By Any Other Name

By Jeannie Meekins

What a father will do to protect his son and what a son will do to save his father.
For as long as he can remember, Declan has loved his father, Michael. He has also been aware of the strange... something... between his father and the powerful Mr Cantala.
One fateful night, Declan’s illusions and innocence are shattered.
Michael realises the only way to save his son is to get him out of town. The more life throws at him, the more Declan realises he is just like his father. And always lurking in the background is Mr Cantala – watching and waiting.
When the world comes full circle, Declan is faced with the hardest decision of his life. Can he break away and leave childhood behind? Can he escape his father’s legacy and achieve the life he craves?

By Any Other Name was entered in the 2013 Wishing Shelf Book Awards. It was awarded a 5 star rating. Here are some of the judges’ comments:
‘An enchanting story of growing up and facing truths. Powerfully written and highly recommended.’
‘The last last bit when he sees his dad is soooo sad I began to cry.’
‘This author did a fantastic job of putting across the feelings and motivations of her characters. This, for me, was the strongest part of the story. Except for the ending: it was very upsetting and very, very good.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeannie Meekins
• Release date: Sep 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987343512

Jeannie Meekins

Jeannie Meekins is an Australian writer who lives with her children and a couple of cats who think they own the computer. And if her dog could read, he’d be jealous, so it’s lucky that he can’t. Jeannie has also written over 10 books for children, many available through LearningIsland.com

Book preview

Chapter one

It had been twenty years since I had seen my father. It wasn’t because I didn’t care. Quite the opposite. My father was the greatest man I’ve ever known.

When I was young, my father symbolised everything that I could not be. He could come and go as he pleased. I accepted that easily, for it was simply something that he was capable of doing that I could not.

Mother said that I would crawl after him, and even walk – when I had mastered that feat. But I never remember reaching the door. My father would simply disappear outside to return some time later.

Our house was not much to speak of. Two bedrooms, a lounge room and kitchen. The laundry and toilet were outside and bathing in the trough was perfectly normal.

But it was ours. As long as my father continued to pay the mortgage, the bank had no reason to foreclose. And he continued to pay. Even if that meant we occasionally went without supper.

An empty belly for a night is a small price to pay to have a roof over your head for life, he would say.

Sometimes, I felt he said it too often.

My father was stubborn like that. He didn’t like owing anyone anything. He said it gave them a claim on you.

Several times the mortgage would be short by a dollar or two. Shopping at the end of the month would be nearly halved. Meat would be nonexistent.

Mr Reilly, the local shopkeeper, was well aware of this.

Please, he would say. Pay me next week.

No, my father would insist.

For the child.

My child is my responsibility. Please do not take offence, Mr Reilly. While I thank you for your generous offer, a man who cannot look after his own family does not deserve to be called a man.

I think Mr Reilly did take offence, but he also respected my father’s wishes.

Finances became tougher when the twins were born. Patrick and Francis were a strain on my mother, both with their birth and general looking after. They might have been twins, but in the first twelve months of their lives they never did anything together.

One was always awake, needed feeding or changing, or simply wanted attention.

My mother was constantly exhausted. She never seemed to have time for me.

Mrs Maris, the nice lady from down the road, came calling one day. She had hoped to find my father out and was surprised to find him home.

Please come in, my father invited her.

She had a basket over her arm, covered with a cloth so that its contents could not be seen. She was fidgety, nervous – afraid to offend.

My father showed her into the lounge room. My mother was sitting in her chair. It was just a plain, floral armchair to the onlooker, but had a warmth and feel about it that to climb up and sit in it was like being near her. Francis was snuggled in her arms, drifting off to sleep.

Mrs Maris looked to my mother as she spoke. My hens lay more eggs than I could possibly be in need of. I would be grateful if you would take some off my hands.

My father’s eyes narrowed a little. He saw this as charity.

Mrs Maris managed a small smile. You would not make an old lady walk all the way home with such a load?

My mother put a hand on my father’s arm. She had the ability to silence him, as no one else could, without saying a word.

Of course we could not let you return home with such a load.

At that moment, Patrick began to cry from the other room.

Michael, please see to Patrick, my mother spoke. Mrs Maris, will you join us in a cup of tea?

My father took Francis from her as she stood up. He put him to bed and returned to the lounge room with Patrick. He held the boy to his chest with one arm, stroking his soft head and gently rocking and soothing away the cries.

Patrick flopped against our father’s chest, his arms limp by his sides. Like all babies, Patrick had no fear of falling or being dropped. But there was more to it than that. Our father had a way of making us feel safe. If you were in his arms, you were protected from the world.

My mother made a cup of tea for Mrs Maris. My father warmed a bottle for Patrick.

It didn’t matter how little food we may have had in the house at any one time. If we had visitors, my mother always made them feel welcome.

Mrs Maris had to be in her fifties. Even though a walk of a mile or so down the road with a basket of eggs would not have killed her, that was beside the point.

My father refused to accept the eggs without payment and Mrs Maris refused to accept any sort of financial reimbursement. It was eventually agreed that my father would spend one day a week working for Mrs Maris. It would be Saturday. My father already had a job and Sundays were spent in church.

From as far back as I could remember, I hated church.

Cleanliness is next Godliness, my mother told us.

If that were true, we must have been the most Godly children in the neighbourhood. We were scrubbed from head to foot. Then we were inspected – hair, behind the ears, fingernails. If there was any doubt, it was back to the scrubbing. White shirts were perfectly ironed, pants with creases down the front, shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. Hair started off in place, but it didn’t take much movement for the wisps to fly.

I think it was my mother’s way of keeping a bit of sanity in a house full of boys.

We would arrive at church spotless. But our parents were fully aware that a puddle, a lizard or even a pile of fallen autumn leaves was enough to change that.

