The demand of the Allied and Australian Armies for fruit and vegetables is enormous. You too can do your bit! Contact Mrs Donald Dennison …
Cakes, jams and preserves at a street stall, Friday, outside Mutton’s Drapers. All proceeds to the Comfort For Prisoners Fund. Donations gladly received.
* * *
Joey crossed the playground slowly and limped out onto the footpath. The school grounds behind him smelt of old orange peel and greaseproof paper, with a whiff from the dunnies down the back.
Why did school always smell different in the afternoon? thought Joey. In the morning it smelt of shoe polish and wood smoke and cold floors. But as soon as the day heated up the smell changed.
His schoolcase swung against his legs as he wandered along the street. Down the paddock, past the oval … some of the farm kids were saddling their ponies.
It wouldn’t be so bad living here, thought Joey, if you could ride a pony to school. He wondered what it was like for a pony at school all day. There wasn’t much to eat in the school paddock. Maybe they were as bored as the kids. Maybe they stared at the sky, too, and longed for the afternoon bell.
Joey turned the corner … then stopped. Jeepers! Myrtle-Mergle and all her crowd, giggling away on the footpath.
Probably organising another saucepan drive or a scone day, or bring a hanky for a soldier day, or a let’s say ninky pinky pooh a thousand times day, thought Joey.
If he didn’t get out of the way they’d drag him into it — or more likely they wouldn’t, which’d be worse. Maybe they’d just look at him as he passed and giggle and …
Joey crossed the road without looking at them again. He’d go round the block instead and come out at Pinker Street then …
‘Boy … hey there … boy!’
Joey looked around. There was no one to be seen, except some little kids right down the end of the street.
‘Joseph Smith!’
The whisper was coming from the hedge.
It was a tall hedge, shaggy as a scratching dog; taller than he was and funny-looking, the original hedge all twisted with honeysuckle and straggles of old birds’ nests. You could hardly see the house behind. The gate looked like the hedge was slowly eating it from every side.
‘Joseph!’
The whisper was coming from the gate. Joey stepped forward cautiously and peered over.
A woman stood on the path — Aunt Lallie’s age perhaps, but so wrapped up that it was hard to tell. A long dress almost to her ankles, a droopy cardigan and then another over that, a woollen hat pulled right down at the back and sagging softly over her eyes, thick stockings that looked like they’d been handknitted, all lumpy at the ankles, and winter shoes. She blinked at him from amongst the wool.
‘Joseph Smith?’
Joey nodded.
The woman’s lip quivered. ‘I … I just wanted to say, I think you are a brave boy. Yes, a very brave boy.’
‘Er … thank you,’ said Joey.
‘To face that beast all by yourself. To have the courage …’ The voice died away. ‘Well … well that’s what I wanted to say. That I think someone should say it. I mean, well, it’s high time that someone said … My name is Miss Tidcombe,’ she added in a slightly stronger voice. ‘I am a friend of your Aunt Eulallie’s. And Eugenia’s too. Though it is many years since … oh my goodness yes, it’s been so many years since …’
Miss Tidcombe wiped a stray hair back into the shelter of the woollen hat. ‘It’s a hot day,’ she whispered. ‘A very hot day. I wondered … I just wondered … if you would care for a cold drink? I would be most … I mean … if you would care to come inside? It is such a very hot day.’
It must be hot, thought Joey, in all that wool. And Mum had always warned him not to speak to strangers and there’d hardly be anyone stranger than this old bird.
But she was a friend of Aunt Lallie’s, or anyway she said she was a friend. And she didn’t look dangerous. Just sort of … fixed … and lonely. It was horrible being lonely …
‘I’d like a drink. Thanks,’ said Joey.
‘Oh,’ said Miss Tidcombe. ‘Oh. Well yes, that’s very nice. I am so glad … it’s this way, if you don’t mind. I am so sorry but … it’s the front door. It jammed in the big wet, oh, back in … And Daddy always said … but I never did you know, it’s so much easier to use the back.’
‘Your father’s still alive?’ Heck, thought Joey, he must be older than the hills.
