The Never Boys

by Scott Monk

  She smiled wryly. ‘The stationery would cost more than the ransom.’

  ‘Cheeky.’ He splashed her.

  As the ripples settled, so did the countryside. Sheep staggered to a safe distance while the hidden eyes of the nearby pine forest blinked, then turned away.

  ‘So where did you sneak off to?’

  ‘How’d you know I’d been out?’ he said.

  ‘I went looking for you earlier, but you weren’t up at the quarters.’

  ‘Er, I forgot to buy something for dinner. I went to see if the roadhouse was open.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  His stomach turned grouchy.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it.’

  ‘They, uh, only had meat pies. And I hate meat pies.’

  ‘You —’

  ‘So where are we anyway?’ he pushed.

  She straightened up. ‘A friend’s property. It’s just another one of my hideouts. I was hoping for a swim but as you can see’ — she kicked more mud than water — ‘there’s only enough here for yabbies.’

  ‘Yabbies?’

  He jumped. All ten toes were still attached.

  ‘You’re weird, you know that? Relax. We fished them all out years ago.’

  Gingerly, he dipped his feet in again, but not too far. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘Nothing particular.’

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did that cop find you?’

  ‘No. He knew Mum would be enough punishment.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Two weeks hard labour. I pretended to cry and got it reduced from three. Lack of evidence, Your Honour.’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘She’s also banned me from seeing my friends.’

  ‘Is that going to stop you?’

  ‘We’re here and you’re my friend, right?’

  Friend. He hadn’t heard that for a long time.

  Two possums ripped into each other in the forest, screeching and hissing high in the boughs. When one was thrown to the ground, the noise stopped and Dean returned to counting frogs.

  ‘Population two-point-seven million. Capital: Ulaanbaatar. Exports: copper, livestock and animal products.’

  ‘Sorry?’ he replied.

  ‘Mongolia. I looked it up at school today. I still like Thailand better.’

  ‘You’d be top of your geography class, right?’

  ‘It’s the only one I turn up to.’

  ‘Maybe you should get a job as a travel agent.’

  ‘And watch everyone else travel the world? No thanks. I’m going to be rich. Tomorrow I’ll have breakfast in Paris, lunch in Rome, then shop for shoes in Manhattan. If I can’t find the right colour, I’ll ask my pilot to fly to Hong Kong.’

  ‘You’ll need someone to carry your luggage of course.’

  ‘No, no, noooo, darling,’ she sang. ‘You’ll be my personal jeweller. It’ll be your job every day to buy me the most fabulous diamond.’ She fluttered her eyelids then laughed dryly.

  A mob of roos thumped far off to the left.

  ‘It’s no Paris here, is it?’

  ‘But the people are nice,’ he offered. ‘Except, no offence, maybe your mum.’

  ‘She’s all right. She’s been that way since the divorce. It takes her a long time to trust people.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Nearly fifty. We’re throwing her a big surprise birthday party at the end of next month. You’re invited, of course.’

  Pity. He’d be in Sydney.

  He threw canoes of bark on the dam’s surface as she drew circles with her toes. ‘You seem a lot happier today,’ she said.

  ‘I do?’

  ‘You’re not as — withdrawn.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m settling in more at work. I’m not making as many mistakes, although the shearers still pay me out a bit. Balesy’s been looking out for me, but.’

  ‘And playing barber, right?’

  She ran a soft hand over his scalp. Her touch was warm and steady, unlike the clippers that had buzzed over his skull and sleeted his shoulders with blond hair.

  ‘Why’d you bleach it in the first place?’

  ‘Curiosity.’

  ‘And the earrings? They look fresh too.’

  ‘Do they look bad?’

  ‘Tell your girlfriend never to become a beautician. It looks like you did it yourself.’

  (Petrol fumes. A urinal. A splattered toilet. Stretched skin. Sharp pain. Paper wads pressed against the lobe.)

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ he grimaced.

  She slid off the trunk and waded into the dam. The tingle of her handprint remained.

  ‘How ’bout you? A boyfriend, I mean.’

