Gabriel Farago barrister Archives - Author Gabriel Farago | Official Website

Good old friends; a Writer’s Journey 3

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 28 Jul 2017 02:06:06 +0000

Riding boots and a hat; two good old friends. This is about the hat, not the boots, and the hat has a name – Dubbo. Curious? This is its story. Dubbo is an Akubra. ‘An Akubra?’ I hear you ask, ‘what’s that?’ Well, let me tell you: An Akubra is an Australian icon. It’s a wide-brimmed bush hat worn by stockmen, graziers, horsemen, farmers, hunters and adventurers like me who love the outdoors. Founded in the 1870s, the original modest hat-making factory was set up my Benjamin Dunkerley in Tasmania. He invented an ingenious machine which could remove the hair tip from rabbit fur. He used the more pliable under- fur to make his famous hats. During both World Wars, many of the Slouch hats worn by the Australian forces were manufactured by Dunkerley. Since then, several Australian Prime Ministers have worn Akubras. Perhaps the best known of them was Ben Chifley whose Akubra is now proudly displayed in the National Museum of Australia. My Akubra is made from rabbit fur felt and has been my trusty companion for more than 30 years.

However, as every experienced stockman will tell you, it takes a long time for a hat like that to be considered ‘ just right.’ Dubbo is one of those treasured possessions that get better with age and exposure to the elements. Shaped by driving rain,

Dubbo was a present from a publican. I was given the hat the day I bought the Royal Hotel in Dubbo and for a short time became the licensee. But that’s another story. ‘You can’t own a pub without a proper hat, mate,’ the publican said. ‘Just wouldn’t be proper.’ With that, he reached under the bar, produced my new hat, and insisted I try it on then and there. I must confess I did feel rather foolish at the time. Just imagine, a slick young lawyer from Sydney in a pin-striped suit, sitting in a crowded country pub, trying on a funny new hat. Well, that was me. Since then, Dubbo, as I named my new hat, has accompanied me on many adventures. Here are a few:

Hiking through the Bungle Bungles

Crocodiles in Western Australia

On top of Mount Ossa, Tasmania

Walking The Great Ocean Road

The post Good old friends; a Writer’s Journey 3 appeared first on Author Gabriel Farago | Official Website.

Winston carries the day. Brothers Grimm Challenge; part V

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 02 Aug 2013 07:00:48 +0000

You will remember Archie and I were sitting in my lounge room in Paddington, and Archie had just finished telling me about his adventures on Mount Wellington, the article in the Hobart paper, and the dire consequences of ignoring his wife’s advice.

‘I’m sorry it has all gone sour,’ I said, dreading what was about to come next.
‘Me too,” said Archie, ‘I better get going and take Winston home.’

I took a deep breath, searching for the best way to tell Archie about the disaster. ‘Bad news rarely travels alone,’ I said.’

‘Oh? What do you mean?’ said Archie, looking a little alarmed.

I reached into my pocket and produced the poster I had nailed on every telegraph pole and strategically located tree, distributed to all the shop keepers and handed out to passers-by in my neighbourhood that afternoon.

‘This here,’ I said as calmly as I could.

For a while, Archie just stared at the piece of paper on the table in front of him in silence, a look of utter disbelief clouding his troubled face. ‘Tell me this is a joke,’ he said at last.

I shook my head without looking at him. ‘I wish I could,’ I whispered.

‘He isn’t here?’

‘No.’

I paused, letting the tension grow, and looked at my audience in the dining room in front of me.

‘I can see you are itching to know what caused Archie so much grief,’ I said. ‘Here, let me show you.’

At my signal, Tom-Tom switched on her laptop, and the poster appeared on the wall behind me.

Winston, aka, “The judge’s dog”

REWARD!

Call: *******

After my surprised audience had calmed down, I turned to Archie sitting on the bar stool next to me. ‘Do you remember what you said to me after that?’ I asked Archie.

