The Memory Tree (21 page)

Despite her youth, my mother proved to be very competent. She handled me with calm efficiency and grew used to changing nappies, or feeding me while keeping one eye on the television news. When the opening story was Vietnam, she would pause, safety pin in mouth, poised over the nappy fold, and listen intently. Zav had shipped out in early December.

The post usually came around ten, and if there was a letter, she’d make a cup of tea before opening it. She’d scan it quickly, then read it more slowly, finally folding it before leaning over my crib.

‘Daddy sends a big kiss to his beautiful little girl.’ And she’d kiss my forehead or cheek with the lightest of butterfly kisses.

At first, Aunt Sealie would call in after school and take me for a walk in the pram. We’d go to the park and she’d lift me out and show me the flowers, the birdies, the puppies. She’d blurt on my tummy and whisper ‘I could
eat
you, you’re so beautiful.’ Back home, if I became fractious, she’d dance me around the room, so lightly that I felt I was flying. She bought me a pair of fairy wings.

‘I know she’s a bit young, Kate,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t resist them.’ They sat me up with cushions, and arranged the wings behind me while Kate took a photo to send to Zav.

‘There. Nearly finished the roll.’ There were numerous photos of me. Kate wanted to ensure that my absent father would recognise me when he returned.

Not long after my birth, Aunt Sealie left to go nursing and, consequently, my mother was lonely. Kate was the first of her friends to be married and the only one to have a child. She resented the pitying looks the other girls gave her while talking about their increasingly free lifestyles.

‘Of course’, they conceded. ‘You’re so lucky to have Zav and your gorgeous baby girl.’ Kiss. Kiss. They were very kissy, those girls. It’s a wonder I didn’t develop an allergy to lipstick. They didn’t stay long. There was a whole new world out there and Kate’s place was so
domestic
.

After her initial six weeks of training, when Sealie got days off, she’d always come to see me first.

‘I think she knows me. Look at that smile.’ And she’d nuzzle my face. Sealie’s kisses were warm and loving and after she began her training she smelled faintly of disinfectant. As I said, she’d have made a lovely mother.

For a short while, she made a lovely nurse. Looking demure in her blue-and-white checked uniform, her neat waist belted, she worked on her studies more conscientiously than she ever had at school. Small, neat handwriting flowed across her lined pads—anatomy, physiology, infection control. Bedmaking, bandaging, observations. The correct way to address the charge nurse.

‘Never,’ said Sister Maines, ‘never interrupt Sister when she is otherwise occupied. You must stand with your hands behind your back, eyes lowered, until she’s free to talk to you.’

Marilyn’s hand shot up. ‘How will she know we want to speak with her?’ The others were grateful. They had already gleaned that challenging questions weren’t always welcome.

‘Because she will see you waiting.’ Sister rolled her eyes. ‘Lord spare me from foolish questions. Is that clear to all of you?’ Of course it was. No-one dared to ask another question.

Sealie and Marilyn had become good friends and studied together as the preliminary exams approached. As time went by, Marilyn was recognised as a top student and could ask questions with impunity. Sealie struggled, especially with physiology, but after six weeks, both were delighted to pass and finally be posted to the wards.

Sealie had two days off after the exams and Mrs Mac prepared a family dinner to celebrate her success.

‘I’m on men’s surgical and Marilyn is on the children’s ward,’ she explained, tucking into one of Mrs Mac’s famous lamb roasts. ‘We can hardly wait to get started. I’ve got Sister Una as my charge sister. She’s one of the nuns. They say she’s strict, but quite nice if you do the right thing.’ As Sealie chattered on, Mrs Mac nodded to herself.
I was right,
she thought.
She’ll do well, our young Sealie.

In an odd way, Sealie’s dancing background was good preparation for many aspects of nursing. She was used to discipline, to practising to perfection, to dedication and concentration. Her body was supple and her back strong. She followed direction without question. When her first roster was completed, Sister Una was more than happy with her new recruit.

