THE TRANSIT OF VENUS

The day that Miranda left Penni came round to see me. When she found me, I was in the garden at Jack’s house helping him move a rusted-in old water tank onto the nature strip, where it remains to this day as the council refuse to take it away. She was all alone because Venus hadn’t returned from finding herself yet. Penni was worried that instead Venus had found someone else. I’m not a very good listener so for anyone to come to me they must be in a bad way.
Jack offered her a beer. Ever since he discovered that she could strip a Falcon V8 she’s been one of the boys to him. She declined and I could see that something was wrong I offered to walk her home. At her gate she started to cry. It was then that she told me about Venus. She’d had a phone call earlier from her saying she wasn’t going to be back for about three months as she was going round Australia with a friend. It seemed that she, like Neil Armstrong before her, needed some space. After that trip she was going to make some decisions.
It was three O’clock by then and I had to go and pick the kids up from school. In haste to get rid of her I suggested that she went to the pub tonight because some friends were playing a gig. You know sometimes as soon as you’ve said something, it’s the wrong thing.
“Which pub’s that then ? What time ? See you later then.”
Suddenly I wasn’t looking forward to the gig so much. The only other time I had been in a pub with Penni it was with Venus and my wife too. Penni had been very quiet and not much fun except when Venus had told us all the story of Penni’s TV appearance. It had been on a game show and Penni while trying to guess the mystery phrase from the letters shown had asked if she could, “buy a vowel please, a B.” Penni was no longer amused by the tale and in truth I wasn’t sure why Venus was telling us it anyway.
By the time my wife had come home and we’d all eaten I was the last one to the pub. The band Hairy, Fats and Little John were setting up the equipment. Little John’s drum kit seemed to take up the entire stage like a giant crashed sputnik. Freddie, Hairy’s mate, was busy equalising sound. They played a spasmodic rendition of 96 Tears as a sound-check while I adjusted the PA trying to look like I knew what slider did what. Then we sat down and commenced with the important task of the night, drinking the rider.
Freddie, although not an official manager, had recently been getting the boys a few professional gigs. Most of them were weddings or similar parties. One was an Irish wake. Freddie told them to pretend that we were Irish. He’d even added an O’ to his name especially, having told them that he was called Freddie O’Greenburg. $800 for fifty minutes of their usual stuff is good money even with Danny Boy thrown in for good measure. Nobody had had the heart to tell him they didn’t want to play for money, and just did it occasionally for a laugh. I have gigged with the boys from time to time although to be honest I’m not actually very good so now I just come along for the ride and fiddle with the desk. Besides I wasn’t really interested for the same reason why I wasn’t interested in being a fishing guide, (although I’ve been offered money to do so on more than one occasion.) It’s great if you love your job, but if by doing what you love as your job until you stop loving it and it becomes work isn’t work it. I mean if fishing’s your hobby, and it becomes your job, what do you do at the weekends to relax. It’s just a theory but I guess you can see why music and fishing are just hobbies.
Sometime before they were due to start Penni appeared dressed in a short chintz number as if she was going to the Governor General’s cocktail party. A stunning effect not even spoilt by the Celtic tattoo on her upper left arm or even her motor cycle boots.
She seemed in a lot better mood and asked about the band. Hairy and Fats were trying to be charming. This involved not picking each other’s noses or wafting there hands around when they farted. Penni was admiring Hairy’s dreadlocks. Fats was trying to sound interesting by putting on a false Jamaican accent and ending every sentence “Heeey maaan.” I’d already told them to be nice to her because she was from Beat magazine, but undercover so as not to mention that they knew. Everything was going better than expected.
The pub we were in was called the Star Inn. It was an old fashioned working mans drinking spot, the sort of place that regards Barcardi and Coke as a cocktail. The back of the room was partitioned off with police incident tape. Apparently the night before someone had been stabbed for taking too long over a game of pool. In front of the stage were twelve tables, only half of which were occupied. At the bar stood what is referred to in pub parlance, if not in a doctor’s surgery, as a healthy crowd.
“Good evening Star Inn, tonight we’re going to play for you some reggae and some blue beat.”
A tidal wave of silence crashed over the room. I looked down at the mixing desk to see if I’d pressed a mute button by mistake. I looked over at Freddie and noticed that he’d put on a bootlace tie. Looking around the room we were the only people not wearing Stetsons.
Much to their credit and like the pro’s they aren’t the boys played Bob Marley’s I shot the Sheriff to a mixed reception. Some of the crowd hated them, and some loathed them. For the first time since Venus had left, Penni was laughing her socks off.