Kathy. Why don’t you ring me after you talk to your grandmother, whether you find out anything or not. We can talk. As you said, see what happens.’
She’d been wearing her bra and panties with her blouse unbuttoned. She came around the table and kissed me and she had that lovemaking smell that would have got me going again except that she was buttoning up and reaching for her pants.
‘It’s a deal,’ she said.
‘I’ll drive you.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s no distance. I’ll walk and try not to feel too encouraged. Talk to you soon, Cliff.’
She slid into her trousers, pulled on her shoes, scooped up her bag and pantyhose and left.
I went up the coast road to Bateman’s Bay and over the mountain to Canberra. The Falcon ticked a bit on the climb but it does that to show it needs mechanical attention from time to time. I was in a good mood after the time with Kathy and the prospect of more of the same, and the feeling that I was making some kind of progress with the case.
Like a lot of people, I felt ambivalent about Canberra. It was a good idea to put it where it is as a counterweight to Sydney and Melbourne. Because of the concentration of intelligent, well-educated people, it behaves progressively at the ballot box, unlike the rest of the country most ofthe time. But the neatness of the layout, the manicured gardens, the sense of being so planned made me wonder if it’d ever feel like a city. Good place to study, make a career, but to live? I wasn’t so sure of that.
As monuments to human folly go, the Canberra war memorial wasn’t so bad, tasteful even. The triumphalism is kept more or less in check, and it feels like a place for reflection rather than celebration, at least in spots. Passing the shell of the miniature Japanese submarine scooped out of Sydney Harbour, I spared a thought for those small young men who’d taken on what was virtually a suicide mission. I tossed some coins into the water in recognition of all the other poor bastards who’d gone through the meat grinder. The honour roll does the job it’s supposed to do without too much fuss.
As I traced the names, I imagined Justin Hampshire here more than two years ago. His Honda in the car park, the money from the sale of his sporting gear running low and his dreams in tatters. The Bangara memorial arch record was confirmed. There were no fallen Hampshires at Gallipoli or the Somme or anywhere else in the war to end all wars. And none in World War II or Korea. As Kathy had said, there were two Petersens, with the distinctive spelling of the name she had made a point of, killed in the Western Desert, no doubt fighting against Rommel, the Desert Fox, and one in Korea. The John Prine lyric about losing Davey in the Korean War and the father still not knowing what for, came to mind. Justin’s family had a military tradition all right, but with the name change it wasn’t one he’d had any way of knowing about.
You’re supposed to feel sad in such places. I did—for all the waste, and for Justin.
No reason to hang around. I didn’t think I was likely to bump into Hawkie or Keating to advise them about what to do for the good of the country. The drive from Canberra to Sydney was forgettable. About the only thing of interest was the low level of water in Lake George. Cattle were grazing in places where once they would have had to swim.
Back in Sydney I used an ATM and found that Hampshire’s cheque had cleared. Encouraging. I drove to Rose Bay and parked, semi-legally, within walking distance of the apartments where Hampshire was staying. I asked for him at the desk and was told he was in. The receptionist buzzed him but got no answer. I took the lift to the third floor and knocked. No response.
I raised my voice. ‘Mr Hampshire, it’s Cliff Hardy. They tell me downstairs you’re in so please open the door. You’re a hard man to catch up with.’
The door opened and Hampshire stood there, leaning against the jamb
She’d been wearing her bra and panties with her blouse unbuttoned. She came around the table and kissed me and she had that lovemaking smell that would have got me going again except that she was buttoning up and reaching for her pants.
‘It’s a deal,’ she said.
‘I’ll drive you.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s no distance. I’ll walk and try not to feel too encouraged. Talk to you soon, Cliff.’
She slid into her trousers, pulled on her shoes, scooped up her bag and pantyhose and left.
I went up the coast road to Bateman’s Bay and over the mountain to Canberra. The Falcon ticked a bit on the climb but it does that to show it needs mechanical attention from time to time. I was in a good mood after the time with Kathy and the prospect of more of the same, and the feeling that I was making some kind of progress with the case.
Like a lot of people, I felt ambivalent about Canberra. It was a good idea to put it where it is as a counterweight to Sydney and Melbourne. Because of the concentration of intelligent, well-educated people, it behaves progressively at the ballot box, unlike the rest of the country most ofthe time. But the neatness of the layout, the manicured gardens, the sense of being so planned made me wonder if it’d ever feel like a city. Good place to study, make a career, but to live? I wasn’t so sure of that.
As monuments to human folly go, the Canberra war memorial wasn’t so bad, tasteful even. The triumphalism is kept more or less in check, and it feels like a place for reflection rather than celebration, at least in spots. Passing the shell of the miniature Japanese submarine scooped out of Sydney Harbour, I spared a thought for those small young men who’d taken on what was virtually a suicide mission. I tossed some coins into the water in recognition of all the other poor bastards who’d gone through the meat grinder. The honour roll does the job it’s supposed to do without too much fuss.
As I traced the names, I imagined Justin Hampshire here more than two years ago. His Honda in the car park, the money from the sale of his sporting gear running low and his dreams in tatters. The Bangara memorial arch record was confirmed. There were no fallen Hampshires at Gallipoli or the Somme or anywhere else in the war to end all wars. And none in World War II or Korea. As Kathy had said, there were two Petersens, with the distinctive spelling of the name she had made a point of, killed in the Western Desert, no doubt fighting against Rommel, the Desert Fox, and one in Korea. The John Prine lyric about losing Davey in the Korean War and the father still not knowing what for, came to mind. Justin’s family had a military tradition all right, but with the name change it wasn’t one he’d had any way of knowing about.
You’re supposed to feel sad in such places. I did—for all the waste, and for Justin.
No reason to hang around. I didn’t think I was likely to bump into Hawkie or Keating to advise them about what to do for the good of the country. The drive from Canberra to Sydney was forgettable. About the only thing of interest was the low level of water in Lake George. Cattle were grazing in places where once they would have had to swim.
Back in Sydney I used an ATM and found that Hampshire’s cheque had cleared. Encouraging. I drove to Rose Bay and parked, semi-legally, within walking distance of the apartments where Hampshire was staying. I asked for him at the desk and was told he was in. The receptionist buzzed him but got no answer. I took the lift to the third floor and knocked. No response.
I raised my voice. ‘Mr Hampshire, it’s Cliff Hardy. They tell me downstairs you’re in so please open the door. You’re a hard man to catch up with.’
The door opened and Hampshire stood there, leaning against the jamb
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