The Torch

by Peter Twohig

  ‘Her aunty is.’

  He raised his eyebrows at Granddad again.

  ‘George Martello’s niece; I wasn’t to know.’

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ said Uncle Seamus, slamming his exercise book down on the table and fixing me with the evil eye. ‘But why, Arch, did you send young Lochinvar into that pit of vipers? Am I going mad?’

  ‘He was just supposed to pick up a few books, not become a member of the family.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the curse of the Taggertys.’

  ‘Let me see if I understand this. Young Lochinvar here just happens to be a friend of this ASIO mate of yours, the same man who has been given the job of getting his hands on this briefcase before Kavanagh hands it over to the Russians in order to secure his new life in sunny Moscow and deprive Herr Menzies of the upper hand in the battle for diplomatic supremacy over Russia.’ He kept me fixed, though he was not seeing me at all. ‘And by the loveliest piece of good fortune, Young Lochinvar is some kind of brother-in-arms to Firebrand Willy the Younger, who’d taken off with the aforesaid item, for the purpose of assisting his long-lost sire to defect to a better, if redder, place.’

  This was a side of Uncle Seamus I had not seen, and did not want to see again.

  Granddad made the frog mouth and nodded, like a duck watching a yo-yo.

  But Uncle Seamus had found the gear lever.

  ‘And now our parfait knight has been ensnared in the web of G A Martello, who would cheerfully use the contents of that briefcase to make the Trades Hall look more of a collection of reds than they already are, and so hand the next election to the Royalists and — feel free to jump in if I have misread the situation — secure for himself a Papal Knighthood into the bargain.’ He stopped, but continued to stare at me, seeming to read my face, but not really seeing me at all. Finally, he sat back and looked at Granddad as if he had just noticed that he had recently had a haircut.

  ‘But what I don’t understand is why this Martello woman —’

  ‘Lucky.’

  ‘– this Martello agent —’

  I went red. I was beginning to feel like a bit of a dill. He had confirmed my suspicion about her. But I still thought he was being a bit harsh. She was really very nice in lots of ways. And she had a sports car. Perhaps, like Barney, he didn’t know all that much about women, in spite of knowing a lot of them.

  ‘— thought you knew anything about the briefcase in the first place.’

  Granddad looked at me with the same question in his eyes. I hated to tell him that I had spilt the beans, but I had not meant to. Still.

  ‘When I mentioned our new secret society she started asking me heaps of questions.’ They were waiting. ‘Our headquarters is around at the Sandersons’ place. See, I told her that I was going to call it the Larsons —’

  ‘I thought I told you not to mention them to anyone.’

  ‘I know; I forgot.’

  ‘Strewth. Now listen: I’m going to tell you what happened.’

  ‘Arch —’

  ‘It’s all right, Seamus; he needs to know what he’s got himself into, and why’ — he turned to me — ‘he has got to stay out of it. D’ya hear me?’

  I nodded the googie.

  ‘Now, these Larsons — they were Russians who worked here and passed secrets to a bloody fool in ASIO called Kavanagh. I say a bloody fool, because he gave them secrets in return. It was in all the newspapers. Finally, he got his hands on something that was so hot he couldn’t do anything with it. He put it in a briefcase and hid it.

  ‘When the Russians found out what the Larsons had been getting up to they were hopping mad, but in the end, they couldn’t do much about it. So the Larsons were allowed to stay here under an assumed name — that’s Larson — and went into hiding. Since then they’ve changed their name again, so now they really have disappeared, and you can forget all about them. Sanderson organised the whole thing. The other Russians were sent packing back to where they came from. Kavanagh had nowhere to go, so he got himself arrested for arson.’

  ‘And, Mr Sanderson said, for killing a bloke.’

  ‘No, that’s not how it happened. A bloke did die in the fire; that part is true. But the fire was well alight when Kavanagh turned up. All he did was call the fire brigade and shoot through with the bloody briefcase. He didn’t even know that feller was in there. As soon as it was safely stashed, he turned himself in. Does that sound like the Fergus Kavanagh you heard about?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘That’s right. Anyway, his plan backfired, and he ended up being charged with treason and sent away for a long time. He could’ve escaped any time, but he’s been waiting for the right moment. He knew it was just a matter of time before the Russians would be allowed to return, then he would give them the briefcase in return for a new life in Russia. It was his ticket out.’

