Do You Dare? Tough Times

by Simon Mitchell

  Ointment Head produced a smile so wide that Tom thought his face was going to rip in two. ‘Certainly, sir,’ he said, taking a registration form from the bottom of his pile of papers.

  What luck! Tom filled out the form as quickly as he could, leaving the ‘breed’ section blank. Ointment Head took the form and added it to his pile, ignoring Tom entirely as he dedicated all his attention to the gent in the white suit. ‘Was there anything else, Mr Robertson?’ he asked.

  Of course – the old man was MacPherson Robertson, the owner of MacRobertson’s Confectionery! Tom had seen him in the news-reels quite a few times, and of course everyone Tom knew was a fan of MacRobertson’s lollies: Columbine Caramels, buttered almonds, boiled sweets, Cherry Ripe bars, and one of his latest inventions – chocolate frogs filled with creamy peppermint.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Robertson,’ said Tom.

  ‘Please, call me Mac,’ said the old man. ‘Tom, is it? That’s certainly an interesting-looking dog.’

  Tom patted Fungus affectionately. ‘I know Fungus doesn’t look like much, especially next to these fancy dogs,’ he said. ‘But he’s got a top trick and I reckon he can win. At least, I hope he can. I really need that money.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Mac. ‘And what will you buy with the ten pounds if Fungus wins?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tom. ‘My dad lost his job, see, and we’re supposed to give the bank ten quid so we can keep our house. Fungus has to win the trick contest or I’ll end up living with my horrible grandparents in the middle of nowhere and I’ll never get to see my friends again.’

  Mac nodded sympathetically. ‘I know how you feel, young man,’ he said. ‘My family was dirt poor when I was growing up. And my dad was forever losing jobs, so I often had to leave my friends behind to move towns.’

  Tom was utterly gobsmacked. MacPherson Robertson must be one of the richest men in Australia. It was funny to think that he was ever as poor as Tom and the other Daredevils. It made Tom feel a little bit better about everything. So what if his family didn’t have any money or a house right now? When he was a world-famous aviator he’d buy Mum and Dad a house on every continent in the world, and fly them from one to another in his own private plane. But of course, that was only if he didn’t have to spend the rest of his life on his hands and knees, scrubbing the dirt off Nan and Pop’s floorboards.

  A woman with a clipboard came and whispered something in Mac’s ear. He nodded. ‘Good luck out there, Tom. I certainly hope I’ll be giving you the prize at the end of the day.’ He shook Tom’s hand firmly and hurried off towards the show ring.

  Tom found the Daredevils still at the sweets-tasting tent. Samson had chocolate smeared all round his mouth, and Frank was holding his stomach and groaning.

  Joan was rubbing her jaw, her face screwed up in pain. ‘Oargh,’ she said. ‘Do you reckon it’s possible to die from toothache? It feels like someone’s turning a screw right into my gums.’

  ‘You’ll never guess who I just met,’ said Tom. ‘MacPherson Robertson, the chocolate maker!’

  Frank turned green at the mention of the word ‘chocolate’. ‘That bloke has a lot to answer for,’ he said. ‘I really think I’m gonna be sick.’ He hiccupped loudly and went to find a quiet spot to lie down on the grass.

  A burst of music sounded the start of the dog show. Mac strode up onto the podium and gave a speech thanking the people of Fitzroy for hosting, and reminding everyone to buy some MacRobertson’s sweets on the way home. Then an official announced that the first group of dogs up for judging were the English setters. Their owners led the pedigree pooches into the ring to be poked and prodded by the judges.

  The Daredevils watched impatiently as each breed had its time in the ring. At the end of every session, the head judge – a large, snooty woman in a green dress that made her look like a huge choko – would enter the ring and give a blue ribbon to the owner of the winning dog, which was always perfectly groomed with a spotless, shiny coat. Even though Fungus was entering the trick contest – so it didn’t really matter what he looked like – Tom couldn’t help wishing he’d at least had the chance to give his scruffy dog a bath.

  By the time four o’clock came around, Tom was getting restless. He wondered if Dad had wrung Mr Botherway’s neck yet, and if his family was frantically trying to find him so they could put him on a train to the Mallee. Either way, he knew Mum would be furious at him for running off.

