by Judy Nunn
'Poor Mum.' Jo shook her head regretfully. 'If she'd only known how I much longed to have a dad. I can barely remember my real father – he died when I was six. Just my luck to cop a dad like Darren.' She was letting it all hang out now, and in a way it was a relief to talk about it.
'He doesn't dare try his tricks on me these days, but the damage has been done. He's ruined the relationship I once had with my mother, and I loathe him for it. I can't stand being near him, I can't stand the games we play, and most of all I can't stand myself.'
There, she'd said it. She'd finally owned up to the truth.
'Why on earth is that?' Mike quietly asked, collecting up the plates and dumping them on the bedside table.
'Because I'm letting him put me through uni. He's paying for the lot. I even get a healthy monthly allowance.' Her voice was harsh now. 'Darren's a manager for Bunnings Timber Mills – he can afford it, he's quite well off.'
God, she was bitter, he thought.
'Of course, I should have refused to accept his "generous offer" as my mother called it right from the start. But I couldn't do that without destroying the little that Mum and I had left. At least that's what I told myself,' she added with a touch of cynicism. 'But I wanted to study medicine, so perhaps it was a lie.'
It hadn't been a lie at all. She'd longed to tackle her career the hard way – anything rather than be beholden to Darren. She'd work and save up for a year before she went to uni, she'd wanted to tell her mother. She'd wait tables at night while she studied. Why not? Other students did. But if she'd told her mother that, it would have been the end of their relationship. It would have amounted to a choice between Darren and her, and her mother would most certainly have chosen Darren. Why shouldn't she? She loved him.
'The games are even harder now,' Jo said. 'I do my best to play the thankful, appreciative stepchild, but Mum can see through it. She thinks I'm an ingrate for not embracing Darren as a mentor and father figure, and I hate myself for being a liar and a hypocrite.' So there, her voice said, it was the end of her story. The story she'd told no-one.
'You're the least hypocritical person I've ever known,' Mike said, nestling beside her and taking her in his arms. It was a hideous situation for a woman of Jo's honesty and integrity, he thought.
She snuggled up to him, aware that she'd bared her soul and wondering if she might regret it later. But for now, she was glad. They'd both bared their souls, hadn't they? And they'd never been closer. Somehow it gave her a vague sense of hope where before there'd been none.
*
When Mike McAllister returned to university the following year, most of his fellow students noted no particular change in him. He didn't look like a bloke who'd suffered a near-death experience. He wasn't allowed to play rugby for three months, which was understandable, but apart from that, he was the same old Mike.
His close mates, however, did sense a change. Ian and Muzza and Spud couldn't exactly put their finger on it, but there was something different about Mike. An added maturity perhaps – a bit of the lair had gone. But perhaps it wasn't all that surprising. They'd grown up too. That year – 1966 – was proving one of change for them all.
Ian Pemberton had joined the workforce. His honours thesis, 'The Petrography of Telluride Mineralisation in the Kalgoorlie-Yilgarn Greenstone Belt', had attracted commercial interest as he'd known it would. He'd been offered a highly lucrative position as an exploration geologist with Western Mining Ltd, and having attended a month of briefings at their Perth office was shortly to leave for Kalgoorlie, where the race for nickel had started in earnest in the rich greenstone area known geologically as the Yilgarn Precambrian Block.
Spud had achieved the first of his many goals in becoming the youngest bookmaker registered in Western Australia. It had taken him no time to earn a reputation and gain a following – Big Bet Bob's whiz kid was now 'Farrell, licensed bookmaker', with his own clerk, and his own white satchel with his own name printed on the side.
But it was Muzza who had been swept up in the radical change that was affecting the entire nation. Murray Hatfield had been conscripted. He'd been informed of the fact in November the previous year – one of many.
It was a new era. Throughout two world wars, Australians had fought as volunteers. During the Great War, Prime Minister William Morris Hughes had tried, twice, to force the issue of conscription upon the Australian people. Both attempts had failed. During World War Two, although compulsory military training had been introduced for the defence of the home front, overseas service had remained voluntary. Now, however, allied to America and committed to the war in Vietnam, the Australian government had introduced in 1965 new powers enabling it to send national servicemen on active duty overseas. The issue was dividing the nation.
'You're mad,' Ian told Muzza. 'I thought you were going to defer – that's what you said up at the Abrolhos.'
He and Mike had discussed the matter with Muzza, and they'd all agreed there was only one course of action open to him – the deferment of his national service until he'd completed his degree. Now here he was reneging on the idea. It was too bloody stupid for words.
The three were sitting in the beer garden at Steve's on an early Friday evening. Spud was due to join them, but he was late.
'Christ, you can defer your call-up until you finish med,' Ian went on. 'That's another whole four years! The war'll be over by then.'
