Blue Skies Read Online Free

best thing about the restaurant was that it was underground. Once down the stairs from the street you were safe. As you sat in the bar, with its dim light and many dull shining surfaces, time passed quickly and unnoticed.
    Jonathan went with the restaurant, as much a fixture as the black refrigerator. He had come to Australia to spend his old age—as he was fond of saying—in the sun. He was moon-faced and pale, and rarely seen above ground in daylight; his grey hair grew in marcel waves down past his collar: he didn’t blend with natural surroundings. Small boys would follow him down the street chanting ‘What d’yer use on it then, mate—Curly Pet?’ and he would hurry away from them on his out-turned feet, his pursed mouth and mincing walk laying him open to charges of ‘pouffery’, the Australian crime against the sanctity of mateship.
    Jonathan claimed to be an ex-British Army Captain and had a repertoire of adventures. From the background of these tales it seemed he had lived through the Indian Mutiny, but nobody took him up on the details, because they were good stories.
    He claimed friendship with the beautiful people who lived overseas, a hard claim to disprove because so few turned up in Tiny Town. Those who did appear, usually in some professional endeavour aimed at entertaining the locals in return for their money, always came to his restaurant. When they turned up to feed, Jonathan was pleased. He drew a chair to their table and recommended dishes, and this often annoyed the cook, who had other menus planned. Undeterred, he would scurry off to the kitchen and prepare the food himself, causing confusion and resentment among his kitchen staff. He would often ponder the causes of his high staff turnover, putting it down to the aggressive streak he detected in all his new countrymen. To support his efforts he always gave the visitors free bottles of a wine he kept for just such occasions. Like all the wines he served, it was Australian. He considered this one special, and seemed to imply to any eavesdropping natives that it was surprising that an Australian wine should be so good.
    This made him something of a marked man, but he remained unaware of that.
    On these occasions he could never resist joining the party: he would sit quiet and content for a time, basking in the reflected glory and the conversation, which was a cut above what he usually suffered.
    Sooner or later he would start to bloom like some forward, pale-faced flower. He would take over the conversation. Mainly by telling jokes. Funny jokes. All types of jokes—finally downright repetitious and boring jokes.
    Enchantment faded. Moves were made to be getting on, pleasant though it had all been, pleased though they were to make his acquaintance, and they would certainly recommend the place to all their friends. These moves would be blocked by offers of one more bottle, more cheese, more coffee, more anything. This was usually late at night. The absence of staff may have deterred the guests from taking up his generous offers.
    In the long gaps of time between the visits of these romantic strangers, he had to make do with the local crowd. They flocked in in droves. They were not as glamorous, it is true, but they were reliable, especially the lunch-time lot, who consisted mostly of local celebrities. some exciting television comperes from the two Hobart stations, some journalists, one of whom was said once to have written for mainland dailies.
    A separate group was made up of the local arts-and-crafts men, who comprised a large part of the local population. In the long summer days, if the wind was in the right direction, the sounds of potters potting and weavers weaving rose to a disturbing crescendo. At night, unable to sleep, I would try to calm myself by lying still and counting relentless rows of pleasant little greyish-brown mugs and other bits of improving pottery jumping over fences.
    It was Jonathan who