by Paula Hayes
Chapter SIXTEEN
Rapping and Reliving
“Ready to start another interview?” asked Dylan, as he dramatically sharpened his prop pencil to a deathly point.
The four of them were seated around the table.
“You fit into our little posse Leo,” flirted Jacqui. “You bring a certain —”
“Smell?” said Dylan helpfully.
“No, you bring a certain warmth and cheekiness.”
“You’re like our main man brudda, De Leosta De Gangsta.”
“Yo, Yo Yo Yo Mudda—”
“DYLAN!”
“Me and my biatches—”
“DYLAN!” screamed Anna. A note to self, resend the email on misogyny in music.
Dylan swiped Anna’s pencil case to use as his microphone. His rap warm up included a small dance routine, which made him look like an epileptic praying mantis.
“Me and my home gals were chillin’ and stuff
Coz Anna and me we had had enuff
Nuff nuff nuff nuffity nuff!
Jacs jumps up and says, ‘Let’s wake the dead.’
I say coo’, let’s melt some cheese and fry some bread.
So we all hold hands and it gets a little freaky
And when we let go, the room’s a little funky
‘Hi,’ says Leo, ‘I’m a little lost and confused
I smell real bad and it’s not Anna’s shoes.
Shoesshshshshoesshshshoesshoes …”
“STOP RAPPING DYLAN. STOP LAUGHING JACQUI, YOU TOO LEO.”
“Let’s get on with it! What I want to know,” said Anna briskly, as she kicked her sneakers under the table, “is how a sixteen year old boy is allowed to sign up for a war in another country? What about your mother? What about your schooling?” Always, ALWAYS wear odour eaters with these sneakers.
“I was nearly seventeen, long finished with learning and books and I planned to have three fifths of my wages sent to my Ma. Anyways, she was going to be better off,” replied Leo.
“She would have qualified for a war pension too, later … after ... your untimely demise,” Jacqui petered out, hoping she hadn’t hurt Leo’s feelings.
“Ka Ka Ka Ka Kaboomba,” laughed Dylan. Anna grimaced.
“Did you ask her if you could join? Did you discuss it with her at all?
“No.”
“Didn’t you have to show any ID?”
“What is ID?”
“Identification, like a birth certificate or a passport.”
“No.”
“Outrageous!”
“Did she have to sign a form? I am sure there is a signature required on the Attestment papers.”
“Not for a fellow like me. I was twenty two and sadly orphaned at the age of six.” He made very sad puppy dog eyes and then winked slyly.
“How old were you really?”
“Sixteen and three quarters.”
“That is my age,” said Dylan.
“I went along to keep Les company the first time he applied for the AIF but they didn’t accept him. He didn’t make it past the medical. He was a bit of a bantam— he was a skinny lanky fellow with not much meat on the bones but he was as strong as an ox. Anyways, he failed the height test by three quarters of an inch. He was as mad as a cut snake. Really embarrassed.”
“Les failed the height test first time around.” Anna echoed the conversation to the others.
“Hurry up and start typing Annakins, I feel like a blind person at a convention for the deaf.”
“What happened? Did he have a growth spurt at twenty two?” sniped Dylan.
“No, tell the idiot, Gallipoli happened. Johnny Turk blew us to kingdom come. The AIF needed more troops so they made the requirements less strict. Daisy would read to us all about the war effort from the newspaper each day. We went back a few months later and this time I was not there for support. I wanted to join. I needed a better job than mucking out horse shit.”
“Leo wanted to join the second time he went with Les,” repeated Anna.
Dylan sighed, “I bet if the Third AIF was raised right now, Deepak would be the first to enlist, just to show how patriotic and dinky di a Hindu born in Kolkata, West Bengal India can be. He sighed again, “You know how he always has the Aussie flag hanging out of his car on Australia day … and he wears those ridiculous Aussie flag thongs and boardies all day. And the green and gold zinc.” Dylan shuddered. “Talk about overcompensating. On ya, m-a-t-e, on ya.”
“You, of course, would be a conscientious objector,” said Jacqui.
“Of course doll face, someone has to appeal to humanity. And I do have so many blogs and tweets I write, protest would be a natural progression for me. I’m sure I could write dreary poetry as well as Wilfred Owen.”
“Why do you take the piss out of Deepak? He’s not the one who changed his name to sound less Indian.”
Dylan’s eyes dropped with humiliation.
“Let us settle down ladies,” soothed Jacqui. Her fingers were working hard on the touch screen to acquire information and to keep these two in check.
“There was enormous pressure on young males to go to war. Although a referendum on conscription failed twice, pressure was placed on young men in other ways by ‘the powers that be.’ It was the big issue of the day.”
“‘Powers that be,’ you sound like Anna, the conspiracy theory of world domination,” sulked Dylan and looked at Anna, willing her not to lurch into fav diatribe. But she was totally engrossed by an old digital newspaper. Jacqui and Dylan breathed out relieved.
“No, just the usual suspects—you know … government, big business, the wealthy and the landed gentry. A war recruitment committee was set up and the idea was to send every man to the Front. Big stores like Boans and Foy and Gibson were asked to encourage every male worker to enlist. Here is part of a fun little advert I found. It’s a series of shaming questions,” Jacqui cleared her throat and put on her plumy voice.
‘Do you feel quite happy as you walk along the streets and see OTHER Men wearing the King’s Uniform?’
‘What will you answer when your children grow up and say, “Father! Why weren’t you a soldier too?’
“I’d say to the young brat, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, dear little one if I had’ve gone to the war. I’d be dead or maimed.” Dylan stroked his purple pointy hair and anxiously readjusted his chums. “The rudeness!”
“Can you imagine how it would it feel to be handed a white feather?” said Jacqui.
“To be worn on a hat?” asked Dylan as he continued to touch his sculptured tower. “I can’t do hats at the mo.”
“No, given as a sign of cowardice,” replied Anna curtly. Dylan’s face fell again and Leo’s looked agitated.
Dylan went on to ask why Leo had given up on scooping up dung? Was it possibly to do with having a German first name and relatives in the mutter land or had some doll given him the white feather. Anna laid a firm hand on his arm and shushed him. Leo’s eyes look preoccupied. He had already entered 1915 and Anna lagged helplessly behind.
INTERVIEW RECOMMENCED AT 0900HRS 3/5/13