by Peter Twohig
‘So they were police?’
‘Of a sort.’
‘What kind of treasure?’ I sucked my drink noisily in the hope of showing that I really couldn’t have cared less what treasure, but really, I was burning with curiosity.
‘That’s rather a long story, and one that I can’t tell you. You could say that they’re raking over the remains of the past.’
‘They’re looking for something to do with Mr Kavanagh?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that — official business.’
‘Was it something he actually buried?’
‘No more questions. And I think it would be a good idea if you stayed away from the Kavanagh house.’
But I didn’t need to ask any. I had a sudden sensation as if a sherbet bomb had gone off in my brain, and it was delicious. I knew what it was they were digging for! And for the Spirit, there is no finer feeling.
Now I needed to be alone for a while. I wanted to ask the Sandersons about the Larsons, but if the Crawleys were right, that might not be a good idea, so I would have to dream up another approach. There’s more than one way to skin a bunny.
However, I knew even before Mr S had finished speaking that the Sanderson platoon would soon lapse into a coma, which was their way of telling the young visitor that the station had ceased transmission for the day and now broadcast only the test pattern.
I went out to the deserted studio.
I might as well come out and say it, because I’ve said it before: I had always wanted that little house for myself. I decided to sleep there, as an adventure. A quick phone call to Mum, and it was all over bar the shouting. As for the Sandersons, they were happy for me to doss down in the Little House with a mattress they took out for me. I didn’t need anything else, as it was still as hot as buggery. As I lay awake in the Little House waiting for the mozzies to finish eating me alive, a plan formed in my scone, a fiendish one, as they are the best kind.
A long time ago, when I had first visited the Sandersons’ back yard and found the Little House, I had thought it a perfect place for a clubhouse. But the Commandos already had one in Charles’s garage. Then I remembered when I went to Raffi’s place for the first time and got that strange beginning of an idea. I felt it again now, only stronger. I would start a club of my own, and invite the Commandos to be members, all except Matthew Foster, who wouldn’t even know it existed, because it would be a secret society and all the members would have to take a blood oath, though I wasn’t too sure about that bit. The secret society was going to be called the Larsons. I liked that name very much, and I think Larry Kent would have liked it too.
School holidays were soon going to be over, so I headed over to James’s place next, in spite of his mother being a lady who possessed frightening magic powers, though, apart from the Lasso of Truth thing, nothing I could put my finger on. But despite this, the main reason for my visit was Mrs Palmer herself: she was an old friend of the Sandersons’, and they were as thick as penguins. I had planned the visit carefully, and even practised in front of the mirror. For once I was going to get the better of Wonder Woman, instead of being her helpless victim every time I saw her (because of her feminine charms, which she had about half a ton of).
Basically, I was keen on getting the lowdown on these Larson people because the Sandersons’ house was a very mysterious place, and despite having the appearance of a couple of self-propelled lounge chairs, the Sandersons themselves were very shady and clever people. So I thought I’d practise my detecting skills by finding out more about these Larson mates of theirs. I knew that Wonder Woman would know all about them, as she was practically a member of the family. But I also knew that if I tried to get the information by torturing her she’d never tell, and only get upset and tell her husband, who had a violent streak in him, and by rights should have been living on our side of the river. Also, I didn’t want to torture her. I had a much more fiendish plan than that.
I waited until James and I were in the living room and Wonder Woman was in the kitchen doing something terrific with food, then I pounced, which is what secret agents do.
‘So, Private Palmer’ — we were being Commandos that morning — ‘have you ever been in Mr and Mrs Sanderson’s back yard?’
‘Couple of times. Why?’
‘Did you notice a little house in your travels?’
‘Just the one down near the back gate, the smelly old shed.’
He was talking about the old stable, as I’d since discovered it was. Right now, I’d prefer not to say too much about that as, until recently, I was pretty sure it was an old torture chamber. A natural mistake. As I said, I’d rather not go into it.