Archie nodded. ‘Sure do. Hillary will kill me! What happened?’

‘I had some friends from the theatre over this afternoon for a BBQ. We were all in the courtyard and Winston was in my study watching TV as usual …’

‘So?’

‘After lunch I went upstairs with a few left over sausages for Winston. You know how he loves sausages.’

‘Get to the point,’ Archie interrupted, pretending impatience.

‘The study door was open and Winston was nowhere to be seen. We searched the entire property; no Winston.’

‘How did he get out?’

‘One of the girls went to her car to fetch something, and must have left the courtyard gate open. It’s the only explanation we could come up with.’

‘This is a disaster!’ said Archie, covering his face with his hands. ‘What will I tell Hillary?’

‘Nothing; for the moment,’ I suggested. ‘The entire suburb is looking for him. My guests and I have left no stone unturned …Boy scouts, Police, shopkeepers, even the vicar …Short of going on National Television, we’ve done everything. We’ll find him; I’m sure of it,’ I said with more confidence than I felt at the time. I knew Archie needed all the reassurance I could muster under the circumstances.

‘Winston hasn’t spent a night on his own in his entire life,’ said Archie.

‘He’s a resourceful little chap; he’ll be alright.’

‘Try to tell Hillary that; good luck! You have until the morning. After that, I’ll have to tell her what happened, and I think we both know what that means …’

‘What are you going to say to her now? No Winston? How will you explain that?’

‘I’ll think of something.’ With that, a very dejected looking Archie stood up, and went home.

After Archie left, I finished the bottle of red I had opened for him and, totally exhausted, fell asleep on the lounge. The next thing I remember is the annoyingly persistent ringing of my mobile somewhere in the dark.

‘Yes, ‘ I growled, barely awake.

‘He’s here,’ an excited voice said on the other end.

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me; Jack, the butcher.’ As the fog of sleep began to lift, the significance of what I had just heard began to sink in.

‘Winston?’ I croaked, barely able to speak.

‘He’s right here in front of me at the shop.’

‘Don’t let him out of your sight! I’ll be right over.’

It took me less than 5 minutes to get to the shop. Jack was waiting for me at the door. ‘I came in to check on my fridge and there he was, right here on the doorstep, fast asleep,’ he said.

‘Where is he?’

Jack pointed inside. ‘There.’

When I looked over Jack’s shoulder, I saw him. Winston was sitting in front of the counter, happily munching a pair of sausages.

‘Fennell and black pepper,’ said the butcher. ‘He obviously likes my new sausage. I didn’t have any rosemary and garlic left.’

15 minutes later I rang Archie’s doorbell. It was half past six in the morning and I had to ring the bell several times before a very sleepy looking Archie answered the door. He stared at a very excited Winston – curly little tail wagging madly – snorting next to me. Winston pushed past me and, ignoring Archie completely, disappeared into the house. Before I could explain what happened, Archie put his finger on his lips and said: ‘not now,’ and closed the door.

Two days later, I was invited to dinner at Archie’s. I had brought a big bunch of
flowers for Hillary and a bottle of Champagne for Archie. I was determined to turn this visit into a triumph.

‘Thank you so much for looking after Winston,’ said Hillary, arranging the flowers in her vase,’ and for that little game you played while we were away…’ I looked at Archie. He shook his head; something was up. ‘Pretending Winston was lost and then mounting that wonderful ‘mock search’ with your theatre friends …right down to the poster. I must say, what a splendid idea! Should he ever go missing, we’ll know exactly what to do, won’t we Archie?’ I was gobsmacked.

‘Don’t tell me she swallowed that?’ I said to Archie after Hillary had disappeared into the kitchen to serve dinner. ‘Is that what you told her last night?’

‘We believe what we want to believe,’ said Archie, pouring me another glass of wine. ‘You’re off the hook, laddie.’ I wasn’t convinced.

