Bruce’s War

During a rare visit to my father’s home, I found out about his war service.

Bonnie, his partner of many years, and I talked in the living room over cups of tea.

My father and I could never hold a conversation. He seemed uncomfortable around me — he always had been. On this visit, he was sharing a bottle of beer with my husband outside, under the cover of his back verandah. My husband wasn’t much of a drinker, but he tried to get along with my father, and sharing a bottle of beer was a surefire way to succeed.

My father was a functional alcoholic, a hard worker but never without alcohol in his system. The weekends were his time to get drunk, particularly Saturday. Come Sundays; he’d begin to wean down in the afternoons in readiness for work on Monday. He used to boast that he’d never missed days at work in forty years. Although, my father was extremely liberal with the truth. I didn’t doubt his work ethic.

It would be on a Sunday if I visited my father, as I was most likely to catch him relatively sober.

As Bonnie and I talked, my father showed my husband and four-year-old daughter his vegetable garden.

My father’s partner, Bonnie, and I got on reasonably well. I had known her since I was sixteen; she had been a part of my life for a long time. She was the person who would answer the phone when I called; she was also the person who took the phone from my father when he had said his usual minute of an uncomfortable conversation.