The Never Boys Read online

  It hasn’t been all work, however. I’ve been exploring the rainforests and finding several crashed fighters and bombers — some with the pilot’s skeleton still intact. I’ve started collecting what remains of their belongings and sending them to the Red Cross. It’s a ghastly task but the natives have salvaged a lot of the metal panels and everything inside the cockpits is rotting away.

  I haven’t heard from you for some time. Can you please write and tell me how you’re going? How are my parents? And Duckie? How old would his “baby” be now? Nine? Ten?

  With love forever,

  Clive

  Darwin

  Winter ’63

  Bea,

  I’d wager you never thought you’d hear from me again. It’s been a long time, but I’m finally back in Australia. I don’t know for how long, but I get the feeling I’m back for good. I’ve been helping repair a trawler for the last week and hope to finish up my business here within a month or two. The skipper is trying to convince me to buy into his business, but I’m not so sure. He must smell the New Guinea gold on me!

  What I’m really writing about is to ask if you’ll be in Sydney in November? I’m heading your way for a holiday and I’d like to see you again even if it is for an hour. We need to discuss a few things that have been bothering us both. I hope you’re still not mad at me. I’ll send a telegram when it gets closer to the date. I’m excited if you are.

  Clive

  PS. My address is on the back. Would love a letter!

  PPS. Have South Sydney pulled out of their doldrums yet?

  Chapter 24

  I know who you are.

  Those five words browned, curled then caught fire on the oven’s hotplate. Dean covered the ashes with a saucepan lid then looked out the kitchen window again. Nobody.

  Three days straight he’d come home to find the same note slipped under his door. He had strong suspicions about who the author was, even if he didn’t recognise the handwriting. It was definitely a local and definitely someone who knew his timetable. Driving to Michelle’s that third evening only confirmed his fears. Booking a driver with speeding, Constable Tom’s gaze locked on him as he passed in the Chevy.

  ‘Keen for another dive tomorrow?’ Dean asked, stretched on a picnic blanket, with Michelle beside him. They shared a plate of cheese, cabanossi, french onion dip and corn chips as they looked across the lowlands of Angaston.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she answered, following a fire engine racing through the streets. Its siren was off but its lights were flashing. Distant eucalypt wildfires cured the January night. ‘My goggles and fins are already by the door.’

  ‘No more fear of sharks?’

  ‘The only shark I know is you.’

  ‘And what kind would I be?’

  ‘A megamouth.’

  ‘Why you —!’

  They wrestled without too much energy. A phone rang. Seconds later, her mother opened the screen door. ‘Zara’s looking for you!’

  She glanced at Dean. ‘Tell her I’ll call back tomorrow.’

  Her mum went back inside.

  ‘She’s going to find out about us eventually,’ Michelle said, reading his mind.

  ‘I know. But let’s keep it a secret for a little while longer. Friends don’t act as weird.’

  ‘Not that Zara’s been much of a friend lately.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing really. She’s just been giving me a bit of grief since she got back from holidays. She wants to know why I haven’t been spending any time with her. Last year, I had to give her a month’s notice just to go out for coffee.’

  ‘Her friends are starting to drift away. They’re tired of her always being the centre of attention.’

  ‘Tell me about it. She’s so lonely, she’s started hanging out with Hayden again.’

  That surprised Dean but didn’t worry him. He was indifferent, to be honest.

  Placing the plate to one side, he wriggled across to Michelle, kissed her, then stroked her cheek. She looked at him with those fudge-coloured eyes then took charge. Her free hand started at his shoulders, curved over his chest then traced down his ribs. It slid under his shirt, flushed him with goose bumps then stopped at the scar below his armpit. ‘How’d you get that?’ she asked.

  He took her hand out and held it. ‘You’ll be scared of the water again if I tell you.’

  ‘C’mon. No secrets.’

  He glanced down. ‘I got stung by a smooth stingray. That’s where he stabbed me with his spine.’

