Counterculture Blues: a fable

Author’s Note

For the benefit of readers who have not been here before, Tuckaburra is an imaginary town inhabited by imaginary characters, which occupies for the purposes of fiction the space where Mullumbimby is to be found on maps of the so-called real world.

1

In a cottage on the edge of Tuckaburra, a marmalade cat named Claude was looking out of his bedroom window. Behind him, his lady cat rolled over on their double bed and flung out one blue paw. It wasn’t really blue, not sky blue—it was a bluish grey, for she was a half-Siamese, half-Blue Burmese. Her ears and tail and all four paws up to the elbow were this same shade of mysterious blue-grey, like the sky sometimes is before the rain.

Cup of coffee, Lioness? Claude asked, peering through a gap in the curtains at the first carts and carriages rolling past on Tuckaburra Road.

Since Shelley Shire had seceded from New South Wales to avert development, nary a car nor any other form of internal combustion engine could be seen within its borders. The small steam trains that ran every hour between Billinudgel and Booyong were fuelled by wood chips.¹ The citizens rode bikes, drove carriages pulled by dogs bred especially for the purpose, while crisis carriages such as ambulance and fire brigade were pulled by miniature horses.

Coffee, Lioness? Claude asked again as the milk kangaroo drew up in his wagon pulled by two white bull terriers—one of the best breeds of draught dogs for hauling heavy loads.

"Coffee please," Mao muttered, trying to hold on to her sleep.

It was well and truly morning, she knew. Soon she would have to rise and see to the two kittens—well, catlings they were now really, although she still thought of them as kittens. It was Saturday. Wintergreen would be worried about getting to ballet on time, and Rupert would probably be grumpy. But that was all a cup of coffee away, Mao reminded herself.

The clinking of the bottles as the milk kangaroo set down the double Saturday order roused Mao from her reverie.

Quick! Did you put the milk money out last night?

Claude hitched up his striped pyjamas and blinked his green eyes at her. I did.

Was there enough money in the sugar canister? Anxious.

I had to put in two-and-sixpence.

The shire had reverted to Imperial currency after the secession.

Mao fell back on to the pillows and settled herself again. Another bill paid on time. Things were always tight, and lately they seemed to be getting tighter.

Claude pushed his back feet into his slippers, a present from the catlings on the previous Father’s Day, tied his crimson dressing gown around his ample middle and made his way across the hallway of the small cottage.

In the kitchen the willow patterned china stood in rows in the open pine dresser. The lower half of an oak sideboard stood under the window. Cooking pots, some cast iron, some copper, hung on chains on the wall on either side of the stove recess.

The mantelpiece over the recess was quite plain, but on it, Mao had placed a fourteen-tile washstand back. In two rows of seven, pink art nouveau lilies swirled on an olive-green background and lifted the working end of the kitchen visually.

In the centre of the large kitchen stood a turned-leg table from the Edwardian era, with six matching, spindle-back chairs set around it. The chairs had an Acanthus pattern stamped into their backs. Baskets of root vegetables stood on the floor. Tins of herrings and sardines were stacked in one corner. Yesterday had been shopping day.

Claude loved the kitchen. Kitchens had seemed to him in his youth to be the heart and soul of a family, the family he had through no fault of his own lost. If you had a kitchen, you had a home, he’d thought to himself on winter nights when, cold and homeless, he’d peered unnoticed into the kitchens of more fortunate cats. Now he had a kitchen of his own and a ready-made family, and no sacrifice was too great to keep them.

He pottered over the ironbark floor to the stove recess, where a small, black cast-iron stove, its embers still glowing from the night before, stood ready for him to resuscitate. There was an electric stove in the southern corner of the kitchen, but Claude preferred to use the wood stove during the cooler months.

