by Peter Watt
Sarah glared at her husband but she knew she would be wasting her time if she tried to interrogate him. It was time to return to work while Charles returned to their home on the harbour to wile away the hours with a crossword until the evening shows came on television.
But when Sarah returned to her residence that evening Charles had a surprise for her. She had not even reached the cocktail cabinet when he held up a sheet of paper.
‘I have an invitation for us to attend the centenary celebration of the establishment of Glen View homestead by Sir David and his wife Lady Enid.’
Sarah turned on Charles. ‘I would rather be dead than accept such an insult,’ she snapped.
‘Maybe Jessie is trying to bury the hatchet,’ Charles said, folding the sheet of paper. ‘I think I will accept the invitation. Accommodation will be provided and, besides, I have never visited the property. Michael used to come back from up there with glowing reports of life in the bush. Maybe I should find out why before I die.’
‘You don’t look like you will die for many years yet,’ Sarah scoffed, pouring a liberal amount of gin into a crystal tumbler.
‘You are wrong on that point,’ Charles said, and the tone of his answer startled Sarah.
‘What are you talking about?’ she questioned angrily.
‘My doctor has told me I have cancer and that, at best, I have six months to live,’ he said quietly.
For a moment it did not sink in with Sarah that the man she had been married to for almost a quarter of a century would soon die. ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ she finally replied. ‘You have been a good father to my son.’
‘And that is about it,’ Charles sighed. ‘I’m nothing more to you than someone to provide Michael with a father. There was a time you told me you loved me. But that was a long time ago.’
Sarah did not move from the cocktail cabinet to her husband’s side. ‘Does Michael know?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Charles answered. ‘He has enough worries right now just staying alive. You can tell him who his real father is when I am gone. Knowing you, I am sure you will get great pleasure telling Michael he need not mourn for me as I was never his real father anyway.’
‘My son will have the opportunity to learn about his real father,’ Sarah said. ‘But I promise that I will not tell him until you are gone.’
Charles did not bother to reply but turned around and left Sarah alone in the dining room.
It was for the best, Sarah reflected. After all, she had supported Charles all these years and he had done very little in return to help the Macintosh Enterprises. He had always been a burden and now she would be free of him.
*
The case of the Carbolic Smoke Ball company was not very exciting. Patrick scribbled notes as he studied the different aspects of contract law in the university library. How Sean had ever found legal studies interesting was beyond Patrick. He took a deep breath, sighed and closed the law book. He had had enough. It was time to go home and relax with his latest book, When the Lion Feeds, by a new author called Wilbur Smith.
Patrick caught a tram and walked the last two blocks to Sean’s flat under a hot summer sun. He could see that there was mail in the letterbox and he removed it. As he walked towards the front door, he flipped through the letters until he came to the one he had been hoping to find. It was from Sally in Hong Kong, and Patrick knew what he would be reading before he opened the pages of the Wilbur Smith.
He entered the flat, threw the bills on the kitchen table and went to the fridge to retrieve a cold bottle of beer. With the bottle open and a glass full of the brown liquid before him, he carefully slit open the envelope to retrieve the single page. With a smile he commenced reading, but by the time he had finished the letter the beer was forgotten, and all that remained on his face was a stricken expression. Sally had met another man and fallen in love. She was sorry to inform him so clinically in a letter, but she felt that Patrick might not have left the army if it had not been for her, and that he should have only made his decision based on what he really wanted. She felt bad that he had given up his beloved military life.
He was vaguely aware that Sean had returned home.
‘I will grab a glass and join you,’ Sean said cheerily, then noticed the dark cloud over Patrick. ‘Do you have bad news?’
‘Yeah. Sally wrote to say she found another bloke,’ Patrick said, picking up the glass of beer and swallowing a great mouthful.
Sean walked over to the table, poured himself a beer and sat down.
‘Lucky in war, unlucky in love,’ he said, raising his glass as a toast. ‘How will that affect your plans to study law?’
