The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  The best way to be a spy is to let everyone think you’re a brainless nong. So even though I felt much better, owing to a fresh supply of the Health Food of a Nation, I put on my tired dial and allowed them to send me to bed. And sure enough, after a while, I was rewarded with intelligence, which is what secret agents call information. After going to bed, but not being able to sleep, pretty much like everyone else in Melbourne, I heard a car pull up outside. My bedroom was in the front of the house, so I was able to creep over to the window and look down into Kipling Street.

  You’re probably thinking that a car parking in the street would be about as interesting as yesterday’s episode of Bluey and Curley. But Kipling Street was one of the quietest streets in Melbourne, if you don’t count the odd murder, which happens occasionally in most streets of Richmond. As soon as that thought occurred to me I felt guilty, because, though I hated the truth like castor oil, the fact was only last year someone had been murdered in that very house, a special copper like Mr Sanderson, and I had seen it happen. I don’t want to say more than that right now because it gives me a funny feeling to think about the trouble being a witness caused me. But when the Sandersons moved in, their being there changed the house: made the ghost — that’s how it felt — disappear to wherever ghosts go after they’ve finished scaring the living daylights out of witnesses.

  So when a car pulled up outside the house — a large black car — I immediately thought, Hello: visitors. This looks like a job for the Olympians. And as I was the only Olympian present and accounted for, I kept my eyes peeled. The car was driven by a man without a hat, who went round and opened the back door. A man with a large black hat got out. It was not your usual bloke’s hat, that’s all I could tell. The man came to our house.

  In less time than it takes to sing ‘Lollipop’, I had crept down the stairs using the stair-creeping technique made famous by Larry Kent, detective, that is, walking close to the wall so there won’t be any creaking, because some of these big old houses were built when the Yarra was just a creek. The Sandersons’ house was one of the biggest houses in South Richmond, having three floors. Though my favourite room was on the first floor, the library as we called it, I knew that they would be talking to the mysterious visitor on the ground floor, where they kept the piano, the TV, the chess table and a lot of photos, which was normal. Basically, if you wanted to impress someone, you took them into the big room.

  I crept down to the lounge room and waited, flat up against the wall in the bottom of the stairwell. They were still saying hello. It was ‘Mr Sanderson’ this and ‘Secretary Bobrov’ that, and so on. The conversation was mostly about the secretary’s trip and how there was a blizzard going on in Russia when he left, and how he had been given a nice house in Canberra, which was a delightful place, not that Melbourne wasn’t, and so on. Frankly, I hadn’t heard such drivel since the Commandos decided to see what would happen if we mixed Charles’s mother’s Vincent’s Powders with her gin, then drink it. But I could tell that they were leading up to something, and this Russian bloke didn’t come all the way from Canberra, which I knew was out past the black stump, to discuss the weather.

  But Mr S was just chatting away as if his house was one steady stream of Russians, and he expected another twenty or thirty before cocoa time. I had seen this old trick before, of course, because Granddad used it all the time, when he was about to ask someone to repay a debt: put the punter at ease, then remind him who was paying for the petrol in his car. And, of course, Granddad wasn’t that interested in the money. It was all about who was boss. So both of these blokes were putting each other at ease like their lives depended on it. I had never heard Mr S sounding so cool. As for Mrs S, her presence seemed to be accepted by this Russian, who insisted on being called Viktor (so Mr S insisted on being called Russell, which almost made me fall down the stairs).

  Finally, after a lot of conversation about the weather, they got down to business.

  ‘So, Russell, do you have the documents? I would like to be able to tell the First Secretary that full diplomatic relations may be resumed and the old, embarrassing days are behind us.’

  ‘We still have not located them, Viktor.’

  ‘And you’ve been looking for how many years?’

  ‘It was thought that the briefcase containing them had been destroyed in a house fire. You will recall that your man —’

  ‘Yes, yes — old, embarrassing history, as I said. But it was not destroyed, was it?’

  ‘We now believe that the fire was lit so we would stop searching.’

