I meant to find the place where all good things begin
– Lord Huron
To smell her scent and watch her dancing in the wind
And I when I die I want her lying by my side
In my grave.
Sydney – June 1997
Camilla lugged her supermarket bags through the front door of the apartment, her arms aching from the weight of canned tomatoes, pasta, and a few impulse buys she’d probably regret later. The faint hum of Friday night chaos already vibrated through the flat. It was an unwritten rule among her flatmates sharing the apartment that Fridays were fend-for-yourself nights for dinner. Throughout the week, they attempted to coordinate meals, pooling their meagre student budgets for bulk rice, vegetables, and the occasional roast. But Fridays? Fridays were a free-for-all. Plans shifted like sand—last-minute party invites, spontaneous dates, or, in Camilla’s case, the comforting predictability of a quiet night in with a bowl of pasta and a video.
As she kicked the door shut behind her, Camilla nearly collided with Alison, who was standing in the narrow hallway, looking like she’d just stepped out of a war movie. Alison, an athletic twenty-year-old with a broad smile, was dressed in a camouflage uniform, her black ankle boots polished to a gleam. Her shortish blonde hair now suited her outfit, and her delicate, feminine features were the only hint of softness beneath the military garb. A heavy green echelon bag, a bulging pack, and a neatly arranged webbing sat by the front door, a testament to Alison’s meticulous preparation.
“Hey, you scared me!” Camilla said, setting her bags down on the scuffed hardwood floor. “What’s with the full-on army getup? You look like you’re about to invade New Zealand.”
Alison grinned, her blue eyes sparkling with a mix of excitement and mischief. “Not quite. Just heading to the depot tonight, then off to Queensland tomorrow. Jungle training at Canungra. It’s going to be amazing!”
Camilla raised an eyebrow, unpacking her groceries onto the cluttered kitchen counter. The apartment’s communal kitchen was a testament to student life—mismatched plates stacked in the sink, a fridge plastered with magnets and takeaway menus, and a faint smell of burnt toast lingering in the air. “Jungle training? Like, an actual jungle? With snakes and dirt?”
“Yeah. Snakes, mud, the works,” Alison said, fiddling with her pack. She adjusted the strap of her camouflage bag, looking oddly at ease with the heavy gear. “It’s a two-week course. Navigation, survival skills, maybe some tactical exercises. I’ve been looking forward to it for months.”
Camilla paused, a jar of pasta sauce in hand. “Wait, didn’t you say that Canungra’s near the Gold Coast, right? Does that mean you get to hit the beach while you’re there?” She was only half-joking, her mind conjuring images of Alison trading her boots for a bikini and a surfboard.
Alison laughed, a bright, infectious sound that filled the small space. “I wish. It’s in the hinterland, not exactly in Surfers Paradise. We’ll be deep in the bush, probably covered in leeches by day two. No beaches for me.”
Camilla shook her head, marvelling at her flatmate’s enthusiasm for what sounded like a gruelling ordeal. Alison was in the Army Reserve, a commitment that seemed to Camilla both wildly impressive and utterly baffling. Between lectures, assignments, and the occasional night out, Camilla could barely keep her own life together. How Alison juggled university with a job in a bakery, weekend camps, fitness tests, and now a trip to a jungle training centre was beyond her.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Camilla said, shoving a bag of spinach into the fridge. “All these army trips, plus studying. When do you even sleep?”
Alison shrugged; her smile unwavering. “It’s only June. I’ve got a month before mid-year exams, so I’ll cram when I get back. Two weeks should be enough. I’ve never failed a subject in my life. As long as I don’t get distracted by anything else, I’ll be fine.”
Camilla snorted, leaning against the counter. “Distractions? You? You’re like the least distracted person I know. You don’t even have a social life to tempt you.”
It was a playful jab, but there was a kernel of truth in it. Alison was undeniably attractive—fit, with a heart-shaped faced blonde that could charm anyone. Yet, as far as Camilla knew, Alison was single, her weekends more likely to be spent at an army depot than a bar. Not that Camilla was one to talk. Her own love life was a barren wasteland, her Friday nights more about comfort food than candlelit dinners.
Alison didn’t take the bait, just rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, well, not all of us can be social butterflies like you.”
“Pfft, social butterfly? More like a social moth,” Camilla shot back. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”
“That’s not true,” Alison said, her tone softening. She glanced at her watch, a rugged digital thing that looked like it could survive a nuclear blast. “Crap, I’ve got to go. My lift is here in five.”
