Matthew Flinders' Cat (39 page)

‘And your mother?’

Davo shrugged. ‘I ain’t never seen her since.’ Billy didn’t know whether he should believe Davo or not, but told himself it didn’t matter, that he wasn’t there to be his judge, but that Davo was pretty damaged and needed help, although Billy had no idea how he might get it from the justice system. His only hope seemed to be if he could kick drugs and alcohol, but even then what was waiting for an Aboriginal kid like him in the so-called straight world?

Billy could see Ryan on the same path, his life already had all the ingredients required, a mother who was a heroin addict, his grandmother, the one steady influence in his life, probably dead, nobody to watch over him. Billy was suddenly filled with a terrible fear and sense of helplessness. Davo had shown him almost precisely what would happen to Ryan. He was beginning to see clearly that time was running out, that ten months in rehabilitation was too long. He’d have to do something soon. But how could he? He wouldn’t last five minutes out there on his own. If he tried to rescue Ryan, he’d only destroy himself and do nothing for the kid. Billy spent that night in the clinic behind the bed curtains knowing that whatever he did, he was going to fail Ryan.

The following evening the men were watching the rugby league game of the week when the camera turned onto the crowd and showed a close-up of Jeff Fenech, the ex-featherweight champion of the world, who was sitting in the Channel 9 commentary box. ‘He’s the best there ever was, mate!’ Davo said to Billy. ‘Pound for pound!’

Billy hadn’t been concentrating and only caught a glimpse of the boxer before the camera turned away. ‘Who?’

‘Jeff Fenech, mate! He’s me idol.’ It was the first time Davo had ever mentioned anyone in a positive vein. ‘Why don’t you write to him?’ Billy suggested.

‘Nah.’

‘Why not, have you seen him fight?’

‘Every one of them from 1988 when I were only ten years old, mate. On TV that is. I seen all his title fights since then, Victor Callejas, Tyrone Downes, George Navarro, Marcos Villasana. Azumah Nelson in Las Vegas, that were for his fourth world title. It were a draw but he was gypped, he won it easy, everyone said so. It were a Don King decision, the big boys had their money on Azumah.’

‘Oh, yeah, what about when he fought the return in Melbourne? The black bloke KO’d him in eight,’ said Morgan, who was sitting close by.

‘Jeff was crook, mate, he shouldn’t never have fought that day, he had asthma real bad.’

‘Fight’s a fight, mate. He took it, he lost it, it’s down in the books,’ Morgan replied in a dispassionate voice.

‘Yeah, but his hands, they was RS as well.’ Davo was clearly upset.

‘Should’ve given it away then,’ Morgan countered.

‘Didn’t he lose to the next bloke as well?’

‘Yeah, Calvin Grove. Like I said, his hands were ratshit, he retired straight after,’ said Davo, defending his idol. ‘Can’t take his record away from him, mate. No Australian boxer ever done better, never will neither. Twenty-nine fights, twenty-six wins, one draw, two losses when his hands were gone.’

Morgan turned away to watch something on TV and Billy said again, ‘Well, write to him, Davo. Look, I’ve got a pad and pen and stamps, it shouldn’t be too hard to find his address.’

‘Nah, that sucks. No way, mate.’ Billy had left it at that. They’d all learned that Davo couldn’t be coerced. But a couple of days later he sat beside Billy at breakfast. ‘Porridge sucks, I hate it.’

‘Have some toast,’ Billy suggested.

‘Yeah, suppose,’ Davo said, continuing to spoon the oatmeal into his mouth. ‘About Jeff Fenech, you fair dinkum?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘About writin’, mate? Yer know, sendin’ him a letter like?’

Billy put his spoon down. ‘I said,
you
ought to write to him.’

‘Nah, can’t.’

‘Can’t what? What can’t you do?’ Davo was silent, tapping the back of his spoon against the plate of oatmeal in front of him. In a small voice he said, ‘See, I ain’t no good at writin’, mate.’

‘That’s okay, tell me what you want to say and I’ll write it for you,’ Billy said, trying to sound casual while realising at once that Davo was confessing he was illiterate.

