The Story of Tom Brennan (2 page)

If someone put a gun to my head, forcing me to say one good thing about the touch footy game, all I could come up with was that it'd be good to get out of this house for a while. Brendan was right, it'd been ages since I'd had a run around. These days my energy was zapped. All I felt like doing was slobbing around and being left alone.

I lay on the bed waiting in my 'new' room. I named it 'the cave' 'cause it was so brown and dark. At least it was cool in here. It used to be Uncle Brendan's bedroom and was downstairs in the old part of the house. There was nowhere to plug in the PS2 except the lounge room, and that was usually occupied by one of Gran's prayer groups, so my entertainment was staring at the brown walls, the grubby, shit-coloured walls that only my grandmother's house would have. And just in case I got lonely she'd kindly provided a friend to stare back at me.

Above the bed hung a gigantic picture of Saint Cecilia playing the organ surrounded by angels strumming ukeleles. A poster of Pammy in the red cossie and ug boots, like the one back home in Snorter's room, would've been my choice. Even Uncle Brendan's old one of A Flock of Seagulls was better, but like I said, choice didn't exist here. So it was Saint Cecilia for me.

Gran's house was full of saints. Kylie was in Mum's old room with Saint Rose of Lima who just stood there staring into space. Daniel used to say Saint Rose was in Mum's room because she was the prettiest of all the saints. Mum'd give him a slap and call him 'cheeky chops'. Daniel was always sucking up to Mum and she loved it.

The oldies were in Gran and Pa's room. Gran moved into the spare room after Pa died, but the picture of Saint Jane still hung in there. Gran used to tell Daniel and me we should marry a girl like Saint Jane. When we'd ask Gran why she'd answer, 'Because,' – she always whispered when she talked about the saints – 'Because she was the perfect wife.'

That picture still gave me the spooks. Saint Jane kneeling on the stone floor, a serious look on her face. I don't reckon it'd be fun being with her.

I looked up. Kylie was standing at the door.

'Dad and Uncle Brendan said it's time to get ready.'

'So.'

'Thanks for getting me into this.'

'I didn't,' I said.

'Yeah, well, it's alright for you, Tom, you're going to be playing.' Her hands sat on her hips. 'And me? I'm going to have to stand there and watch with The Grandmother. She'll probably want to talk too.'

'She coming?'

'You heard her.'

'Mum?'

'No, idiot,' Kylie spat. 'She's gone back to bed, of course.'

I started to unravel my socks: my old green and white St John's footy socks. Kylie flopped down next to me.

'Maybe that's what I'll do,' she sighed. 'Just go to my room and refuse to come out. This sucks, Tom.'

'You said it.'

'It's so unfair.'

'Yep.'

'And how
bad
was lunch! Did The Grandmother go off or what?' Kylie threw her hands over her face. 'Wonder what Father Ginger thought. He's probably up to the fifth decade of the rosary.'

'Praying for us?'

'Duh! Daniel, most likely.'

'You know, at lunch I started thinking, if we feel bad about being stuck here, imagine how bad Daniel —'

'Tell someone who cares, Tom.' And she got up and walked out of the room. What was the point in saying anything to her, or anyone for that matter?

I sat there playing with my socks, trying to shut down the bad thoughts that always surfaced and suffocated any hope I had of getting my life back. I tried to think about running on a footy field, smelling the grass, hearing the crowd, feeling the ball in my hands, all the things I used to love. But then I spotted the name in my socks: the label, sewn in with Mum's neat stitch. 'Daniel Brennan' was all it said.

There was no hope. There was nothing.

'Tom?'

Uncle Brendan was standing at the door.

'Huh?'

'You ready?'

'Er, just about.'

'You okay, Tom?'

'Yep.'

'We'll wait in the ute. And Tom?'

'Yeah, Uncle Brendan?'

'Let's drop the "uncle" bit. I'm not forty till next year.'

'Sorry.'

'Tom? You sure . . .'

'I'm ready.' I pushed past him and out the door.

I didn't want to start talking. I had nothing to say to Brendan. I needed my energy, and more than that I needed my guard. I was about to come face to face with people who possibly knew more about me than I'd ever know about them. That was the thing that terrified me, the thing I thought about most on the long drive to Coghill. Did they know about us? And if they did, how would it be any different here?