  ‘Keith saw him hide the briefcase. He knew his dad would be back for it. When he moved into our place, I think he brought it with him. He’s been moving it around. He’s going to Russia with his dad.’

  ‘Fergus Kavanagh travels alone, son. He wouldn’t take his son to the pictures, let alone to Russia.’

  ‘But why do you and Uncle Seamus want it, Granddad?’ The Spirit occasionally plays dumb, a trick he learnt from his granddad.

  ‘Never you mind. And don’t you worry about Sanderson — you did the right thing. Anyway, the bloody thing’ll be gone soon and we can all get back to making an honest living. But that Sanderson bloke isn’t what he seems. Nice enough feller and everything — I know that. But he’d do anything to get his hands on that briefcase, and he can’t have it.’

  ‘As for that ASIO crowd, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned them. I want you to forget what I said about them. Anyway, the less you know, the better. I worked with blokes like him during the war. You won’t be able to lie to him.’

  ‘I already know that, Granddad. Remember that thing you taught me, for when I want to tell a fib and look into someone’s eyes at the same time, by pretending I’m somewhere else, having a good time?’

  ‘Did you try it on Sanderson?’

  ‘Yeah: one time last year. But it didn’t work. He even asked me if you taught me how to do it.’

  ‘What’d I say? You be straight with him, and he’ll be straight with you. Just don’t tell him anything unless he asks. And don’t ever repeat this conversation to a living soul. All right?’

  I nodded. ‘Okay.’

  I was glad that conversation was over. I mean, I had gathered heaps of valuable intelligence, but I realised that when it came to the Larsons I had made a complete idiot of myself, probably not for the first time — I thought of Mona and Josephine — but definitely for the last.

  There was a lot of silence after that, while they made a cuppa, and Uncle Seamus lit a pipe. I made myself comfortable in a lounge chair, and watched them think.

  Granddad’s way of thinking was to get moving, like most little guys. He was organising cups of tea like a member of the Ladies Auxiliary at a church picnic. The last time I’d seen him like this was when Nanna died. He spent a lot of time cleaning the house, and tidying up the back yard, which must have frightened a lot of small creatures. Then he started on the garden, which was actually in good nick already, and threw out anything that looked even a tiny bit like a weed, including a lot of flowers that had made the mistake of not actually having flowers on them that day.

  By the time he was finished the whole place looked neater than Captain Cook’s Cottage. The only flowers that had no chance of being thrown out were the gladdies, as Nanna loved them. He then hopped the fence and got stuck into Mrs Morgan’s garden, while she made cups of tea for him. Her husband had died years before, during the war, in New Guinea. He had been flying a fighter and had run out of petrol, and was never seen again.

  She looked a bit down when she told us that, so Tom said, ‘Maybe the Fuzzy Wuzzies found him and took him back to their village and made him their king. Maybe he’s still there — you never know.’<
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  ‘No, boys, the kindest thing would be if he was killed in the crash.’

  So her back yard needed cleaning up as well. She let him carry on like this until he ran out of energy, then she invited him over for dinner.

  I had never had an opportunity to observe Uncle Seamus when he was thinking, and I noticed that he was forever turning to his exercise book and writing in it with a pencil. His writing was neat and small, so he was able to get a lot on a page, though he never ruled a margin, which would have got him into trouble at my school. As he thought he wrote, and as he wrote he made booming mumblings that sounded like a bee down a plug-hole. In the end I went over to the table and took a peek at his secret plans. It was poetry.

  It turned out that Granddad was the only one doing any real planning.

  ‘Here’s what we do: boy, you go home the way you came — don’t let anyone see you leave. Seamus, you keep working on that poem.’ He winked at me. ‘And I’ll go out for a little while, and put that flamin’ briefcase somewhere else, because this place is now about as secret as Happy Hammond’s nickname.’

