The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Leaving you with your mother?’

  ‘She says she can’t take no more, her nerves. She brings me to Angel Guardian where the Sisters of the Poor who are the handmaidens of Jesus, and the brothers, who are the guards, look after kids that got no family. I’m four years old.’

  I did a quick calculation. The little bloke must have been born in late 1917 or early 1918, which made him twenty-four or twenty-five, depending on the date of his birthday.

  ‘There was over a thousand of us kids there, but not everybody’s an orphan, unnerstan’. I’m legit, some other kids also. We got parents, only they couldn’t look after us because of the strike and what the niggers did to us. My mother she began to visit Dr Bottle.’

  ‘Dr Bottle? What, for her nerves?’

  ‘Dr Bottle. Booze. She’s hittin’ the booze.’

  ‘Ah, I see! Dr Bottle!’ I hadn’t heard the expression before.

  ‘Sometimes she visits me. She says she’s gonna go straight and she’ll come and get me. Then after I’m six she don’t come no more.’

  ‘Kevin, where did you hear all this?’ I protested. ‘You were only four when that strike took place.’

  The little bloke looked at me, plainly astonished at the stupidity of my question. ‘It’s the history of the Chicago Irish. Every kid in Angel Guardian knows it backwards. The brothers never stopped talkin’ about it. Mr Kirk Bell, him who was the top honcho of Armour & Co, he’s a Protestant, the devil incarnate and the number one bully in the US of A! That’s why they call it “bully” beef! They named it after him.’ Kevin paused, then said, ‘The South Side Irish at the meatworks and what was done to us by Armour & Co and them niggers, according to the brothers and the nuns, that second only to what the Romans and Jews did to Jesus Christ on the cross.’

  ‘I take it there were no black kids there?’

  Kevin laughed. ‘Hey, man, the Irish kids wudda killed ’em. The brothers they all sadists, they wudda flogged ’em to death and took the pleasure of it as a gift from the Lord.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘But I gotta say this. Later at Pontiac, this big black kid, Joe… Joe Popkin, we were buddies. I met him the same day we at Audy Hall, that’s where they hold kids waitin’ to go to juvenile court. We sittin’ there waitin’, waitin’, in those places waitin’ is the name o’ the game. Learnin’ to wait, that the first sentence you get in Juvenile Justice. Joe, he is next to me, he falls asleep when the guard is talkin’ to us, givin’ us our instructions for the court procedure. So the guard hits him across the head. Whack! “Wake up, nigger!” he says.

  ‘The guard is Irish like me. “Hey, leave him alone, he didn’t do nothing to you!” I say to him when I shoulda known to keep my big Irish mouth shut because it only a nigger he’s hit.

  ‘So the guard, he gives me a great whack on the side of my head. I go flying off that bench onto the polished floor and when I look up it’s Joe, he takes my hand and pulls me up. That the first time I touched black skin and later Joe says it’s the same for him, only it’s white.

  ‘From that time Joe and me, we buddies. He’s a big guy and he ain’t scared of nuthin’. In Pontiac, the reformatory upstate where that juvenile judge send us, he always took care o’ me. That where I stopped thinkin’ like it ain’t no coincidence niggers are the colour of shit. It woke me up. They folk like Joe Popkin, they good as us, almost.’

  You had to laugh. Racism, black skin, wasn’t only an issue in America. I’d seen my fair share of it in New Guinea and in Australia. But I didn’t want him to jump ahead. ‘Hey, Kev, we’re still in the orphanage, don’t jump ahead,’ I said, eager to hear the story from the beginning.

  At sea on a good sailing day, with the sails full, the wind at your back, time is not at a premium. It has always been a tradition that old sea dogs like to take in the breeze on deck and yarn when the weather is fair. We weren’t quite in this category but it was a good time for yakking and an excellent place to be doing it. The Irish in Kevin was all it took to get on a roll. ‘Tell us about, you know, what it was like at Angel Guardian.’

  Kevin looked pleased at my obvious interest. But then his expression turned serious, rearranged to befit the mood of the story to come. There was a lot of theatre in our Kevin.

