Grand Masti - Fun Never Ends. Neha Puntambekar

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СКАЧАТЬ and moustache, his eyes totally stole focus, followed only by his smooth broad forehead. She’d always liked an unsullied forehead. Reliable somehow.

      He slid a serviette into the book to mark his place and closed it.

      She glanced at the cover. ‘Gulliver’s Travels?’

      Though what she really wanted to say was...You shaved?

      ‘I carry a few favourites around with me in my pack.’

      She slid in opposite him, completely unable to take her eyes off his new face. At a loss to reconcile it as the under layer of all that sweat, dust and helmet hair she’d encountered out on the road just a few days ago. ‘What makes it a favourite?’

      He thought about that for a bit. ‘The journeying. It’s very human. And Gulliver is a constant reminder that perspective is everything in life.’

      Huh. She’d just enjoyed it for all the little people.

      They fell to silence.

      ‘You shaved,’ she finally blurted.

      ‘I did.’

      ‘For dinner?’ Dinner that wasn’t a date.

      His neatly groomed head shook gently. ‘I do that periodically. Take it off and start again. Even symbols of liberty need maintenance.’

      ‘That’s what it means to you? Freedom?’

      ‘Isn’t that what the Bedford means to you?’

      Freedom? No. Sanity, yes. ‘The bus is just transport and accommodation conveniently bundled.’

      ‘You forget I’ve seen inside it. That’s not convenience. That’s sanctuary.’

      Yeah...it was, really. But she didn’t know him well enough to open up to that degree.

      ‘I bought the Bedford off this old carpenter after his wife died. He couldn’t face travelling any more without her.’

      ‘I wonder if he knows what he’s missing.’

      ‘Didn’t you just say perspective was everything?’

      ‘True enough.’

      A middle-aged waitress came bustling over, puffing, as though six people at once was the most she’d seen in a week. She took their orders from the limited menu and bustled off again.

      One blond brow lifted. ‘You carb-loading for a marathon?’

      ‘You’ve seen the stove in the Bedford. I can only cook the basics in her. Every now and again I like to take advantage of a commercial kitchen’s deep-fryer.’

      Plus, boiling oil would kill anything that might otherwise not get past the health code. There was nothing worse than being stuck in a small town, throwing your guts up. Unless it was being stuck on the side of the road between small towns and kneeling in the roadside gravel.

      ‘So, you know how I’m funding my way around the country,’ she said. ‘How are you doing it?’

      He stared at her steadily. ‘Guns and drugs.’

      ‘Ha-ha.’

      ‘That’s what you thought when you saw me. Right?’

      ‘I saw a big guy on a lonely road trying really hard to get into my vehicle. What would you have done?’

      Those intriguing eyes narrowed just slightly but then flicked away. ‘I’m out here working. Like you. Going from district to district.’

      ‘Working for who?’

      ‘Federal Government.’

      ‘Ooh, the Feds. That sounds much more exciting than it probably is. What department?’

      He took a long swig of his beer before answering. ‘Meteorology.’

      She stared. ‘You’re a weatherman?’

      ‘Right. I stand in front of a green screen every night and read maximums and minimums.’

      Her smile broadened. ‘You’re a weatherman.’

      He sagged back in his chair and spoke as if he’d heard this one time too many. ‘Meteorology is a science.’

      ‘You don’t look like a scientist.’ Definitely not before and, even clean shaven, Marshall was still too muscular and tattooed.

      ‘Would it help if I was in a lab coat and glasses?’

      ‘Yes.’ Because the way he packed out his black T-shirt was the least nerdy thing she’d ever seen. ‘So why are my taxes funding your trip around the country, exactly?’

      ‘You’re not earning. You don’t pay taxes.’

      The man had a point. ‘Why are you out here, then?’

      ‘I’m auditing the weather stations. I check them, report on their condition.’

      Well, that explained the hands. ‘I thought you were this free spirit on two wheels. You’re an auditor.’

      His lips tightened. ‘Something tells me that’s a step down from weatherman in your eyes.’

      She got stuck into her complimentary bread roll, buttering and biting into it. ‘How many stations are there?’

      ‘Eight hundred and ninety-two.’

      ‘And they send one man?’ Surely they had locals that could check to make sure possums hadn’t moved into their million-dollar infrastructure.

      ‘I volunteered to do the whole run. Needed the break.’

      From...? But she’d promised not to ask. They were supposed to be talking about travel highlights. ‘Where was the most remote station?’

      ‘Giles. Seven hundred and fifty clicks west of Alice. Up in the Gibson Desert.’

      Alice Springs. Right smack bang in the middle of their massive island continent. ‘Where did you start?’

      ‘Start and finish in Perth.’

      A day and a half straight drive from here. ‘Is Perth home?’

      ‘Sydney.’

      She visualised the route he must have taken clockwise around the country from the west. ‘So you’re nearly done, then?’

      His laugh drew the eyes of the other diners. ‘Yeah. If two-thirds of the weather stations weren’t in the bottom third of the state.’

      ‘Do you get to look around? Or is it all work?’

      He shrugged. ‘Some places I skip right through. Others I linger. I have some flexibility.’

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