by Peter Twohig
All around them, on the walls, shadows bobbed and weaved like boxers from Hell. Mr K was looking amused, and relaxed. He had a pipe going, and from it wafted a beautiful aroma of sweet, woody tobacco. I sat down near them on an old drum and watched as they fried.
‘Nicely done, finding us. Very clever. You worked out that the stormwater drain under Fawkner Street ran from the river up to Kansas Station. Good detective work, that. But a long trip, and dangerous too. So I’m guessing you’ve done it before.’
‘That’s right. I was worried about Keith. I wanted to make sure he found you.’
‘Well, he didn’t: I found him, and lucky I did too. I appreciate all you’ve done for Keith, actually. We both do, don’t we, mate?’
He had to give Flame Boy a bit of a nudge to bring him back from wherever his mind had gone.
‘Yeah.’
It was better than nothing.
‘Are you going to take him with you, Mr Kavanagh?’
‘That’s the plan. I’m just waiting for the all-clear. Then we’re off.’ I remembered what Granddad had told me, and Mrs Kavanagh. He was looking me straight in the eye too.
‘You’re waiting for the briefcase, aren’t you?’
‘I told you it was important. I need it.’
‘A lot of people want it. Even a lady I know wants it.’
‘Patricia Martello is no lady.’
I was confused.
‘I don’t know her. I mean Luca Martello.’
‘Same thing. What did you tell her?’
‘That I didn’t know what she was talking about.’
‘Hell, even I’m not sure if you’re telling the truth. Anyway, this has to be done my way, otherwise, it won’t work.’
The eggs and bacon were ready. He doled them out onto tin plates and gave us a fork each.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks. I know where Keith’s mum is.’
I leant closer to Flame Boy. ‘Keith?’
‘Torch.’
He shot a glance at his dad. So did I. Two glances.
‘Torch? Did you hear me? I know where they took your mum.’ Nothing. This was hard yakka. ‘It’s not far away. We can visit her before you go away; we can go right now. Then we can come back here. You have to see her before you go. You might never see her again.’ I took a breath. ‘She loves you.’
Flame Boy looked at me as he munched. I wasn’t even sure if he could hear me.
‘He won’t listen while there’s a fire going.’
‘Where is she?’ Flame Boy said, suddenly, spitting fried egg in my face.
‘She’s in the Royal Victorian Institute for the Blind, in Prahran. She lives there. It’s not a home; she isn’t locked up or anything. We can go and visit. She needs to see you … talk to you, one last time. If you like, you can go home with your mum to your aunty’s place.’
I knew how stupid I sounded, but I meant every word. All the time I was just thinking of what Mum might want me to say, well maybe not Mum, but Mrs Radion perhaps. Keith was looking at my face, trying to work out whether I was fair dinkum, or maybe whether he even cared. I would have felt the same: it’s a superhero thing.
‘Keith can go, but I have to wait,’ said Mr K.
‘How long?’
‘I can’t say. I’m waiting for a bloke — he’ll have the briefcase.’
If he was talking about Granddad, I didn’t want to be there when he turned up. I mean, how would it look: ‘G’day, Granddad. Can I interest you in a fried cackleberry and a strip — not to mention aiding and abetting treason?’ I don’t think so.
‘Give us two hours to catch a tram there and back and have a quick visit. Two hours will be plenty of time.’
I could see by the look in his eyes that it was one of those forever decisions. I saw that look in Nanna Taggerty’s eyes the last time I saw her. She knew she wasn’t going to see me again, but the look wasn’t saying that: it was saying that she had just passed the point of no return. Flame Boy’s old man was the same: he had made his decision and there was no going back on it.
‘You’d have to come back here to Eden Park Station to meet me — up top. You know Keplar Street, outside? On the south side, Keplar Lane, halfway down, red gate on the right. Don’t be late. If they catch me they’ll put me away for good.’
‘Are you going to Albury?’
‘What? Oh yeah, Albury.’
He was lying. I had tried, but he was lying.
‘What’s the quickest way out?’
