The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  ‘Jean, I can’t believe that a woman with your war experience could be so naive. Injured somewhere! Having a good laugh somewhere, if you want my opinion. Or more likely, trying to work out whose house to burn down next. What’s it been so far: two houses, a pub, a car and a fish and chip shop? Oh, and a tram.’

  ‘The car was probably an accident,’ said Mum quietly, to my surprise.

  ‘And the fish and chip shop was burnt down by Charlie Wing’s son-in-law, that’s common knowledge,’ said Granddad.

  ‘Accident! Son-in-law! Mark my words, that sweet little innocent’ll be round here next, taking another bite out of the hand that fed him.’

  Aunty Betty, having had her say, then proceeded to refill her bowl with Mum’s trifle, not something I would have done myself — not unless X-rays showed that I had recently grown a cast-iron stomach. I could tell by the silence that followed this declaration that it had touched a nerve. And not just with the adults at the table. Only Rex the Ignorant was immune to its effect, and was preoccupied with seeing whether there was going to be any trifle left for him, news of Mum’s cooking apparently not having reached central Victoria yet.

  The odd thing was that, even though Mum hated Aunty Betty — I don’t think she liked any ladies with no necks — she had let her carry on like a pork chop, but I think she did it to see where she was heading. I had been living with Mum long enough to know when she was up to her tricks.

  ‘I’ll bet I know who can tell you where that little nutcase is,’ said Aunty Betty, nodding her head towards me and making one side of her face fold up.

  A hot icy thrill ran through me right down to the soles of my feet. I looked at Granddad for support, but he just looked into the trifle bowl as if he was going to have a go at it, though I know he wouldn’t have done that unless he knew I could handle the situation.

  ‘Bett, we’ve been over all that. He doesn’t know. He and Keith didn’t even get on. He knows that if he hears anything he’s to tell one of us, don’t you?’

  An unexpected gift. I nodded vigorously.

  Nanna Blayney, who had been the first into the trifle, being the oldest and gamest of the lot of them, now paused and put her spoon down with a bang.

  ‘I knew that boy’s grandfather.’

  Now, Richmond may not have been the biggest town on earth, but this was the very reason people invite grandmothers to lunch: it always turns out that they knew someone, in this case (depending on which grandfather she was talking about) someone famous. She picked up her spoon again, then put it down, this being a part of the Nanna Blayney Show, which I had seen many times. It was at this point that Tom always said: ‘Wow-w!’ I decided to fill in, as she seemed to be waiting for it.

  ‘Wow! You mean the Torch’s father?’

  ‘Worse, love. Oh-h yes, infinitely worse — his mother’s father. He was a tearaway, that one, ran with the Ugly Push for a while. You’d remember that lot, Arch.’

  ‘Why’d they call ’em the Ugly Push, Nanna?’ My mind was filled with pictures, ugly ones.

  Granddad piped up. ‘They were bad bastards, that’s why.’

  ‘Dad!’ That was Aunty Betty and Mum together, though you could only hear Aunty Betty.

  ‘’Strue, love,’ said Nanna, now eating again. ‘But then he married May Brennan and settled down up in the Little Lon with her and her sisters — went on to make a fortune off those Brennan girls. I wonder what happened to them,’ she asked no one in particular, with what I knew was her mischief voice. She stopped and looked at her dessert, as if the history of Melbourne was written there in secret code.

  But I was thinking that I knew a lady called Brennan: Aunty Queenie, Granddad’s secret friend. I looked at Granddad, who was concentrating on lunch as if he wasn’t listening, and at Mum, who was concentrating on Granddad to see if he’d crack under the pressure, then at the others, where I got no joy at all. Nanna had to be the biggest stirrer under the sun. And I guessed the only reason she stuck her bib in was so that she could mention Aunty Queenie’s name. Mum kept her mouth shut, but she almost got a hernia doing it. But it was weird realising that Flame Boy’s nanna was related to Aunty Queenie. I felt the connection get into my stomach and pick a fight with the half-baked potatoes. Suddenly Richmond seemed to shrink a little. Or maybe my brain was getting puffed up.

  Suddenly, Nanna came to life again, with a jolt. ‘But that bloke — what was his name, Archie?’

