‘Who’s to know?’ trilled Marj, filled with enthusiasm (and the first intimation of hoax). Without Belle’s knowledge, let alone permission, she entered her friend in the competition. Belle opened the unexpected letter. An inspection of the Bergin residence was imminent.
‘I never said. I won’t do it. No.’
‘G’won. You’re a cert,’ said Marj.
‘No,’ said Belle. ‘No … I couldn’t.’ And Marj detected a fatal hesitation that denoted creeping pride. ‘You know how much I hate fuss and mess and all that.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Marj. ‘You get the place ready. You’ll enjoy that. You know you will. And I’ll stand in for you at the inspection. You can hide out at my place and I’ll pretend I’m you.’
‘Promise?’
It was true. Belle adored preparing chez Bergin for the preliminaries. Loyal to her word and her friend, Marj did the honours and none of the inspection committee (all from interstate, to avoid favouritism) were any the wiser.
‘That was fun,’ said Belle when they had left.
‘It’s not over yet,’ said Marj, portentously, knowing an Australian champion housekeeper when she saw one, anticipating semi-finals, sniffing ultimate victory.
‘Oh heavens!’ said Belle nervously.
Belle won the 1969 All-Australia Housewife of the Year award. First prize, one year’s supply of cleaning agents courtesy of Spic and Woodley, the manufacturer and sponsors of the award, a trip to the Royal Easter Show for the presentation and a photographic spread of the home in the Women’s Weekly. She was horrified.
‘See what you’ve gone and done, Marj?’ she raged in the Poropat kitchen, waving the official envelope. ‘I’ve won the bloody thing.’
‘Congrats,’ said Marj, putting on the kettle. ‘You deserve to.’
‘But I don’t want all this … this fuss.’
Marj could see that her friend was truly distressed.
‘We’ll think of something,’ she said.
‘You will, you mean,’ said Belle. ‘You’ve thought of enough, thanks.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Marj. ‘I did it for you.’
‘I know. I know,’ said Belle, distractedly polishing the rim of the teacups. ‘Sorry. I’m upset. All right. Put your thinking cap on.’
Over that Wednesday afternoon cup of tea the Bergin-Poropat hoax was born. Marj Poropat became the public Belle Bergin and the tight-knit Mumbil community, loyal to a woman, proud that Mumbil was on the map, thrilled about the Women’s Weekly segment (the men had no interest in the matter), rallied to the hoax.
Belle retired to her scrubbing and polishing, wiping and waxing, quilting, smocking, knitting, baking, pickling, planting and potting. Marj Poropat prepared to take to the road.
First, there was to be the triumphant Easter Show trip. The sponsors had kindly invited Belle to bring her spouse. Marj pleaded. Marj begged. Ray prevailed. ‘Not on your life, Marj,’ he said.
So Belle, fearful of the law, had insisted on revealing that she was a widow. The sponsors notified her by mail that this was inconsequential as the title, Housewife, was purely semantic; of course, it would be more comforting for readers to feel there was a husband in the home but Belle was thoroughly eligible, after all she was a wife to her house, wasn’t she? Gratified, Belle agreed. (Not so many years later the title was changed to Homemaker to avoid charges of discrimination—sexual, gender and matrimonial.)
‘I’m going to town,’ laughed Marj. ‘In more ways than one.’ She had Belle run her up a Show wardrobe of colourful caftans in the latest Marimekko prints as featured in the Weekly. (The sponsors had swatches sent up, Marj selected and Belle sewed.)
‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in anything as loud as this,’ she commented to her friend.
‘Then just as well I’m you,’ said Marj. Young Fiona at Flowing Locks enjoyed the challenge of dyeing Marj’s hair red.
‘Not barmaid red,’ Marj had ordered. ‘More the colour of Ray’s horse’s withers, know what I mean?’
‘You look like one of those chippies,’ said Belle disapprovingly.
‘Hippies,’ corrected Marj, jangling her coloured bangles and shaking her beads over her Marimekkoclad breast at Mumbil railway station, waving to the send-off committee. ‘Well, here we go.’ The Daylight pulled away. The Mumbil womenfolk waved.
‘Give us a smile, Belle,’ said the CWA president. ‘It’s time we had a new image. Caught up with the times. Attracted the younger ones. Don’t worry. We’re all in cahoots.’
