The Story of Danny Dunn

by Bryce Courtenay

  Brenda, looking at the completed work, clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘My darlin’, your apprenticeship is over! Now we begin your training as a publican.’

  Helen was gazing at the words of what looked like a poem, or perhaps a song with a chorus, stitched with silk thread onto the linen background. ‘Oh, how I’d love to know what they say,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘You would?’ Brenda asked, suddenly looking serious.

  ‘Of course. They took me nearly a month to embroider, each word a beautiful mystery. I may be forced to learn Gaelic.’

  ‘No need for that,’ Brenda said. ‘Here’s what they mean in English,’ and she began to sing in her light, sweet voice.

  Here I sit on Buttermilk Hill,

  With salty eyes I cry my fill,

  And ev’ry tear would turn a mill,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  Shule shule shule aroo,

  Shule shule shule aroo.

  And every tear would turn a mill,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  With pipes and drums he marched away,

  He would not heed the words I’d say,

  He’ll not come back for many a day,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  Shule shule shule aroo,

  Shule shule shule aroo.

  He’ll not come back for many a day,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  Me, oh my, I loved him so,

  It broke my heart to see him go,

  And time will never heal my woe,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  Shule shule shule aroo,

  Shule shule shule aroo.

  And time will never heal my woe,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  I’ll take my needle, take my reel,

  And try my broken heart to heal,

  I’ll sew my quilt and wish him weal,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  Shule shule shule aroo,

  Shule shule shule aroo.

  I’ll sew my quilt and wish him weal,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  I’ll dye my dress, I’ll dye it red,

  The colour of the blood he’s shed,

  For the lad I knew has from me fled,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  Shule shule shule aroo,

  Shule shule shule aroo.

  For the lad I knew has from me fled,

  Danny’s gone for a soldier.

  ‘Oh, Brenda, that was lovely!’ Helen exclaimed, her eyes shining.

  ‘It’s an old Irish folk song, but when Danny came home from the war I went to the quilt and there it was – it had happened before to my family – and that’s why I quilted Danny and the Japanese,’ Brenda said, saddened by the memory.

  Helen had, of course, seen the section Brenda referred to when she had first shown her the quilt. She subsequently couldn’t bear to look at it and always turned it away from her when she was working on a restoration. Brenda was no artist with appliqué, and her work was graphic, crude and raw enough to be compellingly gruesome. The scene depicted a Japanese officer and six soldiers surrounding an Australian soldier, his torso naked. The officer was holding a rifle with the butt poised directly above the soldier’s face, but instead of Danny’s face, there was a ragged red patch with a pool of blood running from it, disappearing under the brim of a slouch hat that lay on the ground close by. Beneath the depiction Brenda had embroidered in her own handwriting:

  It broke my heart to see him go

  Brenda, having completed the lovely ballad, sat thinking, then said quietly, ‘Did you know, dear, that the twenty-eight houses in Brokendown Street are for sale? They’re empty and nobody wants them. I hear Riley’s wife will soon be out of jail, but the syndicate hasn’t held together. Anyway, they’re on the market and I believe they could be snapped up for a song.’

  Helen laughed. ‘Franz says they’ve all run up the hill to hide – Bellevue Hill. Mention the name Riley and they look vague and ask, “Who?” You wonder who would possibly be interested in the houses, don’t you,’ Helen remarked.

  ‘If you think Danny can win, we ought to start believing in this change he speaks about,’ Brenda said. ‘So, why don’t I buy the houses?’ she asked, po-faced.

  Helen was taken aback, struggling to grasp what Brenda was suggesting. ‘What?’ was all she could think to say, then, ‘But . . . but you were talking of retiring . . .’

  Brenda appeared to be thinking and Helen waited for her to speak. ‘Well, you take over the Hero, darling, and I’ll help you renovate the houses. We’ll make it a display street – show people what Balmain could be like – and they’ll be there to prove Danny’s point at the next election. What do you say?’

  Helen was seldom profane. ‘Jesus!’ she exclaimed, completely stunned. ‘Brenda, how long has this been going on in your mind? There are a few pretty big “if”s in there as well, I have to say.’

  ‘Oh? And who was it said just recently that you’ve never known him to lose? If a mother, together with a talented and brilliant daughter-in-law, can’t back her equally brilliant son, what sort of family are we? We must have faith in our own, Dr Dunn.’

  ‘Brenda, it’s frightening, but terribly exciting,’ Helen cried.

  Brenda looked at Helen and it was obvious she was happy. ‘You’ll be the fourth-generation publican. If I buy the houses, and if Danny’s right and he gets his way, we’ll have twenty-eight waterfront houses. If he’s wrong, well, they’re going for a song and it won’t be a terrible financial disaster, and I daresay we’ll recover. Whatever happens, it won’t happen overnight, and the pub will generate enough income to slowly do the houses up. Are you willing to bet on your husband, girlie?’

