by Di Morrissey
‘I’ve really forgotten now, but it probably seemed like it would be a bit of an adventure. I think my university professor said it would give me hands-on experience and the chance to think creatively when things were not all laid out for me. Suggested that it would look good on my resume, too. He was right. Civil engineering in the sixties in Indonesia certainly taught me to use my imagination and improvise,’ Alan said with a short laugh.
‘And that’s helped you in your professional life?’
‘I think it has. Having the right equipment, plans and feasibility studies are all important, but there’s generally a curve ball tossed into the mixture at some point in building anything which requires managing,’ he said. Chris thought about the opposition to the Victorian project he had read about and wondered if that was the sort of problem Alan meant.
Alan went on, ‘You mentioned in your note that you hoped your article might attract more interest in volunteering. While I like to think my time in Indonesia was valuable for me, I don’t think perhaps it’s for everyone. Some people are self-starters, others need direction. I pride myself on being in the former camp. Of course, one also has to be mindful of the effects these sorts of projects have on volunteers’ health, safety, comfort. I’m sure that your mother has filled you in on what happened to some of our group. Nevertheless, I can say that we were enthusiastic, and had the energy and motivation to manage on our own. If people have these qualities, they should give it a go.’
‘Have you ever kept in touch with any of the Indonesians you knew there?’ Chris asked, ticking off the questions on his list.
‘No. It was a long time ago. Apart from my holiday home in Bali, I really have no interests there at all.’
Chris pursued a few more avenues about Alan’s career and views on Australia’s relationship with its Asian neighbours, but Alan side-stepped them all. Chris visualised him glancing at his watch as he gave non-committal answers.
‘Don’t know if I can help you with anything else. As you know, I meet up with the others every few years. Nice to talk about old times with other successful people who shared the same experience, but Neighbourhood Aid was a very short episode in my life. Please give your mother my best wishes and tell her that I hope to see her at the next lunch, when Evan organises it.’
At exactly 2.15 pm the interview was over. Chris considered it no more than a casual conversation. Glancing at his notes, he had some answers but it was clear that Alan Carmichael was adept at deflecting or simply ignoring questions. Years of practice, no doubt.
Still, Chris thought he had enough quotes for the article, and the inclusion of someone as high profile and media shy as Alan Carmichael, the billionaire developer, would give his piece some added weight.
*
‘Dad, Bunny says to take a break and come and have some dinner. It’s on the table.’
‘Okay, Megs, I’m just putting the finishing touches on the article.’
‘Is it good?’
‘Well, it’s often hard to judge. I’ll read it through again and then I’ll ask Bunny to read it as well. Tap into her critical expertise. Can’t let all those years of experience go to waste.’
This Chris did, and early next morning Susan put the printed pages on the kitchen table and took a sip of her tea.
Chris stopped buttering his toast. ‘So?’
‘It brings back a lot of memories. You’ve framed the article well, looking at the men’s original motivation. It’s a very multi-layered story, well researched, powerful and really interesting. I think it will make most people sit up and say, “I never knew that about those men!”’
Chris looked pleased but said, ‘You’re biased, of course.’
However, he immediately emailed the story, together with a short note, to Fenton at Sunday Scene. He knew he wouldn’t hear back from the magazine for a few days, so he returned to work and tried to put it out of his mind. But as usual, once he’d sent the story off he started to think of other things he should have put in, other avenues that he might have investigated. He knew the story was possibly too long, but it was hard to let bits of it go.
The following Monday afternoon he and Susan wandered down to the local netball courts to watch Megan play. There was action on all eight of the courts, and the shouts and squeals of the netballers could be clearly heard, shattering the tranquillity of the afternoon. Enthusiastic spectators urged their teams on. Chris watched Megan flinging herself into a spectacular intercept, which brought cheers from her friends on the sidelines. The afternoon was relatively balmy for the time of year. The liquid amber trees had lost their summer leaves, their naked branches stark against the skyline, and yet here he was, still without a jumper. He was clapping loudly after Megan’s team scored another goal when he received a text message from a staffer at Sunday Scene asking him to call the editor when it was convenient. He quietly walked away from the game and rang Fenton.
