Chapter Thirteen

 

 

Kate called into Madigan’s Plumbing Services mid-morning on

Saturday, but Frank wasn’t there.

‘He’s out on a job,’ Pete said. ‘Shouldn’t be all that long, he left pretty

early. I’d say he’ll be back by midday.’

‘Thanks, Pete.’

She returned on the dot of twelve.

‘G’day, Kate.’ He was pleased to see her. ‘Dad said you’d called

around. Want a coffee?’

‘Why don’t we grab a sandwich and go to the park? It’s lunchtime. I’m

starving, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, sure, good idea.’

After buying ham and salad rolls and takeaway coffees from the milk

bar on the corner, Kate insisting upon paying for hers, they walked into

Prince Alfred Park, where they sat on a bench looking at the view of the

city skyline.

They talked pleasantly as they ate, exchanging notes about their

respective Christmas and New Year experiences, then Kate rather abruptly

changed the conversation. ‘Do you like the theatre, Frank?’

‘Um . . . yes, yes, I do.’ He was a little taken aback by the non sequitur

– he’d been telling her about the New Year’s Eve party he’d spent aboard a

builder mate’s boat on Sydney Harbour. ‘I don’t go all that often,’ he

admitted, ‘in fact I haven’t been once since I shifted back to Sydney, but in

Melbourne –’

‘I’m particularly fond of the Old Tote Theatre,’ she said, ‘their

productions are excellent. Not that I’m an aficionado on the subject,’ she

added. ‘Anyway, I was wondering whether you might like to come along

with me one evening.’

Her eyes didn’t waver as they met his, defying him to offer any valid

reason why he shouldn’t take her up on the offer.

‘Which particular evening did you have in mind?’ he asked.

You’re hedging, Frank. ‘No particular evening,’ she said. You’re not

getting out of it that easily. ‘Any that would suit you. Just name the day.’

As he hesitated she continued to study him unwaveringly. You’re

cornered aren’t you? You’re trying to figure a way out. ‘Are you married,

Frank?’ she asked.

The baldness of her question startled him. ‘No. No I’m not, why do you

ask?’

‘I’m interested to know why you never suggest we go out somewhere

together,’ she shrugged, ‘the theatre, a jazz band, a pub, whatever.’ Kate

was aware she was being extremely confronting, but she was determined to

force an answer from him. ‘When we meet up by chance we get on very

well, so why is it that you don’t want to further our friendship?’

Her tactic worked, he stopped being evasive and answered her directly.

‘I don’t believe you’re aware of my background, Kate.’ She offered no hint

either way, but waited for him to go on, so he did. ‘My mother was

Aboriginal,’ he said. ‘Or rather she was what they used to call “half-caste”,’

he added dryly. ‘Her mother, my grandmother, was a Wiradjuri woman and

my grandfather was the foreman on a farm near Wagga Wagga.’

Frank waited for the reaction he was accustomed to receiving upon the

revelation that he was black. Surprise and disbelief to start with, then shock

and amazement followed by a distinct change in attitude, but once again,

she stumped him.

‘I see. And that means we can’t be friends, does it?’

‘Of course it doesn’t,’ he protested. ‘I know that working with Charlie

as you do you have many Aboriginal friends. It’s just that . . .’ He started to

waver.

‘Frank.’ Kate decided to cut to the chase. ‘I’m not seeking an affair, if

that’s what’s worrying you. The last thing I want at this stage in my life is a full-on relationship and I really mean that. But good friends are rare and I

like you. I’d like to get to know you. Won’t you let me?’

Frank relaxed and smiled his lazy smile. ‘Of course I will; how could I

refuse such an offer?’ I would very much enjoy being friends with you, he

thought, frustrating though it may prove. He’d found Kate Durham hugely

attractive from the moment he’d first met her, what man wouldn’t, but he’d

deliberately kept his distance, knowing they couldn’t have an affair. For all

her dedication to the cause, she came from a different world. ‘Friends it is,

then,’ he said. ‘So what do you want to know about me? Fire away.’

‘I’d like to know about your mother for starters. What was she like?’

‘No idea, I never knew her, but very beautiful I’m told. At least that’s

what Dad says, and from the odd photograph I’ve seen, he’s not lying. They

were together for three years. She was ten years younger, and he was madly

in love with her, but she wouldn’t marry him.’ Frank grinned. ‘Which

makes me a bastard into the bargain,’ he said. But the grin quickly faded as

he added, ‘She shot through on the old man when I was eighteen months

old and I grew up spending the whole of my life hating her for it, at least

until a couple of years ago.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘Charlie Perkins. Meeting Charlie, getting involved in the fight for

Aboriginal rights, learning about my mother’s people, finding out who I

was. Charlie changed my life.’

