The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘You’ve hurt your toe,’ I remarked needlessly.

  ‘Nah, it’s me bunions, love,’ she said, pointing to the slipper. ‘This one’s playing up. It’s the weather, must be rain comin’, can always tell.’ She looked down at the slipper, shaking her head. ‘Perfectly good pair of slippers me daughter gave me for Christmas, seems a shame havin’ ter mutilate ’em like this. Cuppa, love?’

  Without waiting for me to reply she began to pour from a large aluminium teapot into a white cup, then added a splash of milk. ‘No sugar. Sorry about that, it’s wartime. Yer have ter bring yer own or go without.’ She paused, handing me the unsugared tea. ‘Now, what I want to know is this. All them lads fightin’ and gettin’ our sugar, which I don’t resent, not for one moment… but they ain’t usin’ no more sugar than they did when they was back home, are they? They’re not takin’ four teaspoons at the front when before they only took two at home. So, answer me this. What’s happened to all our sugar?’

  I laughed. ‘I really don’t mind my tea either way,’ I replied, not knowing the answer to the great sugar mystery.

  ‘That’s not the point, is it? If you ask me, it’s them government blokes in Canberra, the buggers are hoardin’ it.’

  I rose from my chair to take the cup from her. ‘I’m Nick Duncan,’ I said.

  ‘Dorothy, love. Bickie? Only Arnott’s digestives.’ She laughed. ‘The war. Only the generals get chocolate bickies.’ She stirred the tea and put a plain brown biscuit on the saucer before placing it beside me on the desk. ‘Better do one for his nibs. He never drinks it, but gets grumpy if he thinks he’s been neglected.’ She poured a second cup, added no sugar and placed a chocolate biscuit in a separate saucer beside the cup. ‘It’s so the chocolate won’t melt against the side of the cup,’ she explained.

  ‘Er… who… whose office is this, Dorothy?’

  ‘Nobody’s,’ she replied. ‘His nibs uses it when he comes down from Perth.’

  I pointed to the chocolate biscuit. ‘Is he a general?’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t think so, love, he put himself on the chocolate bickie list.’

  She left and it seemed only moments later that a small bald and greying man, with what remained of his hair combed over and stuck to his scalp, and wearing steel-rimmed glasses, entered. He propped at the door, holding it open, and I rose and turned towards him. He seemed oblivious of my presence. He wore a navy woollen suit, the jacket of which was shiny from wear at the back, and I could see had no chance of buttoning around a pumpkin-sized paunch. Everything about him was small except his stomach, which looked as if it belonged to someone else and he’d simply borrowed it for the day. White shirt, nondescript dark-blue tie and a returned soldier’s badge in his lapel. He held the door open, allowing a woman to enter. She carried a bentwood chair and a notepad and he made no attempt to take the chair from her. She was taller than him, about five foot nine, with a slim figure in a plain, light-blue cotton dress and appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Her nice chestnut hair was swept up into a bun behind her head and she wore no discernible expression. At first you thought she was plain but when you looked twice you could see, with her hair allowed to fall loose and a bit of make-up such as lipstick and stuff, she would be quite pretty. I rushed forward and took the chair from her and waited for them both to pass me. The little guy still chose to ignore my presence and went straight to the chair behind the desk, hefting a briefcase onto the desk and sitting down. Then he poked a finger into the tea to see if it was still hot. The lady walked to the side of the desk and waited for me to place the chair down. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a pleasant voice. ‘I’m Marg Hamilton, I work here. I’ll be taking notes.’

  ‘Nick Duncan,’ I said, smiling.

  I was beginning to feel decidedly awkward, standing in khaki shorts and shirt and brown sandshoes, waiting for the old bloke behind the desk who was reading from a single piece of paper to pay me some attention. I wasn’t game to simply sit down, not even sure if I wasn’t under some sort of arrest.

  ‘Hurrumph!’ he growled, clearing his throat, then reached for his cup, took an absent-minded swallow, replaced it on the desk, missing the saucer by several inches, but somehow managed to find the chocolate biscuit, which he held suspended in one hand while he continued to read from what I assumed was some sort of briefing paper that had been left for him on the desk.