  For a moment she sounded remarkably like Patrick, her father.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BRENDA WAS THE ONLY bidder for the twenty-eight houses in Brokendown Street, and despite the fact that she picked them up for a lot less than the value of the land they stood on, there were howls of mirth in the pubs of Balmain over her absurd acquisition. After the inquiry, the Minister for Housing, covering his arse, had been quick to find all the boarding-house residents’ Housing-Commission accommodation superior to the slum cubicles they’d formerly occupied. The lodgers left with a zeal that expressed the general opinion of the properties, and most people assumed that Brenda, hitherto respected as a businesswoman of some standing, had suffered some sort of brainstorm.

  Brokendown Street was well named; even the factories on the foreshore had fallen into disrepair, judging from the rusted corrugated-iron roofs, sagging fences and abandoned machinery. In fact, there were very few parts of Balmain that could match its air of decrepitude. The accumulation of human detritus in the rundown boarding houses had added to the general sense of desolation, and yet their removal only made the street seem even more godforsaken. Brokendown Street was a real-estate nightmare, and even Danny and Helen’s well-kept house and garden was referred to by the locals as The Big Dunny.

  At dinner on the evening of the day Brenda bought Brokendown Street, and before it became the latest joke around the peninsula, Helen explained to Danny the idea behind the purchase, but instead of being flattered by the faith his mother and wife demonstrated in his future political career, he was more than a little bemused and annoyed. ‘If this is your first step into the business world, Helen, you’re heading for disaster!’

  ‘Oh? And why is that?’ she asked.

  ‘Ferchrissake, blind Freddy knows Brokendown Street is Balmain’s biggest shitheap! This house aside, of course.’

  ‘Well, yes, but if we can show that the shitheap, as you refer to it, can become a desirable residential area, doesn’t that demonstrate the potential of the rest of the peninsula? Isn’t that an example of the cha
nges you’re standing for?’

  ‘There are too many “if”s in that for it to be worth consideration.’

  ‘These “if”s, as you call them, what are they?’

  ‘Well, the biggest if is if I’m elected; the second is if Labor is thrown out; the third is if you can get the bank to lend you the money to renovate; the fourth is if we can get rid of the waterfront industry; the fifth is if the local trade union will allow you to renovate; the sixth is if council will rezone the waterfront area from industrial to residential; and the last if is if you can overcome all these ifs, will people want to live in Brokendown Street. Oh, and finally not if but when Brenda is certified insane and sent to Callan Park for buying the houses in the first place, your newfound career is going to be on the rocks.’

  Helen shook her head slowly. ‘There’s only one if that matters: it’s if we believe we are doing this for all the right reasons.’ She smiled. ‘If we do, we simply can’t fail. As for my new career, not if but when you are elected and you get the waterfront zoning changed to residential and we own the entire waterfront on this part of the harbour, it just might turn out to be one of the better business decisions we are ever likely to make, Daniel Corrib Dunn.’

  ‘Isn’t that being a bit simplistic?’ Danny said, immediately softening. He had long sensed Helen’s frustration with her academic career and had been delighted when she suggested learning the pub game and eventually taking over from Brenda. Seeing her enthusiastic and happy meant a great deal to him.

  ‘Not in the least. Failure would be if we didn’t try. You don’t always have to succeed not to fail. Now, tell me, are you on side and are we a team – Brenda, Half Dunn, you and me? Oh, and Lachlan, of course, to —’

  ‘Lachlan? Why Lachlan?’

  ‘Because you need him if you’re going to win.’

  ‘But, darling, we’ve been there before. He’s Tommy O’Hearn’s bloody brother-in-law!’

  ‘He’s also an account director at George Patterson, the biggest advertising agency in Australia. He’s known you since the first day you stepped ashore after the war and he openly gives you credit for changing his life; he loves you more than a brother, let alone a brother-in-law. He can mount a better campaign for you than can anyone else in the country.’

  ‘But have you explained that it might be awkward for him?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. He was rather hurt that you hadn’t asked him to help in the last election.’

  ‘But didn’t you tell him we discussed it and thought it might compromise his relationship with his brother-in-law? The sitting member, after all!’

  ‘Yes, of course I did. His reply was, “Helen, you could have asked! You don’t understand: he’s my brother-in-law; Danny’s my big brother!” He was almost in tears. And I got the impression that there isn’t a lot of love lost between the sitting member and Lachlan, by the way. Later he hinted that O’Hearn is a nasty drunk with a wicked temper and a sudden and unpredictable backhand – he’s far from the loving family man he purports to be. Lachlan’s sister and her two kids are anything but happy little Vegemites. So I called him and he’s over the moon.’

  ‘You could have asked me. After all, I’m the candidate,’ Danny said, ever so slightly miffed.

  Helen looked at him sternly. ‘We better sort this out right at the beginning: if you want to call the shots, that’s fine; I understand there can only be one boss.’

  ‘But you think it ought to be you?’ Danny said.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Danny folded Helen into his chest. ‘I give in, but, sweetheart, you’ll have to run the whole show for me. I’ll be too busy running a law practice and knocking on doors, and . . .’ He kissed her on the top of the head. ‘Whereas you, on the other hand, are as free as a bird. Nothing much happening in your life, is there? Learning to run a pub, renovating a street, running a political campaign and being a mother – shouldn’t prove too difficult.’ He laughed.

