FLINTY MACK
She found Sandy cleaning the shotguns in the room where the firearms were stored, off the veranda.
The shotguns didn’t need cleaning. Sandy and the other men of the valley hadn’t wasted ammunition since Pearl Harbor. They had trained, twice a week, down by the schoolhouse, where Sandy and her brothers had enlisted with the Snowy River men a war, a depression and nearly thirty years earlier.
One brother had returned. The other hadn’t. And Sandy had come back so damaged in mind and body it had taken years to get him to admit to the scars that made him doubt his capacity to be a husband.
She leant against the door, and watched him. The last war had left him hard of hearing too, from shells screaming past his dugouts. But the years of their marriage had been the most fulfilled of her life: three children, a man who shared her joy in the roos grazing on frost-tufted grass, the mist that eddied and twisted snake-like about the gullies and the vast flat rock that gave the farm its name.
Sandy managed the farm. She wrote her books. The farm made a profit — just — but it was the books that paid for the children’s high schooling in Sydney, for her youngest brother to go to medical school, for Kirsty to learn to fly. More precious was their financial security: drought, flood or snowstorm could destroy a farm’s income for years or decades. Books didn’t depend on the weather. The worse it was, the more material she could write about. She smiled at the idea of blizzards as a crop, like lucerne or potatoes …
Sandy turned, and smiled. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Not funny. Just happy.’ And a little worried, she admitted. Sandy’d had nightmares again last night. Nor had they had word of Joseph, still missing after the surrender in Malaya. There had been rumours about horrors in the prison camps, of torture, even ritual cannibalism, the eating of parts of the bodies of captured men.
For the first time she wished they had more than a weekly mail service, or even access to daily newspapers. She’d never minded the isolation of the farm before. The nearest phone was an hour’s ride from the valley, so two hours from here. She had grown up with the rhythm of the mail once a week (as long as there was no flood, snow or bushfire), and telegrams.
But a telegram can reach us almost as quickly as a phone call, she assured herself. And with the kids away she could pore over their letters every day. You couldn’t replay a phone call. The isolation that made the war strangely far away was both a blessing and a trial. She suspected that Australia could be invaded and their valley be missed; that Sandy and Dave White and other men could march and find vantage points among the rocks to foil the invaders while life here would go on untouched …
If only they could hear that Joseph was safe, in a prison camp. If only the war ended before either of her boys was old enough to enlist. If only Nicola didn’t end up marrying a Yankee soldier and becoming a war bride, sailing to another land just when everyone else was coming home.
She looked at her husband again; he was back cleaning a shotgun. No, the war was here, in the frustration in Sandy’s eyes that he could do no more than exercise with the local militia, which was also essentially the local volunteer bushfire brigade and the progress association and the school committee.
‘Where are the boys?’
‘Potato digging,’ she said succinctly. Her father-in-law had put most of their lower paddocks into potatoes — the ground up here was too rocky for them. Ever since the school holidays had begun, Jeff and Rick had been down there most days, digging and packing the spuds in hessian bags before the sunlight turned them green. The boys’d be back at dusk, racing their horses up the track to the house despite the hard day’s work. If only Nicola was with them. But she was enrolled in occupational therapy next year and was spending these holidays as a full-time volunteer down at ‘the 13th’, the repatriation hospital that tried to give injured soldiers the skills they’d need to cope with life beyond its walls.
‘They like Mum’s lunches.’
‘You complaining about the tucker here?’
He grinned — the old Sandy grin. ‘You know what I mean, love.’
She did. She was a good plain cook, but old Mrs Mack was an artist, with a dining table almost as long as the room it was in, piled with food for husband and son and grandchildren, at least a dozen sitting down at every meal: just the way she liked it.
‘Speaking of lunch,’ she said, ‘it’s ready when you are.’
‘What is it?’
‘Delicious leftovers.’
She followed him to the kitchen, began to dish out the reheated rabbit stew, thick with onions and carrots from the garden, and the Macks’ potatoes. Stew was always better the second day; she was glad the boys hadn’t wolfed down the lot last night. She stopped mid-ladle. ‘Car coming.’
