Smithy's Cupboard

by Ray Clift

  11

  The Return

  In his office in Langley, the CIA headquarters, Brigadier General Jack Curtis read through a file marked Top Secret.

  The one-star matched the relatives in his family, going back to the ones who fought with the South in the Civil War. His career had been mapped out from the day he was born. He removed the yellow tab which reminded him to ring an old Australian military comrade from their days when the two Aussie SAS men attended the US Navy Seals course. Great guys, and their beer wasn’t too bad either.

  Captain Stephen Howlen belonged to the team of agents which had been assembled under friendly country agreements and led by a two-star general who was senior to Jack. The captain picked up the phone after four rings, which was the current code, and answered promptly, ‘Howdy, Jack. Been a long time, mate.’

  ‘Fine, Stephen, fine,’ the soft Virginia drawl coming through which led the listener to think of Teddy Roosevelt when he declared, ‘Walk softly and carry a big stick.’

  ‘I heard about our friend Smithy. Did some time in Pentridge for threatening life.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to threaten, he just does.’

  ‘You kept a low profile, I hear, Stephen.’

  ‘Best, I thought. How did you find out?’

  ‘The judge helps us from time to time. He’s connected with our legal service team.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Stephen never new the full bag of tricks which they possessed. ‘Smithy kept his head down. Pleaded guilty, didn’t want the lawyer to speak about the SAS.’

  ‘I know, I know. We haven’t used him for a while. Thought it best for him to really get over Joan. I sent one of our guys to the funeral.’

  ‘He told me so and was grateful.’

  ‘I’m told he went feral for a while.’

  ‘He’s OK now. My mate from the police kept an eye on him. Another vet– but not SAS. A grunt in ‘67.’ A pause followed and Stephen guessed the next subject.

  ‘A job’s coming up down the track. Can you give him a nudge?’

  Stephen prepared an answer. ‘What about the conviction?’

  ‘Don’t worry– it’s already scrubbed.’

  Stephen gave a low whistle in response and was conscious of the power brokering which occurred. ‘Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll get back to you soon.’

  Two days later, Ted barked. Captain Howlen walked in after Smithy called, ‘Come in.’

  He looks a bit older, Smithy mused while he turned on the kettle.

  ‘How are you, Smithy?’

  ‘On the mend, mate. Let myself go for a while, though.’

  ‘Jack Curtis wants you back. A few jobs coming up. OK with you?’

  ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’

  Neither man spoke. The pause was like a hawk hovering in the air marking time, studying lunch on the ground.

  ‘They scrubbed the conviction, mate.’

  ‘Bloody hell. The power they wield. It’s scary, isn’t it?’

  ‘Does it surprise you, mate?’

  Smithy shook his head in response.

  ‘Still building hides?’ Stephen knew his friend very well. His style of merging, being still, seeking silence and waiting, the best sniper in the country with the coolest head and nerves. Brave, loyal resolute and secretive. Hard to replace.

  ‘Yeah, mate…the bedroom wardrobe.’

  ‘Must push on, then.’

  They shook hands and Ted came up for a pat at the front door.

  Stephen loved dogs and patted him. ‘Great dog, Smithy. Where did you get him?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  Stephen left. He had heard rumours of a killing on the Nelson River. He phoned Jack Curtis, who listened while the phone rang four times.

  ‘He’s fine with it, Jack. Raring to go.’

  ‘Good. I’ll make contact when the ops order comes out. Might be some time yet. Come over sometime, Stephen, and bring that good-looking missus -- Ann, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep, sure will, Jack. See ya.’

  Smithy sat in his secret spot after his friend had left. He knew he would always be embroiled. Mostly, it kept his senses alive, but five per cent told him, ‘Can’t leave, know too much.’ The questions which demanded an answer more often of late were ‘Is it in the interest of national security? How are decisions made regarding a state-sanctioned killing? Is it so far down the road that the organ grinders don’t have to worry about it, leaving it to us monkeys? Justification: what a word, one which can be used to sanction everything.

  He sat in the wardrobe and brooded until he had figured out what to say and something or someone might listen. No use asking for forgiveness. Best attend a confessional afterwards. What must it be like for Father Kelly with all my secrets? The burden of it all.

  Still, the pile of unwashed clothes had gone and the area had been scrubbed clean after the first message he had received from beyond the veil. Joan would be pleased.

  A flopping noise followed his thoughts. It was like an old wheelchair which had a bump on its tyre; Joan had used a chair many times before her death. He shivered and shook in the sudden burst of cold air which was becoming more frequent and always caused the hair on the back of his head to stand up. Maybe it was an unseen hand brushing the back of his head. The atmosphere was heavy and moonlight sent spears into the hiding spot.

  ‘Smithy.’ A cracked voice spoke several times like a vinyl record with a scratched groove. It stopped as quickly as it came.

  He sat perfectly still. The sound of his thumping heart beating out a percussion.

  ‘Get sorted.’ It was delivered like an order, like Joan did on occasions.

  A rose scent drifted past his nostrils and occupied the space in the closet. He waited for another message and the cold air cleared. He sat up straight, his shoulders back. He held his hands upwards with the palms facing out just like the medium said, in order to receive healing.

