by Tess Woods
DEDICATION
For Mike who lived through hell,
for Alan and Jess who live in heaven, and
always for my loves, Paul, Tommy and Lara.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Part One: Love
1 March 2018
1 March 1969
12 December 1981
25 February 1989
3 November 2017
6 November 2017
22 March 1969
18 November 2017
28 April 1969
8 April 2000
20 November 2017
25 October 2000
19 July 1969
28 October 2000
22 November 2017
2 August 1969
1 December 2017
30 August 1969
2 December 2017
1 September 1969
28 February 2018
2–3 September 1969
1 March 2018 — 12 PM
1 March 2018 — 12.15 PM
1 March 2018 — 12.30 PM
1 March 2018 — 4.30 PM
1 March 2018 — 9 PM
Part Two: Other Battles
1 March 2018 — 9.15 PM
5 September 1969
2 March 2018
19 June 1989
2 March 2018
26 February 2000
5 March 2018
7 March 2018
21 October 1969
8 March 2018
6 December 1969
9 March 2018
11 July 2000
22 December 1969
10 March 2018
13 March 2018
14 March 2018
8 January 1970
16 March 2018 — 9 AM
16 March 2018 — 4 PM
16 March 2018 — 7.30 PM
19 April 1970
17 March 2018
22 March 2018
26 March 2018
1 April 2018
3 May 1970
4 April 2018
23 April 2018 — 10 AM
23 April 2018 — 11 PM
27 April 2018 — 1 PM
27 April 2018 — 4 PM
18 May 2018
1 September 1970
14 July 2018
26 November 2018
24 December 2018
6 September 1970
24 December 2018
6 September 1970
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise
Copyright
PART ONE
LOVE
1 MARCH 2018
The glass sliding doors opened and Jess walked into Sunrise Glades Aged Care. The smell of urine and disinfectant swamped her. She wiped her wet hands on her skirt, pulled her shoulders back and put on her cheeriest smile.
‘Mrs Stone, look at you, you’re soaked!’ Nurse Shreya rushed towards her. ‘Let me grab you a towel. Mr Stone’s had his shower and he’s all ready and waiting for you.’
‘You’re a gem. Thanks a million.’ Jess gave her face and neck a quick pat. ‘Best not keep him waiting then, had I?’
She followed the long white-tiled hallway and paused at the doorway of the room she’d tried so hard to make homely and warm. A patchwork quilt on the bed, photos on the dresser and a crocheted throw on the couch gave some semblance of family life, but still it was cold, soulless.
Jess’s husband of forty-seven years was seated behind a trolley table. Dressed in checked pyjamas and slippers, he was looking down at the paper. His right heel bounced on and off the floor, both hands trembled violently, slapping against the table, and his torso and head writhed continuously.
Ignoring the heaviness in her chest, Jess called out, ‘Good morning, love!’
He looked up, expressionless. ‘Look what the c-cat dragged in.’ His drooping mouth and low-pitched mumble made him unintelligible to just about everyone except her.
‘Shut up. I slipped in a puddle and then your damn muffin rolled out of the basket and under a parked car. So it’s all your fault that I’m drenched.’
He snorted a laugh and the tremor in his hands sped up.
She pulled up a chair beside his, saw the newspaper headline and quickly flipped the page over.
‘Hey. I was r-reading that.’ His words came out slowly.
‘It’s not good for you.’
‘They want grandchildren of Anzacs to march b-before our vets in the parade.’
‘I know, love.’ She placed her hand over his. ‘I know. But best you don’t stress about it. You know your symptoms get worse when you become agitated.’
‘B-but —’
‘And there’s nothing you can do about it anyway,’ she interrupted. ‘So why upset yourself?’
‘Grandchildren, in front of, of v-veterans, for Christ’s sake.’ He grunted, but the fight had left his eyes.
Jess peeled the sodden baking paper off the muffin. She gave it a quick wipe with a tissue. ‘Here, open up.’ She broke off a small chunk and fed it to him, wiping the drool off his chin with a handkerchief. Piece by piece, she continued to feed him until it was all gone.
Then she flicked on the TV and they watched the morning news while they waited.
Eventually his writhing slowed down. So too did the shaking foot and the trembling hands. The relief was temporary and wouldn’t even last the day. By mid-afternoon, he’d be just as stiff and sore again, like he would be every day for the rest of his life unless, by some miracle, a cure was unearthed for Parkinson’s disease. But at least for now he was a little more comfortable.
Mr and Mrs Stone smiled at each other.
He stared at her chest. ‘I can see your nipples through your sh-shirt.’
She laughed. ‘Oh God, you can too!’ She leaned forward and kissed his lips once briefly and a second time for longer, comforted by the taste of him. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi, yourself.’ He stroked her wet hair.
She shut her eyes and, for a few seconds, let herself pretend they were back home and that everything was the way it should be. When she opened them again, she asked, ‘Ready to go for your walk?’
‘I suppose.’
She reached for the aluminium walking frame, placed it directly in front of him and fastened a belt around his chest.
‘Up, up, up,’ he repeated as he hoisted himself off the chair while she kept a firm grip on the belt.