I always believed that our parents had ESP. They always seemed to know what we were thinking.

Around the mud, Declan. Not through it.

Patrick, leave your brother alone.

Francis, don’t even think about picking your nose.

Use your handkerchief, not your sleeve.

The last comment was directed at all of us, particularly in church.

One Sunday, Patrick was in for a second scrubbing and Francis was being dressed. I was ready – and restless.

I wandered into my parents’ room. The furnishings were all flowery and it had that feminine smell about it – just like my mother.

I found my father’s hair cream.

I held the jar in the palm of my hand and stared at it. A smile began to form over my face. I looked in the mirror, knowing what I was going to do long before I did it.

I unscrewed the lid.

The cream dared me to put my finger in it, so I did. It was cold and greasy, and yuk. But I still scooped out a handful and slicked it through my hair.

I tried my best to make my hair look like my father’s, but somehow my fringe kept sticking out. It didn’t matter how much cream, I used. In fact, the more I used, the worse it seemed to make it.

Declan!

I froze, my hands halfway through my hair. I looked past myself in the mirror and saw my father’s reflection standing in the doorway.

My father was not prone to violence against his children, but there were exceptions. And I suddenly had a dreadful feeling that this was one of those exceptions.

I screwed my eyes shut. Maybe if I opened them again, he wouldn’t be there. I resigned myself to my fate. I lowered my hands, opened my eyes and turned around.

My father took a good look at me and tried hard to hide a smile.

Now... you’re not doing it right, he told me.

As he walked over to me, I was still expecting the worst.

But he squatted beside me and ran his hands through my hair.

To start with, you’ve got way too much cream on there. He wiped some of it off with a towel. And you see this? He picked up the referred object off the dressing table. It’s called a comb. He was grinning. You use it to straighten out the mess you call hair.

He proceeded to comb my hair.

We are going to make you the best looking boy at church today.

The comb slid easily through my hair.

My father worked quickly. He stopped every now and then, and gave it a good looking at.

Hmm, he frowned.

I watched in the mirror. Except when he stopped. Then I risked a bit of a sideways look at him.

That fringe is still being a nuisance. You must have got that from your mother’s side of the family.

He put the comb down and began to use his hands again.

You’ll do, he told me a few seconds later.

I don’t think my mother was impressed as I got in the car. But my father just winked.

I was feeling good as I got to church, but that soon changed. Father Hennigan was the scariest person I knew. He was always telling horror stories about the sins of man, fire and brimstone, God’s wrath and eternities in Hell. Then we would pray for forgiveness.

Apparently, everything I said, did or thought was a sin. I often walked out of church feeling that there was no hope for me.

Father Hennigan was a different man outside of church. He always had time for a personal chat with his parishioners.

He always spoke kindly to my mother, as if he felt sorry for her. And he always shook my father’s hand and they talked about all kinds of things.

I tried to be brave, but I usually had one arm wrapped firmly around my father’s leg, staring at Father Hennigan’s kindly face and wondering when he was going to grow horns and start breathing fire.

He always said hello to us boys, and today was no exception.

Hello, Declan, he smiled, offering his hand.

I clutched my father’s leg even tighter.

Father Hennigan squatted down. Your hair’s looking very smart today.

I relaxed my grip a little.

Makes you look a bit like your father.

I want to be just like my father, I told him proudly.

Do you now? He didn’t sound convinced. Either that or he wasn’t impressed by what my father did for a living.

Behind him, I could see Mr Cantala. He had a smile on his face as he looked at my father.

Come on, Declan. My father tried to unhook me from his leg. We really need to be getting home.

Now you be a good boy and take care of your mother.

Father Hennigan’s words sounded like a threat. I expected him to also say, Or you will go to Hell.

The next day, my mother was feeling ill – and I felt it was my fault.

She was sick on and off for the next few months and I knew I was going to Hell. Even when my father explained that she was going to have another baby, it still didn’t sink in.

I started school the year my sister was born. My mother was so pleased to finally have a girl, and my father... He was in love all over again.

School had me out of the house for most of the day. I met a heap of new people and made some friends. While I already knew a few of the kids from the neighbourhood, Patrick and Francis had been the only playmates I’d really needed.

There were girls at school. I didn’t understand them. They played with dolls, fussed about pretty frilly dresses – and kept clean. How did they have any fun?

More than once I was in trouble for trying to get the girls to enjoy real fun.

Putting a frog down Miss Miranda Black’s dress had my parents called to school.

I gave up on girls after that.

When Anita was born, I couldn’t understand the fascination. She was small and pink, with masses of black hair. She seemed to spend all day screaming – and most of the night.

I was glad to be at school – even before she was born. While the days were long and the weather was warm, I didn’t spend a lot of time at home.

I knew better than to make my father come looking for me. But sometimes that seemed to slip my mind, until I saw him. Whether I was playing ball, catching tadpoles or just hanging out with my school friends, he always knew where to find me.

It wasn’t that I tried to be bad. I just didn’t seem to think. I never saw the danger in anything. I never knew how much my parents worried. Everything was fun and had to be explored, tested or tried.

My father taught us to swim at a young age, so I never had any fears of swimming in the irrigation channel, no matter how many times he told me it was dangerous. We passed it every day going to and from school. Sometimes, after a day of sweating it out in the furnace of a classroom, the breeze rippling the cool waters was just too tempting.

There was only one way of getting in the channel – quickly. Getting out meant climbing the steep slippery banks, clinging onto the clumps of grass along the edges and hauling yourself out. The water was never shallow enough for me to touch the bottom and if it had been raining recently, the current became quite strong.

In summer, I knew I had to be home before the sun hit the top of the trees.

One particularly warm day, a bunch of us were mucking around in the channel. I was enjoying myself too much to notice the sun begin to sink beneath the treeline. It was the shadows over the water that made me realise.

