A bedtime story for those with strong hearts ....

[shedcoupe]

A Prowler’s Pleasure.

Barry Boggin was driving the ute slowly, leaning back comfortably in the seat with one elbow resting on the sill of the open window. How beautiful the countryside, he thought; how pleasant to see a sign or two of summer once again. The eucalyptus smell especially. And the distant bushfire. The trees were exploding red along the ridges and the smoke was growing.
He took one hand off the wheel and scratched his crotch absent-mindedly The best thing now, he told himself, would be to make for the top of Falcon Hill. He could see it about half a mile ahead. And that must be the village of Fairmont, that cluster of cottages among the trees right on the very summit. Excellent. Not many of his Sunday snoopings had a nice elevation like that to work from.
He drove up the hill and stopped the car just short of the summit on the outskirts of the village. Then he got out and looked around. Down below, the countryside was spread out before him like a huge green-brown carpet. He could see for miles. It was perfect. He took a pad and pencil from his pocket, leaned against the back of the car, and allowed his practised eye to travel slowly over the landscape.
He could see one medium farmhouse over on the right, back in the fields, with a track leading to it from the road. There was another larger one beyond it. There was a house surrounded by tall trees, and there were two likely farms away over on the left. Five places in all - that was about the lot in this direction.
Mr Boggin drew a rough sketch on his pad showing the position of each so that he'd be able to find them easily when he was down below, then he got back into the car and drove up through the village to the other side of the hill. From there he spotted six more possibles - five farms and one big house. He studied the big house through his binoculars. It had a clean prosperous look. That was a pity. He ruled it out immediately. There was no point in calling on the prosperous.
In this square then, in this section there were ten possibles in all. Ten was a nice number, Mr Boggin told himself. Just the right amount for a leisurely afternoon's work. What time was it now? Twelve o'clock. He would have liked a beer in the pub before he started, but on Sundays they didn't open early. Very well, he would have it later. He glanced at the notes on his pad. He decided to take a look at the closest house first. It had looked nicely dilapidated through the binoculars. The people there could probably do with some money. Mr Boggin climbed back into the car, released the handbrake, and began cruising slowly down the hill without the engine.
Apart from the fact that he was at this moment disguised in the uniform of a clergyman there was nothing very sinister about Mr Barry Boggin. By trade he was a used-car dealer, with his own yard. His premises were not large, and generally he didn't do a great deal of business, but because he always bought cheap, very very cheap, and sold very very dear, he managed to make quite a tidy little income every year. He was a talented salesman and when buying or selling a car he could slide smoothly into whichever mood suited the client best. He could become grave and charming for the aged, obsequious for those with money, sober for the godly, masterful for the weak, mischievous for the widow, arch and saucy for the spinster. He was well aware of his gift, using it shamelessly on every possible occasion; and often, at the end of an unusually good performance, it was as much as he could do to prevent himself from turning aside and taking a bow or two as the thundering applause of the audience went rolling through the theatre.
In spite of this rather clownish quality of his, Mr Boggin was not a fool. In fact it was said of him by some that he probably knew as much about cars as anyone else in Geelong. He also had surprisingly good taste, and he was quick to recognise and reject an ungraceful heap, however genuine the article might be. His real love, naturally, was for Fords.

