My Beautiful Enemy Read online

  I wanted to tell Stuart not to take anything I’d done in the past personally. I wanted to tell him, without going into the particulars, that the war was to blame for my shameful behaviour, but I didn’t think he’d believe me for one moment, let alone find it in his heart to forgive me.

  I started up the truck engine and listened to it turning over. The throaty rumble of Ian’s one-and-a-half-ton Ford was the sweetest sound I knew at that time. It was the sound of what passed for my soul, which had always started singing the minute I was in motion, propelled along by the raw power of pistons and gasoline.

  I never thought of turning back. I wasn’t even sad. As soon as I was out on the main road I pushed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the scene, a thief, an absconder. It wasn’t for the first time. I’d left my parents in a similar state of high dudgeon, packed my bags and walked out of the house without a word. In a sense I’d run away from the Air Force too, and then from the army. I’d come to the conclusion that it was probably the thing I did best. I think I even yelled out loud through the open driver’s-side window because of my joy at being on the loose again, and because Stanley was waiting to meet me at the other end of the road.

  I imagined walking into Tatura and walking out again with Stanley at my side. I dreamed of sailing away to America with him on the first leaky boat we could find. It was the kind of fantasy I’d spun in my head before, whenever Stanley had talked about his American travels. It was a sign of my limitless capacity for self-delusion that I never bothered to check on Stanley’s whereabouts before I set out to rescue him that day. But then I’d never let the facts get in the way of my grand purpose before. Facts were for lesser men, office clerks and bank managers, and I must have convinced myself somehow that I was immune to them.

  18

  It is true that it was easy to abandon my wife and child, that I felt no remorse. All I can say in my defence is that I was in the grip of a type of delirium at the time, the nature of which remains obscure to me even now. Back then I had only one idea in my head, which was to reach Stanley before he was sent away. If I felt any guilt it was only on his behalf, because I’d neglected him, made a sacrifice of him for the sake of my new respectability. It helped that marriage and fatherhood no longer felt like a blessing to me. By the time I received Stanley’s letter from Tatura I had started to believe it was a curse. That was why I didn’t wake May up to tell her to her face where I was going, and why I never looked back once I was gone.

  An hour after I set off from Hawthorn it started to rain, a hard, freezing, unseasonable downpour that went on and on. I drove fast with the rain slamming on the roof so loud it drowned out any other sound. I wasn’t really thinking what I would do once I reached Tatura. All I was worried about was how fast I could get there. I stopped only once to get something to eat because I was afraid of falling asleep at the wheel. I’d barely slept the night before. May had been up with Stuart three times and then she’d brought him into bed with us where he’d fussed and squirmed.

  It was only when I finally arrived at Tatura at around six o’clock in the morning that I realised the mistake I’d made. The place had been emptied out the way a house is vacated when the owners sell up. I pulled up at the gate expecting to be met and asked my business, but found it unmanned. Even after I sounded my horn nobody came to meet me. Eventually I had to get out of the truck and slosh through the mud to open the outer gate myself, and then make my way to the guardhouse where I shouted out from the bottom of the steps to anyone who might hear me. A guard finally appeared at the door, annoyed that I’d called him out into the rain. It was Davies. He peered out at me through his steamy glasses.

  ‘You’re back,’ he said.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I said.

  ‘Gone.’

  I walked over to the inner fence. Through the pelting rain I could just make out the deserted parade ground and the huts in the distance, all closed up. Davies followed me and held an umbrella over the both of us.

  ‘When?’ I said.

  ‘The last lot left three days ago.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Sydney,’ he said. ‘Come in out of the wet.’

  Once we were inside the guardhouse he handed me a mug of hot, black, sugary tea from a thermos on his desk, then he offered me a smoke.

  ‘Is Colonel Hollows here?’ I said.

  ‘Gone with the first group.’

  ‘What are you blokes doing?’

