The Pencil Case

by Lorraine Cobcroft

  “OK, I get that you don’t like the parades, but you do love the concerts.”

  “Yeah. I play the occasional concert in the park. Nice! I get five minutes of fame and the people get five minutes of pleasure. Most of the bloody concerts are for arsehole sergeants and officers and their dragon wives playing ‘let’s dress up for a fancy dinner and pretend we’re important’.”

  “You’re a cynic, Paul. Can’t you try to take a more positive approach to life.”

  “No. There’s nothing positive about my life. Not my work life, anyway.”

  “Then maybe you should transfer to another corp. Is that an option?”

  “What? Become a bloody storeman? Stuff around with those half–witted morons doing even less than musicians do? B–company! They be there when you go and they be there when you get back, except that there’s no war on at the moment so there’s nothing useful for any of them to do. They just train for something that might not happen until they’re six feet under.

  “No, Fran,” I told her often, “I have to get out of the army.”

  “And do what?”

  “Apart from becoming a professional punter --- which I’m sure I could do with a little more research --- I have absolutely no bloody idea.”

  ~~~~

  29: CONCERT IN THE PARK

  AUGUST, 1973

  “I’m working Sunday arvo,” I told her over dinner one Monday evening in August. “Concert in the park. You can come and listen if you like. I’m playing the French horn. First public appearance since I changed instruments. Hope I don’t mess up with you there.”

  “You’ll play superbly. You always do. How’s it going, anyway?”

  “Playing horn? Great. I think it’s my instrument actually. It just feels right.” I paused for a minute to swallow. “I never really wanted to play cornet you know. I wanted to play trombone, but my arms were too short when I joined up.”

  She laughed until she realised I was serious.

  “They called me ‘Tarzan’,” I added. “Had trouble fitting a uniform on me, I was so small. Army food and exercise changed that in a hurry.”

  She took the kids to the park. As always, we looked resplendent in our black trousers and bright white coats and shoes polished until you could see your face in them. The afternoon sun twinkled on the highly polished silver instruments and on our badges and brass buttons.

  There was a keen crowd there. Some stood in little groups, others spread rugs on the lawns or settled themselves under shady trees with picnic hampers and wine coolers or those little Kentucky Fried Chicken dinner boxes. The music was lively and entertaining. We were enjoying ourselves. The applause was enthusiastic. At half–time, I joined her for a while.

  “How’s it sounding?”

  “Great. But you knew that. The kids seem to be enjoying it too.”

  As we talked, Captain Ellis walked behind my music stand, peered at my music and frowned. Then he marched in our direction. “You are playing exceptionally well today, Musician Wilson. You’ve taken to your new instrument well.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, without even a hint of a smile. I’d been watching the Captain’s movements and knew what was coming next.

  “Why do you have tenor–horn music on your music stand?”

  “That’s the music I was supplied with, sir. French horns have only recently been introduced in this band and --- ”

  “Yes, but you were instructed to transpose the music for French horn, before this concert.”

  I considered the rebuke silently for a moment, determined not to flinch. I looked straight into the Captain’s eyes, set my lips tight and thrust my chin forward, aware that my stance was arrogant and my glare challenging.

  “I’m transposing mentally as I play.” I focused on keeping my tone calm and unflustered, pretending confusion at a misguided rebuke; determined not to let him humiliate me in front of Fran. “Didn’t you just say I was playing well?”

  “I did, and you are.”

  “Then what’s the problem, sir? Bass trombonists have been doing it for years.” Now my tone was defiant and I laid heavy emphasis on the ‘sir’. The Captain responded by adopting an authoritarian air.

  “The problem, as you well know, Musician Wilson, is that you ignored me.”

  I shrugged then. “Guilty as charged then, sir. What’s the penalty?”

  My casual tone was a mask, and I suspected Fran knew it, but I was focused on saving face, and disguising my hatred of the man.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Paul! You make things damn difficult for me, and for yourself.”

  My gaze remained fixed, challenging. I gave no response. Ellis turned to Fran.

  “Can’t you talk some sense into him, Frances. I’m trying to help him advance his career --- move up the ranks.” He shook his head and pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Damn it, Paul, you’re a bloody good musician. Excellent in fact. You’re diligent, dependable, hard working. You’re well liked. You could go places in the army, and I’d like to help you, but you need to lose the attitude, mate.”

  “What makes you think I want to go places in the army, sir?”

  Ellis raised his open palms to elbow level in a gesture of despair and walked back to the bandstand shaking his head. I watched him silently for a minute, eyes burning into his back and that persistent whistled “Waterloo” tune echoing in my head.

  Fran pretended the children needed her attention, so I wandered off to talk to some mates. Then the concert resumed and I gave it all I had, determined not to give Ellis an inch. Bastard could cheat me out of a promotion I’d earned, but he damned well wouldn’t find fault with the way I did my job.

  I knew I performed well. There was a photo of me in the local paper next day, holding the horn proudly. Fran said I looked magnificent and she couldn’t understand how I could hate the army so when I obviously loved music and relished performing.

  She broached the subject of the afternoon’s conversation nervously that night.

  “Paul, on the one hand you talk about wanting to leave the army and on the other you say it’s not an option and you will probably have to sign on again. Don’t you think as long as you are stuck with it as a job you might as well try to make the best of it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. What were you thinking? Not transposing that music like you were supposed to.”

  “Didn’t need to. I was doing perfectly well transposing in my head. When

  I have to play a piece I can’t transpose mentally, I’ll write it.” “But Captain Ellis said --- ”

  “Orders! That’s my fucking life. Bloody orders!” I wasn’t shouting, but my voice was cold and hard. “I obey them when they make sense or when the consequences of not doing so are likely to be drastic. It’s all such a load of bullshit! I can do my job without some bloody up–jumped egotist with pips on his shoulders telling me how to.”

  She was silent for a minute.

  “And can you stop folding those bloody nappies? Christ, it’s nine o’clock. You never stop working.”

  “I have two babies to care for. They make lots of work.”

  “Evening work. Yeah. You have to do it in the evening so you can spend time with your boyfriend during the day.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend, and if you were around all day you’d know that I don’t stop working. In case you haven’t noticed, I clean the house, wash and iron your clothes and cook your meals as well as caring for our kids.”

  “Yeah. I know. And I know how long it takes and what women do the rest of the day.”

  She threw the nappy down and kicked the basket in my direction.

  “We were talking about you and your career, Paul. Did it ever occur to you that maybe you owe it to us to try to move up the ladder, earn a bit more. It’s not easy managing on the wage you bring home.”

  “Oh, right! Now it’s about me being a fucking failure as a husban
d. Well, you knew what I did for a fucking living and how much I fucking earned before you married me. What, does your boyfriend have rank? Officer maybe?” I slammed my fist against the wall, denting it badly. I would patch it later.

  I had become quite proficient at disguising the evidence of my violent rages.

  “Stop it, Paul. Why do you act this way?”

  “Why do you nag me constantly about my job?”

  “I don’t. I was worried about today that’s all, and if Captain Ellis is good enough to want to help you advance your career, I think you ought to be grateful and co–operate.”

  “Advance my career? That’s a joke! You must have a very short memory. Anyway, it’s your fault I didn’t get a promotion. If you hadn’t helped that arse–licking idiot pass a basic maths test, I would’ve had the hook.”

  “You asked me to help him. I had no idea it would affect your chances of promotion.”

  “You have no idea about anything. Least of all how the fucking army works. If you did, you wouldn’t believe Ellis’ bullshit. It was only for your benefit anyway --- a show. Big man, isn’t he? Running around demanding everyone salute him and ask ‘how high, sir?’ when he says ‘jump’, and then pretending to be Mr Nice Guy when wives are around. I don’t need his bloody favours.”

  “Fine. Go on being an idiot then, and get yourself charged.”

  “I managed nearly 10 years with a clean army record. I don’t need you to tell me how to keep it that way. And I am not interested in bloody promotion. I have one year left in this friggin’ job and then I’m done saluting jerks for ever, thank Christ!”

  “And you’ll do… what?”

  “I’ve told you. I have absolutely no fucking idea. But I’ll be free.”

