Chapter Eleven

 

‘We’re married.’

Seated at the little round dining table in the little house in Campbell

Street, Kate froze, coffee mug mid-air, and stared disbelievingly at her

brother. ‘You’re what?’ she said, knowing she sounded stupid, but too

dumbfounded to react otherwise.

‘It was a very respectable ceremony,’ he assured her, ‘at the Catholic

Church in Gia Long Boulevard right in the heart of town, a most reputable

–’

‘But you’re not a Catholic.’ Again she knew her comment was inane.

Neil laughed – an involuntary reaction: he didn’t intend to trivialise the

moment – but he’d never seen his sister at such a loss for words. It’s to be

expected, he supposed. She’d listened with infinite patience and

understanding as he’d told her all about Nguyen Thi Yen and their love

affair.

‘Yes,’ she’d said apparently unsurprised by the news, ‘I gathered from

the hints in your letters that there was a girl involved.’

The bombshell of his marriage was a different matter altogether.

‘How can you be married in a Catholic church if you’re not a Catholic?’

Kate asked, feeling utterly foolish. There were a dozen or more questions of

far greater importance she could have offered up, but in her state of

stupefaction it was the first thing that came out.

‘The priest who married us was Vietnamese,’ Neil explained, ‘he’s a

friend of Yen’s family. He asked me if I was a Catholic, I said yes and he

believed me, or rather he pretended to. The fact that I donated a sizeable sum to the church probably expedited matters. Although to give the man

credit, I don’t think the transaction was purely mercenary. I think he agreed

to marry us so that Yen would have a marriage certificate, allowing me to

bring her back to Australia and a better life. With three daughters and no

son to help support the family her father’s pretty poor.’

‘But . . . but . . .’ Kate was astounded by her brother’s calm, matter-of-

fact delivery and found herself stammering as she sought answers to the

myriad questions that assailed her. The ramifications of Neil’s action were

huge, the obstacles surely insurmountable. ‘But what about the war, Neil?

You won’t be able to bring her home, they won’t let you.’

‘I don’t intend to bring her home, not yet anyway. Not until the war’s

over.’

‘So you’ll live apart until then?’

‘No. I’m going back to Vietnam.’

‘But you’ve served your tour. They won’t let you go back.’

‘They will if I’m in the regular army.’ Another bombshell, she realised.

‘I’m joining up.’

She stared wordlessly at him. You’re volunteering to fight in this

hideous war, a voice in her brain screamed, you’re risking your life to return

to a battle zone, and all because of a girl?!

‘I don’t like war any more than you do, Kate,’ he said reasonably. God

how he adored his sister. Her face was a page with every thought readable,

but of course it always had been to him. It’s what I love most about you,

Kate, he thought, your lack of duplicity, your utter inability to hide your

true feelings; you are the most honest person I know.

‘Please don’t blame Yen,’ he said.

Feeling caught out, Kate wondered whether she should defend herself –

the girl was his wife after all – but if he returned to Vietnam and was killed

she knew she would never forgive this person called Yen. She said nothing,

but again her face spoke multitudes.

‘I would have joined the army with or without Yen,’ Neil continued,

‘it’s where I belong, or rather where I feel I belong.’

The statement made no sense at all to her, and with nothing to

contribute she waited for him to go on.

‘I like being in the army,’ he said. ‘I liked it right from the start, even at

training camp. It was a way to be free of Dad’s expectations. I liked being one of the boys.’ Her face was clearly saying ‘so what?’. ‘But things have

gone much further than that, Kate,’ he went on to explain. ‘The fact is I’m a

good soldier. I’ve seen men fall apart in battle, I’ve seen them wrecked in

its aftermath, and understandably so, but somehow I’ve survived the

experience. I know I can do it again, and I will if it’s required of me. That

will be my job.’

She remained staring at him, still confused, still unable to fathom his

reasoning, and Neil knew he must dig far deeper into his own psyche in

order for her to understand. Her honesty deserved honesty in return.

‘I’ve been living a lie for years,’ he admitted. He’d never spoken like

this before, never even dared think like this before. ‘I can be a good soldier,

Kate, I know that much. The one thing I know I cannot be is my father. I

can never live up to what Dad wants of me. It seems from birth I’ve been

groomed to be someone I’m not. I can’t repeat the cycle. I can’t be Stan the

Man. I can’t be Big Jim.’

Of course you can’t, the voice in her head said, nor should you ever

want to be. Big Jim is a myth. It’s your father who’s been unwittingly living

the lie. She wanted to say the words out loud, but she knew she didn’t dare.

‘I’m joining the army because that’s who I am now, Kate, that’s the

person I’ve become. And I’m going to Vietnam to be with Yen because I

love her more than I love life itself. She means everything to me, as I do to

her. My decision is really that simple.’

‘I see.’ She’d finally found her voice although she had no idea what to

say. ‘And what does the army think of your marriage?’ Again a banality, she

didn’t give a damn what the army thought.

‘Oh Good God, the army doesn’t know,’ he said as if the mere notion

was preposterous. ‘We were married in secret; the military would never

have allowed it. I told a couple of close mates who acted as witnesses, but

they’re sworn to secrecy. And no one else must know, Kate, until I’m able

to bring Yen home. I’m only telling you now as a safeguard.’ He took an

envelope from the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘You remember I wrote that I

had a favour to ask of you?’

She nodded. Words once again seeming to fail her, she felt utterly

helpless.

He placed the envelope on the table. ‘This is a copy of the marriage

certificate,’ he said. ‘Yen has the original. If anything happens to me, you must send money to support her. The bank details are all there in the

envelope. And when the war is over you must bring her home to Elianne.’

Kate stared down at the envelope, thinking how horribly finalised

everything sounded, wishing there was some way she could dissuade him

from this path, yet knowing she couldn’t.

‘Will you do that for me, Kate? Will you promise?’

‘Yes.’ She looked up and met her brother’s eyes. ‘Yes, I promise.’

