The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  ‘I thought maybe it was in a safe somewhere.’

  ‘No point: they made over a hundred of ’em.’

  ‘Mum, they only made one — she’s kidding, aren’t you, Mum?’

  ‘I never kid about Olympic torches,’ she said, having a sip. ‘Get my smokes, will you, love?’

  Now I was at the museum. I was going to visit that Torch. I was going to see the thing I’d only seen once, when I was eight. For Tom. And me. And maybe for Raffi. But I couldn’t ask the guard, or I’d be turfed out on my ear — that’s what happens when you’re a kid without an adult.

  On the way, I was sidetracked by the inventions gallery, which had machines in glass cases that you started by pushing buttons. After a couple of experiments, when I discovered that the machines only ran for about half a minute, then conked out, I could see that the trick was to push every button in the place before the first machine you’d started stopped, or before you were thrown out. If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth getting told off for, I always say. Well, I’m here to tell you it can’t be done, at least not on the first try. But then I remembered the mission, and reluctantly had to settle for vowing to come back one day, possibly after adopting a suitable super-identity with powers of invisibility.

  So I walked around until I just sort of discovered it for myself. It looked very lonely, plain, used. Famous, but forgotten. There was no one looking at it but me; no one else cared. I looked at the Olympic things all around it. They did nothing for me. But the Torch seemed to recognise me. Standing there, I took an oath — it wasn’t solemn, because I didn’t have a skull to swear on — that I would not forget it, like everyone else had. I was, after all, an Olympian.

  I ran out of puff down by the river at Prince’s Bridge, which I would have thrown myself over, except with my luck I reckoned I would’ve landed on a rowing crew and got an oar up my bum. So I walked down the steps to River Walk, and down to Ryrie’s Gym.

  Ryrie’s Gym was one of the places Nanna Taggerty (and Mum) had banned Granddad from taking Tom and me, though it was one of our favourite places. Nanna also banned him from taking us to the races, which was a fate worse than death for us, because we’d already had one Spring Carnival under our belts and had even learnt to read the bookies’ Tic Tac. In other words, we had racing in our blood. She also forbade him from taking us to the local fan-tan rooms, which was all right with us, as we weren’t interested in gambling anyway. Granddad had told us on many occasions that punting was a mug’s game, but Barney said that he was involved in the game in a way that did not make him a mug. It wasn’t until Nanna actually died that we knew the complete list of the places he wasn’t allowed to take us, because the first thing he did was take us to all of them.

  I stepped inside, where it was cool and dark and smelt a bit like my favourite smell: nun’s clothes on a Friday afternoon, but chalk-dustier and sweatier. I gave it a nine on the Blayney Scale of Smells and Pongs. As soon as the door closed behind me I heard the familiar clang of Ryrie’s voice.

  ‘Out you go, son.’

  I was very popular.

  ‘It’s me, Mr Ryrie.’

  ‘Oh, so it is. Where’s Arch?’

  I was ready for that. ‘Went mad and we shot ’im.’

  ‘Another bloody comedian.’

  ‘He said to meet him here. I thought he was inside.’

  ‘Sorry. He’s not here, and I haven’t seen him for weeks, if anyone asks. Now, no kids allowed. So off you go.’

  ‘It’s okay, Dave, he won’t blab. G’day, nipper.’

  Granddad came out of the shadows and ruffled my hair.

  ‘What brings you here? Come for a boxing lesson?’

  ‘G’day, Granddad. Won’t blab about what?’

  ‘I’ve got a few things to attend to that require a bit of peace and quiet.’

  I nodded and winked. A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind man. I gave him both, as he wasn’t blind.

  ‘Someone after you?’

  Ryrie laughed like a bomb going off.

  ‘That’s a good’n, Arch! He’s got your bloody number, mate.’

  ‘No, it’s just that I’ve got some business to take care of. I won’t be home for a few days. Nothin’ to worry about. If anyone asks, you haven’t seen me.’

  ‘Barn was looking for you.’

  ‘Barney can look after himself. Got it?’

  ‘Yep. But I was hoping you’d be here. I wanted to ask you about a few things.’

  We sat down and watched a couple of lightweights spar for a while.

