‘You up?’ he said, stating the obvious. Helen remained silent. ‘I’ll see Craig Woon,’ he growled.
Helen pulled the bedclothes away and rose. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ she said.
Sam had grown silent. She hadn’t said a word to Danny since the night with D.P. and the skiff. Danny had tried to apologise but to no avail. As far as she was concerned, he no longer existed. The willpower and the obsession he’d inculcated in his daughter she now exercised on him, proving her will was stronger than his. Helen, Brenda, Half Dunn – nobody could get through to her. Gabby, in an attempt to draw her out of herself, introduced Sam to some of her music friends. It was a mistake. Sam knew she must stay away from heroin, but that didn’t include all the other painkillers available in the music scene. She began to hang around musicians, playing identical twin, merging her personality with Gabby’s, first, the folk-rock musicians Gabby favoured, then, increasingly, the hard-rock musicians. Inevitably she discovered marijuana, and much more besides.
But sitting around listening to rock music – Col Joye and the Joy Boys, The Bee Gees, Normie Rowe, or the overseas heavy hitters Pink Floyd, The Doors, The Stones, The Beatles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and the one and only Elvis – stoned and giggling, wasn’t enough for Sam. She started to skip university, staying out late, then remaining in bed most of the day, and nothing anyone could say made any difference. She got kicked out of uni and took to hanging out at the Coogee Hotel at night with rock musicians euphemistically ‘resting’ but with no real work. She started to drink, mostly Scotch, but sometimes, pathetically, Kentucky bourbon. She’d come home drunk, sleep all day nursing a hangover, and go out again all night.
Helen tried to reason with her and Sam would appear to listen, but in the end she’d simply say to her mother, ‘It’s my life, Mum. If you don’t like it, I’ll move out.’ She simply told Gabby to mind her own business. Helen persuaded her to see Craig Woon. She went once, then refused to return. Something inside Sam’s head or heart had broken.
Helen had called Dr Woon. ‘Craig, we’re desperate. What can we do?’
‘When I saw her, I felt she was suffering from depression, but I can’t be sure. Helen, I need to see her several times more. If she’ll agree to go into a clinic, perhaps we can find out. She’s certainly suffering from a nervous breakdown – that’s the old-fashioned word. It covers a multitude of sins and tells us nothing. The drugs aren’t helping, either, and putting her on anti-depressants won’t be sufficient, I fear.’
‘She won’t talk to Danny. It all started with the episode I’m sure he’s told you about.’
‘Sure, but it’s too easy to say that. One unfortunate episode – a miscalculation on his part, harsh as it was – isn’t going to cause her to change her entire character.’
‘Then what?’ Helen asked. ‘We’re at our wits’ end. I feel we’re going to lose her.’
‘Helen, these things start way back. Something like the harbour swim can be the final straw, but that’s all it was.’
‘You mean it’s something genetic?’
‘Impossible to say, although there’s some interesting stuff coming out about genetic predispositions. From observing Samantha’s swimming career, I believe she is a “Type A” personality with highly addictive characteristics. They’re the successful types, the high achievers, the high fliers, but when they crash, they do so as determinedly and in as spectacular a manner as when they succeed. They’re the all-or-nothing types.’
‘But isn’t she too young for that sort of thing?’ Helen asked. ‘For goodness sake, she’s about to turn eighteen. She hasn’t had a life yet. She hasn’t been such a high flier . . .’
‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Helen. To achieve what she has achieved so far, Samantha has been under more pressure than most adults will have to endure in a lifetime, and after all that, she came crashing down – at least, that’s probably how she would see it. She’s hit the wall at full speed.’
‘You mean not winning, not swimming all her races at the Olympics?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Craig, I know you have to maintain the confidentiality of your dealings with your patients, but you’ve been seeing Danny for quite a while now. Please, you’ve known him almost as long as I have. Is he the cause of Samantha’s problems?’