  She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Plenty of interest, but no one up to my standards.’

  ‘What kind of standards?’

  ‘A guy who understands that “sense of humour” doesn’t mean fart jokes for starters.’

  ‘And just when I was going to show you my squeaking armpit orchestra act.’

  She grinned slyly.

  ‘No one at school?’ he pushed.

  ‘They’re all boys. They’re more interested in playing computer games than with girls. Boring!’

  The sky inched through the earliest hours of the morning as the pair’s voices hummed low across the paddocks. Soon the gaps became as long as the yawns.

  ‘It’s nice here.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, sitting once again, chin on knee. Her legs, arms and cheeks were smooth with moonlight.

  ‘It’s quiet.’

  She stirred. ‘Not many people come here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘See those paddocks over there? That’s the spot.’

  ‘What spot?’

  ‘Where Truro became a household name.’

  He was lost.

  ‘You had heard of Truro before you came here, right?’

  He shook his head.

  She baulked. ‘You must be the only person who hasn’t.’

  ‘Hasn’t what?’

  ‘Heard of the Truro murders.’

  ‘Murders?’

  ‘They happened a long time ago. In the late seventies. Seven women were killed. Five of their bodies were dumped here and two closer to Adelaide.’

  ‘You serious?’

  She was. No joke.

  Suddenly, he felt exposed. The dirt bike’s single headlight didn’t seem that bright after all. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was pretty gruesome. Best if you read about it rather than ask anyone round here. It still upsets a lot of people.’

  ‘Did they catch the killer?’

  ‘One was sent to jail for six of the murders, while his alleged partner was killed in a car crash shortly after the seventh murder.’

  ‘Were they from Truro?’

  ‘No, but everyone assumes they were. Even the tourists — they’re always asking when they stop for petrol. You’d think they would’ve forgotten by now. But no. It’s the same old questions. Every town’s got its secrets. Ours — the whole country knows.’

  Forget the midnight escape. He was keen to get back home right then.

  ‘Oi! You kids!’

  The pair jumped at the man’s voice.

  ‘This is private property!’

  A red ute rocked towards the dam and they quickly grabbed their socks and boots to leap at the bike.

  ‘Your friend’s property, eh?’ he asked, relieved that it was only an angry farmer.

  ‘Well he’s somebody’s friend.’

  Chapter 9

  Dean uncovered the key by accident. It had spilled from a teapot now dented on the kitchen floor thanks to a game of cricket with a postal tube. It was tarnished and thumb-worn as most were. Except this one had been hidden deliberately. After a couple of failed guesses, he crossed the courtyard to the three locked quarters next to his own. One had to be Old Clive’s room. The other two — who knew?

>   Scouting the homestead, he double-checked that no one was watching then tried each of them. The third gave way with a push of the hip and shoulder. Inside was a small room that smelt of rivers and mangroves. It hadn’t been opened for months, maybe years. Ant trails pulsed among nets, rods, boating magazines, wood carvings, tools, beetle husks, a red and green jersey and a rusted dartboard scoring a fifteen, nine and double twenty. But the real find was under all the junk. He tugged free the guitar case then took it back to the lounge room; buckles thudding against the black sides and the burgundy cradle opening with a whistle. She was beautiful; a mistress to a master craftsman. He checked her name. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a Geddes — his favourite.

  His thumb glided over the strings. But, rather than an expected rise in pitch, he heard a bang. The courtyard!

  He shut the case and hid it. That was all he needed. The General catching him. ‘Grave robber!’ But there was no sign of her.

  Cautiously, he rechecked the junk room, his feet burning on the hot soil. Sure enough, two fishing rods had tipped over. He picked them up, then noticed the picture frame on the ground. Had that been there before? Thankfully, no glass had shattered. The old photograph was intact too. A pretty teenage girl wearing a broad hat and past-the-knees dress stood under a Lynette Ladies Hairdresser sign while a strange vehicle called a double decker trolley bus shambled behind her. It had been taken in Sydney in the late 1930s — possibly even the 1940s. Age had since tarnished the crispness of the picture, oxidising the black and white teenage girl to chocolate brown.

