by R. A. Spratt
‘And if you can’t enter, then we still want your help,’ continued Brad. ‘We need volunteers.’
‘That’s just code for slave labour,’ said April.
‘And most importantly – we need mud!’ called Brad. ‘That’s why we bring our mud run to this wonderful farming heartland. Because where there’s farms, there’s dirt, and where there’s dirt, we can make mud. So we’re looking for donations of dirt and mud. Just bring it on into town and dump it. We’ll put it to good use.’
‘Hang about,’ spluttered Mr Lang. The guidance counsellor might have only been acting interim mayor for two days, but even he could see the potential chaos of inviting farmers to dump mud in the centre of town.
‘But this year we’re doing something extra special,’ said Brad, turning away from Mr Lang and blocking him from the microphone with his huge muscly frame. ‘This year we’re going to select one lucky Currawong student to design the entire mud run course. We’re calling on the kids of Currawong to come up with the best and craziest mud obstacles you can think of.’ Brad pointed at the sea of teenagers in school uniforms as he said this.
Fin was dazzled. He could have sworn that Brad looked directly into his eyes as he said, ‘Have you got what it takes to challenge the mud runners who will soon be travelling here from all around the world?’
‘Yes, yes I have,’ mumbled Fin. He loved designing things generally, but designing tricky things to aggravate people – that was his favourite kind of design.
‘You have seven days to complete your plans,’ said Brad. ‘Then we’ll choose the most mind-blowingly awesome design. If that’s yours, then you will have complete control over the build team to construct it.’
‘I will win that design competition,’ said Fin quietly, but with absolute determination.
‘We also care about the community,’ said Brad in a serious tone, before reverting back to his super exuberant voice to announce, ‘so the first student to cross the line will get a $2000 grant for their school!’
The girls from St Anthony’s squealed with delight. Brad winked at them theatrically. ‘That’s right, just imagine what $2000 could do for your school.’
The St Anthony’s girls squealed again and started gabbling among themselves. The Currawong High students chattered excitedly about this too.
‘And now a word from our sponsor,’ declared Brad. He reached back and clapped his arm around the shoulders of Mr Chelsea, the owner of the Chelsea Bakery, who had been hovering at the back of the stage. Even with his impressive strength, Brad ended up having to step back and use both hands to push Mr Chelsea forward to the microphone.
Mr Chelsea looked terrified. He was a sweaty man. Partly because he was overweight and partly because he spent most of his time standing next to an oven – both occupational hazards when you make delicious baked treats for a living. But on this occasion Mr Chelsea was sweating like a rotating garden sprinkler because of nerves. ‘Um … On behalf of everyone at the Chelsea Bakery, home of the world-famous Currawong Turkey Pie, it gives us great pleasure to once again sponsor the Mad Mud Mud Run.’ He stepped back from the microphone, like a hostage who had just been forced to give a confession on an internet video.
‘That’s right,’ cried Brad. ‘Thanks to our generous sponsor, the prize for the Mad Mud Mud Run will yet again be $10,000 for the men’s champion.’
The crowd cheered.
Mr Chelsea flinched at the roar of the crowd.
‘There have been some rule changes this year,’ continued Brad. Suddenly he was serious and sombre. ‘This year, there will be no horses allowed.’
This brought a huge cheer from the crowd.
‘Horses?’ said Joe. ‘Who would take a h-h-horse in a m-mud race?’
Loretta grinned. ‘I know. It was very wicked of me.’
‘You?’ said Joe.
‘What’s the women’s prize money?’ asked April.
‘Ah,’ said Loretta. ‘That’s the controversial bit.’
‘More controversial that entering a horse?’ asked Fin.
‘Oh, much more controversial,’ said Loretta. ‘I entered a male horse, so that was all right.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked April. But it was hard to hold a conversation with the music blaring and Brad’s voice bellowing over the PA system.
‘So you better start practising,’ Brad boomed. ‘And to celebrate the launch of this year’s festivities, Mr Chelsea from the Chelsea Bakery has provided free mud cake for everyone over there in the refreshment tent. So you can start your mud training by getting stuck into some mud cake!’
