THE EDITOR of The Pick Of
The Crop, Mr D.O.B. Leggs, held a complimentary Silver Pass to the
Windy Mountain Dancing School. This gift, from Tiger Kowaski,
entitled him to invite two colleagues to join him at 8am each weekday
for the newspaper's morning editorial conference in a jumbo spa bath
in one of the club's private rooms. A sign on the door declared it as
being the Orgy Room but Mr Leggs assumed that this was a dancing
term. He assumed that all dancing schools had Orgy Rooms with jumbo
spas, mirrors on the ceiling and giant video screens on soft, pink walls.
The Pick Of The Crop's morning editorial conference
laid the foundations for the following day's edition. Ideas for new
and running stories were discussed, and goals and priorities were set.
Apart from Mr Leggs, the other regular each morning
was Bob Maurice, the newspaper's chief-of-staff, whose job it was
supposed to be to delegate stories to reporters and photographers.
The third spot in the morning conference spa was
usually was filled by one of the young male reporters whom Mr Leggs
thought could benefit from the experience of seeing the editorial
wheels of the newspaper being set in motion. Mostly it was Kevin
Leggs, the editor's son; occasionally it was Peter Salter, the
municipal roundsman; this particular day it was the chief football
writer, Riley O'Reilly.
The Dancing School was a convenient meeting spot,
being right next door to the newspaper, and Mr Leggs believed that
soaking in a hot, bubbling spa bath was good exercise.
The three men, dressed only in their swimming togs,
sat on an underwater ledge around a revolving table suspended over
the spa from the ceiling. Normally this table served as a bar but Mr
Leggs used it as his desk. An edition of Monday's The Pick of the
Crop was spread out before him as he went though it with a red
marking pen, circling the many stories he thought the chief-of-staff
should follow up.
Bob Maurice and Riley O'Reilly sat silently.
"Isn't this an invigorating way to start the
day?'' said Mr Leggs.
"Yes,'' said Bob Maurice who, unlike the
editor, knew the place was really a brothel.
Mr Leggs' mood was as mellow as it ever got in the
company of his subordinates. His gold-rimmed, half-moon glasses were
starting to steam up as he turned his head towards Riley O'Reilly.
"You'd be amazed how many of this community's most high-ranking
citizens come here each day, young fellow,'' he said.
O'Reilly nodded politely but he was hardly amazed.
Even though this was his first visit to the establishment, he knew it
was a brothel. Everyone knew; well, almost everyone.
The Silver Pass scheme was a brilliant ploy by Tiger
Kowaski. The real VIPs got a Gold Pass which entitled them to any of
the establishment's special services. The Silver Pass was for special
clients like Mr Leggs. On one hand, it served as a smoke-screen.
Staff were told that anyone holding a Silver Pass was a security
risk; under no circumstances were they to be told about the Dancing
School's true nature. On the other hand, the Silver Pass was
insurance. If Mr Leggs ever found out about the brothel, Tiger
believed he could be easily blackmailed to shut up about it. Would
anyone, especially his wife Ruby, believe that Mr Leggs' daily visits
to the Dancing School were strictly professional?
At a squeeze, the spa in the Orgy Room was big enough
for about eight people. Although the premises were always a hive of
activity the newspaper men had the room to themselves. Occasionally,
the local fire chief or Chamber of Commerce president would walk in
by mistake draped in a towel. But they'd always apologise for the
intrusion and disappear out the door and down a corridor. Tiger
always made sure that there were no women in sight.
"So, Bob,'' said the editor, removing his glasses
and dipping them into the water in an attempt to un-steam them.
"What's on the agenda today?''
"Um, I hear the greenies are up to something,''
the chief-of-staff offered.
"Up to what?'' asked Mr Leggs half-heartedly as
he huddled over the newspaper again and resumed marking it up.
"I don't know yet,'' said Bob Maurice.
"Well, can't you get someone on to it to find
out?'' said Mr Leggs in his most superior voice.
"Well, yes, um, that's what I had in mind,'' said
the chief-of-staff.
Mr D.O.B. Leggs had never told anyone at The Pick Of
The Crop what D.O.B. stood for. Even his son Kevin didn't seem to
know. Behind his back, the staff had come up with all kinds of
possible combinations: Daniel Oberon Bartholomew Leggs, Dandelion
Oliver Bottomley Leggs, even Delacey O' Kelly Blarney Leggs. Bob
Maurice never offered an opinion; that would have been an undignified
thing for a chief-of-staff to do. Deep down though, he felt sure it
was Dopey Old Bastard Leggs.
"How's that new night news editor I hired from
Sydney doing, Bob?'' the editor asked, finally glancing up from his newspaper.
"Sean McWhirter? Fine, I think,'' said the chief
of staff who didn't have much to do with the night staff since he
was, like the editor, strictly an 8am to 5pm worker. "Apparently,
he's been down-table subbing for the past week or so while he
becomes familiar with the paper. I'm told, though, that he's going to
be in charge of things from tonight.''
"Good,'' said Mr Leggs. "He'll show our subs
a thing or two. He's come from the best newspaper training ground in
the world. He's a real journalist; not like our lame-brains.''
Bob Maurice said nothing. The editor had a low opinion
of most of his staff but he was especially critical of his sub-editors.
Several times, without consultation with the chief of staff, he had
hired supposed hot-shot journalists from the mainland to bolster the
staff - and several times they had failed miserably. Either they
couldn't handle the workload or they couldn't stand the editor's
nagging and interference. Mr Leggs invariably demanded that the chief
of staff sack them.
Sean McWhirter was only in his mid-20s and his
background in Sydney was as a down-table sub-editor and union
representative. His former employers jumped at the opportunity to get
rid of him and wrote him a glowing reference. On the strength of the
reference alone, Mr Leggs recruited him as night news editor. This
meant he would be in charge of everything that went on at the
newspaper after 5pm. As soon as the editor went home, he would have
total control over the journalists and the content of The Pick Of The Crop.
"Mmm,'' said Mr Leggs, his concentration back on
his newspaper and marking pen. "What's young Norman Hit supposed
to be doing today?''
"Police rounds and courts,'' said Bob Maurice who
knew what was coming next.
"Mmm . . . he never seems to be doing much
whenever I see him. What's happening in courts?'' said the editor.
"I don't know,'' said Bob Maurice. "The
court lists aren't posted yet. But I expect that Father Whitchurch
will be up again.''
"Who's Father Whitchurch?'' asked Mr Leggs
"He's the town drunk,'' said Bob Maurice.
"The town drunk? said Mr Leggs, looking up with a
frown. "I thought Bert Whish-Willson was the town drunk.''
"Not any more, sir,'' offered Riley O'Reilly.
"He couldn't hold his cider. Kept seeing things.''
"You remember Father Whitchurch?'' said Bob
Maurice, trying to jog the editor's mind. "He's the Catholic
priest who used to write our Religion column.''
"Oh yes,'' said Mr Leggs, scratching his head as
a faded memory returned. "What on earth happened to him?''
"He became the town drunk,'' said Bob Maurice.
"Is that so?'' said the editor. "I wonder if
he wants to write our wine column too?''
"Who?'' said Bob Maurice, not sure whether the
conversation was still on the same tack.
"Father Whitchurch. Get him in to see us, will
you, Bob?'' said the editor.
Mr Leggs turned his attention again to Riley O'Reilly.
"What's happening with football stories today, young fellow?''
"Wrap-ups from the weekend, sir, and the start of
our build-up to the grand final,'' said Riley O'Reilly.
"Mmm, yes, the grand final. It must be getting
close?'' said the editor.
"It's on Saturday, sir,'' Riley O'Reilly reminded him.
"Yes, of course,'' said the editor. "Um,
who's playing again?''
"It's Windy Mountain against Slutz Plains,'' said
Riley O'Reilly.
"Oh, yes, Windy Mountain. What happened to that
story you were going to write about Tiger Kowaski?'' asked Mr Leggs.
"I wrote it,'' said Riley O'Reilly with a look of
astonishment. "We used it last week before the preliminary final.''
"Well, I didn't see it,'' stormed Mr Leggs.
"You couldn't have done it properly.''
"It was the main story on the Back Page on
Friday,'' said Bob Maurice, coming to the rescue.
"Well, my wife didn't see it either,'' muttered
Mr Leggs. "She's a big fan of Tiger Kowaski's. She says he's the
team's star.''
"He's hardly a star, sir,'' Riley O'Reilly dared
to say. "If anyone is the Tigers' star it's Captain Bruce.''
"Captain who?'' said the editor.
"Captain Bruce Routley, sir; the team captain,''
said Riley O'Reilly.
