Lunch with a Soldier

by Derek Hansen

  Braden Dwyer was waiting out on his veranda, ready to get the car to go looking for the boys when they came running up the driveway from the road where Rodney’s dad had dropped them off. He was ready to bawl his kids out for being late for dinner but couldn’t get a word in. He’d never known them to be so excited and, once they were inside with the whole family crowding around, they showed him why.

  Braden instantly saw an opportunity to get the bank off his back and an easing of the pressure the family was under. Millie saw the prospect of actually being able to go shopping with money in her purse. Glory and Kath saw the prospect of new underwear and other essentials. Surely the bank wouldn’t get all the money.

  Neil told the whole story over dinner, making sure that Billy got the credit for the idea and for finding the opal. His father had a strange look on his face, which Neil finally realised was pride: pride in what they’d done.

  ‘So you spent all your time after school for an entire week looking for opals?’ Braden said. ‘Just so you could help out?’

  ‘You can sell it up at the Ridge,’ said Billy enthusiastically. ‘And pay off the bank.’

  His father laughed. Kath had found a matchbox and stuffed it with cotton wool to make a protective nest for the opal while it was passed from hand to hand.

  ‘It’s going to take a few more opals than this to pay off all we owe, but it’s not a bad start.’

  ‘Then we’ll find some more,’ said Billy.

  ‘No, you’ve done enough,’ said his father quickly. ‘I support this family. Besides, your mother and I have told you to keep away from mines. You know as well as I do how dangerous they are. You’ve disobeyed us once and I don’t want you doing it twice.’

  ‘But, Dad!’

  ‘No buts, Billy. You got lucky. Lucky you didn’t kill yourselves and lucky you found an opal. You’ve used up all the family’s luck for the next ten years. I want you to promise me you won’t go down any more mines. Okay?’

  The boys promised.

  ‘Did Mr Webb say how much he thought the opal was worth?’ asked Millie.

  ‘No,’ said Billy. ‘But he said it was worth more than any of the others he showed me.’

  ‘It looks the goods,’ said Braden. ‘Got to be worth a few thousand. I’ll take it up to the Ridge and ask around. See how much the bank’s going to get for it. The way they’re carrying on they’ll be happy to get anything.’

  ‘Do we have to give the bank all of it?’ asked Millie.

  ‘Not quite all of it. I’ll have to give them some so we don’t have to sell more sheep. Might be a few bucks left over.’

  ‘I think you should give the bank the minimum and use the rest to buy more sheep,’ said Neil.

  ‘Buy more sheep? There are a heap of things we can do with the money, Neil, but I don’t know that we should buy more sheep.’

  ‘I reckon we should buy more ewes to replace some of the ones we sold. We can make do with what we’ve got a while longer.’

  ‘No, we can’t,’ said his mother emphatically.

  ‘I’d like more sheep, Neil, but we can’t feed them. Not unless we get rain.’

  ‘That’s the whole point, Dad,’ said Neil. ‘The papers are saying there’s a good chance of the drought breaking inside the next four weeks.’

  ‘The papers are always saying that.’

  ‘This time the blacks are saying so as well.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘That’s what the Dewhurst kids at school reckon. Their dads told them it’s going to rain soon. It’s all to do with what blossoms are out and what birds are around, but they reckon the signs are good.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’

  ‘But if you wait till it rains, the price of stock will go up. Everyone will want to build up their numbers with the wool price the way it is.’

  ‘It’s a big “if”, Neil.’ He picked up the matchbox and stared at the opal. ‘Don’t you think we’ve used up all our good luck for the time being?’

  ‘It’s a question of judgement, not luck,’ said Neil.

  ‘You’re still asking me to take a punt, however you put it.’

  ‘If we get the timing right, we’ll really make up for some of our losses. If we get it wrong, we’re no worse off than we are now.’

  ‘Except that if we get it wrong we’ll have wasted Billy’s opal,’ said Braden.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ implored Billy. ‘Please, please! Don’t do it!’

  ‘Don’t do it,’ echoed his mother and sisters.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours with your attitude.’ Grant’s parole officer stared at him across the metal table.

  ‘And what favours are you doing me, Alan?’

  Grant didn’t dislike his parole officer. He was a Tony Bennett fan and from time to time they traded jazz tapes. Under any other circumstances he’d probably find him interesting and even entertaining. They were about the same age and Alan had been nothing if not straight with him. But there was a barrier between them and neither was prepared to give an inch.

  ‘You’re in the Training Centre, on work release, and you’ve got weekend leave. I think what I’ve done for you speaks for itself.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to do anything for me if you’d done the right thing in the first place.’

  ‘God give me strength …’

  ‘You and that dickhead of a shrink had the chance at sentencing to keep me out of gaol. You had the opportunity to recommend a community service order or, at very worst, periodic detention.’

  ‘Grant, you’re like a cracked record. You’ve been kidding yourself for six years. You’ve been kidding yourself for so long you’re starting to believe it. I couldn’t get you PD. No one could have got you PD. Periodic detention was never an option. Even Mother Teresa, if she’d done what you did, would’ve got a full custodial sentence.’

