Billy Mack's War

by James Roy

  Dad stood up. ‘Perhaps Billy and I should be going now. We’ll not stop for a cup of tea, thanks all the same. Goodbye, Mrs Tierney. I’m so sorry.’

  She didn’t reply, and Mrs Grayson showed us out. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry Mother isn’t more —’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Dad replied. ‘I had to come, and I’m glad I did. Have a happy Christmas.’

  ‘Thank you. We will try,’ Mrs Grayson said.

  I followed Dad down the little path to the truck. We climbed in, but he didn’t start the engine for a long time. He just sat and stared through the windscreen at the city and the river. ‘The Tamar,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The river — I just remembered its name.’

  ‘The Tamar?’

  ‘Aye, that’s it.’ Then, in a way I’d never known a man’s face could, his face crumpled, his mouth went a very strange shape, and he began to cry. I don’t mean quiet crying, with tears and the need to blow his nose, but loud, deep-down choking noises, catching his breath, the full picture. He said words too, but I couldn’t understand most of them.

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘Dad?’

  He wasn’t able to answer me. All I could do was sit beside him and wait.

  After a while his crying changed, and he banged the steering wheel with his fists. I was a bit frightened then, not that he was going to start hitting me, but that he might never stop making that awful, strange sound. That he might just cry forever.

  At last he did stop, though. His left eye was red, and he blew his nose noisily four or five times. ‘I’m sorry, Billy-boy,’ he said in a weird, strangled kind of voice. ‘I didn’t want to come here today, but I had to. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that.’

  I wasn’t sure if he meant the conversation with Duncan Tierney’s family, or the crying, so I just said, ‘It’s okay, Dad.’

  He blew his nose again, glanced at the house, and started the truck’s engine. ‘Perhaps we should go and have some fun after all, Billy-boy.’

  It’s hard to have much fun when you’ve been watching your father cry and sob and try to get out three years of sadness and anger and frustration and fear. I was determined to try, however, and I guess Dad was too. We drove straight to the carnival, and we didn’t say much of anything on the way. Nothing important, at least.

  The girl in the little ticket booth couldn’t have been much older than me. She was wrapped up in a light brown overcoat with moth-eaten lapels, and as she tore my tickets off the roll and handed them to me, she said, without emotion, ‘No refunds, no liability, all care, no responsibility.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, but she said nothing in response.

  ‘There’s a merry-go-round here,’ Dad said, pointing at the carousel. ‘Do you want a turn on that?’

  ‘Dad, I’m too old for a merry-go-round,’ I said. I mean, it looked like it would be fun, and if no one else had been watching I might have had a go, but not there, with city kids around. So instead we bought some fairy-floss on a stick before making our way over to the stall with the clown heads. We must have put almost a dozen balls in the mouths of those clowns, but we didn’t win one thing.

  Next we went to the coconut-shy. I was usually a pretty good throw with a rock or a ball, but for some reason my aim was off that day, and I couldn’t hit those red cans from half a dozen paces away. ‘They should put them on top of a fencepost. I’d hit them then,’ I joked.

  Then, with one ticket left, I spotted the shooting gallery. ‘Dad, how about that one?’ I asked. ‘You‘d be a good shot.’

  ‘Once, laddie, once I was. Don’t know about now,’ he replied. ‘Not with my right eye out of action.’

  ‘Can’t you just have a go?’ I asked, but he shook his head.

  ‘That one,’ he said, pointing at a game with ramps and balls. ‘We had something similar in one of the camps.’ Then he chuckled softly. ‘Had a wee radio hidden in it, we did.’

  We strolled over to the stall. ‘Gentlemen, step up and have a bash!’ said the spruiker in a bowler hat with a carnation. He held out three balls to Dad, who took them and stepped towards the ramp.

  But suddenly Dad’s attention was captured by something on the opposite side of the sawdusty path. ‘Here, hold up,’ he said, handing the balls back to the spruiker and leading me across to the hammer and bell. ‘Will you take my money here, laddie?’ he asked the spotty-faced young man leaning on the handle of the sledgehammer.

