Four Fires

by Bryce Courtenay

  I try to enlist Mike’s help, but he says he agrees with Sarah and Nancy and that boxing is a blood sport and they ought to ban it from the Olympic Games. I tell him Tommy’s on side and he shrugs his shoulders, lifts one eyebrow and says, ‘I rest my case, your honour.’ Sometimes Mike can be a real pain in the arse.

  The next thing we know, Big Jack Donovan comes calling around. But he does the right thing by us, he doesn’t come in the police car so the people in Bell Street will think it’s Tommy again. He walks from the police station and knocks on the door and it’s me who goes out to see who it is. When I see it’s him, I yell out to Nancy.

  Nancy comes out from the back as I’m greeting Sergeant Donovan and inviting him inside and she stands at the door leading into the kitchen from the front room and she’s got her arms crossed, just like she does for Father Crosby. ‘Wouldn’t even bother to open my gob if I were you, Sergeant,’ she says. ‘The answer is No!’

  Big Jack Donovan takes off his cap and holds it in one hand and, with the other, pushes his fingers through his hair and you can see he’s going a bit bald on top. He’s a big bloke with a bit of a gut and he’s sweating from the walk across town from the police station and there’s these big dark scallops under his armpits on his policeman’s blue shirt. ‘Now, don’t be like that, Nancy,’ he says. ‘All I’ve come round for is a quiet little chat.’

  ‘Chat my arse!’ Nancy says. ‘You’ve come about Bozo and the answer is no!’

  ‘Yeah, I can’t deny he comes into it, but maybe there’s one or two other things to talk about, eh?’

  ‘Tommy’s going straight, he’s joined AA, and he’s slept in my bed practically every night since Christmas. Well, don’t just stand there, Sergeant, you’re in now, may as well have a cuppa,’ Nancy jerks her head towards the back verandah, ‘Come out back, but the answer is still no.’

  ‘Now, what makes you think it’s about Tommy?’ Big Jack says, following her.

  ‘Well, it’s not about me entering the beauty queen contest for the Golden Hills Festival, is it?’ Nancy says, sarcastic again. They sit down and Big Jack Donovan puts his cap down on the cement floor beside the wicker chair and Nancy yells for Sarah to bring the tea.

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact I was thinking about you Maloneys this morning, not just Tommy but about a coincidence involving you, just before coming here. I was signing the police report for the insurance claim made by Hamish Middleton, you know for the burglary to his jewellery shop a week before Christmas. Funny that one, nothing of real value taken, just stuff you could hock easily in any Melbourne pawnshop or even in a Wangaratta pub. I could only conclude that the intruder must have wanted a little extra dough for Christmas. Silly bugger left one or two fingerprints behind.’ Sergeant Donovan looks Nancy straight in the eye, ‘A bit smudged, though, couldn’t be absolutely certain when we checked them against the known offenders file.’ He pauses, ‘If you know what I mean? Anyhow signing that insurance report reminded me of Bozo and Mole’s fight with the Middleton boy and his gang. If it wasn’t for that schoolyard scrap, Bozo might never have become a boxer.’ Big Jack Donovan smiles and looks at Nancy again, ‘You can’t be totally against your lad boxing, now can you, Nancy? Bozo did get a set of those very expensive boxing gloves for Christmas.’

  You don’t have to be Einstein to work out that Big Jack is saying stuff underneath that he isn’t saying on top, and that Nancy’s getting the message loud and clear, and so’s Tommy, who’s sitting further back on the verandah pretending not to be listening. Big Jack knows the situation between Nancy and Tommy well enough, and just by looking over at Tommy sitting on a kitchen chair way back on the verandah with his arms folded, he can tell this is not the time to enlist his help in changing Nancy’s mind.

  Nancy smiles, well sort of half-smiles. ‘We don’t mind Bozo boxing, Sergeant, but he’s still too young to go to Melbourne for them trials, he’s still growing and this is no time to put him up against older boys.’

  ‘There’ll be other kids there, Bozo’s been boxing sixteen-year-olds all year, he can cope, believe me.’

  ‘Cope? No way! Much as I trust you, Sergeant, Bozo’s too young.’

  You can see underneath she really likes Big Jack Donovan. It’s just that, as a crim’s wife, you can’t show you like the law. It’s a matter of principle, like secretly admiring some other footy team that’s better than your own.

