Part 10:
Monday
'I'd
sure like to take a look at that cat.'
THE SUN
WAS barely rising when Bruce rolled up his sleeping bag, kicked dirt
over his camp-fire, untied the dogs and began the trek through the
bush back to the farmhouse.
Most
people in Windy Mountain had heard of Bruce. "Bruce Routley the
footballer?'' they'd say. But few people really knew him; few people
even saw him except at the football.
Born and
raised in Hobart, Bruce was 33. Had he persevered with his parents'
dreams he could have been a doctor by now, perhaps with a big house,
a BMW, a wife and two or three children. But he only lasted out two
years of a medicine course at the University of Tasmania.
Academically,
Bruce was good enough to go all the way; his marks were regularly in
the top 10 per cent of his classes. But all his life he had had a
phobia about mixing with other people, especially strangers and large
groups of people with whom he might reasonably be expected to
interact. Bruce thought that with practice he might grow out of this
irrational fear. But the social demands of University life just
seemed to make it worse. Being in the company of other people, aside
from a small circle of close and understanding friends, freaked him
out; he became panic-stricken and nauseous. At first, he was
determined not to let the phobia prevent him from doing what he had
to do. If he had sufficient warning, he was able to psyche himself up
for just about any occasion; he could even transform himself into an
extrovert for short periods. Over time, however, this became a mighty
drain on his mental and physical resources. Bruce, unable to sustain
the facade, became increasingly aloof and uncommunicative. And, after
two tortuous years studying medicine, he realised he wasn't cut out
for a life dealing with sick strangers.
For the
next eight years Bruce wandered the globe with his home, a backpack,
slung on his broad shoulders. He always had a quick eye for an
opportunity. Despite his ongoing phobia, he took whatever work he
could find so that he could save enough money to move on to the next destination.
He worked
as a stockman in the lonely Australian outback, washed pots and pans
in numerous restaurants in Britain, drove a double-decker tourist bus
to the sights of Europe, crewed luxury yachts for rich Arabs, fought
as a mercenary in Africa, dug for gold in South America and performed
in a precision-driving team in North America.
Bruce had
never even heard of Windy Mountain and his only knowledge of the
Tasmanian Tiger was that it was supposed to be extinct.
His life
changed one day in Dallas, Texas, when he ran into billionaire Tim
Noah Jnr. Bruce was driving home from work along a freeway in
bumper-to-bumper traffic when the stretch limousine in front of him
stopped suddenly. Bruce's tyres squealed as he slammed on his brakes
and he skidded into the back of the big black car with a loud bang.
It was
only a minor collision but Bruce half expected to get dragged out of
his car and beaten up by an angry, bull-necked, giant chauffeur.
Instead, he got to meet the limousine's passenger, Tim Noah Jnr, who
seemed honoured and thrilled to have had his limo rammed by a real
live Crocodile Dundee.
Noah, a
portly middle-aged man, wore a loud checked suit, a little bow tie, a
10-gallon hat and he chewed on the biggest cigar Bruce had ever seen.
"You're
an Aussie, aren't you?'' he drawled as soon as he heard Bruce's accent.
"Yes.
I'm from Tasmania,'' said Bruce.
"Tasmania!''
said Noah excitedly. "That's where the Tasmanian Tiger lives.''
"Not
any more,'' said Bruce. "I think it's extinct.''
"Nonsense,
boy,'' the Texan huffed. "I hear there's been plenty of sightings.''
Within a
week Bruce was winging his way first-class back to Australia,
courtesy of Tim Noah Jnr, with a brief to find him two Tasmanian
Tigers: a male and a female. Why? Noah, who had made his fortune in
souvenirs, wanted to build a giant shelter to protect the world's
animals from nuclear war. He had half-heard about the Tasmanian Tiger
on a radio science show and decided he had to have a couple of these
"wild felines'', as he called them, for his collection.
At first,
Bruce thought Noah was a crackpot. For a start, he knew that the word
'Tiger' was a misnomer and Noah was bound to be disappointed that the
Tasmanian Tiger was really a marsupial. Furthermore, he was pretty
sure that the species was dead and gone.
