- OPTIC AND OP SHOPS
The bell tinkled when the man in the washed-out overalls followed his walking stick in through the door. Behind him was a big man with grey whiskers, who was wearing a red checked shirt and loud tracksuit pants.
Walter ‘Goody’ Moncrieff looked over the top of his glasses, then stood up. “If it isn’t Clarrie Noodle? I was just reading about you!”
The frames displayed in cabinets along the walls looked like they were long overdue for a feather duster. “What can I do for you gents?” Goody walked around to the front of the reception desk. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for a Tasmanian Tiger in here!”
The man wearing the colourful, stretchy pants turned to go. “I told you this was a mistake, Oodles.”
Clarrie Noodle reached up and grabbed him by the shoulder. “If you want to actually see that castle of yours, old son …”
Then he turned to the optician and blew out his cheeks. “Sorry, Goody, you haven’t met my business partner.” He pointed from man to man and back again. “ Goody, Bert Whish-Willson; Wish-Wash, Walter Moncrieff.”
Goody smiled and held out his hand. “I recognised you from the photo.” He pointed behind him to the newspaper spread open on the counter.
Oodles had first come into this shop on the Slutz Plains High Street in 1972 when he had clumsily broken an arm of his reading glasses in his car door. He lived 15 minutes’ drive down the hill in Windy Mountain but this was the only optical business in the district.
Oodles guessed the optician would have been in his early 30s that first time. He had had the look of a fearsome cricket fast-bowler complete with intimidating moustache and an open-neck shirt that showed a forest of dark chest hair and a gold chain around his neck. These days, Goody had taken to wearing a white lab coat to hide the chest foliage that most likely matched the snowy white of the hair on his head.
Let’s see? If Oodles was 85 now, Goody had to be in his late 70s. He wasn’t just the oldest optician for miles and miles, possibly in the whole of Tasmania, he had become the town’s oldest receptionist since his long-time assistant Polly had taken long service leave to do a river cruise on the Danube. He couldn’t afford to replace her for three months. So he had a bell installed above the door, which he’d hear on the rare occasion he was out in the back room consulting with a customer. Mostly, he sat at the receptionist’s desk and read Wisden.
Oodles took his scratched glasses out of his bib pocket and held them up. “I need replacements, Goody. Wish-Wash needs a new prescription. He’s an 83-year-old virgin.”
Wish-Wash glared at Oodles. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve never had a pair of glasses in your life.”
Wish-Wash pointed heatedly towards the window. “How can I be a flaming virgin? Tell Goody about my grandson Rod.”
Goody threw a hand to the side of his head with a slap. “I thought I had seen someone like you before?”
Wish-Wash broke out in a smile for the first time. “You know my grandson then?”
“No, but I’ve seen him lots of times crossing the road. He works over at the Travel Agency. You and him, um, share a similar sense of, er, sartorial splendour.”
Wish-Wash’s smile grew wider. He had just bought those elasticised pants minutes before after he had seen them in the opportunity shop window two doors along. He got as excited as a boy seeing a lolly shop whenever he saw a shop selling second-hand clothes — so he insisted they check out the op shop before going to the optical shop.
Oodles had to watch him model the new trousers. They were predominantly dark green, but with orange swirls.
Wish-Wash was thrilled they felt so comfortable when most of his other trousers felt so tight, but he wanted to know how they looked. What could Oodles say? It was no worse than many of the fashion choices the lard-arse had made.
Wish-Wash had asked the attendant if the shop took trade-ins. He told him the traffic-light-red trousers he had been wearing when he came in had only had one careful owner who normally only wore them to church. Oodles knew this was bunkum. Ignoring the occasional trip to church for a funeral, places of worship were foreign territories for Wish-Wash. Oodles also knew the red slacks were already pre-loved when Wish-Wash had bought them from an op shop in another town. The attendant was having none of it either.
Wish-Wash hid the old slacks in the change-room anyway. That’d teach them, he said. Now they’d have to go to the trouble of throwing them out.
Oodles wondered what made him think his newtracky-dackies went any better with the red flannel shirt he was wearing today and the flip-flops that showed off his gnarly toenails.
Goody switched his gaze from Wish-Wash to Oodles. “How long have you been using that divining rod?”
Oodles looked around the room, wondering where the divining rod was. Only when his eyes settled on the hickory walking stick did he get the joke.
“Oh this? I’ve only been using it since yesterday. Doc Jenkins wants me to get used to it before we go to Donegal in three weeks’ time. We both went for our medical yesterday and Jenko also reckons Wish-Wash needs long-distance glasses. I figure I need new readers. So here we are.”
Goody scratched his chin. “Donnygirl? How do you spell that?”
“D.o.n.e.g.a.l. It’s in Ireland.” Oodles put an arm around Wish-Wash. “My mate here won a couple of air-tickets that were offered as a prize for him doing a DNA genetic est.”
Goody leaned in closer and dropped his voice, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear and realise he was no longer the fearless fast bowler. “I’ve given up on flying. The fear of crashing was bad enough, but the final straw was hearing about that bloke who had a fatal heart attack in his seat. No one knew anything was wrong with him until they tried to wake him up when the plane had landed.”
“Thanks for that confidence boost, Goody.” Oodles shook his head. “That story sure trumps mine. I was only worried about putting my back out again. When Madge was alive, we once flew from Singapore to London sitting up in economy, and my spine hasn’t been the same since.”
