Porky always had a way with animals.
In the kitchen at the back of The Telegraph Beryl and Alice heard the siren too. Alice looked at Beryl, “What can have happened?”
Young Molloy, having slept through the day, was now up and waiting for his tea to brew while he read The Express again. He heard the siren too, fading in and out along the highway. Forgetting his tea, he dropped the paper and ran out into the yard to his bike. He kicked the “Matchless” into life. Chook would almost certainly end up at the station and obviously something was going on. Molloy had never heard the siren on the Police ute before.
Round at Harry’s place the three men heard it too as Harry and Porky sorted out sleeping arrangements and Algernon took a quiet stroll around the garden.
Mongrel hadn’t left Algy’s side since the drive from the hospital but now Mongrel’s ears pricked at the sound. He became agitated, barking loudly and running up and down the fence. Then he took to howling. A deep chested howl that started big and low and ended in a strangled “woooorrrrrrr”, his head high and extended, jaws almost shut and his front legs stiff and forward.
Not to be left out, The Runt abandoned Porky who was making the beds, and raced down the hall, pushed his way through the fly screen door and joined the bigger dog. Together they made for a distinctly dissonant performance. Soon other dogs from all over town had joined in and by the time Harry and Porky had come out into the garden dogs could be heard all over Molong joining in the pack song.
Then Algy and Porky had joined in too, getting down on all fours and egging the dogs on, much to Harry’s amusement. Unfortunately the antics started Algy’s head aching again and he went and sat on the edge of the verandah. That worried Mongrel so the dog stopped howling and went to sit by Algy.
Without Mongrel as the canine choirmaster all the other dogs soon fell silent too, turning Harry’s amusement to astonishment. He looked at Mongrel and the dog barked a happy bark as if to say, “What did you expect? I am the big dog around here!”
“Somethin’ mus’ be goin’ on.” Harry said. “Praps they’re comin’ for you two, ya mad buggers.” Harry laughed as Porky picked himself up, still barking, and they all went back inside.
Some time earlier across town Mrs Bell had been tucking the knitted woollen tea cosy over the pot. She put it on the tray next to the platter of butterfly cakes. Young George Cassimatty had apparently been struck dumb the moment he crossed the threshold. After brightening up the fire box in the stove in the kitchen and lighting the fire in the parlour he just sat there fidgeting, his eyes occasionally darting around the room as if looking for an avenue of escape. When Mrs. Bell came in with the afternoon tea tray he jumped as if shocked.
“Now George, exactly what is it that seems to be troubling you? Asked Mrs Bell as she poured their tea. “Milk and sugar?”
“Yes thank you Mrs. Bell; two please.” George was grateful for this small ritual. It staved off the inevitable for a moment longer. He sipped his tea and diffidently took a butterfly cake. He picked the wings off and ate them.
“Well, ya know when Tinker was sick and ya had ta take ‘im t’ the vet?” George didn’t wait for a response. He just kept going, thinking that if he faltered now he might not go through with it. “Well it was me who made ‘im sick.” He blurted. “I give ‘im some o’ me lunch. I didn’t mean t’ make ‘im sick. Tinker’s a great moggy, the best cat I know.”
It was obvious that Tinker liked George too. The big cat was purring like a diesel in George’s lap.
“Well George…..,” Mrs Bell started, uncertainly, “You’re a very honest young man. Not like some of those children, I can say!”
Mrs Bell remembered all the Springs and all the nectarine thieves. Had George been one of them? She thought he had but she wasn’t sure. Anyway, children and fresh spring fruits right off the tree; of course they were going to swipe a few. She just wished they’d ask first.
“But honesty really is the best policy George and you’ve shown yourself to be a young man of good and honest character. Besides Tinker has forgiven you and so I will too.”
George was thrown right off balance. He hadn’t expected this at all and the butterfly cakes were really good, and maybe Mrs Bell wasn’t such a bad old stick after all.
George looked across the mantel as Mrs Bell sipped her tea. There were several of those spotty old brown and white photographs in darkened silver frames; people standing stiffly together, looking down the years from the timelessness of their sepia past. In one there was a young girl in a long white summer frock and broad straw hat. She was standing by a man in uniform. He had a big moustache and sorta fluffy feather stuck in his slouch hat. They looked very happy.