  ‘You betcha,’ the young man replied. ‘Ring the bell, win a prize, easy as that.’

  ‘Aye, easy as that,’ Dad replied. He handed over the ticket and took the hammer. ‘Stand back, Billy-boy. Speedo.’

  I grinned. This seemed like a pretty good bet. It looked like I’d get a prize after all. Dad had built a railway through the jungle on a handful of rice a day — he’d have to be a sure thing with a sledgehammer in his hands.

  He ground his feet into the sawdust, spat on his palms, rubbed them together and felt the weight of the hammer in his hands. Then, with a grunt, he arched his back swung the hammer around over his shoulder, and brought it crashing down on the target at his feet. The striker flew up the track, on a certain path to the big brass bell and my appointment with a prize.

  In the end it travelled no more than two-thirds of the way to the bell, before pausing and falling all the way back down to the bottom of the track, where it gave a disappointing clunk.

  ‘Never mind, sir. Like to try again?’ the young man asked.

  Dad simply shook his head and handed the sledgehammer back. ‘Come on, Billy-boy, it’s time we were going.’

  ‘You almost did it, Dad,’ I said. ‘Have one more go. Please?’

  ‘No, Billy, it’s time we were going,’ he repeated. ‘We’ve wasted enough money here for one day.’

  ‘Does that mean we can come back tomorrow?’ I asked, but just as I had come to expect, he didn’t reply to that. He just kept walking in front of me, his long legs making it hard for me to keep up.

  After we’d eaten our dinner in a different pub from the night before, we headed back to our hotel room. Dad wasn’t saying much, and he plodded up the stairs in front of me as if the last of his energy had been sapped by swinging that sledgehammer. ‘Get ready for bed,’ he said as he opened the door to our room, and I knew better than to do anything other than exactly what he’d said.

  I got into bed, rolled towards the window and tried to go to sleep, while Dad read by the light of his bedside lamp. I had my eyes shut and was almost asleep when I heard his mattress creak. Then the lamp flicked off. I didn’t think anything of it until I heard the door latch rattle and the door close. No, he was just going to the loo before bed.

  I lay there, waiting for him to come back, but he didn’t. After quite some time, during which I drifted in and out of that drowsiness that comes at the beginning of sleep, I realised that he still hadn’t returned. Slipping from under the covers and crossing the cold floor, I opened the door and poked my head out into the hallway. It was deserted. I listened for sounds from the direction of the bath room — perhaps he was taking a bath. But there was nothing to be heard, except someone snoring loudly in one of the rooms further down the corridor.

  I walked down to the bathroom, half expecting to hear Dad crying again, but the door was wide open, and there was no one inside. Returning to our room, I sat on the edge of the bed and wondered what I should do next. The clock on the wall said that it was well after eleven, and the front office closed at eight. So I sat there in my pyjamas, all the lights on and the door latched shut, waiting for my father to come back from wherever he’d gone, and wondering how long I might have to wait.

  Eventually I decided to lie down on top of the covers. I wasn’t going to go back to sleep, mind — I was just intending to rest until Dad came back. At least, that was the plan. It didn’t work though, because I awoke after what felt like a moment or two to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, then the rattling of the doorknob.
<
br />   Dad came through the door muttering something about the light being on. He seemed cranky with me, even though I wasn’t the one who’d staggered back into our hotel room in the early hours of the morning.

  ‘Dad, where have you been?’ I asked.

  ‘Mind yerself, laddie,’ he growled, his accent making him barely understandable. ‘Mind who ye’re asking what, laddie-me-boy.’ He fumbled with his clothes, trying to get them off, cursing them. Finally he gave up and simply fell onto the bed. He mumbled something else about the light, and almost instantly he was snoring.

  I went over to him. He smelled strange, and his face looked like it had collapsed a bit, his mouth all soft and floppy. He was fast asleep on top of the covers with the light blazing above his head. I wondered where I recognised that smell from.