With a pained expression, Patrick looked across the table at Sean. ‘I truly appreciate all that you have done to get my articles, but I don’t think I am cut out for law. If I return to the army now I shouldn’t lose much. Maybe I will simply be reinstated at my old rank, and I will chase up Major Mann’s offer to join the training team in Vietnam.’
‘I could see you were not really happy poring over trust accounts and probate files,’ Sean sighed.
Patrick was relieved Sean understood. He knew he would be happier back in a battalion; he had only left the army to be with Sally. Patrick was a born soldier, aware that the father who had been killed before he was born had served in the frontlines of the Great War. It was a family tradition to serve the nation in times of war.
‘Will you be travelling with me to Glen View for Christmas?’ Sean asked.
‘Yeah, Terituba will be home for Christmas, and it will be a chance to catch up with Aunt Jess and Uncle Donald,’ Patrick said.
‘We will be joined by Charles,’ Sean said. ‘It will be his first time to the property.’
‘Let me guess,’ Patrick grinned. ‘Sarah Macintosh will be remaining in Sydney for Christmas.’
‘It looks like it,’ Sean said. ‘Just a pity that Michael will not be with us. The kid kind of grew on me. There were times he reminded me of David. At least David and Gail will be staying over at Glen View for Christmas. It will be the first real family gathering we have ever had.’
Patrick poured himself another beer, and when it was gone Sean suggested that they head over to their favourite pub to have a counter meal.
Patrick glanced at the letter, picked it up, folded it and returned it to the envelope. He was broken-hearted but had learned one thing about this woman: once she had made up her mind there was nothing anyone could do to change it. He was not about to beg her; that was not in his nature. The only consolation he had as he left the flat was that she would one day wake up and realise she had made the wrong decision. Patrick was a patient man – if unrealistic. It was true love that made a person blind.
*
Christmas Day at Glen View saw a blazing sun rise over a small tent city around the homestead. Jessica and Donald had spared no expense to make the event spectacular. Cooks had been hired, and off to one side was a small flotilla of caravans to house the extra staff.
Already the delicious aroma of a beast being slowly spit-roasted drifted on the still air. Ice had been flown in, and big buckets kept in the shade contained bottles of beer and soft drink. A keg was also in operation as neighbours from properties far and wide drove – or flew their light aircraft – in to join the centenary celebrations.
Jessica fussed over the cooking in the kitchen, aided by Shannon, while her two boys went looking for other boys to muck around with. Donald, with a beer in his hand, was already outside under a tarpaulin supervising the cooking of the beast. Before lunch, Santa arrived, red-faced and obviously dying of the heat under his costume. He consumed a copious quantity of beer to cool down, but the squealing children did not care as he handed out small presents. A few of the older kids recognised Mitch as Santa and muttered amongst themselves as to whether he should be exposed, but presents and a growl from Santa soon silenced them. Man
y of the children running wild gravitated to the dam for a swim while a couple of the mothers supervised.
‘Charles, it is so good to have you here this year,’ Jessica said when she left the kitchen to join him in a quieter spot on the verandah. Jessica had fortified herself with a shandy, and she gazed out at the many people she knew. As usual the men had formed circles to discuss the weather, cattle prices and politics, while the women had retreated to the house to sit around the dining room table, cooling themselves with little hand-held fans.
Near lunchtime Patrick and Sean drove up and were welcomed as family. ‘You blokes are shacked up in the workers’ quarters,’ Donald said, shaking each man’s hand vigorously. ‘Charles got in first, so he has a room in the house.’
‘Bloody RAAF,’ Patrick growled cheerfully. ‘Always get the best of everything.’
‘Yeah, well, the honourable David and Mrs Macintosh got the last room,’ Donald grinned.
‘Same with bloody politicians – always the best,’ Sean added with his own grin. ‘I need to catch up with him over a cold beer.’
