Treason if You Lose

by Peter Rimmer

  Feeling better now she had a good idea, Melina called the dogs to heel. She would walk back home and tell her father she wanted to go back to school, an idea she hoped he would be surprised and happy to hear.

  “Men! They are so easy to manipulate,” she said smiling as she strode away with the dogs.

  Then she waved at the workers in the field.

  5

  While Melina was confronting her frustration, on the other side of the world, Justin Hemmings was confronting a similar situation. His girlfriend did not want to have sex. He had his hands on her tits and his trousers down but she would not let him go any further, crossing her legs under her skirt making the progress of foreplay impossible. As luck would have it he had the house in South Yarra to himself and now the opportunity was going to waste.

  “All right, Frieda. You can trust me.”

  “What you said before, Justin. Now look at me.”

  “You’re a proper darling.”

  “I’m a virgin.”

  Afraid to admit his own predicament, Justin pulled on his trousers and pulled out his packet of cigarettes. At seventeen he wasn’t meant to smoke, but with the parents and all four sisters away from Melbourne the opportunity for him to appear to Frieda a man of the world was not to be passed up.

  “Want a fag, darling?”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Do now. Are you sure you don’t want a fuck?”

  “You’re plain crude, Justin. Just look at me.”

  “That’s why I’m asking. I wouldn’t ask Patsy, now would I? She’s fat and bloody ugly. They come back tomorrow.”

  “Thank God for that. You’re a bloody animal, Justin Hemmings. When are you going up north? If my mother could see me now. I’d better go before Dad comes looking for me. He knows your dad’s away. Skin you alive if he knew what we were doing.”

  “You think he’d come here?”

  “Where else would we be? You don’t have money. The pubs won’t let us in, we’re too young. I’m not at home. Doesn’t take a genius to work that one out now does it?”

  “Your dad’s not a genius, that’s a fact.”

  “Don’t be rude or I’ll slap your face. Let’s have another glass of your mum’s gin.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “Just don’t get no ideas.”

  “I said you can trust me.”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Sixteen, darling. Sweet sixteen. I’m not going up north after all. I’m thinking of going to England. Trevor’s got his wings. Bomber Command. Did you read the RAF bombed Berlin? I want to be a fighter pilot.”

  “You’re too lazy to get on the boat let alone learn to fly. What would the RAF want you for?”

  “R double-A F, darling. Royal Australian Air Force. They’re looking for pilots.”

  “Said you were going to England.”

  “Whatever. I’ll get the gin.”

  “Has Trevor been in combat?”

  “We don’t know. His letters are censored by the RAF. He sounds okay. Got a new motorbike. Second hand but new to Trevor. He fixes them.”

  “What’s your dad going to do if you go?”

  “Serve the cough drops himself.”

  “You’re lucky I came in the shop for mum’s cough drops. It’s a job. Wish I had a job. Want to leave school. What’s the point of school?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Not much.”

  “Then they won’t let you in the RAAF. Heard you need maths to fly. You didn’t get the change right in the shop. Your dad had to help.”

  “I’ll go up north. You count sheep to get to sleep. As long as you sleep who cares if you get it wrong? Are you sure you don’t want to have sex?”

  “Quite sure, thank you. Quite bloody sure. I’ll try a fag.”

  “That’s my girl. Life’s one big experiment.”

  “Put some orange squash in the gin.”

  His luck was Frieda of the cough drops lived down the bottom of Darling Street, pedalled up the hill on her bicycle. Her old man had a beer belly the size of a cow’s udder so their chance of being disturbed was nil. The old man didn’t own a bicycle, let alone a car, his transport the tram that went past the gate. Justin could hear the tram coming when it started up the hill, plenty of time to put their clothes on. The mother didn’t care much what they did. Frieda’s mother worked in the offices in Collins Street, over the chemist shop owned by Justin’s father. Mrs Gooderson was the cleaning lady for the Australian head office of the South British Insurance company. How Frieda came to be in his dad’s chemist shop buying cough drops for her mum. Keeping home and working all day, Mrs Gooderson was tired. She wouldn’t come looking for Frieda.

