Billy Mack's War

by James Roy

  Ma heard us come in and emerged from the twins’ bedroom with a finger to her lips. She looked at Dad with a half smile, as if she wasn’t sure if she could let herself smile properly. He went straight to her and hugged her, and they didn’t say a word.

  Finally Ma let go of Dad and turned to me. ‘Hello, Billy,’ she said. ‘Did you have fun?’

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ I answered.

  ‘Did you like the city?’

  ‘Yes, Ma. It was big.’

  ‘Cities usually are,’ she said, smiling. Then she spotted the parcels on the table. ‘Ooh, gifts!’

  ‘For Christmas,’ Dad said. ‘Stay out of them. I’m going to have a wash.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Ma said. ‘So, Billy, what’s in the boxes?’ she asked as soon as Dad had left the room.

  ‘I can’t tell you, Ma. You’ll get yours at Christmas-time, just like everyone else.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She filled the kettle and lit the stove. ‘Oh bother,’ she muttered, turning around on the spot a couple of times, as if she was looking for something.

  ‘What is it, Ma?’ I asked.

  ‘This’ll have to do for a teapot,’ she said, talking down a saucepan from its hook on the wall.

  ‘What happened to the teapot?’

  ‘Granddad broke it,’ she said.

  ‘How? Did he drop it?’

  She frowned as she thought about her answer. ‘Let’s just say that he didn’t mean to break it,’ she said slowly. ‘And that Stan Whittalzer won’t be visiting for a while.’

  ‘What happened, Ma?’ I asked. ‘Did Stan come over again?’

  ‘Yes, and I think it was probably for the last time.’

  ‘Did he try to hurt you, Ma?’ I asked.

  ‘Billy —’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Billy, I don’t want to discuss it,’ she said firmly. ‘And keep your voice down, will you?’

  ‘Does Dad know?’ I asked.

  She glared at me. ‘It’s been dealt with, Billy.’

  ‘But does Dad know?’ I repeated.

  ‘Now you listen here. Your father’s been through a lot. And it’s over with, all right? Your grandfather handled the situation. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ I agreed.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘Good.’ She turned back to her makeshift teapot and poured tea-leaves into the saucepan. ‘So tell me, how was it really, this trip to Launceston? I imagine your father will tell me that everything went smoothly. Did it?’

  ‘It was good,’ I told her.

  ‘No dramas?’

  ‘We went to a carnival,’ I said. ‘They had a coconut-shy and those clowns with the mouths that you drop the balls into.’

  ‘Great! Did you win anything?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘But we had fairy-floss.’

  ‘Lovely! And how was the hotel?’

  ‘Fine. Quite nice, I suppose. A bit smelly. Breakfast was good. The lady made me bacon and eggs and toast, and she put some kind of leafy thing on top which I thought I had to eat, but Dad said I didn’t have to. we had steak as well.’

  Ma smiled. ‘How did you go sleeping in the same room as him? Did he keep you awake? He tends to talk a bit in his sleep.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Oh yes. You didn’t notice?’

  ‘He didn’t really keep me awake much,’ I said.

  ‘That’s good. And … uh … how did it go with Mrs Tierney?’

  That one I had to think about. I thought about the truth only partly told, and the distraught old lady who might have been crushed forever if Dad had told her every last detail. And I considered Dad crying in the truck punching the wheel, sobbing like a heartbroken child.

  ‘I think he told her what she needed to know. I think she’ll be all right,’ I said.

  Ma sighed and smiled. ‘That’s really good, Billy. I’m glad it went well. And I’m glad you went along as well.’

  ‘Yeah, me too, Ma.’

  There was a movement at the door from the hallway. I looked across to see Dad standing there, towelling his hair dry. He caught my eye, and we exchanged a long, silent look. Then, without any expression, he turned and walked into his room.

  A couple of days later I was in town with Dad. He went off to the post office while I went to buy a few things for Ma from Dalhousie’s. I was just coming out of the shop when I saw Doug stroll by, his dog following along at a short distance. He had an old bicycle wheel — no tyre — and he was guiding it along the side of the street, keeping it rolling in a straight line with light taps from a stick. He didn’t see me, but I said hello anyway.