During the past few years, Mr Boggin had achieved considerable fame among his friends in the trade by his ability to produce unusual and often quite rare cars with astonishing regularity. Apparently the man had a source of supply that was almost inexhaustible, a sort of private warehouse, and it seemed that all he had to do was to drive out to it once a week and help himself. Whenever they asked him where he got the stuff, he would smile knowingly and wink and murmur something about a little secret.
The idea behind Mr Boggin's little secret was a simple one, and it had come to him as a result of something that had happened on a certain Sunday afternoon nearly nine years before, while he was driving in the country.
He had gone out in the morning to visit his old mother, who lived far away, and on the way back the fan-belt on his car had broken, causing the engine to overheat and the water to boil away. He had got out of the car and walked to the nearest house, a smallish farm building about fifty yards off the road, and had asked the woman who answered the door if he could please have a bucket of water.
While he was waiting for her to fetch it, he happened to glance in through the door of the machinery shed and there, not tenmeters from where he was standing, he spotted something that made him so excited the sweat began to come out all over the top of his head. It was an XP panel van, covered in dust and junk but complete and not at all rusty. Good God he thought. This thing is worth having!
He poked his head in further through the door, and there, by heavens, was another one on the other side of the shed!
He couldn't be sure, but two vans like that must be worth thousands up in Melbourne. And oh, what beauties they were!
When the woman returned Mr Boggin introduced himself and straight away asked if she would like to sell the vans.
Dear me, she said. But why on earth should she want to sell those old heaps ?
No reason at all, except that he might be willing to give her a pretty nice price.
And how much would he give? They were definitely not for sale, but just out of curiosity, just for fun, you know, how much would he give?
Three hundred and fifty dollars.
How much?
Three hundred and fifty dollars.
Dear me, three hundred and fifty dollars.. Well, well, that was very interesting. She'd always thought they were worth a dollar or two. They were very old. They had sentimental value too. She couldn't possibly do without them, not possibly. No, they were not for sale but thank you very much all the same.
They weren't really so very old Mr Boggin told her, and they wouldn't be at all easy to sell, but it just happened that he had a buyer who rather liked that sort of thing. Maybe he could go up a bit - call it five hundred. How about that?
They bargained for half an hour, and of course in the end Mr Boggin got the vans and agreed to pay her something less than a tenth of their value.
That evening, driving back to Geelong in his old ute with the first of the two fabulous vans on a trailer, Mr Boggin had suddenly been struck by what seemed to him to be a most remarkable idea.
‘Look here’, he said to himself, ‘If there is good stuff in one farm shed, then why not in others?’ Why shouldn't he search for it? Why shouldn't he comb the countryside? He could do it on Sundays. In that way, it wouldn't interfere with his work at all. He never knew what to do with his Sundays.
So Mr Boggin bought a GPS unit and maps, large scale maps of all the areas around Geelong, and with a fine pen he divided each of them up into a series of squares. Each of these squares covered an actual area of ten km by ten, which was about as much territory, he estimated as he could cope with on a single Sunday, were he to comb it thoroughly. He didn't want the towns and the villages. It was the comparatively isolated places, the large farmhouses and the rather dilapidated sheds, that he was looking for and in this way, if he did one square each Sunday, fifty two squares a year, he would gradually cover every farm and every house for miles.
But obviously there was a bit more to it than that. Country folk are a suspicious lot. So are the impoverished rich. You can't go about ringing their bells and expecting them to show you around their farm sheds just for the asking, because they won't do it. That way you would never get beyond the gate. How then was he to gain admittance? Perhaps it would be best if he didn't let them know he was a car dealer at all. He could be the telephone man, the plumber, the gas inspector. He could even be a clergyman ....'
From this point on, the whole scheme began to take on a more practical aspect. Mr Boggin ordered a large quantity of superior cards on which the following legend was engraved:

THE REVEREND
Barry Boggin

President of the Society for the Preservation of Rare Autos. In association with The Ford Museum.

