His Father's Son: To save the son he loves, a desparate father must confront the ghosts of his past (11 page)

“Thanks would be a start.”

“Oh Jaysus, thanks, Macca.” Joey held up the boomerang for everyone to see. “Thanks, fellas. I don’t know how to thank you all.”

“Try getting a bloody shout in,” said Pando the Greek, and the room laughed and cheered with Joey.

Cold beer was shifted about in big pitchers and the bar and tabletops started to fill with glasses, empty and full. People moved in lurches and bounds to greet newcomers, fresh from the street and with no idea a farewell party was in full swing. There was dancing and singing and jokes and stories told, even some by Joey. Nobody seemed to give a thought to the time or how much the drink was flowing and soon even the people fresh from the street were dancing and singing.

“Tis a grand hooley, Macca,” said Joey.

“We know how to send off a mate, Bluey. Bloody oath, we do.”

Joey slapped Macca on the back and said thanks again but he could tell Macca’s attention was drawn off to the bar. An Aboriginal family had come in, a tall black fella and a woman carrying pots and three young children. They were all barefoot. The family stood silently, their mouths closed. They were covered in dust and thirsty. They looked to all like they had just walked in from the bush.

“They want their pots filled, Macca,” said Joey.

“I know, I know.” Macca put down his beer and walked over to the family. The barman told them he wouldn’t fill the pots and there was a crowd of men poking and prodding at the black fella, telling him to go back out the door he came in.

“Fair go, blokes,” said Macca. “Let him have his water. It’s dry as dust out there.”

Joey didn’t recognise any of the men in the crowd. They weren’t from the transport section for sure. They were all bush pigs. He didn’t like the way they were poking at the black fella and he didn’t like the way they were looking at Macca. The children were frightened. Wasn’t their father only trying to do his best for them. It was too much for Joey to bear. He drained his glass and strode to the scene at the bar with his shoulders back.

“Here, mate, give me your pot.” He took the black fella’s pot and then he jumped over the bar to fill it from the tap. “See, simple as that,” he said. “Isn’t there more than enough to go around. Now another pot I think.”

The black fella smiled, showing a row of great white teeth. He took the pot full of water from Joey and then he handed over another one.

“That’s the way, Bluey,” said Macca.

“The way it is,” said Joey, and he smiled at the crowd of men but there were no smiles back. “There, another one full for ye, mate,” said Joey when the second pot was passed over, and then one of the bush pigs grabbed it and tipped the water over Joey’s head.

“You feckir,” shouted Joey. He went to jump back over the bar but the pot was already being swung at him and crashed across his ear. There was a loud crack came from the side of his head where the pot hit and then he fell back and landed behind the bar in a loud crash of breaking glass.

Aunt Catrin said there was room enough for Mam and Marti in the house now the lousy feck was gone and wouldn’t be back. Mam said she was terrible sorry for the way things had turned out, but Marti wasn’t sorry because he was glad to be out the caravan, which was very cold entirely.

It was lovely and warm inside the house with the big fire going and there was bread for toasting on the fire if you couldn’t take it a bit hard, or there was porridge instead, said Aunt Catrin. Mam said she would take the porridge because there had been no porridge in Australia, only oatmeal, which wasn’t the same thing at all, and Marti said he would have the bread for toasting.

“I don’t want you going overboard with the butter,” whispered Mam when Aunt Catrin went to get their breakfast. “Sure, doesn’t she put it on with a razor and take it off with a feather … and she can have a savage tongue in her when she thinks she’s seeing waste at her table, so you clear your plate too.”

Marti wanted to know why Aunt Catrin would use a feather in the butter and Mam got really mad and said, “Don’t you be making a holy show of me. You’ll mind yourself, do you hear?”

Marti nodded and then Aunt Catrin called out to him from the kitchen. She said she couldn’t get over the accent on him but she would bet a pound to a pail of shale he’d be talking like a regular once they got him down to the school.

“What school?” said Marti. He didn’t care about the feather in the butter anymore when Aunt Catrin said about the school.

