by Sue Lawson
We weaved through the Year 11 and 12s milling around the gate.
‘We on-line for a chat tonight?’ asked Bailey.
‘After five,’ said Laura. ‘I’m baby-sitting until Mum finishes work.’
‘Nah. I have to update my CPR at the surf club tonight.’ Dylan made out that being a lifesaver was a pain, but his eyes always lit up when he talked about it.
‘I’m in,’ said Ava.
‘Darcy?’ asked Bailey.
‘Can’t.’
Bailey put on his bike helmet. The straps hung to his shoulders like over-grown sideburns.
‘Sorry, Darce. I forgot about the “no computer” thing.’
‘It’s not just that, Mum’s coming home.’ At least, I hoped she was.
‘How’s she going?’ asked Ava.
‘Good.’ I looked at my feet.
‘Who could be bothered studying at her age?’ said Bailey, jumping onto his bike.
‘That’d suck,’ said Dylan.
They waved over their shoulders as they pedalled down the footpath.
Laura, Ava and I trudged up the hill towards the war memorial. There was a shorter way to Misery’s, but going this way meant I could walk part the way with my friends.
Words flowed from Ava’s mouth like water rushing from a tap.
While she talked about the new Jaded CD and a lip-gloss called Hooked, I stared ahead at the war memorial.
The granite wall at the back of the circular paved area was about the same height as my shoulder. A stone angel holding a wreath, stood on top a pillar in the middle of the wall. The angel had its back to the bay and overlooked Port Avenel.
An inscription on a brass plate bolted beneath the angel read:
Erected by the residents of Port Avenel Districts in memory of those who paid the supreme sacrifice. Dedicated 25th April 1950. Lest We Forget.
Engraved into the walls were row after row of gold names. There had to be at least 25 rows, 50 names in each. The blank walls—sections waiting for the next war-dead to have their names inscribed—sent chills down my arms.
I looked back to the lists of names. A splash of red stood out against the gold. Someone had stuck an artificial poppy beside a name. I walked towards the memorial. Maybe…
‘What are you doing, Darce?’ asked Ava from behind me.
‘Just looking.’
‘What at? The flower?’ Ava hopscotched across the pavers. ‘What’s the deal with those, anyway?’
‘Remembrance poppies,’ said Laura, now standing beside me. ‘They’re a symbol to help us remember the people who died in the war.’
‘Not like we can forget them with this thing looming over the city.’ Ava jerked her head at the angel on top of the memorial.
Laura ignored her. ‘So, what you are you looking at Darce?’
I avoided catching her eye. ‘Just something.’
Ava hopscotched across the pavers. ‘Don’t you reckon it’s weird that there’s nothing alive here. You know, no roses or anything. I thought Port Avenel was the Garden City.’
The spotted ribbon in Laura’s hair flickered in the breeze. ‘World War II names start here,’ she said pointing. ‘What was his name?’
‘Whose name?’ I asked, my face burning.
Laura rolled her eyes. ‘We both know what you’re looking for, Darce.’
‘Charlie Fletcher. Actually, it’s D C Fletcher.’
‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ asked Ava, hopping beside me.
‘My great-grandfather.’
‘But you’re Abbott.’
‘You’re an idiot, Ava,’ said Laura.
‘What?’ she squeaked, looking from me to Laura.
‘Charlie is Mum’s grandfather,’ I said.
‘Oh, right. I get it.’ said Ava, nodding. ‘That’s cool. I didn’t think there was anyone I knew on there. Nan’s dad died after the war. Nonna’s dad is buried in Italy.’
‘Here.’ Laura pointed at the gold ‘D C Fletcher’.
Ava peered over her shoulder. ‘So, C for Charlie. But what’s the D for?’
‘Darcy—Darcy Charles Fletcher. That’s where my name comes from.’
‘Are the Tanakas on here, Laura?’ asked Ava, walking towards the Ts.
‘Ava, think about it,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Laura’s dad is Japanese—Hal Tanaka.’
Ava’s eyes widened and her face flushed red. ‘Oh. I mean. Right. So like, your family was…’
‘The bad guys. Nips. Japs,’ said Laura. ‘The enemy.’
