By All Accounts

I hate accountancy. Why I ever chose to study it I don't know – yes I do; because my father is an accountant, and since he pays the piper – that's me – I have to play the tune he demands. Well, I didn't have to, but I opted for a quiet life.

You know, I don't think that those destined to be accountants ever have dreams about sexy naked girls. I'm sure they dream of columns of figures and excel on the computer, and having meaningful relationships with profit and loss accounts.

That's not me – not me at all. I dream about naked girls all the time, even when I'm awake; but as far as night dreams are concerned unless I do something about it I wake up in the morning with a mess in my bed. That's more work because I have to try and get the mess cleaned off before mother sees it.

Thinking of mother, I sometimes wonder how father managed to impregnate her. Perhaps mother lured him on by getting him to count her pubic hairs and he was temporarily overcome sufficiently to copulate with her.

So I'd got to the end of my first year of accountancy studies and was wondering gloomily how I could endure another year of it. I got so depressed about it that I managed to summon up the courage to tell father I didn't want to be an accountant.

"No be...not be...not be an accountant?" he spluttered, his face blenching, "My dear boy you must be unwell. The most exalted of all professions and you don't want to be part of it. You must make an appointment to see the doctor."

He did some quick calculations and discovering what the doctor's fee would be and the possible costs at the pharmacy, he did a mental about face.

"Perhaps not the doctor, I'll have a talk with your mother and see what ideas she might have." His face lit up; "Perhaps a laxative."

As if on cue mother walked in and father said, "Elizabeth, it seems that Lester is unwell, he says he doesn't want to be an accountant. I have considered the doctor, but I wonder if we might come up with something more economical."

Mother, who is somewhat less loquacious than father said, "Greta." (Father was economical with money and mother with words).

"Greta?" My father asked, looking mystified.

"Fresh air, country living, a bit of hard work; I'll see to it."

"Greta!" I exclaimed. "I don't want to go anywhere near that butch female."

"Now, now my boy," father said patronisingly, "your mother knows best what's good for you." He hesitated and then turning to mother said, "I don't see how sending him to Greta will prove more economical than the doctor."

"Garage, clean, serve petrol, oil change, work for his keep."

"Aha," father said, looking positively cheerful. "We could save a considerable sum if he went to Greta on a working holiday. We wouldn't have to feed him."

* * * * * * * *

Now here it is in order to say something about Greta.

She is my cousin and some five years older than me. When as children we played together her idea of children's games was to beat me up. Of course she had the advantage of years, but then and now I'd back her against most men, especially me.

There is a family rumour the veracity of which I cannot be sure, that says that when she was sixteen a guy tried to rape her. He ended up in hospital for three weeks and in addition got charged with assault.

The last time I saw her she stood nearly six feet tall, muscular, her hair cut in the short back and side male style and if it hadn't been for her overwhelming bust you could easily have taken her for a man.

Regarding her bust, I have it on good authority that she wears size 42G bras, that is, when she bothers to wear them. Apart from that her normal mode of dress is jeans and tartan shirts.

Come to think of it, didn't those Amazonian women burn off their right breast so they could use a bow more efficiently? Certainly Greta hadn't burned hers off, that was easy to see, but she didn't need to use a bow as long as she had hands and feet, as I'd discovered to my cost as a child.

This description makes her sound rather unappetising, and certainly she had no allure as far as I was concerned. Yet she must've had something that appeals because she'd been engaged three times before she was twenty six but it had never got as far as the wedding service.

At the ripe old age of twenty three she put herself in hock for service station in a country town, and it was to her and this that my parents were proposing I go.

At first I was adamant in my refusal to go and spar with her. But then my father made an offer I could hardly reject.

"Dear boy, if you go and are gainfully employed by your cousin, on you're return we might discuss – only discuss I say – the possibility – the possibility mark you – of you're changing courses, to law, shall we say."

Law! Another deadly subject, but at least I'd have a chance of getting out of accountancy, I hoped. So it was off to Wild Goat Plain and Greta.