‘To Keplar Street? Up those stairs and out the door at the top. Leave it unbolted when you leave. Take your time: no rush.’
‘Come on, Keith,’ I said.
‘Torch.’ This time there was no glance.
I felt like a nong. His dad gave me the ‘fair enough’ shrug.
‘Come on, Torch.’
‘Go on, quick. Say goodbye to your mum, Keith, and come straight back. Don’t worry: I’ll wait.’
Flame Boy allowed himself to be led up the stairs. It was a long way to the top, and when we exited into the afternoon sun we were inside a big scrap-iron yard for railway parts. We left the door unlocked and hurried out the gate and got our bearings. We were on Keplar Street, and a short walk to the underpass and the station. While we waited for a train, I made a phone call.
‘Hello, Taggerty residence. Daphne Honeysett speaking.’
‘Hi, Aunty Daphne. It’s me. I’ve got Keith with me and we’re going down to the blind people’s home to visit his mum right now. We have to hurry, so I can’t wait for you. But if you come straight down you can meet Keith and explain to him about your house in Wodonga, ’cos he doesn’t believe me. This might be your last chance: his father’s leaving today. Here’s our train. Have to go. See ya.’ The Spirit is like Joe Friday. He likes to stick to the facts — just the facts.
I banged the phone with the side of my fist the special way Barney had taught me, and my coins came back to me. Two minutes later we rattled out into the sunlight near East Richmond Station. Half an hour later we were getting off a tram at Wesley College and walking fast.
The blind home people were happy as Larry to see Flame Boy, even though he looked (and smelt) like a zombie who’d fallen down the sewer. I explained to the lady we met that Keith was my cousin and had just found out where his mum was, and needed to see her because he was going into hospital tomorrow for a serious operation to his brain, and there was a possibility that he may never be able to visit or recognise her again. This they accepted with a knowing nod. They must get a lot of kids like me dropping in.
The lady did all the talking, and then Flame Boy went over to his mum and she hugged him for a much longer time than I would have done. I went over to the broom section and visited Weedo. This time his socks were a kind of olive tartan; I was glad he couldn’t see the look on my face.
‘G’day. So, you’ve brought Keith to visit his mum, have you?’
‘Yeah, how did you know?’
‘Oh, I know everything that happens in this room. I know, for one thing, that Keith hasn’t had a bath for a fair while.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, well, you don’t get a prize for working that out. What else?’
‘I know about your brother.’
A shiver ran through me, like wire. ‘How?’
‘Molly told me everything. I was sorry to hear about that. I remember having a family myself.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Dunno. One minute I had a job and a girlfriend, and I was savin’ up for a car, and I was flamin’ laughing, and the next minute I was in this place, and no one wanted to know me.’
‘You could see!’
‘See? I had eyes like a bloody hawk. Then I was in this accident at work. Smashed my head in. And now, here I am. Strange thing is, they say I still might get better. Or I might not. Life’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ I’d noticed that everyone in the place was in hysterics, but kept my mouth shut.
‘Ah, here w
e are!’ A female voice tore through the place, bending a thousand brushes out of shape.
Aunty Daffy swept past me like a lavender willy-willy, and headed for the happy couple.
‘Hello, Molly.’ Aunty D swept a batch of brushes to one side as if they were Jap prison guards and kissed Mrs K. To my surprise (but not Aunty Daffy’s), Mrs K began to cry.
‘I’ve been a bloody idiot, Daff … I was rude to you … ’n’ now Jean’s house … And the boy’s … in strife.’
‘You have been a bloody idiot, Molly, but not for any of that stuff. Anyway, enough said: water under the bridge. I came to tell you I love you and I’m not going back without you two. Let’s give this town the flick, eh?’
Mrs K chirped up a bit just then, and remembered her manners.
‘Daph, this is Keith,’ she said. ‘Keith tells me he doesn’t want to go back with you.’ She paused and took a breath. ‘But I think we will, if you’ll have us.’
‘I’m very pleased to meet you again, Keith. I last saw you when you were a baby. Look, I know you’ve got a fair bit on your plate just now, but I think we can solve a lot of the problems you and your mum have if we shoot through to my place. It’s big, out of town, and, best of all, you’d be safe as eggs.’
