The Thorn Birds (16 page)

Then they put him with one of the real champions, a lightweight under orders to keep Frank at a distance and find out if he could box as well as he could punch. Jimmy Sharman’s eyes were shining. He was always on the lookout for champions, and these little country shows had yielded several. The lightweight did as he was told, hard-pressed in spite of his superior reach, while Frank, so possessed by his hunger to kill that dancing, elusive figure he saw nothing else, went after him. He learned with every clinch and flurry of blows, one of those strange people who even in the midst of titanic rage still can think. And he lasted the distance, in spite of the punishment those expert fists had meted out; his eye was swelling, his brow and lip cut. But he had won twenty pounds, and the respect of every man present.

Meggie wriggled from Father Ralph’s slackened clasp and bolted from the tent before he could catch hold of her. When he found her outside she had been sick, and was trying to clean her splattered shoes with a tiny handkerchief. Silently he gave her his own, stroking her bright, sobbing head. The atmosphere inside had not agreed with his gorge either, and he wished the dignity of his calling permitted him the relief of releasing it in public.

“Do you want to wait for Frank, or would you rather we went now?”

“I’ll wait for Frank,” she whispered, leaning against his side, so grateful for his calmness and sympathy.

“I wonder why you tug so at my nonexistent heart?” he mused, deeming her too sick and miserable to listen but needing to voice his thoughts aloud, as do so many people who lead a solitary life. “You don’t remind me of my mother and I never had a sister, and I wish I knew what it was about you and your wretched family…. Have you had a hard life, my little Meggie?”

Frank came out of the tent, a piece of sticking plaster over his eye, dabbing at his torn lip. For the first time since Father Ralph had met him, he looked happy; the way most men did after what one knew was a good night in bed with a woman, thought the priest.

“What’s Meggie doing here?” he snarled, not quite down from the exaltation of the ring.

“Short of binding her hand and foot, not to mention gagging her, there was no way I could keep her out,” said Father Ralph tartly, not pleased at having to justify himself, but not sure Frank wouldn’t have a go at him, too. He wasn’t in the least afraid of Frank, but he was afraid of creating a scene in public. “She was frightened for you, Frank; she wanted to be near enough to you to see for herself that you were all right. Don’t be angry with her; she’s upset enough already.”

“Don’t you dare let Daddy know you were within a mile of this place,” Frank said to Meggie.

“Do you mind if we cut the rest of our tour short?” the priest asked. “I think we could all do with a rest and a cup of tea at the presbytery.” He pinched the tip of Meggie’s nose. “And you, young lady, could do with a good wash.”

Paddy had had a tormenting day with his sister, at her beck and call in a way Fee never demanded, helping her pick her fastidious, cross-patch way through the Gilly mud in imported guipure lace shoes, smiling and chatting with the people she greeted royally, standing by her side as she presented the emerald bracelet to the winner of the principal race, the Gillanbone Trophy. Why they had to spend all the prize money on a woman’s trinket instead of handing over a gold-plated cup and a nice bundle of cash was beyond him, for he did not understand the keenly amateur nature of the race meeting, the inference that the people who entered horses didn’t need vulgar money, instead could carelessly toss the winnings to the little woman. Horry Hopeton, whose bay gelding King Edward had won the emerald bracelet, already possessed a ruby, a diamond and a sapphire bracelet from other years; he had a wife and five daughters and said he couldn’t stop until he had won six bracelets.

Paddy’s starched shirt and celluloid collar chafed, the blue suit was too hot, and the exotic Sydney sea-food they had served with champagne at luncheon had not agreed with his mutton-inured digestion. And he had felt a fool, thought he looked a fool. Best though it was, his suit smacked of cheap tailoring and bucolic unfashionableness. They were not his kind of people, the bluff tweedy graziers, the lofty matrons, the toothy, horsy young women, the cream of what the
Bulletin
called “the squattocracy.” For they were doing their best to forget the days in the last century when they had squatted on the land and taken vast tracts of it for their own, had it tacitly acknowledged as their own with federation and the arrival of home rule. They had become the most envied group of people on the continent, ran their own political part, sent their children to exclusive Sydney schools, hobnobbed with the visiting Prince of Wales. He, plain Paddy Cleary, was a workingman. He had absolutely nothing in common with these colonial aristocrats, who reminded him of his wife’s family too much for comfort.