  ‘I’ll manage. I’ve got a good team, and others will help, I’m sure. The women from Brenda’s soiree will distribute leaflets and start the word-of-mouth, and Pineapple Joe is also on board. Lachlan’s come up with a campaign name and a slogan —’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘It’s brilliant. Want to hear it?’

  ‘Of course. Do I have a choice?’

  ‘What do you mean, do you have to approve it?’

  ‘Yeah! After all, I’m the candidate.’

  ‘But I’m the boss, remember?’ Helen giggled. ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Tiger 13!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tiger 13!’

  ‘Tiger 13? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, but let’s go upstairs to the verandah first; then we can look out at the constituency whose hearts we have to win.’

  Several minutes later, seated on wicker chairs, with a fresh pot of tea for Danny and a glass of wine for herself, Helen began to explain. ‘You only missed out by eleven votes last time, so we only have to keep the votes we got and get another couple – thirteen – to win. Thirteen votes in Tiger country.’

  ‘Ah, Tiger 13! I see. Very clever . . . but thirteen is an unlucky number. Why not Tiger Dozen or Tiger Fourteen?’

  ‘Danny, I’m ashamed of you. There are thirteen players in a rugby league team. Now, let’s talk tactics.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Danny said with a grin. ‘Right away, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, the sooner you announce you’re a candidate the better. We can call a press conference to announce that you’re standing as an Independent at the next election, while your name’s still fresh in the public’s mind.’

  ‘But isn’t it a bit . . . well, early?’

  ‘No. Let Tommy O’Hearn and the rest of them have a go at us early on so we get some idea of what they’re likely to do. We lost last time because of the scurrilous rumours they circulated about you in the last week of the election, when you didn’t have time to refute them. They’ve got a big propaganda machine and we’ve only got us. If we wait until the last few weeks of an election, they’ll swamp us. If we play them over a couple of years, Balmain has time to get its collective mind around voting for an Independent.’

  ‘Good one,’ Danny grinned. ‘I see . . . and the slogan?’

  ‘“All we need is you.” It’s aimed at every individual who wants to think their vote is one of the thirteen.’

  ‘That’s good thinking, but shouldn’t it have some sort of promise? You know – “All we need is you and we can make the changes needed in Balmain”, something like that.’

  ‘No, Lachlan says if we start to campaign early, like now, by the time the election comes in two and a bit years, everyone on the peninsula will know what we stand for, and they’ll take the slogan as a personal call to help. Labor has been promising things with pretentious and grand slogans for donkey’s years and they’ve never once delivered. People don’t believe political promises; it’s time we treated the voter as an adult . . . well, the ones who voted for us last time and the thirteen extra we want, anyway.’

  ‘Tiger 13 it is then. When do we start?’

  ‘Tomorrow. And I have another surprise – Pineapple Joe is dressing the team.’

  ‘What? We’re all wearing suits? Bit pretentious in a working-class suburb, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, silly, those new T-shirts all the kids are wearing. He’s bought the Australian rights to a special stretchable ink called Plastisol; it makes screen-printing T-shirts more practical: you can wash them, the printing doesn’t run or fade, and it stretches with the fabric. He reckons suits will always be good business, but times are changing, and this is going to make him a motza. It’ll be a black T-shirt with the word “Tiger” in orange, the “13” in white, and the slogan in white across the back.
He’s donating a thousand and we’ll sell them for campaign funds. “Helen, we are makink a goot deal: you are getting propergoose and money for makink funds and already I am gettink advertisink for mein beautiful new product.”’

  Danny laughed. ‘What do you imagine this propergoose is we’re getting?’

  Helen laughed too. ‘It took me a while; he meant propaganda.’

  They had a good chuckle, glad Pineapple Joe was on their side. Everyone liked him, and even though, by Balmain standards, he was a rich man, no one resented him . . . well, perhaps only Tommy O’Hearn.

  ‘Darling, when we were talking about my running the show, you said you had the practice and knocking on doors, and I thought you were going to add something else. What was it?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Helen, I don’t want you to feel under any pressure; whatever happens, remember I love you and am deeply proud of you.’ Danny took a breath. ‘But we’ve got just two and a bit years to go before the election and I’m going to need a hard six months at the end to fight it if I’m to have a chance of winning. That leaves me two years; the twins are eleven now, so that takes them up to thirteen. These two years are critical in their swimming training and I need to be there for them; after that I hope they’ll be under Forbes Carlile at Ryde pool.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Helen said softly.

  Danny, excited, missed or ignored her tone of voice. ‘Can’t you see it all works out beautifully? You’re busy with Brenda, I have the twins under my control, establishing a training regime, then I go into parliament and can do the right thing there, because Carlile has taken over their training, and hopefully you’re well on your way to renovating Brokendown Street. It all fits perfectly, darling!’ Danny looked over at Helen and saw that she was studying her hands, which were folded in her lap. ‘What?’ he asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

  Helen looked up slowly. ‘Gabrielle doesn’t want to continue swimming,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Danny shouted. ‘Who said? Gabby? She’s only eleven, ferchrissake!’