  She turns to see Sarah coming from the kitchen with the tea and sees I’m there stickybeaking as usual. ‘Mole, go call Bozo, no point him not being around to hear what the sergeant has to say.’

  Bozo’s in the shed out back painting a kid’s tricycle, one of those trikes for little kids with solid wheels. We found it in someone’s garbage with one back wheel missing and it’s took a couple of months to find another the right size. He’s cleaned off all the rust and sanded it right back and put on an undercoat.

  I tell him about Big Jack Donovan’s visit and that Nancy wants him. He whistles up the Bitzers One to Five and hands me a paintbrush. ‘Here, do the inside of the wheels red but don’t get any paint on the tyres. You can’t get paint off solid-rubber tyres.’ That’s Bozo for you, everything has to be perfect and I’m a bit surprised he’s trusted me to do the wheels. He must be real nervous over Sergeant Donovan’s visit, thinking he may be able to change Nancy’s mind, though I don’t like his chances. Once Nancy’s made up her mind it’s like trying to lever Ayers Rock out of the ground with a broken stick.

  ‘What’s her mood? Is she being nice to him? Think Big Jack can make her change her mind?’ He rattles off all three questions without really thinking about what he’s saying or waiting for an answer.

  ‘Dunno, can’t say, she’s not being overpolite to him. Tommy being there, saying nothing, just sulking, ain’t helping neither.’

  ‘Shit! Tommy? Okay, thanks Mole.’ He wipes his hands on an old rag and tears off down the back garden. The Bitzers are jumping over each other and following in a furious barking and wagging, all of them wanting to be the nearest one to Bozo. One of these days one of them’s gunna get its head kicked in and we’re gunna have a fatal accident on our hands.

  What I hear later about the first part of the conversation is Bozo’s version, with a bit of Nancy and Sarah thrown in, because Nancy has told Sarah to be there after she’s poured the tea as she knows Sarah’s on her side.

  Mike’s not there. He’s off at the Owens Valley Amateur Dramatic Society rehearsals in the Mechanics Institute where they’re doing Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest as part of the Golden Hills Festival. He’s supposed to be designing the costumes. Mrs Barrington-Stone has roped him in. Her niece, Marjorie Delahunty, is producing the play and I think Mike’s enjoying going there a lot. He spends most of his free time doing sketches of big ladies’ hats with ostrich feathers in them and funny-looking dresses where the ladies have waists you can put your fingers around and bosoms that stick right out. He says the corsets women wore in Edwardian times were sort of like a step-in and made of the bones of whales because they didn’t have rubber and they’d make them so tight that young women would swoon, which is Edwardian language for fainting.

  The part of the conversation between Nancy and Big Jack Donovan when I wasn’t present, as far as I can gather, went something like this. Sergeant Donovan looks over at Bozo and says, ‘I’ve been talking to your mother about the Victorian trials at the new Olympic practice gymnasium, I guess you’ve read the letter, eh?’ He knows Bozo’s read the letter and Nancy’s knocked the invite back or why else would he be here? Still, he’s pretending he doesn’t know Bozo knows he can’t go. Bozo nods but says nothing. Big Jack then turns to Nancy.

  ‘We know Bozo’s young, Nancy, but this isn’t the Olympic trials, it’s a weekend of boxing to see the depth of Victoria’s talent. There’ll be expert coaches and it will be a great opportunity for your son to be seen and remembered. There’s an O
lympic Games every four years, the one after Melbourne Bozo could be ready for.’

  ‘That’s different,’ Nancy says, ‘Bozo will be eighteen then.’

  ‘I understand your concern,’ Big Jack says soothingly,

  ‘but this weekend isn’t about Bozo going up against older and more skilled boxers, it’s about the coaches seeing him, marking him down for the future. Maybe suggesting a good coach who can train him?’

  Nancy’s no fool. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Big Jack! How are they going to evaluate my son without putting him in the ring with someone?’

  ‘Someone, yes, but probably a sixteen-year-old also being put through his paces for the future. Bozo can handle someone like that on his ear, like I said, he’s beaten all the sixteen-year-olds in the Owens Valley and as far as Albury.’

  ‘Oh yeah, a local sixteen-year-old maybe, but the sixteen-year-olds at the trials will be like Bozo, the best in their district and not easy beats. No, I’ve made up my mind, the answer’s “No!”’

