Sam and Gabby, I heard someone say,
You haven’t been terribly good today,
You’ve given the next-door neighbour’s cat
A nasty whack with a ping-pong bat.
And can you possibly tell me why . . .
You pulled the wings off a butterfly?
May you eat boiled cabbage and pumpkin mash
And row inside the tummy of a great big fish
In a hollowed-out calabash!
Now, my girls, it’s not very nice
When you torture poor little baby mice,
And squash the bug on the Persian rug,
With the brand-new rubber bathroom plug.
And can you possibly tell me why . . .
You made the butcher’s parrot cry?
May you eat boiled cabbage and pumpkin mash
And row inside the tummy of a great big fish
In a hollowed-out calabash!
It’s not very kind to creep up behind,
And frighten a lady who’s almost blind,
And make a poor little slimy slug
Dance a waltz and a jitterbug.
And can you possibly tell me why . . .
You told a fat little pig he could fly?
May you eat boiled cabbage and pumpkin mash
And row inside the tummy of a great big fish
In a hollowed-out calabash!
Now it’s really not good that you watched the dog
Eat up the frog on the log in the bog,
Or captured some tadpoles to put in the water
You gave to your favourite teacher’s daughter.
And can you possibly tell me why . . .
The canary was dipped in bright blue dye?
May you eat boiled cabbage and pumpkin mash
And row inside the tummy of a great big fish
In a hollowed-out calabash!
But now is the time to go to sleep,
Snuggle right down and don’t make a peep.
Grab your teddy and close your eyes,
Off you go to sleepy-byes.
And can you possibly tell me why . . .
You dream of ice-cream and apple pie?
May you eat boiled cabbage and pumpkin mash
And row inside the tummy of a great big fish
In a hollooooowed-ooout caaaalaabassssh!
Danny leaned over and kissed the now-sobbing Gabby lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you, sweetheart; know that I truly love you, my darling.’ He rose, turned and walked towards the door, a big man with his dark hair speckled with grey and his girth starting to thicken, though his stomach remained flat. At the age of fifty he walked with a slight limp because of his bad back. He stooped slightly as he passed through the door, even though the lintel was still a good three inches above his head. Without turning he closed the door quietly behind him.
Helen didn’t wake when Danny rose at four-thirty the next morning. Later, the crew from an Italian fishing boat returning through the Heads would report that they’d seen a lone rower in a skiff in the choppy waves just beyond Sydney Heads at about six. They’d called out the name of the skiff, ‘Calabash!’ Then, ‘You okay, mate?’ The rower had raised his hand, indicating that he was in control, so they’d moved on.
Danny simply kept rowing.
Two days later the upturned Calabash, his beloved skiff, was washed onto Tamarama beach.
A week later, Helen, Gabby and Billy duBois stood on the point of South Head looking out to sea. Brenda and Half Dunn, suddenly old and bowed beneath the double blow of tragedy, stood nearby. Billy had flown from New Orleans for the memorial service and had attended the wake at the Hero, where it seemed most of Balmain had turned up uninvited.
The following day Billy had asked if he could visit the Heads that afternoon to say a final farewell to his buddy. It was a glorious summer afternoon, with a light nor’easter blowing in from the open ocean as they stood silently looking out to sea. Billy turned to Helen. ‘He told me this happened to him when he sailed back home from the war, so I arranged it for the three women in his life. I hope you don’t mind.’
A lone piper standing on a rock shelf to their right began to play, and the strains of the bagpipes drifted out across the water.
Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen and down the mountain side;
The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are falling;
’Tis ye, ’tis ye, must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow;
’Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow;
Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy, I love you so.
And if ye come when all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,
Ye’ll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an ‘Ave’ there for me.
And I shall hear, though soft ye tread above me,
And o’er my grave, shall warmer, sweeter be,
Then if ye bend and tell me that ye love me,
Then I shall sleep in peace until ye come to me.
Danny Dunn
1920–1970
Rest in peace
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is my nineteenth book in twenty-one years, and while people are often kind about my work, I hasten to point out that without the generous support I receive and the knowledge of others freely given, none of those books would have been completed. It has become fashionable not to include acknowledgements in works of fiction, or to keep them to the minimum. And, as someone once told me, it is not necessary to thank the cat and the dog. But the role of the storyteller is made possible through the borrowing of experience and information from those who have done the actual spadework, and those who are invariably wiser and smarter than I am, and I am grateful to them. Every book is therefore a cleverly disguised list of generosity, kindness, support and the giving of wisdom hard-earned by others.
As only one of many such examples, I needed to know what it was like, really like, to be an amateur Olympic swimmer in the 1970s. My researchers and I conscientiously read the books and the tedious official histories. But it wasn’t until Shane Gould MBE spent many hours, despite her own very busy schedule, detailing the information I needed that I was able to write several authentic narrative sequences – although any contentious conclusions I reached in the book, I should add, are my own. Thank you, Shane.
This book is the result of a great many such generous gestures. While your name and little more might appear below, what each of you did for me has made my storytelling possible.
Being a novelist’s partner is a rotten job and one I wouldn’t even consider undertaking from the non-tap-tap side. Christine Gee, to whom I dedicate this book, has been my constant and loving companion throughout. She is a person gifted with intelligence, understanding, patience, good humour, beauty and a natural vitality I cherish. In addition, she takes care of the endless miscellany of running a home, and also acts as my in-house researcher, reader and listener. Along with my longstanding and devoted personal assistant, Christine Lenton, Christine also manages the business aspects of our partnership. I thank her every day of our shared life together. I also want to pay tribute to her passion and commitment to the charities we jointly support, where Christine does the work and I accept the credit. These, not including the 150 or so charities to which she has sent signed copies of my books for raffles, auctions and door prizes, are: the Australian Himalayan Foundation, for which she is a proud Board member; the Thin Green Line Foundation, of which we are Ambassadors; Voiceless; the Taronga Conservation Society Australia; and Cure the Future – Cell and Gene Trust.
