Chapter Ten

 

Alan was finding his new life in Brisbane frustrating. He was not an

impatient young man as a rule, nor was he afraid of hard work, but it

seemed to him that he was slogging away for extraordinarily long hours and

for very little purpose.

It’s a bit like being on a treadmill, he wrote to Paola, where one walks

and walks but never actually gets anywhere. They exchanged letters at least

once a week, he forwarding his to the Bundaberg post office in order to

avoid the eagle eyes of her parents. Of course Dad would say the whole

point of the exercise is to gain my qualification as a mechanic and to

achieve my Engineering Diploma, but surely I should be learning something

along the way.

His education did appear to have reached a stalemate. The

apprenticeship he was serving at Evans Deakin & Company’s machine shop

in South Brisbane involved endless hard work that he found extremely

mundane, and his first-year studies at Technical College were teaching him

nothing he didn’t already know. He resigned himself to the fact that the

course was bound to pick up over time and made the college library his

salve, borrowing manuals and textbooks designed for final-year students

and devouring them on Sunday afternoons.

He lived in Woollangabba, a suburb on the south side of the river, in a

pleasant boarding house run by a pleasant middle-aged widow who

provided most of his meals, including an excellent hearty breakfast, which

was just as well for his day was long and tedious. First thing in the morning,

he would catch a tram to Evans Deakin, where he would work a solid eight hours, the lunch break provided allowing time only for a quick visit to the

nearby sandwich shop. Then upon returning to the boarding house, he

would scrub away the grime of the day and, if he had time, gobble down the

tea prepared by the kindly widow – if time did not allow, it would be put

aside and reserved for his supper – after which he would catch the cross-

river ferry from Kangaroo Point to the Alice Street jetty. He would make his

way from there to Central Technical College at the Botanical Garden end of

George Street to attend his Diploma Course lectures, which lasted most

nights from six until nine.

The relentlessness of Alan’s existence lent particular joy to Saturdays,

the one day of the week reserved for social activity, when he’d go out on the

town with a couple of friends from his boarding-school days. Barry and

Dave were now in their second year at university and although they were

two years Alan’s senior the three shared a great love of jazz. They would

visit a pub or a club that had a live band playing on a Saturday night, while

the afternoons were more often than not spent in the beer garden of the

Breakfast Creek Hotel.

Known simply as Brekky Creek, the magnificent French Renaissance-

style hotel nestled at the mouth of an estuary of the Brisbane River was not

only the city’s most popular watering hole, but possibly the most famous in

the entire state of Queensland. Here people from all walks of life gathered

and had for generations past – dockside labourers, members of the racing

fraternity, politicians, middle-class workers, tourists and students alike. It

seemed everyone congregated at the Brekky Creek pub, particularly on a

Saturday afternoon.

Seated in the crowded beer garden, the boys had finished their meal and

Barry had just left for the bar to fetch yet another round. They were

drinking schooners and, as they’d already shouted a round each, Alan was

beginning to feel the effects despite the gargantuan steak he’d devoured –

Brekky Creek was famous for the size of its steaks.

Although under the legal drinking age, Alan looked considerably older

than his years and was never asked for identification. But then things were

different throughout the country these days. Since the introduction of

national service attitudes had become more liberal and fewer questions were

asked. It seemed immoral, most tacitly agreed, that a man could be conscripted at nineteen to fight for his country, yet was unable to legally

buy a beer.

Alan watched Barry disappear into the bar. Crikey, he thought, I’ll be

drunk as a skunk after another three rounds. He wasn’t a heavy drinker – he

never had been; he couldn’t handle his beer the way Barry and Dave did –

but what the heck, the four-piece cover band that was playing had put them

all in a party mood and the day was unseasonably hot for late March: it just

cried out for beer. He skolled the remaining dregs from his glass. Alan

loved Saturdays.

‘Don’t go away, folks,’ the lead guitarist announced, ‘we’ll be back with

some more Beatles in about fifteen minutes. We’re just going to grab a

quick beer.’

The band had finished its bracket with ‘Love Me Do’ and was taking a

break.

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ a female voice said.

Alan and Dave looked up at the young woman who’d arrived to stand

by their table, glass of wine in hand. To Alan she appeared vaguely familiar,

but he couldn’t recall from where.

‘I’m Jane,’ she said, ‘Jane Campbell, I’ve seen you around at Tech.’ She

offered him her hand.

‘Oh yes, of course.’ At the Gardens Tuck Shop several days earlier, he

recalled, she’d literally bumped into him on his way out with a coffee, but

he hadn’t stopped to introduce himself as he’d been running late. ‘Alan

Durham,’ he said as they shook, ‘and this is Dave Johnson.’

‘Hello Dave.’ She shook hands with Dave too, but rather perfunctorily,

her attention remaining focused on Alan. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Sure, why not?’ Alan was a little nonplussed: she was extraordinarily

forthright and he wasn’t accustomed to pushy girls. He looked around for a

spare vacant chair that he could pull up to the table for her, but there wasn’t

one.

She plonked herself in the seat that Barry had vacated. ‘Just while the

band takes a break,’ she said, ‘then I’ll go back to my friends.’ The boys

followed her eye line as she waved to a nearby table where her two

girlfriends were waving back. ‘You’re doing an engineering course, aren’t

you?’ she said, turning back to Alan.

‘That’s right.’ He wondered how on earth she could know that.

