Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  The second day of therapy had consisted of Bible readings, which Billy put down as the price he was required to pay for the tender loving care he’d received. Apart from their obvious sincerity and deep commitment which showed in their daily witnessing for Christ, the Salvos seldom rammed their faith down your throat. Besides, he was still on 60 mg a day of Valium and the Godspeak had seemed rather comforting. It was nice to know that someone up there was going to stretch out His hand and guide him through his darkest hours. Billy had once seen the forefinger of God stretched out to start all of creation in Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Billy could only hope that when the Almighty reached out and took his hand, he wasn’t blown away by the first touch of that all-powerful forefinger.

  The next day brought collective counselling and held warnings of what lay ahead. Billy soon lost the sound of the instructor’s voice and began to think of what it would be like never to taste a drop again. Despite the effect of the Valium, he felt really depressed.

  Day four had been more of the same, though this time he had learned about the nature of his addiction. By then the heads had started to rise, the ‘calm juice’, as Valium was called, was almost out of their systems and they were all, more or less, coming back to real life. The first tentative questions were attempted and soon the evening became a lively discussion that continued until the week ended and Billy was discharged.

  During that week at Stillwaters, Billy sent a letter to Trevor Williams.

  Dear Trevor,

  I trust you are well on the mend by now and are back home with your dear wife. Surfers Paradise was not the best decision I’ve made, or to put it differently, running away from Sydney was quite wrong and, to say the least, cowardly. I suspect you knew this all along, but were too wise and well-mannered to say so.

  However, in one respect it has been good. After making a thorough mess of things and sinking well below my already low expectations of myself, I submitted myself to a detox clinic.

  This was not an experience I hope to repeat and I find myself on the wagon for the first time in some thirty-five years. That is, if you don’t count the time as a teenager when I stole a regular nip of scotch from my father’s liquor cabinet.

  I well recall the incident the ever-diminishing level in the bottle provoked. I am ashamed to admit one of our maids, who was Polish, was blamed. My mother believed that, as a foreigner, she was obviously not to be trusted. The poor girl was Jewish and a victim of the Holocaust, which my mother simply didn’t believe. She reasoned at the time that the child could only have been eight when the war ended and was simply telling a sob story to gain her sympathy. We now know the story was completely plausible and that many children did survive the concentration camps. Anyway, she was promptly dismissed, even though she had probably never tasted a drop of scotch in her life. I regret I didn’t own up and the poor girl, her name was Rebecca, who had suffered so terribly, was once more a victim of racism. This was probably the first sign of things to come and a tangible example of my moral turpitude and innate cowardice.

  I am returning to Sydney as soon as possible where I hope to undergo further treatment and attempt to make amends for my recent behaviour. I am submitting myself for rehabilitation and I don’t know how long this process will take, but once I am out I would like to help you find your daughter. I am not at all sure that I will be of any use in the search, but if you are returning to Sydney, as you suggested you might be, and wish to contact me, you may do so at the following address:

  The Station Cnr Erskine and Clarence Streets Sydney NSW 2000

  In case you have forgotten my surname, it is O’Shannessy. We were only, I recall, formally introduced on one occasion with Casper Friendly at the pub. If you can’t make it to Sydney in the next little while, perhaps you could tell me a little more about your daughter? Her first name as well as any professional name she may have assumed? Is her surname still Williams? Does she have a police record? Hospital record? Last address? Childhood friends? Boyfriend? Known associates? Previous theatrical booking agent?

  Can you describe her? Birthmarks? Scars?

  Distinguishing features? Nickname? Any sentimental jewellery she would never part with, a locket or chain, ring or bracelet? A sample of her handwriting? Does she have a tattoo? Expressions she likes to use? Manner of speech, fast, slow, considered, excited? Is she an introvert, extrovert? In fact, anything else you think might be useful for me to know. I greatly look forward to hearing from you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Billy

  He had also written to Ryan, addressing the letter to the Pring Street school.

