Matthew Flinders' Cat (21 page)

The young bank teller looked up at Billy in astonishment, his mouth half-open. ‘Excuse me, sir, what did I say?’ he asked, genuinely bewildered.

‘You were rude. Bloody rude!’ But the fight had gone out of Billy as suddenly as it had come. He was a piece of dirt and he’d overreacted. The teller’s manner, brusque and unpleasant as it had been, hadn’t merited the outburst. He was ashamed, aware that he’d been railing against himself and that the young teller had got in the way. Billy swallowed hard, then, attempting to save face, he said somewhat breathlessly, ‘I want an apology.’ Speaking very deliberately, he said, ‘I want you to say in as pleasant a manner as you are capable of, that you’ll tell Ms Partridge that I congratulate her on her promotion. Can-you-possibly-do-that?’ Billy peered at the name tag on his coat, ‘Mr Titsok?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes, sir, what?’ Billy repeated.

‘Yes, sir, sorry . . . I’ll tell Suzanna Partridge what you said.’

‘And my name?’

The teller had already logged off on the transaction and it was at once obvious that he’d forgotten Billy’s name. Using the protruding fingers of his left hand, Billy reached for the banknotes still on the counter. The teller must have caught sight of the name scrawled on the plaster and, taking a gamble, said, ‘I’ll tell her, Mr Blue.’

‘It’s O’Shannessy, Billy O’Shannessy.’ Billy had salvaged a small victory from the fiasco and now felt able to leave with a modicum of hastily gathered dignity.

He had only taken a few steps towards the door when the teller called out to him, ‘Do you still want me to call the manager, sir?’

Billy couldn’t tell if the young bloke was being facetious or was simply stupid. ‘No, lad, if he was responsible for hiring you, he’s obviously incompetent and unlikely to be much help,’ he called back.

To Billy’s surprise the people in the queue started to clap and a young bloke in jeans, a white T-shirt and a scuffed leather bomber jacket standing directly opposite Billy grinned. ‘That was awesome, really cool, man!’

Billy walked out into the sunlight, wondering how it was possible for his tongue to turn into a great fleshy appendage, choking his ability to speak when he’d been confronted by Sally Blue but could now, under greater pressure, effortlessly fashion a reply the young teller would probably recall with an inward wince for several days.

Billy needed a drink. His complimentary scotch would be waiting for him at the Flag Hotel, though it occurred to him that he still had the problem of the Trevor Williams walkout and that Sam Snatch might not welcome him with his customary exuberance. On the other hand, it was pension day and the proprietor of the Flag was always happy when the derros dutifully lined up in the bottle shop and all the way out to the pavement.

Billy took his usual route through the Botanic Gardens. It was a glorious sunny day and he was sweating lightly when he entered the cool darkness of the Flag Hotel. The interior of the hotel still had its morning-after-the-night-before smell, the slightly sour odour of hops mixed with stale cigarette smoke, both somewhat masked by the heavy application of the late-night cleaner’s room deodorant.

Marion was alone at her bar when Billy walked up. ‘Missed you yesterday, Billy,’ she said, reaching for a glass. Then she saw the plaster and the dressing above his eye. ‘What happened? Had a fall?’ And more directly, ‘Somebody do that to you?’

‘No, my dear, all my own work, I’m afraid.’ Marion knew better than to question him. There were three common reasons for broken bones among derelicts: they became the victim of a mugging, they fell when intoxicated, or were hit by a car while attempting to cross the road. ‘The blackfella got away, then?’ Marion said casually, placing Billy’s scotch on the bar in front of him.

Billy’s heart leapt, the incident hadn’t, as he’d hoped, been forgotten. ‘Where’s Sam?’ he asked.

‘Licensing Board.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Nah, he wants to extend out the back, put in a bigger kitchen.’ Marion’s eyes lifted briefly towards the ceiling, ‘Having a bistro is all the go in pubs nowadays. Sam thinks with the development of the Finger Wharf into apartments, he’ll be onto a winner.’

‘He’s not angry about the Aboriginal bloke, is he?’ Marion smiled. ‘Ropeable would be a better choice of word, he wasn’t real pleased.’

Billy shrugged, trying to make light of the incident. ‘Casper had something going, his own agenda. The blackfella got suspicious.’ Billy shrugged. ‘Nothing much I could do, it never got as far as getting involved.’