Declan, where you going? Danny asked, as I began to haul myself out of the water.

Home. I’ll be late, I answered.

He looked at the lengthening shadows. Give it up. You’re already late. You won’t be sitting down for a week.

I saw the grin on Jimmy’s face, but assumed it was because he’d just dunked Gavin.

I pulled on my school shirt, slung my bag over one shoulder and ran all the way home. I don’t remember stopping. I knew that if I got home before my father decided to look for me, I’d be safe.

My shorts didn’t have time to dry before they were drenched with sweat. My shirt stuck to me. I found it hard to get enough oxygen. The heat stuck in my throat with every breath.

I got home.

My father’s car was there.

I opened the door quietly, looking around cautiously as I entered the house.

Declan.

It was my mother and I felt a little safer.

Where are your shoes?

Shoes? I looked down at my bare feet. I spent most of my time barefooted so I hadn’t even thought about shoes.

I looked up to see my father standing beside my mother. His jacket was off, his shirt sleeves rolled up and he had a half empty glass in his hand.

He’d been home a little while, but he wasn’t ready to look for me just yet. I’d beaten him as far as time went, but my shoes...

My father finished his drink in one go, and gave the glass to my mother. He stepped over and stood in front of me. He put a hand on my head, tilting it back until I looked up into his face. He was looking me over.

My hair was greasy and sweat was running rivers down my dusty face. My chest was heaving, and my heart was pounding for a number of reasons.

Mmm, he mumbled knowingly. Then he turned to my mother. We’ll be back soon.

My mother took my bag from my shoulder. My mind was blank and I wouldn’t have thought to take it off.

My father marched me back over the very path I’d taken. Back to the irrigation channel without thought of going elsewhere. Back to where my shoes were sitting neatly on the bank.

Danny and the other boys had gone. The sun was well below the treeline and the still water was in full shadow.

Have you got any idea how much those shoes cost?

I didn’t, but I knew how my father was with money.

Pick them up.

The words were a threat.

We walked home in silence. I half hoped we wouldn’t get home. I could feel his anger burning. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what. I only knew that if I opened my mouth, I would regret it.

We got home. My father closed the door. He took my shoes to my room and put them neatly on the floor beside my bed. As he was about to walk out, something caught his eye.

Boys, leave.

But, Father – Patrick’s voice cut out, then he and Francis left the room.

My father returned to the lounge room. His focus zeroed in on me. My mother came from the kitchen. She knew instinctively what I dreaded.

She stepped in front of my father, blocking me from his view, and put a hand on his chest. No, Michael.

He tried to ignore her. Refusing to look into her face.

He was swimming in the irrigation channel. There was no emotion in his voice, only an anger looking for somewhere to release itself.

He’s a child!

I thought she’d won.

He took her hands in his, removed them from his chest and kissed them. His voice was soft, pleading for her understanding. He has to learn there are consequences for his actions.

She gave in, and he stepped around her.

I was confused, and scared. Her hands were still in front of her and she dropped her head to them. She didn’t even turn around.

My father advanced on me, taking his belt off. I knew what that meant. I’d heard enough from the kids at school to know what that meant.

I retreated, shaking my head slowly. No... please...

I couldn’t take my eyes from his belt. He’d never hit me before. Us boys had all received the occasional smack, but nothing like this.

I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise.

I’d reached a wall. I was shaking. My heart was pounding, I could hear the blood thumping in my ears, and I was sweating.

I’m sorry. No... please.

He picked me up, carried into my room and shut the door.

I didn’t know how many times he beat me. When he was finished, I bolted. I was out of my room, out of the house and out into the dark.

I headed through the back blocks. I wanted to be as far away from everyone and everything that I could get.

I don’t know how long I ran, or how far. I don’t even know where I ended up. Exhausted, I fell to the ground. I lay there on my stomach and cried.

I didn’t know who I was angrier with. My father for hitting me, or my mother for letting him. Or those stupid shoes! If I’d remembered to put them on. If I hadn’t gone swimming. If...

I must have fallen sleep. I woke when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Declan.

The sound of my father’s gentle voice brought me to full consciousness. I was on my feet, taking off into the night again, but couldn’t shake his grip.

He picked me up and hugged me. I love you, Declan.

No! I screamed. I hate you!

I fought him. I punched and kicked as hard as I could. I wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me.

I was in his arms, I should have felt safe. But who was going to protect me from him?

I took out all my anger on him and he just let me. He held me firmly and he spoke softly. I heard his voice but not the words. I was too busy letting him have it.

I was slowing down, my fists having no strength left. I felt his hand on the back of my head, and I fell onto his chest. His heart was pounding every bit as much as mine.

I love you, Declan.

No, I sobbed.

Let’s go home.

No.

He stood there and held me for a while longer.

As I calmed down and cooled down, I began to ache all over. I couldn’t get comfortable.

I didn’t complain this time when he suggested we go home.

He carried me all the way, putting me down as we reached the front door. He squatted, ran his hand over my dishevelled head and smiled at me. He put his hands on my face and wiped the mess from my cheeks. His touch was soft, and I knew he loved me. But I wasn’t ready to forgive him yet.

We went inside.

The house was quiet. Patrick and Francis were in bed. My mother was in the lounge room, sitting on the edge of her chair. She was leaning her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands, and she was rocking anxiously. She lifted her head at the sound of us.

She saw me. Her eyes never lifted any further.

Declan?

I went to her.

She wrapped her arms around me, and pulled me onto her lap.

Now, Isabelle. Don’t coddle the boy. My father’s voice was even, showing none of the emotion he’d shown me.

She glared. I let you beat him. I’ll hug him I want to.

I never doubted my mother’s love, but I didn’t know why she let him beat me.

I fell asleep in my mother’s arms.

