by Alison Booth
‘Yes, Ilona, I do. Maybe I won’t stay there much longer. I know I’ll be sick of it soon. But for now I have to go back.’
‘It’s a hopeless war.’
‘I understand that. No battle’s ever decisive. It’s hard to see any resolution ever being reached. But I can’t let the UPI down.’
The conversation drifted on to other things. When the clock struck eleven, Jim got up to go. After wishing him well – a handshake from Peter, a lengthy embrace from Mama – Zidra’s parents stayed on in the living room. Once upon a time, Zidra told herself, they would have gone out to the front of the house to wave him off. She recognised that this new reticence was to give her time alone with Jim.
Outside she might have hugged him if she hadn’t felt that anything physical was beyond her. It was an effort just to stand beside him on the gravel drive and continue breathing. Above them the pine trees sighed and the distant surf beat relentlessly on the shore. Inside her mother began to play Shostakovich on the piano.
Eventually it was Jim who broke the silence. ‘You’ll write, won’t you?’
His speech was prosaic and it seemed to her that they’d said these words to each other too often over the years. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked rapidly to disperse them. Jim, frowning at his own thoughts, didn’t seem to notice. ‘Of course I’ll write,’ she said. ‘I always do.’
The telephone in the hallway began to ring, and she heard her father’s footsteps clattering over the floorboards as he hurried to answer it. It would be Hank, she thought, picking his time to call.
A moment later her father appeared at the front door. ‘It’s Lorna,’ he said. ‘She’s ringing from a public phone box so you can’t call her back.’
Zidra gave Jim a cursory hug that was more a bumping of shoulders than the warm embrace she longed to bestow. ‘Keep safe,’ she said and felt his lips brush her forehead. Then she ran up the few steps to the front entrance.
After shutting the door behind her, Zidra took a deep breath before picking up the receiver from the telephone table.
‘Can we meet when you get back?’ Lorna said, once the preliminaries were over. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
‘Sure.’ Zidra could hear Jim start the engine of the Holden and the sound recede as he drove off. She wondered how long it would be before she saw him again.
‘Are you okay, Dizzy?’
‘Yes, fine. A bit tired maybe. We can talk now if you like.’
There was a pause. Lorna’s phone line was almost certainly tapped after her arrest in the Third Moratorium March last June, Zidra thought, but ASIO were bugging so many people involved in the marches that she doubted they’d have time to process all the data.
Lorna said, ‘I was just phoning to check you got there safely. It’s a long drive. You have a rest, you sound exhausted. Holidays do that to you – that’s why I never have one.’ Lorna’s voice was becoming tense. Almost certainly she was working too hard, finishing her honours degree and still managing to find time to be involved in various political groups.
Yet Zidra had an uneasy feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so distracted by Jim’s departure she might have been able to think of a clever way to elicit the true reason for Lorna’s phone call. She said, ‘I’m coming back to Sydney on Sunday.’
‘Are you coming up the coastal road?’
‘Yes. The same way I came down.’
‘There are some beautiful sights, you know.’
‘Yes.’ Zidra resisted the temptation to say she’d been up and down the coastal road so many times she could navigate it blindfolded.
‘Bermagui, Ulladulla, Gerringong.’
At last Zidra understood the purpose of the phone call: Lorna wanted to remind her to see her people at Bermagui and the Wallaga Lake Reserve. It was home to Lorna’s family but not to Lorna. After leaving the Gudgiegalah Girls’ Home years ago, Lorna had spent only a couple of months at Wallaga before moving to Sydney. Waitressing in the day, studying for the Higher School Certificate at night, she’d eventually won a scholarship to university.
‘Of course I’ll stop,’ Zidra said. ‘I intended to anyway. I know you worry about me driving long distances without a break. Ma does as well.’ Then she heard the warning pips indicating that Lorna’s cash was about to run out. ‘Thanks for ringing,’ she added quickly. ‘See you when I get back.’