After serving dessert, Hillary turned to me and said: ‘I spoke to the butcher this morning …’ I almost choked on my Pavlova. ‘He told me that Winston has a new favourite sausage; fennel and black pepper. At first I didn’t believe him, but it’s true. Winston loves it! But you already know that … don’t you?’ she said, patting me on the arm.

Judging from the applause and the standing ovation, the story was well received. However, I hadn’t counted on what happened next.

After the applause had died down and I had returned to my table, Marcus stood up.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, it is now my turn to tell you a story,’ he said. ‘However, on reflection, I think that would be a mistake. Why? Because I believe what we’ve just heard — and seen — is an impossible act to follow.’ Marcus paused and looked in my direction. ‘I have therefore decided to concede’, he said, ‘and instead of boring you with a story, would like to propose a toast. Please be upstanding and charge your glasses. I give you the new master storyteller of our chambers who has just joined the Brothers Grimm.’

‘See, I told you so,’ said Tom-Tom poking me into the ribs with her elbow. ‘You’ve just embarked on a new career.’ I had no idea at the time, just how right she was about that.

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The Polar Wind and the Falcon. The Brothers Grimm Challenge; part IV

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 12:22:50 +0000

As every experienced storyteller knows, after introducing the characters and ‘setting the scene,’ it’s time to move towards the punch line. The best way to do this? Build tension through anticipation. However, this is always the tricky bit and this was a multi-layered story. Looking around the room, I realised it was time to do just that.

‘Fast forward to Saturday evening,’ I said, cutting to the chase. ‘I was sitting in my lounge room, staring at the phone on the table in front of me. I was willing it to ring with good news, and I certainly could do with some! The disaster that had occurred that afternoon, was too awful to contemplate. Just when I thought that things couldn’t get worse, my front door bell rang. I jumped up, bursting with hope, and hurried to the door. Expecting good news, I opened the door and was met by … Archie!

“You?” I said, not trusting my eyes. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back until Tuesday!” The expression on Archie’s face told me something was terribly wrong. “What happened?”

“Pour me a stiff drink, and I’ll tell you,” was all Archie said. He followed me inside without saying another word, and before sitting down, threw something on the coffee table. “Here, have a look at this.”

“What is it?’ I asked.

“Today’s paper; from Hobart.”

I picked up the paper and looked at the headline and the picture on the front page. “Jesus, Archie, what happened?”

“I followed your advice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember you told me the first thing I should do in Hobart was to hire a car and drive up to Mount Wellington to enjoy the spectacular view.”

“So?”

“It was a beautiful sunny day, and that’s exactly what Hillary and I did. There was a car rental place just behind our hotel and I rented a Ford Falcon.”

“And?”

“All went well until we reached the top. We didn’t meet a single car going up. That should have warned me, I suppose, but I had no idea …”

‘What are you talking about?”

“Something that started in Antarctica.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Then let me enlighten you,” said Archie. “It left the South Pole heading north. Gathering speed as it raced across the ice it reached the Southern Ocean and whipped up gigantic seas on its way towards Macquarie Island. There it frightened the penguins as it howled along the cliffs and, enjoying itself, gathered more speed before reaching its destination. And do you know what that was, my boy?” I shook my head. “Mount Wellington! You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” I shook my head again. “The bloody wind!”

I paused, letting all of this sink in. ‘The reason I’ve asked Archie to join me up here was to let him tell you what happened next.’ I could see from the expression on the faces in front of me, that my audience was enjoying the show. I was presenting an eyewitness; lawyers like that. ‘Archie, over to you …’ Archie took the microphone.

‘We were almost at the top,’ said Archie, ‘when I noticed something was wrong with the car. “I think we have a flat tyre,” I said to Hillary.

“You can’t stop here!” she shrieked. “Look at the drop, for God’s sake!” Hillary was right. The steep road was very narrow with a sheer drop of several hundred meters on one side. No guardrail. I had no other option but to slowly limp along and reach the top.’

‘What happened next?’ I asked.

‘As we negotiated the last bend, we heard it.’

