At the graduation ball that night, I stood and watched in wistful silence through the Mother and Son dance. I leant against the wall, not in a mood to hum or beat time. Around and around they twirled, handsome young soldiers in full regalia and mothers in long, figure–hugging gowns, their hair coiffured and faces painted, looking sexy and stunning. Fathers watched from the sidelines. I squirmed uncomfortably as I realised I stood as the only boy among them.
A friend’s mother’s shot me a concerned glance as she spun past the first time. On the third whirl around the floor, she broke loose from Phil’s arms. Her lips moved and her eyes questioned. Phil nodded. He stepped quietly aside. She approached me, smiling.
“Would you partner me for the rest of the Mother/Son dance?”
I took her arm gratefully and stepped out on to the floor. “I’m not much
of a dancer, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll teach you. Just follow my lead.”
“It’s a Mother/Son dance. You really should --- ”
“Shhh. I saw you standing there alone. You looked so sad. Your parents couldn’t make it?”
“I don’t have any,” I mumbled, flushing slightly. It was only a partial lie.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Paul. I had no idea. Have they been dead long?”
“Since I was eight years old. I barely even remember them.”
I remembered them well. I turned away to ensure that she couldn’t read my thoughts.
I remember where I came from and who I was and how my mother and father loved me, and what they taught me. And I remember the heartless lying bastard who took all that away from me and sent me to spend my youth in prison. The nuns taught me to hate. Now I have been trained to kill, and I will come for you, Geoffrey Simms. Someday... someday, I will have my revenge.
~~~~
PART II
23: I FALL IN LOVE
TAMWORTH, JANUARY, 1971
“I should have been out next month,” I said without emotion, “but I signed on again when they offered me an overseas tour.” I lifted my upper body off the beach towel and propped on my elbow, resting my head on my left hand to gaze into her eyes. I’d known Frances just three weeks and I’d already decided that this was the girl I would marry. Impulsive? Perhaps, but it was love at first sight. I hoped desperately that she felt the same way.
Fran was the daughter of someone my aunt and uncle had recently made friends with. She was slim and pretty, with medium–length light–brown hair, and milky complexion --- inherited, I presumed, from her English father. I saw from the first conversation that she was intelligent.
“It’s three years.” I said. “Two in Singapore, and the money’s really good over there.”
“So, you really do like the army then?” It was more a statement than a question.
“I hate it.”
“Yet after eight years’ service, you signed on again?”
I shrugged. “What else was there to do? I’m 23. It’s all I’ve known since I was 15. I have no money, no education, no skills. No experience except as an army musician. There’s not a lot of call for former army musicians in civvy street.”
“So what will you do in three years’ time?”
“I’m entitled to government–funded retraining when I get out. I’ll have some money by then. I’ll have choices. I’ll go into business for myself, or buy a farm. I intend to be rich one day. This next three years is just a stepping stone towards that goal.”
She was silent for a while and I wished I could read her mind. I propped there on a soft green lawn, gazing over her head at the divers bouncing on the board. Some sliced the air and neatly cut the water’s surface, their pointed hands making the smallest, controlled splash. Others flopped clumsily in a thundering crash of dancing froth. In the wading pool at the end, toddlers splashed and kicked and gurgled. One or two migrated to the far end and waved chubby little arms in a valiant attempt to mimic the swimmers in the larger pool.
“I was supposed to go to Vietnam,” I said, trying to suppress resentment. “I had a plan --- me and two other guys. They both went. You come back from there with a bundle of money. We were gunna throw in and buy a dairy farm together. I love life on farms, and dairy farms make good money. I was bloody angry when they canned the posting. And the worst part was they gave my posting to another bloke because he went crying to the brass about needing to get away from a woman who was giving him trouble. Then he went on pre–embarkation leave and married her. Bastard!”
I rolled on to my back to stare at the sky, folding my hands behind my head. It was a deep, clear blue up there, but someone had taken a white pencil and here and there made just the faintest little scribble.
“That’s why I hate the army,” I said. “You’re just a pawn on a chess board getting shoved about by a player who doesn’t know you, doesn’t know what he’s doing and doesn’t give a rats about you.”
“Well, at least you didn’t have to go to war. I should think you would be pleased about that.”
“No. I wanted to go.”
She sat up abruptly, and I followed and turned to face her. Her eyes were the deepest violet and so expressive you could often read her thoughts. I saw, now, that she was alarmed.
“Wanted to go?” she said. “To war?”
“For a bloke, it’s the ultimate adventure.”
She frowned, and considered my answer for a while.
Did I say too much --- put her off me. What does it matter? I’ve got to go back tomorrow, and in a few weeks I’ve got to leave for two years abroad. We’ll most likely never see each other again.
I’d had girlfriends before. I liked stroking their hair and fondling their breasts, but they were mates --- good company and fun to be with, but nothing more. I was in love with Fran, but since when did I get to have anything I wanted?
“You could come with me,” I said, then wondered what on earth possessed me to speak that thought out loud. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes popped. Well, I’d said it now. Might as well complete the thought, whatever risk that entailed.
