Impractical Jokes (8 page)

He had barely gotten to his feet before Suzie, recently awoken, descended the stairs to see where all the noise was coming from. They bumped into each other in the dark and by all accounts it is impossible to know who got the biggest fright or made the girliest scream. Suzie sprinted upstairs and hid under her doona; Richard headed in the opposite direction and cracked the other shin on the coffee table. In quite some pain, he groped around until he spotted the faint glow of moonlight in the garden. Deciding this was his best option for escape, he made a run for what he thought was an open door.

It was in fact a door-shaped window. Richard ploughed through plate glass and dropped four feet onto the bluestone paving outside. He landed with an audible thud. He was out cold. And bleeding from the head. The jig, it is safe to say, was well and truly up.

Five minutes later the lights were turned on and it looked like an actual robbery had taken place. Furniture was strewn across the room, food was everywhere, petrified and slightly soiled victims were huddled together looking for reassurance in a world gone mad. Ian was slumped in a corner and looked like he had been apprehended by a crack team of tweed jackets. Knowing that tweed jackets can be persuasive interrogators and his chances of remaining anonymous were negligible, he had removed his stocking. He was laughing uncontrollably, but not giving up his water pistol for anything. At that moment he appeared to be the most amused man in the entire world.

Richard, on the other hand, was in a state. As you would expect, glass had pierced the none-too-protective stocking. This had caused a ladder to form diagonally across his face, running from just below his left jowl to just above his right ear. Protruding from the ladder were his upper lip, right nostril and the top of his right ear. A large wine stain had formed around his mouth and spread north towards his nose. His heavily lacerated head was bleeding heavily in a southerly direction. The two red stains met somewhere in the middle and it was impossible to tell where the bleeding stopped and the shiraz began. He had come to, but was babbling, trying to make sense of the situation.

‘How did we . . . bluestone? But . . . who put the . . . bleeding badly now . . . oh, dear.'

A small crowd had gathered around him. He was looking crazily around the group with a middle-distance stare, seemingly unable to focus on anyone. He had the dazed look of a recently concussed boxer or a bird that has flown into a mirror. The kind of confusion that only time can heal. Dad was the first to offer help.

‘Richard, are you ok?'

‘I suppose a scotch is out of the question?'

My father picked him up, took him inside and sat him in a chair, making arrangements for urgent medical attention and even more urgent scotch. He went to the drinks cabinet and poured Richard three fingers of green ginger wine.

‘Glenfiddich for the patient.'

‘Thank you, Ron. Ever the good host.'

He took a long sip, appearing to savour every drop.

‘How's the scotch, Richard?'

‘Top shelf, Ron. Really hits the spot.'

‘I think you may need a hospital.'

A few minutes later my mother began performing first aid. The few remaining guests made polite goodbyes and squelched off down the driveway. It was assumed that any others had fled during the shootout, or were hiding somewhere in the garden. As Mum pulled pieces of glass from Richard's head and briskly applied the most astringent disinfectant she could find, Richard began a perfuse, concussed apology.

‘Pammy, I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I assure you, this was not the plan. It is safe to say we have deviated significantly from the plan at this point.'

‘It really is a little too much, Richard.'

‘I know. It's terrible. Totally out of order . . . I suppose another whisky's probably pushing it?'

As Richard sipped another green ginger wine, my mother worked away at Richard's head and navigated towards some more polite conversation.

‘You know, Richard, this is a very nice stocking you're wearing.'

‘Yes, it's one of Cheryl's. She's going to be furious when she sees what I've done with it. Come to think of it, can I stay here tonight?'

Now, sane people would say that it was here, as my mother was pulling shards of glass out of Richard's scalp that alarm bells should have gone off. Property had been destroyed, grown adults had suffered forced incontinence and my mother's dinner party reputation may as well have gone with Richard to the emergency ward. An armistice should have been called, treaties drawn up and the healing process allowed to begin.

None of this happened.

5

Codename: Poodle

O
n the Monday following the dinner party, Richard rang Dad to apologise.

‘Ron, I just called to say how sorry I am for the mess I caused on Saturday night.'

‘Well, Richard, you know you'll always be my friend, but I don't think Pamela will ever speak to you again.'

‘But it was just a dinner party. Surely she'll forgive me for that. It's kind of funny, when you look at it.'

‘Well, actually it's not funny, Richard. It's not funny at all.'

‘Come on, Ron. Lighten up. Even Pammy had a laugh while she was pulling the glass out of my head.'

‘Richard, you may recall that I put up a tarpaulin to cover the window that you broke. Well, in the middle of the night a buck possum got into the house and attacked the dog . . .'

‘Oh, god'.

And so started Dad's counterattack. The genuine genius of his approach was the use of the term ‘buck possum'. In my experience any lie can be made believable with the inclusion of a fact that doesn't need to be there. As a person is told a tall story, they will accumulate doubts, little trapdoors they can use to escape the embarrassing accusation of gullibility. The insertion of a truly surprising detail forces the victim to focus entirely on it, forgetting all those trapdoors and suspending all disbelief in the genuine hope that it is true. This is the Mr T Principle2, and can be boiled down to the phrase ‘that's just insane enough to be true'. And so, at the mere mention of a ‘buck possum' Richard would have been almost entirely consumed with trying to imagine what a ‘buck possum' even looked like—how its appearance would differ to that of a regular or ‘non-buck' possum and how the attack of a buck possum would by definition be a ferocious thing to behold—and forgotten to consider that this was my dad he was talking to. The moment Richard began to paddle down that stream of consciousness, the lie had very much become real.

