A Distant Land

by Alison Booth

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  Walking fast, Lorna took several more turnings before they reached another pub, a modest-looking establishment with the inevitable yellow-tiled walls outside. ‘We’ll go to the Ladies’ Bar,’ she said. ‘That’s us, Dizzy, we’re ladies.’

  Inside there were rather more tables than customers. Two elderly women were sitting near the door. They each had in front of them a bowl for the peas they were shelling and what looked like untouched shandies in middy glasses. Zidra might have smiled at this sight, and the women’s aprons and slippers, if she hadn’t been concerned about the tut-tutting sound that one of them made when she caught sight of Lorna.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lorna whispered. ‘I get it sometimes, though not from those two. They’re not here at night. I reckon it reflects badly on them, not on me.’ She led the way to a table in the far corner of the room and sat with her back to the women and the door. After pulling a tweed cap out of her bag, she pulled it down over her hair and grinned. ‘You keep an eye on the door. I’m incognito now. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me, right?’

  Zidra laughed. ‘I’ll get us a drink each. We have to blend in.’

  ‘Lemonade for me,’ Lorna said.

  Zidra leant through the hatch opening into the main bar next door. After a few seconds the barman served her two lemonades and she carried them back to Lorna. Before she’d had time to sit down, her friend began to talk.

  ‘Did you manage to get to Wallaga Lake Reserve?’

  ‘I did, and your mother was there.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Fine. She sends you her love.’

  ‘Did you see my kid sister?’

  ‘Daisy? No, I didn’t. Your mother said she’s staying with one of your aunts.’ Zidra had found the meeting with Lorna’s mother, Molly Hunter, slightly strained. This was in spite of the fact that she’d felt close to the Hunters ever since helping arrange a reunion between Lorna and Molly when Lorna was at the Gudgiegalah Girls’ Home.

  ‘Have the police been sniffing around at Wallaga Lake?’

  ‘No. Why should they be?’

  ‘What about Welfare?’

  ‘Your mother didn’t say. Why do you ask?’

  Lorna took a gulp of lemonade before saying, ‘A funny thing happened last week. I was walking across Railway Square on my way to uni when a man in a black bomber jacket and jeans came up to me.’ Lorna placed her glass on the table with a hand that was shaking slightly. ‘He said his name was John. He was probably in his early thirties and for a moment I thought he was trying to pick me up. But then he told me he was from intelligence at the New South Wales Police. I stopped myself from saying “Ho ho, that sounds like an oxymoron”, which was what I was thinking. Anyway, after a bit of small talk he said he had an offer to make. It turned out that he wanted me to spy on what he termed “your fellow activists in the Vietnam Moratorium Campaign”.’

  ‘Do you mind if I tape-record this?’ Zidra interrupted. ‘It’s easier than making notes. More accurate too.’ She paused, wondering if she was overstepping the boundaries. She was a journalist but she and Lorna were old friends. Lorna picked up a beer mat from the table and began to turn it over and over. Zidra said gently, ‘You do want me to run with this, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I wanted to meet you today. And I’m more than happy for you to record it.’

  Zidra reached into her briefcase and turned on the recorder she always had with her. ‘Just repeat that first bit, would you?’ she said.

  Lorna did so, before carrying on with her story. ‘John said that if I did what he wanted, he could arrange to have all those charges against me dropped. You know, when I was arrested in that march in June, for doing nothing apart from being there. This was the carrot he was offering.’ She hesitated for a moment to take another sip of lemonade before continuing. ‘I told him I wasn’t interested. He turned nasty then. Said that if I didn’t cooperate they’d get my kid sister welfared. That was the stick, Zidra, and a whopping big stick too. He said he didn’t think I’d want Daisy taken away after my own experiences at Gudgiegalah.’

  Zidra knew that the years Lorna had spent at the girls’ home hadn’t given her much of an education but they had politicised her. Lorna often said that the Aborigines’ Welfare Board hadn’t succeeded in grooming the blackness out of the girls at Gudgiegalah. By treating them so harshly, they’d sealed it in, and inculcated in the girls a common bond against the AWB.