  ‘Guarding army property,’ he said without smiling. Behind his glasses I couldn’t tell if he meant this to be humorous or not.

  ‘Who from?’ I said.

  Davies didn’t answer. He just took a drag on his smoke and stared out the grimy window at the rain.

  ‘There’s a couple still in the infirmary,’ he said. ‘Matron refused to let them go on the transports.’

  ‘Who are they?’ I said.

  ‘There’s an old fella with pneumonia,’ said Davies, ‘and a woman.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ I said, half-hoping it was Stanley’s mother.

  ‘A Dutch East Indies girl,’ said Davies. ‘Ten months pregnant.’

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I’d like to see them,’ I said.

  ‘What for?’

  I didn’t know how to answer him so I just sat there smoking and drinking my tea.

  ‘You look completely done in,’ he said.

  ‘I had an early start,’ I said. ‘I’m on a run up to Albury with some farm machinery.’

  For a moment I thought of telling him about Stanley’s letter. He’d been kind to me in the past. But when I saw the way he was staring at me through his greasy glasses I changed my mind.

  ‘You didn’t see the papers?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve stopped reading them,’ I said.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Have a rest now,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll take you over to get some breakfast when my relief gets here.’

  I went and lay down on his bunk and was asleep almost immediately. When I finally woke up it was lunchtime and a stranger was on duty, a thin stick of a man who introduced himself as Lovell.

  ‘We decided to leave you be,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Davies said I might be able to eat something at the mess.’

  ‘You can always ask.’

  I saw through the window that it had finally stopped raining. I remembered how the parade ground had always turned instantly from a dustbowl into a bog in heavy rain and how the kids had liked to play in the mud, digging trenches that filled with filthy water and making mock battlegrounds.

  ‘Did you see them go?’ I said.

  ‘I did. Good riddance if you ask me.’

  From the top of the guardhouse I spied the familiar kitchen chimney. Once I was through the inner gate I marched towards it, as if I was back in uniform and reporting for duty, but the silence stopped me in my tracks. I stopped and listened to the wind wheeling across the empty space carrying nothing but its own noise—no human speech, no footsteps, no laughter.

  The mess hall was empty too, except for a man and a woman I didn’t know. They were sitting together at one of only three remaining tables. All of the other tables had been removed. They looked up as I approached.

  ‘Who are you?’ said the woman.

  ‘Arthur Wheeler.’

  A patch on her sleeve said she was a warden.

  ‘I was a guard here. I came back to see everyone,’ I said, aware of how stupid I sounded now that it had turned out there was nobody here.

  ‘Too late,’ said the warden, stating the obvious. Her voice was as deep as a man’s.

  ‘Shame,’ I said. ‘I was just passing through.’

  The man, a cook, offered me a seat and then went into the kitchen to get me something to eat. The warden went back to mopping up her gravy with a thick slice of bread. Her fingers were stumpy, with square ends and raw nails.

  ‘When did you leave here?’ she s
aid.

  ‘A year ago.’

  ‘Well before my time.’

  She finished eating and wiped her hands on her handkerchief. ‘My name’s Upton,’ she said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

  The cook returned from the kitchen carrying a plate of bangers and mash and some cutlery. ‘No seconds,’ he said, placing them in front of me.

  He sat down again to finish his own meal.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  There was a pause while Upton watched me eating. ‘What are you doing now you’re out of the army?’ she said.

  ‘I’m in the transport business,’ I said through a mouthful. ‘With my brother-in-law.’

  ‘You’re not married,’ she said. ‘You’re just a kid.’

  ‘Married with a son,’ I said and felt a sudden constriction in my throat that made me gag.

  The cook poured me a cup of water and passed it across the table. I took a sip and waited for my throat to clear.

  ‘Why have they sent everyone to Sydney?’ I said.

  ‘They’re headed back to Nippon,’ said Upton. ‘Them and a mob of the single men from Hay.’

  ‘When?’ I said.

  ‘Around about now,’ said the cook.

