A Prayer for Blue Delaney (22 page)
‘If you can call standing in a corner of my room and scowling for five minutes a visit, I guess I see her once a fortnight,’ he said morosely.
Colm quickly tried to change the subject.
As the weeks went by, Colm started to feel that each time he went to see Bill, there was a little less of him there, as if the old man was fading away, his spirit disappearing into some dark unfathomable place. Sometimes Bill was too unwell to be brought out onto the porch and other times the visit had to be cut short because Bill would start to cough, speckling his handkerchief with little flecks of blood. Slowly, Colm began to realise that Billy Dare was dying.
One Sunday, Colm got up before Blue and headed out into the bright, cold morning. A wind was blowing off the sea and the air smelt sharp with brine.
When he reached the Presbyterian church, people were milling around the doorway of the huge bluestone building and a crowd of children in their Sunday best were waiting outside the hall beside it. Colm recognised some of them from around the streets. The girls wore clean white gloves and the boys’ shirts were crisply ironed. Colm felt self-conscious in his wrinkled checked shirt and dungarees. Blue didn’t believe in ironing, at least not in ironing Colm’s clothes. A woman in a pink floral dress and a hat like a squashed marshmallow asked him if he was new, and Colm nodded. ‘Are your parents at the service?’ she asked, looking dubiously at Colm.
‘Not today,’ he said evasively.
Colm wanted to join the adults in the church, but the lady in pink herded him into the church hall along with the other children. The Sunday School kids were all made to sit on long wooden benches in the church hall and listen to a Bible story. Then they were given jam tins full of crayons and worksheets with questions. It wasn’t at all what Colm was after. In a quiet moment when the teacher was busy explaining something to one of the little kids, Colm slipped out the door and ran down the street to the Catholic church. Mass started half an hour later than the Presbyterian’s service. He knelt in a pew in the old bluestone church and prayed with all the fierce concentration he could muster. Next, he tried the Anglican church, the Methodists, the Baptists and even the Salvation Army.
When he’d finished, he walked down to the Strand to meet up with Keith.
‘You went to how many churches?’ asked Keith as they walked along the waterfront and Colm told him about his morning.
‘That girl I told you about, Lily, she was a Catholic but something else as well. So I thought, maybe she’s on to something? I have to try to help Bill and I don’t know what else I can do. I mean, if I pray in that many churches, then maybe God has to listen to me. Blue certainly won’t.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Keith, dubiously. ‘Sounds kind of kooky to me.’
In the afternoon, Colm and Keith drove over to Heidelberg with Keith’s uncle. Everything in the Olympic Village looked so fresh and new that Williamstown seemed grubby in comparison. Crowds of athletes of all different nationalities strolled along the footpaths. Keith and Colm had to wear special badges to show they were with Keith’s uncle’s catering firm, because everyone needed permission to be in the village.
The Chinese athletes were about to arrive and Keith and Colm stood together watching the bus pull up. There was a flurry of activity as one of the officials brought the flag out in honour of their arrival. Keith gasped. ‘Uh-oh. Someone’s in big trouble,’ he whispered.
‘What is it?’ said Colm.
‘That’s the flag of the People’s Republic of China. The Communists. They’re not coming. These blokes are from Formosa.’
‘Formosa?’ asked Colm.
‘It’s an island, but it’s where the real Chinese government comes from. Take my word for it,
that
flag is a big insult.’
Colm could see that Keith wasn’t the only one to recognise the mistake. The flag was hastily brought down and another raised in its place.
After the welcome ceremony at the village, Colm and Keith walked down to the banks of the Darebin Creek, where the athletes were training.
‘We should be collecting autographs,’ said Keith. Colm thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and hummed softly, his gaze fixed on the flashing legs of the African runners as they sprinted along the track.
A kookaburra sounded from the banks of the creek and suddenly, as if the thought had leapt from somewhere deep inside him, Colm thought of the first Christmas that he had shared with Bill out in the bush. He had to work out some way to make things better for Bill, to make Blue see how much Bill needed her. But she was so stubborn. It made Colm feel restless and distracted just thinking about it.