  There was only one good slug of gin left in the bottle when he looked in the kitchen. Justin tipped it in her glass. Drowned the gin with orange juice. Put plain orange juice in his own glass. Took the glasses back to his bedroom with a grin on his face. When she’d finished the gin he was going to try again.

  “Cheers, darling,” he said.

  “Where’s the fag?”

  “Everything in good time. Now, where were we?”

  “You were buggering off up north. Dad thinks the Japs are coming in the war. Where your family go?”

  “Mum and Dad went on the train to Adelaide. Her youngest sister’s getting married. Two of the girls went with them. You haven’t met my sisters. They’re wild. The other two are likely fucking their boyfriends right now. It’s an Australian sport, sport, don’t you know? How’s it taste, Frieda?”

  “Lovely. Better not get tight or I’ll fall off my bike.”

  “All downhill going home.”

  “Why’s your dad’s shop in the city, Justin?”

  “Couldn’t find one closer, likely. How do I know? Wasn’t born. People in offices have jobs. Like your mum. They buy from us in the lunch hours. What Dad says.”

  “Does he make any money?”

  “Not much.”

  “If you got me pregnant I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Neither will I.”

  “You do know what you’re doing?”

  “Of course I do. We’ve got the bloody house to ourselves.”

  “When are you going to take me out?”

  “When I’ve got some bloody money, Frieda.”

  Half an hour later, lying on her back, Frieda had tears on her cheeks, her soft eyes looking up at Justin full of puppy love.

  “That was lovely,” she said. “Can we do it again?”

  She was a natural. When the tram went by outside, metal wheels on metal rails, neither of them had heard a thing.

  “You’d done it before, hadn’t you?” said Justin.

  “Course I had. I’m sixteen, Justin.”

  “Said you were a virgin. Why’d you stop me the first time?”

  “I never fuck on the first date.”

  “But this is the first.”

  “I know. I’ve been pretending it’s the second. Isn’t it lucky we live so close? Uphill when I’m strong. Downhill when I’m weak.”

  “You really are a sport, Frieda.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then do it again. Like you said, we’ve got the house to ourselves.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He’s drunk in the boozer right now. Met my mum in the boozer. She was the barmaid. Young and pretty.”

  “Be a sport, Frieda? Don’t ask me to marry you.”

  “I wouldn’t marry you in a fit… Give it to me proper.”

  Soon after the third time Frieda got on her bicycle and went down the hill. Justin saw her off at the door. He thought she was being sensible not to spoil her chances with her father by staying any longer. Both of them had nothing to say to each other. Someone had put an envelope under the door. It was a cable addressed to his father. Justin put the envelope on the letter tray on the half-moon table
in the hall unopened. For a while he had opened his father’s letters in the morning to give him something to do. He was twelve. They were always giving him things to do. Some customers were given drugs without paying on the understanding they sent his dad the money when they were able. Some of them paid. Some of them sent their money to his father’s home address. Usually friends. Once he had taken half the money as the letter didn’t say how much money was in the envelope. Justin got a good thrashing when his father met his friend and found out how much was in the envelope. Ever since, Justin left the mail untouched. Going down the driveway to see if Frieda was really going home down the hill he could see her back, her feet off the pedals, as the bike careered down Darling Street.

  “Too much gin in the orange squash. Women!”

  He watched her down to the bottom, expecting a spill that did not happen. He took the mail from the letterbox on the pole by the gate and walked back through the small front garden. He had promised his father to mow the lawn on either side of the crazy paving path. Justin hated pushing the mower. The lawns were still uncut.