I woke next morning in my own bed.

Patrick and Francis were already awake. In my half awake state, I could hear their voices.

Is he dead? Francis asked.

I don’t know, Patrick answered. Poke him.

You poke him.

I said it first.

Well, I said it second.

They were quiet for a few minutes before Francis asked me. Declan? Are you dead?

No, I mumbled.

Are you sure?

I rolled from my stomach to my side to face my brothers. I’m sure I’m not dead.

What happened? Patrick asked. Father was...

He beat me.

Did it hurt? Francis asked.

I propped my head in my hand and looked intently at my brothers. Father beat me because I was swimming in the irrigation channel. And, yes, it hurt. It hurt a lot.

Patrick, Francis. Leave your brother alone, my mother called. Declan, get up. You’ve got school.

School? I had to go to school? I ached all over, and I was being forced to go to school. Patrick and Francis bolted.

I got up slowly. My shorts and shirt were clean and ironed, and waiting for me at the foot of my bed. I stood there and stared at them.

My mother came to the bedroom doorway. Bath, Declan, she said softly.

The twins looked at each other in surprise.

Bath? said Patrick.

But it’s not Sunday, said Francis. Then he looked to me, avoiding our mother’s look in case she decided to dump him in the trough. Is it?

No, it’s not Sunday, our mother answered. Breakfast for you two. Pancakes and –

They were gone.

I didn’t object to a bath. The thought of it sounded good. I was stiff and sore, battered and bruised, dirty and sticky. The water was hot and inviting. I climbed in and relaxed.

My mother grabbed a wash cloth and soap and began to lather it up. Her touch was gentle, as she washed me. The last of my anger washed away with the dirt and the sweat. And when she lifted my head and kissed my forehead, I knew it was forgiven.

I still had to know. Why?

It’s complicated, Declan. You’re too young to understand.

That just confused me even more. I was too young to understand, but I wasn’t too young to get beaten because I didn’t understand.

It’s a dangerous world. There are some things we can control and some things we can’t. You, Patrick and Francis, and this little one, she patted her large stomach, are the most precious things in the world to your father and myself. Close your eyes and go under.

I closed my eyes and slid under the water. The outside world was shut out. My mother rinsed my hair, then pulled me up.

Better?

I nodded, wiping the water from my eyes.

Out you get.

I stood up. She wrapped a soft, fluffy towel around me and lifted me out.

Dry yourself and get dressed. I’ll make you some fresh pancakes.

Do I –?

Yes, you have to go to school.

The first thing I checked was my bruised body. Did any of the marks show below my shorts? No – my father was too smart for that. I was glad. I didn’t think I could stand the embarrassment. Being smacked by a parent was not something to be proud of and it wasn’t as if any teachers were going to stick up for you, let alone rush to the police on your behalf. Kids deserved whatever they got and parents were quite within their rights to dish out any punishment they wanted.

By the time I dressed and got to the kitchen, the twins were fighting over the last pancake. Our mother cut it in half, and both of them looked like they’d been cheated.

Fine, she told them. I’ll have it myself.

It’s all right.

We’ll share.

And the pancake was gone.

Go off and play, while I fix your brother some breakfast. On second thought, she added before they could move, sit there, so I can clean the golden syrup off you.

Patrick sat quietly, while his hands and face were washed.

How did you get it in your eyebrows? she smiled.

Patrick shrugged.

There... all gone. She kissed his forehead. Now, Francis.

Francis clenched his little hands in fists. She gently unpried them and wiped the sticky mess. Then she moved in on his face.

Francis had this thing about his face being touched.

No, no, no, no, he objected, dropping his head and trying to cover his face.

Yes, yes, yes, yes. Somehow, she managed to pry his hands away and lift his face enough to wipe the warm damp cloth over him in one smooth easy motion.

No, no, no, he mumbled, continually ducking away.

All done.

The cloth disappeared.

Francis stopped wriggling. Head still down, he opened one eye and looked up at her cautiously. Then he relaxed.

Kisses?

Kisses. She kissed his forehead, then planted one on the tip of his nose.

No fair, Patrick complained.

She found an extra one for him, and both boys were happy.

They left the table and raced into the lounge room. A few seconds later, the box of wooden blocks crashed to the floor.

As I watched my mother make my pancakes, I realised I’d missed tea the night before. I’d had nothing since lunch the previous day.

She knew this and gave me an extra helping, accompanied by a large glass of cold milk.

Then she packed my lunch into my school bag.

Come straight home from school today, Declan, she smiled as she opened the front door for me.

I nodded.

She kissed me goodbye, and I quickly looked out to the street to make sure no one had seen.

I caught up with Danny Reilly outside his place.

Did you get whipped? he asked.

Uh-huh.

He flinched. Sorry.

I shrugged as though I didn’t care. It’s all right. I just need to be home early tonight.

Race you. Danny took off.

I didn’t think I could run. I was still exhausted from all the running I’d done yesterday. And with a belly full of pancakes, all I really wanted to do was go back to bed.

I had every intention of being home straight after school. Unfortunately, my teacher, Mr Murcott, had other plans.

I found it difficult to sit still in school. The hard, wooden seats did nothing for my tender backside.

I could see that Danny, sitting next to me, was sympathising. Mr Murcott thought I was just being disruptive. Especially when I decided that sitting on my books was slightly more comfortable. Several times, I caught Mr Murcott’s steely gaze and I bit my bottom lip and tried to keep still.

It was a relief to get out at recess time.

Why don’t you pack your shorts with toilet paper, Danny suggested.

It was a great idea – and lasted me through to lunch. Luckily, while I was sitting down, no one could see how much my shorts were bulging. Even Mr Murcott seemed to focus more of his attention on the rest of the class.

When the bell rang to end the school day, I thought I was right.

Declan, stay behind.

