A Song Only I Can Hear

by Barry Jonsberg

  I hadn’t, but I’d seen a television show about them once when Mum and Dad were out. I nodded.

  ‘They were like that.’ He gave the smallest of shudders. ‘They came towards us, we shot them and they went down. Then two more would take the place of the fallen. We’d shoot them and more would take their place. It was the most bizarre thing. All that, for hours and hours, in the lightning and the rain and the clouds of gun smoke. Afterwards, we found something like two hundred and fifty Viet Cong bodies, but we killed and wounded many more than that.’

  ‘How many Australians died, Grandad?’ I asked.

  ‘Eighteen,’ he said. ‘And twenty-four wounded. I was one of them. Shot in the arm and do you know, I hadn’t realised until the battle was over. For all I know, I was shot in the first minute and then spent hours fighting. I remember looking down, seeing the bullet wound and only then feeling pain.’ He shook his head as if disputing his own story. ‘I spent some time in a field hospital, before being shipped home to Australia. I never went to war again. Unfortunately, it didn’t really matter because it turned out I brought the war back with me. Up here.’ He touched the side of his head with an index finger.

  I didn’t say anything. I thought I understood, and anyway I knew it was best to say as little as possible. Grandad glanced at the board.

  ‘I think it’s your move,’ he said.

  I moved my queen to the furthest row.

  ‘Checkmate,’ I said.

  Grandad gave a start and then bent his head over the board. His eyes darted over the remaining pieces.

  ‘Well, I’ll be blanked,’ he said. ‘It is. Bugger me. Checkmate.’ He held his hand out over the board. ‘Congratulations,’ he said.

  ‘Did you let me win?’ I asked. I didn’t take his hand.

  ‘No,’ said Grandad. His voice was sharp. ‘I told you I’d never let you win and I didn’t. You beat me fair and square, Rob.’

  ‘Do you swear?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  I shook his hand.

  We sat on our usual bench overlooking the lake and the dribbling fountain. Grandad had said he needed fresh air, so we’d put the chessboard away and ambled down the path. A sickly sun made small sparks on the water’s surface.

  ‘Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Pop. ‘Yes. A real mouthful, that, but just about the long and short of it. Sometimes, when you go through a deeply distressing, painful experience it can be difficult, maybe impossible, to shake it off. It stays with you, tormenting long after the experience has ended.’

  ‘That’s what you meant when you said you brought the war back with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grandad leaned forward on the bench and put a hand across his chest. ‘I told you all this to explain about your grandmother, not because I wanted sympathy or to convince you war is awful. So. I’m going to finish this story now, Rob, and we won’t talk about it again, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I mentioned a poem by Wilfred Owen earlier. He fought in the First World War, just over a century ago. Now there was a war that defied belief. Thousands and thousands of men slaughtered, routinely, to win a few metres of mud between the trenches. And the probability was that those few metres would be lost the next day.’ Grandad shook his head. ‘Soldiers suffered PTSD because they viewed horrors beyond imagining, day after day, month after month. But no one knew about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, so when men broke down screaming the officers thought it was cowardice. They lined them up in front of a firing squad and shot them. As an example to others, you see.’

  Grandad leaned back on the bench.

  ‘In that poem, Dulce et Decorum Est, which, incidentally, you must read, Owen talked about watching someone die and he said, “In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.” In all my dreams, before my helpless sight. That’s it. That’s it exactly, Rob. I tried to live a normal life when I got back to Sydney, but I couldn’t. Because every time I slept I saw the same scenes replayed over and over. Before my helpless sight.’

  I put my arm across his shoulders but I don’t think he noticed.

  ‘Bella tried to help, but she couldn’t. I’d wake up screaming, covered in sweat, and she would hold me for hours until I calmed down. Maybe she could have dealt with that, but the ghosts came during waking hours as well.’

  ‘Ghosts?’ I said.

  ‘The ghosts of those I’d killed. The ghosts of friends who’d died, not just in Long Tan but in other battles. They moved in with me. I still see them, Rob. God help me, I still see them from time to time.’ He wiped at his forehead and his hand came away covered in a film of sweat. ‘They don’t terrify me anymore. In fact, their company is more comforting than anything else. But your grandmother … well, she endured as long as she could, far longer than I had the right to expect. But the ghosts pushed her out. I pushed her out. It was the only way she could possibly survive.’

  A thin breeze cut across the lake and I shivered.

  ‘Your grandmother didn’t abandon me, Rob. She didn’t abandon your father or you. That’s something you need to know.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me before, Grandad?’

  He sighed.

  ‘Because sometimes stories are just too sad, Rob. And too painful. But, you know something? I feel better for having told you. I really do.’

  I hugged him to me and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, Rob,’ said Grandad finally.

  ‘What for, Pop?’

  ‘For this. I didn’t want it to happen like this, but I can’t stop it. Forgive me, please.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Pop.’

  Grandad gave a long, drawn-out sigh. His head lay on my shoulder. I waited for him to take another breath, but he didn’t.

  I lost my mind for a few days. Between Grandad’s death and his funeral – and I’m not sure how long that was – I lost my mind.