‘Oh yeah, that’s the old stable. No, I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the little house up near the big house, with the window in the roof and paint all over the place.’
‘Nope. Didn’t see it. What of it?’
‘I’ve formed a secret society, and that’s going to be our new headquarters.’
‘Wow! Am I in it?’
‘You bet. You’re the first member. And I’m going to ask all the other Commandos to join — all except Matthew Foster. And he must not even know the secret society exists. No one must know. If anyone cracks under torture and spills their guts they will have to die. Sorry.’
‘You know me. Anyway, I don’t even like Matthew Foster. I think it’s his purple shorts.’
‘He’s the same without the shorts. So, are you in, Secret Agent Palmer?’
‘Am I! Terrific!’
‘I’d shake your hand, but I haven’t invented a secret handshake yet.’
Now, all of this was said in a voice loud enough for Wonder Woman to hear. I knew she wouldn’t give a continental about the foregoing conversation, which we could just as easily have had in the privacy of James’s room, or out in the back yard, where Zac could have joined in. But I wanted her to accidentally on purpose, if you know what I mean, hear what was coming next.
‘So what’s our secret society called?’
I raised my voice just a shade, so it would carry to the kitchen.
‘It’s called the Larsons.’
‘The Larsons! Terrific!’
And for James that was that. Curiosity was not his strong suit.
‘Cool. Now, Secret Agent Palmer, let’s go up to your room and write out a secret oath, and take it.’
We walked up the stairs and into James’s room, and I closed the door with a bang. James bustled around and started organising the paper and pencils.
‘Back in a sec,’ I said, and quietly let myself out and headed for the top of the stairs to listen. What I heard was the sound of a phone number being dialled. I snuck back into James’s room. If it hadn’t been for ladies, the phone would never have caught on.
The advantage of actually living in your granddad’s house is that he can’t get away from you.
‘Hey, Granddad,’ I asked as soon as I got home. ‘You know everything.’
He gave me one of those looks you give a Salvo lady when she rattles her collection tin in your fizzog.
‘What about it?’
‘I was wondering, you being a bloke who gets around a bit, and knows this and that, and even picked the winner of last New Year’s Eve’s Brighton Street Dog Race, though I still think Patch was nobbled —’
‘What is it, for Gawd’s sake?’
‘Who were the Larsons?’
Granddad rubbed his chin, a sure sign that I’d caught him off guard. He wouldn’t have let anyone else see him rub his chin in a fit. You’d think I’d just asked him which jockey was going to lose his concentration on the home turn in the next race at Moonee Valley and start day-dreaming about his upcoming trip to Surfers. In other words, it was as if he wasn’t sure whether to tell me a porky or a giant fib, which you will notice are pretty much the same thing. It was a question of which lie to tell, really: a feeling I’d had many a time. But he knew that when it came to fibs he was looking at the Jack Brabham of
fibbers. In fact, Sister Valerian had once sent a note home to Mum telling her that I was a compulsive liar, though I think that was going a bit too far, as I just can’t help myself.
‘What d’ya know about them?’
Hello!
‘They stayed at the Sandersons’ for a while. Mrs Larson was a painter and Mr Larson was a bit of a handyman, and did some work around the place.’
He just nodded. ‘They came and went, and that’s that. Didn’t know ’em myself — didn’t want to.’
‘Where’d they go?’
‘Oh, back to Sweden, I reckon. They were only here on business, selling cars or something. Not a big market for Volvos.’
I had hit pay-dirt.
‘Mm, Volvos, I don’t know that type.’
‘Oh no you don’t! No more questions. What’s so important about the Larsons?’
‘Nothin’. I was just wondering.’
‘Anyway, Sandersons or no Sandersons, I think it’d be best if you forget all about that name. They might have stayed there for a while, but that was years ago —’
‘Year before last —’
‘Don’t be cheeky. And don’t let anyone else hear you mention them — I’m not kiddin’: not a word.’
