A Prayer for Blue Delaney

by Kirsty Murray

  The stranger was taking things out of a leather bag.

  ‘You may think it’s harsh, Bill. I agree with you somewhat, but you don’t know this boy. He could be a bad one. You don’t know what he did to warrant the beating. Those Brothers are working hard to make men of these boys. Why, at Clontarf there are over 200 boys and only six brothers. It’s no surprise they have to resort to the strap.’

  ‘I don’t care what his crime was. I’ve never held with beating littlies, and even if I did, no child deserves to be thrashed within an inch of his life. God knows how he made it to Fremantle. He’s got guts, this one. A real battler. Didn’t breathe a word to me about the beating. It was only when I found him at the top of the stairs, passed out cold, that I realised there was something amiss.’

  The doctor bent over Colm and examined his cuts. ‘Some of these are infected. There’s not much meat on his bones, is there?’

  Colm turned and stared up at the doctor.

  ‘You’re awake are you, young man? Can you sit up for me?’

  The doctor listened to his chest, looked down his throat and in his ears. Til give him a shot of penicillin and send a car around to collect him later this afternoon. I can’t take him now,’ he said to Bill.

  Bill nodded and Colm felt panic rise up.

  As soon as the doctor was gone, Colm swung his feet over the side of the bed and tried to stand.

  ‘Can’t go back,’ he said, struggling to speak. ‘Brother Dennis will kill me.’

  Bill stared at him.

  ‘Don’t be a wacker. The Brothers might beat you, mate, but they wouldn’t murder you.’

  Colm fell to the floor, kneeling in front of Bill, his hands folded in prayer. ‘Please,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘Please. Don’t let them take me back.’

  Rusty jumped down from her place on the end of Bill’s bed and nuzzled Colm’s cheek. Colm pressed his face into her dusty fur. At least Rusty understood.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What am I meant to tell the doctor?’ said Bill.

  Later that day, Colm lay with Rusty beside him, and listened to Bill tell the doctor’s driver that the boy had run away again and he didn’t know where he was.

  It took days for Colm to feel strong enough to leave his bed. On the evening of his first day up, Bill lit a fire in a 44-gallon drum in the courtyard. He opened a can of baked beans to heat in a battered black billy can and cooked sausages over the flames on a long fork. Colm relished the sharp, salty taste of the blackened meat.

  Bill looked at him across the flames. ‘Good to see you up and about, cobber. But you’re going to have to keep a low profile. I ran into Doctor Do-gooder down at the pub. Don’t know if he believed you’d done a bunk. If he sees you wandering around Fremantle, he’ll be on to you like a shot.’

  Colm stopped eating and stared miserably into the flames.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bill. ‘You can hide out here until you get your strength back. That is, if you don’t mind an old man, a dog and a few ghosts for company.’

  It wasn’t hard for Colm to keep hidden. No one came to visit Bill’s corner of the Asylum. It was strange having whole days to himself with nothing much to do. One day he found a battered old piano in the abandoned refectory. From then on, he would sit at the keyboard every day and practise the tunes that Sister Mercia had taught him over and over again. After a week or two, the songs leapt out from beneath his fingers like magic. Sometimes Rusty sat beside him, her head tipped to one side, as if she appreciated the concert.

  As the weeks unfolded, a rhythm started to shape Colm’s life. During the morning he’d play the piano or read newspapers or a battered old Bible that he’d found on a windowsill on the second floor. Sometimes he’d help Bill with tasks around the Asylum, sweeping the courtyard or holding a piece of timber steady while Bill hammered it into place. In the evening, Bill would ask him to read the funnies out loud while he cooked their dinner. Bill wasn’t much of a cook, but there was never a shortage of beans and sausages and sometimes he’d bring a parcel of fish and chips with him when he came back from an afternoon down in Fremantle. Slowly Colm’s wounds began to heal until there was only a cross-hatching of scars on his back.

  One morning while Bill and Rusty were out, Colm sat in the courtyard reading the newspapers and saw that the Queen of England was travelling around Australia, visiting towns and cities all over the country. Every day there was more coverage of the royal visit, and special picture spreads celebrating her Australian tour. But now she was coming to Fremantle.

