Please Write: a novel

By Janette Byron Stone

Abandoned by her father at a young age, Catherine has lived a sheltered life wth her mentally unwell mother and overprotective grandmother. All that changes when she finds a summer job in Sydney's notorious Kings Cross, a hotspot for Americans on R&R from Vietnam. "Please Write: a novel" - 85,000 words - is a historical fiction account of that time based on the author's own experience. It includes letter excerpts written to her from Australian and American soldiers serving in Vietnam. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janette Byron Stone
• Release date: Mar 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9798224418633

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Breaking News: The Summer Job

Sydney, Australia, November 1967

After she’d swallowed the last mouthful of her tea, it was customary for my mother to shuffle from the kitchen to the lounge room. There she’d park herself in front of the television and sink into her night-time coma. I was startled then when she leapt from the table and packed Granny off to watch the six o’clock news.

I’ll do the dishes, she announced.

No need for that, love. You’ve been working all day. You deserve to take it easy, Granny murmured.

Go on, now, Mum insisted. I’ve got some good news for Catherine. I’ll tell you about it later. She grabbed Granny’s cigarettes from the table and shoved them into the pocket of her mother’s floral apron. Go on!

With Granny out of the way, Mum sat down, put her elbows on the table, and clasped her hands. She pointed two red fingernails at my chest. Only three feet of table separated us in the tiny kitchen booth.

I saw Maureen at the ex-students reunion yesterday, she said, as Brian Henderson’s muffled voice in the background read the headline of the day. They need someone to work in the record shop for a few months. And!—this was the high point before the bomb drop and the end of Brian Henderson’s report on our troops’ latest clash with the Vietcong—I told her you’d love to do it.

The humidity swelled the kitchen clutter to dripping. The bare forty-watt bulb that saved on electricity irritated my tired and strained eyes.

You could have asked me, I said, scraping a fork around the few dollops of food still lingering on my plate.

Ask you? You should be grateful.

A forkful of potato and gravy gagged its way into my mouth as Mum jumped out of the booth. She swiped the knife and fork from my hands and grabbed the plate. On her way to the sink, she stopped at the garbage can by the stove and slammed her foot on the pedal. The lid swung open. She scraped until my uneaten dinner fell in. At the sink, she splashed the plate into the soapy water and tore at it with the faded blue and white striped dishrag. Satisfied with her effort, she stacked the plate so hard it froze my breath while I waited for the crack—and for her to say, Shit!

It was only when she took up one of the glasses and swirled it around in the water with loving care that I began to breathe again.

It’ll be good for you. You won’t know yourself. She turned on the tap to rinse away the bubbles. Besides, it’s about time you started chipping in, giving Granny something for room and board. She hasn’t had much to go on with since Grandpa died, and I can’t do everything, can I? Her upswept hair had begun to droop around her neck and face, with the weight of day turning to night. You can’t expect me to pay your way forever, you know.

She held the glass up to the greenish light that shone like a beacon from the next-door neighbours’ television. As the light and dark of other lives flickered in their lounge room just above the fence, Mum scrutinised the rim for stubborn spots.

Where’s the record shop? I asked.

Mum detected a lipstick smear. Kings Cross, she replied, just as I was about to repeat the question.

What? I gasped.

You heard me, she said, as if Kings Cross—known locally as the Cross—was just another suburb.

Isn’t Kings Cross the sleazy part of town where the pros hang out? I shrieked.

There is that side to it. She paused for a moment. But if you don’t look at them, they won’t bother you.

"Oh great, what do you mean by they? Do you mean the pimps, the pros, or the other creeps? I’d have to walk around with my eyes closed."

Don’t be ridiculous, she said.

She placed the second glass beside the other on a carefully laid out tea towel and threw the washed knives and forks into the rack where their steely metal greeted each other in a loud clatter.

Maureen will keep her eye out for you. She wiped the counter by the stove. You’ll be fine.

She turned to the opposite counter and skimmed the cloth over a small open surface, the rest of it cluttered without apology by the yellow breadbox, old opened envelopes, a progression of four empty canisters, and the last three editions of the Daily Mirror.

I asked Jake for the day off tomorrow so I can take you to meet her. We’ll catch an early train to the city, and afterwards we’ll have a bite to eat at Woolworths. She hurried back to the table for a final wipe. No, we won’t. We’ll make it a special occasion and have something lovely to eat at the cafeteria in David Jones. I’m getting a bit sick of grabbing just a plain old sandwich from Woollies.

