by Peter Twohig
‘So, Raffi, that’s a name I’ve never heard before.’
‘Me neither,’ said Raffi.
‘And what’s your mum’s name?’
‘Val.’
‘Hm. And what was her maiden name … before she was married?’
I could tell that Raffi thought this was your typical nanna kind of conversation, and hadn’t twigged that he was being interrogated by one of Richmond’s dodgiest lady customers.
‘Gartside.’
‘Ah yes. Gartside.’
Nanna looked at Granddad, who was talking to a bloke about the woeful state of tailgates these days, and Granddad turned slightly, still talking, and gave Nanna the glance that said nothing, but really, a lot. They knew something I didn’t know, and I wondered if Raffi’s mum was another war hero, like Aunty Daffy, because they were as thick as flies on a sausage sambo just then.
Next stop was Barney, who was arguing with Mr Wilmott from next door about the merits of the Ford Consul. When Barney saw Raffi, he looked hard at his cup of tea.
‘Christ, I’ll have to stop drinkin’ this stuff.’
‘This is Raffi. He lives down in Fawkner Street. Nanna wanted to meet him, so I brought him over.’
‘Strewth. You remind me of someone. Can’t quite put me finger on it — it’ll come to me.’
There was the possibility that Barney was sober, it being Sunday, so I decided not to have a lend of him.
‘Anyway, we just wanted to say hello. How’s the car going?’
‘Like a bloody rocket, fellers. I already feel sorry for the first copper who tries to catch it.’
‘Why’ll the police try to catch it?’ said Raffi.
We all looked at one another. Mr Wilmott laughed.
‘Jealousy, my lad. Your average copper is sorely afflicted with it. You’ll understand one day.’
I was a bit worried about all this, in case Raffi should repeat any of it to his mum, so after that I steered him clear of anyone who was wearing a hat indoors.
My next mistake was thinking that talking to a musician would be safe.
‘G’day, Mr Patterson.’
‘Dex. No one calls me Mr Patterson.’ He had a think. ‘Funny, that. Hello, Tom. I heard you were … well, I heard …’
‘He is. This isn’t Tom: this is Raffi. He’s never met a saxophone player. I told him I was going to be one when I grow up.’
‘My god! Can you hold your liquor?’
I thought of last year, when I got so drunk on a bottle of Osborne Solera Gran Reserva I found in someone’s cellar that I threw up all over Mum’s shoes when I tried to say hello to her. I suddenly felt queasy again. I thought I had better tell Dex the plain, unvarnished truth.
‘Can I what!’
‘Good, that’s all that matters — the music’ll take care of itself. Look at Seb and Tops over there. They were hard at it till four this morning. Now they’re up and about and ready for a matinee. That’s what keeps a musician going, mate: alcohol. Speaking of which, ’scuse me, fellers.’
And he was off for a refill, leaving me to wonder how useful that conversation was to my musical career.
‘Wow!’ said Raffi. ‘Have you seen him play his saxophone?’
‘Tons of times! He’s the best sax player in Melbourne.’
We hung around for a while to watch the adults enjoying their morning tea, then caught a tram down Victoria Street to the museum. I wanted to show Raffi the treasure I’d found. When he saw it his eyes practically fell out on the floor, rolled down the front steps onto Swanston Street, and got run over by a tram. Practically. Then it was down to the old Richmond Baths for a quick dip and, for Raffi at least, home.
22 The Spirit of Progress
As for me, I took advantage of the heat, which was keeping the honest citizens of Richmond indoors, leaving the rest of us to get on with the business of doing what had to be done. For me that meant finding Flame Boy and taking the briefcase from him. If Mr Sanderson wanted it, I was going to give it to him. At least I finally knew where he stood on the question of Flame Boy’s welfare. Your secret agent likes to know what’s what. He mightn’t always agree with things, but he gets on with the mission just the same, like Bogey in Casablanca. Besides, I realised that once I handed over the briefcase, Mr Sanderson and his henchmen — I think that’s what Granddad would call them — would stop scouring Richmond for young Keith, and allow people who actually gave a bugger to see to it that he didn’t get arrested and have his brain cooked like a soft-boiled egg.