‘I’ll call you,’ Lorna said, and then the connection cut out.
After her parents had gone to bed, Zidra was on the way up to her bedroom when the telephone rang again. She dashed downstairs and picked up the receiver.
‘I hope I didn’t get you out of bed,’ Jim said.
‘No.’ Her throat was suddenly dry and her voice came out as a croak. ‘I’m glad you called.’
‘We didn’t really have a chance to say goodbye.’
‘I know. It’s all been so sudden. I thought we’d have the rest of the week.’
‘Yes, so did I. And that we’d drive back to Sydney together.’ There was a pause that stretched and stretched. Zidra was beginning to wonder if he was still there, when he added, ‘There’s something else I wanted to tell you tonight but somehow I just couldn’t. I was struggling to when Lorna rang. On the drive back to Jingera I decided it would be better to put it down in writing. It’s a long flight from Sydney to Saigon and I’ll have time to write you a decent letter. Anyway, that’s why I didn’t say goodbye properly.’
‘Can’t you tell me now?’
‘No, it’s a bit difficult.’
‘What’s it about?’
He laughed. ‘You’ll see,’ he said.
‘Some things are easier to say in writing,’ she said. ‘Especially for journalists like us.’
‘I don’t think I’m going to be a journalist for much longer.’
‘Is that what you wanted to tell me?’
‘Just you wait and see.’
She guessed now that he was going to take the Sydney job. ‘I’ll look forward to getting your letter. I always do, you know.’
‘Goodnight, Zidra. It’s been terrific seeing you again.’
She put down the receiver and went up to her room. The curtains were undrawn. She stood in front of the dormer window facing east. As she watched, the gauzy cloud moved from the face of the moon and the paddocks turned silvery.
Only now did it occur to her that perhaps Jim wasn’t going to take the Sydney job and that maybe he was trying to tell her something quite different. That he was going back to Britain, for instance, or about to announce his engagement to someone he’d met in Phnom Penh – Dominique probably.
Chapter 8
The aircraft lumbered along the tarmac and at last rose slowly upwards – an engineering miracle that never failed to evoke Jim’s wonder. He peered out of the window as the plane banked over Botany Bay and continued rising, higher and higher. The ocean appeared solid, like a piece of frosted glass patterned with fine ripples. The few ships dotted about might have been squashed flies on its surface.
Soon Sydney’s bays and beaches and buildings were hidden by a thick layer of cumulus clouds. Now that the excitement of becoming airborne was over, he felt a growing sadness. Why was he leaving Australia so soon? It had been less than a week since he’d arrived, and it might be months before he could return. Was his sense of duty so misplaced that he put obligations to his employer first, rather than obligations to himself? Or was it a sense of duty to his friend John Federico, whose mother was so ill?
At this point the seat-belt sign was switched off. The middle-aged man sitting adjacent to the aisle immediately put his briefcase on the vacant seat between him and Jim. Though the metal corner knocked against Jim’s thigh, he barely noticed. His frown was directed inward.
The passing air hoste
ss stopped next to his row. Leaning over the man in the aisle seat, she asked Jim, ‘Are you feeling all right, sir?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’ Jim rapidly converted his scowl into a smile.
‘We’re wondering when dinner will be served,’ said the man in the aisle seat.
‘After the bar service,’ the stewardess replied. ‘The drinks trolley will be coming around shortly.’
Jim turned his face towards the window and stared at the white towers of vapour arising from the undulating cloudscape. Of course he’d felt he had to return early because of Federico’s sudden departure. But if he’d declined, what would they have done? Hired someone else, that’s what. There were queues of qualified people willing to take this job, yearning for this job; people who’d do it every bit as competently as he would. And he wasn’t even sure this was what he wanted. He’d only ever viewed working for UPI as an interim experience, a way of garnering local knowledge first-hand before moving on to a career as a human-rights lawyer. Instead he was behaving as if it were his career path and forgetting where his real interests lay.
