The Story of Tom Brennan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian
Copyright Act 1968
), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

The Story of Tom Brennan

ePub ISBN 9781864715262
Kindle ISBN 9781864717638

For my son, Nicholas

Original Print Edition

Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney, NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au

Sydney New York Toronto
London Auckland Johannesburg

First published by Random House Australia in 2005

Copyright © J.C. Burke 2005

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Burke, J.C.
The story of Tom Brennan.

For secondary students.

ISBN: 9781741660920

1. Boys – Fiction. I. Title.

A823.4

Cover and text design by Mathematics
Typeset by Midland Typesetters
Printed and bound by Griffin Press, Netley, South Australia

J.C. BURKE

• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Title Page
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter ONE
  
• Chapter TWO
  
• Chapter THREE
  
• Chapter FOUR
  
• Chapter FIVE
  
• Chapter SIX
  
• Chapter SEVEN
  
• Chapter EIGHT
  
• Chapter NINE
  
• Chapter TEN
  
• Chapter ELEVEN
  
• Chapter TWELVE
  
• Chapter THIRTEEN
  
• Chapter FOURTEEN
  
• Chapter FIFTEEN
  
• Chapter SIXTEEN
  
• Chapter SEVENTEEN
  
• Chapter EIGHTEEN
  
• Chapter NINETEEN
  
• About the Author
  
• Acknowledgments
  

At 4.30 am on Friday the 23rd of January, my father, Joseph Brennan, closed the front door of our home for the last time. Then gently, as we now had to be, he led my mother step by step to the car and helped her into the back seat. My sister Kylie and I followed, carrying the left-over bags and suitcases. No one spoke. Only the sounds of our feet shuffling along the concrete and my groan as I dumped the last of our belongings into the boot broke the near-dawn's silence.

I waited by the bonnet for Dad to slip the handbrake off and give me the signal. I pushed our Ford Falcon station wagon out of the garage, past the ugly words that told us we were no longer wanted, and along the street.

When we reached the crest of 'Daniel's Whine' – named after my brother, who hated climbing hills – I jumped in the front seat and Dad lifted his foot off the brake. Down, down we glided in silence.

The silhouettes of houses slipped past before I could catch them and remember the people we were leaving behind. In a couple of hours they would wake and find us gone, far away, so as not to remind them of their pain and what our family now meant to this town.

My name is Tom Brennan and this is my story.

'Who's going to say grace?' announced my grandmother, a self-appointed messenger of God.

It wasn't really a question. She'd already decided I was the one as she was glaring in my direction.

'Thank you, Tom.' She smiled. 'That would be lovely.'

Thanking God was about the furthest thing from my mind but choice, your standard, everyday human right, was something that didn't exist in my grandmother's house. She probably considered it 'indulgent', one of her favourite words.

I began. 'In the name of the . . .'

She interrupted before my finger had even reached my forehead.

'I'm sorry, Tom.' She shook her head. 'I don't think everyone's ready for grace. Kylie, where's your mother?'

My younger sister looked at Gran as if she'd really lost it this time. Sure, Dad, Kylie and I have had the last twenty-one weeks to adjust, but Mum's condition was hardly subtle. Since Daniel had gone, Mum hadn't eaten at the table once. Gran was in for a rude shock if she thought it'd be any different at her place.

'Theresa!' Gran called.

The rest of us sat there in silence, watching Gran pretend there was nothing wrong.

'Theresa!' she called louder. 'We're not starting lunch without you. Come on, girly, don't be so indulgent. Life goes on. Be thankful for your food.'

Too tired to argue, Mum shuffled in, taking the same place at a table she'd sat around for the first twenty-two years of her life, a table we now had to join whether we liked it or not.

'Thank you, Tom.'

'Huh?'

'Grace,' she reminded.

'In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.' I wanted to get it over with quick, but no such luck. Gran's eyes were glued to mine, her lips big and stretched as she silently mouthed the words with me like I was a kid in the school play about to forget my lines.

'Thank you for the food we are about to receive,' I said. 'And, and . . . thank you, for . . .?'

Australia
, she mouthed.

'Australia?'

She nodded as her lips continued,
On this special Australia Day
.

'On this special Australia Day . . .?' I frowned. Again she nodded. 'And . . .?'

She mouthed the next words wide and clear. I understood them straight away. But I closed my eyes, shutting her out, and fought the lump that was rising in my throat. 'And God
bless
Daniel,' I said as loud as I could manage.

'And God bless Daniel,' my family echoed – except my grandmother. She made sure her words were heard over ours.

'And God forgive Daniel,' she boomed.

I didn't want to open my eyes and see my mother's face, nor watch the Adam's apple in my father's throat bob up and down in his struggle for control. I wanted to be back home having a barbie. Having our normal Australia Day. Our Brennan Australia Day, the way we always did.

