The Story of Danny Dunn

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘God, I’m totally whacked,’ Danny sighed, emerging from the bedroom barefoot, having changed from his good clothes into a pair of rugby shorts and an old Tigers’ football jumper. He heard a loud pop and cried, ‘Christ! What’s that?’

  Helen, smiling, head to one side, stood at the doorway of the tiny kitchenette holding two champagne glasses and a bottle of French bubbly. ‘I didn’t spill a drop!’ she declared triumphantly.

  ‘Jesus, darling, haven’t we had enough?’ In fact Danny, with the exception of the mouthful from the jeroboam, hadn’t touched a drop. He was aware that booze was no place to hide, and that it was capable of exposing him and bringing all his demons to the surface.

  ‘Like you, darling, I barely touched a drop. A glass now to celebrate is entirely appropriate.’

  ‘I think I’m celebrated out. I’m sure your mum and dad didn’t make this kind of fuss when you got your masters degree.’

  Helen laughed, placing the glasses on the small coffee table in the room that served as both lounge, dining room and office. ‘They took me to dinner at the Australia Club. We had oysters and duck à l’orange and a drop from what Reg referred to as “a good bottle of wine”, explaining that it had been recommended by a friend who really knew his onions.’ Helen started to fill the glasses.

  ‘By the way, your mum was hardly a bundle of joy today,’ Danny said, accepting the champagne from Helen.

  ‘Oh, you should know by now she’s an awful snob and the champagne shower would have been the last straw.’ Helen grinned. ‘Look at it from her point of view. Her only daughter, always a stubborn and wayward child, ends up marrying a tyke with an ugly mug, well beneath her notion of my station in life who hasn’t given her any grandchildren, and who now has the effrontery to somehow win the University Medal. It’s all pretty harrowing stuff.’

  ‘Well, the last person I want to drink to is the barren bloke with the ugly mug.’ Danny smiled. ‘Darling, you’ve had to manage the whole shebang from start to finish – Mum’s outfit, shopping for the posh table setting, Mum’s weeping fit at the uni, cooking lunch, humouring everyone after the champagne shower, regrouping in the kitchen and turning a French banquet into an Irish dinner and, last but by no means least, finally winning over my grandfather with your “Irish stew”. Since I was a child, I’ve regarded the old bastard with fear and loathing as a taciturn old bugger who treated my mother like dirt.’ He stepped forward and kissed his wife lightly on the lips, careful not to spill his champagne. ‘To my darling Helen, who indeed is much, much more than I deserve and way, way above my station in life.’

  Helen shot out a hand, covering his glass and saying, ‘Whoa! Not so fast, lover boy! This isn’t a toast to you or me but to a someone neither of us has actually met.’

  Danny looked at her quizzically. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  In a portentous tone she announced, ‘Danny Corrib Dunn, I am pleased to announce that, after a period of four years and nine months, I am pregnant!’

  Danny’s mouth fell open and he began to shake. He placed his glass on the coffee table rather unsteadily and said, ‘A baby?’ as if tasting the word, then looked at Helen and added, ‘But you said . . . no, surely not . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes! We’re having a baby!’ Helen squealed, unable to contain herself.

  ‘You mean an actual baby? Why didn’t you tell me, Helen?’ he yelled, grabbing at her.

  ‘I wanted to be sure, darling,’ she giggled, drawing away. ‘Look out, I’ll spill my champagne!’ Helen hastily placed her glass beside his.

  ‘Come here, woman!’ Danny demanded, suddenly aware that he couldn’t see her clearly. ‘Jesus, I’m going to cry . . . it’s been four years!’ He grabbed her, holding her to him and smothering her in kisses.

  ‘And nine months – remember we started practising on the ship going to America, just after we’d sailed through the Heads.’ Helen began to weep, and they held each other for what seemed ages until finally she pulled away. ‘The toast . . . we haven’t —’

  ‘And you kept it all to yourself all this time?’ Danny interrupted.

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ Helen sniffed, knuckling away her tears. ‘Every time I looked at you I wanted to tell you, and when you were awarded the medal I wanted to yell out, “Darling, you’re going to be a father!” Keeping it to myself has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I missed a period two weeks ago, and you know I’m regular as clockwork. Imagine what Brenda would have been like if this had been added to her day?’

