by Peter Twohig
‘G’day, Blayney. What’re you up to?’
‘G’day, Gary. Nothin’ much. Just going for a walk.’
When he heard that, he laughed a bit and slapped the hood of the car.
‘Goin’ for a walk. Pull the other one: it plays “The Road to Gundagai”.’
‘No, fair dinkum, I was. What’re you doin’?’
‘I’m doing whatever I have to do to get by, just like you, ’cept I wasn’t here. Get it?’
‘Yeah. And neither was I.’
He laughed again and slapped the car again. Gazza and I had an understanding, ever since I had once warned him that the cops were on their way to his house, and he had kept quiet about seeing me do something last year that would have got me into a hell of a lot of trouble. That’s the way it is down our way: See no evil, hear no evil, keep your mouth shut, as both Barney and Granddad have told me on numerous occasions. A blabbermouth is no good to anyone. That’s why I hated Matthew Bloody Foster, though shortly after that meeting I was to solve that problem.
Anyway, while Gazza and I were discussing the price of fish, he went round and tried all the car doors until he finally found one that opened. He reached in and opened the car’s boot from the inside, and went round and took a peek. Inside was a shiny red toolbox.
‘Hello!’ says Gazza.
I had a gander in the boot, but there was nothing for me.
‘Looks like you dipped out, mate,’ says Gazza, who had apparently been prepared to share. ‘Well, finders keepers. Best I be off.’
And with a wink, he was gone, and so was the toolbox. And so was I.
10 The Queen of Richmond
Next day I was off to Nanna’s. The Sunday morning teas she bunged on once or twice a month were famous around Richmond, and the whole family knew that every man and his dog was busting a gut to get an invitation. This was because Nanna Blayney was a bit of a character, according to everyone who knew her, and liked to surround herself with bearers of the latest news, as she didn’t get out much. Barney told me that she was the Queen of Richmond. Being a queen, she was also very particular about who turned up at these morning teas. Basically, you only saw two kinds of people fall in for roll call: family members (even Aunty Betty, but only because she was married to Uncle Frank), and local villains (and their known associates, as Granddad once put it) — I think I was both.
Mum and Dad were always reluctant for me to go around there, but for different reasons. With Mum it was because Nanna had two husbands, and didn’t care who knew it (which, as a result, was everyone in town). With Dad it was because Nanna was not too friendly to Mum (which everyone also knew, but which Barney told me anyhow, he always being keen to keep the young feller abreast of the latest family news). Mum’s feeling had been made worse by Dad shooting through last year, as she now had even fewer husbands than Nanna, and it was driving her mad (Barney again).
I wouldn’t have minded all this, but I liked Nanna a lot, and liked to go over to her place, which was a fair way off, up the top end of Lennox Street, but I always had trouble talking Mum into letting Granddad take me over there, especially on Sundays. Mum said that trouble had a way of following Granddad around, and she didn’t want any bad influences getting onto me, like germs. But Granddad sometimes took me there when no one was looking, and I’d have a slice or two of Boston bun while he was having a shandy, and catch up on the local gossip, which was always pretty juicy.
‘So, Nanna, what’s new?’
‘Oh, all kinds of things, darling. Do you see that bloke over there talking to Barney? Plays for North Melbourne. Not too well, mind, but he does play for ’em. Barney thinks all his Christmases have come at once. He’ll be dining out on this for weeks.’
Personally, I couldn’t see it. For me, if you didn’t play for South Melbourne you probably had something wrong with you. In fact, I couldn’t see why they couldn’t all play for the Bloods. For me, football was one of the few uncomplicated things in life.
‘Anything else?’
She pointed with her saucer, which had a cup of tea on top, a trick that nannas specialise in. ‘And that bloke talking to Father Jackman?’
I looked at the two men, both of whom looked a lot like a couple of punters at the Greek casino over the fish and chip shop — up to no good. The young priest, who was a curate over at St Dominic’s, reminded me of James Cagney, and looked as if he wouldn’t be out of place at Mooney Valley Racecourse. I’d heard of Father Jackman, as he was already famous, even though he hadn’t been in town very long, or in Australia, for that matter. He had got his picture in the paper for stopping a knife fight in the church. It was only a week later that I got my own picture in the paper. This bloke beat me by a nose. Let’s face it, once you’ve got God on your team, you’re home and hosed.
