by Nunn, Judy
‘Goodbye, Mrs Ellie.’ Mela waited for her handshake.
But Ellie did not offer her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mela.’ Surely one hug is permitted, Ellie thought; and as she embraced Mela, she embraced the entire family.
The women looked into each other’s eyes as they parted. ‘Thank you,’ Ellie said.
Mela nodded, remembering that time long ago after the baby had died and the Boss had gone away, how Mrs Ellie had come to her distraught. She’d comforted her and said all the right things. The Boss didn’t mean to be cruel, she’d said, he just didn’t understand women’s feelings – some men were like that. But Mela had secretly believed the Boss had killed his baby daughter. She still did. Such things happened. In her village an uncle of hers had killed a deformed baby his wife had borne him. Others before him had done the same thing. They were poor. They could not afford to feed a child who would grow up incapable of work or unable to be sold into marriage. But the Boss was not poor. And Mrs Ellie had so loved her baby girl. The Boss is a bad man, Mela thought. She felt sorry for Mrs Ellie, being robbed of her daughter like that.
‘Your sons will be a comfort to you, Mrs Ellie,’ she said, looking at the Durham brothers, her eyes resting briefly on each one. ‘They are fine boys.’
Ellie stood and watched as the dray drove off down the track, its wheels kicking up the midsummer dust, the family waving their last goodbyes. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she waved back. My friendship has cost them dear, she thought. Then she glanced at her husband. Standing beside her, steely-eyed and emotionless, Big Jim too was watching the dray. Perhaps it is best after all they leave Elianne, she thought. When Jim’s jealousy is aroused, there is no telling where his madness might lead him.
I have learnt a lesson, she told herself. Never must I appear to neglect Big Jim. Never must I give him cause to believe I may favour others over him, even my own children. Dear God, she thought, least of all the children. For the safety of her family, Big Jim must always appear the very centre of her existence.
CHAPTER EIGHT
During her Christmas holidays at Elianne, Kate had done some sleuthing. Eager to discover someone who might know what had happened to Pavi and Mela Salet, she’d asked around among the several islanders who worked on the estate. It was the proud boast of one farm labourer that his ancestors had been in the region since 1870 and that members of his family had worked at Elianne from the mill’s first days in the early eighties. As he was a Solomon Islander Kate presumed he may well be a descendant of Old Willie and she proved right, but neither he nor others of his family had any knowledge of the Salets. Nobody did.
Bartholomew would of course remember Pavi and Mela, Kate thought, he’d have been around sixteen years of age when they’d left Elianne. But she was not prepared to reveal her knowledge of the past to her grandfather. Besides, Bartholomew would have no idea what had happened to the Salets. Ellie had written in her final ledger that there had been no further communication of any kind between the families.
Kate’s other attempt at sleuthing had also proved fruitless. Bundaberg Cemetery on the outskirts of town had been in its present site since 1879 and she had hoped to find Beatrice’s grave. But search as she might, she had discovered nothing. The headstone appeared to have crumbled into dust, obliterating any sign of poor little Beatrice’s existence. Clearly the grave had not been tended – a further poignant comment, Kate thought, on a sad story. Ellie had said in her diaries that Big Jim had forbidden her to continue visiting the grave for fear it would upset her. How unjust that after suffering the pain of her baby’s inexplicable death Ellie had received neither sympathy nor support from her tyrant of a husband.
Kate returned to Sydney in mid-February, once again with a sense of relief. In the city she would continue her laborious translation of the diaries, writing everything out by hand, one ledger after another, then typing the pages up on her faithful Olivetti. But there, in the living room of her little Glebe house, the exercise would become academic. Here at Elianne, the diaries and their revelations were an obsession that threatened to engulf her.
She drove over the bridge and into town, but before setting off on the long trek south, she called in at the post office.
Neil Durham found a quiet spot in the canteen, or rather a spot that was a little less noisy than elsewhere, and sat down to read his mail. He ripped open the first envelope, recognising his sister’s handwriting. As always, Kate’s letter was chatty and amusing. He smiled when he got to the end.
