Open Writing

We were a most unlikely couple. George was a bank manager who retired early when his branch prematurely closed. He was a distinguished, tall man with steely blue eyes, a touch of grey hair at the temples and a pencil line moustache. A natty dresser, mostly he wore a navy blue single breasted suit, a small red rose always in the lapel, a collar, tie and black polished shoes. An ambitious employee, he was always ready to take any track that would give him an advantage.

I had worked as a labourer in a timber mill until my 65th birthday. It was the only job I'd ever done; clearing off-cuts away from the saws and stacking milled timber. My favourite outfit was corduroy trousers, a round-neck khaki jumper and tan boots. I had no ambition other than to remain healthy enough to continue working each day.

We met each other over a beer at our 'local'. It made our afternoon sessions even more enjoyable when we discovered we had something in common. We were both devotees of pigeon racing and each had won a number of distance races with our favourite bird.

Each afternoon we would drift into the saloon about four o'clock and take a position at what the other patrons called 'the old blokes' table'. We only had two beers; one 'shout' each. Our conversations always quickly came around to homing pigeons, and the next race on the calendar. We each claimed we owned the fastest bird in the country. George proudly nominated 'Winged Wotan' as his best. He'd backed the racehorse Wotan when it won the Melbourne Cup. I vehemently claimed 'Soaring Rose', named after my late wife, was the best bird in Australia. It was an easy winner of the Mt. Gambier-Melbourne race three months ago.

Not long after we met George suggested we have a small wager on a two-bird race from Mildura to Melbourne, about 300 miles. We agreed on a wager of $50 each and asked the barman, Reg. O'Brien, to hold the money and pay it to the first man to produce his bird's leg ring, to show it had arrived home.

George agreed to take the two birds to Mildura and release them on the following Saturday. It was my worst week-end ever.I spent hours scouring the sky through binoculars for my bird. It depressed me when Sunday passed without Soaring Rose clocking in. When I went to the pub on Monday Reg told me George had collected the money Sunday evening. Soon afterwards George arrived all smiles and tried to goad me. 'You can't win 'em all, Cyril', he smirked. 'Probably an eagle has taken your slow bird!'

I had already come to this conclusion myself. It was the only explanation I could accept that would have prevented my champion being first back to Melbourne.

Imagine my surprise on Thursday afternoon as I came out the front gate to go to the pub and found Soaring Rose waddling up the footpath towards me. I tenderly picked up my little master in my large gnarled hands. Then I became horrified. Tears welled in my eyes as I examined the blistered feet of my little champ. Obviously George was still capable of taking advantage of a situation. With an aching heart I discovered that Soaring Rose had her wings cut before being released. She'd walked all the way home from Mildura!