The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  ‘Right, you little swine,’ he says, ‘what’s your name and where do you live?’

  ‘Matthew Foster, fifty-seven Munro Street, Cremorne,’ I say, quick as a flash, because all the Commandos had memorised his address.

  So he drives me to Matthew Foster’s house, all the way saying how he is going to tell my father that I need a good belting. When we get to Matthew’s place he drags me out of the car by the hair, and up to the front door. The door is opened by Mrs Foster, who looks like someone’s mother.

  ‘What’s —?’

  Before she could complete her enquiries, I threw my arms around her (surprisingly soft) body and yelled out: ‘Help! Mummy! He hurt me!’ then released her, and started my journey into the dark interior, which smelt of warm dripping and vanilla (I gave it a seven).

  I heard bits and pieces of conversation as I backed down the passage.

  ‘That boy needs a good belting!’

  ‘So you enjoy hurting children, do you? Wasley! Wasley!’

  Oh God, I could hardly believe what I was hearing — it was pure gold.

  ‘That boy put a cracker in my letterbox!’

  ‘My husband will put more than a cracker in your letterbox! Wasley!’

  A man passed me in the gloom. He was small, slight, stooped of shoulder, bald, with orange freckles all over his head, and bespectacled. He was: Wasley Foster!

  Fascinated, I stood at the end of the passage and watched as the Fosters took the stranger apart.

  ‘Do you know what that boy has been through recently? No!’ And more of the same: a summary, in fact, of my miserable life. It was needlessly detailed.

  The bloke was unmoved, being a local, who had probably had an assortment of letterboxes of various colours blown up over the years.

  ‘That boy —’

  ‘Want to step out into the street and take me on, Mr … Mr Brown DeSoto?’ said Mr F, probably looking up at a steep angle. ‘I’ll show you how we deal with bullies down here.’

  ‘Control yourself, Was,’ said Mrs F, now worried about an out-of-control Wasley. I tried to imagine it; my mind went blank.

  This was followed by retreating threats, and the clink of the front gate: the Richmond sound.

  ‘The boy was petrified,’ said Mrs F to her husband. ‘Thought I was his mother.’

  ‘I’ll see if he’s all right,’ said the Mighty Wasley, and the Mystery of the Baked Bean Tester Who Ate Melbourne was solved.

  Looking back, I should have thanked God for making Matthew Foster be somewhere else just then, because of the ‘Mummy’ thing, but in all the excitement I forgot where I was. Now that I think about it, God was probably otherwise occupied, being thanked by some kid who had been run over by a tram for his new wooden leg, so it all would have worked out in the end.

  I waited in the kitchen. I had been trying to dream up a story to explain why I put a cracker in the bloke’s letterbox. In the end I gave up: there was only one reason, and it had to do with being twelve, for God’s sake. They suddenly returned from the gloomy passage, and Mrs F gave me a pat on head, while Wozza — I call him Wozza — asked me if I’d like a snack. Food is a yes in my world, as the active superhero needs his vitamins and minerals, so I nodded and pulled a chair up to the table with him.

  ‘Thanks for helping me, Mr and Mrs Foster: I was frightened.’

  ‘That’s all right, dear. Bloody bully,’ said the Mrs half of the tag team.

  She finished fiddling with something on the bench, and passed it to me. It was a baked bean sandwich. I wondered what Wozza would give it.

  It was because of the way I met Matthew Foster’s oldies (and because they had apparently not told Matthew what a baby I was) that I had not kicked up a big fuss when he talked the Commandos into letting him join, though it was hard on the nerves, and I swore that if I ever formed a new club I would never let him in.

  At the end of the meeting, I said I would meet the Commandos up at the baths, because I wanted to take my map back to the Sandersons’ place, where I always put it for safekeeping. Not only was the map the record of my explorations over the past few months, it had some special memories about Tom that I didn’t want to leave lying around. When Matthew Foster first saw it and pretended he wanted to know what the red ‘T’ meant, Douggie Quirk had shushed him and frowned sternly, as everyone in Richmond knew that was the spot where Tom’d had his accident. Matthew Bloody Foster.