On top of everything, the big string of horrible surprises that had been happening for the last few weeks were starting to get me down. Tom and I had been used to making that stuff happen; now, I felt as though someone else was making it all happen to me.
I hadn’t thought of a plan, but I was hoping that Flame Boy would see reason, or be open to bribery. If I’d had Barney with me I know I could have made the kid see reason without it costing me anything at all, as Barney has a way of talking people into forking over that makes it hard for them to resist. Bribery was a different bag of dog food. Granddad took a very strong line on bribery, as it meant parting with readies, and that is considered by an Irishman to be a sin, as stated in the Bible. Barney told me that Granddad preferred blackmail, which worked like a charm every time and had the advantage that it was legal, despite the nasty rumours.
I certainly did not want to blackmail Flame Boy, as he was a fellow kid and superhero, and I think he knew that I had no intention of dobbing him in (we had been through so much together). On the other hand, I felt that I owed the Sandersons something for taking care of me when no one else did. And I couldn’t stop feeling embarrassed for Mr S for not being able to wave the briefcase in that smug Russky’s fizzog and make him sit up and beg like a bunny. Moreover, there was always the chance that Flame Boy would one day be responsible for the Great Fire of Melbourne, and I didn’t know if I could stand the guilt.
Finally, I thought of a plan that was acceptable to all present members of the Olympians: I would steal the briefcase from Flame Boy. No muss, no fuss. I just hoped that violence would not be called for, as Flame Boy looked like he had a few more muscles than me, no doubt from hefting all those combustibles.
Back in the Sandersons’ back yard, I found Zac knocking off a sleep sandwich, which made him look like his face had melted all over the ground, and took him down to St Felix’s Church with me, as I was expecting trouble. After telling him to stand guard I bowled in under the watchful eye of my other nemesis, God, who is, I think we are all agreed, a bit of a prick. But this was his house, so you had to be careful. I paused in the doorway to bless myself with holy water, just in case anyone was watching, and also to give myself a second to case the joint. Empty. I walked quietly up to the sanctuary and paused again, this time to listen. Nothing. Maybe Flame Boy was out and about setting fire to something he had taken a dislike to, just to keep his hand in.
It’s not all creamy soda and Ludo being a superhero; it requires dedication. Look at me: out and about, creeping up and down stairs, getting locked inside altars, consorting with known crims (that’s Blarney Barney, who probably wouldn’t hurt a fly); aiding and abetting a person of interest to the coppers (that’s Flame Boy, who wouldn’t hurt a fly either, unless some lighter fluid dropped on it); and miscellaneous stuff that I wouldn’t admit to under torture (unless that torture involved pain). What had that smarmy Russian bugger said about spying on each other? I’d give him spying on each other. I’d get that bloody briefcase and give it to Mr S and wipe the smile right off his flamin’ face — he was smiling in my version of the story.
By the time I’d opened the trapdoor in the altar I was all fired up with my new super-identity. Thus, the person who went through that trapdoor was no longer the same kid who, just a few moments before, had been cautiously blessing himself at the church door, but … the Spirit of Progress! I crawled into the space and whipped my torch out of my trusty superhero bag, and looked around. Flame Boy ha
d long gone; he was not as dumb as he looked. I guess he hadn’t liked the way I’d grabbed his precious briefcase. Quick as a flash I was out of there and outside, where I had left Zac. Next stop was the underground hideout in the drain behind the old cemetery, the place I had taken Flame Boy when he had first nicked off.
I walked through the old cemetery called Bethstone, and made Zac sit and wait. He looked pretty happy to be there, and I made a mental note to check if he could see any ghosts when I came back, as that could be handy. Then I carefully slid down the drain and landed on my feet at the bottom, a trick I’d learnt to perform, even though there were little steps inside the shaft.
