The Kookaburra New Year Resolution.

Gerald Pinkerton gazed at the golden ticket.

‘Happy Christmas to my husband, I hereby present you with a one week  fishing holiday in the Northern Territories Australia, to be used between September and January.’

With only a perplexed frown as a show of emotion, he stuffed a chocolate brazil into his mouth and proceeded to chomp with all the finesse of a washing machine on spin cycle with a load of spanners in its drum.

            Iris noticed he did not say ‘Thank-you’ nor express any interest in the gift, but after thirty years of marriage she was not at all surprised. Iris would not be beaten by his maudlin nature, refusing to allow her Christmas joie de vivre to be squashed, she whipped away the wrapping that had previously hidden her precious gift.

“See,” she said proudly, “I’ve been saving up, a little bit here and a little bit there for ages.” Gerald grunted, inhaling yet another chocolate brazil. The unshared box sat gripped by his knees as Gerald worked incredibly hard to ignore the joys of his extended family as they opened gifts around him.

            “Remember,” she insisted, “on how I haven’t bought any winter shoes for the past decade, nor a new coat for at least twelve. And, how I scrimped on my hairdo’s and cut my fringe over the sink, or how I never, ever bought branded mayonnaise and the like, how I declined every work social meal for the last twenty years?” She studied his down bent head, “But just to see the joy on your face is worth all the sacrifice.”

            Gerald did not bother to meet her eye. He was not interested in her pleasure at presenting him with such a fine gift. He hated Christmas. He hated birthdays. He hated all family occasions. Let’s face it, he just… hated.

            “Course,” said Iris, “you’ll have to go soon, it expires January. But that’s ok, it’ll get you away from the worst of the winter weather, a bit of sunshine will perk you up. Here, have a glass of port to soak up some of your excitement.”

            Gerald swigged on the port washing down the last of the chocolates. He relaxed back in his armchair and stuck his feet out just as Iris stepped back. She toppled but managed to save herself from landing on their sleeping Labrador.

            “Clumsy cow,” Gerald muttered, “you nearly bruised my toe. Watch where you’re going!”

            “Oops, sorry,” she sang merrily, “that was nearly! Silly me! Sorry again, I must take more care.”

            Gerald harrumphed, slumping back to await the arrival of cold turkey sandwiches and mince pies. The thought of more gorging almost bought a smile to his thin lips. Almost, but not quite, as he remembered he’d not smiled since 1985 and that slip up of his emotions only happened when an elderly woman slipped up outside his house. Lazing back to ponder his own successes, he allowed Iris to secret away the ticket so that there was no chance of it becoming lost beneath the folds of his overhanging belly.

            And so, just one week later on New Year’s Day, Gerald found himself aboard an aeroplane heading toward Australia. This was quite something for a man who prided himself on his lack of travel, his total disdain for his kith and kin, let alone foreign people of strange lands. Somehow between lashings of port and extra mince pies here and there, Iris had railroaded him into the trip.

            He was not quite sure how she had managed it, she, who was normally so meek and mouse-like, had packed his bags and installed every piece of fishing equipment he could possibly require. He’d not lifted a finger to help, but then why should he? You don’t have a dog and bark do you?

As he gazed down on the tangled jungle canopy below him Gerald felt the unfamiliar frisson of passion. After all, the only thing he had ever loved was fishing. It was his first love, his continuing love and no doubt, he thought with wild romantic vision, fishing would be his last love. Of course, he had enjoyed the odd dalliance here and there during his marriage, but nothing that Iris had ever bothered him about and why should she? She was lucky to have him.

            As the plane started its decent, back home Iris got busy.

            First she emptied his wardrobe. The squeak of the wheelbarrow sang as she heaved the pile of garments onto his overgrown vegetable patch. There amongst the rotting stench of old cabbages she decided, “After his holiday, he won’t want these dreadful plaid shirts.” Dousing the lot with petrol she flicked a match and walked away singing, “Kookaburra sits by the old gum tree.”

