After positioning the camera on a stand, Poppy dragged one of two matching armchairs over so it sat with the mantelpiece behind and slightly to one side. A strategically positioned side table with lamp finished the frame.
‘Perfect,’ she said after sighting the shot through the viewfinder.
With a final check in the mirror, she settled for a quick fix of her hair, suddenly conscious of the symbolism of doing nothing more than setting her hair free from the restrictive elastic band to let it fall where it chose. She’d forgo on-camera makeup. This wasn’t about her. This piece was going to show the real Poppy Hamilton, with a real message about the consequences of war.
No hype.
No politics.
No spin.
Poppy chanted the credo several times as she paced, preparing herself—‘No hype, no politics, no spin’—filling her lungs with oxygen to help clear her head.
Think, Poppy. There was still time to change tack.
She couldn’t not lodge a story, and it couldn’t wait until tomorrow; WS did not report old news. Without her report they’d fill the timeslot with something else. Parliament was sitting, always a good fill-in story to get out of that.
Tell the stories you want to tell, and tell them your way.
Poppy heard Gypsy’s words as she settled into what was once her favourite armchair, trying to look as casual as possible. She crossed one leg over the other and, using the remote to activate the record function, stared directly down the lens, cleared her throat, ‘Ahem’, and started.
‘There are many victims of war …’ Almost immediately the mental image of Sapper Pandleton’s mother threatened tears. Poppy breathed in again, the hypnotic blink of the camera’s red light helping her maintain her professional mask. ‘There are those brave soldiers who fight and die. Their pain finally over. Then there are those who survive the fight, forced to live on, only to die bit by bit. They are all victims of war. But families are also victims.
‘I have witnessed a family’s pain first-hand, privileged to join a grateful community in honouring a brave soldier and his proud parents. My job was to bring the images into your living room so you too could bear witness to the pain and the sacrifice.
‘You and I sit in the safety of our living rooms, flicking through channels in search of the latest sitcom or reality TV fad. We’re told we all want ‘amazing TV’ and some of you want the news, but you want it delivered the way you want it—neatly packaged, palatable and presented by pretty faces. And when it comes to the war, we want the glossed-over version to distance ourselves from the reality of what is happening on the other side of the world, because it’s not our country, not our war, not our families. But as we sit in our comfortable homes, fighting over the remote control, there are brave souls whose reality right now is dust and deserts, fighting for freedom and democracy for those who cannot.
‘Television is the most powerful medium, bringing moving pictures of destruction and war into our homes whether we want them or not, whether we acknowledge the war as ours or not. History has shown us that such exposure can open our minds to the possibilities, but just as quickly close our eyes to the truth. Never was this more true than during the Vietnam years. We made a terrible mistake believing everything we saw in the media. Let’s not repeat mistakes from the past.
‘The funeral of Sapper Andrew Pandleton is not about the war, politics or headlines. It is about a brave young man, proud parents and a caring small-town community that I am proud to be part of. This report contains no images of war and no politics. What I have is a letter, a message. This report is about a soldier, a mate, a son.
‘With permission from his mother, I have something to read. This is Sapper Andrew Pandleton.
‘Dear Mum, Dad, and gang,
I’m afraid this letter isn’t good news for you, or for me come to think of it.
But I have to be serious for a change, so bear with me.
I need you to know, just in case, that you will be my last thought. And knowing I will stay in your hearts forever is what will keep me warm in death until they bring me home. And I will come home. My mates will make sure of that.
I need you to not cry. I need you to not worry for me, so much as for yourselves. I am proud of what I do. I am an honest, brave and dedicated soldier. You have made me this, so you cannot now regret the man you let me be.
I love what I do, and the unit and the guys that work with me. We all do what we do for the same reason. Because it’s our job and because the people we’re helping want us here. There is something pretty wonderful about being needed and appreciated. We want a better world over here so everyone can experience what I’ve taken for granted, a great life in a great country. I might not be a big city bloke, and I haven’t done a lot, but I’m proud of the little things I’ve achieved and of the place I was born and grew up.
I’m lucky. I found a place I belonged twice, first with you guys in Saddleton, then with my army buddies. Some people struggle to find one.
Know that I loved you until the day I died and that I will watch over you forever.
For now I need you to remember me with smiles, and live your lives, follow your dreams and know I’ll be following them with you. And I need you to make sure that, no matter what, they take me home to the place I first belonged.
Your loving son,
Andrew
‘This is Poppy Hamilton reporting from Saddleton, New South Wales, leaving you with an image of the real Sapper Andrew Pandleton.
‘Switch to archive footage. And cut.’
Struggling for breath—had she held it in for the duration of the report?—Poppy flicked the OFF button on the camera’s remote control and let the professional mask fall away. Trembling to the point of nausea, which she chose to put down to not having eaten all day rather than the you bloody idiot voice currently reverberating in her head, Poppy prised herself out of the armchair. There remained an hour or more of work to do, sifting through archive footage to find the perfect end-shot before she could hit SEND and let Nigel weave his magic.
