May Callaghan is seventeen years old and on

her own. At least thats how it feels.

Her devoutly religious mother and her gentle but damaged father
are fighting, and Mays boyfriend, Sam, has left their rural hometown
for Melbourne without so much as a backward glance.

When May lies to her parents and takes the train to visit Sam at his
shared house in Carlton, her world opens wide in glorious complexity.
May Callaghan wasnt
She is introduced to his housemates, Clancy, an indigenous university
frightened of a challenge.
student, and Ruby, a wild bohemian. With their liberal thinking and But shed never expected
opposition to the war in Vietnam, they are everything that Mays strict to face this.
Catholic upbringing should warn her against.

May knows too well the toll that war has taken on her father, and the
peace movement in the city has a profound effect on her. For a while,
Mays future burns bright. But then it begins to unravel, and something

EMILY BREWIN
happens to her that will change her life forever.

Cover design: Nada Backovic

Cover photographs: Mary Evans Picture
Library and Shutterstock

FICTION EMILY BREWIN

hello, goodbyehigh res.indd 1 5/04/2017 4:29 PM
 First published in 2017

Copyright Emily Brewin 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in
writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows
a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater,
to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes
provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given
aremuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: info@allenandunwin.com
Web: www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 92557 510 1

Set in 12/16 pt Fairfield by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC certified.

FSC promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
management of the worlds forests.

Hello, Goodbye.indd 4 18/04/2017 9:57 am

 prologue

The man with the peace sign on his chest weaves through the
crowd, back towards his rope hammock on the porch. As he
reaches the front door, he clicks his fingers loudly. Jimi Hendrix
leaps to life again on the record player, bursting through the
strained silence.
Rubys the first to danceslowly, as if emerging from
a dream. Her eyes close and her hips sway, her long skirts
swishing about her legs. The guitar soars then wheels above,
drawing others in, one by one, until the room pulses like a
heartbeat. Under the rose-coloured lights, the dancers faces
are fragile, their arms snaking overhead as if charmed by the
music. Couples creep out of dark corners, and the group sitting
cross-legged on the floor nearby climb to their feet. Soon theres
not a still body in sight. Except for mine.
I watch tentatively from the sidelines, wary of the chaotic
pull and thrust of limbs, of the heady scent of sweat and

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 emily brew in

smoke, of the musics messy beat. Theres a low buzz nearby

too, alittle like a lazy bee in summer. I think it might be a scuff
on the record, but when I plug my ears tight with my fingers
and listen, I realise its inside me. I wonder if Im having a
minor stroke like Sister Agnes did after playing footy with the
boys at lunchtime.
I close my eyes and, for the first time, I notice the air
streaming into my nostrils as I breathe. Something solid shifts
in mychest.
Suddenly, the music makes sense. It takes hold of me too,
and Im no longer afraid.

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 one

Thatll be five dollars, Mr Briggs, I say to the old man in the

car as I steady myself on the petrol bowser. The metal burns so
I snatch my hand back.
You got change, love? Ive only got a tenner.
I flip through my leather holster and pull out some coins.
How are your folks coming along? he says, pushing back
his akubra and wiping his brow.
Fine.
He waits for more, but I just stare at the dried bird shit on
his roof, too hot and bothered for small talk.
Well, tell em I said gidday, he says, waving a sun-spotted
arm out the window.
My throat itches, so I head inside for a drink. The office
is pine panelled and smells like a Christmas tree. Its cool
and dark, and when I close my eyes I imagine Im standing in
European woodland. Last years calendar hangs limply on the

