It was a struggle to get up in the morning, but Mum roused him early and Jimmy made sure to stuff the newspaper into the fire before she saw it again. Before school, he had to chop wood, as well as polish his shoes, and then Mum sent him out with the shovel to pick up fresh horse dung in the street for the vegetable garden. He popped his coins in the tin on the mantel, worried at how little money was there.
His mum had already left for her job at the sugar factory when he set off for school at a run, and he was halfway down Stephen Street when he heard a shout.
‘Jimmy! Wait up!’
Jimmy turned. It was his old mate, Frank Green. They’d had some beaut footy games in the schoolyard at lunchtime. Frank was a year older and he’d left school already so Jimmy rarely saw him now.
Frank ran up, puffing, his plump face flushed bright red. ‘Why are you going to school?’
‘Cause I have to, worse luck.’ Jimmy knew he was terrible at everything except arithmetic.
‘I thought you’d left school. Someone saw you running errands for Bill Prosser. So I thought you might be coming to work with us in the railway goods yard today.’ Frank might be plump but he was solidly built and new muscles bulged under his flannel workshirt. Jimmy felt small against Frank’s bulk.
‘No . . . ’ Jimmy said. ‘Mum says I have to go to school.’
‘Nah, come and work with me.’ Frank grinned. ‘It’ll be worth three or four bob to you.’
Jimmy nearly said that just one small job for Bill had earned him a shilling, but he thought better of it. ‘Why are you asking me?’ he said. ‘You’ve got plenty of mates in your gang you could ask.’
Frank shrugged. ‘Thought you’d like the money. And to get out of that prison down there.’ He pointed towards the school.
Jimmy shook his head, smiling. It was so tempting . . . ‘I have to go to school,’ he said. ‘Mum’ll have my guts for garters if she finds out I didn’t, even if I do earn a few bob.’
‘Please yourself,’ Frank said, shrugging. ‘Hey, what about a game of footy this arvo? Been ages since we had a kick.’
Jimmy brightened at the thought of a game of footy. Why not? He had no job at Brown’s anymore. ‘Yes, maybe. I’ll come past your house after school.’
He watched Frank head off towards the railway yards and then trudged on to school. To be honest, he’d much rather have worked at the yards. School was so boring, and the classroom was freezing already. In the middle of winter he’d be wearing three pairs of socks and two jumpers to try and stay warm. Miss Palmerston was an old cow, and she’d been at the school so long she’d been Arthur’s teacher, too. Jimmy was getting pretty sick of her telling him how much better Arthur had been, not to mention the constant raps on the knuckles with her big wooden ruler when he got his times tables wrong. It’d be nearly another year before he could leave. High school was out of the question.
Jimmy was still a couple of hundred yards from the school gate when the bell rang – two long trills. The second bell! How had he not heard the first? He was in real trouble now. Jimmy took to his heels and ran hard the rest of the way, leaping over the now-closed gate and through the front door. He clattered up the stairs, the noise echoing and bouncing off the tiled walls, and sprinted down the corridor to his classroom. All the doors were shut and he could hear the teachers in each room already droning. At the door to his classroom, he paused, tried to stop gasping like an old draughthorse, and turned the handle. It wouldn’t budge.
Miss Palmerston had locked him out!
Jimmy couldn’t believe it. The old bat! And if he waited around for morning recess, she’d give him detention or lines to write. One hundred times: I must not be late to school. He might as well go home – maybe he could get Mum to write a note to say he was sick. Anything was better than hanging around the draughty school corridor all morning.
As he plodded home, Jimmy thought of the shilling from Bill, and the extra sixpence. With that, he could catch the train into the city and have himself a bit of a day out. Sixpence would get him a ticket and even leave enough for an ice-cream.
No, he couldn’t waste it like that. Maybe if he walked to the shops, someone would give him some errands to run. Threepence a time, that would mean . . .
Toot, toot!
Jimmy jumped – he’d been so wrapped up in his plans that he hadn’t heard the motor car behind him. It was a shiny green Daimler, and Bill Prosser was behind the wheel, his hair combed back with hair tonic, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
‘Jimmy, lad! Fancy seeing you here.’
Jimmy walked around the car, admiring its big round headlights and glossy paint. ‘Great car, Mr Prosser.’
