The Story of Danny Dunn (9 page)

However, Brenda, after farewelling the judge, had barely made it to the safety of her office before she began to weep. Danny's threat to leave home and university had been real. She could no longer bulldoze her son. The boy who had torn the porridge pot from her hand with such a look in his eyes was now a man who, unlike Half Dunn, was prepared to defy her. Had it not been for Doc Evatt's silky logic, she realised, she might have lost both her son and her long-held ambition for him. The possibility that all she'd done might come to nought filled her with terror.

She could see her mother's pale-blue eyes with their look of resigned despair, her stoic father sweating in his wedding suit. With her help her twin sisters had progressed to shorthand and typing and held down nice clean billets, then regressed by marrying no-hopers, drinkers and gamblers, who condemned both women to lives of drudgery, with too many kids tugging at their aprons and too little money to nourish them properly. She'd tried so hard to lift them out of the mire and it had all amounted to nothing.

She sometimes wondered if the smug, self-righteous middle class were correct about the hopeless lower classes being unable to rise above their misery, content to be pigs wallowing in their own filth. She had to prove them wrong, show them, and she would do this through her son. Danny carried the responsibility of the past and the future, redemption and fulfilment. If he failed her, then it had all been pointless, and she felt sure she lacked the strength of purpose to continue. She rose from her desk and, sinking to the small carpet beside it, began to pray.
Mother Mary, Mother of God, Blessed Virgin, grant me two more years. In the name of God and all the saints, will you allow me to see my Danny holding that precious piece of paper?
she begged on bended knees.

Doc Evatt had been right. The raising of the Second AIF was a godsend to a lot of the young blokes on the peninsula. They were jack of bosses keeping them on casual rates or short-term employment. The Depression, in Balmain anyway, seemed to be grinding on endlessly. What work was available was exploited by the bosses, who constantly demanded more than they were entitled to from their workers. Furthermore, when a safety issue or legitimate complaint arose, they'd be quick to point out that there were another couple of hundred hungry men wanting a job; that if you didn't toe the line, you'd be back on the pavement on your arse wondering what had hit you.

Young blokes fed up with the insecurity saw the war as a chance to get off the poverty treadmill; not having to stand in the long line at Pyrmont docks at dawn trying to catch the foreman's eye, hoping for a day's mindless and backbreaking work; not forgetting at the end of the shift to seek out the bastard who'd hired you to thank him personally for the privilege, the sycophantic smile: ‘Remember me, mate. I'm good and I don't make no trouble.'

Seven bob a day was a bloody sight better than they were averaging in civilian life. In addition they'd have the status and respect given to the mighty Anzacs – Gallipoli and all that. But best of all, it was a chance to tell the boss to shove his fucking job up his fat arse!

In January 1940, after initial training, the Sixth Division was sent somewhere in the Middle East for further training, no one quite knew where (Loose lips sink ships). It was becoming apparent that the war wasn't progressing in the way everyone expected, and was far from coming to a successful end. By March, the beginning of the third and final year of Danny's course, things had settled into what was being called the ‘Phoney War'.

Danny reluctantly resolved to complete his third-year studies. A month into the new university term he met Helen Brown, a tall, leggy blonde, feisty, steady eyed and pretty, a student taking her MA in ancient history who didn't go weak at the knees when he approached. She wouldn't even let him kiss her until their fourth date and then only after she'd taken him home to get the approval of her dad, a chemist in Birchgrove, and her mum. When they gave him the nod, she gave him his first demure kiss, light and on the cheek, with no encore and strictly no pashing or groping to follow.

Danny metaphorically pulled up his daks, buttoned his fly and said goodbye to those several generous girlfriends on the peninsula who'd indulged him more or less on request. He did it as nicely as he could, explaining how he was going to join up the moment he graduated and it just wasn't fair. His deep-blue eyes, looking gravely into theirs, did the trick. Each in turn, sobbing, begged him to change his mind, but when they saw that his duty to his country must come first, they ended up demanding one for the road. Danny felt it his duty to oblige them before delivering himself body and soul to Miss Helen Brown, even though she and he had only reached the stage of a chaste kiss, lip to lip, with tongues safely confined behind teeth. He wasn't within a bull's roar of taking her to bed.