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 emily brew in

wall above the counter: Miss Potato Queen 1967, perched on

a giant bag of spuds, smiles angelically from its cover, her tiara
sparkling in the sunlight.
All right, May? Mrs Patterson asks me, spreading her
bigarms across the counter. Youre looking a little off,
sweetheart.
I glance through the window and wonder if shes been
outside today. A blistering north wind fires dust across the
porch and the stack of tyres beside the workshop stinks of
burning rubber. The Pattersons are kind and the moneys nice
but I give thanks I wont be working here forever.
I just need a drink, I say, getting a whiff of sour armpit
when I point at the fridge.
You know where they are, darl. Help yourself. Mrs Patterson
lumbers to the sitting room out back.
A radio play blares into the office and I lean against the
bench for a moment to listen, briefly hypnotised by the rise and
fall of voices. Mr Patterson chuckles with the audience, then
calls to his wife in his thick northern English brogue, Oh,Joan,
Joanie love, did you hear that? Silly fools!
I go behind the counter and open the fridge, relishing the
cold air on my face. The bottle of lemonade is still warm, but I
prise off its lid and take a swig anyway.
Outside, I slump into the wicker chair by the front door.
The shop awning provides little relief from the heat that seeps
into every pore. I slurp lemonade and gaze across Main Street,
which runs like a zipper through the middle of Nurrigul, popu
lation 1802. Although ... dotty old Mrs McKinnon died last
week, soI guess its officially 1801.
Our founding fathers didnt put much effort into naming
our roads and landmarks; apart from the main one, they
named most streets after themselves. All the old families have
their own road signs, tin badges of honour that dot our dusty

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 Hello, Goodbye

thoroughfares. My family doesnt have one, but Ma, in her

wisdom, insisted we name our farm Callaghans Nook. Apoor
substitute for a sign, but better than nothing.
Along Main Street, a row of weatherboard shops tilts to the
left, tinsel still wilting over their doors. Across each window
is emblazoned a name: Harp and Sons Convenience Store
and Hardware; Nurrigul Greengrocery; Harrys Continental
Butcher; Maureens Dress Shop for Ladies. Maureen stocks
the latest fashions from Melbourne, so her shops always busy.
Ive heard she has a lover in the city and I like to think he
lookslike James Dean: cool and aloof, and desperate to seduce
her. I imagine them speeding downthe highway in his red con-
vertible, Maureen laughing into thewind, a fashionable silk
scarf fluttering in the breeze.
I take a final swig of my drink and stretch my arms high.
Then I play a childhood game of staring into the sun as another
car pulls up.
Hey, cream puff.
I recognise the voice and groan, a thousand suns dancing
across my vision, before I get up and walk to the car.
Looking hot out there, and Im not talkin about the weather.
Douglas Fish rests his elbow in the open window, a Melbourne
Bitter can in his hand, and belches.
My cousin Lucy clambers over him and out the car door.
Shes wearing a polka-dot bikini top and shorts so high Icant
help staring. Shut up, you bugger! she shouts at Doug,
slamming the door. Dont pay him any attention, she says to
me. You know hes an idiot.
I rub my watery eyes.
What time do you finish? Lucy asks.
Doug hangs out the window, spilling beer down the car.
Three, I think. I wipe my top lip. Ill check.
Inside, I stick my head into the sitting room. Mr Patterson

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 emily brew in

glances at his skinny wrist and tells me I can go home. Business

is slow, he says. Mrs P can pick up the slack.
His wife glares at him from the settee, and I hurry out the
door before she can change his mind.
Everyones down the river, Lucy says, peering at me over
the top of her heart-shaped sunglasses as if issuing a challenge.
I roll my eyes. I dont know why she bothersshe knows Ill
come. Theres nowhere else to go until school starts again next
week. Its either the river or Denniss milk bar on the corner,
ifyouve got money to burn. I need my togs, I say, opening the
back door.
Doug revs the engine. I dont mind if you go au naturel. He
winks at me then plants his foot on the accelerator. We fishtail
down the road, past the Anglican Church that marks one edge
of town.

Children paddle in the shade of the red gums, while their

mums sit in the shallows and trickle brown water over babies
backs. On the bank opposite, a thick rope has been tied to an
overhanging branch as a makeshift swing.
Watch this, girls! Doug yells, snatching the rope from a
boy half his size. Rope in one hand, beer can in the other, he
launches his skinny frame, lets out a great whoop and belly
flops into the water.
Does he always carry a beer around? I ask.
Lucy and I stretch out beneath a tree, its gnarled branches
like witchs fingers. I envy the way she inhabits her skin, strut-
ting around like the emperor in his new clothes. She holds
her head high and pushes her boobs out, while the rest of us
struggle with acne and sunburn.
Its mothers milk to him. She laughs, squirting coconut oil

