Matthew Flinders' Cat (24 page)

‘May I come in?’ Billy asked.

The sound of a cultured voice must have put the woman somewhat at ease, because she said, ‘Yes.’

Billy opened the door wider and saw the shock on the young woman’s face. She stood up, backing away from the piano chair. He was surprised to see that the instrument she’d been playing was a baby grand. ‘It’s quite all right, my dear, the plaster and the patch, a small accident. You were playing Chopin, an étude I used to play as a child, though never of course with your proficiency.’

The woman seemed to relax a little. ‘Who are you?’ she asked warily.

‘My name is William O’Shannessy and I confess to being a derelict, though a perfectly harmless one.’

The young woman’s eyes went to the handcuff around Billy’s wrist and she backed further away. ‘Mr O’Shannessy, I don’t think you should be here.’ She looked around, suddenly conscious that she was alone.

‘Billy, please call me Billy. William is an entirely inappropriate name in my present calling.’ He lifted the briefcase showing her the second handcuff attached to the handle. ‘In my vocation it is as well to be security conscious.’ He grinned, then, trying to put her at ease, Billy said, ‘I shan’t keep you long, madam, I am simply inquiring if you have a Ryan Sanfrancesco in your school. I am leaving town and I wish to leave him a letter.’

‘A letter? Are you a relation?’

‘No, madam, we are old friends. Ryan is a quite remarkable child.’

‘Could be if he tried harder,’ the young woman replied.

‘Ah! Then you know him,’ Billy cried. ‘That’s splendid.’

‘Yes, he attends music lessons,’ she paused. ‘When he can be bothered.’

‘He plays music? I didn’t know that.’

‘Ryan has a glorious voice, a boy soprano of exceptional range and clarity.’

‘Well, I never,’ Billy said, pleased.

‘It’s very frustrating. We want him to sing in the St Mary’s Cathedral choir. The choirmaster, Monsignor Fiorelli, is very keen to have him, but he won’t have a bar of it. The principal went to see his mother accompanied by the monsignor, but she sent them away with a flea in their ear.’

Billy sighed, ‘Yes, I know, it is for that reason I’d like you to give the letter directly to Ryan. Do you think you could do that, Ms ...?’

‘Sypkins, Sylvia Sypkins.’

‘Nice to meet you, Ms Sypkins.’

‘I will have to show the letter to the principal, Mr O’Shannessy.’

‘Yes, of course, it’s unsealed and she
must
read it and so may you. I appreciate your taking such care over the matter.’ Billy opened the briefcase and withdrew the letter, handing it to Ryan’s music teacher.

‘Thank you, Mr O’Shannessy,’ Ms Sypkins said.

‘It’s been, er . . . interesting meeting you.’

Billy, amused, thought how young and pretty she was. He remembered his own music teacher, Miss Roseblatte, a terrible old dragon who rapped him frequently on the knuckles with a twelve-inch ruler from which the steel edge had been removed.

‘I crave your indulgence, Ms Sypkins. There is just one more thing.’

The music teacher glanced at her watch. ‘I really must be going,’ she said, a little nervously.

‘It won’t take a minute.’ Billy produced a second envelope, this one thicker than the last. ‘Ryan’s grandmother is dying of cancer, though how soon that might be I can’t say. His mother . . .’ Billy paused, ‘Well, she has problems of her own and I don’t believe she can cope. Ryan, it appears, is often responsible for taking care of them both, which may explain somewhat his attitude to school.’

‘Oh? I was not aware of that.’ Ms Sypkins showed concern. ‘Only that his mother was difficult.’

‘There is a little money in here. Fifteen hundred dollars precisely. Would you please give it to the principal and ask her to use it to help Ryan, should this become necessary in the next few months?’

Ms Sypkins threw up her hands. ‘Oh, I don’t think I can take that responsibility. Ms Flanagan has already left for the afternoon.’

Billy smiled. ‘The money hasn’t been stolen, there’s a withdrawal slip signed by the teller, whose name is Partridge, Suzanna Partridge, I’ve written her telephone extension number on the slip.’

Ms Sypkins still seemed reluctant. ‘Really, Mr O’Shannessy, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t sleep a wink all night knowing it was in my flat. Could you not return in the morning to see the principal?’

