The Story of Danny Dunn

by Bryce Courtenay

  Dr Adams sat opposite Danny for his examination, sausage-like fingers digging and jabbing into his sunken cheek and ruined eye, pulling the scar tissue around the eye as if testing it for elasticity. The examination of Danny’s nasal area was left until last. He proceeded to prod and pinch the immediate area around the nose as if it was composed of putty and he was committed to the process of moulding a new one. The examination was extremely painful and it took all of Danny’s courage not to cry out. Finally Adams rose and without comment walked over to a small washbasin and began to wash his hands, rinsing and then repeating the process twice over, as if, Danny thought, he’d been contaminated.

  While Danny knew Adams had a job to do, he really didn’t much like the way this bloke from Melbourne had gone about examining him. Apart from regular grunts, he hadn’t said a word. Danny, sore from being prodded and poked as if he were a piece of meat, was not just annoyed, but felt Colonel Blimp’s complete lack of regard for him as a person differed little from that of the Japanese.

  Dr Adams returned to sit at his desk, hands clasped and resting on his extensive belly. ‘Ha! If I’d rammed you into a brick wall face first at sixty miles an hour I couldn’t have done a better job, Mr Dunn,’ he announced happily. ‘As for that smashed cheekbone,’ he frowned, ‘I just don’t know. Maybe they can reconstruct it, put in a plate . . . can’t say, not my area, what? The left eye, of course, is gone forever, but I should think they’ll fit you with a marble, eh? Never convincing, in my opinion, no natural movement, you’re looking to the right and it’s looking left, ha, ha. The nose? Not much a plastic surgeon can do, I shouldn’t think; a little cosmetic reconstruction perhaps. We’ll have to remove most of the broken bone, then attempt to open up the sinus passages. It’s a big job – skin grafts, rearranging the tissue mass, never going to look much good.’ He paused at last. ‘Well, that’s all, Mr Dunn. You are free to go.’

  Danny rose and, attempting to conceal his anger and humiliation, said in a steely voice, ‘You’re in luck, doctor. I’m still in the army. Had it been Mr Dunn, by now your nose would have been in a very similar condition to mine. Let me assure you, you fat arrogant bastard, it won’t be you who gets to work on my nose!’

  On the morning of the 6th of November 1945 Danny disembarked from the Circassia, a troopship that had begun life as a passenger ship, one of the many requisitioned by the Australian army to bring our prisoners of war home. A huge crowd stood on the dock at Circular Quay to welcome the boat – whole families, sweethearts, wives, children – an aggregation of joy, laughter and tears as beloved sons, husbands, fathers and brothers were reunited with their families that came close to bringing Danny to tears of self-pity. There would be no one to meet him because he’d deliberately asked the army authorities not to inform his family of his arrival. He’d written to Brenda from the hospital in Rangoon. I have a crook back and my mug’s been rearranged a bit, so don’t expect the old Danny boy. I’m not sure when I’ll be home.

  Brenda had replied to say how overjoyed they’d been to hear he was still alive, and that no matter what, he was still her son and she’d love him in any shape in which he came back to her. She also said that Helen Brown had asked if she could write to him. Half Dunn, adding to the letter, wrote to say that since the army had notified them that he was alive the pub had been completely repainted and renovated in anticipation of his return and that Brenda had ordered enough flags and bunting for the welcome-home party to match the launch of the Queen Mary.

  The Cinesound newsreels played every Saturday night along with a movie at the hospital had shown the ecstatic crowds at the dockside welcoming the returned soldiers back home. They’d been warned to expect an even bigger welcome for their own return as prisoners of war from South-East Asia. Danny simply couldn’t bear the idea of his mother waiting excitedly on the dock with Half Dunn and possibly Helen, then seeing him, a walking fucking nightmare, emerge out of the crowd of joyous, laughing and happy people.

