‘Mr Peaslake says the coast watch looks for planes.’ And anyway, he thought, the whole district would look outside if they heard a plane now. ‘There’s the top paddock fence to mend,’ he added instead tactfully. ‘We were going to do that this Saturday. But we can look for planes as well.’
‘I suppose,’ said Mud. She gave him a swift, sudden smile. ‘Thanks,’ she added.
‘What for?’
‘Just thanks,’ she said.
Georg trudged home with Mr Peaslake in the gathering darkness. No one stayed out after dark these days, unless there was a full moon, in case the enemy saw the torchlight.
It would be a half-moon tonight. Would that be enough to show the enemy planes where the town was? Georg looked at the pale dusty road. He thought it would.
He wondered what was for dinner. Shepherd’s pie, maybe, made from chopped-up, leftover roast mutton with crispy potato on top. Maybe apricot pie from bottled apricots too, and custard.
Everyone would be getting their ration books soon, with coupons that you had to tear out when you bought rationed goods. Georg supposed rationing would be pretty much like it had been in England. Except that over there people really were hungry, and here there was still all the food you wanted. The only thing in short supply was tea.
Now Japan had occupied Malaya and other countries that grew tea there was hardly ever any in the shop. No one knew exactly what foods would be rationed, but Mr Peaslake said they would probably be the same ones as in England — sugar, butter, meat — the foods that were essential to send to troops overseas, and to England too. You couldn’t fight if you couldn’t eat. The only thing they’d really miss at Bellagong, though, was sugar, but Mrs Peaslake said she could make cakes and puddings sweet with fruit instead.
Mr Peaslake returned the shovel to the shed. Georg followed him as he opened the kitchen door and stared.
‘Mother? What’s wrong?’
Georg stared too. The house was silent. Even the clock tick seemed to have vanished. Mrs Peaslake sat at the kitchen table, not even knitting. Stranger still, Samson and Delilah lay with their heads down by the stove, not leaping and barking a welcome.
‘No bad news?’ asked Mr Peaslake sharply. Georg didn’t know how there could have been any news they hadn’t heard. Mud checked the casualty lists posted up by the shop every morning, in case one of the men from the neighbourhood had been hurt, and it wasn’t time to listen to the news yet, and the whole town knew as soon as the telegram boy bicycled through the main street.
‘What?’ Mrs Peaslake seemed to finally see them. She stood up wearily, and that was strange too. ‘No, I just feel out of sorts. Sit down; I’ll put the dinner out. George, set the table after you’ve washed your hands: there’s a dear.’ She slipped on her oven gloves and pulled out the buttered baking tin. It was shepherd’s pie.
‘You sure you’re all right, Mother?’ boomed Mr Peaslake.
Delilah whined.
‘Of course I am. Just … just thinking about Alan, that’s all.’
‘Now don’t you worry about Alan. We got a letter just this morning, didn’t we? Right as rain.’
Or was when he sent the letter, thought Georg.
‘I’ll get you a nice cuppa,’ boomed Mr Peaslake soothingly, reaching for the teacup. Mrs Peaslake kept the breakfast tea leaves in the pot on the side of the wood stove these days, letting them stew all day, and adding more water every time she poured a cup, instead of making a fresh pot. But it was unthinkable to end any meal or even have a conversation without a cup of tea, even if it was weak or bitter with so much stewing.
It was a strange meal. Georg described the plane again and Mr Peaslake talked about the new air-raid shelter. At last his voice died away.
Georg glanced at the dogs. Why weren’t they sitting on their haunches drooling, or pushing their noses into his lap to persuade him to slip them some potato?
He washed up the dishes while Mr Peaslake dried and put away; and Mrs Peaslake packaged up the fruitcakes she’d made to take to the CWA ‘comfort package’ meeting in the church hall tomorrow.
She seemed more herself now, looking at the pile of cakes with satisfaction. ‘Them Nazi nasties want to starve out England,’ she said. ‘We’ll show them, won’t we, George?’
