Finding Darcy

by Sue Lawson

  ‘I wrote an outline,’ said Ava.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Laura.

  ‘Whoa!’ Bailey pulled a face. His front chair legs hit the floor with a thud. He flipped open his folder and scrambled for a pen.

  If I hadn’t been so churned up about Mum, Misery, Neanderthal and the ‘large’ thing I’d have laughed at him.

  ‘Settle Bailey. The Newt said we just had to know what we were doing.’

  ‘Look out,’ hissed Ava.

  I’d expected The Newt to bound through the door. Instead, The Triplets walked in, hips swaying from side to side. Jack and Eddie followed.

  Sarah scanned the class, smiling when she saw me. She nodded at Toni and Harmony. At the same time, The Triplets hugged their folders to their chests, back covers facing us.

  My face burned.

  Stuck to their folders were A4-sized posters of the mantis with my head.

  ‘We’ve just recovered our folders, Amazon,’ said Sarah, leering. ‘Like a copy?’

  ‘Good one,’ bellowed Neanderthal, clapping. He’d been sitting on his own, sullen and silent until his gang arrived. Jack and Eddie dumped their books on the tables around him, sniggering.

  ‘I’d rather do my own thing than follow your lead, Sarah.’ I cringed at how lame it sounded.

  Sarah glared at me. ‘Whatever, Amazon.’

  ‘Seats everyone, please,’ said The Newt, oblivious to the tension.

  The Triplets strutted to the back corner to join Neanderthal, Jack and Eddie.

  ‘They’re complete losers, Darcy,’ said Dylan, leaning forward.

  ‘Stop flirting and focus, Mr Jacobi.’

  ‘Yeah, waste of time flirting with an Amazon, buddy,’ said Neanderthal.

  I gritted my teeth.

  The Newt spun to face Neanderthal. ‘I’d have thought after the smoking incident you’d be trying to impress, Mr Thackery, not infuriate.’

  ‘You right?’ whispered Laura.

  ‘Course,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘Why would they get to me?’

  Laura didn’t look convinced.

  ‘If we can focus, I’d like to discuss your projects,’ said The Newt, his poppy eyes on Neanderthal and crew. ‘I’d like a summary of what you intend doing. Begin please, Mr Urquhart.’

  As my classmates explained what they were doing—Tobruk, Crete, Europe, Kokoda Trail, New Guinea, Singapore and Changi—my stomach churned.

  By the time Bailey started on his Italian great-grandfather, I felt like vomiting. I slid lower in my seat.

  The Newt fixed his gaze on our table. ‘Ms Tanaka?’

  Beside me, Laura fidgeted with her pencil case. ‘Well, Sir, my dad’s family is Japanese.’

  ‘A nip?’ spat Neanderthal.

  ‘Laura’s Australian, with Japanese heritage,’ I snapped.

  The Newt’s face reddened.

  ‘That, Mr Thackery is a term best left in the forties. Continue, Ms Tanaka.’

  ‘I’m doing my project about my great-grandfather and the Japanese culture.’

  The Newt clapped his hands. ‘Perfect, just perfect. A wonderful balance to the mainly Australian stories.’

  As Laura relaxed, I tensed even more.

  ‘Ms Abbott, what’s your plan?’

  Plan? I had a photo in my top drawer and a printed sheet of hieroglyphics.

  Misery bursting into the bathroom filled my mind.

  My chest burned with anger. Stuff her.

  ‘My mum’s grandfather.’

  Laura spun to face me.

  ‘But you aren’t allowed to talk to your family about the war,’ said Sarah, her voice sweet.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t do the project, does it, Mr Newtown?’

  The Newt folded his arms.

  ‘Think of the researching skills I’ll learn.’

  He frowned as he took a deep breath. I prayed he’d agree.

  From the back of the room came a slurping noise. When The Newt turned to see who was making the noise, I raised my middle finger to Neanderthal. Unable to find the slurper, The Newt turned back to me. ‘Ms Abbott, if you cannot find enough information on your own, you will interview your grandmothers. Do I make myself clear?’

  My breath rushed from me. ‘Thanks, Mr Newtown.’

  ‘These projects will be a valuable contribution to the Port Avenel community.’ The Newt smiled so hard he glowed. ‘And I for one am very excited about them.’