  Colm carefully tore out the picture of her coronation and put it under his pillow.

  That night he dreamt about a queen. He wasn’t sure whether it was the Queen of Heaven or the Queen of England. But the queen in his dream was holding the hand of a boy, a smiling boy with white-blond hair. Colm woke with a start, Tommy’s name on his lips. He felt shaky. Was Tommy trying to send him a message? Why was Tommy with the Queen? Was she his mother now? Colm knew the dream was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t understand what it was.

  The next day, Colm read out some of the news about the arrival of the Queen while Bill made toast. There was an outbreak of polio in Western Australia and all the plans for the royal visit had to be changed. She wasn’t going to stay at Government House. Instead, the royal yacht, the Gothic, had been moored off Fremantle. There were lots of warnings advising people not to congregate in large groups for fear of the polio epidemic spreading, but thousands of people were expected to flock to the dock to see her disembark and head to the airport for her flight back to Britain.

  ‘Do you think maybe we could go down to the docks?’ asked Colm. ‘It could be our last chance.’

  ‘Daft idea,’ said Bill grumpily. ‘You don’t want to get mixed up in that crowd. There’ll be policemen crawling all over the place.’

  Colm said, ‘I’d risk it for her. She’s our Queen.’

  ‘She’s not my bloody Queen. This bloody country should have been a republic years ago. You won’t get me going down to gawp at her and her bloke.’

  Colm didn’t bother to argue any further. He folded up the newspaper and began thumping out a tune on the old piano. As he played, he thought about the Gothic sailing home. A boat sailing to England as swiftly as possible with no passengers on board. Suddenly, Colm started to understand what his dream might have been trying to tell him.

  11

  Bitter truth

  The morning that the Queen was due to leave Fremantle, Colm waited until Bill and Rusty had gone out as usual. When he thought they’d be well out of sight, he pulled back the bolt on the courtyard doors and slipped out into the street.

  It was strange to be outside after the weeks shut up in the Asylum. Whenever a car drove past, he found it hard not to shy away and dive behind a fence to hide. As he walked down the hill towards the docks, he took a deep breath and smelt the sharp tang of a sea breeze. It smelt like freedom. But when he turned out of a narrow laneway into one of the main streets of Fremantle, Colm realised he’d made a mistake. The roads were crammed with cars and people heading for the docks, and just as Bill had said, there were policemen everywhere.

  Colm felt suddenly self-conscious in his ragged shorts and bare feet. He burrowed his way between the tightly packed bodies. No one seemed to be worried about the risk of catching polio. Pushing between a tall man in a dark suit and his well-dressed wife, Colm wriggled forward to the barricade, wondering how much further it was to the docks. In front of him, behind the opposite barricade, was a sea of fluttering British and Australian flags, and among them, standing in a small group of boys, was Dibs.

  Colm backed into the crowd, trying to disappear in the press of bodies, but people were surging forward, pushing him to the front. Colm saw Dibs turn towards the man standing behind him and say something. Then he turned and pointed towards Colm. His heart skipped a beat. Instinctively, he dived under the barricade and ran up the street, ahead of the cavalcade. A policeman shouted at him, and someone in
the crowd reached out for his arm, trying to drag him back behind the barricade, but Colm pulled free and kept running until he cannoned into a burly chest in a blue uniform.

  ‘Just what do you think you’re doing, sonny?’ asked the officer, gripping Colm’s wrists.

  Colm looked around wildly. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know where to run to. He was ready to give up when he heard a low growl and looked down to see Rusty tugging at the leg of the officer’s trousers.

  ‘Oi, get off, you bloody mongrel,’ said the policeman, loosening his grip. Colm wriggled free and dived into the depths of the crowd. Rusty was close behind and then suddenly ahead of him. Colm followed the splash of red fur through a tangle of legs. Finally, Rusty turned into a side street and bolted up the hill. Now, at last, Colm knew where he was and could find his way back to the sanctuary of the Asylum.

  When Colm and Rusty finally pushed open the big doors of the Asylum, Bill was waiting for them, his expression thunderous.