From now on, every Sunday, he was going to be a nice old parson spending his holiday travelling around on a labour of love for the 'Society', compiling an inventory of the treasures that lay hidden in the country sheds of Victoria. And who in the world was going to kick him out when they heard that one?
Nobody.
And then once he was inside the gate, if he happened to spot something he really wanted well he knew a hundred different ways of dealing with that.
Rather to Mr Boggin's surprise, the scheme worked. In fact, the friendliness with which he was received in one house after another through the countryside was, in the beginning, quite embarrassing, even to him. A sandwich, a glass of beer, a cup of tea, a basket of fruit, even a full sit down Sunday dinner with the family, such things were constantly being pressed upon him. Sooner or later, of course, there had been some bad moments and a number of unpleasant incidents, but then nine years is more than four hundred Sundays, and that adds up to a great quantity of farms visited. All in all, it had been an interesting, exciting, and lucrative business.
And now it was another Sunday and Mr Boggin was operating out in the bush again, in one of the most northerly squares on his map. As he drove down the hill and headed for his first house, he began to get the feeling that this was going to be one of his lucky days. He parked the car about a hundred meters from the gates and got out to walk the rest of the way. He never liked people to see his car until after a deal was completed. A dear old clergyman and an old ute with a trailer somehow never seemed quite right together. Also the short walk gave him time to examine the property closely from the outside and to assume the mood most likely to be suitable for the occasion. Mr Boggin strode briskly up the drive. He was a small fat-legged man with a belly. The face was round and rosy, quite perfect for the part, and the two large brown eyes that bulged out at you from this rosy face gave an impression of gentle imbecility. He was dressed in a black suit with the usual parson's dog collar round his neck and on his head a soft black hat. He carried an old walking stick which lent him, in his opinion, a rather rustic easy going air.
He approached the front door and rang the bell. He heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and the door opened and suddenly there stood before him or rather above him, a gigantic woman dressed in tracky-dacks. Even through the smoke of her cigarette he could smell the powerful smell of body odour that clung about her.
'Yes?' she asked looking at him suspiciously. ‘What is it you want?'
Mr Boggin, who half expected her to whinny any moment, raised his hat made a little bow, and handed her his card.' I do apologise for bothering you,' he said and then he waited watching her face as she read the message.
'I don't understand' she said handing back the card. `Whadya want?'
Mr Boggin explained about the Society for the Preservation of Rare Autos.
'This wouldn't by any chance be something to do with the Green Party?' she asked, staring at him fiercely from under a pair of pale bushy brows.
From then on, it was easy. A Liberal in tracksuit pants, male or female, was always a sitting duck for Mr Boggin. He spent two minutes delivering an impassioned eulogy on the extreme Right Wing of the Liberal Party, then two more denouncing the Labor Party. As a clincher, he made particular reference to the Bill that the Greens had once introduced for the abolition of horse-racing in the country. Watching her as he spoke, he could see the magic beginning to do its work. The woman was grinning now, showing Mr Boggin a set of enormous, slightly yellow teeth. `Madam,' he cried `I beg of you please don't get me started on socialism.' At that point, she let out a great guffaw of laughter, raised a huge red hand, and slapped him so hard on the shoulder that he nearly went over.
'Come in!' she shouted `I don't know what the hell you want but come on in!'
Unfortunately, and rather surprisingly, there was nothing of any value in the shed, and Mr Boggin, who never wasted time on barren territory, soon made his excuses and took his leave. The whole visit had taken less than fifteen minutes, and that, he told himself as he climbed back into his car and started off for the next place, was exactly as it should be. From now on it was all farmhouses, and the nearest was about half a mile up the road. It was a large brick building, and there was a magnificent pear tree still in blossom covering almost the whole of the north wall.
Mr Boggin knocked on the door. He waited, but no one came. He knocked again, but still there was no answer, so he wandered around the back to look for the farmer. There was no one there either. He guessed that they must all still be in town, so he began peering in the sheds to see if he could spot anything interesting. There was nothing in the first one. He tried the next shed and there, right under his nose, he saw a beautiful thing, an XA ute. 'Ah ha,' he said aloud, pressing his face hard against glass. 'Well done, Boggin.'
But there was no hurry, he told himself. He would return here later. He had the whole afternoon before him.
The next farm was situated some way back in the fields, and in order to keep his ute out of sight Mr Boggin had to leave it on the road and walk about six hundred meters along a straight track that led directly into the back yard of the farmhouse. This place, he noticed as he approached, was a good deal smaller than the last, and he didn't hold out much hope for it. It looked rambling and dirty, and some of the sheds were clearly in bad repair.
There were three men standing in a close group in a corner of the yard, and one of them had two greyhounds with him on leashes. When the men caught sight of Mr Boggin walking forward in his black suit and parson's collar, they stopped talking and seemed suddenly to stiffen and freeze, becoming absolutely still, motionless, three faces turned towards him, watching him suspiciously as he approached.
The oldest of the three was a stumpy man with a wide frog mouth and small shifty eyes, and although Mr Boggin didn't know it his name was Krummins and he was the owner of the farm.
The tall youth beside him who appeared to have something wrong with one eye, was Trevor; the son of Krummins.
The shortish flat faced man with a narrow corrugated brow and immensely broad shoulders was Kevin. Kevin had dropped in on Krummins in the hope of getting a piece of pork or ham out of him from the pig that had been killed the day before. Kevin knew about the killing - the noise of it had carried far across the fields and he also knew that a man should have a government permit to do that sort of thing, and that Krummins didn't have one.
'Good afternoon,' Mr Boggin said. `Isn't it a lovely day?' None of the three men moved. At that moment they were all thinking precisely the same thing that somehow or other this clergyman who was certainly not the local fellow, had been sent to poke his nose into their business and to report what he found to the government.
'What beautiful dogs,' Mr Boggin said. `I must say I've never been greyhound racing myself, but they tell me it's a fascinating sport.'
Again the silence, and Mr Boggin glanced quickly from Krummins to Trevor, then to Kevin then back again to Krummins, and he noticed that each of them had the same peculiar expression on his face, something between a jeer and a challenge, with a contemptuous curl to the mouth and a sneer around the nose.
'Might I inquire if you are the owner?' Mr Boggin asked un¬daunted, addressing himself to Krummins.
'What is it you want?'
'I do apologise for troubling you, especially on a Sunday.'
Mr Boggin offered his card and Krummins took it and held it up close to his face. The other two didn't move, but their eyes swivelled over to one side, trying to see.
'And what exactly might you be wanting?' Krummins asked.
For the second time that morning, Mr Boggin explained at some length the aims and ideals of the Society for the Preservation of Rare Autos.
'We don't have any,' Krummins told him when it was over. 'You're wasting your time.'
'Now, just a minute, sir,' Mr Boggin said raising a finger. `The last man who said that to me was an old farmer down Portland way, and when he finally let me into his shed, d'you know what I found? A dirty looking old car in the corner, and it turned out to be worth FORTY THOUSAND DOLLARS! I showed him how to sell it, and he bought himself a new tractor with the money.'
'What on earth are you talking about?' Claud said. `There ain't no car in the world worth forty thousand dollars.'
'Excuse me,' Mr Boggin answered primly, `but there are plenty of cars in Victoria worth more than twice that figure. And you know where they are? They're tucked away in the farms all over the country, with the owners using them as steps and ladders and standing on them with boots to reach a bit of timber, or a length of steel. This is the truth I'm telling you, my friends.'

