The single phone was in the headmaster’s office. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir.’
‘Quite all right.’
The headmaster left, though Michael knew he lingered just outside the door.
Michael picked up the receiver. ‘Hello? Dad? Is everything all right?’
‘Yes. Just thought you’d like to know. The news came through from Radio Tokyo last night. Ben Clancy is a prisoner of war.’
‘Oh, Dad, I’m so glad. Will you pass on my best wishes to the Clancys? I’ll write to them of course. No news of Joseph?’ Or Nancy, he thought. But of course if there had been any news at all of either, his father would have told him without prompting.
‘No.’ His father’s voice was gentle. ‘How are you keeping, son?’
‘Another three minutes?’ It was the operator.
‘Yes,’ said his father. ‘Anything you need? You know Mrs Mutton is about to send another fruitcake.’
‘I’m fine. Well, actually, if you have any spare singlets, I’d love them. It’s cold up here.’
‘I can do better than that. I’ve got the long johns I bought when we visited England. Haven’t worn them since. If you don’t mind your dad’s cast-offs.’
‘I’d love them,’ said Michael, wondering how he’d fit his six-foot-two body into his five-foot-nine father’s not-so-very long johns.
‘I’ll get Mrs Mutton to lengthen the legs. I’ve got half a dozen pairs, which should make three at least for you. Here’s Mum.’ There was a hesitation, then, ‘All my love, son.’
‘The same to you, Dad.’ Dad rarely said the word ‘love’, thought Michael, but I’ve always known it was there. He’s a canny old bloke. He knew news of Ben would make me think of Nancy. ‘Mum?’
‘Michael, darling, how are you? Not getting a chill up there?’
‘Mum, stop fussing. I’m fine.’
‘I’ve been knitting you a jumper. I pulled apart a couple of old ones of mine.’
Just what he needed — one of Mum’s knitting attempts, more holes than jumper and sleeves that might fit the Hunchback of Notre Dame. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ At least diverting her knitting to him meant saving a couple of soldiers from trying to fit their feet into lumpy socks with a heel close to their toes. The poor blighters had enough to cope with without Mum’s socks.
‘Another three minutes?’ asked the operator.
‘Of course. Michael, I wish you’d been here yesterday. Mountain Lass had the most lovely foal. A filly, dark grey, like Snow King used to be. And the CWA finished six camouflage nets last week, our personal record. There’s the Red Cross Bazaar next Wednesday …’
It was the same news she’d written in the letter he’d got yesterday. But he didn’t mind. It was good to hear Mum’s voice, see home in his mind’s eye. See Nancy, sitting by the river, her eyes laughing at him. One day, he thought, she will be there again.
Chapter 30
Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 10 September 1942
Australian Victory at Milne Bay
Australian forces have won a victory at Milne Bay in Papua, pushing a Japanese landing force back to the sea, the first major victory against Japanese forces. According to a letter home from a soldier whose name we cannot give here in case the censor turns his attention to his letters, Milne Bay would have given the Japanese a vital point from which to bomb mainland Australia.
On page 5: Daffodil Fair makes one hundred and sixty-five pounds for the war effort. See the winners and runners-up in all categories, including Largest Bloom and Best Collection Under Ten Years Old.
On page 6: Cricket results, Gibber’s Creek thrashes Yass.
PULAU AYU PRISON CAMP, 15 SEPTEMBER 1942
NANCY
Mrs Harris died in the night. Old Miss Smith collapsed at tenko. Nurse Rogers bent to tend her, despite the slash of the guard’s bamboo rod. But Miss Smith was dead as neatly as she had lived, her hands and feet tucked under the small starved body.
‘Heat perhaps,’ said Nurse Rogers tiredly, rubbing at the welt left by the bamboo on her cheek, and then remembering not to touch it in case she broke the skin. They had recovered, more or less, from the dysentery, though every bowel motion was now painful and slightly liquid, and even walking too fast brought on dizziness. ‘Perhaps her heart gave out. Or starvation. Dysentery. Scurvy …’
We need hibiscus buds, thought Nancy wearily. She had forgotten the hibiscus buds. She explained about them again to Nurse Rogers.
