Return to Moondilla

by Tony Parsons

  ‘And now?’ Baxter pressed.

  ‘Dad died. That’s why I came back to Moondilla. He always wanted either Andrew or me to take over his practice. There was no Andrew, so it had to be me. And I’m getting on quite well now with Mum—she really needed me. Plus there’s Jane, my sister, whose kids were in need of an aunt. Two great kids. Sherrie’s supposed to be a lot like me at her age—in looks, I mean—and then there’s Jason, who’s got some problems because he isn’t much good at sport.’

  Watching Julie’s calm face as she told him about her life while concentrating on his wound, Baxter recalled very clearly the first day she’d joined his martial arts class. There were four female students, and Julie was the one who stood out to him. She had a casual beauty that she took for granted and didn’t flaunt, as if she was indifferent to it.

  She approached him before they started warming up. ‘I don’t want you to go easy on me because I’m a woman,’ she said.

  ‘In my classes everyone gets treated equally,’ he told her. ‘The fact that you’re a woman doesn’t concern me one iota. Martial arts is martial arts, though I’ll start you on judo at the outset. There’s the technique of it and then there’s your level of fitness.’

  ‘Well, you’ll soon see that I’m very fit and I’m also very tough.’

  And she was. He soon learned that she jogged, skydived, did rock climbing and snorkelled. She’d even climbed Kilimanjaro. If there had been a parachute unit for women in the Australian Army, Julie would have had no trouble being accepted for it. She was also extremely bright, having graduated from medicine with first-class honours.

  Julie didn’t belong to any feminist organisation, but she was a superlative example of equality between the sexes.

  ‘Why martial arts?’ Baxter asked her after a few classes, when they’d gotten to know each other better.

  ‘I hate men making passes at me and I hope to be going places where they’ll try more than that. I want to look after myself in tough situations.’

  ‘And why me?’ he asked.

  ‘A friend who knew your girlfriend, Elaine, said you were the best in Australia—and that you took small evening classes, which fits in well with my uni hours!’

  Baxter also recalled very clearly the day Julie had said goodbye to him.

  ‘This is my final class, Greg,’ she said, beaming with gratitude. ‘Thank you so much for what you’ve done for me.’

  ‘No more than for anyone else,’ he said, and this was true. He’d made sure not to give her special attention and make her feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but you’ve helped me build a confidence and a discipline I lacked when I came to you.’

  ‘As I recall it, I doubt you ever displayed a lack of confidence,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘But that’s part of what martial arts is all about.’

  ‘So I’d heard, but I didn’t believe it. I was more interested in giving myself an edge if I needed to defend myself.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m off to the UK to specialise in surgery. National Health has created plenty of opportunities for surgical work,’ she explained. ‘You know, most top surgeons—most surgeons for that matter—are men. I’ve got a yen to succeed in that field.’

  ‘Will you keep up your martial arts?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘I’ll try to, but honestly I don’t know. I’m going to be furiously busy.’

  So Julie had departed, and he had missed her. She was the only woman, apart from his mother, for whom he felt real affection. She was also the first woman who’d stirred him since he lost Elaine.

  ‘So how did your stint as a surgeon turn out?’ Baxter asked while he watched the neat line of stitches flowering on his arm. ‘I had visions of you becoming a national figure and ending up in Macquarie Street.’

  ‘Well, I had a good bash at it. And it comes in handy here. I operate at Bega and other places when I have the time.’

  ‘Sounds to me as if you’ve mellowed quite a lot. You don’t appear to be the fire-eater you were when you came to me. You had a lot of aggro in those days.’

  ‘Ha.’ She grinned. ‘I haven’t changed that much, Greg. I’m still regarded as a tough cookie by most people in this district. I disarmed a fellow with a knife and put a hammer lock on him. Those belts I won are in a glass case in my surgery, so everyone’s aware that I’m not a pussycat!’