  ~~~~

  30: FIRST SUSPECT: THE URCHIN

  SEPTEMBER, 1973

  Nine o’clock. She would have wrapped cling–wrap over my dinner and put it in the fridge hours ago. She’d have eaten alone, washed up, and bathed the kids and read them a story. She’d be beside herself with worry by now. Bloody cops!

  She was used to this --- me staying out late drinking --- but not on week– nights. She knew I had an early start tomorrow for a short trip away and I hadn’t packed yet. I was seething.

  I never let her iron my uniforms. They had to be perfect; everything had to be perfectly prepared for work before I started drinking. Fran often remarked that I was a dichotomy. I hated the army and bucked authority whenever I could get away with it, yet I was conscientious when it came to punctuality, performance and presentation. I was trained to be diligent and I was proud of the way I did my job. However much I hated my life, I was determined that for as long as I was stuck in any job, I would do it well.

  I turned in the drive, cut the engine, stepped out of the car and slammed the door hard. Fran opened the back door and, in the dim porch light I saw that her face was contorted with worry. Her lips were tight and her eyes blazed. She sniffed at my breath as I pushed past her.

  “Why so late, Paul?”

  “I’m hungry. And I need a bloody drink.”

  She filled a saucepan with hot water and set it on to boil and put my dinner plate over it. It would take a while to heat. I grabbed a beer and swallowed half of it in a single gulp.

  “I’ll be up half the bloody night getting ready for tomorrow.”

  “I’ll help you. You can take care of your uniforms and I’ll pack the rest. So do you want to tell me about it? Obviously something is wrong.”

  “Oh no! Nothing is wrong. The bloody MPs drag me into a friggin’ cop shop and accuse me of fraud and threaten to arrest me. That’s all!”

  “What?”

  “Two fucking hours sitting alone at a table in a room with two–way glass, knowing they’re watching me. Pistol on the table in front of me. No idea what that was about. Maybe they hoped I’d shoot myself and save them some trouble. They made me write a mate’s name over and over --- try to forge his signature.”