The woman shrugged. ‘Like I said before. Might work. Might poison us too.’
‘I’ll try them first.’
‘You’re immune from poison?’
‘No. But my grandmother showed me ways to see if something is edible.’
Gran had also impressed on her that the tests weren’t fool proof — that some people could tolerate foods that would make others sick, and that domesticated fruits were all bred from the same trees by cuttings, but that wild ones varied. A fruit that had been safe to eat from a tree on one hill might kill you if you ate another from a hill nearby.
But Moira’s wrists were swelling now, as well as her ankles. Mrs Hughendorn too looked nearly as fat as when they had arrived. But this was a different kind of fat: fluid had pushed up under her skin like a blown-up balloon.
Nancy tried to smile at Nurse Rogers. ‘I’ll be right,’ she said.
She waited till afternoon roll call to ask the translator. As usual the women lined up at the call of ‘tenko’, bowed as the guards walked along their line. Nancy wasn’t sure why the rollcall ritual was so important. There were only nine of them now, including Gavin, so it would be easy enough to see if anyone had escaped. But perhaps this was in the soldiers’ rule book: ‘Prisoners must assemble twice a day to be counted.’
The translator waited in the shadows, as he always did during roll call. As soon as the guard had nodded that they might leave, she walked up to him, bowing even more deeply. ‘Translatorsan, please may I collect the flower buds that I told you about before the illness?’
‘You will pick them for the Japanese too?’
‘Yes, Translator-san.’
He considered. ‘No guard can be spared to watch you.’
‘I will stay near the bushes by the fence, Translator-san. Where I can be seen. I will not try to escape. You have my word.’ Please, she thought. We will die on what you are giving us now. But she didn’t want to say that. Perhaps it would suit the guards if the women did die. They might be transferred to work they thought more honourable than guarding mems who had let themselves be taken prisoner.
At last he said, ‘You may go after roll call tomorrow. Half for women, half for Japanese soldiers. If you try to escape, one woman will die. You understand?’
‘Yes. I understand.’ She tried to keep the anger from her voice. ‘Arigato, Translator-san.’
It was strange to walk out the gate, holding one of Mrs Hughendorn’s baskets; strange not to have a horizon of barbed wire. She wanted to run, to see the sea, to feel just a little free, to go beyond the rat-trap of the camp.
She didn’t. Couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength to run. And even if she was only gone from sight for a few minutes, the translator might make good his threat.
She looked at the bushes. The flowers did look like the hibiscus in the bush at home, but these were larger, and their flowers a different colour. She sniffed them. The smell was slightly different too. She snapped one off and, remembering Gran’s words, broke it in half and sniffed again.
No scent of almonds — an almond smell meant there was a good chance a new fruit or seed was deadly. No white sap that could burn your mouth, throat and insides, killing you more slowly but just as surely.
She rubbed the juice from the flower bud on the tender part of her inner arm, waited to see if it left a red mark. But it just felt slightly sticky.
Time to taste. She nibbled, let the stuff lie in her mouth, then swallowed.
Waited.
It tasted slightly sweet, a bit mucilaginous
, but otherwise tasteless, much as the flower buds she had known had tasted too, though they had grown sweeter and more flavourful when they were dried and made into a tea.
She ate the rest of the bud, then began to pick. The wild hibiscus she was used to put out new buds every day during warm weather, the flowers only lasted a day too. If this was going to work, this bush would have to flower just as frequently. The basket was soon full.
I shouldn’t have picked so quickly, she thought. If I’d been slower, I could have stayed out here longer. She turned to go back to the gate.
‘Shh. Mem!’ It was a woman’s voice, accented, unfamiliar.
She froze, carefully not looking around. ‘Are you from Mrs Addison?’ she whispered. She had wondered if the woman who had been allowed to leave might try to help them.
‘Mrs Addison sail away.’
‘From Vivienne?’
‘Sorry, mem, do not know Mrs Vivienne. Mem, I leave parcel in bush. You take it to Mem Hughendorn?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, trying not to move her lips, or look like she was talking. She heard another rustle, then footsteps, fast, heading away. She picked another few buds, slowly, as if looking for the fattest, then moved over to where she had heard the voice.