Tempted to drink, she first needed food. She wandered aimlessly, opening kitchen cupboard doors, the contents completely uninspiring. The inspiration she could do with right now sat in the fruit bowl at the centre of the table—two pill packets, including the small bottle she’d accidently spilled in the bathroom that first night. They remained untouched, which surprised her, given the emotional roller-coaster ride she was on.
Just one, just this once, she promised herself while toying with the wrapper. She slid the blister pack from the box and popped the tablet into the palm of her hand, staring at it as if the pill was going to find its own way into her mouth, making her decision to take it easy. When she turned on the kitchen tap, it did make the decision, falling into the swirling water and down the plughole.
You can do this, Poppy-girl.
What should have taken thirty minutes took over an hour at the computer as she struggled with the consequences of what she was about to do. Again, she found herself staring at the pills in the bowl. She was stalling, trying everything to stop herself hitting SEND. She’d even stopped to eat something almost healthy—baked beans on toast. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically. If she was going through with this, it was time.
‘We’ll be lucky to afford baked beans after I lodge this story, Rocky.’
After attaching the file to an email and typing Nigel’s address, she let her cursor hover over the SEND button. It might as well have read: DETONATE CAREER. Poppy knew the implications of her report. Without images of grieving families she knew it lacked the shock value WS were looking for. So there was every chance her report wouldn’t even get a run. Public outrage and sympathy were a powerful combination that put more pressure on the government to bring Aussie soldiers home. That’s what WS wanted.
You told the news your way, Poppy.
Emotionally drained, she fell into bed, knowing there were only two certainties to life now: one, she’d ha
ve a serious headache in the morning, and two, poor Max would have an even bigger one.
Her report.
24
To her surprise, the story got a run, credited to her and unedited, only a few days later than scheduled, but not on any major network news. Kristen had emailed to tell her a few regional channels had picked up the piece in its entirety, but on the majors her report had so far remained lost in the late, late, late news, somewhere between the Danoz Direct Hip-master Machine and the 1900-Call-for-Sex advertisements. Max had called her a dozen times, office line, mobile number and home phone showing in her missed calls log. She didn’t answer—not once—nor did she listen to the numerous voice messages, switching the phone off for the second time in as many weeks. A mad Max was not a pretty picture, and he had every right to be mad. Maximilian Coffey’s number one journo was now a liability, a big bloody albatross hovering over the agency.
How can doing the right thing be so wrong?
Something about the country made the nights long and lonely. She was missing her television. The high-definition plasma screen that took up an entire wall in her living room was a much-needed distraction, tuning into the latest so-called reality show a way of tuning out. The silences of the Dandelion House only exaggerated the loudness of her thoughts. Poppy took a good swig of wine to drown out the voices; a pity party was no place for lady-like sips. She’d tried to find Eli earlier but found only a note on her front door. He was AWOL—again—so in place of talking she decided to drink. ‘Not so smart anymore, are we, Pops? What now?’
She collected a second bottle of chardy from the top shelf and slammed the refrigerator door closed, then wriggled into the corner of the sofa and stuffed some cushions against the armrest, punching them before lowering her head, her eyelids blinking fast under the weight of too much wine, eventually closing, closing … closed.
*
‘You can stand tall and proud, Poppy,’ said a voice behind her. ‘That was a good thing you did.’
Poppy jerked up, her eyes slamming wide open at the figure in the doorway to the living room. ‘Johnno? You … you’re here. How? Why? Did Eli tell you?’
‘Still my little girl. Still full of questions.’ His words hit her hard in the heart and she clasped a hand to her pounding chest. ‘You were always questioning.’
Poppy combed her fingers once through her hair and gave her head a little rattle to wake any leftover sleeping cells. The wine had left her mouth and lips dry. If she was still drunk, her father’s appearance had just shocked her sober.
The blinding sunlight behind him hurt her eyes. How could it be morning? She swallowed—twice—licked her lips and cleared her throat, desperate to find her voice again.
‘You … you remember that about me?’ she managed, while easing her feet to the floor, almost afraid to move.
‘Yes, I remember. I went away to forget myself, Poppy-girl. Not you.’
‘So I’m Poppy-girl now?’ She felt like a child again—eager, needy. ‘Not Poppy-ganda?’ But the grown-up Poppy pulled back. She wasn’t letting her guard down. Not yet. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I needed to see you. You need to know what a great job you did on that story about young Andrew Pandleton.’
‘You know him?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’
Poppy had imagined what she would say to her father so many times, confusion and anger usually fighting for dominance. But not now he was here in front of her. Was it that she couldn’t access that part of her brain? Or did she no longer feel the need, her head strangely clear? Instead, she carried on the conversation.
‘So you liked my report? I can’t believe you even saw it. I didn’t think anyone did.’
‘Everyone should see it. How you treated that boy and his family was real, honest, from the heart.’
‘The network wasn’t too happy, but I know whose side they’re on, and with everything happening in Canberra at the moment …’ What are you doing talking politics? This is your father—finally. Don’t keep him a stranger. ‘His death, that service, none of it was about politics. It was a personal moment between a son and his family, his very strong family. Even in their grief they were proud of their child.’
