The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  She shrugged. ‘Never ’eard of it.’ She turned and yelled to the bloke behind the counter, ‘Hey, Tony, what’s cream caramel?’

  Tony shook his head and called into the back of the café, ‘Hey, Mama!’ Seconds later a stout lady arrived and stood at the door, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘What’s cream caramel, Mama?’ Tony asked.

  ‘Crème cara-mel’a?’ She said the words as if they were poetry. ‘Da brown sugar — da raw one — wid butter inna dish. Den bit cream, three egg, milk, bit honey, bit vanilla, mix all up, pour inna da bowl an’ put in slow oven one hour, it set’a just like’a jelly. Why you ask’a me, Tony — you want crème cara-mel’a?’

  The next most likely person who could help was Peter McVitty. I guess I could have gone to see the dreaded Rupert Basil Michael Long, but he had one agenda too many in his nefarious mind and I thought it wise to stay out of his clutches. Peter had a fair bit of clout in Canberra; he’d been (and for all I knew, still was) on the committee of the Directorate of Research and Civil Affairs. The title covered almost everything and nothing. It was a somewhat shadowy group that had a large influence over ANGAU which, in turn, was largely responsible for shaping the policies designed to bring New Guinea and the other islands back into the Australian colonial fold. This group had been brought together by Alf Conlon and was said to include some of the brightest in legal, academic and government circles. The members were being groomed to be the movers and shakers of post-war Australia. I called Peter in Canberra and made an appointment to see him.

  When I asked Peter if he could find a way for me to get to Java, his eyebrows shot up. ‘Java? There’s a civil war going on, Nick. Nasty business. Under Japanese occupation they missed out on fighting in the big stoush, now they’ve created a war of independence of their own. Very messy. We’ve decided to back the Indonesians in the United Nations and the Dutch are not real happy with us. They point to the fact that we’re going back into New Guinea and why can’t they do the same in what they insist on calling the Netherlands East Indies? Arrogant bunch, three hundred and thirty years of colonial rule and they want more.’

  ‘They’ve got a point, though — I mean us and New Guinea, the islands,’ I said.

  Peter McVitty smiled. ‘Selective perception, old chap, it’s redolent in all governments. What’s good for the goose in this instance is not good for the gander. The conscience we took to the United Nations in San Francisco got lost somewhere in the air over the Pacific. You’ve heard it all before: “We’re different, our indigenous population are still head-hunters, a hundred years away from self-rule, can’t possibly be left to manage on their own.”’

  ‘Seems wrong though, doesn’t it?’

  Peter McVitty looked at me sternly. ‘Nick, for Christ’s sake, don’t venture that opinion to the blokes from External Affairs. They’ll immediately conclude you want to go to Java to stir up trouble. We’re not neutral but we won’t interfere with the outcome.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I assured him. ‘I simply want to get to Tjilatjap and have no intention of getting involved other than to try and find a friend,’ I said.

  ‘Friend? Let me guess. Female. Dutch or Javanese?’

  ‘Half and half, Javanese mother; someone I met before the war.’

  ‘You sure that’s wise, Nick? There’s been a lot of water under the bridge, mate. Young Dutch women had a rough time under the Japanese.’ He didn’t need to elaborate. ‘My personal advice is to stay well away.’ He smiled. ‘But I’ve worked with you long enough to know your determination. By the way, how is your father?’

  ‘Recovering slowly. He’s been ordained a bishop.’

  ‘Nice, do we get him?’

  ‘You mean the islands?’ He nodded. ‘Yes, New Guinea, New Britain,’ I laughed. ‘Anywhere there’s malaria.’

  ‘Nick, I can’t promise; right now Java and Sumatra are officially “no go” diplomatic zones, but that may change. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Do I hang around or go back to Brisbane?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no, hang around. It will be “Yes” or “No” pretty damn quickly. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’ll find somewhere.’ I rose and, reaching over, shook his hand. ‘Thanks, Peter. Whatever the outcome, I appreciate your help.’

  ‘Wait a mo’, Nick.’ He picked up the phone. ‘I’ll book you into the Hotel Canberra. Parliament’s in session and they’re announcing the interim budget tomorrow. Canberra’s booked out, but they have to keep a couple of rooms vacant in case someone important to the government unexpectedly arrives in town.’