Nothing. No cloth-wrapped bundle. No basket … Then she saw the little package, wrapped in banana leaves, almost the same colour as the bushes. She moved slowly, trying to look as if she was still picking. She bent down and picked up the bundle, about the size of a sandwich, and thrust it deep under the flower buds at the bottom of the basket, then straightened.
Should she really try to smuggle it in? What if the guards searched her basket? How else to carry it?
She bit her lip. Leave it, or take it? Such a small decision, but it might be life or death.
She didn’t know.
Walking back through the gate, onto the hard-packed dirt of the prison compound, was one of the hardest things she had ever done. The closest guard beckoned to her. She walked towards him, trying to keep her breathing steady and unconcerned.
‘Nanny!’ No, she thought, as Gavin toddled towards her. He had just begun to walk, lurching from one handhold to another. As she looked, he dropped to all fours and began to crawl along in the dirt again.
Please, she thought, someone take him back. Keep him away from me. Because if the guards find the package and want to punish me, Gavin will be within reach too …
‘Nanna!’ Gavin grabbed her legs. She picked him up, because to do otherwise would seem strange. The guard nodded at her basket. She gave it to him. He thrust his hand down among the flower buds.
Seconds passed. Gavin wound his fist in her hair. Every time he did that some strands fell out. Everyone’s hair was growing thinner now. Nurse Rogers had said it was their bodies, craving protein.
The guard removed his hand from the basket, waved her towards the guards’ living quarters. She bowed. ‘Thank you, sensei.’ She was still not sure this was a polite way to address a Japanese man, but Nurse Rogers had heard it used in a moving picture and none of the Japanese had objected. She picked up the basket in her other hand, and walked to the Japanese living quarters, still holding Gavin. She knocked on the door and waited.
A woman opened the door — local, with shadowed eyes. Nancy hadn’t seen her before, and hadn’t even known there were other women working in the camp. Was this woman just a cook? Willing, or forced?
She saw a bruise on the woman’s face. Not willing.
‘Half these are for the guards,’ she spoke slowly, hoping the woman understood.
If she did, she made no sign. But she had obviously been expecting the flower buds. She proffered another basket, waited while Nancy tipped half the buds into it and then shut the door.
Once again Nancy tried to keep her expression calm as she walked back to the cooking fire, put the basket in the shade, then casually carried Gavin to Mrs Hughendorn’s small house. She knocked on the doorframe. Her knuckles made little noise on the bamboo, but it was a small gesture towards courtesy nonetheless. Keeping up standards, as Mrs Hughendorn would say.
‘Come in.’ Mrs Hughendorn looked up from her bed, her room hot and airless despite the open window. They all spent as much time as they could lying down now, weak from the dysentery and starvation, as well as the oppressive heat. Nurse Rogers sat next to her.
‘Excuse me for not standing, my dear,’ said Mrs Hughendorn.
‘I’ve brought the flower buds. I hope they’ll help. We’d better wait till tomorrow before anyone else eats them though, in case they don’t agree with me.’
Nurse Rogers raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought that you would know if they were safe.’
‘Just to be sure,’ said Nancy. She had a vision of herself, dead in her bunk the next morning. Of all the guards dead too, because they had eaten toxic flower buds. Would the others be better or worse off if that occurred? Any freedom would be short-lived. They might even be blamed for the deaths of the Japanese and executed.
‘Do sit down, my dear,’ said Mrs Hughendorn. She reached over and passed Nancy a shell of boiled water. Their allowance had been doubled since their dysentery. Not quite enough. Never quite enough. But they could now drink during the day. The water tasted of coconut and wood smoke and entirely wonderful. She put it back on the shelf and sat on the edge of Mrs Hughendorn’s bed. She spoke as softly as she could, ‘Someone gave me something for you.’
‘Who was it?’
‘I couldn’t see.’ She reached into her bra, grateful that she had thought to wear it, a ridiculous celebration for going outside. She pulled out the parcel. Mrs Hughendorn took it in trembling hands. She unwrapped it and stared.
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ she said, as though she had been given a bunch of roses.