By the way, you owe me ten dollars. Dad and I didn’t have a barney. Peace was maintained, but I have to admit with the greatest of difficulty. As a matter of fact I nearly lost the bet two days after you left. I shall expect ten dollars or five quid, whichever is most convenient during this period of dual currency, by return mail.
In the meantime, stay safe, and I mean really safe. Keep me posted won’t you, Neil. I want to know when I need to start worrying.
Lots of love,
Kate
Less than three months later, a letter arrived from Neil, who closed with the news Kate dreaded, although he made light of it.
We’re off to Vietnam shortly. But don’t start worrying yet. I’ve heard the task at hand is to build a military base before leaping into battle. Do you reckon I should tell them I failed carpentry at school? Anyway I don’t think we’ll be seeing any action for a while.
Love always,
Neil
The chosen site for Nui Dat, the Australian Task Force Base in Phuoc Tuy Province, was ten miles north of the coastal township of Vûng Tàu. Built from scratch, mainly by men of the 5th and 6th Battalions, Royal Australian Regiment, the base was completed by July 1966 and was to serve as the principal headquarters for all Australian operations.
During the building of Nui Dat, the nearby port town of Vûng Tàu, attractively situated at the tip of a small peninsular and flanked by beautiful beaches, became a favourite haunt for the Australians, as it was for the American support units that had arrived the previous year. The locals, who had been quick to embrace the Americans, now embraced the new arrivals with equal fervour. Australian soldiers roaming the town’s streets and exploring the roadside markets were eagerly welcomed by hawkers and shopkeepers plying their trade, and at night bargirls enticed them to enter the open doors of clubs and bars where prostitution abounded. New clubs and bars were already springing into existence to accommodate the men’s needs, and many more would follow as the war ground relentlessly on and Vûng Tàu became the favoured in-country R & R centre. Soldiers were known to spend up big. For the Vietnamese, there was money to be made in Vûng Tàu.
‘G’day, girls, can we buy you a drink?’
Neil’s mate Bobbo was an out-and-out larrikin with an insatiable lust for women, and his other mate Phil although less obvious wasn’t much better. Like Neil they were ‘nashos’. Bobbo was a fellow Queenslander, from Rockhampton, loud and sometimes vulgar, but eminently likeable, and Phil was a Sydneysider with a veneer of style, but a recently discovered predilection for the seamier side of life. The two frequented brothels with alarming regularity and thought nothing of picking up street prostitutes. Neil, although happy to get drunk with his mates, baulked at the idea of indiscriminate sex – the thought of disease frightened him off. At least it had so far: he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d last. He was starting to feel toey, and it only got worse when Bobbo raved on as Bobbo was wont to do.
‘Seriously, mate,’ Bobbo would urge, ‘you should give it a burl. You’ve never had sex like this, I’m telling you. These girls offer a whole new ball game, pun intended.’
Neil didn’t doubt for one minute that Bobbo was right. His own sexual experiences had been limited to the back seats of cars and once a hay barn, but he nonetheless managed to resist temptation.
Bobbo teased him mercilessly about his celibate state.
‘Don’t be a wowser, mate,’ he’d say when Neil refused to negotiate with a bargirl or do a deal with a mama-san. ‘Wha
t are you, a bloody virgin?’
‘Give it a rest, Bobbo.’ Phil would invariably come to Neil’s defence. ‘He’s smart, that’s what he is. At least there’s one of us who won’t get the clap.’
Neil didn’t actually need defending. Bobbo’s teasing didn’t bother him in the least, although there was the odd occasion, he had to admit, when Bobbo’s crassness made him cringe. Today was one such occasion. It was late afternoon and they’d been wandering the downtown markets when out of the blue Bobbo had accosted the girls. He was leering at them as he offered to buy them a drink, clearly implying he wanted to buy a great deal more. But these girls weren’t prostitutes. No more than eighteen or nineteen, pretty all three, they’d been innocently browsing the markets’ wares. Neil felt embarrassed; he hoped they weren’t insulted.