“The school, Saint Joseph’s. You didn’t think your mam was going to keep you home every day, did you? There’ll be the school for you soon enough. Where would you be without the schooling? You need to learn about the maths and the life of Our Lord. Ah sure the brothers will do a grand job.”

Marti started to get the lump in the throat when Aunt Catrin talked about the school because he could only think about his school in Australia and Jono, who was his best friend. He had tried not to think about Australia and Jono and Dad because Mam had said the second he stopped the thinking about them then the lump in the throat would go away. It was very hard not to think about them, especially Dad, who was forever coming into his head. Marti was always seeing pictures of Dad, telling him the funny stories and making the green flower thing dance, just for him.

“Marti, would you ever make yourself useful,” said Aunt Catrin, “and get that porridge out the drawer there for your mam?”

There was a dresser with four big drawers and the top drawer was just a little bit shorter than Marti. “Aunt Catrin, who’s the brothers?” he said. The drawer was very stiff to open and Marti pulled and tugged very hard and even tried to waggle the drawer about, but it wouldn’t open.

“The brothers are the brothers. Here, lookit,” said Aunt Catrin, and put her hands under the drawer. There was a thick layer of hard, grey porridge in the drawer that was filled all the way up to the top. Aunt Catrin put in a knife and cut out a slice. “There now, wasn’t that just a perfect slice of porridge there? I think I’ll have a slice m’self. Will ye have a slice?”

“No thanks,” said Marti, and started shaking his head. “Who’s the brothers, Aunt Catrin?”

“The brothers teach at the school – don’t ye like porridge?”

“Do you cook it in a drawer?”

“Ah Jaypers, no ye don’t cook it in there. That’s where you put it to set. Sure a drawer is the best place for a slab of porridge. Keeps it lovely and cool, and wasn’t it there fine and handy for you in the morning.”

“I don’t think I’d like it.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, and pushed the drawer closed with the front of her legs and wiped the handles with her apron. “It’s the brothers are needed to educate the likes of ye, Marti Driscol, and you would have a puck in the gob for frowning at a good slice of porridge in front of them brothers, sure ye would.”

“They could try, Catrin,” said Mam. She had brought in some letters from the postman and sat them on the table.

“Are them bills?” said Aunt Catrin. “If them’s bills they can go to the lousy feck.”

“Catrin, is the brothers still running the boys’ school?” said Mam.

“They are so.”

“Ah Jaysus.”

“What’s the matter with the brothers there, Shauna? Sure the brothers will do a grand job of educating the young fella.”

“They’ll do a grand job of filling his head full of bigotry and nonsense, you mean.”

Aunt Catrin widened her mouth like the shape of an egg and told Mam to take that back, but Mam said she never would and then Aunt Catrin touched her head and made the signs that were the cross.

“Lord forgive ye, Shauna Driscol,” said Aunt Catrin. “Them brothers are a fine and blessed manner of men.”

“Bollix,” said Mam.

“Oh Jaypers, Shauna, stop the cursing. You’ll have us knee deep in the filth of Hell.” Marti thought this was a very strange thing to say, but Mam said don’t be worrying your head about the likes, because no son of hers was being raised under the Catholic Faith which had done enough damage to her family already.

“Shauna Driscol, I don’t believe what I’m hearing. How can ye deprive the boy his religion?” said Aunt Catrin.

“The boy has no religion. He’s an agnostic, like his mam.”

“Oh, Lord save us all,” said Aunt Catrin, and her eyes rolled up in her head towards the ceiling.

Mam got all fidgety after the talk about school and the Catholic Faith and she pushed away her porridge without even taking a taste of it. Marti knew the porridge would be wasted and he wondered would Aunt Catrin be angry because hadn’t Mam said waste put the savage tongue in her, but nobody seemed to care.

“Right,” said Mam, and the table was shaken when she stood up quickly, “we will settle this school business today. Come with me, Marti.”

“Where … where are we going?”

“The brothers. We have to see the brothers.”