‘Dad said he’d take me with him.’
‘But Keith, love —’
‘No! Dad said!’
I bunged my oar in.
‘Sorry, Mrs Kavanagh … Aunty Daphne, but we have to get back to Mr Kavanagh. We only have two hours.’
I felt as if my head was being squeezed. Everyone wanted something different; everyone thought something different was going to happen. I was the only person who knew the simple fact that Mr Kavanagh would soon have the one thing he truly needed, and would then be off to the Volga like a shot, Keith or no Keith. But Keith needed to know, one way or another. You need to know about your old man. A lot of kids didn’t know, or weren’t sure — I thought of Raffi. Flame Boy deserved to know where he stood. He had nothing else.
Mrs K gave the squirming Flame Boy a second kiss, though you’d have thought that one would be enough.
‘Thanks for bringing Keith, dear. I didn’t think I’d see him again, and no one could tell me anything.’
‘That’s okay. Gotta go.’
‘But you’re wrong about your father, dear. He won’t take you with him, wherever he’s going. He’s not like that.’
‘Yes, he will — he promised.’
I looked at my watch. I wasn’t sure if Mr K would wait.
‘We have to go. Say goodbye.’
‘Keith, your Aunty Daphne is offering you a new start, away from trouble, where we can all be together.’
‘No. I have to go to Albury.’
For some reason, this had the same effect on the conversation as treacle on a ukulele. You would have heard a clock tick, if there’d been one. The ladies were looking at each other in confusion, even Mrs K, which I could understand, in a way.
Then Flame Boy, who was after all a boy of action, grabbed my hand, and started towing me out to sea, as if it was me who needed looking after. Aunty Daffy kissed her sister quickly and reached out a hand to me. We were like the Big Whip in Roller Derby.
I let myself be pulled to the door, shouting goodbye to Mrs K and Weedo.
‘See ya, Weedo. Gotta go.’
He was enjoying the show, laughing and slapping his thigh.
‘See ya, Champ.’
As the Kavanagh Express reached the door, Aunty Daffy yelled to Mrs K: ‘Pack your things, Molly, pack your things.’
The lady who brought us to the Brush Factory was still waiting, and took us back. We left Mrs K crying. Keith pulled me along like a locomotive. I didn’t resist, as it was good to see him showing a bit of spirit. Aunty D provided the guard’s van. I felt like turning around and saying: ‘Come on, Daffy, give us one of your laughs.’ But it’s times like that the Spirit is famous for not pushing his luck.
We took a tram up St Kilda Road, with the whole procession sitting near the door because of Flame Boy’s smell, which was a cross between a dead emu and a blue heeler who’d been tucking into the baked beans. All the way, Aunty D tried her best to convince Flame Boy that he’d be better off with her in the Garden of Eden she called Wodonga. But despite appearances, Flame Boy was not as thick as a brick, and was not buying it.
I looked for ways of giving Aunty D the slip as we made our way to Platform Five at Flinders Street, but it was a case of nothing doing. I should have realised that if Aunty D wasn’t going to let a thousand Japs get the better of her, she wasn’t going to be fooled by a couple of under-age superheroes, regardless of their combined knowledge of fires and girls.
We took the train from Flinders Street, and stayed on till Eden Park, to the surprise of Aunty D, who had been expecting us to get off at East Richmond. Then we rushed over to Keplar Lane and went looking for the red gate. I had no choice: I had to take her with us. Inside was a run-down wooden house. There was nobody home.
Flame Boy did not take it well. He started screaming and kicked everything within kicking distance. Then he produced a box of matches.
‘I’m gunna burn this place down!’
Aunty D snatched the matches from him and grabbed his wrist. All this was going on while I investigated. The kitchen smelt of cigarette smoke. There was a warm pot of tea on the table, and half a cup filled. There was a newspaper on the table folded at one of the back pages, which showed ship departures. I found the Volga. We still had time to get there.