‘Thanks for getting back to me, Chris. Just wanted to let you know we’ll take your piece, although it’s a bit long. Might have to be edited somewhat, but nothing too drastic. The photo editor will be in touch for some pictures. What have you got?’
Chris punched the air with his fist but then answered: ‘I hadn’t really thought much about photos. There must be a lot of suitable ones of these men you can easily access. They are hardly strangers.’
‘Chris, if we wanted to use file photos, I wouldn’t be asking you for yours. The article has to have relevant photos from that time. See what you can do.’
Chris went back and stood beside Susan and told her jubilantly, ‘They’re taking the story. Be a few weeks before it appears, though. And there’s a bit of a problem.’
‘Well done, Chris!’ Susan beamed at her son. At the same moment, Megan’s team scored another goal and Susan and Chris cheered and clapped enthusiastically. ‘So what’s the problem?’ she asked.
‘I’ll explain when we get home. Let’s watch Megan. She’s certainly playing well.’
‘Stop worrying. The magazine’s going to publish the story and that’s the main thing. Can I mention it to David? He’s coming down this way in a week or so, remember? He said he’d like to look at my Landcare project.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Chris said. ‘No, of course you can mention the fact that the story has been accepted. He’s part of it.’
*
After Megan’s team had won the closely contested game, the three of them walked home and Susan made a start on dinner. Chris wandered into the kitchen after her.
‘Now, tell me what the problem is with your article,’ Susan asked as she began chopping herbs.
‘Fenton wants photos. Not recent ones, which I have no trouble getting, but ones of your group in Indonesia. Have you got any?’
‘Oh, back in the dim dark ages before smart phones I had a Kodak Instamatic camera. I think Norma had one too. Mark had a movie camera. I know I came back with several rolls of film that I’d taken.’
‘Do you still have the photos?’
Susan finished chopping the chives. ‘They’re in a box somewhere.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Megan as she sashayed into the kitchen and dropped a couple of her textbooks on the table.
‘I don’t think you should be doing your homework here. I’m getting dinner and the table’s messy,’ said Susan.
‘It’s easy stuff. What’re you talking about?’
‘Your grandmother is going to dig out some photos of her friends back in Indonesia for my article.’
‘Cool, can I see them? They must be really, really old.’
‘We did have some technological breakthroughs back in the olden days, primitive as they might have been,’ said Susan, dryly. ‘Let me put this in the oven and you two clear the table while I go and hunt for them.’
After Susan had gone, Megan said, ‘I bet she knows exactly where th
ey are. Living in one place nearly all your life must make things easier to find.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Chris with a chuckle.
About ten minutes later, Susan reappeared and gently placed a shoe box in the middle of the table. She untied the ribbon around the box. ‘I haven’t looked at these for . . . well, I can’t remember how long. Oh, my.’ She peered at the first photo she’d pulled from the box. ‘Bingo, Chris. Right on top. Here we are.’
‘Let me see, let me see!’ Megan hung over Chris’s shoulder as he took the picture.
‘Wow, oh my God, look at you guys! There you are, Bunny. Oh, you look so cute.’
‘Let me guess who’s who. That’s obviously Norma. Was she a redhead?’ asked Chris, peering at the black and white photo.
‘She’s got lots of curls. Like Little Orphan Annie.’
‘Not quite as resilient, though,’ laughed Susan. ‘She was always so afraid of getting sick. Okay, who are the others?’
‘Hard to pick them, just going by how they look now. And check out that crew cut, why would you do that to yourself?’ said Chris.
‘That’s Mark. He said it felt cooler even if it did make him look like a Yank. I think he got the idea from Jimmy.’
