Part 19 (1/2)

He looked me up and down. 'Thongs.' He disappeared behind his counter.

'I beg your pardon?' I steeled myself to slap him before he popped up with a pair of flip-flops bearing the Australian flag. 'They're magnificent,' I said, stepping out of my melting pumps onto the union jack and southern cross.

'Now, we don't have much by way of ladies wear, but I do have some s.h.i.+rts.' He presented me with a pile of plastic-wrapped T-s.h.i.+rts, including a canary-yellow vest with x.x.xX Queensland Australia emblazoned on it in red block letters.

'Is this supposed to be some sort of p.o.r.nographic reference?'

'That's Fourex,' he belly laughed.

I was still blank.

'Beer. You tourists crack me up.'

I emerged from his shop wearing a billowing yellow x.x.xX vest as a belted mini dress, aviator sungla.s.ses and by far the most comfortable pair of shoes I'd ever owned. It wasn't my most flattering ensemble, particularly as the yellow didn't do much for my deathly pale skin tone, but I couldn't have cared less. As I approached the hire car, Maddy honked the horn and Di managed to wolf-whistle through her raucous laughter as she photographed me with her BlackBerry.

'Oh yes,' I said, 'mock the tourist.'

'You spaz,' said Maddy. 'There's a clothes shop just around the corner!'

Spaz?

She connected her iPod to the car and put on some Dixie Chicks.

'So, how far away is this property?' I asked Maddy once we were on the road.

'About ninety minutes south of here, give or take a few.'

'Won't we be in New South Wales by then?'

'Not even close, sweet girl. This great state has almost two million square kilometres.'

'In miles?'

'Dunno,' said Di, holding her phone to the sky to find a signal, 'but the UK is about a quarter of a million.'

'The seat of Rafter alone is bigger than the UK,' said Maddy.

It was unfathomable. 'What's this candidate's name?'

'Felicia Lunardi,' said a straight-faced Di. 'I s.h.i.+t you not.'

An unfortunate name for someone about to face national ridicule for spotting aliens in western Queensland, I thought, before allowing the highway to rock me to sleep.

'Roo,' said Maddy, stirring me, 'we're almost there.'

It was just past eleven, and even with the air-conditioning at sixteen degrees, the car windows were hot to the touch. We pulled over at a large homestead where a tall, muscular woman in a long denim skirt and collared s.h.i.+rt came to welcome us with a sideways wave which I later realised was not a local greeting but a routine fly-clearing motion.

'You're from Max Masters' office?'

'That's us,' said Di, with two tiny flies above her lip. 'I'm Di, and these are my colleagues Maddy and Roo.'

I'd already danced the dirt drive towards her shaded verandah to escape the heat and hundreds of flies that seemed to be using my back as an insect airport.

'Don't mind Roo,' said Maddy, 'she's a Brit.'

'Very pleased to meet you all,' she said, staring at my mini-dress. 'I'm Felicia, but everyone calls me Flick. Con's just made some pikelets and a jug of cordial, so why don't you come inside and have some morning tea.'

We followed her into a huge country kitchen where a mustachioed man in an ap.r.o.n was spooning jam and cream onto perfectly formed drop scones. 'My husband, Con,' said Flick. 'Con, meet Di, Maddy and Roo.'

'Sit down and tuck in while the pikelets are still warm,' he said. The table was cluttered with piles of FLICK LUNARDI FOR RAFTER paraphernalia.

'Sorry for the mess,' said Con. 'We're in the middle of folding and stuffing postal vote information.'

'Now,' said Flick, pouring us each a gla.s.s of orange squash, 'what are you all doing here?'

Di took the floor. 'The thing is, the party found your blog.'

'So what?' said Flick. Con hung his head.

'Well, it's a little...unconventional,' Di said gently. 'The other side knows about it so it's only a matter of time before it's public knowledge.'

'Let me get this straight,' said Flick, raising her voice. 'You guys came all the way out here because you've seen a blog linked to my campaign office IP address about other life out there. You think I'm a fruitloop.'

That's it in a nutsh.e.l.l, said my head.

'Yes,' said Di.

Flick rocked back on a st.u.r.dy chair. 'I'm the first proper local candidate the party has had out here for years. We're working our b.u.ms off trying to improve this margin, with little or no help from you lot, and now you come up here to tell me I mightn't be good enough for this seat?'

Di appeared unfazed.

'Let me tell you something, flossy,' thundered Flick. 'The people who will go to the ballot box in this electorate know who I am. They don't give a s.h.i.+t about Max Masters and Gabrielle Brennan-they want to send a local to Canberra. I've worked too b.l.o.o.d.y hard on this campaign, driving and sometimes flying tens of thousands of kilometres for a cup of tea, waiting weeks for a new photocopier, running a federal election campaign from a b.l.o.o.d.y dial-up modem-'

'Tell 'em, darl,' interrupted Con.

She looked at him intently.

'It's okay,' he said. 'You tell 'em or I will.'

She shook her head.

'It's my blog,' said Con.

'Don't, love,' said Flick. 'You don't have to do this.'

'Yes, I do, sweetheart.' He turned to us. 'It's my blog- Flick's covering for me.'

Di sighed, relieved.

'I've taken long service leave from the mine to work on the campaign,' Con explained. 'Sometimes when we're at the campaign office I use the internet there. Rings of Love is my username.'