Neil stayed that night. They bought take-away food and sat up talking

until well after midnight. He spoke openly about the war, the way he never

did in his letters. ‘What would be the point,’ he said bluntly. ‘What can you

say? You’re there, you’re living it, you just have to get through each day.

Besides,’ he added, ‘you’re not allowed to write about burnt-out men.’

He told her of Bobbo and the others he’d seen fall by the wayside. ‘It’s

not the physical wounds, Kate,’ he said, ‘it’s the mental scarring. They’re

changed for life, fragile or angry, but fractured somehow, different. And

there are so many, particularly among the nashos.’ Aware of her concern, he

gave a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I don’t intend to be one of

them.’

He caught the train north the following morning.

‘Good that I’ll be home in time for Alan’s birthday,’ he said as they

parted at the front door; he’d refused to allow her to drive him to Central

Station. ‘I will not be responsible for you missing a lecture,’ he’d said,

slinging his kit bag over his shoulder, ‘besides, there’s nothing I like better

than a good brisk march.’

He grinned now at the thought of his young brother. ‘With the crushing

in full swing it won’t be a massive eighteenth, in fact Dad will probably put

us both straight to work, but I reckon a new car will more than make up for

that.’

They hugged each other.

‘Give Al my love,’ she said, ‘I feel guilty not being there myself, but he

told me over the phone he didn’t mind in the least.’

‘Well he wouldn’t; you know Alan. He’s only going home himself for

the car.’

They laughed, but Kate secretly thought oh no he’s not. Alan had taken

a whole week off from his work and studies in order to return to Elianne for

his eighteenth birthday, but neither the birthday nor the promised car were the real attraction, Kate was sure, rather they were the excuse. It was Paola

who beckoned.

‘I won’t tell Dad about my decision to join up until the birthday’s out of

the way and Alan’s gone back to Brisbane,’ Neil assured her. ‘I wouldn’t

want to spoil things: it’s bound to cause a stir.’

A stir, Kate thought, that was surely the understatement of all time. Her

father would be apoplectic with rage. She was only thankful that she

wouldn’t be there to witness his fury. And what on earth would Stan the

Man say she wondered if he knew that his favoured son, the heir to his

throne, had married a Vietnamese girl?

‘See you at Christmas,’ Neil called as he closed the gate of the little

white picket fence. He’d told her he would not be returning to Vietnam for

some time and that he’d be home for the family Christmas.

‘Yep, see you at Christmas,’ she called back with a wave, thinking how

unbelievably normal they sounded when the world all about them had just

been turned upside down. ‘But you will ring me and let me know how it all

goes, won’t you?’

‘Course I will.’

‘Good luck.’

It was only as she closed the door that she realised she’d said nothing of

the diaries as she’d originally intended. How could she? Her brother’s life

had taken a whole new direction. The burden of the truth remained hers, for

the moment anyway, hers and hers alone.

Alan’s car turned out to be a brand-new HR Holden Premier sedan.

With green body, white roof and tan bucket seats, it was hot off the

assembly line.

‘Happy birthday, son,’ Stan said handing over the keys with his

customary flourish. Despite the friction that existed from time to time

between father and younger son, Stanley Durham had a great love of family

ritual and this was indeed a proud moment to be relished by all.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Alan didn’t disappoint, running his fingers lovingly over

the gleaming chrome signature 186-fender badge. ‘She’s a beauty all right.’

After the traditional family lunch, Stan returned to his work at the mill,

where the crushing continued its relentless twenty-four-hour cycle, but Alan

and Neil, having been allowed the rest of the day off, followed up the

birthday proceedings with a tradition of their own.

The Holden was driven into town, Alan revving the engine up to top

speed along the Bundaberg–Gin Gin road. All about them the cane fields

were flowering, ready for harvest; a beautiful sight, particularly from afar,

the sea of green blanketed in a haze of soft, silvery-lilac. But the brothers

didn’t notice. They were intent upon more important things.

Once in town, the Holden was paraded up and down Bundy’s main

streets, Alan at the wheel, Neil waving out the open window at everyone

they passed, most of whom he knew and most of whom were familiar with

the Durham family ritual. Young Alan must have turned eighteen, a number

remarked.

‘Hey, Neil,’ Alan said as they rounded the block to drive up Bourbong

Street for the fourth and final time, the window now wound up against the

wintry nip in the late afternoon breeze, ‘will you do me a big favour?’

‘Whatever you want, mate, it’s your birthday.’

‘Will you stay in town and lie low for a bit? Only an hour I promise.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘I want to take Paola for a drive. I’ll pick her up secretly and people will

think it’s still you and me lairing around.’

‘A drive . . .?’ There was no innuendo to Neil’s query, more an element

of disquiet.

‘Yes, a drive,’ Alan replied firmly. Registering his brother’s genuine

concern, he was not offended. ‘Just a drive. I’m meeting her down near the

pumping station after five when her office shift’s over. We usually go for a

walk along the river track, but I want to show off the new car.’

‘Sure, birthday boy,’ Neil agreed. ‘Drop me at the Commercial, I’ll

down a few beers.’

Outside the Commercial Hotel, as Neil gave his brother a wave and

watched the car drive away, he was relieved that his query hadn’t offended.

Worrying though the outcome may prove, it was after all none of his

business if his brother was having an affair with young Paola Fiorelli.

As it was a weekday and still during working hours, the pub was not yet

busy. One girl tended the bar, a small group of hippies was gathered at a

table and the publican was upstairs in his office. Neil bought a schooner and

settled himself on a bar stool well away from the hippies. There were five

of them, obvious out-of-towners, three long-haired young men and two

women, the men wearing headbands and the girls flowing headscarves each with a badge pinned prominently on the front bearing the Campaign for

Nuclear Disarmament symbol.

No points for guessing who owns the Kombi, Neil thought wryly as he

looked through the window at the van parked outside. It was crudely

scrawled with slogans, Ban the Bomb, Viva Che, Make Love Not War, and

clumsy drawings of a smiley face, a two-finger peace sign and the CND

symbol. Bit of an overstatement in his opinion.

