Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘You’ll be staying at William Booth for the next three weeks,’ Cliff Thomas said.

  Billy had been told at Resthaven that this would be the case and so he nodded. He’d greatly miss waking up at dawn to Arthur and Martha and the singing in of the light by his glorious avian choir. It was something he had hungered for while he’d been away. He comforted him self with the thought that after the first three weeks he could still work around the AA program and resume some of his routines, his morning inspection of the Botanic Gardens, Operation Mynah Bird at the luncheon break, and his writing seated on the bench beside the pond and opposite the mighty Moreton Bay.

  Billy felt a sudden stab of pain when he thought of Con at the New Hellas Cafe. Such a good bloke really, he’d have to attempt to patch things up, though he couldn’t think quite how this might be done. He suddenly realised that for the first time since he’d run away he had a tiny sense of hope, a sliver of light. Now all he had to do was hang on for dear life and crawl towards it.

  But Billy’s hopes were about to be severely dashed. Cliff Thomas dialled the William Booth Institute and asked for Vince Payne. When Vince came to the phone, Cliff went through the usual courtesies, then said, ‘Billy O’Shannessy is with me, he arrived on this morning’s bus from Surfers Paradise, is it convenient to bring him over now?’ Vince must have said they’d send someone, because Thomas said, ‘No, no, I’ll bring him myself, I could use the exercise.’

  On the way to Albion Street, Cliff Thomas told Billy his own story. He was one of fourteen children. His father had died three months before his youngest brother was born and his mother had to raise the eight of them who were still too young to work. She was strict and pious, a God-fearing woman who insisted they all attend Sunday School. Cliff Thomas smiled. ‘If you used a coarse word you got it over the head with the broomstick.’ It was a pretty tough life and at the age of fourteen, Cliff, big enough to pass for an eighteen-year-old, found himself increasingly in the pub with his older brothers.

  ‘By the time I was eighteen and decided to join the army, I had acquired a taste for drink. No, worse than that, I needed to drink. With an army salary three times as much as I’d previously earned I could drink three times as much. I now realise that three years into military service I had become an alcoholic, though, of course, army discipline and hours hid this from my superiors, perhaps even from myself. I was one of the lads, a good man to be with when you needed a busy elbow at your side. I told myself I had a bit of a problem, but nothing I couldn’t manage, young blokes always think they’re invincible.’

  ‘Ah, don’t I know! A problem drinker, definitely not an alcoholic, give it up any time I like,’ Billy interrupted.

  The Salvo smiled. ‘I guess denial is something we learn very early in the game. But I was about to be flushed out into the open. My battalion was sent overseas, to Cyprus, where we’d go on extended, what were called dry exercises, no alcohol allowed.’ Thomas shrugged and turned to Billy. ‘In a big family you learn to take care of yourself, I was ever the resourceful one and started to make my own booze.’

  ‘What, beer? Home brew?’ Billy asked.

  Cliff Thomas laughed. ‘No such luck. Metho, brasso and melted-down boot polish, it had a kick like a mule and the ingredients were always available. It soon became my preferred drink. By the time I was in my mid-twenties the battalion M.O., not knowing of course that I was drinking metho, told me that my health was breaking down, and if I didn’t give up going to the canteen I wouldn’t see the ripe old age of thirty.’ Thomas then asked Billy, ‘You a Catholic, Billy? What I mean by that, did you have early religious instruction?’

  ‘No, Protestant, my wife is Catholic, O’Shannessy spelled my way comes from the north of Ireland. Church in my family was for formal occasions, births, deaths and marriages, my father called himself an agnostic.’ Billy laughed. ‘Which was rather amusing, he was a Supreme Court judge and was forced to swear allegiance to God every day of his life.’

  ‘Well, it was different for me. For us, early Methodist training leaves you feeling guilty all your life. I knew I was sinning, going against God’s will by being a heavy drinker, so I solved that problem easily.’

  ‘You did?’ Billy’s headache was lifting slightly and the walk, in the mid-winter sunshine, was pleasant.