            In Gerald’s study, Iris pulled out the mountains of bank statements she had never been allowed to see. Of course, she had been forced to break the lock of his bureau drawer since the key was flying somewhere over the Northern Territories. “No matter,” she hummed, “merry, merry king of the bush is he.”

            She sat on the sitting room floor surrounded by an ocean of paperwork watching Australian soap operas, enjoying the accents. “Fancy Gerald is being chatted to by real Australians,” she confided in the Labrador who thwacked his tail a couple of times before falling back to sleep. This was the most in depth conversation Iris had enjoyed for months, perhaps even years. Gerald was not one for idle chit chat.

            Iris took out their wedding album, “We look like we’ve got jaundice,” she told the snoring dog, “I suppose it’s just the yellowing of the photos, but actually, now I look at them, the photos look bad omens of the years to come. We look sick; sick of each other even on the first day.”

            Taking a marker pen she drew smiles on each and every photo of Gerald’s downturned mouth. Before long the pen ran out of ink, “Miserable bugger,” she giggled, “he’s even worn the pen out.”

            That night Iris slept soundly for the first time in thirty years. She did not dread the miserable silences of the following day, she did not wonder at the bad luck of marrying such a lump of molten unhappiness. She dreamed of being able to walk about her house without wondering with what, or when, she might next upset him. She dreamed of freedom.

            Next day as she vacuumed the gloom from her house, Gerald settled down for the night in his tent near to the wash of the river. He was thrilled with his catches thus far; the fish were fat and smelly, far more interesting the grey specimens of his usual canal fishing. He’d have some tales to boast of to the boring old farts of the fishing club when he got back.      

As he slid down into the sleeping bag Iris had carefully packed, his toes encountered something sticky. Throwing open the bag, he held his torch aloft to gaze down at his legs, the hairs appeared to be coated in golden syrup and chunks of gravy-licious beefy Labrador food.

            “Bloody dog buries stuff everywhere! And that bloody stupid woman,” he hissed, “she could have washed the bag before she packed it.  I’ll knock some sense into her when I get home.”

            Now, the long journey and the hot day had ripened the gravy-licious chunks. As Gerald tried to wipe the smears from his legs, so his hands and finger nails became coated in the aromatic gunk. He tore open his wash bag, again packed by the capable Iris, hoping to extract some wet wipes or a fluffy flannel. Sadly, the bag appeared to have been packed by a holidaying Labrador too, since it contained soggy doggy treats and yet more meaty morsels.

Back home, said Labrador was enjoying playing with Gerald’s collection of taxidermied birds. Never had one dog had so much fun with a set of dusty relics.

            “Good boy,” encouraged Iris, “here take this one, it’s Gerald’s favourite, we’ll see if you can dig a hole big enough to bury them all.” Iris eyed the now empty display cabinet in her bedroom from which the ghastly birds had stared at her, judging her, as she limped through her married life. “Hmm,” she pondered, “I could keep my new selection of ‘Hunks Monthly’ mags in there. Come on boy, outside, let’s get digging!”

            As the Labrador tossed and tore each smelly relic on one side of the planet so an enormous crocodile tossed and tore a smelly relic on the other. The hungry crocodile, starving at the end of the dry season had been easily tempted out of his watery bed by the heavenly scent of gravy-licious doggy chunks.

            By the time the park officials got to Gerald’s tattered tent next morning there was only a few fish bones left to see.

            “Bloody silly tourist!” said one, “I told him not to leave his catch out. Bury it I said or the crocs’ll be sure to come after ya. I knew he wasn’t listening to a word I said.”

            Iris, on the other hand, sat with her loyal Labrador, squeezing branded mayonnaise onto her sandwich. “I must book a proper hair-do,” she said, “there’s a works do coming up and I plan to join this one.” And then she started singing very loudly, “Laugh Kookaburra, laugh Kookaburra, Ha, Ha, ha….”

            And so you see, the moral of the story is, sometimes being the holder of a golden ticket is not such a good thing, oh and of course it is better to give than receive.