‘He’s over there in that circle. He could probably do with being rescued from the mob,’ Donald said. ‘That’s the problem when you’re a politician.’
All day people ate and drank. With a lot of noise and laughter and ribbing, the festivities continued in true country style as the sun went down. Country and western music blared from a loud speaker, and weary children found parents’ laps to sleep in. As the great red ball descended across the brigalow plains, David, Gail, Sean, Patrick, Charles, Jessica and her three offspring settled on camp stools away from the tents and marquees to sit and take in the serenity of the dying day. They chatted about family matters and anything else that came to mind. It was a peaceful moment in their lives and Patrick was overjoyed to be joined by Terituba who had spent the day with his parents at their quarters.
‘I hear you comin’ back to the army,’ Terituba said, punching his best friend playfully in the arm. ‘Best Christmas present I could get. Maybe they make you go through Kapooka again to learn how to be a soldier.’
‘I don’t think so, and how in hell did you know that?’
‘We blackfellas got what you whitefellas call ESP,’ Terituba grinned.
‘Uncle Sean told you, didn’t he?’ Patrick said with a laugh. ‘Anyway, I got in touch with Victoria Barracks and they told me I could go back with my old rank as I have only been out for a few months.’
‘I thought you were goin’ to be a bigshot lawyer an’ marry your sheila,’ Terituba said, taking a bottle of beer proffered by David Macintosh.
‘She sent me a Dear John letter,’ Patrick said.
‘She got that wrong. Your name Patrick – not John.’
‘Smart arse,’ Patrick responded and raised his bottle to his best friend.
‘Where’s Donald?’ Sean asked, suddenly noticing his absence.
‘Oh, he had to run an errand,’ Jessica replied mysteriously. ‘He should be back in a short time. Just had to pick up someone from the Dunedin property.’
The words were only just out of her mouth when her husband appeared through a fine mist of dust haze, followed by another man.
‘Oh, God!’ Charles gasped, hardly believing his eyes. ‘Michael!’
Behind Donald, Michael Macintosh emerged with a broad smile on his face. Charles was hardly on his feet before he was embraced with a crushing hug from Michael.
‘I missed you, Dad,’ he said as tears ran down Charles’s face. Cries of approval rose up from the rest of the family sitting on their camp chairs.
Charles was reluctant to let go but eventually released Michael to gaze upon his son, soaking in this tall, broad-shouldered young man who had left as a boy. Charles was speechless until he finally uttered, ‘This is the greatest gift I could ever have in my life – my son.’ Charles glanced across at David who was smiling and Charles nodded his head. It had been David’s influence that had brought Michael to him for Christmas from Africa.
Terituba and Patrick slapped Michael on the back and thrust a bottle of beer into his hand.
‘Good to see the snotty-nosed kid we had to sort out on his first holiday,’ Patrick said, raising his bottle in a toast. ‘How did you know about this gathering? The last I heard you were over in the Congo with Mad Mike Hoare.’
‘There was nothing mad about Mike Hoare. It was the East Germans who gave him that title, and the left wing Western press decided to use it in an attempt to denigrate a great and brilliant soldier. As it was I had a letter from Uncle David,’ Michael said, glancing around at familiar faces, and one he did not recognise. The unfamiliar man rose to his feet and extended his hand.
‘I’m your Uncle David,’ he said. ‘It’s good to finally meet you face to face.’
Michael accepted the firm grip, gazing directly into David’s eyes. ‘I’ve heard a lot of stories about you,’ he said. ‘All good.’
‘Thank you,’ David said. ‘You’ve been fortunate to have such a good dad in your life.’ He glanced at Charles and could see his look of gratitude.
‘Dad is a truly great bloke,’ Michael said, then turned back to Patrick. ‘I guess Uncle David used his sources in Canberra to track me down. So here I am.’
It was an evening everyone would always remember, and as the moon rose in the night sky, those gathered could hear the mournful cry of the curlews. It would prove to be the last time they would all be together to share the love of family.