  He closed his eyes and spoke. ‘Joan.’ He moved his head from side to side as if he could trap her spirit into his body. ‘You know what I do, don’t you?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘I confessed to the priest.’ He paused.

  ‘Good.’

  He was sure it was Joan who spoke.

  ‘Will God forgive me for my sins?’

  There was no answer from the beings in the afterlife, the evidence for which was mounting up in Smithy’s mind. ‘Crikey. Good chance of meeting all of my victims,’ he muttered.

  The next day, Shane sat on the old lounge which his parents had never replaced. Ted was at his feet with his head pushing against the police officers’s hands for another scratch. His father handed him a mug of coffee and sat opposite. He eyed his son, who had a cardigan over his blue shirt in the manner which spelled off-duty.

  Shane enquired how he was feeling.

  ‘Fine, son, fine.’

  ‘You’ve got to get over Mum.’

  ‘I talk to her.’

  ‘Where for God’s sake?’

  ‘In the cupboard.’

  ‘Shit– I hoped you cleaned it up.’

  ‘She told me to.’

  Shane dropped his eyes and drained the coffee in one swallow. He looked at his father. Still looks good. Always overseas. Still the spook, I’m told. He remembered the CIA and Brit spooks always at the house. They had one feature which marked them: hard-looking unblinking eyes which did not smile. Joan made up for them with her bellowing laugh and the buckets of food which she supplied and then the men would wander off out of earshot where the serious nature of their work and their deeds could be spoken about. Sprinkled in amongst their huddles were bawdy sayings and discussions about the latest weapons available.

  ‘Dad, you need a therapist.’

  ‘Nup. Got my old army mates here and in the States.’

  ‘The spooks… Dangerous stuff, Dad.’

  ‘Gotta die sometime, son. Hey, what about some grandkids?’ changing the subject as he was wont to do.

  ‘Working on it, Dad,�
� Shane said in a jocular fashion. He stood and hugged his father, which he rarely did, and patted Ted as he left.

  He was greeted at the police station with ‘How is he?’

  ‘He talks to Mum, sarge, in his bedroom cupboard.’

  The senior sergeant was a friend of Smithy’s from Vietnam days. He was well aware of Smithy’s losing Joan, and gaol would not have helped.

  ‘So what? So do I. I sit in the pantry with Mum’s old spices and have a chat.’

  ‘What does your wife say about that?’

  ‘She’s used to it.’

  Shane walked to his locker and opened it and placed on his tunic. He gazed in the mirror in the washroom. ‘Will I get as mad as those two?’

  The mirror did not reply.

  12

  Adam

  Dave rolled into the drive in his twin-cab Nissan and offered to stay for a week while my farm hands had some leave. And Ted his black Labrador hopped out with him, after the long trip and eagerly ran around playing with the two farm dogs.

  It was a bit lonely on the farm after Mum and Dad had passed on well over a decade ago. I had an important story on my mind which I had written out for my young brother to read later on.

  I helped him with his bags and we went into the house.

  He looked around. ‘Hell, does this bring back memories, bro. Nothing has changed in here.’

  ‘Not even your old room, with your old cubby house.’

  He hastened into his room and I followed while he touched the artefacts and I felt he was transported back to the time when he and Blackie played in the old box. His eyes were glazed over so I quietly left him to his memories for a time.

  ‘Got a carton of VB in the back, bro. Want one?’

  I told him there were cold ones available and we sat on the lounge. The dogs walked in and Ted trotted over and sat at my feet as if he knew his new name had honoured our father.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the States on a job soon. Would you look after him for me for a while, bro?’

  ‘Love to. Leave him here till you come back.’

  ‘He’ll love the farm. No more snakes about, are there?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, remembering the sadness with Blackie.

  ‘Probably won’t want to leave.’

  I appreciated his work about the farm over the few days and he spoke of how the hard labour over the long day had hardened him up once again. I knew of his fall from grace yet we rarely spoke about it.

  ‘So what’s the stuff you want me to read?’

  I reached down in between the chair and the cushion where I put stuff (Mum did not like the habit) and pulled it out. I filled him in with a few words which raised his expectations. ‘This follows on from when I went to Vietnam a few years back with some shipmates. You remember I was in that area on leave in mid-’65 before you joined up?’

  ‘The postcard you sent is still in my bedside drawer.’

  I continued on about the trip in old Saigon I remembered when the war was hotting up with advisers and other troops and started the story when we were on a bus trip.

  Dave settled in comfortably with the several pages which I had typed (which I am proud of now that I have embraced computers). He read and re-read some parts of the story.

  ‘Stop! stop!’ I yelled to the tour bus driver in old Saigon as we drove along some familiar streets. I leapt to my feet and said to Billy my old sea chum, ‘I’ll give you a ring soon, mate. OK?’

  He waved me away and later told me he imagined there was a face in the crowd which I had recognised…someone way back in ’65 when our ship had granted us liberty leave.

  I watched the old bus rumble off dodging scooters, bikes and hundreds of people checking out the market stalls. I was busy dodging the traffic as well.