  ‘At least one of us is,’ I muttered.

  ‘Your deadline is the second last week of term. For our next class, we’ll meet in the technology room so you can use the computers. For the remainder of today’s session, we’ll cover the build up to war. Texts open in Chapter Twenty-two.’

  Now I just had to work how to gather that information.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Misery burst into my room as I reached for the calculator.

  ‘Darcy, I’m—’ A scowl darkened her face. ‘Sit up and take your books and pens off the bed.’ She shook her head. ‘How do you expect me to get the stains out of that quilt?’

  I gathered my stuff and checked for stains. ‘No marks, Granny.’

  She snorted. ‘A calculator? You should use the brain God gave you.’

  I squeezed my books until my knuckles hurt.

  ‘Grandma and I are going to Eunice’s to draw up the new church cleaning roster. Have your jobs done before we return.’

  I forced a smile. Trying to avoid fights with Misery was exhausting. ‘I’ll do them straight away, Granny.’

  ‘Good.’ She marched down the hall.

  Once Misery had bossed Batty to the car and reversed out the drive, I exploded into action. She could be a minute or an hour.

  After taking out the compost and rubbish bins and bringing in and folding the washing, I started to set the table for dinner.

  I flung open the linen press doors, looking for anything other than a floral tablecloth. At the bottom of the pile was a green checked cloth. As I dragged it out, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

  I jammed the cloth under my arm, picked up and unfolded the paper. It was a photocopy of a textbook page.

  Training the 2/22nd Battalion

  The 2/22nd Battalion, made up of mainly Victorian volunteers, was formed in July, 1940.

  The men began training at Trawool, near Seymour, Victoria. At the camp, situated on the Goulburn River and at the foot of a steep hill, the men lived in tents. The only building had a kitchen at one end and a shower block, without hot water, at the other.

  The combination of lack of hot water, wet, miserable conditions, perpetually wet tents and blankets, and intense physical training resulted in widespread illness.

  In spite of the conditions, the men trained day and night, completing route marches and physical and weapon training in preparation for an overseas posting. As the men were expected to be posted in Africa, they were prepared for desert warfare, rather than the tropical conditions they would face.

  After several months at Trawool, the 2/22nd Battalion marched to a new training camp at Bonegilla, near Albury/Wodonga. The 150 mile march from Trawool to Bonegilla took 10 days.

  At Bonegilla, the men continued to train six days a week, housed in more comfortable huts, rather than tents.

  That number—2/22nd—was familiar. I raced to my room and searched through my SOSE folder for the honour roll page I’d printed. Beside D C Fletcher was Unit 2/22.

  I stared out the window. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Misery had a page about the 2/22nd Battalion hidden in her linen press.

  D C Fletcher had to be my great-grandfather.

  Could there be other stuff about him in there? A surge of energy shot through me. I shoved the sheets of paper, including the one I’d just found, back in my folder, and sprinted back to the linen press.

  It was hard trying to stay calm while I felt between face washers, blankets, pillowslips, sheets and tablecloths. By the time I reached the bottom shelf that surge of energy had f
izzled out. All I’d found were cracked soap, smelly sachets, hot water bottles, sprigs of lavender and dead silverfish.

  I was straightening a pile of towels when I heard car doors slam.

  Misery! As I closed the linen press doors, I saw a piece of newspaper on the carpet.

  The front door opened.

  I scooped up the paper and tucked it into my trackie pocket.

  ‘Why are you hovering in the hallway, Darcy?’

  ‘Just getting a tablecloth,’ I said, holding out the checked cloth.

  Misery’s face twisted. ‘That cloth is so masculine.’ She snatched it from me and threw open the linen press doors. ‘Why you wouldn’t pick a pretty, feminine one is beyond me.’

  Tears stung my eyes.

  She selected a cream cloth covered in pink rose buds.

  ‘I like checks. They’re so cheery,’ said Batty, as she limped past me.

  After dinner—bland tuna mornay—I escaped to my room. I pulled the newspaper clipping from my pocket and smoothed it on the bed. One side had a column of print about the war cabinet and a cigarette advertisement. On the other side was an article dated 14 February. Here was more stuff for my project, and I hadn’t had to ask Misery or Batty anything.