Billy shook his head. ‘That would be quite impossible, my dear, I leave first thing.’ Realising her anxiety over safekeeping the money, he tried to keep things light. ‘The usual recommendation is to put it under your pillow, but I suggest the mattress, that’s always a safe place, my grandmother used to say. A thief may manage to place his hand under a pillow while you slumber but it’s a lot more difficult to dislodge a mattress with you asleep on top of it.’ Billy pushed the envelope towards her.

Ms Sypkins accepted it reluctantly, and walked over to the piano, reached for her handbag and placed the envelope inside. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, ‘but I’m terribly nervous.’

Billy laughed, ‘I should be the one who’s nervous, I may never see you again and I’ve just given you fifteen hundred dollars.’

‘A receipt! Of course, you must have a receipt!’ Ms Sypkins cried.

‘No, that won’t be necessary, the Chopin étude you were playing and your concern for Ryan is receipt enough.’ Billy paused and appeared to be listening. ‘Ah, the currawongs are calling, it’s getting late, I must be off, my dear, though there is one more small thing.’

Ms Sypkins looked apprehensive. ‘Yes?’ she said tentatively.

‘It’s Ryan’s eyes, the boy is short-sighted. He’s a skateboarder who, I imagine, can’t see much more than five or six metres ahead of him, sooner or later he’s going to have a bad accident. Do you think the school could arrange to have his eyes tested?’

Ms Sypkins looked relieved. ‘Yes, we know about Ryan’s eyes, the community nurse has picked it up on two occasions and we’ve sent a form home with Ryan twice and then posted one. You see, we need permission from a parent to take him to the eye hospital,’ she explained.

Billy sighed, shaking his head, ‘Same old problem, eh? Ms Sanfrancesco does seem to be a very difficult woman.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep trying,’ the music teacher assured him.

‘Thank you,’ Billy said quietly. ‘Well then, I’ll take my leave.’ Billy bowed slightly, ‘You have been the soul of kindness, Ms Sypkins.’

Ms Sypkins smiled at Billy’s old-fashioned manners. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr O’Shannessy.’

Billy walked towards the classroom door and, as he reached it, Ms Sypkins called out, ‘Your money will be safe. I’ll put it under the mattress!’

Billy had given Ryan the money he had intended for his own funeral. Over the period he’d been among the homeless, Billy had carefully put aside a small part of his disability pension to pay for his gravesite. Suzanna Partridge, at the bank in Martin Place, had helped him, and had also placed in safekeeping a letter with his burial instructions.

Billy was most anxious to avoid a destitute’s funeral conducted by the state, where he’d have to share the gravesite with four others, each coffin placed next to each other. The Salvation Army would bury him decently, and alone, at a cost of fifteen hundred dollars, or for that matter, at their own expense.

He didn’t want the final act in his life to be a handout so he’d paid an initial deposit of two hundred and fifty dollars to the Salvos after making the trip out to Rookwood Cemetery, where he’d asked to see the plots they’d been allocated. These were positioned on the eastern extremity of the cemetery with plenty of morning sun and seemed ideal for Billy’s purpose. The position was important because for another fifty dollars, which he’d already paid to a nursery, he’d arranged for a sapling to be planted over his grave in place of a headstone.

Billy wanted the remains of his earthly body to act as nourishment for the sapling’s roots.
‘These are my roots of heaven,’
he’d written in his will,
‘the beloved spotted gum will rise up a hundred feet into the air and release oxygen to make the clouds and the rain and I shall be a part of the forest and the deserts, pure and clean, with all the human malice washed from my bloodied soul at last.’
It was, he admitted, a somewhat melodramatic notion, written in an over-flowery manner, but he allowed the indulgence, telling himself a man’s last gesture should be one of putting back, a thing of the heart and not of the head, a sentimental thing and an apology to nature for the shabby way we have treated it.

The particular sapling he’d requested was important to him. The spotted gum,
Eucalyptus maculata
, was the eucalypt varietal that had been used to build the first locally constructed sailing ships as well as in the construction of Sydney’s streets. Cut into blocks, it had been the foundation paving for all the city’s major thoroughfares and most of its inner-suburban streets.