When they reached the doorway, he turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘I p-promised to be there for you, always.’
She leaned her forehead on his and stared into his blue eyes, so light they were almost grey. ‘And you have been. Come on, let’s walk.’
But he remained fixed in place. ‘I want out.’
Her face clouded over. ‘Not this again.’
‘P-please, Jess.’
‘Stop it. I hate it when you do this.’
‘It’s too much.’ He gulped. ‘This is no life. I can’t anymore.’
‘Yes, you can.’ She grabbed his forearm. ‘You can. For me. There’s no life for me without you. We’ll talk to the doctors. See if we can change some of your prescriptions. We’ll find a way to make it more bearable. Just don’t give up.’
He sighed and said nothing and they walked, him with his frame, her right beside him, up and down the sterile hallway. Lap after lap.
***
Jess jumped when her phone rang and dropped her knitting as she reached into her bag. A photo of her daughter’s face filled the phone screen. ‘It’s Jamie. Why’s she calling during school hours?’ She put the phone on speaker. ‘Hi, sweet. Are you okay?’
‘Hi, Mum.’ Jamie’s
voice sounded nasal. ‘Are you there with Dad? Something’s happened.’
‘What? What is it?’
The silence that followed escalated Jess’s panic. Had there been an accident? Was CJ hurt? Please, no.
‘I’ve had the police here at school. They just left.’ Jamie’s tone was hard.
‘Jamie, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.’
‘CJ’s been suspended.’
‘Suspended? Why?’
‘She’s been found with marijuana in her locker.’
The air left Jess’s body. ‘Oh, no. Is she with you?’
‘She is.’ Jamie paused. ‘She told us . . . she told the police, where she got it.’ Her words were clipped. ‘Listen, Mum, they’re getting a search warrant for the house. You need to come straight home. We’ll meet you there . . . Mum? Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m here. I’m on my way. I’m leaving this second.’
‘K.’
‘Right, well, I’ll see you at home in a few minutes then.’
But Jamie didn’t reply, she’d already hung up.
Just then Shreya walked into the room, carrying a tray of sandwiches. ‘Here’s your lunch, Mr St—’
‘Shreya!’ Jess interrupted. ‘There’s been an emergency. I have to go home. Could you please help with lunch today?’
‘Of course, yes, no problem.’
Jess rammed her knitting back in its bag and rushed out the door. Stay calm, she chided herself as she got in the car. But the panic had already set in.
She was halfway up the road, wondering why her car wouldn’t accelerate properly before she noticed that she’d forgotten to take off the handbrake.
‘Calm down, it’s not the end of the world,’ she said out loud. ‘It’ll sort itself out.’ But her words failed to bring any comfort.
1 MARCH 1969
Jessica James never expected to fall for a soldier.
On the first day of autumn, she sat alone on the foreshore, enjoying a day off after a long week of hospital rounds when a screech of tyres startled her. She turned in time to see a young boy get hit with such force by a skidding car that he became airborne before landing on the kerb face down. The car sped away.
Stamping out her freshly lit cigarette, she raced across St Kilda’s Esplanade to where the boy lay still. She knelt beside him just as a man arrived, practically elbowing her out of the way.
‘He’s breathing!’ the young bloke shouted. ‘Someone call an ambulance!’ He flicked Jess a quick look. ‘Hop out of the way and let me do my job, Flower Child.’
Jess bristled at the cocksure fellow, with his short hair and crisp clothes, and didn’t budge. ‘I’m a student nurse. I know first aid.’
‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘I’m a trained medic.’
He stood out with his army haircut, when all the other men she knew had hair hanging well past their shirt collars.
A nasho. No wonder he’s so full of himself.
She clenched her jaw and brushed her hair out of her eyes. She wasn’t going to let this idiot soldier stop her from helping a child who needed her. ‘We’ll work together. I’ll make sure he keeps breathing, you tend to his wounds.’ She bent her head close to the boy’s mouth, and his ragged breath warmed her cheek.
‘Fine, stay,’ the man replied curtly, then shouted at the gathered crowd. ‘Does anyone know this kid?’
‘His mum’s right here!’ A woman standing close by had her arms wrapped around a sobbing woman, holding her back from the child.
‘What’s his name?’ the man asked the mother.
‘Tim,’ she whimpered.
‘Tim!’ he yelled in the boy’s face. ‘Tim, can you hear me?’
Tim didn’t respond; his eyes were rolled back.
The man turned Tim back onto his side and pulled off his own shirt, which he scrunched into a tight ball and pressed against a gaping wound on the boy’s waist.
‘I need to get a tourniquet on that bleeding leg,’ he said out loud to himself, manically undoing his belt.
‘Here.’ Jess slid her cotton scarf from around her neck and held it out. ‘Use this.’
‘Thanks, good idea.’ The man turned his attention back to the boy. ‘Everything will be all right, Tim. You’ll be okay, mate. Looks like you’ve copped a beauty to the leg there. Gave your mum a terrific fright, eh?’ He lifted his shirt away from the wound and turned it over so that a fresh part of it was now pressed against Tim’s waist. The blood seeped between his fingers and dripped onto his knuckles, running along the back of his hands.
