This Mortal Boy

by Fiona Kidman

  ‘Bessie,’ he writes, ‘I would so like to talk to you about the future. Please contact me if you can. I don’t know whether there is hope for me, but if there is I want to make things right for you and the baby. And for me. I know my mam had our William, my brother who died, soon after she married my da. I will do the same with you if it’s what you want and I’d be happy about it. Think of it as a proposal if it comes to pass that I am free.’

  His second letter is to Peter in Naenae.

  ‘Thanks a million for your telegram, to be honest it was quite a surprise, I was going to write to you sooner, but you know so much has been happening to me these last few months, I am really in a bit of a dither, or should I say I was, as everything is just about over. Well Peter, I guess I have come to a one-way street. I need not explain because you have probably read all about it in the paper. I would honestly like to see you Peter before I go, if my appeal fails, although I can’t pin too much hope on that, as we have quite a few things to talk over I should imagine. Well Peter, I shan’t write too long as every word means a moment gone. Incidentally, if you do manage to get time off to come to Auckland the visiting hours are 9–11 and 2–4 weekdays and weekends. So cheerio for now Peter, as they say in Liverpool. Your Old Mucker, Albert.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Paddy has begun to feel lighter in himself since beginning his sessions with Father Downey. When he writes his name at the bottom of a letter, he is back to signing himself Albert, his true name, and he is proud of it, although in prison they still call him Paddy. But Albert is who he really is. He doesn’t recognise the fellow Paddy Donovan who hung out in the boarding house in Wellesley Street. He has seen his day of judgment come and go, and when he looks back on it he cannot believe it happened. All that pomp and ceremony, the wigs and gowns, the bowing and scraping, all on account of him; he couldn’t relate to any of that. The girl in the witness box; the parade of youths whom he had temporarily thought were his friends but turned out not to be after all, just a bunch of muddled young men who had been too addled with drink to get their stories straight; the sombre judge with his tight mouth; the jury with their closed faces. Or most of them. When he looked at them out of the corner of his eye he had sensed that he didn’t stand a chance. Only his fleeting glimpses of Bessie Marsh had registered as reality, and with it a profound sense of connection, some inevitability, as if their souls rested together. The real day of judgment is yet to come when he is face to face with God. He believes that he will see Him, though exactly how and where he is yet to understand. When he asks Father Downey what he thinks about this, the priest answers in an oblique way, saying, Who is God, and where is God, and where His dwelling? It is something an Irish priest had said to him once, and it came from an old chant or song or poem, he isn’t sure which, but it is the universal question that everyone who believes asks in one way or another, he had said.

  On the other hand, since his conversion, Paddy’s dreams have been haunted by the sound of the passing bell. The passing bell warned of impending death, the first of three bells that complete the death knell. His soul is already preparing for flight, and it will be on its own, without the girl to encourage him. He had all but given up hope of seeing her the morning the superintendent brought news of his appeal.

  In writing to Peter and, yet again, to Bessie, he has allowed himself faith that he’ll be in the world long enough to see them again. It is only a matter of days before he hears from Peter. He is coming to Auckland the following week, having arranged for time off from his new job at the hospital in the Hutt. Well, Paddy thinks, his must be a dire story Peter has told his employers if they have given him the time so soon after starting work with them. About his dying pal, perhaps. So maybe Peter doesn’t have much hope for him, given that he is hurrying north.

  Peter hasn’t been to Auckland before, but Paddy reminds himself that his friend is a person who knows his way around. After all, he comes from Liverpool.

  In his next letter, Paddy writes: ‘I hope you don’t get lost, though, as one should imagine Mount Eden prison is easy to find, as it is quite a popular place. Our Naenae days seem a long way off, though I did not realise how long until I started thinking back. Since we parted, oh well, you know life has just seemed one big whirl. Guess I have stopped spinning now, for a while anyway ha ha. I’ll finish, until I see you, for there is nothing like a good heart to heart natter in person.