  ‘But you did not.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘They told me you were a plain-speaking man. So here is some plain speaking I have been authorised to make. When you find the briefcase, you may keep the official documents it contains. It is the packet of letters we seek. They cannot affect Australian national security.’

  ‘We have not found it. However, we believe that the last man to see it may lead us to it. I can tell you no more.’

  ‘You have released him?’

  ‘He escaped.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. If there’s anything my people can do —’

  ‘I am authorised to remind you that full diplomatic status has not yet been granted —’

  ‘Da, da.’

  ‘You must let us handle this; otherwise it’s back to the blizzard. Sorry, Viktor; not my words.’

  ‘And the letters?’

  ‘Not my call.’

  There was the sound of people getting up from leather lounge chairs.

  ‘You can get me on this number. I’m disappointed. I was told you were a friendly man, Mr Sanderson.’

  ‘No, Secretary Bobrov, you were not.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll leave it with you. Then we can all get back to spying on each other, like in the old days, eh? Now I must thank you both for your hospitality. I hope I haven’t been a difficult guest. And speaking of guests, please remember me to the Larsons when you next see them.’

  21 Royal Raffi

  I was amazed that this Bobrov character, whom I don’t think Granddad would have liked the look of, and who was not very polite to the Sandersons, had heard of the Larsons all the way over in Russia. Then I realised that Volvos were probably popular cars over there – they certainly weren’t in Melbourne. But it didn’t sound as though he liked them very much, however: I knew sarcasm when I heard it – Mum practically invented the stuff. I had already decided that I didn’t like him.

  But there were a couple of things about this conversation that struck me as very peculiar – not funny peculiar, like Uncle Seamus, but strange peculiar. One was that the bloke was Russian — not exactly a common sight in Kipling Street. And the other was the way Mr S spoke to him, the way Granddad spoke to renegers he met when he was out and about: calm and cool but not all that smiley. This was clearly some kind of secret men’s stuff, like when a copper wants a quid for looking the other way (and there were so many cops doing that in Richmond it’s a wonder they weren’t all ending up under trams or tripping over and breaking their necks).

  But I’d heard about Russians. Father Hagen was always going on about them till he was blue in the face, as they were constantly upsetting God (it’s easy to do, believe me); and the Prime Minister, Pig Iron Bob (not his real name), apparently was likely to have an epileptic fit if you mentioned them. We also had a Russian lady living in our street, Mrs Bira, who was forever filling Tom and me up with cheese blintzes. So I suppose you could say I was an expert on Russians.

  But the thing that really smacked me in the head like a grouchy nun was that the Russian geezer was after Flame Boy’s dad’s briefcase. It all added up: fire, Big Loony-Bin Breakout, briefcase belonging to the Torch, secret papers inside it. I had sifted through the evidence, like Larry Kent, and felt that I was getting to the bottom of the question of just how many people were actually after the damn thing and why.

  I was disappointed in the Sandersons. All that stuff about how they w
ere concerned for Flame Boy’s safety was bulldust. All they wanted was what everyone wanted. The number of people who gave a bugger about Flame Boy himself was steadily shrinking.

  I would have loved to come down at brekky and start the conversation by asking straight away for the good guts about the Russky with the terrific hat, but I couldn’t, for two reasons. First, Mrs S brought me breakfast in bed (Kellogg’s Corn Flakes with tinned peaches, just like on the box, followed by scrambled eggs and toast that wasn’t burnt and was soaked in the old Western Star). She also brought me a new Phantom comic, which I thought was pretty incredible, because it meant that she had gone down to Corbetts newsagency before I even woke up. I made a mental note to make her an honorary member of the Olympians, like Zac. She didn’t have teeth like a watchdog, but she could read minds, and that was good enough for me.

  The second reason I couldn’t ask about the Russky was because I’d overheard something I wasn’t supposed to hear, which is the best thing a kid can possibly hear, better than overhearing his parents discussing what he was going to get for Christmas (though that conversation had been absent last Christmas), or the girl he loved telling her best friend that she loved him and was planning to kiss him at the pictures next Saturday — that didn’t happen either: I’m just saying. So it was a case of keeping it to myself. It was one of those times when I would have given Baby Jesus a Chinese burn to have Tom back for five minutes. Ten.

