Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  Matthew Flinders found himself in a great pickle. He was not aware that England was now again at war with France and, as he held a passport from the French government, he hoped for a cordial welcome to the island. His hopes were to be severely dashed and his life and that of Trim forever changed.

  Marcia Trengrove tapped Billy on the shoulder. ‘Time for you to leave, Billy,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s nearly six o’clock.’

  Billy couldn’t believe the time had passed so quickly and that not once during the afternoon had he thought of slipping out for a drink, though straight after the librarian had alerted him to the time the craving returned, such was the insidious nature of his addiction. Still, despite having had a sandwich for lunch, he was hungry so decided to walk down Martin Place where the Just Enough Faith food van would be waiting.

  Billy decided to visit each of the food vans progressively in the hope that Ryan might be spotted. He intended asking everyone coming in for their evening meal if they had seen him, describing his looks and, in particular, his black Independent T-shirt, Vans trainers and skateboard. There were always street kids at the vans and one of them might have seen Ryan.

  Billy told himself that, with the police looking for him, Ryan would be careful not to show himself too openly in public but he still had to eat. He had no money and, short of scavenging in the bins in the back lanes of restaurants, a food van was the most likely place for him to come.

  Jeff Gambin greeted him like a long-lost friend. ‘Haven’t seen you in ages, Billy. What happened? Got yourself arrested, did you? Warm cell for the winter?’

  It was an old joke. ‘No, I’ve been to Surfers Paradise, a place in the sun for shady people.’ This was an even older joke.

  Gambin laughed. ‘I can offer you an excellent lamb chop, mashed potato whipped to a frenzy, with rich brown gravy, what say you, Billy?’

  Billy had not yet reached the point in his rehabilitation where he thought to choose his food according to his mood and he nodded. While he waited for Jeff Gambin to prepare his plate, he asked him if he’d seen Ryan. ‘We know Ryan well, Billy, he’s a regular customer, has been for a couple of years, though we haven’t seen him for . . .’ He stopped to think, holding Billy’s paper plate, which now contained three lamb chops and a small mountain of mashed potato, although the gravy had not yet been added. ‘Three weeks, maybe more, not since his grandmother died.’

  ‘You know about his grandmother?’ Billy asked, surprised.

  ‘Oh yes, Ryan would always take a plate of food back for the old woman, almost always mince and mash. She also loved sausages and fried onions. We’d put it in a plastic container for him to keep it warm. When he stopped coming we asked around and someone, I forget who, said the old girl had passed on. Haven’t seen the boy since.’

  ‘If you do, could you tell him he’ll find me with Trim?’ Billy asked.

  ‘Find you with Trim? That all?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Jeff.’ Billy took the plate and sat on a bench, surprised at just how hungry he was.

  Billy completed his meal with a paper mug of sweet, milky tea, into which he put only two teaspoons of sugar. It was yet another tiny step forward. He had just sufficient time to walk up William Street to the Cross and the Wayside Chapel.

  Carrying his briefcase in the usual way and his Wayside Chapel blanket wrapped in the plastic bag under his right arm, he appeared the derelict more than ever. His knee was playing up from all the walking he’d done but he was sober and hanging on grimly. At this moment in his life he was as far from the famous barrister as he had ever been, yet he sensed that he was slowly closing in on the human being he might some day become if he could stay off the grog.

  The thought of everything changing, and the prospect of entering a life of sobriety, frightened Billy. He knew how to conduct himself in the world of drunks but he didn’t know how to live in that same world as a sober person. On his first night out of William Booth and still sober, he was planning to spend some of it in a dark alley behind The Sheba, acting out the accustomed role of an alcoholic, and after midnight on the bench underneath Trim’s window ledge as a homeless person accommodated in the Starlight Hotel. He was back on the street and sleeping rough, but this time without the warmth and comfort and final oblivion provided by Mr Johnnie Walker. He was going to need the affirmation he hoped the AA meeting he was about to attend would give him.

  Billy arrived at the Wayside Chapel just after seven o’clock with the AA meeting due to begin at seven-thirty, so he waited outside, not sure he wanted to enter until the last possible moment. It was getting cold and he was annoyed with himself that he hadn’t thought to pick up a sweater when he’d gone for his blanket that morning. There seemed to be a lot of young people around, most of them with bits and pieces thrust through their various facial orifices, rings through their noses, eyelids, ears and tongues, not to mention the multi-ringed ear lobes. Billy wondered what it was in human beings that required this kind of self-mutilation in the name of fashion or originality. If it was a need to stand out as a different caste, what was the particular defiance they wished to articulate? A loop through the tongue seemed to him to be a very inconvenient implementation, so what was such an obvious impediment trying to say?

  Men and women somewhat older than the youngsters started to arrive, some dressed much as he was, though the majority wore business suits and ties and had obviously come straight from work. Billy didn’t carry a watch, another habit he would have to take up again, but after several of the men had entered, he followed.