  ‘Cheerio for now,

  ‘Your pal, Albert.’

  In the exercise yard, the man called Horton slides over to him. ‘Cigarette, mate?’

  ‘I never used to smoke until I came in here,’ Paddy says, taking one and coughing as he lights up. ‘Bad habit.’ They keep walking, six rounds of the yard and it will be time to go inside again. The sky looks a long way off.

  ‘It won’t last long,’ Horton says.

  ‘Meaning?’ Only he knows what Horton means: he’ll be dead soon, however much he protests that he is still alive.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ Horton asks. ‘Killing the bastard.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘Ah ha, you do though, don’t you? I killed an old biddy in Wellington, after I’d got into her. It was all right, you know. She was English and as prissy as they come, and I wiped that look off her face.’

  ‘I wouldn’t force a woman. I wouldn’t kill one.’

  ‘You didn’t plan to kill your mate either, did you? Don’t kid yourself — you’re a killer too, just like me.’

  Paddy draws in a lungful of smoke, holding on to it. It is the only thing he can do to stop himself hitting Horton. ‘You’ve no regrets?’ he says, when he is ready to speak, letting out a plume of smoke into the still air above the yard. He watches it rise lazily to freedom.

  ‘Oh well, I’ve only got the memories now. And I’m sick of this place. I’ll tell you, if I could get out I would.’

  ‘Why didn’t they hang you?’

  ‘You’re shocked, eh? Look at you, as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Well, you see, I’ve got the laugh on you, boy. There wasn’t a death sentence then. It was because I was such a bad bugger they brought it back, but it was too late to do anything about me. You could say you’re headed for the gallows thanks to me.’

  Paddy stops in his tracks. ‘I’d like to drop you.’

  ‘Go on then. Only I’d heard you weren’t a fighting man. Just a lad with a bit of Irish temper, that’s what they say. C’mon, have a go, they can only put you in solitary.’

  Knowles saunters over. ‘Break it up, you two.’

  ‘No bother,’ Paddy says. ‘There’s no trouble.’ Because sooner or later the warder is likely to turn his back, and Horton will deliver him two black eyes and not a thing he can do about it.

  ‘Time for your band practice,’ Knowles says to Horton. ‘You’d best be getting along.’ There is a brass band in the prison; when Paddy first heard it he closed his eyes and the Twelfth of July spooled before him. The band isn’t as good as the ones that cross Boyne Bridge on Orange Day but it’s galling that men he considers no better than himself can make their own music.

  Paddy holds his hands to his sides, fighting the anger inside him. If he gives in to Horton, he won’t see his friend. The screws are friendly enough towards him, but only because Haywood tells them they have to be; he thinks he is one of the superintendent’s favourites. A dose of solitary would take him right back to where he was when he first came into the prison. He reminds himself that Horton has nobody visiting him, just the attention of poor Mrs Haywood. Deluded, Paddy thinks, if she believes she can make Horton a better man. Then he catches himself, because who is doing the judging now? He had judged Alan Jacques and it had got him nowhere but here.

  Peter looks much the same when he arrives, the broad planes of his cheeks a little flushed at the whole experience of getting through the prison security system, his Liverpool accent as thick as ever. He has never been in a prison before. Rose has given Peter fresh eggs to give him
, and he had brought a carton of cigarettes, which he considers the most useful thing to bring, as well as a bunch of magazines. He had had visions of handing them all over to Paddy, he tells him, and watching his eyes light up. Instead they had all been taken from him at the gates. They would be inspected and it would be decided what Paddy was allowed to have. The eggs could be a problem, although it wasn’t explained why. This was particularly annoying, Peter tells Paddy, given that he sat up all night in the train holding them in his lap so they wouldn’t break.

  ‘Lucky they didn’t hatch into chickens,’ Paddy says, and in a minute they are having a laugh, and it feels good, the first laugh he can remember in a long time.

  ‘The guards mightn’t like the centrefolds in the magazines.’

  ‘They’ll like them too much. I’ll probably never see them.’