Krummins shifted uneasily on his feet.
`You mean to say all you want to do is go inside and stand there in the middle of the shed and look around?'
'Exactly,' Mr Boggin said. He was at last beginning to sense what the trouble might be. `I don't want to pry into your business. I just want to look in the sheds to see if you happen to have any treasures here, and then I can write about them in our Society magazine.'
'You know what I think?' Krummins said, fixing him with his small wicked eyes. `I think you're trying to buy the stuff yourself. Why else would you be going to all this trouble?'
'Oh, dear me. I only wish I had the money. Of course, if I saw something that I took a great fancy to, and it wasn't beyond my means, I might be tempted to make an offer. But alas, that rarely happens.'
'Well,' Krummins said `I don't suppose there's any harm in your taking a look around if that's all you want.' He led the way across the yard to the biggest shed, and Mr Boggin followed him; so did the son Trevor, and Kevin with his two dogs.
And there it was! Mr Boggin saw it at once, and he stopped dead in his tracks and gave a little shrill gasp of shock. Then he stood there for five, ten fifteen seconds at least, staring like an idiot, unable to believe, not daring to believe what he saw before him. It couldn't be true, not possibly! But the longer he stared, the more true it began to seem. After all, there it was against the wall right in front of him, as real and as solid as the shed itself. And who in the world could possibly make a mistake about a thing like that? Admittedly it was painted white, but that made not the slightest difference. Some idiot had done that. The paint could easily be stripped off. But good God! Just look at it! And in a place like this!
At this point Mr Boggin became aware of the three men, Krummins, Trevor and Kevin standing together in a group over by the fireplace, watching him intently. They had seen him stop and gasp and stare, and they must have seen his face turning red or maybe it was white, but in any event they had seen enough to spoil the whole goddamn business if he didn't do something about it quick. In a flash, Mr Boggin clapped one hand over his heart, staggered to the nearest chair, and collapsed into it breathing heavily.
'What's the matter with you?' Claud asked
'It's nothing,' he gasped. ‘I'll be all right in a minute. Please a glass of water. It's my heart'
Bert fetched him the water, handed it to him and stayed close beside him staring down at him with a fatuous leer on his face.

