Above the Fold

by Peter Yeldham

  She sighed, then reluctantly picked up the letter she had just written with such difficulty, forcing herself to re-read it. No, she thought, no, bloody no, shaking her head angrily as she ripped it up. It was her fourth attempt, and all four lay discarded in the wastepaper basket.

  She tried once again.

  My dearest Luke, then gazed blankly at the page. Should she write another duplicitous one, like those rushed notes she’d been sending him for the past four months? No … she could not bear to continue with the deception any more. He deserved better.

  My dearest Luke … the empty page lay there like a taunt.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Claudia thought, and began to write with a firm intention this time to somehow get it done.

  TWENTY-TWO

  There was mail waiting for Luke when he returned to Tokyo, but he put it aside until later. It had been a long and tedious trip, and he needed a shower and a few hours to catch up on sleep. The journey back from Hiroshima, the gratifying occasion he’d attended, had been spoiled by the interminable delay near Kobe, where a terrorist attack had occurred. Two railway employees had been killed, and a signals junction destroyed by hand grenades.

  A shameful end to what had been a wonderful event, the opening of the Kaito Clinic by Yuri Nakamura. It was a truly unique occasion with attendance by local politicians, along with Ben and everyone who could be spared from the radio unit, as well as many others, including journalists and photographers from Japanese papers, and a newsreel camera team. A small new building to be run by two young doctors compiling tests on all those who’d survived the bomb, keeping records of their health and performing annual checkups, the first of a series of clinics, this one with a plaque on the front wall bearing the name of the small boy who had once lived here.

  The KAITO CLINIC — Nakamura’s prestigious name, assisted by Luke’s newspaper royalties, the first joint venture between friends across the wartime divide. It had been a very special occasion. Luke had been deeply moved, close to tears, and Jimmy Marks alongside him had cried unashamedly. So did many of those who’d played such a part in the last ten days of Kaito’s life. It seemed to them a miracle that his name was to be revered like this. There had been speeches — Luke squirmed when his own part had been applauded — but the day had been memorable, and there would be plaudits in the national press about this goodwill tribute by a Japanese doctor and his friend, an Australian journalist.

  So it was all the more disappointing that the attack outside Kobe had occurred on the following day, another instance of increasing sabotage against the occupation. It had been carried out by a group known as the IPRU, an acronym for the Iwate Prefecture Reclamation Unit, now classified as a terrorist organisation. Originally based only in the province of Iwate, the second largest Japanese administrative area, the IPRU had spread to other districts with the sole objective of destroying installations to cause maximum havoc in both the British Commonwealth and American sectors. Drive the invader off the sacred soil of the Homeland, was the message chalked on footpaths and painted like graffiti on broken walls.

  Composed of military and naval personnel, and run by aggrieved ex-army officers who could never accept the reality of Japan’s defeat, the group’s disruption had been increasing in violence. While early incidents involved only cutting phone lines, throwing rocks at trains or blocking roads and other events of nuisance value, their activities had now escalated. An army barracks had been burnt, the occupants barely escaping in time. Soon after this a bomb exploded in an officers’ mess killing two lieutenants and a Japanese waiter, then a group of soldiers on a night out with local girls had been so badly beaten by vigilantes that some were still in hospital. The death of the two signalmen brought the murder tally to thirty, sixteen of them occupation troops, others were interpreters and Japanese men and women working for the Americans or BCOF. Those employed by the occupation were clearly marked for retribution.

  “We’ve put it on tomorrow’s front page,” Harry told Luke, when he phoned his apartment. “The IPRU claimed it as yet another victory to drive out the hated gaijin.”

  “Hell of a way to do it,” Luke said, “killing two more of their own people.”

  “They don’t care about casualties,” was Harry’s answer. “Bunch of mad militants who won’t believe they lost the war. So how was the ceremony?”

  “Wonderful,” Luke replied. “Big crowd, lots of local coverage. Some of my toughest mates shed tears.”