  I took one of the spare blankets from the wardrobe and spread it over him. He muttered something in his sleep, but I didn’t catch a single word of it. Then I latched the door, turned off the light and got back into my own bed, lying there wide awake in the dark for a long time, listening to my father’s deep, unconscious breathing. I wished I was at home. I’d already had enough of the city. Besides, Ma would have known what to do.

  Then I remembered where I knew that smell from. I recalled Stan Whittaker slouching at the door to my grandfather’s shed, trying to get his words out and smelling awful. Yes, that’s what it was — my father was drunk.

  We missed breakfast the next morning. The first thing we knew was the knock at the door. Dad was still asleep, and when he said something I didn’t understand and rolled over, I got out of bed and went to the door to see who it was.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Powell. ‘Is your father there?’

  ‘He’s still asleep,’ I replied.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is he? I was just wondering if you were still planning to check out this morning.’

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘We’re going back to Evansbridge today.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that was the case. Because checkout is at ten-thirty, and it’s now just gone eleven o’clock, do you see?’

  ‘Should I wake up my dad?’

  ‘I think that might be best, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I’ll do it now,’ I answered. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, and turned on her heel and walked off down the hallway.

  Dad wasn’t easy to wake up. There was a lot of grumbling, mumbling, muttering and growling before he finally sat upright, frowned, held his head and said, ‘What time is it you say, Billy-boy?’

  ‘It’s after eleven,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, is it?’ He sighed. ‘Best get going then. Are you ready to go?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘I mean, I’m not dressed —’

  ‘Good, good. Oh, my head. Hand me that towel and point me in the direction of the bathroom, laddie.’ As he stood up he grabbed at the right side of his stomach and winced.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked him.

  ‘Aye, just my liver reminding me why last night wasn’t such a great idea. Get dressed and pack your gear, laddie. As soon as I get back from the bath room were moving out.’

  While he took a long shower, I thought about what my father had done. He’d gone and got drunk. So drunk he’d had to be woken just before lunch. I decided I wouldn’t tell Ma what had happened. It wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t make anyone feel better. All I’d say was what a great time we’d had in Launceston, and tell her about the carnival, the shopping, perhaps even about the man who tried to sell us several hats. But nothing else, especially not Mrs Tierney, and definitely not the crying or the getting drunk.

  Dad was quiet on the long drive home. I guess he was probably embarrassed. Mid-afternoon we stopped in a town with a name I don’t remember. ‘Hungry?’ Dad asked as we pulled up at a service station.

  ‘I could eat now,’ I answered.

  ‘All right, we’ll stop here,’ he said. ‘Get a pie or something. Okay?’

  I shrugged. ‘Sure, if you like.’

  We paid for the petrol and a couple of pork pies, and crossed the street to a little park. From our bench near the seesaws we could see an old stone bridge. ‘Convicts built that bridge,’ Dad said. ‘Prisoners. You know, I never really thought about that until now.’

  ‘Didn’t you know about the convicts?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh aye, but I never thought about it. Men cutting stone and laying bricks not because they wanted to but because they were afraid not to, you see?’

  I didn’t see at all.

  ‘Billy, I’m sorry you had to see that yesterday,’ he said. ‘In the truck, after we left Heather Tierney’s place. The crying. A wee bit embarrassing, all that.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said.

  ‘It was all a bit much, telling her about Duncan. It made me remember a lot of things I didn’t want to go back to.’

  ‘But you told her the truth, so you don’t have to think about that any more,’ I said, trying to be encouraging.

  ‘I told her the truth that she needed to know, laddie, that’s all.’

  I looked at him. He was still staring at the bridge. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I told her he died standing proud and tall, like a Highlander should.’

  ‘And didn’t he?’

  ‘No, Billy-boy, he didn’t. He died squirming in the mud, sobbing and begging for his life.’