‘But my secret society, um —’
‘What about it?’
‘Nothin’.’
It was a secret society, after all.
‘What was that all about?’ said Mum, when Granddad had gone off to see a man about a dog. I nearly fell over, and was tempted to look around to see who had come into the room behind me, but I knew she was talking to me because she wasn’t looking anywhere in particular, which was usual when she was talking to me.
‘The Larsons, from down Kipling Street.’
‘Never heard of ’em.’
Serves me right, I suppose.
Next stop was Barney.
I found him down at Church Motors, which was just a large, dark room full of grease and tools and bits of cars at the back of the local petrol station. There was no church, and there were no motors. There was just Barney under his new second-hand Ford Consul, wearing a pair of blue overalls. This was where Barney spent a lot of his spare time, when he wasn’t in the pub or lending a hand to Granddad.
‘Hi, Barn,’ I yelled, as he banged something under the car.
He stopped banging.
‘G’day, nipper. What’s up?’
‘What’re you doin’?’
‘Making it go faster, that’s what.’
‘What for?’
‘So the local lads can’t catch me, that’s what for.’
‘What local lads?’ I thought he might have been talking about Gazza Turner and his mates, and I was suddenly very worried, though I didn’t know which one I was more worried for, as they were both friends of mine.
‘The bloody p’lice, ya flamin’ nana.’
‘Oh yeah, the p’lice. Course.’
He slid out from under the car and wiped his dirty face with an even dirtier rag.
‘I don’t think that worked too well, Barn.’
‘No, it never does. So what can I do for ya?’
‘Ever heard of the Larsons?’ I was sure that Granddad’s ‘not a word’ wouldn’t include Barney.
He looked at the dirty rag, then at the car, then down at the floor, then up at the ceiling, then back at the car. Then he scratched his head.
‘Nope, can’t say’s I have, young feller. Now the Lawsons — I know them all right. Monk Lawson owes me two quid. Thanks for reminding me. There’ll be a deener in it for you when I collect.’
‘Thanks, Barn. But not the Lawsons: the Larsons.’
‘Sure you don’t mean the Carsons? Everyone knows them. I still owe that Jimmy Carson kid a thick ear for painting that dragon on me car. What’d he want to do that for? Took me ages to get it off.’
I wasn’t game to tell him it had been me who had done that. It was in my dragon days. I couldn’t help it. I suppose you could say, at a pinch, that I was a compulsive dragon painter. It’s just that once you learn how to draw something cool, you have to keep drawing it until it’s out of your system. That’s how it was with Uncle Ivor: he just had to keep drinking until it was out of his system, I reckon. He’s still drinking. Dad’s the same. And all those people who barrack for Footscray. Don’t get me started on them. The only good things ever to come out of that place were Zac and Biscuit. Apart from that, niente, as Luigi Esposito says (his whole family says it).
‘No, Barn, not the Carsons. They lived across the road from us: I know who they are. The Larsons.’
‘Ah, you’d be thinkin’ of Old Man Ferguson, from the newsagency. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but before you were born, when I was just a lad, he used to be a driver for the mob.’
Suddenly, I thought I’d have to settle for some interesting tale about the Richmond criminal element, which was everyone who’d been in jail, or knew someone who had, which I realised included me.
‘Which mob?’
‘The Eastern Hill Mob.’
‘Don’t know ’em, Barn. The only mob I know who hang out in Eastern Hill are the Fire Brigade.’
‘That’s them. Fergo used to drive for them. He was a bloody maniac. He used to go out of his way to run over old ladies and stray cats.’
‘Bull.’
‘Well, p’raps not cats.’
I was getting nowhere, which was pretty hard to believe, as he had been hanging around Granddad for a long time, and made a career out of keeping his ear to the ground — and donging people, of course.
‘Swedish couple who stayed with the Sandersons in Kipling Street.’
