cigarette in his mouth.
‘You can smoke when you get out and after you answer a few questions. Okay?’
He wanted to ask me what Sarah had told me but with the rain pelting and the cigarettes available he decided to play it cool. Me too.
‘You need to learn a bit about fighting, son. You had a go, which I admire, but you should always keep your head moving and punch for the body. Bigger target.’
The cigarette in his mouth jiggled as he nodded. ‘If you say so.’
‘And you shouldn’t have pushed the woman. I know you were scared—’
‘Who says I’m scared?’
‘I do. You’re scared a lot of the time. I was at your age. How far’re you going?’
‘Mona Vale.’
‘I’ll drop you. Did you know Sarah’s brother, Justin?’
‘Yeah, I knew him. Went to the same fucking school until they chucked me out.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He was an arsehole.’
‘Explain.’
‘Always crapping on about the heroes in his fucking family. Grandfather and great-grandfather dying in battle, how he was going to be an officer and all that shit. Who cares?’
‘What else?’
‘He used to try to protect Sarah from blokes like me. Not that she wanted protection, and when he pissed off, wow, did she cut loose.’
‘Still at school, isn’t she?’
He sniggered and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to scratch at a new-looking tattoo of an image I couldn’t identify. ‘Not a lot. Look, she basically goes for the drama classes. She wants to be a fucking actress and she’s acting all the time. Anyhow, she wasn’t at school today. We thought her old lady was out till late.’
‘Any more to tell me?’
‘No. Yeah, that car. Man, if I had a car like that what wouldn’t I do, but him—went fucking surfing and skiing and even went down to Canberra to look at some fucking museum. Nerd.’
‘When was this?’
‘Not long before he went, or whatever.’
‘Have you got any theory on that?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘What do you think happened to him?’
The shrug and the snigger. ‘Dunno and don’t care. Sarah reckons he went off to be a soldier’s fortune, whatever the fuck that is.’
‘Soldier of fortune. A mercenary, fighting for money.’
Ronny had nothing to say to that one way or the other. We drove on in silence for a while as the rain eased.
‘What do you do, Ronny?’
‘Nothing much. Stop here.’
I pulled over and he got out. It looked for a second as if he intended to slam the door, but he glanced in at me and thought better of it.
It was late in the day. Bryce Grammar was in North Narrabeen and I was more or less on the spot. No reason to cross the harbour back to an empty house that might, if the rain had been falling in Glebe, be leaking. I booked intoa Mona Vale motel—another charge on my client—ate a meal at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant and returned to watch some TV and make notes and squiggles on what I was beginning to think of—after Ronny’s slack-minded reference to Justin’s grandfather and great-grandfather—as the Hampshire saga. My recall for conversation wasn’t perfect but it was pretty good. A remark of Ronny’s stuck in my mind:
Are you the mother’s new bloke? New?
Something had happened to send Justin Hampshire—focused, solid student set on a solid career, protector of his sister, adept sportsman—off in a spin. What? His mother had suggested disappointment at learning of his father’s indifferent military career and desertion. Possible, but it seemed a bit thin. Where he was certainly had to do with why he went. Angela Pettigrew’s acceptance of the possibility that her son could be dead worried me. Did mothers have an instinct about such things? How would I know?
I worked the mini-bar a bit—not a client expense—and wished I’d brought the Hughes book as bedtime reading. I read bits and pieces of the Serle biography of Monash instead and that was useful. Someone—Justin?—had underlined certain passages about the AIF’s heroic
‘You can smoke when you get out and after you answer a few questions. Okay?’
He wanted to ask me what Sarah had told me but with the rain pelting and the cigarettes available he decided to play it cool. Me too.
‘You need to learn a bit about fighting, son. You had a go, which I admire, but you should always keep your head moving and punch for the body. Bigger target.’
The cigarette in his mouth jiggled as he nodded. ‘If you say so.’
‘And you shouldn’t have pushed the woman. I know you were scared—’
‘Who says I’m scared?’
‘I do. You’re scared a lot of the time. I was at your age. How far’re you going?’
‘Mona Vale.’
‘I’ll drop you. Did you know Sarah’s brother, Justin?’
‘Yeah, I knew him. Went to the same fucking school until they chucked me out.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He was an arsehole.’
‘Explain.’
‘Always crapping on about the heroes in his fucking family. Grandfather and great-grandfather dying in battle, how he was going to be an officer and all that shit. Who cares?’
‘What else?’
‘He used to try to protect Sarah from blokes like me. Not that she wanted protection, and when he pissed off, wow, did she cut loose.’
‘Still at school, isn’t she?’
He sniggered and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to scratch at a new-looking tattoo of an image I couldn’t identify. ‘Not a lot. Look, she basically goes for the drama classes. She wants to be a fucking actress and she’s acting all the time. Anyhow, she wasn’t at school today. We thought her old lady was out till late.’
‘Any more to tell me?’
‘No. Yeah, that car. Man, if I had a car like that what wouldn’t I do, but him—went fucking surfing and skiing and even went down to Canberra to look at some fucking museum. Nerd.’
‘When was this?’
‘Not long before he went, or whatever.’
‘Have you got any theory on that?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘What do you think happened to him?’
The shrug and the snigger. ‘Dunno and don’t care. Sarah reckons he went off to be a soldier’s fortune, whatever the fuck that is.’
‘Soldier of fortune. A mercenary, fighting for money.’
Ronny had nothing to say to that one way or the other. We drove on in silence for a while as the rain eased.
‘What do you do, Ronny?’
‘Nothing much. Stop here.’
I pulled over and he got out. It looked for a second as if he intended to slam the door, but he glanced in at me and thought better of it.
It was late in the day. Bryce Grammar was in North Narrabeen and I was more or less on the spot. No reason to cross the harbour back to an empty house that might, if the rain had been falling in Glebe, be leaking. I booked intoa Mona Vale motel—another charge on my client—ate a meal at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant and returned to watch some TV and make notes and squiggles on what I was beginning to think of—after Ronny’s slack-minded reference to Justin’s grandfather and great-grandfather—as the Hampshire saga. My recall for conversation wasn’t perfect but it was pretty good. A remark of Ronny’s stuck in my mind:
Are you the mother’s new bloke? New?
Something had happened to send Justin Hampshire—focused, solid student set on a solid career, protector of his sister, adept sportsman—off in a spin. What? His mother had suggested disappointment at learning of his father’s indifferent military career and desertion. Possible, but it seemed a bit thin. Where he was certainly had to do with why he went. Angela Pettigrew’s acceptance of the possibility that her son could be dead worried me. Did mothers have an instinct about such things? How would I know?
I worked the mini-bar a bit—not a client expense—and wished I’d brought the Hughes book as bedtime reading. I read bits and pieces of the Serle biography of Monash instead and that was useful. Someone—Justin?—had underlined certain passages about the AIF’s heroic
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