So when he came into the presbytery lounge to find Frank, Meggie and Father Ralph relaxed around the fire and looking as if they had spent a wonderful, carefree day, it irritated him. He had missed Fee’s genteel support unbearably and he still disliked his sister as much as he had back in his early childhood in Ireland. Then he noticed the sticking plaster over Frank’s eye, the swollen face; it was a heaven-sent excuse.

“And how do you think you’re going to face your mother looking like that?” he yelled. “Not a day out of my sight and you’re back at it again, picking fights with anyone who looks at you sideways!”

Startled, Father Ralph jumped to his feet with a soothing noise half-uttered; but Frank was quicker.

“I earned myself money with this!” he said very softly, pointing to the plaster. “Twenty pounds for a few minutes’ work, better wages than Auntie Mary pays you and me combined in a month! I knocked out three good boxers and lasted the distance with a lightweight champion in Jimmy Sharman’s tent this afternoon. And I earned myself twenty pounds. It may not fit in with your ideas of what I ought to do, but this afternoon I earned the respect of every man present!”

“A few tired, punch-drunk old has-beens at a country show, and you’re full of it? Grow up, Frank! I know you can’t grow any more in body, but you might make an effort for your mother’s sake to grow in mind!”

The whiteness of Frank’s face! Like bleached bones. It was the most terrible insult a man could offer him, and this was his father; he couldn’t strike back. His breathing started coming from the bottom of his chest with the effort of keeping his hands by his sides. “No has-beens, Daddy. You know who Jimmy Sharman is as well as I do. And Jimmy Sharman himself said I had a terrific future as a boxer; he wants to take me into his troupe and train me.
And
he wants to pay me! I may not grow any bigger, but I’m big enough to lick any man ever born—and that goes for you, too, you stinking old he-goat!”

The inference behind the epithet was not lost on Paddy; he went as white as his son. “Don’t you dare call me that!”

“What else are you? You’re disgusting, you’re worse than a ram in rut! Couldn’t you leave her alone, couldn’t you keep your hands off her?”

“No, no, no!” Meggie screamed. Father Ralph’s hands bit into her shoulders like claws and held her painfully against him. The tears poured down her face, she twisted to free herself frantically and vainly. “No, Daddy, no! Oh, Frank, please! Please, please!” she shrilled.

But the only one who heard her was Father Ralph. Frank and Paddy faced each other, the dislike and the fear, each for the other, admitted at last. The dam of mutual love for Fee was breached and the bitter rivalry for Fee acknowledged.

“I am her husband. It is by God’s grace we are blessed with our children,” said Paddy more calmly, fighting for control.

“You’re no better than a shitty old dog after any bitch you can stick your thing into!”

“And you’re no better than the shitty old dog who fathered you, whoever he was! Thank God I never had a hand in it!” shouted Paddy, and stopped. “Oh, dear Jesus!” His rage quit him like a howling wind, he sagged and shriveled and his hands plucked at his mouth as if to tear out the tongue which had uttered the unutterable. “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it!
I didn’t mean it
!”

The moment the words were out Father Ralph let go of Meggie and grabbed Frank. He had Frank’s right, arm twisted behind him, his own left arm around Frank’s neck, throttling him. And he was strong, the grip paralyzing; Frank fought to be free of him, then suddenly his resistance flagged and he shook his head in submission. Meggie had fallen to the floor and knelt there, weeping, her eyes going from her brother to her father in helpless, beseeching agony. She didn’t understand what had happened, but she knew it meant she couldn’t keep them both.

“You meant it,” Frank croaked. “I must always have known it! I must always have known it.” He tried to turn his head to Father Ralph. “Let me go, Father. I won’t touch him, so help me God I won’t.”

“So help you God? God rot your souls, both of you! If you’ve ruined the child I’ll kill you!” the priest roared, the only one angry now. “Do you realize I had to keep her here to listen to this, for fear if I took her away you’d kill each other while I was gone? I ought to have let you do it, you miserable, self-centered cretins!”

“It’s all right, I’m going,” Frank said in a strange, empty voice. “I’m going to join Jimmy Sharman’s troupe, and I won’t be back.”

“You’ve got to come back!” Paddy whispered. “What can I tell your mother? You mean more to her than the rest of us put together. She’ll never forgive me!”