  After checking into the hotel I went out for a walk and I must say, for a national capital, Canberra was less than spectacular. Back at the hotel I found a message waiting for me: ‘See you for drinks, your hotel, 1800. Peter’.

  Over a whiskey and soda (beer for me) he said, ‘The notorious Nick Duncan luck is still holding. There’s a delegation going to Batavia, or as the leader of the proposed Republic of Indonesia, Sukarno, refers to it, Jakarta. You will be attached as an observer.’ He grinned. ‘That’s a word that covers a multitude of sins.’ He paused, sipping at his scotch. ‘Only catch is, they’re leaving from Perth in two weeks. You’ll have to make your own way overland; the rest is taken care of.’

  ‘I owe you, Peter, thank you.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Nick.’ He grinned. ‘Just make bloody sure that salvage business of yours is a huge success.’ Then he added modestly, ‘By the way, it wasn’t all that difficult to swing. When you joined Naval Intelligence you signed on forever. You’re still on the reserve list, so it’s time you got something back. All the committee did was to call Commander Long in Melbourne to check on your past performance and I’m told he simply said, “Give him anything he wants.”’ Peter grinned. ‘As they say in the islands, “Yu numba one fella.”’

  I returned to Brisbane where the little bloke, very reluctantly I must say, and after I’d picked up the dummy he spat out and placed it back in his mouth, arranged for me to hitch a ride to Perth on a military transport plane. I arrived two days later, having stopped overnight in Adelaide. I was three days early and it gave me a chance to see Bishop John Duncan at the Archbishop’s Palace where I stayed. The old man had put on a little weight, but his personal war had knocked the stuffing out of him; he looked ten years older than a man of fifty-one, although his intellect remained as sharp as ever. When I told him where and why I was going, all he said was, ‘Ah, the foolish affairs of the heart; do be careful, dear boy.’

  I made arrangements the next day to have lunch with Lieutenant Commander (now Captain) Rigby at the Perth Yacht Club and arrived an hour early so I could inspect Madam Butterfly. Nothing appeared to have changed — even the yard foreman, whose name I couldn’t recall, was the same and recognised me immediately. ‘Come back to visit the Madam, mate?’ he asked with a grin, then stuck out his hand. ‘Ray Davis.’

  ‘Nick Duncan — yeah, how is she?’ I replied, shaking his hand.

  ‘Good as new, mate. She’s still a bloody beautiful cutter. That’s the good thing about boats — the women yer love grow old and ugly, the boats stay beautiful.’

  He removed the canvas that covered Madam Butterfly and I climbed aboard. It was at once obvious that the lovely yacht had been well cared for. ‘She’s in good nick, Ray, thanks, mate.’

  ‘Commodore’d have me balls for ping-pong practice if she weren’t,’ Ray replied.

  Lunch with Captain Rigby was pleasant and we talked of old times, the war and, of course, Marg Hamilton. I didn’t tell him of our contretemps. Roger Rigby grinned and at one stage said, ‘Nick, I guess you’ve realised by now that Marg was very much more than the sum of what you saw?’

  ‘Certainly was — is,’ I replied. A sudden thought occurred to me. ‘You mean — professionally?’

  ‘Yes, petty officer was simply a cover; technically she was my superior.’
>
  ‘A spy?’ I asked, completely gob-smacked.

  ‘Not in so many words — someone who could listen in, take notes in high places, in meetings when we were dealing with the Americans. “Observer” is perhaps a better word.’ It was the word Peter McVitty had said covered a multitude of sins. I was beginning to think there was no end to the talents of Marg Hamilton. ‘She’s resigning from Naval Intelligence to marry Rob Rich, have children — the full domestic tragedy. Pity, there aren’t too many like her. If she’d been a male she’d — well, God knows where she would have ended up.’

  ‘She’s going to make Rob Rich a wonderful wife,’ I ventured.

  ‘She’s going to make Rob Rich an admiral,’ Roger Rigby replied, laughing.