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 Hello, Goodbye

on her perfectly flat belly. He doesnt even put it down while

were making out.
Romantic.
Well, we cant all date Samuel Hunter, can we? She flicks
oil at me. Some of us like our boys bad.
I dont tell her that I reckon Douglas is more stupid than
bad. We watch two small boys cast their fishing lines, then I lie
back. The sun winks between the leaves, dappling our skin in
quivering shadows.
So, how is Prince Charming? Lucy says, arching an
eyebrow, but I just smile at the sky in a way I know will infuri-
ate her. Youre so secretive, she whines. I tell you everything.
Its a well-known fact that Lucy and Doug fool around
at the drive-in. Most of the time, Lucy cant even remember
what film they saw. Kids tease her, but she just tosses her long
blonde hair over her shoulder and walks away. It drives the girls
mad, but the boys love it.
Have you done it yet? she asks me.
I shrug. How do I explain the rush that runs the length
of my body when Sam touches the skin beneath my topor
the sickly-sweet shame that follows? How do I explain the
willpower it takes to say slow down, because we both know
its up to me to make us stop? Later, Im frightened at how
reckless Ive become and I promise God Ill behave better in
future. Then I seek out The Happy Marriage book Ma keeps
amid her recipe collection and study the rhythm method again,
just incase.
Lucys right: I do know everything about her and Doug, but
most of the time I wish I didnt. I wish, for instance, she hadnt
told me that he only has one testicle. Now, when he clambers
ashore like an amphibious monkey, I cant help staring at his
crotch. But Lucy will think Im a snob if I tell her I want more
than a grope in the back seat.

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 emily brew in

She slides her sunglasses down her nose and fixes me with
a challenging stare. I know you go to the riverbend.
I huff. What?
Everyone knows.
I glare at her then glance around, half expecting a crowd of
onlookers. A small girl builds a sandcastle at the waters edge,
scurrying back and forth with buckets of sloppy mud and water.
No ones watching me, but I feel exposed.
Who knows?
Lucys eyes widen. Imagine if your mum found out. Its
like were kids again and shes blackmailing me over a piece of
pilfered cake from her mums pantry; shes always had a knack
for leaving me ragged while she skips lightly away. In a car
tooooh, the shame.
Lucy, if you mention this to anyone ...
She gives me the same noncommittal shrug I gave her a few
minutes earlier.
Lucy! I say and get up.
All right, keep ya knickers on! she says finally, laughing and
pulling on my arm. I wont talk. God, I dont want you locked
up for life. Who would I tell my dirty secrets to?
I wish I could laugh too but I cant because Im supposed to
be the serious one. The one who toes the line and never takes
risks; who wears her school dress below the knees and keeps
a Bible in the drawer next to her bed. Ma raised me that way.
She thinks its a givenI always do the right thing and
shes sure it will stay that way. Ill marry a God-fearing man and
produce a healthy squadron of children. Well live in a house
that Ma can boast to her friends about, and on the weekends
Ill shop for white goods at the big store in the next town.
I feel breathless just thinking about it. Sometimes I want
Ma to be more like Lucys mum, my Aunty Marj: a little bit
sloppy in her approach to raising children.

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 Hello, Goodbye

I shake Lucy off and reluctantly sit down. Sometimes I

think Im an immaculate conception, I say with a sigh.
She smirks. Knowing your mum, you are.
I slap her arm harder than I should.
Bitch, she says.
I grin, my anger sated.
The sun dips behind the trees, casting long shadows across
the bank. The mums shake out their towels and start coaxing
their children from the water.
Ive gotta go. I dust sand from my knees and bend to peck
Lucy on the cheek. Say bye to Doug for me.
We both look over at him. Hes lying facedown in the river,
perfectly still. Then he leaps up in front of a kid on a floaty and
yells, Aaahhhh! The kid wobbles then capsizes. Yeah! Doug
exclaims, punching the air.
Sure, Lucy says, will do.