  How can I explain? Words are so clunky and fall far short of the reality they’re meant to represent. Long gaps of time. I’d find myself staring out the window and Mum would be talking to me but I had no idea what she’d said. I had no interest in what she’d said. One time, I realised I was screaming at Mum and Dad but I can’t remember why. I don’t think I knew even then, but I remember the words.

  ‘You don’t understand. Why can’t you blankety understand? I said to him, Cross your heart and hope to die. And he said, Cross my heart and hope to die. Get it? I invited this. Me. My fault. Why don’t you understand?’

  Mum had sometimes called my relationship with Grandad unhealthy, though I know she didn’t mean it in a nasty way. What she was talking about was how, in the normal way of things, a thirteen-year-old would spend a socially acceptable amount of time with a grandfather, but the grandad wouldn’t be a friend, wouldn’t be someone a kid would seek out and talk to about personal things. Spending time with kids my own age would have been normal, not hanging around an old people’s home. That’s just weird.

  I didn’t go to school for a couple of weeks. I’d have probably been suspended, anyway, but I didn’t go so it didn’t matter. You see, Daniel Smith saw me a day or two after Grandad died. I have no idea why I was out on the streets. Maybe Mum and Dad insisted I went with them somewhere. I also can’t remember what Daniel said, but I can guess. Let’s be honest, it’s not difficult to predict what’s going to come out of Daniel’s mouth.

  A tooth, it turned out. Because I punched him.

  I’m not proud of this. Later I went round to his house and apologised. He never bullied me again, but I don’t know if that was because I punched him or because I apologised. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it does. I’ll think about it, but not right now.

  Andrew was a good friend. I know this because he largely left me alone with my feelings. He’d com
e round after school and tell me stories of the school day. He sent Destry’s love and I nodded and thanked him, and asked him to tell her I appreciated her concern. And I did. But here’s something strange. Or maybe it isn’t. All that love I’d felt for her, that churning feeling in my stomach, that sense of blood burning just to hear her name – well, all that hadn’t died, exactly, but it somehow didn’t seem important anymore. Destry was a stranger. Maybe she wouldn’t be in the future. Maybe we could become friends. I hoped so, because she seemed like a nice person.

  But, to be honest, not a lot mattered to me at that point.

  Mum and Dad were, I think, really supportive. I’m sure I wasn’t the easiest child to deal with at the time. And, of course, my dad had also lost his dad. Mum had lost her father-in-law. She often had a go at Grandad, but I knew she loved him. I didn’t give their feelings much thought, though. I was too wrapped up in my own grief to let anyone else’s in.

  In all my dreams, before my helpless sight.

  But time passed. I ate, I slept (when the nightmares let me) and I read. Time passed.

  Then it was the day of the funeral.

  It was the first time I’d worn a suit. Mum and Dad took me to a shop in the town centre, not a million miles from where Andrew and I had chained ourselves to the railings. Already that seemed like it had happened to a different person in a different time.

  A man in the shop measured me up and promised Mum and Dad that he could do the necessary alterations in time. They didn’t have much call for suits that would fit a thirteen-year-old, and there wasn’t time to tailor one from scratch, but he had an idea of how to make separate elements – trousers and jacket – work together.

  He was as good as his word. I went to the shop the day before the funeral and the suit fitted beautifully. He’d also found a waistcoat that matched and was the right size. I put on a bright white shirt, he knotted a red tie around my collar and took me to a full-length mirror.

  It was amazing. I gazed at myself and it was like gazing at a stranger. I think it was the first time I’d smiled since Grandad’s death. I studied my reflection and I knew he would have been proud of me.

  On the morning of the funeral, Mum asked if I wanted to say a few words during the service. The question took me by surprise and my heart hammered.

  Did I want to say a few words? Of course I did. What’s more, I knew I could say a few words. If this had been only a few months previously, it would have been impossible. But my panic attacks were, for the time being at least, under control and my self-confidence high. All those challenges had brought me that confidence. But I shook my head.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure, Rob?’ Mum ran a hand through my hair. ‘You might regret it afterwards.’

  ‘Yeah, I might. But I think I’ll just listen to what others say.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘This is not the right time for me,’ I said. I didn’t know why I knew this, but I did. ‘When it is, I’ll have my say.’

  I was stunned by the number of people who turned up to the funeral. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting, but I guess I must have assumed it would be just family, and maybe one or two people from the old folks’ home.

  The place was packed.

  Mum, Dad and I lined up at the entrance to the crematorium and welcomed the guests. Andrew was there, of course. Miss Cunningham came as well, which surprised me. I thought the principal would’ve hated Grandad, but it seems not. She told me she wanted to pay her respects to a man who was so passionate about my education.

  Many of the old people from the home rocked up, as well as ten or twelve staff. The place had organised a couple of buses. I recognised nearly all the home’s tenants. I was pleased to see Jim wasn’t there. I’m not sure I could’ve coped knowing someone who had no idea what day it was had been made to come. Grandad would’ve hated that as well. Agnes gave me a massive hug and shook Mum and Dad’s hands. A whole procession of old people came along, and all of them hugged me as if I was a long-lost friend. How strange is that?