  But it wasn’t the only photograph in the room. A boy in short pants sold Penguin Ice Cream from a boxy wooden barrow, while in another a referee sent a rugby league footballer from the field after a knockout tackle. This one was signed.

  Guiltily, he put the fallen frame back in a safer spot, locked the room, then sat down with the guitar once again. The masks on the walls frowned as he strummed a second time. Good. No interruptions this time. Soon he got the open strings ear-perfect with a set of scales and, satisfied both he and the guitar were ready, he started to play.

  Notes rang crisp and perfect; an alegria followed by a malaguena, two tangos then a bulerias. The music created its own stories of fierceness, happiness, pain or virgin love. One moment he was a seducer; the next — the scorned. The lounge room faded away, replaced by dreams of a country he had never been to but had heard so much about. He sat in a Spanish coffee shop, closed for the night but thick with crushed beans, sherry and the secret songs of guitarists. There were no castanets or colourful dresses for the tourists long drunk in bed, but flamenco raw and hurting. There would be a girl — there was always a girl — with passions only for him.

  Suddenly, the notes caterwauled as the B string snapped. He almost dropped the guitar as a red line scorched his arm where he’d been whipped. ‘Just a love bite,’ his old man always said.

  He rubbed it as he checked the clock. Ten minutes left. He had at least two more songs in him. Maybe three if he was quick.

  He raided the compartment where spare strings were kept, but instead found a bundle of letters. There were about sixty in total: mostly brown, pressed and in perfect blue handwriting on paper the size of an exercise book. Some were so thin he could almost see his fingertips through them. A few had letterheads from the Royal Naval House, Grosvenor Street, Sydney; others — the Australia Red Cross Society with clear warnings about referring to names of troops, ports or ships, “which if intercepted would be of value to the enemy”. Telegrams, cartoons and newspaper clippings completed the collection.

  He read the top few.

  Noumea

  7th January, ’42

  Dearest Beatrice,

  How goes everything back home? Has that boss of yours learnt to keep his hands to himself yet? Just remind him that I might be thousands of miles away at sea but our 8’’ guns can still shoot that far! It was so good to see you again for Christmas. You look even prettier than the last time I saw you. I almost didn’t buy you that blue dress because I was afraid all the other guys would try to sweet talk you while I was away. Speaking of which, have you any news from Duckie?

  I had a good laugh when you told me about the ladies stocking up on pepper to throw in the faces of the Japs. I can imagine the Emperor’s men surrendering because of a sneezing fit. Maybe you girls should send some to Rabaul. After we left our troops at Port Moresby, we heard the Japs had started bombing there. A lot of us are uneasy now. This war is too close to home. But tell everyone “Don’t worry”. We’re ready to give the enemy a few black eyes before sending them back to Tokyo.

  Talk about being hot. It’s worse here in the tropics. I’m writing this in my underclothing during my break from my cruising station as aircraft lookout. We’ve been told we can’t go for a swim. Fancy that. Being in a tropical paradise and stopped from taking at least one dip. Maybe the capt’n is afraid we’ll run off with the native women. Or maybe he’s afraid that he’ll have to deal with our women and their pepper back home!

  With extra love,

  Clive

  Coral Sea

  7th May, ’42

  Dear Bea,

  Don’t worry. I’m not dead yet, although the Japs — and a few Yanks — have tried their best to sink us all. For the past couple of days, we’ve been hunting a Japanese invasion fleet that’s on its way to Port Moresby. Yes, Port Moresby! I don’t have to tell you what that means for back home. But we found them all right. And how!

  At 1430 we spotted 11 aircraft heading our way and opened fire. They disappeared before we got a good shot at them but we didn’t have to wait long for a second chance. Half-an-hour later, a squadron of torpedo bombers and Zeros headed our way and the Admiral ordered all our ships to open fire. Let me tell you, I wasn’t too happy to see them. I lost two bob to my mate who spotted them before me.