Back at the sink, she peered again through the textured glass louvres. She stared at the family of three—mother, father, and son—gathered around the television while she scrubbed each dinner plate with the dishrag. Perhaps she longed for a home of her own. Possibly the one she left. She couldn’t look at her own choices, it seemed. It was easier to blame my father and me for her pitiful situation.

I think it’s great, she reflected with pious satisfaction. A job for the Christmas holidays. Who knows? You might want to stay on until you get married. Her words sat poised above the sink while my life passed before me. Oh well, never mind. I still think you should have left school after fourth form and taken that secretarial course.

I don’t want to be a secretary, I protested.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter what we want. It’d be a nice job for you. She opened a drawer and pulled out a neatly ironed tea towel. Here, swing yourself onto this and make yourself useful. When do your results come out?

Sixteenth of January.

That’s a long way off. We’re still in November. Gives you plenty of time to make some good money.

She squeezed out the excess dishwater with the same ferocity she’d used on my hair once a week until I was fifteen, then folded and draped the tired rag over the cold water tap until next time.

You’ll be able to support me soon, she said, grabbing the tea towel to wipe her hands. Your father promised to do that, she added. Just another one of his lies.

She had relived her resentment so many times it was etched into the walls like a graffiti display of boring times tables. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about him anymore, she said.

And neither did I.

Mum set the alarm for six-thirty and sprang out of bed the next morning, still high on her success at forging a productive future for me. It was a stark contrast to other mornings when she dragged herself around in her petticoat, plastering on her face, and manoeuvring into her starched uniform only seconds before storming out the front door.

Now, let me look at you. She lingered before the mirror and patted the beige powder puff with more than usual care on her forehead and cheeks. I stood behind her in the bathroom and waited for the inspection. She stroked the tube of red lipstick back and forth across her lips and then drew them back to admire the white, straight teeth that gave her the perfect smile. Where’s that lovely butterfly brooch Granny and I gave you for your sixteenth birthday? she asked, catching my reflection in the mirror so she didn’t have to turn around.

You’re not going to make me wear that, are you? I closed the bathroom door so Granny wouldn’t hear.

She stuck the final bobby pin in her French roll, turned her head from side to side so she could pick up the overall effect in the mirror, and then aimed the aerosol can for a shower of spray.

It’ll look lovely on that pink dress. Now go and get it.

A cascading halo of sticky muck clung to her hair, face, and shoulders. I got out before the droplets could assault mine. I went to the bedroom we shared and opened the cedar jewellery box Grandpa had brought back for her from the Middle East during World War II. I shifted around a string of fake pearls and earrings and rummaged through an assortment of sparkling brooches until I found the ugly one in the shape of a butterfly.

The November sun hadn’t yet had a chance to burn through the concrete footpath on the walk to Belmore Station. Mum prattled on to the fences and rosebushes amidst the early morning music of nature’s hum—a sound that would escalate into a deafening clatter with the heat of day.

I’m going to have veal and chips for lunch. We should go to the pictures while we’re at it. I wonder what’s on at The Royal, she mused.

The cut glass rhinestones on the wings of the brass brooch sparkled. It sat on my left shoulder like a sideshow alley prize, a ridiculous antithesis to the smooth, velvet patterns found on real butterfly wings.

No uniform today, Brenda? asked Mavis as we walked by her fruit and veggie barrow tucked in neatly beside Belmore Post Office.

Taking the day off to go to the city with my daughter, said Mum.

Lovely, darling. You might want to pick up some string beans on your way home. Got a great special going today, she said, tightening her apron strings.

Mavis had provided the neighbourhood with fresh fruits and vegetables for the past ten years. She loved to tempt her regulars with a good bargain, displaying her produce with care and pairing colours to highlight their freshness.

Nosey old bitch! Mum said when we were well out of hearing range. She’s the biggest gossip shop in Belmore.

She was just being friendly.

Friendly, my foot! Before the morning’s out, the whole of Belmore will know I’m not working today.

Do you think the whole of Belmore cares if you’re not working today, Mum?

Don’t be smart with me, Catherine Mary Moreton, or I’ll just turn around and go back home. She picked up the pace and lengthened her stride. You don’t know what they’re like around here. There’s always some old nosey parker ready to bloody well pick you apart for this thing or that. She swung a quick look right and then left before crossing Burwood Road to the bridge over the train track. Nothing better to do with themselves. With a break in the traffic, she grabbed my arm. Hurry up before one of these idiots bowls us over.

