Danny seated himself while Major Rigby returned to his desk, reached for several single-page reports and busied himself collating them. Finally he looked up. ‘You don’t smoke, do you? It must have been a small blessing among a great many disasters. Most of the POWs under the Japanese claim that giving up cigarettes was harder than adapting to a starvation diet of rice.’
‘I was a reasonable footballer and played water polo before I enlisted, so happily I never got around to cigarettes,’ Danny grinned, recalling, ‘although getting used to nothing but rice was bloody awful. One of my men went three weeks without a shit.’
‘Glad I wasn’t with you for several reasons, one in particular relating to the absence of rubber gloves,’ Rigby laughed, then asked, ‘Well, shall we begin?’ Not waiting for an answer he picked up the first medical report. ‘Your Rangoon medical records are pretty comprehensive and we found very little to contradict them. There are two matters we believe we can constructively address: the damage to your back and to your nose. We would concentrate mainly on your sinuses, but we may be able to improve your cheek as well, to relieve the pressure on your teeth on the top left side. We can fit a prosthetic eye, of course, although they never seem to look quite right and most men find them a damned nuisance and end up with an eye patch instead. I’m not surprised you suffer from headaches. How often do they occur, would you say?’
Danny laughed. ‘It would be easier to tell you how often they cease, doctor. I guess they’re pretty constant, but the intensity varies.’
‘Right, that’s where we’ll start. My guess is that they’re caused by your sinuses, which, like your nose, have taken a terrible hiding.’ He started to write on a pad. ‘Are you taking anything for the pain? Codeine?’
‘No, I ran out so I’ve just been taking aspirin.’
‘How many a day?’
Danny thought for a moment. ‘Ten . . . no twelve or so – I forgot the two when I go to bed – sometimes a couple more when I wake up at night.’
Doctor Rigby looked up, startled. ‘You’ll have to stop that. You’ll end up drilling a hole in your stomach. We don’t want an ulcer to develop. We’ll slot you in for an operation to your sinuses as a major priority with the cheekbone next; both are probably contributing to your headaches.’
‘My nose, doctor . . . I mean, can they rebuild it?’
‘Ah, no easy answer there, I’m afraid. As you can imagine, we have a great deal of facial reconstruction to deal with, so when I say we’ll give your sinuses and cheekbone priority, I’m talking three months, perhaps a little more. If we’re successful, that should give you a working nose, but that’s about it.’ He hesitated just a moment longer than might have been necessary. ‘There’s a limit to how far current practice can take us.’
‘What? We don’t know how to rebuild noses, or we don’t know how to do them here?’ Danny asked.
‘It’s not hard to see why you were good at running a prisoner-of-war camp, Danny. You read between the lines very well. The truth is that we haven’t got the time. Our job is to get you into decent working order; the cosmetic side is pretty much irrelevant.’
‘You don’t consider that such brutal disfigurement could have a psychological effect on a man?’
‘The task of second-guessing personality outcomes is not on the agenda of the army medical corps at this stage; it’s a luxury we can’t allow ourselves. Besides, our brief is to get a patient back into productive civilian life as soon as possible. As I’ve said, we have a large number of patients with facial injuries still hospitalised, and the backlog of outpatients such as you is enormous. Frankly, there are too few experienced surgeons available to do the work.’
‘You mean they’re all in private practice?’
‘No, most of the good ones work with us already. It’s a question of training. Reconstructive surgery isn’t a big area of medicine during peacetime, so when a war comes along there are simply insufficient trained surgeons available.’
‘So, tell me, doctor, is good plastic surgery even possible? Does someone, somewhere, know how to do it?’ Even though Danny had agreed to go to America, he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt about jumping the queue. Paradoxically, he still wanted some sort of permission from this man. It was the old problem of not acting in a superior manner to your neighbours or your mates. You simply didn’t take advantage of your more fortunate circumstances or flaunt your own good fortune, even though Brenda and Half Dunn were well off by the standards of the day, and by Balmain standards they were rich.
