Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles

by Lindsay Johannsen

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  11. The Prefect And The Pocket Knife; and The Rat In The Raspberry Jam

  Back in the gorge we re-wrapped the gun and the tripod separately, then tied the parcels using some twine Doogle had produced from his pocket. When the two were secure he and Sash picked up the heavier package one each end and carried it down to where the horses were tethered. I followed with the tripod.

  My horse was a quiet little mare called Pingo, the best one by far to carry the machine gun. The only way to do it, however, was to balance the gun crossways on her saddle and have me riding pillion, between the saddle and the horse’s rump. This arrangement was of no concern to Pingo; she was so placid she wouldn’t have minded my dancing the fandango back there.

  Then the other two mounted and we moved off, Sash riding in front leading Pingo by the reins and me holding the gun. Doogle followed behind with the tripod across his lap.

  In procession we made our way down Short Gully Gorge and then pushed through the half kilometre of scrub to the boundary fence. This left us some five or six kilometres from the school, all of which was managed without incident.

  We rode in the compound’s back gate, past the garden plots and animal pens at the rear of the school, then tethered our horses behind the new shower block. In seconds a scrum of boys had gathered around us, all clamoring to know the nature of our prize.

  “Look it’s no good tryin’ to guess what it is,” Doogle said, deflecting them as he and Sash lifted the gun down. “Wait till we get inside and then I’ll show you. —Hey! Where’s Rosie? He’s not in the dormitory, is he?”

  “Nah,” came a voice from the throng. “Him and Brother SanSistez are in the workshop changin’ the battery in the tractor.”

  I’d dismounted as this was going on and had run into the dormitory. There I grabbed a couple of Sash’s old towels and spread them on Doogle’s bed. On arriving with the gun they set it down crossways, following which Sash and I positioned ourselves one each side. The boys crowded around eagerly.

  Doogle, now “Grand Master of the Ceremonial Unveiling”, cut the bindings and threw open the wrappings with as much dramatic flourish as he could. “So what d’you reckon about that?” he exclaimed,

  A half second’s silence followed, then everyone was shouting at once.

  “Ooh aah gees bloody hell a real machine gun look at it willya where’ja get it? reckon it’ll fire? probly out’v an aircraft what with a tripod? well I never seen it watcha gunna do with it? what about the police? yeah? what about the army?!! gees you’ll havta hide it what – under the bed? don’t be stupid bloody hell wait till Father finds out who’s gunna tell him yeah Doog we won’t tell him nah Doog we won’t tell yeah mate look out hell here comes Rosie! shit Rosie yeah Rosie’ll dob you in f’sure yeah sure will quick hide it under th’ bed yeah grab th’ towels now get away yeah act real casual...”

  When Rosie arrived he was greeted by the sight of a large number of boys all slowly and casually migrating away from the central point of Doogle’s bed. It was not unlike a slow-motion demonstration of nuclear radiation, though it sounded like the massed chorus of the Red Army whistling ‘Birdsongs of the Highland Glen’ – all out of tune at their own tempo.

  “OK! What’s going on?” he demanded, mischief detectors bristling at full alert. “What are you kids up to? Don’t gimme no bullshit now; I know something’s going on.”

  “Nah mate nah Rosie gees Rosie we weren’t doin nothin’ mate yeah mate aw c’mon Rosie yeah Rosie we were just lookin’ yeah lookin’ mate yeah sure Rosie we were just lookin’ at yeah mate lookin’ at Doogle’s … Yeah Doogle’s … Sure Rosie lookin’ at Doogle’s … Yeah mate Doogle’s…”

  “Doogle’s what?!!”

  “Doogle’s um … Doogle’s ah … Yeah Rosie erm Doogle’s er …Pocket knife! His pocket knife! Yeah mate yeah Doogle’s pocket knife!”

  “Doogle’s pocket knife?!!”

  “Yeah mate yeah Rosie aw c’mon Rosie it’s a great knife ay it’s triffic Rosie…”

  “That rusty old pocket knife?!! My seven-year-old sister has a better pocket knife than that! …in her flamin’ doll’s house! Doogle’s pocket knife is crap!”

  “Yeah Rosie yeah course it is sure mate we told him that Rosie yeah course we did see Doogle? yeah I told you Doogle it’s rubbish ay even Rosie says so…”

  “Will you all shut up! …And don’t think I won’t get to the bottom of this!”

  Rosie stomped off, out the back door. It didn’t take him long to return.