  ‘Certainly, I went to my company commander and had the word “Methodist” removed from my army records and the word “Atheist” replace it. I was free to drink without feeling guilty.’ Cliff Thomas shook his head. ‘The mind plays funny games, boyo. I never get over the ability we all have to justify our actions no matter how bizarre. It seems most of mankind is in some kind of denial.’

  ‘How did you get to Australia?’ Billy asked quickly, hoping to avoid the subject of denial.

  ‘Well, I could see the writing on the wall, so I purchased my discharge from the army before they kicked me out. There was nothing for me back home, my friends had all married, my brothers and sisters had scattered around the world and my mother had gone to Methodist heaven.’ Thomas stopped and gave a cheeky grin, ‘Australia seemed a highly suitable destination for a drunk.’

  Billy laughed. ‘History proves you right. Most of our male citizens spent the first hundred years pissed, and the second hundred hasn’t been enough of a contrast for any of us to notice a significant difference.’

  ‘You’re right, it was like a homecoming.’ Thomas then went on to tell Billy the usual story of a drunk’s progression down the slippery dip of life until he finally landed in the gutter where a Salvation Army officer stretched out a hand and offered to pray with him. ‘It was the first time in my life somebody had offered to pray with me and for me. We knelt down together right there on the grass in Hyde Park and prayed that I would be healed.’

  Billy braced himself for the sermon that was to follow, though much to his relief Thomas now said, ‘I won’t bore you with the details, salvation is a deeply personal experience but, to cut what’s been a long story shorter, that was thirty years ago and with the help of the Lord Jesus Christ in my life, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day I got grass stains on my knees from praying alongside the Salvo.’

  They had arrived at the Albion Street address and Cliff Thomas put his hand on Billy’s shoulder, ‘Good luck and God bless, Billy.’ He returned the Resthaven envelope he’d been given earlier but hadn’t opened. ‘You’ll need to give this to Vince Payne, they’ll probably ask for it at reception.’ He extended his hand. ‘Remember, we’re on your side, no matter what happens.’

  The two men shook hands and the Salvo major walked away, but then stopped. ‘Oh, Billy, you can call me at any time,’ he paused fractionally, ‘for the remainder of your life.’

  Billy walked up to a window beside the front door and pushed a button set into the wall. Moments later, a pleasant-looking woman in her forties came to the window, which was covered with clear perspex with a slot for sliding stuff in or out and several small holes at mouth level for talking through. Billy would later learn that it was bulletproof. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ she said in a friendly manner.

  ‘I’ve been sent from Foster House, madam. My name is O’Shannessy, William D’Arcy, I’m here . . .’ Billy hesitated for a few moments, he’d never had to spell it out to a stranger before, ‘. . . for the alcohol rehabilitation program.’

  ‘Just a moment, please,’ the woman replied and turned away, to return a few moments later. ‘That’s right, you’re on the list, come in.’ Billy heard a buzz and a click as the door opened. He was suddenly possessed of an enormous urge to run, but the lady seemed to understand. ‘Welcome, we’ve been expecting you,’ she said.

  Billy entered and the door closed behind him. He stood for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the light. He admitted to himself that he was frightened, it felt like the first few minutes at boarding school after his parents had dropped him off. Although the reception office wa
s to his immediate right, the first thing his eyes focused on was a small blackboard positioned against the wall to his left, on which was written the lunch menu in pink and white chalk. Someone had taken the trouble to do it in a cursive script so that it looked quite decorative, almost like the daily specials in a restaurant.

  Lunch

  Lamb chops – gravy

  Mashed potato

  Mixed veg

  Banana custard

  Billy was strangely comforted by the menu, banana custard had been a favourite of his when he’d been a child. He turned towards reception, which consisted of wood panelling up to the counter level and then the same perspex that covered the outside window. Once again, there was only a small opening through which to push things and the cluster of speech holes.