  Later that night he sat and read the mail that had accumulated in his brief absence. There was a letter from Rachel full of bubbly good news from London. She was in a Chekhov play with the Young Vic, and being considered for a role in a film to star Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson.

  Do you remember them in that marvellous film ‘Brief Encounter’? It seems like years ago that we all went to see it at the Collaroy flicks. Life was different then; Barry and Helen were still an item, I was doing radio in Sydney and waiting for Steven to return from the army. The only ones still together from those days are you and Claudia … even if you are apart at present.

  Among other letters was an annual statement on the finances of the Foundation from Alistair Tate.

  Despite the low interest rate we show a healthy gain of £6,400. This includes dividends, for we retain the listed shares (see attachment), as well as the government bonds, and after budget expenses for Louisa’s airfare and funds telegraphed to London for her benefit, the total Foundation assets have risen to £59,800.

  Incredible thought Luke. Money sits in a bank or in shares and makes more. No wonder the rich get richer. At this rate he was going to be wealthy, and it was all thanks to the parsimony of a man he’d hated. Just thinking of his father revived memories of that night when he’d heard Louisa being bashed, and later found out how she’d been treated for so much of their married life. “I can’t be at all sorry that he’s dead,” she’d said, and it was no wonder. Her life was so much better without him.

  He shivered despite the heating in the apartment, a tenancy that would unfortunately expire in a few weeks with Christmas approaching and Doreen’s friends due back from Europe. He searched through his mail in order to save Claudia’s letter for last. There was a rushed note from Helen.

  The randy ones in law offices used to notice I was unattached and therefore received various invitations, some straight propositions I had no problem in turning down. These days when I need an escort for any occasion I call on the services of Rupert. Yes, your friend Rupert, who is lots of fun and such an enjoyable companion. We often exchange reminiscences about our mutual friend (you), and now the wolves in this city think he’s my steady boyfriend. Well, he is. To you I can secretly admit that I’m awfully fond of him.

  Luke smiled over this, imagining Helen and Rupert together. He was very fond of Helen and she always sounded in good spirits since she’d dispensed with Barry. Luke was secretly glad of that. It had never been a comfortable relationship; Helen independent and feisty, Barry bossy, argumentative and opinionated. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

  There was a postcard from London, a picture of Kensington Gardens and the palace, with Louisa’s neat handwriting.

  I’m renting a flat in Warwick Gardens, a tiny place but very convenient to Earls Court and the tube. Met lots of old friends, including ‘Maim’ (Marie Rambert). She’s in her fifties, but still graceful and active. Will write more fully soon, but the time I’ve spent here makes me think London is the place where I want to spend the rest of my life, and hope you can come here one day and appreciate it like I do.

  Why not? Luke thought. He could certainly afford the cost of a visit. Maybe even treat himself to a trip in the front of the plane. There were a couple of other letters, one from a friend at Macquarie, another from a girl he’d known in school, writing to say she’d heard one of his radio plays. Obviously a repeat, he thought, and noted he should ask about royalties. Not that he thought the Macquarie Network would even know the meaning of the word, and no do
ubt thought they’d bought world rights for eternity.

  Then he poured himself a beer and opened Claudia’s letter.

  My dearest Luke,

  I’ve tried to write this letter four times, and torn up each one because I find it so difficult to tell you what has happened. Even now it is hard to explain, but you must realise that for almost a year I’ve been trying to care for Steven, and have come to respect and treasure his bravery, his fierce determination to beat this awful disease that sometimes almost stopped him from breathing, that still prevents him from walking, and makes me want to cry at the callous way his family has treated him.

  We have read and studied how some people have fought and beaten osteomyelitis. You’d be surprised at the astonishing recoveries and some of the names. Annette Kellerman, the famous Australian swimmer and movie star, the American singer Dinah Shore, and Georgia Coleman, the diver who won a gold medal in the 1932 Olympics, as well as an ice skater who won world championships after being inspired by Sonja Henie. These are just a few of the many who’ve fought it so spectacularly.