Jess looked down at her purple paisley scarf, tied around the boy’s thigh. It was covered in globs of sticky bright blood and the acrid smell rushed up her nose.
‘You’ll be all right, Tim. Hang in there, mate,’ the man said.
Tim was unresponsive but the man continued. ‘I see you’ve got your footy jersey on there, mate. So you’re a Blues supporter, eh? All the champions go for the mighty Blues.’
A distant siren grew louder and louder and seconds later an ambulance came to a halt. In no time, Tim was loaded onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. His mother was escorted in after him.
Jess stared after them until the flashing lights disappeared from view. She stiffened as an arm snaked around her shoulders.
‘Hey, it’s all right, Flower Child,’ the nasho said. ‘Don’t cry.’
‘Get off!’ She pushed him away.
He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. ‘Why? What did I do?’
‘I don’t talk to nashos.’
‘That’s fine, I don’t talk much to hippies either. But you did well with the kid. Good work, nurse.’
Jess tightened the knot at the front of her shirt. ‘Look, you’re not going to get anywhere with me, so you may as well save your breath.’
He laughed. ‘No sweat. All I was going to say was would you fancy going across the road to hang out at the beach?’
She rolled her eyes but found herself taking a quick peek at his tanned shirtless chest and toned abdominal muscles.
Why are you blushing, you fool?
He extended his right hand. ‘I’m Frank, Frank Stone.’ His eyes were so light blue they were almost grey.
She hesitated before accepting the handshake. ‘Jessica James. Everyone calls me Jess.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, Jess. So, a nurse? Where are you training?’
‘I’m at The Alfred.’
‘Which unit?’
‘Casualty at the moment.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘But don’t mind me, I’m just a poor helpless nurse. Thank goodness you showed up with your five minutes of army training to save the day.’
‘Fair enough.’ He smiled, raising his arms in surrender. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I was rude. I shouldn’t have said what I said.’
‘Apology accepted.’ She fiddled with her floral headband in the uncomfortable silence that followed.
Frank tapped his foot on the ground. ‘Well, I guess if you don’t want to come to the beach, I’ll get back to my mates then.’
‘Yes, you mustn’t keep them waiting.’ She was surprised to find herself not wanting him to leave. ‘Will he be okay? Tim, I mean. Do you think he’ll make it?’
‘Who knows? That was a lot of blood he lost.’ He chewed his cheek. ‘Hit-and-run gutless wonders. Do you suppose they took off like that because they were scared or because the kid was . . .’ He stopped.
‘Because he’s Chinese?’
‘Well, yeah, that.’
She looked away. ‘Bastards.’
‘Bastards.’
They fell silent again.
She cleared her throat. ‘So you’ll be going off to Vietnam soon then, I imagine?’
He shrugged. ‘Depends how the war goes, I guess. I hope so.’
‘You hope so? Why?’
‘It’s what I’ve trained for. I was at uni when I was called up. Two years into an economics degree. Now I’ll be graduating a couple of years later than I planned to. If I did
nothing but hang around here, in peacetime Victoria, then it’s all a bit pointless really, isn’t it?’
‘But if you’re a student, couldn’t you have got a draft exemption?’
‘Sure thing, if I applied for one. But I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It wasn’t the right thing to do.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Well, yeah, JC had a bit to do with it.’ He gave her a wink.
‘Ah, now it makes sense. Good Christian boy off to fight the evil commies.’
‘Ha! Take it you’re not Catholic?’
‘Pfft.’ She pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her canvas bag, put one between her lips and offered the pack to him.
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’
‘Of course you don’t.’ She hunted around in the bag for a lighter. ‘Okay, well, good luck to you.’ She lit the cigarette and blew a smoke ring into the air. ‘I hope this good-for-nothing government pulls our troops out of Vietnam before you get sent.’
‘Why do you care if I get sent or not?’
‘Because I want you to live, Frank Stone.’ She stared at him as she said it and then walked away.
‘Hey! Flower Child!’ He called out to her back.
She turned to face him. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Sure you don’t feel like a cuddle on the sand?’
‘You’re a nasho. And a mick. Dream on.’ She called back.
‘I’m this, I’m that. Who cares? I’m not asking you to get hitched. One kiss, that’s all I’m after. I could be dead in a field before you know it — give a dying man a kiss, would you?’
She stood there for what felt like forever, looking at him, thinking.
A group of women walked towards them. They were dressed like her, in tie-dye flowing fabrics, wooden beads hanging from their necks and around their wrists, bare feet.
‘Army bastard!’ one of the women shouted as she walked past.
Her friends laughed.
‘Put your shirt on, child killer!’ another called over her shoulder.
‘Hey!’ Jess yelled. ‘He just saved a child!’
The woman shook her head at Jess. ‘He’s a nasho, sweetheart. They don’t save children, they murder them.’
Jess walked fast towards Frank and grabbed his hand. ‘Come on, then.’ She didn’t break her stride as she marched across the road to the beach, dragging him behind her. ‘Consider this my act of charity before the Viet Cong blow your brains out.’