“To Singapore,” I explained. “We could get married and you could come with me. The army will provide a house for us, fully furnished, with everything we need in it. Linen, blankets, crockery, cookware. They supply the lot. They pay wives an allowance, too, and pay for an amah to clean the house and do the washing, so you don’t have to work in the heat. There’s even a fan over the double bed, so you can stay cool when you’re sleeping and...” I let my words trail off, thinking it unwise to say what I’d originally intended.
She opened her mouth several times and closed it again. She squeezed her eyes shut, and was silent for a long time. Her forehead creased and uncreased as the thoughts tumbled about in her head trying to form themselves into an acceptable reply. At last, she opened her eyes and gazed at me thoughtfully, summoning courage. “I hardly know you, Paul. We only just met.”
“And I knew the moment I laid eyes on you that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“I just think we need to get to know each other better before we make such a monumental decision.”
“Yeah, we should,” I said, shrugging. “And I wish there was time. In a few weeks, I’ll be thousands of miles away and I can’t come back for two years.”
She continued to stare at me silently for a time, a hint of tears forming in her eyes.
“Paul, I like you a lot. I do, really. I think you are a very special person, but marriage is forever. At least it will be for me. I don’t know you well enough to make that commitment. I’m sorry.”
So that’s that then. What did I expect her to say? If only there was more time. If only I could choose to delay my departure. But when did Paul Wilson ever have choices?
“Let’s swim,” I said, leaping to my feet and grabbing her hand to pull her along after me.
#
“My orders came through. I’m leaving in nine weeks.”
We’d talked on the phone almost every night since
I returned from Christmas leave and I’d written her long letters. I carried her replies in my pocket and I read and reread them. Love letters, but never any hint of long– term commitment. Although I’d asked her again, several times, her answer was the same.
Maybe I should ask for my posting to be cancelled? But for what? She mightn’t ever agree to marry me anyway. And I wanted to go. I signed on again to go. Besides, the brass changed postings for blokes who had connections and for blokes with hooks; not for blokes like me. Blokes like me get barked at and told to obey orders, so it’s easier just to stay stumm and do whatever is expected. I learnt that lesson a long time ago.
“If you want to change your mind about coming with me, you have until the first of April to put my ring on your finger,” I said somewhat flippantly.
There was a long silence. I stood there, in that little red glass cell, gripping the receiver and picturing her in the musty board–lined office of that big, old boarding house. She would be perched on the edge of the worn pine table, among its clutter of papers and pens, with that thick, black, leather–bound Bible in the centre and the collection of prayer plaques behind. I wondered if the other girls were huddled at the closed door, taking turns putting ears to the keyhole and relaying her words in whispers down the line, waiting for a phrase to fuel the gossip fires and start them all giggling so that their presence was exposed.
“Fran? Are you still there?” More silence.
“I’m sorry, Fran. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I was teasing.”
“Really? That’s disappointing.”
“What?”
“I was hoping you were serious.” “I... um... I mean --- ”
“I’m looking at the calendar, Paul. The last Saturday before --- ” “Are you saying --- ”
“I think I’m saying that I want to go with you. I think I’m saying I will marry you..
~~~~
24: A FAMILY OF MY OWN
ARMIDALE, MARCH, 1971
It was a small, informal wedding. We said our vows before a handful of her mother’s friends and family. Afterward, 30 or so guests gathered in the garage behind her uncle’s house. Neighbours brought flowers from their gardens to decorate the humble setting and aunts brought cold chicken and salad, bowls of homemade trifle and sponge cakes with jelly. With great tact and diplomacy, her mum ensured that the tradition of my guests on one side and hers on the other was not observed. I’d invited only my aunt, uncle, cousins and sister. One of my army mates stood beside me as best man.
Fran’s mum had asked me nervously was there anyone I wanted to invite. “Your parents, perhaps? Where do they live?”
I shrugged. “There’s no–one,” I said quietly and as calmly I could manage. Then I walked away quickly so she wouldn’t ask more questions, or see the sadness in my eyes --- a sadness I was practised at masking well, although I’d never learnt to control the gnawing hollow feeling in my gut, or the dull ache in my heart whenever I was reminded of family or home.
How I yearned to invite my family. How desperately I wanted my mother and father to sit beside me on that special day.
How often have I thought of going home? What stopped me?
I didn’t know where home was. If Uncle Bill knew, he was not inclined to tell me. I could find it, but it would take time. I had so little freedom. When I had days to myself, I sought the security and comfort of familiar people and places, or adventures with army mates. I went where I could be sure I’d be made welcome... where there were no haunting memories building walls of guilt and fear... no trepidation, no risks.
A sliver of sunlight peeped through the pine trees and a soft, cold grey mist obscured the clouds when --- still in her bridal finery --- my new wife took her place beside me in the garden to bid a smiling farewell. Her mother, aunts, uncles and cousins and a withered old grandmother in her best grey taffeta suit and feathered pink hat crowded in the doorway to wave. I wrapped my arm around Fran and brushed my lips against her cheek and breathed a deep sigh. I wanted only to be alone with her.
