by Louis Nowra
One afternoon I took Prince to Casey’s room, which hadn’t changed a bit. Prince sniffed the bed and under it, as if searching for Casey. When he couldn’t find him he looked up at me, frowning, as if hoping I could supply the answer to the mystery. He stood before the bed for a minute or so as if trying to fathom his master’s disappearance. Then he walked over to the locker and scratched at the door. What is it, Prince? I asked.
When he turned and looked at me with wide, questioning eyes, I immediately realised that he could hear. He was no longer deaf. I felt such a joy that it was as if my insides were flooded with light.
He scratched again and I opened the door. The locker was empty except for an object on the top shelf. I grabbed it and showed Prince, who gave a sharp bark of joy. It was a square rubber ball.
14
Emerald Creek looks the same. Most of the shops have closed, but the main store and hotel are still open. I turn the car off the main street and we drive up a winding gravel road. Beyond us is the snow-capped mountain, steam rising from it into the cold air. I glance at Prince sitting next to me. His curious eyes take in this new countryside. The fur is growing back over his healed wounds. His hearing is better but he still has a slight limp. It’s typical of Prince that he doesn’t seem too troubled by it.
We drive up a muddy track to the house. It still looks exactly the same. My father built it himself out of sandstone slabs and planted fruit trees in the back yard. The house stands alone on a small hill, weather-worn and looking older than it really is. We stop and get out of the car. I shiver in the cold air. The sky is a bright, fresh blue. I recognise the signs; it won’t be long before it begins to snow.
I push open the rusty gate and Prince rushes up the white gravel path. Dad knows we are coming but I still feel nervous. How will he greet me? Has he forgiven me for joining the army? I knock, as if at a stranger’s house. I hear his heavy, even footsteps coming down the hallway. There is a pause, almost as if he is taking a deep breath like me, and the door opens. He looks weary, as if he hasn’t slept for days. He stares at me and then at Prince, almost as if he can’t decide we are real. I know I have to be the first to speak. Hello, Dad. This is Prince. We’ve come home.
He steps aside and motions us in. The house is warm from an open fire. He follows us into the living room and I hear him laughing. It surprises me. I turn around, wondering what he finds so funny, only to realise he is weeping. Before I can recover he leaps at me, almost as if wanting to hit me, but his arms wrap around me in a hug so tight I can barely breathe. I hug him and weep. You’re alive! You’re alive! he keeps on saying.
Once we stop crying and step away from each other, I realise it is the first time we’ve touched one another in years. A little embarrassed by our intimacy, Dad looks down at Prince, who is frowning, not understanding what is happening. So this is the famous Prince I saw in the papers.
We join him in his study. Without a word, he places a glass of soda water on the floor before Prince, hands me a whisky and then pours one for himself. We clink glasses. Welcome home, the both of you, he says. We drink in silence while Prince laps up his water. I don’t mind my father not talking because I sense his emotions are so deep that no words can explain them, and I feel the same. With a contented sigh, Prince lies down at my feet.
When I take Prince out into the front garden my insides are pleasantly warm. I grab his favourite toy from the car. I hide it behind my back and pretend I don’t have it, but he knows. He jumps up and down in the same spot, eager to play. The winter sunlight catches his eyes, and they’re a beautiful sparkling blue. I feel something wet land on my nose and look up. Snow is starting to fall and is dusting the garden white. I hold out the square ball and Prince barks with eagerness. I throw it across the lawn in a high arc. He runs after it, watching its flight, and then when it bounces leaps at it, missing, as it shoots off sharply in an unexpected direction. But on the second leap he grabs it.
Watching him trot proudly back to me, the square ball in his mouth, I feel a rush of love. And I think he feels the same. We’re now inseparable and I cannot imagine life without him. He begins to run in ever smaller circles around me, his whole being filled with joy. I laugh with happiness. For us the war is over.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This story is fiction, though I consulted many books and articles during the writing of it. The best sources were American and English accounts of the war, most of them written by exceptional journalists and soldiers. A character like Ghulam, for example, is based on a fleeting description by a British reporter. There have been few such revealing and unflinching books written by Australians and it was difficult, if not impossible, to gain information I wanted from the Australian army, so Mark’s medical kit, for instance, is based on that used by American dog handlers.
My wife, Mandy Sayer, gave me wonderful advice.
And a special thank you to Sarah Brenan for her painstaking and astute editing. All the mistakes are mine.
LOUIS NOWRA is a playwright, novelist and screenwriter. He lives in Sydney with his wife, the writer Mandy Sayer, and their dogs, Coco, a Chihuahua, and Basil, a miniature Pinscher. They live in Kings Cross, a place he has written about extensively in his recent Kings Cross: A biography. His previous YA novel was Into That Forest.