‘The usual?’ Sally asked. Billy nodded and, as well as the towel, she draped an old dressing-gown over his arm. The dressing-gown wasn’t standard issue and Sally had brought it from home, claiming her father had received a new one for Christmas. Billy carried no spare clothes other than the plastic raincoat he kept in his briefcase, so he needed this dressing-gown in order to launder the clothes he was wearing. She automatically reached for a sachet of instant coffee and a small packet of biscuits, then laughed. ‘Don’t suppose you can carry these?’
‘Thank you, I’ll get them later,’ Billy replied and turned towards the shower block.
‘Wait on!’ Sally suddenly cried, ‘You’ll get your plaster wet.’ She rose and walked down a small hallway, up a set of stairs to the kitchen and came back with a roll of gladwrap. Removing the towel and gown, she made Billy hold out his arm while she waterproofed his plaster cast, sealing each end with a rubber band. ‘There’s a go,’ she said.
Billy washed his clothes and waited in his dressing-gown while they dried. The gown was old and somewhat threadbare, but he thought of it as a small luxury, something he’d enjoyed in his past that he didn’t need to forget. Cosy in the dressing-gown and enjoying the fuggy solitude of the laundry, he decided to wash his runners as well. He put an extra portion of soap powder into the washing machine to compensate for the fact that they were in a mess but hadn’t thought about how much louder they’d sound in the big drier. Now he watched embarrassed as they bumped and thumped, making a fearful racket for the better part of an hour.
With his shoes clean but still somewhat damp, he went upstairs to breakfast, where he had a mug of tea and asked the kitchen attendant if she’d wrap the four slices of bread which served as the regular breakfast. It wasn’t an unusual request and she added two more slices. ‘Butter, jam, peanut butter?’ she asked pleasantly.
Billy shook his head, ‘No, just the bread, thank you, Monica.’ Billy’s legal training made him good with names and he constantly surprised staff with his memory. Billy knew he was popular at The Station, the reason being the simple courtesies he affected without thinking. Most alcoholics have poor memories and are, for the most part, untrained in the social niceties. Besides, they usually feel they have very little to be thankful for, particularly in the morning when they invariably suffer from a hangover. His mannerisms would have gone largely unnoticed in polite society but here they were remarked upon and, because of them, he was afforded a number of small privileges, the dressing-gown being one such, the extra slices of bread another. Billy wondered what the kitchen attendant would think if he explained the true purpose of the bread.
Leaving the dining room, Billy went through to the recreational room to watch the nine o’clock news and, shortly after this, took his leave. He stopped to say goodbye to Sally, who had her head down writing. She looked up and smiled, her smile was likely to be the nicest thing to happen to him for the remainder of the day.
‘I hope you have a very pleasant day, Sally Blue,’ Billy said. He always called her by both names just to hear the sound of it. It was like some tiny flower you might find tucked into a crack on a lichen-covered boulder. Sally Blue flashed him another brilliant smile and Billy turned towards the door. Despite the inconvenience of the damp runners, he was shaved, showered and happy that this part of the day had turned out well.
Sally jumped up from behind the desk, ‘Oh, Billy, I nearly forgot, you must let me sign your arm,’ she called, ‘It’s good luck to be first.’
It should have been easy, a simple explanation that he’d promised the first signature to someone else. But now she was advancing on him, her pen held at the ready, her face showing her delight. Billy tried to say something but found he was struck dumb, saw his left arm going up and Sally Blue accepting it, stooping over it, her blonde hair falling over one eye and touching his elbow, holding the cast steady in her left hand while she wrote her name across the plaster. ‘Oh, this is so nice. You see, I need all the luck I can get, there’s a job in a computer company I’ve applied for and they said they’d received fifty-two applications.’ She looked up at him with her lovely, smiling blue eyes and said, ‘God bless you, Billy, I know you’ll bring me luck.’ Her expression grew serious for a moment, ‘You will tell me if you’d like to see someone, won’t you?’ She was referring to a drug and alcohol counsellor and the detox and rehabilitation programs available. It was not the first time she had asked but it was always said with such ingenuousness that he found it impossible to take offence.