  Back in the house he closed the front door with the back of his foot. The letters in his hand he put on the letter tray. The letter box had been full. He was hungry and made himself a cheese sandwich. The bread was stale. He was meant to get fresh bread for the next day when his parents were coming home. In the kitchen, he put some water in the empty gin bottle and put it back in the cupboard. Usually his mother did not drink. Feeling satisfied with himself he turned on the radio, found only news about the war in England and turned it off. Now, he had nothing to do. Getting bored, he went outside and walked up the hill to the top of Darling Street. There was a girl at the top who would not talk to him she was so shy. She always giggled when he grinned at her in the garden and ran inside the house. He was always more randy after sex. The next girl was always the most exciting. As usual he had no money and nothing to do. Had it not been for the chance with Frieda he would have gone to Adelaide.

  When his family came back the next day Justin was pleased to see them. Making small talk with his sisters was better than doing nothing. Worrying about his mother’s gin bottle half full of water, Justin had mowed the lawn and trimmed the edges. His father put a hand on his shoulder when he saw the cut lawn.

  Half an hour later his mother looked through the letters on the letter tray. Underneath the pile she found the brown envelope someone had pushed under the front door.

  “Brad, there’s a telegram,” she said in a small voice.

  The two older sisters were still not back from staying with their friends. His mother had gone white in the face. His father took the brown envelope from his mother, slitting it open with his index finger. There was not a sound in the house. Everyone was holding their breath.

  “It’s all right,” said his father looking from one to the other with a big grin on his face. “Trevor’s been wounded in action.”

  “What does it say?”

  “The Air Ministry regrets to inform you Trevor Hemmings has been wounded in action.”

  “How badly, Brad?”

  “That’s all.”

  “How do we find out!”

  “We wait. He’ll be out of the war now. Coming home. You’ll see.”

  “I need a drink.”

  Justin went white.

  “I drank the gin, Mum.”

  It took a whole month to find out how badly his brother was wounded. Then a letter came from a Group Captain Lowcock at RAF Abingdon, his brother’s commanding officer. The letter had come by air in the diplomatic bag to Canberra where it was posted on to Melbourne. The letter was addressed in beautiful handwriting. Trevor’s bomber had landed badly damaged. Trevor had landed the plane with a bullet through his leg. The rear gunner had been killed over Germany. The navigator and Trevor were the only two alive. The aircraft had burned on landing as the landing gear would not go down, the plane landing on its belly. There was no mention of the type of aircraft. Where the CO had mentioned the type of aircraft, the censors had erased the words. Trevor’s face had been burnt badly. The ground crew had pulled Trevor and the navigator out of the burning plane when it landed on the runway at Abingdon. The CO said he was putting Trevor up for a Distinguished Flying Cross.

  That night the whole family took a drink in celebration. They all assumed Trevor was out of the war. That he was coming home as soon as he got out of hospital. They still did not know how bad were the burns or the damage done by the bullet in Trevor’s leg. They had gone to the pub down the road. Justin’s father lied, saying Justin had turned eighteen. The two older sisters came with them. Frieda’s father with the big pot belly was in the bar. Justin avoided having to talk to him. Everyone in the bar heard about his brother Trevor, making Justin’s first visit to the pub a pain in his arse.

  “I’m joining the RAAF,” he told anyone who would listen.

  6

  On the other side of the Indian Ocean, close to where the Indian and Atlantic Oceans meet, Anthony Brigandshaw was sitting on Clifton Beach looking at the girls. He had finished writing his matric at the Diocesan College, better known as Bishops, and had nothing better to do with his day now the hard work was over, cramming night after night in his determination to obtain a good enough pass to get himself into Cape Town University where he wanted to study medicine. Groote Schuur was close to the university and the medical faculty. Anthony wished to become a surgeon.

  Having worked on his tan every day for a week, his skin was a golden brown, his hair almost white, bleached by the sun. Playing beach bats on the sand had made him fit, running all over the place to hit the tennis ball with a wooden bat the same size but heavier than a ping-pong bat. Anthony was Third Beach champion, the subject of many looks from the girls he had been too busy to notice while still studying at school.