‘What?’

‘The howling of a wind so strong, that it made the car shake and the windows rattle. Alarmingly. “What now?” shouted Hillary.

“I have to change the tyre,” I shouted back.

“In this? Are you out of your mind?”

‘My first mistake was to drive up to the top of Mount Wellington. That was excusable. My second, a big one, was to ignore Hillary’s warning. As things turned out, that was inexcusable!’

‘What did you do?’ I asked.

‘Foolishly, I opened the car door.’

‘What happened?’

‘Unfortunately, the car wasn’t facing into the wind, but in the opposite direction. Coming from behind, the Arctic wind — a gale — got stuck into the car door with all its fury.’

Archie paused, letting the tension grow. You could have heard a pin drop in the crowded room. ‘And then?’ I prompted.

‘The wind ripped the door clean off its hinges, lifted it up into the air like a piece of cardboard and then flung it against a rock some twenty metres away. I didn’t have the courage to look at Hillary,’ said Archie quietly. ‘After a while she began to shout. “See, this is what happens when you ignore me!” she said, rubbing salt into the wound.’ At first there was stunned silence, then the room erupted in laughter and applause.

‘What did you do then?’ I asked after the applause had died down.

‘I waited for a lull in the wind and then crawled to the back of the car — on a fours, mind you — and changed the tyre.’

‘And this traumatic experience was the reason you cut your holiday short?’

‘No, not exactly. We decided to leave that wretched island because of what happened the next day.’

‘Oh? And what was that?’

‘The Sunday paper!’

‘Can you elaborate?’

‘Sure can. Here, let me show you.’

On cue, Tom-Tom, who had prepared for this, switched on her laptop and projected the front page of the Hobart Sunday paper onto the wall behind us.

Stunned silence, as the audience digested the writing on the wall.

Falcon gets its wing blown off on Mount Wellington

Eminent Sydney barrister, Cyril Archibald QC, and his wife were in for a big surprise on Friday when they drove up to the top of Mount Wellington in a Ford Falcon they had just hired.

The short article gave a hilarious account of how the car door was ripped off by the wind on top of the mountain. Next to the article was a photo. It showed an exasperated Archie standing next to the nonplussed rent-a-car representative. The man was pointing to the missing front door of the Falcon with Hillary looking on from a distance.

‘How did the paper get wind of this so quickly?’ I asked.

‘The car rental chappie, a cunning man, alerted the paper,’ said Archie. ‘As I found out later, the paper’s office was just behind the car rental place. The paper sent a photographer around who took some pictures as I was trying to explain what happened. The article repeats exactly what I put into the insurance claim form.’

‘And that was the end of the holiday?’ I said.

‘At breakfast the next morning, Hillary saw the paper. That was most unfortunate. She was beyond herself and refused to stay. “Just look at yourself,” she said, almost choking on her muffin, “on the front page! Eminent Sydney barrister; ha! More like a vagrant. Look at your trousers; torn at the knees! And the car with no door! The whole island will be laughing at us.” She did have a point there. What could I do? We went to our room, packed our bags and caught the next plane back to Sydney, hoping no one would recognise us at the airport.’

When I turned and looked at the table in front of me, I saw that the Attorney General was wiping away tears of laughter. So did just about everyone else in the room. The story had surpassed expectation. However, the story wasn’t finished yet. In some way, the best was yet to come. But that will have to wait until next week, I’m afraid. Good night!

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Showtime! The Brothers Grimm Challenge; part III

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 19 Jul 2013 09:00:56 +0000

The meal was surprisingly good. Somehow, Tom-Tom had managed to have a main course choice of Beef Wellington or Tasmanian Salmon — washed down with a selection of fine Tassie wines — put on the menu. The Tasmanian theme was part of my hidden strategy which would become apparent later. Just when I began to relax a little, Clive stood up, almost shattered his wine glass with his dessert spoon, and asked for silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Normally, Marcus, our head of chambers, would be addressing you, but not tonight. Why? Because tonight he’s here in a different capacity. He’s here as one of the three Brothers Grimm, ready to do battle and defend his title.’