If I kept my eyes closed, I could see everyone sitting around our backyard – except Aunty Kath and Mum, they'd be in the kitchen buttering rolls and making salads. Me, Daniel, my cousin Fin and sometimes Kylie would start our game of cricket in the backyard while listening to the Adelaide Test on the radio. I could almost hear Kerry O'Keefe's classic laugh.

Dad was the barbie man. He'd cook the steaks, have a beer and field. After a few wines Mum'd stir him, saying it's the only time he could do three things at once.

Later Matt, Snorter, Luke, Owen and whoever else was around would turn up and our cricket game would become the sledging, raucous match that made everybody love Australia Day at the Brennan's.

But we weren't home. We were here. Here in my grandmother's dark, stuffy dining room, her gallery of saints watching us. This was now our reality. Matt, Snorter, Luke and Owen were a thing of the past.

I looked over at Kylie. She was staring with horror at the thing that sat in the middle of the table – the thing that was our lunch. It was meant to be roast pork but it looked more like a charred slab of cow's shit. I wasn't hungry anyway.

Uncle Brendan stood up and leant over the carving tray, a big knife in his hand. He tried to slice through the roast but the knife got stuck. Over and over he twisted and turned it while the lump of meat sat there not feeling a thing. I watched it, thinking, you can stop feeling pain after a while. You shut down and it can't get in. Maybe I was more like that sorry piece of pork than I realised.

'Sit down, son, you're hacking it to pieces! Joe,' Gran directed, 'take over from Brendan and carve the dinner.'

I hated the way Gran called lunch 'dinner'. When we were kids, Daniel and I reckoned it was her way of trying to trick us into bed early.

Uncle Brendan passed Dad the carving knife. 'All yours, Joe.'

Uncle Brendan was okay. I don't know how he managed to put up with Gran. At least he lived in a separate cabin at the other end of the property, but in my books even that was too close. In fact, just living in Coghill was too close. If I was Brendan, I would've left this dump quick smart.
Nothing
could keep me here.

It was about thirty-five degrees outside so it had to be at least forty degrees inside. As Gran chucked big spoonfuls of steamy mashed potato onto each plate, I felt the sweat slide down my back into my shorts and trickle down my crack. The backs of my legs were wet, hot and stuck to the seat. In fact all of me was stuck, stuck in a place I didn't want to be – but that made me think of Daniel and where he was and I knew he would give anything to be here, even at Gran's.

'Hello?' A man's voice echoed down the hallway.

Gran jumped up and was off.

'I hope I'm not interrupting anything, Carmel?' whispered the voice now outside the dining room.

'Perfect timing, Father Vincent,' I heard Gran whisper back. There was more, but I couldn't make out what they said. I'd have a good guess it was something about us new arrivals.

'Father Vincent, come in,' Gran said loudly this time. 'Come and say hello to Theresa and her family. They arrived two days ago.'

A priest with a ginger beard popped his head around the doorway.

'I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch,' he said.

We're not going to fall for that, I wanted to say. Everyone knew the parish priest only dropped in at mealtimes, it's a given. Plus he'd probably come over for a big stickybeak. See what people like us look like.

He was top to toe in the compulsory black with a white collar. If I was hot, he must've been dying. Perhaps he was offering up his discomfort for some poor soul like my brother. I'm sure Gran had everyone praying for Daniel.

'Father, you remember my daughter, Theresa,' Gran said, giving us the eyeball to stand up.

'It's been a long time,' he said, taking Mum's hand. 'You'll be living here?'

Mum mumbled something I didn't catch because her head was hung so low. I wanted to tell her she could look at him, that she hadn't done anything wrong. But that was the thing, it was like she had done something wrong. Like we all had.

'Now, Father, you're going to join us, aren't you?' Gran was already loading a plate up with food.

As Father Vincent pulled in his chair next to me, my head started to babble,
Don't talk to me. Don't talk to me
, but it was too late. I braced myself.

'So you must be Tom?'

I tried to swallow but my spit got stuck somewhere in the back of my throat. 'You're going into Year Eleven, is that right?'

I nodded.

'He's doing Year Eleven again,' Gran reminded. 'On account of the . . . the interruptions.'

'And Kylie?' As he turned to my sister I managed a gulp. 'It is Kylie, isn't it? You're going into Year . . .?'

'Nine,' Kylie sneered. 'Year Nine – Father. What else would you like to know?'

'Kylie's not repeating.' Gran ignored her. 'She managed to keep up with her school work. Didn't you?'

'Didn't really have a choice,' she scowled back at Gran. 'Did I?'

'So, um, Tom?' He was back to me. My breath clamped in my chest. 'You'll be joining St Benedict's rugby team, no doubt?'

I felt my shoulders rise in a shrug. I couldn't go there.

'Oh, Tom!' Gran scoffed. 'Of course he'll be playing, Father. And you know Joe's helping coach. It's going to be a fresh start for them all.'

