Jack and the Little Blue Bag

By John Fisher

Jack, a middle-aged brickie, is taking a break from work, and from his family. His ute has carked it. He hitch-hikes through Gippsland, heading for Bermagui and a remembered childhood. It's a story about wandering, accidental meetings, ignorance and kindness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Fisher
• Release date: Dec 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781925648621

John Fisher

John Fisher worked with dogs professionally for more than 20 years. He was a regular contributor to What Dog? and Pet Dog magazines and is the author of Think Dog and Dogwise: The Natural Way to Train Your Dog.

Book preview

Jack and the Little Blue Bag

JOHN FISHER

Also by John Fisher

Gold Star 2000

Berlinda 2004

Minna and Peelee 2006

Light 2007

Chazza 2008

Bessie’s Boy 2009

Gold Star 2nd edition 2010

Cliffslip 2011

1000 Months 2013

Stacy Eck 2014

SOXS 2015

Seeing Yellow 2016

I lift up my voice to sing of the spearing of seals on the water of the river.

yenna kunyero ngnjo winna barrajute panda ngaliwan mali thunga thunga

Kurnai song.

© John Fisher 2017

Layout and cover design by Michael Hanrahan Publishing (www.mhpublishing.com.au)

Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing

Self-published by John Fisher

The paper this book is printed on is certified as environmentally friendly.

Typeset in 11/15.8 Source Sans Pro.

ISBN: 978-1-9256486-2-1 (e-book)

Contents

Moya

Festivation

Little Blue Bag

Skells

Booze Bus

The Pip

Panic Not

Tell the Nurse

Union Power

Anguilla Australis

Merle & Pearl

Mine Whistle

Burt Bilt

Old Bones

Herbe

’Ollands Landing

Ardath

Morag

Between Ladies

Diarrhoea

Aussie Dream

Crafty Women

True Patriot

Woofer

Escalator Pitch

A Bloc of Writers

Sparkie

New Used Old

Doasyouwouldbedoneby

Landy Men

Barbie

Pub

Crook

Glassworks

Bunjil Carl

Sprong

Ananda

Lark

Always Busy

Glassfest

Landy Ahoy

Kindness

MOYA

Most of what people said about Moya was improbable, and yet possible. If a military helicopter could land at the airfield next to her house, whisk her away, and return her much later, with a new hairdo, then why not claim Moya as the local mystery woman?

Everyone knew Moya. She had a surname and people around Lakes Entrance were surprised when they read it because Moya was a first-name local. Moya could chat about local things while she leant on a shopping trolley at the checkout. Her Land Rover was as dirty, old and dinged as any in the car park at the golf club. Everybody knew something interesting about Moya, not from social media but from a local who knew someone who heard from someone, who…

The locals around Lakes Entrance attached themselves to Moya with threads of their own weaving. She had been the mistress of a billionaire, or of a political biggie who died on the job, or both, at the same time. She had a child, a prodigy who overdosed. She had been earth-mother in a commune up north, was a shrewd environmental entrepreneur, and a frequent flyer with the POTUS on Air Force One. Moya’s mystery was greater because she didn’t act mysterious or superior. She didn’t look different although her severe haircut & colour was not a local job. She dressed carefully from op-shops. But Moya was unusual. She got on talk-back radio, without waiting. She got letters in the national press. She had a pilot’s licence and flew to who-knows-where. She was known to have sky-dived solo, or so someone’s brother-in-law told someone.

Chatting to Moya was like being let into a secret. Her voice was a bit deaf-sounding – probably from exposure to gunfire, or not. She spoke slowly, rarely as fast as others, and this made time for her words to weigh heavier than chatter. Her speech was over-articulated so that what she confided was always clear. But then, she could banter with a quick wit and a dirty laugh at her, or at your, rude phrase.

Moya fed the mystery. There were few family photographs for visitors to ask about, and if they did, her answers were unreliable. Kids? Yes, I’ve had a few. They are somewhere on this planet. Grandkids? Here and there. Several, I think. Partners? At my age? Moya had no social media, no public CV, no entry in Who’s Who. But everyone knew her. She made everyone around Lakes Entrance more exotic.

It was no mystery that Moya knew lots of people, locals and others, and managed to catch up with them to mention, in passing, an event that she had been thinking about, and for which their opinion was valued. And by the next, accidental meeting, the seeded idea had sprouted. Others would tell Moya that the region needed an event. And Moya would agree and ask what such an event might be, and leave the other questions on slow fuse for the next time. So, after a year or more, when someone suggested a public meeting to get a committee for an event, Moya agreed to be nominated as a committee member.

