The wins were substantial and the losing bets few. We left with my wallet bulging and Fran dancing on air, but I expected the profits. I was as sober as a businessman counting takings from a carefully orchestrated sales campaign. It wasn’t luck. Paul Wilson was never lucky. I had studied and planned for this. It was my ticket to freedom.
She suggested asking her mum to keep the kids a little longer and going out to dinner to celebrate. I strutted into that restaurant beaming as I guided her to the chair and held it for her. When the waiter came, I asked for her favourite wine. I remembered the name. And then I asked the waiter could he please ask the band to play our song, “All I Have to do is Dream”. Whenever we were apart, I would sing that song to comfort myself and I could see her and feel her beside me.
I ordered lobster thermidor for her. She’d always asked for that when we’d dined in the Bamboo Hut in the heart of Singapore. We used to go there regularly for meals. It was dark inside. The only light was in the base of a huge fish tank that ran down the centre of the restaurant. It was filled with live lobster, and they would ask her to choose the one she wanted and they would take it out right there in front of her. We were never quite sure if that was an act, but it was fun. Then they would reassemble the cooked lobster with tiny light globes where his eyes had been. Diners could see the meal coming from the kitchen --- just two tiny yellow lights.
This restaurant was brightly lit, with starched white tablecloths and vinyl chairs instead of high–backed wooden pews with rustic benches between. At the Hut, you couldn’t see the other diners. A single candle on the table provided barely enough light to eat by, and to light faces. Here red roses adorned the tables. The music wasn’t loud enough to drown out the conversations of the other diners, nor to stop them overhearing yours. Waiters in black aprons darted about clattering plates and asking for orders in loud voices. Singapore restaurateurs could teach Australians a thing or two about hospitality.
“You look like you are miles away?” I said, smiling.
“Just thinking happy thoughts. Wine, lobster. It’s bringing back memories.”
A wave of sadness washed me as I studied her. “It’s hard for you isn’t it --- army life? It’s no life for a family.”
“It’s your life, so it’s my life.” She stared into her wine. “I made a commitment, Paul. And I meant it.”
“Even if you live the rest of your life in misery?”
“I’m not miserable.”
“No? I treat you badly. I fly into jealous rages and accuse you of things you would never do. I whine constantly about hating my job and hating my life. I go out drinking with mates and leave you stuck at home alone with babies. We don’t go out together. We --- ”
“I love the concerts in the park. Lazy, wet afternoons reading or listening to music together. We go out for ice creams and to the movies occasionally. You work for a living, Paul. Family life isn’t all fun and games.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“No? Why, Paul? You don’t talk about your past.”
I ordered the demons to be still. I couldn’t allow my past to intrude on my happiness now.
“Let’s not go there. It’s depressing.” I reached across the table and took her hand in mine. “I love you, Fran. You are my world --- you and those two beautiful children you gave me. I don’t want us to be the way we are. I want you to be happy.”
She smiled and squeezed my hand.
“I love you too, Paul. And the last two weeks have been wonderful.”
WAGGA WAGGA, NOVEMBER 1973
We had been back from my leave for over a month when she finally confronted me with her decision.
“I’m going to take the kids home, Paul.” she said softly, hands trembling almost as much as her voice.
She never thought of this as home. Her home town was home. This was ‘camp’, as if a temporary residence. Yet we both knew it was quite likely we would be here for many years.
I had been away most of the time since we returned from Singapore. She was on her own, and miserable. Soon after our son was born, she took our daughter to a specialist for tests. I was in hospital having a minor operation on my foot when she had to go for the results. It wasn’t good news. They told her the child needed a city specialist’s attention. How was she to arrange that?
I was sent away on jobs --- twice --- after they discharged me from hospital and I went again after my October leave. By the time I returned, she had made up her mind.
“Just for a while,” she continued when I didn’t respond. “A month or two. Three maybe. Until I get some medical care for Nicki and sort out how we are going to manage her treatment. I need a break and I need some help. I can’t manage alone, with you away so much.”
Prolonged silence. I sipped my beer, expressionless. “Well?” she said at last. “Can you say something, please?”
“Say what? You’re leaving me. Expected, eventually. Inevitable.” My tone was deliberately nonchalant --- a talking–about–the–weather pitch matching my careless stance and bland expression.
“I’m not leaving you, Paul. It’s temporary.”
“They all say that. I’m not dumb enough to expect you to come back. And I don’t blame you either. I know this is a shit of a life and I know I’m not much of a husband.”
I was sitting at the dining table, on a high–backed chocolate vinyl chair, sipping beer from a can. The dinner dishes still littered the table. Two matching high chairs perched on a plastic sheet near one wall. The sheet and trays were littered with vegie scraps and crumbs and pools of melted ice cream. She had bathed the children and put them to bed, but she hadn’t yet had time to clean the mess.