  ‘You’re sure . . . I mean, positive, aren’t you?’ Danny found he was trembling as he reached down and lifted the two glasses from the coffee table, handing her one of them. ‘A baby! Jesus!’ Then, lifting his glass, he said solemnly, ‘To the baby! May he have his mother’s brains and character!’

  They raised their glasses and Helen looked into Danny’s eyes. ‘And her father’s looks and courage,’ she said quietly. Then, taking him by the hand, she turned towards the bedroom door. ‘We won’t be able to make love for a month to six weeks after the baby’s born, so that’s approximately twenty orgasms you’re going to owe me and there isn’t a moment to lose. I’ve never slept with a University Medal winner. Oh, darling, I am so proud of you!’

  Danny was still having difficulty comprehending the news; he’d long since believed that he was sterile, that the years of starvation in the camps had cost him his children as well as so much besides, and while they enjoyed a full and satisfying sex life – Helen demanded she received as much as she gave – in the four years and a bit they’d been married they’d taken no precautions and she had not become pregnant. Sometimes after they’d made love and she’d fallen asleep in his arms he’d been overcome by panic, convinced that she was going to leave him.

  For Danny’s graduation, Helen had worn a straight chemise dress nipped in at the waist and falling to just below her knees, à la Norman Norell, finished off with a flared jacket. Under her outer garments she was equally fashionable, as Danny discovered. He loved the ritual of undressing Helen, working slowly, first removing her dress to reveal her nylon strapless bra – the latest fashion – then, with a deft flick, unclipping the back, then kissing and gently sucking her breasts. He would take each nipple in his mouth until it stiffened and bounced against his tongue, pointing, as he would laughingly put it, to the moon. Now he eased her slip over her head so that she stood in her brown satin French knickers trimmed with cream lace, her garter belt, nylons and high heels. It was a sophisticated version of the New Look, rather than the hooped skirts, petticoats and nylon corsets the jitterbug era had made all the rage. It was Helen’s only good outfit and had taken her months to accumulate.

  Undressing his wife had never been this complicated before, or perhaps Helen’s news had destroyed his powers of concentration, but on several occasions Danny needed instructions. Finally, he removed her gorgeous knickers and went down on his knees, his hands clasped around her nice firm buttocks so he could demonstrate his immaculate French and bring her to her first climax of the night. Then he hurriedly removed his own clothes and they slid into bed, where Helen opened her legs wide to receive him and said with a low chuckle, ‘Two medal-winning performances in the same day! First the University Medal and now the Légion d’honneur!’

  An hour later they lay back in bed, happy and exhausted, though less from the joy of making love than from the long day. Danny went to the kitchen and returned to their bed with fresh champagne, unable to wipe the grin off his face. ‘Imagine . . . who would have thought . . . a baby.’ He made it sound as if procreation were a unique process known only to them. ‘Just you wait – I’m going to be a terrific father, the best. He’ll play for Australia!’

  ‘What if it’s a girl, smarty pants?’ Helen replied.

  Danny hesitated, then sniffed back fresh tears. ‘Swim,’ he said. ‘She’ll swim for Australia.’ His voice shook with emotion.
‘Let’s see, born 1951 . . . She’ll be twenty-one in 1972, an Olympic year! Yes, yes, swim – or row – for Australia!’

  Helen frowned. ‘What about think for Australia?’

  ‘Hah? Oh yeah, that too!’ Danny said happily.

  From the moment Helen announced she was pregnant Danny sensed that he’d been given another chance; that his life was not effectively over; that with children he could be himself, come out of hiding and be completely honest. From that day on, Danny would always celebrate the anniversary of the day on which Helen broke the news of her pregnancy with a bottle of French champagne. It wasn’t a difficult anniversary to remember – the news of Helen’s pregnancy had come on the same day as his graduation in what would ever after be known in the family as ‘Weepy Day’.

