The Never Boys Page 16

  ‘Infallible?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Who are you, anyway? His grandson?’

  ‘No, Dean Mason. I’m just a — a friend. I want to give back his letters.’

  ‘What would I want with those? It looks like they’ve already been sent back to him.’

  ‘By you?’

  ‘For a good reason.’

  ‘So you are Beatrice?’

  ‘Beatrice passed away when her husband died. So did her history. I’m Sister Ruth now. Please, I must go. There are people inside who need my care.’

  ‘Wait! I want to find out what happened between you two.’

  No answer.

  ‘But the letters?’

  ‘Destroy them.’

  Chapter 26

  Candle soot and burning prayers curled into the high recesses of St Mary’s Cathedral as silent saints watched over the small number of kneeling parishioners. Their hands were clasped and eyes closed as a cleaner rolled his mop bucket among the tourists pointing at stained-glass windows. Counted in the flock was Sister Ruth, who had been there for more than half-an-hour. Two dozen rows back, Dean sat watching, aware that she’d ignored him upon entering. He too was there to wrestle with his lot. The last time he’d stepped inside a church he’d been dressed in the black stiffness of a suit and tie, and chilled by the incense of cut orchids.

  With an amen, Sister Ruth crossed her chest, pulled herself out of her seat then placed a steadying hand on the end of each pew as she walked towards the rear of the cathedral. He tried avoiding eye contact as she stopped at his row.

  ‘I hope you’re not following me.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I came here on my own — it’s been a while.’

  She started to inquire, but refrained. She had a different question instead. ‘How did you know I was Beatrice Sutton? None of the sisters would have told you.’

  He grimaced. ‘No offence, but you’re the right age. Plus your rosary beads. They’re red and green — your footy team’s colours, right?’

  She pulled them from a pocket and rubbed them between her fingers. ‘The Rabbitohs need all the help they can get,’ she explained.

  The light above the confessional switched on and another sinner disappeared inside.

  ‘Why did you stop writing to him?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘You already know the answer to that: I didn’t love him.’

  ‘But you did once, right? You must’ve for Clive to love you his entire life.’

  She looked up and down the main aisle. ‘You’re not going to leave me alone until I tell you, are you?’

  ‘It would end a lot of rumours,’ he said.

  She fell silent. A camera flash reflected in her glasses as she chewed on her reluctance. Finally, she lowered herself next to him and took her time to begin. ‘Clive and I grew up together in Redfern during the Depression. We were sweet on each other from a young age. About eleven, I think. No — ten. Yes, ten. We were a pair of tearaways. We would work as “cockatoos” for gambling dens for a halfpenny, ride Chippy Jones’s horse when he wasn’t home or sneak into the Sydney Sports Ground to watch George Treweek’s Rabbitohs rough up Balmain. When money was tight — and it was always tight — we’d head to Centennial Park with big pickle jars and sit with our legs in one of the ponds. After a while, we’d pull them out, pluck off all the leeches then sell them for a penny to Washington Soul Pattisons, who would use them on bruises and black eyes.

  ‘Clive was a bit of an entrepreneur when he was younger. He was also a dreamer. He used to make up fancy stories about us travelling the world together — Egypt always being his favourite. “We’ll fight mummies and sail the Nile, Bea,” he’d say. I would always laugh, thinking it was all nonsense. I came from a family of nine that lived in one of the poorest parts of Sydney. We could barely feed ourselves let alone buy a tram ticket.

  ‘As we grew older, Clive’s affections grew stronger. It was more silliness than love. He left school for a job with Sargent’s Meat Pies then later as a barrow boy for a Haymarket grocer. With a little money filling his pockets, he started talking about us getting married in a few years’ time. But the war put an end to that. Everything changed. Fathers, sons, husbands — they all enlisted to fight the Germans. Whole families of men in some cases. I was grateful because Clive was sixteen and too young to go. That didn’t stop his friends joining, however. They thought themselves indestructible. They bet each other a month’s pay on who was going to shoot Hitler first.

  ‘Most were too young to enlist but they lied about their age or signed up as cadets. They tried getting him to join as well but he told them his father and mother forbade him. There was an element of truth to that, but I knew him too well. Clive wasn’t a fighter. He’d always kept away from William Street and the razor gangs. He was just a skinny boy who loved boats and stole banana boxes to play street cricket. The war scared him.

  ‘Some months later, he started getting white feathers in the mail. It didn’t matter that he was only a boy or that his parents refused to let him go. The neighbours only thought of their own men dying overseas while he was safe at home. He tried hiding the feathers from us but the servicemen’s wives and girlfriends were just as catty towards me. They called me all sorts of terrible names or threw soil at me. Once, Francine Mallard even chased me down Chalmers Street with a broom!

  ‘It was hard on his family, too. His father fought in the Great War and lost two brothers. He didn’t want to lose his only son to the Nazis as well. Keeping his boy at home cost him his standing in the community. He got into his fair share of scraps down at the local hotel, let me tell you.’