  He grabbed the rim of the wheel and stopped. Then he turned to me. ‘Hi, Billy,’ he said. ‘Been getting some groceries?’

  I held up the two bags of shopping, as if to say, ‘Well, obviously.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re still buying your food and stuff at Dalhousie’s,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I’da thought you’d be going to one of the big shops in Launnie for that sort of thing, instead of a little shop like this one.’

  I frowned at him. ‘Why would we do that?’ I asked.

  Doug rolled his eyes, as if he’d never met anyone as thick as me before. ‘Your dad gets a pension, mate. Because of the medal.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Bobby says that it’s a real good pension, too. That you can probably afford to have roast every day, and butter on your bread.’

  ‘Well, we don’t,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, how would your brother know that?’

  ‘Because he was in the army too, and so was my other brother, Jimmy. Your dad wasn’t the only one fighting, you know.’

  ‘I know —’

  ‘Besides, you carry on like your dad was some kind of hero.’

  This took me by total surprise. ‘I do not. Anyway, he was a hero,’ I retorted. ‘And he’s got the medal to prove it.’

  ‘Billy-boy,’ my father said from behind me.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr McAuliffe,’ Doug said, as polite as anything.

  ‘Afternoon, Doug,’ Dad answered. ‘Come on, Billy, it’s time to go.’

  As we walked back to the truck, Dad said, ‘I don’t like you talking about the medal. It just upsets people. Makes them cranky.’

  ‘But you deserve it, Dad.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because you told me what you did.’

  ‘Even so, I don’t want people discussing it with you. All right, Billy-boy?’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I agreed, even though I didn’t understand why be was so reluctant. I knew that if I’d been a hero, I’d have wanted everyone to know it.

  One evening a week or so after that a storm came up. The storms there could be wild, cold, a great reason to stay inside. And that’s where Ma, Dad and me were that night, all sitting in front of the fire while the wind jostled our louse. My father was doing his usual after-dinner activity — reading and sorting his letters — and Ma was cuddling one of the twins, who had awoken and shuffled all bleary-eyed out of their room. I was playing on the rug with some of my toy soldiers. The sound of the heavy rain on the tin roof was so loud that we could barely hear each other speak, and this suited me fine, since I wanted to be able to bark orders at my little lead men without the embarrassment of my parents hearing it. Besides, the sudden sheets of lightning through the windows and the bursts of thunder made terrific artillery fire and bombs exploding in the distance.

  Suddenly Dad looked up. It was an instinctive thing, going from deep in a letter to high alert in an instant. I think if there’d been a rifle at his side he’d have had it picked up and cocked in a moment. ‘Someone’s at the door,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Ma replied.

  Dad didn’t answer her. Instead he simply stood up and walked through the kitchen to the back door.

  From my position on the floor I could see the door clearly. I saw Dad
swing it open, and Stan Whittaker standing there, wearing his heavy-weather cape and broad-brimmed hat. I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, but I could see well enough that Stan was pretty upset about something.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Ma, who wasn’t in a position to see the back door.

  ‘It’s Stan,’ I replied.

  Ma pulled her dressing gown tighter about herself and hugged Meg closer. ‘What does he want?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I’m putting this one to bed, then I’m going myself,’ Ma said, closing her book and standing up slowly, with Meg draped around her neck. ‘Night, Billy.’

  ‘Night, Ma,’ I murmured, trying to hear what Stan and Dad were discussing. Dad had invited Stan in by this stage, and had closed the door against the rain and wind. I stood up and went into the kitchen. ‘Hi, Mr Whittaker,’ I said, but he didn’t even respond.

  ‘Well, Fred? Whatcha reckon?’ Stan asked Dad.

  Dad scratched his chin. ‘You reckon she’s close?’

  ‘Too right, mate, yeah, real close,’ Stan said.

  ‘Why didn’t you keep her in?’

  ‘I meant to, but …’ Stan made a kind of pathetic shrugging gesture. ‘Who’d have seen this coming, eh?’

  I expected Dad to say something smart, but he didn’t. ‘Aye, all right, Stan, give us a minute.’ He turned and left the kitchen.

