Lunch with a Soldier

by Derek Hansen

  He read through the file headings, looking for cryptic associations which might link the file to Linda. Nothing stood out. He stopped once more to gather his thoughts. What had Jammy said? Her mother rang the school and rang Fran, but Fran had a number to call in emergencies. Emergencies! He left the office at a run and again grabbed the teledex out of the phone table drawer. The teledex didn’t begin with an ‘A’ but an ‘Em’ for listings of emergency services. Typically, Fran had listings for everything: the police, fire brigade, ambulance, hospital, CES, poisons advisory service, gas company, 24-hour electricians, 24-hour vets, but there was no emergency listing for his ex-wife. He closed the teledex, put it back in the drawer and slumped down on the phone stool. What was he missing? He stared at the phone and the answer hit him like a bolt from the blue. He raced back into the office, pulled open the file drawer, lifted out a folder he wanted, thumbed through it and removed three pages.

  Grant smiled to himself and checked his watch. He’d already been in the house for twenty-five minutes. Cameron would be beginning to wonder what the hell he was doing. He tidied up the files, closed the drawers and made sure everything on Fran’s desktop was back in its rightful place. Before leaving he took the precaution of peering out of the front bedroom window to see if anyone was about. After re-arming the alarm, he stepped out onto the veranda and closed the door behind him. The sun was blazing down from a clear blue sky. Grant paused on the top step, as though in appreciation of the morning, and discreetly checked the windows of the house opposite and the units next door. For all intents and purposes the buildings could have been deserted. He walked briskly down the path, out through the gateway and onto the footpath. It had taken him forty minutes to get what he wanted and he knew that Cameron would probably give him a serve for keeping him waiting so long. But he didn’t care. The main thing was that he had what he needed.

  Neil pushed his chair back to signal that the day’s storytelling had concluded. His throat was dry and he would have killed for a beer, but he was mindful of the fact that he had to drive home. He scanned the faces of his friends, wondering who would be first to comment. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  ‘I take it we are finished for the day?’

  ‘Yes, Ramon.’

  ‘Good, I need a coffee.’

  ‘Sorry I kept you waiting.’

  Smiles spread across the faces of Lucio and Milos. Ramon’s intentions were patently clear to them. He was getting in first with a touch of levity so the day would end pleasantly.

  ‘I like the way the story is going,’ said Milos. ‘You’re not usually this patient in constructing your stories. I like the way you are allowing the suspense to gather its own momentum.’

  ‘Truth doesn’t have the flexibility of fiction. The construction is determined by the events.’

  ‘Even so, you have choices,’ said Ramon. ‘There is any number of ways you could tell this story, though I have no dispute with the way you are telling it. Milos likes the construction because you have copied his techniques and devices. Milos likes to build his stories block by block, like you are doing. First the foundations, then the events that develop from them. There were times I thought I was listening to Milos.’

  ‘I’m glad you managed to stay awake,’ said Neil.

  ‘You have also stolen his device from his last story by referring to yourself in the third person,’ said Ramon.

  ‘Some would say he stole the idea from you. Still, it worked for him so I figured it would work for me.’

  ‘It does,’ said Milos. ‘I particularly like the way you describe your childhood, your brother and your relationship to him, though I find it difficult to relate the thoughtful, generous young Neil in your story with the Neil telling the story. Where did you go wrong?’

  It was Ramon’s turn to smile. His friends had picked up on his intent to keep the mood light and gone on with it. He heard Gancio approaching with their coffees and made room.

  ‘This is more like it,’ said Gancio. ‘Everyone smiling. You know, it used to be that I hesitated to bring your coffee because I didn’t want to interrupt the laughing. This last year I’ve been hesitating because I didn’t want to interrupt the arguing. I take it, Neil, you’re telling one of your funny stories?’

  ‘No,’ said Neil.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ confirmed Ramon. ‘A killer is stalking his ex-wife. Somewhere along the way Neil will take his brother’s life. And, if he convinces his father to buy more sheep, it looks very likely that his sisters will miss out on getting new underwear.’

  ‘What?’