  If Helen had waited almost five years to become a mother, she might have expected that she could now relax, but she would discover that nothing was as she had expected. As her pregnancy progressed she grew more and more enormous, so that at six months she was waddling around like a Jersey cow and was forced to give up work. Danny’s salary as a solicitor was barely enough for food once they’d paid the rent. One evening Franz paid them an unexpected visit and found them eating baked beans on toast for supper. He said nothing, but twice a week thereafter, a hamper from Landsman’s Delicatessen and Continental Smallgoods, now with four shops and a state-of-the-art processing plant, appeared on Danny’s desk. When Danny questioned Franz he simply shrugged and said, ‘Hester!’ as if that explained everything. Then, when the hampers began to arrive three times a week and Danny was becoming a little embarrassed, he’d added, ‘Jewish mothers.’

  Of course Brenda would have seen that they didn’t go without. They actually had a plain but very good diet despite their lack of money, and the food from Bondi Road was actually a bit rich. While Danny enjoyed it, Helen was very careful that she ate the right foods and stuck to the ‘Triple “B” Plan – How to build a better baby’, in the Dr Spock book she’d adopted as her baby bible.

  Helen’s contractions had become very close and her waters finally broke just before six o’clock on an early spring evening, the 24th September 1951, when Danny had not long arrived home from work. Panic-stricken, he’d driven Helen in Half Dunn’s Holden FX, borrowed for the occasion, in to the Crown Street Women’s Hospital.

  They arrived at reception – a window set halfway down an interior wall and fitted with a broad wooden writing ledge for people filling in registration forms. A male clerk asked for a surname, then checked a list and pushed a form through the window. ‘Your details, please, Mr Dunn. You must come down and see the cashier before you leave, sir.’

  Danny hurriedly filled in the form and pushed it back to the clerk, who then attached the form to a clipboard and made a phone call. Covering the mouthpiece he said, ‘Please wait, sir. The admission sister will be down shortly to collect you.’

  Danny looked around to see that the foyer contained no furniture other than a small table with a large, tired floral arrangement on it. ‘Is there a waiting room? Somewhere my wife can sit?’ he inquired.

  ‘The ward admission sister will be down soon, sir,’ the clerk replied.

  ‘Yes, but —’

  ‘Shouldn’t be long,’ the clerk interjected, turning away from the window and disappearing around a corner of the office.

  Danny, already anxious, felt his anger rising. ‘This is ridiculous!’ he shouted at the window in frustration. Helen’s contractions had been coming more quickly in the car on the way to the hospital, but she was steadier than Danny.

  ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she gasped, attempting a smile. ‘It’s probably ages yet. I’m sure someone will be coming soon.’

  Just then the lift door opened and a large veiled starched figure in her fifties, clad from head to toe in spotless white, emerged – the ward admission sister. She ignored them, crossing to the admissions window where the clerk, who must have heard the lift doors opening, appeared again to hand her the clipboard. She glanced down at it. ‘Mrs Helen Dunn?’ she asked, even though Danny and Helen were the only ones in the foyer. Then without waiting for a reply, she said, ‘Follow me, please,’ and stalked off towards the lift.

  Danny held a panting Helen by the arm, carrying her overnight bag in his other hand. The bag contained several changes of undies, two nightgowns, a chenille dressing-gown, bed socks, new slippers, six freshly ironed hankies, a new toothbrush, a new tube of toothpaste, fancy face cream (Brenda’s gift from Nina’s Beauty Salon), lipstick and a small manicure set. He’d personally packed it weeks before, fussing over every small detail. Now he was doing his best to appear in control when he knew he was very close to panicking. They entered the lift and rose three floors, emerged, walked down a long passage, passing open doors that led into various wards, until they reached a room with five beds, four of them occupied by expectant mothers. The empty bed was nearest the door, and Helen, exhausted from the long walk, sat on the edge of it panting as she waited for another contraction to pass. ‘Please get into your nightgown and climb into bed. A nurse will be around presently,’ the sister instructed.

  Danny lifted the overnight bag onto the bed, opened it and removed a nightgown, dressing-gown and slippers. ‘Don’t move, darling. I’ll get you ready for bed,’ he offered.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary, Mr Dunn. A nurse will be along shortly,’ the sister said firmly, starting to draw the curtains around the bed.

  Danny ignored her and dropped to his haunches to remove Helen’s shoes. ‘Come along now!’ the sister said briskly, her impatience clear.

  ‘Better be off, darling,’ Helen whispered.

  Danny rose and began to unbutton the front of Helen’s maternity dress. ‘Won’t be a moment, sister,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful.

