Fishing for Stars Read Online Free PDF Page A

calls. I’m relaxed, two stiff glasses of Scotch under my belt. I tell myself it’s an evening call, so no harm can come.
    ‘Nick darling, I’m worried about you.’
    ‘That’s very nice to hear but quite unnecessary,’ I laugh. ‘Saffron and I have been out on Madam Butterfly ; it’s been a lovely day, good strong breeze, I feel ten years younger.’ Saffron’s a damn good sailor and does the hard work on board while allowing me to appear to be the skipper.
    ‘I mean generally,’ Marg replies, not listening. ‘When we last talked you didn’t sound yourself. What’s wrong?’
    I’ve been unable to keep anything from her for as long as I can remember. It’s something about her tone of voice and the strength of her character. Even a casual question demands an answer. Maybe it’s because she listens with her eyes, and despite this being the telephone, I can sense her gaze fixed upon me. I clear my throat. ‘Old man’s dreams, nothing more,’ I reply, attempting to make light of the matter. ‘And I’m up and down all night.’
    ‘Well, have you had a prostate examination lately?’ she asks in her practical way.
    ‘No.’
    ‘When was the last time?’
    ‘Never. Marg, stop fussing!’
    ‘And the dreams . . . What kind of dreams? Good ones? No, they couldn’t be, or you wouldn’t be complaining. I read recently that ex-servicemen often start having dreams as they grow older. They may feel guilt—’
    ‘I’m not complaining!’
    ‘Well of course not, not directly. But I can sense you’re distracted. Something’s wrong. What is it? The war? Anna?’
    ‘Both,’ I reply lamely, knowing she isn’t going to let go.
    ‘You’re grieving, Nick. Hardly surprising,’ she adds in a rare albeit offhand acknowledgement of her departed rival. ‘These war dreams . . .  do you feel guilty?’
    I sigh. ‘God knows I have reason enough to feel guilty. Though probably least of all over what happened in the war. The Japs had it coming to them and I’ve never felt any remorse. Although I don’t suppose one ever quite gets over the business of killing.’
    ‘Ah, then it’s Anna ,’ Marg announces, as usual coming down hard on the name. ‘Is she in your dreams, these war dreams?’
    ‘Yeah . . . somewhat,’ I mumble.
    ‘Well, we’re going to have to do something about them,’ Marg says firmly.
    ‘Like what exactly?’ I ask, slightly impatient. ‘I imagine it’s all a part of the process of grief and growing old. The past revisited. Elephants going to a predestined place to die.’
    ‘Nonsense, you’re eight years younger than I am. It’s probably PTSD.’
    ‘Huh? I beg your pardon?’
    ‘From the war. I told you, I’ve recently read about it – Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.’
    ‘The war! You mean like the Vietnam vets?’
    ‘No, our war, the Burma Railway, Changi, Sandakan, the Middle East, New Guinea, the Solomons. We didn’t give it a fancy name then.’
    ‘Do I need to remind you our war ended forty-eight years ago?’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So I haven’t had a sleepless night thinking about it from the day I was demobbed and exchanged my naval uniform for a cheap government-issue suit. That is, until about four months ago. It’s a bit bloody late for Post-Traumatic Stress whatever, don’t you think?’
    ‘Nick, that’s when Anna died,’ Marg says patiently. ‘I think you should see someone. And you should definitely get that prostate checked.’
    ‘What, a shrink? Nah.’
    ‘Darling, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll ask around. I’ll be very discreet.’
    ‘Marg, leave it alone!’ I protest. ‘It’s only started recently. I daresay it will pass.’ I laugh. ‘It’s probably the after-dinner glass of Scotch catching up with me . . . the years of after-dinner Scotches.’ I don’t tell her that my nightcap has turned plural three or four times over.
    Marg isn’t listening. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t use your name.’
    ‘Wouldn’t matter if you