‘I’ve seen you going into A Block,’ she explained in response to his

puzzled expression. It was true that the Engineering Diploma Course was

run out of A Block, but Jane had actually made her own enquiries to be

sure. ‘I’ve had my eye on you, Alan Durham,’ she added with a cheeky

wink.

He laughed as if he’d enjoyed the joke, although he felt a bit self-

conscious. He found the way she was ignoring Dave rather rude.

Dave, however, was far from offended. To the contrary, Dave was

signalling a look that was distinctly envious. She’s after you, mate, Dave’s

eyes were saying. You lucky bastard!

Jane was without doubt attractive. Slim, fair-haired and oozing self-

confidence, she was the sort most would call ‘sexy’. Alan judged her to be

around twenty or so.

‘What are you studying at Tech, Jane?’ he asked.

‘Certificate in Business,’ she said with a dismissive shrug, ‘book-

keeping, secretarial stuff and all that, but only as a back-up. I intend to go to

NIDA next year.’

‘Oh, really?’ Seemingly riveted by the announcement, Dave cast a

meaningful glance at Alan.

‘NIDA?’ Alan asked blankly, ignoring the prompt that he should appear

impressed even if he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about,

which Dave clearly didn’t.

‘The National Institute of Dramatic Art,’ Jane said, ‘it’s in Sydney. I’m

going to be an actress.’

‘Wow, that’s impressive.’ He obliged with the response that was

obviously required.

‘It sure is,’ Dave echoed.

‘Thank you.’ The smile she flashed them both was suddenly genuine

and devastatingly attractive. ‘Of course I have to pass the audition first,’ she

admitted with disarming candour, ‘and only a handful out of the thousands

who audition ever manages to get in. But what the hell? I intend to give it

my best shot.’

‘You’ll get in, I bet,’ Alan said. Heck, someone as good looking as her

is bound to, he thought.

‘I bet you do too.’ What a stunner, Dave thought, bloody pity it’s Alan

she’s after.

‘Hello, hello.’ Barry had arrived juggling three schooners. ‘Who do we

have here?’ he said as he placed them on the table with care and only

minimal spillage.

Introductions were made and Jane rose to her feet. ‘Sorry, Barry, I’ve

stolen your chair.’

‘No worries, I’ll get another one.’ What a stunner, he thought.

‘I don’t think there are any,’ Alan said.

‘No, no, it’s all right,’ she insisted, ‘I’ll go back to my friends.’

‘Why don’t we join up the tables?’ The suggestion was Dave’s.

‘What a good idea,’ she replied as if the thought had not already

occurred. ‘I’m sure Sal and Wendy won’t mind.’

Sal and Wendy didn’t mind in the least, and after the boys had dragged

the tables together, the afternoon became quite a party. The band returned

and opened with another Beatles bracket, which led to the inevitable

discussion about which Beatle was whose favourite and which Beatles song

was the best, and before long it was time for another round of beers. Alan

insisted upon the shout being his although it was actually Dave’s; he wanted

to sit the following round out – the mix of sun and beer was going to his

head.

‘How about you girls?’ he asked as he stood. ‘Another carafe?’ The

girls were drinking the house white, which was sold by the glass or the

carafe.

Jane stood also. ‘Yes, absolutely, but we’ll buy our own, thanks.’ She

smiled, again disarmingly, and Alan thought that, despite her pushy

introduction, she really was nice. ‘We’re liberated women, after all,’ she

said and, collecting money from the kitty she and her friends had placed on

their table, she accompanied Alan to the bar.

As they waited in the queue she pressed herself intimately up against

him, so intimately in fact that at first he thought it was a mistake, that she’d

been jostled by the crowd. He edged away to give her a little space, but she

edged with him, her left breast continuing to make contact with his right

bicep, which was bare as he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. She even

manoeuvred her body slightly so that he could swear he felt a nipple. She’s

not wearing a bra, he thought. The realisation was both shocking and

tantalising. To think that through the thin fabric of her dress, he could feel

so distinctly the shape and the very texture of her breast against his skin. With Paola he’d always been aware of the brassiere forming a barrier

between them, a barrier he had never abused, much as he’d longed to.

‘After we’ve had another drink, do you want to go for a drive?’ she

murmured seductively, her lips all but caressing his ear. She was obviously

unaware of his self-consciousness.

‘I don’t have a car.’

‘I do.’

‘Where would we drive to?’

‘My place. It’s not far.’

The answer didn’t surprise him. Alan had finally got the message and a

series of overwhelming responses physical and mental were coursing

through his being. His pulse had quickened, he was aware of a growing

erection, and the prospect of sex with Jane was so intensely arousing that

his mind had become a veritable battlefield. It’s just the beer, he told

himself, but he knew it wasn’t. I can’t be unfaithful to Paola, his mind said,

we’re promised to each other. Yes, you can, a voice from somewhere else

countered. You ought to gain some experience before you get engaged. A

man should have a degree of expertise before bedding a virgin wife, that’s

what they say. Who the hell are ‘they’? his mind demanded.

Stop it, he told himself, stop it!

‘Let’s see how we feel after another drink, shall we?’ he said calmly,

playing it cool, buying time. They’d arrived at the counter and were next in

line to be served.

Jane smiled, in her book that was a definite yes. ‘Another drink it is,’

she said confidently, oblivious to the internal battle that had just raged.

‘What’ll it be, mate?’ the bartender asked.

‘Three schooners and a carafe of white, thanks.’

They returned to the others, but they didn’t bother carrying through with

the pretence of ‘another drink’.

