Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Hi, Billy, what brings you here?’ Marion called as he approached. There were several people seated at the bar and Billy, anxious not to attract attention, flinched at the sound of her voice. He moved quickly to the bar, ‘I apologise, Marion,’ he said in an undertone, ‘but it’s important that I see you.’

  Marion smiled. ‘It’s okay, Sam’s not here, what is it, Billy?’

  ‘It will take a few minutes.’

  Marion glanced at the men seated at the bar. ‘They’re regulars, they won’t mind you being here. Scotch?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Billy replied.

  Marion raised one eyebrow. ‘It must be important,’ she said.

  ‘Marion, I’m leaving,’ Billy said.

  ‘Leaving?’

  ‘Town.’

  Marion looked surprised. ‘There’s no need to do that, Billy.’

  ‘Yes, yes . . . I’ve made up my mind.’ Marion sighed. ‘Billy, I only told you for your own good, mate. All you have to do is stop seeing the boy.’

  Billy thought for a moment, ‘It’s not that simple, my dear.’

  Marion’s lips drew tight. ‘Why not? You and him, you told me you’re not ...?’

  ‘For God’s sake, no!’ In a calmer voice, Billy added, ‘No, Marion, there’s nothing like that.’

  Marion relaxed. ‘I believe you, Billy. But why can’t you simply reject him? He’s a tough little kid, they all are around here. He’ll soon forget you and get on with his life.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t do that!’ Billy exclaimed, then lowered his eyes and said softly, ‘I did that once before with another child. I...I couldn’t do that again . . . ever.’

  Marion nodded sympathetically. ‘We’ll miss you, Billy.’

  Billy looked up, surprised at the tone of her voice. ‘No, I promise you, we really will miss you,’ she repeated.

  ‘Thank you,’ Billy replied. ‘Marion, will you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course, if I can.’

  Billy produced the letter to Ryan. ‘Can you somehow get this to Ryan Sanfrancesco? I’d deliver it myself, but I have no idea where he lives. You said you knew his mother, I was hoping . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  Marion’s face grew stern. ‘Billy, are you sure this is a good idea?’

  ‘No, that’s the point, I’m not,’ Billy said quietly.

  ‘I’ve left the envelope unsealed so that you may read it.’

  Marion looked doubtful. ‘Billy, it’s not that. It’s, well, it’s just that the boy’s mother is a truly nasty piece of work. It wouldn’t matter how innocuous the letter seemed, if she got hold of it she could quite easily get the wrong impression.’ She looked steadily at him. ‘Let me put it as frankly as possible, I don’t want the bitch coming after me.’

  ‘But, Marion, I’m only asking you to get the letter into the boy’s hands, to deliver it. Surely his mother will never know it was you who gave it to him?’

  Marion turned her head to one side, her arms crossed, her lips drawn tight. ‘Billy, I’m sorry. I’d like to help you, but I can’t.’

  ‘I see,’ Billy said, suddenly lost for words. It had never occurred to him that Marion would refuse, or that she could possibly be placed in danger by simply arranging to deliver the note to Ryan. He picked the envelope up from the bar and dropped it back into his briefcase. ‘I quite understand, Marion,’ he said, turning to go. ‘It was inconsiderate of me to ask.’

  Marion didn’t reply. ‘Look after yourself, Billy. We’ll miss you,’ she called after he’d retreated halfway to the door.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Marion,’ Billy said, trying to conceal his frustration. There had always been something about Marion that worried him. It couldn’t be the business upstairs. Selling knickers to cross-dressers and transvestites might be slightly on the nose but it was hardly a criminal offence and certainly nothing to hide. He stood outside the Flag Hotel, wondering what to do next. Two children, both girls, chatting and laughing, totally absorbed in themselves, were approaching. They seemed to be about Ryan’s age. He cleared his throat, ‘Excuse me, girls,’ he said, stepping directly into their path. Both stopped and looked up in fright, then without a word to each other they started to run, jumping to either side of him before setting off. ‘Do you know Ryan Sanfrancesco?’ Billy shouted after them.

