Va! McKenzie
LUCKY LUKE
Mr Luke dreamed that he caught a yellow fish without a tail. It was a fine fish and the fact that it had no tail didn't seem to matter. In his dream Mr Luke was well pleased with his catch.
Normally Mr Luke took no interest in dreams. He forgot nearly all of them and would have forgotten this one if it hadn't been for a loud crash which woke him right in he middle of it. He sat up in bed and listened but there was no further sound. His wife lifted her head.
"Sounded like a plate," she said.
In the kitchen they found the cat staring at a gecko on the ceiling. On the floor was the gecko's twitching tail, and a large porcelain fish-dish, which had been hanging on the wall. Its tail was smashed into pieces.
Mr Luke picked up the fragments and pieced them together in his hand. As he did so the details of his dream trickled back into his mind.
The next day Mr Luke played a bad round of golf. But as his friend played an even worse round, he drank for free. He sat listening as his companion waffled on with a lengthy anecdote, wondering whether the free drinks made up for the four balls he had lost. Although he was now retired from the bank, Mr Luke maintained his habit of financial balancing.
"bloody lovely barramundi!" his friend said. "Right there in the shallows."
Mr Luke came back to focus.
"What, you caught one?"
"No, no, you're not listening! It was thrashing around in the shallows, caught by the tide. And when I got closer 1 saw the poor bloody thing was missing its tail. Bitten off clean! Must have been a shark or something."
For a second Mr Luke was perfectly astonished. But in a few drinks' time he had put things back in perspective. Remarkable coincidence, certainly. But life is full of coincidences, is it not?
Of course, Mr Luke did not tell his wife about his dream. Dreams were part of a marginal world which Mr Luke wanted no part of. His wife on the other hand involved herself very extensively in this world and it was a constant source of annoyance to him.
"Mumbo jumbo!" he wuld declare, whenever he saw her reading her Tarot cards. "Fiddlesticks!" he would announce, whenever he found her reading What Your Dreams Mean or Paranormal Paradise or Wellness, Health and Being. If she offered to give him foot reflexology to treat a headache, he would point out sarcastically that he had head, as opposed to foot ache, and ask her where the appropriate pills might be found.
At breakfast on the morning following Mr Luke's dream, when his wife expressed concern at the signs of blood pressure plainly visible in her husband's irises, Mr Luke responded with: "My dear, why don't you write to the United Nations and tell them how much money they could save if they used fairies to airlift food supplies to the starving masses in Africa?"
Since retiring, Mr Luke had begun to find many of his wife's ways increasingly provoking. He watched her now, sorting absently through a pile of laundry, and it occurred to him she was slowing down, like the toys in the advertisements that didn't use the right batteries.
He turned to her.
"My dear, how long are you going to be sorting that pile?"
She looked at him in mild surprise.
"Why? Is there something you want me to do?"
"No, no. It's just that it seems to me you've been standing there for an absolute age."
Mrs Luke made no reply. She gently rolled the next pair of socks and dropped them in the basket.
When she was finished she carried the basket to the bedroom from where she returned in a few minutes with a book and sat opposite Mr Luke. He looked at the title: Develop Your Own Psychic Senses.
What nonsense! The house, it seemed to Mr Luke, was rapidly filling up with such volumes. And they were not cheap, either. What kind of old age could
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they anticipate if their funds were to be constantly nibbled away at by inflation on one side and mumbo-jumbo on the other!
It galled Mr Luke that his wife had so little sense of commerce. Having outlaid considerable money for tarot-reading courses, Mrs Luke was now doing readings for friends at home, and many would offer to pay. Take the money!
Mr Luke continually urged, but she never would.
Tarot indeed. If there was the slightest bit of truth in it, would it not be able to pick the horses, or the lotto numbers?
It doesn't work that way, his wife would explain. It gives directions, not details.
And in any case you can never, ever use it for personal gain.
The following evening Mrs Luke was on the phone to a friend and Mr Luke was beside her on the sofa doing his crossword. He had managed to get all the solutions except one: "A very quiet relationship in Robert E to make pastry."
Two words. Eight Letters. He frowned and tried to concentrate.
His wife's murmuring voice was not helping. He scratched his head.
Suddenly her voice became more animated: "Apple Pie!" she said. "Oh, of course I love Apple Pie."
Mr Luke tossed the paper aside in disgust. How annoying! It was exactly as if she had answered the last clue on purpose, to rob him of the satisfaction of finishing his crossword!
Nonetheless, he was forcibly struck by the coincidence - the third remarkable coincidence within a few days. But he flicked the thought away. Life teemed with coincidences, if you took the trouble to look for them.
Mrs Luke finished her conversation and put down the phone. She rose from her chair and stood a moment in thought, then walked through to her "den." Here was a huge multicoloured dreamcatcher, an assortment of exotic plants hanging from the ceiling, and a collection of animals woven from cane including a large fish which had a number of tiny terra-cotta minnows in its mouth. There was also a cane display cabinet festooned with knicknacks surrounding the centrepiece - a huge crystal ball on a purple cushion. Near the window was a witch mobile - little yellow porcelain witches on broomsticks, with their black cats, which tinkled happily in the breeze. Mrs Luke picked up her tarot cards.