Then, in early June, the Phoney War was over and the empire was suddenly in deadly peril. The unimaginable had happened – the Maginot Line had collapsed and France had fallen. There was the chaotic scramble to withdraw Allied troops from Dunkirk, and now Britain stood alone facing a victorious and triumphant enemy across the narrow expanse of the English Channel. Defeat looked a real possibility. What, people asked, would happen to Australia if Britain fell? Australian troop divisions were in the Middle East. With the British Navy out of the picture, the German U-boats would control the seas. Our available fighting men would be stranded. A resurgent Japan was beating an aggressive drum. There was every possibility they would join the war on the German side. What then? Australia would be alone, undefended, with the Japs coming at us through South-East Asia. White Australia's oldest fear would be realised: the yellow hordes of Asia would be upon us. The excrement, as they say in the classics, had well and truly hit the rotating blades.

Danny agonised about what to do, working hard at his studies, but resenting every minute of it. Then, when he had only months to go at university, a deciding factor in the form of Billy Scraper walked into the pub on a Saturday afternoon, resplendent in an RAAF uniform so new you could smell the pine resin from its wooden packing case. He was with his old man, Sky Scraper, so named because he drove the big crane at Mort Dock Engineering, who was beaming fit to burst at the congratulations the patrons were shouting out to his son as he lapped up the reflected glory. Billy's old man peeled off to join a rowdy group he obviously knew, but Billy, pausing only to receive the odd back slap, walked directly up to Danny behind the bar.

Observing his approach, Danny grinned, holding up his hand. ‘Don't even think of buying a beer, mate. Today you drink on the house.' It was winter, and because he hadn't seen Billy for a couple of months, he'd assumed he'd joined up. Often the period between joining up and being sent to training camp was no more than a couple of days and you couldn't get around to saying all your goodbyes. Besides, Billy was essentially a water-polo friend; they'd never been close mates.

Scraper was a reasonable defender who played in the second-grade comp, though occasionally he'd sit on the reserves bench for the firsts and get a few minutes of pool time when a player was subbed or dragged off by the coach for performing badly and made to sit on the bench in disgrace. In the hierarchical world of young sportsmen, Danny was an aristocrat while Billy, at best, was a serf. Danny didn't observe these unspoken distinctions and treated everyone the same, but nevertheless they seldom mixed much beyond the confines of the pool.

‘Make it a seven, mate, same for me dad. We got a fair few pubs to go yet and we been at it all afternoon.' He laughed. ‘The old bloke can't believe his luck; we haven't paid for a single beer yet.'

‘Fair enough, it's your big day,' Danny grinned, pouring two seven-ounce beers and placing them on the counter. Billy turned to where his old man was talking to the group of older blokes. ‘Dad!' he yelled. ‘Beer, mate.'

Billy's dad occasionally came into the Hero but usually did his drinking at the Dry Dock Hotel down at the wharves. He walked over and picked up the seven of beer and turned to go back to his mates.

‘Hey, mate, it's on the house,' Billy called. ‘Say thanks, will ya?'

Sky Scraper propped, then turned slowly to face Danny, lifting his hand slightly to indicate the beer he held, then pointing at it with his free hand. ‘I'll return the favour when I see yiz in uniform, son,' he replied, then turned his back and went over to rejoin the group.

Danny flushed deeply but managed somehow to keep his composure.

‘Take no notice – he's shickered. We've been on the piss all morning,' Billy Scraper said. ‘Mostly I've been drinkin' shandies but the silly bugger prides himself he can hold his grog.'

‘Yeah, fair enough,' Danny replied, attempting a smile, but he was gutted, his heart thumping. ‘So where to next, mate?' he forced himself to ask.

‘Canada. Training to be air crew.'