"Never heard of him,'' said the editor, which
wasn't surprising because he hadn't seen a local football game since
Windy Mountain last made the grand final eight years before.
"You must have heard of Bruce Routley?''
said Bob Maurice. "We've tried to do stories on him several
times and failed. He leads a very reclusive life in one of those old
farmhouses in Blackstump Road. He's hunting for the Tasmanian Tiger,
remember? He turned up at the football club out of the blue this
season and asked to join training. He was so good, the Tigers signed
him on the spot and made him captain.''
"He sounds like a crackpot to me,'' said Mr
Leggs. "Our readers aren't interested in reading about nutters.
Why can't we write a decent article about Tiger Kowaski, the real
power behind the team.''
"But sir, he only gets a game because he's chief
sponsor, chief selector and coach, and speaks five languages,'' said
Riley O'Reilly bluntly.
"Nonsense,'' said Mr Leggs. "He must have
something going for him. My wife rarely misses a game and she raves
about him.''
Bob Maurice and Riley O'Reilly didn't have the heart
to say it but Tiger Kowaski did have a certain something that caught
the eye. It was possible that he wore the biggest jockstrap in
Northern Tasmania. The football ladies of Windy Mountain had dubbed
him the Golden Greek, although he wasn't actually from Greece. His
background was Yugoslavian or Czechoslovakian or Polish or something.
Wherever Tiger came from, he brought with him the idea
of setting up a brothel in Windy Mountain. He was a smooth talker who
found no trouble in gaining financial backing, even though he had to
tell Councillor Northan that the enterprise was actually a Dancing
School. He figured that Sergeant Birtwistle was too short-sighted to
realised that a brothel was operating right above his nose. And Mr
Leggs? A Silver Pass and a bit of flattery did the trick.
"How's our Win-A-Cow competition going, Bob?''
the editor asked.
"It got off to a good start but the response has
slowed down, I'm afraid,'' said the chief-of-staff.
"I can't understand it,'' said the editor,
scratching at his dandruff and sending flakes drifting through the
air and into the spa. "When I was a young man, readers would
have been queuing up outside the newspaper office in their thousands
for a chance to win a cow.''
Bob Maurice said nothing.
"What about the grand final?'' said Mr Leggs.
"Have you made the arrangements for the grand drawing?"
"Well, I'm still trying to finalise it,'' said
Bob Maurice. "I spoke to Clarrie Noodle, the council works
foreman, on the phone and he says there's no way he'll let us take
the cow on the ground at half-time.''
"Clarrie Noodle? What's he got to do with it?''
cried the editor.
"He's in charge of the Recreation Ground. He says
council by-laws forbid any livestock or bicycles from entering the oval.''
"But did you tell him this is a special
occasion?'' said the editor.
"I tried. But he said we'd have to make the draw
outside the boundary line,'' said the chief-of-staff.
"No, that won't do,'' Mr Leggs said. "I want
our readers at that game to see the cow during the draw. I don't care
what you have to do; just see to it.''
"What about Captain Bruce?'' asked Riley O'Reilly.
"What about him?'' said Mr Leggs.
"He'd make a great story leading up the grand
final,'' said Bob Maurice. "Star footballer, Tasmanian Tiger
hunter . . . it's got everything.''
"Nonsense,'' said the editor. "Everyone
knows that the Tasmanian Tiger is extinct? Anyway, I told you: I want
a feature on Tiger Kowaski.''
"Okay, we'll get right on to it,'' Bob Maurice
said with a sigh.
"And one more thing,'' said the editor, as he
folded his soggy newspaper and handed it to the chief-of-staff.
"What?'' said Bob Maurice.
"I'm not sure where I heard it, but someone told
me that the greenies are cooking up a new plan of some sort.''
"Really?'' said the chief-of-staff, trying his
best to sound surprised. "I'll get a reporter on to that
straight away.''
IT WAS AFTER 11.15am.
Apples sat on a hard wooden bench outside Court Room No. 1. He didn't
have a clue why it was called Court Room No. 1, since there was only
one courtroom. But that's what it said on the court list which was
pinned to a notice-board in the foyer. The Windy Mountain
Magistrate's Court covered the whole rural district; not just Windy
Mountain. The court convened one day a fortnight, normally a Monday,
with a magistrate from Launceston, usually Jeremy Rockington,
presiding. The rest of the time Court Room No. 1 was used as a
conference room by the Windy Mountain Municipal Council. On Tuesday
nights it was the venue for the weekly meeting of councillors.
Councillor Northan, as mayor, insisted on sitting where the
magistrate usually sits: behind a desk elevated high above everyone
else in the room. The council clerk, Mrs Hilda Hinchcliffe, sat with
the other councillors at a big oblong-shaped table below him. This
was the same table that the lawyers and police prosecutors sat at on
court days.
Apples had never been to court before and he was
understandably nervous as he waited and waited and waited. His throat
grew more dry by the minute. He dared not go get himself a drink
though; he had already had half a dozen nervous piddles. Besides, he
was too scared to go anywhere in case his name was called.
At first he wasn't alone outside the court. Three
other people - a scruffy teenager and a young mother and her toddler
- sat on the same bench. Apples had never seen them before. Likewise,
four more young strangers sat on a bench opposite. Three others,
including the only familiar figure in the room, Father Whitchurch,
paced the floor. Apples and Father Whitchurch acknowledged each
other's presence with a nod but didn't exchange a word. An elderly
man, probably a relative of one of the defendants, stood near the
window and gazed out blankly.
Every now and then, the door opened and the last
person to go in came out wearing a grin, either of jubilation,
defiance or plain stupidity depending on how his or her case had
gone. A minute or so later, a court security guard would stick his
neck out of the doorway and call out someone else's name in
triplicate. One by one, everyone else was called to face the magistrate.
"Calling Leslie John Happles, calling Leslie John
Happles, calling Leslie John Happles,'' the guard finally cried.
"That's me, that's me, that's me,'' thought
Apples as he jumped to his feet. Of course it was him. He was the
last person left.
"In here,'' said the guard, pointing the way.
Apples was directed to a small wood-panelled box at
the front of the court, just a few metres away from a man in a black
gown who got straight to business.
"Are you Leslie John Happles?'' he asked.
"I am, Your Worship,'' Apples replied with a flourish.
"I am not His Worship,'' said the man, obviously
annoyed. "I'm the clerk of the court.''
"Oh, sorry . . . ?'' said Apples.
The clerk continued: "Leslie John Happles, you
are charged with, on or about September 12, on a public road in the
State of Tasmania, namely the High Street in Windy Mountain, you did
commit a crime, namely that you did appear in public, between the
hours of sunset and sunrise, dressed in female attire, namely a pink
dress and green stockings, with a Red Delicious apple and a Golden
Delicious apple stuffed down the respective cups of a brassiere which
was attached to your person. How do you plead?''
A lawyer named Terry Mason, who was sitting at the big
table behind Apples, sprang to his feet.
"If it pleases Your Worship,'' he said, looking
up at the magistrate, Mr Rockington, "I appear for this
defendant. He has instructed me to enter a plea of guilty but there
are mitigating circumstances, Your Worship.''
Apples was aghast. Those weren't his instructions at all.
"I'm not guilty,'' he had told Mason just a few
hours before when he had outlined the full sorry, story of his arrest
on Saturday night.
When Apples had arrived at the lawyer's office and
introduced himself, Mason was sitting on a plush leather armchair
studying a position on a chess set which sat majestically on a low
table. The chess-men were carved from ivory and ebony, each piece
with its own intricate character. The kings were 15cms tall with
elaborate head-dress, the rooks were elephants and the knights were
magnificent horses. The board, with 17cm squares, was made of two
contrasting shades of exotic wood.
"It's a beautiful set, isn't it?'' said Mason proudly.
"Yes, it's very nice,'' said Apples
unconvincingly. His thoughts were dominated by the prospect of his
upcoming court case.
"I brought this chess-set back from India on my
last trip,'' said Mason.
"Oh,'' said Apples, trying to sound vaguely interested.
"Do you play at all?'' the lawyer asked.
"Would you like a quick game?''
"Well, yes, I do play . . . but I'm not really in
the mood,'' said Apples.
"Oh, all right then,'' said Mason, as if he was
slightly offended by the knock-back. "So, how can I help you?''
"Father Whitchurch sent me,'' said Apples.
"Dear old John Whitchurch, eh?'' said the lawyer.
"We've been through a lot of battles together, him and I.''
Mason was a tall, skinny man with a weak face and no
chin. Father Whitchurch had recommended him but not with any great
conviction. "Is he a good lawyer?'' Apples had asked in the jail
cell. "He's a good Catholic,'' Father Whitchurch had replied.