'What made you change your mind, Muzza?' Mike asked. He wished Pembo would shut up. What was the point in nagging? Muzza had made his decision. Hell, he was off to training camp next week.
'I don't know. My dad, I suppose. He fought in the war, and ... well ...' Muzza shrugged. 'I thought I should do the same.'
'But it's not the same war, Muzza. It's not our war. It never was our war. We shouldn't be in it, for Christ's sake.'
Well-meaning as his intention was, in his frustration Ian was at his patronising worst. He sounded like his mother, Mike thought.
Muzza realised that his response had been dumb. He shouldn't have made any reference to World War Two, it was inviting Pembo's diatribe. And he wished he hadn't used his father as a scapegoat. His dad hadn't attempted to influence him at all. 'It's your decision, Murray,' he'd said. 'You're one of the lucky ones – you have a legal way out, if you want to take it.'
Muzza wished he had the guts to tell Pembo that he wanted to go to war. He wanted to know what it was like. Simple as that. But he'd be asking for it if he did. It was why he'd appeared to go along with the advice Pembo and Mike had offered up at the Abrolhos.
'You should be taking a stance, for Christ's sake!' Ian ranted. 'Jesus, there are people out there who are risking jail! Burning their draft cards! Conscientious objectors, who don't have a leg to stand on. You do! You can defer while you –'
'Shut up, Pembo,' Mike said.
Ian looked at Mike angrily. He knew Mike agreed that Muzza should defer, and he was about to argue the fact, but he was interrupted before he could get a word out.
'Sorry, I'm late.' Spud threw himself into the chair they'd saved for him. He was looking very smart in a tailored navy sports jacket and red tie. 'Had a bit of business to conduct in the Pen.'
He said it for effect, then sat back, languid, smug and pompous.
'The Pen?' Mike grinned. 'You're moving up in the world.'
The entrance to the small private bar at Steve's, known as the Killing Pen, was situated directly under the grand wooden staircase that led to the hotel's first floor. Entry to the Pen had long been granted by invitation only from Steve McHenry, the pub's owner, but since his relatively recent death, his widow, Hazel, had allowed invitations to be extended by the regulars who'd become fixtures during her husband's time. The bar was run on an honour system, money being placed in a dish to cover the alcohol consumed, and the clientele consisted of successful and select members of the Perth business community, most with right-wing Liberal Party connections and most of whom lived in the affluent Peppermint Grove and Dalkeith-N
edlands areas.
Spud dropped his act and leaned forward, elbows on the table. 'You'll never guess who I scored the invite from, Mikey.' A pause, again for effect. 'Anthony Wilson.'
The two shared a smile of recognition. Several years back, during one of their reminiscing sessions, Spud had admitted that he'd returned Anthony Wilson's wallet. 'He gave me five quid,' he'd said.
'You smart bastard.' Mike had wondered why he hadn't guessed that had been Spud's intention from the start – it was so typical.
'And guess what I did with the money?'
'Wouldn't have a clue.'
'I went to a brothel. My first time, remember? The mystique of the Orient?'
They'd roared with laughter.
Spud had neglected to add that he'd stolen Anthony Wilson's car radio and hub caps. Mike was too bloody honest to find that part funny. Spud thought it hilarious himself – even more so now, given the current circumstances.
'Anthony Wilson, the politician?' Ian asked. Spud nodded. 'He's a dodgy one. What sort of business are you "conducting" with him?'
Ian had forgotten his annoyance. He had a begrudging admiration for Spud's business acumen and was genuinely interested. Spud had told him that he was going to invest his savings. He'd met his expenses, he'd said, and there was no sense in having money sitting in the bank earning piss-weak interest when it could be working for you. 'Property,' he'd announced. 'I'm going to stop leasing – it's dead money anyway. I'm going to put a deposit on a property and set up new offices.'
Spud didn't find Ian's question about his business affairs impertinent. To the contrary; he liked showing off to Pembo.
'I've found the place I'm after,' he said. 'It's in Dalkeith, and I'm looking for a bit of help in changing its residential zoning.'
Ian laughed. 'Sounds to me like you're on the right track,' he said. 'I've heard Wilson's as crooked as a dog's hind leg.'
Just what his old man used to say, Spud thought, but his old man had intended the remark to be derogatory. Ian had hit the nail on the head. Bent as he was, Anthony Wilson was proving an invaluable contact. He had the councillors and the mayor on side, and as a long-serving MP he knew every pollie in town, Liberal and Labor. Convenient that the man had a gambling habit – Spud had renewed their acquaintance when he'd heard that.
He gave Ian a wink, which signalled they were on the same wavelength, then stood.
'Bit of a dry argument. My round,' he said, picking up the empty jug. 'Time to party!'
