The Cartographer (31 page)

Well, Dad wasn't exactly talking the legs off any of the chairs so Zac and me decided to return to Flame Boy's triumph and take notes. It turned out that all the Commandos, bar Matthew Foster, were down there, and having the time of their lives. To commemorate the occasion we decided to award all the members who turned up the House Fire Medal. We stayed until we had given the firemen all the advice we could think of, and our dogs started fighting, then we called
it a day. Nothing could destroy the beauty of that afternoon. I had seen a house burn down, and that is better than dying and going to heaven.

When I got home I found that all was not as it should be. In the living room I found Molly and Flame Boy sitting on the lounge clutching each other and looking pretty worried, as you would, I think, all things considered. And coming from Mum and Dad's bedroom there was the sound of voices, one of them deep, muffled and filled with lots of easily distinguishable ‘buts' — I'd know those ‘buts' anywhere — and the other a bit more excited, more like a racecaller who had drunk too much coffee.

I can see what has happened, of course — Blind Freddy could (yeah, I know) — Mum's old girlfriend's house having just been torched by a person or persons unknown, Mum has done the neighbourly thing and asked her to come over for a cup of tea laced with brandy — don't knock it if you haven't tried it — to steady her nerves, while the Arson Squad sort through the soggy debris, and Dad feels that this is a bit of an imposition, as he was just about to open a bottle of beer and watch
Six O'Clock Rock
. After they have calmly discussed the matter he will agree with Mum and normal transmission will be resumed.

Molly says to no one in particular: ‘It looks like we've come at a bad time.'

‘Not really,' I say. ‘They do this all the time. It'll be okay. I'm used to it.'

Just then there is a sharp crack and Dad comes out looking like he just got his face slapped. It must have been the ‘buts': you can overdo that. Mum is right behind him and throws something at him that's crumpled up. It hits him in the back of
the head, but he doesn't care if it's a bit of paper or half a brick; he's out the back door and on the Triumph Twin like a rocket. I'm guessing he finally had that little chat with Mum — call me psychic.

Mum straightaway says to Molly something that I thought was worth bunging in the Spirax. She says: ‘I'm sorry you had to see that, Molly, love.' And she goes over and tries to calm herself by pouring a cup of tea. Meanwhile I pick up the crumpled thing and shove it into my pocket and take it down to my room. When I'm by myself I open it up to see what the ruckus was all about, half expecting it to be Mum's old driving licence from the war. But it's something that sort of flushes my thoughts away like water down a toilet, leaving me sitting like a statue.

It's a photo, and I see the back of it first. It says:
At St Kilda Beach on our anniversary.

I wish I could say that Dad went down swinging, but it was a bit of a walkover and, technically, someone should have told Mum to retire to a neutral corner. But in my street, there are no neutral corners.

So it was Dad who did the retiring, to his motorbike. I hurried out the back to open the gate for him, the way I always did, and found him sitting on the bike with the motor idling, looking as if he was in another world, and I knew where. I walked up to the tin gate and pulled it open until its drooping foot jammed against the ground. I waited.

‘Hop on.'

Dad didn't look drunk or particularly upset, so I thought it might be safe to agree to a little ride.

I stepped up on the footpeg, climbed onto the seat and clung to the loose buckles at the back of his leather jacket; and he kicked the bike into gear and rode out into the lane. I had expected one of those rides around the river that gives you a heart attack, because Dad was especially good at those, and pretended to be a TT racer. But instead we turned up Church Street and rode straight up to North Richmond without even getting out of third, as if we were part of the Moomba procession, which is no way to treat a Triumph. But I could tell by the way Dad ignored all the red lights and the frantic bell-ringing tram drivers that he was preoccupied. I
knew Dad, and I knew he was rehearsing a speech, because Dad spent half his life rehearsing speeches, and the other half chickening out of making them. We went to his other home, in North Richmond, and pulled up outside the front door with the motor running. Straightaway his girlfriend came out with a big smile on her face and walked over to us. She put one hand on Dad's shoulder and shook my hand with the other. I responded automatically, like a Labrador — it must have been her smile. Dad turned the motor off and made his speech.

‘This is Tom.'

You wouldn't read about it; I mean, he only had to get one word right.

‘No, love,' she said softly.

He was now properly flustered and corrected himself.

‘I'm pleased to meet you at last,' she said. ‘I'm Lorna Bentley. I'm a friend of your dad's,' she added, just in case I was blind. ‘Got time for a cuppa?' she asked. ‘Come in.'

She watched as Dad propped the bike, then we all went inside. In the kitchen, Dad and me parked ourselves at the table, while Mrs Bentley made tea, making it look about as easy as playing the clarinet. As she bustled around nervously she talked in the same kind of friendly way as the time I'd hid in the hall cupboard.

‘Well now, what have you been up to today?' she asked me.