As I passed the oldies' room I caught a glimpse of Mum's hair spread out on a pillow. The rest of her was a lump under the sheet.

'I'm off to the touch game,' I said.

She didn't answer.

Shame about dual-cabin utes. It meant we could all squash in together, then spill out the other end like one happy family. What a joke that was. Kylie was sandwiched in between Gran and me. She sat there staring straight ahead. She was well pissed-off.

Dad and Brendan crapped on about some tractor they had to fix tomorrow. They were using words like 'dry brakes' and 'forty-eight engine' something or other. Dad knew this stuff because he grew up on a farm. Dad had worked as a mechanic for the Mumbilli local council and coached the first fifteen at St John's, while Mum shared the job of running the canteen. Us Brennans nearly ran the school, in fact the town. But none of that mattered now.

The main street of Coghill, Federation Street, had just about every fast-food joint you could imagine. Today it looked like the town's population of 38,833 ugly people were busy stuffing their faces in Burger King. That and the two-storey cinema were Coghill's major drawcards, that's what kind of a tragic town this was. Mumbilli only had a Kentucky Fried, but it was a top one.

'Hey, Shorty,' Brendan called to a tall guy standing by the bin. He was concentrating real hard, delicately picking the lettuce off his burger.

'Oi, Shorty,' Brendan called again, as the guy wandered over to the ute. 'You can't run with a full gut, Shorty,' Brendan complained. 'We need those long legs.'

'Energy food, mate,' he grunted.

'Why are you picking the lettuce off?'

'Hate salad.'

Kylie let a laugh escape.

'Shorty, this is my brother-in-law, Joe Brennan. This is Peter McGregor.'

'G'day, Peter.' Dad shook hands with him through the window.

'Only me mum calls me Peter.' He leant his long, poxy face into the back seat of the cabin. 'You coming to watch the game, Mrs Healey?'

Gran nodded.

'Looks like there's a few of youse coming to watch.'

Gran nodded again.

Brendan came to the rescue. 'And this is Kylie and Tom, my niece and nephew.'

For a second I thought it'd pass, but a flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes. 'Are you Tom Brennan as in the young rugby fella?'

I held my breath.

'You were the five-eight in the district comp, eh?'

'No, no,' I heard myself stutter. 'Half-back.'

'Yeah. I read about you,' he started. 'Youngest ever in the Wattle Shield premiership. When was it, last year?'

'Year before last,' I mumbled.

'Yeah, I remember.'

For a second I thought about jumping out of the car and running. Shorty's eyes were still on me; it was only a matter of his brain clicking over a few more times. Maybe he'd heard what had happened to us in Mumbilli. News travels fast in the bush.

'So you say you're the half-back?' he frowned. 'I could've sworn you were . . .'

'No,' I gulped and shook my head.

'You're from Mumbilli way, aren't you?'

I nodded again waiting for the ute to explode with the dreaded words.

'Eh, Brendan?' Here goes, I thought. 'You never told me this fella was your nephew, mate.'

Brendan raised his arms with a shrug.

'I reckon he's been keeping you under wraps.' Shorty was pointing to Brendan, a dumb grin on his dial. 'You didn't want us to know you scored the crook genes? Healey talent instead of the mighty Brennan talent, hey? Oh, oh, no offence intended, Mrs H, just a joke, you know.'

He pulled his head in, hit the roof of the ute and walked back towards Burger King chuckling to himself. I let my breath go and rubbed my palms on my shorts.

Saturday the 27th of August had been sudden death for St John's first fifteen. If we won the match against Booralee High we were in the Wattle Shield premiership for the third year in a row. If we lost, it was all over.

'Sudden death. Sudden death, fellas,' our captain, Luke, kept saying as he paced the change room. It was a prophecy we would read the wrong way.

We were all as nervous as hell sitting on the bench waiting for Dad to give us his final words. No one was talking. The only sound was the tapping of football boots on the concrete floor.

'This is it, boys,' Dad said calmly. 'I know you can do it. Just concentrate for the full eighty and stick to the game plan. Matt, line-out throws have to be straight. Daniel, when Tommy gives you the ball, kick the crap out of it. That's where you come in, Fin.' Dad turned to our cousin. 'Put pressure on the back three, Fin. We need your pace to run down every kick. We want to play it in their quarter for the first twenty, wait for them to make the mistakes. Bide your time. The gaps'll come.' Then quietly he said to Daniel, 'Don't push it, son. Concentrate. Keep a level head.'

