The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  “You heard what I heard.”

  “Yesterday she hardly wanted to know him but last night I think they were holding hands.”

  “They were. That was being sympathetic, Jamie. She’s always been like that. Don’t you remember the stray kittens when she was tiny?”

  “I could hardly forget. The house was full of sand pits. But this is not a stray kitten.”

  “No, he’s a dear friend and he was really shattered by this loss.”

  “And Juliet is sensitive and compassionate, now she’s emerged from the shadow of that bastard. But do I detect anything else?”

  “She wants his company,” Janet said. “It’s what she needs now.”

  “And he needs her company after that awful news.”

  “He does. So it’s our Juliet being kind?”

  “Of course. And I’m not going to say a word, or try to interfere. Just as I’m sure, neither are you, my darling.”

  “No. Having been a soldier all my life, I know a command when I hear one,” James Sherman said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  They left after an early lunch. It was a warm November day with a cloudless sky. Julia’s car was a 1938 Hillman Tourer with a charcoal burner attached on the back, enabling them to enjoy the fine weather with the hood down. Janet hugged them both, as Jamie emerged from the house with a home-made map.

  “It’s got some rather useful short cuts in it. Save you the best part of an hour, and it’s the easiest route. Drive carefully, Poppet.”

  “I will, Dad,” she promised, handing the map to Carlo and kissing her father. Her parents waved and stood watching until the car was out of sight.

  “Well?” Jamie said, and after nearly thirty years of marriage she knew it meant ‘what do you think?’

  “One good thing. We’ll never see the odious-ex again.”

  “That’s a very good thing. Although I wish we’d called the police.”

  “Forget him, Jamie. It’s all over.”

  “I hope. Any other thoughts?” he asked

  “She’s your daughter, too. Do you have any?”

  “I like him. But it’s nothing to do with us, is it?”

  She shook her head in agreement as they went back to the house. There was hardly any traffic on their way through town, and Julia was smiling. “Dad never fails to say the magic words.”

  “What words?”

  “Drive carefully. I’ve given up reminding him I drive for the air force. I’m a glorified chauffeur for the group captains and wing commanders.”

  “The ones with all the decorations.”

  “That’s them.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Ferociously boring,” she said, making him laugh. She was in a relaxed and cheerful mood, quite different to their first meeting the previous day. But he already knew from last night how diverse she could be. Deeply caring and companionable, staying with him until long after midnight. Trying for hours to console him. He wanted to thank her, but thought that was better left for now so he made small talk instead.

  “Nice open car.”

  “A Hillman Minx. Well named. It almost got me sacked from my job.”

  “This car did?” Carlo asked with a smile. “Tell me.”

  “It was parked on a main road with a sign—for sale, ninety pounds. It seemed to be saying ‘please buy me’. I was in a bus going to work at Fairfax. I got out at the next stop, found a public phone, and bought it. My boss at the newspaper said another missed morning and I could search for a new job. That’s why I call it ‘The Minx’. I love it on days like this with the hood down. I’d drive it to Longreach if it wasn’t so far. I start there next week.”

  “How long would it take?”

  “I’m told the best part of three days. But fortunately we get a flight to Queensland.”

  “Three days drive. I sometimes forget the size of this country. What made you choose the air force, Julia?”

  “Don’t laugh. I had a vain hope I could be a pilot.”

  “No laugh from me. Women fly transport and cargo planes.”

  “Not this woman. There were twenty of us in line for one job. So I’m a chauffeur for the big bananas.”

  They were on the Newell Highway heading north. It was rich pastoral country with wheat fields, orchards and vineyards spread out on either side of the road. As they travelled Julia’s long dark hair became tousled by the wind until she produced a smart cap from a pocket beside the door, checking in the mirror as she put it on.

  “Nice,” Carlo commented, “makes you look quite sporting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What’ll it be? Tennis or golf.”

  “Swimming,” she said with a smile. “I grew up in Manly. Spent half my life in the water.”

  “In that case, you can teach me.”

  “Can’t you swim?” she asked, surprised.

  “I can stay afloat to avoid drowning, but I grew up in Lombardy and it’s a long way from the sea.” After a moment he said, “Tell me about Manly.”

  “It’s a beach town, the harbour on one side, the ocean on the other with a famous slogan: Seven miles from Sydney and a thousand miles from care.”

  “So who was it named after? Don’t tell me there was a Mister Manly.”

  Julia laughed. “It’s one of the rare places in Australia not named for a Pommy lord or an English town. When our first Governor sailed across the harbour to visit the Aborigines, they threw boomerangs at him and told him to bugger off. He went back to Sydney to report they were manly!”

  “Is that true?” he asked, laughing.

  “Absolutely.”

  “This country’s great, Julia. Full of those stories and visually exciting.”

  “Sounds as if someone likes the place.”

  “I do. Very much, and a lot of it is thanks to your mum. I’m lucky to be doing what I love and it’s entirely due to her.”

  “Did she really persuade them to give you a studio?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “Not until this weekend. I knew you’d become friends with them, but no idea Mum had done that. She’s sort of special, isn’t she?”