  Lorna continued. ‘I told John that Daisy’s too old to be welfared. She’s nearly fourteen and what’s more she has model parents who are both Aborigines, so she’s not a half-caste like me. But he said, “Oh no, that’s not too old, and anyway she can still be welfared, you ought to know that, even with apparently model parents. Plus there are worse things we can do to her, believe you me.”

  ‘Then I told him that I didn’t think he could be from the New South Wales Police, because they wouldn’t make threats like that. Of course I knew that they would, but I was buying time so I could mull over what he was saying. He carried on talking in a threatening sort of way for a while, so eventually I said that I thought the police weren’t involved in intelligence. I meant it as a joke but he didn’t get it, and maybe that’s just as well. I added that I thought it was the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation that did that sort of thing.

  ‘“Oh, you mean ASIO,” he said. “They haven’t got any powers of arrest, see, so they have to coordinate with the state police.”

  ‘I said, “Oh that’s really interesting. I didn’t know intelligence was so complicated.”

  ‘He looked at me then a bit oddly, like he couldn’t make out if I was being smart or just plain stupid, so then I thought I’d better string him along a bit.’

  Lorna stopped talking and again picked up the beer mat from the table. Restlessly she began to spin it, and when it rolled onto the floor she drummed her long fingers on the tabletop instead.

  ‘Go on,’ said Zidra. ‘Tell me what else happened.’

  ‘I reminded John that those police charges against me weren’t all that serious,’ Lorna said. ‘About thirty of us were arrested for not doing anything much at all. But he said, “It’s amazing how charges can escalate, especially against you lot.” That really upset me. At first I wasn’t sure if he meant Aborigines or activists, and then I figured out he meant both. So I told him that I was starting to get the picture, and that I needed to go away and get my head around it all. It was a lot to take in and very frightening, and maybe he could meet me again soon. “Perhaps for a drink,” I said.

  ‘But he said, “No, we could meet all right, but no drinks.”

  ‘I’m to go to Railway Square in a week’s time and give him my answer. I told him okay, and in the meantime perhaps he’d be able to think of all my friends he wanted me to do the dirt on, only I didn’t put it quite like that. I was trying to seem agreeable by that stage.’

  She put her head in her hands. ‘Dizzy, what on earth am I going to do? I more or less told him I’d go along with what he wanted, although of course I won’t. But I’m really worried about my little sister.’

  ‘So am I. And I’m worried about you too.’ Zidra concealed the anger that was simmering within her at the injustice of Lorna’s treatment. She hated the thought that the authorities would harass someone like her, a bright woman, a brave woman. And one who was managing to make a way for herself in spite of the unfair way she’d been treated all of her life.

  ‘We’ve got to get this into the public domain,’ Zidra said. ‘I’m going to let you have my tape recorder. It’s a tiny little one.’ But she knew that, even though it was small, there was always some chance John would notice it. Was she asking too much of Lorna to wire herself up? It was surely far too dangerous. She was allowing her judgement to be clouded by h
er eagerness to help; she might end up making things worse, not better. She added, ‘But maybe you don’t want to do this. It could get you into a lot more trouble.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well maybe you’d better tell me a bit more of what you have in mind first.’

  ‘You’ll go to Railway Square all wired up, but with no bag. If you have a bag, it might make John suspicious. Just carry a few books. You often do that. Then get him to repeat what you told me, or most of it. After you’ve got the recorded evidence, I’ll run it as a story in the paper. I’ve got some other bits and pieces I can include too. My editor will jump at it.’ She hesitated, before adding, ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘What can you do about getting Daisy somewhere safe?’

