Tommy O’Hearn and Labor’s advertising agency, McCann Erickson – under the tsar of political advertising, the irascible and redoubtable Sim Rubensohn – soon realised that, for the first time, Balmain was a potentially vulnerable seat, and targeted the male vote. The local Labor slogan, printed in black on white T-shirts and distributed free, appealed directly to local pride and the unique ‘Balmain Boy’ image. As was usual with Sim Rubensohn, the approach was right on the money, direct and designed to appeal to the working-class male mind.
Balmain
Jobs for workers
Not homes for wankers
Vote Labor
The battle of the sexes was on, and Danny and his team always ended a visit to a household or group with the words, ‘Remember your ballot is secret and how you vote is a private matter for your conscience and nobody else’s.’ This mantra was repeated so many times that voting for Danny was simply referred to as ‘The Conscience Vote’. With two years to go it was a long haul, but pleasingly more and more women, and some of the men, were beginning to sport Tiger 13 T-shirts.
Danny gave every appearance of accepting Gabby’s choice of music over swimming, but he was nevertheless bitterly disappointed. By nature a dreamer, but also a believer, he often followed his dreams to the point of absurdity, but he was never left wondering what might have been.
This wasn’t always easy on Helen, who had to live with a man rigidly determined to pursue a course once he had made up his mind. She had to take the good with the bad. For instance, Danny may have dealt with Riley, but he still had a reckoning to come with Colonel Mori, the Japanese commander of the prison camp; conversely, he was determined that Spike Jones, the little medical orderly who had risked his life to hide the flag, should get the recognition he deserved.
In his speech when he received the Military Medal from the governor-general, Danny had spoken about Jones and the system that denied brave men recognition because an officer hadn’t witnessed their acts. ‘It discounts the word of the ordinary soldier who is prepared to give his life for his country. In return his country thinks so little of him that his word cannot be trusted. It is not the beribboned generals who preserve freedom and democracy, it is men like the little Welshman Paul Jones who keep the flag of freedom flying,’ he ended.
Afterwards at the reception, the Governor-General, Viscount De L’Isle, approached Danny and said, ‘Mr Dunn, would you kindly send me the details of Private Jones? I am not only Australia’s governor-general, and I will attempt to use what influence I have at home to see that he receives the recognition he undoubtedly deserves.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Danny answered, realising that he’d broken his promise to himself and called an officer ‘sir’.
Six months later in a ceremony held at the British War Museum, where the Union Jack that had flown over the camp on the morning of the Japanese surrender was on display, Private Paul ‘Spike’ Jones was awarded the DSO by the Duke of Edinburgh for distinguished service while a prisoner of war under the Japanese.
Danny had flown over as a guest of the British Government to see Spike’s bravery recognised. Immediately after the little medic had received his medal, a choir from his hometown of Pontypridd sang the anthem, ‘Land of our Fathers’, the first verse and chorus in English and two more in Welsh.
The land of my fathers is dear unto me
The land of the poets, the land of the free
Her patriots and heroes her warriors so brave
For freedom their life’s blood they gave.
Chorus:
Wales! Wales!
Pledged am I to Wales
Whilst seas surround
This land so proud
Oh, long may our tongue remain.
Danny had forgotten that Spike Jones hadn’t seen his new face. When they finally met up after the ceremony, the little Welshman took one look at him and exclaimed, ‘No, it can’t be, can it? My goodness, it is!’
The two men embraced. ‘Congratulations, Spike. Only eighteen years overdue, mate!’ said Danny.
The two old men o’ war spent a week together in Pontypridd, where the mayor had given them both a civic reception and where Danny, much to Spike’s embarrassment, told them the story of Paul Jones in the prisoner-of-war camp. It appeared the following day on the front page of the South Wales Argus and the day after that in most of the other Welsh newspapers. At long last, the man of peace who’d held his head high in a time of war, Private Paul Jones, Royal Army Medical Corps, became a national hero. Sergeant Major Danny Dunn had finally kept his promise.