  I glanced over at Marg Hamilton, who was seated with her legs crossed at the ankles. Nice long legs. She grinned at me and then glanced quickly at the man, then back at me, lifting one eyebrow almost imperceptibly. She was plainly in sympathy with me and I told myself I liked her.

  I’d been back in civilisation only a few hours and was already growing weary of the self-importance people seemed to place on the roles they played in the business known as ‘the war effort’. The old bloke now opened his mouth, giving me a glimpse of silver and gold fillings, and swallowed the entire biscuit, licking his fingers where the chocolate had melted. Then, still ignoring me, he unclasped the straps of his worn briefcase and withdrew my passport, some of the additional papers I’d handed to the Lieutenant Commander on the wharf and, to my surprise, Anna’s embroidered handkerchief of the Clipper butterfly, and finally the oilskin wallet I’d made to protect the Magpie Crow. He looked up at last and seemed to notice for the first time that I was still standing. ‘Sit, please,’ he said crisply, and when I was finally seated he reached over the desk to shake my hand. ‘Henry Customs,’ he said, barely touching my fingers in a handshake as firm as a dead squid.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Customs?’ I said, smiling and then withdrawing my hand, adding, ‘Nick… Nick Duncan.’ I wasn’t at all pleased that they’d been through my knapsack, probably when we’d been at breakfast.

  ‘No, no, it’s Henry… Mr Henry, Commonwealth Customs and Immigration,’ he said irritably, glancing at the secretary.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, blushing and then looking rather sheepishly at the secretary myself. She returned my glance with a secret little smile.

  Henry reached out and picked up my passport, then leaned back in his chair and allowed it to fall back onto the desk. ‘Japan.’

  ‘Japan?’ I was still rattled from the introduction and didn’t catch on immediately.

  ‘You lived in Japan,’ he accused.

  ‘Yes, sir, I was born in Tokyo.’

  ‘Why was that?’ he asked. I was reminded of Kevin’s description of the social worker who had asked him if he slept with his mother. This question seemed equally stupid.

  ‘I don’t think I had much choice; my parents conceived me there, sir.’

  He jerked his head towards Marg Hamilton. ‘I must remind you that this is an official interview, Mr Duncan,’ he said. ‘Every word is being taken down in shorthand.’

  To my surprise Marg Hamilton, using a deliberately didactic tone, read from the pad, repeating the words, ‘Japan?’ spoken by me, then Henry’s ‘You lived in Japan,’ then my ‘Yes, sir, I was born in Tokyo,’ followed by his ‘Why was that?’ and concluding with my somewhat facetious reply. ‘Do you really want it put down just like that, Mr Henry?’ she asked, looking directly at him.

  ‘No, no, girlie, expunge,’ Henry blustered, then turned to me. ‘Do you speak Japanese, Mr Duncan?’

  ‘Yes, sir, my father and I left when I was eleven, by which time I was bilingual.’

  ‘And your mother? She Japanese?’

  ‘No, sir, French, she died when I was five.’

  ‘You speak French?’

  ‘No, sir, I was too young.’

  ‘Your father, why was he in Japan?’

  ‘He taught English and was the headmaster of the International School in Tokyo. It was run by the American Embassy.’

  ‘Where is he now? Have you contacted him?’

  ‘He’s an Anglican missionary in New Britain, hopefully escaped before the J
apanese invaded, and no I haven’t; we only arrived this morning and I have no news.’

  ‘Then how do you know the Japanese have invaded New Guinea?’ he shot back, head cocked to one side, one eye half-closed.

  ‘Lieutenant Commander Rigby of Naval Intelligence told me, sir.’

  ‘Write that down, girlie,’ Henry shot out.

  Marg Hamilton looked up and while she didn’t exactly sigh you just knew she was doing so inwardly. ‘It was on the wireless, Mr Henry.’

  ‘Write it down… write it down, Rigby, Naval Intelligence. Loose talk costs lives,’ Henry insisted. He reached out and picked up Anna’s carefully folded handkerchief and placed it in front of him, opening each fold carefully as if it might contain something. It was finally spread out showing the embroidered butterfly in the bottom right-hand corner facing me. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘A handkerchief,’ I replied.

  ‘A woman’s handkerchief?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s a keepsake.’

