His Father's Son: To save the son he loves, a desparate father must confront the ghosts of his past (12 page)

Brother Declan blew his whistle and all the boys were told to do headstands against the wall; if a boy’s legs weren’t straight enough he would shout, “Close your legs, ye hoor,” and slap the boy to make him fall over. Marti thought Brother Declan looked mad angry with all the boys. Some were even slapped on the head and some were dragged by the collar, but when there was no collar to grab then an ear or the hair was grabbed instead. None of it looked like fun at all, and when Mam and Brother Michael appeared at the door of the hall Marti was very glad to see them.

“Marti, Marti,” said Mam, “will you come over here?”

There were lots of boys running around outside the hall and when Marti got near to Mam and Brother Michael all the boys stopped running and said, “Good morning, Brother.”

“I have what ye might call the Moses effect in these situations, Marti,” said Brother Michael. “Ah, but sure I won’t bother ye with Moses, for hasn’t yeer mam explained all about your agnosticism.” Marti wondered what agnosticism was because it sounded like a bad thing, maybe a disease.

“Thank you, Brother,” said Mam. “I hope it’s not a trouble at all for yourself and the brothers. Like I say, tis a personal belief I have.”

“Ah now, Mrs Driscol, it’s no bother at all, at all. Marti isn’t the first boy the brothers have educated outside the sacred bosom of the Church and he will not be the last, but, I will be praying that God leads the boy to Divine Faith in his own time, his own time, Mrs Driscol.”

Mam had the look she sometimes had when Marti was a bold boy after Brother Michael said he would be saying the prayers, then she looked down at him and the look was gone very quickly, and suddenly she looked very worried entirely.

“Now, Mrs Driscol ye can be off and leave the young fella here with me,” said Brother Michael. “I’m sure he will be no trouble at all, at all. Isn’t that so, Marti?”

Joey Driscol knew it. Things had gone from bad to worse. He had woken with a desperate throbbing in his head and a ringing noise like an electric drill in his left ear. Worse yet, he was in a hospital bed, the heavy white linen sheets strapped across his chest telling him he was going nowhere in a hurry.

All he remembered of the night before was Macca’s warning about the grog which stabbed at him with the guilt of it. Jaysus, he was bad for the drink. Fluthered, he was. A fine state for a grown man and father to be in, was it not? When he thought about Marti, miles away in Ireland, he felt the guilt stabbing again. He could see his mother shaking her head at him, saying, “Hell mend ye, haven’t ye only your own self to blame.”

Hadn’t he entirely. It was his own stupid fault. He had let the bockety-arsed old witch with the bow in her hair get to him. He was mad with himself. He had put up with worse than her before, ones that would talk the teeth off a saw sure, but he had let this one drive him back on the drink. God, thought Joey, this had better not be the start of it. That was the way of it usually, one drink … then a thousand to follow.

Wouldn’t it be grand rocking back to Kilmora with the thirst on him – they would all have a gas at that. Joey was scarlet at the thought of people he knew pointing and laughing, filling in the gap of the last ten years with all manner of ideas about himself foostering away in the pubs of Australia. The thought made him mad. It wasn’t him at all. He had done all the right things for long enough now, and compared to the way he was, didn’t he feel ready for a sainthood.

In the week before he had left Ireland, his father had told him he was a living disgrace; wasn’t he just doddering his days away on the dole. “Gee-eyed once a fortnight at the expense of the hardworking, God-fearing, proper, decent Irishman who wouldn’t cross O’Connell Street to piss down the likes of yeer leg if your trousers were on fire.” That’s what he had said, the mighty Emmet Driscol. His father had no clue to why he was drinking in the first place – sure that would have taken eyes in his head and having a look at himself, which he’d never do.

