Page Turner Winning Entries 2010
WINNER -
PENGUINS ON THE PAGES by Stephen Tuffin
Kettles boiling, my camomile tea bag is about to be infused in my favourite mug, giving me all of those promises, printed on the side of the packet, all I want is a good night’s sleep, not a walk through umpteen herbal remedy promises.
I hopped into bed, with my brew on the bedside table, cooling, as I listened to a recap of today’s question time from Parliament House in Canberra, all those “Monty Pythons” clowning around down there, is not going to get me to sleep, so bang, they’re gone. The silence is beautiful, the camomile has cooled, time to take out the satchel, and start sipping, the next few minutes were quiet and restful, only sound was a coal train in the distance becoming fainter. My favourite mug was almost empty, as I rolled the cool tea around my pallet.
I have no idea how long later, but an amazing drama was being born, right here on top of my very own pillow, about half a metre from the Monty Pythons. I was walking towards a small village in the Upper Hunter called Gundy, where a most beautiful, but vulnerable river, called “Pages”, runs down through here to the “Allan Bridge” and on into the “Hunter River”.
At “Gundy” like most country villages, there’s a pub, a dog or four, a general store with a bowser, one side diesel, one side petrol, a gossip or two, most likely a bloke that knows everything. The pub in this place is called “The Linger Longer”, looks like it’s been here since Adam, or longer.
As the pub came into full view, I just couldn’t believe what I’m seeing, it looked like about two thousand penguins, had decided to have a gathering on the pub lawns, how they arrived there is anybody’s guess, a stock float is out, flying, no, walking, no, maybe they were dropped off by mistake, in those containers they use to transport “homing pigeons”, hardly likely. That know all bloke, who goes by the name of “old Jack Mahony” known to the locals as O.J. recons they arrived on a magic carpet, I reckon he might be pretty close to the truth.
What I can’t understand is how would you logistically organise two thousand penguins, who can’t talk, can’t write, maybe they are well versed in Braille, or some cryptic code us humans just don’t understand, maybe all the bowing and curtseying holds the key to their lingo.
Now the bloke that runs the pub, is either crying because he hasn’t got enough fish to feed them, or he’s laughing cause people will come from near and far, just to have a ganda. Being a pretty smart sort of a bloke, he’s got an idea that will keep these beautiful little creatures around this place for a while yet. All the fish stocks in his cool room, he gets his chef to slice up into penguin manageable portions, and with the help of his three kids and two of their mates, they lay a trail of food down to “Logans Water Hole”, so they can frolic in the briny or swing out on the old rubber tyre, tied to a rope attached to the limb over the “Mighty Pages”. Before they move towards the river, they go through their ritual of bowing and curtseying. Maybe they are giving thanks for the morsels of fresh fish. Anyhow, while this is in train the publican is on the phone to you know who, yes O.J. “Mate, What’ll I Do”? How am I going to keep the little buggers here, no tucker, they’ll be off quick smart. Leave it to me old mate, for a slab or two I’ll get the job done, my mate Frank downstream at Aberdeen is boss cocky of the local “Lions Club”. Well, per chance this weekend they are having a carp fishing contest at Lake Liddell, and they usually score between one and two tonnes of fish, which usually goes straight into land fill, get the picture maate, “how big’s your cool room”? You better add on a slab for Frank too. Now to logistics!! Transport, we’ll grab a couple of your local tradies from the bar tonight, someone with a couple of spare boagy wheel box trailers, we meet Frank at the Top Pub at Aberdeen, purchase twenty or so bags of ice from Craig at the pub, into the trailer goes the ice, on top goes the carp, over that goes the tarp, giddy up horse, cart and harness.
Now, carving up the carp is no big deal. They don’t have to be scaled or gutted, all you have to do is chop’m up, into bite size pieces, they’re not too fussy, as long as it’s fish.
Now, things are starting to emerge regarding their social awareness, gradually a pecking order is evident, a rather tall member, about one third of a fathom in height seems to be their spiritual leader or equivalent. They all seem to bow and curtsey to him, it’s certainly not a Monty Python system. It’s noticeable that there are different physical differences with this wonderful band of penguins. Word around is that the little ones are fairy penguins from Bruny Island south of Tasmania. The larger ones are sebansky penguins. They could be interbreeding, god knows. Maybe we won’t ask old mate O.J. anyway, he’s breast feeding a slab.
Now that the chef and a few locals have guillotined enough carp to keep the hordes happy for the time being. By the way, they have moved from Tom’s water hole to one of similar size under the bridge closer to the playground, looks like they may be settling in for a bit. Now the chief protagonist seems to be bowing and curtseying in an unusual way, sort of saying, let’s pretend we’re dolphins, and put on a show for the “Gundian’s”.
At this point in time there’s not enough water in the Pages to give us an Olympic style aqua aerobics, so there’s squawking and squarking and getting themselves into groups, with some sort of a plan in mind. From the dumpster behind the pub, they have managed to extract a heap of those green eco friendly carry bags, and by the look of things, it’s pretty apparent there’s a three legged race in the offing, also one of the patrons has sacrificed his son’s soccer ball to the mob, so while (charge d’affaires) is organising the tri leg racing, they’re heading and passing the round ball. The kids on the lawn are joining in, the cars and utes are arriving, and a brewery truck is unloading, word has escaped out, game on. Frank and O.J., whose name I’m led to believe is “Old Jack Mahony”, have left what’s left of their slab, in the safe hands of the cool room, and are enjoying a pure blonde or three at the bar, adjacent to the window which gives them full vista, of the lawn proceedings.
