Impractical Jokes (16 page)

As well as being an outstanding student, my mother Pamela was the celebrated winner of the Miss Pharmacy Pageant. Politeness prevents me from saying in which year she won the coveted title, other than to say A) it was 1965 and B) I'm really sorry, Mum.

Winning Miss Pharmacy posed something of a conundrum for my mother. As an informed feminist, she recognised and supported the theory that beauty pageants of any kind, even in an academic arena like pharmacy college, were demeaning to women and reduced them to a level of purely superficial value. Yet at the same time, it was terribly flattering. Indeed it is very difficult to have a bunch of people think you're a bit of all right without seeing at least some wisdom in it. She mulled this poser right up until the point that she won, finally realising that no matter how highbrow your effort in the talent portion, the moment you wear a sash it's very difficult to tell you apart from any other beauty queen.

It was this newly buttressed feminism that stymied a genuine invitation for her to compete in Miss Australia, and also first brought my parents together.

Mum's first-year pharmacology lecturer was Professor Krauthammer.3 An ancient and cantankerous bully, he clung to his outdated worldview almost as tightly as he clung to his tenure. He had been at the college long enough to remember a time when there were no female students. He
really
missed that time. And while he had finally made begrudging peace with that fact that he would henceforth be obligated to educate females, he didn't have to like it and he sure as hell didn't have to make them feel welcome. If they were going to come into his lecture theatre, they were going to do it on his terms.

And one day these two opposing forces met. Miss Pharmacy, the unlikely feminist, and Professor Krauthammer, the wounded old dinosaur, keen to take some young homo sapiens down with him before the asteroid of progress made final impact. My mum started it, really. She had the gall, nay, the bald-faced temerity to get up one morning and decide to wear jeans to university. I know! In 1965! The outrage! And to be honest, I don't know what's more abominable: going to an esteemed institute of learning in what is ostensibly drag, or the fact that she decided it for herself! Either way, when she walked into Krauthammer's lecture he gladly took it upon himself to focus a particularly hirsute eyeball on her and then to set her straight.

‘If young women want to receive an education, there is little I can do about that. However they will not do it dressed as men. From now on if you must come to my lectures, you will do so in a skirt. And until such time as you are appropriately dressed, I will kindly ask you to leave.'

I don't care what kind of power-feminist you are; to be scalded like that in front of your peers is nothing short of humiliating. I'm sure that if put in the same position Germaine Greer herself would have gone to water and run out of the room, before composing herself and then heading immediately to ‘Lady Sangster's House of Petticoats: Feminine Clothing Emporium For Proper Ladies Who Know Their Place'. Which, if memory serves, is pretty much what my mother did.

My dad was in second year, slightly older and something of a natural leader. When he got word of this outrageous episode, he declared that something had to be done. He didn't really know my mum and wasn't necessarily a feminist, but he sure did believe in putting the wind up Krauthammer.

The next day my mother wore a dress that would have been better suited to a mourning widow in Victorian England. She entered Krauthammer's lecture theatre via the rear door and took a low-profile seat towards the back. Despite her obsequious entrance, Krauthammer still managed to spot her, look her up and down and smile to himself, reassured of his status as old guy most in charge of that lecture theatre. As he picked up a piece of chalk, wrote on the board and began to talk, the door to the lecture theatre flew open with an enormous crash. In strode Dad and three friends, resplendent in knee-high skirts.

‘Sorry we're late, sir. There was a dreadful queue for the ladies' lav.'

To say that Krauthammer was shocked would be an understatement akin to calling World War Two a ‘hoo-ha' or the bombing of Hiroshima a ‘nasty business'. He went into a genuine meltdown. There are those who were there that day who distinctly remember a small piece of brain falling out of his head. Others say they saw a puff of steam come out of his ears, which yet more insist was his soul leaving his body. Whichever version of events you believe, one thing is certain: he was no longer in charge of anything.

Completely unable to form words, Krauthammer stormed out of the room. To thunderous applause, Dad and his mates took a flamboyant bow and went out the other door. My mother was left thinking, ‘There's something about that Ronnie Pickering.'

Professor Krauthammer was never seen or heard from again.

Mum and Dad didn't see each other too much immediately following the Krauthammer incident. This was mainly because the different year-levels occupied different parts of the college. Their labs were in different buildings and their lockers were in different cloisters. The closest they came to genuine proximity was the three-storey lecture building. First years had lectures in a theatre on the first floor, second years in the middle and third years on the top floor. Each floor entered from a different stairwell and the closest they ever came to interaction was being able to hear the scrapes of chairs being moved around in the other theatres. But while they never had any visual contact, Dad ensured he was never far from Mum's thoughts.

You see, a few weeks after his cross-dressing heroics, Dad came into possession of a rail coupling. This is the large, extremely heavy, iron doodad that links two train carriages. They weigh about as much as a fully-grown human man and for some baffling reason my father carried one around pharmacy college in a sports bag. His friends understandably asked him why on earth he was hefting locomotive spare parts around the university, to which he would only ever respond, ‘You'll see.'

There are so many reasons I like this story. For starters, how does someone come into possession of a rail coupling? I have never, in my thirty-something years on this earth, happened upon a rail coupling. In fact the only point of reference I have for what one even looks like is action movies, often set in the Wild West, where various dastardly fiends and dashing do-gooders separate train carriages as part of a greater strategy of evil/good. That said, I could not operate one nor would I have any idea what constitutes a reasonable offer for one on the open market. My father, however, apparently knew exactly where to find one and apparently had some clues for its operation.

