Almanac Fiction: The Search for the Shield (Episode 6)

 

 

 

In Episode 6 of ‘The Search for the Shield’, Swifty Taylor visits the house of a hoarder

One of the many concessions that men make to advancing years is the increased frequency with which we use the john. And I was no exception. But in the interests of using only one stone to kill multiple birds, I waited patiently until Harold needed to point his girlfriend’s best friend at the porcelain. What with Harry being more youthful and all, I was almost at bursting point when I gave him a two-minute start and then surreptitiously joined him at the urinal. There was no-one else in there, because there was only just enough room for two. Keeping my eyes looking straight ahead at the advertisement for a happy hour which didn’t really exist, I rudely interrupted his moment of sprinkling reverie.  “OK, young fella, time to cough up what you know about the shield. And don’t give me no high hat”. It was a line I loved using – stolen straight from Miller’s Crossing, one of my favourite films.

His eyebrows were drawn together in a frown of thought. It was the face he once made when galloping along the wings of the Fearon, Sherrin in hand, sweet left foot just about to bomb it into the forward line. I wondered if he ever considered what might have been. He was wobbling slightly, but began to speak. “Well, Mr Taylor, there’s this bloke. They call him ‘Pissy Pete’. He’s a bit of a hoarder. I hear his house is like a museum. Have you heard of him?” I kept staring straight ahead, in disbelief that Eagles Lair had the affrontery to charge so much money for spirits and then label them ‘Happy Hour Prices’. Not for the first time today, nor the last, I decided to lie through my teeth. “No, I have never heard of him. What’s his story?” And Harry proceeded to tell me as much as he could about Pissy Pete. Which was nowhere near as much as I already knew.

As it whipped around my ears, the evening breeze contained all the brutal briskness of late Autumn. I was strolling along the Strand, piecing together any fragments of knowledge about Pissy Pete that I could gather in the recesses of my memory. I knew him by sight only, and I knew he lived in a small street just off Williamstown’s finest boulevard. Rumour had it that before Pete had hit the bottle, he had inherited from his parents a property portfolio that would make a Willy real estate agent blush. Well, almost, because I knew that local realtors wouldn’t know what embarrassment was if it was staring them in their crooked faces.

I rapped lightly on a front door that could have been constructed from balsawood. There was movement in the hallway beyond, but obviously a reluctance to welcome me in. “Peter. Open up,” I demanded. “Who is it?” croaked a voice. I told him who I was and what was my business, and he slowly unbolted the lock.

I was ushered into a corridor with bundles of newspapers piled high to the ceiling on either side. The only way through was to walk sideways. I stole a glance at Pete, who appeared only slightly embarrassed by this catalogue of newsprint. I wandered through dusty rooms piled high with unopened boxes of Lego, and collections of Barbie and Ken dolls. One bedroom played host to a display of cuckoo clocks. I am rarely struck dumb, but it was as if Felix the Cat had pilfered my tongue. “Where’s the sports stuff?” I asked. Wordlessly, Pete ushered me through to a parlour which was loaded with sports trophies and honour boards of every shape and size. The history of long defunct clubs was gathered before me. “Where do you get this stuff?” I asked. “Auctions. Garage sales”. He paused. “Dumpsters”. I raised an eyebrow and demanded of him “Tell me more!”

“The CY’s footy club was having a clean-out. I saw their skip. I rifled through it”. He shrugged. “The only thing of value I found was an engraved pewter mug”. He pointed to it with a gnarly finger. I lifted it up, it’s heft startling me. “The Werner Rozenzwieg Drinking Trophy”. It was a no-brainer that I knew of the legendary Werner and his drinking exploits, but I was unaware of this. Sensing my anger that such a prize should be sitting in this hovel rather than the CYs rooms, he blurted “It was being thrown out!”

“Well, it’s mine now,” I bellowed. “And what about the Williamson Shield?” My eyes darted this way and that, almost convinced that my elusive booty was concealed somewhere within this pile of dust-collecting monuments to sporting glories. “No,” he gasped despondently. “I heard some rough people were looking for it”. He looked me up and down. “If I had it, I could make a few bucks”. Looking at him with a renewed disgust, I realized that the stench of Pissy Pete’s house was seeping into my pores. “I need some fresh air,” I announced and, turning on my heel, I squeezed back out through the newspaper-lined passageway. He most likely had copies of the Argus in this lot. He was shuffling along behind me. “Would you believe that it was David Astle’s Friday cryptic crosswords in The Age that led me to where I am now? The nonsense. The abomination of those bullshit clues! It drives me crazy just thinking about it!”

I fought the urge to strike a Redhead and watch the entire trove go up in flames. But, in the end, what harm was he doing me – or anyone else? And having tried an Astle cryptic myself, I could sympathise.

Heading home, I could feel an impulse compelling me, dictating that I should stop by the liquor store and re-stock my supply of Jameson. I had racked my brain in a vain effort to recall if there were any dregs left in the bottle at home, but I thought it best to be safe rather than sorry – and dry. For the first time since my chat with Harold, I felt the need to relieve myself. I try to avoid the Exeloo at the entrance to Coles, especially since the time I witnessed the door open automatically while some poor sap was still sat on the bog, only halfway through his number two. But sometimes a man has no other options. As I stood there consumed by a feeling of sweet relief, the unmistakable sounds of What The World Needs Now Is Love began piping through the hidden speakers. Lost in thought I wondered whether Burt Bacharach and Hal David – when they first sat down to write it – had any idea that this timeless classic would one day be reduced to the maudlin soundtrack of a Swifty Taylor twinkle.

 

You can read Part 1 Here.

You can read Part 2 Here.

You can read Part 3 Here.

You can read Part 4 Here.

You can read Part 5 Here.

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

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