  The woman at the window now stood waiting for him on the other side of the opening. Billy approached and she pushed out what looked like a large ledger, with a biro attached to it by means of a piece of string. ‘Please sign your proper name, date of birth and the name and address of your next of kin,’ she instructed.

  ‘Is the last bit, I mean the next of kin, really necessary, madam?’ Billy asked.

  The receptionist seemed to expect the question and she said sympathetically, ‘There’s usually someone our clients want us to contact if it becomes necessary, sir.’

  Billy filled in the details and under next of kin he thought for a moment before he wrote: N/A. He had committed himself to a new start and if something should happen to him he didn’t want to be remembered for his past. He didn’t believe that his wife or his daughter should be burdened with any more memories of him or the responsibility of seeing him decently buried. He closed the book and pushed it back through the slot. ‘Do you have any papers, Mr O’Shannessy?’ she asked, taking the book.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Billy said, handing her the envelope Major Thomas had returned to him.

  ‘Thank you. Take a seat in reception, please,’ the receptionist said, pointing further down the small corridor.

  Billy walked through to the reception area over a carpet patterned with small two-toned grey triangles that were intersected every once in a while by one of a brighter colour. Woven into the centre of the carpet was the Salvation Army red shield. There appeared to be offices on one side of the area and on the other the dining room with the banana-custard menu outside the door. The area contained a dozen old-fashioned red-vinyl lounge chairs, most of them occupied by silent men.

  Billy chose a chair that concealed from him a large terracotta pot which contained an arrangement of pink and green artificial lilies made of silk with stamens of a sharp orange. Artificial flowers, though not quite in the mynah-bird category, were among his pet hates. Man’s attempts to emulate the perfection of a single blossom, even non-indigenous flora, was an exercise in the debasement of nature. As he eased himself into the chair there was a sudden escape of air from the vinylcushioned seat and he was tilted backwards, so that his eye line was drawn upwards. On the wall directly above the dining-room door was a large sign painted in Salvation Army red.

  Jesus said – You must be Born Anew – John 3:7

  While Billy knew it was a call to repentance, nevertheless it didn’t seem to him somehow appropriate. This, after all, was to be a new start for him, his own personal born anew. Although, looking around, he could have hoped for a more pleasant environment in which to be reborn. The William Booth Institute had a forbidding nineteenth-century atmosphere that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Charles Dickens novel. He imagined the silk flowers were intended to soften the effect, give it a contemporary feel. Then he noticed a more concerted attempt to modernise the surround ings. Positioned between two office doors sat a very large fish tank containing half a dozen extremely wellfed goldfish. Above the tank was a notice, which, with exclamation marks added, read more like an admonishment, ‘Don’t feed the fish!!’

  Billy looked around for something to read but apart from a few dog-eared brochures exalting the work of the Salvation Army, there was nothing else. With nothing to occupy him, he quietly observed the men seated around him, each of them with a small nondescript sports bag or backpack containing his belongings beside him. While the area was fairly large, the red chairs and the silent men seated in them made it appear as if they were all lost in a vast grey ocean, every man on his own small island.

  The sense of being utterly alone caused Billy to feel an almost physical sense of isolation. It was as if the air surrounding his immediate presence had congealed and sealed him into his own space, excluding him from reaching beyond his vinyl-covered prison.

  Most of the men were gazing blankly at the fish tank. Although people moved past, going into offices or down a corridor to the side, they seemed to pass without any sense of movement. Only the fish moved in a hypnotic somnolence, mindlessly floating forward, never increasing momentum, turning, gliding at the glass, backwards or sideways, responding to some eternal rhythm that seemed as if it were rolling in from eternity itself.

  A door opened to the office directly in front of him and a small man wearing glasses with lenses rather thicker than normal appeared. Perhaps it was because of the sense of everything being slowed down that he seemed to be spring-loaded, the energy radiating from him piercing the air surrounding Billy.

