Clandestine

Chapter 1 - Eternity

I have lived my life between the raindrops.

My childhood was spent under grey skies in Motherwell, Scotland, where I became an expert in the art of moisture avoidance.

In my early 20s as a young soldier I was stationed throughout Europe and the Middle East before finding my way to North America. Eventually I escaped to Australia and now, in my 65th year, on the last day of the current millennium, I stand on the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the middle of a rain shower getting properly soaked.

New Year’s Eve in Sydney is a bucket list essential. Australia’s proximity to the prime meridian makes it the leader in all races toward tomorrow; therefore the clock will strike midnight on December 31, 1999 in Sydney sooner than it will in most locales, leaving a jealous planet of revellers waiting for their turn to celebrate. However, punctuality is not Sydney’s only redeeming quality. The harbour also happens to be one of the most gorgeous venues in the world. I can’t imagine what James Cook was thinking when he sailed into Botany Bay for the first time. A newcomer is always arrested by Sydney’s coastal elegance. The grandeur of New York harbour comes close second, but for me a ferry ride from Circular Quay to Manly Beach never disappoints.

Captain Cook may not have predicted the presence of hundreds of thousands of people lining the harbour bridge, awaiting the ignition of a million dollars’ worth of explosive gasses over a five-minute period of indulgence. In fact, he may have taken a dim view of the entire proceeding. It is only if one partakes in the entire New Year’s package that the celebration makes perfect sense. Tonight I have endured heartburn from the overconsumption of cheesy mince gozleme and cheap mulled wine. My knapsack is stuffed with overpriced trinkets, most of which bear the resemblance of scantily-clad Australian beach babes photo-shopped on the Opera House steps, with the numerals 2 0 0 0 strategically placed on their chests. Indeed, I wish old James Cook could be here with me tonight; I feel I’d be just the one to introduce him to the high points of Australian culture.

Perhaps I just wish anyone were here with me tonight. Forty years ago, on the suggestion of an army general, I made a decision that made long periods of stable family relations difficult to achieve. Like many choices in life, we seldom understand all of the ramifications involved at the moment of truth. I was asked to make a decision when I was too young, too foolish, and too invincible to understand the consequences. Thus I embarked on a journey leading to mysterious places, having been selected for my singular ability to blend into a crowd at a moment’s notice.

If not for this rain my current location would have been a prime position to watch tonight’s fireworks. I must confess after a lifetime of intermingling: I enjoy crowds. I have selected this moment to be on the harbour bridge for an odd reason. I want to be viewed by more people tonight than any other person in the world, and at centre stage on Sydney Harbour Bridge as the countdown proceeds to the new millennium I am guaranteed to be a small dot on every television screen from Beijing to New York City. It is a retirement present to myself after years of hiding from the world. My coming-out party!

I procured this space on the bridge at precisely 7 o’clock this morning. Fortunately I was not alone in my quest. There were many couples, families, and vagabond groups with the same idea. I quickly became friends with my temporary neighbours which allowed me to step away from my post to stretch my legs, only to return to my saved piece of real estate. But stepping away became impossible after 6 p.m. as the venue became overcrowded. I have spent the last 5 hours and 30 minutes in a small section of the bridge. My newfound friends served their purpose and I have been able to retract myself from their conversations and re-enter my cocoon of anonymity. This ability to acquire assets easily, discard them as needed, and recede into the night is learned. There is no doubt that I had an affinity for solitude, as any single child might, but it was during my military training that I elevated the tendency to a true art form.