‘Alan and I are going for a drive,’ Jane announced after barely five

minutes.

They stood together, Alan equally eager to be on his way. The gentle

friction of her thigh against his beneath the table had erased any agony of

indecision. All he could think of now was the fact that he was about to lose

his virginity.

‘Aren’t you going to finish your beer?’ Dave eyed Alan’s virtually

untouched glass: leaving a full schooner was nothing short of a crime.

‘Nup. I’ve had enough. Bit of a drive and some fresh air, that’s what I

need.’

‘Right.’ Dave gave a nod and cast a knowing look at Barry that said he’s

in there, lucky bastard.

‘OK, Alan,’ Barry chose to ignore Dave’s overt signal for fear of

offending the girls – he very much hoped to score with Wendy, who’d

already agreed to go on with him to the club. ‘Might see you a bit later then

at The Downstairs. We’re heading off there in an hour or so.’

‘Rightio. Probably see you there then.’ The Downstairs was a jazz club

they often frequented on a Saturday.

As Sal and Wendy fluttered fingers in goodbye, they exchanged their

own knowing glances. Neither was surprised that Jane had made her

intended conquest: she’d offered a bet when they’d first arrived, the

moment she’d seen Alan there with his mates.

‘God I find him sexy,’ she’d said. ‘He goes to Tech, I bump into him all

the time, but he never even notices me.’ Going unnoticed to Jane was not

only a novelty, it was an absolute turn-on. She couldn’t resist a challenge.

‘Well, he’ll notice me today all right. Bet you ten bucks I get him back to

the house.’

The girls hadn’t taken her up on the bet.

‘Your carriage,’ Jane announced with jokey dramatic flair as they

arrived beside her shabby second-hand Volkswagen. ‘Hardly a thing of

beauty, but she goes.’

‘They’re good cars, VWs,’ Alan said climbing into the passenger seat,

‘good and reliable. Engine needs a bit of a tune up though,’ he added when

she turned on the ignition.

She wondered why he didn’t have a car of his own. He was always well

dressed, he’d hardly be short of money. She whacked the gearstick into first

and took off. Besides, she’d learnt through enquiry that he came from a

wealthy country family, a sugar plantation no less. No car, that’s strange,

she thought.

Alan tried not to wince. She was a truly terrible driver.

The house that Jane shared with Wendy and Sal and two other girls was

a short drive away in Fortitude Valley, an inner-city suburb to the north-east of Brisbane’s business centre. Known affectionately as ‘The Valley’, the

once fashionable hub of shops and restaurants was starting to wane as outer-

suburban shopping centres came into existence. The Valley, although still

popular, was showing a slightly seedier side of late and in some of its

surrounding backstreets were homes that had known better days. The

ramshackle two-storey, five-bedroom house rented by Jane and her friends

was one such, having been in its time the family home of a well-to-do retail

merchant. Here the girls lived a buzzy, bohemian existence. They loved The

Valley.

‘Come on in,’ Jane said, unlocking the front door, and he followed her

through a very messy open-plan living and dining room, complete with

overflowing ashtrays, into an even messier kitchen. ‘Anyone home?’ she

yelled as they went, and Alan was visited by a sudden sense of misgiving.

Eroticism having momentarily deserted him, he wondered what he’d let

himself in for.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said, oblivious to his unease, ‘Sunday’s

clean-up day.’ She smiled happily. ‘But at least we have the place to

ourselves, it’s usually deserted on Saturday afternoons. Do you want a

beer?’

‘Sure.’ A beer was the last thing he wanted. ‘Thanks.’

She lifted two stubbies from the refrigerator, opened them and handed

him one. ‘Come on up to the less mucky part of the house,’ she said, and he

followed her once again as she led the way upstairs to her bedroom.

He discovered to his relief that she was right. Upstairs was certainly less

mucky, at least Jane’s bedroom was. In fact Jane’s bedroom was something

altogether different.

He gazed around at the posters that adorned the walls, mostly

reproductions of Lautrec and Degas. There were several lamps with

ornately painted French lampshades, the bedspread was of plush red velvet,

the corner table and two small chairs were covered with lace cloths and on

the dresser was a collection of porcelain pots and vases together with a pair

of candelabras that appeared antique. The overall effect was cluttered but

attractive.

‘Wow,’ he said, ‘you’ve done a great job.’

‘Thanks. I like it.’ She sat at the small table and took off her sandals. ‘I

haunt second-hand shops as you can see. My aim is to create a Parisian look.’

‘I’d say you’ve certainly succeeded there,’ he said, ‘not that I’d know of

course, I’ve never been to Paris, but it looks pretty authentic to me.’ He sat

on the other chair, wondering whether he should follow her example and

take off his shoes.

‘Well, when you live with four girls you need a world of your own to

disappear into and this is mine. Aren’t you going to take your shoes off?’

‘Sure.’ He was feeling more relaxed by the minute: she was very easy

company.

She downed a swig of her beer and studied him as he took off his shoes.

‘Why don’t you have a car, Alan?’

‘I will in July.’

‘Oh? Why wait till then? Why not get one now?’

‘It’s a family thing, same with my brother and sister, Dad gives us a new

car when we turn eighteen.’ He failed to notice her reaction. ‘What I’d

really love to do is buy a vintage vehicle and restore it, even an old jalopy

would do, but Dad’d be furious if I didn’t wait for the big presentation.’

‘Are you telling me you’re only seventeen?’

