by James Roy
Harry had been surprised by how hot the tea was against his top lip, and it made him wince. Then he'd slurped a thin sip from the edge, and was suddenly aware of how loud that slurp was in the quiet of the little room.
It tasted nothing like he'd expected. It tasted ... brown. But not Milo-brown or chocolate-brown – more like a thin, weak, smoky-brown. He'd torn the end off another sugar sachet and added it, stirring with the little stick, but that hadn't improved the taste at all. It just made it a sweeter smoky-brown.
He hadn't been at all sure that he liked it, and he was definitely sure that he'd have preferred a Fanta, but it did make him feel relaxed and warm, and it gave his hands something to do while he waited for Dr Steve to stop whatever he was doing to his brother.
He'd had lots of cups of tea over the next couple of weeks, and after a while he'd actually come to enjoy them.
But never the Earl Grey. Perfume was for ladies to dab on their necks and wrists, not to add to a tea bag.
So now he discreetly poured his tea down the sink, and filled his mug with water from the tap. The water out here on the farm tasted different from the water at home. It tasted sweeter, somehow. It was as if it filled your mouth a little more.
He drank the water quickly, and left the adults talking while he returned to the garage. The truck was still running, and when he opened the front door and put his head into the heated air of the cabin, he saw that the needle on the temperature gauge was still sitting nice and low. Next he checked under the engine bay. There were no leaks or dribbles. To his untrained eyes it looked like the job was done.
With Curious Reg looking on, Harry set about cleaning up the workshop. He didn't mind – in fact, he quite enjoyed putting all the dead bits of car together at one end of the bench. The old hoses and fan belts, the greasy old water pump in pieces. He liked wiping the tools off with an old rag he took from the rag bucket, which had been neatly labelled 'Rag Bucket'. Then the tools went away in their proper places, like silver cutlery in a drawer. He wasn't sure what he should do with the tray of old coolant, so he slid that to one side while he finished the clean-up.
At last he was done. He felt proud. Yes, that's what it was – pride. He knew he'd only tidied a workshop after a fairly minor job, but he felt proud anyway.
He also felt a strange sadness, like he'd missed out on doing something good, and it wasn't Michael's party. Then it dropped into place. It was the knowledge that Joel would've loved to have helped, even just with the cleaning up. He'd have been interviewing himself, probably. 'So, Joel, tell me how the boys' spirits are after the big race. Well, Bill, it's a wonderful day for me and the boys, winning the championship, especially after the problems we had yesterday. But to come from behind to win in these circumstances is a real testament to the commitment of the whole crew. That's a great effort, Joel. Congratulations from all of us on putting together such a wonderful win for the Holden team. Thanks, Bill. It's great to be part of the long domination of Holden over Ford.'
And that's when he'd have caught Harry's eye and smiled shyly, perhaps going red at the same time. Harry missed that.
Frank was pleased. He smiled, and patted Harry on the shoulder. 'Good on you, mate,' he said. 'It hasn't been as tidy as this for a long time.'
Harry shrugged. 'I basically just put stuff away.'
'I know, but you've done a great job.' Frank opened the car door and checked the temperature gauge. 'Looks good. But I should take her for a spin out on the open road. Do you want to come?'
'Yeah, OK.'
'Jump in, then.' Frank whistled, and Curious Reg came around the corner, his tail wagging like mad. He sprang into the driver's seat, and from there into the back seat.
They drove slowly down the driveway, bumping over the ruts and roots while the trees hung lank and dusty overhead. At the bottom of the hill, near the dam, Harry got out to open the gate, and waited until Frank had driven through before latching it shut and climbing back in. Turning left, they pulled away, accelerating as hard as the four-wheel-drive's heavy body and diesel engine would allow. As they passed the construction work, Curious Reg put his head out the back window and barked at the workmen.
'What's going on here?' Harry asked. 'Because whatever it is, they're not showing much enthusiasm.' One of the workmen was sitting up in the cab of the backhoe, reading a newspaper that was spread out on the steering wheel, as two others walked slowly along the verge of the road in their white hard-hats and fluoro orange vests.
