Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  With his hand shaking, he leaned over the side of the bed, clicked open the latch and looked within. All he saw were the notepads and curiously enough the tiger’s eye pebble he’d dropped the previous day, the photo album and, protruding slightly behind it, the thick roll of yellow banknotes secured with the elastic band.

  Billy fell back into the bed and thought he was going to throw up, it was several minutes before he felt strong enough to lean over to close the briefcase. The shock of finding the handcuff missing from his wrist served to recall his earlier humiliation. He had lost his dignity, the single aspect of his fall from grace that he tried hardest to maintain. Now he was reduced to what he must seem to everyone, just another brain-damaged alcoholic. Billy wondered if indeed his brain was going, if he’d finally crossed over the line from the problem drinker he told himself he’d become to a blubbering, mumbling idiot. The idea caused him to break into a sweat and he found he was hyperventilating.

  After a few moments he managed to control himself and tried to reach the briefcase but for some reason the drip stand wouldn’t move any closer to the bed. He felt his frustration growing. ‘Ever since I entered this place I’ve lost my bloody independence,’ he thought. While there wasn’t much to be said for being homeless, the one thing going for it was independence. You did what you wished and took the consequences as they came. Now he was trapped in the system. ‘That’s what I’ll do, I’ll sign myself out, they can’t stop me,’ he declared to himself. He’d allowed the hospital administration to control him for long enough.

  Suddenly Billy brought his right hand up to his mouth. Gripping between his teeth the edge of the sticking plaster holding the drip needle into the vein, he ripped it off, spitting it out on the bed. Then he did the same to the wing of the butterfly needle and pulled it from the vein, wincing at the sting as the needle withdrew. Somewhat to his surprise, no bleeding followed and all that was left was a small haematoma where the drip had been inserted.

  He climbed from the bed and, stooping down, lifted the curtain surrounding his bed so that he could see under the bed opposite. To his joy, the Cuban boots had been placed back under the bed with the battered Akubra on top of them. He heard a cough followed by a groan from the bed above the boots. Wherever he’d been, Williams had returned.

  Billy could hardly believe his luck and his hand trembled as he rummaged inside the briefcase to locate the roll of banknotes. He quickly shoved the money into his pyjama jacket and parted the curtains, taking the two steps required to reach the next bed. ‘Mr Williams, may I come in?’ he asked politely, his voice gravelly as if his throat contained phlegm.

  No reply came from the other side of the curtain. Billy cleared his throat, which felt dry and raspy. ‘Hmmph! Mr Williams, may I see you, please?’ he tried again.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the voice on the other side of the curtain demanded.

  ‘It’s Billy, Billy O’Shannessy.’

  ‘Who? I don’t know no Billy!’ Williams started to cough but Billy couldn’t retreat now, he wasn’t going to let the Aborigine escape a third time.

  ‘From the pub, I was with Casper, Casper Friendly, the albino bloke, you may recall.’ There was silence from the other side of the curtain and after a few moments Billy said, ‘I have good news.’

  ‘Bugger off, yer mongrel, I got nothin’ ter say ter your sort!’ Williams started to cough again and Billy, taking his courage in his hands, parted the white curtain. Williams was in a paroxysm of coughing, holding his hands to his ribs. His head and one eye were heavily bandaged and so were both hands.

  Billy reached for the glass of water at his bedside and held it up to his mouth, allowing the black man to swallow so that eventually his coughing ceased.

  Williams lay back on his pillows, panting, though he kept one malevolent eye on Billy. After a while he said, ‘I thought I told yer ter bugger off! Don’tcha understan’ English?’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Williams, but you’ll want your money.’

  The Aborigine misunderstood what Billy was saying. ‘You want me money? You want me fuckin’ money! You’ve took it all, you and yer mongrel mates! Yer beat and kicked the shit outta me and took me stash. Jesus Christ, then yer come here, tell me you want me money!’

  Billy took the roll of notes from inside his pyjama jacket and held it out to Williams. ‘No, you don’t understand me, sir, I’m returning your money.’

  Williams still appeared unable to comprehend, he looked at the roll of banknotes and back at Billy. After a while he said suspiciously, ‘What’s happenin’ here? What yer doin’? You from the police, crime squad?’