  Finally, Mac stood up on the podium and asked the entrants for the trick contest to come forward. The Daredevils plied Fungus with good-luck pats, and Tom and his dog hurried forward to take their place next to the other entrants. Fungus started sniffing the backside of a nearby poodle until the dog’s owner yanked her away with a glare in Tom’s direction.

  Tom gave Fungus’s ears a sympathetic scratch. ‘You’re too good for her anyway, mate,’ he said.

  The choko-shaped judge, whose name was Mrs Fossington-Wolsley, entered the ring and explained the rules in a nasal voice: each dog was required to perform a series of tricks, starting with a simple ‘sit’ and getting more and more difficult. The dog that performed the most tricks correctly would win the prize.

  Tom’s heart plummeted into his boots. How could he have been so stupid? He’d thought the prize was for the dog with the best trick, not the dog with the most tricks. Fungus might be able to walk on two legs almost as well as a person, but when it came to sitting or staying on command he was about as useful as a teapot made of chocolate. They might as well give up right now.

  He was just about to slink away when Mrs Fossington-Wolsley announced the name of the first contestant. ‘Thomas Parker and . . . Fergus.’

  ‘His name’s Fungus!’ yelled Joan.

  Tom saw that she, Frank and Samson were leaning eagerly over the rope at the side of the ring. Joan gave Tom a thumbs-up. Tom sighed. After all he and the Daredevils had gone through, he had to at least try. He nudged Fungus with his foot and herded him into the centre of the ring.

  Mrs Fossington-Wolsley took one look at Fungus and snorted shrilly. ‘Is this some sort of a joke?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Tom, ‘he’s my dog.’

  Mrs Fossington-Wolsley’s mouth tightened. ‘What an awful creature,’ she said. ‘But I suppose that’s to be expected in these parts.’

  These parts? Was she talking about Fitzroy? Tom gritted his teeth. He knew Fitzroy wasn’t the nicest part of Melbourne, but until he was actually on the train to the Mallee it was his home, and he didn’t like people saying bad things about it.

  Mrs Fossington-Wolsley was still peering down her nose at Fungus. ‘Where is his lead?’

  ‘Oh, er, he doesn’t like leashes,’ said Tom, remembering Razor’s clothesline choker.

  ‘Then how on earth do you ensure he stays by your side?’ asked Mrs Fossington-Wolsley.

  Tom shrugged. ‘He just always has.’

  Mrs Fossington-Wolsley sighed and took a few steps backwards. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Let’s start with a “sit”.’

  Tom looked down at Fungus, who was chewing at a clump of grass. ‘Ready, mate?’ he said. ‘Sit!’

  Fungus just yawned lazily. One of the spectators gave a quiet chuckle.

  ‘I said, sit!’ repeated Tom.

  Fungus stared at Tom and cocked his head to one side. There were a few more sniggers from the crowd.

  ‘What on earth is that boy wearing?’ muttered a paunchy gentleman holding a Pomeranian. ‘It looks positively unhygienic.’

  Tom glanced down at his tattered shirt and dirty trousers and felt his face start to burn. ‘Come on,’ he said to Fungus. ‘Please, just sit.’ He leaned over to push Fungus’s backside down, but his dog darted neatly out of the way and spun around to face Tom, his stubby tail wagging madly. ‘No, we’re not playing now,’ said Tom.

  But Fungus thought they were, and began pouncing from side-to-side, desperately trying to start a game of chasey with Tom.

  One of the locals in the audience blew a rasp
berry, and a few other spectators joined in.

  ‘This one’s as stupid as he is ugly!’ yelled one man.

  ‘Yer, and the dog’s not much to look at either!’ added another.

  The whole crowd laughed at that one, and even Mrs Fossington-Wolsley gave a titter. But Fungus didn’t care what people thought of him. He turned towards Mrs Fossington-Wolsley and bounded up to her. Tongue swinging from side to side, he ran in and out of her legs, then stood up and put two dirty paws on her dress.

  ‘Ugh!’ said Mrs Fossington-Wolsley, pushing Fungus away with one flabby arm. ‘Young man, you should be ashamed of yourself, entering such an ill-behaved mongrel in a blue-ribbon trick contest. I don’t know what Mr Robertson was thinking, trying to host a respectable dog show in a slum like Fitzroy!’