Uh oh, he thought, I’ve stuffed things up. ‘That’s right. But not for

long,’ he added hopefully, ‘I’ll be eighteen in July.’

‘Good God, I thought you were at least twenty.’

‘Yes, most people do. I’m sorry, Jane. I didn’t intend to mislead you.’

‘Of course you didn’t. How could you? I was the one who made a line

for you, remember?’

He remembered all right. ‘Does that mean you don’t want to . . .?’ he

left the rest unsaid, which he thought was tasteful.

She was intrigued. How can a seventeen-year-old be so mature? she

wondered. Her brother was seventeen and he was an absolute dill.

Her hesitation seemed answer enough to Alan. ‘Would you like me to

leave?’

‘Don’t you dare.’ And how can a seventeen-year-old be so damn sexy?

she asked herself. Putting down her beer, she circled the little table to sit on

his lap. ‘I am feeling so randy, don’t you dare leave,’ she murmured,

draping her arms around his neck and kissing him, her breasts nuzzling

enticingly against his chest.

The response was immediate. Alan’s body leapt to attention, there was

no disguising his arousal, and she laughed. ‘Shall we get undressed first?’

she suggested.

He stripped as hastily as he could, and when he’d dumped his clothes on

the chair he looked up to find her stark naked, carefully folding back the

plush velvet bedspread. He was momentarily awestruck. He’d never seen a

naked woman before – well not in the flesh anyway: he’d seen plenty of

centrefold pictures in the magazines furtively handed around at boarding

school.

She removed the coverlet altogether, placed it on the floor and lay

down, propping on an elbow, not even bothering to cover herself with the

sheet.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, hoping he didn’t sound gauche and feeling

self-conscious about his rampant erection. He needn’t have.

‘So are you,’ she said approvingly, and patted the bed.

He joined her, the mere touch of flesh upon flesh setting them both

aquiver; she too was ready, and as they kissed, his hands explored the

exquisite contours of her body. He was becoming excited beyond measure,

but even as she parted her thighs to allow him access, he realised there was

something he’d overlooked.

‘Oh hell . . .’ He broke away from her, calling a breathless halt to the

proceedings. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Jane,’ he said cursing himself for not

having stopped off at a chemist’s shop.

‘What is it, what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t have a condom.’

She looked at him quizzically as if he might be joking, then when she

realised he wasn’t she burst out laughing. ‘Good grief, Alan, this is the

sixties, where have you been?’

His response was blank.

‘I’m on the pill, of course.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Sorry.’ He cursed himself again – how could he have

sounded so dumb? He supposed these days most girls were on the pill.

‘You really are a country boy, aren’t you?’ She didn’t sound in any way

disparaging, just amused.

‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ he admitted.

‘I like country boys,’ she said, wantonly reaching her hand down to

him, and as they kissed again she parted her thighs and guided him into her.

Alan tried desperately to retain control, but the sensation that engulfed

him was overwhelming. The inside of a woman was more sensual by far

than his wildest imaginings, and before long he realised he was fighting a

losing battle.

For a novice he acquitted himself admirably nonetheless, indeed

perhaps a little too admirably. Jane was teetering on the brink of orgasm

when he finally exploded.

Bugger it, she thought as they lay on their backs gasping for breath like

a couple of hundred-metre sprinters, couldn’t he have lasted just thirty

seconds longer?

Despite his inexperience, Alan was aware of his failure to satisfy. ‘I was

a bit quick, wasn’t I?’ he panted.

Something of an understatement, she thought. ‘Yes, just a bit.’

‘I’m sorry, Jane, really I am. It’s just that was my first time, so I suppose

. . .’ he tailed off apologetically.

‘Oh God, don’t tell me . . .’ She rolled on her side to face him. ‘You’re

not only seventeen, you’re a virgin?’

He grinned, he couldn’t help himself. ‘Not anymore.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Why would I? No bloke would, surely.’

Jane returned a wry smile: he was right of course. ‘Well I have to admit

for a beginner you’re not bad. Shall we finish our beers and give it another

burl? That is if you think you’ll be up to it,’ she added suggestively.

‘Oh, I’ll be up to it all right. But I can do without the beer.’

‘Me too. A cup of tea then.’ She sprang from the bed. ‘You wait here, I

won’t be a tick.’ She slipped on her dress, but ignored the undies. ‘Stay in

the mood,’ she said with a wink and then she was out the door.

After their cup of tea, Alan was more than in the mood, he was raring to

go, but this time he was determined to practise restraint. He’d come to a

decision while she’d been downstairs. He must learn from his experience

today. He must learn how to give a woman pleasure.

He took his time as best he could, matching his pace to hers, and when

finally he sensed her approaching orgasm, he held himself in check,

allowing the movement to be hers alone, careful not to thrust, knowing that if he did he was gone. She was uninhibited in her pleasure, which he found

intensely erotic, and it took every ounce of willpower he could muster not

to let go, but he managed. Only when he was sure she was completely

satisfied did he give in to his own climax.

Jane flopped back on the pillow, sweaty and sated. ‘Well that was a

whole heap better,’ she said when she’d regained her breath, ‘you’re a quick

learner, I’ll give you that much.’

‘Thanks.’ He was pleased. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.

During the days that followed, Alan mulled over the event of his sexual

awakening. He had enjoyed the act. Indeed he’d found sex as exciting as his

friends had boasted that it was. But Alan Durham was not like his friends.