‘Not like me, I hear you say.’
‘No. That … that’s not what I—’
‘I am proud, Poppy. Very proud. I always have been.’
‘But you never said. You kept leaving me.’ Finally, the words she’d wanted to say were finding their way through the haze of confusion and the disbelief that he was even here talking to her after all this time. ‘I thought you were punishing me. I’m so sorry about everything.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry about. I didn’t do right by you, Poppy-girl. I let my grief keep us apart. You wanted me to notice you and be there for you. Instead, I taught you to run. But we’re different. You’re different. You’re strong. I wasn’t. My life was my fault, not yours.’
Johnno crossed the room until he stood directly in front of the living room window, the strange wraith-like aura created by the sunlight behind him forcing Poppy to squint. The nearness of him—his physicality—filled her with such mixed emotions, but she resisted the urge to reach out, saying only, ‘Eli said you were strong.’
‘Once maybe, over there when I had no other choice. Not once I came home. I didn’t know who I was or what I was here anymore. I was lost and I fell apart. I did some things I’m not proud of. I made mistakes. I was a grownup, and I should’ve known better. At least I should have been more honest, but things left for too long are harder to undo.’
Things left undone? Grownups? Poppy’s brain stumbled. Those words seemed so familiar.
‘What mistakes?’
He shifted awkwardly, his face contorting, and for a moment Poppy wondered what was so painful. But all he said was, ‘Too many. Not being at your awards night my most recent. I should’ve been there for you. I was too stubborn, too selfish. You’ve achieved so much and you love your work. I should’ve respected that.’
‘I don’t think I love it anymore.’
‘It’s important to find what you do love, Poppy, and hold on tight, because once it’s gone …’
She pondered the man and his words with guarded interest, locked her gaze on him and said, ‘Sometimes it doesn’t matter how hard you hold on. Some things won’t be held.’ The muscles in her arm twitched and the compulsion to reach out and connect came, then went, that force-field firmly in place, protecting her from the unfamiliar impulse to hug her father. ‘I want to be angry.’ She took a cushion from the end of the sofa and wrapped her arms around it, hugging it tight to her body. ‘I want to be angry at you, but I’m so torn. Why couldn’t you be there for me? Why didn’t you see I needed you?’
‘Poppy, try to understand. I noticed you more than you know. That’s why I couldn’t be there when you were growing up. You were so much like your mother. Even more today.’ The man’s body crumpled like an empty container with the air suddenly siphoned away. He took a breath, his breathing evening out the crumples a little. ‘The older you got, the more I saw your mother in you. I missed her. I slept in an empty bed every night, dreaming about the good times and wishing your mother’s warm, sweet-smelling body was cuddled up to mine. Instead, those long, dark hours became my nightmare.
‘When I woke up each morning I realised that’s how my days would be too. Your mother was gone, yet she was everywhere—in the house, the town, in my head. In you, Poppy. My heart broke having to watch your grandfather’s pain. He had lost his daughter and his wife. Then to watch you wander the empty paddocks at the back of the house collecting your wish flowers and blowing them.’ His gaze burned into her. ‘Tell me, Poppy, did your wishes end up coming true?’
Poppy gave a little gasp as she saw the tiny gossamer ball of the dandelion flower in her father’s outstretched hand. The words One just did, Daddy sat on the edge of her lips. There they stayed, and under the guise of a cough and a quick clearing of her
throat, she let the persistent sob that had been determined to dislodge itself from deep inside her throat finally escape.
‘Eli and I talked a lot about Vietnam the other night. I never knew what happened. You never told me.’
‘Eli, my old mate.’ His veil of sadness fell away and she saw an unexpected spark of amusement in Johnno’s face. ‘Did he tell you about juggling grenades too? The silly codger was a bit of a clown in his youth.’
The spark was short-lived and Poppy once again witnessed profound sadness and hopelessness steal the life from her father’s eyes, until he was that same wretched man she remembered from her childhood; and just as she’d done then, Poppy barricaded herself against hurt.
Why? She didn’t know. What was she so afraid of? Did she not trust him, or did she not trust herself?
‘I wish I’d realised. If only you’d let me in I might have … Oh, I don’t know.’ Even words of comfort snagged in her throat.
‘I tried to forget, Poppy-girl, but fire never dies, never stops destroying, even long after they extinguish the flames. Memories, like embers, burn long and deep, and smoke suffocates and sucks the life out of you. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get away. I was no good to you or myself like that. I never meant it to be forever and I never imagined we’d end up strangers. By the time I realised, it was too late. I didn’t know how to be any different.’
‘Through all those years of rejection I thought I wasn’t good enough.’ A tiny tremor threatened to dilute her determination to tell him. ‘I tried to be both a son and daughter. I had no one else after Grandad died. It was just us, and still you left me, packing me off here to Gypsy all the time when what I wanted was my father. Why? Why couldn’t you accept me?’
House for All Seasons Page 23