  Boys to be proud of!

  Cheering crowds lined the streets as the 23rd Brigade, fresh from training at Bonegilla, marched down St Kilda Road to the Melbourne Town Hall in Swanston St where Governor, Sir Winston Dugan, took the salute.

  The troops, tanned and in peak physical condition, marched behind the Salvation Army band assigned to the 2/22nd Battalion.

  The parade of Australia’s fine young men proved to be just the boost wartime Melbourne needed.

  The 23rd Brigade, including the 2/21st, 2/22nd and 2/23rd Battalions, returned to Bonegilla the same evening to continue preparations for overseas posting.

  Fragment of letter from VX23813 D C FLETCHER 2/22nd BN, Rabaul October 20, 1941 …One of the volcanoes here is a bigger nuisance than the Japs. Damn thing rumbles and throws rocks in the air all the time. The noise and shaking ground aren’t as bad as the smell which is terrible. It’s far worse than that nest of rotten eggs I trod on last summer. And the ash is so thick. Everything is black. Wish me luck, my darling. I’m representing our platoon in the cricket final tomorrow. Hope I bowl them out quickly. Otherwise in this heat, I might turn into a puddle. Give my dearest love to our bonny babes. I carry your photo close to my heart. Love and hugs to you all, My love. Charlie.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the technology room, Laura sat one side of me, Ava the other. I took the information I’d collected about my great-grandfather from my folder.

  ‘What’s all that?’ asked Laura, peering over my shoulder.

  ‘Stuff for my project.’

  ‘Serious? About Misery’s father? Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Internet, mainly.’

  ‘Ms Abbott and Ms Tanaka! Less talk, more action,’ bellowed The Newt, from across the room.

  Laura and I rolled our eyes at each other and turned back to our screens.

  ‘I nearly forgot,’ I whispered. ‘Look!’ I took my lipstick-pink phone from my pocket.

  ‘Is it yours?’ Laura’s voice was high and loud.

  ‘Right, Ms Tanaka, gather your things and swap with…’ The Newt scanned the class. ‘Mr Thackery. That should keep you two quiet and Jack and Nathan focused.’

  Groaning, I hung my head. ‘Mr Newtown, that’s—’

  ‘With Amazon?’ said Neanderthal, kicking the chair. ‘That sucks.’

  ‘At least you don’t have to sit with a Jap,’ said Jack.

  ‘Look in the mirror, idiot,’ I spat. ‘You mightn’t have noticed, but you have Asian heritage, too. Psycho!’

  ‘Whatever, ya man.’

  ‘Stop it!’ The Newt stamped his foot as he yelled. ‘I’m appalled by the sniping in this class.’ His harshest glare was at Neanderthal and Jack. ‘It will stop, or all of you will endure Ms Griffiths’ bullying session.’

  Endure was the best word for it. If you were caught bullying you had to go to this anti-bullying program the school’s welfare office, Ms Griffiths ran every night after school for three weeks. Dylan’s brother had to do it. He said it was torture.

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  A murmur of ‘Yes, Sir’ rippled across the class.

  ‘Now, if you can’t use your time productively, you’ll do these projects in your own time.’ The Newt’s flushed face returned to its usual pallor. ‘Mr Thackery, you will sit next to Ms Abbott and Mr Ng, you will sit next to Ms Tanaka whenever I’m in this class. Teach you tolerance. Now, get on with it.’

  Laura gathered her books.

  ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, Jack Ng’s ‘ya man’ burning in my ears.

  Neanderthal slammed his books down. I jumped.

  ‘Don’t even look at me, Amazon,’ he hissed.

  ‘Why would I?’ I typed Private D C Fletcher into the search engine. I needed to know for sure that this D C Fletcher was my great-grandfather.

  For fifteen minutes, I searched every combination of Private D C Fletcher, Australian Army. I came up with sites about classical music, government papers, an artist and tonnes of army information, but nothing that about D C Fletcher. I groaned in frustration. ‘Try typing in his service number.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  Neanderthal nodded at the sheet in front of me. ‘Under his name. Type his service number into the search engine.’

  I looked from the page to Neanderthal.

  ‘Thanks, I think.’

  He shrugged and returned to playing the pinball game on the computer.