To Alan, the casualness of the act and its supreme lack of meaning made

sex in itself a shallow, empty thing. Sex was not making love. Making love

would be something entirely different. He would not have sex again until it

was with Paola, he decided. No matter that their marriage was some years

away, he would wait.

He didn’t agonise at all about whether or not he should tell Paola of his

sexual encounter: of course he would tell her, they’d agreed they were never

to have secrets from one another. But should he feel guilty for having so

unashamedly used Jane? He wasn’t sure about that one. Jane seemed

liberated, certainly, but would she presume there was some form of ongoing

relationship? Girls usually did when they’d been to bed with someone,

didn’t they?

‘Hello, Alan.’

‘G’day, Jane.’

It was during a break between lectures and he was sitting in the Gardens

Tuck Shop eating a pie with peas and mashed potato, his favourite of the

daily specials when he hadn’t had time to scoff down his landlady’s tea.

Seated by the door as he was, he saw her the moment she walked in and, the

chair opposite him being vacant, he expected her to join him. He rather

hoped she would so they could clear up any possible misunderstanding.

She didn’t join him, however. In fact she paid him scant attention. She

appeared to be looking for someone. Then her eyes lighted upon the young

man at the counter who’d just been served a cup of take-away coffee.

The young man turned from the counter and Alan watched as Jane

stepped directly into his path.

‘Oops,’ she said when they bumped into each other. ‘I’m most terribly

sorry.’

Alan smiled at the familiarity of the scene. He smiled even more when

the young man introduced himself. She’s home and hosed, he thought.

The referendum of 27 May 1967 sought approval for two amendments

to the Australian constitution that were considered discriminatory to the

Aboriginal people. The first clause related to the government’s power to

produce laws with respect to the people of any race, other than the

aboriginal race in any State, for whom it is deemed necessary to make

special laws. The second related to the government census. In reckoning the

numbers of the people of the Commonwealth, or of a State or other part of

the Commonwealth, aboriginal natives shall not be counted.

It was recommended the reference to ‘the aboriginal race’ be removed

from the first clause, and that the second clause be removed altogether.

The two simple questions put to the Australian people were, should

Aborigines be counted in the census, and should Aborigines be subject to

Australian Federal law. The public voted overwhelmingly ‘yes’ on both

issues.

‘Well done, Kate.’

Jeremy had turned up at the celebratory party that was held on a fine,

but chill, Saturday afternoon in the rear courtyard of the Bondi Pavilion.

The once-grand bathing pavilion overlooking Bondi Beach had gone to seed

over the past decade, but its main hall, rarely put to community use of late,

had served as a convenient meeting place for the campaigners, particularly

the younger members, who during the summer months liked to finish the

day’s business with a swim.

‘Thanks, Venner.’ Kate returned his effusive handshake. She was

surprised to see him. He hadn’t been particularly committed to the

campaign. But then Jeremy liked to maintain an interest in all major causes

whether as an active participant or not, seeming to know every single

statistic and every single person involved in every single campaign.

‘Knowledge is power, Kate,’ he’d repeatedly told her in those early days

when, Svengali-like, he’d groomed her for a future in social activism.

‘I felt compelled to come and offer my personal congratulations,’ he

now said in all earnest. ‘Truly Kate, you’ve every right to feel proud. Good God an almost ninety-one per cent affirmative vote! That’s got to be the

most successful campaign for change this country’s ever seen. Well done!’

He embraced her and she returned the hug, although she was conscious

of the wary look from Isobel, his new girlfriend, whom she knew vaguely

from university. Isobel was aware of their previous relationship.

‘It was hardly a solo effort,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Hello, Isobel.’

‘Hello, Kate. Congratulations. Venner’s told me how hard you worked

on the campaign.’

‘So did everyone here,’ she said looking around at the crowded

courtyard, ‘and so did hundreds of others all over the country. I don’t think I

can take any personal credit,’ she added with a smile.

‘Bullshit,’ Jeremy protested, ‘you gave it your heart and soul.’ He could

see several other people out to attract her attention. ‘Don’t let us hold you

up, Kate, go and mingle. It’s your night.’

‘All right, I’ll circulate for a while. I think I’m meant to. There’ll be a

few speeches soon. Not long ones, I promise,’ she hastily added, ‘we’ve all

agreed there’s been enough haranguing at rallies to last us a lifetime. I’ll see

you a bit later on.’

Jeremy watched as she melted into the gathering. God how he missed

her. He took his girlfriend’s hand. ‘Come on, Izz, let’s grab a drink,’ he said

and they headed for the white-clothed trestle tables that served as a bar,

where glasses of beer and champagne were being doled out.

Charles Perkins introduced the short round of speeches. After

graduating from Sydney University in 1965, the first Aboriginal student to

do so, Charlie had become manager of the Foundation for Aboriginal

Affairs, an organisation that had played a key role in advocating the

referendum’s ‘yes’ vote. His opening speech was brief and succinct, but as

always impressive.

One of the principal actions that had led to this referendum and its

successful outcome, he informed the assembled gathering, was the Freedom

Ride of 1965, which had raised public awareness about racism. Student

Action For Aborigines no longer existed as an organisation, he said, but

student activists continued to play an immensely important role in the

campaign for Aboriginal rights. He then introduced one of the leaders of the

student movement, Kate Durham.

Kate joined Charlie up on the small makeshift stage and, looking out at

the hundred or so gathered, she thanked all those who had worked on the

campaign, individually naming a number with whom she’d been closely

associated.

