A Young Writer's Diary continued...

November 10, 1951

Scribbling page after page of rubbish at the “Dome” this afternoon. So immersed in my work, I lose track of time and come to realize the restaurants dinner patrons have begun to arrive. The owner of the establishment, Henri, has always been unusually patient with my lack of purchasing power: two cups of tea and a little glass of port the entire day. In the end, finally, after a few disturbing looks, he approaches my table.

“How is my little Australian poet today?”

“Disappointed, Henri.”

“Why, monsieur?”

“The words are flowing but lack meaning and heart.”

“Ah. Possibly a glass of wine to start your artistic blood boiling!”

“Possibly, Henri.”

Henri’s expression turns suddenly curious and he asks:

“Was any of your family in the Great War, monsieur?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. My grandmother’s brother, Jack Reeves, fought on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War.”

Henri sits down in the chair opposite me and rests his chin on his hand looking even more curious and sentimental.

“I do not mean to pry, monsieur, but did he survive?”

“He lasted until the end. But because of excessive exposure to Mustard Gas, he died within three months of arriving back in Australia.”

“I’m very sorry, monsieur.”

“That’s alright, Henri, war is war and is always a terrible thing.”

The noise level had risen as more guests arrived and filled the tables around us. Henri remained seated in front of me gazing above my head as if remembering some important and sad chapter in his life. After a moment, his eye’s cleared and stood up from the table and disappeared behind the counter and soon reappeared with two waiters, a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses. He passed the glasses all round and poured the wine then slowly raised his hand in the air as if to make a toast.

“Ladies and Gentlemen”, his voiced boomed across the restaurant in English. “I want to toast my little Australian writer but, more so, his Grandmother’s brother, Jack. Who fought bravely on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War!”

Henri raised his glass higher in the air: “TO JACK!”

Reminiscent of the glory war films of the 30’s and 40’s, everyone in the “Dome” stood and raised their glasses and in unison toasted my grandmother’s brother, Jack.

“TO JACK!”

“Viva la France!”

“Viva la France!” the crowd resounded.

After a delicious meal and several bottles of wine later, Henri and I closed the “Dome” for the evening. He escorted me back to my little apartment, our arms around each other, stumbling and singing through the foggy streets. At my doorstep, he drunkenly planted two sloppy kisses, one on each cheek – sentimental kisses – and bade me adieu!

Walking up my stairs, I could hear him singing, (out of tune) “Waltzing Matilda” in his thickly accented, baritone voice. I waited on the landing, propped up against the banister, until that wonderful song faded into the soft light of the Parisian dawn.