by James Roy
'Nothing about Vietnam, though.'
'Really? Well, maybe it's like we discussed. Some people find it painful to even let it cross their mind.'
'He's got lots of books about other wars, though.' Harry pulled out a thin book near the end. 'Here, look at this one – I've never even heard of the Crimean War.'
'Mid-nineteenth century,' she told him, quite helpfully.
'Yeah, but that's not the point, Mum.' He glanced towards the doorway that led from the kitchen. 'Why not his war?'
'You just answered your own question. So, Harry, focus. What are you doing today?'
Harry shrugged. 'I don't know.'
'It's OK – Trent's at school all day.' She was doing it again. She was reading his mind.
'He's a freak, Mum.'
'Be nice,' she said, but the hand on his arm told him that she understood. 'And you have to forgive Frank for being a bit sensitive about guns.'
'Why?'
'Just think about it,' Mum replied. 'Think about his past.'
Harry nodded. He could see it.
Up the slight slope from the back of the house, a short distance beyond the chicken pen and visible from the kitchen window, stood a caravan. It was old, its once-white walls and faded brown stripes dirty and mildewed. The tyres appeared flat, and it looked to Harry as if the only thing stopping it from crumpling to the ground were the four squat brick piers, one for each corner. A bright orange extension cable ran from the rear of the house to the van, supported a few times along its journey by long steel posts that had been driven almost vertically into the clay and sharp rock.
'Who lives in the van?' Harry asked Robyn, who was washing wine glasses in the sink, and stacking them carefully on the dish rack.
'Which van?' she asked, sweeping her hair from her face with the back of a green-gloved hand. 'Oh, that one? I don't think anyone lives in it.'
'Then why the cable?'
'I don't ... I think it's just in storage. Honestly, I wouldn't know. It's just a van.'
'Huh. Do you need me to wipe those?' he asked, pointing at the steaming glasses.
'No, it's fine, thanks.'
'OK,' Harry replied, slightly disappointed. Now he was going to have to make his own fun.
Dad, Frank and Curious Reg were out in the triple garage. The dog was sitting crookedly near the doorway chewing at one of his paws, while the men had their heads stuck under the hood of Frank's four-wheel-drive, which was parked in the right-hand space. In the middle space was a small white ute, and at the far left was another vehicle of some kind, covered with a heavy grey tarpaulin. All Harry could see below the edge of the tarp was a narrow sliver of the tyres.
Dad raised his head as he heard Harry come in. 'Oh, it's Harold! Listen, mate, a word to the wise – never, ever buy one of these,' he said, patting the front guard of the truck.
'Good advice,' Frank agreed glumly.
'Why? What's happened?'
'I think it's the water pump,' said Frank.
Dad cupped one hand to his ear. 'Hear that, Harold? That's the sound of Frank's credit card screaming in terror.'
Frank stood back from the engine bay and grimaced towards the ceiling. 'Why today, of all days? Two sleeps and a wakey until we go, and now this happens!'
'Frank and Greta are driving to the coast for their honeymoon,' Dad explained. 'They need a car that actually ... you know, runs.'
'In that case you should have got a Ford,' Harry said, which earned him a quiet grin from Dad.
Frank wasn't listening. 'Putting in the new pump isn't a huge job, or even an expensive one – it's just another job. Another job I don't need.'
'Is there a spare parts place in town?' Dad asked.
'Yes, there's one near the primary school.'
'If I went and got you the part, could you put it in yourself?'
'Oh yeah, easy,' Frank replied. 'Would you do that? I'd really appreciate it. I'll call first, of course, and make sure they have what I need.'
'There you go, Harold – you were wondering how you were going to fill your day. You can help Frank replace a water pump.'
Harry looked around. It was a good workshop, that was for sure – well set up, and very clean, with a couple of huge multi-drawer toolchests on wheels, a grinder and a drill press bolted to the bench, and screwdrivers, spanners, hammers and chisels each hanging in their proper place on the pegboard, which covered the entire back wall of the garage. It looked like the kind of place where Harry could happily spend a week or more. Especially if he got to see whatever was under that tarpaulin.
'Yeah, all right, I'll give you a hand.'