Kate nodded. ‘Charlie’s changed the lives of a lot of people,’ she said.

‘He certainly has. But strangely enough he didn’t tell me anything my

father hadn’t already told me. It’s just that I refused to believe Dad until I

met Charlie.’

Intrigued, she waited for him to continue.

‘My old man did things hard in those early years, bringing up a child on

his own,’ Frank explained, ‘but he wouldn’t hear a word against my mother.

Not one word. I remember him sitting me down and giving me a lecture

when I was about ten and an angry kid. “You mustn’t blame your mum,” he

said, “she was restless. She wanted to go back to the bush.” He told me she

would never have stayed in the city at all if it hadn’t been for him. “She felt

trapped in Sydney,” he said. Dad reckons if he’d gone back to the bush with

her they’d still be together, but he’d wanted to start a business, so they

stayed. Then one morning he woke up to find her gone. He blamed himself, still does, says he did a bad thing. “I deprived her of her freedom,” he told

me. “Your mother’s people they’re a different breed altogether, son, you’ve

got to understand that.” But I couldn’t understand it; I refused to understand

it. I spent most of my life in denial, living as a white man, not interested in

anything to do with the blackfella part of me. That is until Charlie came

along.’

Frank laughed fondly at the memory. ‘When we first met I told Charlie

about Dad and what he’d told me and Charlie simply said, “Your old man’s

spot on, mate.” Then he told me to go and find out for myself. So I did.’

‘You went in search of your mother?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did you find her?’

He shook his head. ‘She’d been dead for eight years – usual blackfella

causes, diabetes, renal failure. Barely made it to fifty. But I met a lot of her

mob. Some of them sadly were lost souls, probably like my mother since

she hooked up with the wrong bloke, and some were living full and happy

lives. They welcomed me into their extended family once they knew I was

Wiradjuri. I learned such a lot, Kate, more than I could possibly tell you. I

have only one regret. I should have learned it sooner. I should have learned

it much, much sooner.’

‘Forgive the cliché, but better late than never, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I most certainly would.’ He drained the last of his coffee. ‘So now that

you know all about me, when do we go to the theatre?’

‘Next Friday.’

‘What’s on?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said collecting up the refuse that sat beside her on

the bench. ‘I’ll have to check it out.’

They put their rubbish in a nearby bin and left the park.

It was late March when Alan finally rang his sister. He’d had the diaries

for almost three months. He’d read through Kate’s translations twice, very

slowly, and he’d compared the dates in the ledgers and read the bits and

pieces here and there that his schoolboy French could grasp, hearing as

Kate had the voice of his great-grandmother. Then he’d thought for a

further fortnight about the diaries’ revelations and the havoc they would

wreak upon the family before making the phone call.

‘Bloody hell,’ were the first words he said. ‘You weren’t wrong.’

‘Yep.’ No need to ask what he was talking about. ‘You can see why I’ve

been in such a quandary. We have to talk, Al. I’ll come up to Brisbane

during the one-week term break in May and we’ll discuss what to do.’

‘Don’t bother coming up,’ he said, ‘there’s no point.’

‘No point!’ She was taken aback. ‘But we have to make a decision

about whether we tell the family. We have to –’

‘There’s only one decision we can make, Kate,’ he said. ‘I’ve given the

matter a lot of thought, believe me. They have to know the truth whether

they like it or not, every single sordid detail. They have to read the diaries

for themselves.’

‘Oh God, do you really think so?’ Even as she voiced the question, Kate

knew he was right.

‘I don’t think so, I know so,’ he said. ‘They can’t keep living this lie the

way they do, it’s ridiculous. Dad’s modelled himself on Big Jim the hero

and Mum lives out the past like it’s a romance novel – the whole thing’s

wrong.’

‘Poor Marmee,’ Kate said, ‘the truth’ll probably kill her.’

‘No it won’t,’ the reply came briskly down the line. ‘Mum’ll invent

some other romantic slant, Ellie the martyr or whatever. The truth’s far

more likely to kill Dad.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I know.’

‘We might as well leave it until Christmas, when we can front them

together. They’ve been living in ignorance the whole of their lives, can’t do

any harm to leave things a bit longer.’

‘Good idea,’ Kate said, grateful for her brother’s support. ‘We don’t

need to tell Grandpa though, do we? That is,’ she added regretfully, ‘if he’s

still with us at Christmas.’

‘Not if you don’t want to. Although it’s quite possible Grandpa might

know, Kate. Ever think about that?’

‘Yes, I’ve thought about it a lot, but something tells me he doesn’t, and

if that’s the case, I don’t want to disillusion him at the end of his life.’