The excitement was tremendous. There was great enthusiasm for an event. People had been thinking about what to celebrate. Obviously there were lots of things and no end of talent. Moya was honoured and reluctant to accept the job of chairperson. She looked down from the school’s stage at the many raised arms, and limited each speaker to three minutes. No one doubted that she would cut off a long-winded speaker, regardless of status or brilliant thought or early dementia. The three-minute spiels kept coming. The committee scribe filled the smart-board with ideas to print off for the new committee.

fishing competition

display of local artists

workshops–furniture, glassblowing

procession–bands, groups

tournaments–golf, tennis, sailing, bowls

history display

open-air concert

religious groups

old machinery display

corroboree

fireworks

food stalls

cooking demo

produce market

wildlife display, local industry

traditional plants

basket weaving

explorers and pioneers

tourism and camping

oil and gas

pageant

gnomes

bee-keeping

bark canoe making

wine making

weekend event

ukulele band

U3A choir

drone fly-by

Moya thanked the crowd for the ideas that would keep the committee busy before another public meeting in a month. The committee members were busy. They worked through the ideas. They arranged, rearranged, sorted, collated, colour-coded and grouped them and realised they were starting at the arse end. They should first decide when and where.

It was agreed. A weekend celebration by the locals, for the locals, about local things – a do it yourself event. But which weekend? The committee settled on early October as the best, least difficult time. Lake Tyers would be filled with winter and spring runoff, and boats would not get stuck in the mud. October was windy but not as wet as September. Early in the last school term would suit the primary kids but might be a problem for the secondary students running up to exams. But then, they could use the event as assessable projects. The migrating terns might not arrive to nest on the sand barrier between the lake and the ocean until after the event. October was not a fire season although the brigades might be burning off. That could be delayed. October would overlap the spring racing season but the event would be before Melbourne Cup. October would allow time for advertising and slotting the event into the tourist calendar. But then, why advertise if it was an event for the locals, not for outsiders?

It was agreed. The event should be at Lake Tyers over three days – Friday evening, Saturday and Sunday – of the first week in October, next year. The committee was almost there – an event, a celebration of local things. But what to call it? It could not be a book, poetry, organ, folk, ute thing. It was a celebration of local things and it had to be cheap. There was no time to scramble for grants; outside money would come with outsiders’ conditions. Now they only needed a name to hold together the grab bag of ideas. Nothing fitted. The secretary read aloud from the list and the committee members played word games: bike trail tours, timber-milling workshops, glass blowing. In the hills behind Lake Tyers there was a glass blower. No other place had a glass festival! And Lake Tyers used to have a glass works!! There was even a small sign at the Glasshouse Campground. The committee looked to Moya for her opinion.

Moya laughed. ‘I think we’ve got it. Nearly. Glass works, glass factory, glass whatever. Something glass. The glass factory made glass insulators, walking sticks, bottles and jars – lovely blue-green things. They are collectors items now.’

No one doubted that Moya had at least one glass insulator at home.

‘I should declare a clash of interests here before we go further. My great grandfather was a brother of Cocky Roberts, the man who set up the glass factory. But no commercial conflict.’

That settled it. It was more local than they knew. But festival wasn’t the right word. ‘It’s not a gab-fest,’ muttered the treasurer, and then heard the clang and shouted, ‘We’re planning a glass-fest, a glassfest, our Glassfest!’

The treasure’s joy was brief. They had no funds. There would be costs. Where would they get the money? Moya let the treasurer wallow in his dismal ledger while she gave the committee a history of the glassworks.

In 1909, the Post Master General needed glass insulators for the expanding telegraph network. Cocky Roberts was managing Lake Tyers House, and had worked at a glassworks in Melbourne. A glass factory was built with an open-hearth furnace and used sand from Lake Tyers to make insulators. These were sent to Melbourne from Bairnsdale after being shipped from Lakes Entrance. The glass factory is now part of the campground for Parks Victoria.

Moya let the last sentence gather significance in the long pause and then confided, ‘The campground has a new toilet. I expect Parks Victoria might fund a celebration for the new loo. The minister might like to open it and pay for an event, and for a notice board, suitably labelled.’

FESTIVATION

The committee roughed out the Glassfest on the school’s smart-board with three columns for Friday evening, Saturday and Sunday.

Friday evening starts with a sunset procession of school children down Lake Tyers Beach Road to the tavern car park. An art-pontoon moored at the lake edge is the stage for performances to a seated and standing audience. Displays are in pop-up tents on the side of the car park. Fireworks and illuminations at the Glasshouse Campground. Evening at the tavern.

Saturday morning, local produce market in the tavern car park and pop-up tent displays. Other displays at the primary school. Mid-morning boating event – floatilla – procession of watercraft from boat ramp, past tavern and across the lake to the glassworks – includes logging barges, steam launches, yachts, canoes and rafts by service groups. At the Glasshouse Campground, mid afternoon unveiling of the new toilet by local member of parliament, and afternoon tea. Evening concert at the art-pontoon.

Sunday – fishing competition – surf and lake. Stalls, displays and demonstrations at school and car park. Concourse of restored farm vehicles on Lake Tyers Beach Road. Closing event to be arranged.