Harry and his dad, alone in the car, driving the twenty minutes into Kalumorra to get the necessary parts to fix the truck. Neither was saying much.
'You all right, Harold?' Dad asked.
'Why is everyone asking me that?'
'I don't know – because we care, maybe?'
'I'm fine, Dad. He didn't shoot at me, and I'm perfectly –'
'That's not what I meant. Your mum said you couldn't get enough reception to text Michael.'
Harry felt silly then. 'Oh, that. Yeah. It's OK, Dad, I just didn't want to come on this trip. But we've talked about that. And I'm here, aren't I?'
'You are here, and I'm glad. To be honest with you, I couldn't really afford the time to come away either, with the amount of work I've got on at the moment, but I made the effort because it's important. Family and time away are both important. And I'm sorry about the birthday party.'
'That's OK,' Harry said, even though he still didn't feel that it was, entirely.
Soon they were approaching the outskirts of town. 'Try your phone now,' Dad suggested, and when Harry checked, there were a couple of bars of reception.
'Yeah, I think we're OK,' he said, and before the signal could disappear again, he quickly sent Michael the message he'd saved earlier. 'Done,' he announced.
'That's good. You can still be besties now.'
Harry threw him a savage scowl, and Dad laughed. 'Not a word you use any more?'
'Not really, no.'
Kalumorra was different in the daylight, so much more there than it had been in the dark. So much more than a vandalised sign boasting how tidy the place was. After a couple of silos and a long driveway leading to a winery somewhere beyond a low hill, they passed a service station, a car yard that also sold tractors and trailers, and some warehouses and storage places. The railway station looked like it hadn't seen a train for some time, judging by the busted windows, graffiti and grass-choked rails. Apart from the roundabout with the memorial plonked in the middle of it, the centre of town wasn't terribly impressive – a newsagent's and a post office, a supermarket, a bakery and a couple of cafes, a Chinese restaurant, a butcher and a grocer, a real estate office.
Across the road from the newsagent's was the local primary school, which was little more than a couple of small wooden buildings and a deserted playground.
'I just thought of something,' Harry said as Dad carefully nosed the car in towards the high kerb. 'Where does Trent go to school?'
Dad opened his door. 'Don't know, don't care. You coming in?'
They were the only customers in the newsagent's, and for a moment it seemed as if they were the only people in there at all. Then a very short, very fat woman with a plain, mousy haircut and a huge, shapeless orange dress stuck her head up from behind one of the magazine racks.
'Good morning!' she said cheerfully.
Dad took a tiny, backward step in surprise, which forced Harry to look at the lino in amusement for a moment. 'Oh, hi. We're from out of town, and we were meant to be booked in at the alpaca place –'
'Oh yes, Ron and Betty's,' the woman said.
'Yes, that's it. Anyway, long story short, they couldn't help us when we arrived last night because of some crazy mixup, so we need somewhere to stay, just for a couple of nights.'
'Two sleeps and a wakey,' Harry added.
'Exactly. Is there anywhere you ca
n recommend?'
The woman edged carefully around the end of the rack. She seemed confused. 'You arrived last evening? But where did you stay overnight?'
'We stayed with a friend, but that's probably not going to work out. There's a bit of tension, you see. So ... if you know of anywhere ...'
The woman wrinkled up her nose as she invested some thought in the problem. 'Well, there's Ron and Betty's, but obviously you can't go there ...'
'No,' said Dad.
'And there's the pub, which is just down past the trailer place, but I was talking to Kevin this morning, and I think he's all booked out.'
'Yes, we called him last night when we found out about Ron and ...'
'And Betty's, yes. There is another place, a motel maybe half an hour back that way,' she said, pointing, 'but I was driving in this morning and I saw that they had their no-vacancy sign out as well. And I think most of the B&Bs are gone as well, from what I've heard. It's unusual, but it's all on account of Frank's wedding.'
'Is it?' asked Dad, playing it straight. 'Did you say Frank? Who is ...'
'Frank Duncan. He's a bit of a celebrity around here.'
'Is he?' Dad replied. 'Why is that, then?'