  The meeting, which took place in a back room, was largely unstructured and it became at once obvious that its central purpose was to offer mutual support to those attending. As at William Booth, only first names were offered and no other details followed unless these were volunteered. The men sat around, talking one to one or in groups, and almost immediately a man in a suit and tie who seemed in his fifties came over to Billy and offered his hand.

  ‘Hi, I’m Don, welcome to AA.’

  ‘Thank you, my name is Billy.’

  ‘This is your first visit, Billy?’ Don asked.

  Billy nodded. ‘I’ve just come out of William Booth, my first day as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Good on ya!’ Don cried, immediately gripping Billy’s shoulder. ‘You’ve come straight in, that’s bloody marvellous, mate.’

  Billy could sense the sincerity of Don’s response and felt a lot more comfortable. ‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do,’ he ventured.

  Don grinned. ‘What you’ve asked sounds like a simple question but it isn’t. AA meetings are not very structured unless you want to do the Twelve Steps, we call those “step meetings” and they take place in a separate room. Otherwise we are all here for mutual support. If I’m chairing the meeting, I’ll bring it to order and we’ll say a short prayer and then ask if there’s anyone who wants to share. Someone will stand up and tell of his experience as an alcoholic and when he’s finished we’ll give him a lot of vocal support. You will find there is a very strong bond between everyone here.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a bit like a secret society, someone can only enter if they’ve had the experience of addiction. Your paid-up membership is because we all share the same experience. We’re all alcoholics and we’re all here for each other.’ He touched Billy on the shoulder. ‘Come and let me introduce you to a few of the blokes.’

  After a while, as he told Billy he would, Don called the meeting to order and said a short prayer. Then he asked if anyone wanted to share. A man stood up and introduced himself as Bryan, whereupon there was some clapping and calls of ‘Gidday, Bryan’ and other expressions of encouragement and welcoming sounds. Bryan told his story and some of the problems he was having to confront, at the end of which he sat down to the applause of the rest of the men and women. This happened on three more occasions and afterwards the meeting moved back to one-on-one and group discussions, with every
one included.

  By the end of the evening, Billy had met and listened to almost everyone. He was surprised at the frankness of many of the discussions and the willingness of the members to participate. It wasn’t as much the wisdom of their thoughts, after all they shared the one experience in common, but their warmth and sincerity and their genuine need to be with each other, even though it was obvious they didn’t all belong to the same social environment outside. Billy said very little himself and nobody tried to push him into joining in, but nevertheless he felt included. Over tea and biscuits he met more of the people, all of whom encouraged him to keep attending, promising their support.

  By the end of his first AA meeting, Billy felt reason ably comfortable. This was something he would need to do twice a day for a long time to come and he was vastly relieved to find that he could accommodate himself without a feeling of apprehension or alienation. He would most definitely attend the meeting the following morning to be held at the G’day Cafe at the Rocks.

  Billy was happy that the first part of his day wouldn’t differ too greatly from his previous existence. The difference was that he would swap a hangover for a craving, and eventually his Higher Power, Master Mariner Trim Flinders, might take him to the point when the craving ceased, when only the warning that he would always be an alcoholic would persist.

  At the conclusion of the meeting, Don came over and explained that he was the voluntary chairman and did Billy mind if he asked him one or two questions. Billy told him to go ahead.

  ‘Your anonymity will always be respected, Billy, but if you’d like me to go through the Twelve Steps and explain the step meetings, I’d be happy to do that. Also, are you familiar with the idea of a sponsor?’

  ‘Is that someone I can have access to at such times as things get rugged?’ Billy replied.

  ‘Yes, someone who is always available to talk with you, whether face-to-face or on the phone. Most of us have such a person and I commend the idea to you.’ He grinned. ‘You know how it is, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. We all reach that certain point when we think we can’t continue and that’s the time to call your sponsor. It sounds crazy but it works, in fact it is one of the basic platforms of AA.’

  ‘May I think about it?’ Billy replied. ‘In my present circumstances I don’t have a phone or even a reliable address. The public telephones are usually in disrepair in my sleeping locality.’ In fact, Billy wanted time to get to know the men around him so that he could pick a sponsor among them whom he liked and respected. ‘Sure, just shout when you’re ready,’ Don said.

  ‘Will I see you at the G’day Cafe tomorrow morning? I’ll shout you a coffee and a sticky bun.’

  It was no more than five minutes’ walk from the Wayside Chapel to the lane behind The Queen of Sheba and Billy soon found a doorway not quite opposite the back entrance Freddo had described to him. He rummaged around in a bin until he found an empty wine bottle, which he wrapped in newspaper, and then he settled down, the blanket wrapped around him and the bottle lying on its side beside him. If anyone approached, he would pretend to be in the usual alcohol-induced coma or, if he had to, he’d simply act as if he was very drunk.

  The hours passed slowly and even though Billy had washed out the wine bottle at the Fitzroy fountain, he was convinced he could still smell the residual alcohol. The bottle was intended as a prop, the usual accompaniment to be found with a drunk, but its presence was beginning to disturb him. Twice he moved the bottle away, placing it two doorways along, and both times he lasted no more than half an hour before retrieving it.

