The Story of Danny Dunn (17 page)

In the camp he'd had a singular obsession: to stay alive. There were no other considerations, except to keep an eye out for your men. Depression would simply have killed him as it did countless others. Besides, he had the additional problem of trying to mend a fractured cheekbone, heal an eye socket and repair a nose broken, as it turned out, in several places. Then there was his back, which kept him in constant pain. Added to all this were the ubiquitous tropical ulcers, bouts of dengue fever and malaria, worms, skin infections and a multiplicity of tropical pestilences visited upon them all at one stage or another. All this on a starvation diet based on rice, a few scraps of meat and the edible weeds they could scrounge or the few veggies they were allowed to grow. For many of his mates it hadn't been enough. But Danny had adopted Dr Albert Coates's motto and made it virtually a mantra for his men: ‘Your ticket home is in the bottom of your dixie.'

Now all that had changed and his world had suddenly become complicated. Meeting Lachlan Brannan had forced him to dig deep into the past, to use social skills in a way that to anyone else might have seemed simple, even natural. When Danny had offered to help the boy, he'd squandered energy that was intended to keep him alive. He didn't know if he could go through with it; take responsibility for helping the kid. It was a moment of recklessness that could cost him dearly, an emotional boilover he knew he couldn't afford.

Danny was scared – very, very scared – as he saw the stretch of sun-brightened water between the harbour and the shore diminishing and the Balmain ferry terminal approaching. He knew with some certainty that when he stepped ashore onto the peninsula it would be the beginning of a new life that would have little or nothing to do with the old. Danny Dunn, boy hero and lover, was effectively as dead as if he'd actually been killed.

The next step was to call Brenda from the public telephone on the jetty. He was shitting himself at the prospect. He wouldn't take the tram, he'd decided – too many stickybeaks, too many curious eyes. Instead he'd walk up Darling Street, up the hill, a fair climb carrying a duffle bag on a hot spring day, then he'd walk around the back, down the covered alleyway to the side of the back garden that led up to the private back door to the pub. He'd envisioned it all, sneaking in the back way where Brenda and Half Dunn would be waiting. Brenda tiny and tearful, Half Dunn filling all the available space in the small hallway. Jesus, what then?

Maybe he should turn back, not make the phone call, just disappear. They weren't expecting him. There'd be no hue and cry. He'd write to them, explain. He'd go somewhere way up north where there were lots of other misfits and where nobody had previously known him and would only see him as the freak he now was. He had three and a half years' pay coming to him. He'd be okay for a good bit while he tried to sort himself out, find out who the hell he was. Doc Woon had said he thought they could do something about reconstructing his nose. Maybe have that done first, check into Concord, the repatriation hospital. Then if he was swathed in bandages, Brenda and Half Dunn could visit and slowly grow accustomed to the idea of his new freak face.

Shit! What to do?

DANNY WAITED UNTIL ALL
six passengers had left the ferry, allowing them to walk some way down the wharf before he disembarked. He selected a bench outside the terminal that allowed him to look directly up Darling Street yet concealed him from the view of anyone getting on or off the tram. Now he watched as the tram came rattling down the hill, slowed in its headlong rush by the counterweight under the road. He well remembered the urgent clatter of the trams, bells ringing, sparks spluttering from the nexus of the cable arm and the overhead wires, the downhill ride still an event to delight a child and shake the bones of an ageing adult. Now, as he watched the return journey, the enthusiasm of its downhill romp was missing, the slope so steep that without the counterweight the tram would not have had the power to make it up the grade. The great contraption had slowed down with a mechanical groan and it seemed fortunate that only six passengers had climbed aboard. The frisky young girl coming down was transformed into the rheumatic old crone going back up.

Danny grinned to himself, remembering the times when the tram was packed to capacity and making hard work of the climb. The conductor would yell out, ‘Righto! Males under eighteen off!' If this still wasn't sufficient to lighten the load, he would yell, ‘Males twenty-five and under off!' They'd walk up the hill beside the slow-moving tram and then jump aboard again as it breasted the rise, each of them loudly demanding a penny discount and taking delight in the conductor's rebuff: ‘Bugger off, the lot of youse!' At least this hadn't changed. Behind him the ferry's idling engine lifted then settled into an insistent hollow-sounding throb before it eventually pulled away, leaving the smell of diesel fumes in the air as it headed back to the city centre.

Danny remained on the bench for nearly an hour before finally summoning up the courage to call Brenda from the red telephone box outside the terminal. His hands trembled as he pushed the three pennies into the slot and dialled the six-digit number. Moments later he heard the ringing start at the other end.

‘Hello, the Hero.' It was Brenda who answered, so there was no turning back. Despite having been born in Australia she affected an accent with a soft edge to it. Whether natural or practised, it had been there since his childhood – she was a tough little woman with a deceptively soft comforting lilt to her voice that had tricked many a presumptuous liquor salesman into thinking she was a pushover. Danny thumbed the silver button on the black pay-box and heard the sound of the coins dropping to trigger the connection. ‘Mum?'