Wish-Wash’s chest swelled, though not quite as much as his belly. “You won’t have to worry about that. The good news is you can die lying down in business-class capsules these days.”
Oodles gave him a dark look. “You’re very sure for someone who has never been on a plane.”
“Rod brought me some brochures.”
Goody frowned at Wish-Wash. “You’ve never flown? Not even on a prop to Melbourne?”
“Nope,” Oodles piped in. “Guess that makes him an extra virgin.”
Clarrie Noodle reached up and grabbed him by the shoulder. “If you want to actually see that castle of yours, old son …”
Then he turned to the optician and blew out his cheeks. “Sorry, Goody, you haven’t met my business partner.” He pointed from man to man and back again. “ Goody, Bert Whish-Willson; Wish-Wash, Walter Moncrieff.”
Goody smiled and held out his hand. “I recognised you from the photo.” He pointed behind him to the newspaper spread open on the counter.
Oodles had first come into this shop on the Slutz Plains High Street in 1972 when he had clumsily broken an arm of his reading glasses in his car door. He lived 15 minutes’ drive down the hill in Windy Mountain but this was the only optical business in the district.
Oodles guessed the optician would have been in his early 30s that first time. He had had the look of a fearsome cricket fast-bowler complete with intimidating moustache and an open-neck shirt that showed a forest of dark chest hair and a gold chain around his neck. These days, Goody had taken to wearing ties to hide the chest foliage that most likely matched the snowy white of the hair on his head.
Let’s see? If Oodles was 85 now, Goody had to be in his late 70s. He wasn’t just the oldest optician for miles and miles, possibly in the whole of Tasmania, he had become the town’s oldest receptionist when Rosie had retired. He couldn’t afford to retire himself, and he couldn’t afford to replace her. So he had a bell installed above the door, which he’d hear on the rare occasion he was out in the back room consulting with a customer. Mostly, he sat at the receptionist’s desk and read.
Oodles took his scratched glasses out of his bib pocket and held them up. “I need replacements, Goody. Wish-Wash needs a new prescription. He’s an 83-year-old virgin.”
Wish-Wash glared at Oodles. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve never had a pair of glasses in your life.”
Wish-Wash pointed heatedly towards the window. “How can I be a flaming virgin? Tell Goody about my grandson Rod.”
Goody threw a hand to the side of his head with a slap. “I thought I had seen someone like you before?”
Wish-Wash broke out in a smile for the first time. “You know my grandson then?”
“No, but I’ve seen him lots of times crossing the road. He works over at the Travel Agency. You and him, um, share a similar sense of, er, sartorial splendour.”
Wish-Wash’s smile grew wider. He had just bought those elasticised pants minutes before after he had seen them in the opportunity shop window two doors along. He got as excited as a boy seeing a lolly shop whenever he saw a shop selling second-hand clothes — so he insisted they check out the op shop before going to the optical shop.
Oodles had to watch him model the new trousers. They were predominantly dark green, but with orange swirls.
Wish-Wash was thrilled they felt so comfortable when most of his other trousers felt so tight, but he wanted to know how they looked. What could Oodles say? It was no worse than many of the fashion choices the lard-arse had made.
Wish-Wash had asked the attendant if the shop took trade-ins. He told him the traffic-light-red trousers he had been wearing when he came in had only had one careful owner who normally only wore them to church. Oodles knew this was bunkum. Ignoring the occasional trip to church for a funeral, places of worship were foreign territories for Wish-Wash. Oodles also knew the red slacks were already pre-loved when Wish-Wash had bought them from an op shop in another town. The attendant was having none of it either.
Wish-Wash hid the old slacks in the change-room anyway. That’d teach them, he said. Now they’d have to go to the trouble of throwing them out.
Oodles wondered what made him think his newtracky-dackies went any better with the red flannel shirt he was wearing today and the flip-flops that showed off his gnarly toenails.
Goody switched his gaze from Wish-Wash to Oodles. “How long have you been using that divining rod?”
Oodles looked around the room, wondering where the divining rod was. Only when his eyes settled on the hickory walking stick did he get the joke.
“Oh this? I’ve only been using it since yesterday. Doc Jenkins wants me to get used to it before we go to Donegal in three weeks’ time. We both went for our medical yesterday and Jenko also reckons Wish-Wash needs long-distance glasses. I figure I need new readers. So here we are.”
Goody scratched his chin. “Donnygirl? How do you spell that?”
“D.o.n.e.g.a.l. It’s in Ireland.” Oodles put an arm around Wish-Wash. “My mate here won a couple of air-tickets that were offered as a prize for him doing a DNA genetic est.”
Goody leaned in closer and dropped his voice, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear and realise he was no longer the fearless fast bowler. “I’ve given up on flying. The fear of crashing was bad enough, but the final straw was hearing about that bloke who had a fatal heart attack in his seat. No one knew anything was wrong with him until they tried to wake him up when the plane had landed.”
“Thanks for that confidence boost, Goody.” Oodles shook his head. “That story sure trumps mine. I was only worried about putting my back out again. When Madge was alive, we once flew from Singapore to London sitting up in economy, and my spine hasn’t been the same since.”
Wish-Wash’s chest swelled, though not quite as much as his belly. “You won’t have to worry about that. The good news is you can die lying down in business-class capsules these days.”
