencia entrants took a step back as a horrible howling noise, metal on metal, erupted from the giant orange's sick guts.

“Easy boy,” said Mr Macallister, gently patting the orange's outer shell. “I'm not gonna hurt you.”

Slowly, he stuck his head in for a closer look.

“Be careful, Darl,” pleaded Mrs Macallister who'd moved to the front of the crowd.

The giant orange was shaking violently now, a small wisp of black smoke spiralling out from its underbelly.

A frazzled Mr Macallister emerged, spanner in hand, his face covered in greasy engine oil.

“I'm no doctor, folks,” he announced. “But that's one sick orange.”

“Can we fix it?” shouted someone from the crowd.

“Fraid not,” yelled Mr Macallister over the thundering orange. “But there is something you can all do for me.”

“What's that?”

“Run!”

Not one to let a point-scoring opportunity pass, Horace stepped in to calm the crowd.

“Don't be ridiculous, people,” he roared. “I haven't finished the judging yet.”

Reluctantly, the crowd held their positions, though, one by one, heads turned at the sound of wailing sirens in the distance. Something was happening. The sirens grew louder and louder until a string of police cars motored onto the oval, with a light blue Morris Minor in the rear struggling to keep up.

Out of the cars stepped a squad of police. At the head, two burly plain-clothes detectives pushed through the crowd accompanied by a throng of uniformed officers. Reaching the front of the crowd they stopped and looked up nervously at the howling orange.

“He's in charge of maintenance,” yelled someone in the crowd, pointing to Mr Macallister.

“If it's about the permit, officers, I can explain.”

Without warning, a rivet connecting the orange to its trailer base exploded. The two detectives hit the deck and went for their sidearms.

“Don't shoot,” screamed Mr Macallister, hands in the air. “It slipped my mind, honest.”

At ground level, the detectives noticed a pair of legs hanging from the trapdoor. Dusting themselves off, they moved cautiously towards the trailer.

“Horace Dundee?” asked one of the detectives, flipping his badge to no one in particular.

“That's right,” came an echo-like voice. “What's the meaning of this?”

“You're under arrest for the robbery at the Citrus Growers Association headquarters.”

“I'm busy,” babbled Horace.

Suddenly, a series of rivets exploded, one after the other, sounding like a cap gun. The orange's outer shell buckled then fell to the ground, exposing Horace, his arms wrapped around a vibrating pump. Sensing disaster, the crowd shuffled back to a safe distance just before the main pipe gave way. KABOOM! Up into the air shot a massive jet of orange. Doomed, Horace followed it with his eyes, took a deep breath and pinched his nose. It showered down on him in waves, litres of the stuff — one hundred percent sugar-free, pure, Longwood Valencia orange juice, compliments of the Citrus Grower's Association.