Keith quickly helped Andrew into the back of the dray and Elsie handed her horse to Henry then climbed in next to her brother. She looked down at Andrew’s roughly-bandaged leg lying stretched on the wooden boards, then at his face, which already showed more colour.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked as the horses gave a heave and they began to make their way back through the scrub.
‘Fine,’ Andrew said. ‘Well… near enough anyway.’ He rested his head back on the blanket. ‘Thanks for pulling me out.’
‘That’s alright,’ Elsie said. She was hardly going to let him drown, was she?
They bumped along past gums and flowering shrubs, the only sounds the creaking of the dray, the clumping of the horses’ hooves and Andrew’s occasional groans.
‘Does it hurt?’ Elsie asked.
‘Only a bit,’ said Andrew. ‘Not much.’ He gasped as they jolted over a root and closed his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Talk to me.’
‘About what?’
‘Anything.’
Elsie looked around and tried to think of something to say. The sky was very bright today? A cow stood swishing its tail in the shade of a tree? None of it seemed interesting enough to tell Andrew. And then she remembered the coin Mrs Baker had given her and dug it from her pocket.
‘Here’s the penny I told you about,’ she said and held it up for Andrew to see.
He squinted at it. ‘It’s very shiny,’ he said. ‘What will you do with it?’
‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought.’
‘Well… you could buy a packet of sherbet. Or a newspaper.’ He bit his lip as the dray jolted again, then slowly let out his breath. ‘Half a pound of rice,’ he said. ‘That would cost a penny. Or a postage stamp.’ He gave a laugh. ‘That’s it! When you go back to Sydney you can use it to send me a letter. Tell me what you’ve been doing.’
Elsie smiled. ‘Alright, I’ll do that.’
She thought of the letter she’d send Andrew, describing what she was learning at school and how her sewing sampler was going. She could tell him everything Annie and Kate were gossiping about and what the new fashions were. Then Elsie wrinkled her nose; Andrew wouldn’t care about those things, and she didn’t find them very interesting either. She could think of a much better use for the penny.
‘Actually, you keep it, Andy,’ she said and pressed it into his hand. ‘You send a letter to me.’
Yared yawned and shifted again on the uncomfortable mattress.
‘What did he write in the letter?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ his nanna said. ‘That’s the end of the story. I can’t keep telling it forever, you know.’ She began to climb to her feet. ‘Now go to sleep quickly or you’ll be tired tomorrow morning.’
‘Goodnight,’ Yared murmured as she left.
In Which Charlie Makes a Wish
When his nanna came to turn off his light the next night Yared was sitting in bed reading a Tintin comic. School hadn’t been too bad today; Mr Moretti had been back, so Yared hadn’t had to face Mrs Richmond again, and Toby had brought his football for them to play with at lunch. Once he’d come home his nanna had made him finish his homework before watching TV, but at least she hadn’t yelled at him for anything this afternoon.
‘Put that away, Yared, and go to sleep,’ she said now, hovering in the doorway with her hand near the light switch.
Yared looked up from the book. ‘Aren’t you telling me a story tonight?’
‘Another one?’
‘About the penny.’
His nanna frowned. ‘Well… I suppose I could. There’s school tomorrow though, so you mustn’t be up late.’
‘That’s okay.’ Yared dropped his comic book on the bedside table and slipped down under the covers. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘I’m ready now.’
‘Well I’m not,’ said his nanna. ‘Give me a moment to think.’
She switched off the light then walked across and perched on the end of his bed. Yared watched in the dimness as she sat frowning in thought.
‘Oh Nanna,’ he said, pushing himself up on one elbow. ‘Can it be about a boy this time?’
She stiffened. ‘Why? You didn’t like last night’s story?’
‘Yes,’ Yared said. ‘I did.’ He bit his lip. ‘I just… I just wanted one with a boy this time. Because yesterday was a girl.’
He saw his nanna’s shoulders relax slightly.