The woman was going a strange shade of pink. 'Well, for a start, he's a bit of a ladies' man.' She leaned closer, despite the shop being otherwise empty of customers. 'This woman he's marrying will be number five, I think.'
'Four,' said Dad.
'Hmm? What's that?'
Dad recovered quickly. 'Four, did you say, or was it five? I didn't quite ... hear ...'
'I said I think she's number five. They're getting married on Sunday, I believe.'
'And apart from being a bit of a player, why else would this Mr ...'
'Duncan.'
'Why else is Mr Duncan so important?'
The woman blinked at Dad, as if he was an alien, as if that could be the only possible explanation for him not knowing about the local celebrity that was Frank Duncan. 'Well, he's a war hero,' she said in a reverential tone.
'Really?'
'Oh yes, Vietnam. I believe he might have been one of those tunnel rats. You should hear some of his stories. Sometimes he comes down to the club and has a couple of drinks, and tells these great tales about what they used to get up to over there. Amazing. So brave, those rats. Do you know anything about the Vietnam War?' she asked Harry.
'A little bit. Not much.'
She clicked her tongue. 'A terrible business. But he came through it, and now he's getting married again. And good for him, too, I say. He deserves every happiness, does Frank. He offers so much to our community. He's very generous. We all think the world of Frank.'
'And who's he marrying tomorrow?' Dad asked. 'A local girl?'
'No, she's not local. She's a lovely lass he met on one of his trips away. I'm not sure where she's from, but he does go away a lot, talking about his experiences, no doubt. He'd be very popular on the circuit.'
'Would he?'
'Oh, yes. I think he might have even been on TV once or twice, or so I'm led to believe. Anyway, I'm carrying on – you were looking for somewhere to stay and I'm going yakety-yack. I've been trying to wrack my brain, and I'm sorry to say that I don't think I can help you.'
'That's OK,' Dad said, taking a newspaper from the top of the stack beside the counter and handing her the money. 'We'll just manage where we are for now. Come on, Harold, let's get something nice from the bakery for mornos.'
They headed outside and along the footpath under the wide awnings, and were almost at the door of the bakery before Dad said anything at all. 'Interesting.'
'What is?'
'So Frank's a much-vaunted public speaker, is he?'
'That's what the lady said.'
'Hmm.'
'What?'
Dad smiled. 'Funny how these small towns work. Frank's never been on TV to talk about the war.'
'Really?'
'Of course not!' he scoffed. 'That's not Frank's style.'
'What about the stories he tells at the club?'
'Well, it might be different when he's had a couple of drinks with his friends, but speaking on "the circuit" – whatever that might be – no, not Frank. Come on, let's get something outrageously unhealthy from this fine looking bakery we've just happened upon.'
After they'd bought a huge cream bun to take back to the farm for morning tea, they crossed the road to the spare parts shop. Two men were leaning against the counter, one on either side, and they looked up as Harry and Dad walked in.
'Morning,' said the one behind the counter, straightening. 'What can I do for you?'
'Gidday,' said Dad. 'I'm picking up a couple of parts for Frank Duncan. He called earlier. There was a water pump for a –'
'Yeah, it's all here, ready to go,' the man replied, reaching under the counter and lifting out a small cardboard box. 'Is that the lot?'
'I think so,' said Dad. 'Whatever he told you over the phone.'
'Righto, then. I'll just put that on Frank's account and do up the receipt for you. Won't be a sec.'
'So, friends of Frank's then?' asked the other man, who hadn't moved.
'Yes. Family, actually. Part of the weekend invasion, I'm afraid. Sorry about that.'
'Big day coming up for Frank on Sunday?'
'That's right. Marquee, caterers, full symphony orchestra, twenty-one gun salute, pumpkin carriage, Olympic torch-lighting ceremony, the whole bit.'
The man smiled. 'Yeah, I heard it's going to be big. Probably be a few old army mates there as well, I guess?'
Dad shook his head. 'Don't know. I haven't seen the guest list, to be honest.'
The shopkeeper handed Dad the receipt. 'Well, give Frank our best wishes. From Chris and Sam. I'm Chris.'
'And you'd be Sam,' Dad said to the other man.
