Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  Billy’s emotional jolt came in the form of a letter from Ms Flanagan, the principal of Pring Street Public School. It had been forwarded to the Surfers Paradise branch of his bank by Suzanna Partridge, his favourite bank person in Martin Place, and was handed to him when he went in to get his pension money.

  The back of the envelope had been stamped ‘Pring Street Public School’ and at first Billy was afraid to open it. He left the bank and walked over to a small park close by, where he found a bench beside a stone picnic table. Placing the letter on the table, he walked around looking at it for several minutes. With a pocketful of pension money, he was tempted to buy a bottle in case the news was bad. Billy’s mind was overcome with anxiety, the worst of his roiling imaginings being that something terrible had happened to the boy; the best, that the letter on the table in front of him was simply an acknowledging and accounting for the money he’d left in the school’s care. His stomach churned and his throat constricted, he could feel his panic growing to the point where he thought he was going to throw up.

  Finally Billy sat on the bench, moving the letter so that it was placed on the table directly in front of him. He reached for the key about his neck, only to discover that his hands were trembling so badly that it took him nearly two minutes to remove it and unshackle his wrist. A further minute followed as he furiously scratched around in his briefcase to locate his glasses. At one stage he shouted out, ‘See, I can’t find them, it’s not my fault I can’t read the letter!’ He was consumed with the need to flee, leaving the unopened letter on the table.

  When he finally found his glasses, the process of opening the envelope proved so fraught that it fell from his grasp on two occasions. Billy was whimpering when he eventually succeeded in withdrawing the three sheets of paper. With the pages now in his hands, they began to tremble to such an extent that he was forced to lay them on the surface of the table and hold them flat by placing his palms firmly on either side of them.

  11 June 1996

  Dear Mr O’Shannessy,

  I respect your need for privacy and I wouldn’t be writing this letter if I didn’t think it important. Of course, I accept that you may choose to ignore it.

  Ryan Sanfrancesco has become an increasing concern to myself and my staff and has, on two recent occasions, been returned to the school by a police officer when he was discovered in the Botanic Gardens during school hours. These are only two occasions in what has become constant truancy. Now he comes to school only on music days.

  Naturally we have informed the Department of Community Services of our concerns. They point out that a file can only be opened if Ryan has been placed in physical or moral danger, or is subject to continued neglect. As we have no proof of this, other than his truancy, there is very little that can be done. Our private inquiries reveal that Ryan’s grandmother is in the final stages of cancer and was moved to St Vincent’s Hospice yesterday, so we may be able to persuade DOCS to do a risk assessment.

  However, since Ryan received your letter, which, at your suggestion, I duly read, he has changed markedly. His first reaction was extreme disappointment and silent tears. But he is a brave little soul and seemed, at first, to recover from the disappointment of your departure quite well.

  Then approx. two weeks later he appeared at my office and asked me if I’d received a letter for him. He seemed convinced that you would write to him and was unable to accept that you have gone from his life forever.

  For the following two months he made regular appearances at my office asking if I had received any mail for him. Abruptly he stopped coming and, shortly after this, his teacher reported that he had grown morose and increasingly troublesome in class. Then his present truancy began.

  I’m not sure why I am writing this letter to you, but Ryan Sanfrancesco is an exceptional and talented child and, heaven knows, there are few enough of them. He is burdened, like so many of our children at Pring Street Public, by family influences which are, to say the least, in many cases unfortunate. We would hate to lose him and my fear is that we are close to doing so.

  Yesterday Ryan was apprehended by the police again, this time for stealing a set of skateboard wheels from a shop in Oxford Street. I have used a small part of the money you left in my care to pay the proprietor and he has agreed to drop the charges.

  It is now obvious to us that you have had a profound and disproportionate effect on Ryan’s life. Yesterday, in his school locker, we discovered the remains of a book, the pages ripped from its covers and then further torn into tiny pieces. With it, intact, was a drawing, which I enclose. It seems to clearly indicate his present distressed state of mind.