'I thought maybe you were looking at something,' Krummins said. The wide frog mouth widened a fraction further into a crafty grin, showing the stubs of several broken teeth.
'No, no,' Mr Boggin said. `Oh dear me, no. It's just my heart. I'm so sorry. It happens every now and then. But it goes away quite quickly. I'll be all right in a couple of minutes.'
He must have time to think, he told himself. More important still, he must have time to compose himself thoroughly before he said another word. Take it gently, Boggin. And whatever you do, keep calm. These people may be ignorant, but they are not stupid. They are suspicious and wary and sly. And if it is really true - no it couldn't be, it can't be true....
He was holding one hand up over his eyes in a gesture of pain, and now, very carefully, secretly, he made a little crack between two of the fingers and peeked through.
Sure enough, the thing was still there, and on this occasion he took a good long look at it. Yes he had been right the first time! There wasn't the slightest doubt about it! It was really unbelievable! What he saw was a piece of history that any expert would have given almost anything to acquire. To a layman, it might not have appeared particularly impressive, especially when covered over as it was with dirty white paint but to Mr Boggin it was a dealer's dream. He knew, as does every other rev-head in Australia, that among the most celebrated and coveted examples of automotive history in existence are the four famous pieces known as `The Phase Fours’. He knew their history backwards. They all fetched enormous prices. He couldn't quite remember the exact figure for the first one, or even the second, but he knew for certain that the last one to be sold had fetched an absolute fortune, and none had been sold for a long time.
And here, Mr Boggin kept telling himself as he peered cautiously through the crack in his fingers, here was the fifth Phase Four – a coupe prototype ! A Phase Five really, and with a shaker ! And he had found it! He would be rich! He would also be famous! Each of the other four was known throughout the car world by a special name The Rallycar, Calypso Green - the pre-production prototype, and so on. This one would go down in history as The Boggin HO ! Just imagine the faces of the boys up there in Melbourne when they got a look at it tomorrow morning! And the luscious offers coming in from the big fellows over in Sydney ! There would be a picture of it in The Age, and it would say, 'The very fine GTHO which was recently discovered by Mr Barry Boggin, a Geelong dealer. . . .' Dear God, what a stir he was going to make!
It was a most impressive handsome affair, with the shaker, the rear wing but no front spoiler, and he just knew it had a Panhard rod. The guard badges, although partly obscured by white paint, appeared to be superb examples of a previously unknown ‘Phase Five’ badge.
'How're you feeling now?' Mr Boggin heard someone saying.
'Thank you, thank you, I'm much better already. It passes quickly. My doctor says it's nothing to worry about really so long as I rest for a few minutes whenever it happens. Ah yes,' he said, raising himself slowly to his feet. `That's better. I'm all right now.'
A trifle unsteadily, he began to move around the shed examining the HO, one part at a time, commenting upon it briefly.
He walked casually past the Ho and gave it a little con¬temptuous flip with his fingers `worth a few dollars, I dare say, but no more. A rather crude old heap, I'm afraid. Did you paint it white?'
'Yes,' Krummins said, `Trev did it.'
'A very wise move. It's considerably less offensive in white.'
'There’s a strong motor in it,' Krummins said.
'Just a Repco exchange' Mr Boggin answered superbly, bending down to examine the double-pumper 780 now that the bonnet was up. `You can tell it a mile off. But still, I suppose it's quite good in its way. It has its points.'
He began to saunter off, then he checked himself and turned slowly back again. He placed the tip of one finger against the point of his chin, laid his head over to one side, and frowned as though deep in thought.
'You know what?' he said, looking at the HO, speaking so casually that his voice kept trailing off. `I've just remembered', I've been wanting a four-speed gearbox for a long time. I've got a rather ratty old car in my own little shed, and at Easter, when I moved house, my foolish nephew damaged the synchros in the most shocking way. I'm very fond of that car. I got my first kiss in it, and something else besides.'
He paused, stroking his chin with the finger. `Now I was just thinking. The gearbox in your car might be very suitable. Yes, it might indeed.’
He looked around and saw the three men standing absolutely still, watching him suspiciously, three pairs of eyes, all different but equally mistrusting, small pig eyes for Krummins, large slow eyes for Kevin, and two odd eyes for young Trevor, one of them very queer and boiled and misty pale, with a little black dot In the centre, like a fish eye on a plate.
Mr Boggin smiled and shook his head. `Come, come, what on earth am I saying? I'm talking as though I owned the car myself. I do apologize.'
'What you mean to say is you'd like to buy it,' Krummins said.
'Well . . . ' Mr Boggin glanced back at the HO, frowning. 'I'm not sure. I might . . . and then again . . . on second thoughts . . . no . . . I think it might be a bit too much trouble. It's not worth it. I'd better leave it.'
'How much were you thinking of offering?' Krummins asked.
'Not much, I'm afraid. You see, this mightn’t have the right box for mine.
'I'm not so sure about that,' Krummins told him. ‘Those old four-speeds were all the same I’ve heard.'
'It's not exactly right but maybe I could get it to fit.' said Boggins.
Krummins then said ‘It’ll go straight in mate’
Mr Boggin opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again with¬out uttering a sound. He was beginning literally to shake with excitement, and to calm himself he walked over to the window and stared out at a plump brown hen pecking around for stray grains of wheat.
Mr Boggin turned round again. He couldn't stand not looking at the HO. Trevor was poking around in the glovebox.
'What’s this ?' Trevor lifted out a piece of folded yellowing paper and carried it over to his father, who unfolded it and held it up close to his face.
'Just the purchase receipt’ Krummins said, and he held the paper out to Mr Boggin, whose whole arm was shaking as he took it. It was brittle and it crackled slightly be¬tween his fingers.

