The Dimboola Sufferers’ Club

Our front gate clinks, and a few seconds later, the kitchen door at Number 30 Lochiel Street, Dimboola opens.

‘Toni, Toni, come in. Do you want a cup of tea?’ Mum adores Toni Kammerer.

‘Hello, Mrs Dean, and yes, I would love a cup of tea. Hi, Gere, Philo, Therese and poor, poor Joe, of course.’ Toni pauses, and then continues.

‘Well, what a day, Gere and Joe. I really suffered today, but I guess that’s expected because we are the founding members of the Dimboola Sufferers’ Club, aren’t we, boys?’

Joe and I nod our heads vigorously and mutter our approval despite not having a clue what Toni’s talking about. Philo and Therese roll their eyes and shake their heads. Mum, however, is intrigued by Toni’s announcement.

‘Toni, what’s the Dimboola Sufferers’ Club, for goodness sake?’

‘Mrs Dean… Mrs Dean… I am shocked that Joe and Gerard haven’t told you about our exclusive club for sufferers. Only today, I had a maths exam and I couldn’t answer a single question. You can’t imagine the suffering I endured looking out the window and sharpening my pencil for an hour.’ Philo and Therese roll their eyes.

Joe, eager to promote his suffering credentials, follows up with his own story of the terrible suffering he endured at school today, which guarantees his membership of our club. ‘I was late to school (Joe is late to school every day) and our Assistant Principal, Nude Nut Souter, gave me a long lecture about punctuality. The pain, the suffering – I nearly wept.’ Shouts of agreement ring around the kitchen.

‘My point exactly, Joe. Nobody knows the suffering we endure.’ Toni sits down with these words, takes a cup from Mum and has a sip of hot tea. But Toni hasn’t finished yet. ‘Mrs Dean. I was walking here tonight when a lady from the Catholic Church stopped me and asked about the Dimboola Sufferers’ Club. She wondered if we would accept a posthumous member.’

Mum is now itching to know more. Holding her hand to her mouth, she springs Toni’s trap. ‘Who was the lady, Toni? And who was the posthumous person she wants to join your club?’

‘Not sure who the lady was, Mrs Dean,’ says Toni, smiling, ‘and unfortunately I’ve forgotten the name of the posthumous bloke. But she did tell me this strange story that he suffered a bit, then died on a cross about 2000 years ago.’

Therese and Philo shake their heads as our mother gasps and whispers, ‘Toni, Toni, do you mean…?’ She takes a breath. ‘Surely you don’t mean Jesus Christ, do you, Toni?’

‘Yeah… that was the bloke’s name, Mrs Dean; Jesus Christ.’

‘Ohhhh, Toni… Jesus Christ suffered for us all.’

‘Hmmm, but did he suffer enough to join our club, Mrs Dean? That’s the big question. I’ll put it to the members then.’ Says Toni as he turns to my brother and me. ‘Joe and Gerard; did Jesus Christ have to suffer through a lecture from Nude Nut Souter or sit in a maths exam not knowing a single equation – how say you?’ Joe and I give Toni the classic thumbs-down gesture. ‘We are agreed then. This bloke, Jesus H Christ, simply didn’t suffer enough to join our club, gentlemen. Application for posthumous membership denied.’

It’s all too much for Philo and Therese, who sigh and laugh and roll their eyes at Toni. As the conversation moves on to other subjects, our mother busies herself making another pot of tea while quietly praying that the late Jesus Christ might, one day, be able to join the exclusive Dimboola Sufferers’ Club.

A story from Wayback By Gerard Dean

Wayback by Gerard Dean

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