Secondly, I acknowledge my full
-time professional researcher from Melbourne, Bruce Gee, who has partnered me for seven books and knows exactly what I want and how to reduce a tome to a couple of pages of relevance, or suggest a scenario that can prove extremely helpful. He is available at any hour of any day, and I consider myself very fortunate to be able to access his intellectual capacity, research skills and judgement. Then, in Sydney, for specific location and other tasks, I engaged Keri Light as a filmmaker, who worked to capture atmosphere and interviews on camera. My grateful thanks go to both of you.
I now need to thank the long list of friends and strangers who have contributed to this book: John Adamson, Yasuko Ando, John Atkin, Carole Baird, Malcolm Bruce, Peter Caine, Forbes Carlile MBE, Russell Coburn, Adam Courtenay, Barry Crocker, Tony Crosby, Lydia Davic, Owen Denmeade, Tony Freeman, Margaret Gee, Harry Gordon, Alex Hamill, Denis Hamill, Pat Hamilton, Sam and Alida Haskins, Ludwig Haskins, Oren Haskins, Jodie Iliani, Alan Jacobs, Jana Jones, Christine Lenton, Irwin Light, Margaret Mackenzie, Tex Moran, Penny Piccione, Susie Palfreyman, Roger Rigby, John Sharp, George Stone, Duncan Thomas, Debbie Tobin and Ken Wilder.
The institutes and organisations who helped, and the people within them to whom I am indebted, are: Amie Zar and Bruce Carter from the Local History Unit of Leichhardt Library; Kathleen Hamey et al at the Balmain Association; the University of Sydney Archives; the University of Sydney Law Library; the Mitchell Library; the NSW Conservatorium of Music; the Department of Ancient History at Macquarie University; and, lastly, Andrew Guerin of Rowing Australia.
While the writer and his publisher are essentially contractual partners, I have invariably received kindness, encouragement and accommodation from Penguin well beyond any contract I’ve signed – and this book has been no exception.
Firstly, my editor Nan McNab has been patient, understanding and mostly annoyingly right when we’ve argued. In all other matters she is equally difficult to fault. She edits each chapter as it comes to her at the end of the week without quite knowing what’s in my mind, a task that would be a nightmare to most editors. Nan has responded with good humour, a great many late nights, tight deadlines and leaps of faith where her every footfall (largely in the dark) has proved securely placed. She is a very nice person and a delight to work with, and I thank her unequivocally for her contribution. Finally, she helped me scan the ‘Fish Tummy Song’ until the rhythm worked.
Rachel Scully, my inhouse editor, who rode shotgun with Nan all the way, was unrelenting, determined, considerate, passionate and disciplined about the outcome. I trust she got the book she hoped for – certainly I couldn’t have hoped for a better and more involved editor, and I am truly grateful for her encouragement and help. Publishing professionals such as Rachel put their job on the line with almost every big book, and Penguin is blessed with her inclusion on their editorial staff.
Then there are those at Penguin without whom no book ever reaches a reader: Gabrielle Coyne, CEO; Robert Sessions, my publisher and Publishing Director of Penguin, who keeps his guiding hand on the tiller throughout; Julie Gibbs, who, though less directly involved, is always available to me for counsel; and Anne Rogan, Managing Editor, who is the nuts and bolts of everything from weekly chapter delivery to final proofs.
If the above are the principle decision-makers, those that follow are responsible for giving my book both polish and finish: proofreaders Sarina Rowell and Julia Carlomagno; typesetters Lisa and Ron Eady; Senior Production Controller Nicole Brown; Art Director Deborah Brash; and senior designers Debra Billson, Tony Palmer and Cathy Larsen.
The marketing and selling of a book these days is a critical component to its success. Much as every author hopes his book will prove a runaway word-of-mouth success, releasing it to the reading world is fraught with danger. The marketing and sales staff are responsible for guiding a book through these turbulent waters and I am especially grateful to a team that has been with me a long time and performs this service very well indeed: Daniel Ruffino, Marketing and Publicity Director; Sally Bateman, General Manager, Marketing and Publicity; Anyez Lindop, Publicity Manager; Sharlene Vinall, Marketing Manger; Abigail Hockey, Advertising and Marketing Design Manager; Gordon McKenzie, Web Services and Multimedia Manager; and Vicky Axiotis, Publicity Assistant.
Every book needs to be sold and nobody does it better in my view than Peter Blake, Sales Director, and Louise Ryan, General Sales Manager, and, of course, every one of the Penguin sales reps. I thank you all for your efforts on my behalf.
Finally, every morning as I start to work, Cardamon and Mushka, two of our four cats (three of them rescued from a dastardly end) take up their editing positions in their baskets on my desk, while Timmy our mutt flops at my feet. With the exception of a walk for Tim, or cat-necessary business, they stay with me all day and, if necessary, all evening. The kitten Ophelia and the male tabby, Pirate, I regret to say are illiterate, but would nevertheless be upset if they were not included here. I thank them for their undoubted contribution to my daily wellbeing.
Thank you, all.
The Story of Danny Dunn Page 67
