Elianne

by Nunn, Judy

  They hugged each other.

  ‘Give Al my love,’ she said, ‘I feel guilty not being there myself, but he told me over the phone he didn’t mind in the least.’

  ‘Well he wouldn’t; you know Alan. He’s only going home himself for the car.’

  They laughed, but Kate secretly thought oh no he’s not. Alan had taken a whole week off from his work and studies in order to return to Elianne for his eighteenth birthday, but neither the birthday nor the promised car were the real attraction, Kate was sure, rather they were the excuse. It was Paola who beckoned.

  ‘I won’t tell Dad about my decision to join up until the birthday’s out of the way and Alan’s gone back to Brisbane,’ Neil assured her. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil things: it’s bound to cause a stir.’

  A stir, Kate thought, that was surely the understatement of all time. Her father would be apoplectic with rage. She was only thankful that she wouldn’t be there to witness his fury. And what on earth would Stan the Man say she wondered if he knew that his favoured son, the heir to his throne, had married a Vietnamese girl?

  ‘See you at Christmas,’ Neil called as he closed the gate of the little white picket fence. He’d told her he would not be returning to Vietnam for some time and that he’d be home for the family Christmas.

  ‘Yep, see you at Christmas,’ she called back with a wave, thinking how unbelievably normal they sounded when the world all about them had just been turned upside down. ‘But you will ring me and let me know how it all goes, won’t you?’

  ‘Course I will.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  It was only as she closed the door that she realised she’d said nothing of the diaries as she’d originally intended. How could she? Her brother’s life had taken a whole new direction. The burden of the truth remained hers, for the moment anyway, hers and hers alone.

  Alan’s car turned out to be a brand-new HR Holden Premier sedan. With green body, white roof and tan bucket seats, it was hot off the assembly line.

  ‘Happy birthday, son,’ Stan said handing over the keys with his customary flourish. Despite the friction that existed from time to time between father and younger son, Stanley Durham had a great love of family ritual and this was indeed a proud moment to be relished by all.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Alan didn’t disappoint, running his fingers lovingly over the gleaming chrome signature 186-fender badge. ‘She’s a beauty all right.’

  After the traditional family lunch, Stan returned to his work at the mill, where the crushing continued its relentless twenty-four-hour cycle, but Alan and Neil, having been allowed the rest of the day off, followed up the birthday proceedings with a tradition of their own.

  The Holden was driven into town, Alan revving the engine up to top speed along the Bundaberg–Gin Gin road. All about them the cane fields were flowering, ready for harvest; a beautiful sight, particularly from afar, the sea of green blanketed in a haze of soft, silvery-lilac. But the brothers didn’t notice. They were intent upon more important things.

  Once in town, the Holden was paraded up and down Bundy’s main streets, Alan at the wheel, Neil waving out the open window at everyone they passed, most of whom he knew and most of whom were familiar with the Durham family ritual. Young Alan must have turned eighteen, a number remarked.

  ‘Hey, Neil,’ Alan said as they rounded the block to drive up Bourbong Street for the fourth and final time, the window now wound up against the wintry nip in the late afternoon breeze, ‘will you do me a big favour?’

  ‘Whatever you want, mate, it’s your birthday.’

  ‘Will you stay in town and lie low for a bit? Only an hour I promise.’

  ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘I want to take Paola for a drive. I’ll pick her up secretly and people will think it’s still you and me lairing around.’

  ‘A drive . . .?’ There was no innuendo to Neil’s query, more an element of disquiet.

  ‘Yes, a drive,’ Alan replied firmly. Registering his brother’s genuine concern, he was not offended. ‘Just a drive. I’m meeting her down near the pumping station after five when her office shift’s over. We usually go for a walk along the river track, but I want to show off the new car.’

  ‘Sure, birthday boy,’ Neil agreed. ‘Drop me at the Commercial, I’ll down a few beers.’

  Outside the Commercial Hotel, as Neil gave his brother a wave and watched the car drive away, he was relieved that his query hadn’t offended. Worrying though the outcome may prove, it was after all none of his business if his brother was having an affair with young Paola Fiorelli.