‘Helen, you’re putting me in an awkward spot. Danny’s my patient, so ethically —’
But Helen had had enough. ‘He’s also my husband! For God’s sake, Craig, give me something to work with. My family is being destroyed and I don’t know what to do. How do I get my daughter back? Is what’s happened to her my husband’s fault?’
‘The answer is probably yes. But, having said that, not entirely.’
‘Oh?’
‘He wasn’t able to have the same influence over Gabrielle, which tells me something.’
‘What?’
‘That at one level Samantha wanted it to happen; she needed to succeed, and she made up her mind to be a clone of her father.’
‘What can we do about it?’
‘This may seem a strange thing to say, but right now, without her father to depend on and without the structure of training, Samantha is suffering from low self-esteem. She doesn’t know what to do, where to turn for directions.’
‘Direction or directions?’ Helen, ever analytical, asked.
‘Both. Tell me about this boy from Vietnam,’ Craig said.
‘There’s not much I can say. They spent the night together, then her father punished her, and shortly after that she got the news that he’d been killed.’
‘Did she bond with him?’
‘I shouldn’t think so, not in one night. Surely that’s not possible,’ Helen said.
‘That’s not necessarily true. She knew him before; they were together in New Orleans. Did she tell you if they’d slept together?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘No, I simply made sure she was using the pill.’
‘And this time, the night she spent with him here in Sydney?’
‘She’d been through that trauma with her father. I wasn’t going to exacerbate the situation by asking her.’
‘Did Gabrielle ask?’
‘No, but Gabrielle says she knows Sam slept with him.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know, Craig, it’s a twin thing. They just seem to know.’
‘There’s every chance that Sam has associated her punishment for spending the night with her soldier boyfriend with her father demanding her back.’
‘What, as his slave?’
‘That’s a tough word, but old lion, young lion. Danny was emotionally almost totally involved with his daughter.’
‘What? In an indecent way?’
‘No, of course not! But in a dependent way. Samantha is – was –
what kept his demons at bay, kept him on a steady course. Perhaps he saw her as another version of his young self. Then, by choosing her boyfriend, she had, in his subconscious mind, chosen another guiding hand.’
‘I see. But is it a two-way street? Would she blame her father for the boy’s death?’
‘Helen, we have to stop there. I’m venturing an opinion, and not necessarily an informed one. It’s possible, but that’s all I’m prepared to say. In confidence, Danny admits he’s taken the Olympics thing badly, despite struggling against it.’
‘Well, I have to tell you he’s back on Mogadon, or sleeping tablets of some sort. He’s been off them for years now.’
‘Yes, I know. He asked me for a prescription. There are better things than Mogadon these days.’
‘Is there something, anything, we can do for Sam?’
‘Just love her, make her feel safe. We can give her something to help her if she’ll submit herself for treatment.’
&
nbsp; ‘Will she grow out of it?’
‘Perhaps. She’s young, fit, intelligent and attractive, and has a loving home and a future – all the components needed; it’s certainly not impossible.’
At the Coogee Hotel, though, Sam discovered barbiturates, speed, and LSD, known as tabs. Barbiturates were easy to get – the doctors around Kings Cross and Darlinghurst would write a prescription if you simply looked forlorn, and pleaded that you were coming off heroin and looking for a soft landing.
Then one day Sam simply didn’t come home. A day turned into a week. Gabby searched everywhere for her, but nobody had seen her at the Coogee Hotel or any of the other popular after-midnight watering holes frequented by rock musicians.
Danny put Bumper Barnett onto finding her. He had hundreds of copies of her photograph circulated; there wasn’t a criminal or a prostitute or a shopkeeper in the Kings Cross area who wouldn’t have recognised her. Bob Askin put the New South Wales Police onto it and cautioned them to keep it out of the media.
Another week passed. Several people called in to say they’d seen her, but it had been Gabby they’d seen. Gabby hadn’t gone to the Con for two weeks and spent every day combing the Cross and Darlinghurst, and the nights with Danny, visiting every musician’s haunt and likely bar in Sydney.