‘Yeah?’

‘No problems,’ Billy said.

‘What’ll I say?’

Billy pretended to be thinking. ‘Lots of things. How you admire him. How you’ve never missed any of his fights on television, that sort of thing. You could tell him something about yourself.’ Billy made a logical guess. ‘Maybe how you want to be a boxer?’

‘Shit no! He don’t want to hear that.’

‘Do you want to become a boxer?’

‘Yeah, I can fight, man. I ain’t scared.’ Billy knew not to push him. ‘Think about it for a couple of days, let me know when you’re ready.’

‘Thanks, mate. Thanks a lot!’ Davo said, reaching out and lightly touching Billy’s shoulder, then drawing back, suddenly aware that he’d touched another human being affectionately.

It was during a lecture in the second week that Billy began to see a pattern emerging that began to explain his own life. The subject being discussed was codepen dency and his own past began to open up for him. He had always thought of codependency as something to do with substances. For instance, the cook and housemaid when he was younger didn’t need to take a Bex powder with their morning tea but they were codependent on Bex and simply had to have one. They believed that without the powder they would not be able to cope with the day ahead. But now he learned that the meaning of codependence was much more, it was a vicious and insidious psychological disease. He’d been somewhat doubtful when he’d first been told this, these days there seemed to be an explanation for everything and nothing was anyone’s fault any more.

But he began to sit up and take notice when the lecturer said, ‘Remember when you were a little kid, all the messages you got were that there was something wrong with you, you were bad? You didn’t know why you were bad, you just were. If your parents fought, it was because you hadn’t been good, it was your fault. You were told you had to be a good boy, perfect, you shouldn’t cry, only sissies cried if they skinned their knee or bumped their head. If you made mistakes you got yelled at and this told you that you were unlovable and flawed and not the little boy your parents wanted. Sometimes your mother comforted you and sometimes she turned on you, aiming her rage and anger at you, blaming you for her misfortunes in life. “I wish I’d never had you!” “You’re a little shit!” “You’re just like your father, no bloody good! You’ll grow up to be a bastard, just like him!” Your father had very little to do with you, he’d shout at you to be a man, that you were a sissy and a coward. If you didn’t excel at sport you were a failure, no good to anyone and, even if he didn’t say so openly, you could sense his deep disappointment in you.’

Billy had interrupted at this stage. ‘But isn’t that all part of the business of growing up? You know, the rough and tumble?’

‘Yes, of course, that’s because your own parents were subjected to the same thing when they were kids. They’re only following a pattern, but that isn’t to say it isn’t a flawed design. That it isn’t wrong to act this way.’

‘Sure, but it’s a real world out there. Isn’t what happens, like I said, the toughening-up process to prepare us for what’s to come?’

‘Right again, Billy!’ Though they’d had several counsellors for their lectures, it was Jimmy’s turn again. ‘That’s how we justify it, but the result isn’t always a stronger person, it’s often a person who has learned to live in a codependent society.’

‘Codependent society? What’s that mean?’

‘Okay, instead of believing in yourself, in your own intrinsic value as a human being, you devalue yourself. You learn pretty quickly that value is assigned by society as a list of comparisons, such as richer than, prettier than, sexier than, cleverer than, more spiritual than, healthier than, and so on. You relinquish your right to be yourself and you allow others to judge you. These comparisons inevitably lead to a feeling of separation, which can lead in its extreme form to resentment, violence, hopelessness, despair, to being an outcast. Codependence is vicious because it causes us to hate and abuse ourselves.’

‘Hang on, don’t we have choices? Are you saying that the process of childhood as it is conducted in our society corrupts the inner child and robs him of his intrinsic power?’

Jimmy brought his hands together and applauded. ‘I wish I’d said that, Billy.’

‘To be truthful, it sounds like a bit of a cop-out to me,’ Billy countered.

Jimmy frowned. ‘How old are you, Billy?’

‘Fifty-six, though sometimes I feel a hundred.’ The men around him nodded.

‘Okay, so your father was born, let me take a guess, around 1917?’