  ‘That bloke holds his left too low,’ I said.

  ‘I know. He’ll learn the hard way. So what is it, your mum all right?’

  ‘Yeah, s’pose.’

  ‘How’s Daphne settling in, good?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Hard to see that woman as an officer. She’d’ve made a good sergeant, though.’

  ‘Or a race caller,’ I chipped in.

  He chuckled.

  ‘Mum seems to be swearing more, all of a sudden.’

  ‘That’ll be Daphne’s influence. They go back a long way. Her own mum was never like that, you know.’

  ‘Granddad, do you miss Nanna?’

  ‘I miss her the same way you miss Tom, boy. She was a rare beauty in her youth. You know, she hated the fight game. Hated it.’

  ‘Why would anyone hate boxing?’

  ‘People get hurt, that’s why.’

  ‘Was she worried you’d get hurt?’

  He had to think about that.

  ‘Nah, not me: it was the other bloke she was always worried about. I was a sneaky little bugger.’

  ‘Not like now.’

  ‘That’s right, not like now. Look, don’t you worry about Tom. I know what you think, but you couldn’t have done anything. His number was up; it was his time. That’s all. I wish to God it wasn’t, but it was.’

  ‘I went to Confession, to St Frank’s, and told the priest I was worried. I couldn’t find you.’

  ‘What’d he say?’

  ‘He told me to bugger off. He threw me out of the church … in front of everyone.’

  ‘What was this bloke’s name?’

  I was a bit worried about the direction this conversation was taking. But it was hard to slip one by Granddad: he was as cunning as a kelpie.

  ‘Burke, like the explorer. ’Cept he was Irish. It’s okay, Granddad; he was prob’ly having a bad day.’

  ‘I might just go down to St Frank’s and go to Confession meself. Then he’ll really be having a bad day.’

  ‘Don’t kill him, Granddad.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d kill him? — Bloody Barney! Off you go and don’t worry.’

  ‘But it feels like Tom’s a ghost. He’s not, is he?’

  ‘No, he’s not a ghost.’

  ‘They said in the paper that Mr Kavanagh is a ghost.’

  ‘That’s because he hasn’t been seen since he escaped, that’s all. But he’ll turn up. And if they get their hands on him he’ll wish he was a ghost.’

  ‘He was a traitor, wasn’t he? That’s what Mr Sanderson said.’

  ‘Strike me handsome! That Sanderson’s got a nerve fillin’ yer head with all that rubbish. Fergus Kavanagh was a lot of things. Mostly, he was a fool. He’s got a lot of enemies — I was one meself once, so I know. But that’s in the past, and anyway, it was all a bloody mistake.’ He sighed. ‘One that’s got nothin’ to do with you, boy.’

  ‘I’m worried about, um … his son.’

  ‘He’ll turn up.’

  ‘You remember that time Dr Dunnett wanted to give my brain ’lectric shocks?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, we won’t let him do that.’

  ‘They did it to Keith, but. And if they catch him they’ll do it again.’

  ‘Whatever they decide to do, it’s out of your hands. He burnt your flamin’ house down, for Gawd’s sake. He could have killed you and your mother.’

  ‘But what about Aunty Daphne? She migh
t put him in a home too, just like everyone else.’

  ‘No, I don’t think she’d do that, boy. She’s the only one who cares. Apart from you.’

  Granddad settled in to staring past me at the wall. I knew that gym well, and I knew that he was staring at the picture of him when he was a boxer, in his boxing stance, looking like he’d just heard that someone had sat on his favourite hat.

  I turned around and followed his eyes. The question was right on the tip of my tongue.

  Granddad must have read my mind, because he gave me his ‘time you were off home’ look.

  Just then, there was a loud thump in the ring. The fighter with the low left glove was on the canvas.

  Granddad and I looked at each other.

  18 Uncle Seamus

  At that moment, the door was flung open, revealing a tall, thin silhouette that hesitated, as if he might have walked into the wrong place.

  ‘Ah, here he is,’ said Granddad. Then I saw who he’d been waiting for. It was Uncle Seamus.

  ‘I’m dying of the t’irst.’

  ‘Seamus, my son. Come in and for Christ’s sake close that bloody door before we all fry.’