  ‘Wait on, let me finish!’ Big Jack Donovan is just a bit jack of her being so stubborn. He’s a cop and doesn’t take too kindly to being constantly interrupted. ‘You see, Australia’s never done much good at Olympic boxing and, to be perfectly honest, we probably won’t do much better this time. Australia hasn’t won an Olympic medal for boxing since ‘Snowy’ Baker brought home a silver from the 1908 Olympics.’

  ‘So there’s your answer, ain’t it?’ Nancy says, unimpressed with Big Jack’s journey through Australian Olympic boxing history. ‘We’re not very good at it, so there’s no point Bozo getting his teeth knocked out and his nose busted and his brains mashed by someone who’s tougher than him but who is not going to win at this year’s Olympics in Australia anyway.’

  At about this point I’ve finished painting the wheels and Bozo didn’t say nothing about what colour he wants the bodywork, so I drop the brush in a jam jar of turps and tell myself I’ll go back and clean it later and sort of creep down to the verandah and sit to the one side and try to be invisible.

  ‘Let me finish, Nancy, it’s not for nothing,’ Sergeant Donovan says. ‘That’s the whole point! Bozo’s gone about as far as he can go here in Yankalillee, he needs additional coaching. We’ve got to find him the right coach!’

  Sarah, who has said nothing, now interjects. ‘He’s got Bobby Devlin.’

  ‘Bobby Devlin is a good coach, but he’s a fighter at heart and has his limitations,’ Big Jack replies. ‘What Bozo needs is a really good trainer who’ll take him up a notch or two. The boy learns very fast, one such weekend could make a heap of difference to his boxing and get him noticed at the same time.’

  But with the mention of Bobby Devlin’s name, Nancy is suddenly off in a different direction. ‘If Bobby bloody Devlin is a good coach then I’m Sophia Loren!’ she exclaims. ‘Bobby Devlin is a petty thief and a pug with fifteen wins, all on points, two draws, thirty losses, twenty-seven by knockout!’ she says, reeling off Bobby’s statistics. ‘He didn’t win a fight in the last five years of his so-called career. He’s a Joe Palooka, Sergeant Donovan!’

  I’d clean forgotten that Bozo’s father was the welterweight boxing champion of the American Marines and so Nancy knows something about boxing and that must have been about the time that Bobby was around. Nancy can sometimes surprise you about what she knows. How’d she know about his boxing record for instance? I mean, exact, all his fights, wins, draws and losses? It’s fairly obvious there must have been something between them two but until now she’s never said, even though he’s been training Bozo, the Boy Boxer, all this time.

  Big Jack shrugs, he must know Nancy knows about boxing because he doesn’t try to bullshit her. ‘Don’t give me a hard time, Nancy,’ he says, ‘I agree with you, Bobby Devlin isn’t exactly Joe Louis or Sugar Ray Robinson, but he’s done a good job on the kid. Now Bozo needs someone who can bring out the natural talent we all know he’s got. Bring out the finesse, eh?’

  Nancy’s got on the same rock-hard face she has for Father Crosby, ‘Sergeant Donovan, I’m glad you think Bozo’s got talent and a future as a boxer, but his head is still soft, I don’t want my boy hurt.’

  Big Jack sighs then says, ‘Nancy, with the greatest respect, you don’t understand. Now is the time he needs to learn his skills. Bozo’s an instinctive fighter with a lot of courage and some real natural skill well beyond a lad of his age. All I’m asking is that he go to these unofficial trials so they can see him work out. See him spar. See if we can find someone interested in taking him further.’

  Big Jack makes a last effort to talk sense into her. ‘Bobby Devlin is the first to agree with me on this, Nancy! He knows he was never a classy boxer, never had the brains or the boxing skills to be anything but a Saturday-night club fighter, but he’s taught Bozo all he knows, put a lot of time into the boy. It’s as if Bozo were his own son, he loves the lad and only wants the best for him, he wouldn’t send him out to be clobbered.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Sergeant, that’s exactly what Bobby would do! What stopped Bobby getting to the top was absolutely no talent, solid bone from the eyebrows up, too much Saturdaynight grog and Saturday-night women and a not very gifted set of very light Saturday-night fingers! He’d think Bozo getting smacked around a bit would be good for him.’