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In the loungeroom Mr Luke clicked the television set on. Two gentlemen were discussing horseflesh. Mr Luke, who had for years taken no interest in the horses, was about to change channels when a name was mentioned: My Apple Pie. An outsider, a good prospect for a place bet.
Mr Luke stared. Yet another coincidence. Could it mean anything?
***
"Goodness me," said Mrs Luke, pulling the curtain aside, "what are all these sirens?"
She was right, Mr Luke reflected. There had been quite a few sirens lately.
"Fire engine?" he enquired, looking up from his crossword.
"It's an ambulance," said Mrs Luke.
"Mmm."
When his wife had left the room Mr Luke put his crossword aside and made his way quickly down to the back garden. Under a tree close to the rear fence was a tin shed where he occasionally did woodwork. He entered the shed, leaving the door ajar so he could see the back door of the house, and carefully turned on the little radio he kept on his woodwork bench.
In a few minutes the horses entered the gates for the ninth and final race. Mr Luke had outlaid thirty dollars for a place on My Apple Pie. He bent his head close to the radio.
After putting the roast in the oven, Mrs Luke washed her hands and walked into her den. She cupped her palms lovingly around the crystal ball for a minute before taking out her mat and sitting down to meditate.
In the shed Mr Luke's heart was pounding madly: My Apple Pie had led the entire race but fallen away at the end. Was the money lost? Surely the nag had clung on for a place? He paced the shed impatiently as he waited for the judges' decision.
At last the result came: Magic Spirit first, Feel the Beat second, My Apple Pie third.
Mr Luke walked out of the shed into the sunlight feeling dazed. My Apple Pie had paid nine dollars for a place!
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Voluptuous visions now arose before him: if this was real, if he was on to something, millions of dollars could be made! He pictured himself aboard a luxury yacht with tanned young women in bikinis, in an overseas villa somewhere with a private golf course
"Jordan, what are you doing?"
Mr Luke looked up. The woman who had not at all figured in his visions was standing on the back verandah of their house.
"Thinking," he said.
She smiled. "Thinking about what to do next?"
Indeed, Mr Luke thought to himself.
At dinner Mr Luke lifted the lift of the roast dish and prepared to carve. Then he saw with dismay a lack of vegetables around the beef. He opened his mouth to protest but his wife spoke first:
"They're in here," she said, lifting the lid on a side dish and exposing whole baby potatoes and bright yellow pumpkin.
"Steamed!" he said in disgust.
"We shouldn't be eating roasts at all," aid Mrs Luke. "Doctor Wallace -"
"Doctor be damned!" Mr Luke snapped. "My father ate roasts every night of his life, and he lived to his eighties!"
He pulled out his chair in high dudgeon.
"I've got a nice sauce for the vegies," said Mrs Luke gently.
After dinner Mr Luke went to fill the kettle and stopped.
Hanging in the kitchen, in the same spot as the previous one, there was a new porcelain fish-dish. He stared.
"Isn't he beautiful?" said Mrs Luke as she walked in.
He grunted. He disapproved, as his wife well knew, of purchases of this kind:
dust-collectors, pure and simple. But this was not what caused him to stare, it
was the colour of the fish: a bottle green body with a head and tail of burnished gold. And he had happened to notice, scanning through the form guide for the next Saturday's race meeting, a horse named Tail of Gold.
As soon as his wife had left the loungeroom, Mr Luke picked up his paper again and eagerly scanned the names of the horses running in the following Saturday's meet. Sure enough, Tail of Gold was running in the eighth race of the day. He noticed at the same time a horse called Siren running in the seventh.
And amazingly, as he read, the noise of a distant siren came to his ears. He picked up his biro and ringed both names.
He heard his wife returning and quickly turned back to his crossword.
"Father, any number make a wailing noise." Easy. Mr Luke was half way through writing "siren" when realisation slammed home: yet another sign! A dead-set certainty!
Mrs Luke sat in meditation in front of her crystal ball for several minutes. Then she shuffled and cut her Tarot pack and began placing them out. What began to unfold before her caused her increasing alarm.
Mr Luke walked down to his car. He had just opened the door when his wife's voice came sharply from the window.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to look at a new set of golf clubs."
"But you never go to town on Friday!"
"Well, my dear, time for a change!"
"Wait!"
Mr Luke frowned. In .a moment his wife came quickly down the steps.
"I don't think you should go to town today," she said.
Mr Luke regarded her.
"Have you been playing with your ... cards?"
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"Please don't go to town. Not tod,ay. Go tomorrow.
"What have you seen?"
"Death and destruction. Fire. Close to us."
Mr Luke snorted. He briefly patted the hand which was still clutching his arm, then freed himself and got into the car.