The parcels went to soldiers, to refugees, to bombed-out families in England. Every fortnight she sent a fruitcake to Alan too, as well as a new pair of socks and another pair to give to a mate.
The packages to England contained canned fruit and tins of dripping and home-made sweets: luxuries for anyone in England in these years of war.
Georg wondered if England was trying to starve Germany too, as well as sending bombers across its skies.
Mutti, bombed. Mutti, starved. But he said nothing.
The dogs lay silent by the stove.
Chapter 37
MAY 1942
The Schools at War
A Message from the Prime Minister
You, the children of today, are passing through a terrible period in the world’s history. I want you to do your bit for the safety of this wonderful country in which we live. As you know, we cannot waste food or clothing or boots, paper or ink or other school material. In fact, we cannot afford to waste anything.
Farther than that, we must salvage all the worn-out materials that can be again used in the war effort — such things as aluminium, rubber and paper. Each school, with your loyal help, can be made a salvage depot for freedom.
In addition, you can share in the sacrifice your country is making. By purchasing war savings stamps with your own few pence of pocket money, you, too, can make a real sacrifice for Australia.
With faith and trust in God, a spirit of service to your country, and obedience and cheerfulness in your homes, you can each help in the war effort and bring the days of peace much closer to us all.
John Curtin
Samson didn’t eat his dinner, though Delilah did at last. He wouldn’t eat at breakfast either.
‘Poor old boy. Sickening for something,’ said Mr Peaslake, patting the dog’s ears.
Samson whined. Mrs Peaslake said nothing as she picked up their egg-stained breakfast plates.
‘Maybe he found a dead cow in the paddocks,’ offered Georg. ‘I could pick him some grass.’ He’d read that dogs ate grass if they’d eaten something bad and needed to be sick to bring it back up again.
‘Could be. Alan’s had that dog since he was a pup. Found him abandoned down at the dump. Couldn’t bear to have to tell Alan if anything happened to him.’ Mr Peaslake rubbed Samson’s ears again.
Samson whined again. He didn’t lift his head. Mr Peaslake stood up. ‘If he hasn’t picked up this afternoon I’ll borrow the cart and we can take him to the vet’s. Can’t carry you all the way there, can I, boy? You’re too big.’
Mrs Peaslake handed Georg his lunchbox and Thermos, and an empty jar as it was jar collection day. He shoved them in his satchel, and kissed her cheek. It felt cool, not warm from the stove as it usually did.
Neither dog tried to follow him out the door, to sit at the gate and watch him walk down to school.
The last flies of autumn buzzed sleepily against the windows as he and Mud were working their way through Chapter Eight of the Little Red Maths Book in their seats at the back of the classroom.
‘Hey, Missus?’ Big Billy bashed on the door, the branches he’d been collecting for firewood in the school paddock in his hands.
Mrs Rose glanced out nervously at the sky. But there was no sign or sound of Japanese planes. ‘What is it?’
Big Billy wriggled his finger in his ear, looked at it to see how much wax had come out, then lowered his voice, though the whole room could hear it anyway. ‘Telegram boy, he went to the Peaslakes’.’
Mud gave a small cry, instantly bitten off. Every other child was still. Telegrams might be good news: the birth of a baby; Mud’s brothers safe; a soldier coming home on leave. But they could be bad news too.
‘Ho
w do you know where he was going?’ asked Mrs Rose sharply.
‘Asked him as he rode past,’ said Big Billy.
Georg found the room staring at him.
‘George, I think you had better get your satchel and head off home,’ said Mrs Rose quietly. ‘Yes, Mud, you too. And George … if … if it’s bad news, could you tell them —’ Her voice broke. Georg realised that Mrs Rose must know Alan Peaslake. Everyone in the room knew him.
Except for him.
He didn’t wait for Mud. He simply ran out the school gate and down the footpath, past the paddocks, the cows watching curiously, in through the faded red gate then round to the back.