‘Told you, call me Bill.’ Bill leaned out of the window. ‘Want a ride?’
Jimmy was sorely tempted, but Sergeant Ross’s words rang in his head. Gossips were everywhere around Yarraville and a ride in Bill’s car would get him into trouble again. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ Bill winked. ‘Having a day off, eh? Used to do it meself all the time.’
‘I was going to see if anyone wanted jobs doing,’ Jimmy said.
‘Good lad,’ Bill said. ‘Gotta help your mum. Listen, I can get you a job at the railway yards. Just for the day, like. Hop in, I’ll take you over there.’
The railway yards again. Was it fate? ‘I . . . I suppose that’d be all right.’ The yards would pay better than errands. Surely Mum would be happy to have a bit more money in the kitty? And Jimmy would get to ride in the shiny green car. He wasn’t going to turn that down. He went around and got in, breathing in the smell of leather and engine oil.
Bill drove down Stephen Street, turned left along Murray Street past the fire station, and pulled up next to the boss’s office at the railway yard. He tooted the car horn again and a huge man in overalls and a battered felt hat came out.
‘What d’you want, Prosser, me old cobber?’
‘George, good to see you!’ Bill got out of the car and shook George’s hand. They talked for a few minutes and then Bill turned to Jimmy. ‘Now, this is me little mate Jimmy, and I told him you’d have a day’s work for him today.’
‘He’s a bit young, Bill,’ George said doubtfully. ‘And a bit weedy.’
Jimmy straightened up and tried to look tough. ‘I’m as strong as a horse. And I work hard.’
‘Come on, George,’ Bill said. ‘You’re always complaining that you’re short-handed with all the men enlisting. Give the boy a go.’
George pointed to a wagon loaded with bags of wheat. ‘Can you carry one of those?’
Jimmy gulped. The bags looked pretty heavy, but if he said no, that’d be the end of the job. ‘I reckon I could.’
‘Ha!’ George laughed. ‘All right, Bill, he can work for a day. After that, we’ll see.’
Jimmy started to say there’d be no ‘after that’ but decided to keep his mouth shut.
Bill waved and drove off, and George said, ‘See those men down the other end? Go with them. Tell them George said you were to help.’
‘All right, George.’
‘Mr Mellon, to you, lad.’
‘Yes, Mr Mellon.’ Jimmy ran over to the group unloading a truck stacked with crates of vegetables and passed on what George had said.
The foreman, an older man with grey hair and beard, sighed. ‘I wish George would give me workers who aren’t still wearing nappies. All right, get up on the back and help the other boy with those bags of carrots.’
Jimmy climbed up and discovered the other boy was Frank Green.
‘Hey, how come you changed your mind?’ Frank asked.
‘No school today,’ Jimmy said with a grin.
Frank laughed. ‘Bonza. I could do with a hand. These bags are heavy.’
Together they hauled down more than twenty bags, grabbing two corners of a sack each and swinging it across to the men on the rail wagon. By the time they’d finished, Jimmy’s arms and shoulders were aching, and it wasn’t even time for a
smoko break. Next they carried crates of cabbages, and at last the hooter went for smoko.
‘Glad it’s not raining today,’ Frank said as they trudged over to the station building and hunkered down against the wall. Frank pulled a squashed bag of lollies out of his pocket and offered Jimmy one.
‘Peppermint rock – ta!’ he said. He hadn’t had lollies for ages. He looked up at the grey sky as he sucked. ‘Do you work in the rain?’
‘Yep. Rain, hail or shine.’ Frank looked up. ‘Here’s the rest of the gang. Hey, you lot all know Jimmy Miller?’
A dusty, ragged group of boys gathered around them, hands in pockets. The biggest one spat on the ground. ‘You related to Arthur Miller who played for Footscray?’
‘Yep,’ Jimmy replied. ‘He’s my brother. He’s a soldier in Egypt, although Mum thinks he’s in that Dardanelles place now, because of what the newspaper said.’
The big boy puffed out his chest. ‘I’ll be joining up any day.’
‘Yeah, sure you will, Hector,’ another boy said with a guffaw. ‘You’re still two years short.’