  ‘That’s not so bad,’ I said. ‘I think that’s what most people would do. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, and many did. And don’t get me wrong here — Duncan Tierney was a brave soldier, one of the best. Savvy, too. He was the man to have with you in a scrap, no mistake. But regardless of how he fought, in the end he died hugging his knees and pleading for mercy. And I couldn’t tell his ma that. She doesn’t need to know.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ I said.

  ‘It was bad enough that he was captured to begin with. And then … then there was the other wee thing. There was something else I couldn’t tell her, laddie.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Remember how I said four men escaped?’

  I nodded.

  He hung his head. ‘Well, eight died.’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Aye. Those four who came back had to choose one man each from the camp to die with them. To teach the rest of us a lesson, you see.’

  I was so stunned that I couldn’t speak. What can you say to something like that?

  Dad went on. ‘So they made him a murderer as well, you see. He tried to escape, then they made him a murderer. It’s not so hard to take your punishment if you know you’ve broken the rules. But to make others suffer with you, when they’ve done nothing …’ Dad took a deep breath. ‘And I couldn’t tell her that. She didn’t need to know that, did she?’

  I shook my head and kept my mouth shut. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t sound stupid and pathetic. And childish.

  ‘Aye, it’s for the best,’ Dad said at last. Then he tried to smile at me. ‘I’ve never told anyone about that before. It’s the kind of thing I’d have told my mates. You had to have a mate in those places or you died, Billy-boy. Nothing was surer. When you were sick they fed you their portion, and when they were sick, you did the same. You wouldn’t survive without them. You couldn’t.’

  ‘And you had good mates?’

  ‘Aye, the best. But now all my mates are dead or … or somewhere else. I do miss them dreadfully, laddie,’ he said.

  I did something then that felt strange and right at the same time. I put my arms around him. I could feel how bony and thin his shoulders and arms were as I hugged him and said, ‘I can be your mate now, Dad. If that’s okay.’

  ‘Aye, that you can be,’ he agreed, wiping his eyes and smiling again. ‘You can be my mate.’

  We didn’t say anything for a while, until he suddenly stood up. ‘Finished eating, Billy-boy?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to eat your pie?’ I asked.


  Dad shook his head. ‘I’m not hungry. Come on, let’s get home. Your ma’s going to be getting worried.’ He led me out of the park overlooking a bridge built by men in chains.

  Chapter 20 Danny

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Danny said. ‘They had to choose someone else from the camp to die with them? How could you do that?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr McAuliffe replied.

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty heavy stuff,’ said Dad, who had been sitting and listening as well.

  ‘Was that the last time your dad ever talked to you about what happened to Tierney?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Did he ever tell Mrs Tierney the truth about how her son died?’

  ‘What was that going to achieve?’

  ‘Nothing, I guess,’ Danny said. ‘I just wondered if he ever felt bad about not telling her exactly what happened, exactly how it happened.’

  ‘Felt bad? My dad felt bad about practically everything to do with the war, Daniel.’

  ‘So was he better after going to see Mrs Tierney?’

  Mr McAuliffe frowned. ‘He didn’t do it to make himself feel better, Daniel. Given the choice, I doubt he would have done it at all.’

  ‘I know, but I thought maybe he felt … I don’t know, like he’d got something off his chest.’

  ‘No, it didn’t get anything off his chest, Daniel. I think it ate him up, that he’d had to hold back some of the truth.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And then, to top it off, my mother wanted to know exactly how it had all gone, and I had to tell her.’

  Chapter 21 Billy

  We arrived home well after dark. Leaving the truck at my grandparents’ place, we walked the rest of the way to our house, after loading ourselves up with the presents Dad had bought. I could hear the creek running fast, and a bird rustled and called softly in one of the trees. Dad had his arm around my shoulder, and it felt good to be close to him, as if everything we’d seen and done, everything I’d seen, was between us, and for that reason was special. It seemed to me that Ma had been right in insisting that Dad take me along. It wasn’t going to make up for more than three years, but it wasn’t a bad start.