That afternoon, some official visitors called on the orphanage, and Tommy and two other boys were asked to sing for them.
‘Do you sing, Tommy?’ asked Colm.
‘Bloody hate it. Old Keaney makes us sing for the visitors. Wants to show off what a marvellous bloody job he’s doing. Bastard.’
‘It can’t be that bad. I don’t mind singing. I’d go in your place.’
Tommy laughed. ‘Sure, I’d love you to take me place, but us Belfast boys are the only ones who can sing in Gaelic. You might be a Paddy by blood, but I betcha don’t know a word of the Irish. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to go. Couldn’t do that to a mate. We get belted with his stick before we start and whacked again when we’re done, ‘cause we’re never good enough. And if we hit a wrong note when we’re singing, he clips us then, too. You’re well out of it.’
‘If you teach me the song, I’ll be able to sing it.’
Tommy slapped him on the back. ‘Don’t be a bleedin’ martyr, Tonto. I’ll see you later.’
In the evening, Tommy and the other Northern Irish boys were made to stand on a table in the dining room and sing for Brother Keaney again. Some of the other boys laughed at them. Colm squirmed uncomfortably on the hard bench. He could hear the misery in their voices and it made something ache deep inside him.
That night in the crowded dormitory, Colm lay staring up at the high roof. Boys whimpering in their sleep kept him awake long into the night. It was nearly six months since he’d left Liverpool. He counted up the weeks and months, trying to calculate when his mother might have got his letters. What if she went to Clontarf and didn’t find him? Surely they’d tell her he was here at Bindoon. Maybe if she came, she would take Tommy away as well. Colm pulled out his prayer card and pressed it against his chest, praying to Mary to guide his mother to him.
The next morning after mass, some of the boys went to the dining hall to write letters home. Colm went to follow them, but Tommy grabbed his arm.
‘Where you going?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been writing to my mum every weekend. I have to tell her I’m at Bindoon now. One day, she’s going to come and take me away.’
Tommy laughed, but it was more like a bark than a happy sound. ‘Don’t go wasting your time with that caper. She won’t be coming for you. Not if it’s the letters that you think is bringing her.’
‘Yes she will,’ said Colm, clenching his fists.
‘Look, lad,’ said Tommy, putting a hand on Colm’s shoulder. ‘They don’t send your letters nowhere. I was moving cupboards when they got me working on a painting crew a while back. Found a whole pile of boys’ letters fallen down behind them. They’re not gunna waste good pennies on postage for us lot.’
Colm stood on the steps of the chapel and felt darkness descend on him. By the banks of the dam, families were spreading out Sunday picnic lunches. The Brothers encouraged families to visit the grounds of Bindoon so the world could see the good work they were doing, but they banned the boys from speaking to the picnickers. Now Colm stared at these people, wanting to shout at them, wanting to tell them that nothing was as it seemed.
Some of the boys who had come from Clontarf seemed to think that Bindoon would be a holiday. But on Monday morning, all the boys started work. Colm didn’t care. Anything that kept him from thinking about the dark future was a good thing. And at least he was working with Tommy.
The new boys were set to work alongside boys and tradesmen who could teach them what to do. Colm’s job was to help concrete the floor of the entrance to the main building. He and Tommy worked on their hands and knees, crawling along a plank and smoothing the concrete with blocks. The slurry was gritty and rough against Colm’s skin but the work was rhythmic. As he scooped up the concrete and slapped it down, he hummed the melancholy song that Tommy had sung last night. He had just reached the chorus when a boot kicked him so hard in the backside that he landed face first in the wet concrete.
‘You’re learning a trade, Biddy-Ann. There’s nothing for you to be singing about,’ shouted Brother Keaney, towering above him. The song froze in the back of Colm’s throat. He had to shade his eyes against the bright sunlight as he looked up at Brother Keaney’s shock of hair, white against the blue sky.
Colm was made to stay concreting until the portico entrance was finished, even after the dark night came down around him. Every hour a Brother would come to check on him and tell him to keep at it. The moon rose and shone down brighter than the dim kerosene lamp that hung from a pole to light Colm’s work. When he’d finally reached the top of the steps, Brother Dennis came to tell him he could go to bed.
‘Can I wash the concrete off, please, sir? It hurts my skin.’