A moment's silence, then a hesitant voice. ‘Danny? Danny, is that you?'

‘Yes, Mum.' Danny swallowed. ‘Home from the war.' He could picture Brenda standing with her back to the main bar counter, the black Bakelite desk phone placed on the mixer counter, the four mirror-backed shelves lined with spirits rising above her head with the seldom requested liqueurs at the top. He remembered that the Drambuie bottle, the most popular of the rarely requested liqueurs, was on the second-top shelf with all the other blue, green, yellow and orange bottles, altogether a dance of reflected light. Brenda always had to stand on a bar stool to reach it, evoking an occasional wolf-whistle from a customer seated at the bar who had caught a glimpse of the back of her knees as her skirt lifted. The top shelf contained a jeroboam of Moët champagne Brenda had been given by a liquor wholesaler when she'd won a sales competition. It was not for sale. Sometimes a customer, usually much the worse for drink, would demand it, emptying his week's pay in crumpled notes on the bar counter. ‘Sorry, love. It's an empty, for display only,' she'd say so that he wouldn't persist. With a sudden pang Danny remembered her excited promise when she'd won the giant bottle. ‘It's French, the real thing! We'll pop it to toast you at your graduation, my boy.'

‘Danny! Where . . . where are you?' she said, her voice at once tremulous. ‘Oh, Danny . . .' she continued, then followed wrenching sobs as the full impact of his phone call struck home.

‘Mum! Mum, take it easy. Don't cry. I'm on my way home!' Danny shouted. But Brenda was unable to contain her sobbing, repeating his name over and over, as if she was grieving beside his grave. ‘Mum, Mum! Listen, will ya?' Brenda's outburst had, unexpectedly, calmed him, putting him in charge. ‘Mum, can you talk?'

But all he could hear were her sobs, then, ‘Sorry . . . sorry, my darling. I'm just so happy!' This was followed by a fresh outburst of tears.

‘Mum, is Dad there? Can you put him on the phone, please?' Danny knew Brenda wasn't normally the weepy type. But none of this was normal.

‘Yes . . . 
sob
 . . . my boy . . . 
oh, oooh
,' Brenda howled. By now Danny imagined Half Dunn would have seen her reaction to the phone call from where he always sat and would have squeezed through the counter flap, an anxious Puffing Billy.

Brenda's sobbing was soon replaced by Half Dunn's tentative voice. ‘Danny?'

‘Yes, it's me, Dad.'

‘Danny, where are you?' his father shouted. Then, not waiting for an answer, ‘Can you catch a taxi? Tell him we'll pay at this end.'

‘No, Dad, listen! I should be home in twenty minutes. Can you and Mum be at the back door, just the two of you, nobody else?' He paused. ‘Please, Dad,
definitely
nobody else!'

‘Sure, son, we'll be waiting, just your mother and me. Gosh!'

‘Dad . . . just one more thing.'

‘Yeah, what is it, son?'

‘I'm a bit of a mess . . . my face. Be prepared for a shock.'

‘Son, your mother's okay . . . she wants to talk to you,' Half Dunn replied. Had he heard?

‘Danny darling, please come now! Hurry, dear!' Brenda called.

‘Mum, it's . . . it's not the same . . . me.'

‘I know, dear, we've heard on the news – you've all been starved. As long as you're alive, nothing else matters. Please hurry, darling boy!'

‘No, Mum. There's something else.'

‘Danny, nothing matters, just having you here . . . Come home quickly!' she pleaded.

There seemed no point in explaining further. ‘Righto. Be there in twenty minutes. Back door. Remember, just you and Dad!' Danny replaced the receiver. That was it then. There was no turning back now.

It was lunchtime when at last Danny reached the pub. The beer garden around the back seemed filled with people drinking in the sunshine. He was perspiring profusely, the light cotton shirt of his tropical uniform clinging to his back. In fact, he'd been forced to rest on two occasions. On the second a truck smelling strongly of sheep's tallow had stopped beside him, the driver offering him a lift. Danny had waved him on. His back hurt like hell, but it was important for him to walk up the hill to the pub. He needed to feel the peninsula under his feet, the hot sun on his back, the evocative and distinctive smells peculiar to Balmain in his nostrils.

There had been too many sudden changes since the morning Colonel Mori had announced at breakfast, ‘War over! Japan
suwenda
! All men now
flends
! All men go home!' The trucks arriving at the camp with a convoy of ambulances, the long bumpy ride to Bangkok, hospital in Rangoon then by military plane to Singapore to get the ship home. All of it by command and under orders. Now he wanted to give himself sufficient time to arrive on his own terms. To smell, touch, feel the peninsula, like an animal checking out its territory.

He realised he was hungry. His stomach, so long shrunken from lack of food, was beginning to adjust after the two-month stint in hospital, demanding some little sustenance, since he'd skipped breakfast parade on the boat. He thought longingly of his mother's breakfasts, which brought the Hero vividly before him. In his mind's eye he could see the old pub with its familiar cream paint, mid-green windowsills and frames. ‘Early Depression cream and green' was the usual name for these two colours, though no one seemed to know quite why, except that most of the public buildings and vehicles at the time – the pubs, buses, even the harbour ferries and railway stations – were painted inside and out with these two nondescript colours, neither of which promised any joy. Helen had once pointed this out to him, adding, ‘Perhaps it's called Depression cream because it's so depressing. The green's not much better.'