Oodles gave him a dark look. “You’re very sure for someone who has never been on a plane.”
“Rod brought me some brochures.”
Goody frowned at Wish-Wash. “You’ve never flown? Not even on a prop to Melbourne?”
“Nope,” Oodles piped in. “Guess that makes him an extra virgin.”
2. ‘TWO YEARS IN THE CLINK, AT LEAST’
“Did you haveto say that?” Wish-Wash said when they started walking back towards Oodles’s car.
“You can talk!” Oodles was still thinking about what Wish-Wash had told the Mayor two days before. “Anyway, what did I say?”
“You called me a virgin — twice!”
“I was trying to lighten the mood. Do you think we would have got such a good deal if Goody had been grumpy? Back in the day we used to call him Good Grief Moncrieff for a reason.”
“Why did it have to be at my expense though! I have a reputation to uphold in this town. I could run into my ex-missus at any time.”
“You really think she’d recognise you all these years later as the man she had a quickie with behind the dance hall?”
“You make it sound so tawdr—” Wish-Wash stopped abruptly and glared at the park bench on the grassy verge next to the footpath.
Oodles stopped and turned around, then walked towards the bench. The dry grass crunched beneath his feet. The grass had been a lush green when the bench had mysteriously appeared here. But in the past week the sun had beaten down and no rain had fallen, and now the grass was more yellow than green. Oodles stroked the fresh red paint. “You must have noticed this when we arrived?”
Wish-Wash shook his head. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“That’s one excuse.” The car keys jingled in Oodles’s other hand. “Those new glasses of yours better be ready in time. You’re going to need them in Ireland.”
“I’ve got on fine for years without them.”
“Says the man who thought the fourth line of Goody’s eye-chart read d i c k h e a d.”
“It did.” Wish-Wash studied his face. “Didn’t it?”
“They were random letters, you drongo. You sure you didn’t need glasses back in 1967?”
Wish-Wash stamped a foot. “Why did you even have to bring that up?”
Oodles’s attention was drawn to Wish-Wash’s feet. He scowled. “When did you last trim those toenails?”
Wish-Wash went quiet and tilted his head. “Hmm, Christmas.”
“Only four weeks ago? You’re kidding me!”
“No. It was the Christmas before.”
“Strewth,” Oodles said.
“Are you trying to change the subject?” Wish-Wash pointed to the bench with a shaking finger. “What’s this still doing here? It belongs back in Windy Mountain.”
Oodles shrugged. “I guess someone has to sift through the evidence first.”
“The Mayor’s in jail, isn’t he? What more evidence do they need?”
James Northan hadn’t actually been mayor for some time, but people still called him that as a joke. Members of his family had held a near-stranglehold on the position since his great, great, great grandfather had founded Windy Mountain in 1841, and his daughter Maddie wore the mayoral gown right now.
James was 82, deaf in both ears, and Oodles and Wish-Wash had formed an uneasy alliance with him. He was a cranky old bugger who thought he was better than just about anyone else. But they had been forced to make peace with him because all their other friends had dropped off the perch and the bench really needed a third person on the end.
That was hard enough for Oodles, who had once worked under James’s beck-and-call as council works supervisor.
But it was even harder for Wish-Wash, who had never forgiven James for orchestrating his removal from a job he had loved.
In 1967 Wish-Wash claimed to have seen a Tasmanian Tiger in a bus shelter. The reason he was there was quite credible. Wish-Wash then was the town drunk, so he often slept in the bus shelter, but his very occupation also made his alleged siting of an animal believed to be extinct less than credible.
James Northan was outraged. He said the publicity brought shame on Windy Mountain, and took steps to see to it that Wish-Wash was sacked. He claimed Wish-Wash had actually got off easy. His great, great, great grandfather would have hung, drawn and quartered him.
So it was remarkable that years later they agreed to do the DNA genetic test together. Oodles didn’t want to know about his family roots. But Wish-Wash was curious because he didn’t know quite where he had come from, and the Mayor was cocksure he would get confirmation he was descended from British aristocracy.
When the results were mailed to them separately, it boosted Wish-Wash’s self-esteem no end. No matter he was now the co-owner with Oodles of the Tasmanian Tiger Museum and had been on the sobriety wagon for many years, you never really lived down the stigma that you were once the town drunk. But the DNA genetic test gave him new status. It found he was descended from a free-settler from Donegal. More good news followed. He was put in touch with a distant relative in Ireland, who informed him he had inherited a castle in Donegal. A castle! Him?
The DNA results were roughly the same for the Mayor, but the outcome was very different.
He was appalled to find his ancestors also came from Donegal. He didn’t believe this nonsense for a second, but it propelled him into making a trip to Hobart to visit the State Archive and Heritage Office. That research made it even worse. He found out his great, great, great grandfather had not only never reached the rank of colonel that he had always been known as in family folklore, he had arrived in the colony with a ball and chain attached to his ankle. At best, he had been released early and might have secured the rank of sergeant. He had been put in charge of a group of convicts exploring the furtherest reaches of the colony so they could raise the flag for England.
The Mayor never shared with anyone his new-found knowledge his ancestor was actually transported as a convict from Ireland.
What he did was go into hiding and join forces with his nephew, a known criminal nicknamed Messerschmitt, to start dismantling Windy Mountain — and the shame — bit by bit.