'That mess? It's a necessary pain in the neck,' Frank replied. 'We've had drainage issues around here in the past – when it bothered to rain – and the council is finally putting in a new stormwater culvert. Shut up, Reg! There's a pipe that runs from our property – it starts just back there near the gate – and another pipe from next door, plus a third one from somewhere else as well, I think, and they all converge in this big catchment chamber pit under the road. Or just on the other side, actually. Reg! Enough, I said!'
'And what happens to the water then?'
'It all flows into another pipe that feeds into the river, I think. I'm not really sure how it works. I pay my council rates so that other people can worry about that kind of thing.'
They drove in silence for a few minutes. After a while, Harry asked how the temperature was going, and Frank checked the instruments. All good. That new water pump's still holding together, so you must have done up the nuts tightly enough.'
'Thanks for letting me help.'
'Couldn't have done it without you,' Frank replied, and Harry felt pleased, even though he knew Frank was being generous.
'So now you can relax and enjoy your wedding.'
'That's correct, I can.'
'Are you excited?'
'Of course. She's a wonderful woman.'
'She seems nice.'
'She's more than nice, Harry.'
'So how many people are coming?'
'At last count, almost a hundred.'
'Wow! Really? That's a lot. The lady in the newsagent's told us that all the hotels are booked out.'
'Is that right? Booked out with our wedding guests?'
'That's what she said.'
Frank smiled. 'Good old Frank Duncan, always looking out for the local community.'
'She said that too.'
'Really?' Frank laughed. 'You probably shouldn't believe everything you hear.'
'But I guess everyone admires you for what you did, back in Vietnam.' The word was coming a little easier.
'Maybe. Still, it wasn't always like that,' Frank said. 'When we first came back, a lot of guys found it heavy going. You know, people giving us a hard time, spitting on us, calling us names. Most of those people didn't know what we'd been doing, or why we'd even been in over there to begin with. Anyway, I don't talk very much about it. It was a bad time. Scary. Nasty. Confusing.'
'And you must have found it extra scary, being one of those guys.'
'One of which guys?'
'You know, the tunnel ... guys,' Harry said, wondering briefly if using the word 'rats' was something that was considered OK, or if it was actually a bit of an insult. He'd come so far even saying the name of the war, and he didn't want to screw it up so soon.
Frank chuckled. 'You have been talking to Val, haven't you? She always wants to know about the tunnels.
She and her hubby went to Cu Chi on their Asian trip a few years ago, and ever since they got back, that's the one thing she wants to talk about. The tunnels, the darkness, the snakes, the claustrophobia – it's practically all she talks about whenever I see her.'
'Maybe she sees you as equals or something,' Harry suggested. 'You know, because you've both been there. Even though she didn't actually go down the tunnels themselves. Or she might have – I don't know if you still can or anything.'
'You can, but I hear they've made them bigger so westerners can go down there, although in Val's case I do kind of doubt they did enough.'
'Yes,' Harry replied, trying to hide a smile.
'But you know what I mean? Sometimes people do something that's a bit similar to someone famous, and they think –'
'I wouldn't call myself famous,' Frank interrupted. 'I was just a guy doing his bit for his country.'
Harry hesitated slightly, when he heard how well practised that line seemed. 'I know, but what I mean is, it's like someone going up to a sailor who's sailed around the world and saying, "Oh, I know what that's like – I used to sail on the harbour every Saturday".'
'Yes, I get you,' Frank said, 'and I think I agree. They become high achievers through association. Although, as I said, I wouldn't call myself ... Anyway, it doesn't matter.'
'So is Val coming to your wedding?'
'No, but a few of our Kalumorra friends will be there. Or at least, my Kalumorra friends, since Greta doesn't really know anyone all that well out here yet. Well, that should do it. I think we can now officially consider the car fixed,' Frank said as he slowed, pulled to the side of the road, glanced in his mirrors, and did a U-turn. Curious Reg ran back and forth along the back seat, excited or possibly confused by the revolving scenery.
