* * *
When lessons recommenced at the beginning of the new term Doogle was still absent. Then, when he did eventually roll up, it was eight days late and he was with his parents in their Land Rover and trailer, loaded up with all their possessions.
He wasn’t staying. He’d only come for his things and to say goodbye. And there’d be no quiet and measured farewell; his father was anxious to get going.
After grabbing his belongings from the dormitory he made a quick detour to the classroom.
They were going to a Northern Territory cattle station, Doogle explained, about three hundred kilometres north east of a place called Daly Waters. The Pastoral Company his father worked for had promoted him to the position of station manager there. “It looks like I’m gunna be a big-time stockman,” he added. “I just have to remember which end of the horse goes first.”
This unexpected development surprised everyone. More than that, it hit our little brotherhood like a bolt from the blue – and especially Sash. On arriving back at school he’d spent most of his free time wandering around like a lost puppy, waiting for his friend to return.
He hung back as Doog shook hands and bid everyone farewell. Eventually he came forward, hiding his disappointment by making light of the situation.
“Gees Doog,” he said brightly. “It’s only a coupla bob. You could’ve paid me back next Sund’y. And what about the exams?” he added. “Now I’ll have to worry about coming last.” The claim of a debt was spurious but Sash’s attempt at humour was almost a conditioned reflex.
The same applied to Doogle. “Bad luck, mate,” he replied. “I was gunna pay you back by handing over me Sabre Jet card, except that now I can’t cos they’re all packed away.” (...Bad luck for Casey, too, I thought. This was definitely not the time to mention my own fifteen bob.)
The Sabre Jet card was one of a series of fifty called “Fighting Aircraft of the World”. Two of them came in every packet of Weet-bix and most of us had been avid collectors while the issue was current. We soon discovered, however, that some of the cards were abundant and easily acquired, while others were quite rare. Number Twenty-seven – “The Sabre Jet” – was almost mythical in its scarcity. Doogle had the only one we had ever seen.
According to the fine print on the back, particular cards were obtainable from the manufacturer, along with the album in which to mount them. The item requested would be forwarded on receipt of any two cards plus a stamped self-addressed envelope.
But we were at the end of a rather long supply line. By the time we’d woken up to the fact that a few of the cards were somewhat hard to come by (and had sent away as per the instructions) the series had been discontinued and another started. We’d applied early enough for the albums, but far too late to get the number Twenty-seven.
Doogle’s celebrated card had arrived in a packet of Weet-bix opened at home during the Christmas holidays previous to last. This had been fairly early in the issue; it didn’t become apparent until some time later that the Sabre Jet card was a “real rarey”. Later again we began to appreciate that it wasn’t just rare, it was – like the Penny Black stamp – the only one in the sum of human knowledge known to exist.
None of us were in any way surprised that fate had dealt Doogle the card. In fact it was so much in keeping with Doog’s style that we didn’t even regard it as out of the ordinary. Of course he got it. With just the one circulating in our little universe what else would you expect? Naturally enough he stood firm against any ideas we might have had about relieving him of his prize.
In fact, as far as we knew, his was the only complete collection in existence. It was something of a standing joke, then, that whenever Doogle needed a favour or the loan of a few bob, transfer of The Card would (in mock seriousness) be suggested as a way of expediting the request.
Just then Doogle’s father started revving up the Land Rover engine and bipping the horn. “I gotta get goin’, fellas,” he said, grabbing his bag and heading for the door. “The old bloke’s gettin’ toey.
“—See y’se.”
And with those few words he simply disappeared from our lives.
Well... Almost.
During the evening study period Father O’Long came into the dormitory with a letter addressed to Sash. On opening it Sash found a folded note. And, inside that, a card.
“Fighting Aircraft of the World,” said the printing on the back. “No. 27 – The Sabre Jet.”
Sash silently passed me the note. I’d never seen him so close to tears.
“Sorry Casey,” the note said. “I tossed a coin.
‘You lost.”
Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 38