  They stopped about six metres away from him, a safe distance should they have occasion to make a second run for it. They looked at Billy. ‘What’s it to you? Bugger off, you stupid old bastard!’ one of them called. Then, hugging each other and giggling hysterically, they ran off in a clatter of school shoes, disappearing around the corner of the pub.

  Billy grinned, children who lived in Woolloomooloo grew up fast. At least they knew not to talk to strangers. Though, of course, Ryan hadn’t observed this rule when they’d first met. Billy had seen all he needed to know, both girls had been wearing the light-blue cotton tops with the school badge embroidered on them to show a sailing ship set in an oval frame with the words ‘Pring Street Public School’ and the motto ‘Togetherness’ stitched around its circumference. From the way the girl had responded to his question, Billy was fairly certain they knew Ryan. The years in the criminal courts had taught him to translate innuendo into accurate meaning.

  Pring Street Public School turned out to be adjacent to Forbes Street, a street historically notorious for its brothels, which after legalisation had mostly moved to more salubrious accommodation. To Billy’s surprise, because he’d expected the usual dreary brown-brick establishment set within a macadamised wasteland, the school appeared to be a modern building, painted yellow with doors and window frames in lime green, and within pleasant grounds. It possessed a garden, which was contained within a dark-green fence with casuarina and sheoaks, while the playground area, painted red and yellow, had a covering of woodchips.

  It was just after five o’clock and the schoolyard was empty but Billy could hear the sound of a piano coming from somewhere within the building. The pianist was playing a Chopin étude, though if a child was playing, it was a very accomplished one. The piano was a further surprise, he’d expected Ryan’s school, judging by his attempts to play truant, to be pretty average, not the sort of place where children learned music.

  He entered the gate, conscious that he might be seen as an intruder. He would often forget that he no longer resembled the dapper little lawyer he’d once been. He entered the building, hoping to see a cleaner or caretaker, but except for the piano sounds the building appeared to be empty. He passed several classrooms, each leading into another and noted that they contained no blackboard or even traditional school desks scarred with generations of patiently carved initials. Instead, each pupil appeared to have a small cream table and red chair and these were placed, seemingly at random, around the room. The walls were brightly coloured and a line of eight computers sat on a long table which ran along the far wall. It was a far cry from anything he’d experienced in his day at primary school. After searching the ground floor for someone to whom he could introduce himself and ask directions, he retraced his steps to the stairs and made his way, a little fearfully, to the second level, where he saw that a covered walkway led to a second building from which, he now realised, the music came.

  Billy finally reached the music room. His heart was beating a little faster, he was too far into the building to beat a hasty retreat and should someone come upon him and ask him to explain his presence he knew his explanation would be difficult to believe. The door was slightly ajar though he couldn’t see the piano or its player. He knocked tentatively but nothing happened, so he tried a second time, this time a little more loudly. The music stopped, ‘Who is it?’ a woman’s voice asked.

  ‘May I come in?’ Billy asked.

  The sound of a cultured voice must have put the woman somewhat at ease, because she said, ‘Yes.’

  Billy opened the door wider and sa
w the shock on the young woman’s face. She stood up, backing away from the piano chair. He was surprised to see that the instrument she’d been playing was a baby grand. ‘It’s quite all right, my dear, the plaster and the patch, a small accident. You were playing Chopin, an étude I used to play as a child, though never of course with your proficiency.’

  The woman seemed to relax a little. ‘Who are you?’ she asked warily.

  ‘My name is William O’Shannessy and I confess to being a derelict, though a perfectly harmless one.’

  The young woman’s eyes went to the handcuff around Billy’s wrist and she backed further away. ‘Mr O’Shannessy, I don’t think you should be here.’ She looked around, suddenly conscious that she was alone.

  ‘Billy, please call me Billy. William is an entirely inappropriate name in my present calling.’ He lifted the briefcase showing her the second handcuff attached to the handle. ‘In my vocation it is as well to be security conscious.’ He grinned, then, trying to put her at ease, Billy said, ‘I shan’t keep you long, madam, I am simply inquiring if you have a Ryan Sanfrancesco in your school. I am leaving town and I wish to leave him a letter.’