  My dear Ryan,

  I am sorry I haven’t written to you and I have no real excuse. Perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive me and we can resume our friendship? I would very much like this to happen. I have given up the grog and will be returning to Sydney in a week or so. I will leave a message for you at your school. It may be some time before we can meet as I am going into the William Booth Institute for rehabilitation. Just let me know if you’d like to see me again, I will take it from there.

  By the way, I have a new Trim story. It is about a shipwreck where Trim and his crew are left to die on a desert island by a wicked Captain of a ship who could have rescued them. It is a grand story of courage and betrayal and, of course, it is absolutely true.

  I hope that you will forgive me for running away and that we can be friends once again. If you would like to write to me, my address is:

  The Salvation Army Foster House 5–21 Mary Street Strawberry Hills NSW 2010

  In the meantime, look after yourself.

  Your friend in Trim (the Master Mariner cat and famous explorer),

  Billy O’Shannessy (without the ‘u’)

  Billy purchased an overnight bus ticket to Sydney. Arriving at Central Railway Station the following morning, he walked from the terminal to Foster House. He’d only just entered the foyer when he saw Major Cliff Thomas coming towards him.

  ‘Hello, Billy, you must have come in early, we were going to send someone to meet you.’ Billy looked surprised. ‘You knew I was coming?’

  ‘Well, hoped, there’s many a slip between the bus and the lip,’ Thomas quipped. A Welshman, he was exBritish Army and very popular with the men who used Foster House. ‘Yes, we knew. Major Turlington gave me a call, said to look out for you, said you’d toughed it out on your own at the hostel after you left the clinic. That can’t have been easy.’ The Salvo stuck out his hand, ‘Well done, congratulations, you’ve made a great start. Come into my office, let’s have a chat.’

  The week in the hostel after leaving Resthaven had been hell and the only way Billy had been able to stay out of the pub was to have them lock him in his room and only let him out for meals and to go to the bathroom. The fact that he’d made the bus ride without a bottle was another miracle and Turlington had phoned to say Billy should be met as he didn’t know how much longer he would be able to hold out on his own.

  In Cliff Thomas’s office Billy handed him an envelope which contained his clinical notes from Resthaven and details of his stay. The Salvo major took it, putting it to one side. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you, the bus stopped at McDonald’s in Newcastle, I had a cup of coffee and something I think was called McMuffin.’

  Thomas laughed. ‘Well, I have to say you look more as if you’ve been hit by a Mack truck than a McMuffin.’

  He leaned forward and appeared to be looking closely at Billy’s face. ‘Although that could be a smidgin of white in the corner of each eye. Detox takes a lot out of one. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ Billy replied, although he had hardly slept on the journey down and had a fierce headache and a stomach pain that had been with him for the past three days. ‘Bit of diarrhoea, headache,’ Billy grinned. ‘I’ve had hango
vers a great deal worse.’

  ‘Ha! Chocolate! I’ll bet you’ve been eating a fair bit?’ Billy smiled. ‘It’s the craving for something sweet after the detox.’

  Thomas laughed. He was around the same age as Billy and it was comfortable talking to him. ‘I know what you mean. When I came out of detox, a week later they needed to choco-tox me. How about a cup of tea? Sugar? We’ll throw in a couple of Panadol, that’ll help, I’ll see if we’ve got something for the squits.’

  Billy looked up, surprised, he hadn’t realised that Cliff Thomas was a recovered alcoholic. ‘Thank you, major, you’ve given me renewed hope.’

  Thomas grinned. ‘We all need a bit of that, although you’ve managed a week on your own, that’s remarkable in itself.’ He picked up the telephone and asked someone named Kylie to bring in a cup of tea with six sugars and a couple of Panadol and to ask the nurse for something for diarrhoea. Then putting down the receiver, he said, ‘Now, how can we help you, Billy?’