  She started rubbing the blotched knuckles of her left hand. ‘The guilt and the war wore us all down. Clive was upset the most. He kept saying that he should just enlist and be done with it, but then talk himself out of it when he thought of killing another man. So it surprised us all — not the least me — when one afternoon, in May I think, he announced he had enlisted. This hurt me terribly but he kept reassuring me everything would be okay. It wasn’t the frontline, he said. It was the navy. “I probably won’t see any action.”

  ‘On our last night together, he took me to the pictures. I can’t remember what was playing. We were both too miserable to sit through it so we left at the intermission. The next morning he was to be transported from Sydney to Melbourne on a troop train and we wanted to spend the last few hours together. We didn’t say a lot because we didn’t know what to say. But it was while he walked me home that he asked of me the strangest thing: not to see him off at the station. He was afraid seeing me cry would stay with him during his service. He then gave me a GPO Box address to write to and promised everything would be the same when he returned.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  A young girl ran by, la-la-lahing and slapping the end of each pew.

  ‘You’ve read Clive’s letters. What did you learn from them?’

  ‘That life at sea was pretty hard, that he missed home and that he missed you. Why?’

  ‘What if I told you Clive never wrote them.’

  He faltered. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The originals, I mean.’

  ‘But it’s his handwriting.’

  ‘They’re copies.’

  ‘Copies of what?’

  She shifted on the hard pew. ‘How well did you know Clive?’

  ‘Er, not that well.’

  She breathed out. ‘Then he’s deceived you, too. You see Clive never joined the navy. He never went to war. He didn’t even board the HMAS Australia. It was all a story that he made up.’

  ‘But the letters? They seem so real.’

  ‘Because they were real. Written by a real sailor aboard the Aussie — a friend of Clive’s named John Kaesler.’

  The General’s father?

  ‘He and Clive wrote to each other during the war. His letters would tell of life aboard the ship and the battles he’d seen, which Clive would then copy, add his own thoughts to, then mail to his f
amily and me. We were none the wiser. We wrote letters to him and we received letters back. His stories matched the reports on the wireless and in the newspapers; the stationery had naval letterheads; and his telegrams were true-to-their word about when he was returning for shore leave.’

  He felt a hitch in his chest and tried swallowing it back down. ‘But why would he do such a stupid thing?’

  ‘Why do fake veterans march in ANZAC Day parades now? Is it to fit in? Or for respect? Or is it because the guilt gets too much and they have to fake another life? No one really knows. I have my own theory about Clive, though. You have to understand that society was different back then. A lot of young people today protest against war. In my day, going off to defend your country was an honourable sacrifice. You weren’t seen as a man unless you did so. Clive lied not only to avoid war, but also to avoid being persecuted by people. The problem was that he never expected the war to go on as long as it did.’

  ‘How did you discover he was lying then?’

  ‘By mistake, actually. At the laundry where I worked there was this lovely, lovely woman with red hair and high cheeks who used to come in once a week. Purely by chance she was married to a sailor aboard the Aussie. We would swap news about what our men had written in their letters or what parcels we’d sent them. One Christmas, she walked in with a card she’d just received from her husband. It showed a sailor hugging an artillery shell while dreaming of his sweetheart. She asked if I’d received mine. I said no. “It must be still in the post.” But it never arrived. Mail delays were common so I didn’t think too much of it but my friend wrote to her husband, insisting that he give Clive a clip round the ears for not sending me one. Her husband wrote back saying that he didn’t know anybody by that name. Again, I wasn’t too worried. The Aussie was a big ship with nearly a thousand hands. But her husband wrote back a second time and reassured us that he’d checked with one of the officers. There was no Clive Clancy aboard the HMAS Australia.

  ‘We went down to the navy office and asked a records officer. He also told us that Clive wasn’t with the Aussie — or any other ship for that matter. It was then that we started to learn the real story.

  ‘His father had friends at the post office who helped track Clive to the Melbourne docks. He’d been working there ever since stepping off a train from Sydney and not for the navy. But a friend tipped off Clive before his father found him and he fled again. The news created quite a sensation back home and brought great shame not only to his whole family but to me as well. The feeling in our street was so vile that his parents were forced to move to the country after the war. But they had to suffer the humiliation in the meantime. It was worse for me. Everyone thought I’d been helping him hide.

  ‘From that moment, Clive could never come back home. What he did wasn’t the Redfern way. He must have realised that, because the next time I heard from him, the war was finished and he was in hiding in New Guinea. He sent me a long letter, trying to explain himself while at the same time asking if we could still get married. When I refused, he sailed back to Australia, hoping to win me over face-to-face. But I told him: no. I no longer loved him. It was over.’

  Her voice sounded tired. ‘I’m no fool. I’m sure Clive was involved with other women during his life. None of them lasted, however, because more letters would always arrive. Sad, sad letters telling me how much he loved me and begging for me to change my mind. Silly man. He was in love with a girl who was still a teenager in his mind.’

  She shrank with another sigh. ‘Even now I find it hard to feel sympathy for him. The only people I really feel sorry for are all the men Clive dishonoured. He stole another man’s identity without experiencing the horror and death those sailors had to live through. It was just a giant story to him. But do you know what the saddest part is of all this mess? That first mistake, the very first lie. Surely Clive never imagined how many more it would take to cover it up — the hurt it would cause — or he would have stopped it before it began.