  ‘What do I do after I get home? Want me to find Keith? He’ll still be looking for his dad. And his dad —’

  ‘No, no, this is none of your concern. You forget all about that kid, and the briefcase. And mind, not a word to that Martello woman about any of this.’

  He wasn’t smiling, and was giving me his serious look, so I knew he was worried. All over a couple of papers.

  ‘I could hide it for you. I know lots of places.’

  He kept looking at me.

  ‘Tell me one that Russell Sanderson couldn’t possibly work out.’

  I couldn’t.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ he said, looking at me in a new way.

  ‘That’s what I came to see you about. A big kid at school flattened me for … trying to help Barn.’

  ‘Tell you what, challenge him to a fight, say, Friday night after school.’

  ‘He’ll kill me.’

  ‘No he won’t. I have to organise a few things. But I’ll be home tomorrow and give you a few pointers. Then you can kill him.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  It sounded good, but it felt bad.

  When I got home Mum was hopping mad.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ She had her hands on her hips, like when she was pushing people around at the match factory.

  ‘I was kept in for talking and had to do a whole lot of writing and stuff.’ Her face hadn’t changed. ‘Then I had to go and visit Tubby Maculitis because it was his birthday, but he can’t have a party because he’s a diabetic — that’s why he’s home sick — and he told us we would’ve had to eat lettuce ’n’ stuff.’ Her face still hadn’t changed. ‘Then I went to the Archbishop’s house in Kew.’

  ‘I’ll give you Archbishop’s house in a minute.’

  36 The Look

  Granddad reckoned that the best place to hide from the enemy would be in the enemy’s castle. He was brilliant.

  ‘But, Granddad, I thought you and Archbishop Mannix were like that.’ I did the lucky crossed-fingers sign.

  ‘We are, but there are a few things we don’t see eye to eye on, especially since he started hanging out with the wrong sort of people.’

  ‘You mean those DLP rats.’

  He pressed his lips together, and I thought I might have gone too far. I just assumed that it was the DLP rats that were the cause of all our problems at that time.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, though I know you wouldn’t have heard that from Sanderson.’

  ‘That’s what Mum calls them, and Mrs Carruthers, and Barney, and —’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Still, Granddad, if the Archbishop is hanging out with the wrong sort of people, isn’t it a bit risky being here?’

  ‘Nah. Your Uncle Seamus has been pissing in his pocket for years. Mannix thinks the sun shines out of his arse.’

  ‘How come he lives in his back yard?’

  ‘He’s a gardener here.’

  I thought about how Uncle Seamus was definitely a sandwich short of a picnic, and wondered how he’d hold down any job at all, let alone one that required the care of living things. Also, I’d seen the lawns out the front, and they looked like the work of a man who had all the tiles on his roof. Granddad caught the look on my face — I must have had one.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Granddad, meaning ‘don’t ask’. ‘So, what about our lesson in the manly art of self-defence? Who is this bully?’

  ‘Everyone calls him Oby.’

  ‘What kind of silly name is that?’

  ‘It’s short for O’Brien. His name’s Brian O’Brien.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be able to pronounce Brian O’Brien without lisping by the time you’re finished with him.’

  I swallowed. I was thinking that Granddad might beat me up worse than Oby could while he was giving me these lessons of his. I was not exactly made of steel, like Superman, as you may have guessed; I was more your Man of Plasticine — the kind you get by mixing up all the colours. But Granddad had been an Australian Boxing Champ, and had never steered me wrong before (unless you count that tip he gave me on the dogs last year: I asked Uncle Seb to put a couple of bob on it for me, and it fell over at the turn; I’ll never back a greyhound again, though whippets I had yet to try).

  ‘Okay, Granddad. But don’t beat me up. I mean, I don’t want the kids to know I’ve had boxing lessons unless I get into strife; they might think I’m a bully or something.’

  ‘Don’t worry. How do you think I got to the top? Not on the strength of me perfect physique or me amazing boxing prowess. Hell, I know more about needlework than I do about boxing. Nah, I got to the top — twice — by being the filthiest fighter in the country.’

