The Memory Tree (20 page)

Before Vietnam, there was basic training. With his qualifications, Zav should have been selected for officer school, but the rebel streak that sent him up the Satan’s Slide and put him at odds with his father caused him to question the authority of those he didn’t respect. And he didn’t respect Corporal Hinkler, a leather-faced, little tyrant who was called Corporal Hitler behind his back.

Hinkler took a special dislike to Monty and tormented and bullied the boy because he could. For this reason, Monty was extra careful to make no mistakes and kept himself and his belongings as neat as a pin.

The platoon returned to their hut one morning to find Monty’s bed in disarray and a red-faced Corporal Hinkler standing triumphantly at its foot. Zav, who had entered first, was just in time to see the corporal throwing a towel to the floor.
Was there no limit to this man’s vindictiveness?
Just as Hinkler opened his mouth to roar, Zav stepped forward.

‘Corporal. I wish to report an instance of vandalism.’

The little man glared at the tall young soldier whose face was blank as he stared just over the corporal’s head.

‘Vandalism, Recruit Rodriguez?’

‘Yes, Corporal. Someone has vandalised Recruit Montgomery’s bed. I saw him make it before we left for Parade.’ He continued to stare straight ahead, as a quickly restrained snigger burst from one of the men behind him.

‘Request that you investigate, Corporal.’

Ignoring Zav, the corporal turned to Monty. ‘Make your bed, soldier, and don’t let me find it in this state again.’ He swung around and marched out, grinding his teeth as the laughter exploded behind him.

Zav became a hero to his mates, but from then on, found his name on the list for all the worst jobs. At the Passing Out Parade, he was not called for officer training.

A few months after Zav went into the army, Sealie also left home, being part of the September intake of nurses. Before going, though, she climbed the steps to the attic carrying a small cloth bag. She stood in the doorway and looked at the carefully labelled boxes. Each of them contained something of her life. Fleeting things, like her shell collection, which started and ended in the two weeks of their summer holiday at Rosebud in 1956. Past treasures, like her favourite party dresses and ballet costumes. Books she had enjoyed:
The Faraway Tree
was there,
Cherry Ames
and the whole series of
Sadlers’ Wells
. The glory box was almost overflowing with its growing collection of linen and silk. She had added a pale blue nightgown only last week—a birthday gift from Kate. The Japanese jewellery box was in its place on the windowseat. She sat down and opened it. The Scottie Dog brooch was still there. And her gold baby bracelet and her mother’s pearls. Hal had given her the pearls for her sixteenth birthday. She ran her fingers over their smoothness. The only time she had worn them was at Zav’s wedding. Sealie’s taste ran to Indian love-beads and silver rings and bangles. Pearls were for old ladies, but she kept these in the box her mother had given her and liked to look at them sometimes. They glowed now, like little moons in the palm of her hand.

She stood up and straightened her shoulders. There was something else she had to do. She crossed the room and knelt in front of a small blanket box that she had once used as a toy chest. Placing her bundle on the floor, she opened the lid and picked up a pair of small, black ballet slippers, tied together by their ribbons. She dangled them from her finger and smiled. Her first pair of ballet shoes. Sealie had wanted pink, but her mother had said black for practice. Along with these, there were several pairs of character shoes, tap shoes and numerous ballet slippers, all in different colours and sizes. Some of the larger ones were blocked for dancing
en pointe
. Right at the bottom of the box, there was a tissue-wrapped parcel, which she opened carefully. For a moment, she cradled the contents against her cheek. These slippers were white satin. Paulina had worn them the last time she danced in public. The toes were grubby and frayed—little threads of satin and stage-dust. Sealie held them against her own long feet and grimaced. Her mother’s feet had been so tiny; these shoes looked like a child’s.

Replacing the parcel, Sealie opened the cloth bag and took out her last pair of ballet shoes, a serviceable black for practice. She ran the ribbons through her fingers.
New life now
, she whispered and shed a few, private tears.

The next day, Sealie left her father’s house to make her home in the nurses’ quarters of St Vincent’s Hospital. As they turned from Punt Road into Victoria Parade, Hal glanced at his daughter. She was sitting next to him, with that straight back of hers, looking so composed. He, on the other hand, was having difficulty keeping up their polite conversation.

Is this my daughter? The little girl who used to dance into our bedroom and tuck herself in between us? The child who loved milkshakes? Is this the red fairy who danced centre front at the Collingwood Town Hall? Who grinned that gap-toothed smile as she flitted about on the gigantic stage?

Sealie was dressed in a short navy-blue skirt, with a powder-blue, rollneck jumper, her unruly hair tied back with a neat scarf. In the car boot was her case packed with her uniforms, her books, nightwear, underwear and some clothes for her rare days off. There was also a satchel with text books, lecture pads and assorted writing implements.

For what seemed like the hundredth time Hal said, ‘Don’t get me wrong. Being a nurse is great. But why can’t you live at home? We’re only a few minutes away from the hospital.’ He didn’t look at her but stared over the steering wheel, which he clenched with white-knuckled hands.

