you make it good Tugga, or is someone using journalistic licence?
Hackett paused the TV again on the photo of Tugga, mentally reconstructing the real-life Tugga that he once knew. Tugga was more than two metres tall, with muscular arms and legs, broad shoulders and a chest that could have stopped a bus. The massive frame was topped by thick dark hair and a drooping moustache which made Tugga Tancred hard to forget. Hackett recalled the man bragging he had been a promising rugby player, a prop, who lost any chance of being an All Black because of a youthful indiscretion. Hackett never learned what that sin was. He also recalled Tugga’s dimples. When employed, they softened the physical impression of a bear in a man’s clothing and helped Tugga portray a boyish charm that made most people comfortable in his presence. Or, at least, that they weren’t going to be torn limb from limb as long as the big fella was smiling. Sadly, Hackett couldn’t find any signs of the younger Tugga, or the dimples, in the photo on his TV.
He looks…haunted?
Hackett found himself, for the first time, wanting more from his station’s news service. Tugga’s demise was a surprise, naturally. He’d lost friends and family over the years to illness and accidents; had experienced all the emotions, or so he thought.
But Tugga’s death was unsettling for some reason. They had known each other for seven weeks in the mid ’80s, meeting as members of a tour group travelling through Europe on a coach/ camping expedition. It was a fun and memorable adventure, literally sowing wild oats as most of the bus group partied from London to Istanbul, and back again.
Hackett had been 25 at the time, a few years out of university and yet to settle properly into an accountancy career. Ferdy, always more focused than Hackett at that age, had pulled out of the Europe tour at the last minute because of a business opportunity that came up in London before the trip began. Hackett had a thirst for excitement and girls, plus it didn’t make sense to travel all the way to Europe and not see the most famous attractions. He met dozens of Aussies and Kiwis in London, mostly working in pubs, who never did more than travel to the running of the bulls in Spain and the Oktoberfest in Munich. Many couldn’t afford much more, Hackett remembered. Pay rates in London were so low and the cost of living was astronomical. Although, even Hackett the fledgling accountant, thought some common sense and planning would have been beneficial for a lot of travellers in those days.
The news program continued, largely ignored now by Hackett as faces, cities and sights filtered through his memory. His eyes drifted from the television to what Marianne called his brag wall. It was filled with pictures of him with famous business people, politicians, sports stars, celebrities and the obligatory family photographs. Mostly the wall was full of people who would not have given him a second glance 30 years ago when he was a carefree tourist in Europe.
More personal mementos from his travels were tucked into a small alcove in the corner. From a distance, a white Major League baseball, signed by a Hall of Fame member, initially caught his attention.
Then there was the plastic cube containing a slim and dark piece of metal: a spent Turkish cartridge from Gallipoli. Hackett hadn’t found it. One of the other passengers, Brian, returned to the camp site with his trophy after their day exploring the famous First World War battle sites: ANZAC Cove, Plugge’s Plateau, Lone Pine, Chunuk Bair, Quinn’s Post and many others.
They’d been nothing but names in school history books until that emotional experience of walking in the footsteps of the ANZACs 71 years later.
Hackett remembered Brian showing the dirt-filled 7.66 x 53 mm cartridge, with Arabic script and Islamic crescent at the base, to a hushed group. Everyone wondered if the business end had claimed an Australian or New Zealand life. Hackett offered Brian a six pack of Efes beer for the prized memento, but was rejected. A week later Hackett spotted it rolling around on the bus floor near Brian’s gear, so he tucked it away in his own backpack.
Hackett’s eyes rested upon another unframed picture at the back of the alcove, a group photo of young people wearing traditional Dutch costumes. It was taken in Volendam, a quaint fishing port north of Amsterdam. The visit and photo were a standard part of most tourist itineraries and was, in their case, in the final days of the journey. The tour started with a clog-making demonstration followed by cheese-tasting and small donuts with a sweet syrup. Then it was time to play dress-up with everyone in clogs, the girls in pointed bonnets, flowing dresses and long aprons. Most of the men donned dark jackets, trousers and caps, although there were always a few who swapped genders when a fun photo opportunity arose.
Hackett walked over to the alcove and picked up the photo. There he was frozen in time – 30 years younger with more hair and a Tom Selleck moustache that Marianne insisted he remove before their wedding a few years later.
Hackett was standing in the back row, one away from the now dead Tugga Tancred. In between was one of Tugga’s New Zealand mates, Drew. On the other side was Gerry. Beside him, Helen, another Kiwi friend who followed the trio from Sydney to England for the Big OE. The photo brought so much back in a flash.
Tugga’s Mob! That’s what the other passengers on the trip called Tugga’s mates. They were the biggest, loudest, booziest and, much of the time, most enjoyable group on the tour. They were the first into the campsite bars and usually the last to leave. Hackett had no natural connection with the Kiwis: no career, sporting, cultural or national affiliations. The only common ground was wanting to have a good time while seeing what Europe had to offer.
The Kiwis were big men, close to two metres, with Tugga still towering over everyone. Hackett was similar in height to Drew and Gerry but couldn’t match their muscle mass, theirs being the product of several years felling trees. They had a shared interest in beer, and anything else alcoholic the Europeans could offer, and that was enough to bond them for seven weeks in 1986. So much so that, according to the other passengers, Hackett was one of Tugga’s Mob for the duration of the tour.
Hackett’s thoughts turned to the three surviving members of Tugga’s Mob but were interrupted by Marianne, urging him to fire up the barbecue. He placed the Volendam picture face-down on his desk, saw the faded writing on the back and recalled how most passengers had written their names and addresses on that final group photo on the last day of the trip.
Hackett’s curiosity about them and the other members of Tugga’s Mob stirred for the first time in many years.
A Google search later might be interesting.
Hackett picked up his mobile and tapped out a text to O’Malley. He apologised for missing the earlier message, and told the COS they’d done a good job in the circumstances. Almost as an afterthought, he added that he knew the victim 30 years ago when travelling in Europe. Hackett wasn’t sure why he mentioned his connection to Tugga to the news crew. He didn’t think there’d be any more legs in the story; it looked like a straightforward case of drink-driving and falling asleep at the wheel. Was he trying to give himself more credibility with the lower ranks, show that he was more than The Hatchet? That he was human after all? The thought didn’t linger. It was discarded along with the phone as he headed for the courtyard and a couple of marinated steaks.
Chapter 5
It was rare to find Ciaran O’Malley still working in the newsroom at 6.35pm on a Saturday. He had gone well beyond his rostered 12- hour shift, which started at 5am, even though no overtime had been approved at the station in this millennium. It was professionalism that kept him there, unpaid, to ensure the late-breaking Tugga Tancred story made it to air on time. Staff cuts meant Deveraux had the help of one junior producer to prepare the weekend news bulletins. O’Malley had therefore taken responsibility for the lead story himself, wrangling all the elements together to make the video package presentable.
They