Instead of taking the road home, I cut through the bush

towards the rec reserve, unwrapping the towel from my waist
and savouring the warm air on my skin. Without Lucy around,
Irelish the roll of my hips and the way my shoulders sway
whenI push out my chest. I twist my fringe back from my face
and shake my hair like Gidget does when she sees Moondoggie.
The bush is crackling in the heat. Its going to be one of
those nights when the air is like a sea sponge and even my
cotton nightie is smothering.
As I approach the park, I hear voices through the trees and
wind my towel around my middle again. When I get closer,
Irecognise them and duck behind a tree.
Sam and his mate Leon OFarrell are lazily kicking a footy,
lifting their legs just high enough to propel the ball, as they call

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 emily brew in

to each other: Ya lazy prick, put some effort into it, and, The
coachd kick your arse for that one, mate. Their feet are bare
and their hair is soaked with perspiration. Sam is stripped to
the waist. I think of the soft skin under his waistband, the tiny
corrugations of the elastic under my fingers. He takes long,
effortless strides across the field, sucking back the hot after-
noon air. When he leaps, he seems to hang in the sky, arms
hard and brawny, before snatching the ball to his chest.
I step on a stick. It digs through my thong and pokes my
foot, and I yelp.
Hey, Leon, reckon weve got a peeping Tom.
Leons face scrunches in confusion until Sam points to my
tree. I walk out sheepishly, remembering to suck in my tummy.
Happens all the time, Leon jokes, sheilas spying on me.
I go over to them, suppressing a smile.
They obviously cant resist your spectacular form, Sam
says, pointing at Leons paunch while draping an arm across
my shoulders. Its heavy and fuggy with sweat.
I just came from the river. I grip my towel with one hand
tostop it slipping and sense Leons eyes on me.
I noticed, Sam says, running a finger under the strap of my
bathers in a way I wish he wouldnt.
Ill leave you to it, mate. Leon winks at Sam, making me
cringe. See ya, May. He slips on his thongs and wheels his
pushbike out to the road.
Sam strolls to the tap next to the cricket club and turns
it on. He bends forward, letting the water gush through his
hair and over his shoulders. His back glistens and he shakes
his head when hes done. Then he cups his hands, drinks and
rinses his underarms in the careless way men do things.
I step closer and he throws a handful of water at me,
whooping with glee when I jump and my towel falls off.
Iscramble to put it back on.

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 Hello, Goodbye

Whatchya been up to? he asks, tossing more water over

himself before turning the tap off.
The dusk light turns the treetops purple. Somewhere beyond
them, Ma is wondering where I am. I kick off my thongs and let
the grass prickle my feet. The usual, I say, wrapping my arms
around him until the scent of his skin mingles with my own.
Sounds exciting.
You?
Nuthin much. He pulls back and, clasping my hips in
his hands, watches a flock of cockies gather at the end of the
cricket pitch. I had to register for national service.
Im watching them too, only half listening. What?
Yesterday.
I look at him blankly.
Cmon, May. The army. He loosens his grip.
I know what it is, I snap. Weve all seen the celebrities
pulling balls from the barrel, like its a macabre game show.
He stares over my shoulder. If I dont register now, theyll
ballot me in for sure.
Its eerie to think that each of those little white balls rep-
resents a mans life. My classmate Annie Byrnes brother did
a tour last yearbut he volunteered to go so he could see the
world before he took over the family farm. He sent home a
creased photo of a broad-faced Asian woman with a child on
her lap. As Annie proudly passed it around at lunchtime, she
told us that her brother had nicked it from a dead gooks pocket.
I flinched and gave it back to her. It made me feel dirty. The
childs face was like a small storm cloud.
Figure Ive got a better chance this way, Sam says, holding
my hand. Although it could get me out of Nurrigul, at least,
he adds with a grin.
I spin from his grip, and the cockies take flight in a screech-
ing mess of white, masking the drumbeat in my chest.