There were more cheers.
Mr Chelsea clenched and twisted his baker’s apron anxiously. He looked like he wanted to cry as the crowd surged towards the refreshment tent. The volume of the music was pumped up and the crowd chattered happily.
‘What do you mean controversial?’ April yelled to Loretta, but she could not make herself heard above the music and gabble of the crowd. Too many people were pushing past them as they headed towards the tent with the free mud cake.
Fin was the only person in the entire crowd who was not rushing off to get free mud cake. He’d hidden a bag of choc-chip oat cookies from Joe the previous afternoon. Fin was very fond of his brother but he knew Joe’s limitations, and not not eating cookies was one of them. Fin had been given the cookies by a lady in the school canteen who thought he was unnaturally short and suffering from vitamin deficiencies. As a result, Fin had enjoyed a hearty breakfast of choc-chip cookies in his room and didn’t feel any great urgency to stuff his face with more chocolatey goodness. This is how he came to be the only person in the crowd looking in an entirely different direction. He was looking up at the sky.
‘What is that?’ asked Fin. He shaded his eyes so he could see better. The music was still blaring so no one paid any attention to him. He had to walk over to the cake line and slap Joe on the shoulder to get his attention. ‘Look!’
Joe looked up as well. He could see a small black dot high in the deep blue of the country sky. Loretta and April were in line with Joe. They noticed too.
‘It can’t be a bird,’ said Loretta. ‘It’s not flapping.’
‘It’s d-d-dropping,’ said Joe, starting to grow concerned.
Fin squinted to try to see better. The dot was getting slightly larger as it dropped lower. It was taking on a shape, more than just a dot. And that shape had arms and legs. ‘It’s a person!’ exclaimed Fin. ‘A person is dropping out of the sky.’
Pumpkin barked excitedly at this macabre prospect.
‘No way,’ said April. ‘You’ve been out in the sun too long.’ But as she looked up, the shape was moving closer still. It was starfish shaped, like a person falling with their arms and legs held out wide.
‘It is a p-p-person,’ stammered Joe, starting to panic. He knew he should do something, but if a person was falling to the ground at terminal velocity there wasn’t really time to do anything.
‘Not a person,’ said April. ‘A lunatic.’
‘Over there, there’s a plane,’ said Loretta, pointing to another part of the sky over the schoolyard where a small propeller plane was banking. ‘They must have jumped out of that.’
‘Why would anyone jump out of a perfectly good plane?’ asked Fin.
‘Perhaps they’re aiming for Currawong,’ said April. ‘They want to hit as many residents as possible and put them out of their misery.’
Just then, a parachute deployed from the person’s back. A bright red canopy billowed out above them, slowing their descent.
Joe breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t going to be a horrible disaster after all.
‘Thank goodness,’ said Loretta, echoing his thoughts. ‘It would be awful if the mud run was ruined by some silly-billy.’ This was not an echo of Joe’s thoughts.
As the parachute drifted closer they could see two words sewn into the fabric in bright yellow. It read ‘FAIR GO’.
‘What does that mean?’ ask
ed April.
‘Fair go means to be reasonable,’ said Fin. ‘It’s something you wouldn’t know anything about.’
April didn’t even break her gaze from the sky to shove Fin hard, almost knocking him over.
The parachute was getting very low now. As it grew nearer, they could see it was actually moving a lot faster than it appeared to be. They could see the person controlling the parachute using ropes to steer the descent.
‘They’re aiming for the gardens!’ said Fin.
He was right, the parachutist first pulled on the right vent to weave over the post office clock tower, then the left to bank across the main road before straightening up to come in headlong down the main path of the gardens.
‘He’s coming this way!’ declared April excitedly.
People in the crowd started to scream and dive out of the way. Even April took a few hasty steps back to clear a path. But Loretta stood transfixed watching the parachute glide at full speed towards her.
