Part 5
Mountain
oysters and church gossip
Later
"THAT'S
MR WISHBONE,'' one little brat whispered cheekily to another outside
the Anglican church.
The Mayor,
Councillor Jim Northan, was walking up the steps with his wife
Matilda and teenage daughter Prudence.
The little
brats were referring to Councillor Northan's acute bow-leggedness.
Even when he stood with his feet together there was more daylight
between his legs than the football goalposts at the Windy Mountain
Recreation Ground. People always assumed that he was a keen
horse-rider. But, in fact, Councillor Northan had never been on a
horse; not even a rocking horse. His legs were naturally bowed, just
like his nose was naturally long and hooked, his eyes were naturally
beady and he was naturally intolerant of anyone or anything that
didn't figure in his own narrow-minded philosophy of life.
People,
especially grown-up people, couldn't help making fun of him behind
his back.
Since he
had more money than most of them put together, they laughed mainly as
his bow-leggedness. No one taught their kids to do likewise; they
learnt it through osmosis.
Anyone who
was anyone went to town in their best clothes on Sunday morning.
The
Anglicans went to the little blue-stone church on the east side of
the High Street. The Catholics, mostly descendants of the Irish
convicts whose blood and sweat was splattered on the foundation
stones of the town, went to the even smaller chapel on the west side
of the High Street. And the non-believers went to the thriving Sunday
school at The Applecart where they played poker, nibbled on mountain
oysters and drank illegally brewed apple cider.
Councillor
Northern was actually a non-believer but he thought that God was
probably best for his image.
In the
same way he had publicly changed his attitude to football, which he
really thought was a loutish game played by men who lacked the
brainpower and the energy to do anything else productive.
With Windy
Mountain making the grand final, it was the mayor's traditional
responsibility to personally present the players one-by-one to the
townsfolk at the grand final parade in the High Street on Friday, the
eve of the big match against Slutz Plains.
Councillor
Northan had been swotting up for the occasion. He saw it as a chance
to win some more votes at the next elections.
Aside from
his municipal duties, Councillor Northan's business interests in the
town were vast.
Apart from
the ailing, haunted Northan apple orchard, he owned a bundle of
legitimate businesses, including one of the crop and stock stores in
the High Street, a dozen little shops, five farms, three houses and
the church across the road which he leased at outrageous rates to the Catholics.
Secretly,
he owned several more businesses which he dared not tell anyone,
especially the taxman, about.
One of
these was Tiger Kowaski's Dancing School which returned handsome profits.
Councillor
Northan was amazed that so many people seemed to like dancing.
"Good
morning, Councillor and Mrs Northan,'' said Reverend George Beare,
who greeted them at the door of the church. "And how's Prudence today?
Still a
good girl, I trust?'' he said, patting her on the head.
Reverend
Beare was a giant of a man who really did not trust anyone. He even
suspected the Catholics across the road of poaching some members of
his flock.
"We're
all very well, thank you Reverend,'' said Councillor Northan as he
loosely grasped the preacher's hand. It was like two recently used
tea-bags shaking hands.
"Good,
good,'' said the vicar as he ushered the Northans inside.
There was
a low murmur inside the church. As parishioners continued to arrive
in dribs and drabs, and Reverend Beare was out of earshot, everyone
caught up with the latest gossip before the service began. There were
already two dozen people or more in the church and the acoustics were
wonderful. Even a whisper on one side of the chamber was clearly
audible on the other side.
"I
had a very peculiar sort in the lockup last night,'' Sergeant
Birtwistle, dressed in civilian clothes, told frail old Mrs Elsie
Browning who was sitting next to him and his wife Rita.
"Oh,''
gasped Mrs Browning.
"Yes,
very peculiar indeed,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle. "It was a man
dressed up as a woman.''
"Really?''
"Yes,
I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen him with my own eyes.
He was wearing a pink dress, green stockings and a pair of grubby
sandshoes,'' said Sergeant Birtwistle.
"Oh
goodness me,'' said Mrs Browning in disgust. "Young people have
no dress sense at all these days.''
A woman
sitting on the pew in front turned around. "Funny you should say
that, Elsie,'' she said, raising the volume of the conversation.
"There's a bikie in the district hospital with hepatitis, a
broken leg, and black leather pyjamas. I don't think it's real
leather though. Probably vinyl. They can do some wonderful things
with vinyl these days, can't they?''
"Bikie,
what bikie?'' interrupted Sergeant Birtwistle, instinctively interested.
"The
one with hepatitis and a broken leg,'' said frail old Mrs Browning.
"My
sister's friend works up at the hospital,'' said Mabel Morrisby from
a seat behind. "She didn't mention anything about anyone in
vinyl pyjamas, but a while back they did admit a greenie who didn't
own any pyjamas at all.''
"Nobody
told me about any bikie?'' Sergeant Birtwistle said.
"There's
no law against being a bikie in hospital, is there sergeant?'' said
Matilda Northan from three seats back to the left.
"I
don't know,'' confessed the sergeant. "I didn't know until last
night that it was against the law for men to dress in women's
clothing in public.''
"Between
the hours of sunset and sunrise,'' Junior Constable Smith called out
from the back of the church.
"Smithy!''
said the sergeant, clearly surprised, as he craned his neck around.
"What on earth are you doing here?''
"I've
found God, Sarge,'' said Smithy.
"Really?
Pity you can't find out what's going on in this town. Who's this
bikie in our hospital?'' asked the Sergeant.
"I
don't think he's a bikie any more, Sarge; not in the sense that he
rides a motorbike. He came to town with a gang of bikies about three
years ago.
They
stopped to do some dancing at Tiger Kowaski's apparently, and they
left without him. He lives in Blackstump Road now . . . him and Bruce Routley.''
"Bruce
Routley, the Tasmanian Tiger hunter?'' asked the Sergeant.,
"I
thought he was a footballer,'' said Councillor Northan, who had
memorised the name from the Windy Mountain Tigers' list his secretary
had obtained for him.
"He
is,'' said fanatical football fan Betty Jacobson at centre left.
"He's the captain and the best player in the team.''
"Does
the bikie in the hospital play football, too?'' asked Councillor
Northan, confused.
"I
don't think so,'' said Smithy. "I don't think he does anything
in particular.''
"Except
use up space in our hospital,'' said Madge Noodle indignantly.
"I
think I'd better go to the hospital and check him out,'' said
Sergeant Birtwistle.
"Absolutely,''
added Councillor Northan who was clearly horrified at the prospect
of having a low life like a bikie in his town. "In my mayoral
capacity, I think I should come with you.''
"That's
a very nice thought, Councillor Northan,'' said Reverend Beare as he
made his way up the aisle to finally begin the service. "You'll
have a lot of things in common: him with his motorbike riding, you
with horse riding.''
Councillor
Northan nearly choked.
"Now
let's see,'' said Reverend Beare, taking up his position behind the
pulpit so that he faced the congregation. "Today's hymns are on
pages four, eight, 33 and 116.''