Signs disappeared, the Colonel Robert Northan Memorial Park bench was relocated to Slutz Plains in the dead of night, the Windy Mountain pub was burned down, wreckers tried to demolish the Tasmanian Tiger Museum, and the big bronze statue in the middle of the main street depicting Colonel Richard Northan astride a big horse was removed under the cloak of darkness.
When the long arm of the law closed in, James Northan turned himself in.
When Oodles and Wish-Wash went to see the Mayor in jail, he blamed the worst crimes on his nephew, who was still on the run.
When they told him they were shortly off to Ireland he had to ask them to repeat it because he wasn’t sure his hearing aids were working properly.
When he adjusted them, the aids both gave high-pitch squeals — and Wish-Wash repeated the news with more volume and greater glee.
James’s face went even whiter.
Wish-Wash reached over and squeezed his knee. “I wish there was a mirror in here, Jimbo, so you could see the look on your face.”He laughed like a donkey. Hee-haw, hee-haw. “Tell you what? If you somehow get out of this fix you’re in, we’re taking you with us.” He glanced at Oodles. “Isn’t that right, cobber?”
Oodles rolled his eyes. “But we’ve only got two seats?”
“Two business-class seats. I’m sure they’ll cash them in for three economy seats.”
They stopped on the way out and chatted with Sergeant Stretch in the charge-room.
When they got back on to the street, Oodles said, “Why did you have to go and tell James we’d take him with us?”
Wish-Wash laughed again. “Torture!”
Oodles glared at him. ”What if he somehow gets released?”
“Come off the grass! You heard Stretch. The Mayor has to be looking at two years’ prison at least.”
3. HE’S CARRYING THE BAGS
THREE WEEKS LATER
“It’s very good of you to pick me up first.” Oodles watched Wish-Wash’s grandson Rod lift the suitcase into the back of the dual-cab ute. He was wearing red trousers and a blue polo shirt with a red hoop around his midriff.
Oodles was wearing his best overalls. He slid into the back seat and rested his walking stick on the inside of his right thigh.
Rod had offered to drive them to the airport in Launceston. From there, they’d fly to Melbourne. Melbourne to Dubai. Dubai to London. London to Dublin, where they would pick up a rental car and drive up to Donegal.
As Rod backed out of the drive, he turned his head. “You know granddad has agreed to come and live with me in Slutz Plains?”
“No way.” Oodles opened the window because he felt the air had just been sucked out of him. “Last I heard, he was moving back into the pub now Rog’s decided to rebuild it.”
“I think he was waiting for the right time to tell you about his new plan. I think he wants to get right away from James Northan after this trip.”
“Strewth, how far away does he want to be? Risdon Jail is a long way from Windy Mountain. It’s just a crying shame the police haven’t been able to catch that nephew of his. No one would mess with James if Messerschmitt was his cellmate.”
“Didn’t granddad tell you? James Northan has been released. The council didn’t want to press charges.”
“You’re kidding me?” Oodles watched the houses whizz by as they drove down the hill. “He stole the signs, for goodness sake; he gave away our bench; he stole the statue. Don’t they count for anything?”
“Mayor Maddie Northan reckons he had council permission to do all those things.”
“What about the attempt on the museum? And the burning-down of the pub? No one could have approved those things!”
“He says neither of those crimes were anything to do with him. It’s his word against Messerschmitt’s — and he’s obviously not here.”
* * *
As the carapproached the museum, Oodles saw two men standing with suitcases on the footpath outside the museum.
As they pulled up, he saw the whiskery one had squeezed into an emerald green suit that was too short in the legs and showed off his red socks, and a red body shirt. The clean-shaven bloke was almost a head shorter and was wearing one of the designer grey pinstripe suits he always wore. White shirt, blue tie. Groan.
Behind them was Moose, who was leaning on his crutches. Next to him was Joffa, who could pass as Moose’s younger brother until he began talking and his accent gave him away as being from somewhere else. Joffa had his arm around Katy, who was tall for a woman, but looked diminutive beside him. Rounding off the farewell party was the Texan teenager they had nicknamed Awesome Sauce.
Oodles and Rod undid their seatbelts and got out.
Oodles took Wish-Wash aside and whispered in his ear. “He’s really coming with us?”
Wish-Wash smiled. “He’s agreed to come along as our carer.”
Oodles shook his head, then turned and extended his hand to Moose. “It’s all yours now,” he said, nodding towards the museum. “I only hope you and Joffa and Katy can turn it around after all that’s happened.”
“You sure about this?” Moose said. “It’s very generous of you. You didn’t deserve what happened.” He looked to Joffa, then to Awesome Sauce.
“Don’t blame them, old son. Life’s too short to burn with regret. Move on. That’s what we’re doing. I can wait to burn some rubber on those Irish roads.”
Moose lowered his voice. “I can’t believe you’ve decided to take the Mayor with you!”
“Nothing to do with me. I’ve just found out myself,” Oodles said.
“Do me a favour,” Moose said. “Lose him in a crowd in a busy airport. Better still, push him out of the plane over an ocean.”
“You don’t mean that, old son!”
“Oh, I do. Windy Mountain would be a much better place without him.”
They were interrupted by Wish-Wash’s booming voice addressing the Mayor. “I hope you’ve turned your hearing aids on?”