‘He’s always skiting about enlisting,’ Frank muttered. ‘Watch out for him, he’s Bill Prosser’s cousin. Thinks he’s the ant’s pants.’
‘I know some who’ve got in and they were only sixteen,’ Hector said.
‘Yeah,’ Frank said, ‘but they’re bigger than you and they can tell better fibs.’
The boys all fell about laughing. Hector looked annoyed. The hooter sounded and they all went back to work. The next loading job wasn’t so bad – boxes of tinned meat – and after the lunch break, during which Frank shared a corned beef sandwich with Jimmy, they were sent into the goods shed to stack boxes and sweep the floor. It was a long day and relief swept over Jimmy when the final hooter went, but the four shillings George gave him almost made up for the aches and pains.
‘You did all right,’ George said. ‘Good lad.’
‘Coming with us for a drink?’ Frank asked as they headed out to the street.
‘What? A beer?’ Jimmy said. Surely no one would serve them a beer in the pub.
‘Nah, sometimes we get a bottle of lemonade and go down the flats for a game of footy.’
Now that was more like it. Jimmy couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent game of footy. There were so many kids at school now that there wasn’t enough room to run and kick. ‘Sure will.’
As they walked past the shops and along Stephen Street, towards the paddocks, one of the boys pulled a football out of his work bag. They kicked it all the way there, running after it when it went into people’s front gardens or verandahs. A couple of times housewives came running out, shouting, ‘Be off with you, you larrikins!’ and the boys just laughed and whistled. Jimmy laughed as hard as the rest of them, feeling free as a bird as they raced along.
In the paddocks, Frank and Hector picked teams. Frank chose Jimmy first. ‘He’ll be no use to you,’ Hector sneered. ‘Too short and weak. Looks nothing like his brother.’
Jimmy’s face burned. He was small. He longed to be as good as Arthur, but that was never going to happen. Not unless he magically grew.
‘You wait and see,’ Frank said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Sometimes the smallest are the toughest.’ Jimmy puffed out his chest a bit and glared at Hector, pleased Frank had stuck up for him.
With teams chosen and goal posts set out with sticks, the game began. They had to dodge weeds and rocks and cows, but Jimmy didn’t care. He shouted and whooped and whistled as loud as the rest of them, kicking and running and jostling for the ball until he was breathless. Hector was a mean player and several boys, including Jimmy, ended up face-first in the dirt. But Jimmy got his own back once at least, giving Hector a good thump when they went up for a mark that sent him staggering. The other boys laughed and cheered.
‘Not so weak now, hey?’ Frank yelled.
After one particularly good kick, another boy, George, said, ‘You’ve got a darned good boot on you, Jim.’
Jimmy tried not to grin, but deep down he was pleased. What if he could play for Footscray one day, like Arthur? Arthur was big and tough and good-looking enough that all the girls went to watch him play. Next to that, Jimmy had always felt like one of the spindly dandelions growing in the paddock. But these boys didn’t seem to think that. ‘Kick it here!’ they called, and ‘Nice mark, Jimmy!’ and they jostled him for the ball, laughing and shoving.
By the time the game was over it was nearly dark, but Jimmy was in no hurry to get home. Mum would be wondering where he was, but he wasn’t keen to face her. He dawdled along with Frank, yelling ‘See you!’ and ‘Not if I see you first!’ to the others and laughing.
‘You coming down the yards tomorrow?’ Frank asked.
‘Nah, I’ll have to go to school or Mum will be spitting blood,’ Jimmy said. ‘Gee, I hate school though.’ He knew what would be waiting for him tomorrow – Miss Palmerston would have organised one of the male teachers to give him six of the best with the strap if he couldn’t get Mum to write him a note.
‘Don’t go,’ Frank said. ‘Come and work in the yards and earn good money.’
Jimmy badly wanted to, but Mum was dead keen on school, always telling him how Dad would’ve wanted him to finish and get a good job. Besides, the law said he had to go until he was fourteen. Suddenly, it hit him – he’d been playing footy and forgotten all about the money in his pocket from the yard. What if it’d fallen out? The sweat on his skin turned icy cold and he hardly dared put his hand in his pocket to check.
Phew! The coins were still there. The relief was so great he felt dizzy for a moment.