  During the evening four men approached the door, all of them well dressed, and Billy soon became aware of the routine. The bell, it must have been an internal buzzer because it made no outside sound, was situated on the lintel above the door and would not be visible to anyone not knowing it was there. A few moments after the bell had been pressed, a light above the doorway suddenly came on and moments later went out again.

  At first Billy was puzzled, then he realised that there must be a camera focused on the doorway and the light was needed so that the observer inside could identify the caller. Even then the door didn’t open, the caller was required to insert a card into a slot beside the door and had to wait some twenty seconds for the soft buzz of the electronically-controlled door opening. The card inserted into the slot was obviously not a key but a further means of identifying the visitor.

  Close to midnight, Billy could bear the imagined fumes coming from the bottle no longer. He had to have a drink and he rose. Leaving his blanket in the doorway, he started down the lane. He had hardly taken two steps when he heard footsteps approaching. Darting back into the doorway, he hurriedly wrapped himself in the blanket and waited, pretending to be asleep, though in the darkness of the doorway his eyes were open. The bottle had rolled away and had come to rest in the gutter.

  Billy watched as a large man approached Freddo’s door. He stood in front of it for a moment before he went through the usual routine but, as the light went on, Billy got a clear view of his face and of the brightly coloured tie he was wearing. He’d seen that face before and he clearly remembered the tie, it was of pink silk emblazoned with purple rats. The man was the one he had seen at Marion’s Bar at the Flag Hotel.

  Then, like a bolt from the blue, Billy made another connection that had been scratching around in his mind ever since the morning Sergeant Orr had stopped him outside Parliament House in Macquarie Street on the day he’d first met Ryan. The man standing at the door was the politician who’d had the fight with the television reporter over an accusation that he was concealing the name of a prominent judge who was a paedophile. Orr had been a witness for the politician in the case where Billy had appeared for the television station. He now recalled how the politician had subsequently lost his seat in the next election and had been given a cushy job in the Department of Community Services by the incoming Liberal government. His name was Petersen, Alf Petersen, and he was Marion’s so-called boyfriend.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Billy awoke to the usual raucous laughter of the two kookaburras. He felt stiff and sore, a month sleeping on a mattress had made his body soft. It was several minutes before he could stand upright without holding on to the back of the bench. There was one good piece of news, in his absence the drinking fountain some six metres from the bench had been repaired. Unshackling his briefcase and handcuffing it to the leg of the bench, he moved over to the fountain and rinsed his mouth, drank again, then washed his face.

  As Billy drank from the fountain, he realised that he’d made yet another tiny step in his rehabilitation, he hadn’t woken to find his mouth bone-dry and his tongue sticking to its roof as it would have been had he been drinking. Along with a clear head, this was another small victory in the fragile world he now lived in. His heart skipped a beat as he recalled the previous night when he’d left his blanket and was about to go and find a drink. Had Alf Petersen not chosen that very moment to walk into the alley, Billy knew he would have been a goner. Life works in mysterious ways, the evil bastard had inadvertently saved him from personal disaster.

  The repair of the drinking fountain was for Billy the equivalent of having running water brought into his home for the first time. He was considerably cheered by the wonderful convenience, knowing he didn’t have to go all the way down to Martin Place Station for fresh water. On his way to the AA morning meeting at the Rocks at seven, he’d use the toilet at Circular Quay. He folded his blanket and placed it into the plastic bag, then walked over to the clump of palms and tree ferns at the extreme perimeter of his sleeping quarters. The city council had spread a deep layer of woodchips on the ground under the foliage in order to retain moisture in the soil. Billy scratched a hollow among the chips and placed his blanket within it, then covered it over. Except for a slight bump on one part of the surface, the blanket was completely concealed and unlikely to be discovered. Retrieving his brie
fcase, Billy started out for the Quay.

  After finishing his ablutions, Billy decided he’d shave and shower at The Station after the AA meeting. He also hoped a letter might be waiting from Trevor Williams at the daytime retreat for the homeless. The G’day Cafe was only a couple of hundred metres from the Quay in Lower George Street so he would have sufficient time to buy several slices of bread and make up his day’s supply of mynah-bird bullets before the meeting.

  Walking down the concourse, Billy was about to cross the road to avoid Con Poleondakis at the New Hellas Cafe when he stopped abruptly. On the spur of the moment he decided to attempt a reconciliation. If the Greek cafe owner rejected him, Billy felt he was strong enough to accept it. The sudden and unexpected conniption between them over Ryan had been so abrupt that Billy felt he’d not been able to reason with the irascible Greek. Just by attempting a reconciliation, even if it should fail, he would be making a statement to himself that he was no longer a derelict and wasn’t obliged to accept the scorn of others without the right to protest.

  Billy took a deep breath and, squaring his shoulders, walked over to the New Hellas. To his astonishment, the first thing he noticed was a carton of coffee, a finger bun and the better part of a loaf of bread placed at the end of the counter. A thin lick of steam emerged from the opening in the plastic lid that covered the coffee container.