City hippies posing as activists were not Neil’s style; he found them

pretentious, and he was glad when the group left ten minutes later. But a

further ten minutes and they were back, re-instating themselves at their

table. Ah well, live and let live.

He ordered another schooner, his nostrils assailed by the smell of

marijuana – they’d been out to share a quick joint, he realised, their clothes

stank of it.

‘Thanks,’ he said, paying the young barmaid and as he took a sip he

heard loud and clear behind him, ‘Love a country boy in cowboy boots,’

from one of the girls. She was stoned and blatantly flirting, goading her

boyfriend, the one she was draped over in the orange Che Guevara T-shirt.

Che Guevara Orange, the taller and more muscular of the men, didn’t

find his girlfriend’s remark at all funny, but the others considered it

hilarious and fell about laughing.

Neil tried to ignore them by reading the labels on the spirits bottles that

sat on the shelves behind the bar, but annoyance flared in him. Bugger the

lot of them, he thought. Out of work by choice I’ll bet, smoking dope and

getting pissed, probably on dole money and all shagging each other under

the bullshit Free Love banner.

When he’d finished his schooner, he checked his watch and was

contemplating whether or not to order another. Still fifteen minutes or so to

go, he thought, why not? And he stood and signalled the barmaid for one

more beer.

At that moment, the door opened and two of the regulars walked in,

older men both of whom knew Neil and his family. They greeted him

warmly.

‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ Bill Farraday said. ‘G’day Neil, good to see you

back from Vietnam and in one piece, all’s the better.’

‘Yeah,’ his mate Maurie agreed, ‘good to have you home safe, son.’

The word ‘Vietnam’ had caught the ear of Che Guevara Orange and he

nudged his mates. There followed a brief muttering among all five and they

turned to stare at Neil.

‘Thanks Bill, thanks Maurie,’ Neil said as the men shook his hand and

patted him heartily on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you too.’

‘Can we buy you a beer?’

‘Nah,’ he picked up the beer the barmaid had placed before him, ‘I’ve

got to go soon, so this’ll be my last.’

‘Give our best to your old man.’

‘Sure will.’

As Bill and Maurie wandered over to the cigarette machine, Neil

decided to down the beer and get out of the place. The hippies were glaring

at him now, openly hostile, nudging each other and muttering a little louder.

‘Go on . . .’ He heard the insistent urging from the girl who’d made the

cowboy boots comment ‘. . . go on, say something.’ They were out to stir

and Neil didn’t want a bar of it. He crossed to the door and opened it, about

to step outside. He’d walk in the direction of the bridge and meet Alan on

the way, he decided.

But Che, in response to his girlfriend’s urging, had sauntered over beer

glass in hand and was suddenly right behind him, hissing in his ear.

‘Where are you off to, baby killer?’

Then another hippy, the skinnier and more weasel-like of the three men,

joined his mate. ‘Trying to get away from us are you, man?’

Neil’s fuse suddenly ignited. Why would I need to get away from you,

you little runt? Whoa, Neil, he told himself, keep your cool, there’s nothing

but trouble for you here.

The girls were right behind their men, egging them on.

‘Kiddie killer,’ Cowboy Boots said.

‘Yeah, yeah, kiddie killer,’ her less imaginative mate echoed.

Neil let go of the handle and the door swung shut. Why should I be the

one forced to get out of the place, his mind reasoned. It’s you bunch of

smartarses who should piss off.

He glared at Cowboy Boots. ‘Why don’t you go and get fucked, you

moll.’

Pretending offence Cowboy Boots appealed to her man. ‘Geoff . . .?’

She saw herself as a rebel with a cause and made a habit of confronting returned soldiers. This one had taken the bait, hook, line and sinker. ‘Geoff,

are you going to let him get away with that?’

Neil glared at Che, now obviously Geoff. ‘Of course he’s going to let

me get away with it, aren’t you, Geoffrey?’ he sneered. ‘Because Geoffrey

hasn’t got the guts to do anything else, have you, Geoffrey.’

‘Don’t bet on it, soldier boy!’ Incensed by the slur upon his masculinity,

Che smashed his beer glass on a table and waved it about threateningly.

‘Think killing innocent civilians is fun, do you, psycho,’ he jeered. ‘Do you,

eh? Do you?’

‘Yeah, gives you a kick killing civilians, does it man,’ Weasel taunted,

egged on by the boldness of his leader.

Something snapped in Neil. ‘You bet it does,’ he said dangerously, ‘and

from where I’m standing, you look like civilians.’ It happened in an instant.

He grasped the wrist that held the broken beer glass and punched Che hard

in the temple, knocking him unconscious. Then he grabbed a fistful of

Weasel’s hair and slammed his face into the brick wall.

‘Hey, there’s no call for violence, man.’ The third hippy quailed at the

sight. ‘We’re only trying to make a point here . . .’ But he didn’t get any

further. Neil’s fist slammed into his jaw and he reeled backwards, crashing

into a table and chairs and falling to the floor stunned.

The two hippy girls were by now screaming. Cowboy Boots dropped to

her knees to tend Che’s unconscious form while her friend wailed like a

banshee.

Bev the young barmaid was frantically dialling the police when Bernie

Hall, the middle-aged publican, came galloping down from upstairs to

discover the cause of the commotion.

Neil remained motionless, appalled by what he’d done.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ Bernie demanded, taking it all in.

Young Durham over there by the door, he’d heard he’d just got back from

Vietnam, the hippies on the floor bleeding like stuck pigs, what the hell had

gone on?

He looked to Bill and Maurie seated at the far end of the bar and

received meaningful glances from both that indicated the hippies and

clearly said it’s not the kid’s fault, it’s the out-of-towners.

‘I’ve rung the police,’ Bev told her boss as she hung up the receiver,

‘they’re on their way.’

‘Good girl,’ Bernie said. Bev had done the right thing, obeying

instructions – ‘Any trouble, you ring the cops,’ he’d told her – but she was a

new girl to Bundy and couldn’t be expected to understand that this situation

was a little different. She didn’t know who Neil was. She didn’t know the

Durham family. In this instance Bernie would have preferred to have been

informed before the cops were called.

