Hitching south down the New South Wales coast, I got a ride with Ron, a middle aged man who was on his way to see his family in Narooma. We stopped in at a bowls club on the way for a sneaky beer or two (maybe three), and Ron warned me, in a sullen voice, that his family were a boring lot, who did nothing but bitch about him. If I wanted to, he said, I was welcome to doss down with them that night, but if he had another option, he’d be giving them a miss, but he had to do his duty and spend a few days with them.
We arrived at the Narooma caravan park about 8:30 that night, and Ron introduced me to a pair of lean, grey haired people in their seventies or eighties, who had an ancient sand blasted caravan by the beach. Although they seemed less than thrilled to see us, the two grey nomads made us welcome, and I spent a very comfortable night on the floor of their annexe.
Ron’s mum and dad served me a very tasty mushroom omelette for breakfast, after which I politely made my excuses and said goodbye. The old bloke walked me out to the road, chatting quietly about the places he’d travelled. Before saying goodbye, he looked me in the eye and asked seriously
“did Ronnie have a beer with you yesterday?”
“er, yes” I replied, a bit confused by the question.
The old bloke sighed, and turned to look down the road.
“he’s a good enough boy, our Ronnie, but he’s a fool for the booze. He got himself straightened out a year or so ago, but we haven’t heard from him in a few months now, and his mother thought the worst. Well, at least he’s come see us. If we can keep him off it for a week or two, he might come good again.”
“well, if he got sober once, I guess he’ll do it again?”
“We’ll see.” Said the old man, in a tired sounding voice. “I just worry about whats gonna happen when his mother and I aren’t around to set him straight.”
Ron’s dad shook my hand, wished me safe travels and headed back to his caravan.