  ‘How do you know?’ I said.

  ‘It’s just what we were told,’ he said.

  I continued to eat but it was like swallowing stones.

  ‘How do you know it’s true?’ I said.

  It was an angry thing to say. I watched the cook and Upton exchange a glance.

  ‘Calm down,’ said the cook, smiling at me warily. He stood up and disappeared behind the servery for a moment, returning with a copy of the Tatura Guardian.

  ‘It could be just a rumour,’ I said. I’d broken out in a sweat by then. I took my handkerchief and wiped my face with it.

  The cook found the article he was looking for and handed me the paper, pointing to the photograph of a group of Japs sitting in the dirt on top of their suitcases. I knew all of them. Japs on a Slow Boat to Tokyo said the headline. I read the story twice then returned the paper to him.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ said Upton.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you were passing through,’ she said. She glanced at the cook again but he had his gaze fixed on me as if he was afraid I was going to jump him.

  ‘Sydney,’ I said. If my object was to see Stanley there seemed no option but to keep driving.

  I turned to Upton and made an effort to smile. ‘I’d like to see Matron Conlon before I leave,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll take you there,’ said Upton. ‘When you’ve finished eating.’

  ‘I’ve finished,’ I said, spooning the last of the mashed potato into my mouth and swallowing so fast I almost choked.

  Upton escorted me over to the hospital as if I was a prisoner.

  ‘Make sure you tell someone when you’re leaving,’ she said.

  ‘I will. Thanks.’

  The warden glanced sideways at me.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ she said without the least trace of kindness.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Does your family know where you are?’

  I laughed. For a second I thought she was asking whether my parents knew my whereabouts, as if I was sixteen again and fresh out of home.

  ‘I’m not here to cause any trouble,’ I said. ‘If that’s what you think.’

  Upton stared at me.

  ‘What sort of trouble could you cause?’ she said.

  We were approaching the infirmary by then. As soon as Matron Conlon saw me she rushed down the front steps and threw herself at me, smelling sweetly of cough lollies and gin.

  ‘Here’s a sight for sore eyes,’ she said.

  Upton seemed satisfied that I was who I said I was. Even so she lingered while Matron Conlon held me at arm’s length and took a good look at me.

  ‘What on earth are you doing back here now?’ said Matron Conlon. ‘Sure they’ve all gone.’

  ‘I know. The warden’s just told me.’

  Matron Conlon turned to Upton. ‘It’s quite all right to leave him with me. We’ve a bit to catch up on.’

  The warden stayed put.

  Matron grabbed me and squeezed me to her ample side. ‘What did you want to go off and marry for?’ she said. ‘It broke my heart in two.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Isn’t that what a man would say,’ she said, addressing Upton. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  Upton said she would be in her hut if I needed anything further and walked off. It was Matron Conlon’s cue to march me up the stairs and into her office. In the past she’d always kept everything clean and tidy but now there was a mountain of papers on her desk and a crate of empty gin bottles beside her chair. She shut the door firmly behind us and crossed to the glass medicine cabinet by the window. She took out a couple of tin mugs and a bottle and poured us both a drink.

  ‘That warden’s a nasty piece of work,’ she said. ‘You should’ve seen the way she treated the little children. It was like she was rounding up a mob of sheep, snapping at their heels, shoving them when they didn’t want to move. Course they didn’t want to move. They had them sitting out on the parade ground on their suitcases for most of the day, the poor little mites.’

  She paused to sip her gin and watched me gulp mine down. On top of the tasteless bangers and mash it made me queasy.

  ‘I had a letter from Stanley,’ I said, ‘telling me to come.’

  ‘Did you now?’

  ‘I only just got it. Otherwise I would have come earlier.’

  The gagging in my throat had come back so it took all of my concentration just to get enough air.

  In the meantime Matron Conlon had lit herself a smoke. She handed me the packet and waited while I did the same.