  ‘She is somewhere safe. That’s why you didn’t see her with Mum. As soon as I could after meeting John, I called one of my aunties who lives near Bermagui, and she got in touch with Mum. Daisy’s staying with my aunty for a bit. There are lots of other places Daisy can go too. It’s best that you don’t know about those. Mum’s got quite a network going with all those kids from Gudgiegalah Girls’ Home passing through, and aunties and cousins everywhere.’ Lorna smiled rather grimly. ‘I guess I’m going to have to string this John along a bit, aren’t I? We’ve got the makings of a terrific story here. I knew you’d jump at this!’

  ‘I never can resist a good story,’ Zidra said. ‘I wonder if this John is the same bloke who was taking photographs of you at the last march.’

  ‘Photos?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t have a chance to tell you. I asked Chris to take some pictures of a guy who was snapping you. He was weaving along the road next to your group. Chris is a great photographer, but you couldn’t see much of that man’s face. I’ve got copies in the office. I’ll bring them next time we meet.’

  ‘The thing is, John’s so plain-looking he’s nearly invisible.’

  ‘Hmm. That man was pretty anodyne-looking too. Mr Ordinary is what I christened him. See if you can have a few more meetings with him. When your story comes out, it won’t look good for the police. Intimidating students. Intimidating Aboriginal students in particular. Won’t look good at all.’

  ‘Of course I’ll have to give John something,’ Lorna said. ‘Harmless material. It’ll help that he already thinks I’m a bit stupid, even though my exam results must be tucked away in a file somewhere. Being a black female can be an advantage.’

  Zidra removed the tape recorder from her briefcase and depressed the off button before ejecting the tiny tape. She replaced this with a blank spare and showed Lorna how to operate the machine. ‘Put it in the pocket of your trousers and run the wire up under your shirt. Better wear a jacket or blazer on top, and keep it on. The one you’ve got is perfect. It covers your pockets so the little box won’t be visible. And for God’s sake don’t forget to turn the thing on!’

  Lorna laughed and saluted. ‘Yes, miss.’ She tucked the recorder into her bag.

  ‘Bossy, aren’t I?’ Again Zidra wondered if she was taking advantage of Lorna to get a good story, rather than thinking only of her friend’s best interests. Quickly she dismissed this doubt. She was doing the right thing, and Lorna had agreed on that. She added, ‘Maybe we should arrange our next meeting now. It’s probably better if we don’t use the phone for a bit.’

  ‘What about here at the same time the day after I see John?’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘Thursday of next week.’

  ‘That’s perfect. You and I can meet on the Friday. This story of yours is going to be really good. I’ll bring you a couple more blank tapes. If you’ve got anything more on John, I can take it away.’

  ‘Thanks. I knew I could count on you.’

  As they left the Ladies’ Bar, Zidra heard one of the women shelling peas saying, ‘They shouldn’t let Abos in here.’ She turned and would have spat out the angry words burning her throat if Lorna hadn’t whispered, ‘Cool it, Dizzy. We’re coming back here again, remember? No scenes.’

  Zidra allowed Lorna to guide her outside. ‘I thought you were a protester,’ she said when they were standing on the pavement. Her heart was pounding; was there no end to what Lorna had to put up with?

  ‘I am, but you have to pick your audience. You know that as well as I do. That’s why you’re a journalist.’

  ‘I’m not sure journalists pick their audience.’

  ‘You think it’s more the other way around? Maybe you’re right. But the Chronicle is one of the more liberal newspapers. And its readership has been growing, I read the other day.’

  ‘In the Chronicle, I’ll bet.’

  Part II

  Early October 1971

  Chapter 10

  Only four days after arriving in Phnom Penh, Jim was already feeling as if he’d never been away. This morning he’d awoken late, hot and sweating, and with the mosquito net in a tangle around his feet. The ceiling fan, clicking at each revolution, was doing little to reduce the humidity, which dampened everything, even though it was the start of the dry season.

  Would Zidra have received his letter yet? Almost certainly not, he told himself as he took a shower. Even with the hot tap turned off, the water still felt tepid. The postal service was so slow that it could be a week yet before she’d get his letter. Assuming she wrote back right away, it would be at least another week after that before he’d get an answer. He cursed his timidity in not being able to tell her face to face. You wimp, he told his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. You bloody pathetic wimp.

