White Christmas in Saigon

by Margaret Pemberton

  When Gavin entered the small top floor apartment, Gabrielle’s father regarded him dubiously. He had never had any dealings with Australians, and had never wished to. To him they were a breed stranger even than Americans, and that was saying a lot.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ he said stiffly, making no attempt to speak in his extremely creditable English.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Gabrielle asked, helpfully speaking in English. ‘A kir?’

  ‘A kir would be fine,’ Gavin lied, thirsting for the fortifying alcohol content of a beer. Gabrielle, knowing very well that a kir was the last thing on earth Gavin would normally choose to drink, grinned and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to his fate.

  ‘Étes-vous á Paris longtemps?’ Gabrielle’s mother asked, good manners overcoming her prejudice at his nationality.

  ‘Deux ou trois mois,’ he replied manfully, deciding that if French was to be the name of the game, the sooner he launched himself into it, the better.

  Both Mercadors flinched at his accent. ‘Perhaps—’ Gabrielle’s father said when he had recovered his power of speech, ‘– perhaps it would be better if we spoke English.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ Gavin said with disarming relief. ‘French is a great language, but it can be a little tricky.’ A slight smile twitched at the corners of Vanh Mercador’s mouth. Gabrielle had been right. There was something innocent and charmingly vulnerable about the open-faced young man she had brought home.

  She had thought that all Australians were enormously tall and powerfully built with loud voices and intimidatingly rough manners. The young man before her, though far taller than Gabrielle, was still only five foot eight or nine, and was slim and supple in a crisp white shirt and close-fitting blue jeans. Only his hair, bleached gold by the sun, seemed to her typically Australian, but he did not wear it cropped short, as she had imagined Australians wore their hair. Instead, it was long, as if he were a student, dark blond curls twisting indecently low on the nape of his neck.

  ‘Gabrielle tells me that you are a journalist,’ she said haltingly, her English only a little better than his French, ‘and that you wish to go to Vietnam?’

  Gavin saw a slight frown crease Mr Mercador’s forehead and realized that the subject was not one that he encouraged. It was, however, a subject that dominated the evening.

  ‘And will your country, too, become involved in Vietnam, as the Americans have become involved?’ Étienne asked him as Gabrielle cleared away the soup plates and her mother placed a large, steaming casserole dish in the centre of the table.

  ‘Southeast Asia is our neck of the woods,’ Gavin said, and Gabrielle, seeing the look of mystification on her father’s face, interrupted, saying, ‘Gavin means that Southeast Asia is geographically very close to Australia, Papa.’

  Her father nodded comprehendingly. ‘And?’ he prompted Gavin.

  ‘And anything that happens there is automatically of great interest to us.’

  ‘Will Australia be sending troops to Vietnam, as America has?’ Vanh Mercador asked, presiding over the dinner table in a traditional silk ao dai, the pastel-coloured costume fitting tight from throat to hip, the side-split skirt billowing softly over loose black trousers.

  ‘Last year the Australian government introduced a form of national service,’ Gavin said, wondering from where Gabrielle had inherited her startling titian hair. ‘It isn’t a blanket call-up, it’s a selective system in which those who have birthdays on certain randomly drawn dates are required to make themselves available for two years national service. The service was for both the defence of Australia and military purposes beyond Australia.’

  The casserole was beef accompanied by mushrooms and freshly made noodles.

  ‘Which will be Vietnam,’ Étienne said prophetically, spearing a mushroom with his fork. ‘But what the French failed to achieve in Vietnam, no amount of Americans or Australians will be able to achieve.’

  Gavin was just about to say that the situation wasn’t quite the same, as neither America nor Australia had colonial intentions toward Vietnam, but Gabrielle gave him a warning little shake of her head. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what it was like living in Saigon in the thirties and forties,’ he said instead. ‘I’d be grateful for any background information that you can give me.’

  Étienne, when the casserole and the dessert that had followed it had been removed, was only too happy to oblige.

