chapter twenty - five
Dreams
* * *
From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942
AIR RAID SIRENS TESTED
Yesterday tests of the new Biscuit Creek air raid sirens were carried out by Constables Picker and Lennox, of the Special Technical Branch, Melbourne.
They stated that they thought that although the siren was heard over a fairly wide area, it did not cover all the residential areas of Biscuit Creek. Adjustments would be made and it is expected …
* * *
Dad was playing cricket in the backyard in Sydney. The bougainvillea on the fence was in flower, a splash of purple against the grey white clouds. Dad wore white trousers and a white shirt, and his cap was white as well. He grinned at Joey as he held the bat up high. ‘That’s the way, young Joe!’
Joey lifted the ball and bowled as hard as he could. But, in spite of all his strength behind it, the ball still travelled slowly, slowly, slowly. And Dad just stood there as if it would never quite get to him.
The bougainvillea faded. The backyard faded. And suddenly Dad was on a hillside, and there was jungle all around — long vines like on Tarzan, and strange, tall trees and elephants trumpeting far away. Should there be elephants? Joey didn’t know.
Dad had stopped laughing. He was running, running, running. There were people after him, and dogs. No, it was just one dog. The dog was Meg, but this Meg had long white fangs, she was tearing at his ankles. Dad’s face was anguished, full of pain …
‘Joey,’ called Dad. ‘Joey, Joey, Joey …’ but Joey couldn’t answer, it was as though his throat had all collapsed.
‘Joey, Joey, Joey.’
Suddenly it was him with Meg. He grabbed Meg close, and she was Meg again and Dad turned round.
But it wasn’t Dad. It was the soldier on the hill.
‘Joey,’ he said gently. ‘Joey, Joey, Joey …’
‘Joey! Joey! Wake up, love.’
‘Mum, what is it?’
‘You were crying out in your sleep.’
‘Was … was I? I was having a dream.’
‘A bad one?’
‘I …’ Joey stopped, and tried to gather his thoughts. He didn’t want to tell Mum about his dream. He didn’t want to tell anyone at all.
‘I’ve forgotten,’ he lied. ‘Mum, could I have a glass of water?’
Mum nodded. She slipped down the hallway, then came back with a glass.
Joey drank it thirstily. It was tank water, and it tasted different to the water in Sydney, a sort of sweet taste of tadpoles and hot roof.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Think you can sleep now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodnight then, love. Sweet dreams this time.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ said Joey.
chapter twenty - six
Telegrams
* * *
From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942
USEFUL HINTS FOR BISCUIT CREEK RESIDENTS
In case of an air raid, the head of the house must take command, and everyone in the family must know what to do.
It must be emphasised that it is very dangerous to stay in the open air in an air raid and to not take cover. Even such protection as offered by doorways, balconies, tables, and furniture against walls, is better than remaining in the street. Bodily contact with a wall however should be avoided as there is danger of injury being sustained through the earth shock set up by an exploding bomb.
If no shelter of any form is available, the person should throw himself flat, face downwards, supporting the head on the folded arms. It must be stressed that it is very dangerous to catch or touch any object dropped from the air.
* * *
The first frost had melted under the last of autumn’s sun, but the cold scent lingered in the gardens of Biscuit Creek. Joey sniffed. ‘Sydney never smelt like this,’ he said.
‘It’s the school dunnies,’ said Myrtle. ‘They always freeze when we get a frost and then they stink when they heat up. You wait till it gets really cold. Sometimes you can’t use them till the afternoon. I like the cold though. It makes my nose stop running.’
‘What does everyone do if the dunnies are frozen?’
‘Cross their legs and wait,’ said Myrtle. She kicked a wilted patch of grass in front of her. ‘I miss the bike,’ she said.
‘I’ll pump up the tyre tonight. I just didn’t have time this morning. Hey, look, there’s the telegram boy. I’d hate to be a telegram boy nowadays. It must be the most rotten job in the world.’
‘Mmmm,’ agreed Myrtle. ‘Mum says she shivers whenever he rides by, in case he’s coming in to her.’