The Brother looked at Colm for a long moment. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
In his long black gown the Brother looked like a dark spirit as he wove in and out of the shadows of the building. Colm was so tired, so hungry and sore, that he could barely keep up. They were halfway across the moonlit yard when a wiry figure came hurtling towards them and bowled straight into Colm. Colm’s knees crumpled beneath him and he fell back in the dirt, winded.
Brother Dennis grabbed both boys by their collars and hauled them to their feet. He shook the other boy violently by his shoulders. It was Tommy.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he barked.
‘Just coming back from Brother Keaney, sir,’ said Tommy. ‘He asked for me. To warm his bed, like. And then I saw you and thought I’d show McCabe the way back to the dormitory, sir. Save you the trouble.’
Brother Dennis looked from Tommy to Colm. Before he could say anything else, Tommy grabbed Colm by the wrist. ‘Run!’ he whispered into Colm’s ear.
They fled towards the boys’ dormitory.
In the shadow of the portico, they stopped to catch their breath and watched as Brother Dennis disappeared into the Brothers’ quarters.
‘Why did we have to run?’ whispered Colm.
‘You don’t want to get yourself alone with Brother Dennis, not at night, when no one knows where you are. Believe me.’
‘Why not? And why were you warming Brother Keaney’s bed?’
Tommy snorted in disgust. ‘The old bugger makes us lie at the end of the bed so he can warm his feet. Then, when he’s snoring, we get out. The smell just about suffocates you. You was lucky he fell asleep when he did so that I could rescue you.’
‘I wanted to wash this concrete off,’ said Colm.
‘You should be thanking me, not worrying about a bit of muck. I’ll cop it sweet tomorrow for getting in Dennis’s way.’
Suddenly, through the shadows, they saw a flicker of movement in the moonlit yard. Brother Dennis was heading straight towards the boys’ dormitory entrance. Tommy pulled Colm back into the shadows.
‘Sweet Jesus. He’s still on the frigging prowl. What if he doesn’t wait until tomorrow? He knows where I sleep.’ Tommy jumped nervously from one foot to the other, talking rapidly in a low whisper. ‘Listen, I’m getting out of here, Colm. I’m not waiting for whatever he wants to dish up. I’m sick of this place, sick of the work and the thrashings and being old Keaney’s whipping boy. I asked him once, I said, “You’re Irish and we’re Irish. Why are you so hard on us?” And you know what he said? He said, “Biddy Ann” - he says, “Biddy Ann, you are the son of a whore.” That’s what they think of us. They think we’re sons of whores. That Brother Dennis, he’s already tried to have a go at me once. I’m not giving him a second chance. I’m thirteen now. Old enough to make me own way.’
‘Let me come too,’ said Colm.
‘You’re still too little, Tonto. They’ll catch you for sure. Quick, get yourself in bed, down with the Clontarf boys. I’ll go north and find myself work, be a jackeroo. That’s what they call cowboys in this country. If I go now, I’ll have a whole night’s start on them.’
They waited in the dark until Brother Dennis emerged from the dormitory again and returned to his room. ‘Here’s my chance,’ said
Tommy. ‘So long, Tonto.’
Colm grabbed his hand in a last grip and they pressed their thumbs together so the scarred ridges of their blood brotherhood touched. ‘Keep safe, Kemosabe.’
Tommy scurried into the scrub, his hair a beacon in the moonlight, and Colm walked into the dormitory alone. There was the familiar rustling of restless boys and the odd whimper. Colm tiptoed down the length of the room until he came to the row of camp beds set up for the Clontarf boys. Exhaustion overcame him as soon as he lay down. The last thing he saw was a black shadow in the doorway of the dormitory. It slipped into his mind and flitted through his dreams. All night he dreamt of running with Tommy by his side as the black shadow moved in and out of the flickering dreamscape.
7
The broken boy
The next morning, Tommy was gone. Colm was called up for questioning, but to every question he simply answered, ‘I don’t know.’
As soon as the interview was over, Colm was sent back to the concreting crew. Thousands of people were going to come to admire the orphanage at an ‘open day’ next week and nothing was ready. Everyone had to work fast, faster than they ever had before. Maybe it was a good time for Tommy to have run away. Surely the Brothers would be too busy to go looking for him.