But what could two blokes be trying to kill each other over in a church? I wondered. I was buggered if I knew. What I’m trying to say about this Jackman bloke is that he was one of the boys, and would look just as good in a leather jacket as a priest’s outfit. I thought I’d keep an eye on him in case the Commandos needed a chaplain, like they did in prisoner-of-war camps. You never know.
But it was the other bloke that Nanna had pointed at. He was a plainclothes copper: it was written all over him, except that his suit wasn’t crumpled. I wondered why a bloke like that would be talking to a priest, until I realised that he was probably taking the opportunity to combine morning tea with going to confession, it being a well-known fact around Richmond that coppers were bastards, and always up to no good, even if they were plainclothesmen. He’d probably beaten up or killed someone the night before, and was getting it all off his chest so he could enjoy his scones and jam without feeling guilty.
I turned to Nanna.
‘He’s a copper, I think.’
She made a gentle shushing noise, and turned to face the other way, so she could have a quiet word with me.
‘Very good, dear, but we say “policeman” in polite company. Or better still, we don’t use that word at all, as it tends to make people nervous, if you know what I mean.’
I lowered my voice, almost to a whisper.
‘His suit’s very neat, isn’t it, Nanna? Is he looking for someone?’
Nanna looked at me for a moment as if she didn’t know me, then blinked a few times before she spoke.
‘Your granddad told me you were shaping up to be some kind of spy, but not just how good you were. Yes, I think he is. I invited him to come along this morning, because a little bird told me he was staying around the corner at the Bakers Arms, and as he may be a distant relative, I thought I’d be hospitable. And also because I knew he wanted to talk to a few of the people here, you know, catch up on old times. But you’re right, he’s not from Melbourne.’
I didn’t like the sound of this, as I had never heard of anyone in our family being rozzers, and found it hard to believe.
‘It’s about Mr Kavanagh, that bloke they call the Torch, isn’t it?’
Nanna made a couple of faces, beginning with Margaret Rutherford in I’m All Right Jack, and ending with Alastair Sim in Blue Murder at St. Trinian’s. She was terrific.
‘Actually, that’s not a bad guess. Though I don’t think he has the faintest idea what he’s doing. I mean, what in God’s name would Colin Jackman know about anything? Now if he really wanted to find out something …’
‘Yes, Nanna?’
But it was nothing doing for Nanna, who suddenly realised she’d been thinking out loud.
‘Enjoying your scone, dear?’
‘Oh, Nanna.’
I was used to this kind of talk from Nanna, partly because she liked to be very dramatic all the time, and partly because she liked to keep me clued in to family matters, even though I was just a kid. This was one of the reasons Mum and Dad didn’t like me being around her unless one of them was present: they thought she might be a bad influence. But I was interested in this so-called distant relly from Woop Woop, whatever he was up to. Your C
ommando is basically a nosy parker.
‘Nanna, why’d you ask me what I made of him?’
‘Because I’d never seen him until today, and I wondered if you had — I know you get around and don’t miss a trick. But you haven’t. So that’s that. But if you suddenly remember anything, come and tell me, just me, on the quiet.’ Nanna was a collector, only not of stamps.
I gave her the Commando nod, which you do by nodding upwards, then downwards. I invented it.
The whole conversation got my Kim mind working overtime, but nothing came. I have a pretty good memory, so it was as if Nanna had made a mistake. But Nanna was as sharp as a prickle. It was a mystery, and made my brain as itchy as hell.
But it was tit for tat around at Nanna’s place, and the way all this cosiness worked was that I was now expected to fork over some interesting information in return. When Tom was around, our interesting information usually ran to which kid’s hair we had recently stuck bubble gum in, or which girl we had talked about kissing — in other words, stuff you could tell a friend, but wouldn’t tell your parents in a month of Sundays.
