Matthew Flinders' Cat (48 page)

By the end of his first AA meeting, Billy felt reason ably comfortable. This was something he would need to do twice a day for a long time to come and he was vastly relieved to find that he could accommodate himself without a feeling of apprehension or alienation. He would most definitely attend the meeting the following morning to be held at the G’day Cafe at the Rocks.

Billy was happy that the first part of his day wouldn’t differ too greatly from his previous existence. The difference was that he would swap a hangover for a craving, and eventually his Higher Power, Master Mariner Trim Flinders, might take him to the point when the craving ceased, when only the warning that he would always be an alcoholic would persist.

At the conclusion of the meeting, Don came over and explained that he was the voluntary chairman and did Billy mind if he asked him one or two questions. Billy told him to go ahead.

‘Your anonymity will always be respected, Billy, but if you’d like me to go through the Twelve Steps and explain the step meetings, I’d be happy to do that. Also, are you familiar with the idea of a sponsor?’

‘Is that someone I can have access to at such times as things get rugged?’ Billy replied.

‘Yes, someone who is always available to talk with you, whether face-to-face or on the phone. Most of us have such a person and I commend the idea to you.’ He grinned. ‘You know how it is, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. We all reach that certain point when we think we can’t continue and that’s the time to call your sponsor. It sounds crazy but it works, in fact it is one of the basic platforms of AA.’

‘May I think about it?’ Billy replied. ‘In my present circumstances I don’t have a phone or even a reliable address. The public telephones are usually in disrepair in my sleeping locality.’ In fact, Billy wanted time to get to know the men around him so that he could pick a sponsor among them whom he liked and respected. ‘Sure, just shout when you’re ready,’ Don said.

‘Will I see you at the G’day Cafe tomorrow morning? I’ll shout you a coffee and a sticky bun.’

It was no more than five minutes’ walk from the Wayside Chapel to the lane behind The Queen of Sheba and Billy soon found a doorway not quite opposite the back entrance Freddo had described to him. He rummaged around in a bin until he found an empty wine bottle, which he wrapped in newspaper, and then he settled down, the blanket wrapped around him and the bottle lying on its side beside him. If anyone approached, he would pretend to be in the usual alcohol-induced coma or, if he had to, he’d simply act as if he was very drunk.

The hours passed slowly and even though Billy had washed out the wine bottle at the Fitzroy fountain, he was convinced he could still smell the residual alcohol. The bottle was intended as a prop, the usual accompaniment to be found with a drunk, but its presence was beginning to disturb him. Twice he moved the bottle away, placing it two doorways along, and both times he lasted no more than half an hour before retrieving it.

During the evening four men approached the door, all of them well dressed, and Billy soon became aware of the routine. The bell, it must have been an internal buzzer because it made no outside sound, was situated on the lintel above the door and would not be visible to anyone not knowing it was there. A few moments after the bell had been pressed, a light above the doorway suddenly came on and moments later went out again.

At first Billy was puzzled, then he realised that there must be a camera focused on the doorway and the light was needed so that the observer inside could identify the caller. Even then the door didn’t open, the caller was required to insert a card into a slot beside the door and had to wait some twenty seconds for the soft buzz of the electronically-controlled door opening. The card inserted into the slot was obviously not a key but a further means of identifying the visitor.

Close to midnight, Billy could bear the imagined fumes coming from the bottle no longer. He had to have a drink and he rose. Leaving his blanket in the doorway, he started down the lane. He had hardly taken two steps when he heard footsteps approaching. Darting back into the doorway, he hurriedly wrapped himself in the blanket and waited, pretending to be asleep, though in the darkness of the doorway his eyes were open. The bottle had rolled away and had come to rest in the gutter.

Billy watched as a large man approached Freddo’s door. He stood in front of it for a moment before he went through the usual routine but, as the light went on, Billy got a clear view of his face and of the brightly coloured tie he was wearing. He’d seen that face before and he clearly remembered the tie, it was of pink silk emblazoned with purple rats. The man was the one he had seen at Marion’s Bar at the Flag Hotel.