‘What an entrance,’ she murmured admiringly. She loved making a dramatic scene herself and she was generous enough to appreciate the melodramatic statements of others. But, in this instance, Loretta was so wrapped up in her admiration she seemed to have lost all sense of her own personal safety. The parachutist was going to slam into her at speed.
Fin girded himself. This was it. At last. His moment to be heroic and rescue his one true love from imminent danger. He leapt forward to push Loretta out of the way. But it was not to be. Fin was a short boy, who did not share his brother’s appetite for food. And Loretta was a tall, statuesque teenager. So when Fin crash-tackled her waist, she barely moved an inch. She just continued to stare at the oncoming parachute while Fin slowly slid down to the ground at her feet.
Luckily heroism came more easily to Joe. He would never dream of crash-tackling Loretta. Not unless he or she was covered head to toe in bubble wrap. The physical contact would be all too embarrassing otherwise. Joe’s first instinct when the collision became inevitable was simply to step into the parachutist’s path.
Joe boldly stepped forward and the parachutist slammed feet first into his chest, knocking Joe down and landing slap on top of him. The parachute billowed over them and collapsed, covering Loretta, April, Fin and the rest of the crowd.
‘Terribly sorry about that,’ said the parachutist in a husky voice as they sat up.
Joe continued to lie spread eagle as he desperately gasped for breath. He’d caught the parachutist’s entire body weight with his solar plexus.
The parachutist took off their goggles and helmet to reveal long, flowing black hair and dark skin.
‘You’re a woman,’ gasped Joe.
‘Yes, I am,’ chuckled the parachutist as she tossed her head to make her hair flow out in an even more attractive manner. She smiled and arched her eyebrow. ‘Surprised?’
‘Yes,’ Joe croaked hoarsely between gasps, but he didn’t want such a beautiful woman to think he was sexist, so he explained himself. ‘Usually w-w-women are more s-sensible.’
The woman laughed again, then leapt up and started to unzip her flying suit. This was all too terrible for Joe to endure. He closed his eyes. It was bad enough having to rescue a girl as beautiful as Loretta, only to be physically assaulted by a parachutist who also turned out to be extremely beautiful. Now he had to lie there while she took clothes off. It was all too much for his adolescent hormones.
Fortunately, the parachutist did have clothes on underneath the jumpsuit. She was wearing knee-length leggings and a crop top. The outfit covered enough to be decent, but also revealed enough to show that she was incredibly fit. She had huge muscular thighs and a rippling sixpack of abs. She looked like a character from a video game. The type that would kick you repeatedly in the head if you kept pressing the same button over and over. This astonishing woman jogged up to the stage and grabbed the microphone.
‘Now wait one moment, young lady,’ said Mr Lang in his sternest school teacher voice. But the teenage girls at the high school didn’t listen to him when he spoke like that, so it was no surprise when this airborne virago totally ignored him as well.
‘Good morning, Currawong!’ said the woman happily.
The music coming over the speakers was suddenly much louder. Brad was at the sound desk. He looked angry, which wasn’t surprising given that his event had just been hijacked. Brad had elbowed the sound technician out of the way and cranked the volume up. Everyone clapped their hands over their ears as the speakers began to squeal with feedback. Then the sound cut out altogether. Brad desperately started tweaking knobs and flicking switches.
Mr Lang explained. ‘We have strict decibel limits in Currawong. If you exceed seventy decibels, the sound equipment will be automatically disabled.
Brad kicked the soundboard in frustration.
‘That’s all right,’ said the woman, pulling a small speaker out of the pocket of her jumpsuit. ‘I’ve brought my own.’ She clipped a microphone headset around her ear and started speaking.
‘My name is Maya Dharawal,’ declared the woman.
Most of the people in the crowd gasped.
‘Are we supposed to be impressed by that?’ asked April. She and Loretta were still fighting their way out from under the parachute.
‘Totally,’ said Loretta excitedly. ‘She’s a two-time Olympic silver medallist in the heptathlon.’
‘Yeah, I’m still just hearing two-time Olympic-level loser,’ said April angrily. She didn’t like being knocked over, not even by elite-level athletes, and especially not by overconfident beautiful ones.