‘1915,’ Billy replied. ‘He was a last pleasant act before his father went to Gallipoli.’

‘Well, your father’s generation did it tough, many of them lost their fathers, and those who didn’t grew up with silent, uncommunicative men. Today we’d call it post-traumatic stress disorder, but at that time it would simply have been known as your grandfather’s ‘moods’. His silences and irritability would have been almost constant and the only way he could’ve shown his frustration was by losing his temper. Your father’s dad was a war hero, he had to be perfect, except for his anger, which his wife and his son grew to fear greatly and would go to great lengths to avoid. Am I making any sense?’

‘I can’t say, I didn’t know my grandfather, but you’re doing a pretty good job of describing my father.’

‘Aha! Let’s skip a generation then and go on to your father. Did your father go to war?’

Billy thought of his father, whom he’d always seen as the stern-faced judge he’d greatly feared and who had often spent the whole night drinking alone in his study. ‘Yes, he was captured in Singapore and was sent to Changi.’

‘Righto, with the usual superficial differences found in the next generation, he was probably a lot like his own father, what we used to call the strong, silent type who only expressed himself fully when he was angry. He probably didn’t communicate very well with you but had unreasonable expectations of his only son, and when you didn’t achieve these he’d disparage and humiliate you.’

Billy had picked up a number of expressions in the group discussions. ‘Right on!’ he said.

‘So your mother tried to compensate,’ Jimmy continued. ‘She told you how she loved you, how you were all she had. You watched how she too was humiliated by your father and would do anything to appease him. She loved you but he came first. Everything was for your father. But nothing helped your father’s rage or indifference or drunkenness or cruelty. You felt responsible for your mother’s wellbeing and ashamed that you couldn’t protect her from his raging or the pain she suffered in her life.’

Jimmy shrugged. ‘So there was the evidence you needed. Here was someone who loved you and who thought you were worthy of being loved, but you couldn’t protect her from her husband, your father, from being humiliated or hurt or having an awful life. As a small child this was all the proof you needed that you were flawed and unworthy. You knew that she was going to find out that you were no good, and too weak and unworthy to help her. When she became exasperated and desperate and deeply depressed and screamed at you or blamed you for her plight, this was the moment of truth when she found out your unworthiness, when she told you what you knew all along, that you were useless.’

Jimmy spread his arms. ‘I’m hypothesising, of course. But if these were your circumstances, Billy, then you may have unknowingly begun the continual cycle of shame, blame and self-abuse that would manifest itself in one of many ways in the adult you. The pain of being unworthy and shameful is so great that we eventually learn to avoid it, disconnect from our feelings. We look for a way to protect ourselves from hurt with drugs and alcohol, food, cigarettes, work, relationships and obsessions such as perceived body image. We become codependent and, in the end, it destroys us.’

‘Isn’t that universal, I mean the Christian church teaches that we are guilty of original sin?’

‘No! We are made to
believe
we are guilty. Yes, you’re right, the Church has been doing this all along, we are told we are born sinful and unworthy. The family environment encourages this idea and adds to it in the way I’ve just described and so guilt and shame are passed on from one generation to the next.’

Jimmy stopped suddenly. ‘Look, I’m making it sound too complicated. Let’s take a simple example, eating too much. Right, I’m a bit overweight; so others start pointing this out, at school, my father. I feel ashamed but I keep eating, I don’t know why. Now I judge myself, call myself a fat slob; I mentally beat myself up for being fat; then I feel the terrible hurt that comes with being a fat slob and decide I must do something to stop the pain. But willpower doesn’t work, I’m too weak I tell myself, too useless, so to nurture myself I buy three hamburgers with cheese and bacon and a double portion of chips; I judge myself again for being weak, unworthy and a useless fat slob, and the cycle begins all over again.’ Jimmy looked around. ‘But the reason I became fat wasn’t because I was intrinsically an unworthy human being but because I was made to
believe
that I was.’

This was something the men could understand and they clapped and whistled. They’d all been there a thousand times before with their codependent drug of choice.