Foodge tried to relax in the Emergency Department bed, but, clearly they were designed to discourage both, relaxation, and any desire to stay on the med for more than a couple of hours. He was waiting for the doctors to read the CT scan of his head, but, by the sound of the conversation, weren’t looking at his. “Fair bit of brain shrinkage.”

“No focal signs, but could have dementia.”

“Sometimes see this sort of pattern in older alcoholic males, but, seems OK for a sixty two year old.”

“Look at the date of birth, he’s only forty two.”

Forty-two, thought Foodge, I’m forty-two. Sounds bad for the poor old fellow.  A young doctor, wearing green ‘scrubs’, who, to Foodge looked more like a mechanic’s apprentice than an Emergency Physician, pulled the curtain back.

“Mr Foodge, I’ve reviewed your CT with one of my colleagues. We think you’re OK to go home, as long as you stay with someone, do you have any family?”

“No…err…actually, yes.” Foodge had a bright smile on his bruised and battered face. He realised that the Pig’s Arms was his second home, and that Merv and Granny would keep an eye on him. Wes had driven him to the hospital, in Merv’s Bedford truck, straight after the incident, and had hung around to see if Foodge was OK (this wasn’t strictly true, Wes has spied a pretty emergency nurse, and was trying to invite her out for a drink).

“Who’s your local doctor, Mr Foodge, so I can send a discharge summary out?”

“Doctor Hewson, near the Pig’s Arms Hotel.”

“I think you might be telling porkies there, sir, as he’s been deregistered for some years, you know, after the ‘trouble’?’ The doctor winked conspiratorially. “How about I send the letter out to the new medical centre on the main road, and you can make an appointment this week?”

The doctor closed the curtains so that Foodge could remove the backless gown and struggle back into his, now, torn trousers and jacket, and picked up the flattened, felt disc that had once been a new black Fedora. He hobbled passed the nurses’ station, picked up a copy of the discharge letter and into the waiting room where young Wes was happily typing his number into the aforementioned nurse’s mobile phone. “Ah, Foodge, you OK? Uncle Merv said to bring you back to the pub, if that’s OK with you? Do you want me to swing by your joint, to pick up some toiletries, or whatever?”

Foodge shook his head, and immediately wished he hadn’t as all the hangovers of a lifetime came back for drum practice. “No.” He whispered.

Like all of the events at the Pigs Arms, there’s a story to it. It was early evening and Foodge had carefully parked his Zephyr in the area behind the pub, and felt quite lucky, as he’d managed to park in a single parking spot, between the shed and the chicken coop (it was really the parking spot that was reserved for Granny, but she preferred Merv’s truck), and was whistling away, looking forward to a debriefing with Wes, who was still on the surf gang case, as well as a cleansing ale, or three. Out  of the shadows stepped a figure which deftly pulled the back of Foodge’s jacket down, pinning his arms behind him as a second figure punched him in the eye, whilst a third started Flamenco practice on Foodge’s ribs. He remembered someone yelling to ‘kick him hard in the guts!’ almost at the same time as a familiar voice yelled, “Get outa ‘ere you flamin’ dingoes!” Merv appeared and helped Foodge into the Main Bar, where Granny started applying first aid.

“Must’ve been six of them, big blokes, they were.” Mumbled Foodge, as Granny dabbed blood away from his right eye.

“No, Foodge, three. Three teen-agers, in fact. Our local identity beaten up by three kids.” Merv shook his head. “ They’re the little buggers who hang around the back of pubs trying to con someone into buying them some beers.” Merv was interrupted by Janet’s screams (The sight of blood had set her off, again), followed by the cries of the twins.

Merv and Granny had insisted that Foodge go to hospital to have his ‘noggin’ checked out, so Wes, being ‘nearly a doctor’, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t yet a nurse, was allocated the job of escorting Foodge to and from hospital.

Foodge returned to the pub to find that Merv had made up a room next to Wes’ on the third floor. He ended up spending two nights, which is about the same time that it took for the headaches to settle. Foodge was intended to pay mere lip service to the doctor’s request that he go to the new medical centre, but Granny physically dragged him there (it was in the same shopping complex as Aldo’s). Foodge had assumed that the doctor would find that he was the fittest forty two year old he’d ever seen. Unfortunately the truth was somewhat different; overweight, hypertensive with abnormal liver enzymes and hypercholesterolaemia. The doctor’s advice was less beer and wedges, more leafy greens and exercise. Merv decided that he was just the right person to sort Foodge out with ‘boxin’ lessons’!

One week later found Foodge in front of the Pig’s Arms at 06:00 a.m, waiting for Merv. Foodge had only ever seen six in the morning from the other side, having been up all night ‘on a case’, or, more often, drinking. Merv, Granny and Wes all burst from the front door of the pub, all in running shorts, T-shirts and joggers. “Who’s car are we taking?” Foodge looked around.