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 two

That night I squirm through dinner, eating as fast as I can while

waiting for Dad to push back his chair; our meal is officially
over when he leaves the table. Tonight, he beats me. Nice
tucker, Ed, he says, patting Ma on the shoulder as he heads
off to the television.
Dads knife and fork lie splayed across his dirty plate.
Ma sighs and pushes them together. He never learns, your
father. She looks at me as though shes about to spark up a
conversation.
I shove my last bit of meatloaf into my mouth, a huge
forkful, so she cant expect me to speak.
Barney starts barking at the door for leftovers. Well, Im
glad someone around here enjoys my cooking, Ma remarks as
she watches my attempts to swallow. Beside her, my twelve-
year-old brother Tom drowns his brussels sprouts in tomato
sauce. Ma gets up and scrapes the remains of her meal into the

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 Hello, Goodbye

chook bucket. So much for family conversation, she mutters,

tying a clean apron around her waist and filling the sink.
Tom grins at his plate in triumph, the smattering of freckles
across his nose darker than usual in the kitchen light. He slinks
away from the table then takes off down the corridor as fast
as his skinny legs will carry him. I collect the dirty dishes and
hand them to Ma. Im going to do a bit of homework before
bed, I tell her.
She tosses a handful of greasy cutlery into the wash and
wipes a soapy hand across her forehead. An early night
sounds like a sensible idea. I think Ill do the same, after a
spot of telly.
I pause at the door to watch her, before turning away. Ill do
the dishes next time, Ma.
She doesnt say a thing.
Crossing the lounge room, I stop behind Dad, whos eased
back in his favourite recliner to watch the news. Water buffalo
wallow in vast paddy fields and huts perch at the waters edge.
Behind them, mountains climb into the sky. A line of young
men in slouch hats marches past the camera. They hold rifles
like wooden sticks and squint into the sun. Some wave, but
most just tramp ahead, cigarettes dangling from their lips.
Poor buggers, Dad mutters.
Better not let Ma hearshell have Father OLeary after
you, I say with a smile, trying to ignore the thinning patch on
top of his head.
Australian forces suffered heavy casualties in Bien Hoa
today, says the newsreader in dark-rimmed glasses. According
to reports, nine Australian soldiers were wounded and one was
killed. He looks down at a piece of paper before the broadcast
cuts to an army tank lying on its side like an overturned rhino.
A piece of clothinga shirt, perhapsflutters from the end of
its huge gun like a torn flag. I wonder who put it there.

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 emily brew in

Your mother wouldnt have a bloody clue and neither would

the Father, for that matter, Dad grumbles. Where was he, the
last time? Probably helping the womens auxiliary knit their
damn socks, thats where.
I laugh nervously and perch on the arm of his chair. All
right, Dad? The light from the telly makes his cheeks hollow.
Iknow someone who had to register, I add.
Dad keeps his eyes on the screen. Do ya, love?
I stare at it too. Yeah. Samuel Hunter.
Thats a shame. Dad shakes his head. I knew his father,
Pete, before he went to Korea. Dad taps the armrest and I
notice the tremble in his hand. He didnt come back. Left his
wife with the farm and their boy.
I wait for him to keep talking. Ive never met Sams mum
and I want to know more. But Dad doesnt say anything. Dad?
Hes staring at the telly, but I know hes no longer paying
attention.
Dad.
Hes having one of his turnsMas word for when he
slowly dissolves in front of our eyes. Tom reckons that when it
happens, Dads like one of the cicada shells he plucks off the
gum trees in summer: an empty case in the shape of a man.
I glance at the kitchen door. I dont want Ma to see.
A new television program flickers to life. Behind a podium,
the presenter claps at his audience, a roomful of housewives.
Dads eyes are glassy.
I try to distract him. Whats she like? I ask. Mrs Hunter.
Is she nice?
Ma calls from the kitchen, Has my program started
yet,Des?
I pat Dads hand. His skin is rough and callused from tending
the cows all day. Deep black cracks crisscross his fingers like
tiny rivulets that flow into his palm. As a child I marvelled at