  The four friends laughed at the restaurateur’s perplexity.

  ‘I think I had better get back to my work.’ Gancio withdrew to the sanctuary of his kitchen.

  ‘You’re a cynical bastard, Ramon,’ said Neil. ‘But I wonder if you’ll still be laughing when I finish my story.’

  THIRD THURSDAY

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Today, to begin, I have a new dish which is West Australian sardines, butterflied with the bone removed and stuffed with prawn, garlic and herb risotto. They are breadcrumbed and fried and served with parmesan, parsley and just a drizzle of light tomato sauce made with fresh cherry tomatoes. You’ll like it.’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t,’ said Lucio.

  ‘Got me,’ said Neil.

  Gancio glowed, clearly in his element.

  ‘For the main, roast spatchcock with Italian roast potatoes and roast tomato.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ said Ramon.

  Gancio fussily topped up the wine glasses before retreating to the kitchen.

  ‘It sounds to me like Gancio has decided to involve himself in the cooking again,’ said Lucio. ‘The sardines have his name written all over them. Most people don’t eat this well even in Italy.’

  ‘I’m glad you said that, Lucio,’ said Neil. ‘You guys can rave about your wonderful European cuisines, but the fact is you eat better here in Australia. Italian food is usually better in Australia than it is in Italy because we have better, fresher ingredients. The same can be said of French cooking, unless you’re heavily into offal.’

  ‘Neil, that is outrageous,’ said Ramon.

  ‘Bear with me,’ said Neil. ‘We may never compete with the elite Michelin three-star restaurants because there isn’t much of a market for that kind of cooking here. What we’ve done in Australia is create our own cuisine by adapting other styles. Our French and Italian are Australianised and, I think, better for it. We prefer light sauces to heavy sauces. The sauce Gancio described to go with the sardines is a good example. In Italy, the tomatoes would have been simmered for hours and the sauce heavier. It is the same with Asian food. The Chinese will tell you they eat better food here than they do in Hong Kong and Singapore. The ingredients are better, cheaper and more readily available. Even so, there will be dishes we won’t do so well. I think you have to go to Singapore for the best chilli crab and Hong Kong for the best shark fin soup. Doubtless there are other dishes, but generally Chinese food is better here.’

  ‘I agree Australia has its own style, but whether or not it is better is highly subjective.’

  ‘If every food critic in the world judged Australian cuisine best, you would still disagree, Ramon.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It will never happen.’

  ‘It’s happening, Ramon. One day you might have to sit here and eat humble pie, a dish I’m sure you’d choke on. Both Tetsuya’s and Rockpool have been voted in the top ten restaurants in the world. And what’s Tetsuya’s style? Try his carpaccio of scallop with foie gras and lime. Carpaccio? Does that mean the dish is Italian? Raw scallop? Does that make it Japanese? Foie gras? Does that make it French? No. The combination makes it peculiarly Australian. To Gancio’s credit, he is adapting his dishes and making them more Australian. The only thing that surprises me is that the stuffing for the sardines doesn’t also contain zest of lime, chilli and, maybe, a Thai influence.’ />
  ‘Heaven forbid,’ said Ramon.

  ‘The only reason Australian cuisine does not yet have the recognition it deserves is because diehards like you refuse to believe that the new world can ever be better than the old world at anything besides sport. They should never have let you take up Australian citizenship, Ramon, because you’ll resist to your death ever becoming an Australian.’

  ‘Here comes Gancio with the sardines,’ said Lucio. ‘How about we give the subject a rest?’

  ‘No way,’ said Neil. ‘I mean, just look at this.’

  Gancio placed a plate of sardines in front of him. There were three fish, tails resting on a small moulded mound of risotto sprinkled with parsley and radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. Tomato sauce was drizzled on top of them. The grated parmesan was concentrated in three star bursts about the thicker part of the fish.

  ‘Tell me, Gancio, how do you describe your cooking? Northern Italian, Southern Italian, what?’

  ‘Better. It is Australian Italian, Neil,’ said Gancio emphatically. ‘I take the best of my country and the best of my adopted country. You don’t like it?’