  There were also six people I didn’t recognise. They were roughly Grandad’s age and a couple wore medals pinned to their chests. Each shook me by the hand and bowed their heads as they entered. Vietnam vets. People who’d known Pop for over fifty years, who knew what he’d been through because they’d been there with him. Did they have their own ghosts? I wondered. I imagined they did.

  When everyone had taken their seats, the service began.

  It didn’t last long, because Grandad had been clear on what he wanted. More precisely, what he didn’t want. God, for example, wasn’t welcome, because Pop wasn’t a fan of religion. No priest or vicar, because he didn’t want someone who’d never met him talking about what a great person he’d been. Instead, a number of people he’d known stood up at the front, next to the casket, and spoke.

  Dad gave a moving speech. He made a few jokes and I even laughed at a couple. Two staff from the old person’s home got up and said something. One wiped away a tear, but there weren’t many tears. There were stories. Agnes stood, though she had to hold onto a rail for support. I wondered if she had any idea that Grandad had bet she’d die before him. Knowing Grandad, he’d probably told her. Agnes surprised me by saying that Pop had been the gentlest and kindest person she’d ever known. ‘He tried to hide that,’ she remarked. ‘He pretended to have a thick skin and to despise most people around him. Maybe he fooled some people, but he didn’t fool me. Pat Fitzgerald was a sook and I loved him for it.’

  She looked around the crematorium.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing. He wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this.’ I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing, even though it wasn’t the most original of jokes. A few other people did, too. ‘He told me he wanted to be burned in a big barrel on the edge of the lake at home,’ she continued. ‘“Put a grill over the top, douse me with petrol and cook up some snags,” he said. I pointed out that there weren’t many people, even in the Old Farts’ Palace, who’d be prepared to eat a smoked sausage sandwich with his smell clinging to it. “In this place,” he said, “that would be a step up in dining experience.”’

  Agnes caught my eye.

  ‘I know he told Rob this,’ she said. I grinned and put a thumb up. ‘Rob who he loved more than life itself. And Rob who loved him. A strange couple, but one that made my life shine brighter, right towards its end. So thank you, Pat Fitzgerald and thank you, Rob Fitzgerald. For brightening my life. And for brightening each other’s.’

  I didn’t cry then, but I came close. Grandad used to say I’d cry over a crook mosquito, that I was the biggest sooky la-la in the cosmos. But so far, I’d been strong.

  That changed when one of the old men stood, pulled out a bugle and played The Last Post as Grandad’s coffin slid along a conveyor and through a pair of sliding doors. I wasn’t the only one who totally lost it.

  It’s a universal truth, so I’ve been told, that after a funeral people can’t slink away home. They have to return to someone’s house, eat curled ham sandwiches and chat in low tones.

  People came to our house, ate curled ham sandwiches and chatted in low tones for a while. The Vietnam vets didn’t, though. They melted away when the service was done. I guess when you’ve been through what they’ve been through, you can give ham sandwiches the middle finger if you want.

  People came up to me and expressed their sorrow. I thanked them and we were all very, very polite in our suits and our little murmuring clusters.

  When my phone buzzed, I assumed it was Andrew. He’d gone home after the formalities and I couldn’t blame him. But it wasn’t Andrew.

  I have your last challenge for you, Rob, the text read. Meet me in your back garden. Now. I’ll give it to you personally. It’s time we met, don’t you think?

  I loosened the knot of my tie and undid the top button of my shirt. It wasn’t hot, but I was slick with sweat.

  I’ve read plenty o
f books, so I was familiar with the idea of moving as if in a dream, but this was the first time I’d done it. There was a drumming in my ears that made all other noise recede to a distant hum. I was intensely aware of being inside my body, looking out through the arch of my brows. Despite that, I was surprised when I glanced down towards the handle of our back door and saw my own right hand reaching out to turn it.

  You see, I’d spent so much time convincing myself it was Grandad who’d sent the texts, that even now I couldn’t believe it wasn’t. What would I do if I opened the door and saw Pop standing on the lawn under the Hill’s Hoist? Would I scream? Or would I run and hug him? A drop of sweat ran into my eyes and the sting brought me back to myself. I turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  Agnes stood in the centre of the lawn. She smiled, though it was a strange and twisted thing. She held up a mobile phone.

  I didn’t smile. But I did walk and stand in front of her. The sky had turned gloomy, swollen clouds threatening rain, and the garden was dark and depressed.

  ‘I need to explain,’ said Agnes.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘This may take time. Do you want to go inside and sit down?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You’re upset,’ said Agnes.

  ‘You think?’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sure how I should explain,’ said Agnes. ‘And you may not need to sit because you’re young, but I do because I’m old.’ She pointed to a rain-stained bench close to a shrivelled flower bed. I’d forgotten it was there. ‘Please, Rob?’

  I have no idea how old Agnes is. Old. Grandad old. And I couldn’t let her stand. But I was not happy. In fact, inside I was a coil of hard resentment and I couldn’t even say why this was. So I shrugged and stalked off to the bench. She followed, but I didn’t give her the comfort of watching or pretending I cared. I vowed I would say nothing, that my silence would be the punishment she deserved.