CHAPTER 12
The Legend of The Late Run To Lannercost
About midway through my third year at Gower Abbey College a storm of speculation arose regarding the possibility that certain of our number might recently have been involved in some hair-raisingly insane escapade. Yet not a breath of these assertions were ever confirmed, nor circumstance revealed.
This is hardly surprising: when exposure may prove terminal such matters tend to remain the closed personal secret of the poor foolish wretches involved. Even so, the rumours persisted. Later they were to become the basis of an enduring school legend.
Three others somewhere out in the greater Sherbert Valley region had knowledge of these things, having inadvertently witnessed crucial elements of the affair. Their spokesperson readily agreed at the time to neither mention nor acknowledge nor divulge anything whatever of the matter. —And, on the balance, it would seem this commitment was honoured.
But it was conditional. First a guarantee had to be given promising a certain act be executed – fully and faithfully.
The guarantee was duly given and in due course the act was performed, though its successful prosecution was more a case of fortune favouring the bold rather than any upholding of honour. And this was because in the last critical moments every facet of the business went right, where a fraction less luck would have seen the whole situation end in unthinkable calamity.
I now believe it safe to reveal that one of the boys involved was named Kevin William Cassidy – also known as “Casey”, from his initials, K.C. On blood-sworn oath, however, my associates that night will forever remain un-named.
Thankfully no hint of this business ever reached any official ear, although for a time we did wonder if one of the witnesses may have let word slip – so convinced were our fellow pupils that something major had been afoot.
It was only rumour, they whispered, but everyone knew: a number of Gower Abbey boys had been involved, recently, in a daring, practically death-defying, downright foolhardy adventure of terrible risk and breathtaking stupidity.
But what had they done? …And which boys exactly? Assumptions were made and knowing looks passed.
We joined in.
Naturally enough we were anxious to discover the source of these rumours, and in the most discreet way possible. Yet their origins could not be found. Everyone, it seems, had heard the stories from somebody else. In fact the only conclusion we could reach was that, by some remarkable coincidence, the allegations had simply sprung into being around the same time as our suicidal escapade.
One thing was obvious, though: those rumours had not originated from among the perpetrators. With gut-wrenching dread we awaited Father O’Long’s certain discovery of the affair, THE SUMMONS … and rage to pale the wrath of Hades.
None of us were sure just when the business started. I recall a sort of fantasy “what-if” joke we’d bullshit-on about sometimes when life was a bit dull, where, “Gees, it’d be bloody unbelievable!” always ended with, “Garn! You’d never be bloody game enough.”
One day it got out of hand. Dare followed dare on counter-dare until insanity finally prevailed and it became: “Yeah? Well I’ll bloody do it if you will!”
The problem was, at no time did the “what if” question arise, as in: “What If We’re Caught?” …until the fateful moment when, at eleven thirty on a particularly dark night, the three of us stood at the open door of the presbytery garage – sick with fright. Inside stood Father’s ute, keys in the ignition.
Onward to downfall and disgrace, I thought, wishing we’d left ourselves a way out. —Well, other than fainting … and that seemed ill-advised.
A blustery wind was blowing through the big mango trees nearby, masking any noises we might have made. Carefully, carefully, we pushed the old ute backward out of the shed. As it cleared the entrance I swung the wheel and turned it toward the gate, then the others went behind to push it forward. But the driveway was slightly uphill and getting the car to roll took a considerable effort.
Keeping it moving was worse. I was gasping after the first few metres.
Then a light came on in the presbytery.
Into the night we bolted, the fear of God and Father O’Long clutching our palpitating hearts. Caution thrown to the winds, we pelted through the trees, the darkness no hindrance whatever.
After a distance we stopped. All behind us seemed quiet. Soon we began creeping back, more cautiously as we drew closer.
No one was about. Then the light went off. Quickly we started the ute rolling again. Up to the front gate we pushed it and out onto the road. There we piled in, started the engine and quietly drove away – as easily as that.
So the die was cast, the milk was spilt and the fat was in the fire. There was no turning back now … not until we’d achieved our goal, anyway. Down the valley we headed, a happy band of escapees, tootling along the road to Ingham until reaching the little roadside pub at Lannercost.
The publican there was a rough-diamond sort of fellow named Horrie Johns. Mr Johns had late-night trading, as it happened, courtesy of an arrangement with the gravelly-voiced Sergeant Bourke in Ingham.
Every now and then of a weekend we boys would be given permission to take some station horses out riding, and often times we’d find ourselves close enough to the pub to call in and say hello – just to be sociable, of course.
On rare occasions, discreetly and in his own good time, Horrie might consider selling us a bottle of beer each to slake our thirsts on the long ride home. —Well, more often than not, really. Usually. (In fact pretty much always.)
Only one car was standing in front of the place when we arrived there, but we drove down the side lane anyway and parked where the ute wouldn’t be seen. Then it was around to the bar – which, as expected, was still open – and in we strode like the Dalton brothers at the OK Saloon.
Horrie had recognised the ute as we drove up but was surprised by the identity of its occupants. And we were not exactly unknown to him. As we trooped inside he began slowly shaking his head, his broad smile a picture of bonhomie and bafflement, his varicosed nose wagging from side to side like a softly glowing tell-tale.
“Stone the flamin’ crows,” he said with more than a touch of admiration. “Youse blokes’ve got more guts than’s good for y’se, that’s bloody plain ter see. Course I don’t suppose I’d be wrong in assumin’ that the few what knows about this little lurk does not include me old mate ‘Further Along’.”
Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 16