‘Well it sounds like ingratitude to me, but I suppose I can manage it,’ she said. ‘Now lie still and I’ll begin – this one’s set during the First World War.’
Charlie shoved his hands under his armpits and peered across the gloomy alleyway at his friends Arthur and Tom, who were sitting on a wooden packing crate. ‘They must have captured a lot of ground,’ he said. ‘It said yesterday they’d reached the Germans’ third line of defences.’
‘I hope it’s not over before we’re old enough to join up,’ said Arthur.
‘I reckon it will be,’ Tom said. ‘Over by Christmas. That’s what everyone says.’
‘Pity,’ Arthur said. ‘How old was Jim when he joined up, Charlie?’
‘Sixteen,’ said Charlie.
Arthur sighed. ‘But that’s another four years.’
Further down the alley some smaller boys were also waiting, huddled together in clumps. Charlie knew most of them from school, but in the near-dark he couldn’t make out their faces.
‘We could try when we’re fifteen, if the war’s still on,’ said Tom.
‘You couldn’t,’ Charlie said with a grin. ‘You’re too small. You’d never pass for eighteen.’
‘I’ll have grown by then.’
‘Not enough,’ Charlie said.
A creaking sound came from down the alleyway as the side door of the building next to them opened. Charlie pushed off from the wall as Mr Perry stepped out and dropped the first bundle of newspapers onto the ground.
‘Well, one thing I know,’ Arthur said as he and Tom jumped down from the packing crate to stand beside Charlie. ‘I’m not waiting for someone to give me a white feather before I join up, like Ralph next door.’
The three boys moved down the alley to the growing stack of newspapers just outside the door. Charlie jostled aside some of the smaller boys and reached down for an armful to slip underneath the large leather strap that looped around his shoulders and chest. Once they were stocked with newspapers Charlie, Tom and Arthur left the side alley and turned onto Macquarie Street. It was usually busy with carriages, pedestrians and men riding past on bicycles, but this early in the morning, with the sky only faintly tinted with pink, the street was almost deserted.
‘See you at school,’ Arthur said and the boys split up to head to their separate positions. Arthur’s was up the street, past the town hall and the bank, and Tom’s was a few blocks in the other direction, but Charlie hardly had to walk at all to reach his spot; it was outside the post office, only a few yards down from the newspaper building.
As Charlie stood on the empty street corner he tugged his felt cap more firmly on his head and rubbed his hands together to warm them. What he could see of the sky was covered in clouds and there was an uncomfortably chilly breeze. He glanced behind him at the post office’s big sandstone clock tower, which rose high in the air. It was half past six and the street was quiet around Charlie; business was always slow for the first half hour or so.
While he waited, Charlie pulled a newspaper from his stock to read the day’s headlines. The front page was covered in advertisements, but he flipped the paper open to the middle, where the war news was found. In large type in the centre of the page were the headlines:
BATTLE OF POZIERES
HOW BRITISH & ANZACS STORMED THE POSITION
GREAT OBSTACLES OVERCOME
FINE TRIBUTE TO ANZACS FROM GENERAL HAIG
THE ADVANTAGE BEING HELD
Charlie felt a jump of excitement to see that the Australian troops were pushing the Germans back so well. He quickly started to re
ad some of the articles clustered around the page. One description of the battle said, “Our troops drove through the wild night, through the shrapnel, shell and machine-gun fire, fought around difficult angles, and through complicated stages, with extraordinary coolness and success.” And here was another section that said, “Neither the German riflemen nor the machine gunners could keep back this tide of keen, ardent men, these clean-shaven, hatchet-faced lads, who have brought a new type of manhood to France.” Some smaller headlines reported that the Anzac attack had been a complete success, and that they’d suffered comparatively light losses.
Charlie thought of his brother Jim, who was over there fighting for the Empire. From Jim’s letters it sounded like a wonderful adventure. Charlie wished he was old enough to enlist too, so that he wouldn’t have to miss all the fun; he wanted to see the Sphinx and the Egyptian sunsets Jim talked about in his letters, and go into battle and show everyone what the British Empire was made of. At school when they raised the Union Jack and sang “God Save the King” Charlie always felt proud to be part of the Empire, and he knew from the newspaper reports how dashing the Australian troops were, and how courageously they went into battle.