  The delegation to what everyone now referred to as Indonesia was to make the journey over three days in three hops: to Broome where we were to stay overnight, then to Tjilatjap, on the west coast of Java, and then to Jakarta or, as it was previously known, Batavia. The delegation was conducting local talks in Tjilatjap before flying to the capital. I’d previously arranged — or, to put it more precisely, it had been arranged — with the Department of External Affairs that I would remain in Tjilatjap and catch the plane later when the delegation passed through as it returned to Australia. I had four days in which to find Anna and hadn’t a clue where to begin. The central police station was my guess. For a start, I was pleased I was carrying an Australian passport with diplomatic immunity, just in case some overzealous policeman, thinking I was Dutch, apprehended me.

  I stepped out of the old Dutch colonial-style hotel where the delegation talks were to be held that afternoon before it left for Jakarta, and into a large square. It was dominated by a huge bronze statue of a man on a tall stone plinth who, judging from his attire, was some Dutch historical figure. I could only guess this, because his head was missing. The decapitation was a good indication that the natives would not be over-friendly to someone, like me, who could be mistaken for a large Dutchman.

  I walked into the central police station and in an enquiring tone addressed a single word to the policeman behind the desk: ‘Captain?’ He looked at me, not comprehending. ‘Captain?’ I asked again. I figured it was a word that translates into most languages, as most military titles tend to do. I remembered a few Dutch words from my time with Anna, words such as ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, but this was neither the time nor the place to use them.

  He stared at me quizzically and then seemed to catch on. ‘Kapitein?’ he asked.

  ‘Ja, ja!’ I said, pleased. ‘Kapitein!’ I repeated, nodding my head vigorously. ‘Ja’ was another near-universal word. He indicated that I should sit and disappeared into a room to the side of the charge desk. A minute or so later he returned and with a wave of his hand gestured for me to enter the office, standing aside to let me pass.

  Seated behind an elaborately carved teak desk in the Javanese tradition was, by local standards, a fairly big and certainly well-fed bloke. He didn’t get up as I entered and merely took my hand, barely touching it as I attempted a handshake. His expression was non-committal and he took the passport I proffered and opened it without apparent interest, glancing at me and then at the photograph within it. Then his face lit up. ‘Ah, Australien?’ he said, suddenly smiling.

  He rose and offered his hand, this time allowing a very much firmer grip. ‘Lieutenant Nick Duncan,’ I said. External Affairs had advised me to use my previous navy ranking since all foreign civilians were suspect visitors.

  ‘Kapitein Khamdani,’ he replied. He turned and called to the policeman, motioning me to wait. He spoke at some length and the policeman nodded and left. The captain smiled and indicated the chair in front of the desk. I sat and we remained silent for twenty minutes, frequently smiling at each other, at which time he’d repeat ‘Engels kom,’ which, even with my limited Dutch, I knew meant ‘English come’. The police captain had sent out for a translator.

  Finally a young bloke of about seventeen entered. ‘Good — morning – sir,’ he said haltingly, as if practising each word on his tongue, not expecting it to emerge correctly.

  I stood. ‘Good morning, and your name is?’ I enquired, helping him along.

  ‘Budi. I learn English in my school.’

  ‘You speak well,’ I complimented him.

  ‘No, not so good,’ he replied, smiling.

  ‘Budi, can you tell the kapitein I’m here to look for someone?’ I asked.

  Budi translated quickly then turned back to me. ‘Name, please.’

  ‘A Miss Anna Van Heerden.’

  There was no mistaking the look of surprise. ‘Anna?’ he questioned, plainly astonished.

  ‘You know her?’ I said, excitedly.

  He turned to Captain Khamdani who had also recognised Anna’s name. ‘Anna?’ he said, then his face clouded. He went deadpan and turned and said something to Budi.

  ‘He want to know, why you want Anna? Why you come, Tjilatjap?’

  ‘Anna Van Heerden was my friend. Her boat broke down here in Tjilatjap.’ I produced Anna’s letter and handed it to him. He read it slowly, his lips moving. Then he looked up. ‘Nicho-las! She has tell me — told me —’ he corrected, not completing the sentence. Then turning to the police captain, and waving the letter excitedly, he talked rapidly to him. Captain Khamdani kept nodding his head and smiling.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ I asked, glancing at both men, my own excitement palpable.

