Home Guard

Chapter 6

sandwedge

This should keep the wolf from the door, Grandpa Pearce announced with his big teeth as he made himself and Jim both a huge sandwich. Nan had ducked out to the shops to grab some groceries.

Jim panicked. There were wolves outside? He hadn’t ever imagined this in their backyard but it had just been announced as a possibility… and all they had was a sandwich to defend the door with. Jim wasn't sure how the magic power of the sandwich worked but he trusted his grandpa implicitly.

Jim watched in fear as his idol ate the sandwich in enormous bites. What was he doing? Now there was only his. He wasn’t game to eat it. What if there was a wolf? He sat still in the 1960s orange and lime green kitchen gripping his chair and stared at the gap under the door.

Come on old boy, eat up said his Grandpa through a mouthful.

But Jim couldn't, he was watching the place where he may have had to wedge his sandwich if that wolf tried to get through.

Homeguard

The enemy is everywhere. Trust nothing. Trust no one. Be ever vigilant. Get out of the fart sack you lazy pricks! Get outta the farta! Go Go Go!

Jim was going to bed when he saw the bushy tail in his shelving. A black, bushy tail belonging to a possum that had made its way in through the roof. Baby in tow.

“Mum, do I have any new toys with a bushy tail?” He thought that was a funny joke.

What are you talking about Jim? Lyn stood riveted to one of her favourite programs, Sunday night 60 minutes.

Her third Riesling in hand she watched the drama as her spaghettii attached itself to the saucepan for the second time that evening. As usual the TV was loud and his parents, like the meal, glued to an in-animate object.

There’s a possum in my bedroom! Jim rushed into the lounge room yelling excitedly.

A what? Lyn was irritated. Don’t be stupid Jimmy. How could a possum possibly be in your bedroom?

Mum! Come on!

Terrified there was another object in her home beyond her control, Lyn went flying in to the hot spot.

See, pointed Jim smiling proudly

Lyn felt sick. There went her quiet night where she had thought of everything to keep John happy. Favourite meal, plenty of beer. A promise of a knees up later on. Her mother always said men wanted a chef in the kitchen and a slut in the bedroom…she could always work on the cooking..

John! Come quickly! This was a job for her hero. The man of the house and protector. For f**k sake, he groans slamming his beer down. What now? Never a fuckin minutes peace.

John stomped down to Jim’s bedroom and then suddenly stood motionless. His eyes took in the room at a glance. He saw, the tail, the baby on its mothers back, GI Joe, Mr Potato Head and a fritz sandwich besieged by ants. He sniffed the air, he looked at the possums tail. And then he looked down at the carpet. Possum s**t… He returned ready for war. His armour, army issue jacket and boots, his weapons a lawnmower catcher, and an ancient bayonet. Gardening gloves and safety glasses at Lyn’s insistence.

Should we just call the RSPCA? Asked Jim

Shut up! A hissed reply. The bedroom had become a jungle. The animal, the enemy. The adrenalin started to drip and everything was in slow motion. John was sensing danger that they couldn’t possibly understand.

Battle Stations. The possum Vs Home Guard. It started like most things. With good intentions. But mother possums don’t take kindly to having their tails pulled and being shoved in a lawnmower catcher. It spat and bit like a cat with claws out and scrambled up the tall man in front of it as if he were a tree.

Entangled in John’s freshly permed hair do, it was apparent that this was no simple situation. Mother poss had no intention of jumping in the filthy lawnmower catcher and being flung over the fence. Plan B commences.

JESUS CHRIST! Jim’s Dad reacted in seconds flinging the beast against a wall, bayonet appearing in a flash! You fuckin mongrel. You bloody prick! Come here! Always a bizarre command to a potential victim, Jim empathised. John was primal. He stalked his prey. Cornered it. It wasn’t coming back. He lifted the bayonet high in the air, literally cutting it with a knife. The historical weapon did what it does. With Jesus on his side...(he was calling for him at least), and a heavy handled bayonet, Lyn’s hero defeated the enemies yelling, banging and cursing.

Possum Magic was never going to be the same again. Jim thought. No amount of lamingtons, pavlova or Vegemite sandwiches were going to make these possums recognisable again.

John went limp as soon as he delivered the final deathblows, cried after and consoled himself with a VB and a Winnie Blue to help with the shaking. Jim just stood numb looking at the bloodstain on his 1970s stripy carpet. Like the stain on his mind it never came out. Although it seemed normal enough at the time.

Just go to bed Jimmy, Lyn calls from the kitchen where she is also implementing plan b… cheese toasties. It’s late.