  ‘Donny, I believe.’

  Granddad didn’t have to believe: he knew.

  ‘Donny Delaney. What a useless lump he was. He and May had their own girls. Then he came to a bad end. The girls were better off without him — I knew them before the war, you know.’

  Only Brendan, Rex and James weren’t paying attention. I was hearing nine-carat-gold family gossip, the kind you can’t buy. Nanna had reached the two-furlong post and had the whip out.

  ‘There was Molly — that’s Keith’s mother; Dymphnea — she married a Hungarian (never marry a Hungarian); Dahlia — she married a sailor (I warned her); and Daphne — she was famous … well, you know her, Jean.’

  This was Mum’s cue to jump in and stop Nanna before she came out with any other crazy stuff about Flame Boy’s family. I have noticed that adults generally love connections, but only if they don’t get too close to home, which is where I sensed this stuff was heading.

  ‘The boy’s aunt — Molly’s sister, Daphne — is coming down from Wodonga to take him home with her.’

  Mum finally helped herself to the trifle, completely forgetting who had made it.

  ‘Does she know he hasn’t been seen since the fire?’

  ‘She reckons he’ll turn up, and when he does, she wants to be down here.’

  ‘But where will she stay — not here, Jean?’

  But Mum was miles away and had lost interest in the accommodation of famous firebugs’ relatives. She had bigger fish to fry. And, to delay the inevitable — because I knew that she was building up to the greatest announcement since the invention of the yo-yo — she turned to James, as if she was just seeing him for the first time.

  ‘So, James, why haven’t we seen you before?’

  I jumped in quickly, as I had discovered that James was incapable of keeping a secret, and he already knew a few of mine.

  ‘James’s mum is a friend of Mr and Mrs Sanderson. I only met him last … um … what, James?’

  ‘Ah … year.’

  ‘November. It was just after I rescued Biscuit from the Yarra.’

  Brendan laughed his head off when he heard this. ‘It said in the paper that he rescued you.’

  He said it so loudly that Aunty Betty gave him a loud smack in the ear, which made me wonder if I’d misjudged her.

  ‘So where do you live, James?’

  ‘Chapel Street.’

  This had the effect of killing all further interrogation, just in case James’s next announcement was that his mum was Dame Pattie Menzies. Mum suddenly made her changing-the-subject face and turned to me. Her eyes were firm and slightly narrowed, which told me that I was going to be given the kind of order you can’t argue with. Normally, that look says: Off you go, outside and play, or something else to do with shooting through, and this was just the same.

  ‘Why don’t you show the boys your new room?’

  I knew what was going to happen next. Mum was going to tell the family what she had already told her old friends. She became quiet and stiff — probably, I thought, the way she became just before she went into action against the Japs during the war, or before whatever it was she did. I’ve developed a soft spot for the Japs.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go.’

  We went up the stairs, and I listened as we went, but all I heard was an impatient Jean— from Aunty Betty and a stern Shh— from Mum, who was waiting for us to disappear. I ushered James, Brendan and Rex into my room, and waited at the door. Nothing. I stepped inside and closed the door so that it could be heard downstairs. There was a low murmuring sound lik
e the one you hear when you’re in the confessional box waiting in the dark for the priest to finish hearing the confession of the kid before you. Then the noise downstairs suddenly shot up a notch on the Aunty Betty-ometer.

  5 Aunty Daphne

  What Mum didn’t tell Aunty Betty was that the other aunty — Aunty Firebug — was not only staying with us but also arriving later that same afternoon. So as soon as the visitors shot through, Granddad was off to Spencer Street to meet her train. There was tension in the kitchen that day. Mum washed up as if she’d heard that dishes could turn on you and rip your throat out. I wanted to watch, but I was scared.

  Looking back, she had done the right thing with the dishes — some of which she killed — because by the time Flame Boy’s Aunty Daphne arrived she was back to her normal old self. Moreover, she turned into a different person altogether when Aunty Daphne walked in.

  ‘Hello, Daffy.’

  ‘Jean Flamin’ Taggerty! My God, is that you? Molly didn’t tell me.’

  ‘It’s me all right.’

  ‘What a small bloody world it is! You married a Blayney? Not Frank?’

