by Barry Heard
OAT’S lOVER had a big win at the trots, and you guessed it, Hutchy picked it — that’s right, He won a fortune, $18,514 — THE bastard only put on $175 The lucky prick! My ugly four-legged freak called ‘The Pinto’ it fell and cost me a fortune. Should have picked OAT’S LOVER
Wally stared at the screen. The time warp again. Were he and Basil speaking the same language?
He printed off the message and returned to his room. Next, he found some blank paper, laid it out, and picked up a pencil. He would read this message very slowly, very carefully, hoping to decrypt and decode the true meaning — now that’s a perplexing and confusing statement, as neither Wally nor Basil was ever in ASIO, the CIA, Her Majesty’s Secret Service, KAOS, or CONTROL. Yet they had just communicated in a way that none of those organisations would have been capable of deciphering. A rare geek? Hmm … maybe a week.
Most people who read such a message would smile and believe Wally’s mate was having fun. No, the opposite. To explain Basil’s message to Wally will take many chapters.
Chapter 2
Born in 1945, Wally Flannagan entered this beautiful world without a father. World War II ended that man’s life: one year before ‘Peace’ was declared, Wally’s dad died from wounds inflicted in New Guinea. Yet Wally grew up surrounded by love and stability.
The Flannagan family — Wally’s mum, Mary Flannagan, and grandparents, Tom and Muriel Flannagan — helped by the occasional hired worker, ran a dairy farm. As Wally was an only child and the only child on the farm, much attention came his way. He grew up not spoilt but permanently treasured by all the family. By the time he went to school, he could read and write, and had developed an enquiring mind that asked questions, so many questions.
One question led to another, and answers often turned out to be questions themselves, but his days were never dull. Over the course of a long life, there were times he would never forget. Three memories in particular are pertinent to this story.
The first was of a gift from Tompop — yes, Tom Flannagan, the grandad who milked the cows, worked on the farm, and loved raising Wally.
Leisure time for any dairy farmer was limited and cherished. Tompop, a very private man, was an avid reader, a library regular; much of his spare time was given to books. Nature and the mysteries of science intrigued him, so it was in this direction his thoughts turned when planning this gift. It was to be Wally’s tenth birthday, and the birthday present had to be special.
Tompop planned well ahead. He knew this idea would thrill his little mate Wally. Months before the big day, Tompop secretly planted some sunflowers down the back, behind the machinery shed. He not only turned the soil before planting the seeds, but also raked in compost, cow dung, and chook manure, creating the perfect garden bed. Once in full bloom, each magnificent plant boasted beautiful yellow petals and seeds that made it look like a glorious crown jewel. Tompop had done well. He carefully selected the largest flower head, and, back in the machinery shed, carefully pressed this bright-yellow sunflower between two pieces of cardboard laid out on the workbench with six bricks on top. Meanwhile, a frame was made from an old ironbark tree, cut by hand and carved in the corners by a cabinet-maker friend in the nearby town for a fee of free milk for two months.
Come the day, Wally’s birthday, Tompop presented his grandson with a vivid flower the size of a generous dinner plate, expertly pressed and framed. Maybe that was the moment Wally Flannagan developed a passion for flowers.
Through the years, the family remained the same. Wally’s mum never remarried but remained loyal to farm and family. The Flannagans had owned their land near Stratford on the River Avon for four generations. The farm we are speaking of was located in East Gippsland, Victoria, Australia — not Stratford-upon-Avon, England, Shakespeare’s old haunt. By Australian standards, the Flannagans’ was a very small farm: only 100 acres. However, the soil, a deep, rich black, was suited to heavy stocking and dairy cows, so the Flannagans kept themselves busy.
On a dairy farm, for the farmer, Saturday is like any other day: cows are milked seven days a week. Yet for the twelve-year-old Wally Flannagan, Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. Saturday meant no school, just farm chores and family — particularly Tompop.
We are now in the late 1950s, in the days before television in country Victoria. Only Melbourne had recently, in anticipation of hosting the 1956 Olympics, turned on the TV.
