by Barry Heard
‘Are you fuck’n blind, umpire?’ yelled a fellow class member I had known since I started at RMIT. I ignored him. Two minutes later, I blew the whistle again.
‘You moron. That prick pushed me, ya dumb bastard!’
Same bloke, big mouth. Bad move, mate. I walked over to him and handed him the whistle.
‘Speak to me like that again and I’ll rip one of your ears off. And congratulations, you’re the new umpire, you dumb jerk!’
I walked off the ground. Every now and then in life I have had brief moments of power, and this was one of them. Thirty-six pathetic footballers followed me off the ground, pleading, apologising, beseeching me to return, and promising their compliance. I returned to the dressing shed, got changed, and walked across the road to the Melbourne Zoo for a quiet afternoon alone. The following week I joined the rowing club.
By now, it was almost halfway into the academic year. My brother John had been hinting since February that he would like to come down from Omeo to live in Melbourne, so I organised some accommodation for him and he started work just around the corner from my flat in Middle Park. He was good company. At the same time, I had approached Ted about getting a car, something he had offered to help me with some months before. Now I told him I had $200 in the bank and that was my limit.
He smiled. ‘Leave it to me, Baz!’
A week later, I had to meet him at someone else’s service station. There was a car he wanted me to see: it was an almost new EH Holden. Two men were introduced to me when I arrived. One was a copper. The other was Fritz, who ran a car yard. The car looked superb. We stood looking at it for a while, and then Fritz spoke.
‘It’s been lowered, has extractors, floor shift, wide wheels, and low miles,’ he said proudly. ‘Its legit, mate,’ the cop said. ‘Just finish off the book.’
I was just about to open my mouth when Ted interrupted.
‘Baz, all up it’ll cost ya $200 to finish the book. The dickhead that owned this spent a fortune on doing it up, ran short of dough, did a burg, got caught, will do time, and can’t finish his payments. It’s been repossessed, mate. It’s yours or it goes to Fritz’s car yard.’
I was speechless. ‘But it’s worth five times that, Ted,’ I muttered.
Ted sighed and rolled his eyes.
‘Even more, mate,’ he said. ‘Look, Baz, you’re so bloody boring. I owe you one, mate. I’ve had a good break from work and the station. You’re the only bloke Doug hasn’t punched the shit out of; the other workers are rapt that you’ve got him bluffed. So take the fuck’n car or I might have to smack ya in the mouth!’
I could tell he meant it. I drove this dream car back to the flat. John was there, and that night he took his girl to the drive-in at Toorak in the new EH. Over the next couple of years I had a bit to do with the copper I met that day. He was a top bloke. Sure, he regularly called in for his free tank of fuel, but the same man bent over backwards to help young blokes fresh out of jail, organising emergency accommodation and a good job network set up to help them through the first few vulnerable months. Several of them worked with me at Ted’s. They were good kids who needed a break, and they certainly respected that copper.
The new car allowed me to go home on holiday breaks. Ted relieved me on the odd weekend. I loved the farm, the isolation, and the people, particularly the old people. But I never went back to the pub. I tolerated a little TV while I was home. I only had two rules. Don’t mention Vietnam, and think before you open your mouth.
My hair had been thinning since I had arrived in Melbourne at the beginning of the year. I was only twenty-three, but assumed I must have been going bald. By mid-year, the loss was sporadic, with egg-sized patches over my skull. I would scratch my head while studying late at night, and the page would be covered with hair in no time. I couldn’t work it out. I was turning into a worrier. I had been doing a lot of soul-searching lately. What would I do when this year ended? Perhaps I should think about socialising and that sort of stuff. Most nights I would cram until 1.00am. I had trouble sleeping, so at 5.00am I would rise and go for a run around the Albert Park Lake, shower, and then ride my pushbike into the city. What preoccupied me most was my inability to relate to people. I had never had this problem before Vietnam, but now I found I had few friends and felt very isolated.