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Like mad. I nearly drowned.’

  ‘How?’

  He winced. ‘Not now. It’s something I don’t like talking about. Another night, hey?’

  ‘Michelle! Ten minutes!’

  ‘Okay, Mum!’ Then, turning to him, she said, ‘You know you can trust me.’

  He squeezed her. ‘I know.’

  Excusing herself to go to the bathroom, she left him alone. He sat up and listened to a Christmas beetle sputter overhead. He rubbed his scar even though it didn’t itch and looked at his reflection in his drink. Every day he saw that face, and every day he wished it was someone else’s.

  The backdoor slapped shut again. This time it wasn’t Michelle, but her mum. She picked up the near-empty plate and smiled with that pained mother look. ‘Michelle’s a good kid. But she’s young. We want her to stay that way for a little longer, okay?’

  The subtle sex warning clear, mother and daughter passed each other in the kitchen.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Michelle asked, snuggling him from behind. He could feel her heartbeat throb through her soft breasts. ‘You’ve been quiet all night.’

  ‘I was just thinking about Clive.’

  ‘And his letters?’

  ‘Yeah. They trouble me.’

  Before work, he had almost walked past the courier knocking on the front door. After signing for the thin yellow envelope, he saw it was addressed to Old Clive and tried handing it back. The courier said no-can-do — ‘Specific orders of the sender’ — then cranked up his van. Dean tossed it on the couch, but curiosity wore him down.

  He opened it in the winery car park. It contained a pair of sealed letters from Clive and a single note, folded and penned in black ink. The writing paper featured a boy and a girl holding a lamb. The message was brief: Please, please, please don’t send any more letters. The past is over. Beatrice.

  So she was alive.

  And he read the unopened letters:

  Dear Bea,

  Do you even remember me after all these years? I was staggered to think how long it had been since I last wrote! I guess life always gets in the way. Firstly, how are you? And your family? I’m guessing there is one after all these years.

  I was reminded of you the other day when the radio gave the footy scores. The Mighties seem to be going through another rough trot at the moment. Nothing like the days of Eric Lewis and Percy Williams, hey? We don’t get much league news over here. It’s all Aussie Rules. I follow the Crows — when they’re winning!

  To be honest, Bea, I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. Thing is the doc says I’m crook. At first I thought it was just a bug but it’s more serious than that. I’ve been asked to take some tests but I think it’s his polite way of giving me a bit of hope. I’ve been feeling more tired than usual, although I don’t sleep much. Jack Kaesler’s daughter called an ambulance the other day when I had a turn while fixing her ute. She wanted to know if there was anyone she could call. The only person I could think of was you. Funny that.

  What I’m trying to say is I think it’s time we finally got together to talk. I want to put everything that’s happened between us to rest. I know it’s too late but I want to do it before I leave. I don’t want any bad feelings lingering between us when the inevitable does happen.

  So I’m asking you as an old friend, can you please send me your telephone number? Or if that’s too much, just a letter?

  On
ce again, I hope you’re in good health.

  Lots of love,

  Clive

  Dearest Bea,

  I’m worried that my last letter never reached you or that yours got lost in the mail. I desperately want to talk to you before — you know. If something does happen in the meantime know this: I’ve always loved you. You would have made me the world’s happiest man if you did marry me. I better go. Please write.

  Love forever,

  Clive Xavier Clancy

  Dean had later lowered this last letter and saw that same name carved on a gravestone. The grey soil was dry and the grass had regrown. Waiting beside it was one last vacant lot never to be occupied.

  The old man’s anguish had troubled Dean that night as he ate at his table, sat on his couch and played his guitar. Escaping the loneliness, he’d driven his car to Michelle’s house.

  ‘Don’t go crazy worrying about it,’ she said, rubbing his chest. ‘Clive wasn’t an easy person to like. He didn’t have too many friends.’

  ‘You’d think some of them would have turned up to his funeral. Even some of his old navy buddies at least.’