  As it was a weekday and still during working hours, the pub was not yet busy. One girl tended the bar, a small group of hippies was gathered at a table and the publican was upstairs in his office. Neil bought a schooner and settled himself on a bar stool well away from the hippies. There were five of them, obvious out-of-towners, three long-haired young men and two women, the men wearing headbands and the girls flowing headscarves each with a badge pinned prominently on the front bearing the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament symbol.

  No points for guessing who owns the Kombi, Neil thought wryly as he looked through the window at the van parked outside. It was crudely scrawled with slogans, Ban the Bomb, Viva Che, Make Love Not War, and clumsy drawings of a smiley face, a two-finger peace sign and the CND symbol. Bit of an overstatement in his opinion.

  City hippies posing as activists were not Neil’s style; he found them pretentious, and he was glad when the group left ten minutes later. But a further ten minutes and they were back, re-instating themselves at their table. Ah well, live and let live.

  He ordered another schooner, his nostrils assailed by the smell of marijuana – they’d been out to share a quick joint, he realised, their clothes stank of it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, paying the young barmaid and as he took a sip he heard loud and clear behind him, ‘Love a country boy in cowboy boots,’ from one of the girls. She was stoned and blatantly flirting, goading her boyfriend, the one she was draped over in the orange Che Guevara T-shirt.

  Che Guevara Orange, the taller and more muscular of the men, didn’t find his girlfriend’s remark at all funny, but the others considered it hilarious and fell about laughing.

  Neil tried to ignore them by reading the labels on the spirits bottles that sat on the shelves behind the bar, but annoyance flared in him. Bugger the lot of them, he thought. Out of work by choice I’ll bet, smoking dope and getting pissed, probably on dole money and all shagging each other under the bullshit Free Love banner.

  When he’d finished his schooner, he checked his watch and was contemplating whether or not to order another. Still fifteen minutes or so to go, he thought, why not? And he stood and signalled the barmaid for one more beer.

  At that moment, the door opened and two of the regulars walked in, older men both of whom knew Neil and his family. They greeted him warmly.

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ Bill Farraday said. ‘G’day Neil, good to see you back from Vietnam and in one piece, all’s the better.’

  ‘Yeah,’ his mate Maurie agreed, ‘good to have you home safe, son.’

  The word ‘Vietnam’ had caught the ear of Che Guevara Orange and he nudged his mates. There followed a brief muttering among all five and they turned to stare at Neil.

  ‘Thanks Bill, thanks Maurie,’ Neil said as the men shook his hand and patted him heartily on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you too.’

  ‘Can we buy you a beer?’

  ‘Nah,’ he picked up the beer the barmaid had placed before him, ‘I’ve got to go soon, so this’ll be my last.’

  ‘Give our best to your old man.’

  ‘Sure will.’

  As Bill and Maurie wandered over to the cigarette machine, Neil decided to down the beer and get out of the place. The hippies were glaring at him now, openly hostile, nudging each other and muttering a little louder.

  ‘Go on . . .’ He heard the insistent urging from the girl who’d made
the cowboy boots comment ‘. . . go on, say something.’ They were out to stir and Neil didn’t want a bar of it. He crossed to the door and opened it, about to step outside. He’d walk in the direction of the bridge and meet Alan on the way, he decided.

  But Che, in response to his girlfriend’s urging, had sauntered over beer glass in hand and was suddenly right behind him, hissing in his ear.

  ‘Where are you off to, baby killer?’

  Then another hippy, the skinnier and more weasel-like of the three men, joined his mate. ‘Trying to get away from us are you, man?’

  Neil’s fuse suddenly ignited. Why would I need to get away from you, you little runt? Whoa, Neil, he told himself, keep your cool, there’s nothing but trouble for you here.

  The girls were right behind their men, egging them on.

  ‘Kiddie killer,’ Cowboy Boots said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, kiddie killer,’ her less imaginative mate echoed.

  Neil let go of the handle and the door swung shut. Why should I be the one forced to get out of the place, his mind reasoned. It’s you bunch of smartarses who should piss off.