At his street corner, he waved to Frank and headed home.
Mum was in the kitchen, slicing bread. ‘Where have you been?’ she said sharply. ‘Why weren’t you at school today?’
‘I was late.’ Jimmy hung his head. ‘Miss Palmerston locked me out.’ He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the four shillings, putting it on the table.
‘What’s that? You haven’t been working for that Bill Prosser, have you?’
‘No, Mum. I worked a few hours down at the railway yards.’ He held out his hands, showing her the dirt and blisters. ‘See?’
All at once, she flopped down onto a chair, her head in her hands. ‘Jimmy, you can’t just skip school like this. I get worried sick, and the last thing I need is another visit from the coppers. I can’t afford to be fined for you playing truant.’ She looked up, frowning. ‘And what on earth have you done to your clothes? You’re filthy.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Jimmy said. ‘Truly. I’ll go to school tomorrow. Can you . . . can you write me a note? Otherwise I’ll get the strap.’
She sighed. ‘I suppose so. But I won’t do it for you again, you hear?’
Relief flooded through him. Mr Wagstaff hit hard – last time Jimmy had been unable to stop himself from crying, and his hand had hurt for days. He raced through his jobs, feeding their three chooks and watering the garden, chopping wood for the stove and then helping Mum fill the tin tub with hot water so he could have a bath. She made him scrub all over, even behind his ears. His blisters stung in the hot water and his arms and shoulders ached, but it was a good ache, especially knowing he’d now earned an extra four shillings for the household.
The next morning, thanks to the note from Mum, Miss Palmerston grudgingly let him into her classroom without a punishment for being away. But she was still grumpy with him all day. After school, Jimmy went into every shop on Anderson Street, looking for work, but they all said no. One man glared at him and muttered something about ‘Prosser . . . thieving . . . ’ but Jimmy didn’t dare ask him what he meant. Surely Bill hadn’t put the mozz on him?
Jimmy trudged back up the street, pushing his bicycle. He didn’t want a stupid shop job anyway. But now he’d have to admit the truth about losing his job with Mr Brown, and Mum would be really unhappy with him. What other work could he do? The railway yards were no good – it was all day,
every day, except Sundays.
He propped his bicycle against the pole outside the grocery store and went inside to the counter filled with jars of lollies. His favourite was licorice, and this place had the long curly sticks he loved. He stared at the jars, his mouth watering so badly that he could hardly swallow. Finally, the woman behind the counter snapped, ‘You buying or not, boy?’ and he decided to go home and face Mum with the bad news.
The gas man was already out, lighting all the street lamps. Jimmy reached his front gate, and as he put his bicycle down the sideway he heard crying. Was that Mum? Had she found out already he’d lost his delivery job? He ran inside to find Mum sitting at the kitchen table, bawling her eyes out, while Mrs Wimple patted her hand and poured her a cup of hot tea.
‘Oh Jimmy,’ Mrs Wimple said. ‘Thank the Lord you’re home. Your poor mother has had some terrible news.’
That meant just one thing. Jimmy couldn’t speak – he stared at Mum and waited with his heart thumping like an army drum for her to tell him that Arthur was dead.
Mum stopped crying long enough to drink some tea, and then she saw Jimmy.
‘Oh, Jimmy, I’ve had a letter.’
A letter? Was that how it happened? He thought of Arthur, marching off to war, proud as punch in his new uniform and hat, his boots so shiny they gleamed like polished copper. Was Arthur shot, or was he blown up with a shell?
Jimmy’s throat felt like it had an enormous hot rock stuck in it.
‘Arthur, he . . . he’s been badly wounded. They don’t say what that means. But . . . ’ She managed a watery smile. ‘He’s coming home.’
‘Oh.’ All the air rushed out of Jimmy and he grabbed the back of the kitchen chair to steady himself. Arthur wasn’t blown up after all. He was still alive. He was coming home!
‘That’s beaut, Mum.’ He frowned. ‘So why are you crying so much?’
Mrs Wimple grimaced. ‘My fault, I’m afraid. I brought the Sydney newspaper with me – my sister sent it down. It’s got a photo of the wounded coming home on the ship.’
Do You Dare? Jimmy's War Page 2