by Lisa Bigelow
‘Sorry, we don’t entertain much,’ Mick said, attempting to tidy while the kettle boiled on the stove.
‘At least I’m in the right place if something happens.’
‘You’ll certainly be the first to hear if there’s a sighting. Got your notebook ready?’
Grace undid the clasp on her handbag and retrieved her notebook and pencil. ‘Always.’
‘Okay, so while we’re waiting for news on the escapees, what else would you like to know?’
Grace had tossed and turned much of the night, nervous about filing her story but also wondering about Mick. It was deeply unsettling to think about any man other than Phil, almost like she was being untrue to him. Of course that wasn’t the case. Mick would obviously be spoken for, probably with a young family. He was just enjoying seeing someone familiar, someone from his past. She’d missed that herself, living in Melbourne, so far from everything and everyone she’d grown up with. It was silly feeling shy around Mick; he was practically family. And anyway, now that she was covering serious stories, she was determined to be more like her heroine Torchy; to ask every question applicable to every story.
‘So, how’s life? Married? Children?’
Mick dropped a plate into soapy sink water so that a few drops splashed his jacket. ‘You really do have this reporter thing down pat, don’t you?’
‘Are you stalling?’
‘Not guilty on all counts, I’m afraid. There was a nurse, but she met a Yank.’
‘Ah, blinded by silk stockings and chocolate bars. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Last I heard she was living in the nurses’ quarters and waiting to sail to the States. But enough about my pathetic life; what about you, Grace? Being chased by half the blokes in the newsroom?’
She took a breath. It was never easy talking about Phil, and she felt the need to take extra care in choosing her words for Mick.
‘I met someone special, a reporter on The Tribune—’
A constable appeared in the doorway. ‘There’s been a sighting just out of town. Murchison.’
‘On our way,’ Mick said. ‘Is Scoop nearby?’
‘He’s waiting with the press guys at the pub.’
‘All right, grab him and follow us as best you can.’
As Grace stood and walked towards the door, Mick leaned down and looked at her squarely, seriously: ‘It’s really great to have you here. Stick close to me—I’ll do everything I can to help.’
CHAPTER 36
* * *
THE FIRST ESCAPEE WAS caught walking along the road that morning, barely six miles from Dhurringile, right in time for The Tribune’s second edition. Two more prisoners were captured in Murchison the following day, including one who was drinking beer at the pub while he waited for a train. Grace interviewed dozens of locals crowded into the bar. They were amazed that none of the captured men had got any further away. The pub’s landlord said the man was alone and kept to himself.
‘He didn’t say much. No, I couldn’t hear an accent. He just said, “Beer, please,” then nodded when he wanted another. Put some coins on the bar and I took what he owed.’
‘What made you suspicious?’
‘Well, he’s a stranger. And all strangers are a bit sus at the moment, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to tell the coppers about him.’
‘What do you think they’ve been doing?’ Grace asked two ruddy-faced farmers.
‘Well, they’re salties, aren’t they? Useless at navigating on land and not much distance in their legs after being cooped up so long.’
‘Yeah, they put all their energy into digging themselves out but forgot to plan what came next. They’ve pretty much lost their war, got nowhere to go; probably too ashamed to go home.’
Over the first few days, Grace filed multiple stories detailing sightings and arrests. The police and the army released more information about the escape, saying the floorboards had been carefully lifted and replaced each night for months while the prisoners dug the tunnel. No one knew what the prisoners did with the dirt and soil they removed, but the guards said that was something they always watched out for. The story was giving Grace a great run on the early pages, but she was amazed she hadn’t been replaced by one of the senior reporters.
On the fourth night, Grace huddled under an umbrella at the front gate of yet another farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, while six policemen searched a tractor shed. Graham waited near the gate with two photographers from other papers. There was no real reason to think tonight’s farm disturbance report would be any more fruitful than the others over the last few days, but still they were ready with their cameras, flash guns charged, lenses polished. The other reporters had opted to stay dry at the pub and eat their dinner. Grace wished she were there too. As the rain dripped steadily off her umbrella, she realised she needed to use the toilet—not urgently, but soon.
The farmers, Merle and Perce Boyd, stood nearby recounting to Mick everything they’d heard in their garden.
‘So what made you think there was someone outside?’ Mick asked the pair, who were dressed almost identically in flannel shirts and overalls. They were of almost equal height, with short grey hair plastered to their skulls. It was sometimes said that couples grew to look alike, but these two could almost be siblings. Best not to let that thought run, Grace told herself.
‘Well,’ Merle said, ‘we were just sitting down to supper and we heard a tin bucket topple over and roll down the back steps. The dogs were all inside and there was no wind. It had to be someone snooping round.’
‘I see. And what about other animals? Goats? Cats?’
‘All in their pens. Nothing’s out.’
‘Anything else that you’ve noticed?’
Merle answered again: ‘The chooks were squawking a bit earlier.’
‘Could it have been a fox?’
‘We’ve got the baits out. Haven’t lost any layers for ages.’
‘Well, the boys’ll have a good look around, make sure there’s no one there.’