We caught the eight-thirty train to St James Station and the bus to Darlinghurst Road. Maureen and Ed’s shop, the Crescendo Record Bar, angled a corner of the main road and an alley in the heart of the Cross. It took a while to adjust to the artificial dim of four neon ceiling bulbs after being in the bright sunshine.

The Crescendo was a poky little shop, with rows of yellow wooden bins jammed tight with LPs in plastic jackets. The smaller sage-green bins along the side and front walls had been constructed to accommodate 45s. A dark grey cash register stood like a mini bank on the counter at the back.

They’re busy, Mum said. We’ll just look around until they’re ready. Smile. Don’t look so down in the dumps. And get that hair out of your face.

I flinched as she pulled handfuls of hair behind one ear, then the other.

I’m not down in the dumps, I said, squirming away. I just don’t know about this whole record shop thing. Especially here in the Cross. I folded my arms and lowered my head. It gives me the willies being in this creepy place.

Didn’t I tell you, you’d be perfectly fine? she said with the loudest volume she could afford in such a small space. Your problem is you think too much. Now just give it a rest for a change.

Hello, Brenda. Thanks for coming, said Maureen from somewhere behind us. And is this Catherine? My goodness, you’ve become quite the young lady. You must have been about seven years old when I saw you last. How old are you now?

Seventeen, I replied.

She’ll be eighteen in April, Mum interjected.

And you’d like to work in a record shop, your mother said? Yes, I lied.

Well, we’re opening a new shop in the little arcade beside the Crest Hotel in a few weeks. We could do with some extra help. One worker will be enough down there, but we need two in this shop. Can you start tomorrow?

My mother jumped in before I had a chance to open my mouth. She’d love to. Mum! I’ve already made plans to go to the beach with Monica tomorrow.

You’ll have to change them. The increased lines on her 37-year-old face threw my hopes and plans out the door.

I suppose so, I said.

Are you sure? asked Maureen. Perfectly sure, chimed my mother.

Maureen turned towards me. Then I’ll see you at half past eight tomorrow morning.

Back on the street, we waited for the bus while lunch hour in Kings Cross bristled on the footpath and in and out of doorways.

Well that went well, didn’t it? Mum said. I’m feeling a bit peckish now. I think we’ll head straight to the cafeteria at David Jones. What do you think? she asked, as if my response was worth anything.

Was that her husband? I asked regarding the rather short man who’d observed the goings- on in silence from behind the counter.

Don’t worry about him. Ed’s a bit funny, Mum confided. They’ve had a few problems over the years. He’s okay. He doesn’t say much. Just stay out of his road. Maureen runs the business. She’s the one you have to worry about. Make sure you do as you’re told or she’ll fire you, and then you’ll be stuck without a job.

Then all I’ll have to do is get married, and I won’t have to worry about it, will I? Mum ignored me and fumbled in her bag for a cigarette.

What about all these strip joints? I asked. Pink Pussy Cat. Dive. Girls Galore. Nude Peep Show. Les Girls.

They’re just night clubs. She shook her head and grabbed my arm. As the name suggests, they do their business at night. You’re working in the day, so leave it alone. Besides, Les Girls is a female impersonation joint. That means they’re blokes who dress up as showgirls. Bit sick, if you ask me.

Two well-dressed ladies, their transparent blue hair crimped close to their skulls, limped by.

Arm in arm, they held each other up.

Mum let go of my arm. How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing to worry about? She dropped her plastic lighter on the footpath. Dammit!

She brushed my hand away when I held the cracked lighter in front of her. I’ve got a box of matches in here somewhere. She rummaged around in her bag while the cigarette hung from the left side of her mouth. God! I’ve got to clean this damn bag out one of these days. Give me that thing. She grabbed the lighter and threw it in.

Why are those body-builder types standing in front of that place across the road? I asked, looking at the burly, muscle-bound suits framed by a string of flashing lights running around the doorway.

Thank God, there’s one left. She struck the match along the side of the Redhead box. The cigarette bobbed up and down as she spoke. They’re bouncers. They get rid of people who cause trouble, and they keep the unsavoury types out.

Who goes in if the unsavoury types are kept out?