* * * * * * * *

For my eighteenth birthday father had bought me a second hand car. It was what he called "a special deal." I suspect that the special deal came about because father was the dealer's accountant and father had managed to hide some of the dealer's profits away from the eye of the tax man. He was good at that sort of thing.

I must say it wasn't a bad sort of car – a dark green Subaru - if not the sporty job I would really have liked; you know, eight cylinders with all the trimmings.

I kicked off for Wild Goat Plain on a Monday morning. Despite the possibility that I might be free of accountancy on my return, I went unenthusiastically. I was wondering if Greta would still have a propensity for beating me up.

Father said, "Don't forget, money is time and time is money; the early bird catches the worm; don't let the grass grow under your feet."

Mother said, "Be useful."

With these affectionate words of farewell I began the three hundred kilometre drive to Wild Goat Plain.

Out of the suburbs – I felt better already - along the snaky road that wound its way through the hills that backed the city; I felt even better, so why not stop right there. No, not practical. Then topping a hill I saw the sunlit plain that seemed to stretch to the ends of the earth; glorious. Down the hill and then the straight and endless road in front of me; not so glorious; bloody boring in fact; no wonder drivers fall asleep at the wheel.

Three hours later I was approaching Wild Goat Plain. I'd negotiated some low hills and came down on to the flat again. It didn't look as bad as I'd thought it might be. There was a substantial creek running through the town that finally emptied itself into the big river some hundred kilometres distant. When I say emptied, what I mean is it would empty itself into the big river if it had something to empty, but being summer and drought time the creek was dry.

As I got close to the town there was a sign which read, "Welcome to Wild Goat Plain, pop. 1305. Please drive carefully."

I drove along the main thoroughfare, Bent Street, and it had a lot more shops than I'd anticipated and I wondered why so many. That's my ignorance showing; I later learned that the farmers, pastoralists and other land workers came into the town to shop from considerable distances.

I wondered why the street was called "Bent Street" since it was perfectly straight. That was another thing I learned. It had been so named because around fifty years ago a town councillor named Arnold Bent had donated a housing block he owned, to become a children's playground.

Whether it had ever been such I don't know, but currently it was in use as an unofficial dump for such things as old mattresses, superannuated prams, wrecked children's bicycles, and a general array of detritus. The only things that played there were rats.

In time I saw other memorials in honour of Arnold Bent scattered around the town.

Greta's business was situation off the main drag, I knew that much, and was named "A.B. Street."

Her set-up was better than I expected with a wide forecourt with the fuel pumps standing on it. There was a shop which sold various additives for vehicles, oil, and stuff like that, and chocolate bars, peppermints, pies and pasties ("fresh today"), milk and bread.

The fuel pumps were self service and that was a relief because I didn't fancy myself as a pump jockey. Instead the customers came into the shop to pay their money to a rather attractive if rather sour looking girl who I thought might make my stay more interesting while I gave her something to cheer her up.

"Where's Greta?" I asked.

"Round the side," she replied in a grating voice that immediately turned me off because I'm rather sensitive to the female voice.

While I'm thinking of voices there's something I should have mentioned when describing Greta before. Her one none masculine feature as I recalled was her very pleasant voice. This was the product of the extremely snooty private school her parents had sent her to. What else she had gained from this classy education wasn't obvious, and I'm sure that the principal and teachers would be somewhat dismayed if they could have seen her as she was then.

The girl offered no further direction, so I made my way out of the shop and saw beside it a rather spacious if untidy garage. Entering it I saw a pair of tight buttocks staring at me, their owner bent over the engine of a car.

"Excuse me," I said, "can you tell me where I can find Greta?"

The figure unbent rapidly and yelped, "Bugger," as the head collided with the raised bonnet.

There stood Greta, greasy jeans, shirt and all.

Rubbing her head she stared at me for a moment and then said, "Ster, my God you've changed, I hardly recognised you."

If others chose to shorten my name is was always Les, but not with Greta, it had always been Ster.

She extended a hand that although not overly large felt like the grip of a hungry crocodile when she grasped mine.

"It's good to see you after all this time; how long has it been?"

"About five or six years."