She hurried along the corridor and looked out the front door down the valley. It had been months since they’d heard a car engine up here. Even the post came by horseback again these days, and the boys had ridden up the back way from Drinkwater when they came home from school for the holidays, borrowing Drinkwater horses and camping out overnight on the way. You really knew you’d left school behind, Jeff said, with a night under the Southern Cross before you arrive home.
‘The Thompsons’ car,’ said Sandy, coming up behind her.
Something’s happened to Andy, Flinty thought, as Sandy put his arm around her shoulders protectively. Or Mah or Blue. Or Blue has heard that … She could not even let herself think the words. Blue has had … news … about Joseph, and Matilda and Tommy want to tell me in person …
Bad news was usually brought by someone you knew, friend or clergyman. Good news was sent by telegram. She clenched her fists then unclenched them, placed a welcome smile on her face and stepped down off the veranda to meet them. Matilda and Tommy and Michael, she thought. It is bad news …
‘Flinty, you look wonderful.’ Matilda stretched up to give her a kiss. ‘It’s all right. It’s not bad news.’
‘You’ve heard from Joseph?’
‘No. Nothing about the family.’
Flinty let go of the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. ‘Come in. Have you had lunch? I’m just dishing it out. Michael, you’ve grown another yard at least. Bend down so I can kiss you. Tommy, you’re looking well …’
She led them in, chatting. What could be so urgent as to bring them up here now, when they’d be seeing each other at the Christmas Eve party in a few days?
Matilda placed a pie on the table. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not one of mine. From Mrs Mutton.’ It was only manners to bring food when you came calling unannounced at mealtimes. ‘Turkey and vegetables. Andy let us have one of the Christmas ones early.’
Tommy added a large tin. ‘These are from Mah. A new biscuit she’s trying. Fig and walnuts, grown locally. Got a mob of Land Girls picking them.’
Sandy — brought up on his mother’s jam drops, pikelets and scones — looked wary at the mention of figs.
‘They’re actually quite good,’ said Michael. ‘I tried some when she brought them over.’
He pulled out a chair — no ceremony at the McAlpines — and looked at the stew with enjoyment. Mrs Mutton didn’t like cooking rabbit — too many bones, she said, and too much cleaning for too little meat — which meant that the Drinkwater bunnies went to the kitchens of the workmen.
‘Tuck in,’ said Flinty, helping everyone to a slice of pie. ‘Dry down your way?’
Matilda nodded. She looks older, thought Flinty. Not just the grey in her hair either, or the laugh wrinkles at her eyes. ‘A good wind’ll blow away half the paddocks, but I don’t want to reduce the amount of stock, not with the meat needed for the army. We’ve got enough sileage still to see us right for a while. Everyone well up this way?’
‘Yes, fine. How about at Drinkwater?’
‘Not bad,’ said Tommy. ‘Blue’s holding up well. She’s upped production at the factory. She and Mah will be feeding half the Pacific fleet biscuits soon.’
Keeping
herself occupied, thought Flinty. She knew the feeling well. Courtesies over, she lifted an eyebrow. ‘What brings you up here? Not that we’re not delighted to see you …’
‘But you don’t waste petrol these days on social calls,’ Matilda completed Flinty’s sentence. ‘And it’s not a social call. Tommy?’ prompted Matilda.
Flinty listened while Tommy explained. ‘You see,’ he finished, ‘I don’t know what to do next. Is it true the Greens are really Grünbergs — or at least they were?’
‘Yes,’ said Sandy slowly. ‘But they’re as dinkum as you or me. Been here since the turn of the century. Couldn’t want better neighbours either. When Flinty was in trouble, well, they stood by her.’
As had everyone in the valley, even the Whites.
Tommy looked relieved. ‘So do you think she’s just making trouble?’