  ‘We slept in these big dormitories, fifty kids, beds straight as coffins lined up after the St Valentine’s Day massacre. In the winter just one blanket each, so thin you could blow holes through it whistling Dixie. I tell you, man — we froze our balls off. In the summer it was steamy, hot as hell, like one o’ them Turkish baths. The dormitory windows were shut, nailed shut all the stinkin’ summer, they had bars on them, but in that place the kids were so skinny the brothers didn’t take no chances.’

  I chuckled, in my mind’s eye seeing a skinny kid slipping through a barred dormitory window and making his escape into the world. ‘Food no good, eh?’

  Kevin rolled his eyes. ‘The chow was terrible, shit on a shingle! Creamed beef, scraping they musta got from the meatworks’ killing floor! Served on stale mouldy bread the Polack baker give us rather than feed it to the hogs. Pea and potato soup so weak you could wash in it. That was the winter special. Mash potato, it so glassy you can see the pattern on the plate through the itty-bitty dollop they give you! It supposed to have peas in it, the ones that never got into the soup. If you found one you knew you must be the princess with the pea and the mattress. Every Friday, like I told you, it’s stinkin’ pussy. When it ain’t potato it’s boiled carrots, mashed. There was never enough to eat in that place. You was always hungry.’ He paused, remembering, shaking his head. ‘Shit! It was all shit, but still never enough.’

  ‘There must have been some happy times?’ I volunteered.

  ‘Who ya kiddin’, sonny boy, wit them cocksuckers?’

  It was the first time he’d used the ‘sonny boy’ epithet in almost two weeks, although, in my mind, it had become somewhat ameliorated since being used by the Virgin Mother in her appearance during the storm to announce Kevin as officially dead.

  ‘Nothing good ever happen to you? I mean, something must have?’ I insisted.

  ‘Yeah, the day I left at fourteen to go to Pontiac, to the reformatory. It was the middle of the Depression but we couldn’t tell, it made no difference. Angel was in the middle o’ the fuckin’ Depression permanent! Leavin’ — that the goodest moment! Lemme tell you something, Nick. There weren’t no angels there. Nobody in that place was good. Nobody was holy — us kids, the Irish brothers or the nuns. In there, it was everyone for himself; to give a sucker an even break was considered a crime against humanity! No angels in Angel Guardian, but lots of guardian. Yeah… that part they done real good. They guarded us like we was criminals and they told us every goddamn day how they nurture us, how lucky we are to be in God’s good care.

  ‘Father Geraghty, he says every morning, “We, the Brothers and the Sisters in Christ Jesus, are here my children to be the moral guardians of your souls, the angels in cassocks and habits, charged by no other than His Holiness the Pope Himself to mind over your spiritual and temporal life.”

  ‘Ha! That the biggest joke, buddy, they beat up on us for anything. You got ya hand in ya pocket scratching your nuts. Whack! That lust! You use too much shit paper. Whack! That waste. You eat too fast. Whack! Gluttony. Caught fightin’. Whack! Intemperance. You answer back. Whack! Arrogance. Swearing. Whack! God’s name in vain. Catechism incorrect! Whack! Ineptitude. Locker untidy. Whack! Sloth. Farting. Whack! Pollution. Smokin’. Whack! That theft, because how else you gonna get them fags. Every one of them Whacks I said real hard — that a regular floggin’ from Father Geraghty.

  ‘Okay, lemme take you through the floggin’ routine, Nick. You standin’ in Father Geraghty’s office waitin’ for him to come from this little room behind his desk, he calls it his sanctum sanctorum, it suppose to be holy, but it just a bed where the fat bastard can have a kip any time he
likes. The office, it got shelves, bookshelves, lotsa holy missives, some other books also. On the walls there’s pictures, ya know, photographs — baseball, the Chicago Cubs, Gaelic football players, they wear these little caps with tassels and they all got big moustaches and they clasp their arms over their chest, nobody smiling. There’s one photo of Big Jack Dempsey, the American Irish heavyweight champion of the world, it’s signed “Jack Dempsey, The Manassa Mauler — Knockout knowing ya, Father G!”. There’s one of the Pope doing a blessing in St Peter’s Square, but it ain’t signed. Then there’s this big coloured picture of the Blessed Mother. It’s a proper paintin’, done with oil and it says, on a brass plate underneath, “To Father Geraghty, from Mother Superior and the nuns of Derry Abbey, Ireland”.