‘Oh no. No,’ said Miss Tidcombe. ‘Daddy died in … oh, do mind the jasmine. I really should … but pruning … well …’
The garden must have been large once, thought Joey, till everything grew too big. The jasmine vine sagging from its post across the grass and running up the apple tree that shaded half the grass. The garden beds were full of honeysuckle and Paddy’s lucerne. There was even honeysuckle halfway up the plum tree that took up most of the back fence. The air was hot and humid with the scent of vegetation.
‘Just up here. Oh, do mind the step. It’s … oh, and here is Isabelle, such a naughty little cat … no, no don’t come out here, my love, you know it isn’t safe. It isn’t safe at all … this nice lad will tell you so — it isn’t safe!’
‘Graaaal?’ said Isabelle curiously. She was black and white, a snub-nosed cat. She peered out the back door, then relaxed resignedly as Miss Tidcombe picked her up and cuddled her close against her cardigans.
‘This way … er, this way. Please don’t look at all the mess.’
Joey glanced around the laundry. It was immaculate, unlike the yard outside. An old wicker laundry basket stood by the tubs, full of neatly folded underwear.
‘Oh … oh …’ said Miss Tidcombe. ‘No … I mean through here. Through here …’
The kitchen looked scrubbed as well, though with a faintly musty smell. The window was shut, Joey noticed, with yellowed curtains pulled halfway across.
A large grey cat sat on the windowsill, gazing at the jasmine below. Another grey cat sat on the table and two more — black and white and marmalade this time — lapped something from a row of bowls by the Aga stove. Four bowls, six, eight …
‘How many cats do you have Miss Tidcombe?’ asked Joey, startled.
‘Eight. Only eight. THEY got the others,’ whispered Miss Tidcombe. ‘But you know about that. Oh, of course you do. You brave boy. And so courageous. You know … well yes, you know.’
Know what? wondered Joey. Maybe he shouldn’t have come inside.
‘In here.’ Miss Tidcombe ushered him through a doorway. ‘Please excuse … I mean the kitchen, so rude I know, but the front door. Daddy would have … but there, I mean the back door is quite convenient. I have so few visitors. Oh, do sit down. I mean … oh do.’
Joey stared.
At the room, its faded flowers and dried grass and doilies on every surface — even the piano lid was covered with a long white doily. You’d have to take it off every time the piano was played. At the cats yawning on every comfortable chair; at the table in the centre of the room, with its lace tablecloth and dried bamboo arrangement and its plates and plates and plates …
‘Will you have a scone?’ Miss Tidcombe passed a flowered plate. ‘Daddy always said … oh but you must have a plate to put it on … oh, and drink. I promised you a … tea? A little weak … the ration, I used it all last … or orangeade. It’s my great-aunt Zelda’s recipe and very … oh, you will?’
Her hand shook a little as she lifted the cut glass jug. The glass was brown with yellow and green stripes. A nice glass, thought Joey.
He sipped the orangeade. It was warm and much too sweet, but good. He stared at the table.
Pikelets and scones and orange cake and crustless tomato sandwiches and macaroons and kisses and raspberry slice and cream sponge — she must have used up all her sugar ration for weeks, thought Joey. For months and months, even …
‘A sandwich?’ offered Miss Tidcombe. ‘A piece of cake?’
‘Thank you. Er … aren’t you having a
ny?’
Miss Tidcombe blushed. ‘Not in company,’ she protested. ‘Daddy always said … I mean, it’s … a lady doesn’t eat in company. A cup of tea perhaps. At a dinner, of course, it’s different … later, oh yes, later …’
Joey took a piece of orange cake. It was fresh and crumbled moistly on his plate. Miss Tidcombe passed him a cake fork.
Why was this food all here? Surely she didn’t cook like this every day. Or even every week? She wouldn’t have the sugar or the eggs. Somehow he couldn’t see Miss Tidcombe as a black marketeer.
‘It’s very good cake,’ said Joey politely.
The old face lit up. ‘Oh, I am … I mean … the recipe, one of my mother’s. I hoped you’d like it. I didn’t know what … So I thought, I’ll make some of everything, and then … well, maybe his favourites.’
‘You made these just for me?’ stammered Joey.
‘Well yes, I mean …’
‘But … but why?’