  By the end of the evening no remnant of his original hostility towards Gavin remained. True, he was an Australian, which was a pity, but he was also presentable and intelligent and it was better that Gabrielle had brought an Australian home than one of the pimps or the con men who abounded in the area.

  The Monday evening dinners en famille became a weekly event.

  Gavin swiftly discovered that where Vietnam was concerned, the tenor of the conversation was far different when Gabrielle’s father was not present. Vanh would reminisce about her childhood home in Hue, unwittingly revealing her deep homesickness.

  ‘When you go to Saigon, you must visit my sister, Nhu,’ she said repeatedly, her eyes overly bright. ‘You must try to persuade her to leave Vietnam and to settle near us, in Paris.’

  He had promised faithfully, but he had begun to wonder if he was ever going to step foot on Vietnamese soil.

  All through the summer he had bombarded his superiors with requests that he be sent to Saigon to cover the war. The reply was always the same: he was too junior a member of the staff to be sent on such a coveted assignment. Journalists were required to work for at least three years in the head office before aspiring to become correspondents.

  Without Gabrielle he knew he would have succumbed to frustration and restlessness, and that he would have abandoned his ambition and moved on. To America perhaps, or to Canada. As it was, he remained in Paris, becoming as familiar with the narrow cobbled streets of Montmartre as Gabrielle was. Every flower vendor and paper seller knew him by name, as did every barman and doorman. The prostitutes knew him, too, cheekily soliciting him whenever Gabrielle was not at his side. Gavin’s reply was always an amused grin and a shake of his head, his amusement caused by the knowledge that if he had ever accepted an offer, the girl in question would have immediately withdrawn it, and indignantly reported his faithlessness to Gabrielle.

  It was October and he was at his desk, reading a report that had just come in from Stockholm, where a large meeting had been held protesting against American policy in Vietnam.

  ‘Looks like it’s your lucky day,’ his immediate boss said as he strolled into the office. ‘The agency’s manager for Asia is in the building and he wants to see you.’

  Gavin had given a quick thanks to heaven, and had taken the stairs leading to the executive offices two at a time.

  ‘If Vietnam is what you want, Vietnam is what you’ve got,’ a laconic Englishman said to him, the top two buttons of his shirt undone and the knot of his tie pulled loose. ‘You’ll be in Singapore for a few weeks first, until we get your visa sorted out. After that I’d like to see some real reporting from you. I don’t want you to just sit on a hill and watch a battle and then report what the Americans say has happened at it. I want you to ignore the Follies and find out what is really happening.’

  ‘The Follies?’ Gavin asked, wondering if he was being given a caution against the nightclubs and bars of Saigon.

  ‘The Americans give a press conference, every afternoon at five, at the United States Public Affairs Office. It’s known as the Five O’Clock Follies. You’ll soon find out why.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Gavin said exuberantly, hardly able to contain the excitement surging along his veins. ‘And thank you!’

  The Englishman looked at him pityingly. ‘Don’t thank me now,’ he said dourly. ‘Thank me when you get back. If you still want to. Which you won’t,’ and he reached for one of the box files on his desk, indicating that the interview was over.

  Gabrielle tilted her head slightly to one side. ‘Are you quite s
ure?’ she asked.

  The elderly doctor rested his clasped hands on the surface of the mahogany desk that lay between them. ‘But certainly. There can be no mistake.’

  A small smile touched the corners of Gabrielle’s mouth. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she said, rising to her feet.

  His brows drew together in a concerned frown. ‘And what are you going to do about it?’ he asked bluntly.

  Gabrielle’s smile deepened. ‘Why, nothing. Nothing at all.’ And with a happy, husky laugh she walked out of his office and down the narrow, winding stairs that led to the street.

  She had arranged to meet Gavin at a sidewalk café on the corner of the rue des Martyrs and the rue le Tac, and she quickened her step, not wanting to be late. The October sun was still warm, and she raised her face towards it, her own reaction to the doctor’s news so immediate and uncomplicated that it did not occur to her to wonder if Gavin’s reaction would be different.