Merv laughed. “Car! We’re runnin’, it’s only five clicks”

I won’t describe the journey, but, let’s just say that it wasn’t a ‘run’. They arrived at ‘Doc Morton’s’ gym, which, like all boxing gyms, stank of sweat and dust. There was the usual boxing ring in the middle, weight lifting area in one corner, punching bags in the other, with the other two corners clear for skipping, etc. Merv and Wes headed over to the weights where they started on some squats whilst Granny tried to teach Foodge how to skip. She terminated the experience after he’d fallen for the fifth time. Merv and Wes decided that the best way to learn was for him to watch them spar, with Granny giving running commentary, which started with simple things like, ‘Merv’s got a great right-left-right combo’ and, ‘note how he punches from the waist, uses his whole body’ but quickly degraded to “Give it to ‘im, Wes.” “Get orff the ropes.” “Hit him harder!!!”

Merv put Foodge in the ring with Wes and tried to teach a basic move which involved stepping out of the way of a punch, then countering with a  right to the mid-section and a left to the side of the head as the he stepped past the opponent. Unfortunately Foodge got his left and right mixed up for the first four attempts, so walked straight into Wes’ fist. The fifth time he literally tripped over his own feet, landing heavily on the canvas.

“OK Foodge, that’s enough for today, ready to run home?”

Foodge shook his head, pulled out his iPhone and called for a taxi. Training was over for the day!

Acacia jonesii

Story by Big M

Acacia’s plan for Foodge depended on Fern being able to carry out her part, flawlessly. Acacia had already established, from medical records and old newspapers that Foodge was the only son of Hamish MacFoodge, socialite, barrister, and philanthropist, and his wife Felicity, socialiser, Solicitor-at-Large, and professional cake contest judge. They had both been tragically killed in a ballroom accident, leaving poor young Felix MacFoodge orphaned. The rest was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, or, was it an enigma wrapped in a mystery (or a wedge wrapped in a newspaper…ed) ? Either way, Acacia had gone as far as she could go with public records. This was where Fern had a huge part to play. Acacia had just finished explaining all of the above, over a glass, or two, of ‘Chardy’.

“So, Foodge’s dad was a famous coffee maker, right?” Fern was trying to resist the temptation to fiddle with her new acrylic nail.

“No, where did you get that idea?”

“Oh, silly, you said that he was a famous barista” Fern replied triumphantly, once having dated one. “I should know!”

“No, you’re the silly one, I said ‘barrister’, not ‘barista’, don’t you know the difference?” Acacia was starting to get short with Fern, which was a pretty common occurrence, as Fern wasn’t playing with a full deck.

“Yes, of course I do, one makes coffee, the other hangs around in bars!” Fern waved at the waitress to top up their glasses.

“That’s right, this one was the bar hanging around type. Anyhoo, what we need is for you to get back into Foodge’s office and get the name of his solicitor, so that you can find out just what he’s worth.” Acacia took a long drink from her glass, thinking it might be time to change to cocktails.

“Why do I want to find out what Foodge’s solicitor is worth?”  Fern was really struggling with this crazy plan, and hoped the waitress would return so she could order a low fat mudslide.

Mudslide

“No, find out how much Foodge is worth. He must have property, or a family trust, or investments, or, all of the above.”  Acacia grabbed Fern’s face with two hands to force her to look Acacia right in the eyes, like she used to do when they were kids.

“Above, the above.” Fern was trying to look over Acacia’s head to look at ‘all of the above’, but her head was trapped by Acacia’s hands, so Fern tried to roll her eyes upward. Unfortunately the woman seated at the next table thought that Fern was choking, so leapt up, placed both arms around her midriff and thrusting backwards in a poor imitation of the Heimlich manoeuvre. This forced all of Fern’s stomach contents upward, through her oesophagus, and out her mouth, straight into Acacia’s face.

Heimlich Manoeuvre a little bit wrong.....

Fern felt about a kilo lighter, but was still none the wiser. Acacia was covered in nibblies, chardonnay and grated carrot. The Heimlich manoeuvre lady stepped back with her hands grasped above her head, like a prizefighter, whilst the other patrons cheered. Acacia stormed out to the ladies, whilst Fern meekly followed.

Monday was a new day. Acacia had persuaded Fern to return to work at Foodge’s office. The appearance of Fern’s missing pay in her bank account gave the perfect excuse for her return. Fern had spent Saturday afternoon at the beauty salon (no, not that run down place near the Pig’s Arms) being waxed, plucked and streaked in anticipation. They had been over the plan all weekend, well, not all weekend, they’d spent Saturday night drinking cocktails, eschewing ‘Chardy’ for the first time in their lives.