‘Maybe not,’ said Flinty quietly. ‘They did have a cousin out here visiting in early ’39. Didn’t like the look of him either. Kept talking about how much better things were done in Germany. Even wanted to have a meeting down in the schoolroom to show slides about the wonders Hitler had done for their country. Sandy put paid to that,’ she added.
Sandy grinned. ‘No electricity, so no slide show. Didn’t tell him about the generator.’
‘Did George … Jürgen … seem to agree?’
‘I don’t know. He was already at Gibber’s Creek working for you, remember.’
‘Then he probably had little to do with his cousin.’
Flinty looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Except that the reason the cousin was here was because George had been to Germany to catch up with the family there.’
Tommy laid down his knife and fork. ‘Ah,’ he said.
Flinty nodded. ‘There’s more. Worse.’
‘George is a ham-radio buff,’ said Sandy. ‘Couple of the lads around here are too. Had to hand in their equipment at the start of the war. But who’s to know if they handed in everything.’
Flinty stood and collected the plates, put a strawberry pie wordlessly on the table, added the billy of cream from the Coolgardie safe on the veranda and plates to eat it from.
There was silence as they bit into their pie. ‘Better than Mrs Mutton’s,’ said Michael.
‘But not as good as Mrs Mack’s.’ Flinty looked around the table. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’
‘Talk to him,’ said Michael. ‘It’s the only thing to do,’ he added, as the others stared at him. ‘You can’t condemn a man without hearing his side of the story.’
‘He’s not going to admit he’s a German spy, son.’
‘No. But you’re a good enough judge of character to know if he’s lying. Or even deliberately not telling you something.’
‘And if I think he’s lying?’
‘Then tell the police,’ said Michael.
‘No. Please,’ said Flinty. ‘It would half kill the Greens if their son was arrested. And if he’s arrested, they might take the whole family too. You know what it was like in the last war.’
‘Then what do I do with him?’ Tommy’s voice held a hint of exasperation. ‘I can’t risk him working in the factory. Can’t send him out to get a job in munitions or ship-building where he might find out even more. Or to the army.’
‘Send him here,’ said Sandy. ‘He can dig potatoes. He can’t do any harm here. It’s a reserved occupation, so Manpower will have to leave him alone. If he’s been up to any nonsense, we’ll sort it out.’
Flinty was suddenly glad that there were no security implications in either books or potatoes. One fed morale, the other fed your belly, and the Nazis were welcome to anything they wanted to know about either of them. And, come to think of it, her apple and potato cake recipes had been German, given to her by Mutti Green, years ago …
Tommy considered the pie on his plate. At last he nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
But is it? thought Flinty. This is war. How much chance does fairness have in war?
The talk meandered after that, from Sandy and Tommy talking cattle prices to ways to fix pumps when you couldn’t get spare parts.
‘Thought about putting in for Land Girls yet?’ asked Tommy.
Sandy laughed. ‘Dad’s keen on them. Mum’s not so sure. Says she’s not having her men distracted by a row of young women bending over in tight jodhpurs. But we’ll need the extra hands come harvest.’
‘They’re not bad workers …’
Matilda said nothing. Flinty watched her across the table. When she’d first met Matilda she’d seemed ageless, as full of energy as the wind.
She’s tired, thought Flinty, not just ‘need a good night’s sleep’ tired. She’s working all hours, and Tommy too. Not that she and Sandy didn’t work till late, but nor did they have the responsibilities of so many families depending on them, on whatever Tommy’s factory was making now — she was pretty sure it wasn’t just wirelesses — on the meat and wool and other crops from Drinkwater and the properties it had absorbed over the years.
Flinty stood. ‘You all go out to the living room. It’s too hot in here with the stove on. I’ll bring tea out there.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Matilda, as Flinty knew she would. Women got the tea while men talked. She supposed they always would while there were women, men and teapots.
She moved the kettle from the side of the stove to the hot plate. It wouldn’t take long to boil now. She reached up for the old cake tin and took out this week’s apple teacake. Mutti Green’s recipe, she thought again, with the apple grated and stirred through so you didn’t need to use much sugar. How apt.