  ‘On the contrary, old mate. I love it.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Billy parked the ute and began the long walk up the ridge to Rodney’s shack, wishing he’d set out earlier. Summer was on its way and letting everyone know. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky that offered no relief. A couple of rabbits broke cover and bolted, which was more temptation than the kelpie could bear. It took off after them but Billy’s whistle quickly brought it shuffling, head down, to heel. Some kangaroos moved warily away into where the bush was denser and cooler. On the drive over Billy had noticed some grass parrots flitting about, looking for new seed to pick at, but few birds were hanging around the ridges. All the signs pointed to the day being a scorcher. Billy thought about just parking and whistling till the little man came down, but suspected he could whistle till the cows came home. Nothing was going to budge Rodney, not when he thought he was in trouble, and certainly not when he thought the police might be waiting for him.

  Billy maintained a slow, steady pace up the hill, wishing Rodney had the phone on which would save him a whole lot of trouble. But Rodney had never bothered to put the phone or power on and probably couldn’t afford the expense anyway. He ran his generator for a few hours every day for the sake of his fridge, and intermittently to run his machines and the old concrete mixer he’d converted into a rumbler. His lights ran on kero, his cooker on gas from cylinders, his radio on batteries, and he went without a television. Unfortunately for Billy, the only way to put Rodney out of his misery was to make a house call.

  He found him standing in the shade of a silver-leaf ironbark with his shotgun cradled in his right arm, as angry and suspicious as ever but also apprehensive. The kelpie raced ahead to renew acquaintance and get a pat for its trouble.

  ‘Jesus, Rodney, why didn’t you come down?’ Billy slumped down and leaned his back up against the ironbark and began to fan his face with his hat. ‘You could’ve met me halfway at least.’

  ‘I’m nod lea-vin he-yah,’ said Rodney. ‘If they wan-na take me a-way they gun-na have to come and ged me.’ He raised his shotgun and pretended to sight along it. The kelpie knew about guns and took cover behind Billy.

  ‘No one’s coming to get you, so you can relax and put the shotgun down. What did I tell you anyway? What did I tell you last night about your shotgun? What do you think would happen if the police came and found you standing here with a shotgun in your hands?’ The heat and effort of climbing had made Billy irritable and in no mood for Rodney’s theatrics. ‘Sometimes, mate, I give up on you.’

  Rodney lowered the shotgun angrily and made an elaborate display of laying it on the ground out of reach.

  ‘Thad dad-id-fy you?’

  Billy wiped his brow with his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket.

  ‘I came to tell you I fixed it with the police. No one’s coming to get you.’

  ‘Fair din-kum?’

  ‘Fair dinkum.’

  ‘Whad did you tell them?’

  ‘I told them the campers fired first. They didn’t believe me, but it’s my word against theirs and I have the distinction of being the only witness.’

  ‘Thank, Bil-ly. I owe you one.’

  ‘I don’t want you owing me one. I don’t want you owing me anything. I’m sick of lying for you, Rodney. This isn’t the first time people have complained to the police about you and, God knows, you scared the crap out of Linda. What if she’d gone into Walgett and complained too? They’d come and take you away, Rodney.’

  ‘Them and whad ar-my?’

  ‘See? You don’t listen and you don’t learn. I’m not cleaning up after you any more. You’re going to have to stop shooting at people and pointing your shotgun at them or the police will come. They will come, Rodney. They’ll take you away and all those thieves from the Grawin will be all over your diggings in a flash. Is that what you want, mate?’

  ‘Don led them take me a-way, Bil-ly.’ Rodney hung his head. Anger and frustration still played across his face but there was a scared look in his eyes.

  ‘Mate, you make it hard.’

  ‘I’m dor-ry.’

  Rodney looked so abject Billy relented.

  ‘Ah, what the hell. Forget it.’

  ‘I god a cup-la be-yah in the fridge.’

  It was a bit early in the day but Billy needed something cold to drink and improve his frame of mind. Beer was the only option anyway.