Marj Poropat, as Belle Bergin, was a tremendous success. The creative director’s main worry when the campaign had been tossed around the boardroom table was that their inaugural Housewife would be a typical colourless little thing (a Belle Bergin type), hardly ideal for publicity purposes. Spic and Woodley could not believe their good fortune. Their plans for this Housewife of the Year grew more ambitious.
Thus it was that the Bergin-Poropat hoax became more complex as the seventies evolved. Spic and Woodley and the Weekly had a winner on their hands, Marj Poropat had a thrilling public relations career and Belle Bergin had never worked so hard in her life. First of all there was the Weekly column, ‘Notes From the Home’. It drew such reader response that the Weekly commissioned a book Belle Bergin’s Handy Home Hints. Belle was expected to respond to such questions as how to remove the smell of sweat from an old Santa Claus suit, how to spice up a curry (add a slice of fruitcake to the gravy), how to make stuffed toys from carpet underlay, the correct term of address for a duchess, and hundreds, hundreds more questions. Marj Poropat travelled the nation promoting the latest Bergin triumphs. She became so used to being called Belle Bergin that she never hesitated when she introduced herself thus.
‘I’m that busy,’ said Belle one day, bottling a new line of Belle Bergin persimmon chutney (for distribution exclusively through the David Jones stores). ‘I don’t know if I’m Arthur or Martha.’
‘I don’t either,’ said Marj, leafing through a new pattern book for frocks for the chutney promotion.
‘This is getting completely out of hand,’ said Ray Poropat in the late seventies when the idea of a segment on midday national television was proposed by Spic and Woodley. ‘It’s gone far enough. Those new people down at Caltex call me Mr Bergin.’
‘Spoilsport,’ said Marj briskly.
‘He’s got a point,’ offered Belle.
‘Rubbish,’ said Marj. ‘Just think, my good man, how the milk run took off after you got distribution rights to La Belle Yoghurt and Bergin’s Brandy Butter and …’
‘The brandy butter is only a selling line at Christmas,’ said Ray. ‘And it’s not strictly speaking within the Dairy Co-op guidelines.’
‘What about Belle Bergin’s Best Custard then?’ said Marj.
‘I have to admit,’ said Ray, defeated.
‘I’m not getting any younger,’ said Belle hopelessly as she signed the television contract. ‘The pace is killing me.’
‘Killing you! I’m the one that should be saying that,’ said Marj, relishing every bit of it. ‘There is one thing though. Ray’s getting a bit toey. Says he never gets a decent meal, comes home to an empty house, no socks, that sort of thing. Do you think you might pop over a bit when I’m away? You know, give him a bit of company. Do you good, too.’
‘Marj! Certainly not! What would people say?’
‘In for a penny … You’re a criminal already. No, sorry. Of course, you’re not. Only joking. But think about Ray.’
Old softie. Belle felt sorry for Ray, innocent victim of the Bergin-Poropat hoax. She took to cooking two portions of the evening meal and popping over with it whenever Marj was away. Ray was gruff but grateful. After a few weeks he suggested that Belle stay and eat with him. No harm in that. A month or so later he suggested that he missed the smell of dinner cooking when he opened the front door. Maybe Belle could prepare dinner in his kitchen when Marj was not in residence. It certainly made things easier. Mumbil was deathly cold in
winter and even the dash across the back yard was a nightmare for Belle and the dinner. Why not.
‘You’ve made the world of difference for Ray,’ said Marj gratefully. ‘No more whingeing. I suspect he even watches me on the telly and although he doesn’t say so I think he’s a bit proud of the old girl.’
The CWA, an ageing membership now, had been stalwart and loyal. No-one breathed a word. It could have been complicated for newcomers to Mumbil had they known the truth but as it was they assumed Belle Bergin was Marj Poropat and Marj Poropat had come to think of herself as Belle Bergin and Belle Bergin was offering Ray Poropat everything that the real Marj Poropat was expected to but was not (minus conjugal rights but Ray was past it and Belle never interested and Marj resigned, so there was no difficulty there). Only Belle sometimes worried, but, well, what could you do? It had gone this far.
Marj’s penultimate public exposure was the launch of a Spic and Woodley television commercial written by and starring Marj Poropat.
Give it a lick with Spic
And it’s span, man.