'We're lucky to have you on the team, Joe,' said Father Vincent. I stared at my hands, dreading every word that came out of this man's mouth. 'Was it the last three Wattle Shields you led St John's to?'

'Two,' Dad quickly corrected. 'We, um, missed out last year.'

'Yes, yes, of course, of course,' Father stammered. 'I'm sorry. How stupid of me.'

I counted nine seconds of awkward silence.

'So tell me, Joe, have you met Michael Harvey, our coach at St Benedict's?'

'Yeah, top bloke.'

'He's a good coach.'

'I'm looking forward to working with him.'

'Really dedicated.'

'So I've heard.'

I could tell the old man had gone into automatic pilot, just answering the questions that were thrown at him.

'Did you know he turned down a job in Sydney.'

'Is that right, Father?'

'He wanted to stay on at Bennie's,' Father Vincent explained. 'They have a couple of good players this year.'

'Really.'

'There are some big, strong forwards and a very fast lad out wide,' he continued. 'And he's pretty happy about having Tom on the team.' The priest turned to me. 'You know it's been a while since Bennie's had a half-back with your speed and pass.' I peeled the nails off my thumbs. Everyone knew Bennie's couldn't catch a cold. 'Maybe you can teach the boys a thing or two. Michael Harvey was pretty impressed when he saw you play at a district match last July . . .'

As he crapped on, the words 'last July' sniggered in my head. I could hardly remember last July. That felt like someone else's life. Sometimes I had to remind myself that I did have that life once, that once we were a good family that everyone liked.

Father Vincent squeezed my shoulder and I felt myself flinch. I didn't want his sympathy. What I wanted was for him to get out of my face. I hadn't decided if I was playing rugby this year. In fact, I hadn't decided if I was playing ever again. I didn't know if I could without my brother. Things just weren't that simple anymore.

'Hey, remember the game of touch footy this arvo, Tom,' said Uncle Brendan. 'You're coming, aren't you? There'll be plenty of guys from Bennie's, give you a chance to meet them before school goes back tomorrow.'

I kept peeling away at my nails, feeling their eyes on me, waiting, hoping it'd be the thing to make me smile. One less person to worry about.

'It'll be good,' Brendan continued. 'Been a while since you've had a run around, eh? We need to build you up. You're looking a bit scrawny.'

'Yeah, what do you reckon, Tommy? It could be fun.'

The hope in Dad's voice crushed me every time. I'd do anything so as not to hear it.

'Maybe,' I croaked. I felt the walls collapse with relief.

'Great!' said Dad. 'What time's it start, Brendan?'

'Six. Starts to cool down about then.'

'Kylie and me'll come and watch. Won't we, Kyles?'

'Are you making all my decisions for me now, Dad?' Kylie rolled her eyeballs. She wasn't quite ready to be outed.

'I might even come too,' added Gran.

Great, a bloody family outing.

'It's just a game of touch, Gran,' Kylie said carefully.

'Oh, it's more than a game of touch, Kyles,' Uncle Brendan laughed. 'It's the Australia Day north versus south of the river match, and south of the river has Jonny Tulake.'

'Too right,' Father Vincent agreed, spraying out a bit of mash that stuck to his white collar. 'Jonny Tulake's the town's Jonah Lomu.'

Brendan started laughing louder.

'Hard worker, that Jonny,' added Gran. 'And what about you, Theresa, you're coming to watch, of course.' Suddenly there was silence. Mum's bent head revealed grey roots bleeding into her dark hair. 'Come on, girly, look at me when I speak to you. We're all hurting. It's not helping anyone being like this.'

Mum looked up, her blue eyes grey and dull. Gran opened her mouth to speak but Mum turned and looked at me. For a second I think she smiled.

Then she stood up, her chair groaning across the floorboards, and shuffled out of the room, her food untouched.

'Mum, just let it go,' Brendan said as he led his sister out of the dining room.

'Well, it's not helping anyone,' Gran muttered.

'Mum! Leave it.'

But Gran couldn't. 'God knows, Father Vincent, I pray to Saint Jude every day to make her situation more, more – tolerable. But I can't help her if she won't help herself. We're all in this together. She's not the only one. And Daniel, well, Daniel!'

She moved around us, snatching our plates, crashing them on top of each other, knives and forks flying. Kylie and Dad dived under the chairs, picking up cutlery and bits of burnt crackling that were falling to the floor. I sat there staring at the lump of meat still sitting on the table.

'Let me help you, Carmel,' Father Vincent said, trying to relieve her of some plates.

'Help me! I'll tell you how you can help me,' Gran hissed. 'Pray for them, Father Vincent, pray for them – and while you're there, pray for the soul of their son Daniel.'

She strode out of the dining room. We heard the cutlery and plates crash into the kitchen sink. Father Vincent stood there rubbing his beard. Kylie still sat on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, and with great care and concentration Dad started to fold the napkins over and over again.