‘Fair enough.’

Much as she dreaded the prospect of confronting her parents with the

truth Kate felt immensely relieved that the decision had at last been taken

out of her hands.

‘Thanks, Al,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Several months later, Neil rang to say goodbye.

‘I’m off in a couple of weeks, Kate,’ he said as if he was leaving on

holiday, ‘just called to say cheerio.’ He’d been telephoning her regularly as

he’d promised he would and they’d always spoken in their customary light-

hearted vein. This time was to prove no different. There was no

acknowledgement of the danger he faced, and Kate played things his way,

aware that he wanted no drama.

‘Keep working hard,’ he said just before he hung up, ‘we’re all very

proud of you, Kate. I expect no less than a pass with honours in this final

year.’

‘And I expect you to write regularly,’ she said, deliberately sounding

like a schoolmistress, ‘if not each week, then at least on a fortnightly basis.’

‘Don’t I always?’ he replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

Then she could hear the seriousness as he added, ‘You’re the one person I

really do write to, Kate, the one person who doesn’t get the duty letters. I

find it a great comfort, confiding in you the way I know I can.’

Glad that the conversation was ending on a serious note, Kate took the

plunge. ‘I love you, Neil,’ she said.

‘Love you too, Sis, always have, always will. Bye.’

No one was sure exactly how the rumour started, although in actual fact

it had been young Beth, the typist at Elianne’s office, where Paola served as

receptionist behind the front desk. Beth had seen the ring on the chain about

Paola’s neck one day in the ladies’ toilet. The ring and its crucifix

companion had inadvertently swung into view through the open neck of

Paola’s blouse as she’d leant over the washbasin.

Beth had ooh-ed and ah-ed and Paola had blushed and denied any

special significance as she’d tucked the ring away out of sight, but Beth

wasn’t stupid. Beth could add up two and two. Beth knew Paola was going

out with Alan Durham, and she couldn’t wait to tell her friends.

At first it had been no more than supposition and girlish gossip passed

around among young women who shared a penchant for romance. But as

rumours tend to do, it swiftly took on more substantial proportions, until

one day . . .

‘G’day, Stan. I believe congratulations are in order.’

Stan had been on his way up to the mill when he’d bumped into Garry

Gregg coming out of the mess hall near the cookhouse. Garry was Elianne’s Sugar Boiler and an expert at his trade, as was essential. It was Garry’s job

to tend the giant vats, maintaining the correct pressure and temperature. He

would taste the sugar in its liquid state, testing it for purity, and then make

adjustments where necessary. Responsible as he was for the very quality of

the product, Garry Gregg was without doubt one of the mill’s most

important employees and therefore on easy terms with Stan.

‘Congratulations about what?’ Stan asked as the two men walked on

together towards the mill where, from the chimney, smoke belched

unrelentingly into the air. Garry was returning to work after his brief

morning-tea break.

‘Young Alan’s engagement of course. I’ve heard it’s now official with a

ring and all the trimmings.’ Like many, Garry had been surprised to hear

that Stanley Durham was allowing his son to marry the daughter of an

employee and a Catholic one at that, but he was nonetheless pleased. ‘And

keeping it in the Elianne family, Stan, that’s really good news. She’s a

lovely girl, Paola, I’m sure they’ll be very happy.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Stan growled, he couldn’t trust himself to say anything more,

‘yes, yes.’ If Garry Gregg knew then the whole damn mill knew. It would

appear he was the only one who’d been kept in the dark. What the bloody

hell was Luigi up to, allowing this nonsense?

He left Garry without another word and stormed off across the railway

track towards the office fifty metres or so from the mill, halting briefly as he

passed the sugar shed.

‘Get Luigi Fiorelli,’ he barked at one of the workers. ‘Tell him I want to

see him in my office, and tell him I mean right now!’

‘Yes, Boss.’ Young Andy sprinted for the mill; you jumped to it quick

smart when the Boss was in one of his moods.

Inside the massive steel maze the noise was overwhelming, as Goliath-

like machines went about their tasks chopping and crushing and mashing

with demonic persistence. Giant wheels and rollers and presses seemed set

in perpetual motion, rhythmic and relentless like the inside workings of a

colossal watch.

Luigi was on one of the upper levels, overseeing the activity below.

‘Hey, Luigi!’ Andy screamed at the top of his lungs in an attempt to be

heard above the din. ‘Hey, Luigi!’ He waved as he screamed, ‘The Boss

wants you!’

Luigi saw rather than heard young Andy. What on earth was the boy

doing without a tin hat? The wearing of tin hats was mandatory at all times

in the mill – Luigi himself had made it a rule. He climbed down the steep

steps, bent on admonishing Andy.