Applause. Clive held up his hand until the excited diners fell silent again.

‘As most of you would know, for the past 20 years or so, the Brothers Grimm have been a hallowed tradition on our floor. They are the champion storytellers of our chambers who have entertained us on many occasions with their flair and panache, their imagination, and command of language. However, once a year, they can be challenged. This year we have a challenger, and he has chosen Marcus as his opponent. ’

Clive pointed in my direction. More applause. ‘And very soon you will be called upon to decide whether or not he’s been successful.’ Clive, an experienced advocate and storyteller — he was one of the Brothers Grimm at the time — paused, letting the tension grow. ‘Here are the rules: The challenger goes first. He has 15 minutes to convince you that he’s worthy. He will try to do that by telling you a story. After that, it’s the incumbent’s turn. He too has 15 minutes to show off his skills as a storyteller and fend off the challenge. After that, you decide. You will be asked to vote for the story you liked best. This will be done by show of hands. If the challenger wins, the incumbent surrenders his title and the challenger becomes one of the three Brothers Grimm until one day he himself is challenged and defeated. Straight forward and fair. So, without further ado, I call upon the challenger to step forward. Let the contest begin!’

Enthusiastic applause.

This is it, I thought. I stood up — heart beating like a drum — and slowly walked across to the dais at the far end of the room. At my request, two bar stools had been placed next to the microphone. I climbed up on one of them and looked at my audience. Just like a jury, I thought, calming myself. Most of the faces I knew well. Apart from our entire floor, there were several judges and their associates, eminent QC’s, two MPs, and of course the Attorney General. And all of them were watching me.

As every storyteller knows, the opening line is critical. You have to capture your listeners at the very beginning and make sure they stay with you. The best way to do this? Surprise.

‘Why two stools?’ I asked, pointing to the empty stool next to mine. ‘Because I have an important guest I would like to introduce to you. A guest? In a story, you ask? How come? Because my story is a true one, and my guest is the central character in that story. Well, one of them, anyway. Please welcome His Honour, Justice Archibald.’ On cue, Archie came over and sat down next to me. Subdued applause. I knew my audience didn’t quite know what to make of this. Good. I had everyone’s attention.

‘The story I’m about to tell you, takes us back a few years. I was a newly admitted baby barrister and the time, as Tom-Tom here used to call me, and I was fortunate to have two very special people as my mentors and friends. Who were they? One of them was Marcus, our head of chambers, and the other Judge Archibald here.’ I paused, and pointed to Archie sitting next to me. ‘We were all on the same floor and had appeared in many trials together. And we had common interests; red wine and champagne mainly, usually consumed in copious quantities after court in my room which had somehow become the unofficial club room/ bar of our floor.’

A little laughter.

‘I remember the day well. Archie burst into my room after court, took off his wig and poured himself a stiff drink. He had just finished a long, gruelling trial and looked pale and exhausted. Guilty verdicts do that to the best of us.’

Knowing laughter.

“I need a break,” he said. “Hillary and I should go away for a few days.”

“Good idea. Do you have somewhere in mind?”

“You’ve been raving about Tasmania a lot. You seem do know it well.”

“I do. You’d enjoy it; I’m sure,” I said, trying to encourage Archie.

‘There’s just one little problem,’ he said.

‘Oh? What?’

‘Winston …’

A little explanation is needed here. Winston is Mrs Archibald’s beloved dog. In fact he’s the apple of her eye. Many of you will remember the famous story a couple of years ago that made Clive one of the Brothers Grimm after Archie’s elevation to the bench—Winston and the Fire Warden? That story was about the same dog.’

Knowing murmur.

‘Anyhow, I could see where this was going. “You want me to look after him?” I asked.