  “What the hell are those horses doin’ here?” he yelled. “…And this time don’t all bloody talk at once! …Well? Who’s responsible for the horses?”

  “Um … we are,” said Sash, “Me an’ Casey an’ Doogle.”

  “Would this Doogle person be, by any chance, the well-known pocket knife owner?” he enquired with arch sarcasm.

  “Um… Look Rosie,” I ventured. “We had the horses out for the afternoon and we just called in on the way back to the station.”

  “Oh you did, did you? Well, take ‘em back! You know you’re not supposed to bring the horses into the school compound. Now get!”

  Sash and I disappeared out the door but Doogle was not abandoning the machine gun under any circumstances. “Wasn’t your name one of those mentioned in the equestrian party?” asked Rosie, still twitching with suspicion and sarcasm.

  “Aw, come on Rosie,” Doogle said. He grimaced as he lay back on the bed. “I got a terrible cramp in me guts. That’s why we came back this way. Casey and Sash can take the horses back.”

  “That’s what you get for luggin’ that stupid bloody pocket knife around all day,” he muttered as he made a second graceless exit.

  With Rosie gone the others gathered around again but Doogle told them to clear out until things had quieted. He then remained on his bed of alleged pain until Sash and I arrived back from unsaddling and turning out the horses.

  Next we had to apprise Father O’Long of our finding the gun, before he learned of its presence by idly rummaging in the mind of one of the boys passing his office. We were certain of his ability to do this and knew, should he do so, that we’d find ourselves in a good deal of trouble and very much on the defensive.

  Doogle was now caught in a serious dilemma, torn between staying with the gun and going to the presbytery to argue the merits of our case. We soon convinced him, however, that as the acknowledged school “fast-talker” it was imperative he be there to act as principal advocate for our case to keep and restore the thing. Sash had the bed next to Doogle’s; better he stay behind to guard it, we decided.

  In the event Father O’Long knew something was afoot, though it may have been as simple as him seeing us ride in with Pingo carrying a bundle on her saddle. As far as we were concerned, though, he might just as easily have been reading a next week’s newspaper with the headline “SCHOOLBOYS’ GIANT BUSHLAND WW2 WEAPONS ARSENAL FIND”, as we headed toward the presbytery.

  “Yes, boys; come in,” Father called from the dining room just as we were about to knock. (And we half expected it I suppose, him doing that sort of thing so naturally.) He and Mrs Finnegan were having a late afternoon cup of tea and as we filed in he invited us to join them.

  Then came a moment of apprehension. Set out on the table – along with the teapot and a large plate of Anzac biscuits – were three glasses and plates and a jug of orange cordial. Father had misjudged the size of our expected delegation, though this in no way lessened our misgivings about what he may already know of the affair. On the other hand, his welcome seemed genuine and warm hearted.

  “Help yourselves to some biscuits and a drink, lads, and tell me about your adventures,” he said as we sat down. “...But um … weren’t there three of you?”

  “Yes Father,” replied Doogle, “only Sash – that is, Ashley Saddlehead – started feeling a bit funny and decided to lie down for a bit. —He’s all right, though.”

  “I’m glad to hea
r it,” said Father. “And...?”

  And so Doogle gave an eloquent and comprehensive account of his finding the hiding place; our subsequent return to investigate; the amazing discovery and our difficult but very responsible decision to not leave the gun but to bring it back and immediately tell Father. He then outlined our very responsible plan to fully restore the weapon – or do it up a bit (or give it a coat of black paint, at least), emphasizing all along how responsibly we had acted. The only thing he slightly overlooked was the slight detail of a couple hundred old bullets – probably just an oversight.

  “Hmm,” Father hemmed, as we awaited his pronouncement. Mrs Finnegan excused herself, saying she’d better get on with preparing dinner.

  Eventually he spoke. “Under the circumstances you would seem to have acted in a proper manner, though you should have brought the weapon straight to me on your return. On the other hand, you could just as easily have taken the thing further into the bush and tried to fire it.”

  “Gosh Father we wouldn’t have done that Father gees Father course not Father we never even thought about it Father course not.”

  “No, of course not. Well, I don’t suppose there was any ammunition for it, was there.” He watched Doogle minutely. “Were there any bullets, Douglas?”

  I knew Doogle wouldn’t actually lie. In fact he was avoiding a direct answer even as I wondered how he might respond.

  “Well Father, like I said, it was all wrapped up in canvas and stuff,” he replied smoothly, “and after we dragged it out of the hollow I had a good look right up the back to make certain that’s all there was. There was nothing else in there, I’m certain of that.”

