Monsoon Read Free Page B

as she poured their morning tea, set out the homemade Anzac biscuits and carried the tray to the old table on the verandah. Tom was a fit sixty-five, which he put down to his regular walks and occasional big bush hike. He’d had a few health problems which he would have ignored if Meryl hadn’t pushed him into the doctor’s. High blood pressure had been pinpointed along with an overdose of stress and a dicky knee from his intensive squash games years before. Now that he was on medication, watched his diet and had his knee replaced he felt better than he had in decades. But Meryl knew he was still a bit frustrated with life. While he wrote a column for the local paper and was active in the residents’ association and local politics, he missed his career as a foreign correspondent.
    â€˜Tom, tea.’
    He turned off the hose and joined her at the table. ‘Going to be a magnificent display come spring and summer ,’ he said, waving a biscuit towards the roses. ‘That early pruning has set them up beautifully.’
    â€˜I’m sure they’ll be stunning,’ said Meryl, who always wondered at the way the chopped-back, dead-looking wood sprouted fresh green leaves and miraculous blooms come the warm weather. ‘How’re the vegies coming along?’
    â€˜Abundantly. Thought I might make a stir fry tonight,’ he said.
    â€˜Wonderful. I’ll put my feet up while you cook your Asian delights,’ said Meryl with a smile. Stir fry wouldn’t decimate the kitchen. When Tom took it into his head to recreate some of his favourite dishes from his years in the East, it could become a major – and messy – production. The desserts were the worst. Sticky rice and gula Malacca, when the sago and palm sugar had boiled over on the stove, still haunted her.
    The phone rang and Tom sauntered inside to answer it as Meryl poured a second cup of tea, noting the knitted tea-cosy could do with some running repairs. Tom’s tea was cold when he returned some time later, thoughtfully holding the portable phone which he put on the table.
    â€˜You were on the phone for ages. Who was it?’
    â€˜The old war horse himself – Alistair Knight.’
    â€˜Your old chief of staff? I thought he’d gone to God yonks ago.’
    â€˜Good lord, no, he’s as spry as can be. He’s eighty-two going on fifty-two.’
    â€˜So why was he calling you out of the blue after all these years?’ asked Meryl.
    Tom gave a quizzical smile. ‘Aha. I could have another assignment. Well, not really, but an intriguing invitation.’ He paused for dramatic effect before satisfying his wife’s curiosity. ‘Remember I told you about my time at Nui Dat in Vietnam?’
    â€˜The time you and Col Joye got kidnapped?’
    â€˜Yeah. Well, sort of . . . I was an extra bod that the Aussie command wasn’t expecting at the time,’ he chuckled. ‘That was forty years ago. Incredible how the years get away from us so easily. Anyway, there are plans afoot for a couple of big reunions. One in Brisbane, one at Long Tan, near Nui Dat.’
    â€˜Long Tan,’ said Meryl.
    â€˜That battle has never been given its due recognition,’ said Tom, suddenly serious. ‘Alistair reckons this anniversary could change that. As I was there he wants me to write about it. It’s hard to believe that one hundred and eight men held off several thousand VC in that rubber plantation at Long Tan . . .’ His voice trailed off and he wandered into the house.
    Meryl took the cups into the kitchen and as she was rinsing them music suddenly roared from their ageing stereo. She stood there listening, her wet hands tightening on the edge of the sink, eyes closed as Redgum’s big hit ‘I Was Only Nineteen’ came to the final verse.

    And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can’t get to sleep? And why the Channel Seven chopper chills me to