Apples hoped to at least get a sympathetic hearing
from Mason. But any confidence he had about his legal skills went
down the drain after he had given him a full run-down on his case.
"Oh, I haven't got anyone off in years,'' Mason
confessed, still perched over his chess set. "The truth is: I
don't get many cases here in Windy Mountain. Most of the crime is
down Slutz Plains way. Still, I don't mind. I do a bit of
conveyancing which keeps the money coming in, and I get lots of time
to play chess and practice my trombone. Did I tell you I'm first
trombone in the Windy Mountain Brass Band? To tell you the truth, I
find the Windy Mountain Magistrate's Court all a bit boring: the same
old magistrate, the same reporter from The Pick Of The Crop, the same
clerk of the court and the same young Slutz Plains hoodlums up on the
same old charges.''
Apples didn't mean to be rude. It just came out like
that. "I couldn't care less if it bores you or not,'' he cried.
"What about me?''
"What about you?'' asked Mason, not the slightest
bit offended.
"I'm not guilty, aren't I?'' said Apples. "I
didn't even know I was committing was a crime.''
"Oh dear Mr Happles, ignorance is no grounds for
innocence,'' said Mason, simultaneously moving one of his elephants
to queen rook three. "Whether you knew it or not, you did break
the law.''
"It's a stupid law then,'' said Apples
"Some murderers feel the same about murder,''
Mason replied.
"But I haven't murdered anyone,'' said Apples in
exasperation. "All I did was dress up for a party. What could
possibly be wrong with that?''
"I'm afraid it's a crime in Tasmania,'' said Mason.
Apples felt like screaming.
"Whose side are you on?'' he blurted.
"Yours, if you want to engage me,'' said Mason.
"Are there any other lawyers in this town?''
asked Apples.
"No, only me,'' said Mason.
"Great! I suppose you're hired then,'' said Apples.
"I'm delighted to take the case, Mr Happles.''
"So, how are you going to get me out of this mess?''
"I could advise you,'' said Mason.
"Well, please, go ahead.''
"Well,'' said Mason earnestly. "The
important thing is to make sure you make a good impression on the
magistrate, Mr Rockington. He doesn't like slobs in his court. Make
sure you look neat and tidy, and it's best to let me do most of the
talking. If Mr Rockington asks you to say anything, keep it short and
polite. Address him by the title Your Worship; not Your Honour.
That's a mistake a lot of people make in the Magistrate's Court.''
"Yes, but will he let me off?'' asked Apples.
"It depends," said Mason
"Depends? Depends on what?''
"Whether you're guilty.''
"But I'm not.''
"That, Mr Happles, is for the court to decide,''
said Mason.
Nearly three hours later, Happles stood in the dock
and slowly surveyed the room as Mason allegedly went into battle for
him. His concentration drifted as he looked around and soaked up the
plush surroundings. Mason stood at the table opposite a thick-set
police prosecutor whose job it was to press for a conviction. At the
back of the room were three rows of bench seats where Junior
Constable Stretch and Junior Constable Smith sat. At one side of the
room was the press box, a long bench with a hooded desktop. Very
occasionally, big-city journalists graced the court with their
presence; but that was only for important or sensational cases. This
day, Norman J. Hit was the only person in the press box and he was
preoccupied with carving his name into the bench without being seen
by court officials. He wasn't a vandal; it was just one of the things
journalists did to pass the time when the cases became boring or, as
in Apples' case, too ribald to print.
Apples' day-dreaming was interrupted by the bang of
the magistrate's gavel. "Mr Happles, are you listening to me?''
Mr Rockington barked.
"Oh, um, yes . . .,'' said Apples, who actually
hadn't absorbed a word of the proceedings.
"Do you understand what the sentence implies?''
said the magistrate, peering down to the dock.
"Um, oh . . .!'' croaked Apples.
"It means that instead of parading around this
town like a fairy princess, you will devote 82 hours of your no doubt
precious time doing community work,'' said the magistrate. ''You will
be under the direction of the Windy Mountain works foreman. Is that
clear Mr Happles?''
"Er, um . . . yes,'' said Apples, head bowed.
"Yes what?'' bellowed the magistrate.
"Yes, Your Majesty.''
"THIS IS POINTLESS,''
Dilly Brown complained as she and her three colleagues trudged
around in a tiny protest circle. She was barely managing to hold up a
placard which said: "Who cares? We do.'' The sign, written in
crayon on a piece of cardboard stapled to the top of an old
broomstick, was lightweight. Her perception that the demonstration
was futile was the thing that weighed her down.
The greenies, wearing their customary dark-coloured
beanies, all had signs. John Nitram's read: "Save the Swift
Green Parrot Before It's Too Late''. William Archibald-Smith's sign
said: "Please Don't Let Them Become Extinct.'' Sarah Sarandon
had recycled her sign from a past protest. It said: "Let the
Orchard Run Free.''
The target of their protest was Councillor Northan's
apple orchard. But instead of picketing outside the orchard the
greenies were making their stand in their own front yard at the Billy
Jacobs Memorial Commune. They had decided on this course of action in
their vote at The Applecart.
In five hours of protesting, however, three people had
passed by: Apples on his way to see Terry Mason; and Bruce and Barbie
on their way to visit Foetus in hospital.
Dilly thought that the demonstration was a waste of
time and, as usual, she didn't mind saying so.
"Look!'' said William, bringing the protest to a
halt as he threw down his sign and put his hands on his hips.
"Isn't this what we voted on: a peaceful protest against the
mindless, senseless and emotionless destruction of one of our most
rare birds?''
"I voted against it,'' snapped Dilly.
"You still voted,'' said William. "You
should accept the decision of the majority.''
"What majority?'' complained Dilly. "It was
two for and two against. That's not a majority.''
"That's right,'' William reminded her angrily.
"John and I voted to picket on site and you and Sarah didn't.''
"So what are we doing here?'' spat Dilly.
"We made a democratic decision: we compromised,''
answered William in his most righteous voice.
"Did we?'' said John, puzzled. "I thought
that, under our constitution, we had to have a two-thirds majority to compromise?''
"Since when have we had a constitution?'' asked Sarah.
"Since before you joined the commune,'' said John.
"But I've been here longer than you. I don't
remember any constitution,'' said Sarah.
"Well, if you can't remember it, you haven't got
grounds to argue,'' said John.
"Who's arguing?'' said Sarah. "I'm quite
happy to accept the decision. I just don't remember ever hearing
about any constitution.''
"Well, it's your fault we're having the protest
here,'' John retaliated. "You're the one who was too scared to
be chained to an apple tree.''
"So were you!'' said Sarah.
"I was not. I merely posed a question about the
possibility of having to stand in front of bulldozers,'' said John.
"That's my democratic right. You're the one who voted against
it. It's your fault.''
"That's not fair,'' said Sarah. "Why
should I get all the blame. Dilly voted against protesting at the
apple orchard too.''
"No I didn't,'' said Dilly. "I didn't want
to be involved at all, neither there nor here; not to save a silly parrot.''
"You should have moved an amendment then,'' said William.
"You tricked me,'' said Dilly. "You should
have read the full motion out loud so we all knew exactly what we
were voting on.''
"I did,'' lied William. "You should have
been listening. It's not my fault you weren't paying attention, as usual.''
"I was paying attention,'' said Dilly. "You
only read the bits of the motion you wanted us to hear. You're a
control freak. You want everything your own way.''
"How can you say that?'' said William. "I
hardly got my own way, did I? I wanted to have the protest at the
orchard, not here, remember?''
"And now you're punishing the rest of us,'' said Dilly.
"Punishing you! How am I punishing you?'' said William.
"By making us walk around in this silly little
circle for a protest that no one will ever see,'' said Dilly.
"I've got blisters,'' Sarah added.
"Blisters!'' stormed Dilly, turning on Sarah.
"You've always got blisters. If you didn't wash all HIS dishes
and clothes,'' she said, pointing to William, "you wouldn't have
soft hands.''
"You leave Sarah out of this,'' William
retaliated. "You were the one who complained first.''
"Yes,'' added Sarah. "You think this protest
is tough? You should have been with us at the Franklin.''
"I never complained that about the hardships
involved with this protest,'' said Dilly. "My gripe is with this
protest, full stop. It's stupid. It's a waste of time.''
"Don't you care about the fate of the Swift Green
Parrot?'' asked Sarah.
"No,'' said Dilly. "I think our valuable
time would be better spent tackling more important issues.''
"Like what?'' asked William.
"Like, for one, the heritage of the Tasmanian
Aborigine,'' said Dilly.
"What?'' said John.
"The Tasmanian Koori,'' said Dilly.
"What have Aborigines got to do with
conservation?'' said William. "We're trying to save the Swift
Green Parrot.''