They turned to see Rod unclipping the tarp and his hand moving towards the handle of the first suitcase.
But Wish-Wash reached out and stopped him. “That’s Jimbo’s job.”
4. ‘HAVEN’T I SEEN THOSE TROUSERS BEFORE?’
Nothing was said for the first mile of the journey but Oodles could tell by the way Wish-Wash kept looking sideways something was on his mind.
Oodles had a good view from where he sat in the back alongside the Mayor.
Finally, Wish-Wash couldn’t contain himself. “Where did you get those, Rod?”
Rod took one hand off the steering wheel as the gum trees flew by on either side of the road. It sounded like he was patting one of his trouser legs. “Like them, granddad?”
Wish-Wash growled. “I’ve told you before not to call me granddad. It makes me sound old.”
“You are old, Bert,” came the Mayor’s voice from the back seat.
Wish-Wash turned around and glared. “I’m only a year older than you, Jimbo! But I’m in much better nick. Didn’t I tell you? I don’t want to hear a peep out of you until you’re beckoned!” Then he noticed the silver laptop computer the Mayor was holding and his voice grew weaker as he ran out of breath. “Why did you have to bring that? We’re going on holiday!”
The Mayor looked down. “This? Some of us like to stay in touch with the latest news.”
Wish-Washed sucked in oxygen. “Christ Almighty, can’t you do that on your smartphone? That, and all your email?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Bert! Only common people email on their phones.” He tapped the computer. “Anyway, there is much more to my computer than just its email capability.”
“You’re not one of those old blokes addicted to internet porn, are you? Because if you are, we’re going to need different room arrangements.”
The Mayor raised his voice indignantly. “Really, Bert! What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to work out why you’d want to cart that computer around the world. Don’t they have newspapers in Ireland?”
The Mayor sighed. “Some information I need you can’t find in your common provincial rag.” He stroked his laptop lovingly. “This device gives me up-to-the minute information about my share portfolio.”
“I thought you were skint!”
“I am. It’s a struggle just to pay my accountant.”
“Typical! You mean to tell us—“
Wish-Wash didn’t finish what he was saying. What was the point? He turned back to the front and returned to the subject of Rod’s traffic-light red trousers. “I used to have a pair just like them. Where’d you get them?“
“The op shop in Slutz Plains sold them to me.”
“Christ Almighty, no wonder they’re familiar.” Wish-Wash pounded his own chest with his right hand. “I knew I had seen them before. They’re the ones I left there!”
“Oh gross!” came the Mayor’s voice from the back. “I do hope you washed them, Roderick.”
Wish-Wash’s angry glare over his shoulder was enough to make the Mayor reach up and turn off both of his hearing aids.
Wish-Wash shook his head, turned around and addressed Rod again. “When did you buy them?”
Rod kept his eyes on the road. “Nearly three weeks ago. I had been watching a nice pair of tracksuit pants displayed in the window for weeks. Wednesday afternoon is when they do price reductions, so I popped across the road to check if they had been marked down further. I couldn’t believe someone else had bought them. I think they could see I was angry when I went inside, which is why they offered me these ones for five dollars.”
“Five dollars!” Wish-Wash unwrapped a nicotine tablet and started chewing on it. “You’ve been had. Surely you remember seeing me wearing them! I would have sold you them for four dollars, and I would have washed them first.”
“How do you know they didn’t wash them?” Rod tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Wish-Wash sighed loudly. “What time did you get to the shop?”
“About 4.30pm — after the travel agent closed for the day.”
“That’s all the proof you need then. They wouldn’t have had time to wash them when I had only left them in the change room half an hour before. I’m surprised they even had time to find them because I thought they were pretty well tucked away in that rubbish bin. Which reminds me, who even peels an orange in a change room?”
Oodles laughed. “Is that why the green track pants you got have orange swirls, old son?”
“Very funny,” Wish-Wash said. “You wait and see. When I wear them in Ireland a lot of people will be jealous.”
“Strewth, you’re not telling me you’ve packed those!”
Wish-Wash lifted his right arm and held out the jacket sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m only wearing my best threads on the plane.”
“Where did you even get that green suit and red shirt anyway?” Oodles said. “It makes you look like a giant parrot.”
“Where do you think I got it?”
* * *
It all made sense now. Wish-Wash had made the trip to Slutz Plains with Oodles just a few days ago. The reason for the trip was to pick up their new glasses. But the lure of the op shop was too great for Wish-Wash and they had gone their separate ways. When Oodles came out of the optician’s shop with the two pairs of glasses each in a spring-loaded red case, Wish-Wash was standing on the footpath holding a large plastic bag.
When Oodles had asked what was in the bag, Wish-Wash trotted out one of his favourite sayings: it was for him to know and for Oodles to find out.
Guess he had just found out.
“You don’t think that green suit used to belong to Father O’Boring, do you?” Oodles said, as the car rolled on. “That would explain why the sleeves aren’t long enough and the trousers are at half-mast.”
Wish-Wash shook his fist. He had never had time for the short-arse Father John O’Rourke, who had died when the Catholic church was torched.
Oodles could see he had opened a wound, which was all the more reason to keep Wish-Wash on the back foot before he could hit back. “Why aren’t you wearing your new glasses?”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Mine are reading glasses, yours are for long-distance. Goody wanted you to start wearing them full time straight away.”