Then, like a bolt from the blue, Billy made another connection that had been scratching around in his mind ever since the morning Sergeant Orr had stopped him outside Parliament House in Macquarie Street on the day he’d first met Ryan. The man standing at the door was the politician who’d had the fight with the television reporter over an accusation that he was concealing the name of a prominent judge who was a paedophile. Orr had been a witness for the politician in the case where Billy had appeared for the television station. He now recalled how the politician had subsequently lost his seat in the next election and had been given a cushy job in the Department of Community Services by the incoming Liberal government. His name was Petersen, Alf Petersen, and he was Marion’s so-called boyfriend.

Billy awoke to the usual raucous laughter of the two kookaburras. He felt stiff and sore, a month sleeping on a mattress had made his body soft. It was several minutes before he could stand upright without holding on to the back of the bench. There was one good piece of news, in his absence the drinking fountain some six metres from the bench had been repaired. Unshackling his briefcase and handcuffing it to the leg of the bench, he moved over to the fountain and rinsed his mouth, drank again, then washed his face.

As Billy drank from the fountain, he realised that he’d made yet another tiny step in his rehabilitation, he hadn’t woken to find his mouth bone-dry and his tongue sticking to its roof as it would have been had he been drinking. Along with a clear head, this was another small victory in the fragile world he now lived in. His heart skipped a beat as he recalled the previous night when he’d left his blanket and was about to go and find a drink. Had Alf Petersen not chosen that very moment to walk into the alley, Billy knew he would have been a goner. Life works in mysterious ways, the evil bastard had inadvertently saved him from personal disaster.

The repair of the drinking fountain was for Billy the equivalent of having running water brought into his home for the first time. He was considerably cheered by the wonderful convenience, knowing he didn’t have to go all the way down to Martin Place Station for fresh water. On his way to the AA morning meeting at the Rocks at seven, he’d use the toilet at Circular Quay. He folded his blanket and placed it into the plastic bag, then walked over to the clump of palms and tree ferns at the extreme perimeter of his sleeping quarters. The city council had spread a deep layer of woodchips on the ground under the foliage in order to retain moisture in the soil. Billy scratched a hollow among the chips and placed his blanket within it, then covered it over. Except for a slight bump on one part of the surface, the blanket was completely concealed and unlikely to be discovered. Retrieving his briefcase, Billy started out for the Quay.

After finishing his ablutions, Billy decided he’d shave and shower at The Station after the AA meeting. He also hoped a letter might be waiting from Trevor Williams at the daytime retreat for the homeless. The G’day Cafe was only a couple of hundred metres from the Quay in Lower George Street so he would have sufficient time to buy several slices of bread and make up his day’s supply of mynah-bird bullets before the meeting.

Walking down the concourse, Billy was about to cross the road to avoid Con Poleondakis at the New Hellas Cafe when he stopped abruptly. On the spur of the moment he decided to attempt a reconciliation. If the Greek cafe owner rejected him, Billy felt he was strong enough to accept it. The sudden and unexpected conniption between them over Ryan had been so abrupt that Billy felt he’d not been able to reason with the irascible Greek. Just by attempting a reconciliation, even if it should fail, he would be making a statement to himself that he was no longer a derelict and wasn’t obliged to accept the scorn of others without the right to protest.

Billy took a deep breath and, squaring his shoulders, walked over to the New Hellas. To his astonishment, the first thing he noticed was a carton of coffee, a finger bun and the better part of a loaf of bread placed at the end of the counter. A thin lick of steam emerged from the opening in the plastic lid that covered the coffee container.

Con had his back to Billy but now he turned and met his eyes. ‘Jesus Christos!’ he yelled. ‘Billy, Billy, my good friends, thank Gods you is come back!’ Con’s broad face was wreathed in a huge smile though Billy could see the sudden tears in his eyes. He pointed to the coffee and bread. ‘You look, Billy. Always, every days I puts the coffee. Every bloody days, myte! Fingers buns also. Every bloody days!’ He emerged from behind the counter and embraced Billy, giving him a great bear hug. ‘Billy, Billy, where you gone, myte?’ Con Poleondakis sobbed.