Mr Boggin was holding on to himself tight and fighting to sup¬press the excitement that was spinning round inside him and making him dizzy. Oh God, it was wonderful! With the invoice, the value had climbed even higher. What in heaven's name would it fetch now? A million dollars ? Two ? Who knows?
Oh, boy!
He tossed the paper contemptuously on to the front passenger seat and said quietly, `It's exactly what I told you, an old heap of a car’.
'Say what you like,' Krummins announced, 'but that's a good gearbox in there.'
'Listen, Parson,' Krummins said, pointing at him with a thick dirty finger,' I'm not saying as how you may not know a fair bit about this, but what I am saying is this: How on earth can you be so mighty sure it might not fit ?'
'Come here,' Mr Boggin said. `Come over here and I'll show you.' He stood beside the car and waited for them to gather round. `Now, anyone got a torch?'
Kevin produced one from a dirty cupboard, and Mr Boggin pointed it under the HO. Then, shining it around with apparent casualness but actually with extreme care, he began moaning about the shifter linkages.
'What's wrong with them?' Krummins asked
Non-standard! Anyone can see that!'
'How can you see it, mister? You tell us.'
‘Well, I must say that's a trifle difficult to explain. It's chiefly a matter of experien¬ce. My experience tells me that without the slightest doubt this gearbox is a mish-mash of bits and pieces’.
The three men moved a little closer to peer under the car.
There was a slight stirring of interest among them now. It was always intriguing to hear about some new form of crookery or decep¬tion.
'Look closely at the tailshaft. You see those paint marks ?. That's a bad sign – paint splashes can mean a reject tailshaft.'
They peered underneath, first Krum¬mins, then Kevin, then Trevor.
'My dear friends, you've no idea the trouble these rascals will go to to get an old car mobile. It's terrible, really terrible, and it makes me quite sick to speak of it!' He was spitting each word sharply off the tip of the tongue and making a sour mouth to show his extreme distaste. The men waited, hoping for more secrets.
'The time and trouble that some mortals will go to in order to deceive the innocent!' Mr Boggin cried. 'It's perfectly dis¬gusting! D'you know what they did here, my friends? I can recognise it clearly. I can almost see them doing it, the treacherous sods. It really upsets me to contemplate such wickedness!'
The three men continued to gaze at the car.
The men were now staring at this queer moon faced clergyman with the bulging eyes, not quite so suspiciously now because he did seem to know a bit about his subject. But they were still a long way from trusting him.
They stared at him, hoping for still more secrets.
'How can you possibly make a gearbox from bits and pieces?' Kevin said.
'You are quite right, my friend. But these scoundrels have their own secret methods.' He then walked to the door of the shed.
'My dear friends,' he said, pausing at the door of the shed, `it was so good of you to let me peep inside - so kind. I do hope I haven't been a terrible bore.'
Krummins glanced up. `You didn't tell us what you were going to offer for the gearbox,' he said.
'Ah,' Mr Boggin said. `That's quite right. I didn't, did I? Well, to tell you the honest truth, I think it's all a bit too much trouble. I think I'll leave it.'
'How much would you give?'
'You mean that you really wish to part with it?'
‘I didn't say I wished to part with it. I asked you how much.'
Mr Boggin looked across at the commode, and he laid his head first to one side, then to the other, and he frowned, and pushed out his lips, and shrugged his shoulders, and gave a little scornful wave of the hand as though to say the thing was hardly worth thinking about really, was it?
'Shall we say . . . twenty dollars. I think that would be fair.'
'Twenty bucks!' Krummins cried, `Don't be so ridiculous, Parson, please! '
'The whole car’s worth more 'n that for scrap !' Kevin said, disgusted.
Mr Boggin became alarmed.
‘I'll tell you what, my friend I'm being rather reckless, I can't help it I'll go up as high as a hundred dollars for the gearbox. How's that?'
'Make it one-fifty,' Krummins said.
A delicious little quiver like needles ran all the way down the back of Mr Boggin's legs and then under the soles of his feet. He had it now. It was his. No question about that. But the habit of buying cheap, as cheap as it was humanly possible to buy, acquired by years of necessity and practice, was too strong in him now to permit him to give in so easily.
'My dear man' he whispered softly, `I only want the gearbox. Possibly I could find some use for the diff later on, but the rest of it the carcass itself, as your friend so rightly said, it's scrap, that's all.'
'Make it two hundred for the lot,' Krummins said.
'I couldn't sir, I couldn't! It's not worth it. And I simply mustn't allow myself to haggle like this about a price. It's all wrong. I'll make you one final offer, and then I must go. A hundred and eighty.'
'I'll take it,' Krummins snapped. `It's yours.'
'Oh dear,' Mr Boggin said, clasping his hands. `There I go again. I should never have started this in the first place.'
'You can't back out now, Parson. A deal's a deal.'
'Yes, yes, I know.'
'How're you going to take it?'
'Well, let me see. Perhaps if I were to drive my car up into the yard, you gentlemen would be kind enough to help me load it?'
'In a ute? This thing'll never go in a car! You'll need a truck for this!'
'I don't think so. I’ve got a trailer as well - we'll see. The car’s on the road. I'll be back in a jiffy. We'll manage it somehow, I'm sure.'
Mr Boggin walked out into the yard and through the gate and then down the long track that led across the field towards the road. He found himself giggling quite uncontrollably, and there was a feeling inside him as though hundreds and hundreds of tiny bubbles were rising up from his stomach and bursting merrily in the top of his head, like sparkling wat¬er. All the capeweed flowers in the field were suddenly turning into golden nuggets, gliste¬ning in the sunlight. The ground was littered with them, and he swung off the track on to the grass so that he could walk among them and tread on them. He was finding it difficult to stop himself from breaking into a run. But clergymen never run; they walk slowly. Walk slowly, Boggin. Keep calm, Boggin. There's no hurry now. The HO-ey is yours! Yours for a hundred and eighty bucks, and it's priceless! The Boggin HO/5! In ten minutes it'll be loaded onto the trailer it'll go on easily and you'll be driving back to Geelong and singing all the way! Mr Boggin driving the Boggin HO home to Geelong. Historic occasion. What wouldn't a newspaperman give to get a picture of that! Should he arrange it? Perhaps he should. Wait and see. Oh, glorious day! Oh, lovely sunny summer day! Oh, glory be!
Back in the shed, Krummins was saying, `Fancy that old boy giving a hundred and eighty bucks for a load of junk like this.'
'You did very nicely, Krummy,' Kevin told him. `You think he'll pay you?'
'We don't put it on the trailer till he do.'
'And what if it won't go on it?' Kevin asked. `You know what I reckon, Krummy ? I think the bloody thing's too big to go on a trailer. And then what happens? Then he's going to say to hell with it and just drive off without it and you'll never see him again. Nor the money either. He didn't seem all that keen on having it, you know.'
Krummins paused to consider this new and rather alarming prospect.
'How can a thing like that possibly go on a parson’s box trailer ?' Kevin went on relentlessly. `A parson never has a big car to pull that sort of load anyway. You ever seen a parson with a big car, Krummy ?'
'Can't say I have.'
'Exactly! And now listen to me. I've got an idea. He told us, didn't he, that it was only the gearbox he was wanting. Right? So all we've got to do is to cut it out quick right here on the spot before he comes back, then it'll be sure to go in the trailer. All we're doing is saving him the trouble of cutting it out himself when he gets home. How about it Krummy ?' Kevin's flat bovine face glimmered with a stupid pride.
'It's not such a bad idea at that' Krummins said looking at the commode. `In fact it's a bloody good idea. Come on then, we'll have to hurry. You and Trev push it out into the yard I'll get the chainsaw and the gas axe. Pull the doors off with the tractor first.
Within a couple of minutes, Kevin and Trevor had dragged the HO outside with the tractor, and had pushed it over in the yard amidst the chicken droppings and cow dung and mud. In the distance, half way across the field they could see a small black figure strid¬ing along the path towards the road. They paused to watch. There was something rather comical about the way in which this figure was conducting itself. Every now and again it would break into a trot then it did a kind of hop, skip, and jump, and once it seemed as though the sound of a cheerful song came rippling faintly to them from across the meadow.
'I reckon he's an idiot,' Kevin said and Trev grinned darkly, rolling his misty eye slowly round in its socket
Krummins came waddling over from the shed squat and frog-like, carrying the chainsaw. Kevin took the saw away from him and went to work.