Half out of my seat, I sat back down. Danny stayed.

Danny, there’s no need for you to stay, Mr Murcott told him.

Really, Mr Murcott. It’s no...

Mr Murcott raised one eyebrow and stared at Danny.

Danny swallowed hard and looked at me. See you tomorrow. He grabbed his stuff and bolted for the door.

So, Declan, my classes bore you, do they?

No, sir.

I doubt you paid attention to anything that I said.

Yes, sir, I did.

Then perhaps you would like to tell me just one of the things we did today.

I thought hard. We did some maths and some spelling and... and there was something about gold.

Anything else?

I tried really hard to think. Recess?

He sighed.

Mr Murcott didn’t believe in caning students – unlike Mr Appleton, the grade two teacher.

Your parents don’t need any more trouble. What with your mother expecting in a few months... I’ve got something you might like.

It was a book.

You need to learn to read.

I wasn’t impressed.

None of the class were really at the reading stage. We’d done a little bit of letter association. A for apple, B for ball – that sort of stuff – and this looked like one of those books.

I didn’t realise it at the time, but he figured that if I could sit still long enough to read a book, then I’d be less disruptive in class.

I didn’t know if he knew that my father had beaten me or if he guessed, or if he just thought I deserved what I got. I knew there were no visible marks and I wasn’t about to tell anyone. I wasn’t the only boy in the room who’d ever been smacked – and I knew I wouldn’t be the last.

Open it.

I did.

It focused on the letter A. Brightly coloured pictures, short sentences and each A word was bolded.

Mr Murcott pulled up his chair and sat beside me. We read the book together. He had the patience of a saint. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve got a room full of five and six year olds.

The girls were pretty little princesses, led by drama queen, Miranda Black. Us boys – well, my mother should have been glad she only had me and the twins. Like any class, there were good kids and bad kids, suck ups and those destined for the dole queue. I thought I was somewhere in the middle. Mr Murcott thought I could easily go the wrong way.

I wasn’t the only child to receive special treatment from him. At the time, I felt like it. I also had a slight feeling that I was betraying my father. He’d been the only real male presence in my life, and now I was spending more of my waking hours with someone else.

Mr Murcott suddenly looked at his watch.

I’m sorry, Declan. It’s later than I thought. You better run off home.

I looked up at the clock above the blackboard. It wasn’t as late as it could have been, but I did promise my mother.

I closed the book and slid it across the desk to Mr Murcott.

No, take it home and practice.

He took his chair back to his desk, picked up the blackboard duster and began to clean the board.

I slid the book into my bag.

Goodbye, Declan. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Bye, sir.

As I walked from the hot, sticky room into the hot, sticky sunshine, I thought about running home. Regardless of what I’d promised my mother, I was already late. At least I had a good excuse this time. I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

As I turned onto the dirt road that ran alongside the irrigation channel, the sounds of splashing and laughter reached my ears. I tried not to listen. I didn’t care how much fun they were having. I didn’t care how hot it was. I was going straight home.

There were half a dozen boys enjoying themselves.

Hey, Declan.

What did Murcott want?

Are you coming swimming?

No, gotta go home, I answered.

Danny wasn’t there, so I felt no extra pressure.

I followed the road as it crossed over the channel. The water was rippling with a breeze, and it looked cool and inviting. I thought about it, knowing that I had an excuse this time. But my backside reminded me that my father knew my every thought.

Ah, come on, Jimmy urged.

Can’t. I promised my mother. I kept walking.

What are you? Chicken?

I stopped. I could hear him making chicken noises and the other boys were laughing. Even at that age, I knew how to handle jerks like Jimmy Cantala.

I turned around slowly.

Yeah, Jimmy, I grinned. I’m a chicken.

What?

I caught him by surprise. He tread water, and stared at me. The other boys kept laughing, but this time it was not at me.

I turned and walked away.

Hey, Declan... No fair... Where’re you going?

Home, Jimmy.

I wanted to turn back. I wanted to see his embarrassment. But I wasn’t about to invite more trouble than I could handle.

Jimmy would have been one of those kids who wasn’t high on Mr Murcott’s list. He’d get on because of his family connections. And they were connections he intended to use.

He was a couple of years older than me and I knew Danny was afraid of him. Probably why Danny wasn’t here this afternoon.

My mother was waiting for me when I got home. Her look of disappointment cut me.

It wasn’t my fault. Mr Murcott made me stay late.

As the words came out, I knew how bad it sounded.

I reached into my bag. He gave me something. I pulled the book out and showed her. He’s teaching me to read.

The twins bounded to the door, nearly knocking our mother over in the process. She put her hand to her back, wincing and taking a couple of short breaths.

What’s Declan got?

We want one too.

Come inside, Declan. Boys, leave him alone.

Whatever I had, they always wanted. With the exception of last night’s beating.

It’s a book, Patrick sighed. Only girls read books.

Can you read it? Francis was excited.

You better show them or you’ll never get any peace, our mother smiled. She took my bag.

The twins bounced me into the lounge room where we sat down and I showed them the book.

Apple! they yelled, pointing to the picture. Ant!

They were doing well until they hit...

Lizard! Francis yelled.

Crocodile! Patrick told him.

Is not. It’s a lizard.

It’s got big teeth. It’s a crocodile, Patrick insisted.

Lizards can have big teeth.

It’s a alligator, I told them.

They both turned to me and quickly stated: Is not!

The book is all about things that start with A, I said. Apple, ant, aeroplane... alligator. A for alligator.

Lizard can start with A, Francis pleaded softly. Can’t it, Mother?

If lizard can start with A, so can crocodile, Patrick tried.

It’s a alligator! I sighed and dropped my head into my hands.

See what I have to put up with all day? our mother smiled.

I was kicking a ball around the front yard with the twins when our father got home.

