The Road Back: A Novel

by Di Morrissey

  ‘Chris, if we wanted to use file photos, I wouldn’t be asking you for yours. The article has to have relevant photos from that time. See what you can do.’

  Chris went back and stood beside Susan and told her jubilantly, ‘They’re taking the story. Be a few weeks before it appears, though. And there’s a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Well done, Chris!’ Susan beamed at her son. At the same moment, Megan’s team scored another goal and Susan and Chris cheered and clapped enthusiastically. ‘So what’s the problem?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll explain when we get home. Let’s watch Megan. She’s certainly playing well.’

  ‘Stop worrying. The magazine’s going to publish the story and that’s the main thing. Can I mention it to David? He’s coming down this way in a week or so, remember? He said he’d like to look at my Landcare project.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Chris said. ‘No, of course you can mention the fact that the story has been accepted. He’s part of it.’

  *

  After Megan’s team had won the closely contested game, the three of them walked home and Susan made a start on dinner. Chris wandered into the kitchen after her.

  ‘Now, tell me what the problem is with your article,’ Susan asked as she began chopping herbs.

  ‘Fenton wants photos. Not recent ones, which I have no trouble getting, but ones of your group in Indonesia. Have you got any?’

  ‘Oh, back in the dim dark ages before smart phones I had a Kodak Instamatic camera. I think Norma had one too. Mark had a movie camera. I know I came back with several rolls of film that I’d taken.’

  ‘Do you still have the photos?’

  Susan finished chopping the chives. ‘They’re in a box somewhere.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Megan as she sashayed into the kitchen and dropped a couple of her textbooks on the table.

  ‘I don’t think you should be doing your homework here. I’m getting dinner and the table’s messy,’ said Susan.

  ‘It’s easy stuff. What’re you talking about?’

  ‘Your grandmother is going to dig out some photos of her friends back in Indonesia for my article.’

  ‘Cool, can I see them? They must be really, really old.’

  ‘We did have some technological breakthroughs back in the olden days, primitive as they might have been,’ said Susan, dryly. ‘Let me put this in the oven and you two clear the table while I go and hunt for them.’

  After Susan had gone, Megan said, ‘I bet she knows exactly where they are. Living in one place nearly all your life must make things easier to find.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Chris with a chuckle.

  About ten minutes later, Susan reappeared and gently placed a shoe box in the middle of the table. She untied the ribbon around the box. ‘I haven’t looked at these for . . . well, I can’t remember how long. Oh, my.’ She peered at the first photo she’d pulled from the box. ‘Bingo, Chris. Right on top. Here we are.’

  ‘Let me see, let me see!’ Megan hung over Chris’s shoulder as he took the picture.

  ‘Wow, oh my God, look at you guys! There you are, Bunny. Oh, you look so cute.’

  ‘Let me guess who’s who. That’s obviously Norma. Was she a redhead?’ asked Chris, peering at the black and white photo.

  ‘She’s got lots of curls. Like Little Orphan Annie.’

  ‘Not quite as resilient, though,’ laughed Susan. ‘She was always so afraid of getting sick. Okay, who are the others?’

  ‘Hard to pick them, just going by how they look now. And check out that crew cut, why would you do that to yourself?’ said Chris.

  ‘That’s Mark. He said it felt cooler even if it did make him look like a Yank. I think he got the idea from Jimmy.’

  ‘Is there a picture of Jimmy?’ Chris asked gently.

  ‘Yes, in here somewhere.’

  ‘So who are the others?’ asked Megan.

  Chris took a stab at it. ‘I’d say that’d be Alan, he looks grim-faced. I don’t think he’s changed all that much, if the few recent photos of him are any indication. And the smiley one is David. He hasn’t changed much either. So that one must be Evan.’

  ‘Correct. Chris gets the prize,’ laughed his mother, then she sighed. ‘It’s nice looking at all these again.’

  Megan dipped into the box. ‘Ooh, look at the big water buffalo. And is this the village where you lived?’