“Yeah, well, it won’t do me any harm to wait until I get to a part of the world where no one knows what I look like anyway.”
Oodles started making chicken noises. Beerk, beerk, baaaaarh.
“Who are you calling chicken?” Wish-Wash said.
“I didn’t call you anything,” Oodles said.
“No, but you were implying it. If you ask me, you should be more worried about yourself anyway.”
“Nothing wrong with my eyesight.” Oodles turned to the Mayor. “Doc Jenkins said I should be able to see an ant’s balls from 10 yards away.”
The Mayor frowned. “What did you say?” He fumbled with the hearing aids. “THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY EYESIGHT.”
“Why are you shouting at me?” Oodles said. “I never said there was.”
Wish-Wash craned his head over to the back seat again. “I was talking more generally about your health, Oodles. Pack all your meds, did you? You have the potential to ruin this trip. Not many people live past 85.”
Oodles swallowed. “Jenko gave me a clean bill of health. Do you think he would have done that if he thought I wasn’t up to this trip?”
“Maybe he is happy to get rid of you? It couldn’t be good P.R. for his business if some of his patients die on him in Windy Mountain.”
The Mayor feigned indignity. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Bert!”
“The truth hurts, Jimbo,” Wish-Wash said. “But at least Jenko had the good grace not to be there to see Oodles off — which is more than I can say for Moose’s diplomacy. I reckon the only reason he was there was to make sure you left town.”
5. ‘GO ON, BIG-NOTE, SHOW US WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF’
As they pulled into the car park at Launceston Airport, Oodles felt nostalgic and sad.
He and Madge had flown out of Launceston on Boxing Day 1975 bound for Western Australia. The itinerary had them catching a Russian ocean liner from there and spending five or six days at sea on the way to Singapore, from where they’d fly on to London.
But the Russian ship wasn’t waiting for them in Fremantle, which caused them some anxiety. A replacement, the M.S. Kota Singapura, did arrive — three days and many missed heart-beats later. But good came out of the delay and change of ship. They spent New Year’s Eve celebrating at sea, which was an experience they had never anticipated.
He’d never forget a crew-member dressed as Neptune hamming it up with a plastic trident at the crossing-the-equator ceremony. Somebody had pushed Oodles into the pool, which had been a welcome respite from the heat and a funny talking point for years right up to Madge’s death in 2015.
The old men wheeled their suitcases into the terminal. The Mayor also carried his laptop, as Rod trailed behind juggling their carry-on bags. The Mayor’s carry-on bag was nearly as big as his suitcase and, judging from the way Rod was struggling, perhaps heavier.
“What have you got in there, Jimbo?” Wish-Wash asked.
“I couldn’t fit everything into my case,” the Mayor said.
“Like what?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“You don’t think I need to know? Who’s paying for your ticket?”
“I thought you said you got them for free?”
“I did. But two business-class tickets! You ought not underestimate the big sacrifice Oodles and I made in trading them in for three economy air-fares?”
“I never asked you to. You volunteered.”
Wish-Wash flicked flakes of dandruff off the shoulder of his lime green suit, then stared coldly at the Mayor. “Yeah, well, the less said about that, the better. Just remember, Jimbo, Rod won’t be with us to carry the excess bags for the rest of the trip — that’ll be your job.”
The Mayor stared back. “I thought you meant you wanted me to carry all our passports.”
“What?” Wish-Wash frowned.
“I am the best qualified for that job. I’m the most seasoned traveller among us so I know exactly when to produce the relevant documents.”
“What about Oodles? He’s travelled, too.”
“Once! For six weeks. I hardly think having a little statue of a Grenadier guard standing at attention on his mantlepiece qualifies him to be a travel guide.”
Wish-Wash rolled his eyes. “I’ve waited 83 years for my first passport. It’d be just like you to lose it on purpose to ensure they’d leave me on the tarmac watching my own plane take off.”
“Wouldn’t happen,” the Mayor said. “No passport, no entry on to the tarmac. You’d be watching through the terminal window.”
“Whatever, wherever. You’re not getting my passport.” Wish-Wash parted his coat slightly and spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Anyway, it’s safe as houses where it is.” He patted his chest. “It’s hidden away in my money pouch, close to my body.”
“You’re wearing a money pouch?” The Mayor tutted. “No one wears money belts any more. If the security men see you patting your chest like that, they’re going to suspect you have explosives strapped to your body.”
Oodles butted in. “Don’t listen to him, old son. You won’t need to show your passport for this first leg anyway. You can duck into the dunny in Melbourne and take it out there.”
“Haven’t you heard of CC-TV cameras!” the Mayor said.
“In the blinking toilet cubicles?” Oodles screwed up his face.
“I wouldn’t put it past them. It probably takes your photo whenever you hit the flush button. Next thing your photo is on the Big Brother computer and the CIA knows how many sheets of toilet paper you used.”
“That would be a gross invasion of people’s privacy,” Oodles said.
“They’re very strict on security these days.”
By now, they were at the ticket counter and Wish-Wash herded the Mayor to the front. “Go on, Big-Note, show us what you’re made of then.”
The Mayor turned his back to Oodles and Wish-Wash so he could talk to the woman behind the counter.
He turned around. “The girly here says she needs to see everyone’s ID.”