  He stabbed a finger at the square of linen. ‘The butterfly? That mean something, some sort of code?’

  I laughed. ‘No, sir, it’s an embroidery of a Clipper butterfly.’ I was damned if I was going to tell him any more. If I should do so, the next thing would be that he had turned Anna into the Mata Hari of the Dutch East Indies.

  He reached for the oilskin wallet and tossed it in front of me. ‘Open it,’ he instructed.

  I opened the wallet, fearful that my precious Magpie Crow might have been damaged by a recent clumsy inspection. But when I withdrew the triangular envelope and carefully opened it I discovered my specimen was in perfect condition. I sighed, grateful to someone unknown.

  ‘Another butterfly, eh?’ he said suspiciously. ‘Would you like to explain, Mr Duncan?’

  ‘It’s a Magpie Crow, sir. Only found in Java, Sumatra, Malaya and Singapore,’ I explained, then added, ‘I collect butterflies, sir.’

  ‘Write that down, girlie, Java, Sumatra, Malaya and Singapore, all under Japanese occupation, oh, and add that the subject asked about New Britain, also now under the Japanese occupation! Ha! Butterfly collector, pull the other one!’ he added gratuitously.

  Marg Hamilton glanced up quickly, her eyes grown large. ‘Shall I write that too?’ she asked.

  ‘No, of course not, use your head, girlie,’ Henry said impatiently. Then, shaking his head and clicking his tongue, ‘Butterfly collector, what next?’

  I had always been taught to be polite to people older than myself and to those I should respect, and Pumpkin Paunch was obviously my superior in this situation. But I’d had enough of this buffoon with the three strands of greying hair glued across the top of his small, bald pink head. ‘My father is a personal friend of the Archbishop of Perth, Henry Le Fanu, who is my godfather, perhaps someone might call him?’ I said, my voice sufficiently loud for Henry to peer over the top of his steel-rimmed glasses, a look of surprise on his face. Marg Hamilton giggled, then quickly brought her shorthand pad up to her mouth to cover her grin.

  Henry rose from his chair. ‘You will remain here, please, Mr Duncan.’ He turned to Marg Hamilton. ‘You too, girlie.’ Then leaving my things on the desk he crossed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Marg waited a few moments. ‘He’s getting worse!’ she giggled. ‘Thank God he retires next month, when Australia will be a safer place for all.’

  I grinned. ‘He’s certainly different,’ I said cautiously. ‘How long have you been his secretary?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not his secretary, he thinks I’m from the typing pool.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘No, I cover him when he comes down from Perth,’ she said, and then without explaining any further she reached for the phone and dialled a number, then waited for the other end to respond. ‘Sir, it’s Marg, it’s probably time for you to come in.’ She listened while the other end said something. ‘No, he’s left the room to call the Anglican Archbishop,’ she said, smiling into the phone. ‘Have someone bring in a chair for you.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘Do you really know the Archbishop?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, fair dinkum, he’s my godfather.’

  ‘Good, that should be sufficient to send Customs and Immigration scuttling back to Perth. Horrid little man!’ She moved over to look at Anna’s embroidered handkerchief and then at the Magpie Crow specimen. ‘They’re very pretty, you must tell me about them sometime. Do you really collect butterflies?’

  I nodded, grinning. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘That’s nice, I like that — an intrepid ocean-going sailor who collects butterflies,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘No, it’s stupid.’ I pointed to the Magpie Crow. ‘That little black-and-white specimen damn nearly cost me my life.’

  She gave me a serious look. ‘You don’t strike me as stupid, Nick,’ she said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘That’s nice, dear, but you must appreciate there is a war on. Please don’t ask me again, we ration everyone to one shower a day.’

  She pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘You may choose morning or night, but not both.’

  Mrs Beswick

  Boarding-house keeper

  SEVERAL MINUTES PASSED BEFORE the door opened and Lieutenant Commander Rigby stepped into the room alone, not carrying a chair. ‘We meet again, Nick,’ he said pleasantly, then turning to Marg Hamilton, ‘I take it you’ve met Chief Petty Officer Hamilton, Naval Intelligence?’