He began to jog around the track, keeping pace with a group of athletes. Like playing the piano, as long as he was running, he could keep the dark thoughts at bay. It was only when Keith stepped into his path, his arms spread wide, that Colm realised he had overtaken the sprinting Olympic athletes.
‘You little ripper. You gotta get on the track and field team, mate,’ said Keith. ‘You’ll be the best thing that ever hit St Finian’s sports team. Forget the music lessons. You should be a sports star.’
Colm stood beside the track, panting, as the athletes overtook him. ‘I don’t think those runners were really trying and I don’t know if I’m going to stay on at St Finian’s. Blue probably doesn’t want me with her next year. She wrote to Mrs Mahoney about me going to boarding school.’
‘But she’s been pretty nice to you lately, hasn’t she?’
‘I don’t know. One day she’s great and the next she’s all prickly again. Last night she said that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life kicking me off her couch just so she can sit down.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Keith. ‘I’ll keep in touch wherever they send you and then we could go to Rome together for the 1960 Olympics. I’ll be your manager. You’ll be a legend.’
Colm laughed. ‘I think I’d rather be a musician,’ he said.
‘You can be both,’ said Keith. ‘And I’ll be rich and go to all your concerts and buy all your records.’
As they walked back to the village, Keith flipped open his newly acquired autograph book. ‘We ought to come out here next week and you do that running caper again. Everyone wanted to know who you were, so I kept getting them to sign. I even got Zatopek’s signature, you know, the marathon runner. He was the hero of Helsinki. And look at this, Alain Mimoun, the French runner. Here, you better whack your scrawl there too. That might be worth a hundred quid, one day.’
Keith seemed even more disappointed than Colm when the Form One sports prize went to another student.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t win,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I was banking on it.’
‘I don’t mind. Joe got some tickets to a track and field event and he reckons I can bring a friend, so we’ll still get to the Games.’
Keith grinned sheepishly. That’d be bosca, but what am I going to do with your crummy scribble messing up my autograph book?’
Colm and Keith sat in the back seat as the Holden wound through the streets towards the city. Joe pulled up right outside the MCG and parked close to the concrete wall of the stadium.
‘Maybe you should be in charge of these,’ Blue said, handing the precious tickets to Colm. ‘Joe went through hell and high water to get them.’
‘C’mon, Colm,’ yelled Keith as Colm fell behind. ‘You reckon you’re a runner and you’re bringing up the rear. Gotta keep pace.’
They passed through the turnstiles, then climbed endless concrete steps to get to their seats. Their seats were high up near the back of the stadium. Keith had managed to borrow some binoculars and they swapped them back and forth, scanning the track for a glance of the Australian favourite, John Landy.
‘There he is,’ said Joe, pointing at a lean, dark-haired young man poised at the blocks.
‘That’s not Landy, that’s Ron Delaney, the Irish long–distance runner,’ said Blue.
‘Your long-lost cousin?’ asked Joe.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Blue. ‘He’s no cousin of mine. Besides, we’re barracking for John Landy. He’s the Australian.’
‘You never know, that Delaney, he might be your cousin,’ said Joe, teasing.
‘Delaney?’ asked Keith. ‘Is that your name, miss?’
‘It’s an Irish name,’ said Blue. ‘That’s why Joe is having a go at me.’
‘And I know what it means,’ said Joe. ‘I know things about Miss Blue Delaney that no one else does. Her name means "descendant of the challenger". I looked it up.’
Blue laughed. ‘That would be right. Dad is always trying to stick it to someone. So I guess that makes sense of who us Delaneys are.’
‘And you, Brigida - you are a true challenge, that’s for sure.’
Colm felt embarrassed to have Joe and Blue flirting with each other in front of Keith.
‘Are there any Chinese athletes in the race?’ he asked abruptly, turning to Keith.
Keith shot him a smoky look. ‘Why would I care if there was? My family’s been in Australia since the goldrush. I’m barracking for Landy.’
Brother Julian had told Colm that he had been named for the Irish Saint Columcille, the patron saint of poets. If he had an Irish name did that mean he should cheer for Ireland? Was he Australian or Irish?