  ‘On his big desk, dark shiny wood with these carved legs, they’s lion’s claws grabbin’ hold of a wooden ball at the ends. On the top, there’s this big square glass bottle with a glass stopper and six little glasses on a silver tray; inside is Irish whiskey. There’s photos in silver frames of Mayor Dever shakin’ hands with Father Geraghty, another one of Monseigneur O’Hara doin’ the same, then a photo of Father Geraghty’s sister, Mary, who is a nun in the Holy See.’ Kevin flicks me a quick look. ‘Lemme tell ya, she ain’t no Greta Garbo. He’s even got one of Archbishop Mundelein, it’s signed “With all good wishes, George”.

  ‘There’s this big brown leather armchair to one side o’ the desk.’ Kevin glances up and, pointing his finger at me, gives me a significant look. ‘Remember that for later,’ he instructs and then, taking a breath, continues. ‘So, now the good father comes in from out his sanctum sanctorum, he’s yawnin’, scratchin’ his fat ass and he points to the paintin’ of the Blessed Virgin. “Will you look at that now, boy? Such a beautiful face at’al, at’al… will you not beg her forgiveness for what you’ve done?” He points a fat finger to the floor. “On your knees, boy! At once! Ten Hail Mary’s for the likes of you! God is not mocked and neither am I! You have sinned grievously and the wages of sin are mine to deliver! Now, boy, make ready for the verity of Geraghty!”’

  ‘He said that?’ I exclaimed, repeating the phrase.

  ‘Yeah, that’s his slogan. It means he’s about to beat the livin’ crap outa ya. So, when you’ve kneeled in front of the Virgin’s picture and asked her forgiveness, he says, “Stand up, boy! You’ve had the love of the Blessed Mother, now you shall have the wrath of the temporal Father. Take off your britches. There’s a bad lad. Right off, hang them on the chair, bottom bare, lift your shirt, higher lad, higher, up round your neck. Tilt boy, tilt your bottom!” Then he’d remove his big, black leather belt. You’d hear the “click” of the unbuckle. That strap, it three inches wide and a quarter inch thick and you’re bendin’, shittin’ yourself. He strikes the belt through the air — Vhooosh! — then it lands against the back of that big leather chair. Whack! “Let the lamentations begin!” he says. “Grab your ankles now, boy! Now think of Ireland, our beautiful emerald isle, nourished by the sacred waters of the Shannon.”

  ‘Then he commence to whack the bejesus outa ya. He whales away at ya ass, gruntin’ and snortin’ like some fat hog. When he’s finished, he collapse in that big old leather chair. He’s got his fat fingers inside his cassock. The boys who work in the laundry, they say it got no linin’. The pocket in his cassock, it got no fuckin’ linin’! You can see his boner inside like a tent pole stickin’ up, his eyes they closed. “God forgive me!” he moans. The front of his cassock, it moving every which way, like a rat got himself trapped in a burlap sack.’

  I had been so absorbed in the little bloke’s story and now, laughing uproariously at the burlap sack incident, at first, and unforgivably, I hadn’t realised what was going on around us. But the sudden cry of a seabird penetrated my concentration. I looked up to see that we were surrounded by wheeling seabirds, some flying low, others diving for small fish. A school of dolphins appeared at our bow.

  ‘Hooray! We’ve made it, we’re near land!’ I yelled, leaping to my feet and throwing my arms up above my head like an excited schoolboy. Kevin, suddenly aware of what I was saying, jumped up and we danced around the deck, yelling, laughing and yahooing, acting like idiots.

  The little bloke suddenly stopped and looked at me, his expression serious. Then he grinned, looking down at the deck and shaking his head. ‘I owe you big time, buddy,’ he said. ‘Twice! Twice you saved me.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t tell him it was a coincidence, the right time in the wrong place, and that I’d really been out chasing a butterfly. ‘No, mate, afraid I can’t take the credit. You got it arse about face. It was Madam Butterfly. She saved us. I only helped a bit with the navigation.’ I grinned. ‘I ain’t no hero, you understand?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘I like dis blacksmith work, man. I black, this mah work, man.

  It good, you pick up dat big ole hammer, you sweatin’ like a nigga,

  de metal it red-hot from dat forge.

  You hit it hard, you change da shape.

  You keep hittin’ ’til you ain’t angry no more!’