They headed back to the farm, driving into the low afternoon sun, its light smeared thickly across the windscreen, amplified by the dust and grime.
A car was approaching, far off in the distance. It dipped out of sight behind a low crest for a moment, then reappeared, and just before it swept past, Frank waved to the driver. It was a very casual wave, no more than a raised finger.
'So is that all you did in Vietnam?'
Frank's eyes narrowed slightly, but they didn't leave the road. 'What do you mean, all I did?'
Harry didn't respond straight away. 'I mean, is that what you were there to do – to clear the tunnels?'
'Uh ... Vietnam was complicated,' Frank replied. 'It was ... it was complicated.'
That was it? Complicated?
'Sometimes it's hard to talk about,' Frank went on. 'Some of the things we saw, and did, and the whole story of why we were there to begin with, they're ...'
'Complicated?'
'Yes, exactly. And we all had jobs to do. Defusing landmines and booby traps, flying helicopters, driving patrol boats, cooking meals, it all had to be done. And the big jobs, the jobs that some people might call heroic, like clearing those tunnels, were small pieces of the whole thing.'
Harry nodded. It made sense. He also admired the way Frank didn't go on about it. He could have played at being the hero, especially talking to a boy, someone he could have easily impressed with stories about crawling and squeezing through tunnels with a torch and a pistol, with death lurking darkly around every corner. But he didn't. Harry liked his modesty.
'Anyway, that's all in the past now,' Frank was saying. 'It was a long time ago. Thirty years or more.'
'Have you been back?' Harry asked.
Frank shook his head. 'One day, maybe.'
'Do you think the people will hate you?'
'You'd think so, wouldn't you? But I've had friends go back, and they say it isn't like that. The war I was in was just the last in a long line of wars the Vietnamese have had to fight. They've fought the Americans, the French, the Chinese, even the Japanese helped themselves to bits of Vietnam during the Second World War. Plus there were civil wars.'
Curious Reg began barking again as they slowed near the construction site.
'So why do they call the war you were in the Vietnam War?' Harry asked.
'We call it that. The Vietnamese call it the American War. Shut up, Reg! Can you grab the gate, Harry?' Frank asked, turning off the road and bringing the car to a stop at the bottom of the driveway.
As Harry held the gate open for Frank to drive through, he noticed a slight movement in the scrubby bush on the other side of the driveway, and blinking through the dust, he saw that it was Trent, standing – lurking – empty-handed beside a charred tree.
'Make sure you latch it properly this time,' Trent called.
'What?'
'I said, make sure you latch it properly this time. You left it open before.'
'No, I didn't.'
'Yes, you did. It was wide open. You'll let the horse out, then you'll be in trouble.'
'The horse is miles away,' Harry said.
Trent shook his head. 'Don't tell me where the horse is or isn't. Just latch the bloody gate properly, awright? That kind of thing might not matter where you come from, but out here it does. It matters a lot.'
'OK, fine.' He gave the chain a yank to show that it was actually secure. 'Happy with that?'
Frank blipped the horn.
'So, if the gate's shut properly, I'll be off,' Harry said, giving Trent a little sarcastic wave before getting back into the car.
'Eveything all right?' Frank asked.
'Yeah, I was just talking to Trent.'
Frank frowned into his mirror, then swivelled his head around to get a better look. 'Oh, I didn't see him there. He wasn't shooting again, was he?'
'No, I don't think he had a gun or anything. I don't know what he was doing, actually. Just standing around, minding the gate.'
'Fair enough then,' Frank replied, with a quick raise of his eyebrows. They began the bumpy journey up the driveway. 'Sometimes I wish I understood that boy a little better.'
I guess I shouldn't feel too bad about finding him weird after less than one day, then, Harry thought.
Dad looked up as Harry came in. 'Car all fixed?'
'All fixed. Goes like a dream.'
'Good stuff.'
Harry took a deep breath, breathing in the warm aroma of fresh baking. 'What've you been making?' he asked Mum.