The gun fired and the runners leapt from the blocks. The crowd roared as John Landy took to the lead but as they came to the final stretch, the long lean Irishman leapt ahead. Colm could feel a murmur go through the crowd and then the murmur grew to a roar as the runners drew closer to the finish line. As they approached the ribbon, Colm started shouting like the rest of the crowd. A surge of excitement rushed through him.
‘Gold for Ireland!’
When the roar came over the speakers, Colm could feel tears stinging his eyes. He put his fists against them to make them go away. There was nothing for him to cry about, but the feeling kept growing. He turned away from Blue and Joe, hoping they hadn’t seen. If only Bill could have been there, he wouldn’t feel like this. If Bill had been with them, he could have told Colm whether he should barrack for Ireland or Australia or whether they should go for both. He tried to imagine helping Bill up the stairs of the MCG but as suddenly as he pictured the moment, Colm knew it was never going to happen.
Colm whistled cheerfully as he took the steps up to the flat two at a time. Blue had promised they could get fish and chips for tea that night and take them over to eat on the pier as a treat. She was always in a better mood on the rare nights they bought takeaway.
Blue was standing by the window, looking down over the street. When she turned on Colm, her green eyes had an angry gleam that sent a shiver of alarm through him.
‘Colm, I’ve heard from Audrey Matlock that you’ve been flitting around the streets on a Sunday morning attending every bloody church and Sunday School in Williamstown. Can you explain yourself?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with going to church!’ said Colm.
‘One church, maybe, but six? Don’t you think about what this sort of behaviour means to me? Everyone around here knows I’m an atheist, and this boy I’m taking care of is racing from one church to the next, making me the laughing stock of Williamstown. You can just hear them: “That mad Red, the poor kid is desperate for a proper mother.” A mother! I’m not your bloody mother.’
‘I know that,’ said Colm despairingly. He shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable in every inch of his skin.
‘I only want to help Grandad. I don’t know what else to do. But it’s not my prayers that he needs. He needs to see you.’
‘He’s got along fine without me for years. He can get well without me.’
‘But Blue, he’s not going to get well. Ever.’
‘You’re just a child. You can’t know these things. He’s got years in him yet.’
Colm shook his head in disbelief. How could a grownup be even better at pretending than any child?
‘Everyone can see it, except you.’
All the colour drained out of Blue’s cheeks. He wanted her to be angry again, he wanted her to shout at him. Anything was better than her silence. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Colm, almost dreading the answer.
‘No, I’m not. Everything, everything is falling apart.’
Blue sat down at the pink laminex table and put her head on her arms, sobbing. Around her were sheets of paper and clipped newspaper articles. She gathered up all the clippings and threw them across the room. The pieces of paper settled on every surface. Colm bent down to pick them up while Blue went back to sobbing on the table. She had made all sorts of notes over the pages, underlining phrases in bright red pen, scribbling frantic circles around other parts.
‘What is this?’ asked Colm, as much to himself as to Blue.
‘It’s Kruschev’s secret speech,’ said Blue wearily.
‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s Russian, the head of the Communist Party. He made this speech, saying Joe Stalin was a crook and a murderer. But Stalin, he was a great man. Everyone said the speech was a forgery, that it was a scam. And then bloody Joe, he got me a copy. Said I had to look at it and decide for myself.’
She looked at Colm, her face impassioned, her cheeks streaked with tears. Colm couldn’t understand how anyone could cry over something that was happening in Russia when so much was happening right here, right now in their own lives.
‘Can’t you see? Nothing that you think is happening is really true. Everything you believe in can turn inside-out overnight!’
‘But what’s any of this got to do with Grandad?’
For a moment, he thought Blue was going to throw something at him, but she simply got up from her chair and left the flat. He watched her walk down Nelson Place and cross the road. There was something so small and broken about her that he wished he could run after her and tell her he was going to make everything all right. But he didn’t know what he could do, and their argument hung in the still air of the flat like a cloud of unhappiness.
Colm walked down to the end of the pier and sat there alone, staring out to sea. Grey clouds gathered over the bay and a red fishing boat chugged past. All around him there was life and movement, but inside him everything felt frozen. He didn’t turn at the sound of footsteps coming towards him along the weathered boards.