"Aren't people worth saving too?'' said Dilly.
"The people aren't in any danger, are they?''
asked Sarah hesitantly.
"So what's left to preserve!'' scoffed William.
"Our culture,'' said Dilly, puffing her puny
chest out proudly," . . . our dignity, our right to our
traditional Tasmania hunting grounds. It's too late to save those who
are gone. Now it's up to people like me to take up the fight against oppression.''
"How much Aboriginal blood have you got? asked Sarah.
"Enough,'' said Dilly.
"You look pretty white to me,'' said William.
"That's racist,'' spat Dilly.
"No, it's not,'' said William. "It's just an
observation. I think the people you label as our white ancestors are
probably just as much your white ancestors. If you've got any black
body parts you keep them covered up pretty well.''
"That's sexist,'' Dilly blurted, her eyes
suddenly welling up with tears.
Oh no. William knew what was coming next. He had seen
it before.
"You're so insensitive,'' sobbed Dilly, tears
starting to roll down her cheeks. "You don't know how hard it is
being an Aborigine.''
"No, but I suppose you're going to tell me,''
said William, trying not to catch her watery gaze.
"We're treated as second-class citizens,'' said
Dilly with a sniffle. "We are taunted and mistreated at school,
we are discriminated against in our jobs, that's if we're lucky
enough ever to get one, and we die earlier than white people.''
"I can't wait,'' mumbled William.
"How much earlier do you die?'' asked John with
genuine concern.
"The life expectancy of the average Aborigine is
20 years less than that of the white man,'' said Dilly.
"Really?'' said William sarcastically. "Does
that include white Aborigines like you too?''
Dilly didn't dignify the question with a reply. She
didn't have to. William had overstepped the mark. All of a sudden,
William was the aggressor and Dilly was his prey. As Dilly produced a
frilly white handkerchief from her overalls top pocket, wiped away
some tears and blew her nose, John and Sarah stood looking at their
feet in embarrassment.
"I'm starting to have second thoughts,'' said
John softly.
"What about!'' said William angrily.
"This whole scene, man,'' said John. "Perhaps
Dilly is right. Perhaps we are wasting our time.''
"What kind of attitude is that for a
conservationist?'' said William.
"It's the kind of attitude that comes from
walking around in a circle for five hours with a placard hardly
anyone will ever see,'' said John. "I'm becoming disillusioned, man.''
"But what about the Green Swift Parrot?'' William pleaded.
"I don't even know what they look like. I've
never seen one,'' said John.
"And you never will unless we save them,''
William said.
"Maybe they've gone already?'' said Sarah.
"That's nonsense,'' said William. "They've
been seen nesting in Northan's apple orchard. But every time an apple
is picked, their little nests are in danger of being toppled from
their perches. It's up to us to save them. What could be more
important? What more do you all want?''
"Oh, I don't know,'' said John, ". . . a
normal life, perhaps?''
"What?'' said William, flabbergasted.
"You know,'' said John. ". . . a job, a
proper home . . .?''
"You've got a home here with us,'' Sarah consoled him.
"And we've all got a job to do,'' said William.
"The pay's lousy, man,'' said John. "I've
got a university degree and all I get each week is the same meagre
dole cheque that they give to everyone else. I think I deserve more.''
"That's a very relevant point,'' agreed Sarah.
"Great!'' said William. "After we block the
building of pulp mills and save the forests, the wild rivers, the
Green Swift Parrot and the Tasmanian Aborigines, we can start
chaining ourselves to Social Security offices. Maybe we could declare
the dole a National Heritage Area.''
Dilly had William right where she wanted him. He was
acting like a hot-headed bully. Dilly's tears had gone now; they had
served their purpose.
"I think we should put this protest to another
vote,'' Dilly said smugly.
COUNCILLOR NORTHAN and
Sergeant Birtwistle were just leaving the Windy Mountain District
Hospital when Barbie and Bruce walked through the front door.
"Which room is Foetus in?'' Bruce asked at the
reception desk, barely bothering to glance at the two officials who
were dressed up in their full regalia. Sergeant Birtwistle wore a
neat blue uniform complete with stripes, service medals and a freshly
dry-cleaned hat. Councillor Northan was in his municipal robes and
wore the chains of office around his neck.
The blonde receptionist didn't hear Bruce's query
because she was too busy gawking through the glass doors at
Councillor Northan and Sergeant Birtwistle as they disappeared down
the front steps.
"Foetus?'' Bruce repeated to the woman.
"Where can I find him?''
"Foetus?'' the woman squeaked vaguely, as she
regained enough concentration to thumb through the registry cards.
"Oh yes . . . Mr Foetus . . . Room 15 . . . upstairs, third
doorway on the right. You're the second lot of visitors he's had today.''
"Oh really? He will be pleased,'' said Barbie politely.
Foetus wasn't. When Bruce and Barbie found the room he
was sitting on the side of his bed with a sour look on his face. He
was wearing a hospital-issue gown instead of his leather jacket.
"Wow! Where did you get that?'' said Bruce,
tugging at the gown playfully.
"That old cow Sister Sergeant Major is making me
wear it,'' grunted Foetus, barely looking up.
"You parted with your leather jacket?'' asked
Barbie, amazed, as she sat down on the only chair in the room, next
to Foetus's bed.
"Yeah. It was part of the deal,'' mumbled Foetus.
"What deal?'' asked Bruce.
"I don't wear leather in her hospital and she
doesn't stick rubber tubes up my bum,'' said Foetus.
"The old enema trick, eh!'' said Bruce knowingly.
"Some men pay for that type of thing,'' added
Barbie, also knowingly.
Foetus ignored the remarks. "It's about time you
came back to see me,'' he grumbled. "I've been here for two
bloody days.''
"Yeah, well, we've been busy,'' said Bruce.
"Anyway, the nurse downstairs reckons you've already had
visitors this morning. I didn't know you had any other friends in
Windy Mountain?''
"Friends? You mean the Mayor and the pig!''
grunted Foetus.
"A horse and a pig?'' said Barbie, frowning.
"No, the local police chief, Sergeant Birtwistle,
and the Mayor, Councillor Wishbone,'' said Foetus. "You must
have passed them on the way in. In fact, you couldn't have missed
them: they were both all dressed up.''
"Yes, we did see them,'' said Bruce vaguely.
"What did they want with you?''
"They reckon they don't want my type in their
town,'' said Foetus.
"Typical,'' said Bruce. "Did you tell them
you've lived here for three years already?''
"Yes, but they didn't seem to think that
mattered,'' said Foetus."They just told me they don't like
bikies, and suggested I move on to someone else's town.''
"But that's not fair,'' said Barbie. "You
haven't done anything wrong. Did you tell them you haven't even got a
motorbike any more?''
"No, but I don't think it would have done any
good,'' said Foetus. "Their minds were made up. They just don't
want me here.''
"What are you going to do?'' asked Bruce.
"What can I do?'' said Foetus.
"You could hold a protest march,'' said Barbie seriously.
"Sure!'' said Bruce with a smile. "Like the
greenies at the Billy Jacobs Memorial Commune are doing. When we
passed them an hour ago they were picketing their own front yard.''
"What are they on about this time?'' sighed Foetus.
"Buggered if I know,'' said Bruce. "I
couldn't even read their signs from the road.''
The room fell silent. Trevor had gone for another
bath. A high pong of freshly-cut daffodils came from a vase on a
table next to the glass door that led out on to the balcony. The
curtains were open and Bruce, who had been standing near the bottom
of Foetus's bed, moved closer to the door and looked out. It was a
glorious spring day and the sun streamed through the glass on to his
face. Outside, most people went purposely about their Monday business
in the High Street. Shopkeepers were busy installing black and yellow
displays in their windows and outside their shop-fronts to show their
support for the Windy Mountain Tigers. One old man sat reading a
newspaper on the park-bench outside The Pick Of The Crop. He was
trying to eat a pie, probably one of Jimmy McMartin's apple pies, at
the same time. It was quite a juggling act.
"How did Apples get on in court?'' asked Foetus.
"We just saw him,'' said Barbie. "He said he
got 82 hours of work orders. He's not very thrilled about it.''
"Eighty-two hours!'' exclaimed Foetus. "I
wouldn't be too happy either.''
"You wouldn't be happy about having to do 15
minutes of work,'' said Bruce sarcastically.
"I pull my weight,'' Foetus protested.
"Yeah? How?'' asked Bruce.
Foetus thought for a moment, then a moment more.
"I empty the drum every week, don't I?'' he said.
"Big deal,'' said Bruce.
"And I do other work too,'' said Foetus.
"Like what?'' Bruce challenged him.
"I have my, er, um, gardening,'' said Foetus.