‘Why you have no tin hat?’ he demanded at the top of his voice,

stabbing a finger repeatedly at the boy’s head. During the crushing season,

Luigi communicated a great deal by mime; he found gestures most

effective.

‘The Boss wants to see you,’ Andy yelled. ‘And he said right now!’

They left the mill together.

‘He didn’t seem in a very good mood,’ Andy warned when they were

outside and the noise had abated to a dull roar.

‘Next time you have tin hat,’ Luigi ordered once again pointing to

Andy’s bare head.

‘But the Boss –’

‘I don’ care, tin hat in mill.’

Waving the boy away, Luigi started towards the office and as he did he

saw Paola step out of the main doors. They walked towards each other,

meeting halfway in the dust fifty metres between the office and the mill.

‘Why you leave work?’ he asked. She looks worried, he thought.

‘Mr Durham told me to go to lunch,’ she said.

‘But is not lunchtime.’

‘He was angry, Papa. He knows, I can tell.’

‘Non ti preoccupari, Paola,’ he took her hand in both of his reassuringly,

‘andrà tutto bene. Prometto.’

Paola smiled tremulously. Her father’s promise that everything would

be all right was of some comfort, but it did not stop her worrying. Stanley

Durham frightened her.

Stanley Durham did not, however, frighten Luigi.

‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’ Stan demanded the moment

the Italian had closed the office door behind him. He did not invite Luigi to

sit, nor did he sit himself, instead the two faced each other squarely across

the large office desk. ‘What’s possessed you, man! Are you mad? The

whole idea’s preposterous!’ Stan was in one of his ranting moods. ‘Why in

God’s name would you grant permission for your daughter to marry my

son! Give me one good reason. Why the hell would you do that!’

‘They are in love.’

Stan was flabbergasted. ‘In love, you have to be joking. You think it’s

that simple.’

‘Si.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Luigi, don’t take me for a fool. You’re telling me

you’d allow your daughter to marry a Protestant, you of all people!’

Luigi paused, uncertain how to respond. Stanley Durham did not know

that his son planned to convert. But then Alan had said his father had not

taken the situation seriously, that he’d dismissed the idea altogether. Stan

the Man obviously underestimated the scale of his son’s intent. But it is not

my place to tell him this, Luigi thought. Alan will do so when the time is

right.

‘I think,’ he said with great care, ‘is best I allow my daughter to decide.’

Stan had noted the Italian’s hesitance and now studied him shrewdly.

What was Luigi after? He appeared to have a plan. Was he misguided

enough to think that a union between his daughter and the Boss’s son might

gain him wealth and elevate his family to a position of power? Such self-

interest seemed out of keeping with the Italian, but of course greed altered

every man’s perspective.

‘What do you hope to profit from this, Luigi?’ he asked. ‘You must

realise that I am quite prepared to disinherit my son should he insist upon

following such a path. You and your daughter and family would not

benefit.’

Luigi found Stanley Durham’s suggestion not only surprising, but

deeply insulting. There had been a time when he and Stan had been on the

friendliest of terms. Their children had grown up together. Always they had

maintained the distance dictated by their status, but never once had they

been disrespectful to one another.

‘I seek nothing,’ he said coldly.

‘Good. Because there will be nothing. There will be nothing for you or

your daughter or your brothers and their wives, there will be nothing for any

of you, I hope you understand that.’

‘You would insult the Fiorelli family?’ Luigi’s eyes flashed dangerously,

but he contained his anger. ‘You are a brave man to do such a thing, Mr

Stan.’

Stan suddenly realised that he’d gone too far, and in no insignificant

way. Luigi’s response carried an inherent threat that even he in his position

would be foolish to ignore. Luigi Fiorelli was a proud man. So were his

brothers. And his brothers’ sons, now men, were also proud. One did not

insult a powerful clan like the Fiorellis.

‘I intend no insult to your family, Luigi,’ he said stiffly, ‘I simply wish

to make myself clear.’

‘You make yourself clear, I understand. Now I make myself clear. Alan

and Paola, they have my blessing. They have the blessing of my family.

What you do . . .’ Luigi gave a dismissive shrug; his flash of anger had

passed ‘. . . what you do, it is your business.’

‘Very well.’ Stan was not prepared for one minute to leave the

confrontation on an equal footing, certainly not when he held the trump

card. ‘But I suggest you warn Paola this union will never take place,’ he

said, ‘I will forbid my son to marry your daughter.’

‘If that is what you wish.’ Luigi felt sorry for Stanley Durham. How

little you know your son, he thought. You are about to lose him.

