Do You Dare? Jimmy's War

by Sherryl Clark

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Sherryl Clark’s Adventures in History

  What Life was Like in Jimmy's Time . . .

  Amazing Feats and Big Events from 1915

  For the real William (Bill) Prosser – thanks!

  Jimmy glanced up at the setting sun and forced his feet down harder on the bicycle pedals. One more delivery and he could head back to Mr Brown’s grocery store. Old Brown had promised him a quarter pound of minced beef if he did two extra deliveries, and it’d been a few days since he and Mum had eaten meat for tea.

  Not that the mince would be fresh. Old Brown only gave him stuff that was on the edge of going off. Still, Mum was a marvel at turning even scraps into tasty dinners. Jimmy’s stomach rumbled and he pedalled faster, swinging out as he reached the corner of Stephen Street and half-skidding around the corner.

  A large black shape loomed suddenly in the twilight and threw its hands up with a scream. Jimmy wrenched at the handlebars of the big bicycle and swerved, slamming on his brakes. But it was too late. His back wheel skidded on the bluestone cobbles and he thumped into the dark shape. It fell back onto the footpath and he fell on top of it, his leg twisted under him.

  The shape groaned and pushed at him with soft, pudgy hands. Jimmy scrambled up, his heart thudding under his ribs. What had he done? Who had he hit?

  The black shape slowly sat up and focused on him. It was Mrs Langley, the widow who ran the haberdashery shop, and she had a tongue on her like a whip. Jimmy braced himself.

  ‘Jimmy Miller!’ she screeched. ‘You’re nothing but a larrikin! You could’ve killed me.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Langley, sorry, Mrs Langley.’ Sweat dripped down Jimmy’s neck as he tried to smile at the grumpy old woman. ‘It’s just . . . I was in a hurry. I was on a delivery.’

  ‘Delivery for what?’

  ‘Mr Brown’s shop. I was taking . . . ’

  Uh oh. He looked around. The potatoes were strewn everywhere and the bags of sugar and flour had split and were spilt across the road. He felt sick. Mr Brown would surely take the cost out of his wages, which were measly enough already.

  ‘Is that right?’ Mrs Langley refused his hand and got to her feet. She pointed at the potatoes and ripped paper bags. ‘Well, you can pick that up and come with me, young man. I’ll teach you to ride like a ruffian and run down a poor woman like me.’

  Jimmy bent to collect the potatoes, one at a time, and then the paper bags. Surely she didn’t mean it? Maybe he could tell her about Arthur being away at the war, and how Mum was pining, and how he desperately needed the wages from Mr Brown. But one look at Mrs Langley’s angry face and he knew it would be wasted.

  She made him carry her large black purse in his bicycle basket and walk behind her, all the way to Mr Brown’s shop in Anderson Street. The black rose bobbed angrily in her hat as she scolded him.

  ‘You should know better than to ride like that,’ she said. ‘Your brother, Arthur, never behaved like this. You should be taking a leaf out of his book.’

  Yes, yes, Jimmy thought. Everyone in Yarraville loved Arthur. Half the girls had cried when he enlisted, and it seemed like their mums had, too. All the footy supporters sobbed in their beer at the thought of losing Arthur from the team. Clearly, even Mrs Langley thought Jimmy was a poor substitute.

  Mr Brown kept his shop open late, trying to compete with the bigger grocery on the corner. He spotted Mrs Langley at the door and came rushing out to serve her.

  ‘This larrikin,’ Mrs Langley declared, pointing at Jimmy, ‘was riding dangerously and ran right into me. I could’ve been badly hurt!’

  Jimmy secretly thought someone as fat as Mrs Langley had far too much padding for that. He was the one who was hurt – his leg ached, and the back of his neck burned from the late autumn sun. He opened his mouth to say sorry yet again, but Mr Brown didn’t give him the chance.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Langley.’ Mr Brown cringed, wringing his hands. ‘It’s so hard to get good help. These lads . . . ’

  Hang on, I work hard! Jimmy thought.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to shop at Brigalows,’ Mrs Langley said.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Mr Brown gasped. His face paled and he glared at Jimmy. ‘No need for that, Mrs Langley. The boy shall be sacked at once.’

  ‘At once?’

