What does it feel like to be dead? “Scotty” McDonald, of Koo-wee-rup (Victoria), says it is quite a pleasant experience. "Scotty" ought to know, because he has been officially dead and buried, but confounded his mourners by walking in on them and ordering a pot of foaming beer.
"Scotty" is short and stocky, and somewhere over the 60-year mark in age. A grizzly moustache and stubbly beard mark his weather-beaten features. In a humble hut near Dalmore, five or six miles from
Koo-wee-rup, he lives while the potato-digging is on. Before his miraculous death, burial, and resurrection Scotty's headquarters were the Royal Hotel, Koo-wee-rup. There was he to be found in the intervals between his luring of the elusive spud from the soil.
Not Wilfully Dead.
Man is not master of his own destiny, and Scotty was not to be allowed to have control of his own death. The matter was taken out of his hands without his consent. A body was found in a paddock some miles from Koo-wee-rup, and was brought into the township by a passing carter. There is no such thing as a mortuary in the township, and as is customary in such places bodies are taken to the local hotel, where post-mortems and inquests are held. There the body was taken to the scene of Scotty's best triumphs on the imitation bagpipes, and an awed bar paused awhile over its pots of beer to talk of poor old Scotty's sudden end.
One "Butcher'" (christened Mick), who had quaffed the flowing bowl full many a time and oft with
Scotty, could not contain his tears. So while the habitues of the Royal hostelry held an informal wake for Scotty, the doctors made a post-mortem examination, which showed that death was due to certain persistent poisoning of the heart and other organs. "That's Scotty," said everyone who knew the "deceased.”
Mr Cole, J.P., of Lang Lang, came to Koo-wee-rup and held a formal inquest on the body of John McDonald, deceased. There was no question of foul play, and the medical evidence was accepted as sufficient for the granting of an order of burial. So Scotty was buried. A motor lorry belonging to Gilchrist and Co. was requisitioned, and the coffin was taken to the Lang Lang Cemetery on the Wednesday afternoon, and interred several feet below in the embracing Mother Earth.
Now, whose body was it, since it was not Scotty's? Undoubtedly a body was buried, but whose?
Was it a Joke?
Constable Whiteside, of Koo-wee-rup says it was the body of another McDonald altogether, and that someone must have been trying to play a joke on Scotty. But the explanation advanced by those who knew both Scotty and the other McDonald is probably nearer the mark. The other man, though taller, was very like Scotty in facial appearance; "like twins," one man described them. When the body was brought in everyone assumed that it was Scotty, and it was Scotty who was buried.
Came a public holiday, and all Scotty's cronies were gathered in the bar of the hotel. They missed the clank of his unconventional beer billy made from a 2lb jam tin. The beer splashed merrily on thirsty throats, and the till clanged cheerily. Prominent in the gathering was Mick, still willing to join in toasts to the memory of departed Scotty.
The swing doors opened from the street. Casually the company turned to see who was coming in. Then the silence of the tomb fell upon the crowd. With beer mugs poised in mid-air they stood as inert as the stuffed fox in the corner: An apparition from Eternity was framed in the doorway! The wraith of Scotty had come to haunt his former resting-place. "It's Scotty's ghost!" shrieked Mick. “It's a banshee, O-ooh !" He would not look, for had not his own scarf-pin been used to pin the blanket around Scotty's lifeless form? The ghost announced himself in full blooded human language to the gaping bar. "What the hell are you staring at?" he demanded. "What's the joke?"
Movement returned to the awed company. It might be Scotty's ghost that stood in the doorway, but at least it was a ghost that put on no superior ethereal airs. If Scotty had some back to haunt the bar he was going to do it properly, for as wondering eyes were dragged from the spellbound contemplation of the familiar face it was seen that the ghost carried Scotty's beer-billy. It seemed to have come prepared to haunt the place in a respectable manner, with the rattle of glasses rather than chains.
Cautiously the more daring spirits investigated, and were met with pointed instructions to go to the place that it might have been reasonably expected Scotty had come from, judging by his adjectives. A babel of explanations smashed the silence, and everyone tried to tell Scotty that he was dead.
He Ought to Know.
He refused to believe it, and told them so, asserting that he was the person who should know. Panting dispensers of news gasped word of Scotty's return to the people who did not happen to be in the pub at the time, and he became the show sight for the day - the man who had returned from the grave. Mick was the last to be convinced, and then, like the doubting disciple Thomas, he would only be convinced of the resurrection by physical contact. To him it seemed that Scotty's ghost had come before him as a warning, and it was some time before he would approach. Then, much to Scotty's indignation, Mick convinced himself by vigorously pinching the man who should have been dead.
The earnest explanations of the erstwhile mourners mollified the anger of Scotty, over what he thought was a rotten joke, and over a few "welcome back to earth" pots, he forgave them all and realised what had happened. While he was being "buried" he had been out some miles and he had not been able to assure them that the reports of his death, like those of Mark Twain's, "had been grossly exaggerated."
When a man is so unceremoniously shuffled off this mortal coil, without having a say in the matter, it is up to him to prove conclusively that he is very much alive. Was it not Constable Whiteside who had had some part in this dastardly attempt to take a man's life away from him? To be sure, and the honor of the McDonalds demanded a bout with the doughty limb of the law. Scotty decided that the honor of the McDonalds would be compensated by a wrestle for drinks, and therefore he challenged the constable to a fall - the loser to shout for the company. But the policeman declined to satisfy any ghost, and informed Scotty that a night in the lockup was all the satisfaction the pride of the McDonalds would get.
Koo-wee-rup had thought that it had seen Scotty make his last motor ride when the motor lorry bore away the rough coffin, but a few days later it witnessed a very hilarious ghost leave by motor for Lang Lang with the constable. On the Saturday morning he was fined 6s for being drunk. The fine was inflicted by Mr. Cole, J.P., who had three days before signed the order for Scotty's burial!
Source: Sydney Truth newspaper of March 10, 1925 http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article168706639