‘That is what I wish. And with regard to your daughter’s position here, I

think it would be more comfortable for all concerned if –’

‘Paola will get a job in town,’ Luigi interrupted. ‘I will arrange this. Is

not good she work here, she will be unhappy.’

‘Good, we understand each other.’ Stan sat. ‘You may go now, Luigi.’

Neil had continued to write to his sister every fortnight, sometimes even

weekly when he felt the desire to confide. He would tell her as much as was

possible while guarding his secret and avoiding army censorship. Kate had

no trouble at all reading between the lines.

I have come to know these people, Kate, he wrote, those with whom I

work and others I have met personally on trips into town. She knew

instantly that he was referring to Yen. They are a modest hard-working

people with a love of family. They respect their elders and lend support to

one another, sharing the responsibility of children and the burden of

poverty. He’s telling me about his wife and her family, Kate thought, he’s

painting a picture for me. It is a great shame this war is tearing apart such

a peaceful community.

Neil continued to paint pictures in his letters, describing huts and

villages, never giving place names that would be censored, but creating what appeared to be a sort of general travelogue, which Kate knew was

intensely personal. This is Yen’s village, she would think, this is the hut

where her family lives.

They are a physically beautiful people, particularly the women, he

wrote, but of course like most men I would be biased in that direction. The

women are petite and delicately featured with the finest of skin and the

blackest of hair that often seems tinged with a blue-ish sheen. As she read

his words, Kate could see Yen, just as Neil intended she should. They are

sometimes shy, sometimes bold, sometimes funny, but unlike their Australian

counterparts always the essence of femininity. Oh dear, he added with wry

humour, what have I done? I don’t mean to insult Australian womanhood,

Sis, really I don’t, but Vietnamese women, even while suffering the severest

of hardship maintain a grace that I find quite extraordinary.

Kate smiled as she read on, knowing that her brother was not really

referring to Vietnamese women in general, but rather talking specifically

about his wife, and with such love. She was touched that he should so wish

to share his feelings with her, but as always she kept her reply frivolous.

Dear Neil,

I promise I shall endeavour to achieve the grace that is gifted to

Vietnamese women having now been informed that we clumsy

Australians are so sadly lacking. I have of course passed your letter

on to my feminist friends who I am sure will follow suit . . .

Not all of Neil’s letters were veiled accounts of his wife and her family,

however, and not always was Kate able to respond frivolously. There were

times when he wrote of the war, times when he felt the need to unburden

himself.

This is a terrible war, Kate. As if there is ever any war that isn’t,

of course, but in past wars men have at least known their enemy.

That’s not the case here. Friend and foe are so often indistinguishable

. . .

Kate received the most revealing of Neil’s letters in mid-November.

She’d completed her exam in the Great Hall that morning and upon

collecting her mail at the university post office was surprised to find only

one letter from him. She hadn’t received word for over three weeks and

when such was the case, given the sporadic nature of army delivery, usually

two or even three letters would arrive at the same time. But upon opening the envelope where she stood in the street and upon reading her brother’s

first words, she understood why. The strain of battle had been taking its toll

and, unable to write in the chatty fashion he preferred, Neil had refrained

from writing at all. But he needed to talk now, as he had on past occasions.

He needed to relieve the pressure, and she was his outlet.

She returned the letter unread to its envelope and walked on as planned

to the Fisher Library where, outside, the huge jacaranda was ablaze with

purple blossom. The blossoming of the jacaranda had a frightening

significance for most students, coinciding as it always did with the end-of-

year examinations that could determine their very future.

Inside the library, a number of cubicles were occupied by those

desperately bent on last-minute cramming, but Kate found an empty one

and took up possession, spreading her study books out before her. She had

no further examination that afternoon and, well-prepared as she was, no

need for last-minute cramming, but she preferred the quiet of the library to

the tension and lunchtime chatter that abounded at the Union or at Manning

House where students were sure to be comparing notes about the horror of

final exams. She would do some refresher reading and jot down some

reminders for her next exam, but first, Neil’s letter. She took it from its

envelope and proceeded to read, hearing her brother’s voice as he

unburdened himself to her.

If we were fighting the North Vietnamese army alone, things

would be a great deal simpler, but the Viet Cong guerrilla forces make

it impossible to discern who’s who, and their methods are ruthless . . .

The platoon of forty or so men approached the village with caution. Viet

Cong activity had increased around Nui Dat since the battalion’s return

from Operation Hawkesbury on the Long Khanh–Bien Hoa border.

It was an unseasonably warm day for late November, with a light drizzle

that did nothing to relieve the humidity, difficult to believe in this heat that

winter was just around the corner.