‘Yeah, we thought as much, Sam isn’t blaming you. Casper got what he wanted anyway.’

‘What was that?’

‘The blackfella’s money.’ Marion gave a disparaging little laugh. ‘Which doesn’t make Sam any happier, he was that angry with Casper he threw him out, scotch bottle an’ all. Casper kept yellin’ out that he’d get the black bastard and it seems he did.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Ambulance bloke comin’ off shift, always comes in around lunchtime, said they’d picked up an Abo who’d fallen down the McElhone Stairs. Reckoned he was a right flamin’ mess.’

Even though Billy knew what had happened to Williams, his training as a lawyer wouldn’t let it go. ‘What makes you think it was Williams? There are lots of his kind around the Cross.’

‘Ambulance bloke said he was a bushie, moleskins, riding boots ...his hat.’

‘But he also said he’d fallen ...down the steps?’ Marion sighed. ‘He was speaking euphemistically.’ There it was again, Marion’s command of language. ‘He’s an Aborigine, ambulance blokes know the police are gunna do nothing. Lots of unnecessary paperwork and a waste of taxpayers’ money.’ Marion sighed. ‘You know the drill well enough, Billy.’

‘And you think it was definitely Casper Friendly?’ Marion laughed. ‘Not on his own, the deadbeats that hang around with him.’

‘Poor chap, seemed like a decent sort of bloke,’ Billy said, acting concerned.

Marion reached for a cigarette. ‘I guess that’s life in the big city.’

Billy smiled, ‘Sam will be sorry he threw Casper out.’

Marion inhaled and blew the smoke through her nostrils. ‘Don’t tell me, mate.’

Billy grinned, not displeased with the thought of Sam Snatch missing out. ‘With all that suddenly acquired wealth, chances are that Casper would have spent a fair bit of it here.’

Marion laughed. ‘Yeah, that thought hadn’t escaped Sam. He says if you see Casper to tell him he’s sorry, that he was a bit hasty, sudden rush of blood, tell him he’s always welcome in the beer garden, no hard feelings, eh.’

Billy looked up surprised. ‘Me? Tell him? Why would I do that? We’re not exactly bosom pals.’

Marion lifted the bottle of Johnnie Walker on the bar. ‘You’d be doing Sam a big favour.’

Billy grinned, he’d almost finished his drink and now tapped the rim of the glass. ‘Would an immediate token of Sam’s appreciation be out of the question, my dear?’

Marion laughed. ‘You’ve got all the instincts of a con man, Billy, but of course you are a lawyer.’ Reaching for a fresh glass, she poured Billy a second scotch.

Billy thanked her and took a small sip of the fresh scotch and thought of Trevor Williams in hospital, swathed in bandages, a small black man in agony in his white-on-white world.

Knowing that Casper didn’t have the stash was a comfort, a small victory over the collective greed.

Marion was silent for a while, then she took a drag and carefully placed her cigarette down on an ashtray.

‘Billy, there’s something.’ Billy looked up. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s any of my business, but you know how it is, there’s more big mouths around here than you’d find at a lipstick convention.’

Billy looked at her anxiously, Marion’s tone suggested trouble. ‘Tell me, Marion, what is it?’

‘You know how derros are, how they see everything?’

‘I ought to, I am one, what are you trying to say?’

‘It seems you’ve been seen walking around with a young boy.’

‘So, what’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ Billy’s heart skipped a beat, surely he wasn’t hearing this correctly?

Marion pulled back, surprised. ‘It’s true, then?’

‘What’s true? That I’ve been seen with a young boy?

Yes, that’s true.’ Billy was suddenly angry. ‘But if you’re thinking something else, then don’t!’

Marion reached out and picked up her cigarette. ‘Hey, take it easy, Billy, I’m your friend, remember?’

Billy regained his composure. ‘Marion,’ he sighed, ‘this is ridiculous. I have never had a prurient thought about the boy. Who told you?’

‘The boys were all talking about it in the beer garden this morning.’

‘I thought you weren’t supposed to work out there?’ Billy said, trying to gain a few moments to think.

‘I don’t. Sam Snatch and I had a bit of a contretemps. I told him putting a bistro in when there’ll be five restaurants in the Finger Wharf development is plain bloody stupid. He shouted at me and, well, I shouted back and it was all getting a bit toey, so I went out back to cool down.’