  ‘His brother, Bill.’

  ‘My God! And look at you: you haven’t aged a day!’

  And more of the same, until I thought I was going to throw up.

  Right from the word go, Mum treated Aunty Daphne as if she was the greatest thing since push-up lipstick.

  Aunty Daffy — well? — was a largish type of lady, tall and broad-shouldered, as if she had been humping baggage down at the wharves for a crust while other ladies were out and about discussing shoes and doilies. She had a nose like Mr Squiggle, and short, wiry hair that looked as if she had just given up one day and decided to take a pair of garden shears to it. For the first time I felt all right about my own hair, which stuck out like dry grass. But the best thing about her was the way she laughed, which she did a lot. I think if Mum had told her she was pregnant she would have laughed in her face. Mum would have killed her, and she would have died laughing.

  Mum had a Boston bun stashed somewhere, and she now wheeled it out and organised tea for everyone — you can’t muck up tea.

  It turned out that Mum knew a lot about Aunty Daphne. Nanna had said she was famous, but I couldn’t imagine her fitting into a Tiger Moth and flying around the world, or doing the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’, whatever that was.

  Also, Aunty Daffy turned out to be a very loud woman, louder than Aunty Betty. As soon as she opened her mouth Granddad gave me a quiet glance that told me he’d offer me eight to five against our own family’s entrant over six furlongs. It wasn’t that she didn’t care who heard what she was saying; she seemed to think we were all over in the next street. She was also wearing a red floral dress that looked as though it was on fire, which I thought was an odd choice under the circs, and made me wonder for a moment if it ran in the family, and if she was in fact Australia’s first lady firebug, as that would make you famous.

  It was when I was halfway through my second piece of Boston bun with butter in the middle that the mystery of the Daffy–Mum connection was cleared up with a bang.

  ‘Jean, I can’t believe it, seeing you again after all these years! I thought: My God, it’s Lieutenant Jean Taggerty!’

  Aunty Daphne was one of those rare people — Granddad is the only other one I know — who is able to look you straight in the eye while going down memory lane, and she did it now.

  ‘I don’t know how you got us out of that place back then, Jean. You’re a bloody inspiration.’

  ‘Lieutenant Daphne Delaney. Thanks, Daff. But as I remember, you carried me half the way.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘No, Daff, it was only fifteen years, though a lot’s happened since.’ Mum looked at Granddad, then at me, and without smiling ruffled my hair, one of people’s more common uses for me. ‘I often wondered what happened to you.’

  ‘I married, that’s what. Now it’s Daphne Honeysett. Oh my God, what a bloody mistake that ended up being!’

  Mum sighed and nodded slowly, as if she understood.

  ‘Dare I ask?’

  ‘We’ve had our ups and downs. I’m in the middle of one of the downs.’

  ‘Listen, my dear, if you’d rather I didn’t stay, I can always find a pub.’

  ‘No, stay, stay. Tomorrow we’ll find out which home they took Molly to. Then we’ll start looking for Keith. What a bloody mess.’

  ‘Molly still hates me. You were mates at one stage, weren’t you? Until … well, I guess you made up?’

  ‘No, we didn’t. She still hadn’t spoken to me until the fire a few weeks ago. Then there was some kind of truce. I took her in — what could I do? — she had no one. Then our house went too.’

  She made a face like old concrete.

  ‘You haven’t changed, Jean. You were always a survivor.’

  ‘I don’t know what I am these days. But I know I can’t allow Keith to come into this house. I think he should be in an institution, where he can be looked after. And where I can’t get my bloody hands on him.’ Mum looked at me. ‘I’m right, aren’t I, love?’

  I knew the correct answer to that. I aim to please.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jean. My plan is to take the both of them back to Wodonga. I live out of town where there’s a lot of wide open spaces. I don’t want to see him in a mental home; I’ve heard bad things about those places.’

  ‘They’ll hurt Keith if they catch him.’ That was my contribution.

  Mum made her face go tight, like my pet turtle, which my first dog, Shandy, killed.

  ‘No they won’t,’ said Aunty Daffy, ‘or they’ll have to deal with me, and believe me, they wouldn’t like that.’

  It was one of those sentences that had a full stop.