  ‘Yes. See that hut in the corner? That’s where I stayed. Very primitive, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What about this one, is this Lake Toba?’ asked Chris. ‘Extraordinary. I love the bungalows with the high curved roofs.’

  ‘And that’s a picture of the nearby town.’

  ‘Certainly not much of a metropolis.’ Chris studied the photo.

  They were all dipping into the box and spreading the photos across the table.

  ‘Look, Megs . . . here I am in my sarong kebaya.’

  Chris glanced at his mother, touched that she was enjoying reminiscing and sharing.

  ‘Oh, Bunny, you look so beautiful! I’d love to wear something like that!’

  ‘I still have the lace kebaya top somewhere. Not that I would fit into it any more. But the embroidery was pretty, so I kept it. We can make you a sarong out of a length of batik if you like.’

  ‘And who’s this?’ asked Megan.

  Susan smiled wistfully at the photo. ‘That’s Jimmy and me at Lake Toba. His friend took it.’

  Chris stared at his young mother standing beside the tall, smiling American. He put the photo to one side as they all delved into the bottom of the box.

  ‘Wow, you’re all dressed up here. Is this when you went to the embassy party?’ asked Megan, showing the photo of the group to Chris.

  Susan glanced at it. ‘You’re right, Megan. That was the reception at the Australian Embassy when we met the amazing K’tut Tantri.’

  ‘You had some interesting times. Where’s this photo taken?’ asked Chris, picking out another picture.

  ‘That’s Bogor Palace and the gorgeous Botanic Gardens. Jimmy and I loved wandering through them.’ For a moment Susan stared into space, then she shook her head slightly as if to clear unwanted images. ‘Take anything that you think will be useful, Chris.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. This will be more than enough.’

  *

  After Chris had sent the photos to the magazine, he received a short message from the deputy editor to say that the story would be printed in three weeks’ time.

  But in fact the article came out a week earlier. The protests against Alan Carmichael’s Victorian development had escalated and clearly the Sunday Scene thought Chris’s piece was now very topical.

  Susan got up early, walked down to the newsagency to collect the paper and pulled out the magazine section. She stopped from time to time on her way home to read it.

  When Chris came into the kitchen and saw the paper on the table, he asked, ‘Well, Mum, how was it?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re going to like it.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘It’s okay as far as it goes, but having read the original, it’s a real shame. This version has been cut right back.’

  ‘Oh, damn.’ Chris sat down and read the piece from beginning to end with a sinking heart. His story had been pared back to the bare bones. It was more than frustrating; it was very disappointing after all the hard work that he had put into it.

  ‘How many words are left untouched, do you think? You won’t get paid much,’ said Susan.

  ‘It’s more annoying that the detail and background to it has been slashed. Only a page and a quarter with three photos! And what is even more irritating is that they have heavily featured everything that I wrote about Alan Carmichael at the expense of the others. David hardly gets any mention at all. What a wasted opportunity.’

  ‘I suppose that’s because Alan’s in the news right now.’

  ‘But Mum, what he said was so lightweight, and the magazine has
made him sound as though he is delivering the Ten Commandments. It’s not the emphasis I wanted at all.’

  ‘You never know, darling. At least you’ve made contact with the paper and they might commission more from you,’ said Susan.

  A week later Chris was still smarting over the fact that his story had been so heavily cut. He was staring moodily out the kitchen window, cradling a coffee, when Susan entered carrying the remains of a meal.

  ‘Aren’t you playing golf with Shaun and your other mates this weekend?’ Susan asked. ‘That will cheer you up.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so,’ Chris said, sighing. ‘I’m not sure that I want to be locked into golf on a regular basis. They don’t mind. I’m always welcome if I want a game. But you know what they say about golf, it’s a good walk spoiled.’

  ‘Why don’t you pop down to Sydney and catch up with Mac or your other friends?’ suggested Susan, clearing away a few dishes.

  ‘Hmm. I’d like that. But I suppose I really shouldn’t spend the money.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, spend that extra money from the article on yourself. Do something to liven yourself up. Megan and I feel we have to tiptoe around your long face these days.’