“It would only be for a couple of days.” Archie looked at me pleadingly. Refusing a friend like him wasn’t an option. And besides, I had looked after Winston before, but never for that long.

“No problem,” I said.

“Good man! Winston likes you.” That was an exaggeration. Winston didn’t like anyone. He tolerated people who did what he liked.

“It’s settled then,” said Archie. “Now, about Tasmania. Where would you go say, for 3 days?”

“Hobart,” I replied without hesitation. “It’s a wonderful town.”

“All right. What are the must sees of Hobart?”

“The first thing I would do, is to hire a car and drive up to Mount Wellington, but only if the weather is good. The view from the top is breathtaking. You’ll see half the island from up there.”

Two days later, a Friday, Mr and Mrs Archibald began their journey to Tasmania, and Winston was delivered to my house just before they left. It was a journey none of us would ever forget.’ I paused, letting this remark sink in.

‘At the time, I was living in a terrace house in Paddington, a short walk from the Archibald residence. This was Winston’s neighbourhood, and he was well known to all the shop keepers. Because Winston — a feisty, demanding dog with short bow legs, a squashed nose and a curly tail — had high expectations and a strict routine, my entire weekend would be devoted to looking after him. Going out was therefore out of the question, and I had arranged for some friends to call in for a BBQ in my courtyard garden on the Saturday. On Saturday morning I took Winston for his favourite walk, and then stopped at the butchers to buy some meat for the BBQ. I tied Winston to a tree outside and went into the busy shop.

“Looking after the judge’s dog, mate?” said the butcher. “Here, I’ll give you a sausage. Rosemary and garlic; his favourite. Mrs Archibald always gets a few of these for him.” I gave Winston his sausage outside and got a big thumbs-up from the butcher through the window. Winston and I were off to a good start, I thought. I was wrong. Sadly, it was going to be all downhill from then on.’

‘Don’t keep us in suspense like that!’ I hear you complain. Unfortunately, I have to do just that. There just isn’t time to take the story further tonight. But next Friday … well, that’s another story! See you then.

The post Showtime! The Brothers Grimm Challenge; part III appeared first on Author Gabriel Farago | Official Website.

The great day at last; The Brothers Grimm Challenge; part II

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 12 Jul 2013 01:05:42 +0000

I didn’t sleep a wink the night before the challenge. Turning restlessly in my bed, I went over my story time and time again until I was satisfied with every word and every phrase. Tom-Tom and our floor clerk had done a splendid job promoting our floor dinner. Wild rumours were circulating about the challenge, and complete strangers walked up to me at court and wished me luck. What had I done? Additional tables had to be added and a larger room hired at the Tattersall’s Club, our usual venue for the dinner, to accommodate the swelling numbers. Several judges had invited themselves, and apparently the Attorney General, a self-appointed QC, would attend. This was a rare honour, and had only happened on two other occasions.

Thankfully, I had a busy day in court that day, which helped take my mind off things to come. I went to see Archie at lunchtime to make sure he was ready and knew what to do. I got back to my chambers around five and went straight to my room. To my surprise, Marcus, Edgar and Clive — the current Brothers Grimm — were sitting in my room, happily drinking my champagne. ‘Here you are at last,’ said Marcus, handing me a glass,’ we wanted to wish you well; isn’t that right chaps?’ Edgar and Clive lifted their glasses in silent reply. ‘May the best man win,’ said Marcus, reaching for the bottle. ‘Good luck!’

‘Very gracious of you,’ I said. ‘I’m told betting has reached astronomical proportions.’

‘It has,’ said Clive. ‘Your thousand dollar bet this morning created quite a stir, and certainly changed the odds a little…Brave move.’

I shook my head. ‘Is nothing private here?’

‘In this place?’ said Edgar. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘I thought perhaps we should arrive at the dinner together; what do you think?’ said Marcus, opening another bottle of my best bubbly. ‘It would make a good impression.’

‘Fine by me. I have to get changed.’

‘Go right ahead.’