  Now he was sitting on the petal-strewn balcony of his flat, in this once-grand house built by the French fifty years earlier. Shaded by a pair of flowering trees that glowed purple in the sunlight, he sipped his first cup of coffee of the day. It was impossible to mistake these purple flowers for anything other than bauhinia, he decided, inhaling deeply; you could identify their heady scent even with your eyes closed.

  He was glad he’d finally decided to stay in Cambodia for only another two months. Though in many ways he’d loved his time here, it was really just an interlude while he determined where to go next. And there never seemed to be enough time for reflection. His days were full of UPI work. In the evenings, when he wasn’t in one of the hotel bars picking up intelligence about potential news stories and pumping the other correspondents, he worked sporadically on trying to finish his book. He had a contract with a British publisher; all he needed was the time to complete the redrafting. The revision was going far too slowly; at times he thought he’d never find the uninterrupted time to finish it. There were too many distractions in Phnom Penh.

  He was running late but took the usual morning detour on the way to the office, down to the riverfront and Sisowath Quay. The day already felt hot. The opalescent surface of the river flickered; it might have been a vast fish undulating past the city. What would he remember of this place when he moved on? The pavilions and pagodas and stupas of the palace. The sparkling white spire of the Buddhist temple. The thronging markets. The confusion of apartments and shanties. The murmur of voices speaking in the Phnom Penh dialect, with its elisions that he would never master.

  And everywhere the refugees streaming in from the countryside that was ravaged by fighting. Families who’d been driven into the city, their rural livelihoods destroyed. There would be more and more of them, at least until this futile war ended. What hope did these people have for the future? What power vacuum would be left behind in this beautiful country, after the bombing was over and someone had won the war? Day by day the vegetation was being denuded and rice crops were dwindling, and a legacy was being created that would travel across generations.

  Yet the morning was glorious and it was good to be alive. He strolled past makeshift stalls set up under umbrellas, pots of f
ood being cooked, bicycles weaving through the crowds, beggars reaching out to him, desperate for the rapidly devaluing riel that he distributed each morning on his walk to the office.

  By the time he reached the UPI bureau, Khauv, his assistant, and Dominique were already there, laughing at him for being ten minutes late, when usually he was the first to arrive.

  ‘Put it down to jet lag,’ he said. His nights since his return to Phnom Penh were interrupted by periods of insomnia. Last night he’d tossed and turned in bed for ages, before getting up for a large slug of whisky, which had brought him a few hours’ sleep. He was on the way to becoming the stereotype of a correspondent in the tropics. All he lacked was a crumpled cream linen suit and a willingness to take up smoking.

  ‘For you, mon chouchou, there is no excuse for jet lag,’ said Dominique, a freelance photographer who made this office her base when she was in town. Small and dark, she had a nose with a pronounced turn to the left; it gave her an air of restlessness, as if she were about to follow its direction at any moment. ‘You have only been through a few time zones. Not like me when I flew here from Paris.’

  Clutching his second mug of coffee for the day, Jim stood in front of the detailed map of Cambodia that was pinned up on the office wall, while he and Khauv discussed what had been happening, as they did every morning. The South Vietnamese forces were trying to recapture Chup, a rubber plantation north-east of Phnom Penh. The Communists and the South Vietnamese were fighting up and down a mountainous ten-mile stretch of Highway Four, a fuel supply route linking Phnom Penh with the port of Kompong Som.

  Nothing much had changed in the week he’d been away apart from Federico’s departure. The battles raged up and down the same old stretch of road, people died or were wounded every day, refugees continued to throng into Phnom Penh. The bureau could have carried on without him for a day or two more, and he inwardly cursed his boss. Khauv was up to running it for a short time, and the contracts that Jim had needed to look at weren’t even ready on his return and hadn’t arrived until two days after he got back.