Parallel Lives Read online

  Peter duly rang.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Palm Beach with Mum and Dad. I’m leaving for Saigon tomorrow.”

  “I’ll see you before you go, won’t I?”

  “I could come round in the morning if you like. Maybe you could drop me at the airport? That’s if you haven’t got lectures you need to attend?”

  “Damn the lectures. Of course I’ll take you to the airport. I really want to see you, Peter.”

  *

  Natalie was waiting for him when he arrived at her room at about eleven o’clock. She rushed over to him, throwing her arms around his neck, hardly noticing his uniform and short hair.

  Peter pulled back. “Steady on, old girl. How about we drive to Centennial Park for a bite to eat?”

  They sat quietly over their meal. There was too much to say and too much to feel. She knew Peter had already left in his head. The past was behind them, but she held onto dreams of what could have been, unable to forgive herself for her part in creating their separate destinies.

  Peter slipped his hand into hers. “Let’s go for a walk, love.”

  They went to one of their secret places and sat down on the grass, hidden in the shrubbery. Peter drew her to him. Natalie looked up into his eyes and reached up to kiss him. What started gently became more passionate as they clung to each other. Peter undid her trousers and pushed her panties down her legs before hastily entering her. It was awkward and uncomfortable lying under him on the scratchy grass with him pushing against her. She was just starting to arouse when he stopped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve come.”

  “You’re supposed to pull out before you come. You know I’m not on the pill.”

  “Sorry.”

  She looked at him, let down and dismayed. Neither said anything as they redressed.

  Peter drove to the airport. He parked the Fairlane and passed her an envelope. “Here are the registration papers for the car. I’ve transferred it over to you. That way, at least you’ll still be able to get around.”

  “Thank you. That’s so kind. I didn’t expect it.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “What about your parents?”

  “I’ve already said goodbye to them. I wanted this time to be for us.” They hugged each other closely. “I’ll walk from here. Don’t come in. It’s hard enough already.”

  Natalie watched him walk away, looking smart in his uniform. She knew he no longer belonged to her. Their lives were diverging. She didn’t want to think what the future would bring.

  Chapter 11

  Peter met up with the other soldiers from his company and soon found himself on a Qantas flight to Singapore. There they changed to another plane for the flight to Saigon. As it descended toward Tan Son Nhat Airport, Peter looked out the window at the abundance of dams and ponds, thinking how beautiful it looked until he realised, with dismay, he was looking at bomb craters filled with water. After the long trip, it was a relief to land. Everyone seemed in a hurry to get off the plane. Peter gathered his luggage and joined the throng pushing toward the door. As he made his way down the steps, he was bombarded by engine noise, tropical heat and the smell of aviation fuel and raw sewerage. There were a huge number of American aircraft, both fighter planes and helicopters, with vehicles and people rushing about all over the place. He’d been warned the enemy wore black pyjamas but it appeared to be the uniform for all Vietnamese. How he’d identify the enemy, he had no idea. His heart sank when he noticed wounded soldiers being taken onto planes. Some were carried on stretchers, while others hobbled along on crutches. He tried to look away when he saw a line of body bags but was mesmerised by the sight. The reality was setting in all too quickly.

  They were herded into a rattly old bus with weldmesh instead of glass in the windows and soon on their way. Not far from the airport, Peter’s attention was drawn to a mass of poorly constructed, corrugated-iron hovels that reminded him of chicken-coops. Do people really live in these? There were kids running about everywhere, people carrying buckets and others hanging out the washing. The bus trundled along streets, busy with motor-bikes, bicycles and cars. People, often wearing western clothes wandered about, seemingly oblivious to the war, carrying on their daily lives. Street stalls, selling drinks, fish, pastries and rice dishes, appeared to be doing a roaring trade. As they neared the centre of the city, the streets broadened, some lined by avenues of trees. Peter marvelled at the magnificent colonial architecture. The bus stopped in front of the Grand Hotel, where they were to have a few days leave before being flown to the base. Peter grabbed his kit-bag and walked up the steps, trying not to be too obvious in his admiration of the intricate décor. He soon found himself in a large bedroom with three other soldiers. The room was elegant with its ornately decorated ceilings and heavy, traditional furniture. Full-length green curtains hung over the windows, blocking out the heat and light. A ceiling fan whirred quietly. Before he had even put down his bag, one of the soldiers said, “Well boys, let’s go and find ourselves a cold beer.”