He crossed to where young Durham stood. The lad seemed a little

stunned by what had happened. ‘I suggest you go home,’ he said, very

quietly so the others couldn’t hear. ‘Go home, for your own good, son.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Neil snapped out of his semi-dazed state. ‘I’m really sorry,

Bernie . . .’

‘Go home, son,’ Bernie repeated firmly, but gently. ‘Go on home.’

Neil nodded and as he stepped out into the street Bernie glanced at the

hippy, who’d regained consciousness and who, with his girlfriend’s help,

was struggling to his feet and into the nearest chair. Then he crossed to Bill

and Maurie to get a quiet report on what had actually happened.

Outside, Neil started walking in the direction of the bridge, keeping a

lookout for the Holden that would be driving towards him on the other side

of the street. He was overcome with guilt: how could he have allowed that

to happen? He’d seriously risked his re-enlistment should word get out. And

of even greater importance he’d risked damaging the reputation of his

regiment. He’d been lectured on social protocols by senior officers so many

times. He’d disgraced himself and felt thoroughly ashamed.

After collecting Paola at Elianne, Alan had headed for Queens Park as

usual, Paola squirming down low in the seat as she always did during the

drive through the estate, although it was more difficult to conceal herself in

the Holden than it had been in the Land Rover.

When they’d parked and walked to their favourite spot high on the

riverbanks, she’d taken a small gift-wrapped box from the pocket of her

cardigan.

‘Happy birthday, Alan,’ she said handing it to him.

He unwrapped it and opened the box to reveal a shiny silver medallion

with a magnet on the back.

‘It’s for your dashboard,’ she explained, ‘that’s Saint Christopher. He’s

the patron saint of travellers.’

Alan knew exactly what it was. A number of his friends had similar

such medallions, some even had miniature magnetised statues in their cars,

Saint Christopher having become a form of talisman and dashboard

accessory among young drivers. Paola, however, was unaware of this fact.

‘I don’t mean it to be anything religious,’ she hastily added. ‘I know

you’re not a Catholic and that Saint Christopher has no special meaning for

you, but he’ll look after you on your travels . . .’ Visited by a sudden doubt,

she petered off lamely, fearing he might have interpreted the gesture as

some clumsy attempt to convert him. ‘You know, during those long drives

to Brisbane and back . . .’ Her voice tailed away altogether and she looked

down at the medallion wishing now that she hadn’t bought it.

‘Of course he’ll look after me,’ Alan assured her, ‘this is the perfect

present, Paola, I love it.’ He gathered her in his arms and she responded to

his kiss. ‘And I love you,’ he said as they parted. ‘I love you more than

ever. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’ She believed him, she could read the depth of his love in his

eyes, but it didn’t stop the insecurity that gnawed away at her.

Alan sensed a difference in Paola since he’d told her about his sexual

encounter in Brisbane. He’d blurted out the truth two days previously, the

moment they’d met down at the pumping station upon his return to Elianne.

He’d been longing to purge himself of his guilt.

‘I had sex two months ago,’ he’d said as they strolled along the track

beside the river.

Her response had been unexpectedly enigmatic. She hadn’t stopped

walking. She hadn’t even looked at him.

‘An affair,’ she’d queried, ‘or a one-night stand?’

The term and its worldliness had sounded odd coming from Paola, and

he’d found the remoteness of her tone worrying.

‘A one-night stand of course,’ he said. ‘Well a one-afternoon stand

actually,’ he corrected himself and taking her hand he brought her to a halt,

forcing her to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, Paola, truly sorry. It meant nothing, I

can promise you, and it will never happen again I swear. I love you. I will

always love you and no one but you.’

She’d not resisted his kiss, but her reaction to it had been altogether

different. She’d been withdrawn, guarded even. She’s angry, he thought,

angry and hurt, which given the circumstances he found quite justifiable.

‘Please don’t be angry,’ he said, ‘and please forgive me, Paola, I

promise it will never –’

‘I’m not angry,’ she’d interrupted coolly, looking out across the river,

‘and I forgive you.’

Once again he turned her to him, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘We said

that we’d never have secrets from each other, remember? Was it wrong of

me to tell you?’

‘No, Alan, no it wasn’t wrong. I respect your honesty.’ She’d smiled

and added with a worldly shrug that once again seemed a little out of

character, ‘Besides it’s only natural, isn’t it? Men are supposed to

experience sex before marriage.’

Alan had been left confused. He couldn’t have lived with the secret of

his infidelity, which he considered a betrayal on his part, but he sensed that

his admission had subtly changed things. He wasn’t sure how and he didn’t

really know why. To him the situation seemed quite simple, but obviously

to Paola it was not.

Paola was not in the least confused. Paola lived in fear. The

unreasonable wave of doubt that had just now overcome her as she’d given

him the Saint Christopher medallion was symptomatic of a deep-seated

insecurity. She could not rid herself of the sickening sensation upon hearing

those three simple words I had sex . . . Endless connotations had tumbled

through her mind at the time, all her worst fears appearing to have come to

fruition. Of course you’ve had sex, she’d thought, and of course you will

again, you’re a healthy young man with a healthy young man’s appetite.

What will happen when you fall in love with one of these girls you sleep

with . . .? Such thoughts had continued to torment her for the past two days.

Now, as they held each other close, Alan was again aware of the

difference in Paola. She was not as uninhibited as she had been. When they

kissed, he no longer had to call a halt to their passion. Was this a deliberate

act on her part? Was she perhaps punishing him for his indiscretion?

‘It will never happen again, Paola, I swear,’ he said. ‘I’ll sleep with no

one until the day we marry.’ He made the declaration with all solemnity.

‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

She didn’t. ‘I believe you mean what you say.’

‘You don’t trust me, is that it?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do.’

His smile was intended to reassure her, and she smiled in return.

‘I know that I love you. That’s enough.’

