Unfinished Business...

TWENTY-NINE

 I FOUND myself in what was, initially, an unfamiliar place.    I was confused for a moment, but then it dawned.   I was in New York.   Not only in New York but at the corner of 7^th Avenue and 57^th Street, jammed against the doors of Carnegie Hall.   On a cold Sunday evening in January 1938.   The 16^th to be exact.  There was only one better place to be and that was inside the hall.

Some twenty-five hundred people had concluded likewise.   One of them was Sandra. 

She looked stunning, in an old-fashioned sort of way.    She had on a suit that was the same deep blue as her eyes.   It was a bit on the angular side - long straight skirt and a square-shouldered jacket with oversize lapels - but it couldn’t disguise what lay beneath.   The longer I looked at her, the more natural everything seemed.   After a while, it didn’t just seem natural, it was natural.   Perfectly so.

She hung on to my arm like grim death as the doors opened and the mob swept us through the lobby and into the red velveted interior of the hall.   Some fancy footwork got us in prime position – front row centre – where we staked our claim and waited for the laggards to catch up.  

“Isn’t this great, Mark?” a familiar voice behind me said.

It was Connie O’Brien.    She was settling into her seat, helped by a good-looking bloke who had that loving, proprietorial look about him.   Her eyes shone with excitement.

I was surprised.    “Never thought I’d see you at a swing concert.”

She grinned.   “I’ve got to where I like it.”

So, there were miracles.

With the rest of us, she cheered as Gene Krupa wandered out of the wings and then disappeared behind the curtains to give his drums a final tune.   Five minutes later, we cheered again as the curtains parted to reveal the Benny Goodman Orchestra ready and waiting.   Goodman, resplendent in tails, strode to centre stage, bowed, and counted off Don’t Be That Way.   Delirium reigned.

I was in heaven.     Two hours of the best swing music in the world in the company of a beautiful, loving woman.   What more could I ask?    I wanted it to go on forever.

But it didn’t.    Eventually, when the boisterous applause submerged the final notes of Big John’s Special, it was all over.    I thought I’d be disappointed, but I wasn’t.   

Sandra squeezed my hand.   “Home?”

“Home.”

That’s when I woke up.

“Welcome back, sleepy,” Sandra said, busy at the wheel of the Land Cruiser. “We’re nearly there.”   

I looked around to orientate myself.

It was late afternoon, and the dominant colour of the country was green-grey, melding into the distant deeper green of the high mountain timber.   The dominant smell was eucalyptus.   Twenty kilometres to our right, Mount Buffalo pushed its rocky horn skywards.   Ahead of us and sweeping in a great arc to the west, were the peaks of the Great Dividing Range – Sugarloaf, Hotham, Feathertop, Niggertop, Bogong and all the others, awaiting the return of the winter snows.    The overall impression was of space, of freedom, of serenity.    This, we knew, was God’s own country, and we were here because we wanted to be.    Not like last time.

It had been two months.    As know-all me had predicted, the Force did not melt down.  Sure, there had been changes.   Big ones.   A swag of new commissioners, for example.   Neilsen was not among their number, having acceded to the suggestion that a career in civvy street might be more to his liking.   Most of his cronies departed with him.   Happily, Collinson was not among their number.

Operationally, the Force continued much as before.   Crimes happened; crimes were investigated; some crimes were solved.  

One crime to be investigated was the death of the Minister for Essential Services, the Honorable Walter Onslow.   The Hon Wally had been found floating face down in the Yarra sporting a terrified expression and one more hole in his face than was necessary.   We all knew who’d snuffed him, of course, but there was no point in arresting the perp, even if we’d wanted to.    What we did do was be pallbearers at his funeral, a police funeral with full honours.   Des Aston mightn’t have died happy but at least he went out vindicated and avenged.   Two out of three isn’t bad.

Young Elliott’s star began to ascend; they made him sergeant.   The arrogant pup began calling me by my given name until I showed him my new ID – Inspector Mason.    Acting inspector, actually, until I got through the obligatory staff college course.   And provided the MO agreed that the hole Evans put in me would no longer – how does the Police Manual phrase it? – be an impediment to the exercise of my duties.   Until then, they’d got me on light duties.    Keeps me off the streets.

We drove over the cattle grid and began the climb.    About half way up, Sandra sounded the horn.   She timed it well.   As we got to the front of the house, the door opened and a diminutive gorgeous vision clad in a sky-blue tracksuit rocketed out.  She gave me a dazzling smile, then hurtled down the steps to intercept me at breakneck speed.     She leapt into my arms and hugged me mightily.

“Daddy!”