“Five minutes? Geez, Alison, you’re so army,” Camilla teased, mimicking her flatmate’s precise tone.
“Thank you!” Alison said with mock pride, slinging her pack over her shoulders. The weight of it made her lean slightly, but she carried it with the ease of someone used to hauling gear. “See you later. Don’t eat too much pasta.”
“See you, Private Benaud,” Camilla called after her with a grin. She watched as Alison disappeared out the door, her boots thudding against the floorboards, the echelon bag swinging at her side.
Alone, Camilla turned back to her groceries, the mundane task of unpacking suddenly feeling anticlimactic. She could hear the faint hum of traffic outside, the distant laughter of other students heading out for the night. Her Cowper Street flat was a revolving door of personalities—six undergrads, each with their quirks and schedules.
Camilla’s thoughts drifted back to Alison as she boiled water for her pasta. She envied her flatmate’s confidence, the way she seemed to thrive on structure and adventure. Camilla’s life, by contrast, felt like a series of small, safe choices—picking a practical degree, sticking to familiar routines. She wasn’t unhappy, but there was a restlessness she couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the monotony of student life, or maybe it was the fact that, at twenty-one, she felt like she was still waiting for something big to happen.
She stirred the pasta, her mind wandering to Alison’s trip. What would it be like to spend two weeks in the jungle, learning to navigate by the stars or build a shelter from sticks? Camilla couldn’t imagine it. Her idea of adventure was trying a new Thai place around the corner. Yet there was something inspiring about Alison’s double life—uni student by day, soldier by weekend. It made Camilla wonder what she could do if she pushed herself out of her comfort zone.
The water boiled over, hissing on the stovetop, and Camilla snapped back to reality. She turned down the heat, cursing under her breath. Other than her simple meal, there was little to shake off the Friday night doldrums. Or maybe she’d just eat her pasta and binge a VHS. Either way, she had the flat to herself for a few hours, and that was a rare luxury.
As she drained the pasta, Camilla glanced at the spot by the door where Alison’s gear had been. The hallway felt oddly empty without it. She smiled to herself, imagining Alison off on some rugged adventure in Queensland.
“Good luck, Private Benaud,” she murmured, tossing her pasta with sauce. Maybe one day she’d find her own version of Canungra—something to shake up her world. For now, though, dinner and a video would have to do.
Canberra
The drive to the bus that night was quiet—uncomfortably quiet. The hum of the car’s engine was the only sound breaking the heavy silence between Christian and Beth. Normally, Christian would have driven himself, but orders were orders: a bus was waiting for him at the army depot, and he was to use it. That bus would carry him to Penrith in outer western Sydney, a place nestled at the foot of the Blue Mountains, where rugged terrain had once thwarted early explorers seeking Australia’s interior. In the 19th century, Australia’s expansion had ended at Penrith, where the wild began. But that was then. Now, in the 21st century, Christian would leave Sydney in a far more modern way: strapped into the back of a Royal Australian Air Force transport plane.
It would be his first time boarding such a plane, and likely the first for most of his soldiers, too. That was why he was now headed to Penrith on this cool Friday night, the city lights growing in the windscreen. In Penrith, he’d link up with the rest of his company, and from there, it was a short drive to Richmond Air Base. The flight to Queensland was scheduled for the next day, where they’d spend two weeks at a training camp before returning. The hours ahead promised a whirlwind of preparation—checking gear, briefings, ensuring every detail was in place. The hustle and bustle would hit like a storm once he arrived.
But for now, the car was a bubble of stillness, the air thick with silence. Beth gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles pale against the dark leather. She wasn’t happy to be driving him, and she did not hide it. There had been a time, years ago, when she would have gladly taken him the twenty minutes along Canberra’s wide, open roads—roads that were rarely busy, even on a Friday evening. Back then, they’d have filled the drive with easy conversation, maybe even laughter, the kind that came naturally when love was new. But that was a long time ago, a distant memory buried under five years of shared history that had soured into something unrecognisable.
Christian stared out the passenger window, watching the orderly rows of suburban houses slide by, their warm lights glowing against the dusk. He was glad to be getting away, and he wasn’t shy about admitting it to himself. He had two reasons for welcoming this trip: the chance to visit the Land Warfare Centre in Queensland, where he’d hone his skills and lead his team through rigorous training, and the escape it offered from Beth. Their relationship had become a shadow of what it once was. They barely spoke any more, despite living under the same roof and working in the same office. It was as if they were roommates bound by convenience, not partners. They even drove to work in separate cars now, a small but telling detail that underscored the growing chasm between them. It was ridiculous, Christian thought, but neither of them had mustered the courage—or perhaps the energy—to end it. They were stuck in a limbo of their own making.
