I tossed and turned all night, waking up to the sound of tick, tock, tick, tock, tick. I opened my eyes and looked across at the clock. ‘Shit!’ Jumping out of bed, I kicked off my pyjama pants and pulled my shirt over my head, ripping off all the buttons. I hopped about trying to get my shorts on, and then got the plaster on my arm stuck in the sleeve of my best shirt. I ran down the stairs, two at a time, my shirt flapping behind me.
‘Mum!’ I called out.
She was at the stove cooking scrambled eggs. ‘It’s alright, Kit’s filling in for you.’
‘He can’t do that! He’s not even a proper altar boy; I’m still training him.’
Mum helped me put my shirt on properly and then did up the buttons. ‘You can sit back for a change and enjoy Mass with the rest of us.’
Dad says it’s one of life’s little mysteries that I’m an altar boy. With a name like Joseph Francis Riley, and an Irish Catholic mother, how could I not be? There’s no money in it – not much worth mentioning, anyway. I wouldn’t exactly call it stealing; they are donation boxes, after all. More like my cut for the show we put on every week. Besides, I don’t drink wine. Can’t stand the smell or taste of it. The wine is all Harry’s. I wish Father Dennis soaked the body of Christ in beer instead. I’m developing a taste for the amber fluid.
Dad’s not too keen on Father Dennis. He refers to him as ‘that Mick priest’ and makes a point of getting his name wrong. He calls him David, Daniel, Peter, Luke, John – anything but Dennis. Dad says he’s working his way through the Bible. It drives Mum mad.
I think Mum’s keen on Father Dennis – she always looks forward to his visits every Tuesday for afternoon tea. He’s not too old (doesn’t use a walking stick) and is good looking (has all his teeth) in a priestly kind of way. Mum makes lamingtons every Tuesday. It’s his favourite and mine too. Dad prefers to go to the pub on Tuesday afternoons. He doesn’t like lamingtons.
That morning, I not only had to watch Kit do my altar duty, I also had to sit down the front of the church with Mum and Noni. It didn’t take long until I dozed off. Latin does that to me.
‘There are twenty-three brothels in Glebe and most of them in houses rented from the Church of England,’ Father Dennis bellowed during his sermon. Everyone in the church sat bolt upright including me. When I told Dad about it afterwards, he reckoned it was because everyone was waiting for the addresses of the twenty-three brothels. He loves having a go at Catholics – it’s his favourite pastime after gambling. Dad and Father Dennis are alike in one way: they both use any opportunity to have a go at the opposition. Problem is – they are the opposition. Dad says that having a go at the Church of England is Father Dennis’s favourite pastime after bingo. Peas in a pod.
I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon learning how to throw darts with my left hand. The mouth-watering smell of Sunday roast sizzling away in the oven was making me hungry. I could have eaten a horse and chased the jockey, but it was only five o’clock. By the time dinner was ready, I was hitting bullseyes.
Our bread and dripping days are over now that Mum and Dad are making more money from their dressmaking and bookmaking businesses. With a belly full of food, I almost forgot about my broken arm. I didn’t even feel like arguing with Noni, even though she can be a real pain in the neck. With the dishes done, Kit and I set up a game of Poker on the lounge-room floor – for matchsticks not money. We’re in training for the big league – Dad’s Friday card nights with his mates, where fortunes can be made and lost.
It was getting late, so we counted our matchsticks – thirty-seven to fifty-four – I won again. Just as I’d finished cheering, there was a loud banging on the door. Who knocks on your front door at nine o’clock on a Sunday night? I wondered. Kit and I looked at each other but didn’t bother getting up. Mum and Dad were upstairs finishing off the books and tallying up their winnings from the Anniversary Day races. Finally Noni got up and threw her sewing on the lounge.
‘You boys just lie there and play with matchsticks, why don’t you? I’ve got to have this wedding dress finished by the end of the week. So I’ll just stop sewing and answer the front door, shall I?’ She stormed off up the hall.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Kit asked.
‘Buggered if I know!’ We quietly packed up the cards and matchsticks, and listened.
‘Sorry to bother you, young lady. I’m Sergeant Bailey from Glebe Police Station. Are your parents home? I’d like a word with them.’ I wasn’t too alarmed. I had nothing to worry about – I had an alibi.
‘Mum, Dad! The police want to talk to you,’ Noni shouted up the stairs. I tried to stay cool, calm and collected. I moved along the carpet to hide my plaster cast behind the lounge. A precautionary move.
‘What can we do for you?’ Mum asked, breathlessly. ‘Please come and sit down.’ She led the way into the lounge room.
‘This won’t take long. I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.’
Dad entered, nodded at the sergeant, and then stood in front of the fireplace with his arm resting casually on the mantelpiece.
‘There were some illegal goings-on in the neighbourhood yesterday. Anyone like to comment?’ Sergeant Bailey looked around at us, one by one.
‘I was taking care of the wife. She was laid up in bed all day with the flu. Had a few friends and family pop in to check on things. Nothing serious.’
Mum pulled out a hanky and blew her nose.
‘Where were you boys?’ Sergeant Bailey looked at me then at Kit, and then back to me. I knew better than to answer him.
‘Joe was doing chores all day.’ Dad was very convincing. He thought he was telling the truth.
‘What about you, young man?’
Kit went bright red and started picking his nose. ‘I went to the park …’
‘Were you at the billycart race?’
Kit looked to me for help but I was too busy building a tower out of the cards.
‘I … um, I was there for a little while. I couldn’t see anything, so I left.’ Kit actually told a lie. I couldn’t believe it!
Sergeant Bailey looked serious, like he was thinking hard about something. ‘What did you do to your arm?’
I acted surprised at seeing my right arm in plaster. ‘Oh, that. I fell off the sink. I was helping my sister put up some new curtains in the kitchen.’ I felt positively angelic.
Sergeant Bailey looked at Noni to confirm my alibi. She nodded but didn’t say anything. He scribbled something in his notebook and flicked back a couple of pages. I shot a quick glance at Dad. He was stony-faced, not giving anything away.
‘Either of you boys know Harry Carter?’
Dad hit me across the ear. ‘Answer the sergeant.’
‘He’s my best mate.’
‘It appears Harry was at the billycart race.’ Sergeant Bailey flipped over another page in his notebook. ‘Two other witnesses reported some illegal gambling taking place. They say they placed bets on the race with a couple of young bookmakers. They’re also claiming the race was rigged.’ He flicked his notebook closed. ‘You can have your billycart races, but no gambling and no taking bets. It’s illegal. Do you understand?’
Kit and I nodded. We understood perfectly well that running books and taking bets is illegal – our father did it for a living. You could’ve heard a pin drop. We knew that we had a better chance of not getting caught if we kept our mouths shut.
‘I’m going to let you boys off with a caution this time. If there’s a next time, you won’t be so lucky. Understood?’
‘Leave it to me, Sergeant. There’ll be no more shenanigans.’ Dad glared at me like an eagle ready to swoop on its prey.
‘I’ll find my own way out. Good night and thank you for your time. Hope you’re feeling better soon, Mrs Riley.’ He nodded to Mum, turned to leave, and then stopped. ‘If you hear anything about an illegal bookmaking business operating out of a house in the area, let me know. We’ve had an anonymous tip-off at the police station.’
‘Will do,’ replied Dad, putting both hands in his pockets. The sound of the front door shutting echoed through the house. Dad ripped off his belt. ‘Get out the back, now! That was way too close for comfort.’