‘You’ll be eighteen in five months,’ he said, ‘and we’ll deliver the

ultimatum at Christmas just as we planned: we’ll get engaged with or

without their permission. You know what that means,’ he continued eagerly,

‘it means there’ll be no more sneaking around like this. It means we’ll go to

the pictures and we’ll go dancing at the Palais and at the Surf Club at

Bargara – we’ll be a courting couple.’

His enthusiasm was so disarming that she laughed in spite of herself.

‘We will,’ she said with a positivity she didn’t possess, ‘we most certainly

will.’ She was helpless. There was nothing she could do but wait and see

what happened. The mere thought of losing him terrified her.

They left the park and Alan drove back to the pub to collect Neil, but to

his surprise, he discovered him walking along the street.

The brothers gave each other a wave of acknowledgement and when

Alan had circled and pulled the car into the kerbside he suggested Paola hop

in the back.

‘When we get home to Elianne, stay down low,’ he instructed, ‘and Neil

and I’ll make a show of lairing around.’

Paola obligingly hopped in the back. ‘Hello, Neil,’ she said, but Neil

simply gave her a nod as he climbed into the front passenger seat.

The car took off and Alan glanced at his brother, sensing something was

wrong. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

Neil sat quietly nursing his bruised knuckles. ‘Nothing,’ he said

dismissively, ‘bit of a blue, that’s all,’ and Alan knew better than to enquire

any further.

Back at the pub, the cops had arrived, fifty-year-old Sergeant Buchanan

and young Constable Riley.

‘Been a blue, I take it,’ Clive Buchanan said, glancing at the weasel

hippie with the busted nose.

Bernie Hall nodded. ‘Yep,’ he knew the sergeant well, ‘the bloke who

did it shot through though, don’t know who he was.’

‘He was a baby killer, that’s who he was,’ Cowboy Boots burst out

aggressively.

Clive turned to her with an icy stare. ‘A baby killer,’ he said, ‘by that I

take it you mean a returned soldier?’ How he detested bolshie little pseudo-

activist bitches like this. He could tell at a glance she was no more than

white trash.

‘That’s right.’ Cowboy Boots was undeterred by the copper’s obvious

displeasure. ‘And they knew him what’s more,’ she said pointing an

accusing finger at Bill and Maurie. ‘They knew him all right, those old

bastards. “Good to see you home from Vietnam,” that’s what they said.’ She

included Bernie in her accusation. ‘They all knew him, all three of those

bastards, they’re lying if they say they don’t –’

‘Well, well, are they now? Constable, would you be so kind as to take

down these young people’s details, while I get to the bottom of this.’

Leaving young Sam Riley in charge of the hippies, Clive joined the

three men at the bar.

‘This bloke wouldn’t have been from Elianne by any chance?’ he asked

quietly.

‘No way, Sergeant, no way,’ Bill Farraday said, ‘he was a blow-in from

the south. Murwillumbah, I think, from memory.’

‘Yeah,’ Maurie nodded, ‘definitely a Southerner from over the border,

Mittagong, I thought he said, or was it Merimbula?’

‘Merimbula?’ Clive Buchanan raised an incredulous eyebrow.

Mittagong he could accept, just, but Merimbula? Merimbula was practically

in Victoria. ‘Don’t try too hard, Maurie.’

The four laughed at the joke, Clive the loudest of the lot, and then he

turned back to the hippies.

‘When you’ve finished taking down those details, Constable,’ he

instructed, ‘you might like to point our young friends in the direction of the

hospital.’ He looked at the bolshie troublemaking bitch as if he actually

cared. ‘Your boyfriends really should be seen by a doctor, specially that one

with the busted nose.’

‘Aren’t you going to find the bastard and charge him?’

‘Well, that’d mean you’d all have to come down to the station and make

statements,’ he said pointedly, ‘and that’d mean I’d have to search your

Kombi van,’ he took another brief pause, ‘because I don’t like the smell in

here.’ He looked Che in the eye, ‘if you get my drift.’ He’d probably find

more than dope in the van, he thought. Stolen goods wouldn’t surprise him. These weren’t your harmless, layabout hippies. This lot was scum, out to

cause trouble.

‘No worries, Sergeant,’ Che quickly responded, ‘it was all just a bit of a

misunderstanding.’ He grabbed Cowboy Boots by the arm. ‘We’ll get going

if it’s all right with you.’

‘Nothing would suit me better,’ Clive Buchanan winked, ‘and it’d be a

real smart move on your part.’

The following day, just as Neil had predicted, he and Alan were put to

work by their father. Alan’s one-week holiday and Neil’s recent return from

Vietnam were no excuse for idleness during the crushing season, when all

hands were needed.

The weather forecast was ideal for the burning that was planned that

evening, the most important factor being the wind, which was expected to

be consistent, and in the late afternoon Neil and Alan joined Luigi Fiorelli

and the several field workers who were preparing the portion of block 31

that was to be ignited. The plantation was divided into large numbered

blocks separated by six-metre-wide grassy ‘headlands’ or carriage ways.

The thousand tonnes to be burned that evening, an area of approximately

ten hectares, constituted roughly half of block 31 and preparation called for

the forcing of a path through the cane to form a separate block and create a

firebreak.

Luigi, as field boss, selected the particular path they would follow

through the rows of cane, which were distanced one and a half metres apart.

Then he led the way in a tractor fitted with a break row pusher that

separated the cane, flattening it back against the adjacent rows on either

side, Neil, Alan and the others following behind raking away the ‘trash’, or

dry dead leaf of the stalk, which was highly flammable. Burning was a

complex process carried out by those with experience and the Durham

brothers had been trained in the practice from the age of fifteen, but it was

Luigi, one of the plantation’s most senior and experienced workers, who

would lead the team that night.

Stanley Durham himself would be watching from the lookout tower at

the mill, which had been designed specifically to monitor burnings. Stan the

Man loved the spectacle and all that it represented. My grandfather stood

right here in this very spot, he would think. Big Jim had surveyed his realm

in just the way he was now doing as he’d looked out at the mighty fires of yesteryear. Even more than the spectacle, Stanley Durham loved the sense

of history that burnings evoked.