Give it a flick with Spic
And it’s done, hon.
Take your pick with Spic
And it’s right, mate.
(‘But that bit doesn’t rhyme,’ complained Belle when she read a rough draft. ‘It’s all in the delivery,’ said the professional Marj. ‘I’ve discussed it with my voice coach.’)
Get a kick with Spic
Quick! Quick! Quick!
That little enterprise netted the Mumbil hoaxers more money than they could have imagined. It had been a scrupulous partnership all the way and the Bergin-Poropat consortium was financially extremely sound when Marj was electrocuted on air in 1986, by the combination of a faulty wire and a spilt glass of water. The executives of the station were horrified, so horrified that they played the tragic moment on air in slow motion more than ten times between the midday and the late evening news. Furthermore, they insisted on being responsible for the return of the body to Mumbil and the funeral.
Belle and Ray had sobbed in real distress, unable to believe their eyes when Marj jerked dead before their eyes. They shook in terror at the thought that now truth might out. They clung to each other’s hands and searched each other’s eyes and accepted the inevitable.
The funeral went off beautifully. The floral tributes poured in. Mumbil was on the night news and Marj Poropat was buried. The stonemason was paid by the television executives and some weeks later he installed a splendid headstone announcing:
BELLE BERGIN HOUSEWIFE OF THE YEAR 1969. HAPPY AT HOME IN THE LORD’S HEAVENLY KITCHEN.
‘It is a sign,’ said Ray. ‘It’s gone far enough. Time to give up all this nonsense. You can’t carry on without Marj.’
‘No,’ said Belle in utmost relief.
‘Tell you what,’ said Ray. ‘I’ve always had a hankering to see Surfers Paradise. I know, it doesn’t sound like me but, there it is. Come on, let’s go take a squiz.’
‘All right,’ said Belle, feeling for the first time in her life she needed to get out of Mumbil.
Off they went, two old hoaxers, bound by affection and secrecy. And they fell in love. With Surfers Paradise. They bought a condo and lived comfortably on the Poropat-Bergin earnings and when they died they were buried side by side at the tranquil Mermaid beach cemetery under a headstone lettered:
RAY POROPAT
R.I.P.
MARJ POROPAT
R.I.P.
PARTNERS
colonel clint’s campaign
Colonel Clint and Len Poke first met in the establishment of Sol Levy, Tobacconist Extraordinaire, George Street, Haymarket. Colonel Clint’s war was Korea, Len Poke’s Vietnam. Colonel Clint’s smoke was a richly aromatic, vanilla-scented pipe tobacco, Len Poke’s was two hundred and fifty grams of freshly-shredded Virginia blend loose tobacco—an affectation that he had picked up from a US marine. It was Colonel Clint’s masterful, military voice that caused Len Poke to notice him. Len Poke liked a masterful, military voice, ever since the Major, with authority but frisky ways, in Saigon. The Colonel intercepted his look.
‘Clint’s the name. Colonel Clint,’ said the Colonel.
‘Poke,’ said Len, extending his hand.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Colonel.
‘Poke. Len Poke.’
‘First-rate,’ said the Colonel, shaking the hand.
‘Hot day,’ said Len.
‘Hot? My dear chap, this is nothing. Mogadishu, Dar es Salaam, Guinea, Tennant Creek. All hotter than this.’
‘Too right,’ Len said and turned his attention to his purchase. He had never been much of a conversationalist.
‘My pleasure,’ said the Colonel and left the shop.
Two weeks later Iris Wisby met Colonel Clint at the annual dahlia show under the Sydney Town Hall. Iris and the Colonel were both looking at the Grand Champion, Morning Glory.
‘Beautiful,’ said Iris, ‘beautiful. How do they do it?’
‘Hmm,’ said the Colonel, squaring his shoulders. ‘You like it, do you?’
‘Lovely. Absolutely lovely.’
‘You like dahlias, do you?’ asked the Colonel.
‘Like them? They are my passion,’ said Iris Wisby in a queenly voice. ‘I live for dahlias.’
‘My dear lady,’ said the Colonel proudly, ‘this is mine. I grew this marvel. Clint’s the name. Colonel Clint.’ He extended his hand.
‘Really? It is truly splendid. What was the name again?’
‘Clint. Colonel Clint.’