He tore up some newspapers, added pieces of kindling and arranged it on the embers. Then he stood with the door of the fire box open and, having a care for his whiskers, blew gently on the small, weak flames that sprang up. Soon the stove was burning well, and he went outside to release the two carriage dogs, Isabel and Bluebell, from their enclosure in the backyard. By the time he returned and was back in his slippers, the kettle was boiling, and the coffee was perking in the pot on the stove’s back plate.

Claude took down four of the five green mugs that hung from cup hooks set into the bottom of the timber mantelpiece. Mao had made these mugs in her shed out the back one Christmas. On each of them was painted a name under the glaze, baked into the clay. A stranger coming into the kitchen in the early morning could have read each name as the mugs hung there:

Claude, Sylvia, Mao, Wintergreen, Rupert.

Deftly, Claude made hot chocolate in the mugs marked Wintergreen and Rupert. He carried the mugs into the catlings’ bedrooms, ignoring the KEEP OUT sign tacked to Rupert’s door. Then he returned and poured strong coffee into the mugs marked Claude and Mao. The mug marked Sylvia he left untouched; Mao’s mother Sylvia did not rise early. Indeed, it was distinctly unwise to disturb Sylvia in the mornings.

What’s the day like, Lion? Mao asked him as he returned to the bedroom with two mugs of steaming coffee. His little affectation that they were all lions not cats didn’t annoy her this morning. She took a cautious sip from the mug he passed to her. Aah . . . It was just right. Claude made the morning coffee meticulously, Mao reflected, with just the right amount of milk and honey and more than the right amount of love.

The day is fine, Claude replied, lighting up the rollie he’d had ready in a saucer on the washstand, his first of the day.

The sun was just rising over the ridge to the east. Cattle were grazing peacefully in the paddock next door. Far in the distance to the north, the river glinted like molten silver through the willows.

Yes, it’s very fine indeed, Claude said. Do you want me to wake the little lions again—properly, this time?

Oh dear, there would be no turning back after that. Sometimes Mao felt she would like to postpone the day completely, call it off until tomorrow. She pulled one corner of the doona around her shoulder as she took another sip of the coffee. It was May, late autumn in Australia. The nights and mornings were definitely cooler.

As Claude stood at the window savouring his mug of coffee and admiring the beautiful day there came a tremendous banging on the front door. He put down the mug with such a jolt that it clattered on the marble top of the Edwardian washstand. Who could be banging on their door at this hour of the morning?

He went to investigate.

Standing on the front steps was an irate wallaroo in a cabbage-tree hat, old farm clothes and gumboots. He was holding a dead white leghorn in each paw. The birds hung limply, their combs bright in the strengthening sunlight.

Oh no! Claude cried. Not again!

The wallaroo slung the dead fowls at Claude’s feet. Do something! he shouted and was gone before Claude could say another word.

Who was it? Mao asked when Claude returned to the bedroom.

Jack Mills, he answered. It’s the dogs. They’re at it again.

How did he take it? Mao was fully awake now.

Not well. Claude puffed agitatedly on the rollie He thinks we’re not trying hard enough.

As Claude spoke he saw Bluebell slinking in through a hole in the back fence—returning from the scene of the crime, no doubt. She slunk even lower when she saw Claude watching her, then paused to lick at her front legs and look behind her. Claude followed her gaze: waddling busily along behind Bluebell, came Isabel; the odd white feather still protruded from her mouth. Isabel was the quieter and plumper of their two carriage dogs, a placid, good-natured dog, not overly bright. Bluebell was the leaner and meaner and the ringleader in any trouble.

Claude ran into the backyard, still in his slippers. What’s going on here? he roared, hoping to sound fierce.

The dogs ran into their kennels and backed up, Bluebell snarling.

This won’t do, Claude said when he’d buried the dead fowls and returned to the bedroom. They’re getting a taste for blood.

Mao shuddered. At least they kill them quickly.

Trouble is, Claude said, I don’t know what to do next. I’ll buy some more pig wire and reinforce the fence this afternoon, and I’ll go and see Franchetti on my way uptown after lunch. He’ll have an idea.