  Mrs S was casual and friendly when she entered with the brekky tray and reading material, and even sat on the side of the bed and watched me spoon the golden goodies down the corn-flake chute for a while. Now I don’t know about you, but when a lady comes and sits on your bed and watches you eat, it’s odds-on that this lady is trying to find a way to get something off her chest, usually something to do with where babies come from, which does not go down well with brekky, or at any other time, for that matter.

  ‘Mrs Sanderson, if you’re going to tell me where babies come from, I know already — everything,’ I added, quickly.

  ‘No, dear, I’m sure you do. No, I was just wondering if you slept well last night.’

  ‘Like a wrestler in a coma hold.’

  ‘And you weren’t disturbed by Russell and me chatting with our visitor?’

  I was so tempted to say ‘You had a visitor?’ that my toes hurt. But Mrs S was not a dill. And Granddad told me that with the extra-sharp customer you had to show respect for their sharpness.

  ‘No, I’m used to you guys chatting.’ I continued to spoon in the corn flakes, wondering if, under the tit-for-tat rule, I was going to be let in on the secret. But I guess I hadn’t supplied enough tat.

  I could see the Sanderson mouth twisting as if Mrs S was trying to imagine how many worms a person could put in his mouth before one got out (the answer is thirteen). Then she made her decision.

  ‘Good. Now I want to tell you something very important. Sometimes Mr Sanderson may have visitors on official business. It is important that you and I never mention them to anyone else. Otherwise …’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Nothing, dear. That’s all.’

  ‘Fair enough, Mrs S. You can count on me. There’s more secrets in here’ — I pointed the spoon at my scone — ‘than a sheepdog can snap at.’

  I know which side my toast is buttered on. However, I just had one more bit of fishing to do.

  ‘Your visitor mentioned the Larsons.’

  ‘Yes. Like you, he hadn’t met them. He was just trying to be funny. But it’s no laughing matter. And also, it’s none of your business, so please don’t ask.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten about it already.’

  ‘Good, though I find that hard to believe. Changing the subject, that nice young boy you’ve got in your club, the one with the unusual name … what was it?’

  ‘Raffi.’

  ‘Ah, the boy who knows the Crawleys. I was wondering if he was a relative of yours — a cousin, perhaps.’

  ‘Nuh. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Must be his hair.’

  ‘Yeah, same colour.’ I wasn’t falling for that one.

  After brekky I heaved myself out of bed and dressed. When I got downstairs Mrs Sanderson made two phone calls. First, as she knew I was an altar boy, she rang the presbytery and left a message saying that God would have to get along without me that day. Then she rang Mum to see if she wanted Mr S to drive me home.

  ‘Don’t tell Mum I was crook,’ I whispered.

  But she got Granddad. Quick as a flash, I grabbed the phone.

  ‘Granddad! What a piece of luck!’

  Granddad said nothing, and that is because he was thinking: Hello. Now what? I know the old codger inside out.

  ‘I was just saying to Mrs S’ — I gave her a wink — ‘I’ll bet Granddad’s going over to see Nanna this morning, and could do with some company. After all, half the time a trip to Nanna’s is about as exciting as watching beer go flat.’

  Still nothing. So much for the Blayney charm.

  ‘And also, last Sunday, Nanna invited me back.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Mum still under the weather? She could probably do with a break. Jeez, I reckon it’s hot enough to make a wharfie put ice in his beer. You could have a cold half-and-half over at Nanna’s, I’ll bet. Tell you what, I’ll meet you on your verandah in fifteen minutes … Granddad? Are you there?’

  ‘Don’t be late.’

  Mrs Sanderson grabbed the phone back. ‘I’ll get Russell to drive him over, Mr Taggerty. It’s too hot for a tram, and he hasn’t been well.’

  She hung up and looked at me for a while. ‘Did you ever consider a career in sales?’

  ‘I thought I might be a saxophone player.’