  ‘No, no, this simply won’t do. Your wife is in our care now!’ The sister had drawn the bed curtains so that only the triangle formed by her veil and her head protruded into the space around the bed. Danny noticed that the bright-red lipstick she wore had started to leak into the heavy face powder, giving her mouth a distinctly bloody appearance. In his mind he dubbed her Sister Dracula. ‘You’ll have to leave at once, Mr Dunn,’ she insisted. Then she pulled her head back and gave the curtain a sharp tug to indicate her annoyance.

  ‘My wife . . . I can’t leave her . . . what if . . . ?’ Danny called in a panicked voice. ‘It won’t take long. I know where everything is –

  I packed it myself,’ he added lamely.

  ‘Better get along, darling,’ Helen said, attempting a reassuring smile that was suddenly cut short by a fresh contraction.

  Sister Dracula’s voice called from beyond the curtain. ‘At once please, Mr Dunn! This is a maternity ward and no place for a husband! Your wife is going into labour!’

  Danny, not wanting to upset Helen, knew he was beaten. ‘See you soon, darling,’ he said, kissing her tenderly on the lips. ‘Just going downstairs. Be back in a moment,’ he whispered.

  Helen grabbed him by the wrist. ‘Danny, please! Don’t do anything foolish,’ she hissed.

  Danny grinned and gave her a thumbs-up sign, showing an assurance he didn’t feel. Then, turning, he parted the curtains to see the sister with her bloodied lips drawn tight in obvious disapproval, holding the clipboard and waiting impatiently at the entrance to the ward. She began to walk down the corridor immediately he appeared, her back rigid with censure. Danny followed her, his footsteps making a soft squeak on the linoleum floor, never quite catching up to her until they’d reached the lift, where they waited in silence. On the way down Danny asked, ‘Will you direct me to the waiting room, please, sister?’ adding hopefully, ‘Perhaps someone will call me when the baby arrives?’

  ‘No, no, Mr Dunn. Please understand. You have to go home now. Your doctor will contact you by telephone after his rounds tomorrow.’

  ‘No waiting room?’ Danny asked, dis
mayed.

  ‘It is not hospital policy to allow relatives to stay overnight, Mr Dunn.’ She sighed, thoroughly fed up with him. ‘Really! I should have thought you’d understand that much. I must remind you that this is a busy maternity hospital. We simply can’t have people – men – hanging about!’

  ‘I’m not “people” or “men”, sister! I’m an expectant father. I’d like to stay,’ Danny persisted, a hard edge to his voice.

  The lift arrived and opened on the ground floor and Sister Dracula strode out, not answering or waiting for him to leave. ‘Please go to the admissions window,’ she called, then, all sharp, starched white angles from the back as she slipped through one of two doors leading from the foyer and closed it somewhat too firmly behind her.

  Danny walked over to the reception window. He was becoming more agitated by the moment, expecting to see his nemesis appear before him, but there was no sign of Sister Dracula or, for that matter, the original clerk. Instead, a very thin, weary-looking woman looked up at him, sighed audibly, then rose slowly from her desk and approached him. Danny assumed she must be the cashier he had to see. She appeared to be in her forties or early fifties but it was clear that life hadn’t been kind to her and she had come to expect nothing good. The only colour that showed on her sallow oily face was two rosy-red circles of rouge on her cheeks and a thin line of orange lipstick, the two colours incongruously bright on her pale, forlorn face. She was dressed in a navy-blue serge skirt with an uneven hem that shone from frequent ironing and, despite the spring weather, a cheap brown machine-knitted cardigan buttoned all the way up. Her ratty hennaed hair was drawn back in a scrappy bun with strands of hair sticking out at every angle. A pair of frameless glasses hung from a cheap anodised chain around her neck. She too held a clipboard and Danny noticed that her fingernails were broken or chewed but retained traces of crimson nail varnish.

  ‘I have to check your details and you’ll need to pay the hospital costs,’ the clerk said automatically. ‘I see you have Dr Leader. You will have to make separate arrangements to pay him.’ She paused then asked, ‘Will that be cheque or cash?’ When Danny didn’t answer immediately she added, ‘Or do you wish to undertake an instalment plan where we make arrangements with your employer to garnishee your pay?’ All this was said in a monotone, a litany she had obviously performed a thousand times before.