The burning of cane prior to harvesting had been introduced in the

thirties as a preventative measure against Weil’s disease and was now

standard procedure. In the days when cane had been cut green the

horrendous effects of Weil’s disease, which was spread by the urine of rats

that at times reached plague proportions, had presented an often-fatal threat

to cane cutters.

In earlier times, vast expanses of cane had been burnt, but during recent

years more contained burns had been introduced upon the discovery that a

higher-quality sugar resulted if the cut cane was delivered to the mill as

quickly as possible, preferably within twenty-four hours. Smaller burns

allowed for easier and therefore speedier pick-up and delivery.

Whether larger or smaller areas, however, the burning of sugar cane

was, as it had been for the past thirty years, a spectacular affair. Word would

get around among locals, and kids would be piled into the back of utes and

driven to watch the show.

Tonight proved no exception. By seven o’clock, as the ten-man team

made its final preparations, twenty or more children of workers who lived

on the estate were waiting expectantly, together with several carloads of

families who’d driven from nearby South Kolan.

Paola and her brother, upon their father’s instruction, had been elected

to oversee the younger unaccompanied local children whose parents were

working their shifts in the mill or the cookhouse or out in the field. Fully

versed in the procedure after much past experience, Paola and fifteen-year-

old Georgio kept their young charges well back in the safety zone and

waited for the spectacle to unfold.

Clad in combination overalls and hats, the crew watched as Luigi lit a

small trash fire on the headland to check the wind direction, which as

predicted was a moderate and steady south-easterly. He’d outlined the plan

to his men, and Neil and Alan, who would be doing the firing, stood at the

ready with trickle burners fuelled by four parts diesel to one part petrol. The

other members of the crew carried shovels in order to pitch dirt on

outbreaks of fire caused by cinders from burning trash. They would protect

the surrounding cane, particularly block 30 to the north, and in doing so

control the course of the blaze.

Working their way south against the direction of the prevailing wind

towards the cane-break prepared earlier in the day, the team’s all-important

opening strategy was to create a back burn of around twenty metres at the

top of block 31. They would then circle the selected section, Neil firing

from the eastern perimeter and Alan from the west, the back-up team

carefully guarding against any flash fires, and the final firing would be

made from the cane break to the south. By that time the intensity of the

blaze would have created its own updraft, which, being greater than the

prevailing wind, would result in a contained combustion.

The team was now in position awaiting Luigi’s order to commence

firing and Alan, closest to the Italian, caught his eye as Luigi checked

everything was in readiness. Once again he couldn’t help but register the

man’s animosity. Luigi Fiorelli, normally good-natured, had been surly all

afternoon and his surliness had been plainly directed at Alan.

Alan knew why, or rather he could guess: it seemed only too obvious.

Someone had seen Paola in the Holden. Someone must have seen us driving

off together yesterday, he thought, and whoever it was told her father.

He’d waited throughout the afternoon for Luigi to take him aside and

say something, but Luigi hadn’t. Luigi had done nothing but glower.

Alan had wondered also whether Paola had been challenged by her

father, but upon seeing her ten minutes previously gathering her young

brood together to watch the burning she’d displayed no sign as she’d given

him a cheerful wave. Ah well, he thought philosophically, I’ll just have to

wait for the big confrontation. Luigi won’t be able to resist. He’s hardly one

to keep things to himself.

Luigi Fiorelli gave the command and the Durham brothers commenced

firing, the burning was now under way.

When the twenty-metre back burn had been successfully completed and

the fire was slowly and steadily burning against the wind, Neil and Alan

commenced their way down the block’s eastern and western perimeters.

Two crew members remained at the northern headland to protect block 30,

while the others split into teams following Alan and Neil. Luigi, working

with a shovel alongside his men, remained with the team on the western

side, which, given the wind’s direction, was more likely to produce flash

fires.

All was going according to plan. The blaze was magnificent, and the

onlookers were already ooh-ing and ah-ing by the time Alan and his team

reached the cane break where they were to make their way through to the

eastern side.

By now the heat was intense, and upon entering the break men held up

their shovels to guard their faces, Alan continuing to forge ahead firing

while his back-up crew carefully monitored the potential for the wrong side

of the break to ignite.

They were halfway through. The blaze was about to reach its

spectacular finale when the fires from the back burn and the cane break

would meet, but things took a sudden unexpected turn. The wind changed.

As if by wilful and deliberate design, it suddenly veered to bear down from

the north-east, forcing the flames towards Alan where he was in the unlit

portion of the cane break. Behind him, the men were able to make their

escape through the already burnt section, but overcome by the heat and the

lack of oxygen, Alan found himself losing focus. The world started to spin

hazily around him and before he knew it he was falling to the ground as if

in slow motion.

He was barely conscious when he landed. The last thing he remembered

was the strength of the man who picked him up bodily. He felt himself

slung like a bag of chaff over a powerful pair of shoulders. Then everything

went black.

By now the intensity of the fire and its gases had created an updraft of

such strength that despite the wind change all went according to plan. The

fires from the back burn and cane break met in one final magnificent

crescendo. Here was the show that the onlookers had come for, a great wall

of fire, envelopes of flame exploding twenty metres above the cane, a

pyrotechnic display of spectacular proportions.

Then, like magic, the fire devoured itself. As if exhausted by its own

power, it suddenly became nothing. The cacophony of explosions abruptly

halted and darkness descended upon block 31. All that remained was a huge

pall of smoke spiralling ever upwards.

The onlookers enthusiastically applauded another magnificent show,

and up in his lookout tower Stan the Man gave a nod of satisfaction,

unaware that he had nearly lost his younger son. But then, with the

exception of one man, no one knew that Alan Durham had been on the verge of asphyxiation. His own team members, in making their escape, had

assumed he was right behind them. Only Luigi Fiorelli had seen him fall.

Alan had quickly regained consciousness after being carried from the

cane break. Now he stood in the semi-darkness, Luigi beside him, watching

the fire’s dying moments.