His daughter was becoming impatient. ‘I’ve told you, Dad. It’s the rules.’

‘I know. I know. It’s just that with Zav gone . . .’

Sealie changed the subject, ‘We haven’t had a letter for a while.’

‘No.’

‘Kate rang this morning,’ Sealie continued. ‘She got three letters all at once. He’s good. Still hot there. Humid. He’ll hate that.’

The hospital loomed before them and they joined the girls and their parents in the foyer where the bust of a large woman stared down with disapproval at the bold display of legs and the nervous giggles of this new batch of would-be nurses.

‘Mother Aikenhead. Founder of the Sisters of Charity,’ whispered one knowledgeable young woman. ‘My sister’s been here for four years. Nearly got caught putting a bra on the old dragon,’ she said with pride. Sealie was glad to have someone to speak to. Cassie, despite her repeated intention to become a nurse, left school a year before and had just completed a secretarial course.

They were led to a large hall where the Director of Nurse Education told them what to expect as trainees. Her audience looked at each other, daunted. So many rules!

‘You are embarking upon a truly worthwhile career,’ Sister Michael concluded. ‘If you are not up to the responsibility, you should leave now. Because you’ll need total commitment, girls. That, along with energy, toughness and compassion. Not everyone has these qualities.’ She stared down at the fresh young faces. Her own was smooth and angular under her white veil.
A handsome face
, Sealie thought, as the speaker introduced another sister who was to show them to their rooms.

Sealie’s room was small and cell-like, but it was hers. She looked around with satisfaction at the single bed with its green, chenille cover; the stout wardrobe, the plain chair and the desk with its goose-necked lamp; the small, chipped mirror on the far wall. The window, framed with green-and-white striped curtains, overlooked Victoria Parade where she could see Melbourne’s first skyscraper, the ICI building. She felt excited and energised by its bold statement of modernity. While her father stood miserably in the doorway, she was busy making plans.
A little jug. A Birko would be nice. Mugs. And a tin for biscuits. A couple of posters on the wall . . .

‘Sealie.’

She turned as though surprised he was still there. ‘Dad! How do you like the room?’

Hal, thinking of her spacious, well-furnished bedroom at home, saw something resembling a large cupboard. ‘Oh. Nice—I’ll be off, then.’

‘There’s afternoon tea for our guests.’

‘Not my sort of thing—won’t stay,’ he mumbled, pecking her on the cheek. ‘I hope it all goes well. If you find you don’t like it . . .’

‘I know, Dad. Thanks. I’ll miss you.’

‘Me too.’

13

I
AM BORN ON 21
October 1967, a micro-blip in the history of civilisation. The Zodiac makes me a Libran and it is the Chinese Year of the Sheep. That makes me a fire-sign. The Vedic calendar reveals my Moon Sign to be Aries, my Ascendant Planet Jupiter and my birth star Krittika. Krittika? What kind of person has a birth star called Krittika? Numerologically speaking, my birth number is 3. Poor me! I am encumbered with a destiny before I’m one minute old.

Poor Kate. I take my time coming. Perhaps I’m waiting for my father who is given urgent compassionate leave from his jungle training in Queensland. I arrive just as he is pushing the button in the lift. ‘Delivery Suites’, it says. ‘Fourth Floor’.

He can only see me through glass. They are very strong on hygiene and infection control. Can I really remember the tall handsome figure in uniform beaming down on me as the nurse tilts the crib to display my crinkled, newborn face? Unlikely. It’s probably a vision I have conjured since. It’s one I treasure, though. I have so few real memories of my own to treasure. My father has only one week’s leave, and as the circumstances are unusual, he is able to hold me briefly, his mouth and nose covered with a surgical mask. I can only see his eyes. They look down at me with something like awe. He is tentative, unpractised, and I sense that he doesn’t feel comfortable holding me. He doesn’t have much opportunity to learn.

In that first week, I feel the bliss. I’m bathing in it as I feed dreamily at my mother’s breast. Loving faces stare through the glass as they exclaim at my dark hair and large eyes. Special faces include Aunt Sealie, Mrs Mac, Godown, my Grandmother Betty and her sister, Mae. Two women, mirror images, draw me into the ocean of their eyes. It’s like a return to the womb where I swim, a tiny fish, safe from predators.

Then there is my grandfather, Hal. He comes every day and is the one to drive me home when I leave the hospital. Zav’s unit is preparing for a tour of Vietnam and he is recalled after six days. My mother wraps me in a shawl and cradles me on the way home in the car. The law is different in 1967.

Mrs Mac takes me in her arms at the door and looks into my eyes. I stare back, unblinking and unsurprised. ‘Look at those eyes—an old soul, this one,’ she says.

They name me Paulina Grace, but from the first I am called Grace. My grandfather loves my name, invoking as it does the memory of his wife combined with the divine gift of grace, which he prays that I have in abundance. He rocks me sometimes and sings me to sleep with my special song, ‘Amazing Grace’. When he is with me, he feels blessed, truly blessed, for the first time since Paulina died. He holds me gently, for such a large man.