‘Con, I thought we should try to clear up the misunderstanding that occurred with the boy,’ Billy said, pleased and relieved at Con’s effusive welcome.

Con pulled away from Billy and lowered his eyes, shaking his head slowly. ‘Billy, you no clears nothings up, me, I clear, I am stupid Greek man and I am bloody ashame, myte. My wife she says, “Constantine, you find Billy, he help you, you find him, he good man. I want to thanks him for my life to come to Astraalie.”’

‘Wife? She’s arrived?’ Billy cried, delighted at the news. Con beamed. ‘She’s a beautifuls, myte, like a Goddess!’

‘Young and beautiful, what more could you want, eh, Con?’

Con pursed his lips. ‘Maybe not so youngs, Billy, but Goddess for cookings.
Halva, loukoumathes, stafithopitta, tiropitta, spanakopitta, pasticcio
.’ He reeled the names off as he pointed to a display case under the counter, ‘Everythings she is makings.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Also she is Goddess for the house and the bed, first class in da cot, myte, fair dinkums, put down your glass!’

‘That’s great, Con, I’m glad it turned out well.’

‘Tonight you come. She’s cookings what you like, Greek lambs? Maria, she’s cooking Greek lambs and rice,
arni a la hasapa
, you come tonight, Billy! Firsts class tucker, myte.’

‘I thought her name was Sophia!’

‘No, no, Sophia that her sister, she dead now, but she sends photograph of her sister because also she look like dat one, only she don’t have photograph for herselfs.’

‘But that was a picture of a young girl?’ Con shrugged. ‘That photographs they takes nineteen sixty-eight, myte.’

Billy laughed. ‘As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters, Con.’

Con spread his hands and Billy thought he was going to embrace him once again. ‘Happy like Larries, myte. In two day she makes dat coffee machine nearly good like me. You come tonight, we have Greek wine, we all happy like pig in shits.’

‘I’m on the wagon, Con. I don’t drink now,’ Billy said quietly. It was the first time he’d admitted it aloud to someone he’d known and he could feel his heart beating faster.

Before Billy could escape, Con had embraced him again, hugging him to his large chest. ‘Bloody beauties, myte, congratulations! We drink grapes juice, Greek grapes juice.’ He pulled away and kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Beautifuls, bloody oaths!’

‘Thank you, Con, I can’t come before half-past eight. I have to go to a meeting to help me get better.’ Billy was running out of time and it was the only way he could think to explain AA without having to go into a lot of detail.

‘Here, you take your coffee, Billy. I see you tonight, half-pasts eight o’clock, I meets you this place, New Hellas Cafe. Black Mercedes, okay?’

Billy took the coffee, bread and the finger bun. He would have just enough time to consume both before the AA meeting and he’d have to make his ammunition later. ‘Thanks, Con, I’m glad we’re friends again.’

Con was silent for a moment. ‘Billy, tonight, you brings dat boy, no worries, myte.’

‘Thank you, Con, but I can’t. I’ll talk to you about him tonight.’ Billy started to walk away.

‘Billy!’ Con called after him. Billy turned. ‘You my fren, fair dinkums, myte.’ He thought Con was going to cry again.

The breakfast meeting was much the same as the one the previous night though there were several new faces. Billy also asked Don if he might have some literature on the Twelve Steps before he decided to attend a step meeting. He realised that he should probably embrace the program, which was the same as the one he would have completed on a compulsory basis over seven months if he’d gone to the Salvation Army hostel at St Peters. Don had greeted Billy with sincerity and Billy was beginning to realise that a missing face at a meeting was a potential tragedy and an attendant one a small victory for everyone. All these men and women shared both their hopes and fears, and the collective will and close bonding was an important factor in staying sober. He told himself he dare not miss a meeting.