It was the tiniest of cottages and she hated it. The little L–shaped kitchenette offered four tiny cupboards, three under the sink and one above. We had to angle sideways to open the refrigerator without being pressed against the gas cooker. The children couldn’t play outside because the yard wasn’t fenced. They were plagued by neighbours’ dogs that roamed around knocking over garbage bins and tearing up gardens, driving us mad with their incessant barking and whining.
The house was at the edge of town, near the army base. There were no shops in walking distance. She had tried to get on a bus once to go to the store. With two babies, a pram and toddler seat to juggle, it was an impossible task. For some odd reason, drivers weren’t allowed to leave their seats to help. She was too timid to ask a fellow passenger and none offered. So we shopped on Thursday nights or Saturday mornings, when I could take her. She stocked up heavily before I went away and just made do until I got back.
She had made no friends here. In Singapore, we lived in close quarters and wives got together regularly for social events. Here, the army wives didn’t mix except at the occasional dinner dances. She walked to the local church hall once a week to take the children to Playgroup and she made a few casual friends there, but none close enough to confide in or to mix with outside meetings. The only woman she could really call a friend was our neighbour.
She was lonely and miserable, but she insisted she would never have decided to go if it hadn’t been necessary for our daughter’s wellbeing. She knew she could never make me believe that and she knew it was pointless to try. I had been convinced since the day we met that she would eventually leave me. People I loved left me. That was my lot. Why should she be different?
She stared for a while at the untidy kitchen. Finally, she walked over to stand behind me and put her arms around my neck. “I am not leaving you, Paul. I love you. I will come back, I promise.”
I grunted and pushed her arms away roughly. I buried my face in my hands for a moment, but then I pulled myself upright again and turned to glare at her. My lips were set and my fists tightly clenched.
“Go, Fran,” I spat. “Just go. I don’t care. I don’t want you to come back.” I stood up and threw the not quite empty beer can at the wall, punched the table, pushed two chairs over, and kicked the dining room door hard enough that my foot
went right through it. Then I fetched another beer and stormed out, slamming the back door hard behind me.
For the first time in our married life, Fran left the dishes and the dirty kitchen. She went to bed and cried herself to sleep.
#
“We’re doing another Sunday afternoon concert in the park,” I said after dinner the next evening. I hadn’t yet said a word about the conversation the night before, but I skipped the usual good morning hug and kisses before leaving for work and on returning. We had barely spoken until now.
“I’ll bring the children along,” she said, emotion seeming to clog her throat. “I thought you might be gone already.”
She shook her head.
“The concert is to rally support to save the band,” I said in a voice loaded with disdain. “Apparently our esteemed Prime Minister, Mr Whitlam, has decided one way to cut Government expenditure is to reduce the number of army bands. Ours is one of the first to go. They are taking up a petition to try to save it. They’ll be chasing signatures on Sunday.”
“So I guess I should sign it?”
I shrugged. “I’d rather you didn’t, but maybe you had better not be too conspicuous about refusing. It wouldn’t go down well.”
“Why wouldn’t you support it?” she replied, puzzled.
“Because if the band is canned they have to get rid of bandsmen. That means transferring them to another corps or discharging them. It’s about the only hope I have of getting a discharge application approved. And I do intend to lodge an application, on compassionate grounds. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”
She stared at me, stunned. I talked all the time about getting out, but I knew she was convinced that, despite all the talk, I was an army musician for the rest of my working life. We both thought I was stuck with it at least until I got my 20 years up and had a pension to fall back on while I tried to find a job in civvy street.
“I thought you might be pleased,” I said coldly. “You said you couldn’t live like this anymore. You said you were taking the kids and going home.”
“Temporarily. Until I sort some things out. I never intended it to be permanent and I told you that.”
I shrugged, suppressing all hint of feeling. “I knew you wouldn’t stay. I’ve told you. People I love leave. They hurt me. That’s my lot. Why should you be any different? And now I know for sure it’s me you’re leaving, not our life here. Otherwise you would’ve jumped for joy just now.”
Tears welled and she didn’t try to hide them. “What do I have to do to make you trust me, Paul? To make you believe me.”
“I almost did believe you. I thought if I got a discharge… but I understand now. It’s me you want to leave, not the place, not the army.”
She searched my expression, but it gave nothing away. I spat and rubbed at the toe of my boot, focusing on producing a mirror shine, as though the conversation was as meaningless as a discussion of what time I’d start work in the morning or what she needed me to pick up from the store on my way home.
“Paul,” she whispered tearfully, “It’s the place. It’s the army. Don’t give up your job on my account, but if you really want a discharge, apply for it. I don’t know what there is for you outside the army. I don’t know how we’ll manage, but we will somehow. We’ll figure something out. I just want to be with you. I want my family together.”
Fear coiled in my belly. I wanted her. I wanted my family, but I had no idea how I could support them outside the army. I signed on again because I had no options --- no education, no skills, no experience. This was all I had known since I was 15. I knew the idea of my leaving this life terrified her. Yet she knew how desperately I wanted my freedom, and we both knew there was no way she could stay here.