‘Iris Wisby. How do you do. Congratulations. My dahlias are rather more modest, I have to admit. I like a nice bright show, down the front path, but haven’t done anything in the competition line yet. I come in here each year for inspiration. It’s very …’
‘Third year now,’ said the Colonel. ‘Damned hard work, but worth it. Just look at her.’ They just looked.
‘Well, I really must be moving along,’ said Iris, who had a spot of shopping to do. Her boarder, a Japanese exchange student, was leaving and Iris was going to buy her a koala. ‘They like koalas,’ she often told the girls at the baths. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she told Colonel Clint.
Iris moved off down the aisle and the Colonel leaned forward and smartly whipped the prize certificate from beneath Morning Glory’s pot. Then he marched briskly but casually out the door of the Lower Town Hall. Not for nothing had he studied Surveillance back in the fifties. And his time had not been wasted in Intelligence either. It took a mere ten minutes at his table to doctor the certificate so the name, Colonel Lindsay Clint, stood proudly beneath Morning Glory, Champion Exhibit. He placed it on his mantelpiece beside the bee-keeping award certificate, the surf rescue award and the helicopter pilot licence.
Iris Wisby thought briefly about the Colonel as she poured her first brandy and dry for the evening. She did one of her old Tivoli-girl shuffles in her bare feet and whistled. She liked a full-figured, erect man who smelled of tobacco. (There had been some other indefinable smell as well, but she couldn’t place it.)
Iris was referred to among her friends down at the Coogee Baths as a wily old bird, and at sixty-nine, with her skinny brown legs protruding from her khaki men’s shorts (purchased in bulk yearly from Gowings) and her sun-leathered, wattly neck, she did indeed resemble a very tough old chook, with a cackle to rival it. But not the beady eyes. No. Iris had a sparkle of pure fun in her eyes, and not an ounce of malice.
She took her drink out onto the front porch and squatted down on the top step to survey her garden. Iris had been married three times, to older rich men, and now in her own older age she was very comfortably set up. Her mother had lived with her for many years and Iris nursed her patiently and lovingly in the end. For ten years now she had had a succession of short and long stay boarders who paid a small rent. ‘I don’t know how you can have foreigners traipsing through your house at all hours of the day and night,’ said the ladies at the baths. But Iris liked it. ‘It keeps me in touch,�
�� she said. Her boarders also provided Iris with company, although she would not have said she was lonely. She had far too much to do.
She smiled to herself as she sipped her drink. Meeting the Colonel reminded her of Arthur—they had the same erect bearing—with whom she had had a short fling one Christmas a few years back on the Southern Star as it sailed the Pacific. It had been a perfect cruise even though Arthur had certainly surprised her, deciding, as he did, to fulfil his lifelong fantasy and make it with a Scot in a kilt on New Year’s Eve. Even though the cruise was on her, Iris was a non-judgemental soul. Live and let live was her motto. It made a great story to tell the ladies. ‘Good old Iris,’ they said. ‘God, the high jinks she gets up to.’ What’s more, she and Arthur still had a standing monthly lunch arrangement.
You wouldn’t read about it. Len Poke and Iris Wisby both went to Cradle Mountain for the walking in April and who was there but Colonel Clint. Len did not immediately recognise him. He and Iris, as yet strangers to each other, were taking the short Enchanted Nature Walk around Cradle Mountain Lodge that first evening when they came upon a person whose upper half was down a wombat hole. Together they observed the stout backside for a moment or two. Len cleared his throat, rather apologetically, and spoke up.
‘You all right there, old chap?’ The hind quarters wriggled and came towards them at a backwards crawl. The chap stood up. Blow me down if it wasn’t Colonel Clint.
‘It’s Rodney. He’s down there somewhere. The wombats excite him. I’m worried he’s stuck.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Iris. ‘Who’s Rodney?’
‘My Rodney. My dog,’ said the Colonel.
‘I didn’t think you were allowed to have dogs in National Parks,’ said Len uncertainly.
‘Nonsense,’ said Colonel Clint. ‘Responsible dogs. In responsible hands. Nothing wrong with that.’ Len did not think Rodney being down a wombat hole was very responsible but he didn’t say so. He was on his annual Public Service leave and, never having been much of a confrontationalist, he didn’t want to start out on the wrong foot. Len believed in reading the vibes.
Disreputable People Page 11