  ‘In the end, the truth came out — as it always does. Clive died alone. He’d lived a life that was never his and he regretted it until his last breath.’

  A hush fell between Dean and Sister Ruth. She sat still, slowly rolling a single rosary bead between her thumb and forefinger, while he fidgeted, wiping the humidity from his face. Above him. The saints. Their heavy eyes. Why were they staring?

  ‘Young man?’ she asked with concern. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Y-Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I just feel light-headed, that’s all. It’s — it’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘Would you like a drink of water?’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  A volunteer returned with a full glass, which he skolled. ‘You still look pale. Is something wrong?’

  ‘It’s just —’

  A mobile phone started ringing.

  ‘Clive’s life — mine —’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘How you were saying —’

  Parishioners broke from their prayers as the caller became insistent.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘About the one lie. That’s all true?’

  She smiled respectfully. ‘We wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t.’

  The phone must have been left behind. No one was rushing to answer it.

  ‘How did you — I mean —’

  ‘You’re not in trouble, are you?’

  ‘Yes — No.’

  The twelfth ring.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Do you need to speak to a priest?’

  Would someone answer that phone!

  He caught her before she got up. The cleaner answered the phone. ‘Please. Sit. I need someone to talk to. Possibly you.’

  That caught the nun off-guard. She stayed beside him, hesitant. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  He pushed his face through his hands. ‘How can I describe it, Sister? Everything’s so complicated.’

  ‘Then start with the beginning and we’ll work it out from there.’

  ‘But you’ll only end up hating me.’

  ‘Then I’d be a poor nun if I did.’

  He stared at her. He wanted to talk, but he was too afraid. Steadying himself with a deep breath, he stop-started until the right words connected. She sat through his story as the skyline faded and the dusk darkened with thousands of bats. When he had finished, he leaned forward, almost balled up, his shaking fingers holding his head. Meditating, the nun put away her red and green rosary and looked to the pulpit.

  ‘I love this girl,’ he finished. ‘I’ll lose her if she finds out.’

  A pause. A breath. A glance to a crucified God.

  ‘Everything’s forgivable,’ she said. ‘The Good Lord taught us that. Unfortunately, not everyone forgives.’

  Chapter 27

  Changing gears also shifted Dean in his seat. He was surprised to find that he’d been asleep. The endless scrub blurring past his window had thinned and would soon be replaced by orchards, cherry trees, pelicans and roadside fruit sellers of the Riverland. It was the first time he’d nodded off since Sydney. Exhaustion no doubt. He’d forced himself to stay awake all night and morning so as not to miss a rest stop. Each time he’d dialled Michelle’s number only to speak to her answering machine. He didn’t know what he wanted to hear. Maybe a joke. A laugh. “I miss you.” Listening to a recorded voice was worse than not hearing one at all.

  The bus eased into a checkpoint for fruit fly. It hovered for long moments then stuttered forward as the inspectors cleared the cars and caravans in front. Unimpressed, he rolled over and tried sleeping again. Truro was two hours away. He needed the rest.

  The whisper started at the front seats then worked its way towards the middle. When the old man in front of him repeated, ‘The police?’ Dean sat upright, checked his window then reached for his bag. That’s when he saw the two police officers walking up the steps.


  ‘Nice holiday?’ Constable Tom asked.

  For the next two hours, Dean sat with his hands clamped behind his back, indifferent to the countryside, the smell of sandalwood or the cops’ questions. Upset but stonewalling, all he could think about was Michelle.

  ‘Relax,’ Constable Tom soothed, closing the interview room door behind him. Dean had already waited another hour in the dry air; plenty of time to change his mood.

  ‘What are you arresting me for?’

  ‘You haven’t been arrested. We’re just having a chat.’

  ‘About what?’

  A flier skated across the tabletop. He caught it. Several missing persons tiled the page.

  ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Which one?’

  Constable Tom smiled. ‘The boy in the top left-hand corner.’

  ‘It’s a pretty bad photo.’

  ‘You didn’t exactly pose for it, now, did you?’

  ‘You think that’s me?’ he half-laughed. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘Sure, you’ve had a haircut and added a couple of earrings, but you didn’t think that would fool anyone, did you?’

  ‘Hate to spoil your detective work, but that ain’t me.’

  ‘Take another look. All us boys here reckon the resemblance is spot-on. But then again, I wouldn’t want to be this bloke either. Both parents: dead. His brother: killed. A twin, no less. Do you have a brother, Dave?’

  ‘Dean. And no I don’t.’

  ‘Pity. Apparently he was one of Australia’s best surfing juniors. His death made headlines and magazines across the country. You surf — don’t you, Dean?’

  ‘C’mon. If you’ve got proof that I’m — I’m whoever this bloke is, then arrest me. If you don’t, let me go.’

  The cop leaned back in his chair, his pen pinched between his fingertips. ‘There’s the door. You can leave whenever you want.’

  ‘About time,’ he huffed and stood up.

  ‘But’ — (just as his hand touched the door handle) — ‘if you do leave, I’ll turn this into a full investigation.’