‘Let’s see: Kipling Street, Kipling Street …’
That settled it: he’d been nobbled.
12 The Olympians
I had only intended my mission — I call it the Larsons Caper — to be a kind of training run; I hadn’t expected all and sundry to react to my enquiries as if I’d asked them what happened to their last dog. But I could see that I wasn’t going to get anywhere, so decided to drop it for the time being, and concentrate on tracking down my nemesis (we superheroes always have nemesises), Flame Boy.
I had one last job to do before the first meeting of my secret society. I went down to Raffi’s and knocked on the back door and yelled, ‘Hello-o,’ the special way you have to do it through flyscreen doors.
I heard Mrs Radion yell: ‘Raffi,’ then she said to me: ‘Come in if you’re dry,’ which was a little bit of the Mrs R humour, as it had suddenly started raining bats and frogs (that was one that Tom invented), even though we were still in the middle of a heat wave. So I just stood on the back porch, listening to the rain killing itself against the corrugated-iron roofs all around me, and waiting for Raffi. He came out with a large black umbrella that had a carved handle like a devil’s head, which worried me a bit, as the weather was bad enough as it was, and God and I had stopped talking.
‘You remember that time down the baths Tom and I asked you if you’d like to join our club, the Commandos?’
‘Yeah. You said I had to jump off the diving tower before I could join.’
‘That was a joke. Anyway, I’m forming a new club, and we’re having our first meeting right now up at the old Sanderson place. What about it?’
‘What kind of club is it?’
‘A secret society for spies.’
‘What do I have to do to get in?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Okay.’
The first meeting of the club was not held in the Little House, or GHQ, to give it its correct name, because the rain was coming down so hard you couldn’t hear yourself think out there. The Sandersons therefore invited us to come inside and use the library for our first meeting, and promised to leave us alone to get on with our secret conversation. Before the meeting was due to begin, I introduced Raffi to the Sandersons — I had been a bit worried that when they saw him they might have a heart attack, like everyone else in Richmond, but they d
idn’t seem to notice anything strange about him.
Then we waited for the others to turn up and take a seat. When the new club members were all assembled, Mrs Sanderson stuck her head around the door and asked if she could interrupt us with some fruitcake at some stage, and we agreed after taking a vote at which James voted no thanks, just to be polite.
I noticed that they all had the excited look of kids who had initiation on their minds. They had been keen on devising an extremely evil initiation for Raffi.
‘Now, fellers, a rule before we start: no initiations. This is Raffi, and his mother has already said he can only join if he doesn’t get initiated.’
‘Suits me,’ said James, who I happened to know had been terrified.
The others just shrugged: Richmond kids take life as it comes.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘secret agents don’t have to be initiated. If they fail in their mission they’ll probably wind up dead, so it really doesn’t matter.’
They all smiled their agreement and nodded. This was standard gang talk.
‘So,’ said Charles, sticking to the procedures to be followed by kids when inventing new clubs, ‘what’s this club —?’
‘You mean secret spy society —’
I had some heavy-duty spying to do, and I needed a secret society to do it. It was the old Tom Sawyer trick.
‘Oh yeah, secret spy society — what’s it going to be called?’
This was the moment I’d been thinking about since Granddad warned me about mentioning the Larsons to anyone, because he meant it. So I had dreamt up a better name, and now announced it to the expectant hush.
‘The Olympians!’
I liked saying it out loud. The idea for the name came to me when I saw the picture of Ron Clarke over at Raffi’s place. Then, it was fuzzy; now, it was clear.
‘Terrific!’ said James, who had clearly forgotten the original name I had come up with.
‘Fantabulous!’ said Charles.
‘Ace!’ said Johnno.
This was one of those times when you had to use your special word.
‘Bewdy, Blayney!’ said Douggie.
‘Shit-hot!’ said Luigi, who was going through a swearing phase.