They spread out as they entered the village where, among the tangle of

tin shanties and thatched huts, bodies lay sprawled on the ground – men,

women and children. The Viet Cong had not discriminated.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ the sergeant yelled, ‘they’re bound to have left

booby traps,’ and the troops split into units of two, working their way

through the village, exploring each hut and shanty in turn.

Life means nothing to them. The Viet Cong will happily sacrifice

their own people. They’ll destroy whole villages, and plant booby

traps on dead bodies . . .

The village appeared completely deserted – deserted of the living,

anyway: the bodies were numerous; and here and there even dogs lay dead

– but the men practised extreme caution as they went from hut to hut. The

possibility of ambush was unlikely, although their eyes scanned every nook

and cranny for movement just in case: far more dangerous was the threat of

explosives planted by the departing enemy.

‘Jesus Christ,’ young Sam Brennan muttered as he and Neil entered the

hut.

‘Don’t touch anything, private.’ Corporal Neil Durham barked a

repetition of the Sergeant’s order. Sam was a nasho and this was his first

taste of the real thing. He’s rattled, Neil thought, and why the hell wouldn’t

he be.

Neil felt sickened himself as he looked about at the scene, which told a

story in explicit detail, a scene and a story all too familiar to him. A man lay

dead outside the door of the hut, they’d had to skirt around his body to

enter, and inside the hut the family he had tried to defend had been

systematically slaughtered. The woman still held her dead baby to her

breast and on either side of her lay the bodies of two small children.

Upturned bowls were beside them, rice was scattered everywhere, and a

dish of stewed vegetables sat undamaged in the centre of the matting that

served as table and floor in one. The family had clearly been sharing a meal.

The people who suffer most are the innocent villagers. Not only

those whom the Viet Cong so brutally annihilate, but those who are

forced to live in a state of abject terror. Many villagers fear for their

own lives and for the lives of their family.

These are good people, Kate, as I have told you before, but when

we enter a village that is presumed friendly we don’t know who we

might confront. We don’t know who might be housing the Viet Cong

out of sheer terror, or who might have been used to plant a trap . . .

Neil and the young private left the dead family as they were and once

outside continued silently on to another hut. All about them other soldiers

were doing the same, moving with stealth through the drizzle that had

turned the dirt beneath their boots to mud, carefully skirting bodies, exchanging only the barest muttered comment one to another, eyes

searching keenly for any sign of a trap.

Nearby, a dog barked, shattering the eerie silence, and to a man they

jumped, startled by the noise. Then from behind a tin shanty, the animal

appeared. A lean and bedraggled mongrel, the only sign of life in the

village, the dog stood its ground and gave another bold bark, as if ordering

the soldiers to leave. Wry smiles were shared all round and the men

continued their search.

Then, as Neil and young Sam approached a hut, another noise from

within, barely discernible: the muffled whimper of a human baby. They

both heard it.

The two exchanged a glance. Neil gave a nod and, rifles at the ready,

they entered.

Seated on the ground, her back against the hut’s rear wall, was a young

woman, a baby in her arms. She held the child’s head tucked tightly into her

chest in an attempt to stifle its whimpers and her eyes were wide with fear.

When she saw the soldiers she started to tremble, her body visibly shaking.

Neil could see the beads of sweat on her brow. He could hear her

laboured breathing. Something’s wrong, he thought.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Sam said, ‘we’re not going to hurt you.’ He extended

his hand in a calming gesture, but the young woman became even more

terrified and started to scream hysterically.

‘You’re safe with us,’ Sam assured her, ‘you’re safe,’ and he took a step

forwards.

Neil spoke Vietnamese, so he knew full well what the woman was

saying. She was screaming, ‘Stay away, don’t come near, don’t touch me,’

but had he not known the words, he would have registered their meaning.

He had seen her eyes flicker to the trip wire.

‘Stop,’ he yelled, ‘it’s a trap!’

Too late. Sam had already embarked upon a second step, a step that

proved fatal. The hut exploded, instantly killing those inside and wounding

several troops nearby.

I’m sorry to write this way, Kate, I don’t mean to upset you. But it

does me good to let off steam. You’re the only one I’ll turn to as you

well know, which is bad luck for you because it means you cop the

whole brunt. Sorry about that. I’ll write in a happier vein next time,

or at least I’ll try to.

Love Neil

But there was no next time. He didn’t write again, and two weeks after

Kate had received the letter that so eerily echoed the circumstances of her

brother’s death, the Durham family was informed that Neil had been killed

in action.

