Smithy's Cupboard (3 page)

‘That's it, sergeant. You still maintain your military duties, though more limited. A promotion to warrant officer is in the air. Think about it after you finish the course.'

I completed the course and went to see Curtis straight after. ‘Will it involve being transferred to the US?'

‘No, Dave. We want you over there as one of our agents.'

‘I've been asked to assist the British SAS for a short time in Northern Ireland.'

‘Come outside. The walls have ears.'

We stood on the steps outside in the cool air.

‘I know, Dave, I know. They wanted a sniper and we gave you a tick, as did your boss.'

I realised at that point I was in amongst the big boys and I should forget about ever leaving.

3

Belfast, Northern Ireland

In Belfast, the British SAS squad lay in wait for the arrival of the IRA cell members. The Australian SAS man, nicknamed Smithy, with an impeccable record which included war service and duties as an agent in his country and the US, sat on his haunches on top of a tall building opposite the target area.

He was sent a signal by a mobile phone which gave out two words from the top pocket of his green work shirt.

The officer had an educated accent with a slight wisp. ‘OK, Dave.'

Dave looked through the sights of his rifle as the three IRA men knocked on the door of the house opposite. He squeezed off three shots from the silenced rifle which hit all of the targets in the centre of the chest. They lay still, bleeding and dead.

The squad ran over and kicked in the door. An ambulance nearby picked up the three bodies and drove away

‘Come over, Dave,' the officer said.

Smithy walked in the open door, noting that the blood on the pavement had already been scrubbed away.

‘Great shooting, Dave.'

Noting the captain's look of concern, Smithy said, ‘What's up, skipper?'

‘Read this, Dave.' He thrust out a report headed ‘Australian Government'. It detailed the names of members from Australia serving with the British SAS. Dave ran his finger along the names and there it was: his name, his unit, his current address and missions. CIA connections were included.

‘My God, skipper. My God.' He immediately thought of Joan and the kids and how his job had put them in harm's way. He knew he couldn't get out.

Smithy was flown back to Melbourne. He dropped his keys in the hall and heard the sounds of pot and pans. Joan ran towards him, her bellowing laugh bouncing off the walls. She knew not to pry but asked how he was.

‘OK, love.'

His curt reply concerned her and she placed her hand on her mouth when he briefed her about the spy papers which were found in Belfast.

‘I'm not moving, Dave, if that's what you're suggesting.'

He looked down without reply

‘Why don't we just keep our heads down? They could get us anyway, couldn't they, if they wanted to?'

‘Guess you're right.'

He spoke to his boss the next day.

‘Look, Smithy, we'll make sure you don't go back. You'll soon be forgotten in Ireland. They're Irish after all.'

‘Fair go, boss. Some of my mob come from Ireland.'

‘Join the club, mate,' replied Colonel Johns.

Joan scratched Belfast off her trip locations and never spoke again about the episode, though she wondered what Smithy had done to incur the hate of the IRA. Then she remembered when she cleaned out the bottom of his bedroom closet and found a green balaclava with eyes cut out. She had held it up. ‘Planning to rob a bank, mate?'

He had snatched it from her. She saw him forming words to offer a reply yet nothing came out. He walked out to the industrial bin and threw it inside.

‘A man of many secrets,' she had muttered and it confirmed her suspicions about the nature of the duties which her husband
was tied into. Was she just like a Mafia wife? She pondered on her question, never daring to form a reply.

4

Joan 1996

I have always been a high achiever: at home, at school, at sport, which is why my friends called me teachers' pet.

Sure, I had many boyfriends and I was at ease in male company, teasing, joking, enjoying a beer with the boys. However, I knew when to deflect them. Yet I could not deflect David Alexander Smith, who rushed into my life like a steam train, wearing his sandy beret at a jaunty angle, which concentrated my gaze on the deep cleft chin which separated his face from left to right. His left cheek bore a four-inch scar – from a passing bullet he said later in the cool clear manner expected of Australia's top soldiers.