But since Tom had died I had got into so much strife that I had been able to top whatever tall story Nanna or her husbands wheeled out (and they had some beauties, especially Uncle Seb — I had no idea it was so much fun being a musician, and, based on a recent story of his about a bloke in the Hot Potatoes, I had already made up my mind to become a saxophone player).
This time I was ready.
‘So, my darling: What have you got for Nanna?’
‘Mum’s … um … expecting.’ I waited for Nanna to pass out. Instead, she licked her fingers, which was worth the trip over to watch.
‘I knew that even before she did.’
This is why women make the best spies. Look at Wonder Woman. She’d had my number from day one, while it probably took even Mum a few years to figure Tom and me out. And how about Mrs Sanderson? She could read minds and make chocolate crackles, probably at the same time, which is not a bad trick. Then there was Mrs Morgan: she had every electrical appliance under the sun, like an evil scientist. So I didn’t ask Nanna how she knew Mum was pregnant before Mum did. Also, I did not want her to start talking about where babies come from.
‘Okay then, we have a visitor. Keith Kavanagh’s Aunty Daphne has turned up. Except Mum calls her Daffy.’
‘Daphne Delaney. Well, well. She was very famous, you know. DSO winner. She was captured by the Japs. Gave ’em hell. When they found her, the war had been over for months. The Japs surrendered to her, her and a few other women. It was your mum who went in and got them, and brought them home. Tough women. Both of ’em.’
‘Aunty Daffy said Mum was her inspiration.’
‘Good, I’m glad to hear that.’ She brightened up. ‘So, how is Daphne these days?’
‘She laughs all the time. Loudly. She leaves Aunty Betty at the starting gate.’
‘Good for her! What else is new?’
‘She’s gunna take Keith and Mrs Kavanagh home, to Wodonga.’
‘Oh my God, that’d be a fate worse than death. It’ll be lucky for Molly she can’t see, for once. But I don’t know about that “Mrs” stuff. She’s no more Fergus Kavanagh’s wife than Lady Brookes is.’
‘But she calls herself Mrs Kavanagh.’
‘She does that to get by, that’s all. And we’re all doing that, aren’t we?’
I nodded the coconut, thinking of Uncle Seb and Uncle Mick.
‘So does that mean Keith’s name is really … um … Delaney?’
‘I think you can keep calling him Keith Kavanagh. Just keep what I said to yourself.’
I nodded the c again, and for the umpteenth time thanked God I wasn’t a grown-up.
‘Okey-dokey. Nanna?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Yesterday, Raffi took me around to Kipling Street to meet a couple of old people called the Crawleys.’
‘Oh, so you met Ernie and Flo. How are they?’
‘They stared at me a lot. Also —’
‘Mmm?’
‘They told me about some Swedish people who were staying with the Sandersons for a while, the Larsons. Did you know them?’
Nanna looked at me and made a mouth like a busted sandshoe.
‘No, don’t know them. But I don’t think I would if they were friends of the Sandersons’.’
‘Fair enough. Also …’
‘Mmm?’
‘Raffi: he’s, well, he’s a new friend, and he looks a lot like me.’
Nanna looked around the room, as if she wasn’t really paying attention, but I know all about nannas and their super brains. They’re like James Bond but with flabby arms. And judging by the quality of their visitors — except for Granddad and Barney — they’re lucky not to be done for consorting.
‘Oh really, dear? I hope you’ll bring him over one day.’
‘Bewdy, Nanna, I will. His name’s Raffi Radion.’
‘That’s an unusual name, dear.’
‘It’s Armenian.’
I had no idea what I was talking about.
‘You don’t say.’ She slurped her cup of tea. ‘And has Mum met Raffi?’
‘Nuh.’ I thought back to the time Tom and I mentioned Raffi to Mum. ‘But she’s heard of him.’
‘Has she, love? Perhaps we shouldn’t fill her house up with new kids just at the moment, eh? Give her a bit of peace and quiet.’
‘I dig it, Nanna.’
‘What?’