He was vaguely conscious that what he was doing for Ryan was really for Charlie and that the envelope contained conscience money, though he quickly buried this notion into his subconscious, unwilling to face the fact that he was running from his responsibilities once again. He could clearly see the looming tragedy about to envelop the child, but tried to convince himself that, given his present position in life, he would be of no use to Ryan by being present when it occurred. It was better for the boy to forget him now than have to depend on him later. The money would be more useful anyway. Billy wasn’t at all sure he could handle any sort of dependence on him by another human being. He had trouble enough looking after himself. If he was killed because people thought he was a paedophile, it might damage Ryan’s perceptions of life permanently. This was his greatest excuse.

On his way to St Vincent’s he stopped off and bought a packet of roll-your-own tobacco and cigarette papers of the brand he’d seen Williams smoking in the pub, three small chocolate caramel bars and a large block of Cadbury milk chocolate. It wasn’t very imaginative, but his sugar craving was always best served by these two particular confections and both were easy to suck or chew. He hoped Trevor Williams would feel the same way.

In the reception area of St Vincent’s Casualty he bumped into Dr Goldstein. Somewhat to Billy’s astonishment, the doctor greeted him by name.

‘Mr O’Shannessy, how’s the wrist coming along?’ Goldstein immediately asked and without waiting for a reply said, ‘Here, let me see.’

Billy held out his arm and, observing Sally Blue’s signature on the plaster, Nathan Goldstein grinned, ‘Girlfriend?’

‘I should be so fortunate,’ Billy smiled. ‘Good evening, Doctor Goldstein.’ He was strangely pleased that the doctor had remembered him by name. ‘Please call me Billy, doctor.’

‘Move your fingers for me, will you, Billy.’ Billy did as Goldstein instructed. ‘That’s good, plenty of movement. As long as it doesn’t give you pain, you must try to exercise the hand as much as you can. What brings you here, anything I can do?’

‘Thank you, doctor, I’m here to visit a friend, Trevor Williams.’

Goldstein laughed. ‘We’ll be sorry to see him go, his concerts the last couple of nights have been such a buzz for the ward that we’re thinking of putting him on broadcast throughout the hospital. We had an old bloke in last night, heart attack, fortunately we brought him round successfully, although he was pretty groggy when we wheeled him out of the theatre on his way to the intensive-care ward. As we passed the public ward, Trevor Williams was giving a recital, at that very moment singing “Summertime”. The old bloke suddenly sat upright, nearly bringing on another heart attack. “Is this heaven?” he asked.’ Goldstein smiled. ‘He’s got a pleasant voice, though, hasn’t he?’

Trevor Williams was delighted to see Billy. ‘Gidday, mate, how’s yer bin, orright?’

Billy realised that he was going to miss Williams, the little blackfella had a nice way about him, a gentleness which Billy had almost forgotten could exist in a man. Billy placed the bag containing the chocolate and tobacco on the locker beside the bed, then reached for the key around his neck and unlocked his handcuff, putting the briefcase on the floor. ‘How are you feeling, Trevor? The doctor tells me you’re the current singing sensation, that broadcast rights and a contract are being negotiated as we speak.’

‘Ah, it’s nothin’, a bit o’ amusement for the folks, that’s all,’ Williams said in a self-deprecating way. ‘Wish me little daughter were here, then you’d hear summin’ else, mate. Yiz’ll see for yerself when we finds her,’ he added modestly. ‘But they like me here, dunno why, bit of a singsong ter keep them happy when they’s feelin’ crook, I suppose.’

‘The doctor says it’s by popular demand, ward’s never run better. You’re giving them another concert tonight he tells me.’ Billy said, ‘Well done, Trevor.’

‘Yeah, some the older folks back yonder,’ he indicated the end of the ward with a thrust of his chin, ‘say they can’t hear me too good. So, there’s these two real nice poofter security men, good blokes, muscle men, built like a brick shithouse, they look identical, same haircut, same colour, they’s bringing in the microphone from reception.’ Williams laughed. ‘They both crazy about country music, so ternight I’m gunna mix a bit more country into me repertoire. Bin thinking all day, tryin’ ter remember some o’ them lyrics Slim Dusty sings. Them old ones, y’know, “A Pub with No Beer” or “When the Rain Tumbles Down in July”. Bin a while since I sang any of them numbers.’