Danny flew back to Australia in a Qantas 707. As he settled into his first-class seat, compliments of the British Government, he said softly to himself, One down, one to go. Mori, you Japanese son of a bitch. You’re next, you bastard.
But in the meantime he had more than enough on his plate, keeping up with a thriving law practice; knocking on doors in the evenings and at weekends, explaining his hopes for Balmain; and getting involved with Sam’s swimming.
The law was his work, campaigning as an Independent was about making change happen, but training Sam was his passion. Gabby had passed her music exams with flying colours, and at twelve years of age was accepted into the Conservatorium High School, effectively ending her swimming career. Danny struggled to find any enthusiasm for Gabby’s music, but while he didn’t say so, her choice left him free to concentrate completely on Sam.
At twelve, Sam was showing a determination to win that made her pit herself against girls of fifteen and sixteen, whom she as often as not beat in the fifty- and hundred-metres freestyle, although she wasn’t yet strong enough to be a consistent winner in the two-hundred metres. But Danny believed if he could work with her and Harry Gallagher for the next two years, she would be ready for the British Empire and Commonwealth Games, and while it wasn’t the toughest competition in the world, it would be an indication of her potential, and great preparation for the next Olympic Games.
Danny had read Forbes Carlile’s book as soon as it had come out. Forbes Carlile on Swimming was the first modern book on the subject, and Danny became determined that Carlile become Sam’s coach after the games in Jamaica. Sam’s times were already indicating that if she progressed as expected, at fourteen she’d have a very good chance of representing Australia in the West Indies.
In the interim he developed a program with her coach for Sam to match other up-and-coming swimmers. The Balmain pool – 73.3 yards long – proved inappropriate for this type of serious training. It was tidal and salt water rather than chlorinated, at low tide the walls were seen to be covered in barnacles, and it wasn’t unusual for the pool to be invaded by jelly blubbers and other stingers. The stormwater drains flowed into it after rain, causing the pool to be closed because of pollution. So Sam was moved to Drummoyne pool, known to all as ‘Crummy Drummy’, and while Danny continued to coach her, she was still under the watchful eye of Harry Gallagher, who coached Dawn Fraser. Because of Harry’s association with Balmain, he had always given Danny the benefit of his knowledge.
Sam would need to swim twice a day and throughout the winter, so Danny decided to train her in the channel that sent warm water from the Balmain Power Station into the harbour, where she could swim against the current. He had a pair of foot-hugging rubber slippers fashioned for her so she wouldn’t cut her feet on the oyster shells that grew on the channel walls. The prevailing theory was that sheer endurance, using what was known as two-beat kicking, was the key to a swimmer’s success, and that future champions were built on distances swum each day under the slogan ‘miles make champions’.
Sam was swimming twice a day, six days a week, with each session a total of two and a half miles of what was known as interval training: one-, two- and four-hundred metres at ninety per cent effort broken by a minute between each of slow recovery swimming. This was supplemented by weights training – nothing too st
renuous – followed by calisthenics for flexibility and mobility. In all of this Harry Gallagher was working on perfecting her stroke technique. It was tough going and required a great deal of pluck and character from a young girl who was about to go through puberty, but Sam never complained. On the top of every page in the logbook recording her distances she wrote, Three gold for Sammy.
While the twins were tall and naturally athletic, the physical differences between them began to show as Sam’s training continued: her broad shoulders, tight stomach and muscular legs made Gabby look slender and almost fragile (which she wasn’t) by comparison. With Gabby away at the Conservatorium High School, the twins were parted for the first time in their lives, and surprisingly it was Sam who seemed to miss her twin most. Whether it was her twin’s absence or the pressure of her training program, Sam missed out on a scholarship to Sydney Girls High and moved up into first year at Balmain High School.
