Fishing for Stars (4 page)

‘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 only 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?’

‘What, in a general or specific sense?’

‘Well, for instance, does the dream experience take place at the same location?’

‘Not always, though mostly it’s Guadalcanal; I’m on Bloody Ridge with the marines.’

‘You fought with the American marines at Guadalcanal?’ he asks, obviously surprised despite his calm manner. ‘I thought you’d mentioned Guadalcanal earlier, but I’d always imagined Bloody Ridge was strictly an American battle.’

‘It was. I was seconded from Australian Naval Intelligence – the coastwatchers section – where I worked as a Japanese translator for their Radio Intelligence Unit.’

‘You speak Japanese?’

‘Yes, I was born in Japan. My father was a professor of English, later turned missionary in New Britain.’

‘Bloody Ridge? Radio intelligence? You said earlier that you
fought
in the battle?’

Christ, is he trying to trap me? ‘I was present at Bloody Ridge manning the radio, listening in to the enemy field transmissions. Towards dawn on the second night, with the Nips coming at us from every direction, things got a little difficult. I had my Owen with me and fired at them as they advanced.’ I grin. ‘It was either that or a Jap bayonet in the guts.’

Tony Freeman looked at me doubtfully. ‘Owen? Are you sure? I thought the marines were using Springfield rifles then. I always understood the Owen submachine-gun was exclusively used in battle by
our
forces. An Australian invention, isn’t it?’

Fucking smart alec; now he doubts the veracity of my story. Suspects it’s bullshit.
Stay calm, Nick, don’t pop your lid
. Attempting another grin, I say, ‘I see you know your weapons history.’ I think twice – will I or won’t I bother to straighten him out? What the hell, let him think what he wants. He was in Vietnam and ought to know the drill.