  ‘I think he outlived them.’

  That only sounded more depressing.

  ‘What about this woman called Bea? The one he wrote to all the time?’

  ‘She was never going to turn up. I stupidly realised today why I found all his old love letters: she’d returned every single one.’

  She baulked. ‘You don’t think he might have been a stalker?’

  ‘I doubt it. Not from the tone of his letters, anyway.’

  ‘You sound upset.’

  ‘It sounds strange, but I feel sorry for the old guy.’

  ‘We all do, but there’s nothing anyone can do now.’

  He twisted round. ‘I think there is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I talked to the solicitor today. Clive’s will expires in two weeks. I want to find this Bea woman.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘I think so. Most of his letters are addressed to this one place in Sydney. I booked my ticket tod—’

  ‘What? You’re actually going to Sydney?’

  ‘Yeah. After all these months.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to ring her?’

  ‘I’ve tried. Directories don’t have a listing.’

  ‘She’d be pretty old. Do you know whether she’s even alive?’

  ‘She must be to return those last letters.’

  ‘Can’t the solicitor trace her?’

  ‘He’s not interested. He gets paid regardless if she’s found or not. The last thing he wants to do is spend money.’

  ‘But you’re going to?’

  ‘I owe it to him, Shell. I play his guitar, sleep in his quarters —’

  ‘The Kaeslers’ quarters.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Seeing her still uneasy about the idea, he rubbed her legs. ‘I really want to give this a shot. Most likely this Bea woman doesn’t know Clive’s dead. Who knows what kind of relationship they had before he moved here? They might have even had a child together.’

  ‘Do — you want me to fly over with you?’

  ‘I’ll be taking the bus — I never fly — but it’s probably better that I go alone. I don’t know if she’ll be happy to be found. Besides,’ — (he laced their fingers) — ‘I doubt your parents would approve of us sneaking off to Sydney together.’

  She grinned. ‘Dad would run the bus off the road.’

  He smiled. ‘You okay with this?’

  She nodded reluctantly. ‘Just come back, okay?’

  Chapter 25

  Sydney was a metropolis of water, tourists, humidity, talkback radio, sunless streets, smokers, beggars and no-right turns. But more than anything, it was manic. People never stopped. They hurried to work, hurried to meetings, hurried their lunches. They hurried their phone calls. Then they hurried home. Hurry, hurry, hurry. The city was so overwhelming that when Dean stepped off the bus at Central Station, a rush of commuters in too much of a hurry to see him knocked him about.

  Booking into a backpackers’ hostel, he showered, then left a message for Michelle. Lunch was a Whopper with cheese, fries and a Coke. As he was only in Sydney one night, there wasn’t much time for sightseeing. But he did splurge on a taxi drive across the Harbour Bridge and back, just to brag that he’d done it once. Then he gave the driver a new address and marvelled from the front seat the decaying beauty of the inner city.

  Terraces, wrought iron gates, barred windows and trees rooted in bitumen replaced the office buildings. Turning at a corner shop, the taxi braked outside a blue terrace that matched the address of Clive’s letters.

  ‘Are you sure you want to be dropped off here?’ the driver asked. ‘It is Redfern.’

  Dean swung open the front gate, noticing a line of hanging baskets dripping along the patio. Good, the owner was home. He twisted the doorbell like a wind-up toy. Two locks snapped aside and from behind the security grille a woman asked, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Er, hi. Bea Carmichael?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is she in?’

  A Star Trek phaser blasted deep inside the corridor. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of her. You must have the wrong address.’

  He double-checked it with the woman. Still no winner.

  ‘Can I ask how long you’ve been living here?’

  ‘Half my life,’ she said, staying behind the grille. ‘Seventeen years.’

  He stared blankly.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks — Thanks for your time.’

  Standing on the street, he only moved aside when a team of footballers sweated towards a nearby oval. He’d failed. Thirteen hundred kilometres for a dead end.

