Free A Bird on My Shoulder by Lucy Palmer Page B

always get stronger and I’m looking forward to tomorrow very much.
    . . . I get in at ten to seven – should we go to early church? There is a lot to be thankful for.
    Love you, darling, very, very much xxx J
    I wrote in reply:
    Darling,
    Thank you for your lovely letter. I will treasure it always. With your care I feel as though I am blossoming in many ways. For everything you do, everything you are, thank you. You, who have been a parent for so long, might have got used to the feelings I am only just experiencing now. That feeling of belonging, a sense of place in the world. Thank you for all the beautiful things you have given me.
    All my love,
    Lucy xxxx
    I had stopped working for AAP just before George was born, but after a year of sporadic and unsatisfying freelance work, I started to miss the intellectual stimulation of daily journalism and the contact with my former colleagues. ML was now working for The Australian and had just broken an extraordinary story about a decision by the government of Sir Julius Chan to hire mercenary soldiers from Sandline International to wipe out the leaders of the Bougainville Revolutionary Army. The cost: a staggering US $36 million. By the time the story became public, the soldiers were already in the country and preparing to launch a military offensive. With this news causing international outrage, it seemed a good time to travel to Australia to see if The Sydney Morning Herald needed a part-time journalist on the spot.
    There was another reason we wanted to go to Sydney. Since cracking his rib, Julian had been complaining of back pain and of a general feeling of malaise. He decided to have some more blood tests – he was not at all confident in the services offered by the increasingly decrepit and often dysfunctional Port Moresby hospital.
    Once my discussions with the newspaper had concluded and we had agreed I would be their new correspondent Julian told me he’d been asked to stay on for further examinations.
    ‘Well, I could stay as well, if you like,’ I suggested, thinking there was no need to rush back.
    ‘No, I’ll be fine. I think you should start working.’
    I felt a little nonplussed by Julian’s attitude, however there seemed little point in arguing about it – he clearly wanted to be alone.
    •••
    I arrived back in Port Moresby to absolute turmoil. My friend Jo, who picked me up at the airport, said she’d heard there had been a military revolt and many expatriates were considering whether they should leave.
    We turned on the radio. It emerged that early the same morning, Brigadier-General Colonel Jerry Singirok had ordered the Papua New Guinea Defence Force to place all the mercenary soldiers under military arrest. He then publicly demandedthe resignation of Prime Minister Julius Chan and two of his colleagues.
    Thank God for Nina. As I struggled up the stairs with George and our luggage, she took the baby from my arms and deftly swung him onto her hip.
    ‘ Tripela hevi long guvman ,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Big problems with the government.’
    •••
    I walked into my humid office to a spewing fax machine and an answering machine in revolt.
    For the next few hours I worked feverishly on the Sandline story, completely absorbed in all the intricacies of the crisis. Very late that night the phone rang again. Surely not the foreign desk again.
    ‘Hello, darling, I’ve been trying to get through. What’s happening up there?’
    Breathlessly I told Julian all about the day’s events. But as I talked on I could tell he was not really listening – he sounded flat and distracted. I felt a sliver of unease; he was normally so passionately interested in politics.
    ‘How’s everything with you?’ I asked eventually. ‘What did the doctor say?’
    There was such a long pause I thought the line had dropped out.
    ‘Jules?’
    ‘Yes, I’m here.’
    ‘What’s happened?’
    ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, darling . . .’
    My palms began to sweat