The steel was hard but rusty in places, and as Kevin worked, a coarse brown dust sprayed out from the edge of the saw and fell to the ground. One by one, the body parts came off, and when they were all severed Trevor stooped down and arranged them carefully in a row.
Kevin stepped back to survey the results of his labour. There was a longish pause.
'Just let me ask you one question, Krummy,' he said slowly. ‘Even now, could you put that thing into the back of a trailer ?'
'Not unless it was a car trailer.'
'Right!' Kevin cried. ‘And parsons don't have car trailers, you know. And all they've got to tow a box trailer with is usually piddling little Corollas or Mazda 3’s.’
'The gearbox is all he wants,' Krummins said `If the rest of it won't go on, then he can leave it. He can't complain. He's got the box.'
'Now you know better'n that Krummy,' Kevin said patiently. `You know damn well he's going to start knocking the price if he don't get every single bit of this onto the trailer. A parson's just as cunning as the rest of 'em when it comes to money, don't you make any mistake about that. Especially this old boy. So why don't we give him his scrap and be done with it. Where d'you keep the power-saw?'
'I reckon that's fair enough' Krummins said `Trev, go fetch it'
Bert went into the shed and fetched a big petrol-powered grinder and gave it to Kevin. Kevin began fiercely attacking the carcass of the HO.
It was hard work, and it took a while before he had the whole thing more or less cut to pieces.
'I'll tell you one thing,' he said, straightening up, wiping his brow. That was a bloody good welder put this job together and I don't care what the parson says.'