On the farm, evenings were a joy of cards, music, reading, and large suppers. After tea, Wally sat with his Tompop, asking questions and discussing the book Tompop was reading. Tom encouraged the boy to read books on the lives of fine humans, history, and science.
On Saturdays and Sundays, the two often went walking, stopping to scrutinise insects, plants, birds, and the many forms of life in the swamp beside the Avon River that bordered their farm.
There was, however, one Saturday that would remain locked in Wally’s memory forever — our second memory. The day started as usual, early, with the milking. This completed, Wally’s mum commenced the tiresome job of cleaning the dairy, while Wally and Tompop slowly returned the disinterested cows to their river paddock. With that done, heading back for the homestead via the swamp paddock, as always, Wally asked a question of Tompop. But on this day, before Tompop could answer, both were distracted by a blur of wings, a confusion of long necks outstretched, and the odd honk as a bevy of swans strutted, splashed, and flapped, gaining a resemblance of flying, until each swan curved gracefully into the heavens. Wally and Tompop stood in amazement, though they saw this event almost daily. The large wetland by the river boasted swans, wild ducks, and thousands of other birds as well.
Tompop pointed out the she-oak tree on the water’s edge. Its curling, dry paperbark and thin leaves flapped slowly in the breeze. A rosella, one claw holding on to a thick branch, head inverted, was showing great interest in something behind the loose bark. It flew off faster than a swan as they approached. Moving closer to the tree, Tompop carefully pulled down a low branch to reveal an unusual thin twig construction. A cocoon, he explained. He loved these cocoons, their life cycle; still, he wondered why the cocoons chose the she-oak tree. On this tree alone, at least a dozen cocoons dangled, held by the thinnest twisted thread.
Wally, only slightly curious about the cocoons, said, ‘Honestly, Tompop, they’re just a bunch of dried sticks stuck together, like a rolled cigarette, suspended by a bit of string. So what?’
Tompop loved this sort of question.
‘Well, Wally, when we get back to the house, I’ll get down my book of butterflies and moths, and we’ll try and match the cocoon in that tree, my boy.’
Wally shook his head with a puckered brow as they made the journey back to the homestead. The reason: his Tompop walked too slow. As always, Wally wanted to speed up, run home, and check out the books. So here the two were, on a Saturday, striding along at a moderate pace, with a delighted old Tompop explaining the complicated life of the butterfly or moth. First, an egg; then, a grub, worm, larva, or caterpillar, depending on the type; then, the cocoon; until finally, an incredible flying creature, some with fantastic colours. Tompop went into extensive detail. The more Wally heard, the more fascinated he became — and the more he wanted Tompop to jog back to the house and show him the pictures in the books Tompop had in his bookcase.
Back at the house.
‘We’ve got an hour, see how we go,’ was all Tompop said as they wiped their boots and strode into the kitchen for the briefest breakfast. Today, Weeties, a large slice of bacon, two eggs, two pieces of toast, a cuppa, and some fruit — that’s a brief breakfast?
Their heads didn’t lift at the table; eating was the priority. The dishes went in the sink, and then the two moved into the lounge room, its walls lined with bookshelves and family photos. Wally waited as Tompop sorted and pulled out books, flicked through pages, marked several, and at last sat down. Tompop smiled; he knew his grandson was in
for a treat.
Within minutes, Wally was wonderstruck. He’d had no idea of the variety and beauty of these stunning insects. There followed half an hour punctuated by many a ‘wow’ and ‘my word, look at that’, during which Tompop spread books over the lounge-room table, earmarking a few.
Eventually, Tompop stood. They were expected at the dairy. The milk truck, always on time, was due. Wally stood in a fix. Normally, he followed Tompop to the dairy. His two important jobs were to count the milk cans and to clean the windscreen of the milk truck, a job that required a stepladder. The reward: a chocolate-and-wafer Kit Kat — pure gold.
Tompop guessed Wally’s reluctance. ‘Leave it to me, Wally. I’ll do the count, wash the windscreen, and I’ll collect your chocolate. You keep reading.’
Wally smiled, winked, and said, ‘I owe you one, Tompop.’