Then he solemnly announced, 'It's our duty to get right royally pissed tonight.' He raised the jug high. 'To you, Muzza. We salute you – off to fight for king and country.'
'Well, not just yet – not until I've done my training,' Muzza muttered, regretting the fact that he was in the spotlight again. He'd been relieved by the change in conversation. He had the feeling, too, that Spud's reference to king and country was an attempt to rile Pembo.
It was. Spud knew Ian Pemberton's stance on the Vietnam War and he opposed it. In Spud's opinion, they were in the bloody war whether they liked it or not, and the troops should be sent off as heroes, not made to feel guilty because they hadn't burnt their draft cards like the wowsers who called themselves conscientious objectors.
'Off to fight for the President of the US of A, you mean,' Ian said cuttingly. He'd well and truly risen to the bait. 'Off to make money for the mighty American war machine –'
'Give it a rest, Pembo,' Mike said, with a warning look to Spud. It was Muzza's farewell and not the right time to wind Pembo up, he signalled.
To Muzza's relief, Pembo shut up, albeit sulkily, and Spud stopped stirring and went off to the bar. He'd made his point anyway.
Half an hour later, it was Ian's shout.
He plonked the jug on the table. 'It's a bloody disgrace the way they've put all the prices up,' he said – and decimalisation became the instant topic of conversation.
Ian was convinced there was a conspiracy afoot since Australia's conversion to decimal currency just two months previously. He maintained that the government and private enterprise were using the conversion to their advantage.
Spud disagreed. 'Just teething problems,' he said. He'd embraced the changeover wholeheartedly – it'd make his life a whole lot easier in the long run.
'I know it's a simpler currency,' Muzza said, 'and it won't take long to get used to it, but it's a bit of a bugger having to unlearn a lifetime of schooling.'
'And what's going to happen when they bring in metric across the board?' Mike said. 'How the hell do I know how tall I am in centimetres?'
'So much for a uni education.' Spud threw his head back and roared with laughter.
They all agreed that the times were changing, and they drank to decimal currency and the lowering of the legal drinking age to eighteen.
'At least that's one good thing to come out of conscription,' Mike said.
The Australian government had wisely decided that if young men were to be sent off to war, they should perhaps be allowed into pubs and bars.
They drank to a whole lot of other things after that. To Muzza's safe return from Vietnam, to Mike's narrow escape at the Abrolhos, to Ian's imminent departure for Kalgoorlie, and to Spud's forthcoming property purchase . . . then they started all over again. Jug after jug. As Spud had predicted, they got right royally pissed that night, and out of respect for Muzza, he and Pembo didn't row once, which was quite a record.
The relationship between Ian Pemberton and Spud Farrell was prickly at times, but despite their innate differences, a fierce competitiveness remained their bond. Who would be the richer, and who would get there first? That was the question.
Spud was well on his way. It was his intention to build a syndicate, and already he'd financed several trustworthy mates who visited the hotels and bars of the larger country towns and operated as SP bookies, taking bets from the locals on the big meets in Perth.
'We're making a killing in Kal,' he'd say to Ian, and it was true the cash flowed in from the goldmining township of Kalgoorlie, where men earned big money and weren't afraid to gamble it. Spud had decided that mining towns were the way to go. 'When you get to Kal, you'll be able to while away the time in the bar at the Palace laying bets on the ponies with a Farrell bookie,' he'd say, really rubbing it in.
He enjoyed boasting to Pembo. He didn't bother so much with Mikey, who never seemed particularly impressed, but he knew that Ian Pemberton was frustrated by the fact that although he was earning big money, he was slower out of the starting stalls in his bid for success. It pleased Spud to rub Pembo's nose in it. It was his way of saying 'Who needs a uni degree to make it in this world?'
Several months after their farewell drinks for Muzza, Spud and Ian met once again at Steve's bar – on a wintry Friday lunchtime. Ian had escaped Kalgoorlie for a long weekend in Perth, as he often did these days. Kal could become a little stifling, he'd found.
Once again, Spud took great pleasure in boasting – this time about the successful acquisition of his new offices.
'You were right,' Ian said as he begrudgingly toasted his mate's latest triumph. 'Wilson's a handy man to know.'
Spud had told him the details, making it sound easy as usual. Anthony Wilson's contacts within the council had paid off, money had changed hands and the property had been rezoned – simple.
Spud could tell that Pembo was envious, and he only wished he could boast about his latest enterprise – the most exciting to date. It'd put him up to his eyeballs in debt – he'd have to borrow big money – but it was a sure-fire winner in the long term. However, as he hadn't pulled off the purchase yet, and was to be a silent partner in the scheme, he decided to keep quiet about it for now. Ruby would probably prefer it that way.