“That’s my husband Athol and me on the day we got engaged.” the old woman offered wistfully with a smile, noticing George’ interest in the photos, “and those are my sons Bernard and John, and my daughter Mary and her husband Eric. They’re all of family.”
It occurred to George that Mrs Bell must miss her family. He didn’t want to ask but he knew Mr Bell had died and it was well known around town that Mrs Bell led a solitary kind of life. George’s mum had often said how she kept herself to herself, even at CWA meetings.
George thought of his own boisterous family, the fun and the fights with his brother Paul, the talk and arguments, planning and work; the sense of security and home. Mrs Bell’s house was full of ghosts, happy ghosts maybe, but she must still be lonely.
“They’ve all gone away now, got their own lives to lead.” Mrs Bell put her teacup down, straightened her back and laid her hands in her lap as she looked across the framed photos. “Bernard’s up north on a cattle station. He’s doing very well for himself.” She brightened and added, “He’s trying to get down for Christmas but they’ve had some heavy flooding and he may not be able to get away.” She gently bit at one side of her lower lip. “It would be marvellous to see him and Ronnie, well Veronica, his wife, and the kids. It’s been years since we were all together.”
George was thinking of last Christmas at home; the extended family all talking at once in Greek and English, the mountains of food and the endless homemade wine, and Ouzo for the men. The dancing and singing and the gifts, always opened after lunch.
“I could come and cut ya grass or chop the firewood.” George blurted. He had no idea where that came from. “ya know, ta make up f’ Tinker.”
Mrs Bell gave George a beautiful smile that completely dispelled the years and the lines and the shadows on her face. Suddenly George recognised the young girl in the photo and he smiled too.
After that it was easy and they talked for a while and got to know one another. It was odd to think of an old lady as beautiful, but that was how George was thinking of Mrs Bell as he later slowly made his way home.
Funny how things change. George was now actually looking forward to coming back on the weekend and cutting Mrs Bell’s grass. Maybe they’d have tea again, and some of those yummy butterfly cakes. With his tongue George retrieved a lime green icing escapee from his top lip and began to skip along, swinging his satchel and singing in time,
“It’s just a brown slouch hat, with its brim turned up, but it means the world to me.”
George liked the look of Mr Bell in his uniform with his big moustache and his feathered slouch hat. He might even work up the courage to ask Mrs. Bell about him. George was sure she’d be happy to tell him.
His skipping reverie was interrupted by the distant sound of a siren; and then, stone the crows, if every dog in town didn’t take to howling. George got a great big smile on his face and joined the dogs, howling fit to burst and running as fast as he could. When the siren ended and the dogs fell quiet one by one George just laughed, swung his satchel over his shoulder and thought to run all the way home. Maybe his dad would let him have a dog.
Down at Harry’s there was a change in the air too. Harry had been doing some serious thinking over the last few days. About himself, his son and Dotty, the butchery and life in Molong. He thought about these two young lads; good, straight boys, both of them. It struck Harry that while they probably wouldn’t have acknowledged it, they were very similar; both loners with baggage, both quick, confident in their individual ways.
It’d all started at the butchery on Saturday morning. The day had begun like every Saturday for years. In to the butchery early, get breakfast for Mongrel and The Runt, prepare and make the sausages, the mince, then start on butchering the carcasses. He’d been feeling twinges of pain “down there” for a day or two and it’d been getting worse.
He’d hardly had any sleep the night before but then, as the sausage machine pushed out Harry’s famous fat sausages, a stab of pain like a spear in the groin just dropped Harry to the tiled floor, the cleaver clattering out of his hand.
“Jesus H Christ!” Harry swore. “Bloody stones!”
He knew what it was straight away. He’d been having trouble with his waterworks for a year or two now and it didn’t seem to be getting any better. All Doc could suggest was that Harry eat less meat and change the tea he drank. Eat less meat! Harry was a butcher! What’s more, he just couldn’t see how tea could make kidney stones and so he’d continued to slurp down buckets of dark black Indian Char; but the pain this time…. Harry admitted to himself that maybe it was time to take Doc’s advice.
