War's End

by Victoria Bowen

  I had spent some time thinking about how Mum would know if the box had been touched. I watched when she polished it every second week and I reckoned she checked it for fingerprints before she did. Now, I pulled my nightie up and using it like an oven cloth I opened it. Inside, screwed to the lid was a silver plaque with an inscription.

  To Elizabeth Owen

  from her loving husband Harold

  15.12.1914

  And then there were all the letters she’d had from Dad, each one put back into its envelope. He sent us postcards from time to time but Mum always got a proper letter. I opened the top one and got as far as ‘Dearest Liz’ when I realised that perhaps I shouldn’t have opened the box after all.

  Auntie Bea lived in Melbourne and she was a nurse. Mum had only skimmed through her last letter because she was busy getting the house ready for Dad, but she thought there had been a lot in it about the flu over there. And she was right. Once you got over the smell of the stuff the Post Office had sprayed over it, the letter proved, Mum said, to be invaluable.

  Auntie Bea wrote about being tired all the time. The doctors and nurses never stopped, she said. The smell of carbolic was all pervasive, she said; sheets and pillowcases were washed in it, her uniforms were washed in it, she washed her hands in it. The hospitals were overflowing. The doctors didn’t know how to cure the flu, so really, wrote Auntie Bea, it was commonsense nursing. She spent her time sponging patients to keep their temperatures down and trying to get them to take liquids. On top of that they were changing nightdresses and pyjamas and sheets all the time. Doctors were sure the flu was passed on in the air, so everyone working with the sick wore masks. And they were washed in carbolic, too. She mentioned that one doctor had been using a new powder called ‘aspirin’. It didn’t cure anything but it seemed to quieten the patient and sometimes it brought their temperature down. In its way, Auntie Bea wrote, it was a miracle.

  And so we set about saving Jack, who knew nothing about it. And I must say saving someone with the pneumonic influenza is a messy and very tiresome business.

  Martha and me had to get dressed straightaway. We were not to go near Jack but were to get breakfast ready for ourselves and wait at the table until Mum could sort out what needed doing.

  Before she did that, Pa fetched some warm water in a basin and Mum wiped Jack’s face and opened his pyjamas and washed his chest too. Then she dried him down and sat down next to him holding a washer over his forehead. From Jack’s end of the verandah she called out to us what she needed and Martha wrote it down as a list.

  I must say it was a good long list. We needed to make masks and coveralls like the nurses had, to make more sheets – ‘drawsheets’ the paper called them – and to make chest poultices if we had to. We needed to find the old macintosh and round up all the hot water bottles. I was to go through the mending to sort out anything too far gone that Mum could use as wash cloths or swabs. Jack needed more blankets, so Martha and me were to use our dressing gowns and give our second blankets to Jack. We were to pick lemons. We were to stock up on Oxo cubes and jellies from Mrs Chapman.

  ‘We’ve been making masks at school,’ I volunteered. It was a change from the years of knitting for soldiers.

  ‘Right, Nellie,’ Mum said, ‘you go in to town with Martha and while she’s in at the Post Office you go into Boans and buy as much muslin and cheap calico as you think we’ll need to make, say, six masks and three coveralls and three drawsheets. I think they’re just a bit shorter than an ordinary sheet. If sheeting is cheaper, get that. If they ask what it’s for just say you’re lining something for your sister to wear – you can think of something. Oh, and some tape, too. Get my purse from the bedroom and count out what you think you’ll need, but be careful.’

  ‘Dad,’ she said turning to Pa, ‘do you mind walking up to Evans’s and getting the aspirin powder? You can always say I’ve come down with a headache because of Harry.’

  Pa looked at her.

  ‘Dad, we can’t let anyone guess the truth and they’re only small lies.’

  Martha and me sat close together on the train.

  ‘I’m scared,’ I whispered.

  ‘Me too,’ Martha whispered back.

  ‘Is Mum doing the right thing?’ I needed reassurance. ‘Pa doesn’t think so.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ answered Martha. ‘But you know how Mum is about having Dad home.’

  ‘I’m scared Jack’ll die and I’m scared I’ll get it and die too.’