‘I know where he is!’ I was getting the hang of the inspiration thing.
‘He’s gone to Albury,’ said Flame Boy, hopefully.
‘What —?’ Aunty D began to ask, losing the thread.
‘No, he’s gone to Russia.’
‘He can’t go to Russia,’ said Flame Boy.
‘Why not?’
‘He doesn’t know where it is.’
It struck me as sensible as anything else I’d heard that day, so I didn’t try to correct him, but grabbed him and pulled him through the door.
‘We need a train. Come on.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ yelled Aunty D.
Flame Boy’s response was to stomp on her foot, which revealed her weak spot, probably from all those years laying railway lines in the jungle.
She let go, and we all ran down to the station, which was just through the subway tunnel at the end of the lane, and caught the next train back to the city.
All the way to Port Melbourne I was thinking of that bloke on the wharf, and what he had said to Granddad: no luggage. During the trip, Flame Boy remained quiet, which suited me, because the last thing I wanted to do was field a question about his old man deserting him — again — especially as that was something I still hadn’t figured out for myself. I could tell him that dads were an odd lot, and prone to take off due to pressure from the little woman, or under the influence of the grog, or just because they felt like it. But the truth was, I hadn’t a clue. If I had been his dad I suppose I would have shot through too. Looking at the family, it had been in much worse shape than a lot of other families in Richmond. I reckoned that it was bound to happen, and that was as far as I got. But Flame Boy did not ask, and I was spared the pain and effort.
At Station Pier we found the Volga, a huge passenger ship, not like the Lena at all, except for its Russian flag, which also was pathetic, though it had lots of pennants all over the place to make up for it. There were people lined up along the deck rails, waving and yelling, and generally thanking their lucky stars they had found a way of getting away from a city that had just about reached melting point.
Flame Boy broke into a gallop as we got off the train. The ship was down on the big pier tooting its horn like a tuba player who’s lost his place. But while Flame Boy was galloping, I did not break out of a trot, because there was something about that ship that I had never seen on any other ship: it was no longer connected to the Commonwealth of Australia by any visi
ble means. The gangway had been withdrawn, and the giant ropes that tied it up had been let go. It was leaving.
As we came abreast of the ship, Flame Boy turned into one unhappy little Vegemite, and I thought for a minute that he was going to whip out the Redheads again. I grabbed him and dragged him up to the office of the bloke Granddad had spoken to.
The bloke was sitting in the same place, wearing the same clothes and, I reckon, smoking the same rolly.
‘What’s up, fellers?’
‘His father’s on that ship and he needs to get on.’
‘Who’s his father?’
‘Mr Kavanagh. Fergus Kavanagh.’
‘Sorry, no such person on the passenger list.’
‘But you didn’t look.’
‘Don’t have to. Now piss off.’
Flame Boy decided that this was the right time to throw that tantrum he’d been holding back since the age of two. I think he may well have kicked everything in the place, including the bloke. I made no attempt to stop him, as it was a reasonable response. But fair’s fair, and we were soon bundled down the stairs and thrown out onto the wharf, just in time to see the huge hull slowly drawing away from us.
Flame Boy decided to continue his bawling outside, and I wondered for a while if he might hurl himself into the water. He did not, I suppose because Flame Boys can’t abide the stuff — my nose told me as much: I wouldn’t have given him more than three on the Blayney Scale of Smells and Pongs, even allowing for an unhappy breeze.
He kept his eyes on the waving crowd on the passenger deck, no doubt in case the flamin’ miraculous should occur. But it did not. I could have told him from personal experience that it’s when you’ve just lost the one closest to you that God is most likely to piss himself laughing and close down the miracles kiosk for the day.
I tried to coax him away from the disaster, but he remained, grieving because he had lost so much: his mum, his dad, his house … his briefcase! And now he would be arrested, put on trial for house-burning (oh, all right: arson), and sent to some place where there was nothing worthwhile to burn, perhaps to the desert. I knew they wouldn’t put him in the loony bin, after his father had shown how easy it was to burn one down. He would end up a Desert Rat — Rat Boy.