  After he had heard Colm’s story, Bill sat down and put his head in his hands.

  ‘Well you’ve buggered things good and proper,’ he said. ‘Everyone in Fremantle knows Rusty’s my dog. If the coppers come knocking, we’ll know why.’

  Colm knelt down beside Rusty and put his arm around her. ‘They won’t take her away, will they? She was only trying to help me.’

  ‘Right. Biting a copper. That’s a big help. They’ll probably take the pair of you away, lock you up and shoot her.’

  Colm felt the blood drain away from his head. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

  Bill shook his head and sighed.

  ‘No, it’s not your fault. It’s not right keeping you cooped up like this,’ he said, as if talking to himself. ‘Rattling around with the ghosts. But I can’t let you loose in Fremantle, especially now. Sooner or later the police or the Welfare will come knocking on the door, and it will be back to Bindoon for you.’

  ‘I’ll run away again.’

  ‘To what? It’s not like the old days when there was always work about for boys. Little tacker like you, you can’t get a job or do anything much except wait to grow up.’

  ‘I’ll stow away and go back to England. Like you did, but the other way around.’

  ‘Times have changed, mate. You’d never make it out of the port.’

  Colm scowled. ‘I have to get back to England. I have to get back to my mother. She’s waiting for me.’

  Bill leant forward and looked Colm straight in the eye. ‘Listen, cobber, I know it’s hard. But you’ve got to face it, mate. How long since you saw your ma? You reckon if she was alive, she’d give up on you? Do you know what happened to her?’

  ‘She said she was coming back, but then . . .’ Colm mumbled.

  ‘Did she ever visit you? How long since you’ve seen her? Do you even remember her face?’

  The questions were like punches to the stomach for Colm. He stood up and swept everything from the table. Tea and biscuits went flying to all corners of the room. He took hold of the edge of the table and gave it a mighty push, overturning it onto Bill’s lap.

  ‘I remember everything,’ he shouted, and ran from the room.

  In the old dining hall, he flung open the lid of the piano and started bashing out a tuneless song, while tears poured down his face.

  ‘I can remember,’ he muttered to himself as the notes became more frenzied and his fingers stumbled on the keys. He remembered that his mother played the violin. He remembered that she’d stand by the window while thin city sunlight filtered through the glass and made her red hair shine. He could remember all sorts of little things about her - her favourite blue coat, the way she’d bring him a bun when she collected him from Mrs Fogarty’s on Friday evening after her long day at work. He remembered the tiny room they shared in the boarding house and looking into the cracks to see if there was any treasure under the floor. But he couldn’t remember her face. He racked his brain, trying to make a picture. He could see everything, everything about her - the shape of her body, the way she moved, the touch of her hand - but he couldn’t make out her face. If he couldn’t see her face, there could only be one reason. He pounded his fists down on the keys of the piano and then slammed the lid.

  12

  The digger’s tale

  Next morning, Colm woke to find Bill packing pots and pans into a small wooden crate. Colm rubbed his eyes and looked around the room. It had always looked bare, but now there was almost nothing left of Bill’s possessions. Even Rusty’s bowl was missing.

  ‘Time to hit the frog and toad,’ said Bill.

  Colm’s stomach lurched. ‘You’re leaving home,’ he said, more as a statement than a question.

  The old man laughed. ‘This old nut-house? A home? No, it was only a place to bunk down for a season. Home is where the heart is and my heart feels easy on the open road. Been here too long already. Besides, after the trouble you stirred up yesterday, it’s time we moved on. You up for an adventure?’

  Colm bent down and patted Rusty. He didn’t know how to answer. Why was Bill so kind to him, especially after last night? Rusty lowered her head and started licking Colm’s feet.

  ‘If Rusty wants me to come,’ said Colm, ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘She’s not the one driving the ute,’ said Bill, drily.

  Colm bit his lip. ‘Last night, I’m sorry for last night. It was ‘cause . . . I’ve been waiting and thinking about. . . you know . . . for a long time . . . and when you said . . .’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Bill, with a wave of his hand. ‘You go and say your goodbyes to Ethel and the other ghosts. I’ve still got some packing up to do.’