  He’d known Helen less than a year before leaving for Malaya and much of that time he’d been at training camp or away from Balmain or Birchgrove. The contained Helen he’d first seen at university with the cool, confident, even appraising look that had attracted him in the first place had proved to be a woman of a great many surprises and not a few contradictions. She’d made him work for every demure kiss, and then only after she’d taken him home, seemingly to seek the approval of her parents. Like a leggy nine-year-old she’d sent him packing when he’d gone over to tell her he’d enlisted, and then minutes later had jumped from the swing, taken him by the hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom. The education of Danny Dunn had been about to begin.

  They hadn’t made love in the 1940s version Danny expected – he dominant and active, she supine and compliant. Instead she’d taken over, undressing him carefully, and without haste. Then, sinking to her knees, she’d begun to use her pretty mouth to excite him.

  ‘Do you like that?’ she’d asked, after a moment or two.

  He’d been unable to do much more than groan, so she went to work again, experimenting with pressure and speed, until she had brought him almost to the point of no return. Still on her knees she’d reached over and opened the drawer of her bedside cabinet and withdrawn a contraceptive. ‘That’s the advantage of having a dad who owns a chemist shop,’ she’d giggled, then, undoing the packet, she’d tried to slip it on.

  ‘Here, let me.’ Danny looked at her, bemused. ‘Helen, you planned this all along, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I just knew that sooner or later I’d need one. I don’t suppose you carry one in your wallet, do you?’

  ‘Not usually.’

  ‘I thought not. Silly thoughtless boy.’ She’d proceeded to undress slowly, her eyes never leaving him, a mischievous grin on her lovely face as she watched his reaction. Then she’d moved into his arms and kissed him deeply, more so than ever before, finally extricating herself and moving to the bed, where she lay on her back.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ Danny heard himself saying. He’d never said that before; he’d said different things, paid casual compliments to the women in the past who had been generous with their bodies, but never that plain and simple ‘You’re beautiful’. Now he knew he meant it.

  As he approached the bed and pressed one knee between Helen’s long slender legs, she stopped him. ‘Whoa, Danny boy,’ she said, grinning. ‘My turn now.’

  Danny looked confused. ‘Yeah, well, that’s just what I’m —’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What?’ he asked, perplexed, drawing back, his leg in mid-air.

  She pointed to his erection. ‘I’m sure we’ll need that later. But right now I want your tongue, your whole mouth in fact.’

  ‘Huh? Whaffor?’ Danny grunted, too surprised to stop the words. ‘You mean . . . ?’ He pointed at Helen’s thighs. Then, in an attempt to recover he asked, confused, ‘French? French love?’

  Helen smiled. ‘Danny darling, I want you to caress me with your tongue! You may use any language you’re fluent in.’

  They both started to giggle. Finally Danny managed to say, ‘I’m not sure I know how. I mean, I haven’t . . . ever . . .’ he admitted, grinning stupidly.

  Helen, attempting to contain her mirth, looked up at Danny. ‘Well, darling, are you ready for your first language lesson?’

  They proceeded to experiment, with her guidance, she reaching what seemed like several orgasms until Danny was forced to come up for air. ‘Jesus, that’s hard work. Did you enjoy it?’ he asked, wanting some reward for his efforts.

  ‘Your grasp of oral French is very promising, young man. You seem to have a natural gift for speaking in tongues. One or two more lessons and you’ll have the whole thing licked,’ Helen said, grinning wickedly, pleased with her naughty wit. ‘Now, perhaps some swordplay?’

  Helen proved as obliging as she’d previously been demanding, and for at least an hour t
hey’d made love variously and deliciously, mostly following her suggestions.

  Afterwards, lying in each other’s arms, Danny started to worry. He’d obviously got it all wrong; all Helen’s romantic reluctance, her ban on anything touchy-feely, her insistence on his meeting her parents, her initial cool demeanour. Now this. He imagined he’d fallen in love with a highly intelligent but thoroughly chaste girl, someone who kept her legs tightly crossed, and all the time he’d had a nympho on his hands. All the things they’d done in the last hour, none of the women he’d been with knew any of that stuff, and neither did he! With other women it was just straight up and down, ordinary sex, what you’d expect. Maybe Helen was the town bike and everyone at uni knew except him. Still, it had been pretty awesome, well, the first bit . . . and the last bit. He told himself he could do without the middle bit, but then that was the big surprise – it seemed to arouse her the most. He wondered if maybe there was something wrong with her. Was she a lesbian? Blokes didn’t talk about stuff like that. He’d never heard anyone admit to doing it, whereas the converse – a blowjob – was a badge of honour the older guys boasted about in the showers after a match. He didn’t talk about it, but today wasn’t his first blowjob; he’d had several, even one or two in his final year at school. Her saying, what’s good for him is also good for her . . . I mean, how could you argue? She’d have you trapped in a moment. But it wasn’t the same thing, definitely not. No way!