  ‘But that’s the point you and dickhead always miss. I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Here we go again.’ Alan turned away and gazed at the wall, folded his arms and put his feet up on a vacant chair. ‘Fact: you killed a woman. That might not have been your intention — we know it wasn’t — but you nevertheless put her in a position and acted in an irresponsible way that caused her death. The problem for me and for the psychologist is that you won’t accept responsibility for your actions and you show no remorse for what you did. And you show no sympathy for the relatives of the victim. Those are the facts.’

  ‘How can I feel sorry for something I didn’t do? Jesus Christ, if there’s a victim here, it’s me. I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah …’ The parole officer swung around so that he faced Grant again. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? It’s precisely this attitude that prompted the judge to give you eight and six. Anyone else would have got away with six years and parole after four. For once you’re right, Grant. You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve been out of here two years ago. These last two years are down to you and your attitude.’

  Grant stared at the wall above Alan’s head. Staring at walls was something he’d become good at. Alan may be bored with the cyclical nature of their conversations and their lack of progress but so was he. And damned if he was going to admit to something he didn’t do. How could he feel remorse for an accident? Accidents were accidents. They happened. Sure, he felt for the victim’s family, but his sympathy was tempered by the fact that they had no sympathy for what had happened to him. They blamed him when they had no right to blame him for anything.

  ‘Have you seen the drug and alcohol counsellor like I asked you to?’

  ‘Why waste my bloody time? I don’t have a problem.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Alan leaned across the table so he was close to Grant and held his eyes. ‘I asked you to see the drug and alcohol worker and undergo counselling so that I’ve got a piece of paper that unequivocally states you have no drug or alcohol problem. May I remind you that you were l
egally drunk when arrested and there were traces of cocaine in the victim’s blood.’

  ‘She might have had a problem. I don’t.’

  ‘I want proof, Grant, I want the piece of paper that says so.’ The parole officer sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘Okay, let’s play a game called “Get out of Gaol”. You’re eligible for parole in four months and you seem to be under the impression that it will be granted automatically. Let me tell you something. The psychologist is worried about you and concerned that you’ll commit further acts of violence after your release. He’s particularly concerned about your attitude towards your ex-wife. He’s against parole unless you agree to counselling. The truth is, Grant, if I went solely by his report I couldn’t recommend parole either.’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Alan. I’ve got a clean sheet. We both know I’ve been no trouble to anyone.’

  ‘Unless you start cooperating you may be forced to take your case for parole before the Offenders’ Review Board. I’m not saying they’ll knock you back, but you’re giving them no shortage of reasons to. A young woman is dead because of you. If you accept responsibility, demonstrate remorse, sympathy for the relatives of the victim and have a favourable report from drug and alcohol, no power in the land could keep you in here. That’s how people get out of gaol on parole. That’s the game you have to play if you want out. Why are you so determined to make it hard for yourself?’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going to admit to something I didn’t do.’

  Alan sighed again and closed his interview book.

  ‘Your mate Cameron doesn’t mind you staying with him every weekend?’

  ‘He looks forward to it.’

  ‘And Jasmine’s well?’

  ‘As well as any teenager dumped into a boarding school can be.’

  Alan shook his head at the tone in Grant’s voice. Domestic violence cases were always convinced of their innocence and carried more anger than even the most hardened crims.

  ‘Are you seeing her this weekend?’

  ‘No, her aunt’s taking her up to the Blue Mountains.’

  ‘Have you heard from your ex-wife?’

  ‘Not likely.’

  ‘Have you made any attempt to contact or approach her?’

  ‘Why would I bother?’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘No. I don’t even have the faintest idea where she is.’

  ‘How’s the job going?’

  ‘Good. If I ever give up the film business I’ll make a good forklift driver. You’ve got reports from my esteemed employers. You blokes trained me well.’

  ‘How are your plans for getting back into the film business working out?’

  ‘Fine.’ It was a lie but Grant wanted to keep his disappointment from his parole officer. He fought back the flood of bitterness welling up inside him. When Cameron had suggested they go into business together, Grant had assumed they’d be equal partners. His pride had suffered a crushing blow when he’d learned otherwise. All Cameron was doing was throwing him a bone, but what else could he expect? He was contributing no capital and bringing no hip-pocket accounts. Things had changed a lot in six years and in that time he’d gone from hero to zero. A lot of the bright new advertising agency people who handed out work had never even heard of him. A lot of his old mates had been eased out. His reel, the showpiece of his skill as a director, was now hopelessly out of date. Any business he brought in he’d have to go out and hustle for while Cameron paid him a retainer. A retainer! When Grant had plucked Cameron out of the gutter, he’d never imagined that one day he’d wind up working for him. The reversal of roles was the cruellest of blows. If only he had cash to bring to the party, things would be different. Oh, yes! If only he had cash. An image of his ex-wife swam into focus.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Grant started. He was too used to time alone in the slot when his thoughts were free to go where they liked and he didn’t have to account to anyone.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I asked how your plans were going and you went off somewhere. Where did you go? What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was just thinking how good it’s going to feel getting back to normal, to the way things were. Cameron’s already out looking at premises. He’s already got some work lined up.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ The parole officer leaned forward across the table until he was eye to eye with Grant. ‘Now I know I’m only a stupid parole officer, Grant, but if I had a good job waiting for me, I’d make damn sure I was there on the start date. Want to think about what I’ve been telling you?’