Miss Tidcombe blinked, as though it was obvious. ‘Because … well, you see, you understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘About the Japanese,’ whispered Miss Tidcombe. ‘You know they’re out there.’
‘I —’
‘You saw them!’ Her voice was even softer.
‘You mean you believe me?’ Joey’s voice cracked. He gulped to try to steady it.
Miss Tidcombe nodded. ‘Have a pikelet,’ she offered.
Joey took the pikelet. They were smaller and neater than Mum’s. Dad always said Mum’s pikelets looked like a map of Australia.
‘I know they’re there …’ Miss Tidcombe was whispering. ‘No one else knows yet. No one but you. You were so brave, to face them all alone …’
‘But why …’
Miss Tidcombe bent forward. ‘It’s the cats!’ she hissed. ‘They take the cats! You know what Japanese do with cats?’
‘No,’ said Joey truthfully.
‘They eat them!’ breathed Miss Tidcombe.
‘How do you know?’
‘I know,’ nodded Miss Tidcombe. ‘I know all about it. That’s why the cats are missing.’
‘Your cats?’
Miss Tidcombe nodded. ‘Four of Pretty Girl’s last litter,’ she whispered. ‘Missing last week. And old Mouser, he disappeared a month ago.’
‘But how do you know it was the Japanese?’
Miss Tidcombe looked at him reproachfully as she passed him the scones again.
‘I just told you,’ she muttered. ‘It’s the Japanese. All round town. You just look around the town. One by one the cats are going. They come down at night you see, and grab them and take them back up to the hills. Then they roast them on their fires. All the pretty pussies … but you understand.’
‘I er …’ said Joey.
‘More orangeade?’ asked Miss Tidcombe.
She’s dotty, thought Joey, when he finally escaped too full of raspberry slices and kisses and pikelets and orangeade. Bats in the belfry, possums in the attic, nuts in the top pocket. Though she was sort of nice too.
‘You’ll come again?’ she’d asked him, her pale face peering across the gate. ‘I would be … I mean … so happy.’ Her voice trailed back to the confusion that had fallen away when she was talking about the Japanese. ‘There is still plenty of … I mean if you would like to … perhaps tomorrow …’
Joey pictured the table in the living room, spread with the debris of his afternoon tea. The old girl couldn’t eat it all.
It seemed sad to think of it just getting stale. Sadder to think of her all alone in there, locked in behind the curtains with her cats.
‘Sure thing,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow.’ He’d explain to Mum somehow. Maybe she wouldn’t mind.
‘Oh … that is … I could make …’
‘No,’ said Joey firmly. ‘Don’t make anything. We’ll eat the leftovers. You keep your sugar ration.’
‘But there is plenty still. I mean … so few callers, so I never make … I mean, not even sugar in my tea. Daddy said it spoilt the taste and so … not even with my porridge … salt, you see, and just a little milk.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Joey. ‘Give my love to Isabelle.’
‘Oh, I mean …’ Miss Tidcombe smiled at that. One pale hand waved him farewell through the hedge as he walked down the street.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Joey.
‘Mmmm?’ Mum looked up from her letter. ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, love. I just thought you were with your friends or something. It’s not as though there’s anything that can hurt you in Biscuit Creek.’
She cast him a look. ‘As long as you keep away from the hills. And the dam by Johnstone’s. It’s warm on top and cold below and you can get a cramp. And Bilot’s piggery —’
‘Who’s the letter from,’ Joey interrupted her before she could catalogue more dangers.
‘Auntie Sheila.’ Aunt Sheila was Dad’s older sister.
‘What’s she say?’
‘Not much. It’s mostly just a recipe for sunbeams. “Dear Euphemia,” (I wish she wouldn’t call me that. It makes me feel like I should have grey hair and heels like Lallie wears) “This is what Audrey made and the next page what I made. It’s the eggless version I learnt at Red Cross. If you don’t have coconut then grated orange peel will do, but coconut is better. Do hope the pullover will be okay. Please accept these few lines as a letter and give my love to Joey, your loving sister-in-law, Sheila.” I think she’s pretty busy with the Red Cross up in Sydney,’ added Mum, folding the letter. ‘You want some afternoon tea? There’s bread in the bin, but be careful with the butter. Lallie was complaining this morning that you took too much. “He’s a growing boy,” I said, “What do you expect? And anyway he can have my ration too.” But you know your Aunt Lallie …’
‘Mum …’ Joey tried to stem the flow. ‘Do you know an old duck … sorry Mum,’ as she began to protest. ‘An old lady, well she’s not all that old, called Miss Tidcombe?’