At the bottom I pulled out my torch and walked down to the secret hideout, the wide concrete ledge built high on the side of the drain. But Flame Boy had not been there, and nothing had been touched since our last visit. I went back to Zac, who looked pretty worried when he saw me climb out of a hole in the ground. I gave him a white jelly bean — I was trying to get rid of them — and we were off to my next port of call, and the only remaining place I could think of where Flame Boy might be.
I remembered something he said about a conversation I’d had with Granddad a few months earlier: that he had been eavesdropping at my window. He had followed me home. Now I wondered if he had been following me since I started staying at the Sandersons’. Flame Boy might have been a superhero, but he wasn’t the brightest penny in the till. He was the kind of kid who thinks that the capital of Australia is Essendon. I went back to the Sandersons’, which was a short walk, and entered through the back gate.
Their back yard was your basic Bengali jungle, like in The Phantom, complete with vines, shrubs and whatnot. The whole thing smelt of oniony, rotting green stuff, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if there had been wild animals in there still waiting to be given official names — possums with poison fangs was my guess. The old stable down the back had a door that you could open on the top or the bottom, depending on whether you were a dwarf or not, and chains and leather straps hanging up all over the place for God knows what. Inside was a loft, and propped up against it was a ladder. It was this ladder that I now climbed. At the top was Flame Boy’s new hideout.
You’re probably thinking that this was not only the find of the century, edging out of first place the discovery of the icy-pole stick, and that it solved all my problems, so that I could now go to bed at night and sleep soundly in the knowledge that the Keith Kavanaghs of the world were within arm’s reach and safe. If so, you’d be as wrong about that as you would be if you thought that Ayer’s Rock was in Hawthorn (it’s not: Peanut and I reckon you’d be able to see it from Richmond). And that’s because he was suddenly too close for comfort. Let’s face it: even if Flame Boy was living in the desert with a tribe of Aboriginals, he’d be told to live on the other side of the creek, and only to come over when someone’s mum needed a fire lit.
I was in a pickle, if that’s the right vegetable. Also, on close inspection of the stable, including the loft, I found nobody home, and no briefcase. I did find a box of matches, and confiscated them, but as I’ve said, we lived within a rock’s throw of Bryant & May’s match factory. This arrangement was what Barney would have called One of Life’s Little Mysteries.
In the end I decided to take up a position in the Sandersons’ library, from which I could observe Flame Boy’s arrival. It wasn’t long before he turned up, but I saw that he was short to the tune of one briefcase. Bugger it. I realised instantly that it could be in any house from Burnley to Cremorne, because if I was him I would be using my Ned Kavanagh superhero identity not only to bludge free dinners but to stash the odd piece of hand luggage. It could be in any one of a thousand old houses filled with aged ladies who made lamingtons or coconut ice. The Irish down our way have a way of banding together to protect the outlaw. I say nothing of your Maltese, your Italians, and your Greeks, all of whom hate the police like they hate polio.
I made my way down to the stable and climbed up to the loft.
‘You’ve been following me.’
I like to get to Item One with the minimum of fuss.
‘I was lonely.’
He was making it damn hard.
‘Don’t do it again.’
‘Okay.’ He looked at me the way Zac would.
‘You can’t stay here.’
‘You took my matches.’
‘You’ll have to leave.’ I decided to try a line from Father Burke. ‘It’s a crying shame, that’s what it is’ — it sounded damn good — ‘but you can’t stay.’
‘I’ve got nowhere to go.’
‘Yes you have. It’s time you went to Wodonga with your Aunty Daphne. Come with me. Now.’
It wasn’t much of a plan — hell, it wasn’t a plan at all. But it’s in the nature of the Spirit of Progress to take over in emergencies. And besides, I didn’t want to be responsible for some old lady’s house burning down.
His reply was an embarrassed silence. He could say nothing. A silent Flame Boy is a truthful Flame Boy.