Saint Joseph’s All Boys Catholic School was a very big building, all painted white, with a big white cross on the front. The man who was in charge was Brother Michael, never Father Michael, because father was what you said to a priest and wasn’t his lot different entirely, said Brother Michael. There were lots of boys running around the school and they would all stop running when they saw Brother Michael and say, “Good morning, Brother,” but the brother would only frown.

Brother Michael was very old and had to sit down a lot because the walking was a terrible, terrible strain on the old legs. Mam said there was no need to be giving them the grand tour because wouldn’t the boy find his way around fine, and if he gets lost then he’s a good Irish tongue in his head, which it would be no harm to use. Brother Michael said he would be happy enough showing Brother Aloysius’s classroom, where Marti would be placed, and then they could go back through the main hall where the boys take rosary.

“Brother there is no need for that,” said Mam.

“Ah, no, there’s plenty of puff left in these old gills yet,” said Brother Michael, and started the walking again. The corridors were very long and there was coloured glass on the windows with pictures of men and women and sometimes babies. Marti knew the pictures were from the Bible and the man on the cross was Jesus, but he didn’t know the names of the others. There were lots of pictures of a lady in a blue hood with a baby, sometimes with a heart, and sometimes with rays of sunlight all around her. Marti wondered who the lady was and why there were so many pictures of her, but he didn’t want to ask Brother Michael, because he was a teacher and might start talking for a long time about who the lady was.

“Now, Mrs Driscol,” said Brother Michael, “this here is the main hall where we do the assembly every morning and the games – that’s Brother Declan’s boys now. Ah, and the rosary at the lunchtime like I say – sure aren’t its uses multifarious.”

Brother Michael smoked cigarettes all the while and blew the smoke off into the air and said wasn’t he just a slave to the craving, so he was. Brother Michael said the cigarettes were a terrible, terrible bad habit but Our Good Lord surely turns a blind eye to the occasional vice, wasn’t that so?

“Now, Marti, don’t we have all manner of details to be collected for your enrolment,” said Brother Michael, “but sure, I’ll set ye up with a spectator’s seat in there and ye can feast yeer eyes on the athletic largesse of Brother Declan’s boys.”

Brother Declan was very tall and had a wild red beard that was wet at the whiskers. He was a lot younger than Brother Michael and there were no black robes on him and there was no white collar and no cross like Brother Michael had. He wore a green tracksuit with very thin white stripes down the sides and he had a whistle round his neck. All the boys sat very quietly when Brother Declan blew the whistle and all the boys looked at him when he said, “I’ll have your full attention for I will not be repeating m’self this day.”

Some of the boys had bare feet and Marti wondered why they didn’t have their gym shoes on like the other boys, and some of the boys had no shorts on, only their jocks and a vest, and Marti thought they looked very cold. Brother Declan had proper gym shoes like the tennis players wear, and when Marti looked at them Brother Declan smiled on the side of his face.

“Now, we have a spectator here from Brother Aloysius’s class,” he said. “Could be a spy no less, after our tactics maybe. Stand up, boy. I’m only having a cod with ye now, no need to look so serious. Sure it’s a fine spy you’d make, is it not?”

“I don’t know,” said Marti.

“Janey Mackers, where’s the accent from – it’s never an Aussie we have here, is it?”

Marti didn’t speak and Brother Declan said, “If it is, then it’s the quietest Aussie I’ve come across. Name, boy?”

“Marti Driscol.”

“Marti Driscol! Well, that sounds Irish enough. Are you back from the New World with a fortune? Was it a gold rush ye were at, Marti Driscol?”

“No, I’ve no fortune.” The boys laughed when Marti spoke and one of them said, “He’s like Skippy,” and there was more laughing.

Brother Declan smiled on the side of his face for a little while until the laughing was too loud, and then he said, “Shut it. Well, Marti Driscol with the lilt of the antipodes, if you’ve no fortune I hope you’ve learnt to jump like a kangaroo, for we’ve precious few who can clear more than a toadstool among this rabble.”