Billy found his voice at last, ‘Yes, thank you, Sally, I will,’ he said, barely above a whisper.
Outside on the pavement Billy couldn’t believe what he’d done. He’d broken his promise to Ryan and betrayed the boy’s faith in him. He felt simply dreadful, ‘How could I ever have done such a thing?’ he asked aloud, shaking his head in dismay. It was Charlie all over again. He looked down at the plaster cast. Sally Blue had scrawled her name in a large bold signature down the centre. The Pentel pen she’d used appeared to have soaked into the slightly porous plaster to become indelible. There was simply no chance of his erasing it without Ryan noticing it immediately. Billy tried to tell himself it was a tiny thing, he’d explain it to Ryan, who would understand, but he knew it wasn’t so, that the past was coming back to haunt him and he could find no reason why the boy should trust him ever again.
Billy was close to first in line when the bank opened and it immediately upset him to see that the teller had changed. The young bloke behind the counter, who looked hardly old enough to have broken out of his teens, glanced at him for scarcely a moment and then looked away again.
‘Good morning,’ Billy said, ‘Miss Partridge not in today?’
The young man grunted. ‘Gone upstairs.’
‘A promotion, is it? Please give her my regards.’
‘Yeah,’ he muttered, still not looking up.
Why was it, Billy wondered, that young men so often lacked the fundamental courtesies that seemed to come naturally to young women of the same age? It was something he’d heard called ‘attitude’. There was probably a new equal-opportunity law which allowed pipsqueaks like this to be rude with impunity. He wanted to shout at the little bastard, get rid of his self-loathing by transferring his anger to someone else. The young bloke counting out the banknotes pushed them across the counter to Billy without a word.
‘I asked you to give Ms Partridge my regards!’ Billy repeated, ‘My name is O’Shannessy.’
‘Yeah, righto,’ the teller said, looking over Billy’s shoulder to the next customer in line, ‘I heard you the first time.’
Billy shook his head, his chest felt constricted and his stomach churned. ‘What is it with you?’ he shouted angrily. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? I’m cleanly dressed, am I not! And freshly shaved. My hair is combed. I have shoes on my feet. I asked you politely to pass on a message. For God’s sake, I’m a customer!’ Billy turned around, pointing to the people standing in line behind him. ‘I have two ears, a mouth, two eyes and a nose just like them. Quite remarkable, isn’t it? Because I’m on a disability pension you think you can treat me like a piece of dirt. Well, you can’t. I demand to see the manager! How dare you treat me like this.’
The young bank teller looked up at Billy in astonishment, his mouth half-open. ‘Excuse me, sir, what did I say?’ he asked, genuinely bewildered.
‘You were rude. Bloody rude!’ But the fight had gone out of Billy as suddenly as it had come. He was a piece of dirt and he’d overreacted. The teller’s manner, brusque and unpleasant as it had been, hadn’t merited the outburst. He was ashamed, aware that he’d been railing against himself and that the young teller had got in the way. Billy swallowed hard, then, attempting to save face, he said somewhat breathlessly, ‘I want an apology.’ Speaking very deliberately, he said, ‘I want you to say in as pleasant a manner as you are capable of, that you’ll tell Ms Partridge that I co
ngratulate her on her promotion. Can-you-possibly-do-that?’ Billy peered at the name tag on his coat, ‘Mr Titsok?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, sir, what?’ Billy repeated.
‘Yes, sir, sorry . . . I’ll tell Suzanna Partridge what you said.’
‘And my name?’
The teller had already logged off on the transaction and it was at once obvious that he’d forgotten Billy’s name. Using the protruding fingers of his left hand, Billy reached for the banknotes still on the counter. The teller must have caught sight of the name scrawled on the plaster and, taking a gamble, said, ‘I’ll tell her, Mr Blue.’
‘It’s O’Shannessy, Billy O’Shannessy.’ Billy had salvaged a small victory from the fiasco and now felt able to leave with a modicum of hastily gathered dignity.
He had only taken a few steps towards the door when the teller called out to him, ‘Do you still want me to call the manager, sir?’