I could see that threat was called for.
‘If you don’t leave I’ll have to tell the people who live here. They’re not very nice people, either. Sorry.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the inmates were some kind of special rozzer and his wife, but I thought he might suddenly grab the nearest two sticks and start rubbing them together at the prospect of scorching yet another copper’s house.
‘You wouldn’t dob on a mate.’
‘It wouldn’t be dobbing: it would be protecting them, and you too, ’cos I’d tell them everything.’
I could hardly believe that he was still hesitating.
‘You’d never see your old man or your mum again,’ I said, hating that I was saying it.
He didn’t speak, but climbed down the ladder and left me in the loft, feeling that doing the right thing has whiskers on it. I didn’t know where he’d go, but I knew he wouldn’t travel far from his precious briefcase, which must be close by. I thought of tracking him using Zac’s nose, but then I realised that wouldn’t be necessary, as wherever he went he’d stick out like a fairy princess in a wood-chopping contest. When I climbed down I half expected him to be waiting for me, but he had melted into the night, which is one of the things we superheroes do. I didn’t blame him.
Before I went inside, something made me look up at the Crawleys’ house. In the upstairs window, I saw Mr C staring down at me. His jaw was grim, and I wondered if that was to stop the clicking, or because he had recognised Flame Boy, and was contemplating a call to the police. I gave him a smile and a little wave — a smidgeon of the Blayney charm. He remained motionless, as if his big spring had wound down.
23 Sweethearts
Comic swapping was one of the favourite pastimes of the kids in Richmond, and when you got your hands on a new comic, your first thought after finishing it was how to get the best swap deal out of it. Not only did you have to consider the kind of comic it was — coloured, number of pages, name of superhero, and so on — but what kind of kid would be the best to approach. Ideally, you wanted a kid who had great comics and was short in the brains department, a bit like a cocker spaniel who could read. I had a few new comics, thanks to the Sandersons, and was in the market for a swap.
The Olympians were out of the running, because we’d read each other’s comics to death. What was called for was new blood. I remembered at Mona De Coney’s house in South Yarra seeing a few comics in a neat little stack, the top one of which was a Classic comic, my favourite kind, and the only ones I never swapped, it being my intention to devote my whole life to getting a complete set. I had even managed to convince James Palmer to part with the few he had, which included the hard-to-get Black Arrow, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (which didn’t make sense). Anyway, the comic I had spotted was The Ox-Bow Incident, which was also a Henry Fonda movie that I had seen at the Gala with Tom. That was a great day; I remember because some kid chucked a wobbl
y, and they had to cart him out and give him some fresh air. We laughed then, but if I’d known that I was going to end up the same, I might not have thought it was funny. Now, I don’t laugh much anyway, because my laughing mate was always Tom, and it was hard to dream up a new act for just one person.
So, as it was the last Saturday before school was due to begin, I got a medium stack of my comics, including some of my best (Centuries), some of my mediums (Walt Disneys), and some of my worst (Sad Sack), to offer as what Granddad called sweeteners, and choofed off. When I got to the De Coneys’ house over in River Street, which was not far from James’s house, it was not as hot as usual, God having turned his attention to giving some other poor buggers hell that day. It was in fact one of those pleasant summer days when the sky is grey and it looks like rain, and there is a lovely breeze. I didn’t really notice the walk to the De Coneys’ place, and gave no thought at all to the comic swapping, because I kept wondering whether Mona De Coney would be home, and if she was, whether it would be her who would open the front door for me, and if she did, whether she would be wearing her yellow T-shirt.
When I arrived, I knocked on the door and waited, and got that housey silence, so I knocked again, louder. Solid silence. So I stepped back and looked up at the house, to the window where I had seen Mona De Coney. And sure enough, there she was. She shouted something to me, and I waited. There was the sound of someone bouncing down the stairs, though it sounded more like Roy Rogers and Trigger than a girl, and Mona opened the front door, dressed in a netball uniform.