  But on the way up Balmain Street with Matthew, he told me he wanted to show me the model aeroplane he and his dad had built, which was a Jap Zero. Now, I don’t know about you, but the average kid (me) would walk over hot coals dressed only in his undies to have a look at a model aeroplane, Zero or no Zero. So I dropped in to the dark coolness of the Foster cave. It was a Tuesday, so Mr F was at work. I didn’t know about Mrs F, as some mothers worked and some didn’t. My main fear about Mrs F was that she would spill the beans about my last visit a couple of months earlier, when I had wormed my way into her heart under false pretences (which are, in my experience, the pretences that offer the best odds). After looking at Foster’s Zero, which smelt heavily of aeroplane dope, and which turned out to be a mistake, as it only made me envy him, I made a quick trip to the toilet, passing the laundry on the way. On the laundry floor I found one pile of familiar-looking clothes that smelt like a gumboot full of fishheads, and one Mrs Foster, preparing to shove them into a Hoover washing machine. I looked at her, and she at me — a total of two looks — and she went red. She was a pretty mother as these things go, and I felt sorry for her, because she was up to no good, which is something a twelve-year-old kid can spot without the aid of optical instruments.

  ‘He didn’t do it, you know.’ She got busy with the soap flakes and added a big splash of Pine O Cleen. Then another, for good measure. I would have done a third.

  I looked at her, and wondered if this made us even. No, something told me I didn’t need an angle with Mrs F.

  I knew straight away who she was talking about, just not which fire. Also, I was wondering if there was a naked Flame Boy hovering in the vicinity. It is a well-known fact that naked boys are not dangerous, and lose their powers to do evil. Naked girls I wasn’t sure about. Probably.

  ‘Didn’t do what?’

  ‘Set fire to your house. He told me.’

  I thought Mrs F had lost her marbles.

  ‘But he has set fire to lots of things: it’s what he does.’

  ‘I know; he told me. But he said he didn’t do that, and I believe him.’

  I thought I was hearing things, or maybe had just gone mad from all the aeroplane dope. But Mrs F was definitely on the up and up, and I knew that she wouldn’t change her mind even if Flame Boy walked in and announced that he had just burnt down the Exhibition Building.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No, I sent him on his way wearing some of Matthew’s clothes. He said he’d come back to collect these later.’

  I was dying to ask if Flame Boy was wearing Matthew’s purple shorts. It was agony.

  ‘Does Matthew know?’

  ‘No, and I’d rather you didn’t tell him. Mr Foster and myself think that boy needs help, not jail.’

  ‘Me too, Mrs Foster. His aunty turned up from the bush the other day. She’s staying at our place on the Hill, my granddad’s house. She reckons she’s going to take him and his mother home with her. When you see Keith would you please tell him? I’ll give you our phone number.’

  I left her with the phone number, and went back to the business of going to the Sandersons, thinking all the way over that I had now heard everything and also that Flame Boy was very lucky to have someone else who cared about him.

  7 Ned Kavanagh

  ‘So, how did the meeting go?’ said Mr S as I plonked myself down. ‘Mrs Sanderson has gone in to get you a cold drink.’

  Mr S was relaxing in his favourite verandah chair with Abbotsford sitting on his lap looking as though he owned the place. Cats only have two looks. One says: What happene
d? and the other says: Just try it. This was look B.

  ‘The meeting went well. We decided to make a map of all the fires around the place, as there’ve been a few lately.’

  ‘Mm, yes, there have, haven’t there?’ He sucked on his pipe. I waited. ‘And do they have the faintest idea why you’ve talked them into doing that?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The main thing is they’re interested in doing it.’

  ‘You remind me of Tom Sawyer.’

  I waited.

  ‘He talked — or rather tricked — his friends into helping him do his chores.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea, Mr Sanderson.’ I wondered what chore I would give to Matthew Foster. Something where he and Mum could ear-bash each other, I was thinking.

  ‘So that’s how you’re going to locate the missing Keith, are you?’

  ‘Thought I’d give it a try.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be happy to know that’s exactly what the authorities will be doing too. Mind you, it probably took a dozen of them to come up with the idea, while you’ve done it all by yourself. One thing, though. They’ll be using a better map than yours — not that yours isn’t a fine map —’

  ‘Work of genius, I would say,’ chipped in Mrs S, who had reappeared magically with a tray of goodies.