  All morning, Colm sat at the piano, furiously playing every last tune he knew and then making up others. He wasn’t sorry to be leaving the ghosts behind, but leaving the piano was like parting from an old friend.

  ‘C’mon then,’ said Bill, putting his head around the door. ‘Tin Annie’s waiting.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  Bill led Colm around to the side of the Asylum. Parked out in the street was an old ute. It was pale blue, except where the paint had been scraped off in one close shave or another.

  ‘Meet Tin Annie,’ Bill announced. ‘They used to call these old Fords Tin Lizzies. I’ve never fancied anyone called Lizzie, but there was a girl in a blue dress that I was sweet on when I was a young fella. Annie. She was unpredictable, always surprising, but a real goer. Old Tin Annie’s like that too. Wouldn’t call her reliable, but when she goes, she’s a cracker of a car.’

  Colm climbed into the front seat. Rusty jumped up beside him and immediately sat on his lap.

  ‘You’re in her seat,’ said Bill.

  Colm smiled and wrapped his arms around her. ‘It’s our seat now.’

  They drove out of Fremantle and onto the Great Eastern Highway. The hills of Perth gave way to scrub and then flat open country. Rusty kept climbing onto Colm’s lap and sticking her head out the window, hanging her tongue out in the warm breeze. Colm put his hand into the wind and felt the gritty air pass through his fingers.

  As evening fell, Bill turned off the road onto a grading track and bumped to a stop.

  ‘C’mon, mate. Time to catch some tucker.’

  When Colm climbed out of Tin Annie he found Bill loading a rifle. In less than a minute, he’d scanned the landscape and then fitted the gun to his shoulder. The first shot made Colm’s insides hurt. It was as if it went straight through him. Twenty feet from where they stood, a rabbit skittered in the dirt. Bill turned and smiled. ‘There you go. You nip over there and pick it up.’

  The dead rabbit was warm and limp in Colm’s hands. He cradled the animal close against his chest.

  ‘Give us that,’ said Bill, frowning. ‘You shouldn’t carry it like that. You’ve got blood all over your shirt now. Haven’t you ever been hunting?’

  Colm shook his head.

  Bill laid the rabbit down beside him and put a hand on Colm’s shoulder. ‘Your turn. You ta
ke a potshot at them. This time of night, they’re everywhere. Easy to bring ‘em down.’

  Colm put his hands behind his back.

  ‘C’mon. Every boy wants to have a go with a gun.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Colm.

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll show you how to shoot. There’s a little kickback in the shoulder, but you’ll get the hang of it.’

  Colm shook his head again and took a step away.

  ‘Have it your way,’ Bill said, raising the gun and firing into the scrub. This time he sent Rusty to collect the rabbit.

  Colm couldn’t watch as Bill skinned the rabbits. He climbed back into the cab of Tin Annie and sat looking out at the landscape through the dusty windscreen. What was he doing out here? He lay down on the seat and shut his eyes, wishing that when he opened them he’d be somewhere else, in a bed in a house, some place where he didn’t have to feel so wretched and alone.

  The car door creaked loudly as Bill wrenched it open. ‘Get out here and make yourself useful.’

  While Colm gathered some more sticks for the fire, Bill stewed the rabbits in a billy. They ate in silence. It was as if both of them were suddenly wondering how they had wound up together.

  After tea, Bill hauled two swags out of the back of the ute and unrolled them beside the camp fire.

  ‘Aren’t you going to pitch a tent?’ asked Colm.

  ‘A tent? Why would we be wanting a tent?’

  Colm didn’t reply. He wished they were at least in a grove or under a tree. The landscape seemed so wide, so vast, with no end to it. Being out in this huge open space made his skin prickle. The night sky was ablaze with stars, as though they were wrapped around the whole world. He whistled softly for Rusty to come and lie beside him, but she was nestled down firmly next to her master and didn’t respond. Colm stood up and tiptoed over to the old ute. He wound up the windows and settled down on the worn blanket that covered rips in the upholstery.

  Next morning, Colm woke to the smell of damper and sweet tea. Bill laughed at him as he climbed out of the ute.