Chapter 16

I bought petrol and drove home. It was early. I took a chance and phoned Winnie. "Are you free?"

"No, I'm quite dear."

"Scratch dinner around 1900?"

"I'll be in front."

"I really need to talk to you."

"Oooh, Mr. Hollister..."

"Right. See you."

I dumped my bag and sorted my clothes. Then I emptied my pockets and put what I was wearing on the pile. I took a shower, shaved and dressed. Then I took everything downstairs and put it in the washer. Mrs. Warren was in the kitchen.

"How was your weekend?" she inquired.

"Far worse than anticipated."

"Oh, dear. Take a cup and sit down. Tell me the problem."

"Not really a problem," I said sitting. "A misunderstanding. A disillusionment, I suppose."

"Oh?"

"We went for a drive in the outback."

"Winnie?"

"No. A different woman. She works at the hospital. We drove to Boorowa, I said I wanted to see the area around Illalong. Then we drove to Binalong. It's a small, dusty town." Mrs. Warren nodded. "I told her I wanted to see the Banjo Paterson sites. She'd never heard of him. Today we drove to Orange and Cowra. I wanted to see the Banjo memorial and I wanted to visit the Japanese Garden and the POW camp. The breakout site."

"I was just 19. I remember the to-do." She was quiet. "You know, I met Banjo Paterson once."

"You did?"

"Oh yes. I was fourteen or fifteen at Sceggs in Darlinghurst. This old gentleman came and read some poems to us. The Principal asked whether any of us could recite a poem. I raised my hand and recited the beginning of 'The City of Dreadful Thirst.' I think I only got four or eight lines in and the gent said 'thank you, miss. I know the rest.' I was selected to come to tea, and I was told that this gent had written 'City.' And 'Man from Snowy River' and 'Clancy' and ever so many other poems. I was overwhelmed. I had thought that poets had to be dead. He patted my hand and kissed my cheek. And the next day the post brought me a signed copy of Old Bush Songs. Not a true first as my husband said. But a book from a poet for me. I still have it."

It was the longest speech I'd heard her make. "I'd like to see it, someday."

"And so you shall. But go back to your narrative."

"Oh. We saw the monument and we lunched in Orange. But I never saw the camp and only a glance at the Gardens."

"And?"

"And I guess I'll never see her again. Not interested in poetry or history. Not aware of Banjo and Lawson. Never heard of the breakout."

"Not what you need, Gordy. Face it. You're an intellectual."

"You're right. That's why I was gloomy. But it's why I'm taking Winnie to dinner tonight."

"Good on you!"

"Where to?" I asked Winnie as she hopped in.

"How about the Fu Manchu on Victoria?"

"Okay with me. Will it be quiet enough to talk?"

"I think so. It's Sunday night."

We took a dimly-lit table in the rear.

"I need to ask a few questions," I began.

"Oh, no! Is this going to be heavy?"

"I hope not. In fact, just two brief questions first."

"Okay."

"Do you know anything about Orange?"