Fishing for Stars Page 3

  I shrugged, deeply saddened by her desire to make a killing in the market, because all the money in the world wouldn’t save my beloved Anna, yet she couldn’t let go.

  I guess Marg Hamilton represents the new, emerging, untried and inexperienced good of the new century soon to be upon us while Anna typifies the careless greed of the one coming to its end.

  I still think the odds are probably stacked against Marg as the wealthy countries maintain their voracious appetites for profit despite the cost to the plundered planet and the emerging nations become increasingly industrialised and demand their share of the goodies. But try telling Marg this. She, like Anna, is a poor loser, determined, even if single-handedly, to pry our tottering planet from the clutches of greed, capitalism and pollution which are causing the extinction of so many species that have no immediate economic value to humans.

  ‘The last generation belongs to Princess Plunder, the next generation to our young people and their children,’ Marg claims optimistically. I hope she’s right. I lived through the sixties when flower power was going to change everything. I can only hope green power is more effective.

  As I sit ruminating over the Misses Yin and Yang, Princess Plunder and the Green Bitch, each possessed of the same fanatical desire to destroy the values of the other, I am unaware that Saffron has walked onto the verandah until she coughs politely to catch my attention.

  ‘Where will you take your lunch, Uncle Nick?’ she asks.

  I remind myself that while she didn’t mention it earlier she represents yet another female issue I have to contend with. Saffron wants permission to get a tattoo, a butterfly on the point of her shoulder. Joe Popkin, her grandfather and my partner in the shipping company, has refused his permission and she’s working on me to convince him.

  Joe Popkin, who runs the Port Moresby shipping office, is a Black American married to a Tahitian woman, the delightful Lela. Their son, Joe Junior, married yet another, the fiery and beautiful Frances. The gorgeous Saffron, who has recently completed a Bachelor of Economics at Sydney University, is the result. ‘Would you kindly fetch me a Scotch and water, please, darling?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘Uncle Nick, have you spoken to Grandfather Joe?’ Her eyes remind me of a starry night at sea.

  ‘No.’ My bloody memory isn’t what it used to be. But then I suppose nothing is, in particular the area immediately below the belt line. One of the tragedies of growing old is that pretty is still pretty, the roving eye still takes in what it sees and the imagination is just as active, but alas, for most of us the one-eyed snake can no longer raise its head. I guess in theory this makes me a dirty old man.

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘No. Your grandfather is right; you’ll only live to regret it.’

  Saffron pouts and makes no move to get my whisky.

  ‘Put one of those studs through your tongue instead,’ I suggest. ‘At least it goes largely unseen and you can remove it when you’re mature enough to realise that you’re a beautiful woman and don’t need any of that trendy crap.’

  She looks shocked. ‘Uncle Nick!’ she exclaims, dark eyes as wide as saucers.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know what those are for?’

  I don’t, but instantly realise I’m in some sort of trouble.

  ‘Fellatio,’ she says calmly and starts to giggle.

  ‘Oh, gawd!’ I laugh to hide my embarrassment. It seems only yesterday she was a little girl holding my hand as we visited nature’s fairy lanterns, the ripe persimmons hanging from the bare branches of the trees lining my driveway.

  Her one-word explanation of the stimulatory use of a tongue stud together with her giggling has completely stolen my resolve. She knows I’m done for, mere putty, an old-man pushover. ‘Very well, I’ll have a word with Joe,’ I say gruffly. ‘But I suggest you think about it carefully; tattoos don’t rub off.’

  Saffron pecks me happily on the cheek, turns and wiggles her tight little bum triumphantly as she leaves to make my drink. ‘It’s called a tongue bar and there’s even a version that vibrates,’ she calls back, laughing. ‘I’ll bring your lunch out on a tray.’

  I don’t ask her how she knows all this. The kids these days seem to know everything and nothing very useful.

  Next evening Marg Hamilton calls. I’m relaxed, two stiff glasses of Scotch under my belt. I tell myself it’s an evening call, so no harm can come.

  ‘Nick darling, I’m worried about you.’