  And then there is Franklin Roosevelt, the President of the United States, who could not walk, but carried out his post as leader of the world against fascism, who spoke words that thrilled us, and while he could not fight, led his country as commander in chief. He proved a man need not exist in an iron lung to be a hero. In fact, the record suggests those patients who can defy accepted practice and keep out of the iron lung as much as possible, are the ones who seem to succeed.

  We studied all these people’s lives, saw how hot weather and the heated water therapy at Warm Springs helped Roosevelt. We also studied Sister Kenny’s cures: hot blankets and muscles being stretched by massage, awfully painful but effective. She did help hundreds, even if some doctors rubbished her. There are so many other cases where people have recovered, perhaps not fully, but in various ways making themselves able to move and walk again. Most of them sought a warmer climate, so we decided that was the first thing. Steven found the iron lung helped him breathe, but resolved he could not bear to spend his life in a box.

  So he started to reduce the times in the lung, even if it hurt him to breathe, and in the meantime I fronted up to Steven’s family one last time, and again pleaded that we needed help, some money to move to Queensland. I was prepared to give up nursing to look after him. His mother wanted to listen, but the father rules the roost there like a dictator. Mr Pascoe again point-blank refused, unless Steven was to apologise for his behaviour, accede to family wishes and return home to live. If he did that, then they would purchase an iron lung for him.

  I said he didn’t want an iron lung — that was what he was trying to escape from — and was told it was none of my business. Pascoe asked me to leave. No, the truth is on this second visit he just opened the front door and told me to get the fucking hell out of there. I think he was ready to push me out the door, in the hope I’d fall on his gravel driveway.

  It was fortunate my own family helped, and I had some money saved. Also Mrs Pascoe finally plucked up the courage to meet me. She gave me some money and said I mustn’t let Steven return to their home. She had begun to realise her husband wanted him there to ‘punish’ him. It seems incredible, but he is a ruthless and vindictive man, and his wife said he’d enjoy Steven being unable to walk and forced to spend his life in an iron lung. He can’t bear the fact that his son had the courage to defy him. And that I should be very careful, because if I was to take him to Queensland Pascoe would spend money to find him, and take me to court if necessary to get him back. We already knew he would try to ruin and discredit me. Helen and Rupert found that out, and were an immense help. I love them both dearly, and will never forget how much they did for me when I needed help. They are the dearest and best of friends.

  A week later I resigned as a nurse, and we moved to Queensland, living in a little seaside town called Noosa, on the coast about an hour north of Brisbane. I have to tell you that I took legal advice, and was told that Pascoe would hire the best barristers, and might be able to prove I took Steven away in defiance of family wishes, so there was only one sure way to prevent that. It also helps, because we have a two-room flat, and this is a small town so there would be gossip.

  What I’m trying to say to you is, we got married in a private civil ceremony soon after arriving here. I suppose it makes me Mrs Pascoe, but I won’t use the name. Because of your friendship, Steven was at first reluctant to even let me live with him, but it was the only way I could help, and in the end, after a great many arguments, I managed to persuade him.

  So you must blame me, not him.

  I hope you’ll be able to forgive me, Luke, but if you find that too difficult, try to think of it this way. You have an active life and lots of ambitions that I’m now sure you will realise. Some are even coming true already, and it’s wonderful that you’re having work published in so many countries. I’m so proud of that.

  I know you’ll have a great career. All Steven has is an ambition to be able to stand on his own feet and walk again. I think I can help him. Or at least make him happy, if that fails. If I didn’t do this, he’d have no-one. Rachel can hardly be expected to give up her career and come home to look after him, as their relationship was over long before this. If he returned to his family they would buy the iron lung and put him in it for the rest of his life, but someone had to prevent that. As Rupert worked out, it would be an act of revenge against a son who had the temerity to stand up and defy him. That is what his mother realised, and why she took my side. But it is all she can do, because she’s afraid of Pascoe. So many people are.