  They sit in cubicles separated by clear unbreakable Perspex that reaches up to the level of their faces. The visiting area is at the back of the chapel, a whole line of booths side by side. Peter has got a job as a laboratory technician, he tells Paddy. No more swinging through the pine trees for him, this is the kind of job he’s always hoped for. The nurses are great and he has a girlfriend.

  ‘You came out for a better life,’ Paddy says. ‘I’m glad it’s paying off.’ Peter falls silent. ‘It’s all right, my old mucker, you don’t have to feel guilty because you’re making something of the opportunity. I blew my chance all on my own. It doesn’t make much difference whether I meant to kill Johnny or not. He lost his chance of making something of his life, thanks to me. I don’t have the right to expect anything better.’

  ‘You might still make it out of here.’

  ‘I’m hoping so. Don’t be gloomy about it. I’ve accepted it one way or another.’

  ‘That sounds like a death wish.’

  ‘No,’ Paddy says. ‘I’ve plenty to live for. But I need to make my peace.’

  Peter shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It will come to you,’ Paddy says. He has done talking about it.

  Peter has arranged to stay in Auckland for three nights so that he can see Paddy again. When he leaves, after the first visit, Paddy asks his jailer for his eggs.

  ‘No way,’ Knowles says.

  ‘So why would that be?’

  ‘Your diet, you know you have to stick to it.’

  ‘I haven’t seen an egg in nearly four months. I can’t see how a few eggs are going to make a big difference to the hangman.’

  ‘Who said anything about the hangman?’

  ‘You think I don’t know why you weigh me in every day? How heavy is a bag of sand? A bag of sand that weighs exactly the same as me, so the hangman can practise dropping me from the gallows. You can’t string me up this week. I haven’t had my appeal yet.’

  ‘You’re full of fancy talk, Black.’

  ‘Eh? I’m right aren’t I, Mr Knowles? How heavy is an egg? You could balance it on a feather.’

  ‘I’ll ask the superintendent,’ Knowles says.

  As he speaks, the shadow of the superintendent himself falls at the door, another unexpected visit, and they ask about the eggs there and then. Haywood frowns and rubs his chin. ‘Just once,’ he says. ‘I’ll get some cooked for you tomorrow.’ But his visit isn’t about eggs; this time he has news of a different kind. ‘You’re to have a visitor.’

  ‘Yes sir, it’s my friend Peter who’s come all the way from Wellington on the train.’

  ‘Another one.’ Haywood waves Knowles out of the room, dismissing him. ‘It’s the girl,’ he says. ‘The one who wrote to you. She can be here the day after tomorrow. I’ve given her half an hour after Mr Simpson’s scheduled visit.’

  ‘Just half an hour?’ He feels blood rushing to his head. ‘Peter won’t mind if I cut his time a little short. I need to see her. I must. Just half an hour, is that all you’re allowing her?’

  ‘That’s all she can stay.’

  ‘Perhaps she could stay longer next time?’

  ‘I doubt that. She is being brought here by the matron of the home where she’s living at present.’

  ‘The home?’

  ‘For fallen girls.’ The superintendent waits for the words to sink in.

  Paddy drops his head in his hands. ‘Sir, I’m all of a muddle.’

  ‘Her visit is arranged. The time’s set in place, regardless of your friend. Just make sure he leaves sharp on three thirty.’

  She is coming to me, Paddy thinks, and his heart swells with longing. He will see her again. He begins to count the hours.

  So once again he will be saying goodbye to Peter, and he doesn’t know whether or not it will be the last time. Peter looks settled in for a long visit. They have talked again about the times spent together, reminding each other how they used to pin their shirts up over the window to keep the sun out of their hut that first summer at Trentham, the beers at the pub, and how Rose’s children are doing at school; Peter shows Paddy the picture of them again, pointing out how much Evelyn has grown and Harry is already taller than his mother. And signed up to play soccer, so that’s a bit of an achievement, and he’s been made team captain, and that’s shut the rugby kids up. But, all the time, Paddy is glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘I think we should call it a day now,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not in a rush,’ Peter says. ‘The train doesn’t leave for a few hours.’