  At first Billy didn’t answer. He’d done a week cold turkey without anyone to help him, but it had nevertheless taken its toll. His nerves were shattered and he didn’t know how much more of the same he could take. Now that he had reached the point of changing his life by agreeing to undergo the full journey to rehabilitation, the enormity of what he was attempting struck him. He could feel the panic growing in his stomach. What he was attempting to do, he now saw clearly, was impossible. He felt a sudden and tremendous urge to rise from his seat and leave, run away.

  In the past week he had audited his life dozens of times and always with the same bottom line. He was weak, he’d covered it up all his life by being a nice bloke, but underneath he knew he was gutless. How could he possibly think he, of all people, could survive the process of rehabilitation? In the end he would let everyone down. Might as well do that now. On your bike, Billy, much easier on everyone. He started to rise . . . You’re sailing away on the Bridgewater, Billy, a second voice cried from deep inside him. He looked at the Salvo major then averted his eyes again. ‘I ...I think I’d like to . . .’ but he could go no further.

  Cliff Thomas, a big teddy bear of a man, reached over and took Billy’s hand. ‘Mate, we’re all like that, wondering how we can possibly rehabilitate ourselves. Billy, look at me please. Look at me.’ Billy, fighting back his tears, reluctantly met the other man’s eyes. ‘The answer is we can’t, but with God’s help and one day at a time, we shall,’ Thomas said gently.

  ‘I’m a coward. I’m a weak bastard, I don’t know if . . .’

  ‘Shush! Don’t talk dirty, boyo! We’re all weak, but that’s not the problem this time. The problem is that you have an illness, a disease, that’s what we have to treat. If you had cancer, I mean, think of it like this, imagine I’m your doctor, okay?’ Thomas’s voice dropped half an octave. ‘Mr O’Shannessy, I’m afraid the news isn’t that good, you’ve been diagnosed with cancer.’ Thomas’s affected voice continued, ‘But if you are willing to undergo the right treatment we can almost guarantee we can get you into remission in eight months.’ Thomas looked at Billy and, in his normal voice, said, ‘What would you say, Billy?’

  Billy didn’t reply and simply shook his head, understanding what it was the Salvo was telling him.

  ‘No, Billy, I want a reply!’ Thomas insisted, waiting for Billy’s first affirmation. ‘What would you say?’ Billy sniffed. ‘Well, I’d have to say yes.’

  ‘Of course, be crazy if you didn’t. Thankfully you haven’t got cancer, you’ve got another progressive illness, but one that usually takes about the same time to fix. Fix is quite the wrong word, of course. Like cancer, you’ll be in remission, but unlike cancer, you decide how long your health will last. You, not the disease, will decide whether you want to go back to being very sick or want to stay healthy, hopefully for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Thank you, major, I hear what you’re saying. It’s just that . . .’

  ‘One day at a time,’ Cliff Thomas interrupted, ‘that’s all you have to pledge and you don’t have to do it all on your own. In fact, you can’t. We now know that the problem with this particular chronic disease is that it’s progressive and irreversible, it is not a question of willpower or weakness. A psychological definition of alcoholism is that it causes you to drink against your will. Total abstinence will halt it in its tracks but won’t cure it. It takes only one drink to activate the illness again and send you off on a binge.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, I’d like to go on the program, major.’ Just then Kylie, a young woman who looked no older than eighteen, knocked and entered, carrying a small tray. She placed a cup of tea and two Panadol and a small brown pill in front of Billy and then a glass of water. ‘Six sugars! I bet your dentist likes you,’ she said, grinning. She pointed to the tiny pill. ‘Nurse says this little one is to prevent a messy nappy,’ she giggled.

  ‘Thank you, Kylie, that will be enough from you!’ Thomas said, laughing. ‘Don’t put any calls through until I let you know and close the door behind you, please.’

  Thomas waited until she’d left before saying to Billy, ‘She’s a bit forward, but I’d rather have ’em full of beans like that than down in the mouth. Kylie’s a great little example, she’s been off heroin now for eighteen months and she’s kicked methadone as well.’ Cliff Thomas pointed to the closed door, ‘It’s kids like that who make me want to cry out with joy.’