‘As a friend of mine remarked just a short while ago,’ she said in

conclusion, ‘a yes vote exceeding ninety per cent makes this referendum

one of the greatest victories Australia is ever likely to see in a campaign for

change.’ There was a resounding cheer and as she caught Jeremy’s eye he

nodded and gave her the thumbs up. ‘I’d like to congratulate everyone

involved,’ she said, ‘most particularly Charlie Perkins, without whose

dedication none of this would have happened.’ She shook Charlie’s hand,

they’d become good friends over the past year or so, and a round of

applause followed as she left the stage.

Charlie then introduced the special guest speaker who’d just flown up

from Melbourne. Frank Madigan had joined the cause less than a year ago,

he said, but during that time he’d become one of their most valuable

speakers and co-ordinators who, for the past two months, had been

tirelessly campaigning across the country.

‘Over to you, Frank,’ he announced and he left the stage.

Frank Madigan was a good-looking young man in his mid to late

twenties. Lanky, casually dressed, with unruly dark hair and a lazy smile, he

appeared something of a larrikin at first glance, but he wasn’t. As he loped

up onto the stage, his manner was not cocky, but rather laidback and

assured. Frank was not a man who felt the need to prove himself, a fact that

became evident the moment he spoke.

‘You’re quite right, Kate,’ he said, looking down at her where she stood

beside Charlie and smiling his easy smile, ‘this is certainly the greatest

victory a campaign could hope for.’ His eyes, grey-blue and fiercely

intelligent, scanned the gathering. ‘And I too would like to congratulate all

those involved.’

In addressing the crowd, he didn’t appear to raise his voice, nor did he

attempt to project his personality: the simple power of his presence seemed

enough. ‘But the outcome of this referendum is far more than a victory for

our campaign,’ he said, ‘it’s a victory for Australia. It’s more than a “yes”

for change, more than an agreement to make a couple of amendments to the

constitution, it’s proof of the enlightened attitudes of the general population. This referendum has been far more important than most Australians realise.

In travelling the country as I recently have, I can tell you here and now we

have a long, long way to go, but I can also tell you here and now that this is

a momentous step for Australia. People are actually talking out there.

They’re communicating. And they’re communicating about a problem that

many have been blind to, that some hadn’t even known existed . . .’

Frank Madigan spoke for barely ten minutes, but Kate found him

riveting. She was not alone. His audience was captivated. He could have

gone on for a further half hour if he’d wished. He chose not to.

‘Thanks for your attention, everyone, and thanks for a tremendous

effort.’

He gave a wave and stepped down from the stage to a huge round of

applause and pats on the back from eager admirers.

Kate was surprised she’d not met him before through the campaign. She

knew all of the principal organisers in Sydney and many others who’d

travelled from interstate over the past year. His was certainly a commanding

presence, he’s probably a lawyer, she thought, a lawyer with political

aspirations . . .

‘Hello, Kate, I’m Frank.’

He was suddenly there by her side, his hand outstretched, not waiting

for Charlie’s introduction, although Charlie offered one anyway.

‘Kate Durham, Frank Madigan,’ Charlie said.

‘Hello, Frank.’ They shook. ‘I thought your speech was great.’

‘Thanks. I’m hanging out for a beer, do you want one?’

‘I’ll go a champagne.’

‘Goodo. What about you, Charlie?’

But Charlie was already being claimed by others. Now that the speeches

were over, people nearby were vying for his attention as people always did

and Charlie, as always, good-naturedly obliged.

‘No thanks, mate. I’ll mingle.’

Kate accompanied Frank to the trestle tables where two volunteer

barkeepers were frantically refilling glasses and doling out fresh ones. He

handed her a champagne, grabbed a beer for himself and they edged their

way out of the melee to sit at one of the tables that had been set up around

the periphery of the courtyard.

‘Good turnout,’ he said lowering his lanky frame into the chair and

gazing about at the crowd. Few had availed themselves of the tables and

chairs, most milling in groups and avidly chatting. ‘You know all these

people, I suppose?’

‘Not all,’ she replied, ‘but I’ve seen most of them around at rallies and

meetings.’

‘They’re strangers to me,’ he said, ‘apart from Charlie and a few others.

I’ve been working solely out of Melbourne.’

Well that explains why I hadn’t met him, Kate thought.

‘We’ve built up a strong movement there too, I’m proud to say.’

‘Charlie said you’ve been campaigning all across the country.’

‘Yeah, the timing was spot on. I’d just given up my job so I was able to

travel around and co-ordinate regional action groups.’

‘What actually was your job?’ she asked with characteristic directness.

He probably found her impertinent, but she couldn’t resist.

He didn’t find her in the least impertinent. ‘I’m a plumber.’

So much for a lawyer with political aspirations, she thought.

‘What are you studying at uni, Kate?’

‘Vet science.’

‘Really?’ He appeared quite astounded. ‘Strange. I automatically

presumed you’d be doing law or something that’d lead to a political career.’

In the face of her own presumption she couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Makes

us an unlikely pair of activists doesn’t it, a vet and a plumber?’

‘Yes I suppose so.’ He was intrigued. ‘Why vet science?’

‘I’ve never wanted to do anything else for as long as I can remember.’

She shrugged, end of story, it was that simple. But his focus was now solely

upon her, the crowd seeming to vanish as his eyes urged her to go on. So

Kate did. She was not to know that Frank Madigan had a rare talent for

drawing information out of anyone who interested him.

‘I come from the country,’ she explained, ‘a property in Queensland.