  Vince Payne stood framed in the doorway of his office, scanning them all, and then fixed his bifocals on Billy. Having found his quarry he started forward, ‘propelled’ was a better word. With his arms slightly bent at the elbows and held away from his body, his fingers extended, he paddled through the air on either side of him, his body swivelling left and then right. It was as if he too sensed the containing air and was making a concerted effort to break through it to reach Billy.

  ‘You must be the lawyer?’ he said, smiling. He came to a stop in front of Billy, his hands still paddling slowly, treading the air.

  ‘Was once, but how did you know that?’ Billy replied, not sure whether he was required to stand, half rising.

  Vince signalled for him to remain seated. ‘We’ve had blokes in here who’ve talked about you, can’t be too many Billy O’Shannessies who help the brotherhood get around the bureaucratic minefields.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m not sure I’ve ever helped all that much.’

  ‘Vince Payne, I’m your program director.’ The pocket dynamo stuck out his hand, ‘Welcome to the house of pain.’

  Billy grinned. ‘Thank you. Yes, I have to agree, it does look a bit Dickensian.’

  Vince grinned back. ‘Nothing that a couple of million dollars wouldn’t fix, or maybe tear the whole place down, eh? Start all over again. Probably be cheaper in the long run.’ He had an easy manner and Billy found himself liking him immediately. ‘Come to my office,’ Payne said and then caught sight of the handcuffs about Billy’s wrist and the briefcase. ‘Crikey! What have you got in here,’ he exclaimed, pointing to the briefcase, ‘the flamin’ crown jewels?’

  Billy shrugged. ‘It’s an extension of my arm, my way of not losing it.’

  ‘Damn good idea, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it off you while you’re here.’ Vince Payne understood immediately that Billy, like so many homeless, had no concept of storage. The idea of deserting their possessions, meagre as they might be, was beyond their comprehension. Drawers, lockers and cupboards served no practical function in their lives. You were what you carried and an attachment to a bag or a backpack was often the only certainty you knew. Getting Billy to part with his briefcase was going to involve intervention therapy, the first bridge they would need to cross together. He waited for him to reply.

  Billy had already been through the process at Resthaven and it had troubled him greatly to know his precious briefcase was in the care of someone else. When it had been restored to him it had been as if an old and trusted friend had come back into his life, his eyes stung with tears as he grabbed it, hu
gging it to his chest. Now he was threatened with losing it a second time.

  ‘It really isn’t any trouble, sir. You may search it for contraband,’ Billy said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his concern.

  ‘Okay, come into my office,’ Payne said, appearing to relent. ‘I need to clear up a few details and brief you on your program.’

  Billy rose and followed Vince Payne into an office that wasn’t much bigger than a cubicle and contained a desk on which sat a computer, while the remainder of its surface was covered in paper and files. Two dark-green filing cabinets, an office chair and a straight-backed kitchen chair completed the furnishings. On the wall was a cheaply framed photograph of a man with an oldfashioned haircut under which appeared the words:

  BILL W.

  ALCOHOLIC

  FOUNDER: ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS, 1935

  Vince Payne motioned for Billy to take the chair before he seated himself on the old and slightly lopsided typist’s chair behind the desk. The office looked wornout and lent its owner no authority, although it was already abundantly clear to Billy that the program director didn’t need any of the usual trappings to assert himself, he was one of those people who simply assumed control and got on with it. ‘Cup of coffee?’ Payne asked.

  ‘No thank you, I’ve just had a cup of tea at Foster House.’

  ‘You sure?’ Vince asked again.

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’

  ‘Just as well, the coffee here is atrocious, the staff drink it, but I reckon you have to draw the line somewhere. There’s a little place across the road, Rocco’s, good bloke, makes great coffee. If you’re ever desperate for a caffeine fix, don’t take the chance of being poisoned, ask someone to get one for you.’

  ‘Thank you, I will,’ Billy said, enjoying the honesty.

  ‘My credentials first,’ Vince Payne now said. ‘Apart from running the counselling in this joint, I took seven years to fail two years of law.’ He grinned. ‘Good thing too, I reckon I’d have made a lousy lawyer.’