My woman. My family. Fifteen years alone with my nose pressed against a window pane, watching others live life. At last, I had someone to belong to.
#
The motel rooms formed a line that climbed a little hill and descended down the other side. Numbered doors opened from a narrow veranda with bull–nose iron roof resting on white–painted colonial columns. At the rear, each room opened through French doors to a slate–tiled porch and a peaceful, sweet–scented garden beyond. Wooden love seats with white–painted cast– lace ends perched at the garden edge, then the garden fell away to a bubbling creek edged with weeping willows. Little green frogs hopped between flat, wet stones; their soft croaking barely audible over the cricket’s mating calls.
I opened the French doors and stood in the doorway watching the willows swaying while Fran washed and changed and brushed her hair. When she stepped timidly towards me, nightie clinging to the soft curves of her breasts and pink nipples showing faintly through the thin cotton, I stepped back into the room and pulled the doors tightly closed. I turned and walked slowly towards her, placed my hands under her arms, lifted her gently and thrust her on to the bed. Then I dropped on top of her, stroking her hair and caressing her cheeks with my lips.
“Have you been told today?” I had formed the habit of asking her the question at least once a day. As usual, I answered for her. “You’re beautiful.” She laughed, hugged me and whispered that she hoped I would still be telling her that daily when she was 80. I promised her I would. “My family,” I mumbled.
“A rather small family! We are only a couple,” she corrected, wrapping her arms about my neck and pulling me close.
“My family. Someone I belong to. I never have to be alone again.”
I let her undress me and she told me over and over that she loved me.
“I love you,” I whispered back. Her words echoed through my head again and again and again. I said, “We will have babies. We will be a family. I will belong to a real family”.
“Hey, slow down,” she laughed. “It’s our wedding night. I’m not sure I want to think about having babies just yet.”
“I do,” I said firmly. “I want to be part of a real family. My family.”
Again and again, we made love. Over and over I told her she was beautiful, and I marvelled that someone so lovely could love me. In the early hours of the morning, she drifted into a peaceful, dreamy sleep.
When she woke, I was already shaved and dressed. I looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. An unexplainable fear wrapped itself about me and took possession of me.
“I hope you had the sense to use protection,” I snapped, aware that I should have and regretting that I hadn’t.
“What are you talking about? What’s wrong?” she replied. She looked hurt and confused, and I felt a pang of guilt and adjusted my tone.
“Birth control. You did use something, didn’t you?” “Yes? Why?”
“So you don’t get pregnant, of course. What else would you use birth control for? ”
She stared at me, perplexed.
“I don’t want a baby,” I said. “I know what I said last night, but I let myself get carried away. I’d had too much to drink maybe.”
“I don’t think either of us want a baby immediately. I did suggest you slow down.”
“I don’t want a baby at all, ever. I need you to understand.”
“I don’t understand. Not at all.”
“I don’t want commitments,” I said. Actually, I didn’t understand either. On the one hand, I did want a family, desperately. On the other, I was terrified of the risk that implied of yet another devastating loss.
“Commitments? What do you mean you don’t want commitments? You made commitments yesterday? Remember? Commitments to love me and care for me, in sickness and in health, ’til ―”
“Until death do us part. But it never happens, does it? We want it to and we mean it to, but it never does. Life gets too ha
rd. Couples break up. That’s just the way it is. And when it happens, I don’t want a tug–of–war–baby getting in our way. That’s all.”
“My grandparents didn’t break up. My aunts and uncles didn’t break up. None of my friends’ parents broke up.”
“But the statistics --- ”
“Statistics, Paul. Is that what we are? A statistic? You said you loved me? I meant it when I said I loved you. I meant to go on loving you for life and I believed you meant that too.”
“I did. I do. It’s just that...” I was confused now --- disturbed and regretful.
How to fix this? What should I say? What should I do? Touch her? Would she push me away?
“I do love you,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It’s just that...”
“Just that what?”
“It’s just that everyone I’ve ever loved has let me down. It’s not safe for me to let myself commit to anyone.”
She lifted herself off the bed then, wrapped her arms about my neck, stroked my cheek softly and buried her tear–streaked face in my shoulder. “I won’t leave you, Paul. I will never let you down.”
“Never is a very long time. Things change. I know you don’t mean them to… don’t want them to… but they do.”
“Trust me. Please.”
“I do. It’s society I don’t trust… bureaucracy… mad with authority arseholes who get off on making other people’s lives a misery.”
But every dog has his day, and someday Geoffrey Simms! Someday soon. And however much I want her, I cannot let commitment to Fran stand in my way.
~~~~
25: TICKY–TACKY HOME
SINGAPORE, APRIL, 1971
Stepping into the street from the cool lobby of the elegant old Tudor–style Queens Hotel, that same sensation I felt when dismounting the aircraft --- of stepping into a gas oven --- came again. Spit–polished, olde–English elegance and plush comfort inside contrasted sharply with the crowded streets, lined on both sides by stinking open drains and rows of grubby little market stalls comprising heavily laden, rough wooden benches under coarse hessian canopies.
The Pencil Case Page 17