Fern did everything as usual. She caught the 08:50 bus, which brought her to the bus stop right outside the doorway between the drycleaners and the kebab shop leading to the offices above. The nameplate on the door read, ‘Suite One. P.J Heinz, Esq. Debt Collectors. Suite Two. Fong Chin, Imports. Suite Three. F.Foodge, Esq. Private Agent.’ She climbed the threadbare stairs, trying not to hang onto the sticky timber handrail, but every second or third tread threatened to tip her backwards, out onto the footpath. Of course, the stilettos didn’t help!

Fern reached the landing, stepped forward to the Art Deco styled door, which she had to unlock. This wasn’t uncommon, as it was rare for Foodge to be in the office before 11:00. She entered the office and gasped. It had clearly been ransacked. Her filing system was in complete disarray. Biscuit tins of receipts had been tossed across the room. The drawers of her desk had been pulled all the way out, and threatened to collapse under the weight of spare lipstick and mascara. Her telephony headset (as she liked to call it) had been torn out of its socket, and tossed across the room, which didn’t really matter as she was unlikely to answer the telephone. She stepped into Foodge’s Private Office, at least, that’s what it said on the door. Everything was as it usually was. Spare Fedora and overcoat on a wooden stand. Row of unused pipes in a rack, next to a half empty bottle of  ‘Seven Seas’ rye and two shot glasses.

Fern sat at the desk, and started flicking though the teledex. There was nothing under ‘B’ for barista, or ‘C’ for coffee maker, then she remembered, and checked ‘B’ again for ‘barrister’ then ‘L’ for ‘lawyer, then, ‘S’ for ‘solicitor’. She was about to give up when she spied a card wedged under the edge of the Bakelite telephone. It read ‘Reid, Reid and Reid, Attorneys at Law and Notaries Public’. She was about to slip the card into her pocket, when she realised that it’s absence might give a clue to a sleuth like Foodge, so she transcribed the details into her notebook. Fern spent the rest of the day tidying her filing system, and going through old mascaras and lipsticks, discarding most of them, as they were no longer trendy.

That evening Acacia made Fern a celebratory meal as a reward for her good work; frozen calamari, steamed vegetables and rice, also frozen. They ate their meal in front of the television, laughing, whilst the ‘Fat Fighters’ struggled to run through an obstacle course whilst wearing weight jackets equivalent to their weight loss. Acacia turned to Fern. “ A toast, to Foodge, who’s gunna get a whole lot poorer”.

Foodge, meanwhile had spent the afternoon in the company of his ‘parents’ and now, his solicitor, Jonathon Reid, Solicitor at Large, as he liked to call himself, more for his size, rather than for being out and about. Mr Reid had telephoned Foodge early in the morning, around 11:30, to invite him for lunch. They met at 2:00pm at the Swindlers’ Arms, Mr Reid’s second office. They polished off steak in red wine, surely an oxymoron, as it tasted distinctly of cleaning fluid, washed down with Swindlers’ Arms Porter, a dense carbonated brew with a firm mouth feel, diesel fumes on the front of the palate, and a rather axillary nose.

“I’ll come straight to the point, not beat around the bush…you…er…know…ah…you’re, well, broke!” Mr Reid tried to soften the blow with a sardonic grin. All the while holding his pint up to the light, which was futile, as the fluid therein was entirely opaque. “Mr Swan approached my office last week. I know that you may see this as a breach of confidence, but, I am, after all, your legal guardian.”

Foodge’s little face fell. “Yes, of course Uncle Jonathon.” He started to nervously fiddle with his well-worn pack of Camels.

“Now, there’s nothing to fear. Mr Swan and I have approached the Taxation Department, and Mr Swan should have your tax matters sorted within a fortnight. I am prepared to release money from your trust fund in order to set things right on two conditions. One, you must fire that secretary. She’s the most indolent, incompetent, inept person I’ve met in my life, and, two, you modernise your office. New telephones, fax, computers, broadband, billing systems, and so on.” Mr Reid eyes moved from the glass to attempt to meet Foodge’s, who stared down at the cigarette packet in his left hand.

Foodge had failed to comprehend most of what his legal advisor had said. All he’d heard was, ‘fire Fern.’ He couldn’t fire her. She was a great secretary, punctual, always there by 9:30 or 10:00, and sometimes staying back until 5:00. She had a great accounting system, and even answered the ‘phone, sometimes, plus, she was a real good looker. Foodge mumbled some thing like, ‘I’ll think about it, thanks for lunch’ Then donned his hat, pocketed his Camels, and pushed his way through the crowd black suited legal and financial people, until he tumbled out onto the footpath. Foodge knew exactly what he needed; wedges and cold, hand brewed ale.