‘Maybe it’s good news this time. Maybe someone’s won the lottery!’
‘What, in Biscuit Creek?’
‘Well, it could happen. Or someone’s rich aunt in England’s died and left them a million pounds.’
‘Or their dog has won Miss Beach Girl 1942. You do talk rot sometimes.’ Her eyes followed the telegram boy’s bicycle down the street. ‘Where’s he going this time?’
‘Dunno. I bet he’s going to turn into the main street. See, I can always tell.’
‘Joey …’ Myrtle began to hurry.
‘Hey, Myrt, what’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’ Myrtle almost ran to the corner. ‘No. Oh no.’
‘Myrtle, what’s …’
‘He’s going into the shop,’ whispered Myrtle.
Mrs Gleeson was sitting at the counter when Myrtle rushed through the door, Joey close behind her. The yellow telegram lay beside the sticky buns in front of her. The kitten was on her lap, purring softly, but she didn’t seem to see it, though her hands were stroking it, over and over and over.
She looked up as they came in.
‘Go and wake your father up dear,’ she said quietly to Myrtle.
‘But … but Mum.’
‘Go and wake your father up,’ Mrs Gleeson repeated.
‘Mum, what does the telegram say?’
Mrs Gleeson raised empty eyes. ‘Your father should hear the news first,’ she said clearly. ‘He’s the head of the house, so it’s right …’ Her voice trailed away.
Myrtle glanced at Joey. He nodded. Myrtle slipped behind the curtain into the corridor behind. Joey crossed over to Mrs Gleeson.
Should he take her hand, he wondered. Or maybe tea. In first aid at school they said you should give sweet tea to victims of shock. Maybe Mrs Gleeson was suffering from shock. Where was the stove, the kettle, the tea caddy …
He glanced at the telegram. The printing was stark on the yellow paper. ‘It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that …’
Mrs Gleeson looked up at him. ‘It’s Fred,’ she said simply. ‘There are no details. They never put details in a telegram, do they? Maybe they’ll send a letter later. I couldn’t tell Myrtle, of course. It wouldn’t be right before her father knew.’ Her voice sounded empty, as though now she had started to talk there was no energy to stop.
‘He’s head of the house you see. And Fred was always his pet. They say you shouldn’t have pets, but Fred was so like him. Always with his Dad right from the first, his hands in the flour. He had a fine hand with puff pastry. His father said you’re born with it or not.’
‘Mother … Mother, what’s going on?’
Mr Gleeson’s fingers fumbled as he tried to knot the belt of his dressing gown. They were long, white fingers. They looked strong and soft. He stopped as he saw the telegram.
‘It’s young Fred,’ said Mrs Gleeson. ‘It’s Fred, Father. The Germans have got him. They killed our Fred.’
Joey stood there helplessly as Myrtle began to cry.
The telegram boy passed him again as Joey walked slowly home. How many telegrams did he have to deliver, Joey wondered? How did he stand it, day after day? He was just a kid, not much older than him, even if he had left school. But there must be some good telegrams even in war. There must …
His bike gleamed among the ferns. He
didn’t feel up to pumping the tyre now. He climbed the steps wearily.
Maths homework tonight. He didn’t mind maths. At least maths made sense — there was nothing unpredictable in maths. And then a bath.
‘Mum! Mum, I’m home. Mum, it was horrible … I was down at the bakery and they got this telegram, and it said that …’ Joey hesitated.
Mum sat by the kitchen table. There was something yellow in her hand.
‘Mum.’ Joey couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘I’ve been expecting it,’ said Mum calmly. ‘I always knew he was dead, Joey. Somehow I could feel it, even before that first telegram came up in Sydney. Even when the troopship pulled away. I looked at all the women crying and waving and cheering and I thought, every one of us thinks her man will come back. Then suddenly I knew. Way back then, I knew.’
‘But. But he’s missing,’ said Joey stupidly. ‘He can’t be dead if he’s missing.’
Mum almost smiled. ‘Yes, he can Joey. Someone must have seen him die, in all the confusion up in Singapore, and then when they escaped they told someone, so it’s official now. Maybe we’ll hear more later. They usually write, if they can.’