  So I thought about it very carefully, and it seemed that in the end there was only me.

  I can’t write any more at the moment. It’s late night here, he’s asleep and doesn’t know I’m doing this. I will tell him in my own good time. I do hope that somehow you can understand. I spoke to your mother before she left for England, and I think I know where the money that we were led to believe was a government pension is actually coming from. If true it confirms my high opinion of you. If it stops, I could hardly blame you, but for what you’ve done in secret for Steven I can only be deeply grateful.

  I’ve kept that knowledge from him, and will continue to do so as I think it is your wish. I should tell you in regard to finances that we are managing. I found a casual nursing job at the local cottage hospital, which pays the rent. It’s only four-hour shifts each day, so I can safely leave him alone for that long.

  Sorry about this rambling letter. I should tear it up like all the others, but I think I’d better send it this time,

  With love,

  Claudia.

  He sat there for a long time, and then slowly read the letter again. One line stood out. It seemed that in the end there was only me, she wrote. He felt those few words almost brought him to the point of tears. How can I be angry, he thought? Shocked, yes. Disappointed and hurt? Of course. But that sentence alone was so Claudia, whom he loved, whom he felt he’d always love, and now he had to prove it. But how?

  The letter must have been waiting several days for his return. It would’ve taken two weeks in transit. She’d be expecting to hear, he knew, and letters back and forth take so long. There was no way he could pick up the telephone and talk to her. For a start he only had a street address in this seaside town, and it was unlikely they would have a phone. But she would be apprehensive each single day while waiting for a response, he realised, and hated the thought of her being kept in such a state of anxiety.

  He didn’t sleep that night. He tried, but despite the need of it after the long journey, sleep was impossible. Still awake at four o’clock in the pre-dawn, he collected her letters of the past twelve months — he’d kept them all — and saw what he’d been blind to all along: her growing concern and affection for Steven, her anger at his disgraceful family, and her Florence Nightingale compassion, the tolerance and generosity of heart that has motived nurses since Margaret Sanger and Edith Cavell.<
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  It’s done, he knew, whatever his feelings. So he had to overcome any personal anguish and help them. It was out of the question for him to sit on a fat bank balance, money he didn’t earn or expect, didn’t deserve or need, while she struggled with a part-time nursing job and the doubtless poorly paid four-hour shifts at a cottage hospital.

  By six in the morning, with light snow starting to fall outside, he’d drafted a cable to Alistair and Helen that a sum of £5000 be sent to Claudia as soon as possible, and if by chance she refused to accept it, then they should tell her it would be instantly donated to Barry Silvester as funding for the Liberal Party, in which he was now an enthusiastic branch secretary. That, he thought, with his first trace of a smile all night, would prevent any possibility of pride prompting a rejection.

  Then he set out to express the most difficult task of all, that he understood and forgave her. He was unsure if forgiveness was his to bestow like that, but it was what she had asked for, and was easy to concede on a cable that went off that day and would reach her within twenty-four hours.

  More difficult was a letter expressing these sentiments in detail, but his cable had contained the words ‘letter following’, so to help fill the page he told her of the ceremony to open the clinic named for Kaito in Hiroshima, and how much it had meant to him. He said nothing about his future plans, or the change in his life that he’d resolved on during the long wakeful hours, nor did he suggest they keep in touch, for he knew an exchange of letters between them in future would be far too painful. He simply wished her and Steven all the best for the future, and, without saying so, but feeling sick at heart, knew that he would no longer be a part of it.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sometimes it was like an ache, a sudden pain deep inside, at other times just an awful sense of loss. He kept finding so many things he wanted to write and share with her, imagining the blue vivacious eyes and her bright smile. Memory came back, sharp and cruel. He missed the sound of her voice, the feel of her body, the way her lips always felt so warm and inviting, the joyous enthusiasm of their coupling, and the sheer delight of being alive and in love with someone like her. Depression increased with the winter dark.