The Newcastle Flyer leaving Stanmore Station

By Big M

I’ve written this short note by way of an apology to the patrons of the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle. The stories about Foodge, are simple transcripts from Foodge’s ‘dictations’. It’s probably best to try to explain just how our relationship came about.

Mrs M had offered to provide respite care for kids with disabilities. After much paperwork, and vetting by the Federal Police, we were rewarded with a message stating that we were to look after a young lad named ‘Foodge’, to give his Uncle Emmjay and Aunty FM a break. He was to be sent to Newcastle on the train. It was an exciting day as we waited on the platform of the Newcastle station, me looking only slightly more foolish than usual with a large A3 piece of cardboard with ‘Welcome Foodge’ scrawled across its front. We were eagerly examining the faces of the kiddies as they poured from the carriage doors when an enormous fellow in a brown suit, white shirt, RSL club tie and battered Fedora parked his ‘steamer’ next to me and stretched out his hand. “Big M, I presume.”

“Oh, hi.” I tried to peer around the shoulders of the gentleman standing in front of me. “Where’s the kid, I mean, Foodge?”

“I’m Foodge, there is no kid.” He pulled a box of ‘Dairy Milks’ out from behind his back, handing them to Mrs M. “Now, you must have a conveyance of some sort – A Ford Zephyr perhaps.” He started dragging his luggage along the platform towards the exit.

I quickly telephoned the contact number for Foodge’s foster parent. Emmjay answered, laughing at the misunderstanding. “Don’t worry Big M, he’s a sweet guy, you’ll love him!”

That was a few months ago. Foodge has been back to see his uncle and aunt, but seems happy in Newcastle for the moment. What can I say about him? He’s a big bloke, of indeterminate age, fit, reasonably muscular, although we never see him do any exercise. He’s polite, well spoken, likes to contribute to the household. He’s sober, never drinking more than a ‘half pint’ at the pub. He does have a Bachelor of Laws but has never practiced. He also has a battered Commercial and Private Enquiry Agent’s Licence, which has expired. Foodge’s name does not appear on the electoral roll. He’s never had a car licence, and has never owned a car. He has a bank account and credit cards, and is never short of funds.

I believe that Foodge has modelled himself on the famous pulp fiction writer Raymond Chandler’s character, ‘Philip Marlowe”, with his old-fashioned suits, narrow ties and Fedora. He refuses to own a pair of jeans, and won’t be seen wearing shorts outside the yard.  He does take it a bit far, at times, calling barmaids ‘doll-face’, or ‘toots’.  He has a penchant for out-dated uniforms. He joined the local bowling club, which he enjoys tremendously, going for a ‘roll-up’ in full bowling regalia. Emmjay tells me that he had no end of trouble trying to keep him from joining the Scouts.

Foodge makes the most outlandish claims, such as, “I’m thinking of having the Zephyr rebored”, “I invented the automatic garage door”, or, “my research proves that satellite navigation causes brain cancer”, and “the prime minister is not a real red-head,” or, “Mr Cole is making a film about my life.” Yet, he seems to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of astronomy and physics. He’s had a thesis on Aboriginal archeo-astronomy published, although is quite self-deprecating about this achievement (I don’t think it fits in with the whole 1940’s shamus persona).  He uses his own laptop computer, at home, yet struggles with the mobile phone, preferring to make a ‘trunk call’ from the home phone.

As for personal relationships he’s provided no information about his parents or extended family. He seems to have adopted Emmjay and FM, treating them as his own. He claims that a good friend of ours is his girlfriend. When we point out that she is gay, he replies. “Yes, she is, rather.”

Foodge insists on dictating these stories about his life as a ‘shamus’. Emmjay had originally started to do this on the advice of a psychologist as a way of allowing Foodge to express himself. I have tried to continue this, but it can be quite frustrating at times. “No, write it all down, no, not like that, do it the way Uncle Emmjay does it.” These stories are often extreme, revolving around his superior detecting skills, drinking ability, and sexual prowess. He seems to build up his own sense of self worth by casting others in lesser roles, for example, Emmjay is often portrayed as the wardrobe manager, O’Hoo is the fumbling copper who only gets results through Foodge’s efforts, and so on.

Mrs M and I don’t know how long Foodge will stay. We are determined to make the most of it, but will let him go back to Emmjay’s whenever. With your kind permission, I will continue to write down his stories and pin them up on the pub’s notice board, you know, in the Ladies Lounge behind that bench where the Bowling Ladies serve the tea. I hope you enjoy them and don’t find them too outré!