‘Down by the school? Of course I do. Her father was a Brigadier in the last war, do you know that? And her brother was Colonel Tidcombe, he was killed at the Somme with …’
‘Has she got a screw loose, Mum?’
‘Well …’ his mother hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. She’s a bit eccentric, let’s say. All those cats … Everyone says she hardly ever leaves the house now. Everyone delivers, but only to the back step. She won’t even let the butcher in the kitchen.’
‘She asked me in for afternoon tea.’
His mother looked surprised. ‘That was nice of her.’
‘Well, sort of. She wanted to talk to me. Because I saw that bloke, the Japanese —’
‘Joey!’
‘She believes me, Mum! But she’s sort of crazy about it too. She thinks the Japanese are up in the hills and coming down to the town at night and stealing all the cats and eating them.’
His mother bit her lip, for once speechless.
‘The Japanese don’t eat cats do they, Mum?’
‘Not that I’ve ever heard of … no, of course not. She’s probably got so many cats she can’t keep track of them. Or they just want a bit of freedom … I did hear something about some people who ate dogs, but that wasn’t the Japanese. I don’t think they eat meat at all much. I remember someone saying something in Bible class once. What was it? About them eating seaweed and raw fish, and rice, of course. But not cats. Which reminds me, a rice pudding for dinner tonight. You like rice pudding, don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Joey. ‘I hate it. Mum, is it all right if I visit her again. I mean I said I would,’ he said apologetically. ‘She might be barmy and all but she’s pretty lonely …’ he broke off.
‘It’s all right,’ said his mother gently. ‘And I won’t make rice pudding if you don’t like it. I didn’t realise … well, never mind. How about a passionfruit flummery? There’s still time for it to set if we stick it out on the back step in the breeze. Of course, we’d have to go easy on the
sugar, I don’t want to upset Lallie again, but the passionfruit are sweet enough this time of year and there’s plenty on the vine and —’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Joey. He kissed her cheek.
Was Miss Tidcombe eating the leftover scones, he wondered, as he put his schoolcase away in their room and took his homework out, all alone in the house behind the hedge?
It was just his luck, of course. The one person in town who believed him was barmy.
chapter ten
Saturday
* * *
From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942
DRAPER GIRLS PUT ON SHOW FOR WAR EFFORT
Last Tuesday Biscuit Creek residents were treated to a performance of ‘The Sheik of Araby’ at the Hall performed by the employees of Mutton’s Drapery.
Our good friend Daphne played the sheik and received catcalls from the audience, while Mrs Brian McDougal played the part of the bell-boy in another scene. Millie Whistlethwaite entertained us with her yodelling and Mrs Raymond Rowell did a good job with her banjo.
After a most enjoyable evening, supper was served. Mrs McDougal has informed me that the evening raised over six pounds for the Comfort Fund. Keep it up ladies!
* * *
‘How many eggs this morning Lallie?’ Mum’s voice called from the kitchen
‘Two, but don’t you trouble with them, Feemie. I’ll put breakfast on as soon as I’ve taken my curler’s out.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ called Mum firmly. ‘Don’t you bother with breakfast this morning, Lallie.’
‘It’s no bother.’ Lallie stuck her head through the door. Small tight curls wriggled down half her scalp; the other half was still bound up in curlers. ‘Well, if you must. Don’t use the eggs on the lefthand side, they’re yesterday’s. Use the old ones on the right and make sure the pan is hot.’
‘I can make scrambled eggs,’ Mum pointed out.
‘Of course,’ said Lallie doubtfully. The head disappeared. ‘And don’t forget to soak the pan as soon as you take the eggs out, otherwise the crust’ll stick.’
Soldier on the Hill Page 4