‘A house burnt down near our place; I've been at the fire.'

‘Molly Kavanagh's place,' said Dad tonelessly. ‘It was just a matter of time — her son probably did it. I still say it was him who set fire to my old Morris Cowley.'

‘I didn't know Molly was still alive,' said Mrs B. ‘Are they all right?' she asked me.

‘They were okay when I left,' I said, feeling that I had completely lost control over the connections and that they now had a life of their own, like the Creeping Unknown.

‘But where will they go?'

‘They were in our lounge room when I left.'

‘And did you get a chance to, you know …'

Dad looked around the kitchen for a place to hide, like a cockroach when the light comes on.

‘I see,' was all she said.

‘She knows; she saw a picture of us together.' He sighed and folded up a bit, like a piano accordion.

Mrs B sighed too. She smiled at me, in that way adults have of changing the subject using just their face.

‘Best I get him home,' said Dad, and we all got up, and Mrs B tucked a few cream bikkies into my pocket with a wink.

The trip home was much longer because this time we went the scenic way, around the river. Both Dad and me needed the time to think. I thought about Flame Boy and Dad's car. For the first time I envied him. He was not just a superhero in the making: he'd made it. I thought about all the adults in my life and how most of them had no super powers to help them make things happen. But then, how different would they be if they did have super powers? Would they know when was the right time to use them? I thought again about Flame Boy. He hadn't even grown up and already he was losing control over his power. I started to think about my own super powers, then stopped. I didn't want to.

As the bike swept around the big curves of Alexandra Avenue I looked over to my right and saw beautiful Josephine Island turning away gracefully, and realised that we were right on top of the secret railway, and following it. I tried to reach
down with my toe to touch the road — to let the little train know I was there — but it was too far. Just then we leaned left and my dangling ankle brushed the hot pipe for a split second, and I knew I was sick of living like this. That was when I started thinking about the mission.

Dad rode down our street and dropped me off. Then he reached into his pocket and gave me ten bob, which was a fair bit of money.

‘Take care of your mum.'

Then he was gone again, this time for good, I think, and I was left to wonder how he was going to get on when he arrived back at Eden Park, because there was no coming back here for him. It was weird, really, because I never worried about Dad, just as I always assumed that he never worried about me, but just then I did. I hoped he and Mrs Bentley would be okay, and that I could visit them, as they had discussed. The important thing was that I knew where he was and that he had a friend — one who was free and easy with her cream bikkies.

In the meantime I was curious to see how Molly and Flame Boy were getting on. Would I return to the living room to find Mum and Molly getting stuck into the brandy while Flame Boy knelt behind the couch piling up
Australasian Post
s against the wall? Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of
The Cartographer Faces Life
!

What happened was this: I walked into the living room to find everyone having a cup of tea and a bit of a cry. There were also two new people in the room, one whose appearance made my blood freeze and my face cook. It was Murphy, the fat copper who lived near the Orange Tree, and this time he was wearing his uniform and taking notes as if note-taking was going to be banned any second. He must have heard me
come in, because he looked up from his notes and gave my bloke's hat the once-over.

‘Where'd yer get that 'at?' asks Murphy.

‘Me granddad gave it to me.'

I like to deal with issues economically, if not truthfully.

‘Just don't forget, I've got my eye on you.'

Now there's a conversation stopper. Then the fireman — the second new person — pipes up: everyone hates the kid.

‘Can you explain where you were and what you were doing when the fire started?' he says, lacking the punchy style of the copper so much that I feel like telling him to stick to fighting fires.

‘Over at my granddad's place.'

‘Rubbish,' cuts in Murphy.

‘Yes, he was,' says Mum. ‘He just got here.'

The fireman looks at Flame Boy and draws breath to speak, but is cut off at the knees by Flame Boy's mum.

‘And you can leave my boy alone, too,' she barks, sounding like the Sarge. ‘He's been looking after me all afternoon.' You can almost hear the fireman's balls shrink.

Mums hate everyone.

So, getting no change out of any of those present, the authorities leave us alone to examine our situation, because a situation is just what it is.

Mum comes back from the front door and says to me: ‘Constable Murphy wants to have a word with you,' and jerks her head back towards the door. I wait for a sec, hoping she will add:
But you just stay right here and let that bastard wait till hell freezes over
, but I can see she's got other things on her mind.

Murphy gives me one of those looks that kids hate unless they're seeing it on Robert Newton's fizzog in
Treasure Island
.

‘So, you little bastard, lost yer dog, 'ave you? Look on it as a little lesson. I ever see you at my place again and it'll be
you
who gets a bullet in the head. Now piss off.'

He walks off, leaving me glued to the spot and feeling like my guts just fell out. It's one of those moments — I've had a lot of them, so I can spot them — when you realise that despite a lifetime spent putting in a hundred per cent effort in the getting things right department, you've really only been standing still pulling your dick, as Dad says, while someone else, in this case the biggest prick in town, is working the levers.