Joey eased himself up in the bed and started to feel dizzy. He touched his head. There was a bandage round it. Holy Mother of God – the voice was back – that’s some bandage, he thought. He felt round his head to get the extent of his injury. He could feel lots of bandage but little of himself. Almost his whole head was covered. There was a mirror beyond the bed, away off down the ward. He wondered would he make it? He’d try. He was unsteady on his feet. He felt like he was floating, his usual sense of balance gone entirely. With every step the noise in his ear got louder until he found himself standing in the middle of the floor, clutching his head and gnawing his jaws together with the pain of it.

“Sir, you shouldn’t be out of bed,” said a young nurse. She looked angry, not at all how nurses should look. “Have I to call the doctor?”

“It might be a start,” said Joey. “What’s the matter with me, anyway?”

“You have a head injury, sir. You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“Out of bed … I have to get out of bed some time.”

“Look, get back to bed now. The doctor will be around soon to see you, Mr …”

“Driscol. Could ye tell him to make it snappy? It feels like some manner of bomb’s gone off in my skull.” Joey looked away, caught sight of a big clock above the ward door. “You can tell him I’ve a plane to catch in a little while.”

The nurse took him by the arm and guided him back to bed, cursing and tutting all the way. She was what they call a right scanger in Ireland, but he tried to let her comments float away from him. It would be good practice for going back to the old place would it not, he thought.

When the doctor arrived he said nothing, just picked up the chart hanging at Joey’s feet and started reading. Joey said a soft hello but the doctor said nothing in return, only leaned over to put a thermometer in his patient’s mouth.

“You have a perforated eardrum … a mild concussion and a possible hairline fracture,” said the doctor. He seemed to be talking to himself. It was like he was speaking into a tape recorder, taking notes to go over later.

“Excuse me?” said Joey.

“I think you heard.”

“What?”

“Look, I’m not about to repeat myself to you.”

“To me … what do you mean by that, fella?” said Joey. He was on the receiving end of some pretty obvious hostility here and he wanted to know why.

The doctor took the thermometer back and sighed, “We have more worthy patients in need of that bed.”

“Aren’t ye just after reeling off my list of ailments.”

“Injuries – self-inflicted, I might add. You bloody Irish are all the same, have you no shame?”

Joey was up. The room was spinning again. He wondered had his feet actually reached the floor or were they as numb as his head. “I have plenty of shame, Doctor, more than I would wish on even you.”

The doctor took off his thick glasses and looked closely at him. “Sit down. You can’t get out of bed.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of taking up your bed a moment longer, fella. I have a flight to catch – back to Ireland, you’ll be glad to hear.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“
What?
”

“There’s no way. Not in your condition.” The doctor put his glasses back on his nose, scribbled on the chart, then turned to leave. “Now get back to bed. There’s a good
fella
.”

Joey sat back on the bed, his head was spinning twice as fast now. Thoughts of Marti and the ringing noise competed for space inside his skull. What now? Could he risk a move by himself? He touched his head and felt the size of the bandage once more: there was no chance, surely. The doctor turned away and started striding down the ward. He was sneering out the back of his head, thought Joey.

“Doctor,” he shouted, “how long … till I can fly?” The ward fell silent. Everyone looked at Joey like he was a mental patient.

“Weeks, at least a month, maybe two,” said the doctor.

This wasn’t happening; it couldn’t be, thought Joey. He had to get to Marti, had to find him and make sure he was safe. Didn’t the boy need his father now more than ever. He had to get to him soon. Even if he were still okay in a month, he could have forgotten about his father entirely, wasn’t that the way kids were.

He looked about for his things. He found his shoes sticking out from under the bed, then in a cupboard nearby he found his clothes. On top of the neatly folded pile was Shauna’s diary. The sight of it gave his conscience a wince.

He dressed slowly, like an old man, saving his shoes until last, slipping in his feet and leaving the laces undone. I must look a sight, he thought, walking into the middle of the ward, laces flapping below him like litter in the street as he tucked the diary inside his shirt.