The twins had always been together and as a combination they were never challenged in the school playground, but with Gabby gone and Sam in perpetual training, she no longer had time to spend with her friends and found herself increasingly isolated at school. The twins had always been popular, with Sam the leader and mischief-maker, and Gabby the one who made the peace when things went too far. But now, with Sam seeming to lose interest in playground shenanigans, a group of girls from Rozelle, a neighbouring suburb, took control of the playground and began to pick on her. Sam was a pretty confident kid and it didn’t worry her too much – she had lots of backup from the kids she’d grown up with in Balmain. For the most part she took the teasing in her stride, until one day one of the Rozelle kids, a large, lumpish bully named Rosie Bilson, who led the group that tormented the playground, stole her training logbook from her schoolbag. Surrounded by her mates, Rosie circled Sam, holding up the logbook and sneering, ‘Three Gold for Sammy! Three gold for Sammy!’ The group took up the chant, expecting Sam to laugh it off or hopefully beg for her precious logbook, but Sam said not a word, and simply whacked Rosie Bilson hard on the side of the head with her closed fist, then jumped her, knocking her to the ground. Sam then grabbed Rosie by the hair and smashed her head into the ground three times; then, leaping to her feet, she turned to face the startled gang of girls. ‘Who’s next?’ she hissed.
The screaming Rozelle mob rushed her and Sam was beaten to the ground. Balmain girls ran from all directions to come to her aid, and the skirmish was soon over, but Sam had received a kick to the face and her left eye was rapidly closing. The Rozelle gang backed away, two of them lifting a sobbing Rosie Bilson to her feet and leading her off. Sam, dry-eyed, picked up the logbook and stalked off without another word. The Balmain girls were triumphant, cheering – Sam had recovered the contested playground in the best Balmain tradition. When later in class her history teacher noted her closed and rapidly purpling eye and demanded an explanation, Sam explained with a smirk and a suitably foolhardy look that she’d whacked her eye on a branch when she’d been fielding a ball at rounders, perpetuating the legend that Balmain girls don’t cry and neither do they blab. That night two hundred or so Balmain schoolkids proudly recounted the story to their mothers and Danny was a couple of hundred votes closer to being elected the Independent member for Balmain.
But, of course, Helen, having accepted the story of the rounders ball and the mishap with the branch, soon learned the truth at the afternoon soiree. That evening after the twins were asleep, she confronted a tired Danny, first telling him the story, then adding, ‘For God’s sake, Danny, it all happened over a silly logbook! Children tease each other all the time – she shouldn’t have reacted violently like that. Besides, she lied to us. Sam never lies. The child is under too much pressure – it’s got to stop!’
‘Silly logbook!’ Danny, suddenly and unreasonably furious, shouted. ‘Did you say silly logbook? There’s nothing silly about it! That’s Sam’s whole life you’re talking about!’
But Helen wasn’t going to back off. ‘What life? Samantha doesn’t have a life! She has swimming. The child is exhausted and she’s become obsessed. Whenever I talk to her about doing something else she looks at me and says, “I’m fine, Mum. I’m learning to win.” Well, she isn’t fine, you hear! Her school marks are down and she’s perpetually tired. It may not have occurred to you, but she’s had her first period. The child is going through puberty and all she can think of is gold medals to please her father!’ Helen burst into tears.
‘Bullshit! She can stop any time she likes. What about Gabby, hey? Did I stop her from giving up, throwing in the towel?’
‘Giving up?’ Helen shouted through her tears. ‘She did no such thing! She happens to be a talented musician!’
‘Well, yeah, she’s probably going to end up in some orchestra full of long-haired gits and poofters, but if that’s what you want . . . she wants, who am I to argue? But don’t you go trying to mess up Sam’s head, okay?’
‘It’s already messed up! Can’t you see, she’s obsessed, like you! Three gold for Sammy! She says it in her sleep!’
But Danny wasn’t listening. ‘I won’t have it, Helen. As a matter of fact I’m bloody proud of her for whaling on that kid for stealing her logbook. It shows she’s got the guts it’s going to take to get her to Jamaica in ’66 and then Mexico in ’68. You keep your hands off my twin, Helen!’