‘But Mum … oh Mum.’
Mum held her arms out. ‘It’s all right, Joey. We’ll be right. It’s just like it was before, he’s been gone for so long now.’
‘But he wasn’t really gone before! He was coming back!’
‘Well, he’s not coming back darling.’ Mum clenched her fists. ‘Oh Joey, it’s not fair! It’s just not fair! Your Dad had everything he wanted here. His family, his job, his house, his cricket. It wasn’t as though he wanted so very much! Why did they have to take him so far away?’
‘Mum …’
Mum relaxed her fists deliberately.
‘Shh. I’m sorry. It won’t hurt so much soon, love. We have to believe that. Some day we’ll be able to look back and just remember all the good things. Not the pain, not the …’ Her voice broke. ‘I wish Lallie would come home,’ she whispered. ‘Lallie’s good in a crisis. Lallie will know what we should do.’
They held each other till Aunt Lallie’s steps sounded on the stairs.
chapter twenty - seven
Biscuits
* * *
From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942
Mrs Allen Smith and Master Joseph Smith wish to return sincere thanks to all kind friends for letters, telegrams, cards and other expressions of sympathy in connection with the death of their dear husband and father, Lieutenant A. Smith. A memorial service will be held …
* * *
‘I’m sorry about your father, matey,’ said Joe.
‘Thanks,’ said Joey awkwardly. Everyone had been saying that for days, but it still didn’t get any easier to know what to say. ‘Sorry I haven’t been out for a while. Things are a bit …’
‘Yeah, I reckon,’ said Joe. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Joey. I’m fine on me ownsome. Got all the meat I need and milk and vegies. Me and Meg could last the war out here. Myrtle not with you today?’
‘No. She had to mind the shop. Her Mum’s taken Fred’s death pretty hard.’
‘They say it’s the hardest thing of all,’ said Joe slowly. ‘To outlive a child. Coming inside?’
‘No.’ Joey hesitated. ‘I thought I’d go up the hill a bit.’
‘Still after your soldier? Or just want to mooch about by yourself for a bit? I know how you feel,’ said Joe. ‘Everyone means well enough but sometimes if someone says one more thing you think you’ll scream, and all you want is quiet. Off you pop then.’
‘Thanks,’ said Joey.
The afternoons were shorter now. Already the shadows were dark purple and beginning to stretch across the hill. It’d be dusk in half an hour or so. Joey forced himself to walk faster.
Up the ridge, then to the right; he could see the boulders now, glowing grey between the trees.
Was the soldier watching from up on his hill? Somehow Joey felt he was. This had been his hill for so long now that the soldier would know everything that happened here.
Joey stopped. He checked the package in his hand. Yes, it was all right. He looked around.
There was another rock just before the boulders. It was almost flattish, half buried in the ground. Joey walked towards it. Yes, it would do.
Joey laid the package carefully on the rock, then stood up straight.
‘Hello!’ he yelled. ‘Hello, hello, hello.’
‘ello … ello … ellloooo …’ The sound echoed across the hills.
‘I’ve brought you something. It’s biscuits. Biscuits for you.’
He wouldn’t understand, thought Joey. But it didn’t matter. He’d have attracted his attention. The soldier would come and investigate the package, as soon as Joey had gone back down the hill.
Joey stood among the trees.
‘My Dad is dead,’ said Joey after a while. ‘Everyone says they’re sorry, but no one really understands. Even I don’t understand. Not really. But you do. You know what it’s like to be like Dad, to be alone among your enemies.’ Joey paused again. ‘I know you don’t speak English,’ he added finally. ‘But it doesn’t matter. Maybe you understand anyway.’
A shred of bark fluttered to the ground. Even the birds were silent.
‘Thank you,’ called Joey at last. ‘I never thanked you before. I’m sorry. Thank you.’
‘…ank you, ank you, ank you …’ came the echo.