When the pain subsided to the point where it was merely excruciating, Harry dragged himself to the phone and called the ambulance. It was all he could do and it exhausted him.
The trip to the hospital was a bit of a blur, the pain being intense, and Harry was now feeling nauseous too.
He was grateful for the shot of morphia and the pain seemed to just drift away, and soon after Harry drifted off too. When he awoke he was in bed up at the Hospital, alone in the general ward. He had a drip connected to his arm and a tube running into his John Thomas. It was all a little embarrassing and somewhat uncomfortable but at least the pain had gone.
With nothing to do but lie down and watch the drip empty into his arm Harry had begun to reflect on the incident. For the first time in his long life Harry faced the simple, palpably obvious fact that he wasn’t a young man anymore. In a brief, fleeting moment of terror he even wondered what might have happened had he had a heart attack or some other equally serious and immobilising condition. He may have died, alone, with the sausage machine churning out snags till the meat hopper was empty or the gut ran out. He’d’ve gone to meet his maker in a bloodied blue and white striped apron.
“I’m MacCafferty from Molong. I’ve brought the big bloke’s breakfast snowlers.” Harry had joked to the empty ward.
“Yes, of course Mr. MacCafferty.” Harry now playing St. Peters part, “Come right in, he’s been looking forward to them.”
Harry chuckled, but this was quite serious really. He was seventy five, well beyond most bloke’s retirement, and while he was fit for his age and had led a healthy active life, there in the hospital it occurred to Harry, like a weight landing with a leaden thump, that these were his autumn years and winter wasn’t very far away.
Harry’s mood flattened, but soon the old optimistic Harry reasserted himself. He wasn’t going to go quietly. While he was still alive Harry had things to do. He was still able to make a difference and he was going to start the moment he got out of hospital.
He’d already decided that he’d ask Porky to join him at the butchery, a kind of late apprentice. Porky could already slaughter and butcher lamb and beef; he’d learned that at Fairbridge. Harry could teach him everything else he needed to know.
That was how it had started; but then the young bloke had been brought in with his battered bonce and they’d got to know one another and now it was a few days later and Harry’s plan had “growed” like Topsy. He was as excited as a schoolboy with his secret plan. A plan he would keep secret until he saw how things turned out between Porky and Algy.
It wasn’t only the three men at Harry’s that were in for some change. Mongrel and The Runt had things on their dog minds too, though how anyone might have figured out what was an open question.
To Mongrel and The Runt, their own company had always been enough. They were their own little pack of two and between The Runt’s cunning and Mongrel’s strength, and with occasional help from well meaning townsfolk, they’d lived a good life for two strays. They were fit and fly, well fed even, they were well liked, even cared for in a way and they had all the adventure two dogs could stand.
But for all this there was still stress in their relationships; to each other, to the people of Molong. Apart from Porky The Runt trusted no human, except maybe old MacCafferty, while Mongrel wanted to be everyone’s friend. This simple difference in the dogs’ personalities meant that their little pack of two had simply never become the ordered hierarchy that dogs feel best fitted in. Sometimes Mongrel was the boss dog, sometimes it was The Runt. Sometimes it worked well and sometimes it didn’t. To the dogs this was just a dog’s life. It didn’t occur to them, it couldn’t have occurred to them that it might be different, somehow better.
So it was that this evening round at Harry’s, the dogs had begun to feel different about each other, about Harry and Algy and Porky, about life in Molong. The dogs were about to discover the greatest truth a dog can know. That a dog’s life is almost always better with a human companion.
Even this late in Spring it had turned cool, so earlier Porky had lit a fire in the cast iron grate and the men had eaten their dinner, sausages, eggs and chips, from their laps as the house warmed up and lost that damp mustiness that old houses get when they’ve been closed up for a few rainy days.
The dogs had enjoyed a special treat of beef and bones with a couple of dried pigs ears for dessert.