Now that sunrise was growing closer the streets and footpaths around Charlie were starting to see some traffic. Double-decker trams jolted past, their conductors looking smart in dark jackets with shiny buttons. Men wearing suits strolled along or rode bicycles, and cabs and carriages occasionally rolled past, the horses’ hooves clattering on the gravel.
‘Paper,’ Charlie called from his spot on the corner. ‘Get your paper. Anzacs storm Pozières. Get your paper.’
A man wearing a bowler hat and carrying an umbrella stopped next to Charlie and dug in his pocket for some coins.
‘Here you are, sir,’ Charlie said as he gave him the newspaper, and the man tucked it under his arm and walked on.
Charlie slipped the coins into the cloth bag hanging from his waist; his first sale of the morning. He earned ten shillings a week for selling newspapers before and after school, and gave most of it to his mother. She found the extra money useful with both Jim and Charlie’s father away, especially now that the war was making food more expensive. Charlie’s older sister Florence worked as a typist, which also helped, and meant that Charlie could keep a small amount of his newspaper money each week. He, Tom and Arthur were saving up to buy an airgun together.
The sun was now peeping up over the harbour and the middle of town was becoming quite crowded. Charlie kept busy calling out, jumping on and off trams, pulling newspapers from his stash and giving change. People hurried past to work, horse-drawn cabs carried passengers up and down the street, and trams filled and emptied at the stop in front of him. Charlie could see women on their way to work, as well as men – now that so many men were away at the war, women were having to take over some of their jobs. Tom even had a cousin, Ellen, who had gone to France to nurse the wounded soldiers.
‘But that’s not really the same as going overseas to fight,’ Arthur had said when Tom told them.
‘It doesn’t sound very exciting,’ Charlie said.
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t suppose they’d be very close to the fighting. Just close enough to bandage up the men who were hurt.’
The morning was still cold and windy, but ducking through the crowd and running between vehicles helped to keep Charlie warm. A tram stopped nearby and he sprang up the spiral stairs to the open top level, which was crowded with passengers sitting on wooden benches.
‘Paper, get your paper,’ he shouted, waving one above his head. He had time to sell three before the conductor gave a shout, and as the tram jerked into motion he scrambled back down to the road.
‘Anzacs storm Pozières,’ he shouted, dodging out of the path of a bicycle and making his way back to the footpath. ‘Great obstacles overcome. Read all about it.’
The post office clock behind Charlie was now showing a quarter to eight, and people were streaming past him in all directions. A man with a handlebar moustache stopped for a paper, then strode across the road. His moustache and his brisk walk reminded Charlie of his old school teacher Mr Schneider, who’d been taken away to an internment camp a few months before. Charlie had thought it a pity, because Mr Schneider was a very patient teacher, but the headmaster had told them it was for the best, in case Mr Schneider was a German spy. Now Charlie had Mr Barrett, who wasn’t at all patient, and who liked to use the cane.
‘Here, I’ll have a paper.’
Charlie glanced around to see a gaunt young man who looked only a few years older than Jim. He was wearing a khaki uniform and the right sleeve of his jacket was pinned up to his shoulder. Charlie stared at the place where his arm should have been.
‘Well?’
Charlie flushed and fumbled at the leather strap round his chest for a newspaper. With his left hand the man gave Charlie the coins, and Charlie passed him the paper without looking at his face.
The man gave a grunt and turned to go, and Charlie stared after him as he crossed the road. From the man’s uniform Charlie could tell he was an Anzac. He must have been at Gallipoli, Charlie thought. He must have lost his arm in the fighting there. He was a war hero, just like the ones on the cigarette cards Charlie collected.