Things look to be in training for race on in the legs department, the punters at the bar and on the verandah were having bets with each other, as to the outcome of the Pages “Penguin Pantomime”. Big daddy penguin waved his flipper towards the boys to come and retrieve their soccer ball so proceedings can get underway with the “Pages River Cup”. Because there’s lots of entries, big daddy has said, ten pairs to each heat, five fastest to decide the final, all heat winners to retain same partners for the final. Big daddy says, as your co-ordinator I promise everybody a couple of hours of hilarious racing, please give us your applause.
While mine host is refilling your glasses with his compliments, we are off down to the Pages for a quick dip, and a morsel or two of carp tenderlings, racing to begin in a short while.
When the ‘guins came back up they looked like hundreds and thousands on a cup cake with blue icing. Just as they got back to the green, they all looked at a strange looking object, moving towards the green. In fact it was a forklift truck, with a pallet of Mt Helen natural spring water, in those lovely plastic containers, penguin friendly size. They soon demolished half a pallet and the races haven’t even started, they were by their body language, enjoying the whole situation. O.J. and Frank were on their fourth blonde. Slow down boys, or you’ll miss all the fun. On the flattest part of the green, big daddy has stepped out a forty metre track marked at each end by a half metre high pile of empty water bottles.
The first heat was about to get underway, and at that point there seemed to be a bonding with the flock, they all looked to the south, and started an episode of bowing and curtseying, I would liken it to our national anthem, played before a big game. When that was over and expectations gathering, big daddy penguin motioned to two of his hand maidens, that the first heat is to start. The ten teams lined up across the green, in about a six metre wide barrier. Some had green Coles bags, some had red, white and blue Woollies bags, others had black and white David Jones’, a bit hard to tell, which was the D.J. bag and which was the penguin pair. Down at the far end was a Wendy’s pink bag, plus a few other nondescripts. Big daddy handed over to the starters, and the heats were off and running albeit slow running, or more like ambling, to the applause of two thousand penguins and a hundred or so pub patrons, plus all the kids and dogs on the green. Cheers, come on you beauty, Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, we want more, and went on into the night, under a full moon and a few full patrons.
All the heats were run, plus the final, and the “Shabbang” was loved by all, including the two old stagers, Frank and O.J. They had finished the first slab, and by the look of ‘em they were looking for a hollow log.
The pub manager appeared on the verandah, smiled graciously, and announced last drinks on the house, yahoo, whatto, onya mate, what a legend and so on. He turned the lights down low, put the floods on showing the green, where quite unnoticed, the whole flock of penguins had formed into a pattern, exquisite in form and dimension, spelling out the words, ban mining on the “Pages”, please join us at “Cameron’s Gorge” tomorrow night.
I opened my eyes, pinched myself twice, and realised, it was in fact a dream. Boy oh boy, what a ride. From the bathroom, I called into the kitchen, just to check on those “camomile” tea bags, just to make sure I hadn’t consumed something off limits. They ticked off, soon I went back to bed, and felt justified in giving the “Monty Pythons” the flick some hours earlier. A mouth full of water, I closed my eyes and almost instantly, I was dressed in my Sundays, sitting in a white cane chair, on the banks of the “Pages” river, some twenty kilometres upstream from Gundy, at “Camerons Gorge” where forty thousand years ago the “haydonwangumbuka” aboriginal tribe were having festivals of a different kind, when the waterfall at the gorge was ten metres high, in stark contrast to the two metres high waterfall of today. Right there in front of the waterfall were two thousand elegant penguins bowing and curtseying in traditional style, off to my left were two old stagers, Frank from Aberdeen and who else but old Jack Mahony. Frank had a white tee shirt with the words, “Jean de Florette” in red lettering, O.J. had on a black tee shirt with the words “Manon des Sources”. Both were drinking Mt Helen spring water, I was drinking water straight from the Pages.
It was about 8 pm, the stars were just starting to twinkle, when I noticed behind the flock, the moon was shining onto the waterfall forming a wonderful chandelier, then onto the waterfall was projected a movie, none other than Whoopy Goldberg, in “Sister Act”. When it started, you could have heard a feather drop. I bent forward to catch a mug of water from the Pages, and to my surprise there was a platypus chasing a brown trout, looked like they may have been playing, but I don’t think so. For some reason I turned around towards Bickham Hill and to my surprise there on the hill were all the folk from Gundy. They had all moved in noiselessly, like you would expect in a sacred place, and they were invited. The other thing made evident, were so many anti Bickham signs, all spelling out in certain terms their disdain at the mere suggestion that this pristine area be turned into another cess pool, one prominent sign read “Franklin Damned, Damn Bickham”. The movie was well into the final stages, Frank and O.J. had managed to conjure up some more goodies for our entertainer’s supper, and they showed their appreciation by bowing and curtseying. A few chosen penguins were out in front of the waterfall, probably because the Sister Act choir were all girls, these were too.
So, in front of this beautiful pristine moon bathed waterfall, the penguin choir in unison, singing in soft tones the chorus of I Will Follow Him.
“We will follow him
Follow him wherever he may go
There isn’t an ocean too deep
A mountain so high it can keep, keep us away
Away from his love
I love him, oh yes I love him, I’ll follow
I will follow him”
The silence was golden, sacred, sensitive, the chandelier was dimming, as the shearwaters from Bruny Island were flying north to Siberia, so too were the penguins moving south, to their respective habitats. I opened my eyes to the sun streaming in my bedroom window, time for a cup of tea.
THE END