To this day my dad is adamant that the possum ruse was not premeditated. He swears he had been racking his brain all that morning, trying to think of a suitably elaborate revenge for what was, let's face it, an attack on home soil. He had contemplated hiring
actual
burglars but decided against it; not only because he didn't know any
actual
burglars but even if he did, it would be too unsatisfying to not be part of the invasion force. He also entertained the idea of arranging for a fictional insurance company to sue Richard for astronomical window repair costs; however, this would have required a level of paperwork and forgery that was frankly impossible for a relative luddite with no desktop publishing skills, let alone a desktop computer on which to not have those skills. They were the best ideas he'd had by the time the phone rang and he maintains that the possum came to him as a divine gift from the universe the moment he heard Richard's voice. Dad was merely a vessel for the shenanigans the cosmos had in mind and he was going to ride this wave of inspiration for all it was worth.

‘And, you know, the dog put up a really good fight . . .'

‘Oh, god.'

‘Jesus, she loved that poodle.'

‘Oh, god.'

‘But in the end there was nothing the vet could do. Poor little Hudar had to be put down.'

‘Oh, god.'

‘Suzie's taken the week off school.'

‘Oh, god.'

‘Charlie hasn't spoken for over a day.'

‘Oh, god.'

‘You know, maybe in six months she might get over it, but for now I can't see you and you really shouldn't call.'

‘Oh, god. Ron, I am so sorry. I promise I will never pull another prank as long as I live.'

Richard heard my dad go silent on the other end of the line. No doubt he imagined my father overcome with grief, searching for words that would never come. In reality Dad's hand was over the receiver as he tried to suppress laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks. His mirthful paroxysms sounded like muffled sobs, putting the final touches on a stunning deception. Sensing the kind of sorrow that words cannot heal, Richard bade farewell.

‘I'll let you go, Ron. I know it may take a while, but call me some time. I will be looking forward to it.'

Self-imposed exile didn't last long. Three days later Richard called Dad again.

‘Ron, please, don't hang up. I've spoken to the Poodle Breeders' Association of Australia, who gave me the numbers of all of their currently registered breeders. And after calling all of those breeders I have discovered that there is a litter that has just been born in Jamieson, only four hours away. Now, I know Pam is angry with me, but do you think she'd let me take her out there to pick out a puppy to replace your poor departed Hudar, rest his soul.'

‘I really don't think that's a good idea, Richard.'

‘Please, Ron. In some way I must make up for the terrible thing I've done.'

‘I just don't know if she's ready to . . .'

‘But Ron, it's pedigree is fantastic. It's lineage has been traced back to Louis the fourteenth.'

‘This isn't about pedigree, Richard. Pammy is devastated.'

‘I know, Ron. But maybe a puppy would make her feel better. I have never in my life known for a puppy to make a situation worse. And that is God's honest truth.'

‘Richard, I'm sorry but . . .'

Once again Dad went silent. He was just about to come clean with Richard, who sounded palpably distraught on the other end of the phone. He was going to let Richard off the hook and tell him that Hudar was fine and that this was just a little way of getting him back and there were no hard feelings and everything was as it should be. But he didn't. That, he surmised, would be too easy. All Richard had done was make a few phone calls. That was hardly sufficient punishment for a heavily-armed assault on a dinner party and the destruction of a perfectly good window. Divine inspiration may have begun this poodle fiasco, but the finish would be pure Pickering.

‘Maybe you're right, Richard. Maybe a puppy would help. I tell you what. You can pick Pammy up at eight o'clock on Saturday morning and take her out to Jamieson. I'll have a talk to her and make sure it's ok.'

‘Thank you, Ron. You won't regret it.'

‘You know, Richard, something tells me I won't.'

On the Saturday morning at eight o'clock Richard arrived to collect Mum. Few pleasantries were exchanged as Mum got into Richard's car and they headed off—for four hours my mum sat in stony silence, never once looking at Richard.

This was impressive. Imagine for a moment having to go on a four-hour car trip with a dear friend in utter silence, maintaining an outer veneer of personal devastation and animosity, while internally wanting to shout for joy. This takes more than just attendance. This takes fortitude, dedication, focus and monumental acting skills. For four hours Richard tried to make small talk and my mum gave him nothing. The weather, football, recent television programs and politics all failed to raise her curiosity. When Richard changed tack and asked about how my sister and I were going at school, she was silent, coming across as genuinely disinterested in the lives of her children. When they stopped for petrol, Richard asked Mum if she wanted anything to eat. She uttered the only words she spoke for the morning which were: ‘I don't really have an appetite, Richard.' Oh, yes. Pamela Pickering was a professional accomplice.

Around midday, they arrived at the home of Jamieson's most prestigious poodle breeder. Richard was no doubt ecstatic to simply be out of the car in which he had suffered a slow death. Mum would have been relieved that she had not once given Richard any inkling that she was anything other than a grieving dog lover.