  Joe ‘Hammer-man’ Popkin

  Illinois State Reformatory

  AT SIX O’CLOCK IN the evening we sighted a low island I thought must be the northernmost islet of the Houtman Abrolhos. If I was correct then we were about forty miles off the coast of Western Australia, roughly 240 miles west of Fremantle. With sunset almost upon us I hauled out to sea for two hours to avoid the reefs and shoals I knew lay south of us and set our course to the east of sou’ south-east, 155 degrees allowing for leeway.

  The following morning dawned bright and sunny. There are mornings at sea where conditions are so perfect you think you’re sailing inside a crystal goblet. If the two days ahead were like this, we’d be having a cooked breakfast in Fremantle the day after tomorrow. Bacon, eggs, sausages, fried tomato, milk in my tea. A second cup, more milk. I wondered briefly what the little bloke would order.

  He’d been quieter than usual at breakfast where we’d both had a double helping of rice and the last tin of tuna. We still had six tins of mackerel and two tins of carrots, no more peas and still plenty of rice. Anna’s supplies had lasted and then some.

  ‘What’s the matter, mate, cat got your tongue?’

  He looked up and smiled. ‘I like that word. Since Joe Popkin I ain’t never had a mate.’

  ‘You’ve got me, mate,’ I said, stressing the word.

  ‘Yeah, that what I bin thinkin’. I reckon Joe saved my life once or twice at Pontiac, now you the same.’

  I avoided the compliment knowing I would have done the same for anyone. I was growing fond of the little bloke but because of my previous experiences and being the kind of person I was, forming a lasting friendship would be difficult. Anyway, we’d soon be forcibly parted by the exigencies of war — he’d be sent to the States for rehabilitation and I’d be in the army. It was simply and literally ships passing in the night.

  ‘What happened after you left? Did you keep in touch with Joe?’

  ‘Nah, he didn’t get the four years’ education you hadda have for the military so the judge don’t give him no option. I went to Camp Paul Jones at San Diego and…’ He paused. ‘Man, he don’t write good and I ain’t the letter writin’ type. I called him long distance twice then.’ Kevin shrugged. ‘His landlady she say he ain’t there, he gone to Noo York.’

  ‘Popkin. It’s an unusual name; maybe when you get back to the States you can trace him?’

  ‘Nah, sometime it’s better let sleepin’ dogs lie. That landlady, I can tell she ain’t tellin’ me the truth. Joe, he ain’t gonna go to Noo York widout he tells me. He’s done a heist and got himself caught. He ain’t a juvenile no more, he’s doin’ penitentiary time. He knows I joined the navy. If he wants he can find me. I don’t wanna put no shame on him.’

  ‘You said yesterday that Pontiac was an improvement on An
gel Guardian?’

  ‘Yeah, man, it just a big jail for kids. What the hell, I bin in jail all my life. In Angel I got beat up every day; in Pontiac I had Joe to take care o’ me. It the first time I ever got as much as I could eat. The others, they was always complainin’ about the grub. Me? I thought I was in fuckin’ paradise. Stews in gravy you can stan’ your spoon up in, pieces of meat you can lift out wid a fork dey so big, corn-beef hash, vegetables, fill yer plate with spuds, boiled, mashed, baked, they got carrots but nobody makes you eat dem. Breakfast, you wudda not believed it: eggs, bacon, hash browns, hot cakes, flapjacks, maple syrup. I thought, I’m dead and gone to heaven.’

  ‘Mate, I don’t know about the flapjacks, hot cakes and hash browns, but I can guarantee you bacon and eggs when we get to Fremantle. Okay, you’re in Pontiac. Why?’

  ‘Why? Don’t ask. I’m small. Small kids can climb in small windas. One thing I could never figure, every mart is the same, dey got security front and back, dey got the mart locked like it’s Fort fuckin’ Knox. Then dey go home and leave the winda in the washroom open. The little one above the toilet, it’s always left half-open. Climb in the winda, step on the cistern, step on the toilet seat, step on the floor, step in the storeroom, load up, three cartons only, you don’t be greedy and they don’t even know you bin there. Cigarettes and booze, dey the two things you can sell on the street, outside any saloon. You do the heist and in ten minutes yer clean. Only one day I sell a carton of Luckies to a plainclothes cop. I got two more, Chesterfield and Camel, hid in the front o’ my ’cheater.’