‘Well, that’s awkward,’ said Ava, shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other.
Laura and I burst out laughing.
Ava looked bewildered. ‘What? What did I say?’
Chapter Eight
Misery stood in the middle of the footpath, hands on her hips. I smiled and waved, like it was normal for her to scowl, outside her front fence.
She checked her watch and shook her head.
‘Sorry, Granny. Laura, Ava and I had stuff to do.’
Her lip curled. ‘Laura Tanaka?’
‘Yes.’
Misery folded her arms. ‘She’s not our type.’
My head jerked in her direction. ‘Excuse me?’
‘This Tanaka girl, she’s not like you. Her hair is appalling. And those clanking bracelets are ridiculous.’ Misery grimaced.
If Laura’s tipped hair and bracelets offended Misery, what would she make of The Triplet’s black eyeliner and nose studs? I stared at the cracks in the driveway as we walked down the path to the back veranda. ‘Laura and I have been best friends forever. She let her mum tip her hair, for practice.’
‘Julie.’ Misery sniffed.
I clenched my fists.
‘It won’t hurt you to have a break from that Tanaka girl.’
‘Laura.’
‘Yes, Laura. Give you a chance to make new friends.’ Misery strutted up the concrete steps to the back door.
Heat spread from my belly to my chest. ‘Granny, what is your problem with Laura and Julie?’
Misery glared down at me, her eyes as hard as concrete. ‘Watch yourself, young lady.’ She flung open the door and stalked inside, muttering.
The kitchen table was set with a floral cloth, china teacups and saucers, plates and a beanie that turned out to be a blue and green crocheted tea cosy covering the teapot.
Batty sat at the end of the table, a John le Carre novel open in front of her. The glasses perched on the end of her nose looked like they were just hanging on.
‘Hi, Grandma,’ I said, dumping my bag and sitting beside her.
Batty closed her book, but didn’t look at me.
‘How was school, Darcy?’ she asked.
Misery banged a plate of Granita biscuits on the table. She scuttled back to the bench, returning with a matching sugar bowl and milk jug and a tea strainer. Every move she made needled my simmering anger.
‘School was good, Grandma.’ I swallowed. ‘We started a new SOSE topic this week.’
‘What’s SOSE?’ asked Misery, turning the teapot.
‘Study of Society and Environment.’
‘Environment?’ Misery snorted.
I gritted my teeth.
Misery stopped spinning the pot and reached for the strainer. She held it over the cup and poured the tea. ‘What’s this new topic?’
‘World War…’ I bit into a biscuit, ‘Two.’
Batty’s book fell to the floor with a thud, followed by her plate.
Misery missed the cup and tea splashed over her hand and the table. She yelped and scurried to the sink to hold her hand under running water.
Batty bent down to retrieve her book and unbroken plate.
‘I’ll get them, Grandma,’ I said, reaching down.
‘Darcy, do you have homework?’ snapped Misery from the sink.
An answer danced on my tongue but one look at Misery’s stone face and Batty’s shaky hands and my answer withered. ‘I have an English report due next week.�
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‘Then you’d better get on with it.’
I scooped up my bag and left the kitchen.
Misery called after me. ‘Change out of your uniform and put it in the laundry.’
‘Please? Thank you? Kiss my butt?’ I muttered, trudging up the hall.
My uniform fell in a puddle at my feet. Misery’s stony face flashed into my head. I kicked my kilt, shirt and jumper into the corner. I’d take them to the laundry later.
My brain churned as I changed into my trackie pants and a hoodie.
How was I supposed to interview Misery and Batty if just saying World War II created that sort of chaos? First thing Monday, I’d tell The Newt to forget his stupid project.
And what was the deal with Misery hating Laura? No one hated Laura, not even Neanderthal.
Misery sucked.
SOSE sucked.
Most of all, Mum sucked. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be at home, listening to the sounds I loved most.
Waves crashing on the shore.
Mum singing eighties songs by bands with strange names like Hoodoo Gurus and Midnight Oil.
The phone ringing and Mum calling down the hall to say it was Loz.