‘Is there a picture of Jimmy?’ Chris asked gently.
‘Yes, in here somewhere.’
‘So who are the others?’ asked Megan.
Chris took a stab at it. ‘I’d say that’d be Alan, he looks grim-faced. I don’t think he’s changed all that much, if the few recent photos of him are any indication. And the smiley one is David. He hasn’t changed much either. So that one must be Evan.’
‘Correct. Chris gets the prize,’ laughed his mother, then she sighed. ‘It’s nice looking at all these again.’
Megan dipped into the box. ‘Ooh, look at the big water buffalo. And is this the village where you lived?’
‘Yes. See that hut in the corner? That’s where I stayed. Very primitive, wasn’t it?’
‘What about this one, is this Lake Toba?’ asked Chris. ‘Extraordinary. I love the bungalows with the high curved roofs.’
‘And that’s a picture of the nearby town.’
‘Certainly not much of a metropolis.’ Chris studied the photo.
They were all dipping into the box and spreading the photos across the table.
‘Look, Megs . . . here I am in my sarong kebaya.’
Chris glanced at his mother, touched that she was enjoying reminiscing and sharing.
‘Oh, Bunny, you look so beautiful! I’d love to wear something like that!’
‘I still have the lace kebaya top somewhere. Not that I would fit into it any more. But the embroidery was pretty, so I kept it. We can make you a sarong out of a length of batik if you like.’
‘And who’s this?’ asked Megan.
Susan smiled wistfully at the photo. ‘That’s Jimmy and me at Lake Toba. His friend took it.’
Chris stared at his young mother standing beside the tall, smiling American. He put the photo to one side as they all delved into the bottom of the box.
‘Wow, you’re all dressed up here. Is this when you went to the embassy party?’ asked Megan, showing the photo of the group to Chris.
Susan glanced at it. ‘You’re right, Megan. That was the reception at the Australian Embassy when we met the amazing K’tut Tantri.’
‘You had some interesting times. Where’s this photo taken?’ asked Chris, picking out another picture.
‘That’s Bogor Palace and the gorgeous Botanic Gardens. Jimmy and I loved wandering through them.’ For a moment Susan stared into space, then she shook her head slightly as if to clear unwanted images. ‘Take anything that you think will be useful, Chris.’
‘Thanks, Mum. This will be more than enough.’
*
After Chris had sent the photos to the magazine, he received a short message from the deputy editor to say that the story would be printed in three weeks’ time.
But in fact the article came out a week earlier. The protests against Alan Carmichael’s Victorian development had escalated and clearly the Sunday Scene thought Chris’s piece was now very topical.
Susan got up early, walked down to the newsagency to collect the paper and pulled out the magazine section. She stopped from time to time on her way home to read it.
When Chris came into the kitchen and saw the paper on the table, he asked, ‘Well, Mum, how was it?’
‘I don’t think you’re going to like it.’
‘What now?’
‘It’s okay as far as it goes, but having read the original, it’s a real shame. This version has been cut right back.’
‘Oh, damn.’ Chris sat down and read the piece from beginning to end with a sinking heart. His story had been pared back to the bare bones. It was more than frustrating; it was very disappointing after all the hard work that he had put into it.
‘How many words are left untouched, do you think? You won’t get paid much,’ said Susan.
‘It’s more annoying that the detail and background to it has been slashed. Only a page and a quarter with three photos! And what is even more irritating is that they have heavily featured everything that I wrote about Alan Carmichael at the expense of the others. David hardly gets any mention at all. What a wasted opportunity.’
‘I suppose that’s because Alan’s in the news right now.’
‘But Mum, what he said was so lightweight, and the magazine has made him sound as though he is delivering the Ten Commandments. It’s not the emphasis I wanted at all.’
‘You never know, darling. At least you’ve made contact with the paper and they might commission more from you,’ said Susan.