"What gardening?'' asked Barbie.
"My little plantation,'' said Foetus proudly.
"You mean your mysterious marijuana plantation?''
said Bruce with a snigger. "I'm not sure that growing dope
qualifies as gardening.''
"Why not?'' said Foetus. "It's not an
ordinary plantation. It's organic.''
"What do you mean by that?'' asked Barbie.
"I only use natural products,'' said Foetus.
"So what?''
"So, my plants are better for you,'' said Foetus.
"They won't give you cancer or nothing.''
"Come off the grass!'' said Bruce, not even
meaning to make a pun. "Marijuana is a carcinogen, no matter how
you grow it.''
"You're just jealous,'' said Foetus.
"Jealous? Me? Jealous of what?'' said Bruce.
"You're jealous that I'm a better gardener than
you are a Tasmanian Tiger hunter,'' said Foetus.
"How do you figure that?'' asked Bruce.
"Because I've got a viable cash crop and you
can't even find a Tasmania Tiger,'' said Foetus.
"I can't find your marijuana plantation either
but I know it's somewhere out there in the bush,'' said Bruce.
"Yeah, but the Tasmanian Tiger isn't. It's
extinct and you know it,'' said Foetus.
"No, I don't. And neither do you,'' said Bruce
emphatically. "Nobody does.''
Foetus just grunted.
"So, Foetus?'' said Barbie. "Do you want us
to water your plants while you're in here?''
"No,'' said Foetus. "You just want to know
where my plantation is.''
"Won't the plants die without water?'' asked Barbie.
"No, they'll be okay,'' said Foetus as he laid
back down on the bed and placed his hands behind his head on the
pillows. "There's no way I'm going to tell you.''
"Why not?'' said Barbie.
Foetus thought for another moment then said solemnly:
"You might spray the plot with chemicals.''
"Is he serious?'' Barbie asked Bruce.
"Who cares?'' said Bruce. "I don't want to
get involved in his drug trade anyway. I'm too busy.''
"Too busy doing what?'' said Foetus mockingly.
"Too busy trying to earn an honest living,'' said Bruce.
"Does that mean you think I'm dishonest?'' said Foetus.
"No, I think you're the most honest organic drug
pusher in Windy Mountain,'' said Bruce with a deadpan face.
"At least, I make sure I'm rewarded for my hard
work,'' said Foetus. "You spend half your spare time running
after a football and you don't even get paid for it.''
"You'll see: I'll get my reward when we win the
premiership,'' said Bruce.
"You mean: if you win the premiership?'' said Foetus.
"We will win,'' said Bruce confidently. He looked
around behind him to make sure that no one else had entered the room.
"Anyway,'' he said softly. "I reckon there's a buck or two
to be made around here.''
"In the hospital?'' said Foetus. "How?''
"Bushrangers' whiskers,'' Bruce whispered.
"Bushrangers' whiskers! In here?'' spluttered Foetus.
"Shhh! Keep it down,'' said Bruce, gesturing with
his hands. "Just think: there must be some male patients here
who can be persuaded to part with their whiskers.''
"No way,'' said Foetus, trying to whisper.
"I've seen a few blokes walk up and down the hall, all right,
but I haven't seen even one with a beard.''
"Are you sure?'' asked Bruce.
"Of course I'm sure,'' said Foetus.
"How could you be?'' said Bruce, looking at
Foetus's leg which was immobilised in plaster and traction.
"I know, okay?'' said Foetus, almost
threateningly. "I've seen them.''
"Bruce, what do you do with those whiskers?''
asked Barbie who had never been let in on the secret because she had
never dared to ask before.
"I send them off to the United States,'' said
Bruce. "My benefactor, Tim Noah Jnr, sells them as souvenirs. He
tells his customers they come from genuine Australian bushrangers.''
"And they believe him?'' asked Barbie.
"Sure,'' said Bruce. "Noah can't get enough;
he keeps asking for more.''
"And you call that an honest living?'' said
Foetus, glaring at Bruce.
"It's harmless enterprise,'' said Bruce.
"It's fraud,'' mumbled Foetus.
Bruce ignored this last remark. He suddenly had
another idea. Actually, it was the same idea but with a twist.
"Foetus, you did say there are a few blokes
around the hospital?'' Bruce asked.
"Yeah, there seems to be,'' said Foetus. "But
I told you: the ones I've seen are clean-shaven.''
Bruce turned to Barbie. "How's your RSI, honey?''
he asked.
"My right wrist is still killing me,'' Barbie replied.
"How's your left wrist?'' asked Bruce.
"Fine,'' said Barbie. "Why?''
"I'll tell you in a minute,'' said Bruce.
"I'll be back soon.'' He wheeled around and left the room.
"What's he up to?'' asked Barbie.
"I hate to think,'' said Foetus, rolling his eyes.
When Bruce returned, he had with him two white coats,
a stethoscope and a glass beaker.
"Here,'' he said, throwing one of the coats to
Barbie. "Try this on for size.''
"What for?'' said Barbie.
"We're going to play doctors and nurses,'' Bruce
whispered mischievously.
"WELL, MAN,
what about the Tasmanian Tiger?'' asked John Nitram.
"What about the Tasmanian Tiger?'' said William
Archibald-Smith, becoming more agitated.
"Why don't we try to save the Tasmanian Tiger
rather than the Green Swift Parrot?'' asked John.
"It's too late, mate. The Tasmanian Tiger is
already extinct,'' said William. "Can't we stick to the motion?''
"What is the motion?'' asked Sarah.
"Whether or not we should have the Green Swift
Parrot protest here or at Northan's orchard,'' said William,
adjusting his beanie.
"No it's not,'' said Dilly Brown.
"Well, that's my understanding,'' said William,
sounding as innocent as he could.
"Haven't you heard a word we've said?'' said
Dilly. "We don't want to protest at all.''
"I don't mind,'' said Sarah. "I'm just sick
of these blisters.''
"Will you shut up about your blisters,'' snapped Dilly.
"Why are you picking on me?'' Sarah moaned.
"I'm not picking on you,'' said Dilly. "I
just wish you would make up your mind about whether you want to
protest or you don't want to protest.''
"William says it's our duty,'' said Sarah.
"Well, William is wrong,'' said Dilly. "He's
often wrong.''
"I resent that,'' said William.
"I couldn't care less,'' said Dilly. "All I
want to do is have the vote.''
"'We voted yesterday,'' said William. "And
you lost.''
"I want another vote,'' said Dilly. "This
time I want to know what we're voting for.''
"The motion,'' said William.
"Which motion? Your motion or my motion?'' said Dilly.
"You haven't moved a motion,'' said William.
"Okay, I will,'' said Dilly angrily. "I move
that we stop this protest immediately and put our skills to better
use in the name of conservation.''
"Like what?'' said Sarah.
"Aborigines?' said William sarcastically.
"Not necessarily,'' said Dilly. "There's
plenty of other constructive things we can do.''
"Like what?'' asked Sarah again.
"We can discuss it democratically,'' said Dilly.
"You'll need to move an amendment,'' said William.
"Why?'' said Dilly.
"It's the correct procedure,'' said William.
"Okay,'' sighed Dilly. "I move an amendment
that we stop this protest and begin discussions about what other
action we can pursue in the name of conservation.''
"Is there a seconder?'' said William loudly.
"Why do I need a seconder?'' said Dilly.
"There's only four of us here for God's sake!''
"It's the correct procedure,'' said William.
"No one seconded your motion yesterday,'' said Dilly.
"That was different,'' said William.
"How was it different?'' asked Dilly.
"I've got a mandate to lead this commune; you
haven't,'' said William.
"No one elected you,'' spat Dilly. "You just
assumed the leadership. If Billy hadn't died, you'd still be
grovelling to him, you'd still be sleeping in the back bedroom and
you'd still be a jerk.''
"I suppose you think you could do a better job?''
William spat back.
"Yes, I think I could,'' said Dilly.
"Well, let's put the leadership to a vote too,''
said William.
It seemed like a bold call but it wasn't. Under the
Billy Jacobs Memorial Commune's constitution, all leadership changes
had to have unanimous support. William knew this. It came under
Section F on page 11. He obviously wasn't going to vote for Dilly,
even if the others did. Besides, he believed that when it came to the
crunch, Sarah would vote for him and he had a 50-50 chance of getting
John's approval.
Dilly knew nothing about the constitution but it
didn't matter. She didn't want the leadership anyway; at least, not
as it was.
"I don't want your job,'' said Dilly. "All I
want to do is stop this stupid protest.''
"I'll second the amendment, Dilly, if you'll
second mine,'' John volunteered.
"What are you talking about?'' said William,
turning to John. "You haven't even moved an amendment.''