  ‘That’s very nice to hear but quite unnecessary,’ I laugh. ‘Saffron and I have been out on Madam Butterfly; it’s been a lovely day, good strong breeze, I feel ten years younger.’ Saffron’s a damn good sailor and does the hard work on board while allowing me to appear to be the skipper.

  ‘I mean generally,’ Marg replies, not listening. ‘When we last talked you didn’t sound yourself. What’s wrong?’

  I’ve been unable to keep anything from her for as long as I can remember. It’s something about her tone of voice and the strength of her character. Even a casual question demands an answer. Maybe it’s because she listens with her eyes, and despite this being the telephone, I can sense her gaze fixed upon me. I clear my throat. ‘Old man’s dreams, nothing more,’ I reply, attempting to make light of the matter. ‘And I’m up and down all night.’

  ‘Well, have you had a prostate examination lately?’ she asks in her practical way.

  ‘No.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘Never. Marg, stop fussing!’

  ‘And the dreams . . . What kind of dreams? Good ones? No, they couldn’t be, or you wouldn’t be complaining. I read recently that ex-servicemen often start having dreams as they grow older. They may feel guilt—’

  ‘I’m not complaining!’

  ‘Well of course not, not directly. But I can sense you’re distracted. Something’s wrong. What is it? The war? Anna?’

  ‘Both,’ I reply lamely, knowing she isn’t going to let go.

  ‘You’re grieving, Nick. Hardly surprising,’ she adds in a rare albeit offhand acknowledgement of her departed rival. ‘These war dreams . . . do you feel guilty?’

  I sigh. ‘God knows I have reason enough to feel guilty. Though probably least of all over what happened in the war. The Japs had it coming to them and I’ve never felt any remorse. Although I don’t suppose one ever quite gets over the business of killing.’

  ‘Ah, then it’s Anna,’ Marg announces, as usual coming down hard on the name. ‘Is she in your dreams, these war dreams?’

  ‘Yeah . . . somewhat,’ I mumble.

  ‘Well, we’re going to have to do something about them,’ Marg says firmly.

  ‘Like what exactly?’ I ask, slightly impatient. ‘I imagine it’s all a part of the process of grief and growing old. The past revisited. Elephants going to a predestined place to die.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re eight years younger than I am. It’s probably PTSD.’

  ‘Huh? I beg your pardon?’

  ‘From the war. I told you, I’ve recently read about it – Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.’

  ‘The war! You mean like the Vietnam vets?’

  ‘No, our war, the Burma Railway, Changi, Sandakan, the Middle East, New Guinea, the Solomons. We didn’t give it a fancy name then.’

  ‘Do I need to remind you our war ended forty-eight years ago?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I haven’t had a sleepless night thinking about it from the day I was demobbed and exchanged my naval uniform for a cheap government-issue suit. That is, until about four months ago. It’s a bit bloody late for Post-Traumatic Stress whatever, don’t you think?’

  ‘Nick, that’s when Anna died,’ Marg says patiently. ‘I think you should see someone. And you should definitely get that prostate checked.’

  ‘What, a shrink? Nah.’

  ‘Darling, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll ask around. I’ll be very discreet.’

  ‘Marg, leave it alone!’ I protest. ‘It’s o
nly started recently. I daresay it will pass.’ I laugh. ‘It’s probably the after-dinner glass of Scotch catching up with me . . . the years of after-dinner Scotches.’ I don’t tell her that my nightcap has turned plural three or four times over.

  Marg isn’t listening. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t use your name.’

  ‘Wouldn’t matter if you did. Who’d know?’

  ‘Oh, I see, feeling sorry for ourselves are we? The navy doesn’t forget its war heroes, darling.’

  ‘Ha, ha. All those invitations to mess dinners must have been lost in the mail.’

  Marg’s voice grows concerned. ‘Should I come over to the island? I could help with your inquiries about the fishing rights.’

  Despite myself I burst into laughter. ‘I couldn’t think of a quicker way to scuttle your plans. As soon as the Department of Fisheries learned you were on the island, darling, they’d close everything tighter than a duck’s bum.’ I hope my mirthful outburst will distract her attention from me and bring it back to matters green, but I should know better. She’s tenacious. ‘You can trust me, Nick.’

  ‘Marg, no quacks!’