  Tom felt like steam was about to come out of his ears. But then a wonderful and terrible idea popped into his mind. He smiled politely at Mrs Fossington-Wolsley. ‘I’m awfully sorry you don’t like it here,’ he said. ‘But Fungus does have one trick he’d like to show you.’ He whistled loudly and Fungus stopped directly in front of Mrs Fossington-Wolsley.

  Tom took a deep breath. ‘Fungus,’ he said. ‘Pee-time!’

  Fungus lifted his back leg and sent a torrent of pee onto Mrs Fossington-Wolsley’s green dress. The judge stood frozen with shock, unable to do anything but gape at her quickly dampening frock. As Fungus finished up and scampered back towards Tom, she let out a shriek of despair. ‘My dress!’ she wailed, and promptly collapsed.

  Suddenly, there was chaos. Two smartly dressed men raced over to help Mrs Fossington-Wolsley to her feet, but dropped her in a panic when her sodden dress began dripping onto their freshly polished leather shoes. Most of the Fitzroy locals were doubled over with laughter, while the well-to-do sorts from the other side of town were rushing madly around the show ring without really knowing what to do.

  Tom grabbed Fungus and ducked through the madness. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered.

  The Daredevils were shaking with laughter. Joan had tears running down her face, and Frank was gasping for breath as he held his sides. ‘Best trick ever!’ he said.

  ‘P . . . p . . . pee-time!’ panted Samson. ‘Crikey, if I don’t stop laughing it’ll be pee-time for me, too!’

  Mrs Fossington-Wolsley’s shrill voice rang out over the hubbub of the crowd. ‘Bring that dog to me! I want it destroyed!’

  Tom spotted Ointment Head making his way towards them, eyes bulging with rage. ‘Time to go,’ Tom said.

  The Daredevils weaved their way through the crush of people. They had just cleared the edge of the rabble when a hand seized Tom by the shoulder. He swung around, expecting to see Ointment Head. But it was MacPherson Robertson, and he was grinning like a maniac.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘I haven’t enjoyed an event this much in years!’ He grabbed Tom’s hand and thrust something into it. ‘A little something for you and Fungus,’ he said. ‘And perhaps you could ask your father to come and see me on Monday morning? I need a new man for the storeroom.’

  A few yards past Mac’s shoulder, Tom could see Ointment Head striding purposefully towards him. ‘Thank you, Mac,’ he said, backing away. ‘I will.’

  As the Daredevils sprinted back past the bowling club to safety, Tom snuck a look at what Mac had slipped into his hand and was so astonished he ran straight into Samson.

  It was a ten-pound note.

  15

  The Daredevils arrived back at Tom’s house to find that the street had descended into madness. Half of Fitzroy seemed to have turned up to protest the eviction, and the road in front of the house was filled with people. Most of them were chanting and hurling abuse at Mr Botherway and the bailiffs, who stood behind their truck looking nervous. A dozen policemen stood between the truck and the angry mob, helmets tightened across their jaws.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Samson. ‘It’s gonna be a riot!’

  ‘Look, there’s my dad!’ said Frank, pointing into the crowd.

  ‘And Mrs Bright from school!’ added Joan.

  Right on cue, The Daredevils’ tiny teacher tiptoed forward and hurled a large clod of dirt at one of the policemen, who put up an arm to protect himself. Another policeman charged at the crowd with his baton raised, only to be met with volley of apple cores and orange peel that sent him darting backwards.

  ‘This family’s not going anywhere!’ yelled Ted Sullivan, and the mob roared their approval.

  Tom looked around for his mum and dad, but couldn’t spot them in the angry horde. An old tin can clanged onto the ground next to Mr Botherway. Further back in the crowd, Tom could see some people holding bricks and bits of cement.

  ‘Quick, Tom,’ said Samson. ‘Before someone gets hurt.’

  Tom dashed out to stand in front of the crowd. ‘It’s all right,’ he yelled. ‘You can all go home!’

  But nobody could hear him over the angry chanting.

  ‘Get out of the way, boy!’ called one of the policemen. ‘You’re going to get hurt.’

  Another tin can whizzed past Tom’s ear. ‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Please, there’s no need for this. We’ve got the money!’

  Dad emerged from the front of the mob. ‘Tom, what are you doing?’ he said. ‘Get away from there!’

  ‘Dad!’ yelled Tom. ‘Dad, look!’ He pulled the ten-pound note out of his pocket and held it up. The mob suddenly went quiet.