~~~~
PART III
32: FREEDOM IS NOT SWEET
ARMIDALE, JANUARY 1974
I bounced out of the car and leapt up the back stairs, arms outstretched, enveloping her in a giant hug. “Bet you haven’t been told today?”
“Not for a whole week.” she replied, laughing.
“Guess I have to tell you seven times then?” I chuckled. “And then we should celebrate. I’m a free man at last, Fran. You can’t begin to imagine how good it feels.”
I had left the previous Saturday to drive to Sydney to be formally discharged from the army, staying a week with a friend in Mossman while the formalities were completed. I was due to start a new job --- labouring with a local council --- the following Monday. Freedom. Working outdoors, surrounded by open spaces. No guards at gates checking passes. No saluting. No more crowding with mobs of identically stiffly uniformed blokes into rows of hard chairs in a stuffy little room to blow and finger valves hour after hour. No ironing perfect creases and spit–polishing boots every evening.
At that final interview, I’d been ordered to drop my trousers; part of a routine medical check. I was sorely tempted to moon the pompous bastards presuming to dictate my fate, but I bit my lip and reminded myself that this was it. The deed was done. This was only a formality. I would walk away a free man.
Elation lasted until Sunday evening and then reality dawned. Through the weeks that followed, I put on a brave pretence of contentment, but I was lost, confused and frightened. I even talked about signing on again a few times, but I was quick to dismiss the idea.
We found a shabby little cottage to rent on the edge of town. The rent was cheap, but it still took almost half my pay. I took a second job as town bandmaster. It didn’t pay well, but I enjoyed it and every extra cent was welcome.
We settled our little family into the cottage, and Fran started to think about establishing a permanent home. My long service and deferred pay would total enough for a deposit on a cheap house, according to her. She was determined no matter how hard it was to live on my wage, that money would stay in fixed deposit until we could buy a home of our own.
We had talked in Singapore about buying a house one day. I said blokes like me didn’t own houses. She told me all her uncles battled in menial jobs on low pay, but they all owned their homes. I just shrugged and said she should forget that dream because it wouldn’t happen, at least not until I perfected that betting system. Then she could have all the houses she wanted.
Money was a major problem. I was paying off a near–new car when I met Fran, but I wrote it off going back to base after a trip home to make wedding plans. There had been floods and the roads were in bad shape. I came up over a hill too fast and had to slam on the brakes. The car rolled. I was unhurt, miraculously, but the car was badly damaged. The insurance was cancelled after it was repaired and then the hire purchase company repossessed it because it was uninsured. We were in Singapore by then and knew nothing about what was happening. I ended up losing the car and saddled with a debt.
When we came back from overseas, we bought a cheap little bomb. We spent all our savings furnishing and setting up house. Then I was hit with an incorrect tax bill and had to borrow money to pay it while we argued it and begged for review. The mistake was a really dumb one by the tax office, but it took two years to sort it. When they paid me back, it was without interest. The value of a dollar had almost halved in the interim, and we had paid interest at personal–loan rates for two years.
Then there were the medical bills. Fran was told to cancel her medical insurance when we left for Singapore and it would be reinstated without loss when we returned. Treatment in Singapore was free. They didn’t tell her that a child born there and returning to Australia with a pre–existing condition wouldn’t be insured, so we were lumbered with the full cost of all the specialist treatment Nicki needed.
I should be accustomed, by now, to being beaten up by the establishment. It was my lot. It seemed, despite freedom, the pattern would continue. So when Fran danced in one evening, face aglow, holding application forms for government housing, I felt it my duty to crush her hopes before they rose any higher.
“But the rent would be half what we pay now, and we’d have
a proper bathroom and separate laundry,” she protested.
“The houses are in ghettos. People who live in those places wear a brand.”
Her forehead creased and her mouth dropped open. Quizzing eyes burnt into mine. I had worn a brand for too long, and had no intention of doing so again. She, of course, couldn’t be expected to understand, and I had no inclination to explain.
“It’s not that bad, and it will only be until we can afford a home of our own.”
“Yeah, sure. Dream on, Fran.” I went and sat on the back step to brood, and she dropped the subject. She raised it again the next evening.
“Go and apply, if you must,” I snapped. “I doubt we’d have a hope anyway, but the rent saving would help.”
“And living in a ghetto?”
I shrugged. “I got used to wearing a brand a long time ago. Don’t know why I thought I could ever change it.”
Her eyes misted, but she let the remark go.
“Our neighbours are applying too,” she said, forcing an uncertain smile.
“They seem pretty confident.”
“They should be,” I replied sourly. “They’re the right colour to get preference.”
The neighbours were Aborigines. Nice family. Two kids about the same ages as mine. They played with ours often. He was unemployed, although he’d been offered my job and turned it down. Apparently the Aboriginal dole was more than the wage my job paid. The white man’s dole was about equal. When you took work clothing, running a car to and from, packed lunches and union fees into account, we’d have actually been much better off on benefits, but I’d be damned if I’d take charity again.
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