Later, on return, Tompop found his Wally still poring over photographs from a hefty Reader’s Digest book. The Kit Kat was handed over. Soon, Tompop told him he was off to mow some hay. Wally acknowledged the comment with a nod, not ignoring Tompop, but distracted. He had just reached a fold-out section explaining the life cycle of a stunning specimen — a butterfly titled the Rajah Brooke, common in Malaysia. The second stage for this enchanting life form was a large, quite grotesque, outrageous-looking grub. In the next stage, the grub encircled itself by coughing and spurting fine milky strands from its head. The strands ran down its body until the creature was wrapped in a bulky cocoon suspended from a jungle vine. Disgusting, thought Wally. Finally, a spectacular black and vivid-green butterfly would ease its way from the split cocoon and fly away for a fleetingly short life. So beautiful, so strikingly gorgeous — surely the beauty queen of the tropics.
After perusing these pages several times, an idea popped into Wally’s head:
I might go and fetch one of those cocoons hanging in the she-oak. Would just like to watch it evolve. Could be a butterfly, a moth, whatever.
A quick drink of raspberry cordial and off he sprinted. On Wally’s arrival at the she-oak tree, the parrots hanging about fled in a frenzy. Wally noted many cocoons, all the same variety. Carefully, he chose the largest, it being slightly bigger than his pointer finger. His handy pocketknife cut away the thread that held the cocoon to the tree. He stood, the cocoon in his hand, and inspected it for ages. Turned it around; found no tiny holes, no eyes, no nostrils — how weird. Gently, he put the cocoon into his breast pocket, patted it softly, and headed into the swamp to see if the swans’ eggs had hatched. Then home, his bedroom. An hour later, the glass jar containing the cocoon took pride of place on his dresser — a secret he would show Tompop when its contents began to break open.
The remainder of his spare time that Saturday was spent with Tompop. They mowed. They cleaned the pigpen — a big, smelly job, but the manure was great for the vegie garden. Tompop was an expert vegie gardener.
That night was bath night, the weekly bath for the entire family. They all used the same water, with the occasional jugful added in winter to keep it warm. First, the women; then, the men; and then, the children. An accepted country ritual. No town water, just tank. After tea, it was Wally’s turn in the bath. He stripped down, taking off his shirt — and that’s when he noticed. The left side of his chest was bright red, with white dots everywhere, and hot to touch. In fact, an hour earlier, his mum had asked him why he kept rubbing his chest. He hadn’t a reason, ‘Just a bit itchy, Mum.’
After he called out, his mum arrived, holding a glass of sherry (always a glass of sherry around and after teatime). She screamed when she saw Wally. Most of his back and bottom were covered in the rash as well. Questions, comments, any pain? Chickenpox, measles, what?
Decision time. ‘We will take him to the bush nurse.’ She told Tom to get the ute out of the shed.
Washed, dried thoroughly, wrapped in a towel, and surrounded by oldies, Wally was taken to his bedroom. That’s when Tompop noticed the glass jar, the cocoon inside. He quickly asked, ‘You handled the cocoon?’
Wally nodded.
‘Jesus, I should have warned you. The moment your hand or any part of your body touches a cocoon, look out, it’s like an invasion of bee stings.’
Wally frowned. ‘I had it in my breast pocket, for probably an hour, maybe a bit longer.’
Tom’s assessment proved correct. No, they didn’t take Wally to the bush nurse or the hospital. All the adults had seen incidents with cocoons before. That night, Wally sweated, his body swelled, and he suffered strong pain. His mum spoilt him with a warm cocoa and specially cooked biscuits. By morning, he had improved. By lunchtime, he was back to normal.
Tom, Muriel, and Mary spoke at length over breakfast the following day about encounters people had had with cocoons. One almost fatal.
Later that morning, in a private moment with Wally, Tompop began a conversation that left Wally twiddling a stem of wheat and looking into … something, or perhaps nothing?
Both sat near the swamp, on a dry log. Tompop said he wanted to pass on a question that had fired his curiosity about Mother Nature — what gives a cocoon this need for causing pain? He spoke with animation about how nature had assisted certain species to defend themselves. Be it jellyfish, platypus, bull ant, or bee — if threatened, they could do great harm. Not with vicious attacks or sharp claws, but with poison, a liquid so deadly in some cases that it took only a few drops to maim or kill. More importantly, it enabled that creature to send out a crystal-clear message:
‘Leave me alone, keep your distance, or I harm you — seriously harm you.’