Billy Scraper, who’d joined the RAAF to fly as crew in a Wellington bomber, had been returning from a bombing raid over Dresden when his plane had been shot down over the English Channel by a German fighter. It had caught fire, and Billy had sustained third-degree burns to his face before ditching. According to Half Dunn, compared to Billy’s facial injuries, Danny’s practically qualified him for movie-star status. Billy simply lacked a face at all. ‘Two little holes blowing snot bubbles, a bigger hole where his lips used to be, and in between just mushy-looking scarred flesh . . . no eyelids, so his eyes are always open, just staring.’ Half Dunn had described Billy’s face in his usual graphic style.
Danny could still hear Billy’s comment as he left the Hero to do his air-crew training in Canada. ‘Don’t hang around too long . . . you’ll miss all the fucking fun.’ Hopefully Billy had found that pretty Canadian bird who loved to go to bed in the cold weather but not to sleep alone.
The Balmain code of behaviour, whether you were rich or poor, didn’t allow you to buck the egalitarian system. If you had to wait to have your nose fixed, no matter how long it took at Concord, well, that’s what you did because that’s what your mates would have to do; what Billy Scraper would have to do. His time as a prisoner of war had reinforced these values, because survival had depended on everyone having the same chance, the same number of rice grains. Danny had needed to understand what the situation was at Concord. Now that he knew there wasn’t a queue to jump he felt a whole lot better, but he still needed to confirm, despite Helen’s optimism, that going to America was worthwhile.
‘What about the Americans?’ Danny added, trying to sound casual.
‘Yes, of course, the Americans are way ahead of us in cosmetic surgery, but the Brits are doing the truly cutting-edge work with burn victims, under a New Zealand plastic surgeon, Archibald McIndoe, though almost exclusively with RAF pilots and crew, I believe.’ Rigby paused. ‘Now, he is someone who interests himself, controversially, in the psychological aspects as well as the physical aspects of his art. Not my field, I’m afraid.’ Rigby seemed disinclined to discuss the subject further and Danny got the feeling that he was a man who told you only what he knew and didn’t like to trespass into areas of conjecture. ‘Now, the injury to your back is quite another matter. A spinal fusion may be one way to go and we can certainly do a creditable job on it here at Concord.’
‘What does that involve, doctor? Fusing sounds pretty drastic!’
‘Well, it’s simple enough. We take bone from elsewhere, usually your hip, and use it to fuse the vertebrae to protect the spinal cord from further damage. It’s basically a hammer and chisel job, the operation takes about nine hours and while the recovery is tedious the results are usually reasonable.’
‘Tedious?’
‘Well, yes, you’ll be completely immobilised in bed with a plaster cast from neck to knee for three months, then it’ll be roughly a year before you’re fully recovered. Not much you can do in that time and, of course, strenuous exercise or even touching your toes after that isn’t going to be possible.’
‘You said the results are reasonable. You don’t sound over-enthusiastic, doctor. If it’s one option, then . . .’
‘It depends on the degree of pain you’re experiencing. If you think you can live with your back, then regular physiotherapy, massage, certain exercises, that sort of thing, might be suff
icient. Spinal fusion is a simple but brutal operation and doesn’t always achieve the intended results. If it were me I think I’d wait and see, opt for non-surgical intervention until circumstances forced me to consider the alternative.’
Danny was silent for a moment. ‘So, basically it’s sinuses and cheekbone?’
Roger Rigby placed his pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m afraid so, Danny. In years to come we may have another look at that nose – you never know. In the meantime I’m pretty sure I can get you in for surgery some time in the next three months.’
‘How would that affect my discharge from the army, doctor? I really am rather anxious to see the end of it.’
Rigby smiled. ‘Yes, that was the distinct impression you gave me a minute or so after we met. I am recommending your immediate discharge. Your injuries were sustained due to your war service. I shall recommend to the Assessment Board a disability pension of fifty per cent. This means that you qualify under the Repatriation Commission’s Medical Scheme, which entitles you to free medical and pharmaceutical benefits for the remainder of your life. Of course, nothing is set in concrete; you may appeal any decision the board makes.’
Danny laughed. ‘Free benefits and now you’ve forbidden me to take aspirin!’
At dinner that night Half Dunn wanted all the details of Danny’s assessment and was almost pop-eyed with excitement when he repeated the sad little rhyme the soldier with the amputated hands had recited. Danny knew that it was details such as this that formed the true grist for his father’s storytelling mill; he also knew that cautioning his father to keep any information to himself was pointless. Details of his own operation would also come out soon enough, and it wasn’t a bad way to prepare people for what they’d see when they first met him again.