  “Why? What on earth --- ”

  “Some fool had some money drawn out of his bank account and reckoned someone had forged his signature to do it. I don’t know why they suspected me, except that I’ve known him for a long time and I often go to the bank with him on Fridays on our way to the pub. Guess they thought I saw him sign his name enough times to mimic it. Probably could if I wanted to, but I made damn sure what I wrote in there didn’t look anything like it.”

  “So what happened? Did they finally sort it out?”

  “Don’t know. They came in eventually and told me they worked out they had the wrong man. Told me I could go. Showed me the forged signature. I’m pretty sure I know who did it, but I’m not gunna say.”

  “Don’t you think you should?”

  “Christ, Fran! Invite more trouble? No way! It was a pissy 30 bucks, and it’s none of my business. They’re cops. Let them figure it out. That’s their job.”

  “It must have been awful, Paul.”

  She put her arms around me, but I brushed her away. When I spoke again, I was aware that my tone was acrid and I saw that she shivered.

  “Shouldn’t surprise me that I was the first suspect. That’s how it’s always been. Why should it ever change?”

  “I don’t understand, Paul. What do you mean 'that’s how it’s always been’?”

  “It’s a long story. You don’t want to know, and I don’t have time now to tell you. I’ve got uniforms to iron. Is my dinner warm yet?”

  I ate in sullen silence. I ought to have rushed off to the ironing board when I was done, but instead I sat back with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, remembering, and debating whether to tell her. Finally, I looked up at her, without emotion, and began the story.

  “I planned a robbery once.” I said. “Payroll robbery. Me and five other guys. The pay truck picked up our pay from the bank every second Wednesday and followed the same back road across a little bridge to the pay office.”

  The colour drained from her face and she began to tremble, but she was struck dumb.

  “The guards were armed, but we knew their pistols weren’t loaded. They carried their ammunition in a separate pocket. We were going to hit them on the bridge. We planned it meticulously, but one fool lost his nerve and we had to bail. I never forgave that stupid bastard. My life could have been very different if it weren’t for him.”

  “Different? It would’ve been different all right!” she said. Her tone was frenzied. “You would’ve spent the best part of it behind bars.”

  “We wouldn’t have been caught.” I said it with certainty. I had never considered capture even remotely possible.

  “Don’t be daft, Paul. Of course you would’ve been caught.” She stared at me thoughtfully for a moment. “But it’s all academic. You wouldn’t have done it. It was a boyhood game, that’s all. You’re too honest to --- ”

  “It was no game, Fran. It was deadly serious. To this day I regret that we didn’t go through with it. It wasn’t entirely dishonest, either. At least not on my part. I would’ve simply been taking back what was stolen from me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Deferred pay. In apprentice school, they gave us a spending allowance. They kept back most of our pay as compulsory savings to be paid out on graduation. It was a fair bit of money. Enough to pay cash for a small car. I was 17 when I graduated. Still legally a minor. Those over 18, they paid it directly to them. Under eighteens, they paid it to their parents. Of course the parents either gave it to their sons or invested it for them. I assume they paid my money to my legal guardian, the State of fucking New South fucking Wales.”

  She stared at me blankly, struggling to understand. “Surely the Government wouldn’t keep it? It was your money? What did they do with it?”

  “I have no fucking idea,” I said, resigned and weary. I had long since given up asking why.

  “All I know is I never saw a cent of it. Not one fucking brass razoo!” Footnote9

  ~~~~

  31: SETTING
FRAN FREE

  ARMIDALE, OCTOBER, 1973

  I took leave in October. Three glorious weeks, right at the start of summer before the heat and humidity made the days uncomfortable --- the best time of year. We went home to her mother and we visited my aunt and uncle. I doted on the kids. I doted on her. Away from that regimented world I hated so, the demons left me.

  Her mother babysat while I took her out for a day. I bought her a new dress for the occasion, waiting patiently and even feigning interest while she tried on one after another. I complimented her figure. I told her that her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed and she looked just like she did the day I fell in love with her.

  “Have you been told today?” I asked her at least twice a day.

  We went to the races. She was the best–looking lady there and I was sure I must be the luckiest man alive. I hummed happily as we walked past the stalls and inspected the horses. I felt some kind of magical connection with those beasts, and I knew I astonished her with my knowledge. She knew I studied form, but it was more than that. I knew the animals. I read their expressions. I talked to them and they responded.

  “That one’s got a stubborn streak.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Small eyes and very small pupils. Lots of white. Usually indicates meanness.”

  I inspected the racing dimple --- the crease along its hind haunches --- and commented on its depth. I examined the forearm and thigh muscles and commented on the neck arch and the bounce in a beast’s step.

  I studied form guides with odd earnestness for a casual race-goer. For me, this was not just a fun day out. I wrote little asterisks and tiny numbers everywhere, underlining cryptic numeric indicators of past achievements. When I placed bets, I carefully calculated the amount to wager based on multipliers of previous losing bets and the number of losses since the last win. I tallied the returns meticulously, constantly referring to net profit on turnover as though this were a serious business venture. It was. I had something to prove. If I succeeded, I could soon be free.