Sunburnt Speculations

“Rod ‘Kok’ Roach”

Rod Roach, “Kok” to his mates, settled himself at the bar table. Stood as the Commissioners came in. Bowed with a sort of practiced nod and sat down again, folding his arms across his belly, his shoulders stretching his baggy coat tight across his broad shoulders.

He loved this bit. It wasn’t nerves, it was the adrenaline. He waited as the Associate called the case. The newer advocates all announced their appearances. Then it was his turn. “Yes. Mr Roach,” the Chief had said. They all knew him.  Forty years, near enough, union through and through. Started out as shop steward. Rose through the ranks to organizer. Studied nights to become an advocate, as his young family was growing up. Something better for himself, for May and the kids. A veteran now of years of wage cases. A battler. A street fighter. He loved the union. It had given him his life.  Made him who he was. And he was sure it loved him, too.

“Three point seven.” He couldn’t wait to get out of the room. “Three point seven,” the Chief had said. Rod gave himself a surreptitious, congratulatory fist pump.

“That’ll shut them up! Three point seven, eh?” he thought to himself. That would show them he was right to press on with the case.

“Chalk that up as another win, boys,” he thought – the familiar phrases running through his head.

“3.7,” and an exclamation mark. That was all he needed to message back to Union HQ. The Secretary would be happy with that. Rod could afford to stop off at the pub for one with the boys. Then back to the office to soak up the congratulations and maybe a few more drinks. It was good, he thought.

The phone in his breast pocket vibrated. “What were they offering?” the message read.

“3.4,” he punched in. “Tops,” he added.

“Yeah. A good win,” he thought. It would come to an extra $3.60 a week. But it would put a smile on a few faces, and “wipe the smug grins off a few others,” he thought. And besides, it was the principle of the thing – and the winning. That’s what mattered. Yes, the winning. That’s what he was, a winner. That’s what he had always been. Since the 80s. Since Bob Hawke. That’s why they loved him, he thought.

His phone vibrated again. “This will be the start of congratulations,” he thought.

“Get straight back. We need to talk,” the message said.

“Something’s up,” Rod thought. The Union needed him back at HQ. He quickened his pace, an effort at his age, ignoring the tightening in his chest and the pain starting to shoot up his shins as his feet struck the hard pavement. He glanced quickly at the early afternoon newspaper hoardings outside the kiosks.

“ABS announces 7.8% inflation.”

“RBA set to raise interest rates again!”

“Wage rise falls short of record inflation.”

Unfit and overweight, he started to sweat. Whenever he sweated, dark stains from too much coffee appeared under his arms. And he smelt.

That was how he arrived back at Union HQ. Breathing heavily, he entered the Union Secretary’s office. She greeted him coolly from behind her desk. And her thin red lips were not smiling.