‘Milk still in the Coolgardie?’ Matilda asked.
Flinty nodded. She waited till Matilda came back from the veranda, the billy of milk in her hands. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked bluntly, putting the tea cloth on the tray.
Matilda looked up from pouring some of the milk into the jug. ‘Tired.’
‘I can see that. Worried?’
Matilda gave a small smile. ‘Aren’t we all worried these days? You have a brother away.’
‘Yes. But I’ve been through it before. Grew up with it, in a way, during the last war. It must be new for you.’
‘Not really.’ She looked out the door, to where the mountain rose glinting in the afternoon sun behind the horse paddocks. ‘There was a war before the Great War. The Boer War. I lost my fiancé.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Ancient history. But I know what waiting is like. It’s funny: I don’t just worry about Jim being hurt. Dying … I can even say the word. I’m worried about the war changing him like it did Sandy …’ Matilda’s voice trailed away. Tommy and Sandy talked on, out in the living room, about gas-powered vehicles versus charcoal burners, oblivious.
‘The war changed Sandy. Changed Andy. But in a funny way it didn’t really change them at all. I think maybe it helped them to come back to what they loved.’ It was true, she thought. Sandy’s scars, his nightmares … nothing had changed the true Sandy, deep inside. It had made him more protective of her, the valley, even of their country, knowing what it was like to see women, villages, farms, countries destroyed. But he was still the boy she’d loved when he came back a man. Though it had, she admitted, taken him a good while to see that for himself.
Matilda placed the cups and saucers on the tray, too carefully.
Flinty said quietly, ‘Sometimes I used to look at Sandy and think, he killed men. And they tried to kill him too. It seemed so far away from anything I’d known.’
‘Used to?’
‘Not since the night they bombed Darwin and all those refugees at Broome. When we turned on the wireless the next morning I had a vision of bombs falling here. I thought, if they come here, I will kill them. I didn’t know I could kill another person till then. Not deliberately, if I had a choice.’ She made her voice go light. ‘Though if we were to be invaded, I expect the Japanese won’t even find us here for a couple of decades.’ Flinty looked at Matilda directl
y. ‘It’s good to have someone to talk to. There’s never been another woman my age in the valley. And just when Kirsty grew old enough to really yarn to, she moved away.’
‘How is she doing?’
‘Fine, I think. She says if she can’t be flying, then working up north is as good as anywhere. She only writes once in a blue moon, and then just tells me everyone is well.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe she thinks deep down she’s still a little girl, and I’m her big sister who’d forbid her to do anything dangerous.’
‘Would you try?’
Flinty grinned. ‘With Kirsty? No. Gave up on that years ago — but I don’t think she’s noticed yet. Matilda, do you have people you can talk to down at Drinkwater?’
Matilda looked at her hands. ‘Lots. But I don’t, for some reason. Well, for many reasons. They’ve got their own problems.’ She shrugged. ‘People depend on me. Got to keep up a good front. Keep calm and carry on and all that.’
‘You can always talk to me,’ said Flinty softly. She bent over and gave the older woman a hug. Her shoulders felt bony. Who could ever have thought that Matilda might get old?
‘Thank you.’ Matilda shook her head sharply and moved to wipe away what might have been a tear. ‘I might take you up on that.’
‘Always here,’ said Flinty lightly. ‘Stuck to the mountains like the rock, that’s me.’
They carried the tea tray into the living room.
Chapter 34
Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 21 December 1942
Empire Biscuit Factory to Make Beefless Meat Pies
Now that beef supplies are being kept for the armed service, the Empire Biscuit Factory has developed a new line in beefless meat pies. According to proprietor Mrs Blue McAlpine, ‘Our pies are made with local mutton and local mutton suet, with a unique flavouring developed in our test kitchens. A penny from every pie sold will go to the Comforts for POWs Fund.’
The new pies can be bought at the Bluebell Tea Shop, the Royal Café, the Shearer’s Arms and the Gibber’s Creek Hotel.
To Love a Sunburnt Country Page 28