  Assuming what he hoped was a casual tone, Danny said, ‘Remember that time when I suggested you were a virgin and you told me I was an arrogant prick?’

  ‘Which you were,’ Helen interrupted.

  ‘Well, I didn’t believe you. I thought you were just putting me in my place, that you actually were a virgin.’ Danny laughed. ‘Little did I know, eh?’

  ‘Oh, but I am . . . or rather, was, until one delicious hour or so ago,’ Helen said.

  ‘Ah c’mon, Helen, that’s bullshit! All that stuff, the things we just did! You know heaps more than me about making love.’

  ‘Ancient history.’

  ‘That’s what I’m getting at.’

  ‘No, dope. I mean really ancient history.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I learned all of it studying tomb and temple paintings, hieroglyphs, the Egyptians, then the Greeks – the cults of Dionysus and Aphrodite, the hetaera, the poems of Sappho, the poet of Lesbos . . . And the Romans – Ovid, Catullus, Sextus Propertius, the erotic art unearthed at Pompei, Apuleius,’ Helen reeled off the names. ‘The tale of the Golden Ass, that’s got just about everything in it you could imagine and then some.’

  ‘Fair dinkum? You mean, that was the . . . I was the . . .’

  ‘You were the first? Yes. I’m a very good student, and a great theoretician. Now you’ve helped me with my prac.’ She smiled sleepily.

  Danny was astonished. ‘So, they did those things way back in ancient times? Why didn’t I choose classical studies?’

  She laughed. ‘Danny, the missionary position was about the only thing they didn’t seem to practise, though the ancient Egyptians included it among others. They don’t seem to have used it a lot – it was probably too boring!’

  ‘Yeah? And all this stuff we did today, they did that?’

  ‘Of course! And a great deal more. I even thought about shaving.’ She giggled.

  ‘Shaving? You mean, down there?’ Danny said, shocked.

  ‘Uh-huh. The Egyptians recommended removing all body hair.’ Helen couldn’t resist the urge to shock him still further. ‘You’re lucky you weren’t met with a bald pudenda!’

  ‘Christ! So that’s where you discovered French love?’

  ‘Well, they didn’t call it that. The Gauls didn’t exist as a tribe at that time.’

  ‘Galls? As in galling?’

  Helen laughed. ‘No, but you might be onto something, judging by your response. You should have seen your face!’

  ‘Well, I mean . . .’

  ‘Yes, what do you mean?’ Helen demanded.

  ‘Well, God gave men dicks, didn’t he. So obviously you’re not supposed to do it with your tongue. I mean, anyone could do that!’

  ‘You mean it doesn’t require a man?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re right there. Just ask Sappho. But what are you saying? Sex is all about the biblical injunction to go forth and multiply? Impregnate the nearest female and go thy way rejoicing in the Lord? What fun for you!’

  ‘Didn’t you enjoy what we did?’ Danny asked, adding, ‘You sure as hell seemed to.’

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘You know, me and you together . . .’

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  ‘What part was best?’

  ‘You mean what part of the missionary position?’

  ‘It wasn’t only that. Coming inside you from the back, then you on top . . .’

  ‘Sweetheart, of course I enjoyed it all, your lovely, strong body, your breath, the life in you, you in me, it was wonderful, the way of a man with a maid . . . that’s also biblical by the way.’

  Danny seemed pleased. ‘Me too. Your body, the closeness, the smell, the movement, I thought it was wonderful. When I came inside you I wanted to . . . it . . . it was a bit like dying, but a wonderful sort of dying.’