Grace shifted her weight from leg to leg, her bladder uncomfortably full now. She looked at the house about a hundred feet up the driveway. If only she could use the Boyds’ outhouse, but it wouldn’t be safe until the search had been completed.
Mick closed his notebook and introduced Grace, who offered her hand to Merle.
‘Thought you must have been from the papers,’ the older woman said. ‘Where’s all the others?’
‘They’re on deadline, filing their stories,’ Grace explained, not wanting to disparage anyone in her profession, even though they probably wouldn’t do her the same courtesy.
‘So, we gonna be in the paper?’
‘Maybe. It all depends on what happens tonight.’
‘I just can’t believe how long this is dragging on. I was just saying to Perce while the vegies were boiling that no one feels safe anymore. Never had to lock our doors before. Now we’re all scared of having our throats cut while we sleep, aren’t we, Perce?’
Perce nodded—he hadn’t opened his mouth the whole time. Maybe he’d forgotten his teeth.
‘What else are people doing differently?’
‘I heard a few people saying they’ve been checking their vegie patches every morning. If the prisoners are still around, they’ll be hungry by now. Like us, eh, Perce?’ She chortled. ‘Must have been like this when Ned Kelly’s gang was on the run.’ Her eyes were shining with excitement. ‘It’s making us all nervous wrecks knowing Nazis are on the loose. What if the Ities and the Japs get out of their camps too and they all join up? Then we’ll really be in it. Our very own world war right here.’
Grace scribbled shorthand notes. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a total write-off.
Merle continued: ‘Someone said in town yesterday that the escapees were looking for radios to contact German ships for an all-out invasion, a last gasp before the war in Europe grinds to a halt.’
‘Do you have a radio? Are you worried that’s what they were lo
oking for tonight?’
‘Our son used to muck around with a small radio in the shed, but he took it when he left.’
Grace’s bladder complained again. She looked around to see if there were any trees nearby that might do for an emergency, but the roadside was clear. She might have to squat by the car, in front of the Boyds and Mick and the photographers. She could just see it now; they’d all have their backs turned, of course, but they’d be able to hear her, and what if someone drove past right at that moment, headlights blazing? REPORTER IN COMPROMISING POSITION. TORCHY BARES ALL. No, she’d have to grit her teeth and think of other things, at least until the search was over.
The Boyds moved closer to the gate. Mick sidled over.
‘Lovely night for it.’
‘How much longer, do you think?’
‘Could be a few minutes, or hours, depending on what’s back there.’
Grace sucked in her stomach against another insistent wave. ‘Anything new on the escapees today?’
‘Just a few details about Detmers and some of his funny little speaking quirks.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, apparently he spent time in Melbourne between wars. They say he speaks excellent English but he’s got a bit of a lisp, and he sounds like a toff.’
‘I wonder where he picked that up?’
‘Join the navy, see the world.’
Not just the navy, Grace thought, picturing Phil in the jungle. At least he’d be warm in Singapore. She squeezed her legs together. Things were past urgent.
‘Mick, I have to go.’
‘Don’t you need to wait for Graham?’
‘No, I mean go to the toilet.’
‘Oh. I see. Can you hang on a bit? I’m sure they won’t be much longer.’
‘I’ve been hanging on,’ Grace said, gritting her teeth as another wave brought perspiration to her forehead.
‘The joys of the stakeout, Miss Fowler. Don’t let on to the boys over there.’
‘Can you keep an eye out while I duck behind that car up the back?’
‘Okay, but let me offer some advice gleaned from my years of service.’
‘Make it fast.’
‘Point your feet downhill, towards the edge of the road, and only use gum leaves to—’
‘That’s enough,’ Grace said, hastening towards the furthest car from the Boyds’ gate. ‘And don’t listen.’
‘What’s that? I can’t hear you!’
The following Thursday, more than a week after the escape, four escapees were still on the run and more than one hundred sightings had been investigated by police from Melbourne to Sydney. Grace was exhausted from a week of poor sleep in her creaky bed at the hotel, hours of sitting or standing around waiting for something to happen, miles of driving from one sighting to another and a diet of greasy pub food. Sightings of the prisoners were still being reported across several states. That morning, Sam said police had arrested a suspicious man on the train to Adelaide overnight who wouldn’t give his name when he was questioned. It turned out he was a deaf and dumb cleaner, travelling from Melbourne without a ticket.
Grace spent the afternoon in what had become her private office, the ladies’ lounge of the hotel. None of the men ever entered despite all the vacant tables and chairs. It just wasn’t manly to cross that particular threshold, it seemed. Grace wasn’t complaining. She settled into a chair at a table beside the window, the perfect spot from which to see any activity at the police station and to watch Mick coming and going. She couldn’t help it; she was constantly aware of his movements and his face popped into her mind every few minutes when he wasn’t by her side, which was rarely. He seemed to always be on duty; at the police station, at every briefing, at every wild-goose chase. He was always available for dinner or morning tea, and he’d fed her so much information that she was beating the competition on every story. She’d almost forgotten the lovely feeling of spending so much time with a man, even though he was just a friend. Having his full attention made her feel special, wanted, attractive.