Billy couldn’t tell if the young bloke was being facetious or was simply stupid. ‘No, lad, if he was responsible for hiring you, he’s obviously incompetent and unlikely to be much help,’ he called back.
To Billy’s surprise the people in the queue started to clap and a young bloke in jeans, a white T-shirt and a scuffed leather bomber jacket standing directly opposite Billy grinned. ‘That was awesome, really cool, man!’
Billy walked out into the sunlight, wondering how it was possible for his tongue to turn into a great fleshy appendage, choking his ability to speak when he’d been confronted by Sally Blue but could now, under greater pressure, effortlessly fashion a reply the young teller would probably recall with an inward wince for several days.
Billy needed a drink. His complimentary scotch would be waiting for him at the Flag Hotel, though it occurred to him that he still had the problem of the Trevor Williams walkout and that Sam Snatch might not welcome him with his customary exuberance. On the other hand, it was pension day and the proprietor of the Flag was always happy when the derros dutifully lined up in the bottle shop and all the way out to the pavement.
Billy took his usual route through the Botanic Gardens. It was a glorious sunny day and he was sweating lightly when he entered the cool darkness of the Flag Hotel. The interior of the hotel still had its morning-after-the-night-before smell, the slightly sour odour of hops mixed with stale cigarette smoke, both somewhat masked by the heavy application of the late-night cleaner’s room deodorant.
Marion was alone at her bar when Billy walked up. ‘Missed you yesterday, Billy,’ she said, reaching for a glass. Then she saw the plaster and the dressing above his eye. ‘What happened? Had a fall?’ And more directly, ‘Somebody do that to you?’
‘No, my dear, all my own work, I’m afraid.’ Marion knew better than to question him. There were three common reasons for broken bones among derelicts: they became the victim of a mugging, they fell when intoxicated, or were hit by a car while attempting to cross the road. ‘The blackfella got away, then?’ Marion said casually, placing Billy’s scotch on the bar in front of him.
Billy’s heart leapt, the incident hadn’t, as he’d hoped, been forgotten. ‘Where’s Sam?’ he asked.
‘Licensing Board.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘Nah, he wants to extend out the back, put in a bigger kitchen.’ Marion’s eyes lifted briefly towards the ceiling, ‘Having a bistro is all the go in pubs nowadays. Sam thinks with the development of the Finger Wharf into apartments, he’ll be onto a winner.’
‘He’s not angry about the Aboriginal bloke, is he?’ Marion smiled. ‘Ropeable would be a better choice of word, he wasn’t real pleased.’
Billy shrugged, trying to make light of the incident. ‘Casper had something going, his own agenda. The blackfella got suspicious.’ Billy shrugged. ‘Nothing much I could do, it never got as far as getting involved.’
‘Yeah, we thought as much, Sam isn’t blaming you. Casper got what he wanted anyway.’
‘What was that?’
‘The blackfella’s money.’ Marion gave a disparaging little laugh. ‘Which doesn’t make Sam any happier, he was that angry with Casper he threw him out, scotch bottle an’ all. Casper kept yellin’ out that he’d get the black bastard and it seems he did.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Ambulance bloke comin’ off shift, always comes in around lunchtime, said they’d picked up an Abo who’d fallen down the McElhone Stairs. Reckoned he was a right flamin’ mess.’
Even though Billy knew what had happened to Williams, his training as a lawyer wouldn’t let it go. ‘What makes you think it was Williams? There are lots of his kind around the Cross.’
‘Ambulance bloke said he was a bushie, moleskins, riding boots ...his hat.’
‘But he also said he’d fallen ...down the steps?’ Marion sighed. ‘He was speaking euphemistically.’ There it was again, Marion’s command of language. ‘He’s an Aborigine, ambulance blokes know the police are gunna do nothing. Lots of unnecessary paperwork and a waste of taxpayers’ money.’ Marion sighed. ‘You know the drill well enough, Billy.’
‘And you think it was definitely Casper Friendly?’ Marion laughed. ‘Not on his own, the deadbeats that hang around with him.’