  I remember thinking about Bogey in Casablanca and wondering what clever thing I would say to the person whose face I saw in the crowd. There she was standing at the corner, holding a billboard and in a time warp which I hoped we might be in together soon. I stopped and stared at her just to be sure. I yanked out of my wallet a forty-year-old photo nearly in bits which had been my close friend for many years. My hands shook and I dropped the dog-eared sepia photo on the footpath. I put my sandal on it so I would not blow away. There was a dusty swirling wind blowing. She glanced in my direction while I was bending down picking up the photo.

  I looked at the photo and there I was in 1965 with my coloured shirt, short back and sides and a fresh tanned face and wearing a pair of those Bombay bloomer navy white shorts. A young Asian woman looked up at me with a beaming face, her five-foot slim figure standing with raised toes and sandals falling off the heels. Here was Loan from long ago a few yards away.

  I walked towards her and sensed some recognition forming on her face. Her almond eyes gazed at me and were open wide, taking my form in from head to toe. The black shoulder-length hair, still glossy, cascaded in the old fashion. She was more gaunt than I recalled. Still, we had all changed in that space of time.

  ‘It’s me, Adam…Loan.’ She gasped and held her mouth with the tiny yet strong hands which had bewitched me when I was young.

  I held out my arms and she folded into them like two spoons in a cutlery drawer. Her body was as I remembered it.

  My recurring dream had cast a sign which I had not considered and the synchronicity (yes, I read lots of New Age books now) of it all was coming into focus. A dream which had foretold a meeting and its intensity in vivid colour, with her small hands massaging my lumbar region, sliding towards my groin, led us into a dynamic act of copulation. I woke up still imagining she was there and that we still held each other, snuggled up cosy and happy. I saw the illusion soon with the fluid from my wet dream flooding the sheets, smelling like a mushroom cellar. The dream was an illusion leading to a delusion. However, on the street years later, it was not an illusion as she clung tightly to my body.

  ‘You come back, Adam.’ She dragged me towards the shop and called inside in an excited voice, ‘Look after the shop for the day.’ She led me to a door two shopfronts away and we entered. There we were in moments of raging lust tearing off our clothes with a lot of lost ground to recover. She murmured low and the lamp was glowing blue, casting an esoteric haze over the little room. It was like I never left in ’65.

  We consummated our love in seconds, which closed the gap of those years apart. We took a breather while I showed her the old snapshot. She nodded and smiled with the fine opaque skin stretched over her high cheekbones. She reached over and pulled in a shell-frame photo of her holding a child of about four years of age. The child had fair hair and skin. The penny dropped.

  ‘My daughter.’ Nothing else would come out.

  ‘Yes. She die when she was ten with malaria.’ Loan wiped a tear from her eyes and mine were moist.

  I didn’t ask stupid questions like ‘Why didn’t you write?’ I did not interrupt as she explained the situation. I let her talk on and by now tears were ploughing down my face with the salt invading my open mouth.

  ‘The war, Adam. I not blame you.’

  ‘After the war, what then?’

  ‘Bar girls not popular because I have a fair white child with an Aussie dad, though they like you better than Americans.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  She had found a Buddhist convent. ‘They were kind. Soldiers left me alone,’ she added.

  ‘Your brother the South Vietnamese soldier – what of him?’

  ‘He in your country with boat people. In Melbourne…St Kilda. Got a restaurant.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Loan, that’s in my state. I’ll look him up.’

  Loan had started cooking by then.

  I organised a transfer of money for her to draw on. I did not wish her to ever again be in poverty. She had married an older man who cared for her; he had died some years ago She would not accept my offer to immigrate to Australia but I am still trying. I made a pact with her to visit at least once a year. I boarded a plane and watched as her sm
all hands waved goodbye.

  I knocked on the door of the restaurant in St Kilda on my return. ‘Is Fung about?’

  The man entered and we spoke. I had not met him, only seen his photo. A big smile caressed his lips and we sat while I rambled through my history and he his.

  ‘How’s the business going?’

  ‘Slowly,’ he said.

  I reached in my pocket, pulled out my cheque book and wrote his name on one, and entered an amount of $10,000. I gave him the cheque.

  He looked at it, incredulous. His lips started to tremble and he touched the back of his head. Then it came out. ‘Why, Adam?’

  ‘A debt to you and to honour your family and the daughter I never knew. I love your sister.’

  I walked away.

  We spoke later on the phone and Fung kept repeating how grateful he was. In my replies I always explained my sadness at not meeting my daughter. My donation to the two folk from the war-torn land was helpful to us all.

  Smithy folded the paper and then blew his nose. He realised I also a had a love in his life which no one ever thought I would have. He knew I had something else to add.

  He spoke first. ‘Adam, it’s a beautiful love story. I am so happy for you. What’s next?’

  ‘I’d like to marry her. She won’t leave her country but she will stay here a few months of the year. Would you have any objections?’

  ‘As long as I can be best man… Take love while you can. Don’t I know that? Shouldn’t have been away so much.’

  ‘Do you think it would have stopped Joan from working?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Would it have prevented the cancer?’

  ‘I suppose not. Hell, let’s change the subject. Get me a VB.’