  He glared at Cowboy Boots. ‘Why don’t you go and get fucked, you moll.’

  Pretending offence Cowboy Boots appealed to her man. ‘Geoff . . .?’ She saw herself as a rebel with a cause and made a habit of confronting returned soldiers. This one had taken the bait, hook, line and sinker. ‘Geoff, are you going to let him get away with that?’

  Neil glared at Che, now obviously Geoff. ‘Of course he’s going to let me get away with it, aren’t you, Geoffrey?’ he sneered. ‘Because Geoffrey hasn’t got the guts to do anything else, have you, Geoffrey.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it, soldier boy!’ Incensed by the slur upon his masculinity, Che smashed his beer glass on a table and waved it about threateningly. ‘Think killing innocent civilians is fun, do you, psycho,’ he jeered. ‘Do you, eh? Do you?’

  ‘Yeah, gives you a kick killing civilians, does it man,’ Weasel taunted, egged on by the boldness of his leader.

  Something snapped in Neil. ‘You bet it does,’ he said dangerously, ‘and from where I’m standing, you look like civilians.’ It happened in an instant. He grasped the wrist that held the broken beer glass and punched Che hard in the temple, knocking him unconscious. Then he grabbed a fistful of Weasel’s hair and slammed his face into the brick wall.

  ‘Hey, there’s no call for violence, man.’ The third hippy quailed at the sight. ‘We’re only trying to make a point here . . .’ But he didn’t get any further. Neil’s fist slammed into his jaw and he reeled backwards, crashing into a table and chairs and falling to the floor stunned.

  The two hippy girls were by now screaming. Cowboy Boots dropped to her knees to tend Che’s unconscious form while her friend wailed like a banshee.

  Bev the young barmaid was frantically dialling the police when Bernie Hall, the middle-aged publican, came galloping down from upstairs to discover the cause of the commotion.

  Neil remained motionless, appalled by what he’d done.

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ Bernie demanded, taking it all in. Young Durham over there by the door, he’d heard he’d just got back from Vietnam, the hippies on the floor bleeding like stuck pigs, what the hell had gone on?

  He looked to Bill and Maurie seated at the far end of the bar and received meaningful glances from both that indicated the hippies and clearly said it’s not the kid’s fault, it’s the out-of-towners.

  ‘I’ve rung the police,’ Bev told her boss as she hung up the receiver, ‘they’re on their way.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Bernie said. Bev had done the right thing, obeying instructions – ‘Any trouble, you ring the cops,’ he’d told her – but she was a new girl to Bundy and couldn’t be expected to understand that this situation was a little different. She didn’t know who Neil was. She didn’t know the Durham family. In this instance Bernie would have preferred to have been informed before the cops were called.

  He crossed to where young Durham stood. The lad seemed a little stunned by what had happened. ‘I suggest you go home,’ he said, very quietly so the others couldn’t hear. ‘Go home, for your own good, son.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Neil snapped out of his semi-dazed state. ‘I’m really sorry, Bernie . . .’

  ‘Go home, son,’ Bernie repeated firmly, but gently. ‘Go on home.’

  Neil nodded and as he stepped out into the street Bernie glanced at the hippy, who’d regained consciousness and who, with his girlfriend’s help, was struggling to his feet and into the nearest chair. Then he crossed to Bill and Maurie to get a quiet report on what had actually happened.

  Outside, Neil started walking in the direction of the bridge, keeping a lookout for the Holden that would be driving towards him on the other side of the street. He was overcome with guilt: how could he have allowed that to happen? He’d seriously risked his re-enlistment should word get out. And of even greater importance he’d risked damaging the reputation of his regiment. He’d been lectured on social protocols by senior officers so many times. He’d disgraced himself and felt thoroughly ashamed.

  After collecting Paola at Elianne, Alan had headed for Queens Park as usual, Paola squirming down low in the seat as she always did during the drive through the estate, although it was more difficult to conceal herself in the Holden than it had been in the Land Rover.

  When they’d parked and walked to their favourite spot high on the riverbanks, she’d taken a small gift-wrapped box from the pocket of her cardigan.