As she checked Sealie’s procedure book, she noted with approval the neatly written name and the impressive number of signatures denoting procedures completed.

‘A very good start, Nurse Rodriguez.’ Sealie felt a little buzz of pleasure. ‘But you’ll have to try to tame that hair of yours.’
It wouldn’t do for young probationers to become too confident.

‘She says I might be ready to change a dressing next time,’ Sealie told Marilyn as she practised bandaging on her friend’s plump arm. ‘I hope I don’t forget any of the steps.’

Marilyn looked gloomily at her bandaged arm. ‘You’re sooooo lucky to have Sister Una. Old Iron-Knickers is on my back the whole time.’ She tried to flex her hand. ‘This is too tight, Nurse Rodriguez. My fingers are starting to turn blue.’

Zav, with his mates Scottie and Monty, jumped out of the chopper and looked around at the sprawling camp.

‘Welcome to Nui Dat, brothers,’ said a young man, wearing shorts and boots, dog tags swinging on his bare chest. ‘Boozer’s over there.’ He swaggered on by, an old hand after three months.

They reported to a fox-faced sergeant who directed them to their tents where there were four stretchers, each with a thin mattress and mosquito net.

‘This will be home for the next twelve months,’ the sergeant told them. ‘You’ve done the training but you fuckers ain’t seen nothing yet.’

The three young men put their bags down uncertainly.

‘Who do you think’s in the other bunk?’ Monty asked.

‘Me, boys. Give us some fuckin’ room, will ya?’

A large pale face topped with white-blond hair preceded a wrestler’s body into the small space. A huge paw was extended. ‘Steve Kowolski. Mates call me the Snowman.’ He flung his gear onto one of the stretchers. ‘Wha-cher waitin’ for? A written invitation? Boozer’s open.’

They were in high spirits when they left the boozer that night, but in an instant, were suddenly and awfully sober. What were those lights? There. Through the trees. Enemy torches?
Fireflies
, they were told. The sound of mortars. Enemy fire?
Ours
, the laconic assessment. Zav wished fervently that he could be so casual in the heavy threat of night.

They went out on patrol, through rubber plantations, rice paddies. Took part in village searches. They seldom engaged with the enemy and it all seemed like an elaborate game. One day, when Zav was on patrol, they came across a young woman, sitting by the road, arms wrapped around her knees. She was rocking hypnotically but jumped to her feet when she saw the patrol approach and ran forward, hands in the air. ‘Úc dai loi,’ she called, pointing to the long grass where she’d been sitting. ‘Úc dai loi. Help.’

Zav approached cautiously, as he’d been told. The others covered him, their rifles at the ready. An old woman—who knows how old?—lay on the ground. She had a grey plait and her finely wrinkled face was contorted with pain. Each rasping breath clearly depleted her already fading strength. The younger woman looked up at Zav and he saw she could have been no more than twelve or thirteen. The granddaughter, perhaps.

‘You help?’

Zav wasn’t a medic, but he knelt and bent over the old woman, lightly touching her hand. Was she wounded? Was she ill? He recoiled as a gob of spit hit his face. The old woman’s eyes were dark with venom. She croaked a few words to the girl at her side.

‘She no want help from you.’ Tears streaked the granddaughter’s grubby face. ‘She die. No help.’ And she sank to the ground again, rocking her body in silent grief.

As the weeks passed, Zav came to dread looking into the eyes of the villagers. Some were friendly, some openly hostile, but most were cautious. In a war, who can you trust? The children were more open. ‘Úc dai loi,’ they would say, capering about as the Australians handed them sweets. ‘Úc dai loi number one.’ Sometimes Zav would pause to watch them play, marvelling at their resilience, fearing for their safety.