‘77 Sunset Strip. Kookie says it.’
I had lost Nanna at the last baton change.
‘Just remember what I said.’
11 The Larsons
It was a safe bet around town that Flame Boy’s dad would probably last about five minutes after he struck his first match — if he was a smoker he wouldn’t stand a chance. And with everyone on the lookout for naked flames, and there being so few of them around in the middle of summer, it wouldn’t be long before Flame Boy was nicked as well. On top of all that, it didn’t help matters much that Flame Boy had turned himself into a sort of Ned Kavanagh, which was not a very secret super-identity, as it turned out that half the mothers in South Richmond were helping him. It was just a matter of time before disaster struck, and I was going to beat it to the punch.
I needed to swing into action. It was time to become a brand new super-identity, one who could save boys, and already I could feel it beginning to happen. It was like that feeling you get when you notice that the street-fixing blokes have knocked off and accidentally left the key in the steamroller: on the one hand, you can see how what you have in mind might lead to enquiries and allegations, but on the other, there is a sort of realisation that it just has to be done. So I let the familiar strengthening power pour into me until I was as full as a goog. Then, carefully, so as not to leak any of the super stuff, I went to the mirror. Easy does it, Blayney, I thought. Easy does it. My new super-identity had come to me in a flash of light. I had pinched it from a train I’d seen a few times — a little ripper of a diesel — but what the hell: finders keepers. In the mirror I saw a new me. I had become: The Spirit of Progress!
Yes, the Spirit! A strange being from South Richmond with powers and abilities far beyond those of ordinary kids, more like Kim the Spy. The Spirit! Who, with his faithful companion, Zac the Wonder Dog, chases pyromaniacs and rescues them, eavesdrops on old ladies and witches, tells porkies to coppers, and generally laughs at danger.
Like Flame Boy, the spirit had got into me, not the spirit of fire but the spirit of action, into which I now swung like there was no tomorrow.
After visiting Zac around the back of the Sandersons’ house, I found the Sandersons resting in their cool living room with an electric fan going, the only one I had ever seen apart from the one at Mrs Morgan’s place.
The Sandersons were always happy to see me, which was a very mysterious thing, as Granddad once told me that if a bloke is pleased to see you then it’s eight to five that he’ll touch you for a dol
lar. But the Sandersons were living the life of Reilly, so I reckoned there must have been another reason. Anyway, it wasn’t long before I was sitting in front of the fan, drinking a glass of Coke with an ice-block in it, and wondering what the poor people were doing.
‘What’s new?’ said Mrs S, bunging on a voice like she couldn’t care less, but really meaning: If I have to spend another five minutes in this swine of a place without hearing any news I’m going to commit hari-kari. Besides, I know these two, and it’s when Mr S pretends that he has lost interest in the world outside his gate, and looks half asleep, and lets Mrs S open the conversation, that I know I’m being set up.
‘Let’s see. I could tell you that I saw those blokes you get around with down at the old Kavanagh place digging it up, but something tells me you know that already.’
‘Well done,’ said Mr S, suddenly coming to life like a spider when you touch its web. ‘Though they weren’t my people.’ He had a funny look on his face, as if he was waiting for me to do another magic trick.
‘And I could tell you that there’s a cop— policeman from out of town down here asking questions about this and that. He’s staying at the Bakers Arms up in Victoria Street.’
Mr S turned to Mrs S. ‘What did I say?’
Then to me. ‘You never cease to amaze me.’
I was on a roll. And I was hoping that under the rules of the game, they might give me some news back. But they said nothing. I decided to push on.
‘And I had a visit from the police.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, that was bound to happen sooner or later. I hope you gave them your full assistance.’
I considered reminding him that hope springs eternal, something Barney once told me the beak said to him after he entered his usual plea, but thought better of it.
‘Course.’
‘Glad to hear it. You know, I can’t believe it took them all this time to figure out where Kavanagh’s family used to live. They must be slipping.’
‘What are they looking for?’
‘Like you, they went there in the hope of finding buried treasure, that’s all. Just searching and hoping.’