The following week, returning from the city with young Lachlan, whom he’d accompanied on his initial interview with George Patterson Advertising, Danny arrived home after five o’clock, the busiest time in the pub and known as the six o’clock swill. He slipped around the back, avoiding the drinkers in the beer garden, and went up the stairs to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Brenda called up, ‘I thought I heard you coming in. Someone to see you, dear.’ She was amazing. The pub was crammed with late-afternoon drinkers and the noise they made practically raised the roof, yet she’d heard him come in while no doubt serving at the main bar. Danny knew he ought to go down and help but told himself he wasn’t quite ready to face the Balmain drinking crowd. Many were regulars who’d known him for years and he felt sure they’d show an almost proprietary interest in him.
Danny told himself he’d done enough for one day – he felt exhausted. He was surprised how much Lachlan’s interview had taken out of him. For once he’d been happy to show his mutilated features in public, aware that his presence as a veteran who had copped a fair wallop but who wanted to help a friend’s son get started in life would add to the sum of the interview. And so it appeared to have turned out. At the conclusion of the interview the personnel manager had taken them in to see the managing director, a man called John Farnsworth, who had been more than cordial. Afterwards, when the personnel manager saw them to the front door, he’d shaken Lachlan’s hand and then drawn Danny aside. ‘We’ll get back to you in a few days, but it’s going to be fine. He’s a nice lad, well groomed, and just the kind of young man we like here.’
Now, Danny walked to the head of the stairs. ‘Mum, it’s been a long day. Who is it?’
‘From the Tigers, love. Bullnose Daintree and Sammy Laidlaw.’ Bullnose was the reserve-grade coach who used to boast he’d discovered Danny way back in the nippers. More importantly he wouldn’t let him play first grade until he was certain his body was mature enough to sustain the impact of crash tackling. Sammy Laidlaw was the club’s chief masseur, and never lost an opportunity to remind everyone that he’d done one year’s study as a physiotherapist before the Depression came. His healing hands were legendary. Brenda, hearing the reluctance in Danny’s voice, added, ‘They’ve been waiting two hours and haven’t touched a drop. They’ll be pretty disappointed if you don’t see them. Bullnose says they want to make you an offer.’
‘What, to be a ball boy? Tell ’em I can’t bend down far enough to pick up a football.’
‘Please, dear. Bullnose has had five glasses of soda water. He’s on the verge of collapsing from the shock to his system. Sammy’s not far behind.’
Danny sighed. ‘Yeah, okay, send them up. Pour them each a schooner on the house – draught for Bullnose and a bottle of Flag Ale for Sammy, if I remember correctly.’
If the two old boys were shocked by Danny’s face they didn’t show it. ‘Jeez, mate, welcome back. Half Dunn reckoned ye’d taken a fair old belting. No point beating about the bush now I seen you, and no disrespect to yer father, but I reckon for once he ain’t bullshittin’.’
Sammy took a long and grateful drag at his schooner of Flag Ale then smacked his lips. ‘That’s real subtle, Bullnose. Give the lad a break, will ya?’ He looked at Danny. ‘Take no notice, Danny, yiz good as gold compared to Sky Scraper’s boy. If he come round a corner on a dark night I’d shit meself.’
Danny started to laugh. ‘You two out on a recruiting drive, are you, looking for a one-eyed, broken-nosed forward with a crook back?’ he asked.
Both men cackled then Bullnose said, ‘Yeah, pity about yer back, Danny. Yer face? Yer a lock, son, nobody’s gunna notice the difference. Most of the time yer got yer head up a prop’s arse!’
Danny was once again brought to laughter, which continued when Sammy added, ‘Bloody hell, talk about one-eyed, that bastard ref last week against the Parramatta Eels – what was his name?’
‘Alan . . . Alan Philips,’ Bullnose supplied.
‘Yeah, him. We was playin’ against an extra man and a one-way whistle. Bastard musta been on weekend leave from Long Bay!’
Danny realised that, while his entire world had changed – in fact, the entire world had changed – very little had changed for these two. ‘So, what brings you here? I’m afraid my football days are over, fellas.’