The dance settled it all and the rest is history.

My fall from grace is painful to recall, with the blurred lines of high emotion coming and going, fading and frightening. It leaves me with the one constant: how did I get from there to here?

Perhaps it was a blemish sitting in my cells, inherited from my grandmother, who saw the best in all and covered up the glitches, in hope that the good part would override all. I was naïve, I suppose, yet how can we alter our character? It's what we are.

Thoughts flood back a lot more because there is not much else to do between the visits, the catheters, injections, changing wigs, and sometimes I read. The reading helps. Books on dying and what happens after have given a measure of peace to my victim status.

Our marriage, the bliss and the loneliness with his protracted absences, his secret hideaway in the backyard. However, it was a fleeting emotion because we all had exams. We were making our
way in the world. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and in my case it worked, though I knew some army wives who gave their own spin to the last word of that old saying.

In-laws are a problem to some people. I was lucky because our two families were linked together like stapled documents. My brother John was on the same ship as Adam, Smithy's older brother. My parents were farmers in WA. Like Ted my father-in-law, Dad was in the army in World War II. Maud acted in the role of Mum after we were married. WA and Victoria are a long way apart.

When I focus on the past, on days when my mind stills and my breathing is less laboured, I remember the time when the crap which followed into my life like a stray dog looking for crumbs broke through a crack in my unsealed aura. I read a lot about auras now.

Work was my second life outside of home and I was blessed with my staff. We were like children sitting on a trampoline enjoying the cushion effect, where we sat comfortable and happy. We bounced, turned, fell and laughed, lost in the joy of just being in the moment.

I have had a slight stammer all my life which did not detract from my popularity, and it did not affect my promotion. I did not consider coveting anyone else's position and never considered the possibility that my stammer would be used against me in a spiteful manner.

The signs were there under my nose when I saw two females standing nearby whispering with cupped hands and sly quick looks. I heard a stammer and then a parody of my loud laugh. ‘Hyena' was scrawled on the whiteboard but I chose to ignore it, hoping like my gran that it would go away and they would find another target.

Those little signs occurred in the humid week before Christmas. The damp air hung around. Matches would not strike; towels
hung during the day grew wetter by the hour. Envelopes would not seal; neither would stamps stick. Fridges broke down, as did air conditioners, and we were looking forward to a break.

Smithy was away and I slept badly all of that week. He never phoned and I guessed he was busy in God knows what in his spy role, which we never spoke about.

Voices overlapped my dreams; visions came and went. I saw a woman's gloved hand opening my desk drawers. My locker door was swinging open and banging without any wind in the sealed building. A voice kept saying to me, ‘Watch it…watch it.'

‘Stuff ‘em,' I thought and I still bellowed with my laugh at work if something tickled my fancy: I was like the eternal clown who laughs when confronted with the tragedy of life.

Smithy handles all of his problems with his retreats, his tai chi and his martial arts. It's part of his being. I'm sure he approaches all hiccups like a child building a sandcastle. Allowing no other thought to enter the process, he waits till it is built in his sequential style. And like the child whose energies are focused in the moment, he knows he has reached the completion. Something inside him calls out, ‘Demolish', which he does and the sandcastle, with all of the jumble of thoughts involved in its erection, is no more.

I can't do that. I'm stuck and I reckon it's all due to fear of failure. Is it brought about by my elevated standards, those which drove me to feel good about myself? My unguarded moments caused my enemies to chip away and weaken my resolve like a small hole in a roof left unattended which grows relentlessly after rain. Unstoppable in its journey of decay.

How could I fight them? The strategy was beyond my understanding because I had never given any thought to the old adage within the Public Service: ‘Cover your arse.' It was not on my agenda as I occupied myself getting the job done.

The three people who marshalled themselves against me had
a uniting bond, both at work and in their social life. They were always known as schemers yet had never demonstrated any malice towards me. It must have been simmering away like lava deep within them, striking when the gases were right. The mountain opened up and the release exploded over the top and poured down on the unsuspecting victim. And I was it.