It couldn’t be bad news. It might be good — that Alan had been posted back to Australia maybe. Or had been wounded, but not badly.
He ran towards the kitchen door.
Then he heard the howl.
It sounded like a dog. For a moment he thought Samson had got his foot caught in a possum trap. The howl came again. It was Mrs Peaslake.
It was as though there was a wall between him and the kitchen door. He couldn’t breach it. He couldn’t walk into their pain.
He knew he had to.
He put his satchel down, then began to walk, one step, two steps, into the kitchen.
Mrs Peaslake sat with her head on the table, her face hidden, her hands limp in her lap. He had never seen them lying still before. Her breath came in strange sharp pants.
Mr Peaslake held her, his face expressionless, the tears falling from his chin onto his blue gardening shirt, his nose leaking snot unheeded. They must have been weeding when the telegram boy came. Mrs Peaslake would have given the boy a piece of cake to thank him for riding here. She would have waited till he was gone to open it.
The yellow telegram lay on the table. He glanced at it. I regret to inform you that your son, Lieutenant Alan Peaslake …
No need to read the rest.
The empty space at the table seemed to get bigger until it filled the room. The dogs lay where he had left them this morning, their heads on their paws.
Had they known? Had Mrs Peaslake known in some deep part of her as well?
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. Would they want him to go? To leave them to their grief?
Mrs Peaslake looked up. She held out her arms. Her hands drew him close. And suddenly the three of them were hugging, crying.
Then Mud was there, and she was hugging too. Crying for so many things, perhaps: for her brothers in danger; just as he cried for Mutti and Papa, for the world he’d lost, for the hurt to those he loved now. It hurt more to cry together but at the same it was better too.
Chapter 38
28 MAY 1942
The vicar came on his bicycle that afternoon. Georg looked out through the window as the vicar leaned his bicycle on the fence and walked up the path. The Peaslakes sat side by side on the sofa, staring at nothing, or memories perhaps, the photos of Alan all around. There will never be another photo of him now, thought Georg. Mrs Peaslake’s hands were still and empty.
Out in the kitchen Mud’s mother bustled with the pots, getting a dinner that probably no one would eat, but desperate to do something, anything to help.
Georg answered the door before the vicar knocked. He looked tired. How many visits like this has he made in this war? Georg wondered. The vicar’s daughter was a nurse up in Singapore, Mud said, and he hadn’t heard from her since Singapore fell.
Did the vicar think of her every time he made a call like this?
‘Good afternoon, George. I’m so very sorry for your loss.’
Georg nodded. ‘They’re in the lounge room,’ he said. He led the way.
Mr Peaslake stood as the vicar entered. Mrs Peaslake stayed crumpled on the sofa. ‘I am so sorry for your loss,’ said the vicar again.
His words must have been used thousands of times. Millions. But they still sounded true.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Peaslake dully.
The vicar reached into his pocket. ‘Alan … Alan was a fine young man. We will all feel his loss. The world is poorer for his passing.’ Words that had been said many times too, yet still held truth as well.
He held out an envelope. ‘Alan came to see me on his embarkation leave. He gave me this to give to you in case he … well, he gave me this. He sent a postscript to it last month.’
Mr Peaslake’s hand trembled as he took it.
‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ said the vicar softly. ‘We can talk about the memorial service. The CWA will do all the catering and … We’ll talk about that later. George, could you see me out?’
‘No, George, please stay,’ said Mr Peaslake.
The vicar patted Georg’s shoulder, then made his own way out into the hall. They heard the door click behind him.
Mr Peaslake opened the letter.
‘Read it aloud,’ said Mrs Peaslake hoarsely.
Mr Peaslake’s voice sounded like iron. It sounded like Mutti’s had three years before, though his was loud and hers was sweet.
Dear Mum and Dad,
I’m leaving this with the sky pilot in case the worst happens over there. If you’re reading this, I hope that whatever happened was quick, but no matter how I got it, I’m going because I believe in fighting this war. Some of the boys around here enlisted for the adventure, but you taught me better than that, Dad. I know what war is, and what can happen to a man. I’m leaving for my country, for you, for everything I love.