Student unrest on campus increased as the anti-Vietnam cause grew rapidly. It was constantly in the newspapers and on TV. People talked about it all the time, and a lot of emotion was creeping into those discussions. This Wednesday morning I rode my bike to lectures as usual. The demonstrating crowds had not yet gathered, but on campus there was a lot of activity. I started doing what I always did, a routine of lowering my head, striding to the first lecture, and avoiding any eye contact by sitting alone, reading my notes from the last tutorial. No wonder I hadn’t made any friends. On this morning I had to push through a noisy crowd. A pamphlet was shoved into my hand. I glanced down and saw a familiar sight, a Huey — the helicopter most people associate with Vietnam.
The leaflet contained instructions on how to disable the chopper by pouring insect repellent into an electrical circuit. Not the Huey, I thought, feeling my pulse-rate go up, remembering those choppers winching wounded men to safety, or taking us back to base from that bloody jungle. The Huey was special.
Suddenly, I was on a mission. I hunted for some authority. I found a sign that said ‘Enquiries’ and went hunting. Upstairs, I stormed through a door without knocking. A very surprised administrator sat in a plush office, and I threw the pamphlet onto his desk.
‘This is wrong!’ I shouted. ‘Those bloody kids have no idea what it’s like. Why take it out on the diggers? Why hurt them? This should be stopped.’
After reading the leaflet, the bewildered administrator muttered a long, convincing speech denying any responsibility and saying nothing. This is a trait I was beginning to notice in many higher-ups, particularly politicians.
Frustrated, I stormed back downstairs to the protest, where I mouthed off at the assembled students. I wasn’t thinking. All my caution forgotten, I identified myself.
That night I struggled to maintain my normal intense routine. The lady in the flat next to me was slightly deaf, and through the wall I could hear a blaring voice on her TV describing the student unrest. My stomach churned. Next morning, they were waiting for me on campus.
‘Killer, murderer! Shame, Shame!’
They kept up the chant until I turned and left. I entered the campus from the far side and went to my lecture. That night at home I turned my music up loud and studied. Next morning, the lovely lady next door asked me if I could please turn it down a little in future.
Another late lecture; the city was at a standstill. Thousands of students packed the streets. Later the crowds were to get much bigger, but this was my first experience of a large hysterical protest. I stopped and stared at the huge crowd. I tried, but I just couldn’t walk through. I was filled with fear. My mind boomed with the noise that the protestors made; it seemed to amplify and distort as it reached my ears. I didn’t see the participants as a threat. It was their power that frightened me, the strength of the thing that motivated them. I had to get away. Shaking, I turned around and headed for a seat. My anger surged, an evil darkness that wanted me to lash out, but at what? Whatever it was, it was well embedded in my soul, somewhere. It took ages for me to get up from the seat. When I rose I was still feeling very alone and anxious. I reached for that reserve that allowed me to manage in Vietnam, to talk on my radio and remain composed. It was gone.
Neither could I return to the flat. My caring relations would ask questions like was I OK, or say things like, ‘You look terrible, Barry.’ I felt quite sick and not ready for those questions. I walked aimlessly. Finally, on one street a busy film crew was making some sort of advertisement. I sat and numbly watched them for hours. I recognised Kamahl. He was sitting on a rickshaw, encouraging Australians to visit exotic Asia or fly on some airline. When I finally calmed down I
headed for my flat, showered, and got ready for work at the hotel.
Later that night, as I entered the ladies lounge to start my shift, I found most people watching the wall-mounted TV. The marches and moratoriums were headline news. The boss took one look at me and said with concern, ‘You look like death, Baz,’ and gave me the night off. Back at the flat, the TV next door blared through the wall. I went downstairs and slept in the back of the Holden. That’s one of the few benefits of the infantry: you can sleep anywhere.
A week later, on entering the RMIT, I had a brown paper bag of moist, shit-like mud thrown over me. I began to work out ways to enter campus almost undetected. The army had taught me that skill. If only they had taught me how to cope with the overwhelming gloom, solitude, and guilt.
By now my hair was falling out in clumps. To disguise the problem I had a crew cut, which made me stand out even more on campus.