Part Three
Vietnam
1968
TWENTY-THREE
The young man in his late twenties sat alone at a table in the Sydney coffee shop. In the background, The 5th Dimension sang about going up and away in a beautiful balloon. Trooper Michael Macintosh was dressed in civilian clothing of slacks and shirt, but his membership of the elite Special Air Service Regiment could be seen in the hardness of his eyes and the bearing distinctive to professional soldiers.
Michael had enlisted in the Australian Army in 1965 and his application to the SASR had been accepted. The selection course had been much tougher than he had expected but he had succeeded and had already done one tour of Vietnam. At present he was home on a month’s service leave before returning to his barracks in Western Australia to be shipped out again.
Michael liked the song playing. It was calming and upbeat. For a brief moment the words took him away from his memories of the long-range reconnaissance patrols deep into Viet Cong territory in Phuoc Tuy Province. There had been so many close calls, and one or two vicious firefights. Killing was something that did not cause Michael to lose sleep. He always wondered how he could cope so well. Perhaps it was a family trait.
Before his father, Charles Huntley, had died in 1965 he had told Michael who his biological father was, and also that Michael was the father of Jane White’s daughter, Victoria. Both disclosures had shocked Michael, but his tears had been for the man who had loved him for whole his life and was dying before his time.
Michael had flown to London before enlisting in the army and found Jane. As they faced one another in the country manor where Victoria had been conceived, they had been forced to face the fact that time had moved on. Only once did Michael see his daughter, and it almost broke his heart. Her true parentage was tightly locked up, and would stay that way. He knew that was probably for the best. Maybe fighting in the Congo had changed Michael, or perhaps it was that Jane was no longer the girl infatuated by the handsome young man from Australia. They had parted as friends and Michael had returned to Sydney.
‘Would you like another cup of coffee?’ asked the young waitress, snapping Michael from his thoughts.
He looked up at her. She had a slightly sad look but she was very pretty. He guessed she was about eighteen or nineteen.
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘I think I will.’
‘You must be a soldier,’ she sai
d when she returned with his mug of coffee.
‘Why would you say that?’ Michael asked with a smile that briefly banished the coldness from his eyes.
‘My brother was a national serviceman who came back last year. He has the same look as you, and besides, not many young men have their hair cut as short as yours.’
Michael was intrigued by her perceptiveness. ‘What look is that?’
‘A kind of hard, faraway look. I’ve heard it called the thousand-yard stare. Although of course nowadays we’d probably say the thousand-metre stare. You have the same look I’ve seen so many times in my brother’s eyes. Jacob has not had an easy time settling back in to civilian life. He drinks too much and gets into fights. Are you still in the army?’
‘I am,’ Michael said. ‘I have a few weeks leave before I do a second tour. Do you work here full-time?’
‘No, I’m at uni. I work here to help with the rent on my flat in Glebe.’
‘What are you studying?’ Michael asked.
‘Science,’ she said. ‘I want to be a chemist one day.’
‘I’m Michael,’ he said, extending his hand.
‘I’m Mila,’ she said, taking his hand shyly. ‘There’s going to be a party tonight. A few of my uni friends will be there.’ She scribbled down an address on a scrap of paper. ‘I’d like you to come as I’ll be there. But I have to warn you that most of the people at the party are part of the anti-war moratorium and a bit younger than you.’
‘Are you?’ Michael asked, accepting the scrap of paper.
‘Yes,’ Mila replied. ‘I’ve seen what the war has done to my brother. He was such a warm and loving man before he went to Vietnam. Now he’s so changed I hardly know him. If we can stop the war, and conscription, other young men might be saved.’
Michael was silent. He was a professional soldier, and although he did not believe the politicians’ domino theory of Asia falling to Communism, from what he had seen of the massive corruption of the South Vietnamese government, he felt that it would have long fallen without the intervention of the USA and her allies in the SEATO alliance. For Michael, war was his occupation.