  Mr S shouted out from the verandah, where he had taken up residence for the summer: ‘You could always sell saxophones.’

  I had to have a think about that. I shouted back: ‘I think I know someone who could get ’em wholesale.’

  But the fish weren’t biting.

  I knew that Granddad was going over to Nanna’s place because he said he had to go over to see a man about a couple of crates of this and that, mostly that, as Barney says. But my real reason for going over was to let Nanna meet Raffi.

  I hurried down to Raffi’s, which was just a few hundred yards away, and banged on the back door until he appeared, all ready to go. I had worded him up, warning him not to tell a soul (his mother) about our secret mission, which was really an Olympians thing. His mother came to the door, cast an evil eye over the two of us, as if we were about to break into a bank or something, and kissed Raffi goodbye. We slipped out the back gate and into kids’ territory, where our super powers immediately began to take effect — I could feel it. Five minutes later we were sitting in the back of a Humber Super Snipe, probably the best car ever built — except for Rolls-Royces, Jaguars, and Ford Customlines — and being driven by Mr S to Granddad’s. I was so busy pointing out to Raffi places where Barney told me people had been knifed, shot or run over that I forgot to tell Mr S how to get there; nevertheless, suddenly we were there. Granddad came out of the shade, and walked out to the car, and hopped in the front.

  He shook hands with Mr S, and I half expected them to toss for who would kick to the grandstand end, and who would kick to the scoreboard end.

  ‘G’day, Arch.’

  ‘G’day, Russ. Pretty flash car.’

  ‘Come on, Arch, I happen to know you could have a Roller any time you like.’

  ‘What, me? I’m a man of the people.’

  Mr S laughed. ‘Good to see you again, anyway. Long time. Imagine my surprise when it dawned on me who “Granddad” was. Suddenly everything made sense.’

  ‘Has he tried to sell you anything yet?’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that.’

  The world of adults is a very dodgy place, a bit like the bottom of the sea at night.

  Nanna’s morning tea was in full swing when we turned up, and there were a few faces I recogni
sed, Barney for one, and Father Jackman, the gangster curate. A few of the members of the Hot Potatoes jazz band were also there, including their singer, Tops, which was short for Topsy, called that because his last name was Turvy.

  ‘That’s a terrific nickname, Uncle Seb,’ I once said. ‘But why didn’t they just shorten his first name, like you and Uncle Mick?’

  ‘Because his first name’s Dungannon,’ he said.

  Tom and I dined out on that joke for a week.

  The other member of the band who was there was their sax player, Dex Patterson, whose long, sad face was actually shaped like a sax, and who, Tops told us, he always introduced to the crowd like this: ‘And on treble sax, Sexe-e-e Dexy!’ Anyhow, he was my favourite, perhaps because he was by far the youngest, and wore the best clothes. He was cool. And then there were all those Xs.

  This particular morning, when we walked in the door, the first thing we saw was Tops singing ‘I’m in the Mood for Love’, with Uncle Seb accompanying him on the piano and Dex on spoons, with everyone eventually joining in, even Barney, who was tone deaf, and a woman who dressed a lot like Aunty Queenie, and who was also tone deaf. We waited at the door until the song was over, with Granddad winking at everyone, which is a private way of saying hello, and with Raffi looking around like it was Luna Park. I noticed that Nanna kept her eye on him, even though she was smiling and singing along with the others. While we were singing and clapping, Nanna gave us a wave, and I took Raffi over to meet her. Nanna was sitting on one end of the sofa, because that was her throne.

  Nanna made Raffi sit next to her, and sent me off to get some lemonade. I knew she was going to grill him, because that was the price of admission: news. When I got back, Raffi was spilling his guts about our secret club, the Olympians, and about how we were going to find Flame Boy by making a map of all the fires. Nanna had her talking-to-kids face on, which Raffi had never seen before and probably thought was her normal dial; but I knew that she couldn’t have cared less about what he was telling her, because she was interested in something else — with me she never used that face. Raffi sipped his lemonade, and Nanna gave me a wink.