  Defeated, he crossed the road to go to the corner shop, hoping it had a payphone.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a woman interrupted him as he started dialling the taxi company. ‘Hi. I’m Sheryl-Lee Kerr. You were just at my place asking about a Bea Carmichael?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The dark-haired woman was aged in her thirties just as she had said. ‘You don’t mean Beatrice Sutton by any chance?’

  ‘Is she quite old?’

  ‘Yes. Or, well, she would be. I haven’t seen her for a long time. She owned my terrace before my brother bought it from her. She sold it after her husband died. I try not to think of that though, considering I’m living there now.’

  ‘Her husband?’

  ‘Dr Sutton. That’s why the name Carmichael threw me. And I thought you said B. Carmichael as in Belinda or Betty. What reminded me were these strange letters that occasionally arrive in the mail. They’re addressed to her, even though she hasn’t lived here for years. I normally forward them on to her last address.’

  ‘You know where she is now?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in my drawer. Do you mind waiting?’

  ‘No,’ he said excitedly. ‘Not at all.’

  The taxi ride back almost dropped him off where he’d started. Paying his fare, he stood on the steps of a narrow triple-storey sandstone building wondering once again if he had the right address. It was an inner city hospice near Hyde Park. A number of Forgotten People stood on the front steps, squeezing puffs from cigarettes, alongside nuns who shared cups of tea.

  He made his way inside, uncomfortable with the unknown. Naively, he expected people in quiet genuflection or the shuffle of robes, but in reality it was a jostle of crying babies, addicts, the homeless and HIV-positive men. There was not a habit in sight. At the main desk, a middle-aged Chinese-Australian sister rolled her eyes as she fought with bureaucracy on the phone. A street kid had been denied welfare because he didn’t have a permanent address. ‘Oh, we’ll be calling the Minister’s office after we’ve called all the radio stations!’ Slam! ‘Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue,’ she repeated. Then composing herself, she asked, ‘Now, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m after a Beatrice Sutton?’

&
nbsp; ‘One moment.’ The nun stepped into a back room where an older colleague instantly recognised the name. After he had been pointed out, she approached him again and said, ‘Sister Ruth might be able to help you. She’s rostered on pastoral care at the hospital for the moment. You can take a seat until she returns if you wish.’

  He sat next to a heavily inked biker with a bullring through his nose and his young son on his shoulder. The pale-faced boy stared at Dean with the grey eyes of the dying.

  The wait was a long one. He had possibly found the only person in Sydney who wasn’t in a hurry. However, after an alcoholic man had been calmed in the back rooms, an elderly nun walked in the front. She had white hair, glasses, a worn rosary and a Walkman plugged into her ears. The sister at the counter called out to Sister Ruth then stole her away for a quiet word. When he was introduced, he expected hymns of praise carolling from the earpieces. Instead, trumpets pistoned with jazz.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’ The nun smiled politely. ‘I don’t recognise that name.’

  ‘But the sister at the counter says you do,’ he said.

  ‘She’s mistaken, I’m afraid.’

  Sister Ruth left him standing in the foyer. ‘You’re Beatrice Sutton, aren’t you? Or at least Beatrice Carmichael.’

  ‘No, like I said, you’re mistaken.’

  She continued down the corridor, greeting a heavily pregnant mother who was shuffling the other way.

  ‘Clive Clancy’s dead!’ he yelled out.

  The nun stopped. She glanced to the side, opened a door then retreated behind it. A minute later, she reappeared. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she whispered. ‘My prayers are with him. Now, you must excuse me.’

  ‘His will expires next week. I think he meant it for you.’

  No response.

  ‘Aren’t you even curious why I’m here?’

  Frustration edged his voice. The nun picked up on it and warned quietly, ‘Let’s step outside.’

  ‘You are her, aren’t you? You can’t lie to me. Nuns aren’t allowed to.’

  ‘Nuns aren’t infallible, you know.’