The streets were still busy with pedestrians, cyclists and trams, and Charlie’s money bag was slowly growing heavier. An overweight man paused in front of Charlie and handed him a threepence. Charlie passed over a paper, reached into his money bag and picked out some change, but the man suddenly pounded away towards a tram that had pulled up a few yards down the street. Charlie shrugged and slipped the coins he’d picked out into the pocket of his knickerbockers. It was a tip, he supposed, of a sort.
On the far side of the road there was a queue outside a shopfront, so Charlie made his way through the traffic to see if anyone there would buy a newspaper.
‘Papers, get your papers. Paper, sir? Anzacs storm Pozières.’
It was always easier to sell papers when there were exciting headlines, Charlie found. No-one wanted to miss the latest war news. He glanced each way then ducked back across the street. It was the same whenever they received a letter from Jim or Charlie’s father; his mother would rush for the letter opener and read the message through several times before passing it on to Florence. Not that their letters ever said very much. Charlie always read Jim’s eagerly for exciting stories about battle, but all they ever mentioned were the sight-seeing he’d done at the training camp, the friends he’d made and things he remembered from home. Charlie didn’t know why he filled his letters with such boring topics, when he must have been having adventure after exciting adventure.
The traffic around Charlie gradually began to slacken, and when the post office clock showed a quarter to nine he tucked the paper he was holding back under the leather strap and crossed the intersection to the corner diagonally opposite, tugging his cap down firmly on his head against the wind. On this corner of the intersection was Franklin Square, with its park benches, large fountain and bushy green trees. Charlie often walked through the square on his way home in the mornings. He liked to cross the park and walk along the waterfront, watching the bustle of the factories, or the ships loading and unloading.
As he stepped through the wrought-iron gates into the park, Charlie noticed the young one-armed soldier sitting on a bench near a garden edge with his newspaper spread across his knees. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and was lighting it with a match. Charlie hesitated in the middle of the gravel path. He wondered if the man still had the card from his cigarette pack; Charlie had had a hard time adding to his collection since his father had joined up, and he often had to ask strangers for their cigarette cards. As he watched, the man flicked the match out, put it back in the open matchbox beside him and fumbled to close the box.
A gust of wind swept across the park and Charlie saw the newspaper fly from the man’s lap and tumble through the air. It was being carried towards the fount
ain, so Charlie dashed after it and grabbed hold of it before it reached the water. He tried to straighten the pages into order, then took the paper back to the young man, who’d risen to his feet.
‘Thank you,’ the man said as Charlie handed him the paper. He tucked it under his right armpit and sat back down.
‘That’s alright.’ Charlie scuffed his boot through the gravel. ‘Do you have any cigarette cards, mister?’
The man glanced up then felt in his coat pocket for his cigarette pack. He handed it to Charlie, who flipped open the lid and pulled the card out from among the remaining cigarettes.
‘Thanks,’ he said and passed the box back.
The man grunted and watched Charlie examine the card. ‘You got that one already?’
‘Yes,’ Charlie said, ‘but it’s a good one. It’s the HMAS Sydney.’ He showed the man the card, with its black and white photograph of the warship. ‘My friend’s got a postcard of her where you can see all her guns and turrets. She’s got eight 6-inch guns, you know, and a 12-pounder.’
The man nodded and looked away, taking a drag on his cigarette.
‘Did you ever use a 12-pounder?’ Charlie asked.
His gaze jumped back to Charlie. ‘What?’
‘Did you ever use a 12-pounder gun? You were at Gallipoli, weren’t you?’
He grunted. ‘Yeah.’
‘At the landing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wow.’ Charlie looked at the man in admiration. ‘That must have been exciting.’
The man gave a short laugh. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
Charlie frowned ‘What do you mean?’
He took another puff of his cigarette and it was a few seconds before he answered. ‘It was a bloody shambles,’ he said. ‘Men being cut down all over the place, bodies scattered everywhere, the Turks sitting there waiting for us with machine guns. We weren’t even at the right bloody beach.’
A Penny in Time Page 3