  Martha reached over and patted my hand. ‘Mum’ll be thinking more clearly by the time we get home. We’ll work out something. And Jack’s not going to die and you’re not going to die, Nell. Mum won’t let that happen.’

  It didn’t take long to get what I needed. The woman at the counter wasn’t the least bit interested in what I was buying. Perhaps it was too hard to talk through her mask.

  Martha proved to be such a good fibber that Jack’s boss took a good fifteen minutes telling her how to deal with bad cuts. He didn’t say anything about Jack having a job when he got better.

  ‘He really is a puffed-up know-all,’ Martha said blowing up her cheeks and putting her hands on her hips. ‘I bet he thinks he is perfect.’

  As Martha and me were walking down the street from the station, Billy ran out from the newsagents. I stopped but Martha kept on walking home.

  ‘Sorry about your dad,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘Mum’s upset most. It’s really not all that bad. He’ll just be an extra week, that’s all.’ I had a thought. ‘Though Mum’s expecting us all to stay in and be sad with her.’

  Sherlock Holmes would be proud of my red herring.

  ‘Tell you what, Nell.’ You could see Billy was trying to think of a treat for me to get over Dad’s not coming home. ‘Why not sneak out tomorrow and we’ll go up to the station to watch the death train come in. It’ll make a change from sitting around feeling sad.’

  I’ve never done that. Some of the boys had, but the girls wouldn’t. I’d be the first one to do it. Now that I had an interest in death I thought I should.

  We agreed that Billy would be in the back lane the next day at the right time and I’d sneak out and meet him there. If I wasn’t there he was to come back the next day and the next day until I could get away. I wanted to tell him about Jack, but Mum had said no one was to know. Funny how it’s turned out that me and Martha are both good fibbers.

  WHEN I GOT HOME PA WAS KNEELING NEXT TO JACK’S bed holding him up while spooning some water down his throat.

  ‘That’s the first of the aspirin,’ Pa said. With a faint smile he added, ‘Mr Evans said Mum could take a quarter of a teaspoon twice a day.’

  Auntie Em was standing outside on the back lawn. She looked worried and was whispering loudly at Mum.

  ‘You can’t do this, Liz,’ she said waving her arms around. ‘You’ll be found out and you know what happens then. There was that man over in Subi who hopped over the back fence and went to the pub. He was fined five pounds for breaking quarantine. None of us have that sort of money.’

  ‘I can do it, and I will, Em,’ answered Mum. ‘We can have Jack right by the time Harry gets here.’

  ‘You don’t even know when he’ll be here.’ Auntie Em was having trouble not shouting.

  ‘No, but I do know this is what I have do.’

  ‘What about your other kids, Liz? What are you going to do when they come down with it too?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Em,’ snapped Mum. ‘I’ve worked that out. They won’t go near Jack and I’ll be as careful as the nurses in the hospital. We’ve just bought all the stuff we need to keep ourselves safe. The only problem we’ll have is if you tell on us.’

  Auntie Em looked at Pa who had just come from the verandah. He shrugged.

  ‘Well, don’t expect me to help you in this foolishness.’ And Auntie Em turned on her heels and left.

  ‘She’ll be back,’ said Pa putting his arm around Mum. ‘And she’s right too,
you know.’

  You could see Mum was about to say something but she held back.

  ‘Now, Liz,’ he went on, ‘go and get Nell organised while I keep an eye on Jack.’

  Mum and me measured out the calico for three drawsheets. And, I couldn’t believe it, Mum said not to bother hemming them. She asked if I could manage the overalls on my own. Nothing special, just to keep her covered from neck to toe. They didn’t have to be neat. Nobody would see them, we hoped. But the first things had to be the masks. Two pieces of gauze one on top of the other, big enough to cover Mum’s face from just under her chin to just under her eyes, a layer of cotton wool, and then another two layers on top. They had to be edged and tape attached long enough to tie them behind her head.

  Pa came by just as I was finishing the first one.

  ‘Make a few extras for me too please, Nellie. Your mum’s not going to be able to do this all on her own, no matter what she thinks. And this afternoon, while school’s still in, hop up to the post office and have a look at the list of where the inoculation centres are this week.’