‘Poor chap, seemed like a decent sort of bloke,’ Billy said, acting concerned.
Marion reached for a cigarette. ‘I guess that’s life in the big city.’
Billy smiled, ‘Sam will be sorry he threw Casper out.’
Marion inhaled and blew the smoke through her nostrils. ‘Don’t tell me, mate.’
Billy grinned, not displeased with the thought of Sam Snatch missing out. ‘With all that suddenly acquired wealth, chances are that Casper would have spent a fair bit of it here.’
Marion laughed. ‘Yeah, that thought hadn’t escaped Sam. He says if you see Casper to tell him he’s sorry, that he was a bit hasty, sudden rush of blood, tell him he’s always welcome in the beer garden, no hard feelings, eh.’
Billy looked up surprised. ‘Me? Tell him? Why would I do that? We’re not exactly bosom pals.’
Marion lifted the bottle of Johnnie Walker on the bar. ‘You’d be doing Sam a big favour.’
Billy grinned, he’d almost finished his drink and now tapped the rim of the glass. ‘Would an immediate token of Sam’s appreciation be out of the question, my dear?’
Marion laughed. ‘You’ve got all the instincts of a con man, Billy, but of course you are a lawyer.’ Reaching for a fresh glass, she poured Billy a second scotch.
Billy thanked her and took a small sip of the fresh scotch and thought of Trevor Williams in hospital, swathed in bandages, a small black man in agony in his white-on-white world.
Knowing that Casper didn’t have the stash was a comfort, a small victory over the collective greed.
Marion was silent for a while, then she took a drag and carefully placed her cigarette down on an ashtray.
‘Billy, there’s something.’ Billy looked up. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s any of my business, but you know how it is, there’s more big mouths around here than you’d find at a lipstick convention.’
Billy looked at her anxiously, Marion’s tone suggested trouble. ‘Tell me, Marion, what is it?’
‘You know how derros are, how they see everything?’
‘I ought to, I am one, what are you trying to say?’
‘It seems you’ve been seen walking around with a young boy.’
‘So, what’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ Billy’s heart skipped a beat, surely he wasn’t hearing this correctly?
Marion pulled back, surprised. ‘It’s true, then?’
‘What’s true? That I’ve been seen with a young boy?
Yes, that’s true.’ Billy was suddenly angry. ‘But if you’re thinking something else, then d
on’t!’
Marion reached out and picked up her cigarette. ‘Hey, take it easy, Billy, I’m your friend, remember?’
Billy regained his composure. ‘Marion,’ he sighed, ‘this is ridiculous. I have never had a prurient thought about the boy. Who told you?’
‘The boys were all talking about it in the beer garden this morning.’
‘I thought you weren’t supposed to work out there?’ Billy said, trying to gain a few moments to think.
‘I don’t. Sam Snatch and I had a bit of a contretemps. I told him putting a bistro in when there’ll be five restaurants in the Finger Wharf development is plain bloody stupid. He shouted at me and, well, I shouted back and it was all getting a bit toey, so I went out back to cool down.’
Billy had always suspected that there was more to the ownership of the pub than Sam Snatch’s lottery windfall and superannuation money. Marion arguing with him about a bistro suggested a different relationship to that of owner and employee. ‘That’d be right,’ Billy sympathised, ‘That’s Sam, not exactly a candidate for Mensa.’
But Marion wasn’t to be sidetracked. ‘Billy, you can’t ignore it. This is a union pub. The derros have the story, soon enough it will be known to the wharfies, they’re working-class blokes and that means trouble.’
‘Marion, he’s a young lad!’ Billy protested, ‘Not quite a street kid, but with a lot of the same instincts. He gets out on his skateboard early, they all go down to Chifley Square for a workout. He stops by and we talk about cats.’
‘Cats?’
‘Well, a particular cat, actually. Trim, Matthew Flinders’ cat.’
‘Come again?’ Marion exclaimed, then added, ‘Matthew Flinders has been dead nearly two hundred years, so, I imagine, has his cat.’
Billy accepted that Marion was probably the only bartender in Sydney who knew that the story of Matthew Flinders came equipped with its own famous cat.
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