  I followed him. Ma was already in bed, sitting up against pillows with her gown still on over her nightie. ‘What is it, Fred?’ she asked as Dad took down a heavy sweater from the wardrobe.

  ‘Damn fool’s gone and left out one of his cows,’ he replied. ‘It’s in one of the top paddocks.’

  ‘So what does that have to do with you?’

  ‘It’s about to drop a calf,’ Dad replied, pulling the sweater over his head and adjusting the position of his eye-patch. ‘In this,’ he added, nodding his head at the rain driving against the window. ‘He’ll never get her down to the shed now — she’s too close.’

  ‘But Fred, what does it have to do with you?’ ’ Ma repeated. ‘It’s his cow, he left it out when it should have been stabled. It’s not your concern, Fred.’

  ‘I hear you, Alice. But he’s a neighbour. It’s what neighbours do.’

  ‘Even after —’ Ma began.

  ‘Even after that, Alice. Come on, Billy-boy — what are you waiting for?’

  Ma was horrified. ‘You’re not taking him out in that, are you?’

  Dad shrugged. ‘Why not? You told me he’s big enough to run a dairy farm, didn’t you? Alice, didn’t you say that?’

  I could feel my face beginning to knot into a frown. Why was he talking to my mother this way?

  ‘Sure, Fred, I just thought —’

  Dad’s voice was firm. ‘So he’s coming with me. Come on, get your coat, Billy-boy.’ He took a key from his bedside chest, and turned and strode from the room.

  ‘Take care, Billy,’ I heard Ma say as I left the room.

  In the hallway, Dad unlocked the gun cabinet and tool? out his rifle, quickly squinting along the barrel. Then he took a single bullet from a box of ammo and loaded the gun in a quick, polished motion. ‘Aye, ready to go,’ he muttered.

  Outside it was blowing and raining even harder than I’d realised, and the cold wind was like icy saplings thrashing at my exposed neck. I pulled my cap down hard over my ears, lowered my head and trotted across the muddy yard after Dad and Stan. Dad fumbled around on the cluttered bench in the shed until he’d found a couple of hurricane lanterns, which he quickly lit. The flames flickered and grew, making the shadows on our faces twist and shift. I caught Dad looking at me.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Are you up for this?’ he asked.

  Up for what? What was he going to do? ‘Sure,’ I replied cautiously.

  ‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘Here, you carry this.’ He handed me a long knife, hard and heavy within its sheath.

  ‘What are you going to do with this?’ I asked.

  ‘Hopefully nothing. Oh, wait there, Billy-boy.’ He reached up to a hook on the wall behind the bench and took down a well-worn hat, one with a wide brim that went all the way around. He removed my cap, tossed it amongst the tools on the bench, and put the hat on my head. ‘Aye, it’s a wee bit big, but it’ll do. All right, Stan, lead on.’

  So we went back out into that dreadful weather. I have to admit that it felt like quite an adventure, the three of us trudging through the mud and grass, our lanterns hissing and flickering. I didn’t say anything, though — Dad wasn’t looking too happy, and Stan just looked worried, even a little frightened.

  After a lot of soggy walking and opening and closing gates that left our hands frozen, we finally reached the paddock. The cow was over on the far side, lying under a sprawling tree. Her belly was swollen, and as we walked up and the light from the lanterns splashed across her face, I saw her eye, huge and frightened, watching us approach.

  Dad went straight to her head. He patted her, stroked her big velvety ears. ‘Are you all right there, lassie?’ he said softly. ‘How are you doing there? We’ll sort you out in no time at all. Billy-boy,’ he said suddenly, and it took me a moment to realise that he was talking to me. ‘Billy-boy, come here.’

  I went over and stood beside him.

  ‘Here, Billy-boy, take this.’ He handed me the rifle.

  ‘What for?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not asking you to use it, laddie! I just want you to look after it. Keep the safety on. And talk to the cow while Stan and I see to her other end.’

  I was so relieved. That much I could do. ‘Okay, Dad,’ I agreed, kneeling down and cradling the rifle across my lap, the barrel pointing away from the others.