Christmas saw the boozer decorated with streamers and tinsel and the Snowman, dressed in shorts and a red hat and with cotton wool he’d lifted from the medics, handed out extra rations of beer and some ice-cream he had somehow appropriated from the Americans. Channel 15 had come a few days earlier and they all made messages for their loved ones.

Hi, Mum, Dad. I’m okay. Happy Christmas.

G’day Chooka. Have a beer for us, will ya.

Miss you darlin’. What about a letter?

Hope Santa left you lots of good stuff, little matey.

Back home the family watched as a grainy image of Zav filled the screen. My father’s message, like the others was awkward. None of them were used to being on television.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he said. ‘Miss you all. Especially you, Kate.’ There was no special message for me. He could have blown me a kiss. It’s not so much to ask. One more thing happened in nineteen sixty-seven. Not two weeks before Christmas, Mrs Mac left.

Can you imagine life in that house without the kind, steady presence of Mrs Mac? Sealie was outraged and wrote to Zav:

Dad’s gone too far this time. How could he send her away?

I
 
truly wonder if he’s not completely mad. I mean that seriously.

This is too much.

Zav, sweating in the tropical heat, feared not only the enemy, but the deadly scorpions and the spiders as big as dinner plates. He missed his family dreadfully, but the centre had moved from his former home, to a small flat in Carlton. He could only endure so much fear. He pushed the matter of Hal and Mrs Mac to the back of his mind after writing to Sealie:

He’ll come round. Tell Mrs Mac to be patient. I’ll be home on leave in a couple of months and I’ll sort it out then if it isn’t already sorted. Kiss Grace for me.

After so many years, Mrs Mac looked on the Rodriguez house as her home. The family were her family, and Hal broke her heart. It started simply enough. Hal forgot to leave out his washing. He had done this before, of course, but Mrs Mac had Christmas shopping to do and needed to keep to her schedule. For the first time in all those years, washing basket under her arm, she used her spare key to enter the locked room. She looked at the tattered ballet poster on the wall and sighed as she replaced the full basket with the empty one. She moved closer and peered at the poster. Was Mrs R actually among those white swans gazing out at her with black-rimmed eyes? She lifted her glasses and squinted at the dancing figures. Come to think of it, the third one from the end might . . .

‘What are you doing here?’ Hal was looking at her with thunderous eyes. He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, taking in the poster, the laundry basket, the frightened woman. One step. Two. He was closer now, and his voice, suddenly softer, was all the more threatening. ‘You don’t have to tell me. I know. Nothing is hidden from me. I always know in the end.’ He pointed an accusing finger. ‘You’re here to steal Paulina’s soul,’ he said. ‘Who told you her soul is in the poster? Who?’

Mrs Mac froze. ‘Mr R—’

‘Don’t you Mr R me.’ His voice came thick and knotted from his throat. ‘I’ve always felt there was a traitor close to home. But you! I trusted you, and you’ve been plotting against me.’ Pain registered on his face and contorted his whole body, right down to the clenched fists. He backed up to the bedside table and felt around with desperate fingers. ‘Go! Leave Paulina’s soul in peace,’ he shouted, flourishing the Bible like a weapon.

Mrs Mac ran from the room, the washing basket still under her arm. She tripped on the mat sending shirts, singlets, socks flying in mad disarray all over the floor. She fled down the stairs and out into the garden where the magnolia spread its leafy arms. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me.’ She clung to the unyielding tree trunk, sounding like a madwoman herself.

It was mid-afternoon and the air was warm and still. She became aware of the familiar smell of cut grass. And the English lavender. Each year, she would collect all its sweetness to make her much-admired lavender bags for the church fête. And the rose petals too, for potpourri. She knelt before a lavender bush and crumbled the flowers between her fingers, inhaling deeply. The lavender calmed her. Suddenly, she was immeasurably weary. The fear still pulsed, but her dominant emotion was sadness. She couldn’t stay. Mr R had taken against her now too and this was no longer her home. Still wearing her apron, she trudged the two kilometres to her sister’s house.