"I haven't had a chance, man; not with you two
bickering,'' said John.
"I thought you wanted to quit, and go and get a
highly-paid job?'' said William.
"I've changed my mind,'' said John.
"What made you do that?'' asked Sarah.
"I want to save the Tasmanian Tiger,'' said John.
"What?'' said William.
"That's my amendment,'' said John. "I think
we should try to save the Tasmanian Tiger instead of the Green Swift Parrot.''
"I second that,'' said Dilly, quick as a flash.
"You're joking, Dilly!'' said William. "Even
you're not stupid enough to believe that we can do anything to bring
back an extinct animal.''
"It's no less stupid than holding a protest in
our own front yard,'' said Dilly.
"You're just doing this out of spite for me,''
said William.
"No, I'm not,'' lied Dilly. "Aborigines hold
the Tasmanian Tiger very near and dear. It's one of our traditional pets.''
"What?'' said William.
"If the white man hadn't come to Tasmania, the
Tasmanian Tiger would still sleep on our back porches,'' said Dilly.
"What porches?'' said William. "Tasmanian
Aborigines didn't even have proper houses.''
"That's racist,'' said Dilly.
"No it's not. It's just another observation,''
said William. "Anyway, I don't believe that Tasmanian Aborigines
even domesticated the Tasmanian Tiger.''
"That's another bigoted remark,'' said Dilly.
"Aren't I allowed to say anything without you
calling me a racist?'' said William, exasperated.
"Only if it's not racially biased,'' said Dilly.
"Will you guys stop arguing!'' said John. "I
think we need to vote on the motions and then open a discussion about
what we can do to save the Tasmanian Tiger.''
"John, mate, the Tasmanian Tiger is extinct,''
said William slowly and deliberately. "Do I need to spell it
out? It's D.E.A.D!''
"That's not what Bert Whish-Willson told us the
other week,'' said Sarah.
"Who believes Bert Whish-Willson?'' said William.
"He's careless with the truth; everyone knows that.''
"I believed him, man,'' said John. "I've
heard he was a brilliant student at high school. They say he could
have gone on to become a Rhodes scholar if he had wanted.''
"I believed him too,'' said Sarah.
"Me too,'' lied Dilly.
"I don't believe this?'' said William. "The
man is the town drunk.''
"Former town drunk,'' John corrected him.
"He was drunk the night he says he saw a
Tasmanian Tiger,'' said William.
"You can't blame him for that,'' said John.
"It was his job, man.''
"And he reckons he not only saw the Tasmanian
Tiger, he patted it?'' said William incredulously.
"I told you it could domesticated,'' said Dilly.
"If you believe that, you'd believe anything,''
said William.
Dilly just smiled. She knew she had won. There was
nothing left to be said.
They voted first on her motion. It was carried three-one.
Then they voted on John's amendment. It was also
carried three-one.
The Billy Jabobs Memorial Commune had a new cause:
Save the Tasmanian Tiger.
JIM NORTHAN sat on the
park-bench outside the front of The Pick Of The Crop offices and read
his copy of the Financial Review. He was particularly interested in
an article about the burgeoning wind-sock industry.
It was early afternoon and Windy Mountain looked good.
Townsfolk continued to go about their business in the High Street,
nodding or waving to each other, and sometimes stopping on the
pavement for a quiet chat with a neighbour or old friend.
Occasionally, a car drove by and the driver gave a friendly honk to
someone he knew. Apart from that, about the only noise came from
chirping birds perched on power lines and trees.
Councillor Northan had left his office for a stroll up
and down the High Street to take a closer look at the grand final
decorations. It seemed that the whole town was dressed up in black
and yellow, the colours of the Windy Mountain Tigers Football Club.
There was bunting strung high across the street, most of the shops
had grand final displays and there were signs everywhere. A garbage
bin outside Loo's green-grocery was even wrapped in a colourful
banner which said: Year of The Tigers.
Councillor Northan approved. He felt that the grand
final was good for business. If Windy Mountain managed finally to win
the premiership, the commercial spin-offs would be even better.
Councillor Northan was the one of the few people in
town who regularly read the Financial Review. The general store in
the High Street ordered in his copy each day of publication and
usually delivered it to his office. Since it hadn't yet arrived, and
he was passing, Councillor Northan decided to save the store's
messenger a trip. He had 30 minutes to spare between business
appointments so he sat down in the sun outside The Pick Of The Crop
and began to read his paper.
The article about the financial killing to be made in
the wind-sock industry really excited him. He was counting the
dollars in his head when a drone of machinery invaded the peace of
Windy Mountain. At first he thought it was a small aeroplane flying
above the clouds. But when he glanced upwards there were no clouds.
Perplexed, he looked south down the High Street as the drone came
towards him and became a deafening roar.
The former town drunk, the brilliant but imaginative
Bert Whish-Willson, was the first person to see them. He was walking
into town when he, too, heard the roar. He spun round near the
population sign at the southern end of town and saw them as they came
over the brow of a small hill. They whizzed by in a blur of chrome
and black leather. Bert counted 20 motorbikes as they sped away from
him, two or three abreast, four with pillion passengers. Many of them
wore black helmets. A couple of them weren't even wearing helmets.
Councillor Northan stood up, open-mouthed, as they
slowed down 50 metres from The Applecart and pulled up right outside
the pub. The glimmering motorbikes were wheeled around to the kerb
and parked alongside each other at right angles to the road. As the
riders switched off their ignitions, a new sound took over: the sound
of bikie bravado.
Councillor Northan was horrified.
Those bikies who had helmets removed them and hung
them on their machines. Most of the men had long greasy hair, some
tied in ponytails, and unkempt beards of varying lengths, colours and
shapes. They wore dirty blue jeans and leather jackets which were
emblazoned on the back with a picture of a feathered beast. It
carried the words: "The Muttonbirds'', and underneath,
"Proud to be Aboriginal''. Most of the bikies wore army boots
and wide black belts which glittered with studs. Councillor Northan
counted six women who were similarly dressed in dirty jeans and leather.
The motorbikes, however, were clean and immaculate.
They had been painstakingly waxed and polished. There were big Harley
Davidsons with air-cooled 45 degree V-twin four stroke engines,
shining Triumphs with forged 360 degree crankshafts with
double-lipped flywheels and plain main and big end bearings, and an
assortment of Japanese models with telescopic forks.
As the bikies filed through the salon-style swinging
front door of the pub, the regulars filed out the back door. The
ageing, bespectacled barman, Artie Rogerson, nearly swallowed his
false teeth when the biggest, meanest-looking bikie approached the
bar. He was a 193cm man mountain with a ponytail, a black bandana and
two missing front teeth. He had massive hands with
grotesquely-sculptured metal rings on all his fingers. He removed his
jacket to reveal a sweat-soaked T-shirt, in colours of red, black and
yellow, which clung to his muscular torso. He didn't look Aboriginal;
but, then, neither did the others. His arms were tattooed from the
top of his bulging biceps to the bottom of the Mack truck piston rods
which were his forearms.
"I'll have 16 beers, eight orange juices, one
Scotch and coke and one a glass of mineral water,'' the bikie said politely.
"Sorry, mister,'' said Artie, still trembling.
"We don't have any of that.''
"What?'' rumbled the bikie, breaking into his
meanest look. "Are you refusing to serve us?''
"No,'' squeaked Artie. "What I mean is: the
only alcohol we sell here is apple cider.''
"You're kidding me?'' said the bikie.
"No,'' said Artie. "It's the best apple
cider in Tasmania, honestly. We brew it ourselves. It's double strength.''
"Okay,'' said the bikie, no longer scowling.
"Give us 16, no, 17 ciders then. What about the orange juice?''
"Sorry,'' said Artie. "We've only got apple juice.''
"Oh,'' said the bikie. "That will have to
do. I suppose you don't stock mineral water either?''
"We've got good, clean tap water,'' Artie offered.
"Tap water!'' grunted one of the other bikies.
"I'm not drinking tap water!'' complained one of
the women.
"You better make that one more apple juice,'' the
bikie at the bar told Artie.
When Bert Whish-Willson reached The Applecart and saw
the motorbikes parked outside, curiosity got the better of him. Apart
from his dutiful appearance at Sunday school each week, he hadn't
been in the pub since he had lost his job as town drunk. He had had
no intention of stopping for a drink when he set off to town to buy
an apple pie for a late lunch. But now he was outside, despite the
possibility of danger lurking within the pub walls, he had a
compelling urge to check the visitors out.
Some of the bikies were already on to their second
ciders when Bert walked in. The jukebox in the corner was cranking
out another Chad Morgan song.