The silence in the car felt like a third passenger, heavy and judgemental. Christian thought about saying something, anything, to break the quiet, but the words wouldn’t come. What was there to say? Every conversation lately had been clipped, perfunctory, drained of warmth. Even the simplest exchanges felt like negotiations. Each word was weighed and measured for potential conflict. He glanced at Beth, her profile sharp against the glow of passing streetlights. Her jaw was set, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. She hadn’t looked at him once since they’d left the house.
Christian’s mind wandered to the mission ahead. The Land Warfare Centre was a prestigious opportunity. Two weeks of intense training, simulations, and field exercises would push him and his soldiers to their limits. It was the challenge he thrived on, the kind that reminded him why he’d joined the army. There was clarity in the structure of military life, a purpose that felt increasingly absent from home. He imagined the Queensland heat, the sweat-soaked days, the camaraderie of his team as they worked through drills. It would be hard, but it would be good. And it would be a reprieve from the slow-motion collapse of his personal life.
The car turned onto a broader avenue, the lights of Canberra’s city centre coming into view. The army depot wasn’t far now. Christian felt a flicker of relief, knowing this awkward drive would soon be over. He thought about the soldiers waiting for him in Penrith, young men and women under his command, looking to him for leadership. He wondered how they were feeling tonight—eager, nervous, maybe a mix of both. For some, it would be their first time on a military transport plane, the roar of the engines and the cramped, utilitarian interior a far cry from a commercial flight. He smiled faintly at the thought. There was something raw and real about those moments, the shared anticipation of a mission. It was a world where he felt competent, in control, unlike the mess he and Beth had made of things.
As they neared the depot, the silence grew heavier, almost suffocating. Christian cleared his throat, more out of habit than necessity.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said, his voice sounding louder than he intended in the quiet car.
Beth didn’t respond right away. Her fingers tightened on the wheel, and for a moment, he thought she might not say anything at all.
“Sure,” she said finally, her tone flat, devoid of warmth. It was the kind of response that carried no meaning, just a placeholder to fill the space.
The depot came into view, a low, functional building surrounded by a chain-link fence. A bus idled in the parking lot, its headlights cutting through the gathering dark. Beth pulled up to the curb, the car’s engine humming softly as she shifted into park. Christian unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for his echie bag, the weight familiar in his hands. He opened the door and stepped out, the cool night air hitting his face. He moved to the trunk, popping it open to retrieve his second bag, a large backpack, and his webbing.
Beth stayed in the driver’s seat, her seatbelt still fastened, her hands resting on the wheel. She didn’t look at him, didn’t move to get out. It was a small but deliberate choice, a signal that she was done with this moment, done with him, at least for now.
“I’ll see you in two weeks,” Christian said, trying to inject a note of civility into his voice. He stood by the open trunk, his bags slung over his shoulders, waiting for some kind of response, some flicker of the connection they used to have.
“Bye,” Beth said, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance. There was no warmth, no effort, not a glance in his direction. The smallest gestures—ones that had once come so easily—were now mountains to climb. There was no hug, no kiss, no lingering farewell. Just a single word, sharp and final.
Christian closed the trunk with a soft thud and then shut the passenger door. The car pulled away almost immediately, Beth’s taillights disappearing into the night. He stood there for a moment, watching the empty road, the weight of his bags grounding him. Then he turned, squaring his shoulders, and walked toward the waiting bus.
The driver stood by the cargo bay, a clipboard in hand, his face lit by the glow of a nearby streetlamp. Christian set his bags down and approached, his boots clicking softly on the pavement.
“Lieutenant Holland reporting,” he said, his voice steady, professional. The driver nodded, checking his name off the list with a quick stroke of his pen.
“Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,” the driver said, gesturing toward the bus. “We’ll be heading out soon.”
Christian loaded his bags into the cargo bay and climbed aboard, the faint smell of diesel and polished vinyl greeting him. The bus was half-full, a few soldiers scattered across the seats, some chatting quietly, others staring out the windows. He took a seat near the back, settling in for the long ride to Penrith. As the bus pulled out of the depot, the city lights fading behind them, Christian felt a strange mix of relief and resolve. For the next two weeks, he’d have a purpose, a mission, a world where he knew exactly what was expected of him. It wasn’t a solution to the problems waiting back home, but it was a start.
Leave a Reply