  ‘Right away, Mrs Langley!’ Mr Brown turned angrily to Jimmy and suddenly caught sight of the split bags in Jimmy’s basket. ‘And you owe me for that flour and sugar, boy, so don’t go asking for your wages, either. Now, be off with you.’

  Jimmy opened his mouth to argue that it had all been an accident, but two grown-ups glaring at him like he was a criminal was too much for him. He turned and walked away, wheeling his bicycle, shame and anger smashing around inside him. Mr Brown was just an old fart, and Mrs Langley was a nasty old crow!

  When he reached the first glowing street lamp, he stopped to check his bicycle. Please, don’t let it be damaged, he prayed. It had been his dad’s, and then his brother Arthur’s, and now it was his. It was Jimmy’s only real link to Dad, and he kept it spick and span. He was growing into it, but it was still a heavy old thing to pedal around Yarraville.

  Jimmy’s route home was down Ballarat Street, past two pubs, both of which tended to have drunks spilling out their doors by tea-time. He wheeled his bicycle, head down, lost in misery. How was he going to tell Mum he’d lost his job? Even though Mr Brown paid a pittance, they relied on his few shillings and hand-outs.

  At the second pub, a voice called to Jimmy from the back door. ‘G’day, there.’

  Jimmy paused uncertainly. It was Bill Prosser, the local bookie and crim, his beady eyes gleaming.

  ‘Aren’t you Arthur Miller’s brother?’ Bill beckoned Jimmy closer.

  Jimmy hesitated. The stink of stale beer wafted out from the half-open pub door. ‘You know Arthur?’ he said.

  ‘Sure do.’ Prosser had a funny smile on his face.

  ‘Good-o,’ Jimmy said. ‘Um, Mr Prosser, I gotta get –’

  ‘Call me Bill,’ the bookie said. ‘Listen, I’ve got an errand needs running. Urgent, like. I can pay you a shilling.’

  Jimmy thought for a moment. A shilling was half as much as he earned from stingy Mr Brown in a week! But he had heard about Bill Prosser. ‘Up to no good’ and ‘Bound for gaol, you mark my words’ were some of the things he’d been told. Prosser took bets on the horse races, which was something the coppers got you for. Even worse, he was rumoured to have done a few robberies as well. If Bill wanted Jimmy to run some bets, the coppers would be after Jimmy in no time, even if he was just a kid.

  ‘It’s nothin’ to do with the betting,’ Bill said. ‘I promise. It’s something for me mum. She lives the other side of Somerville Road.’

  Somerville Road was in the opposite direction to home. By the time he rode there and then home again, it’d be well after dark. Mum would be on the front verandah or pacing the street. Since Arthur had gone off to the war, she acted as though Jimmy had to be wrapped in cottonwool. It was as though she couldn’t see how hard he worked, how he’d taken Arthur’s place in a lot of ways. She only had eyes for the letterbox, waiting for a letter from Arthur.

  This was a whole shilling . . . Mum would be upset about Mr Brown sacking him. But maybe this would kind of make up for it. For today, anyway.

  ‘All right,’ Jimmy said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just a parcel.’


  ‘A parcel of what?’

  ‘Part of that shilling means no questions,’ Bill said sharply. ‘But if you must know, it’s meat for Mum’s tea.’

  ‘Oh. Hand it over then.’

  Bill fetched the parcel from inside the pub; Jimmy shoved it into his basket, pocketed the shilling and set off again down Ballarat Street.

  Bill shouted after him, ‘You make sure you go straight there, Jimmy boy.’

  ‘I will,’ Jimmy yelled. He pedalled as hard as he could, not caring if he ran into Mrs Langley again. What difference would it make now?

  Dusk had fallen and fog drifted across the flats from the river. At Mrs Prosser’s house, he banged on the door, short and sharp.

  ‘Who’s this kicking my door down?’ Mrs Prosser loomed in the doorway, and from behind her the delicious smell of meat roasting wafted out. Jimmy’s stomach groaned.

  ‘Parcel for you from Bill,’ Jimmy said. He pushed it into her hands, ready to rush off again.

  ‘Hang on,’ Mrs Prosser said. She fumbled in a small purse that was on the side table in the hallway, and handed Jimmy a sixpence.

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ Jimmy said. For a brief moment, he wondered if it really was meat in the parcel, since she had a roast in the oven. But he pushed the thought aside quickly. Too late to worry about that. Time to go. He had no light on his bicycle and he’d have to navigate his way towards home very carefully, especially down the end of his street where the big puddles were.

