The Story of Danny Dunn (22 page)

The pipe was finally alight again, and the air above the dean's head was clouded with smoke rising lazily to the ceiling when Danny finally asked, ‘Does that mean I've been granted my bachelor's degree?

‘Oh, no, no, dear boy. You have two choices: you can simply change to law, in which case that will be your degree, or you can complete the missing three units of your bachelor's degree while you are studying law and be granted both degrees when you graduate in four years' time. And did I mention that the government has agreed to pay for your studies? Again, I'm not at all sure that a free education for ex-servicemen is a good idea. I should warn you that the law faculty will be crowded with over eleven hundred first-year students, mostly back from the war. I fear that few of them would have qualified for the privilege under peacetime conditions.'

‘Surely you mean few of them could have afforded the fees?' Danny shot back, appalled. ‘But they were qualified to sacrifice their lives . . .' He drew back just short of saying
so old pipe-smoking farts like you could sit on your socially superior bums
, but instead concluded, ‘ . . . for their country.'

The dean took two further pulls at his pipe, withdrew it, exhaled, then looked directly at Danny. ‘Well, then, we must agree to disagree,' he said, giving him one of his thin smiles before dismissing him with the words, ‘That will be all for today, Mr Dunn.'

Leaving the campus to meet Helen, Danny reflected that he simply couldn't take a trick. He grinned wryly. His mother would have to learn that her moment of glory, when Danny Corrib Dunn became a ‘somebody', had been postponed for another four years. Oh, well, at least the champagne would benefit from the delay and she'd have two degrees, two ‘somebody' scrolls to frame.

Danny entered the cafe Helen had suggested in a quiet lane just off Parramatta Road expecting he'd have to wait. He was early, but as he entered he saw her seated at a table towards the back, her head down, writing on a small yellow pad. A teapot, sugar bowl and two white cups stood on the pale grey Formica table. He was halfway across to her when he realised that this was the same cafe in which he'd been given a pie with a white feather stuck in it. He'd thrown the pie against the wall and emptied his teacup on the floor before walking out in high dudgeon without paying. He hesitated momentarily, wondering if the evil old bitch was still here.

Then Helen looked up and smiled, a soft easy smile such as he might have expected had they been together a couple of hours previously and not apart for the last four or so years. Danny was forced to respond in kind or appear churlish, and so without opening her mouth she'd settled any tension there might have been between them, although Danny wasn't quite sure whether he should kiss her on the cheek or on the lips. But again Helen had anticipated him. As he reached the table she said, ‘Danny Dunn, I shall close my eyes and you will decide where you prefer to kiss me.'

‘Good Lord, not here!' Danny quipped. ‘We'd be arrested! Besides, my French is pretty rusty.' Both of them were laughing when he kissed her lightly on the lips.

‘I'm sure I can arrange for a refresher course,' Helen grinned, then not missing a beat she abandoned the double entendre. ‘How'd you go with the dean?'

Danny seated himself across from her. ‘Well, it seems I can go straight into Law without completing Arts.'

‘Law? Oh, Danny, that's wonderful!' Then as suddenly she did a back flip. ‘But poor Brenda. Oh dear, I feel so sorry for her!' Helen exclaimed. ‘She called me, absolutely tickled pink that you were going to complete your degree, and now she'll have to wait another four years.' That was the thing about Helen, she cut to the chase. The irony hadn't been lost on her.

‘Cuppa tea would go down well,' Danny said, pointing to the teapot. He wondered to himself how many phone calls there had been. ‘Is that a fresh pot or shall I get another?'

‘No, I've only just ordered it. I took the liberty of ordering you scones. I seem to remember they're very good here.'

‘Yeah, beaut. I've hit ten and a half stone; only four stone to go. After living on the smell of an oily rag for three and a half years I seem to be ravenous all the time.'