I drag myself back into the living room and am surprised to find Mum standing there quietly waiting for me, as if she is expecting me to announce that not only have Constable Murphy and her beloved son decided to bury the hatchet but there has been talk of adoption. But as that news is not forthcoming, she flops down into an armchair and looks at Flame Boy. Then she looks at me. Then she kind of hangs her head for a moment, as if she's trying to work out where Burke and Wills went wrong. The look on her face reminds me of one of those two-year-olds at the training stable when you offer it a carrot and an apple at the same time. Finally, she looks up, and I can see an expression like the one she gets when she's halfway through making a cake, and she turns the page and the rest of the recipe is missing.

‘Molly, you and Keith will stay with me.'

‘Love, we —'

‘Yes, you can. It's settled.'

She turns to me.
Now what, for God's sake?

‘You'd better see if you can stay with the Sandersons for a few days. Get them to give me a ring later. I don't feel like talking to them just now.'

‘Mum —'

‘Just do as you're told for once!'

But that's not what I need to talk to her about. Frankly, I don't care if I never sleep at home again. But Mum needs to be warned, old friend or no old friend.

Back in my bedroom again I yell: ‘Mum! Hey, Mum!' until she can't stand it and comes stomping down to my room like some kind of monster from outer space.

‘What!'

‘Mum, you can't let that kid stay here —'

‘I can —'

‘He lights fires —'

‘I know —'

‘It was him who burnt down their house —'

‘I know —'

‘You
know
?'

‘Everybody knows. Is that what you brought me down here for — to tell me that the kid's a pyromaniac?'

‘Pyromaniac?'

‘Yeah, a firebug, like your Uncle Pat.'

‘Uncle Pat? I thought he stole moneyboxes?'

‘That's Uncle Bert.'

‘I thought he was the one with the primrose dress?'

‘That's your other Uncle Bert, and we don't mention his name in this house.'

‘There are
two
Uncle Berts?' You learn something new every day. ‘Mum, are you sure all those blokes are actually relatives?'

‘Well they're
somebody's
bloody relatives.'

‘Jesus, Mum, the point is: I was
worried
about you.'

She looks at me with a strange frown, like she's going to sneeze on me, then she suddenly grabs me in a bear hug, the kind that can snap a man's spine like a Uneeda biscuit.

‘Jesus, Mum, me hat!' I gasp.

‘Don't swear,' she whispers automatically.

She lets me go, and her eyes are all red and swollen, which is definitely the best time to ask Mum tricky questions.

‘Mum, that copper said something about Biscuit. Did he really get —'

‘Listen, don't worry about that copper … and don't ever repeat whatever he told you to your father. He'd go troppo.'

I see.

‘Okay, Mum.'

‘You've got Zac, now; consider yourself lucky.'

I wondered if I was still on a roll. But one look at her face told me that if she didn't get a Bex and a snifter soon she wasn't going to feature at the turn, let alone the finish post.

‘Hey, Mum, about Mr Sanderson —'

‘What about him?'

‘Mrs Sanderson said you knew him during the war.'

‘Not now,' she said, as she turned to leave. That went well.

No sooner had Mum walked out than Flame Boy walked in — I made a mental note to have a turnstile installed. He just stood there and gazed at me with that funny lopsided look on his dial. When he spoke I felt the way I would have felt if Zac had suddenly piped up and told me that henceforth he would prefer to be addressed as Beaumont and fed only a vegetarian diet. It was just that Flame Boy had always struck me as one of those kids who subscribes to the theory that actions speak louder than words.

‘Your dog didn't get hit by a tram,' he begins quietly. ‘That copper shot 'im,' he says, not wishing to drag the matter out. He inclines his head. ‘In the back yard. He gave Mr Purvis a quid to bury him. Mr Purvis lives over the back from us. I saw —'

‘Yeah, yeah, okay. I know. But he said that if I caused him any trouble it'd be me next,' I say, in the spirit of Flame Boy's new-found talkativeness.

We looked at each other intently, and the conversation continued for some time in silence, which, if I read it right, was probably just as well.

When he left, I pulled up the carpet and got some of my money out. I would need more victuals and a few extra supplies. I filled my explorer's bag and took it to the back door, walking past Flame Boy, who was sitting in the kitchen looking suspiciously innocent. I got my billy-cart and pulled it to the back door, and made a few more trips to my room to get the things I needed the most, including my secret possessions. Then I went down to the living room and kissed Mum goodbye. As Flame Boy's mum was crying, I gave her goodbye a miss. On my way back to the kitchen, I stopped and regarded Flame Boy, who was still sitting there looking like the kind of kid Jesus would kill to play with. In the tradition of our new communication, I gave him one of those slow shakes of the head that means:
Don't even think about it
.