  Only the shops on Anderson Street were still open as he sped past, but even they were closing. Everyone was home with their fires going and their doors tightly closed against the cold.

  Jimmy shivered. They’d had sleet just a few days ago, and a bitter northerly wind had been whistling through Melbourne ever since. He was now more than an hour late home and he slid around the corner to his street, spraying mud against the neighbour’s picket fence. Maybe Mum would be inside, warm by the stove, and there’d be a tasty stew bubbling away.

  But no. As he reached the gate, a pale shape rushed out from his front door.

  ‘James Edward Miller! Where have you been? I’ve been worried to death!’

  Mum’s face was even paler than her dress, if that were possible. Her hair fell in tangles around her face and her hands shook as she clutched at his arms.

  ‘I’ve been doing deliveries, Mum,’ Jimmy said firmly. He’d learned early to be steady and strong with her, to calm her down quickly and reassure her that he was fine. He’d heard people say he was ‘the man of the family’ now, and at first he’d thought they were stupid, but now he understood. Mum was fine if everything was as usual. It was doubt and worry that undid her.

  He wheeled the bicycle through the gate and up the side, leaning it against the wall, and grabbed the paper bags out of his basket to put them on the fire. Then he realised he still had the potatoes, too. No way old man Brown was getting them back now. He took them into Mum; she was in the kitchen cooking by the light of a kerosene lamp.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Here’s my pay.’ He held out the potatoes, as well as the shilling and the sixpence that gleamed in his hand.

  She gaped at the coins. ‘Where did you get those? It’s not payday.’ She gave him a sharp look. ‘You haven’t been stealing like those boys from the other side of the railway line, have you?’

  Jimmy gaped at her accusation. ‘No, Mum. I did some extra deliveries, that’s why I’m late. Not everyone pays as lousy as Mr Brown. Anyway, what’s for tea? I could eat a horse.’ He shoved the coins back into his pocket. He didn’t want her asking exactly who had paid him, and he wanted to avoid the subject of Mr Brown tonight. He’d get out after school tomorrow and find another job, and then he’d tell her.

  Just as Mum was about to answer, a loud knocking at the front door echoed through the house.

  ‘Who on earth could that be?’ Mum said, then the colour drained from her face and she staggered, grabbing at a chair, and then collapsing onto it. ‘Oh, maybe it’s . . . ’

  Mum thought every knock at the door was someone coming to tell her Arthur was dead.

  ‘No, Mum, it’s not, I’m sure.’ Jimmy raced to the door, his heart pounding. Maybe he was wrong, maybe it was someone from the Army. He opened the door.

  Standing there on the front step was their local policeman, Sergeant Ross.

  Jimmy sucked in a breath. Were they sending policemen with the bad news now? Was Mum right?

  ‘Jimmy, I want a word,’ Sergeant Ross said. ‘Where’s your mum?’

  ‘In the kitchen,’ Jimmy replied. ‘She thought it was someone coming with bad news about Arthur.’ He swallowed hard. ‘You’re not, are you?’

  ‘No, lad. Sorry if I upset your mother.’ Sergeant Ross paused, staring down at him. ‘A little bird told me you might’ve run an errand for Bill Prosser earlier tonight.’

  Jimmy opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before he could squeak, ‘Just taking something to Mrs Prosser for him. He said it wasn’t bookies’ chits.’

  ‘Pfft. And you believed him?’ Sergeant Ross frowned.

  ‘Sergeant, is Jimmy in trouble?’

  Jimmy jumped. He hadn’t heard Mum come down the hallway behind him.

  ‘No, Mrs Miller. I just needed to ask him a question.’ He lifted his gaze from Jimmy to Mum and his face softened. ‘I hope you’re well.’

  ‘Oh, yes, so-so.’

  ‘Have you heard from Arthur?’

  ‘Not for a while.’ Mum managed a wobbly smile. ‘I’m sure he’s fine. He’s in Egypt, you know. Not that I understand why.’

  ‘Training, Mrs Miller. They need our boys fighting fit and ready.’ Sergeant Ross made a harumphing sound. ‘I, er . . . ’

  Mum’s cheeks turned pink. ‘Jimmy, your tea’s on the table, getting cold. You’d better go and eat it.’