  I don’t quite know how to put this, but do you think you could write to him? I am aware that you haven’t known each other for very long and that you make an odd couple, but children can sometimes be instinctive about these things. I confess that it would have been a neglect of my duty if I hadn’t first checked on your background, to ensure that there was nothing of a prurient nature to be concerned about.

  Mr O’Shannessy, if you can find it in your heart to write to this small boy, you could well be making the single difference between saving him or losing him. My experience as a teacher has taught me that sometimes the most fragile threads bind the tightest.

  I remain,

  Yours sincerely, Dorothy Flanagan Principal, Pring Street Public School

  Billy, his spectacles misted with tears, came at last to the third page, stopping to clean his glasses and to wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. Replacing his spectacles, he saw that the third page, a piece of yellow A4 lined notepaper, contained a drawing using grease crayons of the kind younger children are given in kindergarten to scribble on sheets of butcher’s paper. Considering the crudeness of the medium, the sketch was carefully done and it showed a briefcase half submerged in waves with a set of handcuffs dangling from it, one of the cuffs below the scalloped wave lines and the other attached to its handle. The briefcase was open and sitting in it was a black cat with only its head and shoulders showing. A speech balloon came from its mouth and floated above the cat’s head. Inside the balloon were two words:

  BILLYS GONE.

  Billy remained on the bench for nearly four hours, intermittently chastising himself and weeping. It was late afternoon when he arrived at Resthaven, the Salvation Army Bridge Program premises in Southport, and asked if he might see a counsellor.

  Within a few hours Billy O’Shannessy’s real nightmare would begin. He was cordially welcomed and taken to a small office where he was introduced to Major Turlington, himself a reformed alcoholic. The Salvo major offered Billy the seat in front of his desk and Billy sat down, placing the briefcase onto his lap.

  ‘How long since you’ve eaten, Mr O’Shannessy?’ Billy tried to think, he couldn’t remember.

  ‘Yesterday, no maybe the day before, I can’t think, major.’

  ‘Much easier if you use my Christian name, it’s John.’ Major Turlington hesitated a moment, ‘And yours is?’

  ‘Billy. I don’t think I could eat anything quite yet, major ...er, John.’

  ‘That’s all right, cuppa tea then? We’ll throw in a sandwich, see how you go, eh?’ The office door was open and he called out, ‘Penny, can we have a cup of tea and a sandwich, please?’ He turned to Billy, ‘How many sugars, Billy?’

  ‘Six,’ Billy replied.

  ‘Six sugars, thanks, Penny, I’ll have a cuppa as well.’ He turned back to Billy. ‘While we wait for Penny to bring the tea, why don’t I take down a few particulars, nothing too personal.’ The major grinned, ‘Though I guess we have to know who you are, surname, marital status, religion, next of kin, I’ll need your social security registration number, that sort of thing. Got any problems with that, Billy?’ Billy told him he had no objections and the Salvo major withdrew a form from the drawer of the desk and commenced asking questions. At one point Turlington asked
, ‘Are there any legal complications, you know, past criminal convictions?’

  Billy hesitated, then, somewhat shamefaced, he confessed to the recent charge of indecent exposure while under the influence. ‘I’m most terribly ashamed, I’m afraid I was very drunk, major.’ Billy was having some trouble calling the tall Salvo by his Christian name.

  Turlington laughed, ‘Billy, if you saw some of the reports we compile here, that is the very lightest of raps on the knuckle, you got a “good behaviour” and that’s all that matters.’

  At that moment Penny entered with a tray and placed two cups of tea in front of Major Turlington and Billy. ‘If you don’t mind I’ve added the sugar and stirred it, sir,’ she said, smiling down at Billy. This was standard procedure, alcoholics often have the shakes and it saved them embarrassment.

  ‘Thank you, that’s fine,’ Billy replied. Penny left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Now one of my last questions, are you on any current medication?’

  ‘Nothing that doesn’t come out of a whisky bottle,’ Billy said, then immediately relented, ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very clever.’

