Monsoon Read Free Page A

pain.
    â€˜We’re being turfed out, love. We’ve got a lift back to Saigon, it seems.’
    The soldier in the bed down from Little Pattie gave them a weak wave. ‘Been nice seeing someone from home, mate. Thanks for coming. Your show must’ve been beaut. We heard it, y’know. In that rubber plantation before we got hit. We could hear the music.’ He held out his hand and Col gave it a firm shake.
    â€˜Thank you for what you’re doing up here, mate. Hope you get home real soon. Where’re you from?’ asked Col.
    â€˜Sydney. Maroubra. You know, Little Pattie’s song, “Stompin’ at Maroubra”.’
    â€˜Ah, know Maroubra well. Good beach you got there.’
    â€˜Catch a wave for me when you get back, eh, Col.’
    â€˜I’ll do that, mate. What’s your name?’
    â€˜Sergeant Phillip Donaldson, 6RAR.’
    â€˜Good on yer, Phil. See you back at home, keep your powder dry, eh?’
    â€˜I’ll try, mate. See ya.’
    Col stopped by a bed where Tom was talking to a soldier and making notes. ‘Hey, Tom, go talk to Phil over there. Reckon he’s got a story for you.’
    â€˜Great. I’ll do that, Col.’ Tom went and pulled up a chair beside Phil’s hospital bed and shook his hand. ‘You’ve come out of Long Tan?’
    Little Pattie tugged gently at Col’s sleeve. ‘We have to leave. I don’t want to miss another ride.’
    â€˜Too right.’
    As they were about to leave, the harassed young doctor grabbed Col’s hand. ‘Listen, sorry I was so abrupt. I’ve been up all night. It’s tough, seeing so many badly wounded. And losing men.’
    â€˜Understood, Doc. Look after me mate Phil over there. And the rest of ’em.’
    The doctor wiped his hand across his eyes. ‘We try our best, Col. That’s all we can do.’
    Col turned and gave Tom a wave. ‘Nice travelling with you, mate. Keep the stories coming, eh?’
    â€˜I’ll do that, Col. Good luck.’ Tom turned back to Phil Donaldson, who tried to recount what he’d seen and felt as his mates had been killed beside him.
    Maroubra, Sydney, 2006
    Phil Donaldson put the letter down on the kitchen table, opened the refrigerator door and stood staring into the brightly lit shelves of food.
    â€˜You hungry, love?’ His wife, Patricia, went to fill the kettle.
    â€˜Nah.’ He slammed the fridge door shut.
    â€˜Who’s the letter from, pet?’ asked Patricia.
    â€˜Nothing important.’ But then he turned at the doorway. ‘It’s from Tassie Watts. Wants to get some sort of a reunion happening. But I’m not interested.’
    His wife stared at his hard expression, recognising the symptoms of the painful memories washing over him. Now he was right back. Back in Vietnam. The place he could never leave behind. ‘Might do you good, love. See your old mates and, you know, talk about things,’ she said gently.
    â€˜There’s nothing to talk about.’ He left the room.
    Sighing, Patricia Donaldson turned on the kettle, emptied the teapot and stood at the table staring down at the letter tucked back in the envelope. Slowly she reached for it and drew out the single sheet of paper.

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    Sydney, July 2006

    T OM A HEARN SPRAYED WATER from the garden hose around his roses in the late morning winter sun. He was proud of his circular bed of roses backed by deep blue summer hydrangeas along the back fence. After his roses he was most proud of his tomatoes and spinach. Although he had owned his Sydney house for thirty years there had been little time to attend to home maintenance or the garden. Now he was enjoying doing these things in his retirement. Not that he was retired totally, he was quick to point out. He worked from his home office and kept almost as busy as he ever had been as a journalist and broadcaster.
    Meryl watched her husband from the kitchen window