I also like the old-world aesthetic of a scheme that requires a rail coupling. Simply by telling the story and mentioning the central prop, the story could not imaginably take place later than 1970. Stories after 1970 involve things like disco, lava-lamps and affordable aeroplane travel. Simply by mentioning a rail coupling the whole thing insinuates that this was a time when the railways were still the backbone of commerce and society. That and it should be filmed in black and white.

The final thing I like, and possibly the most important part of the story, is my dad's natural flair as a showman. When people made enquiries about what he was up to, he was controlled enough to pique their curiosity even further by being enigmatic. Admittedly the word ‘enigmatic' is interchangeable here with ‘deranged', but surely this is a distinction better left to the audience. And the audience at the time were enthralled.

One Monday morning, with heads turning as he passed, Dad would struggle with the sports bag as he went from the tram stop to his locker, from his locker to the cafeteria, then up the four flights of stairs to the second years' lecture theatre and then up yet more stairs to the middle of the theatre as the first lecture of the day began at eight am.

At exactly fourteen minutes past the hour, Dad lifted the bag to the height of his desk and then dropped it to the floor.

Bonnnnnnnggggggg!

Three levels of lecture theatres became a giant bell-tower and no one was safe. It was monumentally loud. Well beyond Dad's expectation. The windows shook, the blackboards rattled and more than a few people's fillings were loosened. As his confused lecturer scanned the room for the source of the disruption, my father's eyes remained focused on his notebook as he pretended to write notes while working harder than ever to hold back laughter.

When the lecture finished, the whole building was abuzz with excitement. Where had the noise come from? Who was responsible? Amid the kerfuffle, nobody seemed to notice my dad sneak past, limping like Quasimodo under the weight of his sports bag.

The next morning, at exactly fourteen minutes past eight, again Dad lifted the sports bag to the height of his desk and dropped it on the floor. Once again shock and chaos were deployed in equal measure, but this time a few people started to giggle.

At 8.14 the next day, shock and chaos were on the wane, but the laughter grew significantly. Later in the day, some members of the engineering faculty inspected the building to see if there was any structural damage. They found nothing, but suggested there could be something wrong with the pipes.

The next day's eight am lecture was largely uneventful. That is until the fourteen-minute mark, when the phantom struck again. This time enormous laughter gave way to a smattering of applause. Nonetheless Dad continued to focus on his notepad even though on the inside he was beaming. Later that day the faculty maintenance crew concluded that there was nothing wrong with the pipes, but that the college may want to get someone in to check the heating.

On the Friday morning the lecture began with a guest in attendance. A five-foot tall, sixty-something representative from the Hydro-Temp Hydronic Heating Company who, if his embroidered name tag was to be believed, was named Jock. He was sitting in a chair next to the blackboard and on his face was the look of a person who was listening. Which, incidentally, is identical to the look of a person who suspects, but is not sure, that they have just smelled faeces. At fourteen minutes past the hour, as three floors of students vibrated on the same hilarious frequency, Jock listened, shook his head, turned to the lecturer and said with a broad highland accent, ‘It's definitely noo the heating.'

‘Well, what is it then?' asked the desperate lecturer.

‘Aye, could be a number of things. But if I had te guess, I'd say someone is trying te make ye look like a goose.'

Come the following Monday morning, the sense of anticipation throughout the college was electric. Attendance was beyond capacity, drop-outs had rediscovered their passion for learning and pre-lecture hubbub was at an all-time high. The lecturers, too, were particularly focused. They had conferred over the weekend and concluded that they must catch the culprit in the act to put a stop to this nonsense. The lecture began and for the first thirteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds the entire class were on the edge of their seats. The lecturers turned away from their blackboards to face the students, scanning the rows for any sign of movement. And then, at exactly fourteen minutes past the hour, nothing happened. Silence. People looked at the clocks, then looked at their watches and then looked, bewildered, at each other. Disappointment hung heavy in the air, perhaps the time of the anonymous hero had passed. The lecturers, too, were disappointed. They hadn't captured the villain and would never have the chance to bring them to justice. A little deflated, three lecturers in three theatres shrugged and turned back to their respective blackboards to resume their lessons.

Bonnnnnnnggggggg!

An almighty cheer went up, the masses applauded and, without turning around from their blackboards, the lecturers dropped their shoulders in abject defeat.

For the rest of the week, everyone's day started the same way: laughter at 8.14. Going to early lectures had ceased to be a chore and everyone at the college seemed a little happier. Even the lecturers had found humour in the prank, post capitulation.

But soon word of who was behind the prank began to spread. People had started to whisper the name ‘Ronnie Pickering' around the cloisters. Dad got wind of the chatter and decided the Great Railway Coupling Fiasco must come to an end. At fourteen minutes past eight that second Friday morning, the pharmacy college bell fell silent forever.

Dad was saddened because the prank had brought him great joy. But at the same time he was relieved because his spine had taken on a fairly significant lean from carrying around the coupling for two weeks. That and it was worth a small fortune in scrap metal. Best of all, at fourteen minutes past the hour, every day for two weeks, my mother had been giggling, thinking to herself, ‘There's something about that Ronnie Pickering.'