  ‘No, Granddad, you wouldn’t fight dirty, would you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t I just? Here, let me show you the most valuable trick in the book for a young feller just starting out in life. My father taught it to me, and it saved me bacon on more than one occasion when I was a lad.’

  He grabbed the arm of the chair and stood up slowly, then, quick as a flash, with a look on his face as if he’d just seen the Queen with her clothes off, he jumped into the boxing stance I’d seen in the picture of him down at Ryrie’s Gym.

  ‘Now stand like me. Left foot forwards. Turn right a little. Hands up high, so he can’t see your eyes, like this.’

  He got all the adjustments right.

  ‘Now watch me.’

  He lowered his fists to chest level, and drew them apart, then turned to face me square on.

  ‘This is how your bully fights. Now, look at my eyes and take a little step towards me with your left foot and punch about an inch with your right, then hit me in the nose with your left hand, hard.’

  ‘I’ll hurt you.’

  ‘You won’t even touch me. Look at my eyes and do it as soon as I blink. Go on.’

  We waited for a long time while Granddad pretended to be a bully and said horrible things to get me into the right mood, like: you’re a gutless wonder, Blayney, and your mother works in the match factory (as if that wasn’t cool). Finally he blinked, and I shot out a fist. He moved his head quickly to the side and shot out a couple of flat hands to both sides of my head, gently, before I could see them coming.

  ‘If I hadn’t moved, I’d be crying for my mummy right now, and you’d be the new Boy Wonder.’

  ‘But Oby’s a lot bigger than me. I mean, you and I are the same height.’

  ‘He’s got knackers, hasn’t he?’

  We carried on the lesson until I had got it right, and I had learnt to pull the punch.

  ‘Now, on the day, you must not pull the punch. What we’re aiming to do is make him lose interest in the contest at the first punch. He’ll never touch you again.’

  Next day I went over to Oby’s gang at playtime, and said hello.

  ‘What? Come over for another belting, Blayney?’


  They all laughed.

  ‘Yeah, tomorrow night, after school.’

  I don’t know why I was saying tomorrow night, when I’d had my one and only boxing lesson, but I thought it best to follow riding instructions.

  ‘How about right now?’

  The schedule had been altered. I suddenly knew how Field Marshal Rommel must have felt when he received news that the arm-wrestling contest with Uncle Seamus had been brought forward. My mouth went dry. It was like that time I ate sawdust to win threepence from Bernie Aldersear, and lost.

  ‘Suits me.’

  I couldn’t believe I had actually said that, but the voice was horribly familiar, and so was the stupidity, which had TB stamped all over it.

  ‘Shelter shed. Let’s go.’

  The whole gang moved off as if they were used to seeing fights, and all the kids in my class suddenly appeared in a black and red throng, looking like a swarm of red-backs, and hurried along with us, because, to my horror, I was hurrying, as if I was looking forward to being killed.

  Only a small crowd of big kids actually entered the shelter shed, because it was their shed, but they made a space for the two of us to come in. I thought that with so many big kids around, one of them would say this has gone far enough, and make us shake hands, and that would be that, and we would live happily ever after. That’s what I thought.

  I could see, as we shaped up to each other — Oby in the bully’s stance as predicted by Granddad, and me in the boxing stance, as shown — that Oby was worried. He had only hit me once before, and that had been from behind. He now had the look of a punter who had bet the family pay packet: in short, the look of someone who had been punching little kids inside out for so long that he had overlooked the possibility of someone shaping up to him without pissing in his pants (though it was a near thing).

  ‘Tell you what, Blayney, I’ll let you throw the first punch, to give you a sportin’ chance.’

  Granddad had told me that this might happen.

  I took a tiny step forwards with my left foot and shot out my right hand a few inches from my head. Oby nearly died of heart failure, and reacted by shaking quickly from head to foot, lifting his left, and dropping his right, so that his head came in front of my left shoulder. I punched him hard on the end of his nose and turned my shoulder at the same time. There was a crack, and down he went, on his bum, with blood everywhere. And screaming — the screaming of the defeated warrior or, should I say, bully.