  Laughing, Baxter shook his head. ‘I’m impressed.’ He allowed himself a peek at her body, making sure not to let his eyes linger. She was wearing loose jeans and a comfortable shirt, but he could tell she was still in shape. ‘How do you keep fit now?’

  She shrugged. ‘I jog religiously and I swim when I can.’ In the next moment, her professional mask slid back into place. ‘You’ll probably have a faint scar down your arm, but it will diminish in time. You’re lucky we got on to it so early, because these jagged tears become harder to work on the longer they’re left.’

  She gave Baxter a tetanus shot and some penicillin tablets.

  ‘Take the box,’ she said. ‘If you have any problems before I remove the stitches, be sure to contact me. And watch out for any red streaks up your arm. Stitches out in, say, twelve days.’ She was writing it all down for him. ‘It’s a long nasty wound and it will be sore when that local wears off. You should get some aspirin so you can sleep tonight. Do you have any questions?’

  ‘Just one. I’ll grab the aspirin now, and when your shift is over, meet me for a chat at the coffee place across the street? I’d love to catch up properly.’

  Julie’s mask slipped and she smiled. ‘See you in an hour and a half.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  After buying aspirin at the chemist next to the clinic, Baxter took a walk up and down the town’s main street. Many of the shops and buildings from his childhood were still there, and brought up all kinds of fond memories.

  But he also recalled, with painful clarity, the day his mother told him with a smile that they’d soon be leaving Moondilla to live in Sydney.

  ‘But why?’ he asked, shocked.

  Frances sighed and tried to explain. ‘We were offered a very good price for our business, and we took it. Sydney’s a bigger market, with so many more people who want to dine out. We’ve already been offered a place to begin.’ She looked thrilled to be leaving their home, and Greg felt even worse.

  His face fell. ‘But I love it here, Mummy. The beach and the river are my favourite places.’

  ‘Sydney has one of the best harbours in the world, and there’s lots of beaches.’

  ‘They’ll all be crowded and ugly. It won’t be like here.’ Greg’s throat felt tight and tears stung his eyes. ‘The schools will be different too.’

  ‘Greg, you must allow your father and I to be the judges of what’s best for our family.’ She put her hands on his shoulders and gave them a comforting squeeze, gazing into his eyes. ‘I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I hope you can trust me. We’ve gone as far as we can go in Moondilla, and now it’s time to move on.’

  Greg went away dragging his feet. His mother’s announcement was the biggest item of news he’d ever had to digest, and there was only one person he felt disposed to talk to about it. This was the elderly World War One soldier who fished at the southern end of Main Beach, Albert Garland.

  Although the young Greg Baxter wasn’t then aware of it, Mr Garland had been decorated for gallantry in France. He’d also been gassed and hit by two bullets from a German machine gun. After surviving all of that, he’d lost his son in the Second World War, and then his wife had died when Greg was a baby.

  What moved young Greg was that Mr Garland didn’t treat him like a little boy, but spoke to him as he did to older people.

  Greg had first come across the old man on one of his many tramps around Moondilla. He knew every street of the town, and every nook and cranny, but he was always drawn most to the beaches and the river.

  He would sit on the rim of the beach and watch the old man
fish, sometimes with a rod and at others a handline. Being a naturally curious little boy, Greg was always interested in the kinds of fish the old man caught. Soon the boy was sitting and watching every day he could, but he kept quiet, afraid that if he caused a disturbance he’d be told to go away.

  Finally, after several days of this, the old man spoke to him. ‘What’s your name, young man?’

  ‘It’s Greg. Greg Baxter. We own the restaurant in Moondilla.’

  ‘I’m Albert Garland. You can call me Mr Garland. Like fishing, do you?’

  ‘I like to see the different kinds of fish there are.’

  ‘I suppose you know them all, do you?’

  ‘No, but I know the ones my mum uses in the restaurant. Snapper and flathead mostly.’

  ‘Your mother can’t go wrong with them,’ Mr Garland said and nodded wisely. ‘Very good eating fish. I like them best myself.’

