Chapter 5 SBW, then off to LOTR
This chapter came out of the blue, mostly as the result of an email about the "discovery" of SBW by some Mum'sNet people on the other side of the world. Of course Molly and the rest of you can look, but he's OURS! Nah, he is married with a small daughter and lives not too far from where I do, as does the coach of the Welsh team, in the offseason. Thank you, email sender, you're in this chapter. I love your work...makes me lol.
What the fuck was he doing in the Redoubt Bar, Matamata, Waikato, New Zealand at 10.00am on a Sunday morning? He was watching the English Rugby team getting done by the Welsh in the pool play of the rugby World Cup, that's what! What was even worse than being beaten by the leeky tossers was the way he was being rinsed by the locals.
It looked like a lot of them had raced into town straight from morning milking on one of the many local dairy farms, getting there at half time. Others had come earlier from riding track work at one of the stud farms for which this part of the Waikato region was well known. Photos of horses, jockeys and trainers adorned the walls, along with pictures of lots of rugby teams. He didn't know the song whose lyrics were written on a whiteboard or its legend, being a 'bloody pom.) (Most people said it affectionately, but there were some who substituted "whingeing" for "bloody".)
The song in question was a Kiwi ditty, sung by and for men, called "Rugby, Racing and Beer', from an earlier time, not often played these days because some New Zealand women had become skilled at sabotaging the male crowd behaviour that went with the song. Often this meant women going into male bastions such as the public bars, drinking beer and knowing as much, if not more about the footie and the races as the men. Rather than beat the men, they had joined them, wives, girlfriends, sisters, and there were a fair few in the bar for this game.
A couple of the men had heard Charles' posh boy voice as he ordered from the bar and pounced on him, rubbing in the defeat with comments like, "Let me get this one for you, Pom! Looks like you need some cheering up after getting done like that" and "Jeez, that Biggar's class!" and "Your boys need to sort out the breakdown…fast" and "Shit, you Poms might miss out on the quarters!" and so on and so forth…
He gritted his teeth and took his drink back to the table where Molly was busy with her phone, texting to someone back in England, more than likely. It would be ten o'clock Saturday morning back in London and a good time to catch people at home. Suddenly, Molly burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" he snapped at her, as she quickly covered the screen with her palm. "What are you looking at? Who're you texting."
"Take it easy," she retorted. "Don't come over all Bossman on me! Not my fault your bleedin' team got done. I'm talking to Jackie." Something black showed between her fingers on the screen of her iPhone. She noticed him looking and tried to hit a button, obviously trying to clear the black thing, whatever it was. Charles had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, his palms were sweaty and he was suddenly furious. About what he wasn't yet sure, but he was too quick for Molly, snatching the phone from her. And there was another pair of All Black thighs. And a bronzed torso. And an array o complicated tattoos in all sorts of places including said thighs. And a pair of very small shorts worn low on the hips. He recognised the All Black immediately. Not Beaver, but SBW! Sonny Bill Williams!
"We talked about this stuff on Friday night, Molly," he protested. "Why are you perving over another bloody All Black?" He was really feeling the anger now as he hissed the words at her, clenching his jaw and sweating across his forehead. Those Captain Stern Face lines on his forehead were back. She was surprised at the ferocity of his reaction to the photo and answered him.
"Jackie's the one who's perving, along with at least half the female population of the world! Me, I'm just observing, having a look at his tattoos, talking to Jackie about the details of why she finds him so hot. Looking closely so I can understand what all the SBW love is about…" she smirked. Looking straight into his eyes, so intensely that he found it hard to breathe, she whispered "For fuck's sake, Charles, there are lots of sexy beasts out there and heaps of hot women. Of course we'll both notice that. But for me, I always come back to you and how much I like to look at YOUR bod. And do things, all sorts of naughty things, to it. And I'm not talking about it anymore because we're in a public place and I really want to hit on you right now. Even talking about it gets me wet. And by the look of you," she said, glancing at the general area of his tightly jean clad crotch, "soon you won't be able to stand up without people noticing what you're wanting to do. So don't get your nads in a tangle over SBW. I was ONLYTEASING."
Just then a roar of approval erupted in the bar. The game had been finished for a few minutes and the Welsh were jubilant. Charles couldn't help but think how Smurf would have enjoyed the victory, even though he was a football man through and through. The other guys in the platoon would have gotten a real ear bashing! Glancing at the screen, he saw a stocky silver haired guy excitedly jumping and pumping his arms in the air, obvious very pleased with the result and, it would seem, himself. "Good onya, Warren!" "Another bloody Waikato man!" "He showed those bloody Poms a thing or two!" And again, so on and so forth. Warren Gatland, coach of the Welsh team, Waikato born and bred, being appreciated out loud.
When James thought about it, and it was hard not to in this Rugby mad town in this Rugby obsessed country, you realised how many young men and coaches were part of other teams in the Rugby World Cup. Out of the blue, the lowly Japanese team had beaten the Springboks, with a Kiwi captain who had been living in Japan for some years. There were New Zealand players in the Irish, Scottish, Welsh and even the English teams, selected for their lineage that connected their bloodlines to the various Home countries. The coaches of the Canadian and Irish teams were New Zealanders as well. Suddenly it was altogether too much for Charles. He wanted out of the bar, right now.
With a flick of his head, he indicated to Molly that she should come with him.
"Steady, Boss," she said. "Actually, you're not my boss now, so you don't need to come on all captainy and flick orders at me with your head. Ask me, don't tell me.' He blushed and apologised. Charles was finding it difficult, still, not to always be in charge. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to get out of there. Are you happy to go now?
"Yep, but let's get a burger to eat on the way." They had noticed earlier that Matamata had a lot more takeaway places than would normally be expected in a small town. In conversation with the owner of their motel, they had found out that the town was a through route to Auckland one way and to the Bay of Plenty the other way. People would stop for food at all hours of the day and night and there was always somewhere open.
They would be visiting Auckland and the Bay later in their travels, but today they were going to the place which drew thousands of visitors each year to Matamata and created custom for the fast food outlets. They were going to Hobbiton.
As a boy, he had learned about the hobbits, orcs , elves, gnomes and wizards of Middle Earth from his father. Together they had read the JRR Tolkien books, large sections of them out loud in order to hear more clearly the beauty of his poetic language. It had been a wonderful experience for both and Charles was planning to start reading the books with Sam when he got back to England. He sought to enhance the reading by spending some time in the place where Tolkien's dream was given form and shape. He was aware that throughout the rest of their travels in New Zealand, he and Molly would be in places where Sir Peter Jackson had woven the magic that was the Lord of the Rings. This was the first place: he would be acutely alert to others as they travelled on.
Molly did not know the story. As they drove the ten kilometres of country road, Charles introduced her to the hairy-footed hobbits and to Gandalf the wizard. He knew she didn't like trees much but he had so far been encouraged by her lack of negative commentary about the very high concentration of trees in this country whose climate made it so easy for them to grow. She would, he said, be meeting a very happy tree, the discovery of which by Sir Peter, long before he was a "Sir", led to the siting of Hobbiton on a farm on the outskirts of Matamata.
For a girl who liked a good time, she could probably take a cue from Sir Ian McKellen and enjoy the power of "The Party Tree.
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