"So you've come to give me a bit of a hand? My God I could do with one, I'm up to my neck – talking of neck, do you remember that time I got you in a headlock?"

"Yes, I couldn't turn my head for several days after that."

"Ah, they were good days."

I wasn't so sure of that but didn't argue in case she tried another headlock.

"Look Ster, go into the shop and tell the girl to give you a pie, I'll be with you shortly."

Jerking her thumb towards the car she went on, "Timing's slipped, nearly done, shan't be belong."

I went back into the shop and told the girl that Greta said I was to have a pie. She looked at me suspiciously and for a moment seemed to be about to go and ask Greta, but changed her mind because customers were piling up waving money and credit cards.

"'Elp yerself," she muttered and turned sourly to take a customer's money.

I "'elped" myself and sat on a rickety kitchen chair that was no doubt provided for those customers who felt faint when they saw how much money they had to pay.

I was amazed at how many cars and trucks came to fill up. Petrol, diesel and gas were paid for and milk, bread, pies and pasties purchased.

During a lull in the procession the girl grated, "Ooo are yer?"

"Lester, I'm Greta's cousin," I replied.

"Oh, yer'll be Ster then. She said yer was comin'; stayin' long?"

"Perhaps five or six weeks – long vacation."

She giggled and said, "That'll be nice fer Greta; she said yer stoppin' with 'er."

"Yes, that's the arrangement."

The girl giggled again but added nothing further, perhaps because Greta burst in upon the scene.

"Ah you've met Daisy. I'd give you a hug but I don't want to spoil your nice clothes with my greasy gear."

I was glad about not getting a hug because I didn't want to start my stay with broken ribs.

"Daisy," Greta said, "would you hold the fort for half an hour, I've got to take Ster up to the house and get him settled?"

Daisy shrugged rather pretty shoulders (shame about the voice) and said, "Suppose."

"And if Punchy McLean comes in for his car tell him it's done but I haven't worked out the bill yet, so I'll put it on his account. And keep an eye open to see the kids don't pinch the chocolates. Come on Ster."

She strode to a rather battered looking vehicle on one side of the hard stand and said, "You follow me Ster."

We both got into our cars and started the engines. Greta took off like a rocket, and thinking there must be something under the bonnet of the scruffy looking vehicle I tried to follow her.

Fortunately her place was only a couple of streets away otherwise I would have lost her. It was in a court duly named "Arnold Court," and her house was an unexceptional single story, red brick place with a corrugated iron roof. It was one of those places that had begun as a four room house and had been added to over the years, not very agreeably.

The inside did nothing to enhance the outside. It was untidy, with trade journals, unidentifiable pieces of paper and discarded clothing littered around. When Greta opened a door and said, "Office," I knew my father would have had a stroke and gone to that great counting house in the sky. It was chaos.

As if divining my thoughts Greta said, "Sorry about the mess, but I get so little time. We open at six and don't close until nine, and I can't altogether rely on Daisy, and she only comes on at eight and leaves at four-thirty."

"I've got a guy I can call on occasionally but he often isn't available. He's coming on this evening so I can spend a bit of time with you, but...ah, here's your room, the bed's okay I think." She gave a queer sort of laugh and added, "If not you can share mine."

I wasn't sure how to take that, so I didn't respond; after all, a wrong comment and I could collect a bunch of fives.

"Can I leave you to it Ster? I've got to get back, I've got a blown gasket to replace. I'll try and get back about five when Arthur comes on. We can eat at the pub; I usually do unless I have a takeaway at the garage."

* * * * * * * *

She hurried out and I heard the scream of tyres as she took off. The room she had given me was the only tidy, if dusty, one in the house, no doubt because it was rarely used. I brought my things in and stowed them away, and took a wander round the house. On second viewing it seemed even more chaotic.

Since I was supposed to earn my keep while I was there, and what my tasks were to be had not been defined, on seeing the kitchen with its sink piled high with unwashed plates and cutlery, I decided to make a start there. Since she'd said she ate at the pub I wondered how so much washing up could have accumulated, and that suggested it had been piling up for some time.