  Seamus closed the door and ambled over, like a man on stilts.

  Granddad turned to Ryrie and spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Give him nothing but water … or tea, if you’re puttin’ one on.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Uncle Seamus, spotting us in the dim light. ‘Yon the Terrier and his tyke!’

  Uncle Seamus was as nutty as a fruitcake. Just a few years before, they took him away in a paddy wagon, screaming and bawling like a frightened toddler, just for being touched. That and for being a public nuisance. And for donging a bloke at the entrance to the Burnley Railway Station — some poor bugger who was making a speech about the plight of the Richmond working man, though that was definitely a contradiction. All those who witnessed the incident were happy to let the police know that Uncle Seamus’d had no problem with the man’s arguments: it was the shouting that had done it. He had been frightened, and had panicked. He was only in the lock-up for an hour before Father Fitz from St Dominic’s was summoned and went across the road to get him released, which the police were happy to do as they were sick to death of his moaning and weeping, and besides, as Father Fitz had reminded them, in the end he had only assaulted one of his own.

  Uncle Seamus was a common sight about Richmond, walking tall and thin with the dignity of a man who knew things, and swaying like the mast of a yacht. He tipped his hat at dogs and horses pulling carts, and passed ladies with a wink.

  When we were little, Tom and I used to pray as we knelt by our beds at night that God would save Mum and Dad and our dog Menzies, and that he would preserve His Holiness Pope Pius XII and give him life and make him blessed upon the earth and deliver him not unto the will of his enemies — and that he would not let us end up like Uncle Seamus.

  To make matters worse, Uncle Seamus was a poet, a bit like Granddad, though Granddad had his poetry published in newspapers and books, something he liked to keep to himself, while Uncle Seamus preferred to shout it to the world. I don’t know which was the greater embarrassment, but there it is. He couldn’t hold any grog at all, not a drop, which Dad said was a strange thing for an Irishman, and as a consequence only drank sparingly and became instantly crazed by the stuff, so that we all had to run around hiding the bottles whenever he came to visit. This was of course the reason for Granddad’s hurried murmur to Ryrie.

  He had been shell-shocked during the war when, according to his own version of events, which no one disputed, he had beaten Rommel so badly in an arm-wrestling contest that the field marshal had killed himself. Tom and I had always thought that there were a few problems with this story, especially when the contest was sometimes described as a drinking contest (because we had seen the effect the grog had on Uncle Seamus, and we could see Rommel wiping the floor with him, all other historical flaws aside).

  But the fact was that he was, as Mum said, born with the demon already in him, and probably needed no shell-shocking to make matters worse. In my neighbourhood, no one was game to mention him in front of my parents, who were united in their shame. And my parents spoke of him in hushed tones, and only when they thought we were not listening. But Granddad liked him.

  Uncle Seamus scribbled poetry with dirty pencils that he was forever paring with a pocketknife. His scribbling could be silent, or accompanied by dramatic booming mumblings that rose and fell like the revvings of a big truck carrying a load of bricks. He always carried a newspaper, not to read but to write on, and God help us if he ran out of paper. I saw that he was carrying one now.

  It was never clear which side of the family he belonged to, as no one wanted to claim him. But Tom and I were always excited when he turned up, which was usually out of the blue. He was full of stories, and often had large sums of money, which was something that surprised everyone except Granddad, who kept whatever he knew to himself. On the other hand, he was clearly a pest to the adults in the family, and took every opportunity to wind them up, which pretty much guaranteed that he would eventually be thrown out.

  Though he had not come to Tom’s wake, I heard that he turned up at the funeral and cried so much that he had to be moved to someone else’s funeral where the crying was a bit thinner on the ground. Since then I had seen him several times around town, and once in Mass, though he did not live in our parish. On that occasion, he was wearing a suit and looked (and acted, I noticed) like a normal person, so much so that I thought it was someone else, until he answered the prayers, and I heard his distinctive voice. Whenever I saw him out and about I gave him the Big Hello and asked his advice, which he was always happy to give. It seemed to me that he was doubly happy to see me now that Tom was gone.