  Billy nodded, thinking of Trevor Williams’ daughter. ‘Well, she’s perfectly right, of course, a trip to the dentist is long overdue.’

  ‘Billy, you do know that we don’t do the rehab here, don’t you?’ Thomas asked. Billy nodded. ‘It’s done at William Booth which is down the road a bit. Major Harris is in charge there, a good Christian and a nice chap all round, but you’ll mostly work with Vince Payne, the pocket dynamo, he’s not a Salvo, but is the program director. You’ll be in safe hands. Do you know anything about AA?’

  ‘Alcoholics Anonymous?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Just the usual, the meetings they hold for reformed alcoholics.’

  ‘Right, well, perhaps reformed isn’t quite correct, you see you will always be an alcoholic but one who doesn’t drink. There’s a bit more to it than attending a few meetings, AA is your support group, your strong right arm.’ Cliff Thomas looked at Billy. ‘When you sign on, well, it’s not just for the next eight months, it’s for the rest of your life.’

  Billy hesitated. ‘I understand there’s rather a lot of appealing to God. I’m afraid I’m not very good at that, haven’t attended church since I was married.’

  The Salvo major laughed. ‘I know what you mean. Although my early life was Methodist, my drinking life was atheist. Now, of course, I’m a born-again Christian, the Big Bloke and me are on very personal terms. Perhaps I can put it to you a little differently. AA has a central premise that seems to work, one they’ve tested tens of thousands of times. I’ll put it to you as bluntly as I can. Chaps like us, alcoholics, don’t successfully rehabilitate without the help of someone or something, a Higher Power, we can believe in. For me, it’s God, but in the AA group I attended there was a greenie who had as her Higher Power a tree she once saw in Tasmania, a giant red gum. Another chap, a cow cocky from the country, used a blue heeler he once had. He’d say, if you’ll excuse the French, “That bloody mutt was possessed of an intelligence and a spirit bigger than any bloody human!” So you see, for me it’s the Lord Jesus and for someone else it’s a tree or a superior cattle dog.’ He grinned. ‘Whatever you choose as your Higher Power, you’re going to need one to come out of the other end sober.’

  The idea of a tree as his Higher Power appealed to Billy and he wondered if he should use Eucalyptus maculata, the spotted gum he’d intended for his grave. After some thought, though, he chose Trim. After all, it was Trim who had brought Ryan into his life and, like the blue heeler used by the bloke from the bush, there was no doubting that Master
Mariner Trim Flinders had been a superior being in his time. His spirit most certainly lived on. Any cat who had survived two hundred years of history was worthy of being regarded as a Higher Power. After all, the ancient Egyptians had regarded cats as gods, so why shouldn’t Billy choose the first cat to circumnavigate Australia?

  Billy wasn’t being blasphemous, he had never doubted the faith of others, in fact, quite the opposite. He had admired his wife’s complete dedication to her Catholic faith and her absolute belief in the sanctity of the Pope as God’s disciple on earth. He greatly admired the Salvos and their faith in a loving and compassionate Jesus Christ. It was just that he hadn’t paid his dues and now that he was in need of help he didn’t feel he had earned the right to be a supplicant.

  Of course, those with complete faith would constantly point out to him, often pedantically, that this was the whole purpose of a loving God, who didn’t count fealty and compliance as the requisite for redemption. His love was all-embracing, all-forgiving, ‘Come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.’ It was a simple matter of total faith, total acceptance, total surrender to a Higher Power.

  But Billy, much as he would have loved to hand his life over to this highest of all the Higher Powers, knew that he lacked the faith required to commit his everlasting soul to God’s mercy and love. In his own eyes he had been a phony all his life, this time he would need to be honest and trust in himself. To thine own self be true, it was a mantra he kept repeating.