  ‘Nancy, Bobby’s not like that, he may be a crim, but he has the boy’s welfare at heart.’

  Nancy looks up at Sergeant Donovan, ‘Don’t tell me what Bobby Devlin’s like, Sergeant. I bloody ought to know, he nicked me a gold bracelet once, right under the pawnbroker’s nose!’

  Nancy’s got her ‘here comes a story’ look on her face. Big Jack Donovan doesn’t know it, but he better settle back and drink his cup of tea because he’s here for a while.

  Nancy grins, ‘Bobby’s asked me to the fights and this particular night he’s won a tenner on a very doubtful decision. So we’re flush and having a quiet drink in the Acland Street RSL in St Kilda where they staged the fights. We’d both had a few and Bobby starts to talk engagement rings. Him and me have been out a few times, which I haven’t took serious, but I must have been more sloshed than I thought because I think at the time it’s a romantic idea. There’s a pawnbroker just across the road that stays open until ten o’clock of a Saturday night. We go in and tell him we want to look at engagement rings and, when the old bloke’s turned away to get the tray of rings a little way down the display counter, Mr Light Fingers has this gold bracelet popped into the pocket of his sports jacket quick as you can blink.

  ‘The old bloke behind the counter glances up and says the engagement rings we’re looking at ain’t any good, mostly garnets, to wait on, he’s got a tray out the back in the safe that he’d like to show us. He walks past the counter and we hear a sort of zizzing sound that don’t mean nothing, then he goes into a little office. Next thing we hear the little ding as he picks up the telephone. “We’re out of here, sweetheart, he’s callin’ the cops,” Bobby says and we make for the door, but it’s like deadlocked, it won’t bloody open. “Shit! What now?” Bobby says. Well, he’s half-pissed and that panic-stricken he doesn’t even notice when I dip into his jacket pocket and take the bracelet out and lift me skirt and drop it into the back of my knickers.’

  ‘Mum!’ Sarah calls out, shocked.

  But Nancy takes no notice, she’s on a roll and nothing can stop her until the end. ‘The old bloke comes out, he’s smiling like nothing’s happened and has this tray of rings. “Here, I got special, I guarantee already this ring’s quarter carat, Miss,” he says, calm as you like.

  ‘ “Look, we’ve just remembered an appointment,” I say, “We’ll come back later.”

  ‘ “Yeah, it’s with the doctor,” Bobby says.

  ‘ “It is already ten o’clock at night? This doctor, he works hard, I think,” the pawnbroker says. See what I mean about Bobby? Dead stupid!’ Nancy doesn’t wait for Big Ja
ck to reply, but goes on, ‘ “Be so good then to return for me the bracelet before you goink to the doctor, younk man,” the pawnbroker says and holds out his hand nice and polite.

  ‘ “Bracelet? What bracelet?” Bobby asks, all innocent-like.

  ‘ “The one you are taking, please, no jokes, younk man. You give me the bracelet, you can leave before the police they comink.”

  ‘ “You saying I took something belonging to you?” Bobby yells, like he’s angry and the old man is accusing him. The pawnbroker just nods his head and puts out his hand again and smiles, “You give the bracelet, no police.” He’s looking at both of us so I can’t up me skirt and get his flamin’ bracelet out of my knickers, can I? We’re in a real pickle. Bobby doesn’t know the bracelet isn’t in his pocket and I can’t tell him to give it back, which I would do if it were still in his pocket. I’m pretty sure the old bloke is fair dinkum about letting us go if we return the bloody thing and Bobby’s too dumb and too drunk to figure this out.

  ‘The cops must have been just up the street when the police radio call went out because suddenly they’re hammering at the door. The old bloke doesn’t take his eyes off us as he pushes a little buzzer under the counter and there’s the little zizz again and the door unlocks and two cops walk in. It’s Sergeant O’Callaghan, built like the proverbial. He’s the law around St Kilda and is known not to stand for any shit. With him is a young constable with a pencil moustache, don’t know why I remember the moustache, black.

  ‘ “Oh, gawd!” Bobby mutters, seeing who it is and thinking about the bracelet in his jacket pocket, knowing it won’t take O’Callaghan two minutes to find it. I can see he’s already accepting he’s for a night in the slammer.