He drove to town neither more nor less carefully than usual, never giving a second thought to his wife's premonitions. He was impatient in the slow traffic and used his hooter a few times, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
In the betting shop he collected his winnings, then invested the lot on Siren and Tail of Gold.
When he got back home his wife came running down the steps. She threw her arms around him.
"Oh," I was so worried!"
Mr Luke suffered the embrace, then freed himself.
"Please don't go out again today," his wife implored.
"Really, my dear," said Mr Luke as he turned towards the steps. "Pixies and Leprechauns."
Saturday morning arrived without incident. Mr Luke, having slept extremely well, was surprised to find his wife haggard and distressed after a very restless night.
At breakfast she again enquired whether he was planning to leave the house that day.
"Not at all," he announced briskly. "I have things to do. Now stop worrying about me and think about yourself. You look absolutely dreadful this morning."
In the afternoon Mrs Luke went to lie down for a while. A short while later Mr Luke headed eagerly for the back garden. He put a piece of scrap timber in the vice and began sawing vigorously.
Mrs Luke sat for a few minutes on the side of the bed, wondering if she should consult the cards again. But she had done three readings already, and got similar results. All was not well. She sighed deeply.
Mr Luke paused in his sawing and clicked the radio over to the racing station.
He heard the lineup for the seventh race, then waited impatiently as the horses seemed to take forever to get into the gates.
But at last they were off. Mr Luke bent forward and listened intently. Siren seemed to be somewhere in the middle. Mr Luke clenched his fists.
At the first turn Siren seemed to have moved up in the field. Mr Luke bent closer to the radio.
"Siren, Siren is coming through on the inside with a great run! It's Heart to Heart from Macattack and Journey's End with Siren on the outside and Come to my Aid."
"Go Siren!" Mr Luke hissed.
"And Siren is down! Siren has fallen!"
"What!" Mr Luke pressed his ear to the radio and heard the description of the melee: three horses down, one jockey motionless on the track. He slammed his fist on the bench and paced around the shed. What a shambles, how could this happen! One hundred and twenty dollars lost!
He fumed as the announcer described how Siren had been shot and two jockeys taken to hospital.
"Shoot the bloody jockey!" he muttered.
He snatched up the saw and resumed sawing in a fury.
Mrs Luke awoke and lay still on her bed, thinking of her dream: she had been on a long journey across a stormy ocean and had felt a great sense of joy on arriving safe at harbour. Then her earlier premonitions flooded back. She got up and went to the window.
She could hear the radio faintly, but no other sound. Then, through the shed door, she saw movement, and felt reassured. She walked to the bathroom.
Mr Luke had become aware of an ache in his side. Had he pulled a muscle? He had not done so much work for years. He felt his brow and realised he was
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perspiring freely. Well, he needed the exercise. He glanced at his watch: still a few minutes to the start of the eighth race. What to do?
Lying on a shelf he found an old cigar, still in its plastic wrapper. Mr Luke had not smoked for many years, but soon he found himself tearing the wrapper off the cigar.
As he inhaled he felt a dull cramping pain in the neck. Had he pulled a muscle there as well? He took another puff but now there was a pressing tightness across his chest. Perhaps the cigar was not such a good idea. In fact he seemed to need fresh air. He turned to the door.
From the kitchen window Mrs Luke saw the thin wisp of smoke coming from the shed. She hurried down the steps.
She heard the commentator's voice as she reached the shed. It was horseracing, she realised with surprise.
The smoke inside was much thicker. She saw its source at once: a little pile of sawdust burning. Beside it she noticed the stub of a cigar.
"What on earth are you doing?" she exclaimed, then gasped as she saw her husband's ashen face. He was sitting on the floor with a puzzled frown. His wife grabbed a piece of masonite and quickly beat the fire out. Mr Luke opened his mouth and spoke but no sound came out. Mrs Luke bent close to him.
"Can you hear a siren?" he whispered.
Mr Luke had taken notice of the horses' names, but not their jockeys. He would have been astonished to know that Siren's jockey was named Luke Jordan. His own full name was Jordan McDonald Luke. Though he suffered terrible injuries, Luke Jordan the jockey eventually recovered completely.
The ambulance had arrived in minutes, but Jordan Luke, husband to Norma and father to James and Audrey, died on the way to hospital. He never found out that Tail of Gold had won the last race, paying a little over twenty dollars.
Mrs Luke, devastated and incapacitated for several weeks, knew nothing of this. Her son James took charge of the funeral and stayed with his mother until the worst was over.
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A month later he was going through some of his father's things when he came across two betting slips. A phone call established that one of them was in fact a winning ticket. He drove into town and cashed it, then paid the money into his mother's bank account. He was surprised at the amount of money, and reflected how much his father would have enjoyed winning it.
And because the bill from the funeral parlour happened to arrive the following day, the figure was still fresh in his mind. Absently stroking the cat, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out the deposit slip. Sure enough, the amounts were identical, to the cent.