His body was flown home to Bundaberg, where a funeral service was

conducted at Christ Church. There was standing room only. It seemed the

entire community had turned up, along with many others, including a

military detail of six uniformed soldiers, who formed a guard of honour

outside the church. There were eulogies from family and friends and former

national service buddies and also an address delivered by a brigadier from

Canberra on behalf of the army, paying tribute to Neil and the ultimate

sacrifice he had made in the course of his duty.

Kate and Alan, representing the family, both spoke very movingly of

their brother. But Stan did not speak of his son. Stan couldn’t. Stanley

Durham sat grey-faced and silent throughout the entire service. He was

flanked either side by his wife, who was quietly weeping, and his fragile

father, also visibly moved, but Stan himself appeared incapable of

displaying any form of emotion. Ten days after being informed of his son’s

death, Stan remained in a numb state to all about him.

Following the service, Neil was buried in the military section of

Bundaberg Cemetery, after which thirty or so guests were invited back to

Elianne for the wake. Hilda had taken charge of all the arrangements,

considering it only right and proper. ‘One must have a wake,’ she’d said to

Kate, ‘as a show of respect, a select number only of course.’

When the family returned to the house, Kate and Alan helped their

grandfather up the front stairs and into his quarters, all but carrying him in

the process. Bartholomew could barely walk these days, but had insisted

upon attending the service. Then they prepared themselves for the ordeal of

the wake, which nobody wanted, including Hilda herself, but propriety must

be observed.

Stan seemed barely to notice there were guests in his house. He sat in an

armchair at the far end of the main drawing room, glass of Scotch in hand,

sipping occasionally, but oblivious to those milling about, to Max topping up glasses, to Ivy serving finger food on silver trays, to his wife pouring tea

while bravely shouldering the burden of social niceties.

When people filed up to him respectfully, as each of them did one by

one, offering their condolences, he gave them a nod, but didn’t even look at

them. After a while they stopped attempting to make contact and left him to

himself.

Thankfully the guests did not overstay their welcome and within an

hour and a half the last were taking their leave.

Ivan Krantz decided upon one final attempt to break through the

impenetrable wall of Stan’s grief, or his shock or whatever it was that was

rendering the man’s mind so incapable of making any form of connection.

How terrible, he thought, to see Stanley Durham in such a condition.

He left his wife and son chatting to Hilda at the drawing room door –

they were the last of the guests to depart – and returned to where Stan sat in

his armchair.

‘Just want to let you know that I understand what you’re going through,

Stan,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You and I go back a long way and I know

how hard it must be. I know the plans you had for Neil and for Elianne.

Well, of course I do,’ he said a little over-heartily, ‘we were a team, the

three of us, you and Neil and me.’

Stan’s eyes slowly focused upon Ivan. He didn’t seem to particularly

comprehend what was being said, but Ivan was nonetheless pleased to have

made some sort of impact. How he’d done so he wasn’t really sure. He

thought he’d sounded rather clumsy himself, but his desire being to buoy

the man’s spirits, he continued as he’d intended.

‘We’ll pursue those plans, Stan,’ he said with a positivity he hoped was

finding some connection. ‘When you feel up to it, we’ll throw ourselves

into the business. That’s what you need, distraction. With fresh investors,

ready capital is no problem – Elianne is booming. We’ll accomplish

everything we intended. It’ll be a tribute to Neil. And Alan will join us.

We’ll be a team just like we’ve always been, the Durhams and the

Krantzes.’

Ivan glanced to the doorway where his wife and son, Henry, were

chatting to Hilda, and when he looked back he saw that Stan had followed

his gaze. Another healthy sign, he thought.

‘Well, that’s about it,’ he said in the pause that followed. Too much to

hope the man might speak, he supposed, but there was a definite added light

in the eyes, some form of perception: he’d certainly got through. ‘We’ll be

on our way now.’

Ivan would have liked to offer his hand, but he didn’t push further,

opting for a comforting pat of Stan’s shoulder instead. ‘My sympathies to

you, Stan,’ he said. ‘I know how hard it is, believe me I do.’

Stan watched as Ivan Krantz walked off to join his wife and son. You

don’t know how hard it is at all, you dumb bastard. Stan’s mind had been

jolted into action and was now working overtime. Look at you there with

that prick of a son of yours who never got drafted, who never went into

battle – what have you ever had to fear? And the puerile attempt to jolly

him along, a renewed business drive would be seen as a tribute to Neil, ‘and

Alan will join us’, the dumb bastard had said. Alan isn’t Neil! Alan can

never be Neil!

Lots of things were coming back to Stan as he watched the Krantz

family bidding farewell to Hilda at the door.

‘I won’t come downstairs,’ Hilda said. ‘I do hope you don’t mind seeing

yourselves out, but . . .’