The hospital was a vast tangle of corridors, clogged up with old giffers in dressing gowns, bright white lights and the rank smells of antiseptic and disinfectant. Nowhere else conjured up the same feeling of despair like hospitals for Joey. There was the air of death lingering in every nook and cranny. There was the general air of death and there was the specific air of death. The specific was by far the worst. The specific was memory, reality that had to be shoved to the back of the mind, forgotten about and defeated, replaced with thoughts of better times.

Death was everywhere, Joey knew it. People died all the time but that just happened, nobody had any say in it. When someone had a say in death – had decided to take a life – that was the worst. He could never face that. He knew he would have to though. He had to go to Ireland and face it, for Marti. If he didn’t, then wasn’t he as good as taking the boy’s life from him.

He staggered to the pay phone and dropped in some coins. His hands were trembling, his one unbandaged ear hot against the cold receiver. “Hello, Macca, is it yourself?”

“Bluey, what’s up?”

“Macca, I need your help.”

“No dramas … what can I do?”

“I need a lift. The flight, it’s going in an hour or so.”

“I thought they were keeping you in, Bluey.”

“They could try. Macca, I have to get that flight, do you understand?”

“I do, but, Joey …”

“No buts, Macca. I have to get it.”

“Okay. Okay. Hold tight, mate.”

The call was brief. Joey knew he had no need for histrionics, his voice said it all. He was desperate to go. Desperate to get to Marti, whatever the cost, however he had to pay it. He had no idea where Marti was. Ireland was a small enough country compared to Australia, but wouldn’t it be a job and a half, like finding a needle in a haystack, sure. He felt for Shauna’s diary inside his shirt. It went against his morals to read another person’s diary, but these were desperate times indeed. If there was some clue, some hint or other about where they might be, he had to try it. He opened the first page.

Well here we go, I suppose, don’t quite know where to begin really, but Dr Cohn says I should try writing down my thoughts …

Dr Cohn was the fella that treated Shauna when she had her last bad bout with the Black Dog. It was the time she really slumped and Joey remembered it clearly.

…
I feel a bit silly, really. I’ve never done anything like this before. Joey would be laughing at me but Dr Cohn says he shouldn’t know about this diary anyway. It’s to be for me alone, to help me work through my thoughts and get myself better in time. He says I can write whatever I want about anybody so long as it feels like it’s helping.

Joey closed the diary. He had seen his name mentioned once already and that was enough. It was Shauna’s thoughts she had put down for herself, it was her therapy. He knew he had no place reading any more. He put the diary back in his shirt and tried to forget about it.

When Macca arrived he pulled up outside the hospital and Joey saw his ute was streaked with rust-coloured flashes where the tyres had screeched in the dry earth. Macca’s kelpie barked and jumped about in the back of the ute like he had just finished a rollercoaster ride. But Macca ignored the dog’s cries and ran quickly towards the hospital, passing Joey on the front steps and dashing through the automatic doors.

“Macca,” shouted Joey. “I’m here.”

Macca twisted on his heels. “
Bluey?
”

“Who did ye think it was, the Invisible Man?”

“Sorry mate, it’s the bandages. Strewth, you look like some old digger back from the trenches.”

“Well, I feel like shit. Thanks for asking.”

Macca scratched his head and squinted at Joey’s bandages. “Jesus, you got bashed pretty bloody bad.”

“I hate to sound ungrateful but could we go,
please
.”

“Sure, sure,” said Macca, and then he shook his head and muttered, “
Fair Dinkum
,” as he eyed the bandages once more.

When Macca had driven them a safe distance from the hospital, Joey reeled off his list of injuries, cursing and punching at the dashboard in front of him. “So that’s it. They said I had no shame taking up a bed, they can have their bed.”

“Bluey, these blokes know their stuff.”

“Bollix.”

“Mate, you could end up in a worse state, just running out and jumping on a plane.” Macca looked at the bandages round Joey’s head again. “If that’s possible.”