A young waitress arrived moments later with four scones, a small pot of cream and a dish of strawberry jam. Danny noticed how she avoided looking at him. ‘Excuse me, Miss, do you have an old lady, uglier than me, working here? You know, from before the war?'

The waitress forced herself to look at Danny. ‘No, sir, nobody like that. Maybe before . . . my parents only bought the business a year ago.'

When the waitress had departed, Helen asked, ‘Danny, “uglier than me”? What was that all about?'

Danny grinned. ‘I was hoping to settle an old score.' Then he told Helen about the white feather. ‘A good thing she's not still here. I probably would have cocked it up.'

Helen reached out and put her hand over his. It was such a simple gesture but it was suddenly more than he could bear and Danny began to tremble. ‘Oh, Jesus, I don't think I can do this,' he whispered, looking down into his lap.

Helen lifted her hand from his and grabbed him by the wrist, then pulling his arm towards her she held his hand against her cheek. ‘Darling, please give me a chance . . . please,' she begged.

Danny looked up, directly into her blue eyes. She'd once remarked that whomever their children resembled they'd be sure to be blue eyed; now hers were glazed with the tears she was attempting to hold back. ‘It's just . . . I mean, it's not just my face, Helen. I've changed. You have to understand, I'm not the same Danny.'

‘What, not the same arrogant prick?' Helen choked, and the tears welled and began to run down her face.

‘Ferchrissake, look at me, Helen. What you see comes with a crook back as well and a filthy temper I can't seem to control anymore. I bloody near clocked that pompous bastard at the uni.'

‘Who – the dean? McCarthy?' Helen asked with a sniff.

‘Yeah, the one with the starched collar and cuffs . . . monogrammed gold cufflinks.'

‘Danny, Danny, oh no!' Helen cried, shaking her head.

‘Why? What's wrong?'

‘All four of his sons were killed in the war.'

‘Oh shit!'

‘His wife was my ancient-history tutor before the war. She had a nervous breakdown, and now I believe she's in Callan Park. The dean, poor old codger, is in denial. He should be on an indefinite sabbatical, but he's refusing, showing the world a stiff upper lip. Esme, his secretary and receptionist, says sometimes he closes his office door and she can hear him crying.'

‘Jesus, how do you know all this?'

‘Esme is a good friend of my aunt – Mum's older sister. But a month after I was demobbed I enrolled to take my masters and the whole university was in mourning. His oldest son, Martin, was a senior lecturer in chemistry at thirty-one, said to be brilliant and very popular. Like you, a very good sportsman, captain of the university cricket team. He was offered an associate professorship and could have opted to stay out of the war, but he insisted on joining up, together with his three younger brothers. He joined the RAAF, and he and his crewman went missing when their Beaufighter went down over Rabaul early in August. Our forces found their bodies in the wreckage soon after the surrender.'

‘Christ, that close to the finish. And the other three?'

‘The twins, the middle two, went down with the
Perth
in the Sunda Strait on the 1st of March 1942, and the youngest was with Maroubra Force and also died in New Guinea somewhere along the Kokoda Track – I don't remember the exact date – some time in July or August 1942. The McCarthys lost three sons in the same year. It was too much for Thelma and, according to Esme, she's not expected to recover. I've been to see her, but she hasn't the foggiest who I am.'

‘And all the time I thought he was a pompous prick. Well . . . so much for whingeing over a crook back and an ugly mug,' Danny said ruefully. ‘Jesus!'

Helen, fully recovered, said, ‘Danny, I think we ought to discuss your face. It's obviously causing you some distress.'

‘What are you saying – that I'm feeling sorry for myself?'

‘We haven't been together long enough yet for me to decide,' Helen replied with a grin. ‘But I'll let you know if I think you are. I don't suppose much can be done in the short term about the trauma, shell shock, or whatever other names they have for it. I've read everything I can get my hands on about that sort of thing and I must say it's a controversial subject and precious little makes sense. Your Dr Woon seems to think there's a lot more to it than just handing out free prescriptions for sedatives. He believes that it may be a long-term medical problem. Let's hope he's wrong.'