Sam wasn’t in Sydney. She’d met a drummer at the Black Cat in the Cross. He belonged to a hard-rock band called Wild Dogs & Gentlemen, who were about to embark on a tour of several states.
The night they met, Sam had been sitting alone, miserable and silent. She’d scored some speed but it wasn’t doing anything for her, barely taking the edge off her misery. The drummer had just finished a set – the last for the Wild Dogs & Gentlemen for the night – it was close to two in the morning, and the Black Cat was closing down. He walked up to Sam’s table and said casually, ‘Want a drink, beautiful?’
‘Where?’ Sam asked.
‘There’s a party in Newtown. Why don’t you come? Plenty of acid – anything you like – dope . . .’
‘And, surprise, surprise, I get to sleep with you,’ Sam said. ‘No thanks, I’m not a groupie.’
The drummer laughed, offering his hand. ‘John.’
Sam took it, only just accepting it before letting it go. ‘Sam.’
‘Well, there you go, Sam. I only sleep with groupies and if you’re not a groupie, then you’re safe. But the music will be good, the gear even better, and you’re too pretty to spend the night on your own.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Sam said.
John started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. ‘We leave for Melbourne in the morning. Why don’t you come?’
‘What? Melbourne or Newtown?’
‘We’ve got a two-week gig at the Rainbow Hotel in Fitzroy. You choose.’
‘Give me one good reason, John.’
‘Well, I’ll let you decide, babe. But if you want something to help you make up your mind, my Kombi is parked a block away. I’ve got something in it that requires a needle and a teaspoon.’ He reached into his jeans, tossed a blue plastic cigarette lighter into the air and caught it. ‘And a bit of a flame. Oh yes, and a piece of rubber tubing. I reckon I’ve got enough to last the trip south.’
Sam got up and followed him out.
Two weeks later, the landlady of a cheap hotel in St Kilda Road that catered mostly for musicians called the Victorian Police. It wasn’t the first victim she’d found dead from a heroin overdose, but it was certainly the most beautiful.
Sam’s funeral was very simple: Franz, Jacob and Hester Landsman; Helen’s parents, Barbara and Reg Brown; Bullnose; Lachlan and Erin; Pineapple Joe; Forbes and Ursula Carlile; Harry Gallagher; Brenda and Half Dunn; Gabby, Helen and Danny; and Father Patrick, the local Catholic priest. All the usual words and prayers were said, all the tears shed, clods thumped against the coffin, which carried a single yellow rose and Sam’s battered Stetson. Somewhere a bird called, then another answered. High clouds drifted on a summer day, and the drone of a distant light plane could be heard if you concentrated.
Gabby broke from the small group, lifted her violin and started to play the opening notes of her song ‘Wild Bush Honey’. After she’d played the haunting melody through once, she lowered the violin and began to sing, unaccompanied, the lyrics she’d rewritten for her twin.
The sun doth shine today, my love,
There’s not a sign of rain;
The bees are in the blossoms,
And all our world is pain.
Oh, wild bush honey’s not as sweet as you,
And warm black rocks won’t last as long,
As my heart’s love so true, so true,
As my heart’s love for you.
You’ve left us in the flower of youth,
You’ve left us here to grieve,
Oh, Sam, if you’d but known the truth,
You’d ne’er have thought to leave.
Oh, wild bush honey’s not as sweet as you,
And warm black rocks won’t last as long,
As my heart’s love so true, so true,
As our hearts’ love for you.
EPILOGUE
HELEN WENT DOWN TO the cellar – the small, warm, dry room that housed the hot-water system where she kept the battered old trunk. She opened it and removed the quilt and the bag of cloth scraps. She took both upstairs to her study, the quilt now almost too heavy to carry. She spread it out carefully on the carpet and emptied the scraps of cloth beside it: pieces of the twins’ christening gowns, a patch showing an embroidered teddy bear on the bib of a toddler’s overalls, squares cut from their first school uniforms, several pieces from favourite teenage dresses, patches of silk from their first sets of ‘sexy’ knickers and bras, scraps of denim from their first pairs of teenage jeans – all scraps of the joy, angst and laughter of growing up.
