The Story of Tom Brennan

by J. C. Burke

  Duh, Gran. 'Which one?' I said, sitting on the bed next to her.

  'Saint Clare the Franciscan,' she said in her serious voice reserved only for the saints. 'Father Vincent is going to try to find me a large picture of her when he's in Sydney.'

  'Right.' I nodded, hiding the smirk. 'Do you want to hang her up somewhere?'

  'Above my bed.' She pointed. 'As you can see, I've taken Saint Bernadine of Sienna down.'

  'How come?'

  'Well, she never gave me any help,' Gran muttered. 'Pointless having her up there all these years.'

  I didn't take that any further. I remembered who Saint Bernadine was meant to protect – gamblers, like my Pa.

  'So what's the story with Saint Clare? I don't know her.'

  'Saint Clare saved her home and town,' Gran said, shuffling around in the box again. 'When people tried to destroy everything she had, she stood firm with her faith.'

  'Okay.' I think I understood what she was getting at.

  'Well, Happy Birthday, Tom.' Gran's hand trembled as she passed me an envelope. She looked right at me, and for that split second I saw in her eyes the years of grief and uncertainty she had suffered. It was like suddenly understanding something about who she was. It was Gran who'd had no choice. She couldn't leave Pa, so her faith had become her armour as she weathered years in a marriage that'd cared little for her.

  'Take it,' she whispered.

  I opened the envelope. Inside was an airline ticket. Sydney – Kathmandu – Lukla – Kathmandu – Sydney.

  'Gran!'

  'Have a wonderful trip, Thomas.'

  Chrissy was studying for her finals and I was trying my hardest not to get in the way. I hung out with the fellas playing pool, eating pizza, watching videos, going to the movies, whatever was on offer. All they ever wanted to know was where Chrissy was. They were still having kittens over us being together.

  The last week in October was stinking, with high twenties every day. There was nothing else to do but hang out with red eyeballs at the Coghill pool.

  Rory's master plan was to get a holiday job there so he could dilute the chlorine by half. Brad reckoned it wasn't such a good idea as maybe it wouldn't kill the piss germs. That was a dead give-away. Now when Brad swum near us, we'd start yelling, 'Germ man,' or 'Piss germs.' Jimmy changed Brad's famous bellyflop from 'the flop' to 'the bladder buster'. There were worse ways to kill time.

  I felt a bit lousy, not telling the fellas about the waterhole, but Brendan had sworn me to secrecy. He was right, though, it was special, and if everyone knew about it then it wouldn't be.

  That wasn't the main reason behind my tight lips. After Chrissy's final exam, I planned to take her there for a surprise. It was that perfect place I'd been searching for.

  As it turned out, she thought so too.

  One arvo when I got home from school there was an envelope on my bed. Straightaway I recognised Chrissy's writing. There was no stamp or address – it just said 'Tom'.

  I ripped it open, searching the house for Gran or Mum to find out who'd delivered it. Then I began to read the letter inside and had a snappy change of mind.

  'Tom,' she'd written. 'Meet me at the waterhole (yes, I know about the waterhole!) tomorrow (Saturday) morning at seven. Love C xxx

  'P.S. Make sure Brendan's not planning a morning run there!'

  He wasn't, I knew that for sure. He was driving to Aralen with Kylie and Gran.

  When I went into the kitchen the next morning wearing my shorts and trainers, Brendan went berserk. 'Way to go, boy!' He slapped me on the back. 'I told you the running gets in your blood. Hey, didn't I?'

  Crawler, Kylie mouthed at me.

  'Yeah, well, I thought I'd go for a bit of a jog.' That wasn't telling an actual lie.

  'Which track?'

  'Ah, the waterhole, I think.'

  'Good man,' Brendan said to me. 'He's looking the goods, isn't he, Mum?'

  Gran looked up from the kettle. 'It's my cooking.'

  'Ah, yeah, Gran.'

  Again Kylie mouthed, crawler.

  'You'll feel like a dip by the time you get to the river,' Brendan said. 'They reckon it's going to be thirty-one degrees today. Tess and Joe'll be sweating it up at Westleigh. I hope they packed plenty of water.'

  'Have they left?' I asked.

  Gran's muffled voice emerged from the fridge. 'You'll have to get up earlier if you want to know the goings-on here.' It wasn't even 6.30.

  'By the way, Tom.' Now she was packing oranges into an esky. 'Can you check the chooks later on? I think Bernadette is laying.'