Phil to the rescue, playing it with his customary debonair style. ‘We’re going to the Sand Bar to watch the light fade over the ocean, ladies. We’d be delighted if you’d join us for a beer.’ He gave a slight bow and offered his arm to one of the girls, on the presumption that if she didn’t speak any English the body language would suffice. She would certainly have understood the reference to the Sand Bar. Everyone knew the Sand Bar. Built primarily of bamboo, thatch-roofed and with a verandah fronting onto the beach, it was a colourful and popular meeting place.
‘OK.’ The girl put a hand to her face and gave a light giggle. ‘Sand Bar nice,’ she said and returning his bow she took his arm.
‘Excellent,’ Phil beamed at his friends, ‘you speak English. And what’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Kim,’ she said, ‘my name, Kim.’
‘I’m Phil. This is Bobbo and this is Neil.’
As the girls introduced themselves, Neil silently blessed Phil’s intervention. He didn’t doubt for one minute that Phil was hoping to see some action, but at least he hadn’t treated the girls like whores.
He offered his arm to the third girl, who said her name was Yen. She was extremely pretty, but seemed a little shyer than the others. Perhaps she didn’t speak English.
Upon arriving at the Sand Bar, they crammed themselves into the corner of the verandah at the last remaining table, which looked out across the beach to where the light would shortly fade over the South China Sea. More soldiers, some with girls, were pouring in to prop themselves at the bar. The Sand Bar was crowded at any time of day, but particularly at dusk.
Bobbo bought a round of beers for them all and he and Phil launched into conversation with Kim and her friend Mai, both of whom it turned out could communicate quite well in their broken English. But Yen said nothing. She sat in silence, looking rather grave and giving the occasional nod as if she understood, but Neil had the feeling that perhaps she didn’t. He felt self-conscious, unsure how to include her in the conversation.
‘I am sorry,’ he said in Vietnamese, the only phrase he had yet learned apart from hello and thank you, ‘I do not speak Vietnamese.’
‘Is no matter,’ she replied, ‘I speak some English. A little. Not well.’
He was surprised. Even from the few words she’d said, it was clear her command of the language was superior to that of her friends.
‘Whatever English you speak is a great deal more and a great deal better than any Vietnamese I shall ever master,’ he said.
She smiled, her serious little face suddenly transforming, and Neil was enchanted. He thought how extraordinarily attractive she was. All Vietnamese girls were attractive, it was true, petite, delicate, their hair a glossy jet-black, but Yen seemed to him flawless. Her features were perfectly formed, like those of a porcelain doll. And that smile!
‘You live here,’ he asked, pointing rather foolishly at the floorboards of the verandah, ‘Vûng Tàu?’ He was probably stating the obvious and felt a bit silly, but he wasn’t sure how else to continue the conversation. He only knew that he wanted to retain her interest. The others were downing their beers and chatting away animatedly and at any moment her attention would be drawn to them.
‘Vûng Tàu, no,’ she said, and she waved a finger to the north, ‘my village two mile away.’
‘Oh, so you’ve come in from your village to Vûng Tàu,’ he repeated unnecessarily.
‘Yes.’ As she smiled again he noticed the dimple that flashed disarmingly in her left cheek. ‘Family have stall in market,’ she explained.
‘I see.’ Perhaps it was the dancing dimple that made her smile so infectious. Something did anyway: he found her mesmerising. ‘But you don’t work at your family’s stall, do you?’ She wasn’t dressed like the peasant girls who sold vegetables in the market. Perhaps she worked in an office.
‘No, no,’ she appeared surprised he should ask such a question, ‘my two sister work stall. They more young than me.’
‘Right.’ The comment confused him a little, but for simplicity’s sake he decided not to pursue it. ‘Where did you learn to speak such excellent English?’ he asked.
‘My priest, he teach me,’ she said proudly. ‘My priest is Irish man, teach many English.’
‘So you’re a Catholic?’ He found the fact interesting. Despite the predominance of Buddhism throughout Vietnam he had heard there was a strong Roman Catholic minority.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘my family all Catholic.’