  ‘Nick, I’m only going to make a few inquiries. Bye, darling.’ I hear the click at the other end.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I mumble to myself. Marg Hamilton is on the warpath and somewhere along the line someone closely resembling Dr Strangelove will be tapping the end of his fountain pen on a desk and asking me a bunch of questions intended to reveal my innermost mind. X-rays and brain scans are certain to follow, with a urologist in the wings waiting to probe my arse with a surgical glove.

  A week later, with a couple of nightmares thrown in for good measure and five empty bottles of Scotch, I pick up the phone to hear Marg Hamilton on the other end. I groan; it’s a morning call. As usual there’s not so much as a greeting. ‘Nick, very exciting news. I’ve found just the chappie.’

  ‘Chappie? What chappie? By the way, good morning, Marg.’

  ‘Your Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, of course!’

  I sigh. ‘Why, of course! It’s confirmed then. Good. Now, may I get on with my life?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Nick Duncan, you’re damaged . . . possibly severely damaged. You’re going to need help.’

  I’m certain she must feel the weight of my impatient sigh all the way down in Sydney. ‘Forget it, darling. I’m past repairing. Let it go, it will sort itself out.’

  ‘No it won’t!’ she says emphatically. ‘You’ll simply have to fly over and see the psychiatrist I’ve found. Lovely man. You’ll enjoy him.’

  ‘Enjoy him? I can well imagine.’

  ‘Now, Nick, don’t start! Dr Freeman is one of the best in his field.’

  ‘Free man, is that a pun?’ I say, in a feeble attempt to be clever.

  ‘Of course not! He’s Jewish.’

  ‘Well then, he’s probably got deep psychological scars of his own to attend to.’ Suddenly angry, I find myself shouting. ‘Bloody oath, Marg, will you leave me alone!’ And I slam down the receiver.

  But, of course, the phone rings again moments later, finally stops, then five minutes later starts to ring again. Somewhat calmer and ashamed of my childish tantrum I answer it. Her voice is triumphant. ‘See, I knew it! You’re in trouble, Nick. You can hang up all you like, but I’m not giving up on you. You need help. Now get Saffron to pack your bag and drive you to the airport and I’ll meet your plane on arrival. You can stay with me. Ring first and tell me the number of your flight.’

  I grin despite myself. ‘I have to be over next month for Saffron’s graduation, we’ll discuss it then. But if you don’t mind we’ll stay in a hotel.’

  Marg doesn’t take umbrage. She’s too busy to care for guests anyway. ‘Don’t disappoint me, Nick. It’s hard to get an appointment. I’ll have to pull strings; he’s top-drawer.’

  ‘I’ll call from the hotel when we get to Sydney.’

  Silence, then her voice suddenly grows tender. ‘Nick, you do know that I love you, don’t you? I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, darling.’ She pauses and then gives a despairing choke. ‘I . . . I couldn’t stand it!’ I’m surprised to hear that she is crying.

  Christ! Anna and Marg! What must I have done in some previous life to deserve such an infuriating duo? Whatever it was, I am being punished for it in this one.

  ‘Oh, by the way, your prostate is fixed as well,’ she sniffs.

  As it turns out Dr Freeman seems a decent sort of a cove, not at all as I’d imagined: in his early fifties I’d say, lean as a whippet, easy manner, no Sigmund Freud, very Australian. We’re seated facing each other in two club chairs, a large glass-topped coffee table between us. To one side, so as not to obscure his seated patient, is a vase of Easter lilies. Several competent watercolours and a large oil painting by Ken Johnson of a wild cliff-top and low cloud hang on the surrounding walls.

  His receptionist enters with a flat white for me, straight black for him, brought up from the coffee shop downstairs. I point to a framed photograph of a helicopter on his desk to my left. It shows him as a young army captain standing under the motionless rotor blades with four medics and the pilot. ‘Vietnam?’ I ask. He nods. ‘What – evacuating wounded from the jungle?’

  With a dismissive flap of the hand, he grins. ‘Yeah, long time ago.’

  ‘That’s scary stuff,’ I remark. He doesn’t reply. ‘I’ve done a fair bit of that myself,’ I volunteer.

  ‘What, flying helicopters?’