  ‘Happy birthday, Alan,’ she said handing it to him.

  He unwrapped it and opened the box to reveal a shiny silver medallion with a magnet on the back.

  ‘It’s for your dashboard,’ she explained, ‘that’s Saint Christopher. He’s the patron saint of travellers.’

  Alan knew exactly what it was. A number of his friends had similar such medallions, some even had miniature magnetised statues in their cars, Saint Christopher having become a form of talisman and dashboard accessory among young drivers. Paola, however, was unaware of this fact.

  ‘I don’t mean it to be anything religious,’ she hastily added. ‘I know you’re not a Catholic and that Saint Christopher has no special meaning for you, but he’ll look after you on your travels . . .’ Visited by a sudden doubt, she petered off lamely, fearing he might have interpreted the gesture as some clumsy attempt to convert him. ‘You know, during those long drives to Brisbane and back . . .’ Her voice tailed away altogether and she looked down at the medallion wishing now that she hadn’t bought it.

  ‘Of course he’ll look after me,’ Alan assured her, ‘this is the perfect present, Paola, I love it.’ He gathered her in his arms and she responded to his kiss. ‘And I love you,’ he said as they parted. ‘I love you more than ever. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ She believed him, she could read the depth of his love in his eyes, but it didn’t stop the insecurity that gnawed away at her.

  Alan sensed a difference in Paola since he’d told her about his sexual encounter in Brisbane. He’d blurted out the truth two days previously, the moment they’d met down at the pumping station upon his return to Elianne. He’d been longing to purge himself of his guilt.

  ‘I had sex two months ago,’ he’d said as they strolled along the track beside the river.

  Her response had been unexpectedly enigmatic. She hadn’t stopped walking. She hadn’t even looked at him.

  ‘An affair,’ she’d queried, ‘or a one-night stand?’

  The term and its worldliness had sounded odd coming from Paola, and he’d found the remoteness of her tone worrying.

  ‘A one-night stand of course,’ he said. ‘Well a one-afternoon stand actually,’ he corrected himself and taking her hand he brought her to a halt, forcing her to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, Paola, truly sorry. It meant nothing, I can promise you, and it will never happen again I swear. I love you. I will always love you and no one but you.’


  She’d not resisted his kiss, but her reaction to it had been altogether different. She’d been withdrawn, guarded even. She’s angry, he thought, angry and hurt, which given the circumstances he found quite justifiable.

  ‘Please don’t be angry,’ he said, ‘and please forgive me, Paola, I promise it will never –’

  ‘I’m not angry,’ she’d interrupted coolly, looking out across the river, ‘and I forgive you.’

  Once again he turned her to him, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘We said that we’d never have secrets from each other, remember? Was it wrong of me to tell you?’

  ‘No, Alan, no it wasn’t wrong. I respect your honesty.’ She’d smiled and added with a worldly shrug that once again seemed a little out of character, ‘Besides it’s only natural, isn’t it? Men are supposed to experience sex before marriage.’

  Alan had been left confused. He couldn’t have lived with the secret of his infidelity, which he considered a betrayal on his part, but he sensed that his admission had subtly changed things. He wasn’t sure how and he didn’t really know why. To him the situation seemed quite simple, but obviously to Paola it was not.

  Paola was not in the least confused. Paola lived in fear. The unreasonable wave of doubt that had just now overcome her as she’d given him the Saint Christopher medallion was symptomatic of a deep-seated insecurity. She could not rid herself of the sickening sensation upon hearing those three simple words I had sex . . . Endless connotations had tumbled through her mind at the time, all her worst fears appearing to have come to fruition. Of course you’ve had sex, she’d thought, and of course you will again, you’re a healthy young man with a healthy young man’s appetite. What will happen when you fall in love with one of these girls you sleep with . . .? Such thoughts had continued to torment her for the past two days.

  Now, as they held each other close, Alan was again aware of the difference in Paola. She was not as uninhibited as she had been. When they kissed, he no longer had to call a halt to their passion. Was this a deliberate act on her part? Was she perhaps punishing him for his indiscretion?