But that afternoon, Brother Dennis drove back into Boys’ Town with a crumpled figure seated beside him in the front of the orphanage truck. Colm looked up from where he was working on the verandahs and felt his heart grow cold. Something about the way Tommy was slumped in the seat made him feel afraid.
When Tommy climbed out of the truck, he stumbled like an old man. Then he fell down in the dirt. Brother Dennis stood over him, hands on hips, talking in a low, angry tone.
‘Get up, get up,’ whispered Colm, willing Tommy to get to his feet. But Tommy started to crawl on hands and knees, as if he had lost all sense of who he was. Brother Dennis grabbed him roughly by one arm, hauled him to his feet and led him towards the building.
No one saw Tommy again until after teatime. He came into the dormitory as the boys were climbing into bed and limped between the rows of bunks with his gaze fixed on the floor. The usually noisy argument of bedtime was silenced. All his thick, white hair was gone, shaved off so only a scabby stubble was left. One eye was swollen shut, and when he lay down on his bunk it was as if every movement was agony.
Colm and several of Tommy’s friends gathered around him.
‘Tommy,’ said Colm, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder.
Tommy winced and drew away, curling into an even smaller circle.
‘I haven’t seen a boy given a balding for a while,’ said one of the older boys. ‘The brothers must have been really angry with him. Betcha they thrashed you hard, didn’t they, Tommy?’
Tommy lay silent. Gently, Colm raised the back of Tommy’s shirt to see how bad the damage was. His back was a mass of red welts, raw and swollen. Colm felt sick.
In the morning, Tommy was listless and wouldn’t eat his gruel. Colm felt a tight knot form in his stomach.
‘Tommy,’ he whispered. ‘You have to try to eat. They’ll belt you again if you don’t.’
Tommy looked at him with a stranger’s eyes.
Colm checked that no one was watching and then quickly scraped Tommy’s breakfast into his own bowl and wolfed down the claggy gruel. He felt guilty, but he knew that Tommy couldn’t stand another thrashing.
Out in the bright sunshine, they were marched up to the grand new building to begin rendering the walls on the second floor. Even though the morning was still and hot, without a breath of wind, the rough scaffolding swayed unnervingly. The boys clambered up the side, reaching for handholds, bracing their bare feet against the struts to help steady themselves.
Brother Keaney came across the site, swinging his cane and shouting up at the boys, ‘You Biddy-Anns, wake up and get working.’ He hit the scaffold with his cane so it juddered, and the boys all grabbed the nearest handhold. Everyone except Tommy. He sat limp as a rag doll, staring vacantly into space. It was a miracle he didn’t fall.
Colm scrambled over to Tommy and gripped his arm. ‘Please, Tommy, wake up!’
Brother Keaney shouted for Tommy and Colm to climb down. He looked Tommy up and down. ‘Not up to much today, are you, Cassidy? That’ll teach you to do a bunk. Here, Sullivan and you, whatever your name is, take Cassidy down to the dam. The super bags need washing.’
Colm hooked his hand under Tommy’s elbow and guided him down the steps, following Sullivan. Beside the vegetable gardens was a small cart and a pile of old hessian bags reeking of superphosphate.
‘Right then,’ said Sullivan. ‘You done this before?’
Colm shook his head and looked to Tommy, but Tommy stood silent.
‘Well,’ said Sullivan, ‘We have to load up the bags and take ‘em down the dam to wash. Then we tow ‘em to the fence line and hang ‘em on the rails to dry. You and me, we’ll be like the donkeys and get between the shafts, and Tommy, he can push from behind.’
Colm and Sullivan worked swiftly, but Tommy struggled to lift even a single bag. Sullivan looked at Tommy and shook his head. ‘Here, why don’t you ride on the cart and me and Colm will tow you down to the dam?’ he said.
Silently, Tommy climbed on top of the bags while Colm and Sullivan got between the shafts and dragged it down to the dam. It took them over an hour to rinse clean the stinking hessian bags and reload them. Colm tried to get Tommy talking but he received barely a word in response. When they’d finished, Tommy climbed wearily back into the cart and lay on top of the wet bags.
Sullivan and Colm stood between the shafts again and started to haul the cart uphill. The weight of the sodden bags and the steepness of the rise made it difficult work.