  ‘You get the beer,’ he said. ‘And a bowl of water for the kelpie.’ He pulled out his tobacco pouch. ‘I’ll make us a couple of rollies.’

  He watched Rodney scrabble away across the moonscape between the scrub and piles of mullock, wondering how long it would be before his little mate finally went too far.

  Billy didn’t drive straight home but made a right turn up towards his parents’ house. He could’ve rung Linda to bring her up to date with everything that had happened over the previous night and morning, but, since he was in the area, it seemed rude not to tell her in person. He breathed the sigh of a man resigned to disruption. He had his lambs to mark, and a handful of barren ewes to weed out and sell. There was enough work to keep two men flat out.

  The kelpie guessed where they were headed and began whining in anticipation. Billy reached the point where he’d stopped the night before and turned up onto the track. The dog was keen but Billy was suddenly hesitant. He knew he was doing the right thing, but phoning had the advantage of distance and detachment. They didn’t have to look into each other’s eyes. What if she was embarrassed? What if it had all been an unfortunate mistake, brought on by wine and the novelty of companionship? Not for the first time he wondered if he’d imagined the intimacies that had occurred or misinterpreted them.

  He parked beneath a gum which was doing its best in soil not entirely to its liking. Its growth was stunted but, perversely, that had only served to thicken its canopy, which was why Billy had chosen it. He knew that by the time he got back to the ute he’d be grateful for every little bit of shade it provided. He let the kelpie race on up the drive, thinking Linda would probably appreciate a little advance notice of his arrival. Under the circumstances, he figured he’d probably benefit as well.

  Linda was down on one knee on her front veranda when he spotted her, making a fuss of the kelpie. It was hard to know which of them was more pleased to see the other. A slow smile of relief spread across Billy’s face. Linda didn’t look like a woman harbouring regrets.

  ‘You’ll wear each other out in this heat.’

  ‘Hello, Billy.’

  Linda stood just as Billy stepped up onto the veranda and he was instantly at a loss to know how to greet her appropriately. They were long past the hand-shaking stage, but had they reached the point where a kiss was expected? Linda solved the problem by kissing him lightly on both cheeks.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

>   ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I was about to put the kettle on. Make yourself comfortable and tell me over a cuppa. By the way, you’ve never told me your dog’s name.’

  ‘It’s Bella.’

  ‘Good name. How come you never use it?’

  ‘Dog doesn’t need reminding what its name is.’

  Billy found a chair along the veranda, rocked back on it and put his feet up on the rail. His earlier optimism had begun to fade. She seemed more interested in the kelpie than in him. Her kiss had been perfunctory and there’d been no hug, quick or otherwise. Although she’d smiled and seemed genuinely pleased to see him, she seemed to be holding something back. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but suspected they’d both fallen victim to the harsh light of day. It occurred to him that Rodney and the campers might have saved them both from further embarrassment. Nevertheless, he thought of the shotgun blast with genuine regret. What if there’d been no shotgun? What if her hand had reached his?

  ‘Your tea. And jam tin.’

  Billy smiled. The tea was in a mug, not a cup, and a healthy billabong brown. But it was the tin for his cigarette butts that revived his spirits. Clearly she expected to see more of him. So why the hesitation? He waited until she’d pulled a chair up alongside him and sat down.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’ said Linda.

  ‘You seem distracted.’

  Linda stared out over the plains, a habit she’d unconsciously borrowed from Billy. He rolled another cigarette while she thought through her answer. A blowfly droned somewhere behind them, but apart from that and a gentle soughing of the wind there wasn’t a sound to be heard. No birdcalls, no bleating sheep or lowing cattle, no crickets. It seemed as though every living creature apart from them and the blowfly had decided to lieup somewhere cool. Billy hoped that the day was an anomaly and not indicative of a long, fiercely hot dry summer. What Billy wanted was a few days of light rain to soften up the ground followed by a good downpour now that his neighbours to the east had completed harvesting their winter crops. The flawless blue sky gave little hope of either but you never could tell. He’d lit up his smoke and taken a couple of deep pulls before Linda responded.