Instead, all I could hear was Mrs Hardcastle’s yapping Maltese terrier and blackbirds scratching in the garden mulch.
And Misery.
‘Set the table, Darcy,’ called Misery from the kitchen.
I took a deep breath, hoping to settle the anger lashing inside me.
In the kitchen, Batty sat at the table shelling peas.
Misery’s knife slammed against the glass cutting board as she diced carrots.
‘Set the table,’ repeated Misery.
‘Yeah, I heard you the first time.’
Misery snapped, ‘The word is yes, Darcy.’
My nails bit into my palms. ‘Granny, did Mum call today to say when she’d be home?’
‘She phoned last night.’
‘Last night?’ I gripped the edge of the bench and my self-control. ‘Why didn’t you get me?’
‘You were in the shower.’
‘But you could have called me. I needed to talk to her.’
Misery stopped chopping, her knife poised above the pile of carrots. ‘And that childish attitude is why I told Maxine not to ring during the week.’ She shook her head and slammed the knife into another carrot.
My ears buzzed. ‘You told Mum not to ring?’ My voice was flat. Slow.
‘It’s time you thought about someone other than yourself, young lady.’
‘She’s my mother. You have no right to—’
Misery jerked around, like a viper about to strike. ‘And I’m her mother. I think I know what is best for my daughter.’
‘How? It’s not like you ever talk to her. You just order her around.’
Misery stepped forward, the colour draining from her face.
I moved back.
‘It’s through the goodness of my heart that you are staying here,’ she hissed.
‘Maxine has lessons this evening so she’ll be home first thing tomorrow, won’t she, Margaret?’ said Batty, hobbling to stand beside me.
Misery folded her arms. ‘Hurry up and set the table.’
‘I’ve got to go to the toilet,’ I said, my jaw tight. I walked past the toilet to the bedroom and shut the door.
A roaring sound filled my head. My skin felt too tight. That disgusting old witch. How dare she tell Mum not to call!
And how stupid was Mum to listen to her?
What sort of 43-year-old let their mother order them around?
I paced Boof’s room, sucking in air, willing my self to calm down.
Once my head felt normal, I returned to the kitchen, wading through the tension to set the table. No way was I showing that pathetic old woman how angry she’d made me. No way was she winning.
VX23813 DC FLETCHER 2/22 INF Batt. Camp Site 26 Bonegilla. 23rd October, 1940 My darling Betty, What wonderful news. A little boy! Arthur William Fletcher. Let’s hope he’s better at standing up to Margaret than Alice is. I promise I’m much better now. Not even a hint of a cough. The warmer weather helped clear up the last of it. We live in luxury now. Huts instead of tents and at last, hot water for our showers. We’re still square-bashing day and night and doing endless weapon training. Talk around camp is we’re going to Africa. The sooner the better, I say. Glad to hear all is running smoothly on the farm. Hug the babes for me. I miss you all, terribly. My love, Charlie.
Chapter Nine
I stared out the passenger window. Beside me, Mum talked about a lecturer who had long hairs sticking out his ears.
‘It’s hard to take him seriously,’ she said, parking under our carport. She turned off the engine and stretched. ‘It’s good to be home.’
I chewed my lip. ‘Mum, why do you let Misery bully you?’
Mum frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like today. You arrived at nine-thirty in the morning and we’re just getting home at two in the afternoon because Misery made us stay for morning tea and lunch. We’d still be there if I hadn’t got in the car.’ I tugged an elastic band from my hair. ‘She’s a dictator—she tells you what to do, who to ring, how to sit. I don’t get it.’
‘Darce, it’s complicated.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘Your grandmother is—’
‘A complete witch. She’s awful to Grandma. She hates Laura. What’s to hate about Laura? And Granny can’t cook. How you murder peas is beyond me. And—’
Mum laughed. ‘I missed you, too, Darce.’
‘Mum, do I have to go back?’
‘Oh, Darce,’ said Mum, the laughter gone.
I couldn’t stop the tears. ‘She hates me, Mum. Seriously.’
‘She doesn’t hate you, Darcy, it’s just her way. She’s had a tough life.’