Bullnose had almost finished his schooner and now did so, upending it and throwing his craggy head back, draining the remainder in one long swallow. ‘Ah, bloody marvellous,’ he declared, then looked directly at Danny. ‘Yeah, well, Half Dunn told us you’d copped a heap of shit from them Jap bastards and wasn’t no good for football and all that. So one thing led to another and Sammy and I got to talkin’ and, well, yer know how it is – once a Tiger always a Tiger.’ He held up a meaty hand. ‘Understand, it ain’t because we feel sorry for yiz – it’s bloody tough luck what happened – and, mate, naturally we can’t do nothin’ about yer face, but Sammy here, you know from before, he’s got fuckin’ magic hands. Half Dunn says the quack at the hospital said maybe a spinal fusion but —’
‘That’s ratshit advice, Danny!’ Sammy, realising Bullnose was making a meal of it, cut in. ‘You don’t want to listen to them doctors. Three of our past players got it done. They been rooted ever since. Mate, I should know, I bin workin’ on the poor buggers. They reckon it was the worst thing they ever done and I agree. Lemme try massage and exercise, hey?’
‘Yeah, mate,’ Bullnose added. ‘Don’t let them butchers near you, son. Best thing you can do is build them muscles so they support yer spine. Sammy’s gunna do the deed best he can and they don’t get no better, but he reckons we gotta get yer in the swimmin’ pool.’
‘Can’t be too hard. Yer practically lived down there with the fuckin’ water-polo mob,’ Sammy said, then added, ‘Half Dunn says you ain’t been near the baths since you come back.’
Danny grinned. Obviously there had been no improvement in the relationship between the football old-timers and the water-polo mob. He made a mental note to tell Half Dunn to keep his over-energetic mouth shut. ‘Another beer?’ he asked, stalling for time. He pointed to the kitchen fridge th
en looked at Bullnose. ‘Plenty of bottles in there, but if you want a draught, I’ll have to go fetch it downstairs.’ Then, realising what he’d said, added quickly, ‘Not a good idea. You know what a shit fight it is in the bar at this time of the day.’
‘Nah, bottle’s fine,’ Bullnose said, noting that Sammy had also finished his schooner but was pouring another half a glass from the Flag Ale bottle. ‘Long as it isn’t that piss Sammy drinks.’
Danny removed the cap from a Toohey’s Pilsener bottle and placed it on the kitchen table beside Bullnose, suddenly aware of an uneaten ham sandwich and cold cup of tea at his elbow. ‘There you go, mate.’
Bullnose immediately busied himself nursing his beer into the used glass to avoid too large a head. ‘So, whatcha think, mate?’ he asked, eyes fixed on the rising level of beer.
Danny had to concede to himself that their tremendously generous offer made a lot of sense. But he didn’t want anyone to see the scarred and broken body that went with the freak face. The very thought of all those furtive eyes stealing a secret look or the pitying expressions on their faces as they caught sight of his own mangled face filled him with apprehension. He wasn’t naturally vain, but he’d once had a beautiful body and he couldn’t help being aware of the looks women had given him when he climbed from the pool. Helen, watching him get out of the Balmain Baths on one occasion, had observed, ‘If eyes could turn thoughts into pictures, Danny Dunn, then the ones you trigger in women would be banned as pornographic.’
‘Maybe when I’ve put on a bit more weight, hey?’ Danny replied.
Bullnose, having achieved the perfect head on his schooner, now looked directly at him. ‘Son, your trouble is that you’re feeling sorry for yerself. Yeah, you were the best. Forwards or backs, I mean it, it was a lay-down misère you’d’a played for Australia, maybe one day even captained the Tigers. But you fought for Australia instead, son. You kept us safe. In my book that’s the greater achievement. You honoured us all. You got injured on the field and so it’s now our job, Sammy and me, to get yer back on yer feet. The real reason yer haven’t got back in the pool is yer afraid of what the sheilas’ll think, feeling sorry for you and all that shit. Me daughter once told me yiz was sex on a stick, and now yer a broken fuckin’ stick. Well, Sammy and me, we reckon we can mend you. Not all, but some.’
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 21