  'No worries, Gran.'

  By the time Gran got through her epic chook-laying instructions, the clock said 6.50. It was a good twenty-minute run to the waterhole, and that was at a fast pace.

  I waved them off. Closed the gates behind them. Stretched until their car was out of sight, then bolted.

  I'd seen Chrissy once all week, and it'd been hard to think of anything else.

  I hurtled down the hills and through the bushes, the overgrown branches scratching my arms. My legs charged out in front of me like they had a mind of their own. Faster, faster, faster, they ran, in time with my head.

  Ducking and weaving through the trees was like trying to find the gap to break through and score. I could almost feel the ball in my hands and hear Daniel running up alongside me, calling for it.

  Soon the air cooled and the light speckled. Now I could hear the rush of the river. I burst through the tangled vines, my heart pumping in my throat. In one second I'd be kissing her all over, making up for the days I hadn't been able to.

  'Chrissy?' I shouted. 'Chrissy?'

  I walked along the riverbank, shaking the leaves and cobwebs off me. 'Chrissy? Chrissy?' But she was nowhere.

  The sweat poured off me, my t-shirt stuck to me like a second skin. I peeled it off, tucking it into the back of my shorts. 'Chrissy? Christina Tulake? Where are you?'

  A noise of something falling into the river disturbed the cockatoos above me. A mass of white flew off, squawking into the sky.

  I looked around. There was no one there.

  'Chrissy?' I called again.

  Plop. A stone hit the water. Plop. Another one.

  Then I heard the giggling.

  'Busted!' I shouted, my voice bouncing over to the other side. 'Where are you?'

  From behind a clump of orange waterlilies, Chrissy Tulake swam into view, her strong brown shoulders skimming the surface of the water.

  'I'm going to get you!' I laughed, tearing off my shorts, chucking my trainers in the bush.

  Chrissy shook her head. 'No boxers allowed,' she said. Her naked body floated along the water, shafts of sunlight flickering across her skin.

  I couldn't take my eyes off her. I ripped my boxers off and dived in.

  Chrissy swam towards me, her giggles bubbling in the water.

  'Hello,' she smiled.

  I took her in my arms, her skin smooth and slippery against mine. I kissed her neck over and over.

  'I love you.' Chrissy's fingers clawed at my hair. 'I really love you.'

  'I love you.'

  'Do you?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'More than you'll ever understand.' I gripped her hands. We treaded the water, gasping in this moment. 'You are everything. Everything!'

  'Really?'

  'You helped me find my old self. Believe me, that's everything.'

  Chrissy wrapped her limbs around me. For a second she held me tight then whispered, 'This is the place.' I looked at her. She smiled and nodded.

  'Are you . . .' I began.

  'Ssh.' She touched my lips. 'It's perfect.'

  In silence we swam to the rocks. I took her hand as we climbed out of the water, our bodies trembling. We lay beside each other, our faces close, our breath warm and fast with hunger. And there on the riverbank she took me inside her, our bodies rocking gently as we melted into one.

  That was the morning we swam and loved each other and that was the morning Tom
Brennan came back, forever.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  J.C. Burke was born in Sydney in 1965, the fourth of five daughters. With writers for parents, she grew up in a world full of noise, drama and books, and the many colourful characters who came to visit provided her with an endless supply of stories and impersonations.

  Burke decided to become a nurse after her mother lost a long battle with cancer. She specialised in the field of Oncology, working in Haematology and Bone Marrow Transplant Units in Australia and the UK.

  A creative writing course at Sydney University led to a mentorship with Gary Crew and the publication of CBC Notable book White Lies (Lothian) in 2002. Burke has since written The Red Cardigan, also a CBC Notable Book, and its sequel Nine Letters Long (Random House Australia).

  J.C. Burke lives on Sydney's Northern Beaches with her husband and two children. She does a lot of yoga, a bit of nursing, and housework only when absolutely necessary. She loves writing for children and young adults, as they still have an optimistic eye on the world.

  Visit www.jcburke.com.au for more information about J.C. Burke and her books.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The author would like to thank: Michael Shehadie, for his knowledge of rugby; Alex Shehadie, Meredith Phelps and Kym Langill, for their legal expertise; Angela Lucini, for her insights into patients with spinal injuries; Eva Mills and Zoe Walton at Random House Australia; Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown; and Anne Shakti Burke, for her generous time spent on the early manuscripts.