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 Hello, Goodbye

them, holding my small hand against his large one. No matter

how hard he scrubs, the dirt wont budge. It seems to seep
from his insides.
Is she nice? I ask again.
Dad blinks and looks up as if hes seeing me for the first
time. Yeah. He stands, and I take his arm to steady him.
Ma calls again.
Yeah, its started, I yell back, trying to hold on to Dad while
he pulls away. Ma will kill me if I let him go. Please, Dad.
Heshakes his arm out of my grip and walks slowly to the door,
picking up his car keys from the sideboard.
Its all right, pet, he says to the door. Wont be long.
I watch him go, hearing the soft click of the latch and the
pause in the clatter of dishes. On the telly, a contestant gets
an answer wrong and a buzz rings out from the screen. The car
headlights flash across the window then disappear. I stand in
the middle of the room and see the presenters mouth widen
into a clownish grin. My heart sinks.
The audience claps politely, and I count the seconds it
takes for Ma to wipe her hands on the tea towel and storm into
the room. Its always the same.
Tom closes his bedroom door.
Wheres your father? Ma asks, hands on hips.
He left, I say, still staring at the telly.
I know he left, you silly girl. Where did he go?
I dont know why she bothers.
She glares at me then stamps her foot. The presenter is back
on his podium, talking to the crowd, but Mas voice drowns
him out. I wait for her to run out of huff. Then I go to my room
so I dont have to watch her waiting for Dad.

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 emily brew in

As the grandfather clock in the hallway chimes midnight,

Dads car pulls into the carport. I exhale and hear Ma shuffle
to her room. My parents havent shared a bedroom since Ma
found God. They rarely touch now, unless Dad is guiding her
through a doorway or helping her from the car; then he directs
her witha hand low on her back, just above her hips.
Sometimes I notice a silent recognition pass between
themsomething strangely intimate, like a secret language.
A long-held understanding fixed together with tight pecks on
the cheek and pats on the arm at bedtime. I wonder what it
replaced. I hope there was fire once, before God moved into
Mas heart.
I was eight years old when it happened. That summer, Mas
belly swelled like a ripe peach. Then, one night, Dad dragged
Tom and me from bed and bundled us into the car. We sat
in the back, swaddled in our shorty dressing-gowns, while Ma
groaned in the front.
Breathe, Ed, Dad kept saying as he peered through the
windscreen.
She tried, but it sounded like tearing. I held Toms hand
and chewed the collar of my gown until it was slick with spit.
Dad left us with Aunty Marj and Uncle Bob on the way
to the hospital, and we slept in their musty guestroom. Next
morning, Lucy cried because I wouldnt play dolls. I didnt care;
I was getting a real baby. When Dad didnt come, UncleBob
played ball with Tom and Aunty Marj told me to hop away from
the window.
After dinner, I heard Dads car come up the driveway.
I threw open the front door but stopped at the sight of him.
His eyes were puffy like mine get when I cry, and Uncle Bob
pushed past me to pat him hard on the back.
That night, back at home, Dad slept on our bedroom floor
in his swag. I didnt ask about Ma. I stole her burgundy-check

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 Hello, Goodbye

scarf from the wardrobe and buried it under my pillow, holding

it to my nose as I drifted to sleep.
A few days later, I watched Dad carry Ma from the car to
their bedroom. It looked strange, her pale face buried in his shirt.
For a while, I thought our new baby might still be in
hospital, waiting to be picked up. I put Old Ted in the bassinet
and fussed over the blankets until Dad took it away. Ma didnt
leave the house after that, not even for church on Sundays.
Shelay in bed with the curtains drawn, turning away whenever
we came near. Id stand in the doorway, watching her back rise
and fall so I knew she was still breathing.
Then, one morning, I woke to the smell of bacon frying.
Magreeted me when I stumbled into the kitchen and climbed
onto a chair. She placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in
front of me then went to fetch Tom, who was playing outside.
Church today, May, she said in a singsong voice as the
screen door slammed behind her. We leave in half an hour,
soyoud better hop to it.
In the months following, her faith reached fever pitch.
She spent all her spare time at church, polishing the pews
and arranging the flowers. Occasionally, when she took a
breather, Id catch her watching me. Id stand tall then, with
my shoulders back the way I knew she liked, but she always
looked away again.
These days, the only time Ma stops is at the end of mass
when she gets down on her knees and lights a candle for Mary
and her baby Jesus. Sometimes I wonder what Id need to do to
make Ma see me too.

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