  We hit one of their planes before they started dropping torpedoes about 1000 yards away. Thankfully they were lousy shots and we’ve got a smart Bridge. By attacking them straight on, we were a narrow target and every single one of them missed. Those Japs, though — they love a good fight. They took to us ack-ack crews with machine guns and did that ever turn the stomach. It took me a moment to realise that all the buzzing around me was bullets!

  We gave back as good as we got, however. I loaded our ack-acks as fast as the gunners could fire them. In the end, we got five bombers — although some of the boys say it was 10. We thought it was over when the Japs retreated but that’s when another squadron got the jump on us. Nineteen more bombers were hiding high up in the clouds and dropped everything they had right above the Aussie! That’s six bombs each plane!

  A miracle is the only reason why you’re reading this now. Would you believe every single bomb missed! Instead they exploded all around us and threw up these huge walls of water that reached higher than heaven. When it came down it knocked me and everyone else off our feet. The Chicago and Hobart thought we’d found Davy Jones’s locker!

  You’d think that would be enough excitement for one day wouldn’t you? Not for us. After we got rid of those bombers, we faced a third raid. But this time it wasn’t from the Japs — it was three American Flying Fortresses! They dropped their bombs on one of their own destroyers then flew off towards Townsville. They were worse shots than the Japs! I’d hate to be those boys when Crace is finished with them.

  We’ve set a course south for the evening and everything’s quiet. There’s no news of what’s happened to the main US squadron yet but I’m sure the enemy is up to no good. I don’t want to scare you with stories of what’s happening but it’s better to hear it from me than see it on the newsreels. Be happy I’m alive and thinking of you.

  With extra love,

  Clive

  PS. Any chance of posting a choc malted milk out this way?

  At sea

  July ’42

  Dear Honey Bee,

  I know how you feel. I miss you so much too. The longer this war drags on, the more I
want to go home. I’d give a fiver to spend just one hour with you at the moment. I keep dreaming of you every night in that blue dress and going to the pictures together. When all these troubles are finished, I’ll buy you a white one and walk you down the aisle! How about that? Time to make an honest woman out of you. I can hear you from here shouting “Never!”

  Thank you for the sweater. It’s a beauty. You shouldn’t spend your money on me, though. Save it for the hope chest. I’m enclosing £3/10/-for the bank, too. That should help get us started. There’s nothing to spend it on out here anyway. Take a little out of it to buy yourself a nice birthday present. It’s unlikely we’ll be anywhere near a friendly port for quite some time.

  The last forty-eight hours at sea have been testing. A huge wave hit us while I was asleep yesterday and threw me out of my bunk. I ended up needing seven stitches to the gash above my ear. I’ve had a humdinger of a headache since. It’s still rough at the moment. My legs are tired from all the extra rolling and I’ve wrapped one around the table leg now to steady my balance.

  We’ve got a new admiral onboard named Crutchley. He’s a big and cheery fellow who wouldn’t look out of place playing for South Sydney. He’s been making sure we’ve been doing our fair share of training exercises. There is a large number of US carriers, cruisers, destroyers and transports in these waters now as well as the new battleship N.C. With that firepower, another attack mustn’t be too far away.

  With extra love,

  Clive

  PS. Next day; I hope you get a laugh out of this. Word has spread through the ship of an incident involving Admiral McCain. He was climbing a Jacob’s ladder to board the Saratoga when a garbage chute opened above him and milk poured on his head! The Yanks were saying how sour he looked! I knew you’d find that funny. Cheerio again.

  ‘Watcha reading, mate?’

  He started at the sound of Hayden’s voice. ‘Nothing,’ he said, stuffing the letters back inside. ‘Just junk.’

  ‘C’mon. Lunch’s finished. We better get back or they’ll turn us into wethers.’

  Chapter 10

  Rumbling under a long brown cloud, a landslide of sheep drained to the bottom of a slope, dogged by rouseabouts on dirt bikes. They were the last merinos to be prepped for the season. The following day the generator would be switched off, the bales loaded and the truck doors closed. The shearers would prise knots of fleece from their clippers and combs, curse their backs then roll up their tools, ready for the next contract. And Dean? He’d be gone.