By Big M

It was a fairly low-key morning, for a Monday. The Pigs Arms had been part of the Lewisham-Leichhardt Food and Wine Weekend, which was uncharacteristic of Merv to allow. The Bowling Ladies had served Devonshire Teas in the front bar, in an attempt to proselytise new members. This had been completely unsuccessful, as they still had no green. Granny had brewed up a nice keg of her Cellar Floor Underpants beer, which she tried to market as an Indian Pale Ale, but hers was far too high in alcohol, and far too bitter for this category, so was simply sold as ‘Granny’s Boutique Bitter.’

The surrounding community had got into the swing of things. Gez and the mysterious, and beautiful, ‘H’ had set up a small art gallery with the profits going into purchasing materials for the local school. The Hell’s Angles opened the clubhouse and entertained the local children with the ‘Cosine Clowns’ and the ‘Arc-Sine Acrobats’, as well as ‘Tangent Tombola’ with their proceedings going into texts on geometry for the high school.

The bar was fairly quiet. The Bowling ladies had already cleaned the front bar, and gone off for a ‘roll up’ at a rival green. Emmjay and First Mate were firmly ensconced on the old, battered chesterfield, commiserating. Both had lost their jobs in the ABC wardrobe department, and were drowning their sorrows in Trotters ale. The occasional bang or grunt came from the cellar. Granny was spring-cleaning as the goat had got in and, well, done what goats do, eat inedible things, and then excrete them from their alimentary tract.

Foodge was  out of sorts. The cops had taken all of the glory for the de Sastri case, plus all of the associated misdemeanours committed by the Lambrettists. O’Hoo was otherwise occupied, whilst most regulars had spent the last fortnight preparing for the Weekend. He sat at the bar sipping on Granny’s, which, by the way, was a great throat elixir and expectorant.

Janet was alone behind the bar, looking a tad pale. She’d excused herself a couple of times to run to the ladies. Merv had left early to go into town. He wanted to buy a suit and managed to find out the name of  Clive Palmer’s and Joe Hockey’s tailor; Messrs Lowes and Elliot, who catered for the man of larger stature.  The third time she disappeared Granny intercepted and helped her to the flat upstairs. Granny returned to look after the bar, as most of the cellar was clean. Foodge looked at her quizzically.

“Pudding Club.” She replied.

“Ugh.” Foodge looked more quizzical.

“Up the duff.”

“Err.” Foodge shrugged his shoulders.

“She’s preggers.”

“O.K. Granny.” Foodge’s brows were knitted like a mad woman had done them.  Dropped stitches gave them a kind of triangularity – which pleased the Hell’s Angles.  “No need to be so cryptic!”

“She’s having a baby.” Granny shook her head. Brilliant powers of deduction.” Just don’t mention anything to Merv, he’s still a bit raw.”

“Oh…err…right.” Foodge concentrated hard on his mail that he’d brought to read. Bills, bills and more bills. Quote for the Zephyr, unmentionable, although, he thought, should be a tax dod…deduction. Fern had even slipped in a couple of acrylic nail repairs, as they were broken on the job. There was also a bill for her on-line short hand course. This really wasn’t money well spent, as she didn’t know how to use the internet. He shoved the mass of paper roughly into his coat pocket. Foodge silently pushed his glass canoe across the bar, which Granny dutifully refilled. He settled in to read Barrister’s Weekly. This week it was full of glossy colour action shots, with not much text, which suited Foodge. His concentration was disturbed by the sound of the door slamming, and a leggy redhead cha chai-ng towards him. “Sorry, love, don’t do divorces or missing persons.” As he turned back to his ‘journal’. This wasn’t entirely true, but he’d heard Phillip Marlowe say it, and thought it cool.

The redhead flopped onto the barstool next to his, put her elbows on the bar then buried her face in her hands. “It’s neither.” She sobbed. “It’s this.” She pulled a packet of colour snaps out of her handbag.

Foodge looked through them with his head on one side, then the other, trying to determine the camera angle, or, some other angle. “Somebody’s got a big pe…err…smile.” He almost chuckled to himself, forgetting the gravity of the situation. “Shown these to the cops?”

Big Red shook her head as Granny proffered a box of tissues. “I can’t, he’s my husband, the Local Member.”

“Yes, I can see his member.” Foodge could be obtuse.

“No, he’s the Local Member.” She sobbed.

“So, I think I’ve got it. He’s local and is memorable ?”

“Foodge, he’s the bloody Local Member, MP, Member for Lewisham!” Granny growled as she tried to comfort the poor woman.

“Oh, the Local Member, you should’ve said.” Foodge grinned at his cleverness. “So, you want me to find Cecil Bee Dermill and give a him tune up?”

“No, they’re obviously photoshopped, but could be damaging if they find their way into a paper. I want you to find him, stop him, take the files, and give them to me.

“What, find your husband, I don’t do lost and found.” Foodge was umbraged.

“ No, find the photographer and stop him. Here’s five thousand to get started, there’ll be five more when you finish. Do we have a deal?” She held out her hand.

“OK, but what’s his name?

“I don’t know his name. That’s why I’ve hired you.”

What, you don’t know your husband’s name? Foodge was befuddled.

“Yes, he’s the Local Member. Don’t tell me you don’t know the name of the Local Member?” Big Red was getting exasperated.

“Well, no.”

“Patrick Fitzpatrick.!”

“Patrick certainly fits something.” Foodge muttered to himself. “Leave it with me, the five big, I mean. I’ll get started straight away. Foodge took the wad of cash, turned on his heel and marched into the putrid stench known as ‘The Men’s.”’ He then realised that he had no details, such as, her name, address, phone number, method of delivery of said photos, and so on. Minor details. Rather than lose face, he waited amongst the fetid odour, hid his five large in his secret pocket, and siphoned of some bladder contents. He returned to find Merv behind the bar, resplendent in his new suit.

“Ah, you’ll look great at the christening.” Granny suddenly slopped grey water from the mop over his shoes, sock s and lower trousers.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry.” Granny manoeuvred Foodge  back towards ‘The Gents’. “Say nothing, and keep walking.” She hissed.

Granny had been in a bad mood all day!