  “Hmm. And you say it’s now hidden under your bed, Douglas?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Hidden from whom?”

  “From Rosie... that is, Peter DeRosario, Father. We didn’t want him racing over here and dobbing us in before we had a chance to tell you ourselves.”

  “Yes. Well I rather think Peter has found you out, judging by the speed at which he is approaching the presbytery.” As Father stood up there came a frantic pounding on the door and Rosie shouting: “Father O’Long! Father O’Long! For heavens sakes, come quickly! Some of the Grade Nine boys’ve only got a machine gun hidden under a bed in the dormitory!”

  Father opened the door. “Yes, thank you, Peter,” he said blandly. “Please do come in.”

  Rosie’s face was flushed and his eyes were bulging. By some carefully applied bullying he had discovered the terrible secret; the information denied him during the earlier fiasco in the dormitory. “But they’ve got a machine gun, Father!” he babbled. “What about the machine gun!”

  “Peter, I’ve been aware of the situation regarding the machine gun for some time now. Why don’t you come inside and have a cold drink to help you calm down a little. After all,” he added, taking advantage of the extra place left by his misjudging our number (and discreetly giving me a wink), “we’ve been expecting you – haven’t we Kevin.”

  “I, er, that is...” I said intelligently, then had to duck down quickly and feign a fit of coughing to cover my laughter. Father, meanwhile, filled the empty glass and set it at the vacant place, a picture of sublime and innocent tranquility.

  Rosie gave a quick scowl in our direction, surveyed the spot allegedly set for him, then sat down and took a mouthful of orange cordial, all while trying to find a means of resuming his rightful place in the pecking order following Father O’Long’s comradely comment to me. It was Father who set things right for him, though not before letting him stew for a few moments.

  “I’m glad you’ve arrived, Peter,” he said eventually, as if he’d planned it all along, “because now we can get on with the business of determining what might be an appropriate course of action to take in respect of the gun.

  “As far as I’m concerned these boys have acted in a proper and responsible manner by reporting their discovery to me. But what they have proposed is that the gun be kept and restored as a school metalworking project – for display purposes only, of course. I want you to think this through for a moment and give us your views.”

  Now Peter DeRosario – School Captain, School Prefect and winner of the Sherbert Valley Farmers and Graziers Prize for Metalwork – was not slow witted. He quickly saw that this might be a really interesting project. “Well, Father, I...” he said, as Father interrupted him.

  “No no, Peter. Don’t just address me. Let’s for the moment assume we are four gentlemen discussing a proposal in which there might be certain attractions, difficulties and complications. Now then, you were saying?”

  “Erm... Well gentlemen,” he continued, responding to Father’s stroking but looking over our heads, “I reckon restoring the machine gun the Grade Nine boys found would be a terrific project for the metalworking class. The main problem, though, would have to be how we couldn’t even think about doing it without getting permission from the police – or maybe even the army. See, we’ll have to tell the police about it and they’ll probably just confiscate it.”

  “Well considered, Peter,” Father pronounced. “And so what should we do to assist our cause?”

  A number of suggestions were made and considered, after which Father said: “Very well, boys; you have until lunchtime tomorrow to formulate a plan of restoration, at which time Peter will come to my office and report this to the police. We will then await their decision.”

  He stood up to indicate the meeting was at an end. “If that is satisfactory you may go,” he added.

  Doogle I leapt up and bolted for the door. “Yes Father, thank you Father,” he shouted as he cleared the veranda in three paces, steps and all. I was right behind.

  Then I remembered my manners. “And thanks for the drinks and AARRGH—!” I yelled back over my shoulder as the earth rose up to batter me. Doogle had dropped to the grass to fix a disintegrating shoelace (he claimed).

  At the appointed time Rosie went to Father’s office as instructed and, from there, in a state of nervous anxiety, he rang the Ingham Police Station. Soon he was speaking to the gravelly-voiced Sergeant Bourke, who exploded angrily at mention of the machine gun. Before he had a chance to even begin explaining about the gun Rosie found himself being yelled at, mostly with questions about why we hadn’t left the thing where it was and immediately reported it to the Police, but also about much else he couldn’t answer for.

  He did eventually manage to get a word in as to how we’d drawn up a plan of restoration and were hoping for the sergeant’s approval, but this just made the policeman angrier still. He’d be coming straight out to the school and would sort out everything then by hell, Sergeant Bourke shouted as he slammed down the phone.