‘Hey, good one! Bloody cold in the winter, though.'

‘Yeah, mate, have to find meself a local bird,' Billy grinned. ‘They say them Canadian sheilas know their way around the cot. Must be all that cold weather!'

‘Could be. We had one lecture us in my first year at uni. She was supposed to be half Red Indian, come here on some sort of teaching exchange with Canada.'

‘Yeah? Good sort?'

‘Not bad.'

‘You bang her?' Billy asked bluntly.

Danny laughed. ‘Christ, no! You know the rules, mate. Never piss on your own doorstep.'

‘Shit. Never
shit
on yer own doorstep,' Billy corrected.

Danny attempted to hide his surprise. These things were subtle, but he wouldn't normally have expected Billy Scraper to have the courage to correct him like that. He was obviously using the newfound authority he imagined his RAAF uniform granted him. In his mind he probably thought the tables had been turned; new rules – war was greater than sport. ‘Yeah, right,' Danny said.

‘How long you got to go?' Billy asked.

‘What, uni?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Few months.'

‘Jesus! In a few months I'll be on night bombing raids over Germany! Jerry searchlights tryin' ta locate us. Them little puffs a' smoke hanging in the air from ack-ack shells exploding every fuckin' which way in the sky. Us in our Wellington shittin' ourselves!' Billy said excitedly.

Normally Danny would have grinned, allowing his mate to bullshit, amused by the well-rehearsed fantasy. Plainly Billy Scraper had seen too many war movies and was revelling in his new blue uniform. But Danny wasn't his normal self. Sky Scraper's insult had kicked him in the emotional crutch and, anyway, he felt guilty and was already hurting.

Billy had almost finished the seven. ‘One for the road?' Danny offered.

‘Shit no! Gotta go, mate.' He drained his glass and slapped it down on the counter, smacking his lips ostentatiously. He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and stretched over to shake Danny's hand. Head slightly to one side he gave Danny a sardonic grin. At least, that's how Danny interpreted it. ‘So long, mate. Don't hang around too long . . . you'll miss all the fucking fun.'

In his mind Danny translated this to mean:
Bludger! Dodging the war while your mates are doing their bit.

Danny watched as father (somewhat unsteadily) and son departed to a chorus of good wishes from the patrons, then somewhat grim-faced he moved down towards Half Dunn's end of the bar, collecting the empty glasses.

‘You okay, son?' Half Dunn asked as he drew near.

‘Yeah,' Danny responded, not looking at his father.

‘Never mind, not long to go at uni and then it's officers' school. Pass before you know it,' Half Dunn comforted him.

Danny looked up angrily. ‘Jesus, Dad! It's months! Then there's another four months doing the friggin' course . . . that's the best part of a year! Then I'll probably have to hang around for a posting to a unit overseas. Could be a year or more before I see any action!' He jerked his head towards the door. ‘And in the meantime Billy's dropping bombs on night raids over Germany!'

At that moment Brenda entered the bar. ‘Talk about it tonight, eh?' Half Dunn said
sotto voce
.

He and Danny had grown a lot closer in the months since the declaration of war and the porridge pot incident. Half Dunn had announced that he was going to cut down on his drinking as his personal contribution to the war effort.

‘Be able to buy a couple of Churchill tanks with the money you save,' some wag had noted.

‘Does that mean he halves his bullshit quotient as well?' another joked.

To everyone's surprise he stuck to his guns and in three months he'd lost four stone. While fifty-six pounds missing from a three-hundred-pound bulk isn't all that noticeable, he felt a lot better. It also meant he was sufficiently sober to listen nightly to the ABC news with Danny at nine o'clock, both of them seated at the kitchen table upstairs. It had become a ritual; they all missed the seven o'clock broadcast because they were required to help clean up after six o'clock closing. Brenda, on the other hand, evinced no interest whatsoever in the war, both as a matter of Irish principle and as a consequence of her stand on Danny joining up. She usually retired to bed to read the
Women's Weekly
or to listen to a play on her bedside radio.