Now to five generations of memory and tears she prepared to add a sixth. She had sketched the body of a young woman wearing green Speedo swimmers, her flaming red hair tumbling to her shoulders from beneath a battered Stetson. In an arc above her head were three gold medallions, above which she would embroider the words Three Gold for Sammy, and below, at the young woman’s feet, the words:
Pray that you may never have to endure
all that you can learn to bear.
Samantha Dunn
1951–1970
R.I.P.
Helen began to weep. Her next task would be to introduce Gabby to the quilt she prayed she would never have to work on again.
A month later Helen had completed the quilt. It was late, but she’d wanted to finish it and return it to the trunk, to put Sam safely away, asleep with her ancestors. As she’d done for the past month, she’d locked her study door when she worked on the quilt. Around ten o’clock Danny tapped on the door. ‘Come to say goodnight,’ he called.
‘Hang on, darling,’ Helen called back, ‘won’t be a moment.’ She hurriedly wrapped the quilt in a blanket she’d brought for the purpose and then unlocked the door. ‘Sorry, busy,’ she smiled, not explaining further. Danny could see the wicker needlework basket on her desk that he remembered from childhood. It had been Brenda’s and was now Helen’s and he knew its purpose, but he’d never seen the quilt.
‘Women’s business?’ he said now, but not flippantly.
‘Yes,’ Helen said, making no attempt to explain.
‘Well, I’m off to bed. Got to be up at sparrow fart. Going for a row in the skiff, so I need two kisses – one for now and one for the morning. Sleep late, darling, you’re tired. I’ll call you from the office.’
Helen kissed Danny twice, warmly. They’d both struggled since Sam’s funeral. Danny had been very quiet and withdrawn, and Helen, lost in her own grief, hadn’t made any effort to cheer him up; everything she had to spare went to her desolate surviving daughter. Danny hadn’t been out i
n the skiff since the night of Sam’s punishment, and she took it as a good sign that he was resuming his early-morning rowing. ‘Don’t go out for too long, darling – you haven’t been rowing for months. You’ll be stiff and sore tomorrow. And be careful of your back.’
Danny turned to go. He paused at the half-open door, his hand on the knob. ‘Helen, I love you. You have been my life . . . my everything.’ He hesitated. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Helen smiled. ‘Yes. Sleep tight, darling. Make sure the fleas don’t bite.’
Danny closed the door behind him and walked upstairs. On the way to their bedroom he noticed a light under the twins’ – Gabby’s – bedroom door and tapped lightly.
‘Come in,’ Gabby called, and as Danny entered she looked up from her book in surprise. ‘Oh, hello, Dad. I thought it might be Mum.’ She was sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows against the headboard,
a book resting open on her knees.
‘Just passing, saw your light was still on,’ Danny said, crossing the room to the bed. He stood uncertainly, not stooping to kiss Gabby on the cheek as she had expected. Instead he pointed to the edge of the bed. ‘May I?’
‘Sure.’ Gabby closed the book and shifted over to make room for him to sit.
‘I’m going out in the skiff tomorrow. Thought I’d just say goodnight. Probably won’t see you in the morning . . . be gone early.’
‘I’m glad, it’s been ages . . . ’ Gabby, unconsciously paraphrasing Helen, chided gently, ‘Don’t go too far or you’re going to ache for days.’
Danny grinned. ‘Your mother just said that.’ He paused momentarily. ‘Darling, I was just thinking . . . er, well . . . silly, I know . . . but do you think we could sing the “Fish Tummy Song”?’
Gabby laughed, then smiled, and then her eyes welled, all in a matter of moments. She nodded, unable to speak, shutting her eyes tightly to squeeze back the sudden tears. Danny could feel his heart beating rapidly as Gabby’s voice came clear and clean, a beautiful contralto. The bedtime song, the last words his darling daughters had heard every night of their childhood, rose in his chest to join her.
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 66