But any
plans he had about continuing his precision-driving career were
shattered along with his confidence on that freeway. And here was a
chance to return home on Tasmania, settle down with a regular income
and still have adventure in his life without having to deal with a
lot of strange people. For the sake of his new career, he decided to
develop an open mind about the Thylacine's existence.
On his
return to Hobart, Bruce spent several weeks looking through old
newspapers, reading books on the Tasmanian Tiger and tracking down
and talking to people who claimed to have seen the animal. Using this
information, he settled on Windy Mountain as his search base and set
up home in the old Cameron farmhouse.
Hardly
anyone knew he was there for two years. Then came a bikie named
Foetus whose gang, The Thunderbirds, had deserted him in Windy
Mountain. Bruce, who had once been in a similar situation himself,
offered Foetus shelter for the night - and he was still there three
years later. "They'll come back for me; it's part of The
Thunderbirds' pledge,'' Foetus always said. His hopes were raised
several times when gangs of bikies came to Windy Mountain - but they
always turned out to be another gang, never The Thunderbirds. In a
drug-driven paranoia, Foetus always suspected that these rival gangs
had come to hunt him down. But they never did. They just paused in
the High Street for a cider or a bit of dancing and then went on
their way.
Two years
after Foetus came Barbie. It was Barbie who insisted that the
farmhouse outhouse be upgraded to a telephone box. Finally came
Bruce's Tasmanian Tiger hunting side-kick and interchange socialiser, Apples.
Somewhere
in between, the greenies moved in up the road.
Bruce's
profile in Windy Mountain was raised on a windswept late afternoon
when he turned up at Windy Mountain Football Club training and asked
if he could have a kick. At first, everyone laughed. Bruce looked
more like a 184cm surfie than a rough-and-tumble footballer. He
hadn't played football since high school and he didn't even have any boots.
"Are
you sure about this, mate?'' shouted Tiger Kowaski, captain-coach and
chief sponsor, via the Dancing School, as Bruce ran on to the oval in
his bare feet.
Bruce
didn't even answer. Aside from his natural inclination to be
economical with words, he was at a loss to understand why he had a
sudden urge to play football again after all these years. Bare feet
or not though, he wanted to have a kick.
Tiger
Kowaski knew within 20 minutes that he had to sign Bruce up on the
spot. He was a class above the other players at training. He wasn't
lightning quick but he had the happy knack of positioning himself in
the right place at the right time. He took some freakish marks,
delivered some thunderbolt, smack-on-the-chest handballs and kicked
equally well with either bare foot. Everything he did was fluent; he
didn't waste any energy.
After
calling an impromptu committee meeting on the sidelines, Tiger
beckoned Bruce and a man of similar build from the training track.
"Billy,
meet Bruce,'' Tiger said, introducing them with a nod. The two men
shook hands.
"Billy,
I want you to lend Bruce your football boots until he can get some
of his own,'' said Tiger.
"I've
only got one pair of boots,'' Billy protested, still gasping for breath.
"Too
bad,'' said Tiger. "If you won't lend your boots to Bruce, the
match committee will have no choice but to suspend you from the club.'
And so
Bruce was signed with a handshake. Nothing was ever put into writing.
The club couldn't afford to offer Bruce match payments. Instead,
Tiger provided him with a Gold Pass to the Dancing School. As an
incentive, if he helped Windy Mountain win its first-ever
premiership, the club would send a working bee to paint the outside
of the Cameron farmhouse. Tiger.knew where he could get hold of as
much green paint as he needed.
As the
weeks passed Bruce became a star ruck-rover while Billy warmed the
bench in most games. Billy had the potential to seal a permanent
place in the team but the selectors felt he lacked mobility in his
alternative footwear: a pair of gumboots.
