Elianne (35 page)

‘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.