Oodles reached into his jacket pocket and took out his wallet. “My driver’s licence do?” He extracted it and handed it over to the Mayor.
Wish-Wash went pale. “You know I haven’t got a driver’s licence!”
“Your passport will do,” the Mayor said.
Wish-Wash hissed. “I’m not taking my passport out here! Christ Almighty, why do they even need to see my ID anyway? I know who I am! Isn’t my word good enough for them?”
“Please yourself,” the Mayor said. “Just don’t blame me when you’re left behind in the terminal.” He lowered his voice. “You wouldn’t be in this position if you had given your passport to me.”
Wish-Wash turned to Oodles. “You said I wouldn’t even have to show my passport yet.”
Oodles shrugged. “No one ever asked for it in 1975.”
Wish-Wash undid the first two buttons of his shirt and pulled out the money pouch hanging on a cord around his neck, unzipped it and pulled out his shiny new passport. He slammed it into the Mayor’s hand. “I want it back, OK?”
“You need to relax,” the Mayor said. “If the security people see you sweating they are going to want to know why. “
He showed the ID documents to the woman behind the counter and she began inspecting them and hitting a flurry of keys on her computer.
The Mayor lifted his suitcase on to the conveyor belt and watched the weight indicator. It was over the limit slightly but the woman in the uniform said that was OK because they were connecting with an international flight. She tagged it and it disappeared into the tunnel.
“Next,” she said.
Wish-Wash pointed to his suitcase. “You’re on again, Jimbo.”
The Mayor looked around, hoping to summon Rod, who had plonked down the carry-on bags just behind them. But he had wandered off and Oodles could see he was now looking at a paper in a newspaper stand across the terminal.
The Mayor sighed and lifted Wish-Wash’s suitcase into place. The display window showed it was lighter than his. She tagged it and pressed a button to send it on its way.
Oodles didn’t wait for help. Wish-Wash was carrying on like a pork chop. Oodles didn’t care for the Mayor either but he would only become more intolerable if pushed too far.
Oodles’s suitcase was lighter again.
Inside were two more sets of overalls, three Y-fronts, three shirts, three pairs of socks, two jumpers, one warm duffle coat and one pair of running shoes. Not that he did any running these days but they were light and comfortable. Goodness knows what the others had packed. The Mayor had about 12 identical grey suits, all tailor made from merino wool. He couldn’t have packed them all. Could he? Oodles was pretty sure what kind of things Wish-Wash had packed. It wouldn’t end with the green and swirly orange trackie-dackies. Ireland was about to be inflicted with a wardrobe full of fashion crimes: novelty flip-flops, blue singlets, floral shirts and jumpers no self-respecting sheep would admit donating wool to.
He watched the attendant tie a tag on to his case and send it on its way.
She handed back the ID documents and boarding passes to the Mayor, and pointed the way to security.
“Any take-on bags?” she asked as the Mayor redistributed the passport, driver’s licence and boarding passes.
The Mayor held up his laptop, then pointed to the floor.
Luckily, she couldn’t see the size of the bags on the ground. Oodles’s bag was big enough, but he wasn’t about to entrust six weeks’ worth of medication to a suitcase that might get left on the tarmac in Dubai and somehow get rerouted to Mumbai. He also had an e-reader in there. People were always surprised an 85-year-old would even have that but Oodles found it practical. It meant he could carry dozens of books with him and crank up the type size if he couldn’t find his reading glasses. He had packed those in his carry-on bag, too, along with a fresh shirt, a change of jocks and socks, and his toiletries.
Wish-Wash’s bag was bigger again. Oodles knew he liked to read sci-fi books so no doubt there were a few paperbacks in there, including the latest guidebook on Ireland.
But the Mayor’s bag was something else again.
What could he possibly have in there?
They found out at security when the old men emptied their pockets and sent their bags and belongings through the X-ray machine.
6. HAVEN’T I SEEN THAT HEAD BEFORE, TOO?
“Is this your bag, sir?” asked the large stone-faced officer on the other side of the conveyor belt.
James Northan had come through the screening frame without a beep and had jostled for front position as the carry-on bag came through. With one hand on the handle, he could hardly say it wasn’t his. He just nodded.
“Would you mind opening it?” The security man looked like a Pacific Islander, who probably played prop for his rugby team. Worse, he looked like a man whose team had just lost a big game.
“Is there something wrong, officer?”
“I just need to take a look.”
“Didn’t the X-ray machine already do that?”
“It showed up a large mass. I just need to see what that particular object is.”
“In front of all these people?” The Mayor had sweat beading on the back of his neck.
The officer nodded towards a side office. “Would you prefer we do it in private? Just stay where you are while I wait for another officer to be available to stand in as witness.” He took the bag away from the Mayor and lifted it on to a table behind him.
The Mayor looked around at his companions, who had both passed though the X-ray frame and had already picked up their luggage, tipped their coins back into their pockets and replaced their belts.
“I’m sure it’s just routine, old son.” Oodles had felt sure he’d be the one who would hold them up at security. He knew people who were sick of always setting off the X-ray machine with their knee replacements. Oodles still had both his kneecaps but he also had a titanium rod in his leg that surgeons had implanted a couple of years before when he had broken his fibula and tibia on an ill-fated fishing trip. So he was pleased when he passed through the screen without a beep.