  ‘A letter? Are you a relation?’

  ‘No, madam, we are old friends. Ryan is a quite remarkable child.’

  ‘Could be if he tried harder,’ the young woman replied.

  ‘Ah! Then you know him,’ Billy cried. ‘That’s splendid.’

  ‘Yes, he attends music lessons,’ she paused. ‘When he can be bothered.’

  ‘He plays music? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Ryan has a glorious voice, a boy soprano of exceptional range and clarity.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ Billy said, pleased.

  ‘It’s very frustrating. We want him to sing in the St Mary’s Cathedral choir. The choirmaster, Monsignor Fiorelli, is very keen to have him, but he won’t have a bar of it. The principal went to see his mother accompanied by the monsignor, but she sent them away with a flea in their ear.’

  Billy sighed, ‘Yes, I know, it is for that reason I’d like you to give the letter directly to Ryan. Do you think you could do that, Ms ...?’

  ‘Sypkins, Sylvia Sypkins.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Ms Sypkins.’

  ‘I will have to show the letter to the principal, Mr O’Shannessy.’

  ‘Yes, of course, it’s unsealed and she must read it and so may you. I appreciate your taking such care over the matter.’ Billy opened the briefcase and withdrew the letter, handing it to Ryan’s music teacher.

  ‘Thank you, Mr O’Shannessy,’ Ms Sypkins said.

  ‘It’s been, er . . . interesting meeting you.’

  Billy, amused, thought how young and pretty she was. He remembered his own music teacher, Miss Roseblatte, a terrible old dragon who rapped him frequently on the knuckles with a twelve-inch ruler from which the steel edge had been removed.

  ‘I crave your indulgence, Ms Sypkins. There is just one more thing.’

  The music teacher glanced at her watch. ‘I really must be going,’ she said, a little nervously.

  ‘It won’t take a minute.’ Billy produced a second envelope, this one thicker than the last. ‘Ryan’s grandmother is dying of cancer, though how soon that might be I can’t say. His mother . . .’ Billy paused, ‘Well, she has problems of her own and I don’t believe she can cope. Ryan, it appears, is often responsible for taking care of them both, which may explain somewhat his attitude to school.’

  ‘Oh? I was not aware of that.’ Ms Sypkins showed concern. ‘Only that his mother was difficult.’

  ‘There is a little money in here. Fifteen hundred dollars precisely. Would you please give it to the principal and ask her to use it to help Ryan, should this become necessary in the next few months?’

  Ms Sypkins threw up her hands. ‘Oh, I don’t think I can take that responsibility. Ms Flanagan has already left for the afternoon.’

  Billy smiled. ‘The money hasn’t been stolen, there’s a withdrawal slip signed by the teller, whose name is Partridge, Suzanna Partridge, I’ve written her telephone extension number on the slip.’

  Ms Sypkins still seemed reluctant. ‘Really, Mr O’Shannessy, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t sleep a wink all night knowing it was in my flat. Could you not return in the morning to see the principal?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘That would be quite impossible, my dear, I leave first thing.’ Realising her anxiety over safekeeping the money, he tried to keep things light. ‘The usual recommendation is to put it under your pillow, but I suggest the mattress, that’s always a safe place, my grandmother used to say. A thief may manage to place his hand under a pillow while you slumber but it’s a lot more difficult to dislodge a mattress with you asleep on top of it.’ Billy pushed the envelope towards her.

  Ms Sypkins accepted it reluctantly, and walked over to the piano, reached for her handbag and placed the envelope inside. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, ‘but I’m terribly nervous.’

  Billy laughed, ‘I should be the one who’s nervous, I may never see you again and I’ve just given you fifteen hundred dollars.’

  ‘A receipt! Of course, you must have a receipt!’ Ms Sypkins cried.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary, the Chopin étude you were playing and your concern for Ryan is receipt enough.’ Billy paused and appeared to be listening. ‘Ah, the currawongs are calling, it’s getting late, I must be off, my dear, though there is one more small thing.’

  Ms Sypkins looked apprehensive. ‘Yes?’ she said tentatively.