My brothers and I grew up with horses and livestock. I remember helping

birth calves and foals when I was ten. I loved anything to do with animals.

And as for being a vet,’ she rolled her eyes in mock adulation, ‘well, where

I come from, the vet’s more important than the doctor, the lawyer and the

judge all rolled into one.’ She smiled self-deprecatingly – she seemed to be talking a lot. ‘So perhaps all I really wanted was to be somebody very

important.’

‘Did your brothers want to be vets too?’

‘Oh good heavens no. My younger brother’s obsessed with all things

mechanical and has been from the age of six, and my older brother’s being

groomed to take over the management of the property. Eventually, anyway,’

she added, her face clouding a little. ‘At the moment he’s in Vietnam.’

‘Oh.’ He’d noted her concern and didn’t enquire further, but she

volunteered the information anyway.

‘Neil was conscripted,’ she said. ‘His tour of duty’s nearly over though;

he’ll be home next month.’

‘That’s good news.’

‘Yes it is.’ She sat back and sipped her champagne. ‘Your turn.’

‘For what?’

‘To talk. What about your background, Frank?’

‘Nothing to tell,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘I doubt you’d find plumbing

of interest.’

‘Try me.’ Whether plumbing was of interest or not was immaterial to

Kate. It’s the man himself who’s interesting, she thought.

His father was a plumber, he told her, or rather had been, semi-retired

now after a recent stroke. ‘Usual scenario,’ he said, ‘kid follows in old

man’s footsteps. I didn’t have any other ambition at the time, apart from

kicking a footie around, so why not?’

He was going to leave it at that. Frank was obviously a man who

preferred to hear the stories of others rather than tell his own, but upon

further badgering she learnt that he was actually a master plumber with a

degree in education. For the past two years, he’d been teaching an

apprenticeship course in plumbing and gas-fitting at Technical College in

Melbourne, he said, but since his father’s stroke it had been agreed he’d

come home and take over the family business in Redfern.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she said in triumphant recognition, ‘Madigan’s

Plumbing Services, Chalmers Street, opposite Prince Alfred Park!’

‘That’s the one. How come you know us?’

‘I walk in the park at least once a week. I’m always passing your shop –

it’s most impressive.’

Having intended no more than a routine compliment, Kate was

surprised by the eagerness of his response.

‘Oh it is, believe me. My father’s done an amazing job. The shop’s far

more than a retail outlet. Dad has three vans that service the city and eastern

suburbs and he employs two other plumbers full-time, together with two

office staff. That’s not half bad,’ he said boastfully, ‘for a bog-ignorant

Irishman with no formal education.’

The change is amazing, she thought, noting how the reticence to talk of

himself had disappeared the moment his father came up for discussion. She

found his enthusiasm utterly engaging.

‘How’s your dad’s health since the stroke?’ she asked tentatively,

hoping not to appear intrusive, but keen to further the conversation.

‘He’s made a good recovery. Not allowed to do the physical stuff these

days, doctor’s orders, but he looks after the shop and that keeps him happy

enough.’ Frank studied the glass of beer on the table before him; his father’s

stroke had radically changed his own life and the plans he’d had to pursue

his teaching career. ‘He’ll be even happier with me around to run things

though,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘A Christmas visit is somehow never

enough.’ He glanced at her, adding hastily as if to correct any possible

misunderstanding, ‘Not that he ever complains, but I know how much he’s

missed me these past three years.’

‘Do you have any siblings, Frank?’

‘Nope.’ He picked up the glass, ‘I’m all Dad has, all he’s ever had. But

then he was all I had throughout my childhood – mother, father, best mate,

you name it.’ He swigged back half his beer in one go, wondering why he’d

spoken so openly to this girl he’d just met – he rarely did such a thing – but

he refused to feel self-conscious. She was a nice girl, he liked her. ‘My

father worked his guts out to put me through school and give me the life

he’d never had, it’s only right I come home now.’

Kate longed to ask him what had happened to his mother, but she had a

feeling this was as far as the interrogation was permitted to go. She was

right.

‘Why don’t you introduce me to some of these people?’ he suggested,

looking about at the crowd as if it had suddenly and magically re-appeared.

‘Of course.’ She stood with her glass of champagne, ‘bring your beer

and we’ll do the rounds.’

They circulated among the gathering, which had turned into quite a

party as glasses were re-filled and finger food handed about on trays. Most

of those present were eager to meet Frank, whose speech had impressed

them, and he and Kate joined in the discussions and arguments that became

steadily rowdier and more animated as the day wore on.

By late afternoon things were winding down. Those with families and

Saturday-night commitments left, and the several volunteer workers, of

whom Kate was one, embarked on the cleaning-up process. But as dusk

crept in a hard-core mob remained, volunteers and members of the student

brigade for the most part, still in passionate debate. With them, not

competing for attention as most were, but observing with avid interest and

offering the occasional astute comment, was Frank Madigan.

Finally, at Venner’s suggestion, they adjourned to Bates Milk Bar. ‘I’m

bloody starving,’ he loudly declared to the bunch of fifteen or so, ‘and it’s

getting bloody freezing.’

Venner was stating the obvious, they all agreed. The finger food having

long since been demolished they were hungry, and with the sun gone the

night ahead promised to be a bitterly cold one.

‘Not by Melbourne standards,’ Frank commented to Kate as they

followed the troops out of the courtyard and across the main road.