We stuck to the game plan and won, but it was close: 18–16. Fin scored the final try to even the scores, and then with composure and grace only he was capable of, Fin drilled the ball to conversion and victory. 'Yes!' he yelled and fell to his knees.

He was mobbed. We all went crazy, hugging and jumping all over each other. Some of the fellas lifted Fin on to their shoulders. I remember Fin grinning and laughing, holding his fist in the air and shouting, 'Boom-a-lacka, boom-a-lacka, green and white.' Soon the whole crowd was chanting with him.

I also remember Daniel sitting on the oval watching him.

Booralee High hadn't lost a game all season. They'd been hungry for the shield that'd been ours for so long. Deep down, we'd been sure we'd lose the sudden-death match and be out of the comp. We'd even thrown in to hire out the old Mumbilli scout hall for the night to celebrate the end of season. It'd been a while since St John's had been under that kind of pressure. All we'd known was winning, but somehow this season our play hadn't been as smooth. As a team we were struggling; not even the old man's guidance could set us straight.

So most of us thought it'd be our last game, and as it turned out it was for some of us. Just not the way we'd imagined. But I know anyone in the team, our school or the town of Mumbilli would've traded the Wattle Shield in exchange for what happened that night.

That was the last time I touched a footy. Now, almost five months later, here I was in Coghill about to play.

I used to love a game of tip, we played all the time back home. But the things I'd once lived for now meant nothing to me. Just the thought of it left a big hole in my guts.

Even the scene was familiar: utes parked around the oval, cricket blaring from car radios; but it offered me no comfort.

The family unloaded out of the ute and I hung back, retying my laces.

Brendan leant into the cabin. 'You okay?' He seemed a bit tense. 'I know this must feel weird, Tommy. They're good guys, promise.'

'It's cool,' I lied.

Walking across the oval took forever; I counted my steps as they bounced off the grass. There'd been no shortage of rain in this town. How is it nearly six hours south-east can make such a difference? Mumbilli was hard and dry, and most of us had forgotten the thick smell of rain before it fell. The folk of Coghill hadn't. They'd been indulged with a perfect rainfall, giving them healthy harvests and well-fed stock. Coghill was spoilt, and it made me hate it all the more.

The blokes stood around stretching and taking the piss. Every joke, every laugh, every slap on the back reminded me I was an outsider. Brendan introduced me to about twenty guys whose names I had no hope of remembering, some of whom would be in my year when I turned up at Bennie's tomorrow.

'G'day, g'day,' I kept saying, feeling like a prize jerk.

Suddenly they started chanting, 'Jonny, Jonny.'

A grin lit up Brendan's face. So this was Jonny Tulake. He worked in the family business with Brendan.

No wonder the priest called him the town's 'Jonah'. This bloke was a giant, and a tough-looking one. He had a number one haircut on the sides and a number four on top. His feet must've been at least size fourteen and he had a big, square jaw. His face was so clean-shaven and smooth you almost wanted to reach out and touch it; but no way, I'm not like that.

Ignoring the others, he came over to me and reached out an enormous hand. His voice was crisp and clear as he shook my piddling five-fingered excuse.

'You must be Tom?' He smiled, his white teeth glowing.

'Yeah.' Firm handshake. No fingers broken.

'How are you finding Coghill?'

I shrugged.

'Give it time.' He nodded his big head, and before looking up he quietly said, 'How's your mum going?'

'Okay,' I swallowed.

He knew.

Brendan came over. 'So you've met?'

'Just then,' Jonny said. 'Has he met everyone? The fellas from his year?'

'All done,' Brendan replied, making me feel like some kind of social experiment.

I wandered off and found Dad sharing a beer with a man who must have been Michael Harvey, the firsts' coach at St Benedict's.

'Hey, Tom,' the old man waved me over. 'Tom, this is Michael Harvey.'

Now I realised I had seen him before at a district game, but only from a distance. Up close, he looked younger and his nose kind of leant towards the left side of his face, no doubt compliments of a scrum.

'Great to meet you at last, Tom.' He kept shaking my hand, just about dislocating my shoulder. 'Welcome to Coghill, mate. You're going to love playing for St Bennie's. We're going to have a great year. Hey?'