  ‘We have to find him first.’ Aunty Daffy might have finished, but I hadn’t. Mum’s face was now tighter than a greengrocer.

  ‘Then we will, young man. Jean, I like your boy. He’s got his mother’s spirit. Don’t worry; he’ll be all right.’

  ‘You can have him if you like, Daff. He’s only worried about Keith because of his brother, Tom. Tom died the year before last. He misses him.’

  Aunty Daffy took a breath, but said nothing. Mum did the same thing. I thought I’d give it a burl myself. Lot of breathing going on.

  Granddad had been sitting politely through all this.

  ‘So, Mr Taggerty, you must be very proud of your Jeanie.’

  ‘Archie, please. Yes, Daphne, we are.’

  I’d thought I’d tell them some news of my own.

  ‘Mum, you know Abbotsford.’

  ‘If I were you I’d forget about him. Fires drive cats crazy. He would’ve gone bush.’

  ‘No, Mum, he turned up the other day at the Sandersons’. They’ve taken him in.’

  ‘Another stray.’

  Granddad gave her the evil eye, but it was nothin’ doin’. I made it a nil-all draw.

  Mum and Aunty Daffy got stuck into the conversation again.

  I grabbed Granddad in one of the quiet moments — there weren’t many.

  ‘Granddad, what’s an inspiration — she said Mum was one?’

  ‘A guiding light, boy. To show you how it’s done. Your mum might look like anyone else on the outside, but on the inside, she’s a force to be reckoned with.’

  ‘Like Supergirl?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  This was the most new information about Mum I’d heard since she got the flu and went off her nut for two days and thought Tom and I were both Dad. We didn’t stop her. Except we stopped listening when we found out she hadn’t wanted twins — it left us wondering which one of us she did want. After that Tom and I wrestled for half an hour non-stop. You can’t wrestle by yourself.

  But the point I’m making is that I had never thought of Mum as someone’s guiding light, though now that I thought about it I could see why: she had the right coloured hair, and she didn’t take any lip, like the Sarge in Battl
e Action. Also, she worked in a match factory, where she pushed people around all day. It all added up. I thought I would ask for details when the moment was right, but it never did happen.

  So Aunty’d had an inspiration. It all made sense. It was how you got by. Granddad was definitely the best person in the world at getting by that I had ever met, so I thought I’d ask him about it.

  ‘So, Granddad, who’s your inspiration?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, boy. It’s your dear Nanna Taggerty. She was an amazing tower of strength to me when she was in and out of those sanatoriums. Every time she went in, I thought I’d never see her face again, but she kept on smiling, especially when your mum was around. She kept me going for a lifetime. They couldn’t put out that light inside her.’

  ‘But they did in the end.’ I remembered the last time I had seen Nanna Taggerty, who was tall and thin, and in the end so tired she couldn’t move a muscle. However, Granddad was right: her lilac eyes were shining brightly even then. I corrected myself.

  ‘No, they didn’t, did they?’

  ‘No.’

  Mum was happy for Granddad to go next door to return Mrs Morgan’s budgie, Cheeps Rafferty, now that Mrs Morgan had just arrived home from her sister’s place at Bunyip, and she was happy for me to go with him, which didn’t exactly astonish me.

  Granddad didn’t tell Mrs Morgan Mum’s news, though the two of them were as thick as thieves — which is something that Mum didn’t know about — and I reckoned he’d tell her when they were alone together. No one was in a hurry to tell me at all, and I guess I was happy enough with that. I had been across the road at Peanut Hobson’s place the day his mother told him she was going to have a baby, and Peanut had started bawling non-stop like a beauty and in the end I had to go home. And I was also there when she told him they weren’t going to have a baby after all, and the same thing happened. So I knew that this baby news stuff could be dynamite.

  After saying my hellos to Granddad’s friend, who I sometimes called Aunty Vera, and as there was still plenty of light, I grabbed a few victuals from our kitchen and hurried off down to the river on my bike, which had been one of the treasures I had rescued from our old house. Actually, I had long ago been banned from riding the bike, because of my turns, but Mum had been so preoccupied since the fire she wouldn’t have cared if I’d grown an extra head and announced that I was going to join Ashton’s Circus. So off I went.