  There was a moment’s silence and then Budi shook his head slowly. ‘No, we don’t know. She has gone. We are very sad for this.’

  That evening I met Ratih and Kiki and learned the full extent of Anna’s stay in Tjilatjap, or as much of it as an exhausted Budi with his limited English could translate.

  It was obvious that they thought of Anna as some sort of saint and I learned how she’d paid for Ratih’s restaurants, Kiki’s house, Budi’s high-school education and had also left behind money for his university tuition when the university reopened in Jakarta or Batavia — the name of the capital depending on which side won the struggle that was going on. They told me about the tragic death of Til, and how Anna had loved him as her friend and confidant. They also hinted at something dark in Anna’s past. Nothing was actually said, but my Intelligence-trained antenna immediately went into full alert.

  I stayed the four days and after the second, when they’d come to trust me, I learned that Budi was a young freedom fighter, home for a week’s leave from his unit in the jungle. I spent the next two days talking to him, teaching him how to set up effective ambushes, showing him a few tricks of the jungle fighter’s trade. We rapidly became good friends.

  ‘Maybe for me you can be my brother, Nick?’ he’d asked in a serious voice when it came time to part.

  ‘Yeah, Budi, I’d like that. I never had a brother.’

  ‘Me too never had,’ he said. ‘Now I am got for me,’ he said happily. I left him my address in Brisbane and our accountant’s address in New Hebrides.

  ‘Get in touch if you need anything, Budi. If you hear anything — I mean anything — about Anna, please let me know!’ I paused and placed my hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t ever forget what I told you about fighting in the jungle.’

  Budi looked at me, his young face earnest. ‘Ja, I always remember, Nick. He who stays still gets the kill,’ he repeated, quoting Sergeant Major Wainwright’s axiom.

  The delegation flew in from Jakarta and we returned to Broome, then to Perth. I was sad not to have found Anna but, at the same time, the knowledge that she had not perished at the hands of the Japanese was encouraging. I told myself if she could live through what Ratih, Budi and Captain Khamdani had told me about the Japanese occupation, there was a good chance she’d survived. I knew I’d keep looking, that I’d never give up. The same obsession that made me a butterfly collector was still intact. As long as she was alive I was more determi
ned than ever to find her — Anna, the most beautiful butterfly of them all.

  I called Marg Hamilton to tell her I’d returned safely. We hadn’t spoken since she’d stormed out of Florentino’s. ‘Marg, I’m back, unhurt,’ I said quickly when she answered the phone.

  ‘In that case you are forgiven, Nick,’ she answered. ‘Seeing that you’re still alive, would you mind giving me away at my wedding?’

  ‘That’s a tough call!’ I laughed, agreeing happily. She was getting a really good bloke and it would have been pointless to sulk. I asked her what she wanted for a wedding gift.

  ‘A puppy, please! Poor darling Timmy died peacefully of old age and Cardamon is lonely.’ Cardamon was, of course, her beloved Burmese cat.

  Setting up all the details and getting the heavy equipment we’d bought at US surplus auctions took a fair bit of time. The little bloke and Joe had been repatriated to San Diego, but by the middle of 1946 Kevin had returned to Brisbane. He promptly proposed to Bren Gun, whose period of mourning was finally over, and they planned to marry in the cathedral with myself and Joe Popkin as best man and chief groomsman. It turned out that Bren Gun had family coming out of the woodwork, and eight bridesmaids between the ages of four and eleven materialised.

  Kevin, at great expense (probably not personal), bought sufficient parachute silk for Bren Gun and her bridesmaids to have the full catastrophe, dressed in the latest fashion with matching bridesmaids’ outfits.

  Somehow, using Marg Hamilton (who wasn’t even a Catholic), we got James Duhig, the Archbishop of Queensland, to conduct the nuptial mass in St Stephen’s Cathedral and gained permission for Protestant Nick and Joe to be present. There were more flowers in the cathedral than in the Brisbane Botanical Gardens and two hundred and nineteen members of Bren Gun’s family attended, some coming down from Cairns and Darwin and across from Adelaide and Melbourne.