Bates Milk Bar on the corner of Campbell Parade and Hall Street was

famous. Established in 1951 by hard-working Greek brothers George and

Nick Bagiatis, who’d anglicised their name, it operated seven days a week,

often late into the night, and was renowned for the best milkshakes and the

biggest ‘mixed grills’ in town.

With Venner leading the way, the rowdy group arrived to find they had

the place fairly much to themselves. Being the first week in June, there

were no beachgoers vying for the wooden booths with their pink Laminex-

topped tables and, as it was barely six o’clock, there were not yet many

evening diners, just a few diehard regulars who lived in the area.

Jeremy bagged a booth for himself and Isobel at the far end where he

had a good view of the main doors. He hoped to catch Kate’s eye as she

entered and wave her over, although he was aware that for Isobel’s sake he

must keep any invitation to join them as casual and impromptu as possible.

His plan was thwarted, however. Leading the troops, as he always did, had

proved his downfall. Larry and Sylvia, ever eager to be in the charismatic presence of Venner, slithered in beside him and were quickly joined by

others who claimed every available booth nearby.

Damn, Jeremy thought as he watched the place fill up and saw Kate and

Frank, the last to arrive, claim the only remaining empty booth down near

the main doors. Damn, he should have dawdled and brought up the rear.

Mary and Chris Bates, the Greek brothers’ wives, who were just as hard

working as their husbands, scuttled about taking orders and doling out the

milk bar’s ever popular ‘choc-malts’ in metal milkshake containers.

‘Are you up for the mixed grill?’ Kate asked. ‘I have to warn you, it’s

absolutely enormous.’

‘Then I’m absolutely up for it, I’m ravenous.’

‘Me too.’

They ordered the mixed grill.

Frank checked his watch. ‘I’ll have to eat and run though,’ he said

apologetically; he was catching a taxi direct to the airport for his night flight

back to Melbourne. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you joined your friends?’

‘They’re in for the long haul, they’ll still be here when you leave,’ she

said. ‘Believe me, I’ll have plenty of people to talk to.’ She smiled. ‘I’m

glad for a bit of a breather actually. I’m sure you’ve noticed that as a mob

we can be quite exhausting.’

‘Stimulating too: I’ve enjoyed the afternoon’s conversations. You’re a

lively bunch all right.’

‘When do you settle back in Sydney, Frank?’

‘About a month I’d say. I’ve been pretty well established in Melbourne

for the past three years and with everything put on hold for the last couple

of months’ campaigning there’s a lot to tie up. I’ll take my time with the

move, but there’s no rush – the old man has a good manager who can hold

the fort.’

‘I’ll bet your dad’s counting the days,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I’d put money on that all right.’

As he smiled his easy smile, Kate felt a vague sense of relief that her

affair with Jeremy was over. Frank had shown no particular sign of interest,

he’d made no suggestion they meet upon his return, but it pleased her now

to be unattached. She was not seeking a relationship, on the contrary she

was revelling in her current single state, but she would like to get to know

this man. Just as a friend.

From where he sat at the rear of the milk bar, Jeremy could see Kate’s

reflection in one of the mirrors that lined the walls. The mirrors, with scenes

of the beach and of bathers etched into the glass, were a feature at Bates of

which the brothers were justifiably proud. He was unable to see Frank, who

was masked by the booth in which the two were sitting, but Kate, facing

towards him, was clearly visible and he couldn’t help but note the avid

attention she was paying to her companion.

She’s not interested in the bloke, surely, he thought with a stab of

jealousy. She can’t be! Doesn’t she know about Frank Madigan? Isn’t she

aware of the man’s background?

Jeremy knew he was being unreasonable, that he had no hold over Kate

and that their affair was over, but he couldn’t help wanting her back, and he

couldn’t help hating the thought of someone else having her. Frank

Madigan in particular was quite out of the question. I’ll tell her about him,

he decided. Yes easily solved, that’ll put the kybosh on things . . .

‘Four mixed grills.’

His attention was diverted as huge plates of food were plonked one by

one onto the Laminex-topped table. The kitchen was churning out mixed

grills at an alarming rate.

‘My God,’ Frank said, gazing down at his own chop, steak, bacon,

sausage and lambs fry topped with a fried egg, ‘you were right.’

‘I did warn you.’

He ate every skerrick and Kate, who’d always possessed a healthy

appetite, very nearly matched him.

‘I don’t suppose you want my sausage,’ she asked, finally forced to

admit defeat, but he shook his head.

‘Sorry, you’re on your own there.’

A half an hour later, Frank bade her goodbye and having paid his bill

was about to steal quietly away, but Kate decided his departure should not

go unnoticed.

‘Frank’s leaving everyone,’ she announced crossing to the booths where

the others were sitting, ‘he has to fly back to Melbourne tonight.’

Venner immediately rose to his feet, those with him also standing to

make way as he edged out of the crowded booth. He strode forwards and

shook Frank’s hand. ‘Good on you for coming, Frank,’ he said, ‘it was a bloody great speech,’ and as he initiated a round of applause the others

readily joined in.

‘Yeah, well done . . .’

‘Good to meet you, Frank . . .’

‘All the best mate . . .’

The several regular elderly diners, who’d anticipated a peaceful early

meal, traded dark looks. By now they’d had quite enough of this youthful

gang that had invaded their territory.

Frank gave a wave to everyone and sloped out into the evening. So

much for a quiet exit.

Jeremy returned to his seat, watching as Kate joined two other students

in a booth that was half empty. So Frank’s going back to Melbourne, he

thought, relieved. Good, that was that, problem averted.

 

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