  ‘No, no, jungle work. Solomon Islands, Guadalcanal, then New Britain.’ I feel I’m talking too much. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to compete. You know – my war was harder than your war, so stop whinging, son. Vietnam vets have had enough of that old-fart RSL bullshit.

  ‘Mr Duncan . . . ’ he begins.

  ‘Nick,’ I interject. ‘Call me Nick, doctor.’ I’m a tad more nervous than I thought I’d be. It’s a great many years since I’ve been nervous during an interview. Having money breeds a certain self-confidence.

  He grins. ‘Ah, thank you, Nick. Please call me Tony.’ He looks directly at me. ‘Nick, why have you come to see me?’

  Somehow I’d expected him to know why I am here. Of course, his is an obvious opening question, yet I’m thrown by its directness. I stall for time, take a measured sip of coffee, put the cup down slowly. ‘I’m not sure where to start,’ I say guardedly, my tongue brushing the coffee from my top lip.

  Tony Freeman grins sympathetically. ‘That’s always the hard part.’

  What the hell, I think to myself. Psychiatrists are supposed to be interested in dreams. ‘I’ve started to have bad dreams, Tony.’

  He nods. ‘As we age, a lot of stuff may bob up. These dreams, what are they about?’

  I’m not going to tell him about Anna. ‘The war, fighting the Japs.’

  ‘You said started – you’ve not had them before?’

  ‘No, only in the past few months.’ I’m still not going to tell him about Anna. I don’t want to be hit with any of the grief shit people like him carry on about.

  ‘Ah, this can be true of older war veterans who have functioned normally, never had problems for most of their adult lives, then during retirement things start to unravel.’ Tony Freeman pauses. ‘Frankly, we’re not sure why.’

  ‘Unravel?’ I repeat. ‘You’ve got the wrong bloke, Tony. I think that’s highly unlikely in my case. Strictly speaking I’m not retired; as chairman of an inter-island shipping company I’m still busy and interested. Until four months ago the war was simply something that happened to me almost half a century ago. I occasionally talk about it over a few beers, but certainly not because I find it stressful. I was young and at the time I guess I regarded it as a rite of passage.’

  ‘You said four months ago that changed?’

  Bastard’s got me! ‘Well . . . yes, Anna died . . . passed away.’

  ‘Anna . . . your wife?’

  ‘Personal partner, but much, much more than that.’


  ‘I see. Then what happened?’

  ‘Well, that’s when I started to dream, have nightmares.’

  ‘Combat nightmares?’

  ‘Yes, you could call them that, other things as well.’

  ‘Such as?’

  I find myself becoming annoyed by his probing, each question leading me inexorably into what seems like a trap, some sort of admission of personal weakness. It only took him half a dozen questions to get to Anna. He’s good at this and I’m not. I don’t think I want to continue answering his questions.

  I am prepared to admit to myself that Anna’s death, despite my being prepared for it, has been a terrible shock, but I’m not ready to share it with anyone. Her memory is too precious, too private . . . too raw. He waits for my answer. It’s all too complicated – her imprisonment by the Japanese, her subsequent heroin addiction. She’s gone and I don’t want her judged, her memory sullied.

  Tony Freeman wants to dig into my past, and while I understand why he needs to do so, I don’t like the process one little bit. He seems to sense my reluctance and doesn’t press the point but asks instead, ‘Has your sleep pattern changed since your partner died? Do you wake at night more frequently?’

  I grin. ‘You mean to take a piss?’

  ‘Yes, or just wake up spontaneously?’

  ‘Are they connected? The dreams and my over-active bladder?’

  ‘Whatever the cause, sleep deprivation can have a pronounced effect on the unconscious,’ he replies.

  ‘My need to take a piss several times a night started well before Anna’s death,’ I protest.

  ‘Ah, the two things are probably not connected.’ He pauses. ‘Do you find yourself increasingly grumpy, impatient . . . even exasperated for very little reason?’

  I laugh, despite myself. ‘You’ve noticed.’

  ‘And do the dreams in some manner include your lifetime partner?’

  I feel myself frowning; he is back again with the same question. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mentioned earlier that you’d been involved in jungle warfare in the islands. Does this feature in your nightmares?’