  Something was going on but Jimmy couldn’t figure out what. Was Sergeant Ross going to tell Mum about his errand for Bill Prosser? He pushed the coins deeper into his pocket. He’d never forgive the policeman if Mum made him give the money back.

  ‘It’s fine, Jimmy,’ said Sergeant Ross. ‘Go and eat your supper, like your mother says.’

  Jimmy reluctantly left them, hoping that meant the Sergeant wasn’t going to dob on him. Sitting at the kitchen table, he could hear them murmuring at the front door, and then, of all things, Mum laughing!

  When the door finally closed and she came back to the kitchen, her face was still pink. Jimmy had finished his stew, although there’d been too many carrots and only a few shreds of meat in it. He wiped his plate clean with a slice of bread and put the kettle on the stove to make tea.

  ‘What did he want?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Mum said. ‘Just passing the time of day.’

  ‘But it’s night-time,’ Jimmy said suspiciously.

  Mum didn’t answer. Instead, she took a newspaper off the sideboard and laid it on the table. ‘Look, Mrs Wimple next door gave me this after she’d finished with it. It says the Australians are fighting the Turks.’

  ‘But . . . I thought Arthur was going to fight in Europe,’ Jimmy said, looking at the article.

  ‘Mr Wimple said not,’ Mum said. ‘He said the battalions that went to Egypt were training for this attack on the Dardanelles, and already the killed and wounded lists are being published. Arthur could be on this list – tomorrow!’ Her finger stabbed the paper and her chin trembled. ‘I couldn’t bear it if I lost Arthur, too.’

  Mum still hadn’t got over Dad’s death at the factory two years ago. They’d brought his mangled body home after they’d got him out of the machine, and Mum had had to manage all the funeral arrangements alone as well as grieve. What family she had lived far away in Queensland. There were still times when she cried. Arthur obviously hadn’t thought about how the constant worry might affect Mum when he’d run off to enlist.

  ‘Nah, Arthur’s too tough,’ Jimmy said. ‘He’ll be all right.’ He glanced at Arthur’s postcards lined up along
the mantelpiece. Egypt looked interesting with all those pyramids and funny buildings, but the desert sounded pretty hot.

  ‘Read this!’ Mum’s voice grew shrill. ‘It says “the glory of wounds and death incurred in their country’s cause by its gallant sons”. I’ll bet good money it’s not their son out there on the battlefield. And this bit here – “the fallen died like heroes”. Heroes! To who? Not to me!’

  ‘Mum, I keep telling you, Arthur will be home before you know it.’

  But Jimmy wasn’t so sure. Arthur marching off in his brand new uniform had seemed like a game, and he’d sounded so cheery in his short letters home. The newspaper reports were making the war real all of a sudden. Jimmy scanned the list of those killed. Some were from Albert Park and Hawthorn, not so far away, but lots were just slightly wounded. Maybe Arthur would be slightly wounded and they’d send him home.

  Jimmy leapt up. ‘Sit down, Mum, and I’ll make us a cup of tea. Is there any of Mrs Wimple’s butter cake left?’

  ‘One slice,’ Mum said. She sank down onto a chair and rubbed her face, leaving black streaks from the newspaper ink. ‘You have it, son. I’m not hungry.’

  Jimmy folded the newspaper and put it in the wood box. He’d use it to start the fire in the morning, and that way Mum couldn’t read it again. There wasn’t much news coming through, but what there was was too upsetting for her. He had a mind to tell Mrs Wimple not to pass on any more newspapers.

  But later that night, after Mum had gone to bed, Jimmy couldn’t help himself. He pulled out the newspaper again. On the next page was more about the battle, which was at the strange-sounding place Mr Wimple had mentioned to Mum – the Dardanelles. Jimmy couldn’t figure out whether things were going well or not. It reported that seven hundred Turks had been captured, but ‘Our Casualties Heavy’. He put the paper back in the wood box and went to bed, but it was impossible now to stop his brain from imagining Arthur lying on a beach, half a world away, blood leaking from half a dozen bullet wounds. To distract himself, Jimmy got the coins out of his pocket and lay there, flipping them over and over, making a list of all the food he was going to buy, and none of it from Mr Brown’s shop! He’d go into the big shop on the corner and have a right old time.