It was many years later that a psychiatrist explained that what I had was alopecia, a condition that caused hair to fall out due to anxiety.
I struggled on with the year, on many an evening just sitting in the dark in my flat and staring at nothing, making sense of nothing. At times, the temptation to drown my sorrows in alcohol was strong, but fortunately the last few months had found me vomiting violently when I mixed food and beer. For the first time, I was now experiencing wind pains in the gut that had replaced the vomiting. I got debilitating pains in crowds and trains, and inside large places. I thought my diet had to be the reason, because it had been poor since moving to Melbourne. I vowed I would do something about it. I had a few good people to lean on. My aunt and uncle were very kind. My brother had no interest in the war, never mentioned the political unrest, and lived life to the full. When we were together, we talked about home.
But the surprise was my job at the pub. The women were wonderful. They continually asked how things were, encouraged me with my studies, and never mentioned Vietnam. They seemed to know intuitively that I needed a bit of normality, and they did their best to cheer me up. Although nothing was said, I felt they understood me better than I understood myself. I looked forward to my work every Thursday night. It was a lifeline.
Suddenly, for the first time since that terrible contact in Vietnam, it was August. I flipped the calendar to the new month, and the sixth of August just stared at me. I closed the calendar quickly and
started diversion tactics; a study frenzy that had me falling asleep at my desk. No matter what I tried, though, the date seeped back. I couldn’t sleep. The faces of the blokes flashed into my mind. I had some dreadful nightmares. I woke the lady next door one night with screams and shouting, waking up wet, shaking, and in total fear. My study routine was a mess now. Before, I had managed an 18-hour day and would then fall into bed exhausted, and sleep for four or five hours — exactly the same pattern we’d been used to in Vietnam. But now I was wary of going to sleep, I was very hard on myself, ashamed that I wasn’t coping.
Most returned men I met when I was growing up seemed normal and well adjusted. I recalled, as a young boy, clapping and admiring the returned soldiers on Anzac Day. People described them with words like ‘brave’, ‘courageous’, and ‘strong’, and I’d been in awe of the mystery and honour that surrounded them.
Compared to other wars, I berated myself, Vietnam was a joke. We’d had it easy. It wasn’t even a declared war. There were no trenches like in the First World War, or deserts or prison camps like the Second World War. What right did I have to feel bad?
To confirm this I went to a city RSL one night, hoping to be able to just have a quiet drink and find some company. Sorry, I was told politely, you have to be a member. Sorry, you can’t become a member. Sorry, you can’t come in. It’s RSL policy, sir.
On the fifth of August I went back to Lakes Entrance, slept in the car, got up early, and went fishing on my own. I fished all day, then on the second night I went to the pub for a counter meal. Someone had left a paper behind on the bar. Almost automatically, I reached over and opened the paper at the death notices. The page was full of remembrance notices, and I knew every name mentioned that was connected with 6 August 1967. There were three and four notices for each.
I stopped reading, hopped in the car, and drove back to Melbourne. There I found that John my brother had been worried about me, wondering what had happened. I said nothing, but I told myself bitterly to straighten up and get on with it. During August my nightmares reduced in intensity, but they wouldn’t go away.
With one term of studies remaining, I was turning into a recluse. I had no close friends to talk to. Maybe it was time for a night out. I was a normal, virile young man, but the power of sex wasn’t strong enough for me to pursue women, even just for sexual gratification. It wasn’t that I was noble; I was just scared of making any commitment. Anyway, I knew there couldn’t be many women interested in a one-night stand with a balding bloke who lacked conversation, wouldn’t talk about his past, got wind pains in unfamiliar places, and couldn’t stand the company of people his own age.
I saw a 50/50 dance at St Kilda advertised in the local paper, and decided to give it a try. When I arrived, the hall was full, and I sat in a corner. I preferred corners. Like a dance at Swifts Creek, the blokes sat on one side and the girls on the other. Foxtrot, modern, and barn dance: I sat them all out. It’s not that the women were unattractive or that I couldn’t dance; I just couldn’t muster the courage it takes to stride across a dance floor, mumble a request for a dance nervously, and risk being turned down.