He squatted down and wrapped an arm around each twin as they threw themselves at him. Their chatter was incomprehensible to anyone but themselves. I stayed back.

He looked at me the same way he always did. Hey, Declan.

I didn’t answer. He might have thought that it was over, but I had a few tender spots that disagreed.

Let’s go inside.

He let the twins go and they bounded to the door. He stood up and waited for me. I waited for him.

He turned and walked inside, and I kept my distance behind him.

My mother sensed the tension. While my father didn’t brood over things, I was still young enough to do so.

Declan’s got something to show you.

Have you now? He sounded interested.

I wished she hadn’t said anything. I wasn’t ready to share anything with him. Then I realised I could use it to my advantage.

I got a book. Mr Murcott’s teaching me to read. I showed it to him.

I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to see that he wasn’t the only person in my life and that if he didn’t care, someone else did.

Can you read it? he asked.

Yes, I answered proudly.

I expected him to call me out on it and I quickly ran my mind over what I’d memorised with Mr Murcott.

But he didn’t. He just smiled.

Good. That’s his job.

The next few days passed quickly. My father treated me as he always had, and I held back.

The reading continued. If Mr Murcott realised that I was memorising the sentences we read, he didn’t seem to care. Every day we would run through the old book and he would give me a new one.

The twins couldn’t wait for me to get home. Their guessing games continued. There were bats and balls and bugs and boys. Cats and cars and candles. And words that even to this day, I can’t figure out why they have so many unnecessary letters. It only makes reading more difficult when you sound out letters that shouldn’t be there. Climb – and comb. I’d argue with my mother, the way the twins argued with me.

It doesn’t make sense, I told her.

That’s just the way it is.

If I was the right age to brood over things, so was Jimmy Cantala. At school, the teachers were always on the lookout for trouble.

Jimmy caught up with me at church on Sunday.

Church was over and Father Hennigan was doing his usual parishioner greetings. My father was talking to someone and my mother was trying to stop the twins doing something... anything.

Jimmy came up from behind me. He grabbed my shoulder, pulling me around, and punched me square in the face.

I squealed like a girl, lifting both hands to my face as I went down.

Jimmy jumped on me. He started laying into me with both fists. I was on my back, wriggling around and trying to throw him off, while I covered my face with my hands and tried to protect my ribs with my arms.

Suddenly Jimmy was off me.

I risked peeking through my hands. My father had hold of Jimmy – a handful of shirt, holding him at bay.

Get up, Declan, my father spoke quietly but firmly.

I got up, gingerly checking my bloodied nose.

Let go of me! Jimmy yelled, still trying to lash out at me.

By this stage, we’d attracted everyone’s attention – including Mr Cantala.

Is there a problem, Michael? He stood behind Jimmy, taking no action as his son tried to thump me.

Tell him to leave my boy alone.

Jimmy.

My father let go as Jimmy turned to his father.

But, Papa –

Mr Cantala slapped Jimmy across the cheek. Soft enough that it didn’t hurt, but enough so that the boy knew his place.

We’re in a church. It’s sacrilegious. You would embarrass your father before God and all our friends?

He embarrassed me, Papa. He made the other boys laugh at me.

Did he now? Mr Cantala turned his steely gaze on me. And just what did you do to cause this embarrassment to my son?

He asked me if I was chicken, I answered. And I said yes.

Mr Cantala quickly hid a smirk.

Papa!

Quiet, Jimmy. He turned to my father. I like your boy. He’s got a bit of spunk about him.

My father waited.

There was something going on between these two men that I didn’t understand. What I did understand was that I was right in the middle of it.

My father waited. An entire churchyard of parishioners waited.

Out of respect for you, Michael, I will keep my son away from yours. He turned away. Jimmy, come.

Sleep with one eye open, Declan, Jimmy threatened, because I’m going to get you.

Jimmy!

Jimmy hurried after his father.

Again, you embarrass me before God. He clipped Jimmy across the ears.

Jimmy grizzled, but wasn’t game enough to disobey his father again.

I could feel my nose bleeding again. My hands were sticky, and as I looked down I saw that blood had dripped onto my white shirt. My mother would not be impressed.

A white cloth smothered my nose, pushing my head back. I looked up into my father’s eyes. He was squatting beside me, his hand supporting the back of my head.

Ah, Declan, he sighed.

Declan. It was my mother, trying to push her way past my father.

Don’t fuss over the boy. He’s fine.

But, Michael –

Put the twins in the car. We’ll be there in a minute.

I wanted everyone else to go home. I couldn’t breathe properly, and I was choking on my own blood. Somehow, that was irrelevant. I looked up into my father’s face, and I couldn’t doubt anything about him.

Would you like some water, Michael?

Of course Father Hennigan had to shatter the moment.

Clean him up a bit.

I just need a few minutes for the blood to clot, my father answered. I’ll take him home and clean him up properly. Isabelle’s waiting for us."

She’s a good woman that one, Father Hennigan approved. She’ll be the salvation of you yet.

I didn’t like the way Father Hennigan seemed to condemn my father. Neither did he, though he said nothing in reply. How’s that feeling now?

He took the handkerchief from my nose. It felt like it was going to bleed again. He put it back then scooped me up in one arm.

If you will excuse us, Father, I don’t like to leave Isabelle.

Certainly.

My mother fussed over me all the way home and the twins wanted all the gory details. I wanted them to leave me alone. I wanted to be back in the churchyard, looking up into my father’s face with the blue sky in the background. But that moment was gone. Broken by a firebreathing priest who seemed to curse my father and I without batting an eyelid.

And I was going to Hell for thinking such thoughts.

Jimmy Cantala left me alone. While I knew that he wanted to thump me again, I could see that he was scared of his father. I almost felt sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine being scared of my father.