‘Here, this is no good. He’ll have to jump down and give us a hand,’ said Sullivan.
‘No, I’ll get behind and push. Give me a minute.’ Colm hurried to the back of the cart and braced himself against it, but they had only pushed it a metre when he lost his footing. Sullivan let out a shout and suddenly the cart was rolling backwards.
Colm saw the wheels bump past his shoulder. Sullivan shouted, ‘Jump, Tommy! Jump clear!’
Colm scrambled to his feet and saw the cart careering down the hill towards the dam with Tommy bouncing around on top. Colm ran, but he couldn’t catch up. The cart hit a rock and overturned short of the dam, throwing Tommy to the ground. He lay pinned beneath it with his arms flung out at twisted angles. Blood oozed from his shorn skull, forming a dark puddle in the red dirt.
‘Tommy, Tommy!’ cried Colm over and over as he and Sullivan flung themselves against the cart and desperately tried to push it clear. Finally, Sullivan wedged a piece of wood beneath the cart while Colm dragged Tommy’s body free.
Colm held Tommy against him. It was like holding a limp animal, as if all the taut energy that was in Tommy had seeped into the earth. Blood soaked into Colm’s shirt and covered his hands.
‘Get help,’ he said to Sullivan. ‘Get help, quickly.’
‘I can’t go quick. I’ve got a gammy foot. You’re fast, I seen you. You go,’ said Sullivan, kneeling down beside him. ‘I’ll stay with Tommy.’
The red dirt flew as Colm raced up the hill towards Boys’ Town, running faster than he had ever run in his life.
8
Nothing to lose
They laid Tommy’s body on a makeshift table in the porchway between the chapel and the dining room. The story rippled through the work sites like wildfire. Tommy Cassidy is dead. The words echoed against Colm’s skull, but they made no sense. He had run as fast as he could. He had prayed with all his heart, pressing the holy card between his palms as he begged Blessed Mary to save Tommy. But Tommy had died anyway.
The Brothers covered the body with an old sheet and waited for the doctor to come and write out the death certificate. The afternoon was hot, and by the next morning Tommy’s body was swollen from the heat and flies buzzed around his corpse. After early-morning mass,
the boys were made to line up and file slowly past the draped body to pay their last respects.
That evening, Colm couldn’t face the meal of lumpy potatoes and watery cabbage. The steam from the dark tea smelt bitter. He kept his head down, staring into his lap where his hands lay clenched into two fists.
When Brother Dennis came into the dining room, Colm wasn’t the only boy not eating. Brother Dennis walked between the tables, flicking his strap out at those who had food left on their plates until they hurriedly reached for their spoons. Some boys wept as they ate, but Colm wouldn’t cry. He pushed the plate away and sat defiantly, staring at his fists, feeling his own rage burning inside him. When Brother Dennis stopped by his place, the buzz in his ears turned into a roar. He grabbed a fistful of potato and flung it into Brother Dennis’s face. The dining hall fell silent. There wasn’t a whimper as Brother Dennis wiped his cheeks. He was shimmering with rage. Colm couldn’t help but gasp as the man swept him from the bench and dragged him from the dining hall by his hair.
Colm didn’t cry once as the strap cut again and again, tearing his bare skin. When it was over, he pulled on his shorts and shirt in silence and staggered to the dormitories.
That night, after everyone in Boys’ Town was asleep, Colm climbed wearily out of his narrow bed. Moonlight lit the path to the small graveyard where they had buried Tommy that afternoon. He stared at the wooden cross that marked the grave, hating the thought of Tommy beneath the dirt. He knelt down, took out his prayer card of Mary Help of Christians and placed it tenderly at the foot of the cross. Now that Tommy was in heaven, he was with her. If Tommy had a mother, she would never see him again.
A heavy feeling filled Colm’s chest. When he looked up from the grave, the dark scrub and the white trunks of the ghost gums seemed alive with threat. There was no music for him in this place, only the wail of boys’ misery. Colm knew what he had to do. No matter what the risk, he had to get away. He had nothing to take with him, nothing to lose, nothing to regret. Somehow, some way, he was going to get back to his mother in this life.
A Prayer for Blue Delaney Page 4