Wish-Wash just smiled at the Mayor and made a movement like he was putting on imaginary rubber gloves.
The Mayor turned back to the sullen officer. “Second thoughts,” the Mayor said quickly. “I have nothing to hide. Feel free to inspect it here. I expect you’re skilled at looking into bags without having to pull everything out.”
“Please yourself.” The officer carried the bag to another table along the line, where they both could stand, and the Mayor moved up. Oodles and Wish-Wash followed close behind. Rod hadn’t been able to come into the security area but he was standing like a red beacon just beyond the barriers. He could see something was going on and looked puzzled.
“Unzip the bag, please, sir, “ the man in the uniform said. “Place the contents on the table.”
The Mayor gulped. “All of them?”
The officer nodded.
First came a neatly folded spare white shirt.
Then came a blue tie, which looked identical to the one he was already wearing.
Next came a ball of grey socks.
Then a pair of white Y-fronts appeared, which contrasted with his red face.
The Mayor pulled out a toiletries bag, which the officer picked up off the table and unzipped. He took out a large tube of toothpaste and examined it carefully as he rotated it, before popping the lid and smelling the contents. “You do know this exceeds the allowable size?”
“It’s toothpaste! Is that what the X-ray machine flagged?”
The officer shook his head. “No, but I’m going to have to confiscate it, sir. Keep going.”
“For heaven’s sake, I’ve only got one more thing left to unpack. If you look into the bag, you can see it. Haven’t you embarrassed me enough?”
“Sorry, sir, you still have the option to do it behind closed doors.”
At this, Wish-Wash resumed the putting-on of his imaginary rubber gloves — this time with disgusting sound effects he made with his mouth.
“Oh, whatever.”
Other passengers were lurking, just waiting to see what came out of the bag next.
It probably came as a shock to them. It certainly did to Oodles.
Out came a large bronze head, which the Mayor slammed down on the table with a clang.
Oodles had seen that head before.
It had been on top of the statue that had gone missing from the middle of the Windy Mountain High Street.
In that rendition, Colonel Richard Northan was an Errol Flynn-lookalike astride a big, rearing horse. In the forlorn version on the table, his head didn’t even have a body attached, let alone a steed.
The Mayor turned to Oodles and Wish-Wash to offer an explanation. “I only wanted to take him back to his traditional home.”
“Strewth,” Oodles said. “I thought the statue was going to be melted down.”
“Still is.” The Mayor jutted out his jaw. “The proceeds will go into the council’s consolidated revenue. But no one’s going to miss a head!”
“You sure about that?” Wish-Wash said. “That’s theft in my book.”
“You don’t think I have some ownership of my own relative’s head?”
“But it’s not his actual head, is it?” Wish-Wash said. “You don’t even know what he looked like. Christ Almighty, we now know he wasn’t even an officer. He was an ex-convict in charge of other convicts.”
The Mayor turned even whiter. “Did you have to remind me? Don’t you think that stain has tarnished our family reputation enough!”
“Hmm … hmm.” This clearing of the throat came from the other side of the table.
The Mayor turned round to see the officer’s mean mouth had formed into a smirk. “You can’t take this on the plane, sir.”
“Why not? It won’t be hurting anyone.”
“That’s debatable.” The officer pointed at the larger-than-life head. “This could be used as a weapon. It could do some damage if it was bludgeoned against someone’s head.” He paused. “But there are other issues. The bag probably wouldn’t fit into an overhead locker and there is the issue, as your friend points out, that this head might be stolen property and you’re trying to spirit it out of the country.”
The Mayor stiffened. “Are you going to arrest me? I have to tell you I have friends in high places and they’d probably be happy to re-deploy you to a remote airstrip somewhere in the outback. Thought about where you’d like to go, have you?”
The officer’s smirk turned into a scowl. “I have no jurisdiction to arrest you, sir, but I do have the authority to prohibit you from taking this bronze head on to the plane. You have three options.” He counted on his fingers. “Option one: we confiscate the object. Option two: you leave the object in the care of someone who’s not flying with you. Option three: you choose not to fly either.”
The Mayor turned to his friends.
“I like option three,” Wish-Wash said. Hee-haw, hee-haw.
James Northan spat out his words. “You’re the last person I’d ask for advice, Bert. If you’d just listen for a change, all I wanted to ask is if your grandson was still here.”
Oodles pointed. “He’s waiting to wave goodbye to us over there.”
Wish-Wash squinted that way. “Is he? I can’t see him.”
“Strewth, he looks like he’s on the way to fight a fire in those trousers. This is another good reason you should be wearing your new glasses!”
“I can’t. They’re packed in my suitcase.”
The Mayor looked to the other side then back to the officer. “How can I get this to Rod?”
The officer pointed to a door. “I can let you out that way but you’ll have to come through security again.”
The Mayor picked up the bag, handed his laptop to Oodles to mind, and off they went.
The next time the two other old men saw him, he was walking back through the security frame.
He cleared it without a beep and stopped near the end of the line to collect his jacket, his belt, his keys and his change.
Oodles handed him back his laptop. “Is your bag still coming through, James?”
“No, I left it with Rod. I had no choice. He said he wasn’t going to carry a head through the airport for everyone to see.”
“Won’t you need a change of clothes?”
He exhaled deeply. “No, I’ll be fine.”
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JOHN MARTIN 