  Billy laughed. ‘Yes, it’s my day off, I thought I’d spend it in the casualty ward.’ He opened the drawer of the metal bedside cabinet and put the money into it. ‘It’s yours, I brought it back, there’s nothing missing.’

  Williams remained silent for some time, then said, ‘What happened, you in a fight?’

  ‘No, drunk, I fell and fractured my wrist, bumped my head.’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ was all Williams said and he fell silent again.

  ‘Mind if I sit?’ Billy tapped the bandage on his head, ‘I’m feeling a little dizzy.’

  ‘Yeah, righto.’ The chair next to his bed held the black man’s moleskins and shirt so Billy now sat on the bed. Again there was silence between them. Billy was anxious to explain what had happened but his legal instinct told him to wait a little longer, that Williams was still angry and needed a bit more time to come to grips with the situation, which Billy now saw must seem somewhat bizarre from the black man’s point of view.

  After a while Williams asked, ‘Why you do this, eh? Your mob break all me ribs, one eye’s gorn, you jump on me ’ands, break me fingers, me knee’s gorn, then yer brings me money back. You gorn crazy or somethin’?’

  Billy started to tell Williams the story and when he’d completed it Williams was silent for some time. ‘Mr O’Shan ...?’

  ‘O’Shannessy, but, please, it’s Billy.’

  ‘Billy, yiz a good bloke.’ He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Fuckin’ oath, who’d a thought somethin’ like this could happen, hey? Blackfella, whitefella, blackfella gets drunk, loses his money, whitefella finds it, gives it back ter blackfella, it don’t happen like that, mate.’

  ‘Casper Friendly was trying to con you, Trevor, I felt guilty.’

  ‘Yeah, but I thought you was in on it, the two of yiz.’

  ‘I suppose I was in a way,’ Billy confessed. ‘May I suggest something?’

  ‘Yeah, go right ahead.’

  Billy indicated the money in the drawer. ‘Don’t show it around like that, in a bundle, even an unbroken fifty can get your head kicked in around here.’

  ‘Yeah, mate, I was stupid. Blackfella come into the big city from the bush, needs ter show off, bloody stupid!’

  Billy indicated the black man’s bandages. ‘Have you seen the police?’

  Williams laughed and started to cough again, holding his sides and groaning in between bouts of coughing. Billy fed him more of the water. ‘Whaffor?’ he said gasping, ‘Nothin’ them bludgers can do.’

  Billy smiled. ‘Yeah, damned silly question.’ He knew what Trevor Williams was really saying was that he was a black man who had been beaten up and supposedly robbed while he was drunk, which in police terms gave him a priority rating of zero.

  ‘Mr O’Shannessy, is that you? And what are we up to now?’ The Irish sister stood with her hands on her hips. ‘If I may be so bold, what have we done with our drip?’

  Billy coughed. ‘I’m sorry, but I had some urgent business with Mr Williams, sister.’

  ‘Mr Williams is not to be disturbed, it’s pinned to his curtain, clear as daylight for those who care to look.’

  ‘Yes, well, I . . .’ Billy couldn’t think how to continue.

  ‘I didn’t see it,
sister,’ he said lamely.

  ‘Don’t give him a hard time, nurse. He’s a good bloke!’ Trevor Williams said, ‘Salt o’ the earth!’

  In his entire life Billy felt he had never received a more sincere compliment.

  ‘Come along now, Mr O’Shannessy, Mr Williams needs to rest. Doctor Goldstein says you’re to have a good night’s sleep and then you can go in the morning.’ Billy turned to face her. ‘No, thank you, sister, but I will be signing myself out.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Mr O’Shannessy.’

  ‘I am perfectly at liberty to go. With the greatest respect, I do know my legal rights, sister.’

  ‘Oh you do now, do you? Well, we’ll have to ask Dr Goldstein about that, won’t we? He’ll be none too pleased I can tell you that for sure.’ The sister turned to a nurse, ‘Page Dr Goldstein please, nurse.’

  ‘He’s only due in at ten o’clock, sister, he’s on the late-night shift in casualty.’