They were dried fish, a dozen of them, brown and straight and thin, hard as rock but far more pungent.
‘Protein,’ said Nurse Rogers softly.
Mrs Hughendorn picked up a note, greasy from the fish. ‘Will bring more.’ There was no signature. ‘I told you they were loyal to me,’ she whispered. ‘They all loved me like a mother.’ She began to cry, long gulps she tried to hide.
‘Shh.’ Nurse Rogers leant down and held her close. ‘It’s food. One of these a day for the next week and the flower buds for vitamins and you’ll feel a new woman.’
‘No. We eat them all tonight, in case they are found. Everyone must have one,’ said Mrs Hughendorn.
‘But they are meant for you —’ began Nancy.
‘You are my family. We are all family,’ said Mrs Hughendorn. ‘Will you pick more of the buds tomorrow?’
Unless they’ve poisoned me, thought Nancy. Aloud she just said, ‘Yes.’
Mrs Hughendorn wiped her eyes. ‘I knew they wouldn’t let me down.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘I think we might even live now, my dears. I think we have a chance to stay alive.’
Chapter 31
Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 22 October 1942
Volunteer Defence Corp Meeting
Two-thirty to six-thirty Council Chambers.
The afternoon’s work will consist of Lewis gun instruction followed by a description of a Molotov cocktail. Every able-bodied man should take the opportunity to take this instruction. Please bring a pannikin as it is hoped tea will be served.
CWA Meeting
Two-thirty to four-thirty CWA rooms.
Mrs Thelma Ritters will give instruction on the blanket stitch, followed by instruction by Mrs Matilda Thompson on construction of a Molotov cocktail and underwater spear gun, based on the diagrams in the recent book published by Angus and Robertson, available at Lee’s General Stores. Please bring a plate.
KOKODA TRACK, NEW GUINEA, 22 OCTOBER 1942
FRED
The wooden box with his sister inside lay open on the trestle in front of him, ready for him to saw her in half. Mah smiled up at him in her blonde wig, her frothy skirt that made her slenderness look larger. As soon as Fred put the lid on, she’d scrunch up, s
o when he sawed the box in two she’d be curled up in one half, safe.
Around him the circus audience breathed the scent of hot peanuts over the top of the tang of elephant dung.
Over at the performers’ entrance the mermaid blew him a kiss, her blue spangled tail glittering in the circus lights.
He lifted up his saw and began to cut. One stroke, two …
Blood spurted from the box. Red blood. He tried to yell, ‘Mah!’ but no sound came, just blood.
He opened his eyes. The blood was his, staining his shirt, as he dozed against the tree. Or, he admitted to himself, looking at the redness of his shirt, had lost consciousness, briefly.
But he was back, now. Back to New Guinea mud, air that smelt of mould and flowers, where any tree could hide a snake or sniper.
His name was Fred Smith. He had not been born Fred Smith, nor Cousin Murgatroyd. The police hadn’t put out a warrant for a Fred Smith either, after the jewellery hold-up had gone wrong in Brisbane. And that was almost twenty years ago now. He’d been fourteen, and hungry. But two men had died. He’d been on the run ever since.
Not that there’d been much running. A running man attracts attention, that’s what Madame had taught him. Her circus had sheltered him. Had sheltered Mah for a while too, the only time he’d spent with his sister since the orphanage where they’d grown up. He had met Blue there. He’d loved her too. Blue was a joy to love. And then he’d left, left Mah, because Fred Smith was on the run again, and his name was no longer Fred Smith.
He’d been George, and Marmaduke for a while, for a joke, a new name for each new town or property. He called himself Alby when times were good, earning a few quid and sleeping in a clean bed; and no one called him anything when they weren’t, and he was pinching a clean shirt off a washing line and trapping bunnies.
War had been good, at first, most of the young men gone and jobs aplenty to fill. Farming was a reserved occupation, so no one asked why he wasn’t in uniform instead of mending fences and baling hay. What had Australia ever done for him that he should risk his life to defend her? Starved him in an orphanage, then tried to imprison him in a cold cell where he’d have been starved of light and freedom.
To Love a Sunburnt Country Page 25