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by Bobbo.
‘We’re heading off with the girls now, Neil,’ he said, ‘you coming?’
Bobbo stood, Mai with him, their arms around each other, Bobbo’s hand already straying to her breast. Phil and Kim also stood, similarly linked; it was clear an arrangement had been struck.
Neil looked dumbly up at them, feeling all of a sudden incredibly stupid. The girls were street prostitutes. But how could he possibly have known? They’d not been advertising the fact, they wore pretty little cotton dresses, they’d been wandering the markets . . .
‘You coming or not mate?’ Bobbo urged with a jerk of the head towards Yen, indicating he should do a quick deal with his girl.
Neil was confronted and embarrassed. Yen couldn’t be, surely, and yet surely she must be. He glanced at her, but she made no movement, as if awaiting instruction.
‘Um, no thanks, Bobbo,’ he said, hiding his confusion by pretending to consider the matter briefly, ‘I reckon I might give it a miss. Heck,’ he said holding up his virtually untouched beer, ‘can’t leave a full glass, mate.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Bobbo glanced at Phil. ‘Wowser,’ he said with a good-natured grin. ‘Come on, girls.’
A glance was also exchanged between the three girls, and as Kim and Mai turned to go Yen quietly rose from the table.
Neil was further confused. He felt a rush of concern for Yen. Had he insulted her? In saying no had he humiliated her in front of her friends? In any event, he didn’t want her to go.
‘Would you like another beer?’ he asked. The invitation was vaguely ridiculous as her glass sat untouched on the table, but he took out his wallet, indicating he was willing to pay for her time. ‘I would very much enjoy your company.’
‘OK.’ Grateful to be saved a loss of face, Yen smiled her pretty smile and resumed her seat.
‘Bye bye,’ Kim and Mai called, waving as they left.
The seats they’d vacated were quickly grabbed up by a bunch of new arrivals and Neil edged his chair closer to Yen’s to make room.
‘If I had gone with you and your friends,’ he asked, getting straight to the point, ‘how much would it have cost me?’
‘Ten Australian dollar, short time,’ she said. ‘I do only short time.’ Once again his question seemed to surprise her. ‘You never go with girl here in Vûng Tàu?’
‘No.’ He placed the money on the table.
‘Ah.’ The fact was clearly of interest as she folded the notes and slipped them into the pocket of her dress. The pocket had a flap, which she carefully buttoned. ‘You want go with me now?’
She made as if to rise but stopped as he shook his head.
&nbs
p; ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I just want to talk.’
‘Oh.’ She appeared concerned and put a hand to her chest. ‘You not like me?’
‘I like you very much,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want to talk to you.’
‘But you not want to sleep with me?’
‘Not yet.’ Of course he wanted to sleep with her. He wanted to sleep with her very much, but he didn’t want to be one in a queue and then out the door minutes later. ‘Not right now. I want to get to know you a little first.’ She probably considered him downright stupid, or at least naïve, which no doubt he was, but he didn’t care. She intrigued him too much.
‘OK.’ She shrugged: he’d paid her, it made no difference either way. ‘What you want to know?’
He indicated her untouched glass. ‘You don’t like beer, right?’
‘No.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Mai and Kim and other girl, they drink beer because men like. Me, no,’ she wrinkled her nose in an expression of disgust, ‘beer make me sick.’
He laughed. ‘So what do you like?’
‘I like sweet drink.’
He bought her a sickly concoction of pineapple juice and coconut milk, which she very much enjoyed while they admired the shimmer of light across the ocean’s surface.
‘How long have you been doing your sort of work?’ he asked, avoiding the term ‘prostitute’ more for his own sake than hers – he had the feeling she wouldn’t have been remotely offended.
‘Two month only. Mai and Kim, they go with American soldier one whole year, make lot of money.’ Far from being offended, Yen was more than happy to talk about her work. She liked the Australian. He was very polite. ‘Mai and Kim have place in town with many other girl. We have deal, is good. I teach Mai and Kim speak English, they teach me way to get soldier.’