  ‘Then the doctor on duty!’ the sister snapped.

  ‘You may do as you wish, but nonetheless I shall be leaving,’ Billy said stubbornly. ‘There is no point in disturbing the doctor on duty, I won’t change my mind.’

  The nurse hesitated and the sister held her hand up for her to remain, then she crossed her arms, ‘And where will you go then, your report says “no fixed address”?’

  ‘I shall sign myself in at Foster House ...the Salvation Army,’ Billy lied.

  The Irish sister now changed tack. Smiling, she appealed to him, ‘Mr O’Shannessy, I can see that you’re an educated man, can you not understand that we are only thinking of you? That we want to do the best thing for you?’ In an attempt to disarm him further, she smiled again. ‘I’d be thinking a night’s rest will do you the world of good. Fresh as a daisy in the morning, ready to face the world, eh?’

  Billy bowed his head slightly, acknowledging her efforts at reconciliation. ‘Thank you, madam, I am grateful for what you’ve done, I’m afraid I have no means of repaying you other than to remove myself as soon as possible.’

  The sister’s expression changed and her lips drew tight, ‘Very well then, you’re an Irishman and I’m Irish myself and I know how stubborn you men can be.’

  ‘I’m Australian, madam,’ Billy corrected, ‘And we are known to be even more recalcitrant.’

  The sister turned to the nurse. ‘Will you get Mr O’Shannessy’s discharge papers please, nurse?’

  ‘Too right, mate!’ Williams interjected, ‘If I could flamin’ walk I’d do the same myself, I got me that clossto . . .’

  ‘Claustrophobia,’ Billy said, without thinking.

  ‘Yeah, that!’ Williams replied, ‘White sheets, white curtains, white walls, white uniforms, white bedpan, white toilet roll, white people!’

  The sister ignored the black man’s protest. ‘Now, come along, Mr O’Shannessy, you’ll need to change and I have to take your temperature and blood pressure before you go.’ She seemed resigned to Billy’s leaving. ‘Dr Goldstein says you’re to stay away from the grog tonight, you’ve had medication, antibiotics, it’s very important!’ The sister guided Billy away from Williams’ bed and the curtains closed behind them. Williams called out suddenly, ‘Hey, Billy?’

  ‘What is it, Trevor?’ Billy called back, resisting the nursing sister tugging on his pyjama sleeve.

  ‘Can I talk to yiz sometime? It’s about me little singing daughter.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was almost ten-thirty when Billy entered the Flag Hotel the next morning. On pension day, his routine changed, though normally he’d still begin the day by visiting Con, after which he’d set off across mid-town to The Station, a drop-in centre run by the Department of Health.

  Even though he told himself it didn’t matter about Con, that the very reason he was on the street was to avoid any emotional attachments, it nevertheless pained Billy to think that he’d lost his friend. If Ryan hadn’t appeared in his life and Con, for whatever reason, hadn’t decided to sever their relationship, Billy told himself, the fight would have been easier to take. After Charlie’s death, affection was to be avoided at any cost. The price he’d paid to make this possible was to isolate himself from his family and any other meaningful human contact. Con was an acquaintance, someone he’d helped in a small way and who’d returned the favour, an association conducted at arm’s length, no different to helping one of the derros. Now Billy wasn’t so sure. The coffee waiting for him of a morning and Con Poleondakis’s cheerful ebullience and accident-prone English had become a part of his life. The incident with Ryan and the loss of the cafe owner’s friendship now troubled Billy more than he cared to admit.

  He left the bench under the ficus tree early so that he wouldn’t run into Sergeant Orr, and set out for Martin Place station to buy a cup of coffee. After this he would make his way to the drop-in centre, which opened at seven and where it was his custom twice a week to do his laundry, shave and shower. The centre was known officially as The Station, and it would take him no more than twenty minutes to cross George Street and walk up through Angel Place to where it was situated in Clarence Street.