'We're just in time!' Krummins called out. ‘Here he comes!'

(A rip-off of Roald Dahl's 'Parson's Pleasure' in the short-story book 'Kiss Kiss')

[Geez Louise]

Geez, that's one hell of a read. I am sure it will be good but my attention span is not that....Oh look..A Squirrel!

[Scott]

Wouldn't that rot your socks..

[SEZ213]

I saw a mouse...and got a little distracted too...I will read it though Rex, I promise!

I still like the one from Kiss Kiss about the rack of lamb...but I'm evil...

[Peuty]

tl:dr

[castellan]

The best thing was that his eyes gave the impression of gentle imbecility.
And it was written by a boggin.

[Road Games]

Originally Posted by Peuty

tl:dr

hth...

[Iggypoppin']

That's really good, I thoroughly enjoyed that!

[Yellow_Festiva]

Originally Posted by Iggypoppin'

That's really good, I thoroughly enjoyed that!

I sense no sarcasm there... ok, at first I thought bugger reading all that but I shall scroll up and have a read ;)

[shedcoupe]

Sorry - I should have prefaced it with 'beware of a long read ahead'.
I'm just about a speed reader and threw this piece together in an hour or so, and still managed to do a few typo's - 'Bert' appears right at the end, and 'Bert' is really 'Trevor'. D'oh.
Also, Krummy inherited the HO from his dad - didn't make it clear. Still, whadya expect from a cut and paste job.

[deesun]

Well I read it right through and I don't know why but I think it was worth it, although, maybe, nah probably best finished where it did. Great read but I have never read the original.

[Ben73]

Originally Posted by Peuty

tl:dr

WF:PT

[Fev]

Hahaha awesome story, made me sick to my stomach imagining someone cutting up a HO with a Chainsaw though - ugh!

[Elks]

Dude you ought to write a novel, oh wait, you just did.

[shedcoupe]

Originally Posted by Elks

Dude you ought to write a novel, oh wait, you just did.

I ripped off a short story, but maybe I have the record for the longest ff post.

I've thought of novel-ising my life so far to make some extra cash, but most of it would be pretty dull, and the rest either unbelievable or disgusting.
Occasionally I run into some old friends and there's a story-telling session in which they remind me of things that I've long forgotten and we all fall about in hysterical laughter in the hours after midnight, but then I forget them again .....
A tape recorder might beat selective memory.

[Spudz27]

It took me a few attempts as my mind was distracted by other things.

Look that dog has a puffy tail, here puff.

[Danny]

Originally Posted by Peuty

tl:dr

Hahahahahhahahahhahahaha

x2

[hiper]

good read.
karma's a *****.

[Fled74]

I read the whole thing first time. Nice job, I enjoyed that.

[xbcool]

nice read ,I always wondered what happen to the phase 5


steve