  Chris gave a small laugh. ‘Sorry. I am being boring, but I do feel a bit down in the dumps. Having my article hacked to pieces is bad enough, but the fact that I haven’t had one nibble about another story, let alone a job, feels like the last straw.’

  ‘Well, moping isn’t going to help,’ said Susan briskly. ‘Go to Sydney. Megan and I have more than enough to fill our Saturdays, so you won’t be missed at all.’

  Chris laughed. ‘All right! All right. I will. I’ll see if Mac is free.’

  The next Saturday morning Chris got off the airport train at Hyde Park and walked in the sunshine through to Phillip Street, where he met his two friends, Wendy from archives and his old editor John from Trinity Press. Over coffee and croissants he caught up with their plans, and heard about what other colleagues were doing. They dissected the current political scene, exchanged anecdotes and had a few laughs. Then he caught a bus to nearby Paddington and found the small but excellent Italian restaurant Mac had suggested.

  Spotting Mac at a table near a window, he was surprised to see an attractive young woman seated beside his old mentor.

  ‘Chris! Great that you’re here. Hope you don’t mind, I asked my daughter Georgia to join us. I’d promised Georgie a birthday lunch and this is the first chance we’ve had to celebrate.’

  ‘How do you do. Happy Birthday,’ said Chris, sliding in beside Mac in the curved booth and offering Georgia his hand. He felt a trifle disappointed by Georgia’s presence, as he’d wanted to have a serious talk with Mac about his article and run a few other ideas past him. However, as she greeted him warmly and shook his hand, he looked at her with more interest. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, and was quite striking with her dark hair and unusual green eyes. When he tried to recall what Mac had told him about his daughter over the years, he realised Mac had made few passing references, as they’d always just talked shop. Georgia hadn’t featured in any of their many conversations. Clearly, Chris thought, as he glanced at Georgia again, this had been a terrible oversight.

  ‘My birthday was over a week ago. Dad has just found a space in his diary,’ said Georgia, good-naturedly.

  ‘That’s not true,’ protested Mac. ‘You’re the one with the packed diary.’

  It wasn’t until they had finished ordering that Mac enquired about Chris’s article.

  ‘So Chris, you mentioned that they butchered your story. The way it goes, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I realise that, but it’s so frustrating. I feel that there is so much more to tell about these amazing people. I have a feeling I’ve hardly scratched the surface.’

  ‘I enjoyed your story. Actually, I always enjoy your writing. I used to read your column from the States all the time,’ said Georgia. ‘What really surprised me about this story was the fact that a group of young Australians worked in Indonesia at such a dangerous time. I went to the Ubud Writers Festival in Bali this year. Stunning location. No wonder they get all the top-name international authors to go. Everyone wants a luxurious jaunt there. Very different from how it was in 1968, I imagine.’

  ‘That festival does sound nice,’ said Chris. ‘I’ll have to try and go one year. Actually, my mother would love it.’

  ‘I was working, so I didn’t get to see as many of the events as I would have liked. But the hotels and resorts were stunning and the social get-togethers were fun,’ Georgia said with a grin.

  ‘Working there? In what capacity?’ asked Chris.

  ‘I’m a literary agent. I had a couple of authors speaking.’

  ‘That sounds interesting. How long have you been an agent?’ asked Chris.

  ‘I started when I was living in London a few years ago and then when I came home I found another job with an agency in Melbourne. Then I was headhunted by a literary agency here in Sydney. They didn’t have to twist my arm too hard to convince me to come home,’ added Georgia. ‘I missed my old man.’

  ‘As if, Georgie,’ snorted Mac. ‘You’re too wedded to your job to have much time for your old man.’

  ‘He’s good company,’ said Chris with a smile. ‘And he gives good advice.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Georgia with a fond glance at Mac. ‘Now tell me, Chris, I get the idea, from what I read, that there seems to be a lot more to your story. I think it’s intriguing that a random group of men flung together on a particular project in Indonesia would all go on to such success. Dad says your mother was there too.’

  ‘Yes, and another woman, a midwife. I can’t find her in time for the article and Mum didn’t want to be in it.’