Back to top

Chapter two

I kept up my reading. The twins became bored when I started bringing home the same books. I was glad, because I got some peace to actually concentrate on what I was doing.

My father made a point of spending some time with me every night. At least until the discussion came between him and my mother

With another baby on the way, we needed another room. I was all for it. I didn’t need anyone else in my room.

Having gone to the expense of a third bedroom, my mother desperately wanted an inside bathroom.

My father’s face screwed up in anguish.

I silently agreed with my mother. In winter, it was simply way too cold to want to go out there.

My father could also see her point. But I knew he was also figuring out how he was going to pay for it all.

She looked up at him, catching and holding his eyes, and placing a hand on his chest.

Please, Michael.

He gave in, sighing softly. Anything for you. He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Yuk! Patrick cried.

He broke the kiss and turned, grinning, to Patrick. Don’t object when it’s you, do you?

Patrick simply stared at him.

I can tell you now, my mother spoke. This baby better be a girl –

Yuk! This time it was my turn to object.

You’d love a sister, my father told me.

No, I wouldn’t. I shook my head. Girls are… yuk.

Building started from the outside while the weather was still warm. The timber framework was an excellent source of fun for me and the twins. It wasn’t as easy as tree climbing, and my mother dug out endless splinters. Of course, we had to wait until the builders had finished for the day, or when it was a weekend and they didn’t work. For some reason, floorboards weren’t overly important to the builders as they focused on other areas, and we became masters at skipping along the beams.

The builders were usually there when I got home from school. I’d take my books outside and sit on the grass. My attention strayed between my work and their work.

My father started to spend more time at work. He was home later, or went out at nights. Sometimes he wouldn’t be home when I went to bed. I’d try to stay awake, waiting for him in the dark of my room while the twins slept peacefully. I never heard him come in. And I was always so glad to see him in the mornings.

When work on the bathroom began, we had even more fun. Floorboards came up and it was simply too tempting to slip through and under the house. We were often covered in dirt and cobwebs, and scrubbings weren’t only reserved for Sundays.

Mr Dixon, the builder, didn’t mind us hanging around. He even let us help sometimes; showing me how to use the hammer and letting me hammer in a nail.

You’re at school this year, Declan.

Yep. I held the hammer in both hands and let the head fall onto the nail.

You’d know my boy Adam.

Adam Dixon? He’s in my grade.

He turned to the twins. And you boys would be about Chris’ age.

Adam was an okay kid. He didn’t go in for swimming in the irrigation channel because he didn’t walk home our way. But he liked kicking a footy around the school yard. I didn’t know Chris.

I didn’t get the whole nail in. I did masses of hammering and the nail didn’t seem to be going anywhere. I also had Patrick and Francis breathing down the back of my neck while they waited for their turn.

Between the three of us, we didn’t manage. Mr Dixon finally took over. A couple of decent hits and it was in, flush with the board.

No fair, Patrick complained.

Ah, but I couldn’t have done it without your help, Mr Dixon smiled.

Really? Francis asked.

Really, Mr Dixon answered.

Francis beamed.

I had doubts – especially when Mr Dixon knocked in the next half dozen nails in no time at all – but I wasn’t about to spoil Francis’s delight.

Mr Dixon was cool. Some of the other workers weren’t, and we had to be careful who we hung around. Electricians always seemed to be grumpy and we soon learned to steer well clear of them. But how were we supposed to heed the warnings that electricity was dangerous when none of them ever got hurt?

A lecture from our father one night worked. I didn’t want another beating for disobeying him and that was also good enough for the twins.

The plumbers were fun, though they stunk something shocking. They dug in the dirt and sloshed around in the mud, and they were constantly disappearing and reappearing beneath the floorboards in the new bathroom. The dirtier they got, the more they seemed to enjoy it. And so did we.

Our mother, on the other hand, didn’t and we were banished from them. Even when the workers had gone home of an evening or weekend, she made sure the bathroom door was closed and we were forbidden to open it. She had the full support of our father to reinforce her words.

The plasterers spent a lot of time inside. They came out for breaks and to clean themselves up.

There was one in particular; I never knew his name. I didn’t like the way he looked at my mother. He was always polite and never caused trouble, but there was just something about him that made me uncomfortable.

I sometimes watched him when he came outside for a smoke, trying to figure out what it was about him.

I was reading my book one afternoon. The twins had been hauled out from under the floorboards by Mr Dixon and were threatened with a scrubbing if they went back under. They both objected loudly.

I wasn’t particularly interested in my book. I’d read it heaps of times and I was content to simply sit in the autumn sun and watch the warm breeze begin to dislodge the leaves from the trees.

You gotta admit, she’s a looker, the plasterer’s voice drifted to me.

And she’s pregnant, his companion answered, a hint of hushed concern in his tone.

My ears pricked.

Not for ever.

It’s not worth what he’ll do to you for even thinking about it.

There was an overconfident smirk on the plasterer’s face. He’ll do what he’s told. And like anyone’s going to tell him what I’m thinking. He took a long draw of contentment on his cigarette.

His companion looked around nervously and saw me. I buried my head in my book.

What about him?

He’s just a kid.

Yeah. But he’s Michael’s kid… Have you seen the way he watches? Like he’s just waiting for you to do something.

He’s a kid, the plasterer stated with confidence. And I ain’t doing anything. But you can’t blame a man for looking.

I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to feel. It just seemed wrong and I didn’t like it.

I wondered whether I should tell my father. My mother didn’t seem concerned, so maybe I was wrong in whatever it was I was feeling.

I closed my book and lay down on my back, staring aimlessly up at the golden leaves rustling in the breeze.

I didn’t have to say anything. A couple of days later, my father was home from work early. A chill breeze blew and the weather looked about to take a turn for the worse. Outdoor work had stopped for the day, and they were packing up. The plasterers were taking a break.

