there is a whole assortment of objects, old pictures, bones, bottles, books, sewing machines. There’s a car up a tree, and Humph even has the toes of one of his miner-friends pickled in a jar. He is getting some bloke’s leg pickled too. He has a chunk of fossilized Turkish Delight from Gallipoli, and a bottle of vodka which he says a band called the Rolling Stones gave him. He is a clever old bugger, Humph. You never know if what he is saying is true.
One of the sections of the Moozeum is underground, and that’s where I found old Humph sitting at the little bar he has in the corner. He was wearing a big floppy hat. “Ah, Ashmol,” he said. “Any news of Pobby and Dingan yet? Bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, I reckon.”
“Yeah, I found them,” I told him proudly. “They were both dead.”
Old Humph didn’t know whether to say “Good” or “That’s too bad” and so he just grunted and held up something to show me. I trundled over and stood looking. I was pretty impressed. It was a framed invitation to the funeral of Princess Diana. And the writing was done in really fancy silver lettering and there was a royal stamp on it and everything. “You got invited to the funeral of Princess Diana?” I asked with my eyes wide open.
“Did I hell!” said Humph, fairly splitting his sides with laughter. “This little bewdy I cut out of a magazine and stuck down on a piece of card! Don’t tell anyone, mind. The tourists love it.” That was Humph. He was a cunning old-timer who didn’t care too much about the truth of things so long as there was a good story in it, and most of the time he told people about his fakes anyway, so they could see how clever he’d been.
“Could you do me some invitations for Pobby and Dingan’s funeral?” I asked.
“Having a funeral, are you?”
I nodded. “I reckon Kellyanne won’t get better until we bury the dead bodies and show them some last respect.”
Humph nodded solemnly. “I wouldn’t have minded having their dead bodies in my Moozeum,” he said. “I haven’t got any dead imaginary friends in my Moozeum yet. ’Bout the only thing I haven’t got.”
“Maybe Kellyanne will let you get Pobby’s finger pickled and put in a jar,” I suggested.
“Maybe,” said Humph, taking a swig of Johnnie Walker. “So how many invitations do you want?”
“I want to invite everyone in Lightning Ridge.”
Humph nodded solemnly and scratched the top of his floppy hat.
“That makes eight thousand and fifty-three by my calculation,” I said.
15
The day of Dad’s trial arrived. I wasn’t allowed to go to the magistrate’s court, so I can’t say exactly what happened. I can only imagine it. But the fat and the thin of it was that, after he’d finished punishing someone for breaking and entering and when he had fined John the Gun and some other blokes for shooting too many roos, Judge McNulty made Dad stand up and tell the little jury about what he was doing out at Old Sid’s mine that evening.
Well, this time my dad didn’t make up a lost-cat story or make out he was just looking for his contact lenses. No way. He stood up straight and told them that he was out looking for Pobby and Dingan, the imaginary friends of his daughter Kellyanne Williamson, and that he was just checking to see if they’d wandered over onto Old Sid’s claim. And Mum said Judge McNulty looked all confused, like a jigsaw puzzle before you put it together, and that he asked Dad to describe their appearance. I flinched a bit as I imagined my old man stuttering and tongue-twistering as he tried to get to grips with that one. Well, my dad must have handled it pretty well, but, because then McNulty moved straight on and asked whether Dad was on any drugs, and whether Dad thought the imaginary friends really existed. And apparently Dad looked old McNulty and the jury and everybody dead straight with his opal eyes and said that at first he thought they didn’t exist, and then he
One of the sections of the Moozeum is underground, and that’s where I found old Humph sitting at the little bar he has in the corner. He was wearing a big floppy hat. “Ah, Ashmol,” he said. “Any news of Pobby and Dingan yet? Bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, I reckon.”
“Yeah, I found them,” I told him proudly. “They were both dead.”
Old Humph didn’t know whether to say “Good” or “That’s too bad” and so he just grunted and held up something to show me. I trundled over and stood looking. I was pretty impressed. It was a framed invitation to the funeral of Princess Diana. And the writing was done in really fancy silver lettering and there was a royal stamp on it and everything. “You got invited to the funeral of Princess Diana?” I asked with my eyes wide open.
“Did I hell!” said Humph, fairly splitting his sides with laughter. “This little bewdy I cut out of a magazine and stuck down on a piece of card! Don’t tell anyone, mind. The tourists love it.” That was Humph. He was a cunning old-timer who didn’t care too much about the truth of things so long as there was a good story in it, and most of the time he told people about his fakes anyway, so they could see how clever he’d been.
“Could you do me some invitations for Pobby and Dingan’s funeral?” I asked.
“Having a funeral, are you?”
I nodded. “I reckon Kellyanne won’t get better until we bury the dead bodies and show them some last respect.”
Humph nodded solemnly. “I wouldn’t have minded having their dead bodies in my Moozeum,” he said. “I haven’t got any dead imaginary friends in my Moozeum yet. ’Bout the only thing I haven’t got.”
“Maybe Kellyanne will let you get Pobby’s finger pickled and put in a jar,” I suggested.
“Maybe,” said Humph, taking a swig of Johnnie Walker. “So how many invitations do you want?”
“I want to invite everyone in Lightning Ridge.”
Humph nodded solemnly and scratched the top of his floppy hat.
“That makes eight thousand and fifty-three by my calculation,” I said.
15
The day of Dad’s trial arrived. I wasn’t allowed to go to the magistrate’s court, so I can’t say exactly what happened. I can only imagine it. But the fat and the thin of it was that, after he’d finished punishing someone for breaking and entering and when he had fined John the Gun and some other blokes for shooting too many roos, Judge McNulty made Dad stand up and tell the little jury about what he was doing out at Old Sid’s mine that evening.
Well, this time my dad didn’t make up a lost-cat story or make out he was just looking for his contact lenses. No way. He stood up straight and told them that he was out looking for Pobby and Dingan, the imaginary friends of his daughter Kellyanne Williamson, and that he was just checking to see if they’d wandered over onto Old Sid’s claim. And Mum said Judge McNulty looked all confused, like a jigsaw puzzle before you put it together, and that he asked Dad to describe their appearance. I flinched a bit as I imagined my old man stuttering and tongue-twistering as he tried to get to grips with that one. Well, my dad must have handled it pretty well, but, because then McNulty moved straight on and asked whether Dad was on any drugs, and whether Dad thought the imaginary friends really existed. And apparently Dad looked old McNulty and the jury and everybody dead straight with his opal eyes and said that at first he thought they didn’t exist, and then he
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