  Rosie was somewhat chastened by the hostile response he’d received and now realised that the job came with real responsibilities. Being appointed leader of the restoration project and keeper of the keys to the machine gun locker was not just a position from which he could lord it over the Junior rabble. What he never did see, however, was that Father O’Long had deliberately taken advantage of events to place him in this situation.

  Neither did we for that matter. We felt cheated of our prize until we saw that it was Rosie who was getting all the heat. Only then did it gradually occur to us just what Father had done.

  “It’s all right for youse kids,” Rosie had complained later. “I somehow let meself get dragged into all this and now I’m the stupid bunny that’s got to front-up to the sergeant when he gets here! Gees, he‘s not too bloody happy about it either.”

  “Nah mate sure Rosie yeah you’ll be great Rosie course you will sure mate you’ll be right,” we replied variously.

  “...Shut up!” he bellowed.

  Sergeant Bourke

  In the event Rosie needn’t have worried too much; when Sergeant Bourke turned up he was looking for all four of us and no one else. Straight past the presbytery and school buildings without stopping to see Father O’Long he drove, to
where we were waiting for him near the front door the of the dormitory. And Father must have seen the Sarge arrive, so it was apparent he was keeping out of it. Instead he was leaving us to fight a battle very much of our own making.

  The Sergeant slid out of the police car and slammed the door angrily. “Orrite!” he bellowed. “Which one of you is in charge here?”

  “I am,” said Rosie, putting on his bravest face.

  “And you are Peter DeRosario, are you?” he growled, “the one who spoke to me yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right. I want just you and the ones that found it. The rest of you can clear out!” He glared after the rapidly scattering audience for a moment then started interrogating us. This went on for more than half an hour, during which he went through the business of how we’d found the machine gun several times. He kept coming back to the possibility of ammunition for it being somewhere about the place, but our angelic faces and innocent replies must have satisfied any concerns he had.

  Eventually he turned his attention back to Rosie. “Right!” he barked. “Now before I confiscate the thing, what’s all this rubbish about thinking you can get it going again?”

  “That’s wrong, sir,” Rosie replied courageously. “We have no intention of trying to get it going.” He then launched into a presentation of his plan to restore the weapon, including its being properly disabled. I thought he put his case very convincingly but the sergeant didn’t seem overly impressed. In fairness, though, he did listen without interrupting.

  After finishing his plea we took Sergeant Bourke to where the metal working classes were conducted, Rosie impressing upon him as we walked where the weapon had been secured and how safe the gun would be. One half of the building comprised a lock-up shed where the tools and implements were kept; the other – the roofed over area where we worked – had a cement floor but no walls.

  The heavy steel cabinet in which the gun was secured was in the lock-up section. This had previously contained tools and paint, but Father O’Long had allowed us to clean it out for the express purpose of holding the machine gun.

  On the sergeant’s instructions we lifted it out and placed it on one of the work benches for him to inspect. Then, as a prelude to confiscating it, he gave us a stern and tiresome lecture about firearms, and about children and firearms, and about children finding firearms in the bush and not leaving them alone but immediately reporting them to the police, and about how much paperwork has to be done by sergeants who have far more important matters to attend to. And finally – and to our absolute astonishment – about what happens to children who, after finding firearms in the bush, do not do EXACTLY as the sergeant directs them.

  This latter included instructions as to how many times we could even think about the machine gun without his permission (none), who would be responsible for the keys to its security locker (Father O’Long), and into which part of his office foundations they were to be concreted.

  He then told us to get the thing back in the cabinet where it belonged, made sure we understood it was not to come out unless he specifically approved it, relieved us of the keys and walked off in the direction of the presbytery.

  About an hour or so later he and Father O’Long strolled leisurely back to where he’d parked the police car. And I couldn’t help noticing how, for some reason, the sergeant’s permanent angry scowl seemed a little more mellow than usual. And there, eventually, after a good deal of bonhomie and backslapping, Father waved the policeman goodbye, leaving Sergeant Bourke to depart the quiet glades of Gower Abbey College and make his way back to Ingham.

  And so we got to keep the machine gun … though I have to say …

  See I couldn’t get rid of the impression there was a rat in the raspberry jam somewhere; a feeling that Father O’Long had orchestrated the whole business of Sergeant Bourke and his visit from start to finish.

  I can’t for the life of me imagine why I was worried about it, though.

  Like I said, we did get to keep the machine gun.

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