It was an exciting program – so many activities, so many things to organise, too many jobs. The committee members felt the obligation, but who would do all the work in the next ten months? Surely, they had done more than enough? They dodged each other’s eye-to-eye invitations to be the one to run the show. They turned to Moya. ‘I think we have done an excellent job,’ she said through their evasion and guilt. ‘We need a director now, and a stage manager later. I could ask around, unless anyone knows someone.’

The committee members wrinkled their foreheads and thought, with no result. Moya added to the job description – a local person with event experience and time to spend almost a year on the Glassfest.

‘Money?’ prompted the treasurer, unsure of the current rate for theatre professionals, sure that it would be too much.

‘Well, yes,’ Moya replied, ‘It’s a full time job. That’s why it should be a local person. Does anyone know a bricklayer who might be interested in doing a free job?’

‘But…’ began the treasurer, to be interrupted by Moya saying they should ask around. Someone might know of a suitable person. And over the next week, the committee did hear that someone had done an event at Bairnsdale, and that someone’s partner had a degree in arts management, and that there was a woman on the North Arm who…

‘Of course,’ said Moya. ‘Why didn’t I think her? Shall I ask her?’

‘Money?’ prompted the treasurer.

‘Now, let’s see what can be found,’ Moya said.

Moya found a rural arts grant to cover the costs of an event director for a year. And, a suitable person.

AB Honey was a local woman – local enough by being married, or not, with a really local man, whose family went back to when coastal ships came to Lakes Entrance. AB and her man were apiarists, whose hives were all around the district – sweet buzzing places for local honey. She had other qualities too. She was arty. She directed school plays and local theatre from Sale to Orbost. She had university qualifications. She was pear shaped. She was young enough to be childbearing, old enough to be looked upon with pity by fertile women. And she knew how performance committees worked. She was just right!

AB, like Moya, understood the power of not telling everything to everyone. She looked at the committee’s timetable and the long list of suggestions and made her own list of themes: indigenous, explorers, settlement, selectors, industry – farming, grazing, glass-making, timber, fishing, oil & gas; recreation, tourism transport. Then she made her shopping list of people to talk to, one to one –architects, teachers, tradies, artists, performers, students, choir leaders, boat builders, retired people.

The Glassfest was to be an inclusive event- for locals. AB talked to each person about their bit; the focus was on their contribution and not on the total event. AB made each person feel important and necessary. What they were preparing, making, or practising was held close to them, not to be talked abroad. Over the ten months, AB had no public meetings. There were no emails about the event. There were no progress reports in the press. Locals were bonded by their tasks. To ask what he or she was doing for the Glassfest, was to invite smiles and secrecy. ‘Can’t say too much, but it’s looking good.’

LITTLE BLUE BAG

‘Frankston.’ A man’s voice, not the nice lady who crooned over and over, The next station is…’ Jack snapped his eyes open and jerked his head to the bloke’s voice – a rail operative, a guard or a driver – standing in the open doorway telling Jack something. ‘Frankston, mate! Last stop,’ in an official voice.

Jack closed his eyelids down with one hand, ‘Not Carrum?’ he pleaded with himself, knowing that Carrum was three stations past. Nup! He was at Frankston. He was at the end of line.

‘This train terminates at Frankston,’ said the bloke from the memory of hearing the nice lady announce it at the end of every run. ‘Have to get off now, mate.’

‘Frankston,’ Jack repeated, not surprised that he was the last soul in an empty rail carriage, on a rainy, darkening, winter evening, at the end of the line, at the end of a job. It had been a surprising day. But he was not surprised to end up in Frankston; it was where a lot of things terminated for Jack.

‘You can get the next train back to Carrum,’ the bloke said, tipping his head to the train at the opposite platform. ‘Goes in a few minutes.’ The station speakers caught up with his advice and swirled some words about platform one and Flinders Street.

The railway bloke pulled his neck into his jacket as rain spat across the platform but he stayed at the carriage door to be sure that the tradie understood where he was and what he should do. And to be sure he was an over-sleeper and not a problem for rail security. But Jack started to move.

Jack stood and stretched and twisted to feel if his back might ache again. He had been curled up in the corner against the window for how long – since Richmond. He pulled his jacket together and zipped it up. He could feel bulges in the inside pockets where the money was. He reached down and pulled his esky from under the seat, and then picked up his backpack.

A wind gust rattled a paper cup across the carriage. The rail bloke had waved, said something that the wind caught and then walked away into the shelter of the station buildings. Jack looked along the length of the lit carriages ahead and behind him. All empty. The station announcement had another go at speaking against the wind and Jack got the message. Time to go. Like all the other passengers. All gone! Home. To cooked meals, kids, TV, maybe a shared bed. All gone. Got off at the stations that Jack had slept through, probably snoring for ten stations or twenty, lulled asleep by the nice, warm, kind, kindergarten voice. The next station is…