‘Your twin!’ Helen screamed. ‘She’s not yours, she’s ours! How can you say something so cruel?’
Danny, realising he’d gone too far, forced himself to calm down, but he couldn’t stop himself from having a final dig. ‘Yeah, well, its true. You had your way with Gabby and now you want Sam!’
‘That’s just not fair!’ Helen cried.
‘Helen, you’re the one who’s under stress. You’re working too hard – the pub, the houses, the pokies. You’re a big-time success, but what about your family? Business is booming, but you need a rest!’
‘I’ll take one after the fucking election!’
‘Helen, ferchrissake, we’re well on our way to becoming rich. You’ve proved you can succeed outside the university; you’re the one who’s becoming obsessed!’
Helen sniffed, knuckling back her tears. ‘Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about Sam. Danny, can’t you see – Sam’s becoming you! You’re a damaged person. You admit the war did that to you, and that’s understandable, but you’re turning swimming into Sam’s war! It isn’t fair; she’s too young to have her life ruined.’
‘Ruined? Don’t be bloody ridiculous! Sam loves what she’s doing! She’s the one who wakes me up in the morning to go to training.’ Danny paused, then said, grim-faced, ‘If you try to undermine me with Sam, I warn you, there’s going to be trouble!’ He rose from his chair. ‘And now I’m going to bed. I have to be up at five-thirty for swimming training. To go to war!’ he added, then stomped towards the door, where he turned and shouted, ‘And stop that goddamned bawling, will ya!’
‘I’m not bawling!’ Helen cried, then, on a sudden furious impulse, she grabbed the wine bottle and hurled it at him with all her might. ‘You bastard!’ she screamed.
Red wine traced a bright arc through the air, then the bottle smashed in a great scarlet splash against the wall to the left of the lounge-room door.
‘Go to bed, Helen, you’re drunk!’ Danny said coldly, closing the door behind him. He turned to see the twins in their pyjamas, standing in the hallway clutching each other, terrified looks on their faces. Sam’s left eye was still swollen and purple, but her right was wide and staring. ‘Go to your mother, Gabby . . . Sam, you go to bed,’ her father commanded.
‘No!’ Sam cried. ‘My mother needs me!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NEW YEAR’S EVE 1964, and Danny and Helen sat on the upstairs verandah alone and happily so. They enjoyed being together when the weary old year petered out and the new arrived with sweet promise. The twins, now thirteen, were at a party at the home of o
ne of Gabby’s Conservatorium High School friends in Double Bay and had been given permission to see in the new year. Brenda would pick them up after attending the midnight service at St Mary’s Cathedral.
Danny and Helen always shared a bottle of French champagne on New Year’s Eve, one of the few times Danny allowed himself to drink. They had toasted every momentous occasion in their lives with it, from the unforgettable, joyously disastrous exploding jeroboam when Danny graduated and became ‘a somebody’; to Helen’s announcement that she was pregnant; the birth of the twins; the night they’d left for America; the day Danny was awarded his belated medal; and, of course, every New Year’s Eve since.
They referred to the occasion as the ‘Calling of the Year’, both of them sitting quietly and reviewing what had happened in their lives since the last calling. Helen and Danny loved these talks. They served to clear the air of any misunderstandings between them or hurts, and were often illuminating and surprising when they considered the repercussions of apparently innocent or unimportant actions. It was both reassuring and exciting, because they were reminded that the coming year might well hold unforeseen adventures.
While Danny’s life had settled into a repetitious and sometimes tedious round of seeding his message of change in the hope that it would blossom during the state election in 1965, Helen’s had been packed with challenges that tested her intellect, ingenuity, diplomacy and stamina, and moreover she’d thrived.
She was running the pub during the day, backed up by Half Dunn, who took over at night. The houses in Brokendown Street were selling like hotcakes, some even before they were renovated, and others almost immediately after they were completed and put up for sale. The formula for renovating the houses had been well established by now and their team of workmen knew the processes by heart, so, beyond her daily inspection, Helen had less and less occasion to supervise progress.
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 55