  “Very special.” He spoke with such sincerity, she turned to study him.

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that,” she said quietly. “I’ve been a pain in the arse to her, to them both. You never mean to hurt those you love and I do love them very much.”

  “I think they know that.”

  They were quiet for a moment, until she said, “Would you ever think of living here, like Dad suggested?”

  “It depends, I suppose. On what kind of world we’ll have when this is all over. It’ll be different, I expect. Maybe better. Let’s hope so.”

  “Yes, let’s.” As if to change the conversation she suddenly said, “That was a big scandal at the other camp, wasn’t it? Rivers of marijuana, one paper called it. What was it like being a witness in that court case?”

  “Very scary. I was petrified.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine you being scared.”

  “It was no fun being cross-examined by those barristers, all trying to prove I wasn’t telling the truth.”

  She glanced at him with a smile. “And were you?”

  “What?”

  “Telling the truth?” she asked, gazing intently at the road.

  “Most of the time.” He realised he’d never admitted that to anyone else before. “The truth can get awkward when barristers force you to give a hurried answer. If you don’t reply straight away it often creates a bad impression.”

  “They think you’re stalling, or making it up. I know. I’ve seen it in court when I was a reporter. Nervous witnesses getting mixed up.”

  “I was nervous like that. It’s why I never want to be a witness again.”

  “Nice portrait of the local girl. What was she like—Tiffany Watson?”

  “A lot nicer than her husband.”

  “Tommo Thompson. Dad said he’s a nasty piece of wor
k, or as he put it in his own words, a truly evil bugger.”

  “I think he summed it up pretty well.”

  “Why would a girl like her marry someone like that?”

  Carlo hesitated over his answer as they went past a sign warning drivers to reduce speed, as houses started to appear.

  “Saved by the bell,” Julia said. “This is West Wyalong, a chance to stop for coffee. I can’t vouch for history, but it’s said Aborigines lived here 40,000 years ago. Imagine it, and we think we own the country after less than two hundred years.”

  There were few cars in the street and fewer people. Carlo did try to answer her question as she parked. “About Tiffany, her life was in a horrible mess, and Thompson promised to help her. She made a really big mistake.”

  “I can sympathise with her,” was the reply.

  “On another matter, Julia, I don’t think I could’ve coped last night without you sitting with me, hearing my woes and trying to comfort me. I haven’t told you how much it meant. It helped a great deal.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  It was a Sunday, the town was almost empty and the coffee shop was shut. “They’re church-going people,” said the girl in the milk bar where they settled for a malted milkshake instead. “And tight as hell. Too mean to pay the Sunday surcharge. So they won’t be putting much in the church plate either.”

  “Oh well,” Julia said as they left, “Soporific Sunday in the central west. I wonder if it was more alive than this 40,000 years ago?”

  After leaving West Wyalong she was uncertain of the quickest way to Cowra, so Carlo gave directions from studying the short-cut map Jamie had drawn for them. That was how they got lost, ending up in a place called Quandialla instead of Grenfell. From there it meant a slow and circular route along a winding gravel and dirt road, past tiny towns and then Bimbi on the Weddin Mountains National Park.

  “Have you ever heard of these places?” Carlo asked.

  “Never,” she answered cheerfully. “This is so far off the beaten track that at the start of the war they clearly couldn’t find this part of Australia to remove district names in case of Japanese invasion. And it’s just as well that Dad’s in charge of a desk now, not an army. If he made maps like this our troops would never manage to find the front line.”

  “Or anywhere else,” Carlo added, making them both laugh. In fact there was a lot of laughter while they consulted Jamie’s marvellous map that was meant to speed up their journey, but seemed to have led them into a borough of hilarious uncertainty. “It’s an absolute shambles,” Julia declared. “I can’t wait to tell him how he sent us on this wonderful short-cut.”

  Five minutes later though she pointed ahead of them and shouted “Carlo, look!” There was an old sign hanging loose from a post. Various letters were missing, but those remaining providing strange reading. G E FELL was what it seemed to be saying.

  “G. E. Fell,” she read it out triumphantly, “so let’s hope if he did fall, he was on his way to Gren—who also Fell. Eureka!” she shouted. “And sincere apologies to my dear daddy for believing he was the world’s worst navigator. Or map maker. What’s a map maker called in Italian, Carlo?”

  “Cartografia,” he replied, and the sound of the word and the way he spoke it made her smile fondly. “It sounds nice, the way you say it. No wonder it’s called a romantic language. And I have news for you. I think we really are on our way to Grenfell. We might even stumble across a proper road soon. Stand by for another thrilling sign post any moment.”

  Carlo had been joining in the laughter with her, but suddenly seemed noticeably thoughtful.

  “Cheer up,” Julia grinned. “Have faith. I think we’ll get there.”

  “I have every faith in the driver,” responded Carlo. “What’s worrying me, is the thought of you having to drive back tonight.” She turned to look at him and was about to say something, but before she could speak he continued.

  “Even on the main road it’ll be a long way, you’ll be really tired and most of the journey will be in the dark. Let’s stop in Grenfell, so I can ring Walt.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll ask him to book you a hotel room tonight in Cowra, so you don’t risk a long drive back. At my expense,” he added, before Julia could speak.