  She turned into the rue le Tac and with a leap of joy saw that he was sitting at one of the café tables, waiting for her. There was a cup of coffee on the checked cloth in front of him and a folded newspaper.

  ‘Gavin!’ she called out, breaking into a run. ‘Gavin!’

  He turned his head towards her, rising instantly to his feet, a welcoming grin splitting his face.

  ‘I have some great news!’ he said buoyantly as she hurtled into his arms and he hugged her close.

  Her eyes laughed up into his. ‘Alors, chéri! I too, have news incroyable!’

  ‘Then ladies first,’ he said gallantly, reluctantly releasing his hold of her and pulling out one of the cane chairs so that she could sit at the table.

  She waited until he had sat down beside her and took his hands, imprisoning them in hers, her eyes shining. ‘Are you sure that you do not want to tell me your good news first?’

  He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘My news will wait,’ he said, exercising superhuman restraint, his head whirling with the hundred and one things he had to do, the arrangements he had to make. ‘What do you have to tell me, Gaby?’

  She leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips and then, as she drew her mouth lovingly away from his, she said softly, ‘I’m having a baby, mon amour. Isn’t that the most wonderful news you can imagine?’

  Chapter Eight

  Abbra had a window seat on the flight back to San Francisco, and she sat gazing down into the shimmering blue haze of the Pacific. Her reunion with Lewis had been wonderful. The memory of their lovemaking warmed he like a glowing fire and would, she knew, continue to warn her through the months of waiting that lay ahead. And yet … And yet …

  Far below her the blue haze eddied into shades of aquamarine and jade. A small frown creased her brow and her dark-lashed eyes were sombre. She knew very well what it was that was troubling her, and she also knew that she could no longer put off confronting it. Her husband was a complete stranger. The man who had said of battle that those were the best times, when the adrenaline begins to surge, had not been a man she had even remotely known. Neither had the man who couldn’t understand her desire to know of the life he led when he was away from her. Yet that man, that stranger, was the man she loved and the man she had pledged to share her life with.

  The public address system hummed into life and the captain informed them that they were approaching the California coastline and would shortly be landing at San Francisco International Airport. She fastened her seat belt, aware that there were no easy answers. They were married and they loved each other, yet they had not lived together in the day-to-day intimacy of husband and wife. When they did, then they would learn to understand each other. The prospect reassured her, and her frown cleared and a small smile touched the corners of her mouth. In a little less than six months’ time they would be together again and their married life would truly begin.

  ‘I love you, Lewis,’ she whispered as the tone of the engines changed and the plane prepared to land. ‘Just come safely home to me. That’s all that matters.’

  When she walked out into the arrival area, the first thing she saw was Scott’s tall, powerful figure. Her eyes lit up and her smile deepened as she began to walk quickly towards him, the skirt of her white linen suit skimming her knees, her long, suntanned legs seemingly endless.

  The breath slammed hard in Scott’s chest. Ever since he had said good-bye to her he had been determined that he would not drive up from Los Angeles to meet her when she returned. But all his resolutions had been in vain. He had procrastinated to the last possible moment, trying to convince himself that he was not going to weaken, and had then been obliged to drive like a maniac up Highway One, praying that he wouldn’t be stopped by a vigilant patrolman.

  Now, seeing her stride gaily towards him, her smoke-black hair falling glossily to her shoulders, her pansy-dark eyes dancing with innocent pleasure at the sight of him, he knew he had been a fool to think he could stay away.

  ‘It’s good to have you back,’ he said, making sure that there was only affection in his voice as he took her luggage and kissed her with light brotherliness on the temple.

  ‘If only Lewis had been able to come back with me, then I could truthfully say that it’s nice to be back,’ she said, smiling up at him in a manner that nearly undid him.

  Abruptly he began to forge a way through the press of people around them towards an exit. God in heaven, but it was even worse than he had imagined it would be. He had known that meeting her again, after admitting to himself his feelings for her were not in the least brotherly, but flagrantly carnal, would be difficult. But he had not expected it to be near impossible. He had imagined he would be able to simulate the easy camaraderie that had always existed between them, and she would be unaware of any difference in their relationship. Now he was not so sure. The urge to drop her luggage to the ground and to seize her, crush her against him, was almost more than he could endure. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Hell, it was even worse than making a twenty-five-yard touchdown with only ten seconds left to play.