  ‘Well yes, sort of,’ I ventured, smiling at Marg. ‘I’ve met the amanuensis version anyway,’ I said, using a word my father preferred to ‘secretary’, a rogue word that he was fond of pointing out had a number of other meanings in the English language.

  ‘Sorry about Bert Henry, we’re obliged to give Customs and Immigration first crack at anyone coming ashore; they need to check your passport, papers, that sort of thing, which is fair enough. But Bert’s a conspiracy theorist who sees the enemy everywhere, that’s why Marg here acts as a stenographer. Thankfully up to this moment he hasn’t caught on that she’s Intelligence.’ He laughed. ‘A week ago we had a group of escaping English soldiers, who, like you, sailed from the East Indies but in a prahu, a sixty-foot Malayan outrigger canoe. Like your own escape, it was a remarkable effort and, in addition, at one stage they’d endured a machine-gun attack by a Japanese Zero. We should rightfully have treated them like the heroes they undoubtedly were. But Bert Henry became convinced they were fifth columnists and wanted to clap them into jail on the strength that he didn’t believe anyone could sail an outrigger that far, least of all a bunch of Pommie soldiers. The men were all from the north of England with broad Sheffield and Liverpool accents, and our Bert couldn’t understand most of what they were saying. This he took to be further evidence that they were deeply suspect and he declared them to be Germans masquerading as English. Marg’s notes, if they had been submitted to Bert Henry’s superiors, would have said more about Bert Henry’s mental condition than that of the half-starved English soldiers.’

  ‘What do you do with the… er… notes?’ I said, pointing to the shorthand notepad.

  ‘Type them up, delouse them when necessary, then post them on with a copy to Bert’s immediate superior. Like us, they’re anxiously waiting for his retirement next month.’

  ‘Mr Henry, will he be coming back?’ I asked.

  ‘No, having called the Archbishop’s palace and received confirmation of your relationship leaves him with nowhere to go. He’s a stickler for God, king and country and with God confirmed as being on your side I guess he decided his temporal duties were over. He’s agreed your passport is authentic and your papers in order. That’s about it for his department, anyway. We thanked him for his help and ordered a navy car to take him back to Perth. He usually comes by train, so he’ll enjoy the prestige associated with the ride and see it as confirmation of his importance
in the scheme of things. Besides, he’s done his bit; he won a military cross at Passchendaele in the last war and we should respect his contribution.’

  Lieutenant Commander Rigby took the seat behind the desk and Marg Hamilton sat down again with her notepad. Rigby pointed to my passport, papers, Anna’s handkerchief and the Magpie Crow envelope that was still open. ‘I regret we had to go through your things, Nick, although I can’t apologise, it’s standard procedure. You may have them back, but I confess I’m curious to know about the butterflies.’

  His manner as a contrast to Pumpkin Paunch was so easy and relaxed that I found myself totally disarmed as I told him why I’d ridiculously gone to Java in the first place, my meeting with Piet Van Heerden and his desire that I take his yacht to Australia, and the butterfly-catching excursion with his daughter Anna, who had embroidered the butterfly she’d caught onto the hanky as a keepsake. I didn’t dwell on Anna and made it sound as if our relationship had been casual; good friends only. This was partly because I lacked the vocabulary to deal with how I felt about her and also the fear that, as an older man, he would simply see it as puppy love, the first real-person sexual arousal in a young bloke, the transition between randy images conjured up in the toilet and under early-morning sheets and the shock and delight of the real thing, even if it was the unconsummated real thing. It never seems to occur to adults that one of the greatest love affairs in literature took place between a fourteen-year-old Juliet and a sixteen-year-old Romeo.

  I went on to talk about my escape and of being awakened at around midnight a night out from Batavia by the noise of big guns coming from the direction of the Sunda Strait. I told of the tragedy witnessed on the beach the following morning. But now I decided to come clean. I confessed to Lieutenant Commander Rigby that I hadn’t had the courage to bury the dead men, afraid the natives would return and find me. I explained the indecent compromise I’d reached by laying them out in line and placing a small, hastily made wooden cross above the head of each one and then, from memory, conducting a funeral service. ‘I’m ashamed to say I was afraid, sir,’ I confessed, Kevin’s immortal words ‘I ain’t no fuckin’ hero’ jumping into my head.