‘Of course we don’t.’ Gerda Krantz kissed her on the cheek. ‘Please

take care, Hilda,’ she said, ‘of yourself as well as others.’

Look at them chatting as if nothing’s happened, Stan thought. Your

son’s dead, Hilda, don’t you know that?

He glanced around the room. Max was at the sideboard placing several

empty bottles in a cardboard box. Ivy and Kate and Alan were collecting the

glasses and cups that were scattered all over the place on coffee tables and

mantelpieces, even the escritoire in the corner.

There’s been a party, he thought, and then the images came back to him.

He’d seen it all, Max swanning around with sherry for the ladies and Scotch

for the men, Ivy offering platters of food, Hilda serving tea and biscuits.

They’ve been having a party and my son’s dead!

He stood. ‘What the hell do you all think you’re doing?’ he demanded.

Everything stopped. Hilda had just closed the door following the

Krantzes’ departure and she turned to him. They turned every one of them,

Kate, Alan, Max, Ivy, and there was a moment’s stillness as they stared at

Stan.

‘You’re having a party?’ His voice was a combination of disbelief and

outrage. ‘Neil’s dead and you’re having a party!’

‘It’s a wake, dear,’ Hilda said crossing to him, ‘we held a wake for Neil.

It was the proper thing to do.’

‘Proper!’ Stan roared his anger. ‘What’s proper about my son’s death?’

Hilda gave a brisk nod to Max and Ivy who quickly departed the

drawing room leaving the family to themselves. Stan didn’t even notice

them go.

‘What’s proper about that, woman?! You tell me. What’s proper about

that?!’

Hilda wanted to weep with relief. She had thought her husband might be

going mad. He’d spoken to no one, appeared to see no one, but he’d been

living in mental agony: she of all people knew that – the gnashing of his

teeth kept her awake every night. She had suggested time and again he see a

doctor, but he hadn’t heard her. Now at last he’d come back. His rage was

an excellent sign. She could comfort him now, and they could share their

grief.

‘We must be strong, Stanley,’ she said. ‘But we will manage, we have

one another to lean on, we can bear the pain together.’ The line between

romance and reality, a difficult delineation for Hilda at the best of times,

now blurred into one as relief at her husband’s return to sanity mingled with

the several sherries she’d discreetly imbibed while serving tea to her lady

guests. ‘We must weather the storm, you and I, my dear, just as

Grandmother Ellie and Big Jim did when Edward and George were killed at

Gallipoli.’ She raised a hand and gently touched her fingers to his cheek. ‘It

was the great love they shared that saved them,’ she said, ‘just as our love

shall save –’

‘Shut up, you stupid woman!’ Stan bellowed. He could take no more of

his wife’s idiocy and grabbing her by the shoulders he shook her like a

madman. ‘Shut up, shut up . . .’ she was a rag doll in his huge, strong hands

‘. . . you stupid, stupid, stupid woman!’

‘Stop it, Dad!’ Alan leapt forwards. Grabbing his father’s arm he

wrenched with all his might, managing to break Stan’s grip. ‘Stop it,’ he

yelled.

With one hand Stan thrust Hilda aside and caught off balance she fell to

the floor.

Kate rushed and knelt beside her. ‘Are you all right, Marmee?’ She took

her mother’s arm, about to help her to her feet, but Hilda waved her away.

‘Yes I’m perfectly all right, thank you, dear.’ Hilda preferred to stand on

her own without assistance. She was undeterred by her husband’s anger.

Better his rage than his resignation from life.

Stan looked down at her and, horrified to see his wife on the floor, was

instantly brought to his senses. Then as Hilda slowly stood, unassisted and

unhurt, he registered the hand that was holding him back. He turned to see

his son still locked onto his arm. Alan was maintaining a firm grip as if to

prevent him from attempting any further attack. Stan ripped his arm free.

‘Why did it have to be Neil?’ he said, glaring accusingly at Alan. ‘Why

couldn’t it have been you!’ Then he stormed from the room.

Kate and Alan looked at each other. Kate’s eyes registered the shock she

felt that her father should say such a thing, but the exchange between

brother and sister signalled a great deal more. Without sharing a single

utterance, both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

‘He didn’t mean it, dear. He’s upset as you can see . . .’ Hilda tried

desperately to reassure her son.

Alan gave a shrug as if he didn’t care, which wasn’t true. Despite the

knowledge that Neil had always been his father’s favourite, the words had

cut deeply. But his eyes remained locked with Kate’s. They were thinking

of the diaries and the extraordinary fact that Big Jim had said the same thing

in very much the same way over fifty years ago.

 

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