Barbara was the ringleader, a person whose aspirations were curtailed when I pipped her at the post and occupied the highest rung on my ladder. I saw a look of hatred in her eyes shortly after I parked in my new office.

‘Barbara, I know you wanted this job. It's not my fault, you know.'

She stood up and she must have been tearful as her heavily applied mascara was dripping from her blazing eyes onto her cheeks. She shook her bottle-blonde head. Her hand was shaking and spilling the coffee on my carpet.

I stood up and said, ‘Get a mop.'

‘Do you think I'm your fucking servant?'

She stormed out and I was left with one thought, and it wasn't, ‘That went well.'

The leader of the pack had finally hoisted her flag and it was a war which I did not welcome

Smithy rang that night and must have sensed something strained in my voice. He spoke softly as he usually did. ‘What's the trouble, love?'

I burst into tears and told him as much as he could absorb. I heard him breathing deeply, waiting for me to talk it out.

‘She's like Macbeth's wife, scheming to destroy me. I feel it flooding the air.'

‘Shall I come home?'

I thought then he would probably kill her. My victim tone had come through. Always the martyr, I told him it was not necessary

Emails became vicious. A contraceptive filled with condensed
milk was placed in my drawer and ants scrambled all over it. A black glove with a broken wedding ring was in another drawer. I opened my locker and a blow-up sex doll floated around the office up against the ceiling and was entangled in the overhead fan. The sight of the doll with the fixed expression driven around in circles by the fan and finally being dislodged caused an uproar of laughter and I laughed as well

I drank too much at the Christmas break-up. And in a thoughtless moment I returned a kiss to Andrew my boss, full on the lips. Cameras went off, bulbs were flashing and everyone in the room had stopped talking. Nudges and winks were seen and heard. Photos were sent everywhere and to Andrew's wife, a possessive woman. A photo of two lovers naked had my face and Andrew's transposed on it and copies went everywhere.

Smithy came home and dropped his bags in the hall. I didn't know he had been given leave and I was half sloshed. He stood back and looked at my hair in the curlers I had left in from the night before. I was in my stained dressing gown which had been my favourite apparel throughout the previous week. He was sweet and blamed himself for not coming home when I was distressed. I took long service leave and stayed away. We went fishing and camping, and we made love under the stars.

Andrew rang when we were back.

‘Come in.' His voice had a clipped air. ‘Read this.'

Which I did. I had been accused of releasing confidential information. There were no guesses as to the name of the author of the report. He concluded it would be investigated and I stayed away. Her report was found to have no substance and I was cleared. Andrew came again with more paperwork He was furious over the naked photos which had been passed around.

‘Fill this out, Joan. It's a harassment claim against Barbara Mitchell.'

I felt he was a bit cowardly in not submitting a grievous complaint and on reflection he was typical of those bosses who cover their arses. However, I complied and stayed away from work. Everything was on hold. Barbara and the other two kept their jobs and Smithy was not happy that they were not suspended. She was even filling in my spot for a time.

The claim went on for some time with denials proclaimed loudly to anyone within her space. Something inside my being was lost. I felt like a mountain climber who is about to hammer in the last spike into the granite fissure when the spike breaks and he has to climb down precariously, with the prospect of one final spiralling plunge to destruction.

Four years ago, my armpit was itching and I scratched it and pressed against a lump, which when I followed it with my fingers went into my left breast. Tests came and went and the dreaded phone call from the surgery: ‘Come in please, Joan.'

Doctor Bob looked up as I entered and sat down. He made a big fuss of scratching around between phone calls and quick advice delivered in his charming bedside manner. His horn-rimmed glasses were sitting on the top of a handsome head with blond curls. In a place of prominence, there was a photo of his family with three children beaming and smiling. He pushed his eyebrow hair which always hung over his eyelid. (Why doesn't he get them trimmed, I thought.) He struggled to open up a dialogue.