  ‘It is indeed. But no match for this.’

  And with a sort of flourish, as if he was Bernard the Magician producing a pigeon out of a top hat, he produced a folded map and slapped it on the table. I picked it up and unfolded it, and realised for the first time that the adult world had a side to it I had not seen, though I still could not put my finger on it. It was a map of Richmond, and it had the lot. It even showed the underground station at Eden Park, and Dynon Creek, most of which had been turned into a concrete canal that ran under buildings and roads. I looked at the legend, and saw that it had just about every kind of building and street I could wish to see, or to explore. It was a kind of treasure map.

  ‘Of course, you must keep this particular map to yourself. This is just between you and us. But it’s yours to keep, so feel free to make notes on it, and so on. Hope you find it useful.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sanderson. But why are you interested in Flame … Keith? Surely the p’lice —?’

  ‘They lack the manpower and, I’m sorry to say, the motivation. I have my own reasons for seeing him found safe and sound. Now, a serious note: I don’t want you conducting a one-man search for Keith. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s true that he could be down in the drains. But you mustn’t go down there looking for him. You have to think of your mother. If she lost you it would break her heart. We think you owe it to your family not to do anything irresponsible and … dangerous — I’m sure you know what we mean.’

  I did. They were talking about Tom, who’d done something very dangerous – reckless, they all said. The Sandersons must have known how much it would touch me to hear them refer to that day, even though they’d never met him, but they wanted me to feel their concern, and they couldn’t have picked a better way.

  ‘It’s okay, I won’t do anything crazy. Anyway, there’s nothing to set fire to down there,’ I said with a twinkle in my eye, which was a trick I’d picked up from Granddad when he was taking delivery of things that fell off the back of trucks, or getting something for free at the Vic Market.

  Granddad always said that a man could go a long way with just a shillelagh under his arm and a twinkle in his eye. So one day, when we were waiting for some blokes he knew to join him for a cup of tea at his special table in the Hibiscus Tea Shop (Granddad was partial to a drop of tea and a scone with raspberry jam on Saturday mornings before hopping off to the track), I asked him about this.

  ‘Granddad, you know how you’re always talking about having a shillelagh under your arm and a twinkle in your eye?’

  ‘Yes, young feller.’

  ‘Well, I’ve worked out the twinkle —’

  ‘You certainly have, boy. You’ll go far with that twinkle, won’t he, Barn?’

  ‘Oh, that he will,’ said Blarney Barney, who was rolling a smoke with two very shaky hands, despite not being an old codger like Granddad.

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t worked out the shillelagh bit. I asked Mum, and she said it was a big stick for dongin’ blokes. But I’ve never seen you with one of those.’

  Granddad had a bit of a chortle at this, and Barney laughed so hard he dropped his cigarette makings right into his cuppa.

  ‘I’m your granddad’s shillelagh, son. And heaven help the poor bugger I have to give a tap to.’

  ‘Now, Barney. Don’t tell him that, ya flamin’ dill. A man oughta dong ya.’

  ‘Aw, keep y’shirt on, Arch. He’ll find out sooner or later.’

  But it was all a bit of puzzle to me. I couldn’t picture Barney doing anything violent, in spite of him being about twice as big as a normal bloke and always carrying a knife in a special sheath strapped to his leg under his trousers. Surely, I thought, a bloke like that would always be left in peace to get on with his hobby, which I already knew was, in Barney’s case, burglary, an activity that required a lot of peace and quiet. Also, I knew, without knowing how, that he would always look out for me, and was a friend.

  It was Barney who taught me how to jimmy open a car boot with my secret pry, and how to pick locks, which is a handy skill in case you’ve locked yourself out, as he explained. He also taught me how to shoplift comics (‘handy for when you’re short of a quid’), break windows without making a sound (‘handy for when you don’t want to wake up the whole flamin’ household’), and start a car without a key (‘You’re bound to lose your car key sooner or later, young feller.’). He made me swear never to tell Granddad about these things, as he was frightened that Granddad, who was once the Bantamweight Boxing Champion of Australia, might give him a thick ear, or the sack — or both.