Despite their obvious differences, Bert and the bikies
seemed to hit it off straight away. Any fears he had for his safety
disappeared as he plopped himself down on his old stool, cider in
hand, and captivated the bikies with tales of apple pies, Windy
Mountain's own resident bikie and, of course, the Tasmanian Tiger.
At first, Bert didn't know the bikies were Aboriginal
and they didn't know he wasn't. When he found out, he was surprised.
ONE HOUR passed. Two
hours passed. Still the bikies were holed up in The Applecart with
Bert Whish-Willson and Artie Rogerson.
News travelled quickly in Windy Mountain and it got
more dramatic with every version told. Bert Whish-Willson couldn't
have done better. Before long, many of the townsfolk firmly believed
that Artie and Bert were being held hostage.
Staff at The Pick Of The Crop soon heard about the
bikies, though the rumour about the hostage situation was slow to
reach them. The chief of staff, Bob Maurice, was sufficiently
concerned, however, to ask for volunteers from the reporting pool. He
wanted someone to go find out what was happening. But there were no takers.
Finally, Mr Leggs stormed out of his office and
yelled: "Isn't it about time we got an interview with these
terrorists at The Applecart?''
"What makes you think they're terrorists?'' Bob
Maurice asked.
"I just heard it in my office on the radio
news,'' said Mr Leggs. "They're holding two hostages.''
"It's news to me?'' said Bob Maurice, scratching
his head.
"Yes, it usually is,'' said Mr Leggs sarcastically.
"None of our reporters want to go over there,''
the chief of staff confessed.
"Why not?'' stormed Mr Leggs.
"They're scared,'' said Bob Maurice.
"For goodness sake?'' said the editor. "We've
got them insured, haven't we?''
The editor stood with his hands on his hips in the
middle of the reporters' room and looked around, thoughtfully
searching for a reporter prepared to die for his newspaper.
He saw the municipal roundsman, Peter Salter, in the
corner of the room studying the council agenda for the following
night's council agenda, and ruled him out immediately. Mr Leggs
regarded the weekly Windy Mountain Council meeting as the most
important news arena for the newspaper.
He noticed that his son Kevin was writing a report on
the shenanigans at the hospital. This ruled him out.
He saw book reviewer Michael Curtis reading a novel in
the corner of the room and decided not to disturb him. Curtis, 63,
had been a top journalist in his day; but not any more. News values
had changed over the years but Michael Curtis hadn't. He had been
banished from the sub-editors' table because he couldn't adapt to the
changing workplace. He was tried as a reporter but his arthritic
fingers prevented him from tapping the keys of his old Remington
typewriter with any great velocity or for any great length of time.
Consequently, he was put in charge of book reviews where he was at
least out of everyone's way. Occasionally, in emergencies, he was
asked to do some general reporting. But Mr Leggs, who considered
himself to be a compassionate man, didn't feel it was right for a
battle-scarred journo like Michael Curtis to be put at risk. Michael
Curtis had worked loyally for The Pick Of The Crop for 48 years and
had less than two years before retirement. It wouldn't be right if he
died in the line of duty now, would it? Besides, thought Mr Leggs,
any resultant insurance payout would be astronomical.
Mr Leggs' eyes flicked to Norman J. Hit who was
hunched over his typewriter, pouring heart and soul into an obituary.
"Norman, what are you up to?'' asked Mr Leggs loudly.
"The bit about him being secretary of the show
society,'' Norman answered.
"Who?'' said the editor.
"Gordon Riley,'' said Norman J. Hit.
"Gordon Riley? What's he done?'' said Mr Leggs.
"He hasn't done anything . . . yet,'' said Norman
hesitantly. "But I'm told he might be about to die.''
"Nonsense,'' said the editor. "He's not even
sick. I saw him about two hours ago heading up to Tiger Kowaski's
Dancing School and he looked perfectly fine to me.''
"That's funny?'' said Norman J. Hit. "Half
an hour ago my contact saw him leaving Tiger Kowaski's - and
apparently he looked frail and drained.''
"Mmm,'' said Mr Leggs. "That couldn't be
right.'' He turned to Bob Maurice. "I think Gordon Riley's
obituary can wait until he at least stops breathing, don't you?'' he
said. He turned back to Norman. "Right now, I want you to get
over to The Applecart and find out what's going on.''
NEXT DOOR AT the police
station, Sergeant Birtwistle was trying his best to deal with
Councillor Northan's panic about the arrival of The Muttonbirds.
"Jim, I just haven't got time to worry about any
more bikies,'' he said, his back to the Mayor as he shuffled through
a filing cabinet in search of records of known criminals in the
district. "I'm up to my neck in semen.''
"Seamen?'' said Councillor Northan, puzzled, as
he stood on the other side of the charge-room counter. "There
aren't any seamen in Windy Mountain, Sergeant! We haven't even got a river.''
"I don't mean sailor seamen, Jim,'' said Sergeant
Birtwistle, looking around. "I mean semen semen.''
"What on earth are you taking about, Sergeant?''
said Councillor Northan who was thoroughly confused.
"Look, I haven't got time to explain,'' said
Sergeant Birtwistle, slamming the drawer shut. "It's a police matter.''
"But I'm the Mayor,'' said Councillor Northan
officiously. "I have to know these things. It's your duty to
tell me.''
"Okay, okay,'' sighed Sergeant Birtwistle,
approaching the counter and stooping over it until he was nearly face
to face with the Mayor. "This is confidential, all right?'' he
said, rapping his large right index finger on the desk.
"Of course. Of course it is,'' Councillor Northan
reassured him.
"I don't have all the facts yet,'' said Sergeant
Birtwistle, choosing his words carefully. "All I know is that
I've just taken a statement from Daisy Rowbottom, the matron at the
Windy Mountain District Hospital. She said that a man and a woman,
disguised as a doctor and nurse, went around the hospital late this
morning procuring semen samples from the male patients.''
"Semen!'' exclaimed Councillor Northan in
disgust. "In heaven's name! How?''
"Apparently,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle,
"they made a bogus claim that all the men in the hospital had to
be tested for a virus they called Bushranger's Revenge.''
"And some of the patients agreed?'' said
Councillor Northan.
"They all agreed, from what I understand,'' said
Sergeant Birtwistle.
"Oh goodness me,'' said Councillor Northan.
"Is there such a virus as Bushranger's Revenge?''
"Not according to Daisy Rowbottom,'' said
Sergeant Birtwistle.
"Well, what would anyone want with, er, um,
semen?'' said Councillor Northan, blushing. "Was it some kind of
sick practical joke?''
"Beats me,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle, returning
to his desk and sitting down. "I don't even know if a crime has
been committed and, if so, what crime?''
"What do you mean?'' asked the Mayor.
"Well, is it 'theft'?'' said the sergeant with a
shrug. "Or is it 'obtaining substances under false pretences'?
It might even be 'rape'. I don't know. I'll have to ask Stretch and
Bluey. They seem to know all about these new-fangled crimes.''
"How much, er, um, semen did they get?'' asked
Councillor Northan.
"About a beaker-full,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"Good Lord,'' said Councillor Northan. "That
much? How many men are there in the hospital?''
"Fifteen, I think,'' said the sergeant.
"And they filled a whole beaker?'' said
Councillor Northan.
"I'm only going on what Daisy Rowbottom stated,''
said Sergeant Birtwistle. "I haven't interviewed any of the
victims yet.''
"Victims?'' said Councillor Northan.
"Shouldn't you be interviewing the suspects first?''
"I haven't got any suspects yet,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"What about the bikies at The Applecart?''
Councillor Northan said, his eyes widening. "Surely they're
mixed up in all this.''
"They couldn't be,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle
tiredly. "Not unless they actually arrived an hour before you
said they arrived.''
Sergeant Birtwistle hadn't been in town when the
bikies roared into Windy Mountain. He had left the police station
unmanned because he had business to attend to in Slutz Plains. On his
return, he was besieged by a tearful Daisy Rowbottom. He had just
managed to calm her down, take a statement and send her back to work
when Councillor Northan came bursting through the door into the charge-room.
It wasn't a new experience. Sergeant Birtwistle was
accustomed to Councillor Northan's stormy intrusions, always with one
complaint or another. More often than not they were trivial matters
but Councillor Northan always demanded swift and heavy-handed
justice. If he had got his way, truant schoolboys caught stealing the
odd apple from his orchard would have been thrown in jail for a
month, and anyone caught spitting on the footpath would have been put
in stocks in the High Street and pelted with rotten fruit. When the
phone-box went missing from the High Street, Councillor Northan had
stormed into the police station, thumped the charge-room counter, and
demanded that the Special Operations Group be summoned to Windy
Mountain to hunt down the offenders. He proudly supported the death
penalty for convicted murderers and he believed that people who led
unusual, indecent or alternative lifestyles should not be allowed to
roam freely among civilised people. Bikies were definitely in this category.