‘Yeah, bloody doctors! Woony excluded, of course. Give you a pill and think you're a bludger when you tell them it isn't helping.'

‘So that leaves what you've just referred to as your ugly mug and, of course, your back. What advice have you had about both?'

‘Not a great deal. Not much hope, according to an ear, nose and throat specialist, a fat civilian from Melbourne sent to Rangoon for a fortnight to play soldiers in his tailor-made uniform . . . He made a crack about a marble for my eye, and said my nose was permanently buggered and he didn't think plastic surgery would help. He said I should have the chipped bone removed when I got back and that he wasn't in the business of mending cheeks but expected some sort of plate would be needed.'

‘Oh, charming. Nothing since? I mean medical advice?'

‘Ah, Woony, er, Doc Woon, said as far as my back was concerned my footy days were over and that it had to be “managed”.'

‘And?'

‘Next week I have to have a complete medical at Concord Military Hospital. I guess they'll be a little more specific.'

‘Possibly, but don't expect too much.' Helen was silent, then asked, ‘Danny, would you mind if I got involved?'

‘Hey, wait on! You want to be my nurse? Christ, Helen, you're not backward in coming forward. We haven't even decided whether we're getting back together again and you're already at my bedside feeding me soup.'

‘No, darling,
you
haven't decided. I don't have to decide. I've never stopped loving you and I don't give a shit about your face – you were too pretty for your own good anyway – and I feel a lot safer now that it's been squashed a bit.' She giggled wickedly. ‘Too bad about your back . . .' Then, with a look of mock horror, she added, ‘Tell me, quick, they didn't damage your tongue, did they?'

Danny, despite himself, was forced to laugh. ‘Helen Brown, besides being a conniving bitch you also have a very dirty mind. So, tell me, do you think an MA in mouldy old mummy bandages equips you to be a nurse?'

‘Don't be such a deadshit, Danny Dunn. I'm sorry if I offended your sensibilities, Sergeant Major.'

‘No, go on, tell me, ma'am.' Danny broke a scone open and began to add dollops of cream and strawberry jam to one half.

Helen was suddenly serious. ‘Well, one of the advantages of having some rank and also being in intelligence is that you can get hold of anyone, high-ranking Australian officers as well as Americans, with lots of influence. Lieutenant colonel is just about the right rank, or was. Being a woman with rank also helps.'

‘And a very pretty woman to boot,' Danny interjected.

Helen ignored the compliment. ‘Yes, well, I've talked with Dr Woon – he now sits on the Victorian branch of the Assessment Board for the Repatriation Commission – and he's already checked out Concord. As he suspected, there's a long waiting list for surgery, as much as a year for plastic surgery. The burn victims are getting priority. He also mentioned that the best facial reconstruction people are in the States. This confirmed what I'd heard in Brisbane.'

‘You were stationed in Brisbane? I didn't know that.'

‘It was after your last letter, the one where you addressed the front of the envelope “Lieutenant Brown” and on the back you drew – very badly, I might add – your face wearing a slouch hat with your hand at the salute.'

‘Ah, good, you got that. I often wondered. It must have gone out on the last boat from Singapore with that excrement, General Bennett, making his escape, sneaking off and leaving his men behind to face the Japs.'

‘We worked with the Americans in Brisbane for nearly three years,' Helen explained. ‘That's where MacArthur's headquarters were, where we all went to genuflect.' She laughed. ‘Or, to use the correct term, to closely cooperate with the Yanks.'

‘And doing whatever it was you did in intelligence you met these, what . . .  general staff officers?'

‘No, that happened mostly at receptions with the Americans, MacArthur's people. My area cooperated closely with their Western Pacific operation. Our navy even had an Intelligence operator in the field with the US marines.' Helen shrugged. ‘Staying close to the Americans was important to Canberra, and I guess I had both the looks and the rank.'