Bruce was
inspirational. When the Windy Mountain Tigers needed a spark, Bruce
was the player who usually provided it. When his team-mates panicked,
he stayed cool. A telling mark here, a telling goal there, he always
seemed to be in position to make the play. Before long, Tiger
relinquished the captaincy and, with the team's support, gave it to
Bruce. Tiger continued to coach and play, mainly in the back pocket
where he had a clear view of proceedings. Bruce took charge on the
half-forward flank. Several times in roster matches he calmly kicked
unbelievably good goals just moments before the final siren to give
the Windy Mountain Tigers heart-stopping victories.
The
opposition usually felt hard done by on these occasions because they
believed that Bruce had fluked the winning goal. But his many fans
knew better. Captain Bruce, as they now called him, wasn't lucky. He
was just very good. Nothing seemed to faze him.
Bruce put
this ability down to experience. When he was 15, he had been courted
by Victorian Football League talent scouts who were impressed with
his skills. Back then, Bruce had a terrible on-field temper but he
was perhaps the most gifted player in his high school's A team. Word
of his potential spread quickly. Various VFL talent scouts came to
see him play. They talked to him and asked him whether he was
interested in becoming a league footballer; they even sounded out his
parents. Bruce was over the moon.
Secretly,
he was terrified of the prospect of going to the strange environment
of a football club in a city of strangers - but if the chance came he
was determined to grab it. It never did though. Despite their initial
interest, the VFL clubs became so concerned about his on-field
temperament, they overlooked him.
Bruce,
with hormones and wanderlust awakening, soon moved on to other
interests. He forgot about football completely while he was overseas.
All the
time, though, he was learning lessons that would prove invaluable
back on the football oval. The older he got, the better he became at
coping with life's hurdles, mostly because he had conquered them all
before. He still hated being around people but he learnt little
tricks to avoid social situations.
He even
learnt to control his temper. His mother had always told him that he
had inherited this fiery trait from his Irish grandfather.
The
pressure of a tight football match was nothing compared to some of
the life-threatening situations Bruce had confronted over the years.
In Europe,
for instance, he was a victim of a mutiny by a bus-load of flatulent
low-budget travellers. When he signed on to drive the double-decker
tourist bus on a 25-day tour nobody advised him that he would be
expected to mingle with the passengers and also double as camp cook.
Bruce didn't complain though; he just did the best he could. He
realised in hindsight that his healthy, high-fibre food - meal after
meal - perhaps wasn't the ideal diet for bus-bound tourists. But he
would never forgive them for stealing the bus and leaving him,
without his passport or any money, alone in Italy.
In Africa,
where Bruce took on a job as a mercenary, he nearly got himself shot
- by his own soldiers. Bruce was just a naive 20-year-old overgrown
kid when he signed up but he lied and said he was 25. He never quite
worked out which side he was on, who the enemy was or even what he
was fighting for. But it didn't matter. He was getting paid for an adventure.
When one
of Bruce's fellow mercenaries got blown up by a land-mine, however,
he found himself promoted to corporal and put in charge of a small
band of black guerrilla fighters. Bruce was terrified. He knew that
he was out of his depth. He had never been in charge of anyone
before. Even when he played football at high school he was only ever
vice-captain. In a panic, he sought the advice of a fellow white
mercenary who was African-born and had fought in just about every
little war on the continent for the past 12 years.
"You
must lay down the law to these kaffirs, Bruce,'' the bigoted veteran
warned him. "The first chance you get, show them who's boss.'
"How?''
asked Bruce.
"Punish
them in front of the others,'' said the veteran mercenary. "Make
an example of them. Have them tied up to a tree and whipped.''
This is
what Bruce did, or half did. The first time one of his native
subordinates played up he ordered that he be tied to a tree. As he
gave the command, it was impossible to say who was more terrified:
the man, the crowd of bewildered soldiers who gathered around the
tree to watch or Bruce who, in a haze of panic, lost his capacity for
logical thinking.
If he had
ordered that the man be whipped there and then, it would have been
done with. But he didn't have the heart. Instead, he left the soldier
tied up for three stinking hot days and nights.
When the
commanding officer - a pipe-smoking, plum-in-the-mouth
Oxford-educated Englishman - found out, he summoned Bruce to his
jungle headquarters immediately. Bruce would never forget the scene
as he stood nervously to attention in the biggest tent in the camp.