  Mr and Mrs Sanderson were looking at me with their usual soft eyes, but my twinkle, which I only wheeled out on special occasions, and which did not work at all on certain types of people, like nuns and parents (but usually did work on the Sandersons), went over about as well as a girl at a boys’ party.

  Quick as a flash I put on my serious fizzog, annoyed at myself for having wasted one good twinkle, hardly used, and buried my face in a piece of chocolate sponge with ripple icing, my favourite; but out of the corner of my eyes (a trick I had learnt from reading The Jungle Book) I did catch the two old fogeys half smile at each other, which told me they had forgiven the young feller for his little joke, and would probably be offering another slice of cake any tick of the clock, or, even better, lunch.

  Zac had disappeared around the back, which was where all the real shade was, to say nothing of his bowl of water and bone, and when I went to get him, he was reluctant to go home. In fact, for the last month or so, Zac had lived in so many places he was beginning to remind me of Lady’s friend, Tramp. But the Sandersons’ place was definitely his favourite, probably because it had also been the favourite place of Biscuit.

  ‘Something wrong?’ said Mrs S, coming round the back.

  ‘I was going to drop Zac off at home on the way to the baths, but I don’t think he wants to go. He’s pretty keen on his bone.’

  We watched Zac gnawing for a while, while Zac watched us back, looking from one to the other. Detective dogs are pretty cluey. I could tell that he knew he had us euchred.

  ‘How’d you get him down here?’

  ‘Tram.’

  ‘They let him on?’

  ‘Told ’em he was a guide dog.’

  ‘You told them you were blind?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And they believed you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  When Mrs S said that, I got an idea — an amazing one — and I decided to put it into action as soon as I could get back to Mrs Morgan’s place. Mrs Morgan’s, because I needed some peace and quiet, and while the Sandersons’ would normally be just the right place for that,
I thought they might not approve of what I had in mind.

  ‘Mrs Sanderson?’

  ‘You were wondering if you could leave Zac with us for a while.’

  I think I told you the Sandersons had superpowers.

  ‘Of course you can. It’ll make it a lot easier for you to attend Commandos meetings. You won’t have to pretend you’re blind, for a start.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs S. That’s terrific. I hope he won’t think I’ve shot through on him, or anything.’

  ‘I don’t think he will, dear. He’s a Labrador, and they are very sensible dogs. That’s why they entrust the blind to them — the real blind, that is.’

  ‘Too bad Mrs Kavanagh didn’t have one.’

  ‘I don’t think it would have made much difference to her in the end, dear.’

  ‘No, but it might have made a difference to … Keith. He had no one.’

  I thought of Tom, and then felt my eyes start to burn and my head start to sting inside. Mrs S suddenly grabbed me in some kind of bear hug. It was like being eaten by a mattress.

  I spent the afternoon up at the baths bombing Matthew Foster, who seemed to like it — but then, he seemed to like everything. He was the only one of the Commandos who laughed at everything. He was like a miniature Aunty Daffy, though she had fought the Japs, and I couldn’t see Matthew Foster fighting his way out of a wet paper bag. You had to hate him. Before going home, I forced myself to go down to Rooney Park at the end of Kipling Street, to visit that spot and maybe say a prayer for Tom, as that was something I hadn’t done, except in my Prayer Before Going To Bed, and that didn’t count because if I didn’t say it then I would go to Hell, according to Mother Sylvester, and besides, Mum would give me a thick ear, which was worse. On top of that, I reckoned that he wouldn’t need it, as he had never done anything bad, if you don’t count pulling down Bridgette Scott’s pants. And I didn’t.

  The monkey bars that had killed him had been replaced with new ones, which looked at me as if they were daring me to give them a go. But that was not going to happen today.

  It was still hard for me to visit that place, but I owed it to Tom to try. We’d planned a few of our secret missions here — we’d had lots of fun. And this was where I’d last seen him, and heard him say his last word: home. He loved that word, and I loved hearing him say it. This was my new kind-of holy place, edging out St Ignatius’s church by a short half-head.