  Neanderthal’s suggestion returned two hits, both from a page called ‘Rabaul—The Fallen’. I wiped my palms on my kilt and clicked the first one.

  Rabaul—the Fallen 1939-1945 was another honour roll, filled with hundreds of names, all hyperlinked.

  I clicked on Fletcher D C.

  FLETCHER, Private, DARCY CHARLES, VX23813. A.I.F. 2/22 Bn. Australian Infantry. 1st July 1942. Age 25. Son of Charles Arthur and Elspeth Rose Fletcher; husband of Elizabeth Fletcher of Port Avenel, Victoria.

  And that was the proof I needed. Batty’s friends called her Betty, but her full name was Elizabeth Fletcher. Fletcher D C, Pte, VX23813 was my great-grandfather.

  I scrolled back up the page, looking for a link to more information. No links, just a long list of names. The flash of success slipped away. I slumped forward, head in my hands. This had to be the most annoying, frustrating, infuriating thing I’d ever done. Stuff it. Let The Newt fail me.

  Fail. The word was worse than nails on a blackboard. I rubbed my temples and tried to regroup. The bell droned through the speakers.

  ‘Save what you are doing before you go,’ said The Newt.

  Neanderthal gathered his books. ‘Be seeing ya, Amazon.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said, copying and pasting the small piece I’d found about my great-grandfather.

  That night I tried to untangle the jumble of thoughts crammed into my brain. The crushing weight of the blankets was the least of my problems.

  Somehow, Mantis and Amazon had morphed into man and she-male.

  I checked my weight on Misery’s ancient scales tonight. After converting stones and pounds to kilograms, it worked out I’d gained a kilo, maybe a little more. Alarming, but not enough to trigger the man thing. I spent so much time studying my reflection to see if I was man-like, masculine, that Misery kicked me out and banned me from the bathroom for the rest of the night, even though I hadn’t cleaned my teeth.

  So now I had tooth decay to worry about, as well.

  Then there was Neanderthal helping me in SOSE. That was just disturbing.

  But not as disturbing as ‘cause of death: presumed’ with D C Fletcher’s details.

  No wonder my head buzzed. I groaned and rolled onto my side. It took me a minute to work the buzzing in my head was my phone vibrating under the pillow.

  Hope
fluttered in my throat. Mum?

  I flipped my phone open. ‘Laura’ flashed on the screen.

  ‘You’re not meant to call. Remember?’ I whispered. ‘Misery doesn’t know I have a phone.’

  ‘But you haven’t answered the four texts I sent. I thought I had the wrong number.’

  ‘You’ve got the right one. And make sure you don’t give it to anyone else, okay?’

  Laura’s voice became serious. ‘Darce, about today. Thanks for sticking up for me. With Jack.’

  I’d forgotten about Jack’s Jap comment. ‘That’s what friends do.’

  ‘I know. It’s just … they’re so awful to you, I wouldn’t blame you for doing nothing.’

  ‘Laura! As if.’

  ‘Darce, there’s something else.’ She paused.

  My skin tingled. Where was this going?

  ‘Are you all right? You’re acting strange. Distant and, well, snappy. I’m worried about you. We’re all—’

  Misery flung the door open.

  I slipped the phone under my doona.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ barked Misery, switching on the light.

  I covered my eyes with my arm. ‘No one, Granny. I was reciting a poem for English.’

  Misery’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the room. ‘There’s a time for poetry and a time for sleep.’

  ‘You still there?’ I asked, after Misery had gone.

  ‘Yeah. She’s in a foul mood.’

  ‘That was nothing,’ I whispered. ‘Gotta go, Loz.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Laura, red-faced and puffing, dribbled down the basketball court. I had her pinned against the court line. She looked up. I swooped, knocking the ball out of her control. Teeth gritted, I dribbled and shot for goal from the free-throw line.

  ‘Nothing but net!’ I yelled, gasping for breath. ‘Whose throw in?’

  ‘Mine,’ said Bailey, strolling to the line. He tossed the ball to Lily.

  ‘Dylan, yours,’ I sprinted to the centre circle and assumed a defensive stance.

  At last I was sweating and puffing, and it felt good. This was just what I needed to burn off Misery’s meals.

  Dylan gave me a puzzled look and wandered over to guard Lily.