Wes Piddens loved a prank.
“The passionfruit icing on the vanilla slice of life, and I love those crunchy little black bits.”
So, when his dad, Lovey, approached the 60 milestone, Wes vowed to mark it with a righteous, boffo prank.
“Hello, Mum? Wes here. Yeah, good. Yep, had some rain. Yep, Alice is good. Yep, Big Minch is good.
“Yeah, look Mum… Yep, Little Minch is good. I wanted to… Yep, petrol has gone through the roof. It has. Yeah, that’s for sure. And how’s your back? Oh? Should you what? Well, hard to say, Mum, me not being a doctor. Yes, I know you know that. Well if the doctor said to bump up the dose she probably had her reasons, and maybe they were good ones.
“What? For example? Well, maybe because she wants you to feel better. Yes, I do think so. Mum, why I rang… No, there’s nothing wrong. I want to surprise Dad for his 60th so I’ll fly down on Friday night.
“Yep, secret. Keep it under your hat. OK, bye Mum.”
Lovey and Jeannie had retired to a small orchard. Jeannie definitely; Lovey nominally.
He hired himself out for various jobs to “keep his hand in”.
In what?
“In everything.”
Didn’t matter if it was fruit picking, driving lessons, legal opinion or butchery, he charged one of two rates: forty bucks an hour or nothing.
Either way, he was always in demand.
Wes lobbed on Friday night, sneaked round to the kitchen door and caught Jeannie’s eye.
“Where is he?”
“Toddyville. The man who cuts his hair lost his licence for driving a Nissan Cedric with no pants on, so Dad’s writing a letter to the judge.”
“No pants on.”
“Apparently.”
“Something different.”
“Your father reckons if he writes a letter saying he believes it is out of character for Claude to be…”
“Claude?”
“Yes, Claude. If he says it’s out of character for Claude to be pantless, the judge will throw it out.”
“The letter?”
“No, Wesley, the case!”
“Right.”
“And, afterwards they were going for a game of bocce.”
“Bocce?”
“Yes. Promised he’d be home by eight. ‘Take that to the bank,’ he said. I’ll take him to the bloody riverbank, pardon my French, and kick him in. Right, let’s eat. He can have his cold.”
“Harsh.”
But even after the meal and a good chinwag they were still waiting for the Birthday Boy to arrive.
“Right. That’s it. I’m not staying up half the night. You can surprise him in the morning.”
(Sound of approaching vehicle)
“Wait. That’s him. Quick, hide, Mum.”
“What?”
“Hide somewhere. I’ll get into your bed and pretend to be you.”
“All right.” Jeannie dashed off smirking to hide in the wardrobe, while Wes shed his boots and dived under the covers of his parents’ matrimonial bed.
Waiting.
Door.
Toilet.
Basin.
Quiet whistling.
Oven.
Cutlery.
Chair.
Eating.
“Good grief!” Jeannie muttering from the wardrobe.
Dishes-in-sink noises.
Quiet whistling and “Pum, pum, pum.”
Teeth brushing.
Footsteps.
Shoes off.
Pants off.
Undies off. (!!!!!!!!!)
Pyjamas on. (Phew!)
Under the covers.
Wes pulled his best Mum impression by muttering high-pitched gibberish into the pillow.
“What’s that, Love?”
Wes muttered some more falsetto gibberish and caressed his father’s shoulder.
Lovey felt the heavy, hairy arm as he tried to process the gibberish, which sounded like a bear caught in a trap. Amid this sensory overload he suddenly concluded that this was big trouble; that Jeannie had been done away with and that it was now every man for himself.
But in that microsecond, while Lovey was deciding whether to fight like a tiger or flee like a craven rabbit he heard a booming voice, “Happy birthday, Dad!”
Jeannie sprang laughing and hooting from the wardrobe.
Lovey stopped breathing. (Oh, Wes! What have you done?) For 27 seconds.
Then he started to chuckle. Then cackle, tears streaming from his eyes.
“You got me, Wes. I thought my hour had come.”
Jeannie piped up, “And it serves you right, staying out half the night.”
“Top pranking, Wes. Could’ve gone horribly, horribly wrong. Still, top pranking.”
A lesson to us all.
Bullgoose
and then