Franchetti’s first name was Bruno, but he was always called Franchetti. Some ne’er-do-well street cat would poke his head around the door of Franchetti’s granny flat, Hey, Franchetti! Are y’ comin’ uptown?

And Franchetti would turn off the music he was invariably listening to and lope uptown with the caller.

Mrs Franchetti had cherished high hopes for Bruno when he topped the state in history in the HSC and started at university. Every Italian cat’s dream was to have a catling who wore a suit to work every day—perhaps a university lecturer or, better still, a bank manager. But Franchetti’s participation in the Vietnam War had ended all that. Now it galled her to see him hanging about with the street animals.

You keep those animals out of my yard! she would exclaim. They no good, they not do any work. All they do is drink and take drugs and sniff petrol.

They don’t sniff petrol, Mum, Franchetti had protested.

Who cares? They take drugs. Tell them I no want them here.

But Franchetti was always picking up lame dogs—some dogs, some not. What he did do was instruct his friends and those in need to come in from the back lane, rather than the front entrance in Tuckaburra Road, where his mother was sure to see them.

He lived in a granny flat in his parents’ backyard, down near the sawmill on what The Gecko referred to as the lunatic fringe of town. When Mao first read that phrase in the newspaper, down near the sawmill, on the lunatic fringe of town, she’d wondered whether it was all the animals that Franchetti attracted—animals wanting advice, animals needing a bed for the night—that had caused The Gecko to coin the phrase.

Franchetti’s parents, both calico cats, had been banana farmers. Like every other banana farmer Mao had ever known, they’d moved into town the instant they retired. They were, as Franchetti said in the pubs uptown, the original hippies, growing their own vegetables, saving their seeds, recycling everything. Mrs Franchetti had once made a full-length, imitation bead curtain for the back door from suppository applicators she’d painted various colours. She was very proud of it and showed it to everybody until Franchetti made her take it down.

By the time Claude had helped Mao with chores, the midday movie had started when he arrived at the Franchetti house in search of Bruno. Mr and Mrs Franchetti had eaten lunch and were watching The Ten Commandments. Mr Franchetti was shelling coffee beans. Mrs Franchetti was crocheting squares of wool.

You want to sit down and watch with us? Mrs Franchetti asked when Claude appeared in the doorway; she liked Claude, a family cat. Bruno, he is uptown cashing his prescription. You want a cup of coffee—a piece of chocolate cake with ice cream? Have you had your lunch yet?

A glass of wine? Mr Franchetti asked him, pouring from a large glass flagon. He always drank wine in the afternoons.

Thank you, I don’t mind if I do, Claude said. He was glad they hadn’t offered him the grappa, which was extremely strong that year.

He stayed for only one glass, then he excused himself. Franchetti had returned. He was in his granny flat listening to Remain in Light, the Talking Heads album. He was a lean, camel coloured cat with grey eyes and slightly hunched shoulders and a long, thin tail. His ears and whiskers and the fur between the ears had been dyed platinum blond, Billy Idol fashion, for Franchetti was a punk/new wave aficionado.

When Claude arrived Franchetti was pacing up and down, smoking a rollie and carrying his tail draped over one foreleg. He didn’t turn down the music when Claude came in; they simply talked over it. Their talk was a worried talk: would they be able to keep Saturday night’s gig if Wild Cat was still in the clinic? The Cat was the guitar player in their six-piece band The Rainbow Connection. Should they look for another guitar player? And how was Claude going to dissuade Isabel and Bluebell from killing any more chickens?

I’ll tell you, Franchetti said, but you won’t like it. It’s how Dad cured two of our carriage dogs years ago when we were still in the country.

Hit me with it, Claude said. I’m desperate.