It was obvious that none of my self-invited guests had any intention of leaving my room, and the plan was to continue drinking until it was time to go. I suspected this was a cunning strategy cooked up by my opponent. Make the challenger tipsy before he takes the floor; simple! Well, I was determined it wouldn’t work. I didn’t touch my glass after that, and instead made sure that the champagne flowed freely while I got changed and prepared myself for the showdown. Two can play this game, I thought.

‘Arriving together?’ whispered Tom-Tom, meeting me at the dining room door, ‘you’re a cool customer.’

‘Marcus’ idea, not mime,’ I said. ‘You look stunning, by the way.’

‘Thanks. If I’m to sit next to the winner — you — I have to look the part—right?’

‘You are sitting next to me?’

‘I’m in charge of the seating plan—remember?’

Tom-Tom’s attire had reached new heights that evening. Her low cut, tight-fitting red dress accentuated her voluptuous figure, and her high, needle-like stilettoes made sure her long legs went on forever. But most dazzling of all was her hair. It looked like she had just stepped out of a wind tunnel. However, I must admit the effect was quite stunning. Having Tom-Tom sit next to me would certainly do me no harm. After all, what I had to deliver that evening was a performance. Perhaps the performance of my budding career.

‘Has Archie arrived?’ I asked.

‘Don’t fret. He’s already at your table.’

‘Thanks, Tom-Tom.’

‘Are you ready?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘Can you imagine what this will do for you career if you win?’ said Tom-Tom, squeezing my arm.

‘Can you imagine what it’ll do for my career if I lose?’

‘You won’t,’ said Tom-Tom,’ and just to show you I believe in you, I’ve put $500 on you.’

‘500 bucks? Are you crazy?’

‘My entire Theatre Company is backing you.’

‘No pressure! Jesus!’

‘Here’s my chit; you keep it for me. We’ll collect together.’ Tom-Tom thrust a slip of paper into my hand, turned away and began to show one of the judges to his table.

As soon as I entered the packed dining room, a shiver of fear raced down my spine. Everyone was looking at me! ‘There he is,’ said one of the judges sitting at a table near the door, and began to clap. ‘Good man,’ said someone from behind, and slapped me on the back. I felt like a presidential hopeful entering a rally. ‘This is getting out of hand,’ I said to Tom-Tom, walking beside me.

‘Keep smiling, kiddo, you’re the star,’ she beamed, linking arms with me. ‘Look relaxed.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘You call yourself a writer, you have to rise to the occasion.’

She had me there. ‘Thanks, you’re a real mate,’ I said.

‘I knew that would shut you up. Shall we sit down?’

This is as far as we can take it tonight, I’m afraid. Once again, it’s getting late again. There’s just so much more to this story than I could recall at first. But now it’s all coming back to me and it would be a pity to leave anything out. Looking back, these were the very events that turned me into a true storyteller, and as every writer knows, you have to be a storyteller before you can become a writer. Leaving anything out? No, I couldn’t do that. The price? Patience. Next Friday; I promise!

The post The great day at last; The Brothers Grimm Challenge; part II appeared first on Author Gabriel Farago | Official Website.

Archie on Mount Wellington? The Brothers Grimm Challenge; part I

Gabriel Farago — Sat, 06 Jul 2013 12:04:40 +0000

The challenge was definitely on. The whole floor was talking about it, and I had it on good authority that our floor clerk was running a book.

Apparently, betting was solid, but I was certainly not the favourite…I had three days to come up with plan and a great story to unseat Marcus. Marcus was one of the originalBrothers Grimm, and had never been defeated! I must have been out of my mind to challenge him. Something very special and original was needed here if I was to have any chance at all.

I was sitting in my room after court staring at the empty notepad in front of me, when suddenly this idea came floating past. Vague at first, but soon it was taking shape. Was it bold? Yes. Daring? Absolutely! This could be it!’ I thought. Archie on Mount Wellington? What a story! But I would need help; Tom-Tom!