'No, Sam's my wife,' Chris said, looking suddenly puzzled. 'This is Tony.'
'Oh, I'm sorry. I just assumed ... Anyway, Harold, remember that, OK? Chris and Sam and ...'
'Tony.'
'Tony. Got it.' Dad smiled, nodded and picked up the box. 'Thanks, guys.'
'Olympic torch-lighting ceremony?' Harry said as they stepped outside. He shook his head despairingly. 'Mum's right – you are an idiot.'
'You won't say that when people start lining up for the torch parade and you're already in the front row. Come on, Harold, let's get this gear to Frank before the orchestra arrives.'
The road stretched out before them, lined on either side by narrow stands of khaki green-grey bush. Behind the trees and scrub were paddocks, pocked with erosion and spotted with boulders. On the dry red soil beside the road, a crow picked over the deflated carcass of a dead wallaby.
'So,' Harry said. 'A tunnel rat? What, exactly, is a tunnel rat?'
Dad took a sip from his Coke, and hiccupped. 'Remember that ant farm you had when you were little?'
'The one that I took in the bath with me?'
'That's the one, poor little buggers. Who'd have thought that ants can't swim? Anyway, the North Vietnamese made people-sized tunnels like that. They lived down there for months on end. I went and saw some of the tunnels when I was over there last year. Pokey and squeezy. Definitely no place for a claustrophobe like you, Harold.'
'So Frank lived in a tunnel?
'No, no, the North Vietnamese were the other side, the Viet Cong. The Communist side. The rats were American and Aussie soldiers who went down into the VC tunnels to flush 'em out. Little guys.'
'Like Frank.'
Dad nodded. 'Yes, I suppose you're right – like Frank. Huh. So there you go ...'
'So I would have been one of those too?'
'Probably.'
'Must have been scary.'
Dad chuckled. 'Do you think? They used to go down there armed with nothing but a torch and a handgun. They were a bit like Jack Russell terriers.'
'Except for the torches and handguns.'
Dad grinned. 'Correct. Oh yeah, and this freaked me out when I heard it –
they'd often go in with a rope tied around their waist.'
'So they could find their way back out?'
'No, so their bodies could be recovered if they were killed down there.'
'Oh.' Harry fought down a shudder. He was thinking back to his school camp, and the panic he'd felt in the cave as he contemplated the vastness of the rock and soil above. That had been scary enough, without a cranky little tunnel-dwelling soldier down there as well. 'And Frank was one of those guys?' he asked.
'Well, so it would seem.'
'You didn't know?'
Dad shook his head. 'Nope. I mean, we all knew he fought over there, obviously, but I hadn't been told that bit. Still, there's plenty I never get told in this family. A tunnel rat, hey? That is pretty cool, you've got to admit.'
'Yeah, I guess,' Harry replied, and despite how he felt about being trapped underground, he had to admit that it was cool in a crazy, admirable kind of way.
Thirteen
By the time Harry and Dad got back to the farm, the two men who'd come to put up the marquee were hammering the last of the pegs into the ground. Dad made a small, slightly surprised noise when he saw the huge white structure that now occupied most of the front lawn. 'Imagine that – a tent,' he said. 'The circus must be in town. Big production, Harold.'
'A celebrity wedding for the ladies' man,' Harry said, and Dad shushed him, frowning. But one of his trademark cheeky smirks was playing on his face as well.
Mum seemed to be getting on well with Greta and Robyn, judging by the laughter Harry could hear coming from the kitchen, and the half-full glasses of champagne on the counter. They had the music turned up, and the kitchen was a mess.
'Morning, ladies,' Dad said. 'Having fun?'
Mum picked up her glass and took a long sip. 'We are having the best time!'
'The very best time,' Greta said, and Robyn nodded in agreement.
'Looks like it's all happening out there on the lawn,' Dad said, placing the cream bun on the counter. 'Where's Frank?'
'He was supervising the marquee putting-upping ... I mean putting up,' Greta said, stifling a giggle. 'And now he's back in the garage, I think.'
'I'll go and see what he's up to. You still planning to help him fix the car, Harold?'
'Yeah, of course.'