Frocks and Fenders

Speed Queen

Winifred Holloway zoomed up the freeway exit marked with a green road sign that read Kutjera, it's edges curled inwards with rust.
It was 1955. After three years of glorious European sun, which just kissed your skin gently like a lover might do early on a Sunday morning, Winnie had forgotten how blistering the Australian heat was. Humid wind rippled her powder blue silk scarf as she pressed a heeled foot down on the accelerator of her 1952 Alfa Romeo Disco Volante.
The odd looking car which resembled something of a blood red UFO was out of place in Kutjera, where most people drove Utes which had seen better days. Everything here was for practical use only.

The heady scent of Eucalyptus leaves and bittersweet grapes seeped into her every fibre and she felt well and truly home again. Kutjera was the birthplace of one of Victoria's biggest wineries and the scent of it's produce seemed to ebb and flow everywhere throughout the town.

She turned onto Wallaroo Road which was the heart that pumped life into Kutjera and broke off into lots of little cobbled lanes. It was exactly the same as it had been three years ago; still the same row of shops on either side of the uneven tarmac whose paint had been bleached by the sun, leaving the local Milkbar to be spelled as "ILKBAR" on it's sign that clung half halfheartedly to it's roof.

Heads had begun to turn as the red convertible sped through the street, the roar of the engine tearing up the peaceful countryside. Winnie's red lips, in the same shade as her upholstery, split into a smile as saw the soft "o" shape on the lips of a group of onlookers as she drove past. The speed limit in Kutjera didn't exist and no one bothered with the road signs which were few and far apart.

Winnie plucked an invitation from her handbag on the passenger seat beside her. This was probably the thousandth party invitation she had received. All throughout her Europe trip her mother had been sending her painstakingly intricate invitations to all the events, including almost every Sunday lunch, in hopes that she might come home.

No one except her Dad, brothers and Nan and Pop had agreed with her going away. She'd been saving since she was seven, putting all her money in a chipped pale pink piggy bank. She had done everything from mucking out the paddocks for the neighbours to picking tomatoes from the farm until her knees had been permanently dirty from kneeling all day for a couple of bucks. When she was 15 she had spent most of her afternoons rebuilding the FJ Holden with her Dad in his garage, after her brother had proper crashed it at Sandown years before.

Holloway Farm was on the north side of Kutjera where the soil was rich and fertile, perfect for the acres of tomatoes their family had grown for generations. The gate, which screeched every time it moved, was open today for guests to arrive for her eldest brother's birthday. The driveway was long, flanked by trees that knitted over the top to form a leafy archway.

They lived in a white farmhouse that gleamed in the sun, her family gathered, waiting, on the porch at the front. They were dressed in their Sunday best, suits and dresses that hadn't seen the light of day for years. There were cars everywhere and Winnie parked the Disco under the shade of the massive Eucalyptus tree she and her brothers had climbed all the time as kids.

Her mother nudged her Father in the ribs but there wasn't a smile on her face. Winnie hadn't expected it, though. Not when last time she'd seen her mother she'd had the door slammed in her face and cruel words had sliced through the air like shattered glass as she'd left, suitcase in hand.

She grabbed her handbag and got out of the car, whose doors opened like a spaceship; upwards instead of outwards.

She was crushed in a hug so tight she felt the air leave her lungs. Judging from the sinewy forearms wrapped around her waist and shoulders, she knew her brothers were hugging her, only letting her go when she started coughing.

She shared her features with her siblings. Both Wes, Len and Winnie had dark hair and olive skin. But only Winnie had green eyes, like two emeralds, while her brother's had her Dad's eyes; blue, like crashing ocean waves. They hoisted her over their shoulders between them like they had when she was little.

'Look at you with your fancy car, Win,' Len chuckled as he tickled her. They carried her towards the porch, her heels in the air.

'Look at-you,' Winnie gasped for air, 'with your Elvis hair,' she poked at the slicked back locks, giggling when it stayed put like a rock super-glued to it's spot.

'Hah! She gotcha, mate!' Wes pointed a finger at his brother. Len scowled, flinging an elbow at Wes' ribs.

'Put my baby girl down,' Winnie smiled at the sound of her Father's voice. His harsh Aussie accent sounded better than it had on the phone when she'd called him once a week in-between Tyre changes. Gently they lowered her to the ground and she was looking into her Dad's eyes.

'That's my baby,' Pete Holloway's calloused hands held her face as he planted a kiss on her forehead. His hair was thinning a little since she had last seen him, but he just as handsome. With sharp features and just as sharp wit, Winnie liked to think he was like an old Australian James Dean. He was even wearing a suit, though a little tattered, something he rarely ever did. The familiar scent of elbow grease that never strayed from him filled her nose as he pulled her into a hug.

'I missed you so much, Dad,' Winnie said. She looked over his shoulder at her Mum. He stepped to her side so that Pearl Holloway could see her daughter.

She looked disapprovingly at her, scanning from her bow pump shoes to her cigarette trousers to her short sleeved shirt and finally to her face. She had her mother's eyes; keen like a cat and framed with thick eyelashes. Her Mother, though she would never admit it, was a spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor, especially in that red dress she only pulled out once in a blue moon.

'Hi Mum,' There was a pause that seemed endless.

'Come inside, everyone's waiting,' her words were laced with venom. She turned on her heel and disappeared behind the worn out screen door.

'That went well,' Winnie sighed and raked a hand through her hair.

'It'll be right,' Pete said, taking his daughter's hand. Together, with her brothers following, they made their way through to the backyard. The patio waited in anticipation for their first glimpse at Winnie Holloway. Pearl had clearly gone to effort, having strung the ceiling and trees with silver and blue streamers. Little lanterns were aglow on the tables and balloons were scattered on the floor.

Slowly, people started to come and talk to her. "How was Europe?" "Did you really win in Monte Carlo?" Some stayed exactly where they were, making clear they didn't approve of her.

After a while the crowd dispersed and Winnie wandered to the edge of the patio, a glass of red in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She had dearly missed the sunsets in Kutjera, bold tangerine streaked with red, purplish blue and gold.

'Hey, Speed Queen,' a shadow appeared next to hers in the golden light. She turned to stare into a pair of eyes as blue as the Mediterranean ocean, rimmed with gold.

Jamie Walsh.

He would be 20 now, same as her. He had grown plenty, filling out his broad shoulders. His face was just as handsome as she could remember. He had European features and skin that had absorbed the November sun. His nose had a small bump in it that hadn't been there last time and his dark hair was swept back from his face. His white t-shirt was rolled up to his biceps, and by the look of things he sure hadn't given up footy.

Things were about to get interesting.

To be continued...

***

Hello, Old Sport!

Welcome to the 50s! This story should be heaps of fun.

I have included a photograph of the the car driven by Win, it is a beautiful model of which only 500 were made. "Disco Volante" actually translates to "Flying Saucer" In Italian - How cool.

More soon,

Yours Truly,

Olivia.