I set too and it took me about half an hour to get through the mess and find where to put the things. The kitchen was generally very dusty and with greasy marks on the tiled floor. I set about putting this to rights as well. I must say that if it wasn't exactly gleaming when I'd finished, it had improved considerably.

I screwed up my courage and took another look at the office. Something of the accountancy world must have rubbed off on me because I found the mess unbearable.

My fingers itched to start putting the place to rights, but knowing that some people can only cope in that sort of environment, and often know where everything is, I decided not to try and sort things out.

On a table that had a book under one leg to stop it rocking, sat a computer. Like much else it too was covered with a layer of dust. Booting the computer up and having a search around confirmed what I already thought, it had barely been used.

I took a peep into Greta's bed room, and I could see what she meant about joining her there. The bed was huge, but its sheets and blankets very carelessly made up. Apart from a wardrobe there was virtually nothing else in the room except a bedside table piled with books that the dust on the top one suggested had never been read.

It was all very depressing for a boy who had been brought up in an orderly household – too orderly I'd sometimes thought, but seeing this...well, it was the opposite end of the scale.

I wandered out into the garden to be greeted by as finer collection of weeds as could be found anywhere on the planet. Someone had planted fruit trees at the bottom end of the garden and they obviously hadn't been pruned for years. There were signs that there might have been vegetable plots at one time, but they were now defunct.

I began to think that more of my parents had rubbed off on me than I'd thought as I contemplated the situation, and I wondered how Greta managed to run a business if this is how she operated.

At five minutes past five I heard the screech of brakes. Greta had arrived. She hurtled in saying, "Got to shower and change - the pub." She disappeared into the bathroom. She was in there a long time and then I heard her enter her bedroom.

When she came out she gasped, "Ready."

I stared at her. She was wearing a long fawn caftan style dress. I couldn't remember ever having seen her in a dress. On first meeting her I'd detected something different about her. Now I could see what it was.

She had grown her hair longer but this morning it had been tied back so it wasn't so easily noticeable. Now she had it down and it reached to just above her shoulders and was trimmed straight round the bottom. It was a sort of reddish brown in colour and I realised I'd never noticed that before.

"You've grown you hair longer," I said.

"Yes, Peter said he'd like me to grow it longer so I...oh never mind him, do you like it?"

"Yes, it makes you look different."

"Oh, well, we'd better get going."

"Why, what's the hurry?"

She paused and looked confused for a moment and then said, "I don't know, I just rush everywhere these days, there's so much to do."

"Yes, I could see that by your kitchen...oh by the way, I tidied it up a bit."

"Did you?"

She went and had a look. "Oh Ster, I feel so ashamed of the place at times, but I just can't get around to doing things. When I do get a few minutes to myself I'm so tired I'm ready to drop off to sleep.

At that moment and wearing the caftan, she looked more feminine than I'd ever seen her look before. In the past I'd have given her one, or perhaps two out of ten for looks, but now I had to admit that in a Junoesque sort of way she was quite a handsome woman.

Fancifully I saw her as a sort of earth mother, a mother goddess, especially with that impressive bosom. In the past I'd wondered how she'd managed to get engaged three times, but now I had an inkling of what might have attracted the men. "Look," I said, "If you'd rather not go out for a meal I could go and get a takeaway if you tell me where to go."

"No...no, I've set this evening up so I could be with you, so let's go out. Besides, you wouldn't want to eat in this dump; I only eat breakfast here and occasionally lunch. I will have to go back to the garage to get the takings, but that gives us a couple of hours."

So off we went to the Duke of Wellington – no doubt a belated honouring of the commander at the Battle of Waterloo, unless of course there had been a town councillor called Duke Wellington – or would it be Wellington Duke?

The pub dining room was quite reasonable, and unusually these days, sported white linen table cloths and cutlery made in Sheffield instead of China.

Every one seemed to know Greta, and she explained that over the past twenty years the big oil companies had closed their petrol stations, just as the banks had also shut down many rural branches.

"Mine is the only service station left in the town, so they all come to me now."

"You must be doing quite well then," I commented - "I'll have the rump steak," I told the waiter.