Codger’s Death

The intensive care unit of the local hospital in the small western town of Tagalong wasn’t able to cater for all emergencies. For a start, the nearest doctor was almost one hundred kilometres away and he was run off his feet. Those were the thoughts of matron Doreen Hill as Phillip (“Codger”) Bell was brought to the hospital by his distraught wife, June.

He – he was just sitting in his chair,” June stammered, “when suddenly he just toppled forward! It wasn’t the grog either. He’d only had one! I only just managed to get him into the car.”

A quick test revealed that Codger’s breathing was shallow, his features pale and his lips blue. The ECG showed his pulse was erratic. June Bell clutched the matron’s arm as the bouncing ball on the ECG almost stopped before bouncing back.

Suddenly the ball stopped bouncing, leaving a straight line behind as it travelled from west to east.

The matron sprang forward. “He’s flat-lining! Quick! The paddles!”

Nurses ran around. The defibrillator paddles were quickly connected and power applied – Thump! Nothing. Power applied again. Thump! Nothing. And again. Nothing.

The matron shook her head and hugged June. “I’m so sorry, June. Codger’s failed to respond. He’s gone.”

June went to the bedside and placed a kiss on Codger’s pale forehead. “Goodbye, Codger. I’ll always love you,” and burst into tears.

The matron took her hand and led her from the dark, curtained room.

Later that day, June was on the road, bound for her sister’s place in Newcastle. She’d visited the local funeral director and told him to collect Codger, but to put the burial ten days ahead. She needed time to cope and someone to grieve with. Besides, Codger had told her he didn’t want a funeral – just straight out to the cemetery for a burial. No bother, no fuss. He was that sort of man. 

On the way June realised with annoyance that she’d left her mobile phone on the kitchen table. She’d just passed through the village of Tearabaginarf. Too far now to go back. She pressed on.

Within hours a rumour went around town that Codger had passed away. Most people took no notice. Half the rumours that got around town were usually wrong. The other half were usually incorrect.

Down at the “Farmers Rest,” the only pub in Tagalong, three men sat at a table in a corner of the room. Above it hung a hand-written sign: “Codger’s Corner.” No one ever sat there except Codger and his three mates, Bobby Sullivan (Sul), Jimmy Bowles (Bowlesy) and Alan (Mac) McNee.

“It’s a flamin’ shame,” Mac said. “It was good of June to come down and tell us.”

Sul nodded. “Yeah, it was. I don’t suppose you gave ‘er the ten bucks you owe Codger?” 

“Well, hardly! Weren’t the right time, were it?”

“Nah – s’pose not. Knowing Codger, he’s just as likely to come back and ask for it, I reckon. You know he liked a quid.”

Jimmy held up his glass. “I reckon we should toast our old mate and then hold a one minute’s silence.”

They all stood and held up their glasses. “To Codger,” said Jimmy. “May he rest in peace.” They all drank, then bowed their heads.

Fifteen seconds later Jimmy raised his head. “A minute’s up. It’s your shout, Sul.”