  ‘That’s beautiful, Danny.’

  ‘You didn’t feel the same?’

  ‘When I climaxed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Helen sighed. ‘Bloody men! Danny, when you caressed me with your mouth I came four times. When we made love I came once.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Danny, don’t say it!’

  ‘Don’t say what?’

  ‘That it’s quality not quantity.’

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, that’s rubbish. Why does a man judge everything on the performance of his penis, as if it’s the gold standard for sex?’

  ‘Well, it’s natural isn’t it? The penis is made to fit into the vagina, that’s its primary purpose,’ Danny declared pompously.

  ‘What are you saying? The penis is king, it’s the warrior, his sword and the conquest all in one, while the vagina, and therefore the woman, is the quiescent vessel?’

  ‘C’mon, Helen, I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Danny darling, you didn’t have to. Think about us tonight. I take you into my mouth and that’s entirely appropriate. I ask you to do the same to me and you’re shocked. That’s a different matter, that’s kinky, that’s dirty, perverted, yuk!’

  ‘But it’s not as good as the real thing, me and you —’

  ‘You know, Danny Dunn, you are an arrogant prick.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Heaven forbid you men might do something that pleases a girl. We can’t have that, goodness no. It’s not decent, not respectable, not at all nice, and it doesn’t make babies. Worst of all, there’s nothing in it for the bloke.’ Helen was warming to her subject now. ‘And if I’m wrong, then why is the “c” word the worst expletive you can call a man?’

  Danny was deeply shocked. He’d never heard a woman refer to the word before. ‘Jesus, Helen! That wasn’t necessary!’ he said, blushing to the roots of his hair.

  ‘Oh, but, darling, it was. It illustrates how men instinctively think about the female, about the opposite sex. You might boast to your mates about what I did to you, but you’d rather die than admit you did the same to me.’

  Danny was suddenly angry. ‘I’m not in the habit of discussing my private life with my mates.’

  ‘What? Not in theory? C’mon, be honest now.’

  ‘Well, yes, it’s true,’ Danny admitted. ‘Blokes talk like that, but it’s just stuff in the showers. Most of them are still virgins. Most have never even seen a woman’s vagina.’ Danny hesitated, a half-grin on his face, ‘In fact, to be stric
tly honest, I hadn’t until tonight. You don’t look down there, even if you’re not in the dark. It’s a feeling thing.’

  ‘Prod and then hope to be guided home. That’s how my married girlfriends describe their husbands’ approaches. They know it’s down there somewhere . . .’ Helen chuckled.

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ Danny admitted, grinning. ‘I didn’t know girls talked about things like that.’

  ‘Of course we do, or some of us, anyway. Up until now, most of my talk has been theoretical. Part of my masters degree takes in some anthropology, which has been very helpful, an excellent primer,’ she said, in her best schoolmarm’s voice. ‘For instance, did you know that throughout the ages and across cultures, not very many women achieve an orgasm through penile penetration alone?’

  Danny looked bemused. ‘But you just said you did.’

  ‘Yes, and it was a very nice surprise; the whole experience has been a very nice surprise.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t know if you would? Hey, wait on, what say you hadn’t . . . would you have told me?’

  Helen gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t know. My married friends don’t usually tell their husbands.’

  ‘You mean they fake it? No one’s ever done that with me.’

  ‘Oh? How would you know?’

  ‘I reckon I’d know . . .’

  Helen smiled. ‘Darling, you’ve got a lot to learn about women.’

  Danny hesitated. He was getting in too deep. But he couldn’t stop now. ‘You mean women go through their whole married lives, have kids and all that, but never achieve an —’

  ‘Orgasm?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Danny frowned, concerned. ‘All their lives . . .’ It was clearly a new thought.

  ‘Only the very silly ones do,’ Helen said crisply. ‘Sex is a hands-on business, as I’m sure you know.’ She raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Oh? Oh, I see what you mean,’ Danny said quickly. Wanking was something he’d taken for granted since puberty, but it never occurred to him that girls, women, had the same basic urges or got up to the same tricks.