I’m not saying I want to die. I don’t. I want to live, to meet a girl one day, have kids, show them how to fly a kite like Dad’s up on the headland, then eat Mum’s apple pancakes. That will never happen now.
I think I just want to say that I know I might have to give my life for my country. I won’t say don’t cry for me, but when you remember me, remember this as well. I am proud to be going. I hope you are proud of me as well.
Give my love to the paddocks and the hills. Tell the sea eagle that no one will ever fly a kite higher than him. You are the best parents any bloke could ever have.
My love to you always,
Alan
The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. ‘He always did have a way with words,’ said Mrs Peaslake softly. She began to cry, not the fierce breaking howls of before, but gentle tears that trickled. She let them fall, wiping her nose.
‘There’s another bit,’ said Mr Peaslake quietly. He handed another sheet of paper to Georg.
‘For me?’ This sheet was different from the first: pale brown, as though it had been stained with water and a bit crumpled too.
Georg glanced at the Peaslakes, then began to read it out.
Dear George,
I’m glad you’re there for Mum and Dad. Give them a hug from me. Give them a hug every single day, mate. The train is yours now. If you have kids, give it to them, and tell them it comes from me. Tell Dad to fly the dragon kite one last time, and then to let the wind have it.
Your loving brother,
Alan
It was only later that night, lying in his bed, the blackout shutters pulled aside to let in fresh air now the light was off, that Georg realised.
His country had killed the Peaslakes’ son.
Alan Peaslake had been in Egypt, facing a German army. And the Italians too, perhaps. But it was Germany who had started the war. If Hitler had never yelled the orders, if his countrymen had never followed, Alan Peaslake would be alive. Alan could even be in the bed next door now, down on holiday with his parents.
Instead they had a German boy: a boy who lied. A boy who was the enemy who had killed their son.
The enemy was him.
Chapter 39
The whole town gathered at the memorial service. It looked strange as he and the Peaslakes rounded the corner to town: figure after figure all in black going up to the church like ants heading back to their nest. He hadn’t known there were so many people in the district.
There was no coffin. Georg wondered what happened to your body when you died so far
away. Did Alan Peaslake have a proper grave? He couldn’t ask. He sat in the front pew with the Peaslakes on either side, and Mud’s mum on Mrs Peaslake’s other side, holding her hands tightly, and then Mud. Everyone from school sat in the back. Even Big Billy was in black today. Someone had found him a pair of shoes. He kept spitting on his hand and wiping it across his hair to keep it neat.
They took the kites up to the headland after the sandwiches, the lamingtons, the scones and jam and hoarded tea in the church hall after the service. Mud came too. Everyone seemed to take it for granted that Mud would be there, though her mum had gone back home.
The dogs had left the mat by the stove at last, had even eaten breakfast’s leftovers. But they too knew this walk to the headland was different. They didn’t snuffle after rabbits in the tussocks or pretend there were tigers in the stunted bushes. Instead they sat and simply watched.
They are on guard today, thought Georg. They can’t protect us from the things that hurt us — not these kinds of things — but they know they have to try.
Mr Peaslake handed Georg the big box kite. He gave Mud the one he mostly used. It was heavy for a girl, but Mud was … Mud.
He kept the dragon kite himself.
‘Can’t let the Nazis stop us, or the Japs,’ said Mrs Peaslake, and she meant much more than flying kites. ‘Alan was right.’
The wind roared and bit today, coming from the south. It tore the kites high above their heads, bit and spat at them.
Higher and higher they flew, till Georg wondered if they might almost reach to Heaven, so that Alan Peaslake could see them when he looked down.
The dragon kite bucked and taunted the wind. And then suddenly the sea eagle was there, appearing out of nowhere, or from under the cliff perhaps. Higher and higher it flew till it was above them, circling round and round as though it jeered at the human flights below.
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