Then, where possible, the victim — stung, bitten, or otherwise poisoned — would quickly warn others in their clan. Tompop mentioned many examples. But, for him, the cocoon stood out as unique. He explained to Wally: the longer you have this tiny package, the cocoon, against your body, the higher the risk.
‘It’s as if the maker, God or whoever, when it came to the complicated cycle of these rare creatures like butterflies, I reckon he, the big fella, felt they deserved some protection, because of their vulnerability. Yes, to become a butterfly and go through four stages — such a complicated and risky journey. Hence, I believe the cocoon needed the highest protection. If it had nothing, then it’d be like a gift or food basket to a predator. And that’s why the maker gave the cocoon a potent expelling liquid that would warn off almost any creature. Unusual, don’t you think?’
Wally sat awed by Tompop’s words. ‘But what about the parrots?’ he asked.
‘Those parrots were after seeds. That skylark higher up in the she-oak was seeking out ants and bugs. No way would they dare touch a cocoon.’
Tompop believed that humans of old had understood the danger and passed on advice to avoid the cocoon. ‘However, times have changed, and we have lost a lot of our understanding of nature.’ This was so typical of Tom. Ever humble, his quest for knowledge was never-ending.
Over time, Wally realised how lucky he was to have Tompop. Growing up without a dad, brother, or sister could have unhappy outcomes. Not for Wally. For years, Tompop conjured endless fascinations for his precious Wally. And so the passion to absorb, learn, and listen, to enjoy nature, its science and puzzles, became a lifetime commitment.
His mum and grandma handed over many a book or earmarked page they suggested he read, too. From Charles Darwin to James Cook, Newton, Galileo, and da Vinci, the reading list grew very long. For years, like his grandad, Wally also collected shrubs, flowers, and insects, and took photographs of birds around the farm, swamp, riverbanks, and bush. Regularly, he pressed flowers. In the paddocks, he enjoyed observing with binoculars.
Once, his Tompop took him on a daytrip up into the high country to witness the Bogong moth on the mountain peaks of eastern Victoria. These large moths clung in their thousands to rock faces, so dense that they looked like a carpet hung over a wall. As Tom said, ‘Any wonder the Aboriginals made their annual trek
to feast on such delicacies?’
By the end of high school, Wally’s results in the natural sciences were straight A’s. His passion to read about nature burned strong. Had he grown up in the town or city, he might have considered a degree in botany, anthropology, archaeology, et cetera. Instead, he worked on the farm and studied by correspondence. Tompop was slowing down, and Mum was doing most of the farm work; Wally wanted to give his Tompop some time to read and relax. As well, he planned to set up a haymaking business.
Then that new gadget, the television, arrived in their home. This was the mid-1960s. With the television turned on every night, the family set to exploring different channels and programs. Due to the demands and long hours of running the farm — and thus the need for an early night — all had to agree on what program to watch in their limited evening time. By chance, a BBC program on nature not only captivated the family but became their favourite. All the family watched its episodes together, discussed the program afterwards, and sometimes followed through by borrowing National Geographic magazines from the library.
One particular episode stood out — and became the subject of Wally’s third lifelong memory. It was about a tropical plant preparing to flower. That plant, its story and its life, unfolded like a miracle for the family staring at the screen. The film crew captured not only the plant blooming into flower, but also the commentator’s expressions and wonder while trying to explain this singular event. The show left Tom and Wally spellbound.
This enormous rare plant, very old, filmed in time lapse over many hours as it commenced a process that happened only once every thirty years. It opened one huge flower — slowly, gracefully, gradually uncurling into the air like the wings of a mighty eagle celebrating its arrival.
After they watched the program, Wally asked Tompop how the plant could know the time and date so accurately. By what method, after thirty years, almost to the hour, could this flower unfurl, bursting with beauty … then after only days, close again … that moment not revisited for another thirty years? And where exactly was this plant found? Tompop pulled down an encyclopaedia.