  The old man would make lunch of a sandwich and small thermos of tea. He carried them and his fishing gear in an ex-army haversack that had attracted Greg’s attention from the outset. Aside from the haversack, Mr Garland carried his rod and a sugar bag with a rope noose. He’d put his catch in the sugar bag and drop it into the water until it was time to leave, when he’d kill and clean the fish.

  ‘That’s a strong-looking bag,’ Greg said once, after a thorough inspection of the haversack. It was made of a kind of canvas and fastened with brass-edged straps. The boy had never seen a bag like it.

  ‘It will never wear out,’ the old man said proudly. ‘That haversack was in North Africa. They made them tough for the army.’

  •

  So it was to Mr Garland that Greg made his way after his mother had told him the awful news. He hoped the old man would appreciate how badly he felt.

  ‘What’ve you lost, young Greg?’ Mr Garland asked. ‘You look very down in the mouth.’

  ‘We’re leaving Moondilla,’ Greg said tremulously. He was on the verge of tears but trying desperately not to appear a sook.

  ‘Ah, so it’s true.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Greg asked.

  ‘I heard your people’s business had been sold. Surprised me, ’cause it seemed to be going so well.’

  ‘That’s the problem.’ Greg explained his mum’s plans.

  Mr Garland listened thoughtfully. ‘And you’re very unhappy about leaving?’

  Greg sniffed. ‘Yes, I love this place. I love the beach and the river and watching you fish. I don’t want to go to Sydney where there’s millions of people.’

  ‘Well, if you’re a good boy—and I reckon you are—you’ll fall in with what your people want. They must reckon they’re doing the right thing, and it’s them that has to find the money for everything. One day it will be your turn to make the decisions about what you’re going to do.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Greg said glumly.

  The old man set his rod aside and stooped down a bit closer to the boy’s level. ‘I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone—not even my late wife.’

  Greg nodded eagerly.

  ‘I was in the first AIF, in France. It was a dreadful business, young Greg. Freezing cold, snow at times, the shelling was awful and the German machine guns were terrible. Then there was their stinking gas. Thousands of Australians killed. I finished up in hospital in England. And do you know what helped to get me through?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘It was the thought of being able to come back here where there were no guns and no stinking gas, just the sea and the river and the fishing. So I’ll give you two pieces of advice. Fall in with a good heart with what your parents want to do, but keep the picture of Moondilla in your mind. And when you’re your own boss, you can come back here.’

  ‘What’s your second piece of advice, Mr Garland?’

  ‘Be the best it’s possible to be at whatever you do. If you’re successful, that will help you to come back here.’ The old man’s face softened in a way the boy had never seen before. ‘I’m going to miss you, young Greg. Although I won’t be here to see it, I reckon that one day you’ll return to Moondilla. That’s the kind of young man I think you are. You’ll come back here and do things that people remember.’

  ‘But you won’t be here,’ Greg said, again feeling like he might cry.

  Mr Garland shrugged. ‘Nobody lives forever. I could have, and probably should have, died in France along with my best mates, so I’ve had a fortunate reprieve. And I’ve caught a lot of good fish.’

  •

  Some three years later, a parcel arrived at the Baxters’ home in Sydney, addressed to Greg. It wasn’t Christmas or his birthday. ‘Who could be sending me a present?’

  ‘If you open it, you’ll find out,’ Frances said, handing him a pair of scissors.

  Once he’d cut the packing tape, Greg tore the cardboard box open and let out a whoop of excitement. ‘It’s Mr Garland’s haversack! It was in North Africa. There’s an NX number on it.’

  ‘And there’s a note inside,’ Frances pointed out.

  Greg withdrew the single piece of creamy notepaper.

  Dear Greg,

  Keep the dream alive.

  Your old fishing mate,

  Albert Garland.

  ‘He didn’t forget,’ Greg whispered. ‘He knew I liked his haversack.’

  ‘The really worthwhile people never forget, Greg,’ his mum told him.