With 15 minutes to go before the big moment, the skies begin to clear, much to the delight of the assembled mob. From my perch I look out past the bridge and on to the harbour below. With all of the beauty of Circular Quay at my disposal, my eyes fall to a group of pigeons chasing around the lower levels of the bridge, searching for discarded food. Seeing the birds brings back memories of my father. Malcolm O’Donovan was a giant of a man and an ardent pigeon fancier. A veteran of World War One, he spent his boyhood in the infantry traipsing over Europe, trying to stay alive. For my sake, he did. As a boy I would look at his medals and beg him to tell me stories. He was 18 years old when he stormed Vimy Ridge with a group of British and Canadian soldiers in a creeping barrage. It was 18 years later that he fathered his only son. He spent the rest of his life keeping a roost of pigeons and making sure they had a safe place to return to in the evenings. I spent many a night with him in the cold gloomy moonlight, helping him tend to his flock. Every time I brought the topic of conversation to warfare, he brought it back to birds. He was the gentlest soul I ever met. I could not have imagined him with a rifle in his hand, charging up a mountain, but I presume that the cultivation of his alter ego was intentional. The one that should have held the rifle was my mother. An ill-tempered brute, my mother was an expert in the creation of terror. If intimidation had been an Olympic Sport, our house could have been shingled in gold. A stern, determined woman, Mary was anti-matter to my father’s laid-back demeanour. Under my mother’s guidance I became a star athlete and an inspired scholar. There was no choice -- had I not, my mother would have cut me to pieces and fed me to the pigeons. Her fury also had the effect of motivating me to complete grammar school at age 16, and when Oxford offered a scholarship I was already packed. I dutifully returned for her funeral.

Australians have a wonderful sense of humour that clears any room of false pretence. I scan the audience, with an eye for the couples, and I see a group of men in cut-off shorts and ragged rugby jerseys holding hands with stunningly beautiful women dressed in short black skirts and high heel shoes. Australian men are immune to the trappings of civilization. Seven hours ago a group of blokes threw down a cooler full of drinks and hunkered down for the night, quite close to the lawn chair I was using to demark my spot. At that time I was still working the crowd and my sociability caught their eye long enough for me to be offered a beer. They were a rogue group of “bogans” determined to make the most of the night and remember little of what would transpire. Their companions for the evening apparently were not dissuaded by the grimy appearance of the lads. Australian women have a tolerance for slovenly behaviour that is unparalleled. I can only imagine that their patience is learned, only understood by the genetic instinct to propagate the species. I also assume that many of them have never travelled. Now, at five minutes to midnight, the boys are in fine form, singing raucous Australian bush classics and ensuring that the tone of informality and irreverence that sets the Aussie culture apart will be strictly adhered to for the next thousand years.

With mere seconds to go before midnight I see a group of boys kicking a football in a well-lit park not far from the Opera House. Now everything is reminding me of my childhood, my innocence, my past. As a young boy I thought of very little that did not involve a football, a cricket bat, or an open lane of water. Given my athletic prowess, there were those that assumed I would take over as the next great Glasgow Rangers centre-half. At sixteen, when I chose Oxford University over the Motherwell Football Club’s junior development program, many thought I had taken leave of my senses. How I could turn away from athletic glory to instead read books at some prissy English College was unimaginable. Yet I was not deterred and away I went to seek my fortune in the law, commerce, or some other noble pursuit.

The first firebomb in the sky has now interrupted my daydream. For five minutes the harbour is ablaze with firecrackers exploding in a dizzying array of designs and a cacophony of sound. Even the cynical Australian boys drinking their beer are impressed and I admit that an old British soldier like me finds the scene amazing. I alternate between feelings of awe and melancholy but as the performance winds down I take a final shot of the ’78 Dalmore Scotch from my flask and think as I always do…mission accomplished.

As I turn to leave I suddenly hear a woman calling my name. “Callum, Callum, Callum,” she exclaims.

I turn around and it is one of the ladies I had met earlier in the day. She approaches me and without hesitation gives me a lovely warm kiss. “Happy New Year,” she says.

“Happy New Year, Nancy,” I reply.

As I watch her move to embrace another reveller I can’t help but smile. I look out towards the sea. “Eleanor, I wish you were here,” I say to myself quietly.