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ she said. She helped herself to some more gin while her tears dripped onto her uniform. When she tried to wipe them off I saw how badly her hand was shaking.

  ‘Davies says you kept some of them,’ I said.

  She managed the saddest of smiles. She’d aged since I’d last seen her. Her red hair had thinned and her skin had an unhealthy blush around the cheeks and nose, the same as my father’s had, and for the same reason.

  ‘Two souls,’ she said. ‘Out of all those hundreds.’

  At that moment there was a knock on the door and Matron motioned me to get up and answer it. Sophie was standing outside in the corridor. I’d never actually met her before but I knew who she was. I’d seen her often enough in the mess and at roll call, and Donohue had never tired of talking about her. She was a round girl with a face as flat as a plate and eyes so black and glossy they looked like jewels. Her breasts and her swollen belly seemed too heavy for her short legs to support.

  ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘What happened to you?’

  Sophie stood with her feet planted firmly apart and her hands on her hips. She looked straight past me at Matron Conlon with an expression bordering on panic.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I thought it was him.’

  ‘You remember Arthur?’ said Matron Conlon.

  Sophie glanced at me and smiled in a disappointed way, then turned herself around and swayed away down the verandah with her fat arms swinging.

  I sat down again opposite Matron Conlon.

  ‘Who’s the father?’ I said.

  ‘I’ll give you one guess,’ said Matron Conlon. She expelled a cloud of smoke that rose and made a halo around her head.

  ‘I thought they were getting married,’ I said.

  ‘So did she.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘God only knows. It’s a shame really that you didn’t do him a permanent injury.’ She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out viciously.

  ‘She only agreed to stay behind if I promised to track him down,’ she said. ‘But sure was I going to send her off to die by the roadside somewhere between he
re and Sydney?’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Who’s the other one?’

  ‘Mr Nakadai,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t let them take a man in his condition. It’s the same thing as murder. I told them they might as well just put a bullet in him because he’d be dead anyway before they could get him on their bally boat.’

  ‘What about Stanley’s mother?’

  ‘She went quietly,’ said Matron Conlon. ‘It was Stanley who made the most noise. He locked himself in his hut. His mother was the one who persuaded him to give himself up.’

  I didn’t say anything for a long time. All I could do was finish my cigarette and stub it out in the overflowing ashtray. ‘Now what do I do?’ I said finally.

  She stared at me out of her kindly brown eyes and smiled. ‘You’d do better to forget about him.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  She reached out and touched my cheek and my heart filled like a balloon about to burst.

  ‘Try,’ she said.

  I stood up and handed my mug back to her.

  Matron Conlon didn’t follow me out. The last I saw of her she was standing at the window of her office staring out at me. She raised a hand to her lips and kissed her fingertips and then she placed her palm flat against the dirty glass.

  I went around the side of the infirmary and stood there for a minute or so crying uncontrollably, partly for Stanley, but mostly out of panic. I had no choice now but to keep travelling. I couldn’t turn back down the road to May and Stuart. I couldn’t tell May the truth about where I’d been and why, because I knew what she’d say. She’d say that problems like mine couldn’t be fixed overnight. And then she’d say she loved me, because that was what she always said, making it sound like an addiction. I’d heard my mother say the same thing to my father more than once, I love you, as if nothing he could do would ever make her stop.

  19

  I drove for two days, pulling over to the side of the road to sleep, stopping in towns along the way to eat. In my delirium I took no notice of the names of any of them or what I ate or who I spoke to. All I saw was the way the country rolled by hour after hour in light that kept changing the shapes and shadows of everything. I wasn’t journeying in real time so much as spiralling in inner space, returning again and again to the same moments from my past: Stanley standing naked while Matron Conlon washed him, for example, or the sight of him in his infirmary bed with the sun streaming through the window. The images seemed to mean something different each time they recurred. By the time I reached Sydney I could no longer remember what day it was, or how long I’d been away from home, although it already seemed like years.