  Martha had already gone around to Billy’s mum to buy some writing paper and to mention in passing how bad Mum had taken Dad’s not coming home – how she wasn’t really up to seeing anyone.

  Between Billy’s mum, Auntie Em and Mrs Evans, everyone would know in an hour or so that Mum was to be left alone.

  I could see through the kitchen door into the verandah and I watched Mum and Pa lift Jack off his bed onto an old blanket on the floor. It was scary to see how thin he was. He’d been thin before but now he was shrinking into himself. Mum put the old macintosh she’d found at the back of her wardrobe onto the bed and a new drawsheet over it.

  ‘It’ll be scratchy,’ she said, ‘but that can’t be helped.’

  Then they put Jack back into bed. When Mum saw me watching, she shooed me back to the sewing machine.

  Mum made up a bucket of carbolic and washed her hands and arms in it before coming into the kitchen for a cup of tea. She and Martha made a list of food and Martha went out shopping again. Mum sipped at her tea sitting at the end of the table so she could see Jack though the kitchen door.

  ‘The boy needs his privacy,’ said Pa. ‘Everyone going in and out the back door through his bedroom isn’t right. Not to mention that he should be isolated. There’s planking and forming up in the shed that Harry put aside before he went away; we’ll make a room out of one end of the verandah. I’ve been thinking about it for a while but decided it was best to wait for Harry and make a decent job of it. But now …’ He trailed off into his own thoughts.

  I finished the cutting-out and sewing. They were bad jobs, not finished properly, but Mum didn’t care when I pointed that out. ‘Just as long as they hold together for as long as we need them,’ she said as she gathered them up. I wish she’d said that about some of the other things she’d made me do over and over until they were just right.

  Pa spent the rest of the day in Dad’s shed measuring and cutting the two-by-threes to form Jack’s wall. When he brought them into the house, Mum held them for him while he nailed them into place.

  ‘It’s a botchy job, Liz,’ he said. ‘Harry will have to do it properly when he gets home.’

  It was too dark for him to do any more that day, so when I went out of the kitchen that night there was Jack in his bed cut into squares by the forming. Mum had tucked him in so only his neck and face were showing and he was lying as still as one of those statues on top of the tombs in old England. I couldn’t see him breathing.

  I wanted to put my hand on his chest to feel if it was still rising and falling. But Mum had been very clear.

  ‘Listen, you two,’ she’d said. ‘You’re not to go into Jack’s room. Not under any circumstances. When you need to go outside, you hold your nose and rush from the kitchen door straight off the verandah. If I catch you dawdling or breathing in, you’ll get what for.’

  So I called, ‘Mum, Mum, come and look at Jack. I don’t think he’s breathing.’

  Pa was there immediately. ‘Your Mum’s napping, Nell. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Look. Look at Jack. You can’t see him breathing.’

  ‘Of course he’s breathing,’ snapped Pa. But he went in and placed his hand just where I would have, and closed his eyes while he concentrated on feeling for Jack’s breath. It took forever before he turned and smiled. ‘He’s all right, Nell, just not breathing deeply. I’ll ask your Mum if she thinks we should raise him up a bit.’

  For no reason my legs began wobbling and I couldn’t stand up. Pa came over and pulled me up from the crouch I’d settled in, shaking. He held me close and whispered, ‘We’re all scared, Nellie. Scared for Jack, frightened where this might lead us. But Jack’s strong. He’ll pull through.’

  ‘Promise?’ I whispered into Pa’s old cardigan, knowing that Jack wasn’t strong. That he was already worn out.

  ‘I can’t promise, Nellie,’ he answered. ‘No one can see around a corner, but we’re going to do everything we can to make sure he doesn’t die.’

  And there was that word. The word no one had mentioned as if it could really happen. Only Pa had the courage to say it like that.

  Something settled in me. Naming things, I saw, was important. It was the nameless that was frightening. And here was Mum, bleary-eyed, reaching for her infection gown ready to go back and sit with Jack for the first part of the night. She wouldn’t let him die.