When Remain in Light had finished and Devo had come on, they were still talking. Later that afternoon, when Claude checked into the Franchetti’s on his way back from town with the pig wire, Moses was receiving the ten commandments on Mount Sinai, while the animals he’d led out of Egypt were worshipping the golden calf in the valley below.

Won’t you stay and see the end? Mrs Franchetti asked him.

Claude thanked her but said that he had to get home. He felt the film went downhill after Charlton Heston’s fur turned grey and, anyway, it was a bummer of an ending. He stashed the pig wire in Franchetti’s flat and returned to Mao with pots full of home-made pasta and spaghetti sauce and plates full of layer cake covered with plastic wrap.

For the kittens, Mrs Franchetti had said, as she always did when he tried to demur. Take it for the kittens.

Back at the cottage, Mao’s mother Sylvia was having a hard time of it on the telephone. First, she tried to ring up about having an armoire stripped. In the public notices of The Gecko there was always an advertisement for a stripper.

Sylvia dialled the number. Hullo, she growled in her Marlene Dietrich voice. Is that the stripper?

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line, then a male voice said, Ye-es? in a tell-me-more kind of way.

Well, Sylvia said, I’d like you to do some stripping for me.

What kind of stripping were you after, exactly? said the voice on the other end of the line, amused now, it seemed.

Well, said Sylvia, I’ve got this armoire, and I was wondering if you pick up and deliver. Our carriage is out of order at the moment.

There was another mysterious pause, then the voice on the other end said regretfully, This is the Bangalow Fire Brigade. I don’t think we can help you.

Oh, Sylvia said. Why hadn’t the fool told her that in the first place? But, of course, he’d been hoping against hope for a salacious phone call to brighten an otherwise dull day.

Next, she tried to ring Odd Job Rob, the handy possum, to enquire about having some wall papering done in the front sleepout.

Hullo, Sylvia growled. Is that Odd Job Rob?

A storm of laughter came from the other end of the line.

Oh oh, Sylvia thought, Odd Job Rob must be one of those possums. Possums were a varied lot in Sylvia’s experience. Most were hardworking and stable, but some possums were unreliable and given to drink.

My name is Sylvia Mirrow, she said, tail lashing. I’d like to speak to Odd Job Rob. By now, the name was sounding bizarre to her, but she pressed on. I’ve got a job for him.

I’ll bet you have. Another explosion of laughter.

I’m hanging up now, Sylvia declared. On the off-chance you come to your senses later, my phone number is 846 471, and I need a sleepout papered.

Sure. Sure, the possums managed, between guffaws.

Sylvia went into the kitchen to make a cup of dandelion coffee; the possums had left her nerves jangled. Through the window she could just make out the figure of yet another tourist stranded on Mount Very, the mountain that overlooked the town. He was wearing a red windbreaker, clinging to the rocks near the top and waving.

Visitors seemed to have trouble with Mount Very. They became stuck on it in more ways than one. Mount Very What? they always wanted to know.

Up at the Tuckburra railway station a train whistle blew. Sylvia shuddered. It had been on just such a day as this that Olwyn, engrossed in his book on Schopenhauer, had been run over by a train when the driver forgot to honk at the level crossing.

The phone began to ring, but Sylvia let it ring; she’d had enough of phones for the time being.

The phone rang seven times before the answering machine cut in.

Hi, growled Sylvia’s voice. This is Sylvia Mirrow. I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.

Aah, came Wild Cat’s voice. I want to talk to Claude Katt about regaining my throne.

Sylvia now knew for sure that this was one of those days. She could hear what sounded like the public address system of a large hospital in the background:

Would all staff not dispensing medicine please report to the nurses’ station immediately?

Wild Cat believed he was the rightful heir to the throne of Ireland. Some days were worse than others, but when he wore flowers and feathers in his hair, and when he felt the need to ring up about it . . .

Sylvia sighed as she turned down the volume on the answering machine and sipped her dandelion coffee. If only Claude’s band didn’t need Wild Cat, they wouldn’t have to put up