In Rangoon he'd received mail at last, a letter from Brenda with a postscript from Half Dunn telling him that the pub had been repainted and noting that Brenda had bought flags and bunting for his return. At the time he'd cringed inwardly at the news, and now, seeing the pub painted a gleaming white with dark laurel-green trim, it seemed quite wrong – brash and garish. He pictured the Hero he loved as a generous middle-aged Balmain housewife first thing in the morning, her hair in curlers, wearing a chenille dressing-gown and worn felt slippers, with the day's first cigarette sticking out of the corner of her mouth. Brenda may have transformed the inside to make it the friendliest and most comfortable of all the pubs on the peninsula, but she'd kept the outside as it had always been, repainting sections when necessary in the same two colours, the idea being that a pub should blend into its neighbourhood. But now he thought it stuck out like a sore thumb.
Danny wasn't expecting the change and found he resented it. Thank goodness he'd surprised Brenda and she wouldn't have time to add the bunting, the final visual insult. He was soon to discover that his image of the pub, like the faces and places he'd carried with him to war, was redundant.

Careful not to be seen by the lunchtime crowd, heart thumping, mouth dry, he walked up the covered passageway to the back door. Danny climbed the four back steps to the outside landing, dumped his duffle bag beside the door, pulled the brim of his slouch hat as far down over his eyes as he could, took a deep breath and turned the doorhandle. Brenda stood directly in front of him, six or so feet down the passageway, Half Dunn behind her, now half the size Danny remembered him – his giving up fat for the war had evidently been successful. The sharp midday light streaming in behind him lit her face, revealing every detail. She'd aged noticeably, her pale-blue eyes puffy from crying and now creased at the corners, a suggestion of grey showing through her titian hair. His own face was in shadow, so that it wasn't until he'd stepped further into the interior, turned and reached for his duffle bag, that she was able to see him properly. The shock on her face was palpable. Her mouth opened in horror and both hands shot up to cover it as she sank slowly to her knees. ‘No! No! No! What have they done to my boy! To my beautiful, beautiful boy!' she howled.

Danny dropped to his haunches and drew Brenda in to his chest. ‘Mum . . . Mum! I'm so sorry. I should have spared you this. I shouldn't have come!'

Brenda pulled away and forced herself to look directly at Danny, then reached out and lightly touched his face, first his eye socket, then his sunken cheekbone, and finally the tips of her fingers ran down the bumpy tissue that passed for his nose. Then, placing her hand behind his neck, she pulled his face down towards her and kissed him on the mouth. ‘Welcome home, my darling,' she said quietly in her soft, lilting voice. The strong Brenda was back.

She released him and Danny sat for a moment, too emotionally overcome to move, hot tears running down his cheeks. He became aware for the first time that the tear duct in the ruined eye still worked. ‘Sorry, Mum, Dad,' he sniffed. ‘I'm afraid I've come back a bit of a freak!'

Half Dunn reached down to put a comforting hand on Brenda's shoulder, taking his son's hand and raising him to his feet. Looking directly at Danny he said, ‘Welcome home, son. I'm afraid the freak rights in this pub have long since been claimed by me.' He smiled. ‘And I'm not giving them up.'

Danny reached down and lifted Brenda to her feet. His back hurt like hell but he ignored the pain and hugged her briefly, the warmth and softness of her body threatening to bring him undone again. ‘I'm starving,' he said hurriedly. ‘What does a man have to do for a cuppa tea and a corned-beef sandwich with hot English mustard?' he asked, then in case she'd forgotten, ‘No milk, no sugar.'

Brenda arranged for one of her off-duty barmen to come in to work so that she and Half Dunn could spend the afternoon in the upstairs kitchen with their son. While Danny had been able to construct an almost impersonal narrative for Dr Woon in Rangoon, he found it near impossible to tell his parents the story of his three and a half years in captivity under the Japanese. He had already begun the lifelong task of finding a compartment in his mind where he could begin packing away those memories he didn't want to revisit, memories that had no purpose other than to haunt him. Now he heard himself recounting a series of the less horrifying incidents, but even these seemed a bit too much for them to absorb. He saw silent tears running down Brenda's cheeks as he described how they had treated tropical ulcers by scraping out the pus and rotting flesh with a sharpened spoon.

When Half Dunn asked about the Japanese, Danny found himself telling his father about the punishment they meted out for any assumed disobedience to a Japanese officer. ‘They put you into The Cage,' he began, ‘a box made of wood and chicken wire only big enough to sit in with your knees pulled up to your chest, then they left you in the hot sun for three days. The rest of us were forbidden to bring the poor sod any water on pain of being placed in The Cage ourselves. The bloke would often be dead or raving mad when the time came to take him out.' The three of them sat for a time in silence.