Never mind, she snapped. Then, as if to offer some advice and salvage her motherliness, she said, See that cheap-looking piece across the street? A girl walked back and forth in front of the bottle shop. Her hair hung down her back. White hot-pants clung tight and short, and a drawstring top hung off one shoulder. Well, that’s one of those ladies of the night. She’s the type I meant when I said if you don’t look at them they won’t bother you.

The next day Maureen put me to work within minutes of hiding my shoulder bag under the counter. Time is money. Retail is not just sales, but also the maintenance of a clean and tidy shop, she said.

So in the morning I dusted the record bins with a rag soaked in Mr Sheen. After lunch, she showed me the alphabetical order to the records and modelled being a good saleswoman.

First rule is to keep busy. There’s always dusting, sweeping, unpacking, familiarising yourself with titles in the quiet times. Things like that. It looks bad if you just stand around. The customers will leave. No one wants to do business in a place where the salesgirl looks bored. Be confident and aggressive. She stared through the doorway and frowned. "What I mean is, be enthusiastic. You don’t want to be annoying, but you don’t want to be standoffish, either.

Always ask the customer if you can be of help. And smile even if you don’t feel like it. She winked. If you can’t find a record, just ask Ed or me. It might be out the back."

Ed looked up when he heard his name. He gave me a nod and went back to studying packing slips.

Many of the customers who wandered in and out during the day were boys about my age or a little older. They spoke with American accents. Overseas visitors were common in Sydney, but

the ones who came into the shop that day all had the same kind of clean-cut look. I asked Maureen if they belonged to a youth group or something.

Heavens no! Crikey, that’s kind of funny. No, they’re soldiers on leave from the war in Vietnam. Rest and relaxation I think they call it. R&R for short. Lots of those young fellas around here. Maybe a couple hundred come into Sydney every day. Here for about six days, I believe. Then gone again. Nice blokes on the whole. Well mannered. Not like those rich Texan loudmouths who complain that we’re backwards and brag about how much bigger and better it is back home. She went to the front entrance and stared out beyond the pedestrians to the traffic. I’m going to put you down in the new shop we’re opening in the Crest Hotel. I’ve decided on the name already. The Concerto Record Bar. And you’ll manage it.

Manage it? The very word startled me to near unconsciousness. Do you think I know enough? I only have a little fory-five player at home and just a few records. Not even one LP.

Of course you don’t know much right now, but after a few weeks you’ll know everything you need to. Her confidence shone a spotlight that focused somewhere off to the side, certainly not where I stood. I’m sure you like music. The Concerto will cater to a younger crowd. We’ll cater to the older lot, the ones that like the classics, jazz, the old-time dance tunes. Her face betrayed a distant longing. She looked at it then shook it off. You can play whatever music you want down there. That will draw those young blokes in off the street. I don’t like the psychedelic stuff. It’s too boisterous. But these young fellas sure like it, and some of them are willing to buy lots of LPs to take back to the war with them.

I didn’t like the psychedelic stuff either. I liked the lyrics and gentle tunes of ballads and folk music; the connectedness of pop; the beat, rhythm, and texture of Motown; and the beach images of surfer music. But being able to listen to whatever I wanted was as good as having my own record collection.

On my way home, the train roared through the tunnels that wove around the underground stations. When it emerged from the bowels into bright sunshine at Circular Quay, the beauty of Sydney Harbour struck me like the magnificent dawn of a new day.

The sun, reflected in the blue-green water, peered through the steel beams of the Harbour Bridge. Ferries carried commuters back home and others to the shops, events, and nightlife of the city. A moored ocean liner suggested dreams of exotic adventures, as it prepared for the next Pacific Island cruise.

The train plunged into the depths of darkened tunnels again to complete its city loop before emerging in the suburbs, where endless rows of red-roofed houses huddled one step back from the track. As the train settled into its familiar rattle, speed, and predictable stops, it established a mantra.

One thing the path ahead seemed to indicate was my escape from the captivity of well- meaning females.

Chapter 2 – The Concerto Record Bar

December 1967

During the first week of December, I became the manager and sole worker at the Concerto Record Bar. It took a while to realise that a new sensation, painted with pastel tones, was making its way into my general wellbeing. No uniforms, no rules, no nuns, no prefects, no assignments, and no exams translated into eight hours a day, from Monday to Friday, of pure and utter freedom—except when Maureen made her visits at three o’clock to remind me that I was neither alone nor the boss. On Saturdays, she turned up at eleven due to midday closing.

She checked that the Concerto was operating smoothly—that is to say that I was doing my job as an efficient salesgirl: