The Story of Danny Dunn (69 page)

‘Giving up?' Helen shouted through her tears. ‘She did no such thing! She happens to be a talented musician!'

‘Well, yeah, she's probably going to end up in some orchestra full of long-haired gits and poofters, but if that's what
you
want . . . 
she
wants, who am I to argue? But don't you go trying to mess up Sam's head, okay?'

‘It's already messed up! Can't you see, she's obsessed, like you! Three gold for Sammy! She says it in her sleep!'

But Danny wasn't listening. ‘I won't have it, Helen. As a matter of fact I'm bloody proud of her for whaling on that kid for stealing her logbook. It shows she's got the guts it's going to take to get her to Jamaica in '66 and then Mexico in '68. You keep your hands off
my
twin, Helen!'

‘
Your
twin!' Helen screamed. ‘She's not
yours
, she's
ours
!
How can you say something so cruel?'

Danny, realising he'd gone too far, forced himself to calm down, but he couldn't stop himself from having a final dig. ‘Yeah, well, its true. You had your way with Gabby and now you want Sam!'

‘That's just not fair!' Helen cried.

‘Helen, you're the one who's under stress. You're working too hard – the pub, the houses, the pokies. You're a big-time success, but what about your family? Business is booming, but you need a rest!'

‘I'll take one after the fucking election!'

‘Helen,
ferchrissake
, we're well on our way to becoming rich. You've proved you can succeed outside the university; you're the one who's becoming obsessed!'

Helen sniffed, knuckling back her tears. ‘Don't change the subject. We're talking about Sam. Danny, can't you see – Sam's becoming
you!
You're a damaged person. You admit the war did that to you, and that's understandable, but you're turning swimming into Sam's war! It isn't fair; she's too young to have her life ruined.'

‘Ruined? Don't be bloody ridiculous! Sam loves what she's doing! She's the one who wakes me up in the morning to go to training.' Danny paused, then said, grim-faced, ‘If you try to undermine me with Sam, I warn you, there's going to be trouble!' He rose from his chair. ‘And now I'm going to bed. I have to be up at five-thirty for swimming training. To go to war!' he added, then stomped towards the door, where he turned and shouted, ‘And stop that goddamned bawling, will ya!'

‘I'm not bawling!' Helen cried, then, on a sudden furious impulse, she grabbed the wine bottle and hurled it at him with all her might. ‘You bastard!' she screamed.

Red wine traced a bright arc through the air, then the bottle smashed in a great scarlet splash against the wall to the left of the lounge-room door.

‘Go to bed, Helen, you're drunk!' Danny said coldly, closing the door behind him. He turned to see the twins in their pyjamas, standing in the hallway clutching each other, terrified looks on their faces. Sam's left eye was still swollen and purple, but her right was wide and staring. ‘Go to your mother, Gabby . . . Sam, you go to bed,' her father commanded.

‘No!' Sam cried. ‘My mother needs me!'

NEW YEAR'S EVE 1964
, and Danny and Helen sat on the upstairs verandah alone and happily so. They enjoyed being together when the weary old year petered out and the new arrived with sweet promise. The twins, now thirteen, were at a party at the home of one of Gabby's Conservatorium High School friends in Double Bay and had been given permission to see in the new year. Brenda would pick them up after attending the midnight service at St Mary's Cathedral.

Danny and Helen always shared a bottle of French champagne on New Year's Eve, one of the few times Danny allowed himself to drink. They had toasted every momentous occasion in their lives with it, from the unforgettable, joyously disastrous exploding jeroboam when Danny graduated and became ‘a somebody'; to Helen's announcement that she was pregnant; the birth of the twins; the night they'd left for America; the day Danny was awarded his belated medal; and, of course, every New Year's Eve since.

They referred to the occasion as the ‘Calling of the Year', both of them sitting quietly and reviewing what had happened in their lives since the last calling. Helen and Danny loved these talks. They served to clear the air of any misunderstandings between them or hurts, and were often illuminating and surprising when they considered the repercussions of apparently innocent or unimportant actions. It was both reassuring and exciting, because they were reminded that the coming year might well hold unforeseen adventures.

While Danny's life had settled into a repetitious and sometimes tedious round of seeding his message of change in the hope that it would blossom during the state election in 1965, Helen's had been packed with challenges that tested her intellect, ingenuity, diplomacy and stamina, and moreover she'd thrived.

She was running the pub during the day, backed up by Half Dunn, who took over at night. The houses in Brokendown Street were selling like hotcakes, some even before they were renovated, and others almost immediately after they were completed and put up for sale. The formula for renovating the houses had been well established by now and their team of workmen knew the processes by heart, so, beyond her daily inspection, Helen had less and less occasion to supervise progress.

The pub was continuing to show a healthy profit and she had plans to incorporate a restaurant into the popular summer beer garden. The success of Billy and Dallas's poker machines had surpassed their expectations, and combined with the steady sale of the renovated houses, Helen was making money hand over fist. The HBH Agency and Brokendown Street Property Investment Pty Ltd had paid off the bank loans they'd needed to finance the purchase and renovation of the Brokendown Street houses and the poker-machine business. The time would soon arrive when they would have to look around for a new investment. Helen was starting to think about opening two or three boutique hotels in the CBD, with good luncheon restaurants and superior accommodation for overseas business executives who wanted a quiet and relaxing stay.

Brenda, now finally free of the responsibility of running the pub, blossomed into an increasingly devoted grandmother, looking after the busy routines of the twins, who at thirteen were becoming more and more independent. Where once their lives had been almost as identical as their faces, now their activities diverged more and more, and often the girls' only chance to enjoy their old intimacy came in their shared bedroom each night.

With time on her hands, Brenda became responsible for the Willy Billy duB machines, which she referred to as her ‘naughty job'. She'd spend the mornings and early afternoons touring the clubs that ran HBH machines, talking to the managers or ‘troubleshooting', as she called it. She'd always put a couple of pounds through the pokies she so dearly loved, then do a bit of shopping as she went from one to another of the five or six clubs she'd visit most weekdays. She would then race to pick Sam up from school, drive her to the Drummoyne pool for training, and get back home moments before Gabby arrived by ferry from the Con. Danny would pick up Sam, or she'd get a lift or take the tram home. Life free of the polished bar and the smell of hops was sweet for Brenda. She'd also discovered while troubleshooting in the pubs that she was an excellent saleswoman; club committees and managers loved the tough little Irish redhead who understood their concerns, having been in the hospitality business all her life.

Eighteen of the twenty-eight houses in Brokendown Street had been renovated, and Danny now indicated them with a sweep of his champagne glass. ‘Sweetheart, it's been your year. Really, you've got your side of the street looking wonderful. Let's hope next year I'll win, and I can start clearing up the dirt and pollution at the water's edge so that the children who will inevitably live in your houses will be able to play in clean harbour water.'

‘Darling, perhaps it's time. I can't help feeling things are beginning to change. Maybe it's because I'm mixing with a broader range of people than I was —'

‘Publican, builder, sales agent for poker machines . . . it doesn't get much broader,' said Danny.

Helen smiled and continued. ‘I'm starting to see things differently. You can . . . well, feel it in the air. Things are changing.'

‘What – in Balmain or the whole country?'

Helen thought for a moment. ‘I don't suppose I can speak for the whole country. But don't you agree that things feel different? It's as though people's thinking has shifted up a gear. I'm not sure I can put my finger on it, but . . . well, as I said, it's in the air.'

‘Yeah, perhaps. Things don't change a lot in the law – same villains, same transactions for Franz – and Sam's morning training sessions don't differ much. Weekdays I'm in a bit of a rut.' Danny laughed. ‘I've been that busy knocking on doors every weekend, spreading the message of change, I probably haven't had time to notice any of it happening. That's the trouble with life – you get so caught up with the detail you miss the big picture.'

‘I guess you're right, but I'm still at heart an anthropologist and the young people I see around . . . well, they seem to me to be jumping out of their skins, expecting a different world from the one we live in now,' Helen reflected.

‘Hmm, maybe . . . I'm not so sure. Humans don't change fundamentally, do they? Isn't that your field? Civilisations die because they can't adapt?'

‘Probably because the elders of the tribe took no heed of what the young were saying,' Helen said. ‘When you look at the big picture, you realise that the past two years have been different, not only for me, but I think for Australia, even the world. Maybe it's television; there are no more dark corners to hide in.'

‘Television is going to change the way we live,' Danny said.

But Helen hadn't finished. ‘Even the small things . . . when I started taking over the soirees from Brenda just on two years ago, it was still a shandy-and-gossip session, while the women did their knitting, or shelled peas or peeled potatoes. Most opinions about anything beyond what happened in the kitchen or with the kids were
introduced by the words, “My husband says . . .”. Now that's seldom the case; they talk about change, their hopes, the future, more or less on their own terms.'

‘Gawd, that's going a bit far – Balmain housewives thinking for themselves!' Danny exclaimed.

‘Don't be rude, Danny Dunn! If you're going to be elected, they're going to be the ones to do it,' Helen chided.

‘You're right, darling, I take that back. I'll wash my mouth out with soap later. In truth, the women have always been the backbone of Balmain, keeping it together. Left to the blokes, gawd knows what would have happened.'

Helen laughed. ‘In the case of Balmain I think you're wrong. They did leave it to the men, and look at the mess they've made!'

‘If you're talking about politics, you're probably right. Few women were politically involved. They never questioned their loyalty to Labor. Balmain
is
Labor, always has been, always will be. But I have to say, I'm getting a slightly better reception when I door-knock these days. We still get the odd bloke in blue singlet and thongs, with a dent in his lower lip where the roll-yer-own sits permanently, telling us to bugger off, but it's less often. Did I tell you Lachlan's got the agency – or rather, their young research bloke, Hugh Mackay – to do a ‘How will you vote?' questionnaire for us? The Tiger 13 team are taking it around as soon as the men go back to work mid-January.'

‘What – you're writing off the men completely?'

‘Not completely, but I think women will respond more honestly without the old man standing behind them scratching his crotch. We'll see the men when they're on the job.'

‘But isn't that risky? What about peer-group pressure? And they work locally in the docks and workshops, so it's harder for them to see how cleaning up Balmain will benefit them,' Helen said.

‘Yeah, but it's better than going into the pubs. I think we have to accept that we've lost the majority of the male vote. “Jobs for Workers” is a slogan they imbibed with mother's milk. Smoke stacks, noise and soap factories pouring shit into the harbour are what put bread on the table – they can't see beyond that. Some of the younger guys may see it differently and vote Tiger 13, but the rest of the Balmain boys won't change.'

‘Well, if the soiree girls are any indication, you've got the women's vote sewn up. One of them asked me the other day how many “free cases” you've done, standing up for beaten wives and children. When I said I didn't know exactly but it was well over two hundred, she said, “Never mind him talking about changes to the harbour and getting rid of the stink; far as I'm concerned he's okay. I haven't been beat up in two years. Danny sent Norm Cross, our neighbour, to Long Bay for beating his wife, Elsie, and the kids, and that scared the livin' shit outta Bill, me husband. That'll do me. Danny's got me vote.” Then one of the others piped up and said that when a husband on the peninsula comes home aggro from the pub and wants to take it out on her and the kids, the standard line is “You touch us and you're
done
, mate, Danny
Dunn
!”'

‘That's nice,' Danny said, laughing. ‘But it probably won't help with the male vote. As Billy du Bois would say, Tommy O'Hearn is going to kick arse this election, pull in all the favours he reckons he's owed. I'm told he was out among the Christmas shoppers in Darling Street, wearing a Santa cap and giving away Labor's new T-shirts.'

Helen laughed too. ‘That reminds me, the twins saw him. Samantha put it rather well. She said, “Mum, it was disgusting! He's repulsive. He walks like Godzilla and he's so fat he looks like he's about to give birth to triplets!” She said he was sweating like a pig so the white T-shirt was soaked and clung to his stomach and chest, and all his black stomach and chest hairs were showing through. And the words on the front of the T-shirt said, “100% Genuine Balmain Boy, Vote Labor.” “Yuck!” as Sam said. Then Gabby said, “It was truly revolting, Mum. Is Dad going to beat Tommy O'Hearn in the election?”'

‘It's curious that they've changed the original T-shirt message; I thought it was spot on for the local voter,' Danny observed.

‘You mean “Jobs for workers, not homes for wankers”?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Then you would have thought wrong,' Helen remarked.

‘Oh? And why's that?' Danny asked, surprised.

‘The reason is staring you in the face, Daniel Corrib Dunn; it's Brokendown Street!'

‘Eh? I'm still not with you.'

‘When that slogan first came out it probably
was
spot on,' Helen explained. ‘Brenda was the laughing stock of the peninsula, but now nobody's laughing. Now one side of the street is neat and fresh with the beginnings of nice gardens, and eighteen crisp new bungalows that were snapped up by, if you like, the “wankers” on the Labor T-shirts. Of the ten homes remaining I've got deposits on five. Harry Farmer is begging us to borrow money. He's hit the jackpot – he got a performance bonus last year and is hoping for one again this year. And everyone in Balmain is starting to wonder what their place is worth.'

‘I suppose so, although it's pretty hard to fathom. The dirt and the pollution remain for all to see across the street, so why on earth is everyone going crazy for them? It isn't logical.'

‘It's perfectly logical. Young couples buying in are convinced it's only a matter of time. We tell them we honestly don't know when, if ever, the front will be cleaned up and they nod and say, “It will happen, just you watch. Nifty Dunn will get in.” The confidence is there and, like I said, the young are on the move.'

‘Jeez, I hope it's justified.'

‘It will be,' Helen said confidently. ‘Change is in the air.'

‘Yeah, I'm yet to be convinced,' Danny growled. ‘You know, even if I'm elected, it won't be easy for me to get the harbour front and the other industrial areas rezoned. If Labor gets back, I've got Buckley's, and if Askin wins with a big majority, it might be just as hard.'

Helen smiled lovingly at Danny. ‘It won't be as hard as persuading Colonel Mori not to kill one of your men in the camp. Like Bob Dylan says, “The times they are a-changin'”, and the Labor Party isn't stupid to be changing their slogan. They realise you've got a damn good chance of winning.' She thought for a moment. ‘Although, I actually think they're making just as big a mistake with their “100% Genuine Balmain Boy, Vote Labor”
slogan;
it's playing right into our hands.
'