  ‘But those men are significant names,’ said Georgia. ‘So why do you think there’s more to tell? What did they cut out that was so important?’

  As the waiter poured their wine and they picked at the overflowing platter of cheeses, olives, dips, slices of ham and salami and pickled antipasto, Chris began to tell Georgia what had been cut out of his article and what else he felt should be written about the men.

  ‘It was so annoying that the magazine chose to ignore someone as interesting as David Moore in order to concentrate on Alan Carmichael, when David is just as accomplished in his own way. I think . . .’

  Chris suddenly paused mid-sentence, sipped his wine and then took a chunk of bread and dipped it into some excellent olive oil. ‘Sorry I’m going on so much. Let me get my dismembered story out of my system and I won’t mention it again.’ He reached for more bread.

  ‘Your article certainly has a fascinating cast. While it might be irritating that Alan Carmichael ended up being the star of your show, getting any sort of response from him is a coup. He’s notoriously private. So, well done, you. A couple of well-known writers have approached him with a view to writing an authorised biography. No joy there, however,’ said Georgia. ‘So what’s next?’

  ‘I’ll try to hunt around for another story, but I won’t put so much blood, sweat and tears into it,’ said Chris.

  ‘You won’t be able to help yourself,’ said Mac.

  The waiter came over and topped up their wine and Georgia returned to the subject of Chris’s article, asking him questions about what else he knew about the background of the Neighbourhood Aid project.

  ‘So what are you thinking, Georgie? Is there any more to this story?’ asked Mac.

  ‘More than what?’ asked Chris. ‘I haven’t been approached for any sort of follow-up piece.’

  ‘I’m not thinking of another article,’ explained Georgia. ‘I’m thinking there might be something here for me, for a book. You’ve thrown out some tantalising morsels. Maybe there’s something more to this.’ Georgia paused and cocked her head to one side. ‘I think you need to keep digging.’

  ‘Georgie has good instincts about this kind of thing,’ said Mac, smiling at Chris. ‘If she thinks there’s more to it, usuall
y there is!’

  ‘A book? Wow, I never considered that. How do you judge if a book is going to work?’ Chris felt the adrenalin begin to kick in, and a feeling of excitement gnawed at him.

  ‘Pitch your ideas to me in writing,’ smiled Georgia. ‘Throw in everything you know, what you want to know, and where you figure the book might end up. The main thing, though, is finding a hook. Something to make a publisher sit up and take notice.’

  Chris took a sip of wine. ‘I would love to scratch below the surface a bit more and find out what makes these men tick. But who would want to read it?’

  ‘Australians like to read about other Australians, especially if they are successful,’ said Georgia. ‘We’re a curious lot. Bookshelves are full of biographies of footballers and cricketers, not to mention politicians. These four will make a nice variation on the theme. Still, don’t get too excited yet. I’ll have to pitch it to some publishers and they can be a hard bunch to impress.’

  ‘What if they bite?’ asked Chris, trying to sound calm.

  ‘You’d get an advance. Nothing too extravagant, especially given the shaky state of publishing at present, though it’s coming good. But an advance could help cover your research costs. Give you a bit of breathing space. Once the book is published, you pay back the advance out of the royalty payments. But Chris, an author gets a very small percentage of the book sales, so don’t go buying a house in Tuscany just yet.’

  ‘She’s right. Only a handful of authors in Australia do well enough to make a living from their books alone,’ said Mac. ‘Most have to take other jobs to keep a roof over their heads.’

  ‘Even so, writing can be satisfying, I’m told,’ said Georgia.

  ‘If you don’t starve first,’ said Mac. ‘Speaking of starving, look at this food. Magnifico!’

  The conversation became more general as they enjoyed the food. But while he made small talk, Chris’s mind was whirring with the idea of writing a book.

  They had ordered a fruit platter, but before it came the waiter placed a slice of cake complete with a flaring sparkler in front of Georgia. Mac and Chris sang ‘Happy Birthday’ lustily, while the birthday girl blushed with embarrassment.