  She was quiet for a moment, then thanked him, but explained she had an elderly great-aunt who lived on the fringe of Cowra, barely ten minutes away from the camp.

  “It’s where I’d planned to spend the night. I should’ve told you. In the morning I’ll head back to Griffith for the last few days of my leave with Mum and Dad. They’ll look after the car until I’m on leave again. So thank you for the kind thought. I rang great-aunt Winifred this morning, and she’s expecting me.” She went on to explain this was her favourite relative and she was often a visitor there.

  What she did not say was how deeply she’d been moved by his concern and his thoughtful offer. It had come as a complete surprise. In recent times, or at least the past two years of it, there’d been nothing like this. Oliver Renshaw from a wealthy home in the eastern suburbs, would certainly have suggested a hotel room for the night—but that would’ve been for one reason only, to get his leg over. Whereas Carlo Minnelli, a prisoner of war from Italy, had wanted to call ahead to ensure she did not risk a long and perhaps dangerous drive home. She was astonished by the vast difference between two men who were almost the same age. It was about then, and during the rest of the drive, she began to realise something was happening with her feelings towards Carlo.

  It worried her. It was the last thing she’d wished for, a response of this kind towards any man so soon. She had controlled the affection that had begun sometime last night, sitting with him, holding his hand while listening to his genuine grief at the loss of those three English friends. She’d stayed awake in bed long afterwards, thinking how rare such sincere emotion was. It had been why she’d wanted to drive him today. To be with him just a while longer, to remain in touch, but not do anything foolish like starting to imagine she might be on the verge of falling in love. After all, this was a man she liked but hardly knew; he was nice looking and talented, but rumour had it that he’d quite likely had an affair with Tiffany Watson. And there was some girl in Italy, a model named Silvana.

  For God’s sake, stop it, she told herself. Just because the past two years had been dreadful, and the past two days so utterly different… but it was only two days! It was ludicrous. Insane. Perhaps after a moderate time…she did like him and wanted to see him again, but not too often and not too soon. This flood of feeling had occurred because of his kind and sensitive concern for her welfare.

  She suddenly realised respect and kindness had been so lacking in her life of late, that she hardly knew how to deal with them any longer.

  The studio was a revelation to Julia. The exterior suggested if it had once been an old shed, it had been transformed. Bright and busy, it was filled with students engrossed in pencil drawings or eager to talk with Carlo and pursuing him with questions. Then the director of the next stage play The Skin of Our Teeth by Thornton Wilder was waiting to confer with Carlo about a surreal set he’d painted for this drama. His friend and assistant Walt had greeted her warmly and was now in their private section of the studio helping an assistant to show her some of Carlo’s own work. There were sketches and paintings, one she particularly liked, but at first sight she knew it would cause him pain, today of all days.

  It was a brilliant view of an empty ocean spreading to the far off horizon as seen through a porthole. Julia instantly realised it had been an idea he’d conceived on the Royal Star; a vivid memory of the radio room he had told her about. She felt a shock when the framed canvas was held up to be viewed; she saw him react to it with a shiver, and reached out to take his hand. The shivering abruptly stopped when he felt her hand take his.

  “Thanks,” he whispered, squeezing her fingers. It was then that Julia thought If I am in love, it’s far too soon. But how do you manag
e to stop a feeling like this?

  “Carlo,” she wanted to praise the picture, but didn’t have time to finish.

  “I think I have to burn this,” he said.

  “You mustn’t. It’s a memorial to those three, and it’s beautiful.”

  “You realised that?” He seemed surprised at her quick perception, how she knew what he must be feeling.

  “It’s your view out of the porthole, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” He was still gazing at her, like someone making a discovery.

  “So please keep it.”

  “You’re right, of course. But I don’t think I can look at it every day.”

  “Then let me take it. I’ll give it to my mother for safe keeping.”

  “Would you do that for me, Julia?”

  “Of course, Carlo. Gladly.”

  “We’ll have it wrapped. What time are you going tomorrow?”

  “I’m not going.” She almost surprised herself saying this. It was an impulsive change to all the careful plans she’d previously made.

  “But you said…” She thought she saw the trace of his smile.

  “I did say, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll call Mum and tell her I’ll be back with the painting at the end of the week. The day my leave ends.”

  “You’ll stay here till then?” It was definitely a smile now.

  “Yes. Great Aunt Winnie will be pleased.” Julia felt this was the safest reply.

  “Do you mind me saying I’m also pleased, and asking why you decided to stay?”

  “Carlo, I just want to be friends.”

  He looked puzzled now. “I hope we’re friends already. Aren’t we?”

  “Of course. I mean it’d be nice if we were able to meet up, even if it isn’t for very long”.

  “Friends?”

  “Yes. Is that something that bothers you?”

  “No, of course not. I’d be glad to be friends. How long before your leave ends?”

  “Six days.”

  “Not long.”

  “Enough time to get to know each other don’t you think?” she asked.

  “As friends. I know you’ve had an unhappy time, and don’t want another. Is that what you mean?”