“Tell her I went to join Jimmy Sharman because I want to be someone. It’s the truth.”

“What I said—it wasn’t true, Frank.”

Frank’s alien black eyes flashed scornfully, the eyes the priest had wondered at the first time he saw them; what were grey-eyed Fee and blue-eyed Paddy doing with a black-eyed son? Father Ralph knew his Mendelian laws, and didn’t think even Fee’s greyness made it possible.

Frank picked up his hat and coat. “Oh, it was true! I must always have known it. The memories of Mum playing her spinet in a room you could never have owned! The feeling you hadn’t always been there, that you came after me. That she was mine first.” He laughed soundlessly. “And to think all these years I’ve blamed
you
for dragging her down, when it was me. It was
me
!”

“It was no one, Frank, no one!” the priest cried, trying to pull him back. “It’s a part of God’s great unfathomable plan; think of it like that!”

Frank shook off the detaining hand and walked to the door with his light, deadly, tiptoed gait. He was born to be a boxer, thought Father Ralph in some detached corner of his brain, that cardinal’s brain.

“God’s great unfathomable plan!” mocked the young man’s voice from the door. “You’re no better than a parrot when you act the priest, Father de Bricassart! I say God help
you
, because you’re the only one of us here who has no idea what he really is!”

Paddy was sitting in a chair, ashen, his shocked eyes on Meggie as she huddled on her knees by the fire, weeping and rocking herself back and forth. He got up to go to her, but Father Ralph pushed him roughly away.

“Leave her alone. You’ve done enough! There’s whiskey in the sideboard; take some. I’m going to put the child to bed, but I’ll be back to talk to you, so don’t go. Do you hear me, man?”

“I’ll be here, Father. Put her to bed.”

Upstairs in the charming apple-green bedroom the priest unbuttoned the little girl’s dress and chemise, made her sit on the edge of the bed so he could pull off her shoes and stockings. Her nightdress lay on the pillow where Annie had left it; he tugged it over her head and decently down before he removed her drawers. And all the while he talked to her about nothing, silly stories of buttons refusing to come undone, and shoes stubbornly staying tied, and ribbons that would not come off. It was impossible to tell if she heard him; with their unspoken tales of infant tragedies, of troubles and pains beyond her years, the eyes stared drearily past his shoulder.

“Now lie down, my darling girl, and try to go to sleep. I’ll be back in a little while to see you, so don’t worry, do you hear? We’ll talk about it then.”

“Is she all right?” asked Paddy as he came back into the lounge.

Father Ralph reached for the whiskey bottle standing on the sideboard, and poured a tumbler half full.

“I don’t honestly know. God in heaven, Paddy, I wish I knew which is an Irishman’s greater curse, the drink or the temper. What possessed you to
say
that? No, don’t even bother answering! The temper. It’s true, of course. I knew he wasn’t yours the moment I first saw him.”

“There’s not much misses you, is there?”

“I suppose not. However, it doesn’t take much more than very ordinary powers of observation to see when the various members of my parish are troubled, or in pain. And having seen, it is my duty to do what I can to help.”

“You’re very well liked in Gilly, Father.”

“For which no doubt I may thank my face and my figure,” said the priest bitterly, unable to make it sound as light as he had intended.

“Is
that
what you think? I can’t agree, Father. We like you because you’re a good pastor.”

“Well, I seem to be thoroughly embroiled in your troubles, at any rate,” said Father Ralph uncomfortably. “You’d best get it off your chest, man.”

Paddy stared into the fire, which he had built up to the proportions of a furnace while the priest was putting Meggie to bed, in an excess of remorse and frantic to be doing something. The empty glass in his hand shook in a series of rapid jerks; Father Ralph got up for the whiskey bottle and replenished it. After a long draft Paddy sighed, wiping the forgotten tears from his face.

“I don’t know who Frank’s father is. It happened before I met Fee. Her people are practically New Zealand’s first family socially, and her father had a big wheat-and-sheep property outside Ashburton in the South Island. Money was no object, and Fee was his only daughter. As I understand it, he’d planned her life for her—a trip to the old country, a debut at court, the right husband. She had never lifted a hand in the house, of course. They had maids and butlers and horses and big carriages; they lived like lords.