He turned to the Italian. ‘Thank you,’ he said, but he could see in the

eyes that glinted back at him the direst of anger.

‘You will respect my daughter,’ Luigi said. He’d retained his silence all

afternoon, having made a promise to his wife when Maria had once again

fought Alan’s case. ‘He took her for a drive, Luigi,’ Maria had said,

‘nothing more, he is a good boy.’ But Luigi could contain himself no longer.

Alan was not a ‘boy’, Alan was a man and Luigi would trust no man with

his daughter, even this man who had been like a second son to him. ‘You

will respect my daughter,’ he repeated threateningly, ‘or I will kill you.’

‘I have always respected your daughter, Luigi,’ Alan met the Italian’s

gaze unflinchingly, ‘and I always will.’

Luigi believed him. The anger left his eyes. ‘Good,’ he said simply and

he looked away at the cane field.

Alan wanted to declare his love for Paola there and then. He wanted at

that very moment to beg Luigi’s permission to marry his daughter. But he

knew that he must honour the pact he’d made with Paola and so he said

nothing. Instead he stood beside her father, this man who had just saved his

life, and together they stared silently out at the smouldering cane.

In deference to Luigi, Alan did not invite Paola for another drive in the

Holden. Not through fear of the Italian, for he knew Luigi believed he

would not take advantage of his daughter, but it would be disrespectful, he

decided, to flaunt their relationship until they were ready to declare

themselves.

For the remaining four days of Alan’s stay at Elianne the young couple’s

trysts were kept to a walk along the river track from the pumping station to

the weir at the end of their daily work shifts. Then Alan returned to

Brisbane.

Neil’s announcement over breakfast three days after his brother’s

departure resulted in the volatile reaction he had expected, although at first

his father had refused to believe him.

‘Don’t be bloody stupid, boy,’ Stanley Durham had growled. ‘Join the

army? How absurd, your career’s right here, you belong to Elianne.’

‘Not any more, Dad, I belong to the army, or rather I intend to. I’m

driving down to Brisbane today to join up at Enoggera Barracks. I’ll be

back tomorrow to work through the rest of my service leave, though,’ he

quickly added – he felt guilty deserting them during the busy crushing

season. Mind you, he was hardly indispensable. They’d been managing

perfectly well without him for the past two years.

During the stunned silence that followed, Hilda managed to stammer,

‘But if you join the army, they’ll send you back to Vietnam, Neil.’

‘Yes they will, Mum. There’s a war on.’

The seriousness of the situation had finally registered with Stan and his

son’s glib response annoyed him even further. Jumping to his feet, he roared

and ranted about the breakfast room, smashing his fist on the table and the

sideboard, rattling cutlery and crockery, mouthing oaths and casting threats

at his son while Hilda tried to stop things from breaking and Neil watched

in silence. There were only the three of them present. Bartholomew was

unwell and had taken to his bed. Ivy was delivering his breakfast to his

quarters.

‘Damn you, boy! If you leave now, you don’t come back, you hear me?

I’ll disown you! I’ll bloody well disown you for the ingrate you are! Christ

Almighty, you have the world handed to you on a plate and you turn your

nose up at it? You deny your own family? You’re no son of mine, you hear

me! You’re no son of mine! I’ll disown you!’

Neil sat quietly throughout the entire performance, seeing nothing but

bluster and knowing that deep down his father was suffering hurt more than

anger. He wondered how he could have allowed himself to be so

intimidated for so long by this man who loved him so fiercely.

His son’s continued silence was driving Stan to distraction. ‘Haven’t

you got a bloody word to say for yourself?’ he roared. ‘Cat got your tongue,

boy? Speak, for Christ’s sake!’

‘I’m sorry to let you down.’

A pause. ‘That’s it? That’s all!’

Neil nodded.

‘Right. Right. Well that’s that then. Go and sign up, but don’t come back

here when you have.’ Stan returned to his seat and abruptly sat. He stared down at his congealed eggs and gave a peremptory wave of his hand.

‘That’s that. You’re disinherited as of now.’

Neil stood. ‘I’ll be home for Christmas, Dad,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you

then.’

Hilda rose and fluttered about ineffectually trying to restore peace. ‘Of

course you will dear, of course you will.’

Stan ignored them both as he attacked his eggs, but his hands were

shaking.

‘Bloody hell!’ Alan rarely swore, but he was too agog with amazement

to do anything else. Neil had telephoned to say he was in Brisbane and

wanted to meet up. He had some news, he’d said.

They’d decided upon a steak and a beer at Brekky Creek that Saturday.

The pub as usual was crowded, but it was a blustery winter’s day and most

drinkers were inside so they had the beer garden pretty much to themselves.

Alan shook his head in disbelief. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said again, ‘you’ve

actually gone and done it, have you?’

‘Yep, joined up two days ago, it’s what I really want to do.’

‘Wow.’ Alan looked at his brother with newfound respect. Much as he

loved Neil, he’d never once seen him stand up to their father. Indeed it was

a sight he’d never expected that he would see. ‘Good for you, mate,’ he

said. ‘What was Dad’s reaction?’

‘The full histrionics, as you can imagine. I’ve been disowned,

disinherited and am never again to darken the doors of Elianne.’

‘Crikey, what’ll you do?’

‘I’ll go home for Christmas,’ Neil said with a grin, and they both

laughed.

But even as they laughed, Alan wondered how his father would cope

when the time came. Disowned elder son returns to the fold and younger

son announces his engagement to a Catholic, he thought. It’s going to be a

rocky old Christmas all right.

When Neil rang Kate, as he’d promised he would in order to keep her

abreast of the news, her reaction was much the same. What a heck of a

Christmas it promises to be, she thought. She’d decided to bring the ledgers

back to Elianne this year, together with her completed translation. She

would at long last share them with Alan, as she had originally intended.

Then if and when he deemed the time right they would present them to their father. The decision to reveal the secrets of the past would no longer be hers

alone.

