Gumshoe hoofs it.

Story by Big M.

Foodge was completely discombobulated. Two events had shaken him to the core. One was the realisation that he was broke. Stony broke. Great Depression, jump from the thirteenth floor broke. The second was that, for the first time Foodge could remember, Pigs Arms was closed.

Foodge was, as these things go, the last to realise that his financial situation was untenable. The story had started to unfold on the previous day. The office telephone had been cut off. Foodge pressed the button on the office intercom to raise Fern’s awareness that her employer had some task for her to attended, but the was no answer. Foodge went to the outer office to find Fern’s desk empty, except for a note, ‘Won’t come back to work til ALL wages paid, Fern.’  Next to it were overdue notices for accounts unpaid; telephone, electricity, rent, dry-cleaning, and so on.

Foodge had, initially, refused to fall into depression. He picked up his passbook and Fedora, and marched down to the bank to sort things out. There was no sorting out at all. His bank balance was $2.71, which was about to be consumed by this month’s account keeping fees. Foodge thanked the teller very kindly for her help, donned his hat, and then walked two doors down to that other potential source of income, his accountant.

The accountant’s secretary apologised profusely, that Mr Swan was at a meeting and would Mr Foodge care to make an appointment?  Foodge declined, stating that he might happen to run into Mr Swan while he was out and about. Foodge did indeed run into Mr Swan, at the Swindler’s Arms, a small tavern frequented by the accounting and banking fraternity. Mr Swan was quick to point out that, whilst Foodge’s tax return may generate a refund, the fines from seven late BAS statements would probably leave Foodge with a net loss. Foodge thanked Swanee, then shuffled out into the street, only to wander back to office. How long he’d be able to use the term ‘my office’ was an unknown, not as complex as a Donald Rumsfeld unknown, but an unknown none the less!

Foodge sat at his desk enjoying a cup of Nescafe Gold when he hit upon a brilliant idea. There must be some accounts payable to him. He began to go through Fern’s account keeping, which, whilst unconventional, was easy to follow. One biscuit tin contained all accounts, which had been paid for this financial year. Previous year’s accounts were stored in other tins. Unpaid accounts occupied another tin. Foodge picked out the accounts with the largest balances, and then proceeded to telephone his debtors. This brought him full circle to the event that initiated today’s activities. He decided to deliver the Final Notices by hand, but soon realised that the Zephyr was almost completely devoid of fuel, and that Foodge couldn’t afford to fill her. Foodge decided that a fit, young, healthy person such as himself, could easily walk to most of the addresses on his list, so grabbed the ‘Gregor’s’ from the glove compartment and, with his detective’s pencil, charted the most efficient walking route.

Foodge’s journey was seriously hampered by the fact that his 1968 edition of Gregor’s included roads that had been turned into cul-de-sacs, pedestrian paths that no longer existed; in fact, there were almost entire suburbs that Mr Gregor had failed to foresee. On the plus side, there were plenty of bicycle paths, which, once Foodge learned to stay on the left, and not stagger all over the place, became pleasant, and reasonably direct routes. He’d even spied Emmjay (the former ABC Wardrobe Manager) in the distance, clad in lime green and black, peddling at a furious pace. Foodge wondered quietly to himself about the role of Lyra and bright colours in cycling. He couldn’t figure it out, but, then again, he’d never quite mastered the concept of bicycle riding himself.

Foodge had, surprisingly, completed his deliveries by the close of business, and had even collected a couple of hundred dollars from one lady who thanked him for the photos, and told him to ‘piss off.’ The two ‘c’ notes burnt a hole in Foodge’s wallet, so he, rather wisely, invested them at a TAB. Surprisingly, ‘Carntkeepup’ came in at 42 to one.

First thing, the next day, the cheque was immediately deposited into Foodge’s bank. This should have made Foodge happy, but he was so far in debt that this would only pay for the outstanding rent utilities and Fern’s wages, once the cheque cleared, in five working days. Foodge decided that he would throw himself at Merv’s mercy, and that, in spite of Merv’s threat to refuse Foodge service until the tab was paid in full, he would present himself at the Gentleman’s Bar of the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle, show Merv the balance on his bank book, and hope for some compassion.

Foodge walked, or rather, shuffled from the bank to the Pigs Arms. His gait had altered since yesterday’s long sojourn, as he had a shin splint on his left leg, and had been up half the night with cramps in some muscle he was sure that even the great anatomist Andreas Vesalius had not discovered (it was Peroneus Longus, but we’ll let Foodge have his fantasy).  He rounded the corner where the old tannery stood, vacant and decaying, and couldn’t believe his eyes. The hotel was shut, blinds down, and a piece of paper fluttering from the front door:

Congratulations to Janet and Merv, Viv & Ian (not identical) were born last evening at the Royal Inner Western Cyberian Maternity Hospital and Public Library.  Mother and babies all well. Merv is now responding to the treatment.

Foodge was gob smacked. The Pigs Arms was closed. He had no money. Where in the hell would he be able to get a drink? Oh, and Merv and Janet were parents. He stood there, rooted to the footpath, staring at the doors, almost willing them to open. Then the miracle happened. One door swung open, then the other. The space was almost entirely filled by a dark shadow. Then the shadow stepped forward. “Gooday, Foodge, wanna pint, it’s on the house?” Young Wes ushered him in. Foodge never felt safer, nor more at home, than just at that moment.