It was impossible to deny that those few days at home had clarified things for him, had helped him to reorder his priorities. Now he knew that he was ready to leave Phnom Penh and the UPI. All he had to decide next was where he would go.
And there was that difficult letter to Zidra that he had to write.
Yet he delayed starting on this for several moments more, his thoughts turning instead to his parents. In the end he’d been glad they’d insisted on driving him up to Sydney. It had given them another day together, though it would have been easier for everyone if his mother hadn’t been fussing so much. They’d stayed at a guesthouse in Rushcutters Bay and had got to the airport far too early, in spite of the wrong turns that his father had taken. Caught up in a snarl of traffic in the streets of Kings Cross, they’d seen the rash of steakhouses and hamburger bars, and the gaggles of American soldiers on R&R leave, unmistakable in their crew cuts and determination to have a good time. By now his parents would be negotiating their way out of Sydney, perhaps quarrelling over which route to take, his mother in charge of the Gregory’s road map and issuing belated instructions as his father sailed past the correct turn-off.
Smiling at this thought, and at another air stewardess who’d appeared with the drinks trolley, he unfolded the tray table in front of the empty seat next to him. On this he placed the beer and packet of salted nuts the stewardess handed him. At the airport his parents had insisted on staying with him after he’d got his boarding pass. They had a long drive ahead of them and yet they’d sat with him for two hours more in the bar, long after they’d exhausted all topics of conversation. His mother was wearing her best frock, as if it were a special occasion she was witnessing. His father, smartly dressed in a tweed jacket and trousers that were too new to look casual, had insisted on buying Jim another beer, although he hadn’t wanted it. Watching his father limp away to the bar, Jim understood this as an escape from the emotional charge electrifying the atmosphere around his mother.
At last the Saigon flight had been called. After the farewells were over, he’d looked back once and seen his parents waving. United in this activity, you would never guess how shaky was their union, a misalliance even after more than a quarter of a century of marriage. He’d felt a moment of shame for not loving them more, although heaven knew he’d do almost anything for them. Anything as long as he could live his life the way he wanted to.
He took a sip of beer before removing from his briefcase a fountain pen and a few sheets of paper. After releasing the catch on his own tray table, he began his letter to Zidra. He’d only written half a page when the middle-aged man in the aisle seat opened his mouth wide and a stream of words poured forth. For the first time since their initial greeting Jim looked at him properly. Military or business? It was hard to guess. Short hair, but probably too portly to be military, unless it was well behind the lines. ‘Ben Spark’s the name, marketing’s the game. I see you’re writing a letter. Planes are good places to catch up on things, I always say. Letters. Reading newspapers. Drinking. A bit of a snooze. Can’t find a better place than six miles high. No distractions, you see.’
After five minutes had passed and the man was still continuing with his monologue, Jim sighed and shuffled his sheets of paper so that a blank page was on top. This was going to be a hard letter to formulate – the words had to be carefully crafted – but his concentration was now completely shattered. Of all the people he might have sat next to, it had to be this man with his barrage of conversation. Jim tried shutting his eyes but this had no effect. Probably Ben Spark was used to people closing their eyes whenever he spoke.
Only after dinner and a couple of brandies did the soliloquy cease, supplanted by regular snoring and the occasional twitch that was fortunately never severe enough to interrupt his sleep. Again Jim began to draft his message to Zidra.
Although the letter ended up being only a couple of pages long, and he’d rehearsed many times in his mind exactly what he wanted to say, it took several hours to finish. He had to write it out twice; the first draft was marred with frequent crossings-out, and he decided to keep this for himself. When he’d read the second version through several times, he put the pages into an envelope and addressed it carefully, writing Zidra’s address in a ballpoint pen that he borrowed from the stewardess. Having been in the tropics for a while, he’d developed a bit of a phobia about fountain-pen ink being washed out by rain. He would post the letter at Saigon airport while waiting for the connection to Phnom Penh, and she’d have it within the week.
Events were out of his hands now.