  Outside it was hot and clammy. Peter felt his shirt sticking to his back and was relieved to follow the others into a cool, dark bar. He enjoyed his beer but, with fatigue setting in, found himself only half listening to the conversation. More soldiers arrived. They were loud and cheery, soon attracting the notice of some local women who appeared very friendly in their attentions. This was not where he wanted to be. After his second beer, he excused himself and returned to the hotel. After unpacking his gear, he lay on the bed, intending to read, but drifted into an exhausted sleep.

  His room-mates returned for a shower and Peter joined them for dinner but declined their invitation to check out the local nightclubs. He returned to the room to write a long letter to Natalie. It was early morning by the time the others arrived back. Though their voices woke him, Peter pretended to be asleep to avoid having to engage in their conversation about the good time they’d had. They were still asleep the next morning when Peter quietly left the room to have breakfast downstairs. After taking a closer look at the Grand Hotel, he walked across the road to admire the equally impressive Majestic Hotel. A cyclo driver pulled up beside him and offered to show him the sites.

  “I need to go to the post office.”

  “No problem.”

  He was taken along busy city streets past elaborately carved Hindu and Buddhist temples to reach the impressive, colonial-style Saigon post office. Peter entered the building and joined one of the long queues, noticing soldiers and local people, some dressed in modern western attire and others in more traditional dress with long skirts. Despite the war, this seemed to be a thriving city. It was certainly not the backward, peasant culture he’d been expecting. What am I doing here? These people are carrying on their normal lives all right. Why have I lost my freedom to fight a war I don’t see any point in?

  On leaving the post office he walked across to the waiting driver, who greeted him with a smile. “Come, much to see.”

  When they reached a beautiful fountain in Lam Son Square, Peter asked the driver to stop so he could take a closer look. He felt like a tourist, not a soldier, except he was alone. Natalie would have loved this place.

  “I take you to zoo.” There he found people meandering about, taking photographs of elephants. Then on to the amazing, Hung Kings Temple and the museum with its classical, Asian architecture.

  “Can you just take me somewhere quiet where I can sit and rest?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  They continued to the Tao Dan Park where Peter left the driver by the road to walk alone into the park. He sat on a bench between an avenue of tall trees. This was the first time he’d ever felt truly alone, without direction from anyone. Though he was twenty-two, he didn’t feel ready to face the prospect of what lay ahead. I’m no warrior. He just wanted a quiet existence, surrounded by those he loved. Now he was away from everyone who mattered to him.

  During the remaining time in Saigon, Peter explored
the city. He’d sit beside the Nghe River, where basic huts hung over the river on stilts. There he watched old barges and small, open motorboats moving up and down the river. He saw women painting local scenes and making handicrafts and bought a pretty, painted scene on woven backing to send to Natalie, hoping it would get through customs. His other favourite place was the Botanical Gardens with its picturesque lake strewn with water-lilies. The peace here was a stark contrast to the noise of the city. Peter watched local children playing and walking about. They appeared so carefree, unaffected by the war raging in other parts of their country. I don’t belong here. He didn’t fit with the local people any more than the rowdy soldiers, obsessed with drinking and womanising.