  Dad took his lantern and went to the back end of that poor cow, who was watching me, begging me with her eyes to help her. I could hear her grunting, groaning, and her enormous expanse of stomach was moving in strange and violent waves.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘My Dad’s real good with cows — he’ll help get it out.’

  Dad and Stan were busy at the other end. In the pale lamplight I saw Dad reaching into dark places with his arm, his face a grimace of concentration as he felt about. He shook his head. ‘It’s no good, Stan,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can’t you turn it?’

  ‘No, I can’t. It’s too late for that.’ Dad stood up. A sheet of lightning exploded nearby, and I saw that his arm was all shiny. ‘We need to do what we discussed.’

  ‘Isn’t there another way?’ Stan asked.

  Dad shook his head again. ‘There’s no time. You’ll lose both of them, Stan. Besides, we’re standing under a tree in a thunderstorm. I’d like to get inside as soon as we can.’

  ‘All right, Freddy, but please don’t ask me to do it,’ said Stan.

  ‘Aye, all right. Take a walk then. Billy-boy,’ he said. ‘The knife.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just give me the knife!’ he snapped, holding out his hand, slick with wetness. I handed him the knife and he unsheathed it. ‘All right, laddie, you know what to do.’

  I frowned. This wasn’t part of the adventure. ‘What?’ I asked, disbelieving. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘Help her.’

  ‘Help her how? Help her do what?’

  ‘Help her die, Billy! Shoot her!’

  I fumbled my way to my feet. The rifle dropped into the mud, and the cow watched this new development with her staring, desperate eyes.

  ‘Pick it up, laddie. Pick up your weapon. Pick it up! Speedo!’

  ‘Don’t say speedo!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t tell me to shoot this poor cow, and don’t say speedo! I’m not one of your bloody soldiers! You can’t give me orders! I have a choice!’

  Dad jammed the knife into the ground and stood up, glaring at me. His anger was so strong I could almost feel it pumping through the air between us. He picked up the rifle, flicked off the safety, cocked it, and placed the barrel against the
white diamond, clearly visible against the broad blackness of the cow’s forehead. ‘Look away,’ he said, and he squeezed the trigger.

  It took him barely a minute to wipe off the blade of the knife and slit the dead cow’s belly right down the middle. Blood gushed out blackly, until a sudden flash of lightning showed Dad’s hands and arms bright red, just for the briefest of moments. Then it was back to the washed-out colours of hurricane lamplight, and the strange shapes of the calf, all too-big head and too-long legs. The body of its mother seemed to collapse a little as Dad pulled it out of the huge wound. Stan had his jacket off in a flash, and wrapped it around the shivering calf.

  ‘How’s it look?’ Dad asked, feeling around the calf’s head.

  ‘She’ll be okay, I reckon,’ Stan said. He looked at Dad, who was still kneeling by the cow’s belly, and me, standing stupidly near its head. ‘Ta, Freddy. Ta, Billy.’

  Dad wiped his knife clean on the wet grass before re-sheathing it. Then he picked up the rifle. ‘I was only being neighbourly, that’s all,’ he said. Then he leaned close to Stan, and I heard him say something that I don’t think I was supposed to hear. It sounded as if he said, ‘If you ever come near my wife again …’ I missed the rest as a thunderclap sounded very close, making me jump. ‘Come on, let’s get home before we’re struck,’ he said to me, and taking one of the lanterns, he strode off, not even bothering to look back to see if I was following.

  We didn’t say a word to each other all the way home. Despite our hats and our coats we were both soaked to the skin by the time we peeled our clothes off in front of the fire. Completely naked, Dad dumped his clothes in my arms and said, ‘Put them somewhere.’ I saw blood still caked in dark stains between his long fingers as he picked up the rifle and headed to the gun cabinet in the hall.

  I dropped our clothing in a sodden pile on the back porch. As it hit the boards I heard a loud thunk, and remembered that the knife was still in Dad’s pocket. I found it and drew it from its leather sheath. There was blood around the handle and the hilt. The edge was very sharp against the ball of my thumb. And the taste of acid was sharp against the back of my throat as I knelt on the edge of the porch and vomited into my mother’s rose garden.