  Pa went outside to bring in more wood to see the stove through the night – to add a little warmth to the house and to keep the kettle hot. It was then Jack did something more than pretend not to breathe. He started gasping for air, his head back, his chest heaving, as he took short loud breaths trying to draw in all the air he could.

  ‘Oh my God,’ whispered Mum, ‘he can’t breathe.’ And she gathered him up, holding him close to warm him up. ‘Nell, make a poultice, quick.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t know how,’ I cried.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ she answered, holding Jack closer, trying to pass the heat from her body into his. ‘Cut up a couple of onions. Not too small; don’t try to be neat. Put them into the frying pan with a bit of castor oil and stir them. Let me know when they’re just a bit soft.’

  Martha came out of the bedroom. ‘What’s happening? Is Jack all right?’

  ‘Give Nell a hand, Martha,’ called Mum.

  I’ve never moved so fast, cutting up onions in any which way, tossing them into the pan with the oil. All the time Jack gasped and struggled against Mum.

  ‘Stir them, Martha,’ Mum said, ‘while Nell gets some left-over calico.’

  I scooted into the living room where the sewing machine was still set up and grabbed some pieces of material.

  ‘Lay them on the table, Nell. Two pieces on top of each other. Done that? Are the onions soft yet? Put a couple of tablespoons of flour on them now.’

  And a couple of minutes later, while Martha was still stirring, ‘That’ll do. Now, tip in some vinegar.’

  Some? How much is some?

  I upended the bottle and let it slurp out until the onion was covered. The pan was spitting, Martha’s and my eyes were watering from the onions, and the smell was awful.

  ‘Try to mash it up a bit, Nell,’ was the next instruction. And then, ‘Take the pan off the stove and empty it on top of the calico. Put it in the middle so you can wrap the edges around … Got it?

  ‘Good girl, bring it out here, carefully. Not too close.’

  Mum laid Jack gently back on the bed, opened his pyjama top and took the compress from me. It was amazing. From the moment she put it on his chest Jack started to quieten, his breathing evened out and he seemed to relax.

  Mum wasn’t relaxed. She started to shake. It must have been only fifteen minutes or so but she looked as if she’d fought a battle. Perhaps she had. Martha started towards her.

  ‘No,’ said Mum. ‘I’m all right. I’d rather you not come close.’

  But when Pa came back in
with the wood, she let him hold her and pat her back.

  Not for long, though.

  ‘One more thing, Nell,’ said Mum. ‘Put some Condy’s crystals in the jug and stir in enough water to make a very pale pink drink for all of us. Then you and Martha both have a good gargle before you go to bed. Make sure you don’t swallow it.’

  It didn’t taste too good but Mum insisted it would help keep the flu away.

  Martha blew out her hurricane lamp and turned off the dull overhead light. She suggested I get into bed with her, and she wrapped her arms around me while we both shivered, from shock as much as cold.

  ‘I’m sure if he can pull through that, Jack can pull through anything,’ whispered Martha.

  But I remembered how thin Jack was and how Pa couldn’t promise anything. And as we both lay not sleeping, I understood Martha knew that too.

  That night set the pattern for the nights after. Mum and Pa would take it in turns to go to bed for a nap. The signal for one to rise from the chair next to Jack’s bed and stretch was the sound of the fire being stoked and the kettle coming to the boil. Onions were always ready by the stove and the pan handy. Mum and Pa only had to make compresses a couple more times when the night really set in and it was cold, but, said Mum, it was never as frightening as that first time.

  Pa had Martha and me up early the morning after Jack’s first fright. ‘What time does the inoculation centre open, Nell?’ he asked.

  ‘Early, I think, so people can go on their way to work.’

  ‘Then the pair of you get going as soon as your mum is settled with Jack.’

  Me and Martha walked up to Leederville and stood in line to be inoculated. It hurt like billy-o and it took all my nerve not to cry. The nurse doing it wanted to know where our parents were and Martha proved just how good a liar she was becoming.

  ‘Our father is still on the troopship coming home,’ she said, ‘and Mum has to look after our old grandfather. She’ll come up in the next few days when we can keep an eye on Pa for her.’