  Holiday over, Peter found himself back with his company, taking a helicopter to the Australian base camp at Nui Dat. Situated on a small hill, it was like a country town with all its facilities – shops, a post office, bars and workshops. However, rather than houses, soldiers lived in old-fashioned tents that looked like they were left over from another war. Peter’s attention was drawn to the noise of blaring transistor radios as he made his way down the dirt road to his own tent. He hadn’t thought to bring a radio, but he probably wouldn’t need one with everyone else’s to listen to. There was certainly no privacy. Men wandered up and down between tents, in various stages of undress, some only wearing boots as they made their way to the showers. This’s obviously an all-male domain. I’m just one of the bunch, like it or not.

  After a preliminary orientation, Peter was ordered out on patrol with his company. He walked through the countryside in search of the enemy, carrying a heavy pack containing water bottles, food supplies, weapons, equipment, a medical kit, blanket and plastic shelter. The luxury of Saigon is definitely gone. In the oppressive heat, he followed other soldiers in a long line, watching for silent messages from those ahead as they crept along, never knowing when they might be ambushed by enemy soldiers. There was an eerie atmosphere as they moved through the dense jungle. All Peter could see was the soldier in front, but as fatigue built up, he became edgier. He heard a sound. Who’s there waiting in the shadows behind the trees? Is it an enemy soldier or is it just a bird? Peter peered through the thick, leafy jungle in the direction of the sound but he could see nothing. It’s so hard to tell. After being taught about booby traps, he was constantly on the look-out for signs of bush that might have been disturbed to lay a trap or any movement that might betray the enemy. Like other soldiers, he moved his rifle gently from side to side as he walked, always at the ready, constantly in a state of nervous tension. The same monotonous routine, day after day, was exhausting with its intense concentration. He shared in the combined stress of the other soldiers. There was a kind of delirium in which reality became foggy. Sometimes they left the jungle to emerge into rice paddies where they’d find themselves soaked up to the waist and covered in leeches or into dry forest where the crunching sound of walking on twigs sounded like a megaphone announcing their presence to the enemy.

  When he returned to base he followed the example of other soldiers and threw his clothes out to be burned. They were beyond redemption and he’d be supplied with new ones. Peter looked down at his red, tortured skin and the oozing sores that had appeared over his body, especially where his clothes rubbed. No wonder soldiers don’t wear underwear. It’s a mistake I won’t make again. At last he could get some ointment for his sores. The irritation and the itching left his acne for dead. What a relief to have a hot shower.

  It wasn’t long before he was on his second trip out from the base. This time he found himself on a helicopter flight to a place further afield. But the routine was the same. They patrolled all day and in the evening, once the area had been checked, they set up machine guns and claymore mines around the perimeter. During the night he’d be woken for his two hours of sentry duty. It was the last thing he needed after walking all day in the sultry heat, not that sleeping was ever easy after the tension of the day, with the snoring of those around him and the discomfort of only a ground sheet underneath him. Every few days a helicopter arrived with fresh supplies of water, food, uniforms and, most important of all, mail. Peter waited impatiently for letters from Natalie. Fortunately, she was a good correspondent and he was rarely disappointed. He gave little away about his life in Vietnam in his letters to her, mostly responding to what she had to say and their mutual dreams for the future. He’d wondered how things would be when they were apart, but it felt as if their letters were drawing them closer.

  Chapter 12

  1946

  On Tuesday, 28th January, Gwyn awoke to a freezing house. He got out of bed and looked through the window at the falling snow before quickly returning to bed. “I’m not walking to Pontardawe in this blizzard, I’m not. Mind you I could nearly skate to work. The canal’s frozen over.”

  “Have you ever seen that before?”

  “Can’t say I have, bach. I don’t know what this world’s coming to. A man has to put his life fair at risk just to go down the garden to the lavatory.”

  “Look, this glass of water I left by the bed last night has turned to ice.”

  “A man could die of thirst. There’ll be no running water, neither. The pipes will be frozen up.”

  “Well then, if you don’t drink anything, you won’t need the lav.”