  Dad stepped forward and took the note from Tom’s fingers, turning it over like he wasn’t quite sure it was real. ‘But . . .’ he said, ‘Tom, how in God’s name?’

  ‘Fungus did it,’ said Tom. ‘With a bit of help from me and my friends. And Mr Mac Robertson. And Dad, Mac’s got a job for you next week, working in his sweet factory!’

  ‘Well, I’ll be,’ said Dad, shaking his head as a grin spread across his face from one ear to the other. He turned to address the crowd. ‘It’s all right, you lot!’ he called. ‘There’ll be no eviction today after all. My flamin’ amazing son has come through with the money!’

  The crowd let out a huge cheer.

  Mum rushed up to Tom and wrapped her arms around him. ‘Silly boy,’ she said. ‘You silly, naughty, disobedient, brilliant, wonderful boy. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

  Mr Botherway was at Dad’s elbow quicker than a rat on a piece of cheese. ‘What a fabulous stroke of luck!’ he said. ‘Mr Parker, I’m so pleased for you. I’ll be more than happy to pass that ten pounds on to the bank for you.’

  ‘Oh no you bloody don’t!’ roared Dad. ‘I’ll take it into the bank myself. I don’t trust you as far as I can spit, you dirty crook.’

  ‘He is a crook!’ called Mrs Bright. ‘He comes round to my father’s house every week asking for a bribe.’

  ‘Mine as well!’ said the man from the house across the road. ‘I had to give him my watch just so I could stay till after Christmas.’

  Mr Botherway chuckled nervously and scratched underneath the back of his bowler hat.

  A policeman with a big gold band on his helmet strode forward. ‘Is that so? In that case, Mr Botherway, I think you’d better come with us and answer a few questions.’

  The mob cheered as the policemen led the spluttering Mr Botherway off towards the station.

  The bailiffs shrugged, got into their truck and drove away, and the crowd of people gradually drifted in different directions. Plenty of them stopped on the way past to shake Dad’s hand, congratulate Mum or give Tom a friendly slap on the back.

  The sun was starting to go down. Some of Tom’s neighbours brought their kitchen chairs out onto the footpath and sat around chatting about what had just happened. Ted Sullivan produced a few bottles of beer and offered one to Dad, who, after catching Mum’s eye, politely declined and opted for some of Mrs Bright’s homemade lemonade instead. Dot organised a game of hopscotch in the middle of the road with a couple of other kids, and one of the Sullivans pulled out a mouth organ and started playing a tune. Within a few minutes everybo
dy was singing along at the top of their lungs.

  The Daredevils slouched against the wall of Tom’s house, watching Fungus tear an old paper bag into little pieces on the footpath in front of them. Fungus was immensely proud of the work he was doing, and kept looking up at Tom for approval, his tail wagging from side to side like a metronome on full speed.

  ‘Cripes,’ said Joan. ‘What a mad couple of weeks! And I thought moving to the city’d be boring!’

  ‘Not when you hang around with us, Joan,’ said Samson. ‘Between all the fruit-pinching, dognapping and peeing on people’s fancy frocks there’s never a dull moment.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Frank. ‘And to think poor Tom nearly had to leave it all behind. What would you have done without us, eh?’

  But Tom was hardly listening. He was gazing up at the pink sky and dreaming about all the adventures the Daredevils would have when the summer holidays started in a few weeks time. First up was building a new billycart – a better one this time, with real brakes so they didn’t have to crash into the gutter to stop. They’d go fishing in Merri Creek, of course, and sneak into the test match to see Don Bradman, and maybe make a raft to float down the Yarra. And one day they could all take the tram out to Essendon Aerodrome to watch the planes take off. They might even find time to teach Fungus how to ‘sit’. Thinking about the long, sunny days stretching in front of them made Tom feel like he’d just done a loop-the-loop over the Aerodrome himself.

  Frank thumped him in the arm. ‘Oi, Tom, wake up! What’s the matter?’

  Tom snapped back into the present and turned to face his four best friends. ‘Nothing,’ he said, grinning. ‘Absolutely nothing at all.’

  I grew up in Canberra, a city whose bush-covered hills were home to many thrilling childhood adventures (as well as numerous bike crashes). However, Canberra doesn’t have much in the way of really old buildings – after all, it was pretty much just a sheep paddock until the 1920s.