"What about that Foetus bikie fellow already in
the hospital?'' Councillor Northan asked.
"What about him?'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"Maybe he is the other bikies' inside man?''
theorised Councillor Northan.
"Bloody oath, Jim!'' said Sergeant Birtwistle
angrily. "I wish you'd leave the police work to the police.''
"I will not!'' said Councillor Northan, raising
his voice in indignation. "I'm the Mayor. It's my civic duty to
oversea the moral standards of this town.''
"Okay, okay,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle, raising
his palms defensively towards the Mayor. "But just think about
it a minute: how could the bikie at the hospital possibly be involved?''
"It's quite plausible,'' said Councillor Northan.
"Plausible!'' snorted the Sergeant. "He told
us this morning that he's lived in Blackstump Road for three years.
He probably doesn't even know this new lot in The Applecart.''
"Why not? He's a bikie isn't he?'' said
Councillor Northan. "Maybe he's their forward scout.''
"There's more chance that he's a boy scout,''
mumbled the Sergeant under his breath.
"What did you say?'' said Councillor Northan, frowning.
"I said: I'll check them out,'' the sergeant lied.
"When?'' the Mayor demanded.
"As soon as I've sorted out this semen
business,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"That's not good enough, Sergeant,'' said
Councillor Northan sternly. "What if they've already killed Bert Whish-Willson?''
"Bert Whish-Willson?'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"What's Bert Whish-Willson got to do with all this?''
"He's in The Applecart with them; him and Artie
Rogerson, the barman. The rumour around the town is that they're
being held hostage,'' said the Mayor.
"Does anyone have proof of that or is it just
idle gossip?'' said the sergeant, who was accustomed to the way
stories snowballed in Windy Mountain.
"Well, it's been some time now and neither of
them have come out,'' said Councillor Northan.
"That's not proof,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"Artie works in the pub and Bert takes a lot of budging when
he's in a drinking mood.''
"For goodness sake, Sergeant: what more evidence
do you want?'' said Councillor Northan.
"Screams . . . gun shots . . . a list of written
demands from the bikies . . . anything really?'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
Councillor Northan stamped his left foot loudly like a
frustrated child. "I don't think you're taking this complaint
seriously, Sergeant,'' he said.
"I am, I am,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle, raising
his palms towards Councillor Northan once more. "Believe me, I
don't want bikies in this town any more than you do. You heard me lay
the law down to that Foetus fellow this morning. But what can I do
about this lot? From what you've told me, there's too many for me to
try to get heavy with them. And as far as I know they haven't broken
any laws.''
"Some of them weren't wearing crash helmets.
Isn't that against the law?'' asked the Mayor.
"Of course it is, Jim. But how am I supposed to
know which ones weren't wearing helmets?'' asked the Sergeant in frustration.
"I told you: they're in The Applecart right
now,'' said Councillor Northan.
"That doesn't prove anything,'' said Sergeant
Birtwistle. "The law doesn't require motorcyclists to wear their
helmets in the pub.''
'Well, what about when they leave? Can't you arrest
them then?'' asked Councillor Northan.
"Sure I can, but what's the point. If they want
to leave town, let 'em leave,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle. "If
they crash and break their skulls in someone else's town, it's not my worry.''
"Well, can't you just go and have a quiet talk to
them now?'' asked Councillor Northan.
"Okay, okay,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"I'll go check them out on the way to the hospital. You can come
with me if you like.''
"No, er, um, I don't think I, er, um, need to on
this occasion,'' said Councillor Northan, wimping out. "It
sounds like strictly police business to me.''
THERE WERE two reasons
for the good roll-up of players and supporters to Monday night
football training at the Windy Mountain Recreation Ground. The Tigers
were preparing for a rare grand final appearance which naturally
bolstered people's enthusiasm. It was also the second Monday of the
month - which meant it was sponsor's appreciation night. On these
occasions Tiger, coach and chief sponsor, always had gift vouchers to
give away to lucky supporters and hard-working footballers.
Why it was called a training ''night'' was another one
of Windy Mountain's little mysteries. Training officially started in
broad daylight about 4pm and ended before nightfall. There were no
floodlights at the Recreation Ground. In the height of winter, when
darkness fell not long after 5pm, training was short and sharp. By
September, the business end of the season, Tiger kept the players out
on the track as late as 6.30pm. Despite the restrictions of daylight,
the club had always trained on Monday "night'' and Thursday
"night'' and no one had ever wondered why; at least, not aloud.
The players arrived at training in dribs and drabs as
they knocked off work for the day. Some, like Scotsman Jimmy
McMartin, the town's temperamental baker, arrived at 3.30pm and ran
laps until everyone else arrived. Others, like green grocer Hoo-Chung
Loo and butcher Manny Hjort, usually arrived a few minutes past
4.30pm after they closed their businesses for the day. Centre
half-forward Spiros Firos, a drive-in player from Launceston, only
trained on Thursday "night'' because it was too far for him to
travel three times a week. Tiger believed in being flexible.
This particular September afternoon Bruce arrived just
before 4.30pm.
The football oval looked a picture. Three sprinklers
had been placed strategically on the driest points of the ground. The
rest of the oval had a good covering of grass which was almost as
green as the freshly-painted rails that surrounded the oval. Once the
rails had been painted white, just like the goal and point posts and
just like the whitewashed rails around every other football ground
Bruce had ever seen. But at the Windy Mountain Recreation Ground,
they had been painted green for some time now and Bruce had got used
to the colour scheme.
"Hello Captain Bruce,'' said Tiger Kowaski who
was slipping into his famous jockstrap when Bruce, carrying a sports
bag containing his shorts, his training guernsey and Billy's boots,
entered the liniment-scented change-room shed. "Bruce, you
wouldn't happen to know the Scottish word for 'handball', would
you?'' asked Tiger.
Tiger - real name Tigran - could speak Greek, Flemish
and a smattering of Chinese but Scottish had him stumped. The Windy
Mountain Tigers resembled the Foreign Legion with the likes of Spiros
Firos, an expatriate Greek who ran a souvlaki shop in Launceston and
played in the key centre half-forward position; Manny Hjort, the
local butcher, who generally played in the centre and was dubbed The
Flying Dutchman even though he was actually from Belgium and rarely
got off the ground; and Hoo-Chung Loo, Windy Mountain's left-footed
Chinese green grocer who held down the right wing. Then there was
Jimmy, the Scottish-born baker who baked perhaps the best apple pies
in Tasmania. He was the team's fiery number-one rover and goal sneak
but he had a big problem communicating with his team-mates. Although
he had emigrated to Australia when he was four, and couldn't even
remember the bonny Highland hills, he still spoke with a strong
Scottish accent which everyone, including Tiger, had great difficulty
understanding. The more excited or agitated Jimmy became, the harder
it was to fathom out what he was saying.
This infuriated Jimmy's team-mates but it infuriated
him even more when he tried to tell them something they couldn't, or
sometimes mischievously pretended they couldn't, understand. Jimmy
had a hair-trigger temper and of the many things that made him angry
this was number one. More than once he had worked himself into a rage
trying to get his message across and had stormed off home threatening
never to try to talk to his team-mates again. This was not good for
team harmony.
To make matters worse, whenever Jimmy was within reach
of the goals, he had a habit of never passing the football to anyone.
Tiger, who had landed the coach's job more for his linguistic skills
than his footballing skills - though less so than for his generous
offer to sponsor the team - assumed this was another part of the
communication problem. "Pass it to me, Jimmy; handball it to
me,'' a team-mate in a better scoring position would often cry in the
heat of a match. But Jimmy never did. No matter how difficult the
shot was, he always had a kick at goal himself.
"Poor bugger,'' lamented Tiger to himself.
"He obviously doesn't know the difference between a handball and
a haggis.''
Jimmy's team-mates were less sympathetic. "Selfish
bugger,'' they swore among themselves. "He doesn't care about
the team winning; all he wants is to make himself look good.''
The first chapters of Apples are now online (access lower on this page). This is a satirical story (approx. 90,000 words) centred on Windy Mountain, a fictional town in Northern Tasmania, which is home to a collection of eccentric characters - from a deflocked priest to a disgraced town drunk, from a megalomaniac mayor to a bunch of greenies with a leadership problem, from a hapless young man caught up in Tasmania's obscure indecency laws to a bikie who has lost his gang, from a brothel-keeper who doubles as the town's football coach to a Thylacine hunter who sends bushrangers' mementos to the United States to be sold on the lucrative souvenir market. Windy Mountain might also be the home of the officially extinct but sometimes-reported Tasmanian Tiger.