I hurried down the corridor looking for Tom-Tom. Fortunately, she was still at her desk. ‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘You look flustered.’

‘Are you surprised? You got me into this; don’t deny it!’

‘That’s a good one. You got yourself into this, and you know it.’

‘I don’t want to argue the point. I need your help.’

Tom-Tom looked at me without saying anything, her dazzling green eye shadow making her eyes look mysterious and seductive in the half light of her desk lamp. ‘What did you have in mind?’ she whispered.

‘We can invite guests to the floor dinner—right?’

‘It could be arranged…’

‘I want you to invite Cyril Archibald,’ I said, lowering my voice.

‘He’s a Supreme Court judge now. What makes you think he would be interested?’

‘Leave that to me. He’ll come; trust me. Just do it, and not a word to anyone.’

‘Okay. You’re a dark horse.’

‘If this dark horse is to have any chance of winning, he needs all the help he can get.’

‘You heard then …’

‘About the betting? I have. What are my odds?

‘Not good.’

I knew Tom-Tom loved intrigue and thrived on any kind of conspiracy. ‘See?’ I said. ‘My point exactly. Can I count on you?’

‘You can, but do you want to tell me what this is all about?’ she asked, putting her hand on mine. This was classic Tom-Tom. I had to be careful.

I knew telling her more at this stage would be a mistake. ‘Perhaps later,’ I said, letting her down gently without getting her off side. ‘I must have Archie at the dinner, or I’m buggered. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal.’

‘And one more thing …If Archie accepts, which I’m sure he’ll do, put a grand on me.’

‘This is becoming interesting,’ said Tom-Tom, leaning back in her chair. ‘You are backing yourself?’

‘Let’s just say, I’m putting my money where my mouth is. You can spread the word, if you like.’ I knew Tom-Tom would need no encouragement to do just that.

‘Fair enough. That should bring a little excitement to our floor, and put a spark into the contest and our dinner.’

‘I’m counting on it.’

‘Last year’s was woeful. Two of the judges we invited fell asleep — remember?’

‘That won’t happen this year; promise.’

I stayed in my room until the early hours of the morning—writing furiously. By the time I finally switched off the light — bleary eyed, and exhausted — I had a draft of a bloody good story in my coat pocket, and the challenge no longer looked quite as daunting as it had a few hours before. I had a plan I knew would appeal to my audience, and it was the audience who would be voting. Now all depended on Archie, my old friend and mentor from my early days at the bar. It was time to call in a favour… If he was prepared to come on board, I was in with a real chance.

I went to see His Honour, Justice Cyril Archibald QC, “Archie” to his friends, the next morning before court. I knew his associate well, and she let me into his chambers. Archie was robing. ‘What brings you here this early,’ he said, adjusting his sash.

‘Marcus. The Grimm challenge …’

‘I heard. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘I need your help.’

‘Oh? In what way?’

‘This is what I had in mind …’

The rivalry between Marcus and Archie was legendary. They had been friends for decades, and were always scoring points off each other. Big egos. I knew that playing a part in unseating Marcus in the Grimm challenge would appeal to Archie. Even if it was a long shot. I was right.

‘Interested?’ I asked, after I had outlined my daring plan.

‘You know I am.’

‘Can I count on you?’

‘Absolutely!’

Archie — a wonderful storyteller and raconteur — had been my mentor during my early years at the bar. Until his elevation to the bench, he was one of the original Brothers Grimm. On the day of his appointment, he vacated his position which was then declared ‘open.’ A fierce competition followed, and Clive, my friend and neighbour on the floor, was the victor, and took Archie’s place. Ironically, Clive’s winning story was Winston and the Fire Warden, in which I played a not insignificant part … Being a barrister is a very incestuous profession.

‘What about the challenge?’ I hear you ask. I’m pleased to say it surpassed all expectations and turned into a memorable event which was spoken of for years to come. You’re itching to know what happened—right? All will be revealed in next week’s post.

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