As the dogs watched with uncomprehending but close interest the three men set to talking at length. It was Harry that started. His tone at first was serious. The dogs became alert. At length Harry became enthusiastic and he used his hands a lot as he talked. The younger men just listened, with a hint of apprehension at first but eventually responding to Harry with a like enthusiasm. The dogs became more relaxed. This felt better.
In the middle of it all Porky had unexpectedly scooped The Runt into the crook of his arm and gone to brighten the fire. Held there against Porky’s chest in the glowing warmth of the fire The Runt could hear and feel the man’s heart beating in his chest and smelled the sweet smell of Porky’s sweat. This was a man a dog could feel proud of. It felt right with Porky.
When Algy had entered into the talk his tone had lifted from uncertainty and apprehension to a more relaxed and confident one. He had become very animated, using his hands a lot. Mongrel had sat up, his tail wagging, he was panting happily; but then Algy had become a little sad, reflective. Mongrel drew in close and rested his head on Algy’s seated thigh. He wanted things to be better for Algy. Algy needed a friend.
As the evening wore on and the men continued talking, their voices slowly becoming quieter, more intimate, it was obvious to the dogs that the men had something planned and when the dogs had gone together to get a drink from the bowl in the laundry, with the men’s voices still babbling in the lounge, they found themselves with their heads down to drink but looking at one another.
Neither dog could know what the men had planned. They’d taken their cues from the men’s tone, how they related to one another; and it was obvious the men were forming a pack of their own. In that moment both dogs had unconsciously decided they wanted to be part of that bigger, better pack. They’d still be together and the men might give their pack a prestige even beyond that which they now enjoyed.
Satisfied that all was right at Harry’s house the dogs had taken a drink, gone back into the lounge and taken up their respective positions, Mongrel with Algy and The Runt on Porky’s lap. Soon both dogs were asleep while the men talked on.
Outside the moon was bright, the night remained clear and cool and as the hours slipped by, one by one across town lights were going out.
Harry was dreaming by the fire, occasionally grunting quietly and shifting in his overstuffed armchair; the clock on the mantel slowly ticking its way towards midnight.
Algernon was asleep too, on the couch, propped up on cushions; his bandaged head apparently giving him no problems. There was just the hint of a smile on his face and the darting of his good eye under the closed lid showed him to be deep in a dream too; dreaming of a girl with a fragrance like vanilla, they were walking their dog across sunlit green fields.
Lying on the floor next to the couch, Mongrel had come to rest so that Algernon’s left hand, having fallen from the couch as Algernon slept, rested gently on the thick ruff of blue fur around Mongrel’s neck. From time to time Mongrel woke, checked Algernon and reassured by his steady breathing, went back to sleep.
Porky had enjoyed a few beers while the men had been talking and was now fast asleep too, opposite Harry in front of the fire. His spare frame hardly touching the sides of the fat armchair; one hand holding his sleeping head, his other arm resting in his lap, his legs were spread before him on the hearthrug. The Runt was curled up in Porky’s lap dreaming of being curled up in Porky’s lap. Every now and then one or the other of them would let go a little fart. Beer always gave Porky gas and the Runt, though small, could “fart for Australia”.
The fire had now burned down to a few dull red embers among the ash and charcoal. The cast iron of the grate “ticking” as it cooled and contracted set a random rhythm against the steady regularity of the clock ticking into the future.
Out at “the scene” Young Molloy, pulling his slicker tighter around him with one hand and thankful the rain had held off, was stoking his little campfire with his free hand and thinking of making another billy of tea. The light from the campfire threw a dull yellow flicker across the blackened ruin and Molloy began to wonder again just what had gone on here. The boss had been emphatic. No-one was to go near the building until the D’s from Orange turned up in the morning.
Molloy had seen enough when he was rigging the tarps. That weird “smile” on the blackened head.
Every now and then the breeze would flap one of the tarps and Molloy would start at the sound. The young constable thought he’d heard someone a few times but it had turned out to be nothing. It occurred to him that he was expecting something to happen, he had no idea what. It was an eerie feeling and the blue silver light from the almost full moon gave the entire scene an otherworldly feeling.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 