A week later Chris was still smarting over the fact that his story had been so heavily cut. He was staring moodily out the kitchen window, cradling a coffee, when Susan entered carrying the remains of a meal.
‘Aren’t you playing golf with Shaun and your other mates this weekend?’ Susan asked. ‘That will cheer you up.’
‘No. I don’t think so,’ Chris said, sighing. ‘I’m not sure that I want to be locked into golf on a regular basis. They don’t mind. I’m always welcome if I want a game. But you know what they say about golf, it’s a good walk spoiled.’
‘Why don’t you pop down to Sydney and catch up with Mac or your other friends?’ suggested Susan, clearing away a few dishes.
‘Hmm. I’d like that. But I suppose I really shouldn’t spend the money.’
‘Don’t be silly, spend that extra money from the article on yourself. Do something to liven yourself up. Megan and I feel we have to tiptoe around your long face these days.’
Chris gave a small laugh. ‘Sorry. I am being boring, but I do feel a bit down in the dumps. Having my article hacked to pieces is bad enough, but the fact that I haven’t had one nibble about another story, let alone a job, feels like the last straw.’
‘Well, moping isn’t going to help,’ said Susan briskly. ‘Go to Sydney. Megan and I have more than enough to fill our Saturdays, so you won’t be missed at all.’
Chris laughed. ‘All right! All right. I will. I’ll see if Mac is free.’
The next Saturday morning Chris got off the airport train at Hyde Park and walked in the sunshine through to Phillip Street, where he met his two friends, Wendy from archives and his old editor John from Trinity Press. Over coffee and croissants he caught up with their plans, and heard about what other colleagues were doing. They dissected the current political scene, exchanged anecdotes and had a few laughs. Then he caught a bus to nearby Paddington and found the small but excellent Italian restaurant Mac had suggested.
Spotting Mac at a table near a window, he was surprised to see an attractive young woman seated beside his old mentor.
‘Chris! Great that you’re here. Hope you don’t mind, I
asked my daughter Georgia to join us. I’d promised Georgie a birthday lunch and this is the first chance we’ve had to celebrate.’
‘How do you do. Happy Birthday,’ said Chris, sliding in beside Mac in the curved booth and offering Georgia his hand. He felt a trifle disappointed by Georgia’s presence, as he’d wanted to have a serious talk with Mac about his article and run a few other ideas past him. However, as she greeted him warmly and shook his hand, he looked at her with more interest. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, and was quite striking with her dark hair and unusual green eyes. When he tried to recall what Mac had told him about his daughter over the years, he realised Mac had made few passing references, as they’d always just talked shop. Georgia hadn’t featured in any of their many conversations. Clearly, Chris thought, as he glanced at Georgia again, this had been a terrible oversight.
‘My birthday was over a week ago. Dad has just found a space in his diary,’ said Georgia, good-naturedly.
‘That’s not true,’ protested Mac. ‘You’re the one with the packed diary.’
It wasn’t until they had finished ordering that Mac enquired about Chris’s article.
‘So Chris, you mentioned that they butchered your story. The way it goes, I’m afraid.’
‘I realise that, but it’s so frustrating. I feel that there is so much more to tell about these amazing people. I have a feeling I’ve hardly scratched the surface.’
‘I enjoyed your story. Actually, I always enjoy your writing. I used to read your column from the States all the time,’ said Georgia. ‘What really surprised me about this story was the fact that a group of young Australians worked in Indonesia at such a dangerous time. I went to the Ubud Writers Festival in Bali this year. Stunning location. No wonder they get all the top-name international authors to go. Everyone wants a luxurious jaunt there. Very different from how it was in 1968, I imagine.’
‘That festival does sound nice,’ said Chris. ‘I’ll have to try and go one year. Actually, my mother would love it.’
‘I was working, so I didn’t get to see as many of the events as I would have liked. But the hotels and resorts were stunning and the social get-togethers were fun,’ Georgia said with a grin.