  A silence falls between them. It is quarter past three. Paddy wants to tell Peter about his girl and the baby, but it doesn’t seem right because it might not turn out well when he sees her, or Peter might get the wrong idea about the kind of girl she is. To look at him, Peter would be described as a square at Ye Olde Barn cafe, wide grey slacks, a buttoned-down collar and knitted jersey. How could he explain in five minutes what Bessie was like, that the two of them would get along famously, her a teacher and all and quite serious. Well, his imagination comes up short, because he guesses that now she may not be able to become a teacher after all.

  ‘I’m a bit done in,’ Paddy says, and it sounds lame.

  Peter is nodding, and Paddy sees that although he hadn’t thought he was ready to leave, he is now.

  ‘You need to escape before they lock you up with me,’ Paddy says. ‘I’m giving you the keys, my friend.’

  There’s not much more to say and they can’t shake hands and they’re not like the girls who blow kisses to men as they leave. Peter puts his hand out on the Perspex, holding his palm against it, and Paddy puts his there to meet it, and for moment they sit there like that and Paddy finds himself blinking away tears as Peter stands and leaves without saying another word.

  And in a few minutes the girl is there.

  She takes the seat that Peter has so recently vacated, and looks at him wordlessly. He sees the small bulge around her waist. If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have noticed it.

  ‘When?’ he asks.

  ‘In March.’

  ‘Are you keeping well?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘I wish I could look after you. You know that, don’t you?’

  Bessie bites her trembling lip and nods.

  ‘That girl who gave evidence. She was nothing.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to talk about her ever again. Not now, not ever.’

  ‘What I said in my letter, I meant it.’

  Instinctively, she touches her ring finger. ‘Oh Paddy,’ she says, ‘what have we done?’

  ‘We’ve made a life.’

  He leans towards what passes for glass. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Come close as you can.’ He begins to sing so low that nobody but she can hear him:

  I will twine thee a bower

  By the clear siller fountain,

  And I’ll cover it o’er

  Wi’ the flow’rs o’ the mountain.

  I will range through the wilds,

  And the deep glens sae drearie,

  And return wi’ the spoils

  To the bower o’ my dearie.


  Let us go, Lassie, go.

  ‘My mam used to sing that to us we’ans when we were going to sleep of a night. Will you sing it to the little one?’

  Her shoulders are shaking and she can hardly speak. ‘Paddy,’ she says, ‘don’t you get it? They take them away as soon as they’re born.’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘oh no, they can’t do that.’

  ‘The baby will have to be a secret. Our secret.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, recalling the way things were back home — either marriage, which he cannot give her now, or a baby whisked away to grow up not knowing its true mam or da. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘But I’ll remember the song. Just in case.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise. I have to go now, Paddy.’

  As Peter has shown him, he puts his hand on the Perspex, palm flat, and she copies him. Her fingers are long and slim, so that they almost match his in length. They hold them there so long that the guard steps forward to separate them, as if they were touching.

  ‘I love you, Bessie Marsh,’ he says.

  She takes a huge breath. ‘I know,’ she says, ‘I know that, Paddy.’

  Then she is gone. She hasn’t said whether she loves him. He hopes that she does.

  CHAPTER 23

  November 1955.

  ‘Dear Peter,

  ‘Your most welcome letter came today and I was certainly glad to hear from you so soon. Now Peter, old chap, I hope you don’t think I was getting bored with your company when I asked you to go the last day you visited. You see my girlfriend was waiting to see me, and I only had until four o’clock. I do hope you will understand. Well my appeal comes up on Tuesday, so here’s hoping. Yes, prisoners come and go but I guess I stay on for ever. Ha ha. Well, I see you went to my happy hunting grounds. I’m sorry that you did not like Ye Old Barn cafe.