  Grant had other things to think about when he got back to his cell. Gaol was full of druggies who broke into homes and stole to support their habit, but he thought he could teach the lot of them a thing or two. A few weeks earlier, while he and Jasmine were out at a movie, Cameron had taken Jasmine’s key ring from her handbag and had a copy made of her Aunt Fran’s front door key. Jasmine’s keys were back in her bag long before the movie finished. After that, it had simply been a case of Cameron taking Jasmine home at a time when he knew her aunt and uncle were out, seeing her to the door and watching over her while she deactivated the burglar alarm. The four-digit code was the year of her aunt’s birth. Grant thought he could’ve guessed it. Now, with everyone away in the Blue Mountains for the weekend, the time had come to take the first step in locating his ex-wife. Somewhere inside the house there was a clue to her whereabouts: a number in a teledex, a notation on a note pad, an entry in an address book. There’d be something and he’d find it. Crime was so easy, it amazed Grant that people were ever caught.

  Fran’s Federation home in Putney was a reminder of what Sydney looked like before councils caved in to developers and planning departments took their pieces of silver. The house had been painstakingly restored to the original. It was a jewel in a street dominated by two-storey blocks of units. Of the three other surviving houses in the street, two were occupied by families from the Middle East who had inflated ideas of the value of their property and were hanging on for the right offer. The third house was rundown and owned by an elderly widow who’d lived there all her married life. The developers were hovering, waiting for her to die so they could move in.

  While Cameron sat in the car two streets away, Grant simply strolled up to Fran’s house, opened the gate and continued up the path to the front door. Any casual observer who didn’t know better would have assumed he was the owner, or at least had every right to be there. Even so, Grant would have preferred a weekday when people were at work, but a lot of people also worked Saturday mornings.

  The house sat towards the back of a block that sloped upwards from the street. If he’d turned around, Grant could have seen the road and the footpath over the top of Fran’s shrubs and the low picket fence. Anyone passing by could see him from the street. But who was there to see him? There was nobody around: nobody in the street and nobody watching at any door or window. Nevertheless, he had his fingers crossed as he pushed the key into the lock, hoping that the duplicate was a faithful copy. The last thing he wanted was to be seen fiddling with a key at the door. Any hesitation would be a clear sign that he had no right to be there. The key turned easily and he slipped inside.

  He punched the code into the alarm system, breathing a sigh of relief when the red light switched to green. He was in. Grant had visited the house many times with his ex-wife and knew the layout and where things were kept. He went straight to the phone table, opened the drawer and flicked open the teledex. His old phone number was listed under ‘S’ but there was nothing for Linda. He selected ‘L’ and found numbers for her home, which she’d let, and for her office. The familiarity of the office number stopped him dead in his tracks. He’d always imagined that she’d have changed it and it stung him to realise that she hadn’t. Six years earlier it had been his number, the number for Film Gate, the company he’d founded and which his ex-wife had stolen from him. For a moment his bitternes
s distracted him but then it was back to business. If Grant had needed further motivation, the unchanged number provided it. He searched under all the letters, looking at the bottom of the lists for new numbers, but found nothing that might be a code for his ex-wife. They had a new plumber and someone to tidy their garden and take their rubbish away. There was a recent entry for a Colleen Farmer, somebody called J Downs, a W Mynott and a Brian Williams. None of the names rang a bell.

  He checked the inside covers of the phone directories. Numbers had been scribbled there, but again he had no reason to think any of them belonged to his ex-wife. He checked note pads. The plumber was coming or had come on Thursday at three. There were numbers Fran had written for her husband to call back and vice versa. Linda’s name did not appear anywhere.

  Grant went straight to the main bedroom and into the walk-in wardrobe Fran was so proud of. His ex-sister-in-law was compulsively neat and kept all her handbags except the one she was using lined up on a shelf. Grant checked each of them, looking for her address book and failing to find it. That didn’t surprise him. He’d never known Fran to go anywhere without it. Nevertheless, it was another setback. He sat down on the bed to think. Clearly Fran had deliberately excluded his ex-wife’s number from the teledex to prevent Jasmine from finding it, thereby eliminating any possibility that she could inadvertently pass the number on to him. Fran had the number written down somewhere, but where?

  Fran was the family bill payer. She’d turned one of the spare bedrooms into an office from which she paid bills and kept track of accounts, receipts, bank statements, guarantee forms, their investments, tax returns and the rest of the paperwork people had to deal with. While it was an obvious place to look, there was no obvious place to start looking. Fran had two two-drawer filing cabinets and files, it seemed, for everything. Grant looked under ‘Family’ and found only birth certificates and her wedding certificate, school certificates of merit and certificates for sporting achievements. Grant hadn’t a clue where to look next. He had no interest in their bank accounts or tax returns, or in quotes from painters or people to sand the timber floors. Yet he knew the answer lay somewhere in the files.