‘And spokes-athlete for Indigenous asthma sufferers,’ added Loretta. ‘She’s a role model for the hard of breathing everywhere.’
‘I’ve come here to Currawong to compete in your world-famous Mad Mud Mud Run,’ declared Maya.
Everyone in the crowd, except April who was still angry, cheered and clapped.
‘I’m doing this to shine the light of fairness on the inequality of this competition,’ said Maya.
The crowd was silent now.
‘Currawong is famous for its mud and its mud running, but for too many years the women’s prize money has been just a small fraction of the men’s prize money,’ continued Maya.
‘What?!’ exclaimed April.
‘The men get five times more money,’ added Maya.
‘Booo,’ someone called from the crowd.
‘Yes, boo to that,’ agreed Maya.
‘No, I’m booing you,’ said the crowd member. ‘How dare you criticise our mud run?’
There was muttering of agreement among many in the crowd.
April strained to see who the lone voice was. She saw the telltale blonde plaits of her classmate from school. ‘Oh, shut up, Matilda. You’re only booing because you stand no chance of winning any race unless they have a specific category for annoying blondes called Matilda.’
‘You shut up, April Peski,’ retorted Matilda. ‘You and your family are just blow-ins. You’ve got no Currawong pride in your veins.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. I only drink filtered water,’ agreed April. ‘Who knows what this town is trying to get into my bloodstream via the tap. The lack of fluoride is bad enough. But if they’re putting town pride in the water, then I don’t want a drop of it.’
‘No, you’re getting me wrong,’ Maya called out over the crowd. ‘I would never dream of criticising the proud sporting tradition of the Mad Mud Mud Run. As a young girl, I would read about your great race in the newspaper and dream of competing in it one day. I just want to improve your mud run by making it fair for everyone. So we can all enjoy this wonderful historical sporting event!’
Quite a lot of people in the crowd cheered this.
‘I’ll be living here in Currawong for the next four weeks,’ continued Maya. ‘And I’ll be running training boot camps to help any woman who wants to enter to do her best.’
‘But it’s unladylike,’ heckled Matilda.
There were murmurs of agre
ement. Especially from the girls at Loretta’s exclusive private school.
‘Yes, yes it is,’ agreed Maya, suddenly sombre. ‘Running about the countryside and jumping into pools of mud, dragging yourself through muddy bogs, scrambling over mud-caked ropes and swinging across muddy ravines is unladylike. Which is why it is so much fun! No one should be excluded from that much good honest filthy fun. Are you with me?!’
Now lots of people were cheering. A few men booed, but many of them were elbowed by their wives or girlfriends and soon stopped.
‘Are you ready to get filthy?’ asked Maya.
‘I was born ready!’ screamed April.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Maya. ‘The first training session will be held here in the gardens on Saturday morning at six o’clock.’
‘Now hang about,’ said Mr Lang, trying to take the microphone. ‘But you need a permit, and insurance …’
Maya ignored him. ‘Now, would anybody like my autograph?’ she cried to the crowd.
Everyone, even the booers surged forward to take up this offer. They might not agree with her principles but, at the end of the day, the people of Currawong were huge sporting fans. And they didn’t often get to meet a medallist, even if it was only a silver medallist.
Dad was shoulder-deep in the compost bin, trying to scrape the last crusty bits of mouldy plant debris from the bottom of the barrel. It was a large bin. One of five large bins, in fact. Dad took compost very seriously. He always had five different batches at different stages of development so that he would be ready to respond at a moment’s notice if his beloved garden had an urgent fertilisation need.
Dad stretched up on his tippy-toes and reached deep into the barrel, his face pressing against the opening and getting compost in his beard. But he didn’t care. Not one precious trowelful of compost was going to waste under his watch.
‘Ahem.’
The sudden unexpected noise made Dad lose his precarious balance and topple headfirst into the bin full of remnants of rotten garden waste. When Dad sat up he saw Ingrid peering over the edge, looking down at him.