  Turlington laughed. ‘But honest. Which is a damned good beginning and I guess that’s why you’re here. Which brings me to the next question. Was there a particular incident that brought you to this point? Brings you here today?’

  Billy was silent for some time. ‘Ah, I . . .’ but he could go no further. He made several more attempts to say something but his throat constricted on each occasion and finally he gave up and looked down into his lap. He thought he’d exhausted his self-recrimination but now the tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

  ‘You haven’t touched your tea, Billy, try the sandwich, do you good,’ Turlington suggested quietly.

  Billy picked up the cup in front of him, but his hand shook so violently that half its contents immediately soaked the sandwich and spilled onto the desk. ‘I . . . I’m so sorry,’ Billy said, distressed. The cup rattled against the saucer as he attempted to place it back. Ashamed, he tried to wipe the desk clean with the sleeve of his shirt.

  ‘No, please,’ Turlington said calmly, ‘No harm done, mate. This place is heartbreak hotel, you’ve got a fair distance to go before we get concerned.’

  ‘I’d like to try and detox, major,’ Billy blurted out.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Billy, and we’re going to be on your side all the way. We’ll get back to why you’re here later, but I need to explain to you what’s involved. You’ll be kept here for seven days, although, depending on your condition, this could be up to three weeks. We need to monitor your overall health and get you over alcohol withdrawal.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could spend that much time in a dormitory with people like me,’ Billy said nervously, ‘I have great difficulty with the drunk tank.’

  Major Turlington tried to reassure him. ‘It’s not quite the same thing here, Billy. We don’t have a drunk tank, only a clinic and a recovery ward, just like a hospital. You’ll be required to stay in bed for the first two or three days at least. Although, for the first forty-eight hours, you’ll be in our detox clinic where you’ll be under constant twenty-four-hour supervision by nursing staff and, of course, a doctor. Now I have to ask you, have you ever attempted detox before?’

  ‘No, this is the first time,’ Billy admitted.

  ‘Well then, you’ll need to know what to expect. But I have to ask you to sign an admission contract before we can go any further.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, major, a contract, I don’t understand?’

  Turlington smiled. ‘That’s what we call it. As you can imagine, we get all types coming into Resthaven and there has to be a clear understanding of the conditions under which we operate.’

  ‘Oh, the rules,’ Billy said.

  ‘Well yes, but most people coming in wanting our services don’t much like the word, so we call it a con tract instead. You sign it, we sign it and then we can proceed. Pretty simple really.’

  By submitting himself voluntarily to an institution for detoxification, Billy hadn’t expected to be in a position to haggle over his rights, but he was still a lawyer by nature and signing a contract of any sort without reading it was anathema to him. ‘May I see it, please, major?’

  ‘Of course.’ The Salvation Army officer handed Billy a single sheet of paper and Billy scratched around in his briefcase until he found his glasses.

  The contract contained eleven clauses, all of which were designed to protect the institution as he had expected. He was not allowed to bring any drugs or alcohol onto the premises, gamble or have sexual liaisons with any other patients, destroy property or behave violently or steal. He was required to submit to a random search at any time and an inspection of his personal property. Finally he was required to give the medical staff a sample of his urine for analysis. It was all pretty basic and Billy signed the contract and handed it back. Several other sheets of do’s and don’ts, rights and wrongs, instructions and procedures, freedoms and limitations were handed to him and Billy read them, signed them and handed them back. There was no hidden agenda.

  Turlington smiled, ‘Congratulations. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone read through every document in the ten years I have been here.’

  ‘In another life I was a lawyer, old habits die hard,’ Billy replied. ‘I apologise if I took too long.’

  ‘No, no, not at all, it’s surprising what people will sign without first finding out what they’re getting themselves into,’ the major said. He appeared to hesitate a moment before continuing. ‘Billy, this isn’t going to be easy and you’re going to feel pretty rotten for the first little while. I’m afraid there’s no simple way to detox.’