  In the underground at Martin Place he bumped into a derelict he knew slightly who put the hard word on him for a loan. Though Billy couldn’t recall his name, he knew him as a metho drinker whom he’d once helped with a family problem. ‘Mate, it’s pension day, I’m skint,’ Billy answered. ‘Buy you a cup of coffee if you like?’ Billy knew he had sufficient money to buy the alcoholic a bottle of white lightning but his deliberate mention of pension day was a gentle way of reminding him that he should wait until he collected his pension before he got back on the grog.

  The alcoholic either wasn’t listening or was braindamaged. ‘Nah, yiz a bloody drongo! Won’t buy a mate a drink, yiz can get fucked!’

  Billy started to walk away, then, remembering the man’s name, thought he might as well make sure he realised it was pension day. ‘Hey, George,’ he called out, ‘better stay off the sauce until the banks open.’ He smiled, ‘Mate, they won’t give you your cash if you’re blotto.’

  ‘Garn, bugger orf,’ the drunk shouted angrily, causing several early commuters to turn around.

  Moving over to where he could get a takeaway coffee, Billy smiled ruefully. ‘Welcome to a beautiful new day, Billy O’Shannessy.’

  The Station was a two-storey sandstone terrace house with a small verandah and a green wrought-iron fence. A homey little place on the corner of Clarence and Erskine Streets, it was perched on the corner like an oversight and surrounded by city skyscrapers. No doubt a hugely valuable piece of real estate, it seemed incongruous to Billy that the terrace house was given over to the day care of the city’s homeless.

  Billy thought The Station one of the few social-welfare institutions that worked well, in fact he regarded it as an altogether admirable organisation. Though he was asked to sign himself in when he entered, he was not required to give his own name and the book was full of invented names. Smith, Jones and Brown were always prominent, with Ginger Meggs and Fatty Finn both popular choices, as well as an occasional Clark Gable or some other movie star. Once he’d seen Darth Vader, Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse. Paradoxically, the only legitimate names in it were those of people who were illiterate. People who couldn’t read and write had nevertheless learned to write their signatures and they could be observed painstakingly labouring over the book, which appeared simply to be a head count of the drop-outs who dropped in so that the Salvos could receive their government subsidy.

  The Station was especially popular among those alcoholics who stayed at the ‘Starlight Hotel’. In other words, those who, like Billy, slept rough. For a single payment of five dollars, a steel locker could be hired with a stout padlock to store possessions for as long as its recipient wished. Two free phone calls were permitted per day and the place could be used as a permanent address for the homeless. Th
e staff were generally helpful and would happily take messages. Showers and laundry facilities were available and equipped the same as any family bathroom or laundry. There was a recreational room furnished with brown tables and vinyl-covered chairs with the usual TV channels as well as Foxtel.

  There were few rules to observe, though the ones that existed were strictly kept, no fighting, no drinking, no violence, and there were designated smoking areas. Billy found the latter rather amusing as The Station’s clients were mostly alcoholics and he was a very rare example of a derro who didn’t smoke. None of them was likely to make old bones so that death by passive smoke inhalation was hardly an issue.

  The centre also required that the torso be covered by some sort of shirt. Curiously enough, this had nothing to do with decorum but had been brought about because of the television. Intimidation was strictly forbidden and anyone who threw his weight around was banned from the centre, so some of the derelicts wishing to change a channel habitually removed their shirts and paraded around the room, flexing their muscles and showing their mostly prison-acquired tattoos while loudly proclaiming the channel number they preferred to watch. This was meant to frighten the more timid guests, usually among the mentally retarded, who preferred cartoons and were apt to spend endless hours staring at the television set though not necessarily watching it.

  Billy had long since observed that it was one of life’s truisms that no matter how desperate the situation a collective mob finds itself in, a pecking order of some sort always exists. Billy signed in and went over to the receptionist, a young lady in her early twenties named Sally Blue. He greeted her politely, asked for a towel and extended his left arm so that she could drape it over his plaster cast. ‘Oh, you poor old thing, Billy,’ she cried, observing his arm. ‘Had an accident, have you?’

  ‘Entirely my own fault, my dear,’ Billy grinned, ‘but thank you for asking.’ He always thought her name particularly pretty, speculating that her parents couldn’t possibly have known she’d keep her violet-coloured eyes when they’d named her. The name suited her well, Sally Blue was blonde, attractive and very popular among the homeless.