  But for me the main thing about Uncle Seamus was that he was the only uncle in the family — the only man in the family — who was not sneaky. He therefore reminded me of that stuffed Tasmanian tiger in the museum: he was a piece of history.

  ‘Hullo, Uncle Seamus. What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Sorry, young relative, but Archbold would have me for dinner if I spilled the beans, which makes sense, when you think about it. You had better be off, and find a more wholesome haunt.’

  I looked at Granddad, who gave me a nod, a wink and a scrunched-up mouth, which meant: The less you know, the better.

  Mum had narrowed down her hellos to two types: ignoring me altogether, and going crook.

  ‘And where the hell have you been?’ Type B.

  ‘I went to visit Tom.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. I told you: Tom’s buried in Parkville.’

  ‘That’s where I’ve been — on the tram, a couple of ’em, actually.’ I thought it was time to spread the blame to someone who wouldn’t mind too much. ‘It was Barney’s idea.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to give Barney a few ideas of my own when I see him. And I don’t want you going near that place again. Bloody Parkville! Jesus Christ, it’s on the other side of Melbourne!’

  ‘It’s near the Carlton footy ground. Dad used to take me there all the time.’

  I knew I was taking a big risk, saying that, but I thought it was worth a smack in the ear to have my say.

  ‘And you can forget that kind of talk, as well.’

  Now I knew: talking about Dad was no longer on.

  Next afternoon I attended a meeting of the Commandos. The meeting was to take place just after the end of the day shift at the Bester’s biscuit factory, as that was when the local kids would be allowed to invade the dark and clanky premises and get free bikkies off the workers. On a good day, you could get a bag of cream bikkies, even chocolate ones. You always got more bikkies from the blokes; the ladies would only ask you if you had a home to go to. They didn’t get it: the factory was our home.

  The Commandos were all there, and happy to see me, and we had lots of goodies to share, as Mrs Dixon had come home the night before with an ice-cream cake which Charles
said her boyfriend gave her — when it comes to ice-cream cakes, the motto of the growing boy is: Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies.

  Charles, who was a keen reader of The Sun, reported that there had been a fire in a fish and chip shop up in Carlton, and he wondered if we should put it on our sketch map. The others agreed that we should, until I pointed out that Flame Boy barracked for Richmond, and wouldn’t be seen dead in Carlton, the Kavanaghs being a proud lot, an explanation that they found logical.

  ‘But that’s nothin’,’ I said. ‘They had a conflagration up in Shamrock Street. It started out as a fire, and turned into a flamin’ conflagration.’ I sure did like the sound of those words, which belonged together. ‘You should’a been there.’

  ‘I was there,’ said Matthew B Foster.

  ‘Didn’t see you.’

  ‘I was in disguise.’

  ‘Yeah, and if you pull this leg, it plays “The Happy Wanderer”.’

  ‘I was. That’s why you didn’t see me.’

  ‘So what were you disguised as?’

  ‘A fireman.’

  There was one of those silences that can make a good story (because he wasn’t doing too badly up to that point) start smelling like a pile of horseshit.

  Granddad always said: ‘Never kick a bloke when he’s down: he might get up.’ So I thought I’d let well enough alone.

  ‘So anyway,’ I said, taking command of the situation, which is what your Commando corporal does, ‘the fire was here.’ And I made a mark on the map.

  ‘Do you think that loony kid started it?’ asked Luigi.

  ‘Dunno: I missed the start.’

  I wasn’t going to dob Flame Boy in to these blokes. I mean, Matthew Foster would tell his father, the baked bean tester, in nothing flat, and Charles would tell his mother even faster than that, as the two of them were like that, and he told her everything. I reckoned I would have too, as his mum was the most beautiful mother I had ever seen, even more beautiful than Wonder Woman, that is, James’s mum, who any private detective would say was a dame (though not the same kind of dame as Aunty Queenie, who was more like two women rolled into one). She worked at Darrods in town, which was a big shop that sold ladies’ stuff. And she was on television all the time, on In Melbourne Tonight, spinning the Darrods wheel when the Darrods Girl was on holidays. But she did like her Bex and snifter, and when it came to pills, powders and snifters, she’d probably beat Aunty Queenie over six furlongs.