‘Your stories have something extra,’ Mick said, when he joined her for a lemonade an hour or so later. ‘The way you get people to open up to you—they tell you things the other reporters don’t get. It breathes life into your reports, more than just the facts.’
‘It’s all thanks to you, Mick. I couldn’t have done any of it without your help.’
‘We make a pretty good team, Miss Torchy.’
Grace stared at him. ‘How do you know about Torchy?’
‘I used to see you coming out of the cinema looking so happy. I snuck in one day to see what was so great about it.’
‘I can’t believe it! You sat through a whole Torchy Blane film? Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I was a bit embarrassed. It’s not really a blokey kind of film, and I didn’t want you to think I was some creep following you. But she was great—and now you’re just like her.’
Grace fumbled for something to say. He’d watched a film because of her. He understood her dream. He was here, close enough to…‘I, um, I don’t think the other newsmen share your opinion of girl reporters. They’re not speaking to me.’
‘Don’t worry about them. Just concentrate on your stories and keep showing them who’s boss!’
Mick slowly reached over and clasped one of her hands in his. ‘When do you have to go back to the city?’
‘On the weekend. I need to be in the office on Monday.’
‘I’ll miss you, Grace.’
Grace felt her heart leap in her chest. She pulled her hand back, not with a jerk, but as she slipped from his grasp he slumped back in his seat. She’d been so careful until now not to let the conversation get too personal. Instead she’d concentrated on the manhunt and swapped stories about their families and school mates. She’d told him about Phil, but not about her fears that he might never come home—or that he might not love her when he did. But the longing she felt for Mick was confusing; if only he wasn’t so damn handsome. And he had the most wonderful smell: warm, slightly soapy, with a hint of spicy nutmeg.
‘Mick, I’m sorry, but you know my situation,’ she said softly, placing her hands in her lap. ‘You’re a wonderful man and a great friend, but while Phil’s still alive, still trying to come home…’
Out of the corner of her eye, Grace noticed two officers race out of the police station, jump into their car and speed along the main street, siren blaring.
Graham called to her from the doorway to the main bar. ‘They’ve found two more. Let’s go.’
Grace grabbed her handbag and notebook and ran for the door. Mick followed, heading for his patrol car.
‘Where are we heading, Graham?’
‘Tallygaroopna. Just a few miles away.’
Her skin still felt warm where Mick had held her hand.
‘Oh, they’re going to love that back at the office,’ she said. ‘Sam said the subs were hoping some of the prisoners would be found in Poowong. They wanted to print banners saying “Nazis in Poo”. They’ll have to settle for “Nazis in the ’Roop”, instead.’
Graham accelerated, trying to stay close to the police cars. Grace smiled, relishing the thrill of travelling so fast with the police. She hoped it wasn’t another false alarm. There was still time to get this into the city edition today, even if it was just a stop press.
Steam from muddy puddles rose into the clear sky. The heat and the rain had been intense all week—tropical conditions, according to those who’d travelled further north. Tallygaroopna came into view: a tiny farming town like so many others in the area, with a few houses, a pub, several shops, a school and a football oval. Several cars from the morning newspapers had joined the convoy. They slowed and parked in the deserted main street as the police cars drove a little further and stopped outside the general store. A small crowd of onlookers gathered outside.
Graham and Grace tried to enter the store but Mick stood guard, his arms folded across his chest.
&nb
sp; ‘Sergeant, have they got the prisoners?’ Grace asked, trying to peer around him into the dark shop. She couldn’t see any movement.
‘Nice day for it,’ he said with a smile as other reporters yelled questions. ‘Look, there’s nothing here,’ he said, holding his hands up. ‘There’s been a development, but you’ll have to go back to Shepparton for a statement.’
Grace felt her face fall as her chance to wrap up the story disappeared. The perfect ending to the story had slipped away while she was sitting talking to Mick at the pub and now the mornings were going to win. She watched as the competition ran to their cars. ‘Another wild-goose chase?’
‘Not quite,’ Mick said with a smile. Lowering his voice so no one else could hear, he said, ‘The two ringleaders surrendered about a mile out of town. The shopkeeper here recognised them from the paper and phoned it in. They were picked up a few minutes ago and taken back to Shepparton for questioning.’
‘Can I quote you?’ Grace asked.
‘Sorry, Grace, I’d love to help but you’ll have to get confirmation from the inspector.’
They were interrupted by a voice coming from a passing car. It was Jacko from The Gazette. He’d wound down his window and yelled: ‘Tough luck, eh, Grace? All that flirting with the coppers for nothing. You Tribune sheilas don’t belong here anyway, trying to show up us real reporters.’
Mick waited till Jacko and the others had driven away, then he smiled at her. ‘You’ll be safe saying they’ve got Detmers and Bartram, if you’ve got time to make the evening edition. Phone it through from here then go into town for the rest.’
‘Thanks, Mick,’ Grace said gratefully. ‘I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me. You’re not upset about earlier?’
‘Don’t be silly. I understand you need to see things through with Phil. He’s a lucky fellow.’
She touched his arm. ‘Thank you again. It means more than you’ll ever know.’ She looked at her watch, then ran to the phone to call Sam.