Chapter 9
The first thing that hit Zidra when she opened the front door of the Paddington terrace was the racket from the television, and the second was the strong scent of lilies. In the living room Joanne and Lisa were watching an episode of Dr Who. Although Zidra knew this was an activity that brooked no interruption, she stuck her head around the door. Joanne was curled up in an armchair, looking smaller than ever. Lisa, stretched out on the sofa, was twisting her silky blonde hair with one hand the way she always did when concentrating. Though handfuls of it had regularly to be extracted from the floor waste in the shower recess, the hair on her head never seemed to look any thinner.
‘Flowers for you,’ Joanne said. Without looking away from the screen, she waved an arm towards the back of the house. ‘From that guy with the cute accent, probably. The one who likes your gorgeous ass.’
‘Shhh . . .’ hissed Lisa.
On the kitchen bench was a huge bunch of pale pink lilies. Their stamens, oozing nectar, looked obscene. For an instant she wondered if they might be from Jim. She ripped open the small envelope attached to the cardboard base and pulled out the card. ‘Let’s get together again. Kisses from Hank.’
She inspected the bouquet. Maybe this was an American thing. The Australians that she knew, unromantic lot that they were, kept bought flowers for weddings or hospital visits or funerals, and an idea for an article on this theme presented itself in her head.
Of course the flowers were designed to soften her up. She wondered why she had become so cynical. Who wanted a man when you could have a career instead? Reporting was her life and it was a good one, although she had to admit that she did enjoy being fancied. That always made you feel good about yourself.
She put the lilies on the coffee table in the living room. The television program was just ending, the credits scrolling down the screen.
‘They pong,’ said Lisa, who had recently developed an aversion to perfume.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ said Joanne. ‘But you might put them in the dining room. Lisa never goes in there. Perhaps you’ll get carnations next time. Such a practical flower.’
‘None of us goes into the dining room. I’ll take them upstairs.’
‘Don’t forget to remove th
em from your room at night,’ Joanne said. ‘Like they do in hospitals. God knows why.’
Zidra picked up the flowers again and went into the hall.
‘Lorna Hunter rang,’ Lisa shouted after her. ‘She wants you to phone her back tomorrow morning. From a phone box.’
‘From a phone box? Did she say why?’
Lisa smiled and stretched; standing on tiptoe, she could just touch the rice-paper light fitting. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was at the start of Dr Who so we didn’t talk for long. She said it was important though.’
‘I guess I’ll find out soon enough tomorrow.’
Lorna picked up the phone on the third ring. ‘Dizzy, I hoped it was you. Where are you calling from?’
‘A phone box,’ Zidra said. ‘That’s why there’s all this background noise, not to mention a ghastly stench of urine. Lucky that can’t travel down the wires.’
‘I’ve got something that might interest you. Can you meet me today? Usual time and place.’
‘Okay, but I won’t have long.’
‘That’s fine. This won’t take long. See you soon.’
Just before twelve o’clock, Zidra parked her car in Darlinghurst and hurried to the corner pub where she and Lorna often met. There was no one around but she could hear a racing commentary, from either a radio or television, blasting through the side door of the bar. Lorna, pacing up and down the pavement with the grace of a natural athlete, didn’t see Zidra at first. She paused to take off her jacket, and Zidra saw how much thinner she’d become since they’d last met only two weeks ago. At this moment Lorna caught sight of Zidra and smiled. But it was more a grimace, Zidra decided, than a smile, and it was immediately replaced by a slightly furrowed brow and a biting of her lower lip.
‘You look worried,’ Zidra said.
‘I am. Let’s go somewhere else. There’s a place about a quarter of a mile away.’
‘Why the cloak and dagger stuff?’ Zidra said as she followed Lorna into a side road, in which rows of shabby single-storey terraced houses confronted one another across an expanse of bitumen. Above them was the dome of the cloudless azure sky. The pavement was littered with bits of paper and dead fronds from the palm trees lining the street.