  “That’s a fine answer, bach, we’ll just lie here and die. Go downstairs and get the fires going now, will you?”

  Gwyn and the other two didn’t make it towork that day. They only got as far as the Colliers Arms where they commiserated with their mates. Paul picked up the ‘Evening Post’, left on the counter from the night before, and started leafing through it. Then something caught his attention. “Look here, Gwyn, the council’s offering grants to build a bathroom onto your house.”

  “Show it here, man. By Jove, that’s just what we need. Once the weather warms up we can get together and build it. What do you say?”

  “Me and Thomas will give you a hand, that’s for sure.”

  “Delyth will be pleased.”

  Gwyn returned home that evening with a cheery smile on his face. “Know what Delyth, I got great plans for this house. They’ll be no more Friday night baths in the old tin tub and going outside in the cold to the lavatory. I’ve heard tell you can get a grant from the Council to build a bathroom onto your house. We’ll be the talk of the street, won’t we my love? It’s all part of making this country a place fit for heroes.”

  Delyth rushed across the room to give him a hug.

  In the course of time, the grant was forthcoming and the three men started work on the construction. Delyth made no complaint about the dust and dirt tramped into the house, providing them with cups of tea, sweeping up after them and helping with the choice of paint colour.

  The trouble was, once they finished the job, going back to the same routine, day after day, drove him mad. What’s the point of it all? Tension built up inside him. He was ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Mostly, he got through the workday all right but by the time he returned home, his energy and patience were gone. The pub was an easy escape from Delyth’s expectations. He knew she meant well but he didn’t have the energy for deep, meaningful conversations, nor the romance that had epitomized their early relationship. Things were different now. He knew he’d let her down. He felt guilty about it but had no idea how to make things better.

  *

  One evening Delyth heard the door slam. It was already late and Gwyn’s meal was steaming on the stove for him. He stomped into the kitchen. Delyth gave him a quick peck on the cheek, smelling alcohol on his breath.

  “Bad day, love?”

  Gwyn threw a few notes and coins onto the kitchen table. “This is all I get for a full week’s work, busting my gut eight hours a day. I’ve had enough. I’ve quit.”

  “Oh dear, what’ll you do now?”

  “I’ll start my own business. There’s a heap of construction work to be had.”

  “It’ll cos
t a huge amount to set up.”

  “You’ve always got to put a dampener on everything, haven’t you? Well, I’m going to do it anyway. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I’ve got a bit of money put aside and I’ll get a loan from the bank.”

  Delyth sighed. “I suppose that means I won’t be able to start the teaching course I was hoping to do?”

  “What do you want to do a course for? You’ll have your own children to look after before too long. Is it too much to ask for a little support from my wife?”

  “You know I always support you. Have I ever let you down?”

  “All those smart office skills you got while I was away will come in useful after all. I’ll need someone to take all the phone calls and manage the accounts. With you to do that I won’t have to pay anyone and we might have a fighting chance.”

  Delyth dragged herself towards the stairs. “Your tea’s on the stove.”

  Upstairs, she laid in bed, furious her views counted for nothing. In Gwyn’s eyes, all I’m good for is serving him. She lay there stewing. He’s right, though. This’s the way it is when you get married. The man’s the provider and the woman the homemaker. My job is to support him. It was time to put her fantasy of a career aside and accept the reality of her lot. She prayed quietly for God to give her the strength to offer Gwyn the back-up he needed. He works hard enough. It’s only right I pull my weight. She was dozing off when she heard him creep into the room and pull back the covers. As he settled down beside her she rolled toward him and whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry.” He kissed her gently on the cheek and drew her into his arms.

  Next morning Delyth was laying out the breakfast things when Gwyn entered the room in his Sunday best. She recalled her resolution from the night before. “My you’re looking smart.”

  “Do you think this will impress the bank manager?”

  “I’m sure it will. What’s your plan?”

  “I want a loan to start the new business.”