Finally, they announced the evening three-step, and I decided I couldn’t put it off any longer. The cocky studs dashed across the floor to snatch their partners, who accepted eagerly. Then came the shy ones. Darwin’s theory of evolution would have it that the women left to choose from were at the lower end of the selection pool. The woman I asked had protruding teeth and thick glasses.
‘Do you feel like a dance?’ I mumbled.
She knocked me back. ‘I’m not feeling well, sorry.’
I slunk back to my corner. One more try — then I was going to go home.
Next dance, the ladies’ choice, I stared at the floor. Suddenly, a pair of blue high-heeled shoes came into my vision.
‘Would you like to dance?’
I was stunned.
‘OK.’
She smelt beautiful. Her cashmere cardigan was soft and fresh. As we danced, my fingers tingled every time the muscles in her back moved.
‘My name’s Peg,’ she said. ‘I’ve been watching you all night. Did you come on your own?’
I found my voice. ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘My name’s Baz.’
It was a slow foxtrot, one of my favourite dances.
‘You’re a good dancer, Baz.’
‘So are you. I had lessons as a kid.’
We danced on without talking. I was enjoying holding a woman, the supple feel of her body and her skin. Her hand on my shoulder was burning, and her voice was close to me. All my primitive male instincts were totally alert. My lungs glowed when I breathed in. The dance finished.
‘Can I sit with you, Baz?’ she asked.
‘Sure, that would be nice.’
We had the next three dances. Slowly, her head moved onto my shoulder. Our thighs touched, I felt her breasts against my chest as we waltzed, and she held my hand when the dance finished. The only thing I knew about this woman was her name. She was attractive, had a soft voice, and a nice smile. I’d never read The Book of Dating or How to Chat Up a Woman, but I knew it was my move. I took a deep breath and burst out with it.
‘Would you like some supper, Peg?’
We had coffee and vanilla slices, and went back to our seats. She asked me what I did.
‘I’m a student,’ I told her.
‘You don’t look like a student.’
This was so hard, my first real attempt at a conversation in months.
‘What do you do, Peg?’
‘I’m a hairdresser, Baz, my own business.’
‘You look like a hairdresser.’ (That was a stupid comment!)
Silence. Eyes back to the floorboards. Hands sweating. I wanted to go home.
‘Baz, would you like to take me home?’
Then something unusual happened. Outside her flat, as we stood on her front veranda, she turned and kissed me softly on the cheek. Fortunately, we were in the dark. I could feel tears welling in my eyes, and a lump in my throat.
‘It’s OK, Baz,’ said Peg softly.
Inside on the sofa she chatted quietly about her work. I did a lot of listening, but Peg was able to prise out of me that I went to RMIT and was only a first-year student. Somehow, this woman knew something more about me. I didn’t have to open my mouth or move. She had a look in her eyes that simply said: relax, it’s OK, I won’t hurt you.
Then those pauses, that silence, the smothered panic. I stood up, put on my best smile, and produced my car keys from my pocket.
‘I had better go, Peg. Big day tomorrow. Thanks. You’re a nice person.’
She stood.
‘Excuse me a second, Baz,’ she said, and disappeared down a passage. Perhaps my luck was in. I might get a phone number, I thought. She reappeared in the doorway wearing a soft blue negligee.
‘Come to bed, Baz,’ she said.
We made love for what seemed ages. Several times, I choked with emotion, and my chest heaved with pain. Everything was a painful joy. Finally, we lay on the bed.
‘What is it, Baz? Are you divorced or something?’
‘Nothing like that, I knew a nice woman once. I thought my future was with her. But I called off the relationship. I know I hurt her and a lot of people; I sometimes think I’ll never get over it.’
‘Please stay the night, Baz.’
I did. Peg slept on my shoulder. In the morning, the patter of young feet woke me up. I had slept in. Peg had picked up her daughter, and a cooked breakfast was on the table.
‘Baz, I’d like to see you again,’ she said as we ate. ‘No strings, though; just like this, OK?’