A switch flipped in my brain, drying my tears. ‘Don’t tell me the whole “she grew up without a father” story again. My dad’s dead, too, and I’m not a total bitch.’
‘You have your moments.’
I felt the air sucked out of my body.
Mum closed her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean that, Darcy.’
I stared at the side garden Mum and I had planted two years ago.
There was a tap on Mum’s window.
‘Yoo-hoo, Maxine.’
I groaned. Mrs Menzies, Prairie Dog.
Mrs Menzies was like a prairie dog, popping out of her burrow at the slightest noise. If a car door slammed, a mower started or someone yelled, she’d be out that front door to cut a lap around her yard, pretending to check her roses or letterbox.
Mum always said she had a good heart, but it was hard to see her heart past her huge, sticky nose.
Prairie Dog opened Mum’s car door and thrust a bundle of letters at her. ‘Here’s your mail, Maxine.’
I so didn’t get why I couldn’t collect the mail.
‘Thanks, Mrs Menzies. What would I do without you?’
‘Live in peace,’ I muttered, reaching across Mum’s now-empty seat to pop the car boot.
‘I took your bin out the back on rubbish day and pulled a few weeds while I was there. Funny how they should grow so high in winter.’
I lugged my bags out of the boot.
‘How is Margaret, Darcy?’
‘Okay. I have homework.’
Mum sighed. ‘Put your washing out first.’ She sounded defeated.
‘Granny did it.’ I didn’t look at Prairie Dog as I carried my stuff inside.
Mum’s brittle voice floated across the garden. ‘She’s very tired, Mrs Menzies.’
I settled in front of the computer, intending to check if Laura or any of the others were on-line for a chat. But while the computer started, I changed my mind. I typed D C Fletcher into a search engine instead. Just to see.
My search returned 86,000 hits—including info about an explorer, a school, a dentist, something about piano technique and tree planting.
A thought flashed through my mind.
&nb
sp; Whenever you asked a teacher for help, or to change a topic, they always asked what you’d already tried. This search would be proof of my effort. First thing Monday, I’d show The Newt and explain I couldn’t find anything about my great-grandfather and so couldn’t do the project. Perfect! I pressed print.
As I went to close the window, The Newt’s voice filled my head. ‘Hardly a thorough search, Ms Abbott.’
I added World War II after D C Fletcher. Amongst the 10,900 responses were ANZAC grants schemes, a business and an honour roll.
I printed this page, too. Somehow when I pressed print, I managed to hit the honour roll link. An Australian war site opened. Surname after surname, all starting with F and with numbers and letters following them, filled the screen. Halfway down the list was Fletcher DC VX23813 2/22 INF BN. It was hyperlinked.
My heart beat faster. I clicked the link.
FLETCHER Darcy Charles
Rank: Private
Service Number: VX23813
Unit: 2/22 INF BN
Service: Army
Conflict: 1939-1945
Date of Death: 1 July 1942
Place of Death: At sea (South West Pacific Area)
Cause of Death: Presumed
Was this my great-grandfather?
Mum’s footsteps echoed against the laundry tiles. I printed and closed the page.
‘What are you printing?’ asked Mum.
‘Stuff for SOSE.’
Mum nodded. ‘Can you spare me an hour?’
‘What for?’ I snatched the pages from the printer before she read them.
‘You’ll see.’ Mum slung her handbag over her shoulder.
‘I’ll just put this away,’ I said.
‘Meet you in the car.’
I thought Mum was taking me to Breakwater Café to drop another bombshell. Instead, she parked outside Goodman Electrical. In the last year, Port Avenel had joined the 21st century. Shops now opened on Saturday afternoons.
I stared at the vacuum cleaners in the window. All our electrical stuff worked, and even if it didn’t, it seemed stupid to buy new stuff when we weren’t even living at home.
‘What are we doing here?’ I asked.
‘You’ll see,’ said Mum. She led me past fridges, washing machines and TVs to the mobile phone display.
‘Your phone playing up?’ I asked, folding my arms.
‘No.’
‘Hello, Maxine,’ said Mr Goodman, hands clasped in front of his round belly. ‘How’s Melbourne?’