  With the burden of guilt lifted from his shoulders, sitting around on the beach was a pleasure. The sun was hot, the cool breeze off the Atlantic welcome, the sea icy cold when he went every half hour for a dip to cool down from the burning African sun. Each time he came out of the water, Anthony covered himself in baby oil, the schoolboys’ cheapest suntan lotion. On his nose and cheekbones he layered a white cream that was meant to stop the skin peeling. By the time Christmas came in two months’ time, the sun would be too hot to sit in for long at lunchtime; for now it was bearable for Anthony right through the day with the help of his dips in the sea.

  Some of the lads were out on the waves, surfing their long boards, making Anthony jealous of their seemingly easy skill. Both the beach bats and the surfing were new to Cape Town’s beaches. Some of the girls had learnt to surf, mostly the same girls who hung around the life savers’ hut on First Beach. Even though he thought of Tinus Oosthuizen, Anthony doubted anyone on the beach was thinking about the war. The worst of their worries were the sharks lurking out in the sea off the five beaches, demarcated by giant granite boulders that dominated the sweet curve of white sand in the bay, where the sea was blue, the ozone pure, and black-backed gulls noisily scavenged the high line of the tide.

  Higher, much higher, marched the Twelve Apostles from the east side of Table Mountain. For Anthony it never mattered which way he looked. Out at the ocean, up at the mountains, wherever he looked in Cape Town it was always beautiful. His days were perfect but for two things that he missed: his father’s company and the chance to fly John Woodall’s Tiger Moth.

  That morning, before leaving the house in Bishopscourt on his bicycle for Clifton Beach, his mother had made him his favourite sandwiches and a flask of tea with a plastic cup screwed to the top. Egg and mayonnaise sandwiches were his favourite. The big tin box was full of them. When the girl with the body dived into the waves, Anthony opened the box that he had strapped on the small carrier at the back of his bicycle, counted how many were left and ate another, the mayonnaise trickling down his chin. There were still enough to get him through the day.

  Wiping the mayonnaise off his chin, Anthony licked his finger clean
as the girl came out of the surf, walking straight towards him.

  “They look good.”

  “Want one?”

  “No thanks. You English?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Accent. Pommy. Not South African. The water’s freezing.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  Lying back on his towel, his eyes shut, Anthony Brigandshaw went off to sleep while the tropical sun burned his skin. The same girl woke him five minutes later.

  “Did it once. For half an hour. Couldn’t take a shower for three days the sunburn was so bad. What’s your name?”

  “Anthony Brigandshaw.”

  “Eleanor Botha.”

  “Afrikaans?”

  “Mother’s English. 1920 settlers.”

  “My dad’s from Rhodesia. My grandfather went up before Rhodes hoisted the Union Jack.”

  “So you’re also African.”

  “Sort of a split personality.”

  “Coming in the water?”

  “Why not? Where’d you live?”

  “Sea Point. In a flat on the waterfront. I prefer Clifton Beach.”

  “Who doesn’t? Bishopscourt. Came on my bicycle.”

  “Walked from Sea Point along the coast road. Are you rich? Wow! Bishopscourt. That’s money. What’s your dad do?”

  “Works for the Air Ministry in London at the moment. Sent the family to Cape Town to get us out the way. His grandfather was rich, left dad his money.”

  “Wish I had such a grandfather. Mine farms sheep in the Karoo.”

  “My brother Dorian wants to farm Elephant Walk.”

  “What’s Elephant Walk?”

  “Our farm in Rhodesia.”

  “You do get around. Can you surf?”

  “Not yet. Want a game of beach bats?”

  “You’re on. First a swim. The sun’s burning hot today.”

  “Then you can have one of my mum’s sandwiches.”

  It was another perfect day.

  Beth was home when he got back which was surprising. With their father in England Beth did what she liked. His mother shouted at her every now and again which made it uncomfortable for everyone. After one screaming match Mr and Mrs Coetzee resigned. They had had the house to themselves for too long to put up with being ordered around by Anthony’s mother. He thought the screaming match debacle was an excuse for the caretakers to demand and get six months’ salary which wasn’t going far after living on ten acres with six servants at their beck and call.