My father approached the plasterer. A word.

He walked past the man and continued along the side of the house, away from everyone else.

Yes… certainly. The plasterer frowned at his companion, then followed.

Well clear of the others, my father turned, grabbed him by the front of his overalls and slammed him backwards into the side of the house. He closed the distance, his voice low and well under control.

Don’t push me… ’Cos it would be a pleasure.

I couldn’t see the look on his face, but I could see the plasterer’s. He looked the way I’d felt when I realised I’d left my shoes at the irrigation channel.

My father didn’t wait for a response.

Declan, grab your footy and we’ll have a kick.

He turned his attention to me. There was nothing in his expression or his mood that was not the father that I knew and loved.

I raced inside and grabbed my footy. The twins followed – anything to get away from our mother’s lecture – and we kicked the ball around the front yard until it was nearly dark.

I didn’t see the plasterer again.

Then again, it only took another couple of weeks and the whole thing was done. It took a few more weeks for the smell of paint to dissipate.

The days were getting colder and shorter, and we were spending more time inside. When my father was home, he took charge of the twins, and then me, while my mother grew larger and more tired. When he wasn’t home, I tried to be good. I helped my mother where I could – though she objected almost as loudly as the twins when I barricaded them in our bedroom one night because they were annoying me.

Anita was born that winter.

The twins were annoying, but she was worse.

I’d take my book and sit outside the front door, reading under the porch light.

Waiting for me? my father would smile when he got home.

No, I’m trying to get away from her. Right on cue, Anita let out a loud scream.

She’s your sister.

Don’t care. Don’t like girls.

You’ll change your mind, he grinned.

I shook my head. Nup. They’re nothing but trouble.

He looked a little concerned. Have you been annoying Miranda Black again?

No. The frog incident was ages ago.

So, he changed the subject. You want to read to me some more?

We sat together on the porch, until my mother came looking for us. She opened the front door and nearly tripped over us.

Oh, Michael, there you are. I thought something had happened.

I’m just sitting here reading with Declan.

And I’m inside with a screaming baby and a couple of boys bouncing off the walls, wondering if I’m going to have to ring the hospital looking for you.

Now, Isabelle, I think you’re overreacting. He winked at me and stood up. Boys don’t actually bounce. It’s just a myth.

She put her hands on her hips. Michael Cutler, I’ve got good mind to –

She didn’t finish. He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly.

I’ll take care of it. He headed inside. Patrick. Francis.

The twins flew to him like magnets.

She shook her head, then turned her attention to me. Come inside, Declan. Your tea’s almost ready.

I hated being inside when it rained. My mother hated me being outside when it rained. She said I’d get sick, and that I encouraged the twins. She was right on both counts.

Getting sick was not exactly my fault. Colds and ’flu spread through school like wildfire. On any one day, a quarter of the class were missing. Another quarter were either getting over something or coming down with it. And since the twins had to have everything I did, they didn’t miss out on this.

A week in bed coughing my head off had me climbing the walls.

Our mother had us in quarantine. We were not going anywhere near Anita – and that suited me fine.

Except that I missed my books. I had one reader to last me for my incarceration. My father came to my rescue. A trip to the library after work one night and he had a swag of books under his arm.

We congregated on my bed and my father read to us. The twins wriggled and argued over the best vantage spot. If they were still, it was because they were asleep. We left them. To try and put them to bed guaranteed at least one of them would wake.

I loved the books. There were stories of adventure and heroism, exploring lost worlds and finding new ones, journeys from the bottom of the sea to the outer reaches of space.

Even when I was well enough to go back to school, my father continued our evening ritual – except when he had to work late. Then I’d just read to myself or the twins. I tried to remember what my father had read the previous night, or I’d just make it up. The twins didn’t know the difference, and I enjoyed myself either way.

Sometimes I’d read to my mother, but she was always busy. There was washing, ironing, vacuuming, cooking, tending to Anita, trying to keep the twins out of mischief. No sooner did she sit down with me than some priority would have her back on her feet.

Keep going. I’m listening, she said as she stirred a pot, changed Anita’s nappy or pulled a marble out of Francis’s nose.

Outside, the rain beat down, the wind blew, and occasionally the lights flickered.

It was good to be able to lie in a hot bath, inside, and just listen to it. If I took too long, my baths were usually invaded by the twins. There could end up being as much water on the floor as what was left in the tub.

When lightning flashed, thunder roared and the windows shook in their panes, my father told us ghost stories. We’d sit there fascinated, taking in every word. Our mother worried that it might be too scary for us. He reasoned that there were scarier things in the world than a few stories.

Still, I often found my bed invaded by the twins. Cold, was their excuse.

Winter passed. The days lengthened and became warmer. We were outside, and I was happy. Even Anita’s crying, didn’t seem so bad when we were outside.

I quickly fell back into lots of my old habits. Coming home straight after school was not high on my priorities. Luckily, it wasn’t warm enough to go swimming, or I might have been tempted.

I spent a lot of after school time with Danny. Danny hated school work – mainly because he wasn’t good at it. I found that strange. A shopkeeper’s son should be good at school.

Danny’s problem was that he didn’t want to be a shopkeeper. He wanted to travel.

Mr Reilly had a soft spot for me. I don’t know if it was because of my father or because I was Danny’s friend. He would often ask after my mother – and Anita.

But there were usually other comments.

If you’d like to sweep out the back room, I’m sure I could spare a piece of licorice.

Danny never had to earn his licorice and if I hadn’t objected the first time it was offered, I doubt I would have had to. But I’d been brought up not to accept anything I hadn’t earned. While the Reilly’s storeroom would never have attracted the attention of the health authorities, it kept me guilt free. It was the principle. We had an understanding.

Besides, I loved licorice. A small treat every now and