Billy had always suspected that there was more to the ownership of the pub than Sam Snatch’s lottery windfall and superannuation money. Marion arguing with him about a bistro suggested a different relationship to that of owner and employee. ‘That’d be right,’ Billy sympathised, ‘That’s Sam, not exactly a candidate for Mensa.’

But Marion wasn’t to be sidetracked. ‘Billy, you can’t ignore it. This is a union pub. The derros have the story, soon enough it will be known to the wharfies, they’re working-class blokes and that means trouble.’

‘Marion, he’s a young lad!’ Billy protested, ‘Not quite a street kid, but with a lot of the same instincts. He gets out on his skateboard early, they all go down to Chifley Square for a workout. He stops by and we talk about cats.’

‘Cats?’

‘Well, a particular cat, actually. Trim, Matthew Flinders’ cat.’

‘Come again?’ Marion exclaimed, then added, ‘Matthew Flinders has been dead nearly two hundred years, so, I imagine, has his cat.’

Billy accepted that Marion was probably the only bartender in Sydney who knew that the story of Matthew Flinders came equipped with its own famous cat.

Billy tried to explain the relationship between himself and Ryan but soon accepted that the story told to a third person didn’t make a lot of sense. ‘His grandmother is dying and, well, his mother seems to have problems of her own. As far as I can make out, the boy has to pretty well look after both of them,’ he concluded.

‘What’s his name?’ Marion asked, suddenly curious, ‘His surname?’

‘Sanfrancesco. Why do you ask?’

‘Jesus, Billy!’ Marion said, alarmed. She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray, grinding the butt. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?’

‘Into? I’m not sure I know what you’re implying, my dear.’

Marion reached for another cigarette and remained silent until she’d lit it and taken a puff. ‘Billy, the boy’s mother is dog turd!’

Billy blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘She’s a whore and a heroin addict as well as an alcoholic, the whole bag of shit, you name it!’

Billy had half expected something like this, he’d hoped that the remarks Ryan had inadvertently made weren’t true, his comment about the circus-tent erection and blokes coming home, the references to her similarities to Billy’s own condition when he’d brought him water the first time. The two security men at St Vincent’s inquiring if his mother was all right. He’d said she was asthmatic but he’d never indicated that she was a drug addict as well.

‘How sad,’ Billy said, ‘How very sad for a small boy.’

‘Billy, ferchrissake stop! Listen to me, she’s an exotic dancer and still a very good looker, though Christ knows how she manages it. She knows everyone, all the heavies, the baddest blokes in town, if she thinks you’re interfering with her little boy, you’re dead meat!’

Marion made a point of talking tough, it was part of the persona she worked on, male talk from a female’s mouth, but Billy could see she was deadly serious. ‘Poor little bugger,’ was all he could think to say. After a while he looked at Marion and said, ‘You know her then?’

Marion spoke through clenched teeth, ‘Yes, I know her.’ She tapped the ash off the end of her cigarette. ‘Take my advice, Billy, stay away from the boy. She’s a nasty piece of work. Smiles like an angel but has a heart dark as hell’s gate.’

At that moment a large, well-groomed man in a conservative grey, three-piece, pin-striped suit, a bluestriped shirt, and a tie in excruciatingly bad taste, and in complete contrast to his sartorial correctness, came up to the bar. Billy could see him in the mirror behind the bar and stared in some amazement at his choice of neckwear. The man was dressed like a senior counsel in all respects other than for his taste in ties. The pink silk tie was emblazoned with bright-purple rats.

Marion took a hasty puff of her half-smoked cigarette and stubbed it in the ashtray. ‘Excuse me, Billy, I have to go,’ she said. She glanced at the newcomer and quickly back at Billy. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said in a half-whisper.

‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ Billy said, speaking to Marion’s back. ‘Thanks, Marion.’ Though he wasn’t sure if he was thanking her for her advice or simply as a courtesy. He swallowed the rest of the scotch and got down from his bar stool. He’d been so taken with the stranger’s neckwear that he’d hardly looked at his face but thought he’d seen him somewhere, a politician, someone like that, someone in the public eye anyway. Then he remembered some idle talk that Marion had a boyfriend who was some sort of politician. If this bloke was her boyfriend then he certainly made her nervous.