  Billy had often enough heard detox stories from drunks who had attempted it and he knew it would be difficult. ‘Don’t expect it will be easy, major,’ he now said, having given up trying to call the Salvation Army officer by his first name.

  ‘Perhaps now you can tell me the reason you are here, Billy?’

  Billy began to tell the major the story of Ryan and why he had run away from New South Wales, finally handing him the letter to read. He managed to stay dryeyed through the process and at the end of it felt a little stronger. ‘I’m not sure I have the strength to take on any responsibility at the moment, major.’

  The Salvo grinned and tried to turn Billy’s anxiety into an abstract. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Very few people do. I guess it’s hard enough just taking care of ourselves. In the meantime, try not to think about what you’re going to do about Ryan. Your coming here is the first step, the only one we need to concern ourselves with for the moment. For the next few days, try only to concentrate on getting well again.’

  Billy knew that he was being expertly handled, in different circumstances he might have said ‘manipulated’. But he sensed that he’d reached the stage where his famous intellect wasn’t going to help him. Whatever he thought wasn’t going to make a difference. He was emotionally exhausted, the justifications and the arguments were over, he knew if he ran away from this battle, there would be no others to come. Charlie was Ryan and Ryan was Charlie, there could be no more self-pity, no more excuses, no more taking the blame for everything with the secret nobility that this implied. This time he had to choose sides, there was no middle ground, no no-man’sland in which to play dead until the battle was over and he could crawl to a dishonourable safety from where he’d cower in an emotional shell hole while the fighting went on.

  ‘I see,’ Billy said quietly. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Does that mean you wish to continue with us?’ Turlington asked, ‘Go on the program?’

  ‘Well, the detox, yes,’ Billy answered.

  ‘That’s good,’ the Salvo said, not making a fuss.

  ‘You’ll need to take a shower and we’ll give you a pair of pyjamas. Then you’ll see the do
ctor for a medical examination.’ Turlington rose from the desk and opened the door. ‘Penny, will you take Billy through to the shower block, please.’ He handed her the interview form. ‘On your way back, give this to Major Tompkins.’

  Billy rose and moved towards the door. ‘Thank you, major,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Billy, your letter, you’ll want that,’ Turlington said, taking the four steps back to his desk. ‘I must say, Ryan’s principal sounds like a very nice person.’ He folded the letter carefully, placed it back into its envelope and handed it to Billy, who rested his briefcase on his knee, clicked it open and dropped the letter inside. ‘We’ll see a bit of each other over the next few days, Billy. Remember, we’re on God’s side and that’s a winning team.’

  Penny, Billy never did get her other name, was waiting for him at the door and took him through to the shower block where she introduced him to an attendant named Nick. Nick wore a set of very faded and worn racing silks and jodhpurs with a pair of heavy workman’s steel-capped boots. ‘Nick will take care of you, Mr O’Shannessy, and when you’ve had your shower he’ll take you through to the clinic,’ Penny said kindly, then bade them both goodbye.

  Nick was a tiny, battle-scarred man of an indeterminate age, certainly over forty, but too physically weatherbeaten for Billy to venture a more accurate guess. It would later turn out that he’d been a jockey, though never in the big time, scraping a living out of country racetracks and spending too many long, lonely nights propped up at the bar of small-town pubs. He was severely bow-legged, so much so that it cost him a good two centimetres in height. It transpired that his pins had acquired their shape less from sitting in the saddle than from falling out of it. Billy was to learn that Nick’s entire body was a reassembly, a poorly patched-up job of multiple mended fractures and badly knitted bones. He seemed unable to keep still, shifting from one leg to the other, as if neither leg could tolerate his weight for more than a few moments. The heavy steel-studded boots would crash down onto the cement floor every few moments to announce his whereabouts. He also had a shiny purple dent in the right side of his temple so that the eye below it sagged noticeably and appeared permanently inflamed. Nick had accepted the Lord Jesus Christ in the process of an alcohol rehabilitation program and had subsequently joined the Salvation Army as a witness to his redemption.