The commanding officer sat behind a big oak desk, reputedly imported
from England and carted from battle headquarters to battle
headquarters on the backs of native carriers.
"Now
listen here, old chap,'' the commanding officer rebuked him.
"You're only a corporal. You can't go round tying soldiers to
trees. Only captains and those of higher rank have the authority to
do that.''
As
punishment, the commanding officer gave Bruce the choice of leaving
the country immediately or facing a firing squad. "Sorry about
this, old chap,'' he apologised. "I'm just following the
regulations of this blasted little army.''
Bruce
naturally chose to leave Africa that night and vowed never to tie a
man to a tree again. And so far he hadn't. He had learnt to recognise
the triggers for his irrational behaviour and he avoided them. As
much as he could, he stayed away from people. When things got too
much he went bush alone to get away from it all. Barbie, Foetus and
Apples understood.
Bruce
rarely lost his cool any more. The most recent exception was when
Foetus secretly started feeding marijuana seeds to the Cameron
farmhouse chooks in the hope of putting new zing into scrambled eggs.
The result was that the chooks stopped laying altogether. It took
Bruce days to find out the reason and, when he did, he was furious.
He threatened to throw Foetus out of the farmhouse. He threatened to
make him fork out for some new chooks.
He even
threatened to find Foetus's plantation and destroy every last plant.
But if he
had an overwhelming urge to punish him by tying him to a tree, he
resisted it. Instead, he took his dogs, Acid and Anti-Acid, and went hunting.
When he
returned the next day, he didn't say anything more about the chooks.
It was out
of his system. It was as if the episode had never happened.
Bruce was
friendly enough but his conversation, like everything he did, was
economical. He sometimes forced himself to have an after-match drink
with his team-mates and opponents but he never hung around long
enough to get drunk. He never attended club socials. Instead, Apples
usually went in his place. This added to the Captain Bruce mystique.
Was he a snob? Or was he just shy? Nobody really knew. He never even
used his Gold Pass at the Dancing School.
He had to
psyche himself up for training twice a week but he coped.
Once he
was out there on the ground and getting a touch, he felt he was in a
different world. In the change-room shed, his team-mates sometimes
gently teased him about his unusual vocation but Captain Bruce just
shrugged the jibes off. He still hadn't actually seen a Tasmanian
Tiger but he felt he was getting closer. He had made plaster casts of
a few fresh animal tracks which may have belonged to a Thylacine; but
he couldn't be sure. Bruce had also found a 25cm-long piece of dung
which he believed was probably a Tasmanian Tiger dropping. But when
he sent it away for testing the results were inconclusive. It was
certainly big enough to come from an adult Thylacine, but it may just
as likely have come from a wild dog. The problem was that nobody
really knew what the Tasmanian Tiger ate in the wild, if, of course,
it still ate at all.
Until the
phone-box went missing from the Windy Mountain High Street, Bruce
gave Tim Noah Jnr regular person-to-person updates on his progress.
Now they
just exchanged letters and Bruce picked up his cheque from the local
post office agency every month.
"I
sure am anxious to get a look at that cat,'' Noah nearly always wrote.
Bruce
still didn't have the heart to tell him that the Tasmanian Tiger was
not a cat but rather a shy, marsupial dog which had roamed Tasmania
in great numbers before the white man arrived in the early 1800s. The
European farmers had regarded it as a pest and the government
responded by putting a price on the Thylacine's head. It was
decimated by a combination of bounty hunting and disease and,
finally, seemed to disappear.
Bruce took
heart from the come-back of another Tasmanian marsupial, the
Tasmanian Devil, which was pushed to the verge of extinction in the
1940s and 1950s.
The few
remaining devils retreated deep into the bush to regroup and now they
were back stronger than ever. Maybe, Bruce hoped, the Tasmanian Tiger
was finally ready to make its grand re-entry to civilisation.
Maybe he
would fill Tim Noah Jnr's order yet.