  ‘It’s Ryan’s eyes, the boy is short-sighted. He’s a skateboarder who, I imagine, can’t see much more than five or six metres ahead of him, sooner or later he’s going to have a bad accident. Do you think the school could arrange to have his eyes tested?’

  Ms Sypkins looked relieved. ‘Yes, we know about Ryan’s eyes, the community nurse has picked it up on two occasions and we’ve sent a form home with Ryan twice and then posted one. You see, we need permission from a parent to take him to the eye hospital,’ she explained.

  Billy sighed, shaking his head, ‘Same old problem, eh? Ms Sanfrancesco does seem to be a very difficult woman.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep trying,’ the music teacher assured him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Billy said quietly. ‘Well then, I’ll take my leave.’ Billy bowed slightly, ‘You have been the soul of kindness, Ms Sypkins.’

  Ms Sypkins smiled at Billy’s old-fashioned manners. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr O’Shannessy.’

  Billy walked towards the classroom door and, as he reached it, Ms Sypkins called out, ‘Your money will be safe. I’ll put it under the mattress!’

  Billy had given Ryan the money he had intended for his own funeral. Over the period he’d been among the homeless, Billy had carefully put aside a small part of his disability pension to pay for his gravesite. Suzanna Partridge, at the bank in Martin Place, had helped him, and had also placed in safekeeping a letter with his burial instructions.

  Billy was most anxious to avoid a destitute’s funeral conducted by the state, where he’d have to share the gravesite with four others, each coffin placed next to each other. The Salvation Army would bury him decently, and alone, at a cost of fifteen hundred dollars, or for that matter, at their own expense.

  He didn’t want the final act in his life to be a handout so he’d paid an initial deposit of two hundred and fifty dollars to the Salvos after making the trip out to Rookwood Cemetery, where he’d asked to see the plots they’d been allocated. These were positioned on the eastern extremity of the cemetery with plenty of morning sun and seemed ideal for Billy’s purpose. The position was important because for another fifty dollars, which he’d already paid to a nursery, he’d arranged for a sapling to be planted over his grave in place of a headstone.

  Billy wanted the remains of his earthly body to act as nourishment for the
sapling’s roots. ‘These are my roots of heaven,’ he’d written in his will, ‘the beloved spotted gum will rise up a hundred feet into the air and release oxygen to make the clouds and the rain and I shall be a part of the forest and the deserts, pure and clean, with all the human malice washed from my bloodied soul at last.’ It was, he admitted, a somewhat melodramatic notion, written in an over-flowery manner, but he allowed the indulgence, telling himself a man’s last gesture should be one of putting back, a thing of the heart and not of the head, a sentimental thing and an apology to nature for the shabby way we have treated it.

  The particular sapling he’d requested was important to him. The spotted gum, Eucalyptus maculata, was the eucalypt varietal that had been used to build the first locally constructed sailing ships as well as in the construction of Sydney’s streets. Cut into blocks, it had been the foundation paving for all the city’s major thoroughfares and most of its inner-suburban streets.

  He was vaguely conscious that what he was doing for Ryan was really for Charlie and that the envelope contained conscience money, though he quickly buried this notion into his subconscious, unwilling to face the fact that he was running from his responsibilities once again. He could clearly see the looming tragedy about to envelop the child, but tried to convince himself that, given his present position in life, he would be of no use to Ryan by being present when it occurred. It was better for the boy to forget him now than have to depend on him later. The money would be more useful anyway. Billy wasn’t at all sure he could handle any sort of dependence on him by another human being. He had trouble enough looking after himself. If he was killed because people thought he was a paedophile, it might damage Ryan’s perceptions of life permanently. This was his greatest excuse.

  On his way to St Vincent’s he stopped off and bought a packet of roll-your-own tobacco and cigarette papers of the brand he’d seen Williams smoking in the pub, three small chocolate caramel bars and a large block of Cadbury milk chocolate. It wasn’t very imaginative, but his sugar craving was always best served by these two particular confections and both were easy to suck or chew. He hoped Trevor Williams would feel the same way.