  Greg looked at his mother and nodded. Her eyes were damp. That was when he realised that the arrival of the haversack meant Mr Garland had died.

  This didn’t lessen Greg’s desire to go back to Moondilla, though he knew the town would never be quite the same without his friend. An old and very decorated ex-soldier had treated him not as a small boy, but as a mate.

  Years later, when he finally returned to live in Moondilla, Baxter brought the haversack with him. In fact, it was where he stowed the aspirin he’d just bought.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘So what are you doing in Moondilla?’ Julie asked, when they were sitting in a corner of the cosy little coffee shop.

  He looked down at the long, neat line of stitches in his arm before answering. ‘I’m trying to write a book. Although I won’t be much good at typing for a while.’

  ‘The great Australian novel?’

  ‘I’ll be happy just to get it published,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘What’s the theme of it?’

  ‘Well, do you remember that journalism was my day job back in Sydney? When I wasn’t helping out with one of Mum’s cooking ventures.’

  Julie nodded.

  ‘I did a couple of big stories about the increase in heroin usage, and the fact that a lot of prostitutes are hooked on it or something equally obnoxious. Mum’s publisher was impressed with my work. He said if I ever felt like writing something more substantial, even a novel based on the articles I’d written, he’d be more than happy to have a look. So I’ve sort of got a foot in the door. Mind you, I’ve got to produce the book.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, don’t tear those stitches.’ Julie paused, stirring some sugar into her coffee. ‘And is there a Mrs Baxter?’

  Baxter caught a glimpse of hope in her eyes—she was probably just hoping that he’d settled down with a nice woman. He wished he could say that he had.

  Instead he said, ‘I haven’t met anyone I wanted to live with. Not after I lost Elaine. And to be honest, not after you left for the UK.’ He took a breath and plunged on. ‘I have to admit, you were the only woman who appealed to me. But you had other plans. I understood that, and I just hope you never felt I was coming on too strong.’

  He thought she might be offended or even angry, but she smiled gently and said, ‘There must have been others, Greg. There must have been. Men in your mould don’t grow on trees.’

  Baxter shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. Nothing beyond dinner dates.’

  There was a pause as they sipped their coffees.

  ‘So,’ she said, just as the silence grew unco
mfortable, ‘you’re out at the Carpenter place on your own and you’re writing a book.’

  ‘I’m not entirely on my own.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, her cup clattering as she set it down.

  ‘I have a big dog, Chief. An amazing animal. He’s a German Shepherd, bred from imported stock.’

  ‘A dog! You’re living on your own with a dog?’

  ‘Yep, is that so hard to believe?’

  She gave him a look that told him it was.

  ‘Honestly,’ he said and laughed, ‘I’m living on a strict budget, keeping up my martial arts routine and working long-ish hours at the computer.’

  Julie nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you’ve got a German Shepherd. Things are beginning to click in my head. My sister Jane is dog mad—she has two boxers—and she mentioned that a fellow who came to the garage had a very clever shepherd. You might have met her husband, Steve Lewis. He owns Moondilla Motors.’

  ‘I didn’t meet him, just an assistant, but I know him by reputation. He’s supposed to be the best mechanic in the district.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s a decent enough fellow, as men go. Jane could have done a lot worse. His only vice is that he’s fishing mad. Mind you, he’s not alone around here.’

  ‘It’s hardly a vice, Julie,’ Baxter protested.

  ‘No, hardly a vice,’ she said and smiled. ‘Maybe more of an obsession in Steve’s case. And to be honest, it’s an obsession I understand. Not Jane, though.’

  ‘Steve sounds a nice bloke. And is there anyone I should watch out for?’

  She hesitated, then said, her voice low, ‘There’s one bully boy here: Jack Drew. An ex-pug who slaps his wife around from time to time. It’s usually when he’s on the booze. I doubt that you’d get on very well with Jack. I’ve patched up a few fellows he’s tangled with, not to mention his gorgeous wife, Liz. You might keep your eyes open for him.’