It was another bright morning and the walk up to The Station, the day refuge for the homeless, after the meeting was pleasant. The sky was a perfect wash of blue. Alas, when he arrived at The Station, Sally Blue wasn’t at the desk and he was greeted by a pleasantlooking woman who appeared to be in her forties. Allowing the blue-eyed Sally to be the first to sign his plastered arm must have had the desired effect because when he inquired after her, the new woman said she’d left to join a computer company. Billy recalled how guilty he’d felt at breaking his promise to Ryan.

‘May I inquire if there is any mail for me? It’s Billy, Billy O’Shannessy.’

‘Oh, yes, a letter for O’Shannessy,’ the new receptionist replied. ‘It’s been here a while, I remember it clearly because of the beautiful copperplate handwriting on the envelope.’ She started to sort through a pile of letters. ‘Here we are,’ she said finally, handing Billy an envelope. She was right. The address on the envelope looked like something out of an early nineteenthcentury legal document. Billy turned to look at the flip side of the envelope, on which was written:

Trevor Williams

Lot 36 Murtee

Via Wilcannia,

NSW, 2836

Trevor Williams was full of surprises. There was no question that the writing was that of an educated hand. The receptionist, who’d introduced herself as Toni Frazer, said, ‘There’s also a parcel for you, Billy, hang on and I’ll get it.’ She left reception and returned a minute or so later, holding an ordinary plastic bag to which was pinned an envelope with his name typed on it.

Billy looked into the bag to see that it was the old dressing-gown Sally Blue had brought for him from home. He opened the envelope smiling. Except for her signature, the words were typed.

Dear Billy,

I got the job. Thanks for bringing me luck. This is your old dressing-gown, I just didn’t want anyone else to have it. All the best,

Love,

Sally Blue

Computer Guru

Billy asked if he might have a towel and then went through to the bathroom where he shaved and showered. His clothes were rather grubby from sitting in the alley the previous night so he put them through the washing machine and the drier, ironing and then changing into the spare khaki pants he’d acquired at William Booth and the blue shirt he’d found at the Wayside Chapel. Somehow he’d managed to cram both garments into the remaining space in his briefcase. Brushing what he laughingly referred to as his hair, he felt finally ready to open the letter from Trevor Williams.

Dear Billy,

I am writing on behalf of my husband Trevor Williams who does not count letter writing among his many skills as a bushman.

On the other hand, I am a trained school teacher and jolly well should know how to compose a letter. As a girl in Ireland my pater always said, ‘Girl, the Irish are a people to whom words come naturally. To write a sound letter is the first requirement of a good mind.’

Well, I don’t know so much about that, but we were overjoyed to get your letter and to know that you would help to find our daughter.

When you asked for details of her appearance, I asked Trevor what he had told you and he scratched his head and mumbled that he couldn’t rightly recall.

‘Did you give Billy her name?’ I asked.

‘Buggered if I can remember,’ he replied.

‘Maybe not, eh?’

I suspected as much. He always refers to her as ‘my little daughter’. I often wonder if he remembers her name, which is Caroline.

Caroline has dark hair, though it is perfectly straight like my own. I am sometimes referred to as Black Irish. During Sir Francis Drake’s victory over the Spanish Armada, a great many Spanish ships were wrecked on the coast of Ireland. The fairhaired Irish women took rather a fancy to the dark handsome sailors and, as the saying goes, one thing led to another and today some Irish are of a dark complexion, myself among them. Although Caroline has fair skin, she has dark eyes. They’re beautiful eyes and, like her father’s people, seem to see everything.

It is a difficult task trying to describe someone you love, even one’s own daughter. We, of course, think she’s pretty and I enclose a photograph, though it was taken when she graduated from the Conservatorium of Music in Adelaide some eight years ago and I don’t think it will help much in an attempt to identify her. Oh dear, so very much has changed.

If it helps, people have always thought of her as very attractive, some say beautiful. She is slim and is, I think, about five feet six inches tall (she’s been taller than Trevor and myself since she was fifteen). Oh yes, I almost forgot, she has a mouth that seems at first bigger than it should be, very much like the actress Julia Roberts. As Trevor will have told you, she once used it to sing rather well.