  ‘How was Lewis?’ he asked, struggling to keep his eyes ahead of him, terrified of what would happen to his willpower if he looked down into her face.

  ‘He was fine,’ she said, and though the words were studiedly casual, there was so much love in her voice that he felt his shoulder and arm muscles harden into knots. ‘He hasn’t even had a stomach ache.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Scott said, leading the way out of the airport terminal into brilliant sunshine. ‘So what is he doing over there?’

  They were approaching his car, and it was a second or two before he realized that his question was causing her some difficulty.

  ‘Oh, he’s still serving as part of a five-man advisory team,’ she said at last, her voice so oddly vague that he swivelled his head towards her, his eyebrows rising.

  A slight touch of colour flushed her cheeks, and she didn’t hold his glance; instead, she walked away from him and towards the car. ‘He’s still in the Ca Mau peninsula,’ she said, opening the car door. ‘I imagine he’ll be there until his tour of duty is over.’

  ‘Yes,’ Scott agreed, wondering what on earth was troubling her. ‘Sure.’ He slid into the seat next to her, turning the key in the ignition, gunning the engine into life. ‘You’d think that as his second six months is voluntary, they’d post him somewhere a little easier. Saigon, for instance.’

  They were driving out of the airport and on to the motorway. Abbra looked across at him, puzzled. ‘What on earth do you mean, voluntary?’

  ‘Well, combat officers usually do only a six-month stint in ’Nam. Lewis must have angled for this second six months. He wouldn’t have been given it if he hadn’t.’ He looked across at her, about to say that it was typical of Lewis to be such a glutton for punishment, and then he saw the expression on her face. His hands slid on the wheel, the car swerving as he said in stunned incredulity, ‘But you must have known, Abbra! He must have told you! Christ, I thought everyone knew co
mbat officers served only six-month stints!’

  ‘No.’ The word was strangled in her throat. She looked deathly pale. ‘I hadn’t known.… I didn’t realize …’ She saw the way he was looking at her and forced an unsteady smile. ‘Lewis is a military adviser. Perhaps that doesn’t come under the classification of being a combat officer. But if it does, you’re right, it is typical of him to go the extra mile.’

  Her eyes were overly bright and her voice was tremulous. For one terrible moment he thought she was going to cry.

  ‘Abbra …’ he began, slowing the car down, reaching out to her with his right hand.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said thickly, pushing his hand away. ‘I’m all right and I think you’re wrong, Scott. I don’t think he volunteered for this second six months of duty. It’s obligatory, I’m sure of it.’

  Scott said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Even if it hadn’t been obligatory, Lewis would have volunteered for it, and both of them knew it.

  There was a letter waiting for her when she arrived home. It was from the editor who had accepted her short story, and it suggested that, as she apparently had no literary agent, she might like to contact one. Three names were listed, but one, Patti Maine, was located in Los Angeles. As Abbra stared down at the address, the shocked sense of betrayal she had been feeling at Lewis’s act of deceit eased. She had another focus for her thoughts now, and she found shelter in it. Without even pausing to unpack her suitcase, she telephoned Patti Maine’s number and asked the secretary who answered it if she could please speak to Miss Maine.

  ‘Who is calling?’ a crisp voice asked, and as she gave her name Abbra accepted the fact that she was unlikely to be connected and that she would have to introduce herself by letter.

  ‘Patti Maine speaking,’ an unexpectedly young voice said, ‘I was hoping you would give me a call, Abbra. Bernadette Lawler wrote me, telling me that she had given you my number.’

  Abbra was so taken by surprise at Patti Maine accepting her call, and at being addressed by her first name that for a second she could only say, ‘Oh,’ and then, gathering her scattered wits, she said with a rush, ‘it’s very kind of you to speak to me.’