'Robyn's been making muffins. Do you want one?' She was tidying the kitchen, while Greta sat on the couch with her coffee mug resting on her knee, gazing out at the front lawn and the white marquee that had mysteriously appeared there some time between opening the champagne and putting the empty bottle in the recycling bin.
'Yeah, I'll have a muffin,' Harry replied.
He turned as someone cleared their throat behind him. Trent was in the front doorway, tugging nervously at his ear.
'Trent,' said Greta.
'Um, I just wanted to say sorry about this morning,' he said. 'It won't happen again.'
A long pause followed, while Mum nodded and swallowed, and Dad nodded and looked at the floor, and Harry didn't know where to look. It wasn't even clear who Trent was actually apologising to. Possibly everyone.
'Thank you, Trent,' Greta said at last. 'We appreciate it.'
'Yes. Thanks, mate,' Dad said.
Trent grunted something unintelligible before quickly crossing the room, eyes to the floor, and heading down the hall. No one said anything. It was as if they were all paralysed with surprise at what had just happened.
They heard the door to his room close.
'There you are, then,' Greta said, smiling. 'For what it's worth.' Then she went back to her coffee, and the view of the marquee.
'Did you ask him to apologise?' Dad asked her.
'No, I didn't.'
Mum picked up a plate from the bench and turned in a slow circle. 'Well, then, I was loading the dishwasher, I think.'
Dad stood up and stretched. 'And I think I was putting the kettle on.'
'How are the muffins?' twittered Robyn, who had appeared in the doorway behind Harry.
'They're really good,' Harry replied. 'Excuse me.'
He didn't say anything about where he was going. He suspected that if he put it into words, he'd never actually do it.
Trent's bedroom door was shut, and Harry could hear the low, raucous grind of death metal coming from within. He hesitated – a closed door gave him another reason to turn around and go back out to where the nice people were.
Drawing in his breath, he knocked. Then, in case it hadn't been heard over the music, he knocked again. A moment later, the door rattled and opened, the music grew suddenly louder through the gap, and Trent was staring out at him from under heavy eyelids. 'What?'
'I just w
anted to say that I didn't say anything.'
'About what?'
'About you shooting. I heard your pop getting stuck into you this morning, and –'
'And you were frightened?'
'I probably wouldn't say frightened ...'
'Frightened that I'd think you ran back to the house, all terrified and whiny, and told them that I'd scared you with my gun?'
Harry shrugged. 'Well, you did frighten me, that's true. I mean, one minute I was watching that rabbit, and the next ...'
'I bet it didn't frighten you as much as it frightened the rabbit,' Trent said, and Harry was surprised to see that he was fighting back a thin smile.
'Yeah, I guess it was a bit "Mmm, nice grass, what's that noi ..."' He ended with a tongue-out, crossed-eye dead face, and this time Trent actually grinned. But he lowered his eyes at the same time, almost as if he was embarrassed to be caught finding something amusing.
They stood face to face, their smiles gradually drifting away. 'So, do you want to come in?' Trent asked.
'In your room? Sure, I ... I guess. Thanks.'
Trent stood back and held the door open, and Harry entered the cave.
Fifteen
It was dark in there. Trent had the blinds down and the music up. The wall was covered with hunting posters, as well as a few that featured bands with long, dark hair and heavy eye makeup, and in the corner, a black Gibson leaned against an amp.
When Trent sat on his crowded bed and went back to his hunting magazine, Harry was left standing in the middle of the floor, feeling pretty strange and on-display He picked up the CD box lying on the end of the bed. The cover was black, with a silver coat-of-arms in the middle, and the name of the band in jagged letters. Deathbringer.
'Is this what we're listening to?'
Trent rummaged under his magazines, took out the remote and turned the music down a bit. 'What?'
Harry held up the box. 'Is this what we're listening to?'
Trent returned to his magazine. 'Yup.'
Harry flipped the box over and read the titles of the songs. Without exception they were violent and angry. He laid the case back on the bed, face up.