Joey turned and began to walk back towards the paddocks and the small grey roof below. He didn’t look back.
chapter twenty - eight
Explaining to Myrtle
* * *
From the Biscuit Creek Gazette, 1942
BLISSFUL IGNORANCE
A South African on leave from Syria tells how one day during the first British advance he and a companion were told to drive a tarpaulin-covered truck to a certain point in the desert. When they had covered a few miles they were suddenly attacked by Stuka dive bombers.
In the absence of other cover they dived under the lorry. Spurts of dust kicked up all around and they could hear the whine of bullets ricocheting off the metal of the lorry.
Allied fighters arrived and the Stukas departed. ‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ exclaimed the soldiers as they climbed back into the lorry. They reached their destination soon after and stood by while the lorry was unloaded.
It was full of bombs.
* * *
‘You what?’
‘Shh, pipe down.’ Joey glanced around the playground. ‘Everyone will hear you!’
‘So what? Are you bonkers or something? You left biscuits for a Japanese soldier? It’s probably illegal or something! They’ll put you in prison or court martial you.’
‘That’s just for soldiers!’
‘Well, they’d do something anyway.’
‘Why?’ demanded Joey.
‘Aiding the enemy, you nitwit.’
‘Giving him biscuits isn’t going to help him much,’ said Joey. ‘I just wanted to thank him or something.’
Myrtle sighed. She screwed up her greaseproof paper and threw it over into the paper bin. ‘I still think you’ve got bats in the attic. What do you think the other kids’d say if they found out! We’re supposed to be tracking him down, not giving him biscuits.’
‘I don’t want to track him down any more,’ said Joey stubbornly. ‘He can’t do any harm up there.’
‘I suppose not …’ admitted Myrtle. ‘Maybe he’s not even there anymore,’ she added hopefully. ‘I bet he’s gone back towards the coast.’
‘He’s still there,’ said Joey matter-of-factly.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because the next day the biscuits were gone.’
‘Course they were gone, wombat brain. A fox probably ate them, or a crow. Or maybe wallabies like biscuits.’
‘They wouldn’t have taken the paper, too. And anyway, the last time I left them —’
‘What?’ Myrtle stared a
t him. ‘How many times have you left food up there, Joey Smith?’
‘Six,’ admitted Joey. ‘But not biscuits every time. Once it was some apples, and some sandwiches — Mum said the Japanese eat lots of fish so they were fish paste sandwiches. And some left over rice pudding, but the paper went all squishy … Anyway, the last time I went up there, there was something on the rock.’
‘What?’ demanded Myrtle. ‘Wallaby droppings?’
‘No, this.’ Joey held out his hand.
The top was small, no bigger than a walnut, wide in the middle and tapering to a hard point at the end. The handle was roughly carved, though the base was smooth. ‘He must have used a rock or something to sandpaper it,’ said Joey softly.
‘You’re crazy! You think the Jap did that? How did he carve it, anyway?’
‘He must have a knife. All soldiers carry knives don’t they?’
‘I don’t know — not about Jap soldiers anyway.’ Myrtle hesitated. ‘Can I touch it?’
‘Sure.’ Joey handed it to her.
‘It works really well,’ he said. ‘You just hold the handle and sort of twiddle it.’
Myrtle lay the top on the hard-packed ground. She tweaked the handle. The top promptly fell over.
‘No, like this.’ Joey picked it up again. He flicked the handle expertly. Instantly the top spun to life, round and round and round, teetering along in the dirt, till finally it collapsed again in the dust. ‘It took me a few goes to try to get the knack. Want to try again?’
‘No …’ Myrtle looked at the top uncertainly. ‘He made that for you, didn’t he? It’s not the sort of thing a soldier carries with him.’
Joey nodded. ‘Maybe to thank me for the food.’
‘Or because he likes you,’ whispered Myrtle. ‘He saved your life, didn’t he?’
Joey put the top back in his pocket. ‘I just can’t keep hunting him now. I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm.’ He hesitated. ‘It must be horrible for him up there, all alone, never knowing when someone’s going to come hunting him, or try to shoot him. And no one to talk to ever. No bed or proper food.’
Soldier on the Hill Page 12