Having made her plan, Kate felt a strange sense of freedom. She hadn’t

realised what a continual distraction the diaries had become. Busy as she’d

been with her studies and her causes, they were somehow always there in

the dim recesses of her mind. Was it nearly three years since she’d first

discovered them? Had it really been that long, she now thought as she

strode through Prince Alfred Park on her regular Saturday morning work-

out, wishing as she always did that Cobber and Ben were trotting along

beside her.

She stepped into Chalmers Street and continued briskly towards

Cleveland, where the bridge would take her over the railway tracks and

back in the direction of Glebe. I can put Ellie and the past aside for a while,

she thought thankfully, until Christmas anyway.

On the opposite side of the road up ahead she saw the sign that said

Madigan’s Plumbing Services and slowed a little, wondering vaguely

whether Frank was back from Melbourne. She looked across at the

shopfront and even contemplated popping inside to enquire, but decided

against it.

‘G’day, Kate.’

As she’d set off at speed once again she’d all but collided with him. He

was on his way to work.

‘Oh hello, Frank,’ she said, ‘I was just wondering if you were back.’

‘Been back for over a fortnight now,’ he said, ‘I bought a little terrace in

Surry Hills. Want to come into the shop and have a coffee? I’ll show you

around.’

‘I’d love to so long as I’m not in the way.’

‘No, no, I’m not booked out on a job until ten. Just paperwork in the

meantime and I’ll grab any excuse to avoid that.’

‘Good. Consider me your excuse.’

They crossed the road and entered the shop.

‘G’day, Dad.’ Frank greeted the man sitting behind the counter hunched

over a book of crossword puzzles. ‘This is Kate Durham. My dad, Pete,’ he

said to Kate.

‘Hello, Mr Madigan.’

The man rose and circled the counter to offer his hand. He’s every bit

the older version of Frank, Kate thought, a little less lanky in frame and

sandy-haired rather than dark, but with the same grey-blue eyes, even the

same lazy smile, although it was a little lop-sided, she noted, probably the

result of his stroke.

‘Pete, please,’ he insisted as they shook, ‘no one ever calls me Mister.’

The brogue was distinctly Irish, despite the fact that Pete Madigan had been

in the country for thirty-five years.

‘Hello, Pete,’ she said with a smile.

Frank introduced her to the young girl, Alice, no more than sixteen, who

was working on the window display. ‘Would you rustle us up a couple of

coffees, thanks Alice?’ he said.

‘Sure, Frank.’

‘I’ll leave you to the hard yakka, Dad,’ he said, and Pete returned to his

book of crossword puzzles. ‘The man’s addicted,’ Frank added loudly for

his father’s benefit, ‘they’re not even cryptic – designed for simpletons,’ but

Pete chose to ignore the jibe.

As Frank gave her a brief guided tour, Kate was surprised to find the

place far bigger than she’d expected.

‘I won’t show you upstairs,’ he said, ‘that’s Dad’s private domain and

he’s a messy old bugger.’ Pete lived in the rooms above the shop and had

done for years. There were two offices downstairs, one where a motherly,

middle-aged woman called Rose was typing away furiously.

‘Rose runs the whole business,’ Frank said upon introduction. ‘We’d be

lost without her.’

‘Bullshit,’ Rose replied good-naturedly, which rather surprised Kate.

He showed her his own office, and then they retired to the tea room,

where Alice was making the coffee.

‘There’s a store room out the back and a small workshop,’ he said, ‘but I

don’t reckon they’d be of much interest to you. We’ve got our own car park

though, with rear access via the back lane, where Dad houses the vans.

Having off-street inner-city parking’s a huge bonus.’

‘The place is so much bigger than it appears,’ she said as they sat and he

poured the coffee from the jug Alice placed on the table before them.

‘Yeah, like I told you, the old man’s done really well for himself.’

They sat talking for nearly three quarters of an hour, the conversation

not flagging for one moment.

He asked after her brother, who he presumed had by now returned from

Vietnam, and was astonished to hear that Neil had signed up to join the

regular army.

‘How remarkable,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I was absolutely gobsmacked to be quite honest

and I still am, but he has his own reasons, so . . .’ She shrugged.

Frank tastefully made no further enquiries, but their discussion turned to

the reception Vietnam veterans were receiving upon return from active

service.

‘Whatever your feelings are about the war,’ he said, ‘it’s a shocking

thing not to show respect for these men and what they’ve been through. Do

you know, there are reports that some soldiers have had their uniforms spat

on as they walk down the street?’

Kate agreed with a passion. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Neil told me that he’d

heard stories of returned nashos being reviled even in RSL clubs. Good

God, the Returned Servicemen’s League!’ she exclaimed, outraged at the

thought. ‘If they can’t support the nashos, who can? What have these men

been doing if not serving their country? It’s absolutely disgusting . . .’

On and on they went, and it was only when they’d drunk the entire jug

of coffee and eaten half the plate of shortbread biscuits Alice had set out

that Kate looked at her watch to discover it was a quarter to ten.

‘Good grief,’ she said, jumping to her feet, ‘you have to be out on a job

at ten.’

‘You’re quite right, I do.’ He stood. ‘What a pity. I could have gone on

chatting all day.’

She smiled. ‘Ah well, another time.’

‘Indeed.’

But strangely enough, he didn’t nominate another time.

‘Goodbye, Pete, goodbye, Alice, thanks for the coffee,’ she said as they

walked through the shop.

‘See you, Kate,’ Pete called.

‘No trouble,’ Alice said and, after bidding a farewell to Frank, Kate

stepped outside and continued on her way down Chalmers Street.

She was intrigued and more than a little mystified. There was no vanity

at all in Kate Durham, but she was accustomed to repelling men’s advances

not wondering why they had offered none. She and Frank were like-minded

people with a passion for justice and an enjoyment of conversation and the

sharing of views. They had a great deal in common and she sensed that he

found her attractive. Why had he made no specific offer to meet again?

Why had he left the possibility simply to chance?

She could create the chance herself if need be. But she would find out.

The man was clearly not shy. There had to be a reason.

 

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