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“Yeah, nah. That’s it. The pub’s got rooms for rent, but …” He trails off with a shrug, leaving us to wonder whether the pub is full, or there’s something wrong with the rooms. Either way, it seems like the motel is our best option.

“Right. The motel it is then. I don’t suppose you could give us a lift? We have a bit of luggage.” Bullibingal isn’t big, but the motel is at the other end of town and I don’t fancy dragging our bags along the dusty main road.

“No problem. I was about to shut up for the day anyway.”

Jasper looks at his watch and not so subtly rolls his eyes. It can’t be more than three o’clock.

We’re both already so filthy, as is our luggage and the cool bag we have our produce in, that sitting three abreast on the bench seat of Buddy’s ute full of takeaway wrappers and empty Coke cans isn’t as unpleasant as you might expect.

I attempt to sit in the middle, but Jasper vetoes that immediately and folds his long legs up to his chest. I’m grateful, because once we’re in the small confines of the ute, Buddy’s personal hygiene shortcomings become even more evident. I roll the window down, preferring the hot, dusty air to the smell of axle grease and body odour.

It’s a mercifully short trip. Just long enough for Buddy to tell us the locals call the town Bulli and that the pub serves an ‘ace’ counter meal.

What’s not merciful is that there’s only one room available.

Apparently, this little town is a favourite stop for truckies, which is why there’s no room at the hotel. And whilst the motel looks empty now, the motel receptionist assures us that by dusk trucks will be lined up in the side street.

“Ya poor luvs. Yer timing’s not good,” she says. “Who knows how long Trev’ll be in Mildura. Bubs take as long as they take, don’t they? Anyhoo, the room’s free for three nights, so ya won’t be out on the street.”

She hands us a key and directs us to a room at the back of the motel.

The door swings open on a basic room furnished with narrow twin beds, a tiny table and two vinyl chairs. All old, worn and dated, but at least it’s clean.

Jasper’s face is priceless. I look around, trying to identify something that might make this less horrific for him.

“Well, at least it’s not only one bed.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Jasper

Iwish I could say I was more relaxed after a cool shower, but showering in the tiny stall, knowing Louise had been in here naked only moments before, wasn’t without its challenges.

We missed lunch thanks to all the excitement of a shattered windscreen, and my stomach is imitating a thunderstorm, so we head across the road to the pub for an early dinner.

It’s a two-storey red brick building with a white wrought iron lacework verandah running the length of the upper story. Rich green and red tiles decorate the ground-floor walls.

Like the hotel in Leeton, inside is wood panelled, with stained-glass windows, intricately carved ceilings, and an eclectic collection of floor coverings, from small tiles to garish red carpet. It must have been really something in its heyday.

We take a seat in the dining room next to an old pianola, a roll sitting waiting in the spool box, as if ready for someone to step up and play it.

“What is it with you Australians and chicken schnitzels?” I ask, as I’m met once again with what I gather is a ‘pub staple’ on the menu.

Louise looks at me aghast, and the server, whose hand-lettered name tag reads Nate, and who is waiting, pen poised, to take our orders, looks confused.

“What do you mean? A good chicken schnitzel is the pinnacle of the food pyramid.” Louise nods at the server, indicating that’s what she’d like to order.

“But it’s always chicken. What about pork? Or beef?”

If she had pearls, she’d be clutching them.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Okay, I’ll have the schnitzel, please. With mashed potatoes and vegetables.” I direct my order to the kid who barely looks eighteen.

There’s an audible gasp from the other side of the faux-wood table and silent blinking from Nate, who makes no move to write my order down in his tiny, spiral bound notebook.

“Philistine,” she mutters, before turning to the bewildered server. “He means chips and salad.”